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But when it first did help to wound itself.
King Richard II.
The purest treasure mortal times afford,
That which in mean men we entitle-patience, Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.
Ourself, and Bushy, Bagot here, and Green, Observ'd his courtship to the common people:How he did seem to dive into their hearts, With humble and familiar courtesy; What reverence he did throw away on slaves; Wooing poor craftsmen, with the craft of smiles, And patient underbearing of his fortune, As 'twere, to banish their affects with him. Off goes his bopnet to an oyster-Wench; A brace of draymen bid—God speed him well, And had the tribute of his supple knee, With—Thanks, my countrymen, my loving friends ; As were our England in reversion his, And he our subjects' next degree in hope.
All places that the eye of heaven visits, Are to a wise man ports and happy havens: Teach thy necessity to reason thus; There is no virtue like necessity. Think not the king did banish thee; But thou the king: Woe doth the heavier sit, Where it perceives it is but faintly borne. Go, say—I sent thee forth to purchase honour, And not—the king exild thee: or suppose, Devouring pestilence hangs in our air, And thou art flying to fresher clime. Look, what thy soul holds dear, imagine it To lie that way thou go'st, not whence thou com'st: Suppose the singing birds, musicians; [strew'd : The grass whereon thou tread'st, the presence The flowers, fair ladies; and thy steps, no more Than a delightful measure, or a dance: For gnarling + sorrow hath less power to bite The man that mocks at it, and sets it light. THOUGHTS INEFFECTUAL TO MODERATE AFFLICTION.
0, who can hold a fire in his hand, By thinking on the frosty Caucasus?
* Presence-chamber at court. + Growling.
Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite,
ENGLAND PATHETICALLY DESCRIBED.
This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle,
England, bound in with the triumphant sea, Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege Of watery Neptune, is now bound in with shame,' With inky blots and rotten parchment bonds; That England, that was wont to conquer others, Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.
Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows, Which show like grief itself, but are not so: For sorrow's eye, glazed with blinding tears, Divides one thing entire to many objects;
Like perspectives, which, rightly gaz'd upon,
PROGNOSTICS OF WAR.
The bay-trees in our country are all wither’d, And meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven; The pale-fac'd moon louks bloody on the earth, And lean-look'd prophets whisper fearful change; Rich men look sad, and ruffians dance and leap.
APOSTROPHE TO ENGLAND.
As a long-parted mother with her child
Mock not my senseless conjuration, lords ;
SUN-RISING AFTER A DARK NIGHT.
Know'st thou not, That when the searching eye of heaven is bid Behind the globe, and lights the lower world, Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen, In murders, and in outrage, bloody here ; But when from under this terrestrial ball, He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines, And darts his light through every guilty hole, Then murders, treasons, and detested sins, The cloak of night being pluck'd from off their backs, Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves?
VANITY OF POWER, AND MISERY OF KINGS. No matter where; of comfort no man speak : Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. Let's choose executors, and talk of wills: And yet not so,—for what can we bequeath, Save our deposed bodies to the ground? Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's, And nothing can we call our own, but death; And that small model of the barren earth, Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. For heaven's sake, let us sit upon the ground, And tell sad stories of the death of kings:How some have been depos’d, some slain in war; Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos’d; Some poison'd by their wives, some sleeping kill'd; All murder'd :-For within the hollow crown That rounds the mortal temples of a king, Keeps death his court: and there the antic sits, Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp: Allowing him a breath, a little scene,