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Makes it take head from all indifferency,
From all direction, purpose, course, intent:
And this same bias, this Commodity,
This bawd, this broker, this all-changing word,
Clapp'd on the outward eye of fickle France,
Hath drawn him from his own determin'd aid,
From a resolv'd and honourable war,
To a most base and vile-concluded peace.-
And why rail I on this Commodity ?
But for because he hath not woo'd me yet:
Not that I have the power to clutch my hand,
When his fair angels would salute my palm ;
But for my hand, as unattempted yet,
Like a poor beggar, raileth on the rich.
Well, whiles I am a beggar, I will rail,
And say,—there is no sin but to be rich;
And being rich, my virtue then shall be
To say,—there is no vice but beggary:
Since kings break faith upon commodity,
Gain, be my lord! for I will worship thee!

Act 2, Sc. I.

Const. Thou ever strong upon the stronger side.

Act 3, Sc. I.

Const. Thou wear a lion's hide! doff it for shame,
And hang a calf's-skin on those recreant limbs.

Act 3, Sc. I.

Const. Grief fills the room up of my absent child,

Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me;
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form.

Act 3, Sc. 4. Lew. Life is as tedious as a twice-told talc,

Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man.

Act 3, Sc. 4.

Pand. When fortune means to men most good,
She looks upon them with a threatening eye.

Act 3, Sc. 4. Pand.

The hearts
Of all his people shall revolt from him,
And kiss the lips of unacquainted change. -Act 3, Sc. 4.

Sal. Therefore, to be possess'd with double pomp,

To guard a title that was rich before,
To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,
To throw a perfume on the violet,
To smooth the ice, or add another hue
Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light
To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish,
Is wasteful and ridiculous excess.-Act 4, Sc. 2.

Pem. When workmen strive to do better than well,

They do confound their skill in covetousness ;
And oftentimes excusing of a fault,
Doth make the fault the worse by the excuse,
As patches set upon a little breach
Discredit more in hiding of the fault,
Than did the fault before it was so patch’d.

Act 4, Sc. 2. Hub. I saw a smith stand with his hammer, thus,

The whilst his iron did on the anvil cool,
With open mouth swallowing a tailor's news ;
Who, with his shears and measure in his hand,
Standing on slippers, (which his nimble haste
Had' falsely thrust upon contrary feet,)
Told of a many thousand warlike French
That were embattled and rank'd in Kent.

Act 4, Sc. 2. K. John. It is the curse of kings to be attended

By slaves that take their humours for a warrant
To break within the bloody house of life,
And on the winking of authority
To understand a law, to know the meaning
Of dangerous majesty, when perchance it frowns
More upon humour than advised respect.

Act 4, Sc. 2.

K. John. How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds,

Makes ill deeds done.-Act 4, Sc. 2.

P. Hen.

'Tis strange, that death should sing.--
I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan,
Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death ;
And, from the organ-pipe of frailty, sings
His soul and body to their lasting rest. *-Act 5, Sc. 7.

a

Bast. This England never did, nor never shall,

Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror,
But when it first did help to wound itself.
Now these her princes are come home again,
Come the three corners of the world in arms,
And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us rue,
If England to itself do rest but true. - Act 5, Sc. 7.

* This same expression is also to be found in the "Merchant of Venice," Act 3, Sc. 2; and “Othello,” Act 5, Sc. 2. The origin of it is in Riley's Ovid, Epistle 7, page 63 :

“Thus does the white swan, as he lies on the wet grass,

When the Fates summon him, sing at the fords of Mæander."

E

RICHARD THE SECOND.

Duch. Sorrow ends not when it seemeth done.

Act I, Sc. 2.

Grunt. Things sweet to taste, prove in digestion sour.

Act I, Sc. 3.

a

Boling. O, who can hold a fire in his hand,

By thinking on the frosty Caucasus ?
Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite,
By bare imagination of a feast?
Or wallow naked in December snow,
By thinking on fantastic summer's heat?
O, no! the apprehension of the good
Gives but the greater feeling to the worse :
Fell sorrow's tooth doth never rankle more
Than when it bites, but lanceth not the sore.

Act I, Sc. 3.

Gaunt. O, but they say the tongues of dying men

Enforce attention like deep harmony:
Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain,
For they breathe truth that breathe their words in pain.
He that no more must say is listen’d more
Then they whom youth and ease have taught to glose;
More are men's ends mark'd than their lives before:
The setting sun, and music at the close,
As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last,
Writ in remembrance more than things long past.

Act 2, Sc. 1.

Gaunt. This precious stone set in the silver sea,

Which serves it in the ofice of a wall
Or as a moat defensive to a house,

Against the envy of less happier lands,
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.

Act 2, Sc. I.

Gaunt. The pleasure, that some fathers feed upon,
Is my strict fast, I mean—my children's looks.

Act 2, Sc. I.

Gaunt. Misery makes sport to mock itself.

Act 2, Sc. I

Boling. Eating the bitter bread of banishment.*

Act 3, Sc. I.

K. Rich. Not all the water in the rough rude sea

Can wash the balm from an anointed king :
The breath of worldly men cannot depose
The puty elected by the Lord.—Act 3, Sc. 2.

Of comfort no man speak :
Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs ;
Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.
Let's choose executors and talk of wills :
And yet not so, for what can we bequeath
Save our deposed bodies to the ground?
Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's,
And nothing can we call our own but death ;
And that small model of the barren earth
Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.
For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground,
And tell sad stories of the death of kings :
How some have been depos'd; some slain in war;

K. Rich.

* This line also occurs in Beaumont and Fletcher's Play of “The Lover's Progress," Act 5, Sc. I:Lisander. Does she suffer so much for me,

For me unworthy, and shall I decline
Eating the bitter bread of banishment?"

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