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If this same were a church-yard, where we stand,
And thou posiessed with a thousand wrongs ;
Or if that surly spirit melancholy
Had bak'd thy blood, and made it heavy-thick,
Which else runs tickling up and down the veins,
Making that idiot laughter keep mens eyes,
And strain their cheeks to idle merriment;
(A pafsion hateful to my purposes)
Or if that thou couldīt see ine without eyes,
Hear me without thine ears, and make reply
Without a tongue, using conceit alone
Without eyes, ears, and harmful foul of words;
Then in despight of broad-ey'd watchful day,
I would into thy bosom pour iny thoughts;
But ah, I will not.-
SCINE V. A Mother's Ravings.
I am not mad; this hair I tear is mine;
My name is Constance, I was Geffery's wife :
Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost,
I am not mad : I would to heav'n I were !
For then 'tis like, I should forget myself.
Oh, if I could, what grief should I forget!
Preach some philosophy to make me mad,
And thou shalt be canoniz'd Cardinal,
For being not mad, but sensible of grief,
My reasonable part produces reason
How I may be deliver'd of these woes,
And teaches me to kill or hang myself.
If I were mad, I should forget my son,
Or madly think, a babe of clouts were he :
I am not mad; too well, too well I feel,
The diff'rent plague of each calamity.
Apostrophe to Death.
-Oh! amiable, lovely death! Thou odoriferous french, found rottenness,
Arise forth from thy couch of lasting night,
Thou hate and terror to prosperity,
And I will kiss thy detestable bones;
And put my eye-balls in thy vaulty brows;
And ring these fingers with thy houshold worms,
And stop this gap of breath with fulsome dust,
And be a carrion monster like thyself ;
Come grin on me, and I will think thou smil'it,
And kiss thee as thy wife ; misery's love,
O come to me!
Father Cardinal, I have heard
That we shall see and know our friends in heav'n ;
If that be, I shall see my boy again.
For fince the birth of Cain, the first male-child,
To him that did but yesterday fufpire,
There was not such a gracious creature born.
But now will canker forrow eat my bud,
Ånd chace the native beauty from his cheek ;
And he will look as hollow as a gholt;
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 heav'n,
I shall not know him; therefore, never, never
Must I behold my pretty Arthur more.
Pand. You hold too heinous a respect of grief.
Conft. He talks to me, that never had a son.
K. Phil. You are as fond of grief as of your
child's Conft. Grief fills the room up of
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.
SCENE VII. Defpondency.
There's nothing in this world can make me joy ;
(9) Life is as tedious as a twice told tale,
Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man.
Before the curing of a strong disease,
Ev'n in the instant of repair and health,
The fit is strongest: evils that take leave,
On their departure, most of all shew evil.
Danger lays hold of any Support..
He that stands upon a slipp’ry place,
Makes nice of no vile hold to stay him up.
Arthur's pathetic Speeches to Hubert.
Methinks, nobody should be fad but I;
Yet I remeinber when I was in France,
Young gentlemen would be as fad as night,
Only for wantonness. By my Christendom,
So were I out of prison and kept sheep,
I should be merry as the day is long.
the heart? when your head did but ake, I knit
(The best I had, a princess wrought it me)
(9) Life, &c.] So in another part of the play, he says,
This act is as an ancient tale new told,
And in the last repeating troublesome. I bring this passage chiefly that the Reader may more carefully dwell on the inimitable beauties of that in the text.
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 chear'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 fon would have lain still,
And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you;
fick service had a prince.
Nay, you may think, my love was crafty love,
And call it cunning. Do, and if you will:
If heav'n be pleas'd that you
must use me ill,
Why then you must-Will you put out mine 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 heav'n's fake, Hubert, let me not be bound,
Nay, hear me, Hubert, drive these men away,
And I will fit as quiet as a lamb.
I will not stir nor wince, nor speak a word,
Nor look upon the iron angrily :
Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you,
Whatever torment you
put me to; Is there no remedy?
Hub. None but to lose your eyes.
Art. O heav'n! that there were but a moth in yours, A grain, a duft, a gnat, a wand'ring hair, Any annoyance in that precious sense : Then, feeling what small things are boist'rous there, Your vile intent must needs feem horrible.
SCENE II. To add to Perfetion, superfluous, and
fufpicious. To gild refin'd gold, to paint the lily, To throw a perfume on the violet,
To smooth the ice, or add another hue
Unto the Tain-bow, or with taper light
To seek the beauteous eye of heav'n to garnish,
Is wasteful and ridiculous excess.
In this the antique and well-noted face
Of plain old form is much disfigured :
And, like a shifted wind unto a fail,
It makes the course of thoughts to fetch about;
Startles and frights confideration;
Makes found opinion fick, and truth suspected,
For putting on to new a fashion’d robe.
This is the man shou'd do the bloody deed;
The image of a wicked heinous fault
Lives in his eye: that close aspect of his
Does Thew the mood of a much troubled breast.
Struggling Conscience, , The colour of the king doth come and go, Between his purpose and his conscience, Like heralds 'twixt two dreadful battles sent; His paffion is so ripe, it needs must break.
SCENE IV. News-tellers on the Death of Arthur.
Old men and beldams, in the streets, Do prophecy upon it dangeroufly : Young Arthur's death is common in their mouths ; And, when they talk of him, they shake their heads, And whisper one another in the ear. And he that speaks doth gripe the hearer's wrist, Whilst he that hears makes fearful action ; With wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling eyes ; I saw a smith stand with his hammer, thus,