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Man-entered thus, he waxed like a

sea; And, in the brunt of seventeen bat

tles since, He lurched all swords o' the garland. For this last, Before and in Corioli, let me say, I cannot speak him home. He

stopped the fliers; And, by his rare example, made the

coward Turn terror into sport: as waves be

fore A vessel under sail, so men obeyed, And fell below his stem: his sword

(death's stamp), Where it did mark it took; from

face to foot He was a thing of blood, whose every

motion Was timed with dying cries; alone

he entered The mortal gate o' the city, which

he painted With shunless destiny, aidless came

off, And with a sudden re-enforcement

struck Corioli, like a planet: now all's his: When by and by the din of war’gan

pierce His ready sense: then straight his

doubled spirit Re-quickened what in flesh was fati

gate, And to the battle came he; where

he did Run reeking o'er the lives of men,

as if 'Twere a perpetual spoil; and till we

called Both field and city ours, he never

stood To ease his breast with panting.

Our spoils he kicked at, And looked upon things precious, as

they were The common muck o' the world; he

covets less Than misery itself would give; re

wards His deeds with doing them; and is

content To spend the time to end it. His nature is too noble for the

world: He would not flatter Neptune for his


Coriolanus. Hear'st thou, Mars!
Aufidius. – Name not the god,

thou boy of tears

Auf. – No more.
Cor. — Measureless liar, thou hast

made my heart Too great for what contains it. Boy!

O slave! Pardon me, lords, 'tis the first time

that ever I was forced to scold. Your judg

ments, my grave lords, Must give this cur the lie: and his

own notion (Who wears my stripes impressed on

him; that must bear My beating to his grave) shall join to

thrust The lie unto him. Cut me to pieces, Volsces; men and

lads, Stain all your edges on me. - Boy!

False hound! If you have writ your annals true,

'tis there, That like an eagle in a dove-cote, I Fluttered your Volsces in Corioli: Alone I did it. — Boy!



French King. — Think we King

Harry strong; And, princes, look you strongly arm

to meet him. The kindred of him hath been

fleshed upon us; And he is bred out of that bloody

strain, That haunted usinour familiar paths: Witness our too much memorable

shame, When Cressy battle fatally was struck, And all our princes captived, by the


Of that black name, Edward, black

prince of Wales; Whiles that his mountain sire, on

mountain standing, Up in the air, crowned with a golden

sun, Saw his heroical seed, and smiled to

see him Mangle the work of nature, and deface The patterns that by God and by

French fathers Had twenty years been made. This

is a stem Of that victorious stock; and let us

fear The native mightiness and fate of him.


List his discourse of war, and you

shall hear A fearful battle rendered you in

music: Turn him to any cause of policy, The Gordian knot of it he will un

loose, Familiar as his garter; that, when

he speaks, The air, a chartered libertine, is



And the mute wonder lurketh in

men's ears, To steal his sweet and honeyed sen

tences; So that the air and practic part of

life Must be the mistress to this theoric: Which is a wonder, how his grace

should glean it, Since his addiction was to courses

vain : His companies unlettered, rude, and

shallow; His hours filled up with riots, ban

quets, sports, And never noted in him any study, Any retirement, any sequestration From open haunts and popularity.



Canterbury. The king is full of

grace and fair regard. Ely. — And a true lover of the

holy church. Cant. - The courses of his youth

promised it not. The breath no sooner left his father's

body, But that his wildness, mortified in

him, Seerned to die too; yea, at that very

moment, Consideration like an angel came, And whipped the offending Adam

out of him; Leaving his body as a paradise, To envelop and contain celestial

spirits. Never was such a sudden scholar

made: Never came reformation in a flood, With such a heady current, scouring

faults; Nor never hydra-headed wilfulness S) soon did lose his seat, and all at

once, As in this king. Hear him but reason in divinity, And, all-admiring, with an inward

wish You would desire, the king were

made a prelate; Hear him debate of cominonwealth

affairs, You would say, -it hath been all

in-all his study:

FULL little knowest thou, that hast

not tried, What hell it is, in suing long to bide: To loose good dayes that might be

better spent; To waste long nights in pensive dis

content; To speed to-day, to be put back to

morrow; To feed on hope, to pine with feare

and sorrow; To have thy prince's grace, yet want

her peers, To have thy asking, yet waite many

yeares; To fret thy soule with crosses and

with cares; To eate thy heart through comfort

less despairs; To fawn, to crouch, to wait, to ride,

to run, To spend, to give, to want, to be undone.



This morning, timely rapt with

holy fire, I thought to form unto my zealous

Muse What kind of creature I could most

desire To honor, serve, and love, as poets use. I meant to make her fair, and free,

and wise, Of greatest blood, and yet more

good than great; I meant the Day-Star should not

brighter rise, Nor lend like influence from his lu

cent seat. I meant she should be courteous,

facile, sweet, Hating that solemn vice of great

ness, pride; I meant each softest virtue there

should meet Fit in that softer bosom to reside. Only a learned and a manly soul I purposed her, that should, with

even powers, The rock, the spindle, and the shears

control Of Destiny, and spin her own free

hours. Such when I meant to feign, and

wished to see, My Muse bade Bedford write, and that was she.


EPITAPH ON SAAKSPEARE. What needs my Shakspeare for his

honored bones, The labor of an age in piled stones? Or that his hallowed relics should

be hid Under a star-y-pointing pyramid ? Dear son of Memory, great heir of

fame, What need'st thou such weak wit

ness of thy name? Thou in our wonder and astonish

ment Hast built thyself a live long monu

ment. For whilst, to the shame of slow

endeavoring art Thy easy numbers flow, and that

each heart Hath from the leaves of thy un

valued book Those Delphic lines with deep im

pression took, Then thou, our fancy of itself be

reaving, Dost make us marble with too much

conceiving; And so sepulchred in such pomp

dost lie, That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.




A SWEET, attractive kind of grace,

A full assurance given by looks, Continual comfort in a face, The lineaments of Gospel books! I trow, that countenance cannot

lie Whose thoughts are legible in

UNDERNEATH this stone doth lye
As much beauty as could dye;
Which in life did harbor give
To more virtue than doth live.
If at all she had a fault,
Leave it buried in this vault.
One name was Elizabeth -
The other, let it sleep with death :
Fitter, where it dyed to tell,
Than that it lived at all. Farewell!

Ben Jonson.

the eye.


Was ever eye did see that face,

Was ever ear did hear that tongue, Was ever mind did mind his grace That ever thought the travel long? But eyes and ears, and every

thought, Were with his sweet perfections caught.


THE stars above will make thee

If man were silent here;
The sun himself cannot forget
His fellow-traveller.

BEN Josson.




. UNDERNEATH this sable hearse Lies the subject of all verse, Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother. Death! ere thou hast killed another Fair, and learned, and good as she, Time shall throw a dart at thee.



UVEDALE, thou piece of the first

times, a man Made for what Nature could, or

Virtue can; Both whose dimensions lost, the

world might find Restored in thy body, and thy mind! Who sees a soul in such a body set, Might love the treasure for the cabi

net. But I, no child, no fool, respect the

kind The full, the glowing graces there

enshrined, Which, (would the world not miscall

it flattery,) I could adore, almost to idolatry.


Give me my cup, but from the Thes

pian well, That I may tell to Sidney, what This day doth say, And he may think on that Which I do tell When all the noise Of these forced joys Are fled and gone, And he with his best genius left alone, 'Twill be exacted of your name whose

son, Whose nephew, whose grandchild

you are; And men will then Say you have followed far, When well begun: Which must be now: they teach you

how; And he that stays To live until to-morrow, hath lost

two days. Then The birthday shines, when logs not burn, but men.



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The golden pomp is come;

For now each tree does wear, Made of her pap and gum,

Rich beads of amber here.

Now reigns the Rose, and now

The Arabian dew besmears My uncontrolled brow,

And my retorted hairs. Homer! this health to thee,

In sack of such a kind, That it would make thee see,

Though thou wert ne'er so blind. Next, Virgil l'll call forth,

To pledge this second health
In wine, whose each cup's worth

An Indian commonwealth.


OF TWENTY-THREE. How soon hath Time, the subtle

thief of youth, Stolen on his wing my three and

twentieth year! My hasting days fly on with full

career, But my late spring no bud or

blossom show'th. Perhaps my sembiance might deceive

the truth, That I to manhood am arrived so

near, And inward ripeness doth much

less appear, That some more timely-happy

spirits indu'th. Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow, It shall be still in strictest meas

ure even To that same lot, however mean

or high, Toward which Time leads me, and

the will of Heaven: All is, if I have grace to use it so, As ever in my great Task-master's eye.


A goblet next I'll drink

To Ovid; and suppose
Made he the pledge, he'd think

The world had all one nose.
Then this immensive cup

Of aromatic wine, Catullus, I quaff up

To that terse muse of thine. Wild I am now with heat,

O Bacchus! cool thy rays; Or frantic I shall eat

Thy Thyrse, and bite the Bays. Round, round, the roof does run;

And being ravisht thus, Come, I will drink a tun

To my Propertius. Now, to Tibullus next,

This flood I drink to thee; But stay, I see a text,

That this presents to me. Behold! Tibullus lies

Here burnt, whose small return
Of ashes scarce suffice

To fill a little urn.
Trust to good verses then;

They only will aspire,
When pyramids, as men,

Are lost in the funeral fire.
Aud when all bodies meet

In Lethe, to be drowned;
Then only numbers sweet,
With endless life are crowned.



Ан Ben!
Say how or when
Shall we, tlıy guests,
Meet at those lyric feasts,

Made at the Sun,
The Dog, the Triple Tun;
Where we such clusters had
As made us nobly wild, not mad;

And yet each verse of thine Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine.

My Ben!
Or come again,

Or send to us
Thy wit's great overplus;

But teach us yet Wisely to husband it, Lest we that talent spend: And having once brought to an end

That precious stock, the store Of such a wit, the world should have no more.


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