So I may keep mine eyes. Oh, spare mine

eyes,

Though to no use but still to look on you!

Lo! by my troth, the instrument is cold,
And would not harm me.

Hub.
I can heat it, boy.
Arth. No, in good sooth; the fire is
dead with grief,

Being create for comfort, to be used
In undeserved extremes: see else your-
self;

There is no malice in this burning coal; The breath of Heaven hath blown his spirit out,

And strewed repentant ashes on his head. Hub. But with my breath I can revive it, boy.

Arth. And if you do, you will but make it blush,

And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert:

Nay, it, perchance, will sparkle in your eyes,

And, like a dog that is compelled to fight, Snatch at his master that doth tarre him

Than when you left him; even now he sung.

P. Hen. Oh, vanity of sickness! fierce

extremes

In their continuance will not feel themselves. Death, having preyed upon the outward parts,

Leaves them insensible; and his siege is

now

Against the mind, the which he pricks and wounds

With many legions of strange fantasies, Which in their throng and press to that last hold

Confound themselves. 'Tis strange that death should sing.

I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan, Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death,

And from the organ-pipe of frailty sings His soul and body to their lasting rest.

Sal. Be of good comfort, prince; for you are born

To set a form upon that indigest, Which he hath left so shapeless and so rude.

Re-enter Bigot, and Attendants who bring in King John in a chair.

K. John. Ay, marry, now my soul hath
elbow-room;

It would not out at windows, nor at doors.
There is so hot a summer in my bosom,
That all my bowels crumble up to dust;
I am a scribbled form, drawn with a pen

Bastard. Oh, I am scalded with my violent motion,

And spleen of speed to see your majesty. K. John. O cousin, thou art come to set mine eye:

The tackle of my heart is cracked and burned,

And all the shrouds, wherewith my life should sail,

Are turned to one thread, one little hair: My heart hath one poor string to stay it by, Which holds but till thy news be uttered; And then all this thou seest is but a clod, And model of confounded royalty.

Bast. The Dauphin is preparing hitherward,

Where, Heaven He knows how we shall answer him;

For, in a night, the best part of my power,
As I upon advantage did remove,
Were in the washes, all unwarily,
Devoured by the unexpected flood.

[The King dies. Salisbury. You breathe these dead news in as dead an ear.

My liege! my lord !-But now a king,now thus!

P. Hen. Even so must I run on, and even so stop.

What surety of the world, what hope, what stay,

When this was now a king, and now is clay?

Proud of their numbers, and secure in soul,
The confident and over-lusty French
Do the low-rated English play at dice;
And chide the cripple tardy-gaited night,
Who, like a foul and ugly witch, doth
limp

So tediously away. The poor condemned
English,

Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires
Sit patiently, and inly ruminate

The morning's danger; and their gesture sad,

Investing lank-lean cheeks, and war-worn coats,

Presenteth them unto the gazing moon So many horrid ghosts. Oh, now, who will behold

The royal captain of this ruined band. Walking from watch to watch, from tent

to tent,

Let him cry-Praise and glory on his head!

For forth he goes, and visits all his host;

Bids them good-morrow with a modest

smile,

[trymen. And calls them brothers, friends, and counUpon his royal face there is no note How dread an army hath enrounded him; Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour Unto the weary and all-watchèd night; But freshly looks, and overbears attaint With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty, That every wretch, pining and pale before, Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks:

A largess universal, like the sun,

His liberal eye doth give to every one, Thawing cold fear. Then, mean and gentle all,

Behold, as may unworthiness define,
A little touch of Harry in the night:

And so our scene must to the battle fly; Where (O for pity!) we shall much disgrace

With four or five most vile and ragged foils, Right ill disposed, in brawl ridiculousThe name of Agincourt. Yet, sit and see; Minding true things by what their mock

eries be.

THE FATE OF KINGS.

King Henry. UPON the king!-let us our lives, our souls,

Our debts, our careful wives, our children, and

Our sins, lay on the king!

We must bear all.

Oh, hard condition! twin-born with great

ness,

Subject to the breath of every fool, whose

sense

No more can feel but his own wringing! What infinite heart's ease must kings neglect,

That private men enjoy!

And what have kings that privates have not too,

Save ceremony, save general ceremony? And what art thou, thou idle ceremony? What kind of god art thou, that sufferest

more

Of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers? What are thy rents? what are thy comingsin?

O ceremony, show me but thy worth!
What is thy soul of adoration?

Art thou aught else but place, degree, and form,

Creating awe and fear in other men?

Wherein thou art less happy, being feared, Than they in fearing.

What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet,

But poisoned flattery? Oh, be sick, great greatness,

And bid thy ceremony give thee cure! Think'st thou the fiery fever will go out With titles blown from adulation?

Will it give place to flexure and low bending?

Canst thou, when thou command'st the beggar's knee,

Command the health of it? No, thou proud dream,

That play'st so subtly with a king's repose: I am a king, that find thee; and I know 'Tis not the balm, the sceptre, and the ball, The sword, the mace, the crown imperial, 'The inter-tissued robe of gold and pearl, The farced title running 'fore the king, The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp That beats upon the high shore of this world,

No, not all these, thrice-gorgeous ceremony,

Not all these, laid in bed majestical,

Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave,
Who, with a body filled and vacant mind,
Gets him to rest, crammed with distressful
bread;

Never sees horrid night, the child of hell;
But, like a lackey, from the rise to set,
Sweats in the eye of Phoebus, and all night
Sleeps in Elysium; next day, after dawn,
Doth rise, and help Hyperion to his horse;
And follows so the ever-running year
With profitable labour to his grave:
And, but for ceremony, such a wretch,
Winding up days with toil and nights with
sleep,

Has the fore-hand and vantage of a king.
The slave, a member of the country's peace,
Enjoys it; but in gross brain little wots
What watch the king keeps to maintain the
peace,

Whose hours the peasant best advantages.

Oh, not to-day, think not upon the fault
My father made in compassing the crown!
I Richard's body have interrèd new,
And on it have bestowed more contrite
tears

Than from it issued forced drops of blood;
Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay,
Who twice a day their withered hands hold
up

Toward heaven, to pardon blood; and I have built

Two chantries, where the sad and solemn priests

Sing still for Richard's soul. More will I do; Though all that I can do is nothing worth, Since that my penitence comes after all, Imploring pardon.

But I had not so much of man in me, And all my mother came into mine eyes, And gave me up to tears.

K. Hen. I blame you not; For, hearing this, I must perforce compound

With mistful eyes, or they will issue too.

A BATTLE-FIELD.

King Henry. THIS battle fares like to the morning's war,

When dying clouds contend with growing light,

What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails,

Can neither call it perfect day, nor night. Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea Forced by the tide to combat with the wind;

Now sways it that way, like the selfsame

sea

Forced to retire by fury of the wind; Sometime the flood prevails, and then the wind;

Now one the better, then another best; Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast,

Yet neither conqueror nor conquered:
So is the equal poise of this fell war.
Here on this molehill will I sit me down.
To whom God will, there be the victory!
For Margaret my queen, and Clifford too,
Have chid me from the battle; swearing
both,

They prosper best of all when I am thence.
Would I were dead! if God's good will

were so;

For what is in this world but grief and woe?

THE SHEPHERD'S LIFE.

O GOD! methinks it were a happy life, To be no better than a homely swain;

To sit upon a hill, as I do now,
To carve out dials quaintly, point by point,
Thereby to see the minutes how they

run;

How many make the hour full complete;
How many hours bring about the day;
How many days will finish up the year;
How many years a mortal man may live.
When this is known, then to divide the
times,-

So many hours must I tend my flock;
So many hours must I take my rest;
So many hours must I contemplate;
So many hours must I sport myself;
So many days my ewes have been with
young;

So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean;

So many years ere I shall shear the fleece: So minutes, hours, days, months, and

years,

Passed over to the end they were created, Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely!

Gives not the hawthorn-bush a sweeter shade

To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep,
Than doth a rich embroidered canopy
To kings, that fear their subjects' treachery?
Oh, yes, it doth; a thousandfold it doth.
And to conclude,-the shepherd's homely
curds,

His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle,

His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade,

All which secure and sweetly he enjoys,
Is far beyond a prince's delicates,
His viands sparkling in a golden cup,
His body couchèd in a curious bed,
When care, mistrust, and treason wait on
him.

CORIOLANUS SEEKING REFUGE WITH HIS FOE.

Enter Aufidius and the second Servant. Aufidius. WHERE is this fellow?

2 Servant. Here, sir: I'd have beaten him like a dog, but for disturbing the lords within.

Auf. Whence com'st thou? what wouldst thou? Thy name?

Why speak'st not? Speak, man: what's thy name?

And harsh in sound to thine.

Auf Say, what's thy name? Thou hast a grim appearance, and thy face Bears a command in't; though thy tackle's torn, [name? Thou show'st a noble vessel: what's thy Cor. Prepare thy brow to frown:know'st thou me yet?

Auf. I know thee not:-thy name? Cor. My name is Caius Marcius, who hath done

To thee particularly, and to all the Volsces, Great hurt and mischief; thereto witness may

My surname, Coriolanus: the painful service,

The extreme dangers, and the drops of blood

Shed for my thankless country, are requited

But with that surname: a good memory, And witness of the malice and displeasure Which thou shouldst bear me: only that

name remains;

The cruelty and envy of the people, Permitted by our dastard nobles, who Have all forsook me, hath devoured the rest, And suffered me by the voice of slaves to be Whooped out of Rome. Now, this extremity

Hath brought me to thy hearth: not out of hope,

Mistake me not, to save my life; for if

I had feared death, of all the men i' the

world

I would have 'voided thee; but in mere spite,

To be full quit of those my banishers, Stand I before thee here. Then, if thou

hast

A heart of wreak in thee, that will revenge Thine own particular wrongs, and stop those maims

Of shame seen through thy country, speed thee straight,

And make my misery serve thy turn: so use it,

That my revengeful services may prove
As benefits to thee; for I will fight