Whose rocky shore beats back the envious fiege
Of wat'ry Neptune, is bound in with shame,
With inky blots, and rotten parchment bonds.
That England, that was wont to conquer others,
Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.
Dear earth, I do salute thee with my hand,
Though rebels wound thee with their horses hoofs:
As a long-parted mother with her child
Plays fondly with her tears, and smiles in meeting;
So, weeping, smiling, greet I thee, my earth,
And do thee favour with my royal hands.
Feed not thy fov'reign's foe, my gentle earth,
Nor with thy sweets comfort his rav'nous sense :
But let thy spiders that fuck up thy venom,
And heavy-gaited toads, lie in their way;
Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet,
Which with ufurping steps do trample thee.
Yield stinging nettles to mine enemies;
And, when they from thy bosom pluck a flower,
Guard it, I pray thee, with a lurking adder,
Whose double tongue may with a mortal touch
Throw death upon thy fov'reign's enemies.
Mock not my senseless conjuration, Lords:
This earth shall have a feeling, and these stones
Prove armed foldiers, ere her native king
Shall faulter under foul rebellious arms. Ibid. A. 3. Sc. 2.
O England! model to thine inward greatness,
Like little body with a mighty heart-
What might'st thou do, that honour would thee do,
Were all thy children kind and natural!
--All th' unfettled humours of the land;
Rash, inconfid'rate, fiery voluntaries,
With ladies faces, and fierce dragons fpleens,
Have fold their fortunes at their native homes,
Bearing their birthrights proudly on their backs,
To make a hazard of new fortunes here.
In brief, a braver choice of dauntless spirits,
Than now the English bottoms have waft o'er,
Did never float upon the swelling tide,
To do offence, and scathe in Christendom.
Yon island carrions, desp'rate of their bones,
Ill-favour'dly become the morning field:
Their ragged curtains poorly are let loose,
And our air shakes them passing scornfully.
Big Mars feems bankrupt in their beggar'd hoft,
And faintly through a gh a rusty bever peeps.
The horfemen fit like fixed candlesticks,
With torch-staves in their hand; and their poor jades
Lob down their heads, dropping the hide and hips,
The gum um down-roping from their pale dead eyes;
And in their pale dull mouths the gimmal bit
Lies foul with chew'd grass, still and motionless :
And their executors, the knavish crows,
Fly o'er them, all impatient for their hour.
King Henry V. A. 4. Sc. 7.
My heart laments that Virtue cannot live
Out of the teeth of Emulation. Julius Cæfar. A. 2. Sc. 1,
EQUALITY,
(The natural rights of it.)
Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world
Like a Colossus; and we petty men
Walk under his huge legs, and pe peep about
To find ourselves dishonourable graves.
Men at some time are masters of their fates:
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,
But in ourselves, that we are underlings.
Brutus and Gafar-what should be in that Cafar?
Why should that name be founded more than yours?
Write them together, yours is as fair a name;
Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well;
Weigh them, 'tis as heavy; conjure with them,
Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Cafar.
Now, in the name of all the Gods at once,
Upon what meat doth this our Cafar feed,
That he is grown so great? Age, thou art asham'd!
Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods!
When went there by an age since the great flood,
But it was fam'd with more than with one man?
When could they say till now, that talk'd of Rome,
That her wide walls encompass'd but one man ?
Now is it Rome indeed, and room enough,
When there is in it but one only man.
O! you and I have heard our fathers say
There was a Brutus once, that would have brook'd
Th' eternal devil to keep his state in Rome
As easily as a king.
Julius Cæfar, A. 1. Sc. 2.
Mistruft of good success hath done this deed.
O hateful Error, Melancholy's child!
Why dost thou shew to the apt thoughts of men
The things that are not? O Error, foon conceiv'd,
Thou never com'st unto a happy birth,
But kill'st the mother that engender'd thee.
Julius Cæfar, A. 5. Sc. 3.
EULOGIUM ON HOTSPUR.
Brave Percy-Fare thee well!
Ill-weav'd ambition, how much art thou shrunk!
When that this body did contain a spirit,
A kingdom for it was too fmall a bound;
But now two paces of the vilest earth
Is room enough. This earth, that bears thee dead,
Bears not alive so stout a gentleman.
If thou wert sensible of courtesy,
I should not make so great a shew of zeal.
But let my favours hide thy mangled face,
And, e'en in thy behalf, I'll thank myself
For doing these fair rights of tenderness.
Adieu, and take thy praise with thee to heaven;
Thy ignominy fleep with thee in the grave,
But not remember'd in thy epitaph.
Henry IV. Part I. A. 5. Sc. 1.
The weary fun hath made a golden set,
And, by the bright track of his fiery car,
Gives fignal of a goodly day to-morrow.
King Richard III. A. 5. Sc. 3.
The worm of confcience still be-gnaw thy foul!
Thy friends suspect for traitors while thou liv'st,
And take deep traitors for thy dearest friends!
No fleep close up that deadly eye of thine,
Unless it it be while some tormenting dream
Affrights thee with a hell of ugly devils!
Thou elvish-mark'd, abortive, rooting hog!
Thou that wast seal'd in thy nativity
The flave of nature, and the son of hell!
Thou slander of thy mother's womb!
Thou loathed issue of thy father's loins !
Thou rag of honour, thou detested
King Richard III. A. 1. Sc. 3.
Hear, Nature, hear! dear goddess, hear!
Suspend thy purpose, if thou didst intend
To make this creature fruitful:
Into her womb convey sterility,
Dry up in her the organs of increase,
And from her derogate body never spring
A babe to honour her! If she must teem,
Create her child of spleen, that it may live,
And be a thwart disnatur'd torment to her:
Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth,
With cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks;
Turn all her mother's pains and benefits
To laughter and contempt; that the may feel
How sharper than a ferpent's tooth it is
To have a thankless child!
Let me look back upon thee, O thou wall,
That girdleft in those wolves! dive in the earth,
And fence not Athens! Matrons, turn incontinent;
Obedience fail in children; slaves and fools,
Pluck the grave wrinkled fenate from the bench,
And minister in their steads; to general filth
Convert o' the instant green Virginity!
Do 't in your parent's eyes. Bankrupts, hold fast;
Rather than render back, out with your knives,
And cut your trustees' throats. Bound servants, steal;
Large-handed robbers your grave masters are,
And pill by law. Maid, to thy master's bed;
Thy mistress is i' th' brothel. Son of fixteen,
Pluck the lin'd crutch from thy old limping fire;
With it beat out his brains. Fear and piety,
Religion to the Gods, peace, justice, truth,
Domestic awe, night rest, and neighbourhood,
Instruction, manners, mysteries and trades,
Degrees, observances, customs and laws,
Decline to your confounding contraries!
And let confufion live!-Plagues, incident to men,
Your potent and infectious fevers heap
On Athens, ripe for stroke! Thou cold sciatica,
Cripple our fenators, that their limbs may halt
As lamely as their manners. Luft and liberty
Creep in the minds and marrows of our youth,
That 'gainst the stream of virtue they may strive,
And drown themselves in riot! Itches, blains,
Sow all the Athenian bosoms, and their crop
Be general leprosy. Breathe infect breath,
That their society, as their friendship, may
Be merely poifon. Nothing I'll bear from thee,
But nakedness, thou detestable town!
Take thou that too, with multiplying banns.
Timon will to the woods, where he shall find
Th' unkindest beast much kinder than mankind.
The Gods confound (hear me, ye good Gods all!)
Th' Athenians both within and out that wall;
And grant, as Timon grows, his hate may grow,
To the whole race of mankind, high and low!
Timon of Athens, A. 4. SC. 1.
In hollow bones of man, strike their sharp shins,
And mar men's spurring, Crack the lawyer's voice,
That he may never more false title plead,
Nor found his quillets shrilly. Hoar the Flamen,
That fcolds against the quality of flesh,
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