Francis the first, a tragedy

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Strana 70 - I should here be butcher'd shamefully, By the immortal soul, that is man's portion, His hope, and his inheritance, I swear, That on the day Spain overflows its bounds, And rolls the tide of war upon these plains, My spirit on the battle's edge shall ride ; And louder than death's music, and the roar Of combat, shall my voice be heard to shout, On — on — to victory and carnage ! GON.
Strana 68 - Wither'd be all its glories, and its pride ! May it become the slave of foreign power ! May foreign princes grind its thankless children, And make all those, who are such fools as yet To spill their blood for it, or for its cause, Dig it like dogs ! and when they die, like dogs, Rot on its surface, and make fat the soil Whose produce shall be seized by foreign hands ! Gonzales (aside).
Strana 53 - There's a love whieh, born In early days, lives on through silent years, Nor ever shines but in the hour of sorrow, When it shows brightest — like the trembling light Of a pale sunbeam breaking o'er the faee Of the wild waters in their hour of warfare.
Strana 73 - And marr'd it too ! my life's sole aim and purpose ! Didst thou but know what damned injuries, What foul, unknightly shame and obloquy, His sire — whose name is wormwood to my mouth — Did heap upon our house — didst thou but know — No matter — get thee gone — I tarry here. And...
Strana 69 - Ay, priest it shall ! eternal heaven it shall ! And its far flash shall lighten o'er the land, The leading star of Spain's victorious host, — But flaming, like some dire portentous comet, Pth...
Strana 70 - Impatient halt they there ; their foaming steeds Pawing the huge and rock-built barrier, That bars their further course : they wait for thee : For thee whom France hath injured and cast off: For thee, whose blood it pays with shameful chains, More shameful death ; for thee, whom Charles of Spain Summons to head his host, and lead them on To conquest and to glory ! Bour.
Strana 68 - What ! death and shame ! alike you heed them not ! Then, mercy ! use thy soft, persuasive arts, And melt this stubborn spirit ! Be it known To you, my lord, the queen hath sent me hither.
Strana 23 - Her white hands clasped ; her clust'ring locks thrown back From her high forehead ; and in those bright eyes Tears ! radiant emanations ! drops of light ! That fall from those surpassing orbs as though The starry eyes of heav'n wept silver dew. (To LAVAL.) Is yonder lady married, sir? LAVAL. My liege, Not yet ; but still her hand is bound in promise — She is affianced. FRANCIS. And to whom ? LAVAL. To me, sire. FRANCIS. Indeed ! (Aside to BONNIVET.) Methinks I was too passionate in my praise, Eh...
Strana 53 - Ay. But ere I go, perchance for ever, lady, Unto the land, whose dismal tales of battles, Where thousands strew'd the earth, have christen'd it The Frenchman's grave ; I'd speak of such a theme As chimes with .this sad hour, more fitly than Its name gives promise. There's a love, which, born In early days, lives on through silent years...

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