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THOUGHTS INEFFECTUAL TO MODERATE
0, who can hold a fire in his band,
By thinking on the frosty Caucasus?
Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite,
By bare imagination of a feast?
Or wallow naked in December snow,
By thinking on fantastic summer's heat?
0, no! the apprehension of the good,
Gives but the greater feeling to the worse:
Fell sorrow's tooth doth never rankle more,
Than when it bites, but lanceth not the sore.
Ourself, and Bushy, Bagot here, and Green,
Observd his courtship to the common people:-
How he did seem to dive into their hearts,
With humble and familiar courtesy;
What reverence he did throw away on slaves;
Wooing poor craftsmen, with the craft of smiles,
And patient underbearing of his fortune,
As 'twere, to banish their affects with him.
Off goes his bonnet to an oyster wench;
A brace of draymen bid-God speed him well,
And had the tribute of his supple knee,
With-Thanks, my countrymen, my loving friends ;-
As were our England in reversion his,
And he pur subjects' next degree in hope.
ENGLAND PATHETICALLY DESCRIBED.
This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise;
This fortress, built by nature for herself,
Against infection, and the hand of war;
This happy breed of men, this little world:
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy
of less happier lands
England, bound in with the triumphant sea, Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege Of watery Neptune, is now bound in with shame, With inky blots and rotten parchment bonds: That England, that was wont to conquer others, Hath made a shameful conquest of itself,
Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows, Which show like grief itself, but are not so: For sorrow's eye, glaz'd with blinding tears, Divides one thing entire to many objects; Like perspectives,* which, rightly gaz'd upon, Show nothing but confusion; ey'd awry, Distinguish form.
I will despair, and be at enmity
With cozening hope; he is a flatterer,
A parasite, a keeper-back of death,
Who gently would dissolve the bands of life,
Which false hope lingers in extremity.
The bay-trees in our country are all wither'd, And meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven; The pale-fac'd moon looks bloody on the earth, And lean-look'd prophets whisper fearful change: Rich men look sad, and ruffians dance and leap.
APOSTROPHE TO ENGLAND. As a long-parted mother with her child Plays fondly with her tears, and smiles in meeting. So, weeping, smiling, greet I thee, my earth, And do thee favour with my royal hands. Feed not thy sovereign's foe, my gentle earth, Nor with thy sweets comfort his rav’nous sense: But let thy spiders, that suck up thy venom, And heavy-gaited toads, lie in their way:
Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet,
Which with usurping steps do trample thee.
Yield stinging nettles to mine' enemies:
they from thy bosom pluck a flower,
Guard it, I pray thee, with a lurking adder;
Whose double tongue may with a mortal touch
Throw death upon thy sovereign's enemies.
Mock not my senseless conjuration, lords;
This earth shall have a feeling, and these stones
Prove armed soldiers, ere her native king
Shall falter under foul rebellious arms.
SUN RISING AFTER A DARK NIGHT.
Know'st thou not,
That when the searching eye of heaven is hid
Behind the globe, and lights the lower world,
Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen,
In murders, and in outrage, bloody here;
But when, from under this terrestrial ball,
He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines,
And darts his light through every guilty hole,
Then murders, treasons, and detested sins,
The cloak of night being pluck'd from off their backs,
Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves?
VANITY OF POWER AND MISERY OF KINGS. No matter where; of comfort no man speak: Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. Let's choose executors, and talk of wills: And yet not so,-for what can we bequeath, Save our deposed bodies to the ground? Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's, And nothing can we call our own, but death; And that small model of the barren earth, Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. For heaven's sake, let us sit upon the ground, And tell sad stories of the death of kings: How some have been depos'd, some slain in war; Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos’d; Some poison'd by their wives, some sleeping kill'd; All murder'di-For within the hollow crown
That rounds the mortal temples of a king,
Keeps death his court: and there the antic sits,
Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pompi
Allowing him a breath, a little scene,
To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks;
Infusing him with self 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 castle wall, and-farewell king!
Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
With solemn reverence; throw away respect,
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty,
For you have but mistook me all this while:
I live with bread like you, feel want, taste grief,
Need friends:-Subjected thus,
How can you say to me-I am a king?
In winter's tedious nights, sit by the fire
With good old folks; and let them tell thee tales
Of woful ages, long ago betid:*
And ere thou bid good night, to quitf their grief,
Tell thou the lamentable fall of me,
And send the hearers weeping to their beds.
York. Then, as I said, the duke, great Boling
broke, Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed, Which his aspiring rider seem'd to know,With slow, but stately pace, kept on his course, While all tongues cried-God save thee, Boling
broke! You would have thought the very windows spake, So many greedy looks of young and old Through casements darted their desiring eyes Upon his visage: and that all the walls, With painted imag’ryat had said at once,Passed.
† Be even with them. Tapestry hung from the windows.
Jesu preserve thee! welcome, Bolingbroke!
Whilst he, from one side to the other turning,
Bare-headed, lower than his proud steed's neck,
Bespake them thus --I thank you, countrymen.
And thus still doing, thus he pass'd along.
Duch. Alas, poor Richard! where rides he the
York. As in a theatre, the eyes of men,
After a well-grac'd actor leaves the stage,
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 cried, 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, steeld The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted, And barbarism itself have pitied him.
Who are the violets now,
That strew the green lap of the new-come spring?
À SOLILOQUY IN PRISON.
I have been studying how I may compare
This prison, where I live, unto the world:
And, for because the world is populous,
And here is not a creature but myself,
I cannot do it;-Yet I'll hammer it out.
My brain I'll prove the female to my soul;
My soul, the father: and these two beget
A generation of still-breeding thoughts,
And these same thoughts people this little worldt
In humors, like the people of this world,
For no thought is contented.
Thoughts tending to content, flatter themselves.-
That they are not the first of fortune's slaves,
* Carelessly turned. † His own body.