« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
For then, and not till then, he felt himself,
Men that make Envy, and crooked malice, nourishment, Dare bite the best.
Love and meekness, lord,
'Tis a cruelty, To load a falling man. ARCHBISHOP CRANMER'S PROPHECY.
Let me speak, sir, For heaven now bids me ; and the words I utter Let none think flattery, for they'll find them truth. This royal infant, (heaven still move about her!) Though in her cradle, yet now promises Upon this land a thousand thousand blessings, Which time shall bring to ripeness: She shall be (But few now living can behold that goodness), A pattern to all princes living with her, And all that shall succeed: Sheba was never More covetous of wisdom, and fair virtue, Than this pure soul shall be: all princely graces, That mould up such a mighty piece as this is, With all the virtues that attend the good, Shall still be doubled on her: truth shall nurse her,
Holy and heavenly thoughts still counsel her,
ness) Who, from the sacred ashes of her honour, Shall star-like rise, as great in fame as she was, And so stand fix'd: Peace, plenty, love, truth, terror, That were the servants to this chosen infant, Shall then be his, and like a vine grow to him; Wherever the bright sun of heaven shall shine, His honour and the greatness of his name Shall be, and make new nations: He shall flourish, And, like a mountain cedar, reach his branches To all the plains about him:- -Our children's chil
dren Shall see this, and bless heaven.
O CHARMIAN, Where think'st thou he is now? Stands he, or sits he? Or does he walk? or is he on his horse? O happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony ! Do bravely, horse! for wot'st thou whom thou moy'st? The demi-Atlas of this earth, the arm And burgonet* of men.—He's speaking now, Or murm'ring, Where's my serpent of old Nile? For so he calls me; Now I feed myself With most delicious poison :- Think on me, That am with Phoebus' am'rous pinches black, And wrinkled deep in time? Broad-fronted Cæsar, When thou wast here above the ground, I was A morsel for a monarch: and great Pompey Would stand, and make his eyes grow in my brow: There would he anchor his aspect, and die With his looking on his life.
* A helmet.