A

THE

CHA P. XVIII.

PROGRESS OF LIFE.

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 feven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms,

And then the whining school-boy, with his fatchel,
And fhining morning face, creeping like fnail
Unwillingly to fchool. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his miftrefs' eye-brow. Then a foldier,,
Full of ftrange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, fudden and quick in quarrel;
Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the juftice,.
In fair round belly, with good capon lin❜d,

With eyes fevere, and beard of formal cut,›
Full of wife faws and modern inftances,
And fo he plays his part. The fixth age shifts.
Into the lean and flipper'd pantaloon,
With fpectacles on nofe, and pouch on fide; :
His youthful hose well fav'd, a world too wide..
For his fhrunk fhank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes,
And whistles in his found. Last scene of all,
That ends this ftrange eventful hiftory,.
Is fecond childifhnefs, and mere oblivion,

Sans teeth, fans eyes, fans tafte, fans every thing.

SHAKSPEARE.

CHAP

CHAP. XIX.

THE ENTRY OF BOLINGBROKE AND
RICHARD INTO LONDON.

DUKE AND DUCHESS OF YORK.

DUCH.

ΜΥ

Lord, you told me, you would tell the réft,

When weeping made you break the ftory off,

Of our two coufins coming into London.
YORK. Where did I leave?

DUCH. At that fad ftop, my Lord,

Where rude mifgovern'd hands, frem window-tops,-
Threw duft and rubbish on king Richard's head.
YORK. Then, as I faid, the duke, great Bolingbroke,

Mounted upon a hot and fiery fteed,

Which his afpiring rider feem'd to know,

With flow, but ftately pace, kept on his courfe ;

While all tongues cried, God fave 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 vifage; and that all the walls
With painted imagʼry had said at once,
Jefu preferve thee ! welcome Bolingbroke !
Whilft he, from one fide to the other turning,
Bare-headed, lower than his proud fteed's neck,
Bespoke them thus: I thank you countrymen ;
And thus ftill doing, thus he pafs'd along.

DUCH. Alas! poor Richard, where rides he the while ?
YORK. As in a theatre, the eyes of men,

After a well-grac'd actor leaves the stage,

Are

Are idly bent on him that enters next,

Thinking his prattle to be tedious:

Even fo, or with much more contempt, men's eyes
Did fcowl on Richard; no man cry'd, God fave him?
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home :
But duft was thrown upon his facred head ; ·
Which with fuch gentle forrow he shook off,
(His face ftill combating with tears and smiles,
The badges of his grief and patience)

That had not God, for fome ftrong purpose, steel'd
The hearts of men, they muft perforce have melted,
And barbarifm itself have pitied him.

But Heaven hath a hand in thefe events,

To whofe high will we bound our calm contents.

CHA P. XX.

LIFE.

SHAKSPEARE

R

EASON thus with life:

If I do lofe thee, I do lofe a thing That none but fools would reck; a breath thou art,

Servile to all the fkiey influences,

That do this habitation, where thou keep'ft,
Hourly afflict; merely thou art death's fool;

For him thou labour' by thy flight to fhun,
And yet run'it tow'rd him ftill. Thou art not noble ;:
For all th' accommodations that thou bear'ft,

Are nuus'd by balenefs: hou'rt by no means valiant;
For thou doft fear the foft and tender fork

Of a poor worm. Tay be of reft is fleep,
And that tho uoft provok'il; yet grossly fear'st

Thy

Thou'rt.not thyfelf;

Thy death, which is no more.
For thou exift'ft on many a thousand grains,

That iffue out of duft. Happy thou art not;
For what thou haft not, ftill thou striv❜ft to get;

And what thou haft, forget'ft. Thou art not certain ;.
For thy complexion fhifts to ftrange effects,

After the moon.

If thou art rich, thou'rt poor;

For, like an afs, whofe back with ingots bows,

Thou bear'ft thy heavy riches but a journey,
And death unloadeth thee. Friend thou haft none :
For thy own bowels, which do call thee fire,

The mere effufion of thy proper loins,

Do curfe the Gout, Serpigo, and the Rheum,

For ending thee no fooner. Thou haft nor youth nor age;

But as it were an after dinner's fleep,

Dreaming on both; for all thy blessed youth

Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms

Of palfied Eld; and when thou'rt old and rich,
Thou haft 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 thefe odds all even.

SHAKSPEARE.

I

CHA P. XXI.

HOTSPUR's DESCRIPTION OF A FOP.

DO remember, when the fight was done,

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

Cam

Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dress'd;.
Fresh as a bridegroom, and his chin, new reap'd,
Show'd like a ftubble land at harvest home.
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 nofe, and took't away again.;
Who therewith angry, when it next came there,
Took it in fnuff.-And ftill he fmil'd, and talk'd ;.
And as the foldiers bare dead bodies by,
He call'd them untaught knaves, unmannerly,,
To bring a flovenly, unhandfome corfe
Betwixt the wind and his nobility.
With many holiday and lady terms

He queftion'd me: amongst the rest demanded
My prifoners, in your majesty's behalf.

I then, all fiarting with my wounds; being gall'd
To be fo pefter'd with a popinjay,

• Out of my grief, and my patience,

Anfwer'd, neglectingly, I know not what :

He fhould, or fhould not; for he made me mad,

To fee him fhine to brifk, and fmell fo fweet,

And talk fo like a waiting gentlewoman,

Of guns, and drums, and wounds; (God fave the mark);
And telling me, the fovereign'ft thing on earth

Was parmacity, for an inward bruife ;

And that it was great pity, fo it was,
This villainous falt-petre fhould be digg'd ́
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had deftroy'd
So cowardly and but for thefe vile
He would himself have been a foldier.

:

guns,

SHAKSPEARE.