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this is? Why, my Lord of York çommends the plot, and the general courfe of the action. By this hand, if I were now by this rafcal, I could brain him with his Lady's fan. Is there not my father, my uncle, and myfelf, Lord Edmund Mortimer, my Lord of York, and Owen Glendower? Is there not, befides, the Douglas? Have I not all their letters, to meet me in arms by the ninth of next month? and are there not fome of themfet forward already? What a Pagan rafcal is this! an infidel. Ha! you fhall fee now, in very fincerity of fear and cold heart, will he to the King, and lay open all our proceedings. O, I could divide myself, and go to buffets, for moving fuch a dish of skimmed milk with fo honourable an action. Hang him, let him tell the King. We are prepared, I will fet forward to-night. SHAKESPEAR,

CHA P. XVI.

HENRY IV'S SOLILOQUY ON SLEEP.

WOW many thoufands of my pooreft fubjects

Have me this hour afleep! O gentle Sleep,

Nature's foft nurfe, how have I frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weigh my eye-lids down,
And fteep my fenfes in forgetfulness!

Why rather, Sleep, lay'ft thou in fmoaky cribs,
Upon uneafy pallets ftretching thee,

And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy flumber;
Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great,

Under the canopies of coftly ftate,

And lull'd with founds of sweetest melody?

O_thou dull god, why lay'ft thou with the vile
In loathfome beds, and leav'ft the kingly couch,

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A watch-cafe to a common larum bell?

Wilt thou, upon the high and giddy maft,
Seal up the fhip-boy's eyes, and rock his brains,
In cradle of the rude imperious furge;

And in the vifitation of the winds,

Who take the ruffian billows by the top,

Curling their monftrous heads, and hanging them
With deaf'ning clamours in the flipp'ry fhrouds,
That, with the hurly, death itself awakes:
Canft thou, O partial Sleep, give thy repofe
To the wet fea- boy in an hour fo rude;
And, in the calmest and the stillest night,
With all appliances and means to boot,

Deny it to a king? Then, happy lowly clown;
Uneafy lies the head that wears a crown.

SHAKESPEAR.

CHA P. XVII.

HENRY IV. AND PRINCE HENRY.

P. HENRY.

I

NEVER thought to hear you fpeak again. K. HENRY. Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought.

I ftay too long by thee, I weary thee.

Doft thou fo hunger for my empty chair,

That thou wilt needs inveft thee with my honours,
Before thy hour be ripe! O foolish youth!
Thou seek'ft the greatness that will overwhelm thee.
Stay but a little; for my cloud of dignity
Is held from falling with so weak a wind,
That it will quickly drop; my day is dim.
Thou haft ftol'n that, which after fome few hours,

Were

Were thine without offence; and at my death
Thou haft feal'd up my expectation;

Thy life did manifeft, thou lov❜dst me not;
And thou wilt have me die affur'd of it.
Thou hid'st a thousand daggers in thy thoughts,
Which thou haft whetted on thy ftony heart,
To ftab at half an hour of my frail life.

What! canft thou not forbear me half an hour?
Then get thee gone, and dig my grave thyself,
And bid the merry bells ring to thine ear,
That thou art crowned, not that I am dead.
Let all the tears that fhould bedew my hearse,
Be drops of balm to fanctify thy head;
Only compound me with forgotten duft,
Give that which gave thee life unto the worms.
Pluck down my officers, break my decrees;

For now a time is come to mock at form;
Henry the Fifth is crown'd: up, Vanity!

Down, Royal state! All you fage counsellors, hence!
And to the English court affemble now,

From ev'ry region, apes of idleness:

Now, neighbour confines, purge you of your fcum;
Have you a ruffian that will fwear? drink? dance?
Revel the night? rob? murder? and commit
The oldeft fins the newest kind of ways?
Be happy, he will trouble you no more:
England shall give him office, honour, might:
For the Fifth Harry from curb'd licence plucks
The muzzle of restraint! and the wild dog
Shall flesh his tooth on every innocent.
O my poor kingdom, fick with civil blows!
When that my care could not with-hold thy riots,

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What wilt thou do when riot is thy care?
O, thou wilt be a wilderness again,

Peopled with wolves, thy old inhabitants.

P. HENRY. O pardon me, my Liege! but for my tears (The moift impediments unto my speech)

I had foreftall'd this dear and deep rebuke,

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Ere you with grief had fpoke, and I had heard
The courfe of it fo far. There is your crown;
And he that wears the crown immortally,
Long guard it your's! If I affect it more,
Than as your honour, and as your renown,
Let me no more from this obedience rife,
Which my most true and inward-duteous fpirit
Teacheth this proftrate and exterior bending.
Heav'n witnefs with me, when I here came in,
And found no courfe of breath within your Majefty,
How cold it ftruck my heart! If I do feign,
O let me in my prefent wildness die,

And never live to shew th' incredulous world
The noble change that I have purpofed.
Coming to look on you, thinking you dead,
(And dead almoft, my Liege, to think you were)
I fpake unto the crown, as having fenfe,

And thus upbraided it. The care on thee depending
Hath fed upon the body of my father,

Therefore thou beft of gold art worft of gold;

Other lefs-fine in carrat, is more precious,

Preferving life in med'cine potable;

But thou, moft fine, moft honour'd, moft renown'd,
Haft eat thy bearer up. Thus, Royal Liege,

Accufing it, I put it on my head,

To try with it (as with an enemy,

That

That had before my face murder'd my father)
The quarrel of a true inheritor.

But if it did infect my blood with joy,

Or fwell my thoughts to any strain of pride,
If any rebel or vain fpirit of mine

Did with the least affection of a welcome
Give entertainment to the might of it:
Let Heav'n for ever keep it from my head,
And make me as the poorest vaffal is,

That doth with awe and terror kneel to it!

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Heav'n put it in thy mind to take it hence,

That thou might'st win the more thy father's love,
Pleading fo wifely in excufe of it...

Come hither, Harry, fit thou by my bed;
And hear, I think, the very lateft counfel
That ever I fhall breathe.
By what by-paths, and indirect crook'd ways
I met this crown; and I myself know well,
How troublesome it fat upon my head.
To thee it fhall defcend with better quiet,
Better opinion, better confirmation:

Heav'n knows, my fon,

For all the foil of the atchievement goes
With me into the earth. It feem'd in me
But as an honour fnatch'd with boift'rous hand,
And I had many living to upbraid

My gain of it by their affiftances;

Which daily grew to quarrel and to bloodshed,
Wounding fuppofed peace. All their bold feats,
Thou feeft, with peril I have answer'd.

For all my reign hath been but as a scene
Acting that argument: and now my death

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