crown

That rounds the mortal temples of a king Keeps Death his court: and there the antic sits,

Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp;

Allowing him a breath, a little scene, To monarchise, be fear'd, and kill with looks;

Infusing him with self and vain conceit,As if this flesh, which walls about our life,

Were brass impregnable; and humour'd thus,

Comes at the last, and with a little pin Bores through his castle wall, and-farewell king!

Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood

With solemn reverence; throw away respect,

Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty, For you have but mistook me all this while:

I live with bread like you, feel want taste grief,

Need friends: subjected thus,
How can you say to me I am a king?

The name of king? O' God's name, let it go.

I'll give my jewels for a set of beads;
My gorgeous palace for a hermitage;
My gay apparel for an alms-man's gown;
My figur'd goblets for a dish of wood;
My sceptre for a palmer's walking-staff;
My subjects for a pair of carved saints;
And my large kingdom for a little grave,
A little little grave-an obscure grave:
Or I'll be buried in the king's highway,
Some way of common trade, where sub-
jects' feet

May hourly trample on their sovereign's head:

For on my heart they tread now whilst I live;

And, buried once, why not upon my head?

As in a theatre, the eyes of men,

THIS royal throne of kings, this scepter isle,

This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise;
This fortress, built by nature for herself,
Against infection and the hand of war;
This happy breed of men, this little
world;

Which serves it in the office of a wall,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm,
Against the envy of less happier lands,
this England.

HOTSPUR'S DESCRIPTION OF A FOP.

King Henry IV. BUT, I remember, when the fight was done,

When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,

Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,

stage,

dress'd,

reap'd,

Show'd like a stubble land at harvest home;

He was perfumed like a milliner;

And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held

A pouncet-box which ever and anon He gave his nose, and took 't away again ;

Who, therewith angry, when it next came there,

Took it in snuff:-and still he smil'd and talk'd;

And, as the soldiers bore dead bodies by, He call'd them untaught knaves, unmannerly

To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse
Betwixt the wind and his nobility.
With many holiday and lady terms
He question'd me; among the rest de-
manded

My prisoners, in your majesty's behalf.
I then, all smarting with my wounds,
being cold,

To be so pester'd with a popinjay,
Out of my grief and my impatience,
Answer'd, neglectingly, I know not what;
He should, or he should not; for he made
me mad

To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,

And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman, Of guns, and drums, and wounds (God save the mark),

And telling me the sovereign'st thing on earth

Was parmaceti for an inward bruise;
And that it was great pity, so it was,
That villanous saltpetre should be digg'd
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had
destroy'd

So cowardly; and but for these vile guns,
He would himself have been a soldier.

Thy stomach, pleasure, and thy golden sleep?

Why dost thou bend thine eyes upon the earth;

And start so often when thou sitt'st alone?

Why hast thou lost the fresh blood in thy cheeks;

And given my treasures, and my rights of thee,

To thick-eyed musing, and curs'd melancholy?

In thy faint slumbers, I by thee have watch'd,

And heard thee murmur tales of iron

wars:

Speak terms of manage to thy bounding steed;

Cry "Courage to the field!" And thou hast talk'd

Of sallies and retires; of trenches, tents,
Of palisadoes, frontiers, parapets;
Of basilisks, of cannon, culverin;
Of prisoners' ransom, and of soldier
slain,

And all the currents of a heady fight.
Thy spirit within thee hath been so at
war,

And thus hath so bestirr'd thee in thy sleep,

That beads of sweat have stood upon thy brow,

Like bubbles in a late-disturbed stream; And in thy face strange motions have appear'd,

Such as we see when men restrain thei breath

On some great sudden haste. O what portents are these?

Some heavy business hath my lord in hand,

And I must know it, else he loves me not.

www

LADY PERCY'S SPEECH TO HER HUSBAND.

O, MY good lord, why are you thus alone? For what offence have I, this fortnight, been

KING HENRY IV. TO PRINCE
HENRY.

HAD I so lavish of my presence been,
So common-hackney’d` in the eyes o

men,

So stale and cheap to vulgar company;

Opinion, that did help me to the crown,
Had still kept loyal to possession:
And left me in reputeless banishment,
A fellow of no mark nor likelihood.
By being seldom seen, I could not stir,
But, like a comet, I was wonder'd at:
That men would tell their children,
"This is he;"

Others would say, "Where ?-which is
Bolingbroke?"

Such as is bent on sun-like majesty, When it shines seldom in admiring eyes: But rather drows'd, and hung their eyelids down,

Slept in his face and render'd such aspect As cloudy men use to their adversaries : Being with his presence glutted, gorged and full.

That I did pluck allegiance from men's

To laugh at gibing boys, and stand the push

Of every beardless vain comparative :
Grew a companion to the common streets,
Enfeoff'd himself to popularity:
That being daily swallow'd by men's eyes,
They surfeited with honey, and began
To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof
a little

More than a little, is by much too much.
So, when he had occasion to be seen,
He was but as the cuckoo is in June,
Heard, not regarded; seen, but with
such eyes,

As, sick and blunted with community,
Afford no extraordinary gaze,

HIMSELF.

GOD forgive them, that have so much sway'd

Your majesty's good thoughts away from

me!

I will redeem all this on Percy's head, And, in the closing of some glorious day, Be bold to tell you that I am your son; When I will wear a garment all of blood, And stain my favours in a bloody mask, Which, wash'd away, shall scour my shame with it.

And that shall be the day, whene'er it lights,

That this same child of honour and re

nown,

This gallant Hotspur, this all-praised knight,

And your unthought-of Harry chance to meet :

For every honour sitting on his helm, Would they were multitudes; and on my head

My shames redoubled! for the time will

come

That I shall make this northern youth exchange

His glorious deeds for my indignities.
Percy is but my factor, good my lord,
To engross up glorious deeds on my be-
half;

And I will call him to so strict account,
That he shall render every glory up,
Yea, even the slightest worship of his
time,

Or I will tear the reckoning from his heart.

This, in the name of God, I promise here:

The which, if He be pleas'd I shall perform,

PRINCE HENRY'S SPEECH ON
THE DEATH OF HOTSPUR.
FARE thee well, great heart!
Ill-weav'd ambition, how much art thou
shrunk !

When that this body did contain a spirit,
A kingdom for it was too small 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 dear a show of zeal :

But let my favours hide thy mangled face; And, even in thy behalf, I'll thank myself For doing these fair rites of tenderness. Adieu, and take thy praise with thee to

heaven:

Thy ignomy sleep with thee in thy grave, But not remember'd in thy epitaph !

HENRY'S SOLILOQUY ON
SLEEP.

How many thousand of my poorest subjects

Are at this hour asleep!—O sleep, O gentle sleep,

Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,

That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down,

And steep my senses in forgetfulness? Why rather, Sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,

Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber;

Than in the perfumed chambers of the great,

Under the canopies of costly state, And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody?

O thou dull god! why liest thou with the vile,

In loathsome beds, and leav'st the kingly couch,

A watch-case, or a common larum bell?
Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast,
Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his
brains

In cradle of the rude imperious surge.
And in the visitation of the winds,
Who take the ruffian billows by the top,
Curling their monstrous heads, and hang-
ing them

With deaf'ning clamours in the slippery clouds,

That, with the hurly, death itself awakes?

Canst thou, O partial Sleep, give thy