She prizes not such trifles as these are:
The gifts she looks from me, are pack'd and lock'd
Up in my heart; which I have given already,
But not deliver'd. O, hear me breathe my life
Before this ancient sir, who, it should seem,
Hath sometime loved: I take thy hand; this hand,
As soft as dove's down, and as white as it;
Or Ethiopian's tooth, or the fann'd snow,
That's bolted by the northern blasts twice o'er.
That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty; violets dim,
But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes,
Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses,
That die unmarried, ere they can behold
Bright Phoebus in his strength-a malady
Most incident to maids; bold oxlips, and
The crown-imperial; lilies of all kinds,
The flower-de-luce being one! O, these I lack
To make you garlands of; and, my sweet friend,
To strew him o'er and o'er.
He says, he loves my daughter;
I think so too; for never gazed the moon
Upon the water, as he'll stand, and read,
As 'twere, my daughter's eyes. and, to be plain,
I think there is not half a kiss to choose
*The sieve used to separate flour from bran is called a bolting-cloth.
What was he that did make it ?-See, my lord,
Would you not deem it breath'd? and that those veins Did verily bear blood?
The very life seems warm upon her lip.
Leon. The fixture of her eye has motion in't As we are mock'd with art.
There is an air comes from her. What fine chisel
Could ever yet cut breath? Let no man mock me,
For I will kiss her.
O Lymoges! O Austria! thou dost shame
That bloody spoil: thou slave, thou wretch, thou coward!
Thou little valiant, great in villany!
Thou ever strong upon the stronger side!
Thou fortune's champion, that dost never fight
But when her humorous ladyship is by
To teach thee safety! thou art perjured, too,
And sooth'st up greatness. What a fool art thou,
A ramping fool: to brag, and stamp, and swear,
Upon my party! Thou cold-blooded slave,
Hast thou not spoke like thunder on my side?
Been sworn my soldier? bidding me depend
Upon thy stars, thy fortune, and thy strength?
And dost thou now fall over to my foes?
Thou wear'st a lion's hide! doff* it for shame,
And hang a calf's-skin on those recreant limbs.
THE HORRORS OF A CONSPIRACY.
I had a thing to say-but let it go;
The sun is in the heaven, and the proud day,
Attended with the pleasures of the world,
Is all too wanton, and too full of gawds,†
To give me audience.-If the midnight bell
Did, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth,
Sonud one unto the drowsy race of night:
If this same were a churchyard where we stand,
And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs;
Or if that surly spirit, melancholy,
Had baked thy blood, and made it heavy, thick;
(Which, else, runs tickling up and down thy veins,
Making that idiot, laughter, keep men's eyes,
And strain their cheeks to idle merriment,
A passion hateful to my purposes ;)
Or if that thou couldst see me without eyes,
Hear me without thine ears, and make reply
Without a tongue, using conceit alone,
Without eyes, ears, and harmful sound of words;
Then, in despite of brooded watchful day,
I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts:
But, ah! I will not.
A MOTHER'S GRIEF FOR THE LOSS OF A SON.
Father cardinal, I have heard you say,
That we shall see and know our friends in heaven: If that be true, I shall see my boy again;
For, since the birth of Cain the first male child,
To him that did but yesterday suspire,*
There was not such a gracious+ creature born.
But now will canker sorrow eat my bud,
And chase the native beauty from his cheek,
And he will look as hollow as a ghost;
As dim and meagre as an ague's fit;
And so he'll die; and, rising so again,
When I shall meet him in the court of heaven
I shall not know him: therefore never, never
Must I behold my pretty Arthur more.
Pand. You hold too heinous a respect of grief.
Const. He talks to me that never had a son.
You are as fond of grief as of your child.
Const. Grief fills the room up of my absent child.
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me;
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form;
Then, have I reason to be fond of grief.
There's nothing in this world can make me joy:
Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale,
Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man.
ARTHUR'S PATHETIC SPEECHES TO HUBERT.
Methinks, nobody should be sad but I:
Yet, I remember, when I was in France,
Young gentlemen would be as sad as night,
Only for wantonness. By my christendom,
So I were out of prison, and kept sheep,
I should be merry as the day is long.
I knit my handkerchief about your brows,
(The best I had, a princess wrought it me,)
And I did never ask it you again:
And with my hand at midnight held your head;
And, like the watchful minutes to the hour,
Still and anon cheer'd up the heavy time;
Saying, What lack you? and, Where lies your grief?
Or, What good love may I perform for you?
Many a poor man's son would have lain still,
And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you;
But you at your sick service had a prince.
Nay, you may think my love was crafty love,
And call it cunning: do, an if you will.
If Heaven be pleased that you must use me ill,
Why, then you must.-Will you put out mine eyes?
These eyes that never did, nor never shall,
So much as frown on you?
Alas! what need you be so boist'rous rough?
I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still,
For Heaven's sake, Hubert, let me not be bound!
|