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The whilst his iron did on the anvil coul,
With open mouth, swallowing a taylor's news,
Who, with his shears and mealure in his hand,
Standing on flippers, which his nimble hafte
Had fallely thruit upon contrary feet,
Told of a many thousand warlike French,
That were embattled and rank'd in Kent.
Another lean, unwash'd artificer
Cuts off his tale, and talks of Arthur's death.
Kings evil Purposes too servilely and hastily executed.
(10) It is the curse of kings, to be attended
By flaves that take their humours for a warrant,
To break into the bloody house of life:
And, on the winking of authority,
To understand a law, to know a meaning
Of dang 'rous majesty, when perchance, it frowns
More upon humour, than advis’d respect.
110) It is, &c.] So the king, in A King and no King, observes,
If there were no such instruments as thou,
We kings could never act such wicked deeds :
Seek out a man that mocks divinity,
That breaks each precept both of God and man,
And nature's too, and does it without lust,
Merely because it is a law, and good,
And live with him ; for him thou can'ft not spoil.
And a little before, he speaks of Belis, as the most horrid oba joct, after consenting to his wicked proposal.
But thou appear'st to me after thy grant,
The ugliest, loathed, detestable thing,
That I have met with: thou hast eyes
Like fiames of sulphur, which methinks do dart
Infection on me; and thou hast a mouth
Enough to take me in, where there does stand
Four rows of iron teeth
Ad 3. the end.
1 Villain's Look, and wicked Zeal.
How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds, Makes deeds ill done ? For had'st not thou been by, A fellow, by the hand of nature mark’d, Quoted and fign'd to do a deed of shame, This murther had not come into
mind. Hadst thou but shook thy head, or made a pause, When I spake darkly what I purposed; Or turn'd an eye of doubt upon my
face, Or bid me tell my tale in express words ; Deep shame had struck me dumb, made me break off, And those thy fears might have wrought fears in me.
Scene VI. Hypocrisy.
Trust not those cunning waters of his eyes,
For villainy is not without such rheum;
And he long traded in it, makes it seem
Like rivers of remorse and innocence.
SCENE VII. Despair.
(11) If thou didst but consent
To this most cruel act, do but despair,
And if thou want'st a cord, the finallest thread,
That ever spider twisted from her womb,
Will strangle thee: a rush will be a beam
To hang thee on : or wouldst thou drown-thyself,
Put but a little water in a spoon,
And it shall be as all the ocean,
Enough to stifle such a villain up.
(11) It is, &c.] So in the Winter's Tale. Paulina tells the king his crime is so great, it can never be forgotten, and nothing remains for him but to despair,
Let me wipe off this honourable dew,
That filverly doth progress on thy cheeks..
My heart hath melted at a lady's tears,
Being an ordinary inundation:
But this effusion of such manly drops,
This show'r, blown up by tempest of the soul,
Startles inine eyes, and makes me more amaz’d,
Than had I feen the vaulty top of heav'n,
Figur’d quite o’er with burning meteors.
Lift up thy brow, renowned Salisbury,
And with a great heart, heave away this storm,
Commend these waters to those baby-eyes,
That never saw the giant-world enrag’d;
Nor met with fortune, other than at feasts,
Full warın of blood, of mirth, of gossiping-
SCENE IV. Drums.
Strike up the drums, and let the tongue of war
Plead for our int’rest.
Do but start
An eccho with the clamour of thy drum,
And even at hand a drum is ready brac’d,
That shall reverb'rate all as loud as thine.
Sound but anches, and another shall,
As loud as thine, rattle the welkin's ear,
And mock the deep-inouth'd thunder.
SCENE IX. The approach of Death.
It is too late, the life of all his blood
Is touch'd corrupribly; and his pure brain,
(Which, fome suppose, the soul's frail dwelling-house,)
Doth, by the idle comments that it makes,
Foretel the ending of mortality.
Madness, occasioned by Poison,
(12) Ay, marry, now my soul hath elbow-room,
It would not out at windows, nor at doors.
There is so hot a summer in my bosom,
That all my bowels crumble up to dust:
(12) Ay, marry, &c.] In the Valntinian of Beaumont and Flicher, the emperor is brought on the stage, poisoned.There he calls out for
Drink, drink, drink, colder, colder
Than snow on Seythian mountains : oh my heart-strings ;
I'll have brought through my body :
And Volga, on whose face the north wind freezes.
I am an hundred hells, an hundred piles
Already to my funeral are flaming,
Shall I not drink?
But far more terrible and full of slaughter,
I’th’midst of all my fire, I'll fire the empire :
A thousand fans, a thousand fans to cool me:
Invite the gentle winds, Eudoxia.
A thousand April showers fall in my bosom;
How dare ye let me be tormented thus ? &c.
See Act 5. S. 2. But in another play of theirs-A wife for a month, is a poia soning scene, which better deferves to be compar'd with this of our author, and which Mr. Seward obferves, “ every reader of taste will acknowledge superior to it.” Alphonso, long a prey to melancholy, is poisoned with a hot, burning potion, and in the midst of his tortures, raves thus.
Give me more air, more air, air: blow, blow, blow,
Open thou eastern gate, and blow upon me :
Distil thy cold dews, 0 thou icy moon,
And rivers run through my amicted fpirit.
I am all fire, fire, fire : the raging dog-star
Reigns in my blood : oh which way thall I turn me?
Æina and all her flames, burn in my head;
Fling me into the ocean or I perih:
Dig, dig, dig, dig, until the springs fly up;
I am a scribbled form, drawn with a pen
Upon a parchment, and against this fire
Do I shrink up.
The cold, cold springs, that I may leap into them,
And bathe my scorch'd limbs in their purling pleasures,
Or shoot me into the higher region,
Where treasures of delicious snow are nourish's,
And banquets of sweet hail.
Rug. Hold him fást, friar,
Oh, how he burns !
Alph. What ! will ye sacrifice me?
Upon the altar lay my willing body,
And pile your wood up, Aing your holy incense:
And as I turn me, you shall see all flame,
Consuming flame : stand off me, or you're ashes.
Alph. My bed will burn about me:
Like Phaeton, in all consuming flashes
Am I inclos'd : let me fly, let me fly, give room ;
'Twixt the cold bears, far from the raging lion,
Lies my safe way: O for a cake of ice now
To clap unto my heart to comfort me.
Decrepid winter, hang upon my shoulders,
And let me wear thy frozen isicles,
Like jewels round about my head to cool me. !
My eyes burn out and fink into their sockets,
And my infected brain, like brimstone boils :
I live in hell, and several furies vex me.
O, carry me where never sun e'er Thew'd yet
A face of comfort, where the earth is cryftal,
Never to be dissolved, where nought inbabits
But night and cold, and nipping frosts and winds,
That cut the stubborn rocks and make them fhiver :
Set me there, friends-