« PrécédentContinuer »
Are idly bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his prattle to be tedious :
Even fo, or with much more contempt, men's eyes
Did scowl on Richard; no man cry'd, God save him !
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home :
But duft was thrown upon his sacred head ;
Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off,
(His face ftill combating with tears and smiles,
The badges of his grief and patience)
That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel'd
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
And barbarism itself have pitied him.
But Heaven hath a hand in these events,
To whose high will we bound our calm contents.
EASON thus with life :
If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing That none but fools would reck; a breath thou art, Servile to all the skiey influences, That do this habitation, where thou keep'st, Hourly afflict; merely thou art death's fool; For him thou labour'lt by thy flight to fhun, And yet runn'it tow'rd him still. Thou art not noble ; For all th' accommodations that thou bear'ft, Are nurs’d by baseness: thou’rt by no means valiant ; For thou doft fear the soft and tender fork Of a poor worm. Thy best of rest is sleep, And that thou oft provok'ft; yet grossly fear'st
Thy death, which is no more. Thou’rt not thyself ;
For thou exist'st on many a thousand grains,
That issue out of duft. Happy thou art not ;
For what thou haft not, still thou striv'st to get;
And what thou haft, förget'st. Thou art not certain ;
For thy complexion hifts to ftrange effects;
After the moon: If thou art rich, thou’rt poor ;
For, like an ass, whose back with ingots bows,
Thou bear'ft thy heavy riches but a journey,
And death unloadeth thee. Friend thou haft none;
For thy own bowels, which do call thee fire;
The mere effusion of thy proper loins,
Do curse the Gout, Serpigo, and the Rheum,
For ending thee no sooner. Thou hast nor youth nor age ;
But as it were an after-dinner's sleep,
Dreaming on both; for all thy blessed youth
Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms
Of palfied Eld; and when thou’rt old and rich,
Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb; nor bounty,
To make thy riches pleasant. What's yet in this
That bears the name of life? yet in this life
Lie hid more thousand deaths; yet death we fear,
That makes these odds all even.
HOTSPUR'S DESCRIPTION OF A FOP.
REMEMBER, when the fight was done,
When I was dry with rage, and extreme toil, Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword;
Came there a certain Lord, neat, trimly dress'd ;
Fresh as a bridegroom, and his chin, new reap'd,
Shew'd like a stubble-land at harveft 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 foldiers bare 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 questioned me: amongst the rest demanded
My prisoners, in your majesty's behalf.
I then, all smarting with the wounds; being gall’d
To be so pester'd with a popinjäy,
Out of my grief, and my impatience,
Answer'd, neglectingly, I know not what:
We should, or should not;' for he made me mad,
To see him shine so brilk, 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 parmacity, for an inward bruise ;
And that it was great pity, so it was,
This villainous falt-petre should be diggd
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had destroy'd
Then came wandring by
A shadon like an Ange, with bright hair
Dabbled in blood, and heshriekd out aloud;
"Clarence is come, false, fleeting. perjurd Clarence.
That stabvd me in the field by Tenksbury;
Suize on him furies, take him to your torments.'".
Publishi as the Aadirects, by JJohnson ins. Pauls Church Yard, 1 Aug.1780.