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To be expos'd against the warring winds?
To ftand against the deep dread-bolted thunder?
In the moft terrible and nimble ftroke
Of quick, crofs lightning? To watch (poor perdu!)
With this thin helm? Mine enemy's dog,
Though he had bit me, should have ftood that night
Against my fire. And waft thou fain, poor father!
To hovel thee with fwine, and rogues forlorn,
In short and musty straw? Alack! alack!
'Tis wonder that thy life and wits, at once,
Had not concluded all.
For whilft I think I am thy marry'd wife,
And thou a prince, protector of this land;
Methinks, I fhould not thus be led along,
Mail'd up in fhame, with papers on my back;
And follow'd with a rabble, that rejoice
To fee my tears, and hear my deep-fetch'd groans.
The ruthless flint doth cut my tender feet;
And when I start, the cruel people laugh,
And bid me be advised how I tread.
Ah! Humphry, can I bear this fhameful yoke?
Trow'ft thou, that e'er I'll look upon the world,
Or count them happy that enjoy the fun?
No, dark shall be my light, and night my day.
To think upon my pomp shall be my hell.
Sometime I'll fay, I am Duke Humphry's wife,
And he a prince, and ruler of the land:
Yet fo he rul'd, and fuch a prince he was,
That he stood by, whilft I, his forlorn duchefs,
Was made a wonder and a pointing-stock
To every idle, rascal follower.
Henry VI. Part II. A. 2. Sc. 7.
Accurfed and unquiet wrangling days!
How many of you have mine eyes beheld!
My husband loft his life to get the crown:
And often up and down my fons were toft,
For me to joy, and weep, their gain, and loss;
And being feated, and domeftic broils
Clean over-blown, themselves the conquerors
Make war upon themselves, blood against blood,
Self against self. O most prepofterous
And frantic outrage! end thy damned spleen;
Or let me die, to look on death no more.
King Richard III. A. 2. Sc. 5.
But let concealment, like a worm i' th' bud,
Feed on her damask cheek: fhe pin'd in thought;
And with a green and yellow melancholy,
She fat, like Patience on a monument,
Twelfth Night, A. 2. Sc. 3.
Our court, you know, is haunted
With a refined traveller of Spain;
A man in all the world's new fashion planted,
That hath a mint of phrafes in his brain;
One, whom the mufic of his own vain tongue
Doth ravish, like inchanting harmony;
A man of compliments, whom right and wrong
Have chofe as umpire of their mutiny.
Love's Labour Loft, A. 1. Sc. 1.
A thousand hearts are great
Advance our standards; fet upon our foes!
Our ancient word of courage, fair St. George,
Inspire us with the spleen of fiery dragons!
Upon them! Victory fits on our helm.
King Richard III. A. 5. Sc. 7.
-You have bereft me of all words,
Only my blood fpeaks to you in my veins;
And there is fuch confufion in my pow'rs,
As, after fome oration fairly spoke
By a beloved prince, there doth appear
Among the buzzing pleafed multitude;
Where every fomething, being blent together,
Turns to a wild of nothing, fave of joy
Exprest and not expreft.
The Merchant of Venice. A. 3. Sc. 2.
In what have I offended you? what cause
Hath my behaviour given to your displeasure,
That thus you should proceed to put me off,
And take your good grace from me? Heaven witness,
I've been to you a true and humble wife,
At all times to your will conformable,
Ever in fear to kindle your dislike;
Yea, fubject to your countenance, glad or forry
As I faw it inclin'd. When was the hour
I ever contradicted your defire,
Or made it not mine too? Which of your friends
Have I not ftrove to love, although I knew
He were mine enemy? What friend of mine,
That had to him deriv'd your anger, did I
Continue in my liking? nay, gave not notice
He was from thence difcharg'd? Sir, call to mind,
That I have been your wife, in this obedience
Upwards of twenty years; and have been bleft
With many children by you. If in the course
And procefs of this time you can report,
And prove it too, against mine honour aught,
My bond of wedlock, or my love and duty,
Against your facred perfon, in God's name,
Turn me away, and let the foul't contempt
Shut door upon me, and fo give me up
To th' fharpest kind of justice.
They brought one Pinch, a hungry lean-fac'd villain,
A mere anatomy, a mountebank,
A thread-bare juggler, and a fortune teller;
A needy, hollow-ey'd, fharp-looking wretch;
A living dead man. This pernicious flave,
Forfooth, took on him as a conjuror;
And gazing in my eyes, feeling my pulfe,
And with no face, as 'twere, out-facing me,
Cries out I was poffeft.
The Comedy of Errors, A. 5.
"O, it is monftrous! monftrous!
Methought the billows fpoke, and told me of it:
The winds did fing it to me; and the thunder,
That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounc'd
The name of Profper: it did bafe my trefpafs.
Therefore my fon i' th' ooze is bedded.
The Tempest, A. 3. Sc. 3.
What ftronger breaft-plate than a heart untainted?
Thrice is he arm'd that hath his quarrel juft;
And he but naked, though lock'd up in steel,
Whofe confcience with injuftice is corrupted.
Henry VI. Part II. A. 3. Sc. 3.
Give me another horfe! bind up my wounds!
Have mercy, Jeju! Soft; I did but dream.
O coward Confcience! how doft thou afflict me!
The light burns blue-Is it not dead midnight?
Cold, fearful drops ftand on my trembling flesh.
What do I fear? myself-there's none else by:
Richard loves Richard; that is, I am I.
Is there a murderer here? No--Yes, I am;
Then fly-what! from myfelf?-Great reafon-Why?
Left I revenge-What! Myself on myself?
I love myself Wherefore? For any good
That I myself have done unto myself?
O! no. Alas! I rather hate myself
For hateful deeds committed by myself,
I am a villain.-Yet, I lie; I am not:
Fool, of thyfelf fpeak well.-Fool, do not flatter.
My confcience hath a thousand several tongues,
And every tongue brings in a feveral tale;
And every tale condemns me for a villain!
Perjury-perjury, in the highest degree-
Murder-ftern murder, in the direft degree-
All feveral fins-all used in each degree-
Throng to the bar, crying all,-Guilty! guilty!
I fhall defpair.-There is no creature loves me;
And, if I die, no foul fhall pity me.-
Nay, wherefore should they? fince that I myself
Find in myself no pity to myself.
King Richard III, A. 5. Sc. 3.
Conscience is but a word that cowards use,
Devis'd at firft to keep the strong in awe.
CONSCIENCE STRUGGLIN G.
The colour of the king doth come and go,
Between his purpose and his confcience,
Like heralds twixt two dreadful battles fent:
His paffion is fo ripe, it needs must break.
CONSENT OF A
Methinks a father
Is at the nuptial of his fon, a guest
That beft becomes the table: pray you, once more,
Is not your father grown incapable
Of reafonable affairs? Is he not stupid
With age and alt'ring rheums? Can he fpeak? hear?
Know man from man? difpute his own eftate?
Lies he not bed-rid? And, again, does nothing,
But what he did being childish.
The Winter's Tale, A. 2. Sc. 4.
Confideration, like an angel, came
And whipt th' offending Adam out of him;
Leaving his body as a Paradife,
T'invelope and contain celeftial fpirits.
King Henry V. A. 1. Sc. 1.
I would have thee there, and here again,