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CH A P.

XVIII.

THE

PROGRESS OF LIFE.

Α'

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LL the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players ;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts :
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms,
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eye-brow, Then a foldier,
Full of trange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel ;
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannen's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly, with good capon lin’d,
With eyes fevere, and beard of formal cut,,
Full of wise favys and modern instances,
And fo he plays his part. The fixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper’d:pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side ; -
His youthful hose weil sav'd, a world too wide..
For his shrunk fhank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes,
And whistles in his found. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is fecond childishness, and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, faus tafte, fans every thing.

SHAKSPEARE.

CHAP

CHA P. XIX.

THE ENTRY OF BOLINGBROKE AND

RICHARD INTO LONDON.

M'

DUKE AND DUCHESS OF YORK. Duch. Y Lord, you told me, you would tell the

reft, When weeping made you brcak the story off, " ; Of our two cousins coming into London.

YORK. Where did I leave?

Duch. At that fad ftop, my Lord,
Where rude misgovernd hands, from window-tops,
Threw duft and rubbish on king Richard's head.

York. Then, as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke,
Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,
Which his aspiring rider seem'd to know,
With flow, but stately pace, kept on his course ;
While all tongues cried, God save thee,-Bolingbroke !
You would have thought the very windows fpake,
So many greedy looks of young and old
Through cafements darted their defiring eyes
Upon his visage ; and that all the walls
With painted imag'ry had said at once,
Jefu preferve thee ! welcome Bolingbroke !
Whilst he, from one side to the other turning,
Bare-headed, lower than his proud steed's neck,
Bespoke them thus: I thank you countrymen ;
And thus ftill doing, thus he pass'd along.

Duch. Alas! poor Richard, where rides he the while ?

York. As in a theatre, the eyes of men, After a well-giac'd actor leaves the stage,

Are

Are idly bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his prattle to be tedious :
Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes
Did scowl on Richard ; no man cry’d, God save him?
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, steel'd
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
And barbarism itself have pitied him.
But Heaven hath a hand in these events,
To whose high will we bound our calm contents.

SHAKSPEARE

CHA P. XX.

LIFE..

R

EASON 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 skiey influences,
That do this habitation, where thou keep'st,
Hourly afflict ; merely thou art death's fool;
For him theu labour'st by thy flight to shun,
And
yet

run't tow'rd him still. Thou art not noble ;
For all th' accommodations that thou bear’ft,
Are rus'd by ba eness : 'hou’rt by no means valiant ;
For thon doft fear the foft and tender fork
Of a poor worm. Ty bell of reft is sleep,
And that tho uoit provok'il ; yet grossly fear'st

Thy

Thy death, which is no more. Thou’rt.not thyself ;
For thou exist’st on many 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, forget'st. 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 fire,
The mere effufion 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 pallied 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 life? yet in this life
Lie hid more thousand deaths ; yet death we fear,
That makes these odds all even.

SHAKSPEARE.

CH A P. XXI.

HOTSPUR'S DESCRIPTION OF A FOI.

I

DO remember, when the fight was done,

When I was dry with rage, and extreme toil, Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,

Cam

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 home.
He was perfumed like a milliner ;
And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held
A pouocet-box, which ever and anon
He gave his nofe, and took't away again.;
Who therewith angry, when it next came there,
Took it in fnuff. -And still he smil'd, and talk!d;.
And as the soldiers bare dead bodies by,
He call'd them untaught knaves, unmannerly,
To bring a flovenly, .unhandsome corse
Betwist the wind and his nobility.
With many holiday and lady terms '.
He question’d me : amongst the rest demanded
My prisoners, in your majesty's behalf.
I then, all smarting with my wounds ; being gall’d.
To be so pester'd with a popinjay,
Out of my grief, and my patience,
Answer’d, neglectingly, I know not what :
He should, or should not ; for he made me mad,
To see him fhine to brisk, and smell so sweet, .
And taik fo like a waiting gentlewoman,
Of guns, and drums, and wounds ; (God save the mark)
And telling me, the fovereign'st thing on earth
Was parmacity, for an inward bruise ;
And that it was great pity, so it was,
This villainous salt-petre 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.

SHAKSPEARE,

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