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And bestial appetite in change of lust;
prey. Nay, for a need, thus far come near my person : Tell them, when that my mother went with
child Of that insatiate Edward, noble York, My princely father, then had wars in France ; And, by just computation of the time, Found, that the issue was not his begot ; Which well appeared in his lineaments, Being nothing like the noble duke my father : Yet touch this sparingly, as 'twere far off ; Because, my lord, you know, my mother lives. If you thrive well, bring them to Baynard's
castle; Where you shall find me well accompanied, With reverend fathers, and well-learned bishops.
K. RICHARD III., A. 3, s. 5.
DANGER OF COQUETTING WITH
To be more fresh, reviving. She is fool'd
CYMBELINE, A. 1, s. 6.
DAWN OF LIGHT. Look, the morn, in russet mantle clad, Walks o’er the dew of yon high eastern hill.
HAMLET, A. 1, s. 1.
DEARLY IS SUCCESS BOUGHT BY
OVER MENTAL ANXIETY. AND wherefore should these good news make me
sick ? Will fortune never come with both hands full, But write her fair words still in foulest letters ? She either gives a stomach, and no food, — Such are the
poor, in health ; or else a feast, And takes away the stomach,
-such are the rich, That have abundance, and enjoy it not. I should rejoice now at this happy news; And now my sight fails, and my brain is giddy: O me! come near me, now I am much ill.
K. HENRY IV., PART 11., A. 4, s. 4.
This counsellor Is now most still, most secret, and most grave, Who was in life a foolish prating knave.
HAMLRT, A. 3, s. 4.
DEATH NOT TERRIBLE WHEN
WELL APPROACHED. Rosse. Your son, my lord, has paid a soldier's
SIWARD. Then he is dead ?
cause of sorrow
Had he his hurts before ?
Siw. Why, then, God's soldier be he! Had I as many sons as I have hairs, I would not wish them to a fairer death : And so his knell is knoll’d. MALCOLM.
He's worth more sorrow, And that I'll spend for him. Siw.
He's worth no more; They say, he parted well, and paid his score: So, God be with him !
MACBETH, A. 5, s. 7.
DEATH OF INNOCENCE AND
BEAUTY. SALISBURY. This is the prison: What is he lies here:
[Seeing ARTHUR. O death, made proud with pure and princely Have you
beauty! The earth had not a hole to hide this deed. Murder, as hating what himself hath done,
Doth lay it open,
urge on revenge.
beheld, Or have you read, or heard ? or could you
think? Or do you almost think, although you see, That you do see ? could thought, without this
object, Form such another ? This is the very top, The height, the crest, or crest unto the crest, Of murder's arms: this is the bloodiest shame, The wildest savag'ry, the vilest stroke, That ever wall-ey'd wrath, or staring rage, Presented to the tears of soft remorse. All murders past do stand excus'd in this : And this so sole, and so unmatchable, Shall give a holiness, a purity, To the yet unbegotten sin of times ; And prove a deadly bloodshed but a jest, Exampled by this heinous spectacle. BASTARD. It is a damned and a bloody
work; The graceless action of a heavy hand, If that it be the work of
hand. SAL. If that it be the work of
hand ?We had a kind of light, what would ensue: It is the shameful work of Hubert's hand; The practice, and the purpose, of the king :From whose obedience I forbid my soul, Kneeling before this ruin of sweet life And breathing to his breathless excellence The incense of a vow, a holy vow; Never to taste the pleasures of the world, Never to be infected with delight,
Nor conversant with ease and idleness,
KING JOHN, A. 4, s. 3.
DEATH OFTEN NEARER THE WEALTHY THAN THE HARDY. STILL going ?—This is a lord ! O noble misery! To be i’the field, and ask, What news, of me! To-day, how many would have given their honours To have sav'd their carcases ? took heel to do't, And yet died too? I, in mine own woe charm’d, Could not find death, where I did hear him groan; Nor feel him, where he struck : Being an ugly
monster, 'Tis strange, he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds, Sweet words; or hath more ministers than we That draw his knives i'the war.
CYMBELINE, A. 5, s. 3.
DEATH OF THE AMBITIOUS MAN. WARWICK. Ah, who is nigh ? come to me,
friend or foe, And tell me, who is victor, York, or Warwick ? Why ask I that ? my mangled body shows, My blood, my want of strength, my sick heart
shows, That I must yield my body to the earth, And, by my fall, the conquest to my foe. Thus yields the cedar to the axe's edge, Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle, Under whose shade the ramping lion slept: