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What woman in the city do I name,
What we oft do best,
By sick interpreters, once weak ones, is
For our best act. If we shall stand still,
In fear our motion will be mock'd or carp'd at, We should take root here where we sit, or sit State statues only.
If I am traduc'd by tongues, which neither know My faculties, nor person, yet will be
The chronicles of my doing,-let me say, 'Tis but the fate of place, and the rough brake That virtue must go through.
We must not stint
Our necessary actions, in the fear
To cope malicious censurers; which ever,
That is new trimm'd; but benefit no further
We speak no treason, man ;- -We say, the king
A bonny eye, a passing pleasing tongue;
You have among you many a purchas'd slave, Which, like your asses, and your dogs, and mules, You use in abject and in slavish parts,
Because you bought them.
And though we lay these honours on this man,
Have thews and limbs like to their ancestors;
Thou art a slave, whom Fortune's tender arm
Sleep, that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care, The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast!
Do not omit the heavy offer of it:
It seldom visits sorrow; when it doth,
It is a comforter.
Can snore upon the flint, when resty sloth
How many thousands of my poorest subjects
Why rather, Sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,
And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber;
Under the canopies of costly state,
And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody?
O thou dull God, why liest thou with the vile,
Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast
Who take the ruffian billows by the top
Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them
Canst thou, O partial Sleep! give thy repose
'Tis not the balm, the sceptre, and the ball,
No, not all these thrice-gorgeous ceremonies,
Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave,
Gets him to rest, cramm'd with distressful bread.
Boy! Lucius !-Fast asleep? It is no matter:
To bed, to bed: Sleep kill those pretty eyes,
What, all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyes
She bids you Upon the wanton rushes lay you down, And rest your gentle head upon her lap, And she will sing the song that pleaseth you, And on your eyelids crown the god of sleep, Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness; Making such difference 'twixt wake and sleep, As is the difference 'twixt day and night.
I am ill; but your being by me,
Cannot amend me: Society is no comfort
But this is worshipful society,
And fits the mounting spirit, like myself.
Then a soldier;
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Even in the cannon's mouth.
'Tis much he dares;
And, to that dauntless temper of his mind,
His sword (death's stamp)
Where it did mark, it took; from face to foot
He was a thing of block, whose
Was tim'd with dying cries.
His death, whose spirit lent a fire
Even to the dullest peasant in his camp,
Say to them,
Thou art a soldier, and being bred in broils,
In asking their good loves.
Rude am I in speech,
And little bless'd with the set phrase of
For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith, Till now some nine moons wasted, they have us'd Their dearest action in the tented field.