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Doth speak of you, his cheek looks pale! and with
A rifen figh, he wifheth you in Heav'n.

Hor. And you in Hell, as often as he hears
Owen Glendower spoke of.

GLEN. I blame him not at my nativity The front of Heav'n was full of fiery shapes, Of burning creffets; know that at my birth The frame and the foundation of the earth Shook like a coward.

HOT. So it would have done

At the fame feason, if your mother's cat
Had kitten'd, though yourfelf had ne'er been born.
GLEN. I fay, the earth did shake when I was born.
HOT. I fay, the earth then was not of my mind.
If you fuppofe, as fearing you it shook.

GLEN. The Heav'ns were all on fire, the earth did tremble.

Hor. O, then the earth fhook to fee the Heav'ns on fire! And not in fear of your nativity.

Difeased Nature oftentimes breaks forth

In frange eruptions; and the teeming earth
Is with a kind of colic pinch'd and vex'd,

By the imprisoning of unruly wind

Within her womb, which, for enlargement ftriving,
Shakes the old beldame earth, and topples down
High tow'rs and mofs-grown fteeples. At your birth,
Our grandam earth with this diftemperature
In paffion shook.

GLEN. Coufin, of many men

I do not bear these croffings: give me leave
To tell you once again, that at my birth
The front of Heav'n was full of fiery fhapes;
The goats ran from the mountains; and the herds
Were trangely clam'rous in the frighted fields;
Thefe figns have mark'd me extraordinary,

And

And all the courses of my life do fhow
I am not in the roll of common men.
Where is he living, clipt in with the fea

That chides the banks of England, Wales, or Scotland,
Who calls me pupil, or hath read to me?

And bring him out that is but woman's fon,
Can trace me in the tedious ways of art,
Or hold me pace in deep experiments.

Нот. I think there is no man fpeaks better Welsh.
GLEN. I can fpeak English, Lord, as well as you,
For I was train'd up in the English court;
Where, being young, I framed to the harp
Many an English ditty lovely well,
And gave the tongue a helpful ornament;
A virtue that was never feen in you.

Hor. Marry, and I'm glad of it with all my heart; I'd rather be a kitten, and cry mew!

'Than one of thefe fame metre-ballad mongers!
I'd rather hear a brazen candlestick turn'd,
Or a dry wheel grate on the axle-tree,
And that would nothing fet my teeth on edge,
Nothing fo much as mincing poetry;

"Tis like the forc'd gait of a fhuffling nag.

GLEN. I can call fpirits from the vafty deep. HOT. Why, fo can I, or fo can any man ; But will they come when you do call for them?

GLEN. Why, I can teach thee to command the devil.
HOT. And I can teach thee, coz, to shame the devil,

By telling truth; Tell truth and fhame the devil.
If thou haft power to raise him, bring him hither,
And I'll be fworn I've power to drive him hence.
O, while you live, Tell truth and shame the devil..

SHAKSPEARE.

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CHAP. XV.

HOTSPUR READING A LETTER.

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Bur for my own part, my Lord, I could be well " contented to be there in refpect of the love I bear your "house." He could be contented to be there; why is he not then? "In refpect of the love he bears our house." He fhows in this, he loves his own barn better than he loves our houfe. Let me fee fome more. "The pur "pose you undertake is dangerous." Why, that is certain it is dangerous to take a cold, to fleep, to drink: but I tell you, my Lord fool, out of this nettle danger we pluck this flower fafety. "The purpose you undertake is dangerous, the friends you have named uncertain, the time "itself unforted, and your whole plot too light for the "counterpoife of fo great an oppofition." Say you fo! fay you fo! I fay unto you again, you are a fhallow cowardly hind, and you lie. What a lackbrain is this! By the Lord, our plot is a good plot as ever was laid; our friends true and conftant; a good plot, good friends, and full of expectation; an excellent plot, very good friends. What a frofty fpirited rogue this is! Why, my lord of York commends the plot, and the general courfe of the action. By this hand, if I were now by this rafcal, I could brain him with his lady's fan. Are there not my ther, my uncle, and myself, Lord Edmund Mortimer, my lord of York, and Owen Glendower! Is there not, befides, the Douglas? Have I not all their letters to meet me in arms by the ninth of next month? and are there not fome of them fet forward already? What a Pagan rascal is this! an infidel! Ha! you fhall fee now, in very fincerity of fear and cold heart, will he to the King, and lay open all our proceedings. O, I could divide myself, and go to buffets, for moving fuch a dish of skimmed milk

fa

with fo honourable an action. Hang him, let him tell the King. We are prepared, I will fet forward to night. SHAKSPEARE.

CHAP. XVI.

HENRY IV'S SOLILOQUY ON SLEEP.

How many thousands of my pooreft fubjects
Are at this hour afleep! O gentle Sleep,
Nature's foft nurfe, how have I frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weigh my eye-lids down,
And fteep my fenfes in forgetfulness?

Why rather, Sleep, lay'ft thou in fmoky cribs,
Upon uneafy pallets ftretching thee,

And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy flumber,
Than in the perfum'd chambers of the Great,
Under the canopies of coftly ftate,

And lull'd with founds of sweetest melody?

O thou dull God! why lay'ft thou with the vile
In loathfome beds, and leav'st the kingly couch,
A watch-cafe to a common làrum-bell?

Wilt thou, upon the high and giddy maft,
Seal up the fhipboy's eyes, and rock his brains
In cradle of the rude imperious furge;

And in the vifitation of the winds,

Who take the ruffian billows by the top,

Curling their monftrous heads, and hanging there
With deaf'ning clamours in the flipp'ry shrouds,
That with the hurly, death itself awakes:
Can't thou, O partial Sleep! give thy repofe
To the wet feaboy in an hour fo rude,
And in the calmeft and the ftilleft night,
With all appliances and means to boot,
Deny it to a king? Then, happy lowly clown;
Uneafy lies the head that wears a crown.

SHAKSPEARE,

CHAP. XVII.

HENRY IV AND PRINCE HENRY.

P. HEN. I NEVER thought to hear you speak again. K. HENRY. Thy with was father, Harry, to that thought.

I ftay too long by thee, I weary t

thee. Doft thou fo hunger for my empty chair,

That thou wilt needs inveft thee with my honours,
Before thy hour be ripe! O fooiish youth!

Thou seek'st the greatness that will o'erwhelm thee.
Stay but a little; for my cloud of dignity

Is held from falling with so weak a wind,
That it will quickly drop; my day is dim.

Thou haft ftol'n that which, after fome few hours,
Were thine without offence; and at my death
Thou haft feal'd up my expectation:

Thy life did manifeft, thou lov'dst me not:
And thou wilt have me die affur'd of it.
Thou hid ft a thoufand daggers in thy thoughts,
Which thou haft whetted on thy ftony heart,
To ftab at half an hour of my frail life.
What! canft thou not forbear me half an hour?
Then get thee gone, and dig my grave thyself,

And bid the merry bells ring to thine ear,
That thou art crowned, not that I am dead.
Let all the tears that fhould bedew my hearfe,
Be drops of balm to fanctify thy head;

Only compound me with forgotten dust,

Give that which gave thee life unto the worms,
Pluck down my officers, break my decrees,
For now a time is come to mock at form;
Henry the Fifth is crown'd! up, Vanity!
Down, Royal fate! All you fage counsellors, hence;

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