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152.

A messenger comes to the king from Bolingbroke.

King Richard. What must the king do now? must he submit?

The king shall do it. Must he be deposed?
The king shall be contented. Must he lose
The name of king? O' God's name, let it go.
I'll give my jewels for a set of beads;
My gorgeous palace for a hermitage;
My gay apparel for an almsman's gown;
My figured goblets for a dish of wood;
My sceptre for a palmer's walking staff;
My subjects for a pair of carved saints;
And my large kingdom for a little grave,
A little, little grave, an obscure grave ;-
Or I'll be buried in the king's highway,
Some way of common trade, where subjects' feet
May hourly trample on their sovereign's head;
For on my heart they tread now whilst I live;
And, buried once, why not upon my head?
Aumerle, thou weep'st. My tender-hearted cousin!
We'll make foul weather with despisèd tears;
Our sighs and they shall lodge the summier corn,
And make a dearth in this revolting land.
Or shall we play the wantons with our woes,
And make some pretty match with shedding tears?
As thus, to drop them still upon one place,
Till they have fretted us a pair of graves

Within the earth; and, therein laid,-"there lies
Two kinsmen, digged their graves with weeping eyes.”
Would not this ill do well? Well, well, I see

I talk but idly, and you mock at me.

W. SHAKESPEARE.

153.

The Duke of York describes to his wife the entry of Bolingbroke and Richard into London.

York. Then, as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke,

Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,

Which his aspiring rider seemed to know,—

With slow but stately pace kept on his course,

Whilst all tongues cried—“ God save thee, Bolingbroke !"

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 imagery, had said at once,-

"Jesu preserve thee! welcome, Bolingbroke !”
Whilst he, from the one side to the other turning,
Bareheaded, lower than his proud steed's neck,
Bespake them thus ;- I thank you, countrymen :"
And thus still doing, thus he passed along.

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As, in a theatre, the eyes of men,

*

After a well-graced 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, steeled
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
And barbarism itself have pitied him.

W. SHAKESPEARE.

154.

Cardinal Wolsey, deprived in a moment, by the king, of his exalted position, and disgraced before the world, charges his servant Cromwell to guide his own life more wisely.

Wolsey. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear

In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me,

Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.

Let's dry our eyes and thus far hear me, Cromwell;
And, when I am forgotten, as I shall be,

And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention
Of me more must be heard of,—say, I taught thee;

N

Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour,—
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ;
A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it.
Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me.
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition;
By that sin fell the angels; how can man then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't?
Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee :
Corruption wins not more than honesty :

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,

To silence envious tongues: be just, and fear not :

Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, BICHYBD] Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fall'st, O Cromwell, Thou fall'st a blessèd martyr.

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W. SHAKESPEARE.

155.

The Last Conqueror.

VICTORIOUS men of earth, no more
Proclaim how wide your empires are ;
Though you bind in every shore
And your triumphs reach as far
As night or day,

Yet you, proud monarchs, must obey
And mingle with forgotten ashes, when
Death calls ye to the crowd of common men.

Devouring Famine, Plague, and War,
Each able to undo mankind,
Death's servile emissaries are ;
Nor to these alone confined,
He hath at will

More quaint and subtle ways to kill ;
A smile or kiss, as he will use the art,
Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart.

J. SHIRLEY.

156.

Death the Leveller.

THE glories of our birth and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings.
Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still.
Early or late,

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow;
Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon death's purple altar now,

See where the victor victim bleeds.
All heads must come

To the cold tomb;

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.

J. SHIRLEY.

157.

Constance hears that the King of France (who had sworn to support the claims of her son Arthur to the English throne against the usurper John) has made peace with the latter.

Constance. It is not so; thou hast misspoke, misheard. Be well advised; tell o'er thy tale again. It cannot be; thou dost but say 'tis so; I trust I may not trust thee; for thy word

Is but the vain breath of a common man :
Believe me, I do not believe thee, man;
I have a king's oath to the contrary.

Thou shalt be punished for thus frighting me;
For I am sick, and capable of fears;

Oppressed with wrongs, and therefore full of fears;
A widow, husbandless, subject to fears;

A woman, naturally born to fears;

And though thou now confess thou didst but jest
With my vexed spirits, I cannot take a truce,
But they will quake and tremble all this day.
What dost thou mean by shaking of thy head?
Why dost thou look so sadly on my son?
What means that hand upon that breast of thine?
Why holds thine eye that lamentable rheum,
Like a proud river peering o'er his bounds?
Be these sad signs confirmers of thy words?
Then speak again; not all thy former tale,
But this one word, whether thy tale be true.

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O, if thou teach me to believe this sorrow,
Teach thou this sorrow how to make me die;
And let belief and life encounter so,

As doth the fury of two desperate men,

Which, in the very meeting, fall and die.—

Lewis marry Blanch! Oh, boy, then where art thou?
France friend with England! What becomes of me?
Fellow, be gone: I cannot brook thy sight;
This news hath made thee a most ugly man.

W. SHAKESPEARE.

158.

CONSTANCE-KING PHILIP-ARCHDUKE OF AUSTRIA.

Constance. You have beguiled me with a counterfeit, Resembling majesty; which being touched and tried, Proves valueless. You are forsworn, forsworn ; You came in arms to spill mine enemies' blood, But now in arms you strengthen it with yours.

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