suppose the singing-birds musicians,
the grass whereon thou tread'st the presence strew'd, the flowers fair ladies, and thy steps no more
than a delightful measure or a dance:
for gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite the man that mocks at it and sets it light. Bol. O, who can hold a fire in his hand
by thinking on the frosty Caucasus? or clog the hungry edge of appetite by bare imagination of a feast?
or wallow naked in December snow by thinking on fantastic summer's heat? Oh, no! the apprehension of the good gives but the greater feeling to the worse.
HAUNT his midnight dreams, black Nemesis! whom, self-conceiving, in the inmost depths
of Chaos blackest Night long labouring bore, when the stern Destinies, her elder brood, and shapeless Death, from that more monstrous birth leapt shuddering! haunt his slumbers, Nemesis! scorch with the fires of Phlegethon his heart, till helpless, hopeless, heaven-abandoned wretch, he too shall seek beneath the unfathomed deep to hide him from thy fury. How the sea far distant glitters as the sunbeams smile
and gaily wanton o'er its heaving breast!
Phoebus shines forth, nor wears one cloud to mourn his votary's sorrows. God of day, shine on! by men despised, forsaken by the Gods, I supplicate no more. How many a day, O pleasant Lesbos, in thy secret streams delighted have I plunged, from the hot sun screened by the o'erarching grove's delightful shade, and pillowed on the waters. Now the waves shall chill me to repose. Tremendous height! scarce to the brink will these rebellious limbs support me. Hark! how the rude deep below roars round the rugged base, as if it called its long reluctant victim! I will come.
One leap, and all is over.
of death, or tranquil apathy's dead calm, welcome alike to me. Away, vain fears!
983 REFLECTIOns on the murder of prince pORREX
BY HIS MOTHER VIDEN
HEN gredy lust in royall seate to reigne
hath reft all care of goddes and eke of men, and cruell hart, wrath, treason and disdaine, within ambicious brest are lodged; then beholde how mischiefe wide her selfe displayes, and with the brother's hand the brother slayes. When bloud thus shed doth staine the heavens face, crying to Jove for vengeance of the deede, the mightie God even moveth from his place with wrath to wreke, then sendes he forth with spede the dreadfull furies, daughters of the night, with serpentes girt, carying the whip of ire,
with heare of stinging snakes, and shining bright with flames and bloud, and with a brand of fire; these for revenge of wretched murder done,
do make the mother kill her onely sonne.
Bloud asketh bloud, and death must death requite: Jove by his just and everlasting dome
justly hath ever so requited it.
This times before recorde, and times to come shall finde it true, and so dooth present proofe present before our eies for our behoofe.
O happie wight that suffres not the snare of murderous minde to tangle him in blood! and happy he that can in time beware by others harmes, and turne it to his good: but wo to him that fearing not to offend, doth serve his lust, and will not see the end.
SACKVILLE AND NORTON
HE morn doth hasten our departure:
ΤΗ prepare thee, King, to go: a favouring gale
dost thou deny a moment for a father
to shed a few warm tears o'er his dead son? I tell thee, chief, this act might claim a life, to do it duly; even a longer life,
than sorrow ever suffered. Cruel man! and thou deniest me moments. Be it so.
I know you Romans weep not for your children; ye triumph o'er your tears, and think it valour; I triumph in my tears. Yes, best-lov'd boy, yes, I can weep, can fall upon thy corse, and I can tear my hairs, these few grey hairs, the only honours war and age hath left me.
Ah son! thou might'st have ruled o'er many nations, as did thy royal ancestry; but I,
rash that I was, ne'er knew the golden curb direction hangs on bravery: else perchance these men, that fasten fetters on thy father, had sued to him for peace, and claim'd his friendship. Aul. But thou wast still implacable to Rome, and scorned her friendship.
Soldier, I had arms, had neighing steeds to whirl my iron cars,
had wealth, dominion. Doth thou wonder, Roman, I fought to save them? What, if Cæsar aims
to lord it universal o'er the world,
shall the world tamely crouch at Cæsar's footstool? Aul. Read in thy fate our answer.
TITUS CONTEMPLATING JERUSALEM
and yet it moves me, Romans! it confounds the counsels of my firm philosophy,
that Ruin's merciless ploughshare must pass o'er, and barren salt be sown on yon proud city. As on our olive-crownéd hill we stand, where Kedron at our feet its scanty waters distils from stone to stone with gentle motion, as through a valley sacred to sweet peace, how boldly doth it front us! how majestically! like a luxurious vineyard, the hill-side is hung with marble fabrics, line o'er line, terrace o'er terrace, nearer still and nearer
Here bright and sumptuous
with cool and verdant gardens interspers'd;
here towers of war that frown in massy strength: while over all hangs the rich purple eve,
as conscious of its being her last farewell of light and glory to that fated city.
And, as our clouds of battle dust and smoke are melted into air, behold the Temple,
in undisturbed and lone serenity
finding itself a solemn sanctuary
in the profound of heaven! It stands before us, a mount of snow fretted with golden pinnacles! the very sun, as though he worshipp'd there, lingers upon the gilded cedar-roofs;
and down the long and branching porticoes, on every flowery-sculptured capital, glitters the homage of his parting beams. By Hercules! the sight might almost win the offended majesty of Rome to mercy.
986 CARDINAL WOLSEY'S SPEECH TO CROMWELL
‘ROMWELL, I did not think to shed a tear
out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. Let's dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Cromwell; and,—when I am forgotten, as I shall be, and sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention of me more must be heard of, say, I taught thee, say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory, and sounded all the depths and shoals of honour,- found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in; a sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it. Mark but my fall, and that that ruin'd me. Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition; by that sin fell the angels; how can man, then, the image of his Maker, hope to win by it? love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee; corruption wins not more than honesty.
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,
to silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not:
let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,
thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fall'st, O Crom
thou fall'st a blesséd martyr! Serve the king;
and, prithee, lead me in:
there take an inventory of all I have,
to the last penny; 'tis the king's: my robe,
and my integrity to heaven, is all
I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell! had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, he would not in mine age have left me naked to mine enemies.
CHORUS OF DRUIDS-ARVIRAGUS
UT tell us why thou fledst? Arv. I fled not, Druid!
by the great gods I fled not! save to stop
our dastard troops, that basely turn'd their backs. I stopt, I rallied them, when lo a shaft
of random cast did level me with earth,
where, pale and senseless, as the slain around me, I lay till midnight: then, as from long trance awoke, I crawl'd upon my feeble limbs
to a lone cottage, where a pitying hind
lodg'd me and nourish'd me. My strength repair'd, it boots not that I tell, what humble arts compell'd I us'd to screen me from the foe. How now a peasant from a beggarly scrip
I sold cheap food to slaves, that nam'd the price, nor after gave it. Now a minstrel poor with ill-tun'd harp, and uncouth descant shrill I ply'd a thriftless trade, and by such shifts did win obscurity to shroud my name. At length to other conquests in the north Ostorius led his legions: safer now,
yet not secure, I to some valiant chiefs,
whom war had spar'd, discover'd what I was; and with them plann'd, how surest we might draw our scattered forces to some rocky fastness
in rough Caernarvon, there to breathe in freedom, if not with brave incursion to oppress
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