Revolt our jubjects?

That we cannot mend:

They break their faith to God, as well as us.
Cry woe, deftruction, ruin, lofs, decay;

The worst is death, and death will have his day.

SCROOP. Glad am I that your Highness is so arm'd To bear the tidings of calamity.

Like an unfeasonable ftormy day,

Which makes the filver rivers drown their fhores,

As if the world were all diffolv'd to tears;
So high above his limits fwells the rage

Of Bolingbroke, cov'ring your fearful land

With hard bright steel, and hearts more hard than steel.
White beards have arm'd their thin and hairless scalps
Against thy Majefty; boys, with women's voices,
Strive to speak big, and clasp their female joints
In ftiff unwieldy arms, against thy crown.
The very
beadfmen learn to bend their bows
Of double-fatal yew, against thy state.
Yea, diftaff-women manage rufty bills,
Against thy feat both young and old rebel,

And all goes worse than I have pow'r to tell.

K. RICH. Too well, too well, thou tell'ft a tale fo ill, Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? where is Bagot?

What is become of Bushy? where is Green?
-No matter where; of comfort no man speak.
Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs,
Make duft our paper, and with rainy eyes
Write forrow on the bofom of the earth!
Let's chufe executors, and talk of wills;
And yet not fofor what can we bequeath,
Save our depofed bodies to the ground?
Our lands, our lives, and all, are Bolingbroke's,

And

And nothing can we call our own but death:
And that small model of the barren earth,
Which ferves as paste and cover to our bones.
For heav'n's fake, let us fit upon the ground,
And tell fad ftories of the death of Kings;

How fome have been depos'd, fome flain in war ;
Some haunted by the ghoft they dispoffefs'd;
Some poifon'd by their wives; fome fleeping kill'd;
All murder'd.-For within the hollow crown,
That rounds the mortal temples of a King,
Keeps Death his court; and there the antic fits,
Scoffing his state, and grinning at his

Allowing him a breath, a little scene

pomp;

To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks:
Infufing him with felf and vain conceit,

As if this flesh which walls about our life,
Were brass impregnable; and, humour'd thus,
Comes at the last, and with a little pin

Bores through his caftle walls, and farewel King!
Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
With folemn rev'rence: throw away respect,
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty,
For you have but mistook me all this while.
I live on bread like
you, feel want like you;
Tafte grief, need friends, like you: fubjected thus,

How can you fay to me I am a King?

SHAKSPEARE.

CHAP.

CHA P. XIV.

HOTSPUR AND GLENDOWER.

GLEN.

SIT,

IT, coufin, Percy; fit, good coufin Hotspur ;
For, by that name, as oft as Lancaster

Doth speak of you, his cheek looks pale! and with
A rifen figh, he wisheth you in heav'n.

HOT. And you in hell, as often as he hears
Owen Glendower spoke of.

GLEN. I blame him not at my nativity, The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes, Of burning creffets: know that at my birth The frame and the foundation of the earth Shook like a cowaard.

HOT. So it would have done

At the fame feason if your mother's cat

Had kitten'd, though yourself had ne'er been born.
GLEN. I fay, the earth did shake when I was born.
Hor. I fay, the earth then was not of my mind;

If you fuppofe, as fearing you, it shook.

GLEN. The heav'ns were all on fire, the earth did

tremble.

Hor. O, then the earth fhook to see the heav'ns on fire, And not in fear of your nativity.

Difeafed nature oftentimes breaks forth

In ftrange eruptions; and the teeming earth

Is with

kind of colick pinch'd and vex'd,

By the imprison of unruly wind

Within her womb; which for enlargement striving,
Shakes the old beldame earth, and topples down
High tow'rs and mofs-gown fteeples. At your birth,

Our

Our grandam earth, with this diftemperature
In paffion fhook.

GLEN. Coufin, of many men

I do not bear these croffings: give me leave
To tell you once again, that at my birth
The front of heav'n was full of fiery fhapes;

The goats ran from the mountains, and the herds
Were ftrangely clam'rous in the frighted fields:
Thefe figns have mark'd me extraordinary,
And all the courses of my life do show,

I am not in the roll of common men.

Where is he living, clipt in with the sea,

That chides the banks of England, Wales, or Scotland,
Who calls me pupil, or hath read to me?

And bring him out, that is but woman's son,
Can trace me in the tedious ways of art;

Or hold me pace in deep experiments.

HOT. I think there is no man speaks better Welch.

GLEN. I can fpeak English, Lord, as well as you,
For I was train'd up in the English court:
Where, being young, I framed to the harp

Many an English ditty, lovely well,

And gave the tongue a helpful ornament;
A virtue that was never feen in you,

Hor. Marry, and I'm glad of it with all my heart,
I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew!

Than one of these fame metre-ballad mongers !
I'd rather hear a brazen candlestick turn'd,
Or a dry wheel grate on the axle-tree,
And that would nothing fet my teeth on edge,
Nothing fo much as mincing poetry;
'Tis like the forc'd gait of a fhuffling nag.

GLEN

GLEN. And I can call fpirits from the vaftly deep.
HOT. Why, fo can I, or so can any man :

But will they come when you do call for them?

GLEN. Why, I can teach thee to command the devil. Hor. And I can teach thee, coz, to fhame the devil, By telling truth; Tell truth and shame the devil. If thou hast power to raise him, bring him hither, And I'll be fworn, I've power to shame him hence. Oh, while you live, Tell truth and fhame the devil.

SHAKESPEARE,

CHA P. XV.

HOTSPUR READING A LETTER.

UT for mine own part, my Lord, I could be well

B contented to be there, in relpect of the love I bear

your houfe." He could be contented to be there; why is he not then?" In refpect of the love he bears our house!" He shows in this, he loves his own barn better than he loves

our houfe. Let me fee fome more. "The purpose you un"dertake is dangerous." Why, that is certain : it is dangerous to take a cold, to sleep, to drink,but I tell you, my Lord fool, out of this nettle danger, we pluck this flower fafety. "The "purpose you undertake is dangerous, the friends you have "named uncertain, the time itfelf unforted, and your whole "plot too light, for the counterpoife of fo great an oppofi"tion." Say you fo, fay you fo! I fay unto you again, you are a fhallow cowardly hind, and you lie. What a lackbrain is this? By the Lord, our plot is a good plot as ever was laid ; our friends true and constant: a good plot, good friends, and full of expectation; an excellent plot, very good friends. What a frosty-fpirited rogue this is? Why, my

Lord