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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 duft was thrown upon his sacred head;
Which with such 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 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.



L I F E.
Reason 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'ft,
Hourly afflict; merely thou art death's fool;
For him thou labour'st by thy flight to shun,

yet runn'ft tow'rd him still. Thou art not noble ;
For all th' accommodations that thou bear'ft,
Are nurs’d by baseness : thou art by no means valiant ;
For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork
Of a poor worm. Thy best of reft is sleep,
And that thou oft provok’lt; yet grossly fear'it
Thy death, which is no more. Thou’rt not thyself;
For thou exiftit on many a thousand grains,
That issue out of doft. Happy thou art not ;
For what thou hast not, still thou striv'st to get ;
And what thou haft, 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 effusion 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 palsied 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 these odds all even.


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Do remember, when the fight was done,
When I was dry with rage, and extreme toil,
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,
Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly drefs'd;
Fresh as a bridegroom, and his chin, new reap'd,
Shew'd like a stubble 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 nose, 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 slovenly, unhandsome corse
Betwixt 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 peiter'd with a popinjay,
Out of my grief, and my impatience,
Answer’d, negligently, I know not what :
He should, or should not; for he made me mad,
To see him shine so brilk, and smell so sweet,
And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman,
Of guns, and drums, and wounds; (God save the mark!)
And telling me, the sovereign'it thing on earth
Was parmacity, for an inward bruise;
And that it was great pity, so it was,
This'villainous falt-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.


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Brak. Why locks your grace so heavily to-day?

Ciar. O, I have pass'd a miserable night,
So full of ugly fights, of ghastly dreams,
That as I am a christian faithful man,
I would not spend another such a night,
Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days ;
So full of dismal terror was the time.



Then came rauliingly I shoulou like an Inget.writh bright hunii Dubblat in Klood. anil le shrickiloutalom: Clarenr icom.tàlse.thuting perjurid (launce. That statlit me in the tichelly Tirchilluny Seix on him.turies, takr hin to your lointi.


Published as the let in S! Pants Umroh Duni...Ilav 1801.

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