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BATTLE ON ST. CRISPIAN'S

DAY.

old age,

Westmoreland. – 0 that we now

had here

(Enter KING HENRY) But one ten thousand of those men

in England That do no work to-day!

K. Henry. — What's he that wishes

so?

My cousin Westmoreland ? No,

my fair cousin: If we are marked to die, we are

enough To do our country loss; and if to

live, The fewer men, the greater share of

honor. God's will! I pray thee, wish not

one man more. By Jove, I am not covetous for gold; Nor care I who doth feed upon my

cost; It yearns me not, if men my gar

ments wear: Such outer things dwell not in my

desires : But, if it be a sin to covet honor, I am the most offending soul alive. No, 'faith, my coz, wish not a man

from England: God's peace! I would not lose so

great an honor, As one man more, methinks, would

share from me, For the best hope I have. O, do not

wish one more: Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland,

through my host, That he who hath no stomach to

this fight, Let him depart; his passport shall

be made, And crowns for convoy put into his

purse: We would not die in that man's

company, That fears his fellowship to die with This day is called -- the feast of

Crispian: He that outlives this day, and comes

safe home, Will stand on tip-toe when this day is

named, And rouse him at the name of

Crispian :

He that shall live this day, and see Will yearly on the vigil feast his

friends, And say

To-morrow is Saint Crispian : Then will he strip his sleeves, and

show his scars, And say, these wounds I had on

Crispian's day. Old men forget; yet all shall be

forgot, But he'll remember, with advan

tages, What feats he did that day: then

shall our names, Familiar in their mouths as house

hold words, Harry the king, Bedford, and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and

Gloster, Be in their flow cups freshly re

membered: This story shall the good man teach

his son; And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go

by, From this day to the ending of the

world, But we in it shall be remembered : We few, we happy few, we band of

brothers; For he, to-day, that sheds his blood

with me, Shall be my her; be he ne'er so

vile, This day shall gentle his condition: And gentlemen in England, now

abed, Shall think themselves accursed

they were not here, And hold their manhood cheap,

while any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

SHAKSPEARE.

KING RICHARD'S SOLILOQUY.

us.

Richard III. Now is the winter

of our discontent Made glorious summer by this son

of York; And all the clouds, that lowered

upon our house, In the deep bosom of the ocean

buried.

And, if King Edward be as true and

just As I am subtle, false, and treacher

Ous, This day should Clarence closely be

mewed up; About a prophecy, which says –

that G Of Edward's heirs the murderer

shall be. Dive, thoughts, down to my soul: here Clarence comes.

SHAKSPEARE.

Now are

our brows bound with

victorious wreaths; Our bruised arms hung up for mon

uments; Our stern alarums changed to merry

meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful

measures. Grim-visaged war hath smoothed

his wrinkled front; And now, - instead of mounting

barbed steeds, To fright the souls of fearful adver

saries, He capers nimbly in a lady's cham

ber, To the lascivious pleasing of a lute. But I, – that am not shaped for

sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous look

ing-glass; I, that am rudely stamped, and want

love's majesty, To strut before a wanton ambling

nymph, I, that am curtailed of this fair

proportion, Cheated of feature by dissembling

nature, Deformed, unfinished, sent before

BOADICEA.

When the British warrior queen,

Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought, with an indignant mien,

Counsel of her country's gods,

Sage beneath the spreading oak

Sat the Druid, hoary chief; Every burning word he spoke

Full of rage and full of grief. “Princess! if our aged eyes

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties

All the terrors of our tongues.

my time

Rome shall perish: write that word

In the blood that she has spilt, Perish, hopeless and abhorred,

Deep in ruin as in guilt.

Rome, for empire far renowned,

Tramples on a thousand states; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground:

Hark! the Gaul is at her gates !

Into this breathing world, scarce

half made up, And that so lamely and unfashion

able That dogs bark at me as I halt by

them; Why I, in this weak piping time of

peace, Flave no delight to pass away the

time; Unless to spy my shadow in the sun, Aud descant on inine own deformity; And therefore, since I cannot prove

a lover, To entertain these fair well-spoken

days, – I am determined to prove a villain, And hate the idle pleasures of these

days, Plots have I laid, inductions danger

Ous, By drunken prophecies, libels, and

dreams, To set my brother Clarence, and the

king In deadly hate the one against the

other:

Other Romans shall arise,

Heedless of a soldier's name; Sounds, not arms, shall win the

prize, Harmony the path to fame.

Then the progeny that springs

From the forests of our land, Arned with thunder, clad with

wings, Shall a wider world command.

Regions Cæsar never knew

Thy posterity shall sway; Where his eagles never tiew,

None invincible as they."

Such the bard's prophetic words,

Pregnant with celestial fire, Bending as he swept the chords

Of his sweet but awful lyre. She, with all a monarch's pride,

Felt them in her bosom glow: Rushed to battle, fought, and died;

Dying, hurled them at the foe.

Ruffians! pitiless as proud,

Heaven awards the vengeance due; Empire is on us bestowed, Shame and ruin wait for you.

COWPER.

Put out our holy fires; no timbrel

ring; Let's home and sleep; for such great

overthrows A candle burns too bright a sacrifice; A glow-worm's tail too full a flame. You say, I doat upon these Ro

mans; Witness these wounds, I do; they

were fairly given: I love an enemy, I was born a sol

dier; And he that in the head of 's troop

defies me, Rending my manly body with his

sword, I make a mistress. Yellow-tressed

Hymen Ne'er tied a longing virgin with

more joy, Than I am married to that man that

wounds me: And are not all these Roman? Ten

struck battles I sucked these honored scars from,

and all Roman. Ten years of bitter nights and heavy

marches, When many a frozen storm sung

through my cuirass, And made it doubtful whether that

or I

BONDUCA. [Bonduca the British queen, taking occasion from a defeat of the Romans to impeach their valor, is rebuked by Caratac.] QUEEN BONDUCA, I do not grieve

your fortune. If I grieve, 'tis at the bearing of

your fortunes; You put too much wind to your sail :

discretion And hardy valor are the twins of

honor, And nursed together, make a con

queror; Divided, but a talker. 'Tis a truth, That Rome has fied before us twice,

and routed; A truth we ought to crown the gods

for, lady, And not our tongues. You call the Romans fearful, fleeing

Romans, And Roman girls : Does this become a doer ? are they

such? Where is your conquest then ? Why are your altars crowned with

wreaths of flowers, The beast with gilt horns waiting

for the fire ? The holy Druidés composing songs Of everlasting life to Victory? Why are these triumphs, lady? for

a May-game? For hunting a poor herd of wretched

Romans? Is it no more? shut up your temples,

Britons, And let the husbandman redeem his

heifers;

Were the more stubborn metal,

have I wrought through, And all to try these Romans. Ten

times a night I have swum the rivers, when the

stars of Rome Shot at me as I floated, and the bil

lows Tumbled their watery ruins on my

shoulders, Charging my battered sides with

troops of agues, And still to try these Romans;

whom I found As ready, and as full of that I

brought, (Which was not fear nor flight,) as

valiant, As vigilant, as wise, to do and

suffer, Ever advanced as forward as the

Britons; Have I not seen these Britons Run, run, Bonduca ?- not the quick

rack swifter; The virgin from the hated ravisher

My helm still on my head, my

sword my prow, Turned to my foe my face, he cried

out nobly, Go, Briton, bear thy lion's whelp

off safely; Thy manly sword has ransomed

thee: grow strong, And let me meet th once again

in arms: Then if thou stand'st, thou art

mine." I took his offer, And here I am to honor him.

Not half so fearful; - not a flight

drawn home, A round stone from a sling, a lover's

wish, E’er made that haste they have. By

heavens! I have seen these Britons that you

magnify, Run as they would have out-run

time, and roaring, Basely for mercy, roaring; the light

shadows, That in a thought scour o’er the

fields of corn, Halted on crutches to them. Yes,

Bonduca, I have seen thee run too, and thee,

Nennius; Yea, run apace, both; then when

Penyus, The Roman girl, cut through your

arınèd carts, And drove them headlong on ye

down the hill; Then when he hunted ye like

Britain foxes, More by the scent than sight: then

did I see These valiant and approved men of

Britain, Like boding owls, creep into tods of

ivy, And hoot their fears to one another

nightly. I fled too, But not so fast; your jewel had

been lost then, Young Hengo there; he trasht me,

Nennius: For when your fears outrun him,

then stept I, And in the head of all the Romans'

fury Took him, and, with my tough belt

to my back, I buckled him; - behind him, my

sure shield ; And then I followed.

If I say I fought Five times in bringing off this bud of

Britain, I lie not, Nennius. Neither had ye

heard Me speak this, or ever seen the child

more, But that the son of Virtue, Penyus, Seeing me steer through all these

storms of danger,

There's not a blow we gave since

Julius landed, That was of strength and worth, but

like records They file to after-ages. Our Registers The Romans are, for noble deeds of

honor; And shall we burn their mentions

with upbraidings? Had we a difference with some petty

Isle, Or with our neighbors, lady, for

our landmarks, The taking in of some rebellious

Lord, Or making a head against commo

tions, After a day of blood, peace might

be argued : But where we grapple for the

ground we live on, The Liberty we hold as dear as life, The gods we worship, and next

those, our honors, And with those swords that know no

end of battle: Those men beside themselves allow

no neighbor; Those minds that, where the day is,

claim inheritance; And where the sun makes ripe the

fruits, their harvest; And where they march, but measure

out more ground To add to Rome, and here in the

bowels on us; It must not be; no, as they are our

foes, And those that must be so until we

tire 'em, Let's use the peace of Honor, that's

fair dealing; But in our ends, our swords.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

THE BARD.

1. 1.

“Ruin seize thee, ruthless king!

Confusion on thy banners wait; Though fanned by Conquest's crim

son wing, They mock the air with idle state. Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, Nor e'en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall

avail To save thy secret soul from night

ly fears, From Cambria's curse, from Cam

bria's tears!Such were the sounds that o'er the

crested pride Of the first Edward scattered wild

dismay, As down the steep of Snowdon's

shaggy side He wound with toilsome march

his long array. Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in

speechless trance: “ To arins!” cried Mortimer, and

couched his quivering lance.

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II, 1.

On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming

flood, Robed in the sable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the poet stood; (Loose his beard, and hoary hair Streamed, like a meteor, to the trou

bled air), And with a master's hand, and

prophet's fire, Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre. “Hark, how each giant-oak, and

desert cave, Sighs to the torrent's awful voice

beneath! O’er thee, oh King! their hundred

arms they wave, Revenge on thee in hoarser mur

murs breathe; Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal

day, To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft

Llewellyn's lay.

“Weave the warp, and weave the

woof, The winding sheet of Edward's race. Give ample room, and verge

enough The characters of hell to trace. Mark the year, and mark the night, When Severn shall re-echo with

affright The shrieks of death, through Berk

ley's roof that ring, Shrieks of an agonizing king! She-wolf of France, with unrelent

ing fangs, That tear'st the bowels of thy

mangled mate, From thee be born, wlio o'er thy

country hangs The scourge of heaven. What ter

rors round him wait! Amazement in his van, with Alight

combined, And sorrow's faded form, and soli

tude behind.

1. 3.

“ Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, That hushed the stormy main:

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