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THE STATESMAN'S HARANGUE.

You cloudy princes, and heart-sorrowing peers,
That bear this mutual heavy load of moan,
Now cheer each other in each other's love:
Though we have spent our harvest of this king,
We are to reap the harvest of his son.

The broken rancour of your high swoln hearts,
But lately splinted, knit, and join'd together,
Must gently be preserv'd, cherish'd, and kept:
Me seemeth good, that, with some little train,
Forthwith from Ludlow the young prince be
fetch'd

Hither to London, to be crown'd our king.
Marry, my lord, lest by a multitude,

The new-heal'd wound of malice should break out;

Which would be so much the more dangerous, By how much the estate is green, and yet ungovern'd:

Where every horse bears his commanding rein,
And may direct his course as please himself,
As well the fear of harm, as harm apparent,
In my opinion, ought to be prevented.

K. RICHARD III., A. 2, s. 2.

THE REPUBLICAN'S APOLOGY FOR DESTROYING THE HERO.

Be patient till the last. Romans, countrymen, and lovers! hear me for my cause; and be silent, that you may hear: believe me for mine honour; and have respect to mine honour, that you may believe: censure me in your wis

dom; and awake your senses, that you may the better judge. If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of Cæsar's, to him I say, that Brutus' love to Caesar was no less than his. If then that friend demand, why Brutus rose against Cæsar, this is my answer,-Not that I loved Cæsar less, but that I loved Rome more. Had you rather Caesar were living, and die all slaves; than that Cæsar were dead, to live all free men? As Cæsar loved me, I weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honour him; but, as he was ambitious, I slew him: There is tears, for his love; joy, for his fortune; honour, for his valour; and death, for his ambition. Who is here so base, that would be a bondman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so rude, that would not be a Roman ? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so vile, that will not love his country? If any, speak; for him have I offended. I have done no more to Cæsar, than you should do to Brutus. The question of his death is enrolled in the Capitol; his glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy; nor his offences enforced, for which he suffered death. Here comes his body, mourn'd by Mark Antony; who, though he had no hand in his death, shall receive the benefit of his dying, a place in the commonwealth; As which of you shall not? With this I depart; That, as I slew my best lover for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please my country to need my death.

JULIUS CAESAR, A. 3, s. 2.

THE SUITOR.

ANTIPHOLUS. It is thyself, mine own self's better part;

Mine eye's clear eye, my dear heart's dearer heart;

My food, my fortune, and my sweet hope's aim,
My sole earth's heaven, and my heaven's claim.
Thee will I love, and with thee lead my life;
Thou hast no husband yet, nor I no wife :
Give me thy hand.

LUCIANA.

O, soft, sir, hold you still;

I'll fetch my sister, to get her good will.

COMEDY OF ERRORS, A. 3, s. 2.

THE TERRORS OF CIVIL WAR.

Alarum. Enter a Son that has killed his Father, dragging in the dead body.

SON. Ill blows the wind, that profits nobody.

This man, whom hand to hand I slew in fight,
May be possessed with some store of crowns:
And I, that haply take them from him now,
May yet ere night yield both my life and them
To some man else, as this dead man doth me.-
Who's this?-O God! it is my father's face,
Whom in this conflict I unawares have kill'd.
O heavy times, begetting such events!

From London by the king was I press'd forth;
My father, being the earl of Warwick's man,
Came on the part of York, press'd by his master;
And I, who at his hands receiv'd my life,
Have by my hands of life bereaved him.-
Pardon me, God, I knew not what I did!-

And pardon, father, for I knew not thee!—

My tears shall wipe away these bloody marks; And no more words, till they have flow'd their fill.

K. HENRY. O piteous spectacle! O bloody times!

Whilst lions war, and battle for their dens,
Poor harmless lambs abide their enmity.-
Weep, wretched man, I'll aid thee, tear for tear;
And let our hearts, and eyes, like civil war,
Be blind with tears, and break o'ercharg'd with
grief.

Enter a Father, who has killed his Son, with the body in his arms.

FATHER. Thou that so stoutly hast resisted me,

Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold;

For I have bought it with an hundred blows.-
But let me see :-is this our foeman's face ?
Ah, no, no, no, it is mine only son !—
Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee,

Throw up thine eye; see, see, what showers arise,

Blown with the windy tempest of my heart, Upon thy wounds, that kill mine eye and heart!

O, pity, God, this miserable age!—

What stratagems, how fell, how butcherly,
Erroneous, mutinous, and unnatural,
This deadly quarrel daily doth beget!-
O boy, thy father gave thee life too soon,
And hath bereft thee of thy life too late!

K. HEN. Woe above woe! grief more than common grief!

O, that my death would stay these ruthful deeds!

O pity, pity, gentle heaven, pity!—
The red rose and the white are on his face,
The fatal colours of our striving houses:
The one, his purple blood right well resembles;
The other, his pale cheeks, methinks, present:
Wither one rose, and let the other flourish!
If you contend, a thousand lives must wither.
SON. How will my mother, for a father's
death,

Take on with me, and ne'er be satisfied?

FATH. How will my wife, for slaughter of my son,

Shed seas of tears, and ne'er be satisfied?

K. HEN. How will the country, for these woful chances,

Misthink the king, and not be satisfied?

SON. Was ever son, so ru'd a father's death? FATH. Was ever father, so bemoan'd a son ? K. HEN. Was ever king, so griev'd for subjects' woe ?

Much is your sorrow; mine, ten times so much. FATH. These arms of mine shall be thy winding-sheet;

My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulchre;
For from my heart thine image ne'er shall go.
My sighing breast shall be thy funeral bell;
And so obsequious will thy father be,
Sad for the loss of thee, having no more,
As Priam was for all his valiant sons.

I'll bear thee hence; and let them fight that will,

For I have murder'd where I should not kill.

K. HENRY VI., PART III., A. 2, s. 5.

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