Then, the lover; Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles; A lover may bestride the gossamours If thou remember'st not the slightest folly Now it is about the very hour That Silvia, at friar Patrick's cell, should meet me, It is my soul, that calls upon my name : M. MADNESS. This is mere madness: And thus awhile the fit will work on him: Anon, as patient as the female dove, I am not mad ;-I would to heaven, I were! I am not mad; too well, too well I feel Alack, 'tis he; why, he was met even now In our sustaining corn. Alas, how is't with you? That you do bend your eyes on vacancy, And with the incorporal air do hold discourse? O, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown! The courtier's, scholar's, soldier's, eye, tongue, sword; The expectancy and rose of the fair state, The glass of fashion, and the mould of form, The observ'd of all observers! quite, quite down! This is the very coinage of your brain: This bodiless creation ecstacy Is very cunning in. Ecstacy! My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time, And I the matter will re-word; which madness Lay not that flattering unction to your soul, O prince, I conjure thee, as thou believ'st How stiff is my vile sense, That I stand up, and have ingenious feeling Of my huge sorrows! better I were distract; So should my thoughts be severed from my griefs; And woes, by wrong imaginations, lose The knowledge of themselves. MAN. He was a man, take him for all in all, His life was gentle; and the elements A sweeter and a lovelier gentleman,- up, Young, valiant, wise, and, no doubt, right royal.The spacious world cannot again afford. By his light, Did all the chivalry of England move To do brave acts: he was, indeed, the glass By my hopes, He bears him like a portly gentleman; In speech, in gait, In diet, in affections of delight, In military rules, humours of blood, He was the mark and glass, copy, and book, An See, what a grace was seated on this brow: He was not born to shame : His nature is too noble for the world: He would not flatter Neptune for his trident, Or Jove for his power to thunder. His heart's his mouth : What his breast forges, that his tongue must vent; He heard the name of death. His years but young, but his experience old; He hath a tear for pity, and a hand Yet notwithstanding, being incens'd, he's flint If you were men, as men you are in show, However we do praise ourselves, Our fancies are more giddy and infirm, More longing, wavering, sooner lost and won, Than women's are. But we all are men, In our own natures frail; and capable Of our flesh, few are angels. There's no trust, No faith, no honesty in men; all perjur'd, This cardinal, Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly He was a scholar, and a ripe, and good one; But, to those men that sought him, sweet as summer. |