Imatges de pÓgina

K. Henry. By my troth, I will speak my conscience of the king: I think he would not wish himself any where but where he is.

Bates. Then would he were here alone; fo should he be sure to be ransomed, and many poor mens lives faved.

K. Henry. I dare say, you love him not so ill to wish him here alone; howsoever, you speak this to feel other mens minds. Methinks I could not die any where fo contented as in the king's company: his cause being juft, and his quarrel honourable.

Will. That's more than we know.

Bates. Ay, or more than we should seek after, for we know enough, if we know we are the king's fubjects : if his cause

be wrong, our obedience to the king wipes the crime of it out of us.

Will. But if the cause be not good, the king himself hath a heavy reckoning to make, when all those legs, and arms, and heads chopp'd off in a battle, shall join together at the latter day, and cry all, We dy'd in such a place, fome swearing, some crying for a surgeon; some upon their wives left


behind them; fome upon the debts they owe;


upon their children rawly left. I am afraid there are few die well, that die in battle; for how can they charitably dispose of any thing when blood is their argument? Now, if these men do not die well, it will be a black matter for the king, that led them to it, whom to disobey, were against all proportion of subjectión.

K. Henry. So, if a fon, that by his father sent about merchandize, do finfully miscarry upon the sea, the imputation of his wickedness, by your rule, should be imposed upon is father that sent him: or if a servant under his master's command, transporting a sum of money be affail'd by robbers, and die in many irreconciled iniquities, you may call the bufiness of the master the author of the servants damnation; but this is not fo: the king is not bound to answer the particular endings of his soldiers, the father of his son, nor the master of his fervant, for they purpose not their death, when they purpose their services. Besides, there is no king, be his cause never so spotless, if it come to the arbitrement of fwords, can try it out with all unípotted foldiers : fome, peradventure, have on them the guilt of premeditated and contrived murder; fome, of beguiling virgins with the broken seals of perjury; fome, inaking the wars their bulwark, that have before gored the gentle bosom of peace with pillage and robbery. Now if these men have defeated the law, and out-run native punishment; though they can out-strip men, they have no wings to fiy from God. War is his beadle, war is his ven. geance: so that here men are punith'd for before-breach of the king's laws, in now the king's quarrel; where they feared the death, they have borne life away, and where they would be safe they perish. Then if they die unprovided, no more is the king guilty of their damnation, than he was before guilty of those impieties for which they are now visited. Every subject's duty is the king's, but every subject's soul is his own. Therefore fhould

every soldier in the wars, do as every fick man in his bed, wash every moth out of his conscience: and dying fo, death is to him advantage; or not dying, the time was blessedly lost, wherein such preparation was gained ; and in him that escapes, it were not fin to think that making God fo free an offer, he let him out-live that day to see his greatness, and to teach others how they should prepare.

Will. 'Tis certain, every man that dies ill, the ill is upon his own head, the king is not to answer for it.

SCENE V. The Miseries of Royalty.
(12) O hard condition, and twin-born with greatness,
Subject to breath of ev'ry fool, whose sense
No more can feel but his own wringing.
What infinite heart ease must kings neglect,


(12) Q, &c.] See A. 4. S. 10, of the foregoing play.

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That private men enjoy? And what have kings,
That private have not too,-save ceremony ? -
Save gen'ral ceremony?
And what art thou, thou idle ceremony,

What kind of god art thou, that suffer'it more
Of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers ?
What are thy rents ? What are thy comings-in ?
O ceremony, shew me but thy worth:
(13) What is the foul of adoration ?
Art thou aught else but place, degree, and form,
Creating awe and fear in other men?
Wherein thou art less happy, being fear'd
Than they in fearing.
What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet,
But poison'd flatt'ry? O be fick, great greatness,
And bid thy ceremony give the cure.


(13) Wha:, &c.] What is thy soul of adoration is the common reading : there wants but the alteration of thy into the, as in the text, and all is well: the meaning is, as well explained by Mr. Upton,—what is the soul, i. e. the real worth, what subftantial good is there in adoration or ceremony? what are the rents? what are the comings-in, Oh, ceremony! Thew me but thy worth, tell me what is the frul, the very utmost value of adoration ?-"Shakespear uses the word foul in this sense very often ;-in this play, he says,

There is some foul of goodness in things evil ; i. c. some real or substantial good. In his Midsummer Night's Dream,

But you must join in fouls to mock me too ; . l. unite together heartily, and in earnest. And in Measure for Measure ;

We have with special foul Elected him, &c. 3. c. particularly and specially speciamente. The alterations fosted into the texts in the several places, are too ridiculous to need mentioning. Upson's Observations, p. 406.

Think'st thou, the fiery fever will go out
With titles blown from adulation?
Will it give place to flexure and low bending?
Can'st thou, when thou command'st the beggar's knee,
Command the health of it? No, thou proud dream,
That play'ıt 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 enter-tiffued robe of gold and pearl,
The farsed titled running 'fore the king,
The throne he fits on, nor the tide of

pomp That beats upon the high shore of this world? No, not all these thrice

gorgeous ceremonies, Not all these, laid in bed majestical, Can sleep so foundly as the wretched flave, Who, with a body fill’d, and vacant mind, Gets him to rest, cramm’d with distressful bread; į Never sees horrid night, the child of hell : (14) But, like a lacquey, from the rise to fet,


(14) But like, &c.] The poet in this most beautiful paffage is comparing the laborious flave to the lacquey or foutman of Phoe bus : He never beholds night,' says the poet,' but like a lacquey obliged ever to attend and follow his master, sweats from rise to set, in the eye of Phoebus, bis master, bleeps all night, where ke (Phabus) Teeps, in Elyfium, and the next day, after dawn, rises to his business, and helps his master, Hyperion, to his horte; in whose fight he again sweats from rise to set as before, and thus follows the ever-running year, &c.' Nothing can be more exquisite, and more nobly bespeak the hand of Shakespear. Mr. Sowa d’s. alteration is quite unnecessary ; for this manner of expression is entirely agreeable to our author. That gentleman, in his preface, brings the following passage from Philafter, A. 4. as worthy to be placed in competition with that of Shakespear, and where the hands, he says, are scarcely to be disa tinguished, except from one single expression of Shakespear. "A prince, depriv'd of his throne, and betray'd, as he thought, in love, thus mourns his melancholy state. See Beaumont and Fieta sber's Works, Vol. 1. preface, p. 24.


Sweats in the eye of Phæbus; and all night
Sleeps in Elyfium : next day, after dawn,
Doch rise and help Hyperion to his horse:
And follows to 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,
Hath the fore-hand and vantage of a king.

SCENE VII. A Description of the miserable State

of the English Army.

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 paffing scornfully. Big Mars seems bankrupt in their beggard host, And faintly through a rusty beaver peeps. The horsemen fit like fixed candlesticks, With torch-staves in their hands : and their poor jades Lob down their heads, dropping the hide and hips : The down roping from their pale dead eyes ; And in their pale dull mouths the (15) jymold bit Lies fowl with chaw'd grass, still and motionless;



Oh that I had been nourish'd in these wools,
With milk of goats and acorns, and not known
The righi of crowns, or the diffembling train
Of woman's looks ; but digg'd myself a cave,
Where I, my fire, my cattle, and my bed,
Might have been shut together in one shed :
And then had taken me fome mountain girl,
Beaten with winds, chaste as the harden'd rocks
Whereon she dwells: that might have strew'd my bed
With leaves and reeds, and with the skins of bearts,
Our neighbours, and have borne at her big breasts

My large coarse issue ! (15) Jymold.] Jymold, or rather gimmald, wlich signifies a ring of two rounds, Gemellus, Skynner, Mr. Pope.

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