False Appearances.

O! how thou haft with jealoufy infected
The fweetnefs of affiance! fhew men dutiful?
Why, fo didft thou: feem they grave and
learned?

Why, fo didft thou: come they of noble family?
Why, fo didit thou: feem they religious?
Why, fo didft thou: or are they fpare in diet;
Free from grofs paffion, or of mirth, or anger;
Conftant in fpirit, not fwerving with the blood;
Garnish'd and deck'd in modeft complement;
Not working with the eye, without the car,
And, but in purged judgment, trusting neither?
Such, and fo finely boulted, didft thou seem:
And thus thy fall hath left a kind of blot,
To mark the full fraught man, and beft endued,
With fome fufpicion.

King Henry's Character, by the Confiable of
France.

You are too much mistaken in this king:
Queftion your grace the late ambaffadors
With what great ftate he heard their embassy :
How well fupplied with noble counfellors-
How modeft in exception, and, withal,
How terrible in conftant refolution-
And you fhall find, his vanities forc-fpent
Were but the outfide of the Roman Brutus,
Covering difcretion with a coat of folly;
As gardeners do with dure hide thofe roots
That fhall firft spring, and be most delicate.
Defcription of a Fleet fetting Sail.

Suppofe, that you have seen
The well-appointed king at Hampton-pier
Embark his royalty; and his brave fleet
With filken ftreamers the young Phoebus fan-
ning.

Play with your fancies; and in them behold, Upon the hempen tackle, fhip-boys climbing: Hear the fhrill whistle, which doth order give To founds confus'd: behold the threaden fails, Borne with the invifible and creeping wind, Draw the huge bottoms thro' the furrow'd fea, Breafting the lofty furge.

Defcription of Night in a Camp. From camp to camp,thro' the foul womb ofnight, The hum of either army ftilly founds, That the fix'd centinels almoft receive The fecret whispers of each other's watch: Fire anfwers fire; and through their paly flames Each battle fees the other's umber'd face: Steed threatens freed, in high and boaftful neighs, Piercing the night's dull ear; and from the tents,

The armourers, accomplishing the knights,
With bufy hammers clofing rivets up,
Give dreadful note of preparation.

The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll;
And the third hour of drowsy morning name.
Proud of their numbers, and fecure in foul,
Do the low-rated English play at dice;
The confident and over-lufty French
Who, like a foul and ugly witch, doth limp
And chide the cripple tardy-gated night;
So tedioufly away. The poor condemned English,
Like facrifices, by their watchful fires
Sit patiently, and inly ruminate

The morning's danger; and their gesture fad,
Invefting lank lean cheeks, and war-worn coats,
Prefenteth them unto the gazing moon

So many horrid ghefts. O, now, who will behold
The royal captain of this ruin'd band,
Walking from watch to watch, from tent to tent,
Let him cry-praife and glory on his head!
For forth he goes, and vifits all his hoft;
Bids them good-morrow, with a modeft fmile;
And callsthem-brothers, friends,and countrymen.
Upon his royal face there is no note,
How dread an army hath enrounded him;
Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour
Unto the weary and all-watched night:
But freshly looks, and over-bears attaint,
With cheerful femblance, and fweet majesty;
That ev'ry wretch, pining and pale before,
Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks:
A largefs univerfal, like the fun,
His liberal eye doth give to ev'ry one,
Thawing cold fear.

The Miferies of Royalty.

O hard condition! twin-born with greatnefs,
Subject to the breath of every fool,
Whofe fenfe no more can feel but his own wringing!
What infinite heart's-eafe muft kings neglett,
That private men enjoy;

And what have kings, that privates have not too,
Save ceremony, fave general ceremony?
And what art thou, thou idol ceremony?
What kind of god art thou, that fuffer'ft more
Of mortal griefs, than do thy worshippers ?
What are thy rents? what are thy comings-in
O ceremony, thew me but thy worth!

What is the foul of adoration?

Art thou aught clfe but place, degree, and form,
Creating awe and fear in other men,
Wherein thou art lefs happy, being fear'd,
Than they in fearing?

What drink it thou oft, instead of homage sweet,
But poifon'd flatt'ry? O, be fick, great greatneis,
And bid thy ceremony give thee cure.
Think it thou, the fiery fever will go out
With titles blown from adulation?

Will it give place to flexure and low bending?
Canft thou, when thou command'ft the beggar's

knee,

The fword, the mace, the crown imperial,
The enter-tiflued robe of gold and pearl,
The farfed title running 'fore the king,
The throne he fits on, nor the tide of pomp,
That beats upon the high fhore of this world—
No, not all thefe, thrice gorgeous ceremony,
Not all thefe, laid in bed majestical,
Can fleep fo foundly as the wretched slave;
Who, with a body fill'd, and vacant mind,
Gets him to reft, cramm'd with diftrefsful bread;
Never fces horrid night, the child of hell;
But, like a lacquey, from the rise to set,
Sweats in the eye of Phoebus, and all night
Sleeps in Elyfium; next day, after dawn,
Doth rife, and help Hyperion to his horse;
And follows fo the ever-running year,
With profitable labour, to his grave:
And, but for ceremony, fuch a wretch,
Winding up days with toil, and nights with fleep,
Hath the fore-hand and vantage of a king.

A Defcription of the miferable State of the Englifh Army.

Yon ifland carrions, defp'rate of their bones, Ill-favour'dly become the morning field: Their ragged curtains poorly are let loofe, And our air fhakes them paffing scornfully. Big Mars feems bankrupt in their beggar'd hoft, And faintly through a ruffy beaver peeps. Their horfemen fit like fixed candlesticks, With torch-ftaves in their hand: and the poor jades

Lob down their heads, dropping the hide and hips;

The gum down-roping from their pale dead eyes,
And in their pale dull mouths the gimmal bit
Lits foul with chew'd grafs, ftill and motionlefs;
And their executors, the knavifh crows,
Fly o'er them all, impatient for their hour.

A teftament of noble-ending love.
The pretty and fweet manner of it forc'd
Thofe waters from me which I would have stopp'd;
But I had not fo much of man in me,
And all my mother came into mine eyes,
And gave me up to tears.

The Miseries of War.

Her vine, the merry chearer of the heart, Unpruned dies: her hedges even pleach'd, Like prifoners wildly over-grown with hair, Put forth diforder'd twigs : her fallow leas The darnel, hemloc, and rank fumitory, Doth root upon; while that the coulter rufts, That should deracinate fuch favagery: The even mead, that erft brought fweetly forth The freckled cowflip, burnet, and green clover, Wanting the feythe, withal uncorrected, rank, Conceives by idleness; and nothing teems, But hateful docks, rough thistles, keckfies, burs, Lofing both beauty and utility.

court.

names,

Familiar in their mouths, as houfehold words,
Harry the King, Bedford, and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Glo'fter,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.

Defeription of the Earl of York's Death.
He fimil'd me in the face, raught me his hand,
And, with a feeble gripe, fays, Dear my lord,
Commend my fervice to my fovereign."

So did he turn, and over Suffolk's neck He threw his wounded aim, and kifs'd his lips; sind fo, efpous'd to death, with blood he stal'd

SHAKSPEAREJ

A refolved ambitious Woman. FOLLOW muft, I cannot go before,

While Glo'fter bears this bafe and humble
mind.

Were I a man, a duke, and next of blood,
I would remove thefe tedious ftumbling-blocks,
And smooth my way upon their headless necks.
And, being a woman, I will not be flack,
To play my part in fortune's pageant.

The Lord ever to be remembered.
Let never day or night unhallow'd pass,
But fill remember what the Lord hath done.
Eleanor to the Duke of Clo'fier, when doing
Penance.

For, whilft I think I am thy married wife, And thou a prince, protector of this land, Methinks, I thould not thus be led along, Mail'd up in thame, with papers on my back; And follow'd with a rabble, that rejoice To fee my tears, and hear my deep-fet groans. The ruthlefs flist doth cut my tender feet; And, when I fart, the envious people laugh, And bid me be advised how I tread.

S.lent

Silent Refentment deepeft.

Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep; And in his fimple fhow he harbours treason. A guilty Countenance.

Upon thy eye-balls murd'rous tyranny Sits, in grim majefty, to fright the world.

Defcription of a murdered Perfon.

See, how the blood is fettled in his face!
Oft have I feen a timely-parted ghost,
Of afhy femblance, meagre, pale, and bloodless,
Being all defcended to the labouring heart;
Who, in the conflict that it holds with death,
Attracts the fame for aidance 'gainft the enemy;
Which with the heart there cools, and ne'er re-
turneth

To blush and beautify the cheek again.
But, fee, his face is black, and full of blood;
His eye-balls further out than when he liv'd,
Staring full ghaftly, like a ftrangled man:
His hair uprear'd, his noftrils ftretch'd with
ftruggling;

His hands abroad difplay'd, as one that grafp'd
And tugg'd for life, and was by ftrength fubdued.
Look on the sheets: his hair, you fee, is sticking;
His well-proportion'd beard made rough and
rugged,

Like to the fummer's corn by tempeft lodg'd.
It cannot be but he was murder'd here;
The leaft of all thefe figns were probable.

A good Confcience.

What ftronger breaft-plate than a heart untainted?

Thrice is he arm'd, that hath his quarrel juft; And he but naked, though lock'd up in fteel, Whofe confcience with injuftice is corrupted. Remorjelefs Hatred.

A plague upon 'em! wherefore should I curfe

them?

Would curies kill, as doth the mandrake's groan,
I would invent as bitter fearching terms,
As curs'd, as harfh, as horrible to hear,
Deliver'd ftrongly through my fixed teeth,
With full as many figas of deadly hate,
As lean-fac'd envy in her loathfome cave:
My tongue fhould stumble in mine earnest words;
Mine eyes fhould sparkle like the beaten fiint;
Mine hair be fix'd on end like one distract;
Ay, ev'ry joint thould feem to curfe and ban;
And even now, my burden'd heart would break,

Should I not curfe them. Poifon be their drink!
Gall, worse than gall, the dainticft that they tafte!
Their fweeteft fhade, a grove of cypress trees!
Their chiefeft prospect, murdering bafiliks!
Their fofteft touch, as fimart as lizards ftings;
Their mafic, frightful as the ferpent's hifs;
And boding ferich-owls make the concert full!
All the foul terrors in dark-feated hell-

Now, by the ground that I am banith'd from, Well could I curic away a winter's night, Though ftanding naked on a mountain top, Where biting cold would never let goals grow.

Parting Lovers.

And banished I am, if but from thee. Go, fpeak not to me, even now be gone

O, go not yet! even thus two friends condemn'd
Embrace, and kifs, and take ten thoufand leaves,
Loather a hundred times to part than die.—
Yet, now farewel; and farewel life with thee!

Suff. Thus is poor Suffolk ten times banished,
Once by the king, and three times thrice by thee.
'Tis not the land I care for, wert thou hence;
A wilderness is populous enough,

So Suffolk had thy heavenly company:
For where thou art, there is the world itself,
With every feveral pleafure in the world;
And where thou art not, defolation.

Dying, with the Perfon beloved, preferalle to parting.

If I depart from thee, I cannot live:
And in thy fight to die, what were it else,
But like a pleafant flumber in thy lap?
Here could I breathe my foul into the air,
As mild and gentle as the cradle-babe,
Dying with mother's dug between its lips.
The Death-bed Horrors of a guilty Confcience,
Bring me unto my trial when you will.
Died he not in his bed Where fhould he die
Can I make men live, whether they will or no?→
O! torture me no more, I will confefs.
Alive again Then fhew me where he is ;
I'll give a thoufand pound to look upon him-
He hath no eyes, the duft hath blinded them.
Comb down his hair; look! look! it ftands
upright,

Like lime twigs fet to catch my winged foul!
Give me fome drink; and bid the apothecary
Bring the ftrong poifon that I bought of him.

My fons-God knows what hath bechanc'dthem:
But this I know—they have demean'd themfelves
Like men born to renown, by life, or death.
Three times did Richard make a lane to me,
And thrice cried, "Courage, father! fight it out!"
And full as oft same Edward to my fide,
With purple faulchion painted to the hilt
In blood of thofe that had encounter'd hin:
And when the hardieft warriors did retire,
Richard cried, "Charge! and give no foot of
ground!"

And cried, "A crown, or clfe a glorious tomb!
"A fceptre, or an earthly fepulchre !"
With this we charg'd again : but out, alas!
We bodg'd again; as I have feen a fwan
With bootlefs labour fivim against the tide,
And fpend her ftrength with over-matching

But you are more inhuman, more inexorable-
O, ten times more than tvgers of Hyrcania.
Sce, ruthless queen, a hapless father's tears:
This cloth thou dipp'dit in blood of my fweet boy,
And I with tears do wath the blood away.
Keep thou the napkin, and go boaft of this:
And, if thou tell'ft the heavy flory right,
Upon my foul, the hearers will fhed tears;
Yea, even my foes will thed fait falling tears,
And fay, "Alas, it was a piteous deed!"
The Duke of York in Battle.
Methought, he bore him in the thickeft troop,
As doth a lion in a herd of neat;
Or as a bear, encompafs'd round with dogs,
Who having pinch'd a few, and made them cry,
The reft ftand all aloof, and bark at him.

How well refembles it the prime of youth,
Trimm'd like a yonker prancing to his love?
The Morning's Dawn.

This battle fares like to the morning's war,
When dying clouds contend with growing light;
What time the fhepherd, blowing of his nails,
Can neither call it perfect day or night.

The Blefings of a Shepherd's Life.
O God! methinks, it were a happy life,
To be no better than a homely fwain;
To fit upon a hill, as I do now,
To carve out dials quaintly, point by point,
Thereby to fee the minutes how they run:
How many make the hour full complete,
How many hours bring about the day,
How many days will finith up the year,
How many years a mortal man may live.
When this is known, then to divide the times:
So many hours muft I tend my flock;
So many hours must I take my reft;
So many hours muft I contemplate;
So many hours muft I fport myfelf;
So many days, my ewes have been with young;
So many weeks, ere the poor fools will yean;
So many months, ere I fhall fheer the fleece:
So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years,
Paft over to the end they were created,
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.
Ah what a life were this! how fweet! how lovely'
Gives not the hawthorn buth a fweeter thade
To thepherds, looking on their filly fheep,
Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy
To kings, that fear their fubjects treachery?

O, yes, it doth; a thoufand fold it doth.
And to conclude the thepherd's homely curds,
His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle,
His wonted fleep under a fresh tree's fhade,
All which fecure and fweetly he enjoys,
Is far beyond a prince's delicates,
His viands fparkling in a golden cup,
His body couched in a curious bed,
When care, miftruft, and treafon wait on him.
Mob.

Look, as I blow this feather from my face,
And as the air blows it to me again,
Obeying with my wind, when I do blow,
And yielding to another when it blows,
Commanded always by the greater guft;
Such is the lightnefs of your coinmon men.
A Simile on ambitious Thoughts.
Why, then I do but dream on fov reignty;
Like one that ftands upon a promontory,
And fpies a far-off thore where he would tread,
Wishing his foot were equal with his eye!
And chides the fea that funders him from thence,
Saying-he'll lade it dry, to have his way.

Gloucester's Deformity.

Why, love fortwore me in my mother's womb: And, for I fhould not deal in her foft laws, She did corrupt frail nature with fome bribe To fhrink mine arm up like a wither'd fhrub; To make an envious mountain on my back, Where its deformity to mock my body;

To

To fhape my legs of an unequal fize;
To difproportion me in every part:
Like to a chaos, or an unlick'd bear-whelp,
That carries no impreffion like the dam.
And am I then a man to be belov'd?

- Gloucefter's Diffimulation.

Why, I can fmile, and murder while I fimile; And cry, content, to that which grieves my heart; And wet my cheeks with artificial tears; And frame my face to all occafions: I'll drown more failors than the mermaid fhall; Til flay more gazers than the batilik; I'll play the orator as well as Neftor, Deceive more flily than Ulyffes could, And, like a Sinon, take another Troy: I can add colours to the cameleon; Change fhapes, with Proteus, for advantages, And fet the murd'rous Machiavel to school. Can I do this, and cannot get a crown?

Henry VI. On his oron Lenity.

I have not ftopt mine ears to their demands, Nor pofted off their fuits with flow delays; My pity hath bee balm to heal their wounds, My mildnefs hath allay'd their fwelling griefs, My mercy dried their water-flowing tears. I have not been defirous of their wealth,' Nor much opprefs'd them with great subsidies, Nor forward of revenge, tho' they much err'd.

The Earl of Warwick's dying Speech. Ah, who is nigh Come to me, friend or foc, And tell me who is victor, York or Warwick? Why afk I that? My mangled body fhews; My blood, mywant of ftrength, my fick heart fhews, That I muft yield my body to the earth, And, by my fall, the conqueft to my foe.

Thus yields the cedar to the axe's edge, Whofe arms gave fhelter to the princely eagle, Under whole fhade the ramping lion flept; Whofe top-branch overpeer'd Jove spreading tree, And kept low fhrubs from winter's powerfulwind. Thefe eyes, that now are dimm dwith death's black veil,

Have been as piercing as the mid-day fun,
To fearch the fecret treafons of the world.
The wrinkles in my brows, now fill'd with blood,
Were liken'd oft to kingly fepulchres;
For who liv'd king, but I could dig his grave?
And who durft fimile, when Warwick bent his

brow?

Lo, now my glory fmear'd in duft and blood ! My parks, my walks, my manors that I had, Ev'n now forlake me; and, of all my lands, Is nothing left me, but my body's length.

You fight in juftice: then, in God's name, Lords, Be valiant, and give fignal to the fight.

Omens on the Birth of Richard III.

The owl fhrick'd at thy birth, an evil fign;, The night-crow cried, a boding lucklofs tune; Dogs howl'd, and hideous tempefts fhook down

trees;

The raven rook'd her on the chimney's top,
And chattering pyes in difinal difcords fung:
Thy mother felt more than a mother's pain,
And yet brought forth lets than a mother's hope;
To wit-an indigeft, deformed lump,
Not like the fruit of fuch a goodly tree.
Teeth hadft thou in thy head when thou waft born,
To fignify-thou cam'ft to bite the world:
And, if the reft be true which I have heard,
Thou cam'ft "into the world with thy legs for-
"ward."

$25. THE LIFE OF HENRY VIII. SHAKSPEARE.

To

Anger.

climb fteep hills,

Requires flow pace at firft. Anger is like A full-hot horfe, who, being allow'd his way, Self mettle tires him.

A&ion to be carried on with Refolution.
-If I am
Traduc'd by ignorant tongues, which neither know
My faculties, nor perfon, yet will be
The chronicles of my doing-let me fay,
'Tis but the fate of place, and the rough brake
That virtue muft go through. We must not stint
Our neceflary actions, in the fear

To cope malicious cenfurers; which ever,
As rav nous fifhes, do a vetfel follow
That is new trimm'd; but benefit no further
Than vainly longing. What we oft do best,
By fick interpreters, once weak ones, is
Not ours, or not allow'd; what worft, as oft
Hitting a groffer quality, is cried up
For our beft act. If we fhall stand still,
In fear, our motion will be mock'd or carp'd at,
We fhould take root here, where we fit, or fit
State-ftatues only.

New Cuftoms.

Tewkesbury.

Lords, Knights, and Gentlemen, what I fhould My tears gainfay; for every word I speak, [fay, Ye fee, I drink the water of my eyes. Therefore, no more but this: Henry, your fovereign, Is prifoner to the foe, his state ufurp'd, His realm a flaughter-house, his fubjects flain, His ftatutes cancell'd, and his treafure fpent; And yender is the wolf that makes this fpoil:

f3

A good