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Jesu preserve thee! welcome Bolingbroke !
While he, from one side to the other turning
Bare headed, lower than his proud steed's neck,
Bespoke them thus : I thank you, coutrymen ;
And thus still doing, thus he pass'd along.

Duch. Alas! poor Richard, where rides he the while ?
York. As in a theatre, the eyes


After a well-garac'd actor leaves the stage,
Are idly bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his prattle to be tedious :
Ev'n so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes
Did scowl on Richard : no man cried, God save hiin!
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home:
But dust was thrown upon his sacred head ;
Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off
(His face still combating with tears and smiles,
The badges of his grief and patience,)
That had not God, for some strong purpose, steeld
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
And barbarisin itself have pitied him.
But Heaven hath a hand in these events,
To whose high will we bound our calm contents.




-REASON thus with life :
If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing
That none but fools would reck: a breath thou art,
Servile to all the skyey influences,
That do this habitation, where thou keep’st,
Hourly afflict ; merely thou art death's fool;
For him thou labour'st by thy flight to shun,
And yet runn'st tow'rd him still. Thou art not noble;
For all th' accommodations that thou bear'st
Are nurs’d by baseness : thou’rt by no means valiant ;
For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork
Of a poor worm. Thy best of rest is sleep,

And that thou oft provok’st ; yet grossly fear'st
Thy death, which is no more. Thou’rt not thyself ;
For thou exist'st on inany a thousand grains,
That issue out of dust. Happy thou art not;
For what thou hast not, still thou striv'st to get;
And what thou hast, forgettst. Thou art not certain ;
For thy complexion shifts to strange effects,
After the moon. If thou art rich, thou'rt poor ;
For, like an ass, whose back with ingots bows,
Thou bear'st thy heavy riches but a journey,
And death unloadeth thee. Friend thou hast none ;
For thy own bowels, which do call thee sire,
The mere effusion of thy proper loins,
Do curse the Gout, Serpigo, and the Rheum,
For ending thee no sooner. Thou hast nor youth nor age;
But as it were an after dinner's sleep,
Dreaming on both; for all thy blessed youth
Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms
Of palsied Eld ; and when thou'rt old and rich,
Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor bounty,
To make thy riches pleasant. What's yet in this
That bears the name of lite? yet in this life
Lie hid more thousand deaths; yet death we fear,
That makes these odds all even.




I do remember when the fight was done,
When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,
Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dress’d;
Fresh as a bridegroom, and his chin, new reap'd,
Show'd like a stubble land at harvest bome.
He was perfumed like a milliner;
And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held
A pouncet-box, which ever and anon
He gave his nose, and took't away again ;

Who, therewith angry, when it next came there,
Took it in snuff.-And still he smil'd, and talk'd ;
And as the soldiers' bare dead bodies by,
He call them untaught knaves, unmannerly,
To bring a slovenly, unhandsome corse
Betwixt the wind and his nobility.
With many holiday and lady terms
He question'd me: among the rest demanded
My pris'ners, in your Majesty's behalf.
I then, all smarting with my wounds, being galld
To be so pesterd with a popinjay,
Out of my grief, and my impatience,
Answer'd negligently, I know not what :
He should, or should not ; for he made me mad,
To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,
And talk so like a wailing gentlewoman,
Of guns, and drums, and wounds; (God save the mark!)
And telling me, the sovereign’st thing on earth
Was spermaceti for an inward bruise;
And that it was great pity, so it was,
This villanous saltpetre should be digg'd
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had destroy'd
So cowardly: and, but for these vile guns,
He would himself have been a soldier.





Brak. Why looks your Grace so heavily to day?
Člar. O, I have pass'd a miserable night,
So full of ugly siglıts, of ghastly dreams,
That as I am a christian faithful man,
I would not spend another such a night,
Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days;
So full of dismal terrour was the time!


What was your dream, my lord? I pray you

tell me.

Clar. Methought that I had broken froin the tow'r,
And was embark'd to cross to Burgundy,
And in my company my brother Glo'ster,
Who from my cabin tempted me to walk
Upon the hatches. Thence we look'd tow'rd England,
And cited up a thousand heavy times,
During the wars of York and Lancaster,
That had befall'n us. As we pass'd along
Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,
Methought thiat Glo'ster stumbled, and in falling
Struck me (that sought to stay him) overboard,
Into the tumbling billows of the main.

Lord ! Lord ! methought, what pain it was to drown
What dreadful noise of waters in my ears!
What sights of ugly death within my eyes!
I thought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks;
A thousand men, that fishes gnaw'd upon ;
Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,
Inestimable stones, unvalu'd jewels;
Some lay in dead men's sculls ; and in those holes


did once inhabit, there were crept,
As 'twere in scorn of eyes, reflecting gems,
That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep,
And mock d the dead bones that lay scatter'd by.

Brak. Had you such leisure in the time of death
To gaze upon the secrets of the deep?

Ciar. Methought I had ; and often did I strive
To yield the ghost; but still the envious flood
Kept in my soul, and would not let it forth
To find the empty, vast, and wand'ring air ;
But smother'd it within my panting hulk,
Which almost burst to belch it in the sea.
Brak. Awak'd


not with this sore agony?
Clar. No, no; my dream was lengthen'd after life
O then began the tempest to my soul :
I pass’d, methought, the melancholy flood,
With that grim ferryman which poets write of,
Un.o the kingdom of perpetual night.
The first that there did greet my stranger-soul,

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Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick,
Who cried aloud-


for perjury
“ Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence ?"
And so he vanish’d. Then came wand'ring by
A shadow like an angel, with bright hair
Dabbled in blood, and be shriek'd out aloud-
“ Clarence is come! false, fleeting, perjur'd Clarence,
“ That stabb'd me in the field by Tewksbury!
“ Seize on him, furies! take him to your torments !
With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends
Environ'd me, and howled in mine ears
Such bideous cries, that with the very noise
I trembling wak'd ; and for a season after
Could not believe but that I was in Hell;
Such terrible impression made my dream.

Brak. No marvel, lord, that it affrighted you;
I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it.

Clar. Ah! Brekenbury, I have done those things,
That now give evidence against my soul,
For Edward's sake; and see how he requites me!
O God! is my deep pray’rs cannot appease thee,
But thou wilt be aveng'd on my misdeeds,
Yet execute thy wrath on me alone:
O spare my guiltless wife, and my poor children!
I prithee, Brakenbury, stay by me:
My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep.




O THEN I see queen Mab has been with

She is the fancy's midwife, and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agate-stone
On the forefinger of an alderman ;
Drawn with a team of little atomies
Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep:
Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners' legs;
The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers ;

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