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C H A P.

XII.

ORLANDO

A N D

A D A M.,

ORLA. HO's there?

ADAM. ?

my gentle mafter, Oh, my sweet master, O you memory Of old Sir Rowland! Why, what makes you

here?
Why are you virtuous ? Why do people love you?
And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant?
Why would you be so fond to overcome
The bony priser of the humourous Duke?
Your praise is come too swiftly home before you.
Know you not, master, to some kind of men
Their
graces

serve them but as enemies?
Nor more do your's; your virtues, gentle master,
Are fanctified and holy traitors to you.
Oh, what a world is this, when what is comely
Invenoms him that bears it!

Orla. Why, what's the matter?

ADAM. O unhappy youth, Come not within these doors; within this roof The enemy of all your graces lives : Your brother-(no; no brother; yet the son, Yet not the son; I will not call him fon Of him I was about to call his father,) Hath heard your praises, and this night he means To burn the lodging where you use to lie, And you within it; if he fail of that, He will have other means to cut you off ; I overheard him, and his practices :

This is no palace, this house is but a butchery;
Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it.

ORLA. Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me go?
ADAM. No matter whither, so you come not here.

Orla. What would'st thou have me goand beg my food!
Or with a base and boisterous sword enforce
A thievish living on the common road?
This must I do, or know not what to do:
Yet this I will not do, do how I can;
I rather will subject me to the malice
Of a diverted blood, and bloody brother.

ADAM. But do not fo; I have five hundred crowns,
The thrifty hire I fav'd under your father,
Which I did store, to be my

fofter-nurse
When service should in my old limbs lie lame,
And unregarded age in corners thrown:
Take that; and he that doth the ravens feed,
Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,
Be comfort to my age! here is the gold,
All this I give you, let me be your servant;
Though I look old, yet I am strong and lufty;
For in my youth I never did apply
Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood;
Nor did I with unbalhful forehead woo
The means of weakness and debility;
Therefore my age is as a lusty winter,
Frosty, but kindly ; let me go with you ;
I'll do the service of a younger man
In all your business and necessities.

Orla. Oh! good old man, how well in late appears
The constant service of the antique world ;
When service sweat for duty, not for meed!

Thou

But, poor

Thou art not for the fashion of these times,
Where none will sweat but for promotion ;
And having that do choak their service up
Even with the having ; it is not so with thee;

old

man, thou prun'st a rotten tree,
That cannot fo much as a blossom yield,
In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry.
But come thy ways, we'll go along together
And ere we have thy youthful wages spent,
We'll light upon some settled low content.

ADAM. Master, go on; and I will follow thee
To the last gafp, with truth and loyalty ;
From seventeen years till now, almost fourscore,
Here lived I, but now live here no more.
At seventeen years, many their fortunes seek,
But at fourscore, it is too late a week;
Yet fortune cannot recompense me better
Than to die well, and not my master's debtor.

SHAKESPEAR,

с н А Р.

XIII.

SCRO O P

AND

RICHARD,

M

SCROOP. ORE health and happiness betide my Liege,

Thaạcan my care-tun’d tongue deliver him! K. Rich. Mine ear is open, and my heart prepar'd; The warft is worldly loss thou canst unfold. Say, is my kingdom lost? Why, 'twas my care ; And what loss is it, to be rid of care ? Strives Boli .gbroke to be as great as we } Greater he shall not be ; if he serve God, We'll serye him too, and be his fellow so. Bb

Revolt

Revolt our subjects ? That we cannot mend;
They break their faith to God, as well as us.
Cry woe, destruction, roin, loss, decay ;
The worst is death, and death will have his day.

Scroop. Glad am I that your Highness is so arm’d
To bear the tidings of calamity.
Like an unfeasonable stormy day,
Which makes the silver rivers drown their shores,
As if the world were all diffolv'd to tears;
So high above his limits swells the rage
Of Boling broke, cov’ring your fearful land
With hard bright steel, and hearts more hard than steel,
White beards have arm’d their thin and hairless scalps
Against thy Majesty ; boys, with women's voices,
Strive to speak big, and clasp their female joints
In stiff unwieldy arms, against thy crown.
The
very

beadfmen learn to bend their bows
Of double-fatal yew, against thy ftate:
Yea, diftaff-women manage rusty bills.
Against thy feat both young and old rebel,
And all goes worse than I have pow'r to tell.

K. Rich. Too well, too well, thou tell'ít a tale so ill.
Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? where is Bagor?
What is become of Bufhy? Where is Green ?
No matter where ; of comfort no man speak.
Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs,
Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes
Write forrow on the bofam of the earth!
Let’s chuse 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

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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 heav'n's fake, let us fit upon the ground,
And tell fad stories of the death of Kings;
How some have been depos’d, some slain in war ;
Some haunted by the ghost they dispoffefs'd;
Some poison’d by their wives, fome sleeping kill'd;
All murder'd. For within the hollow crown,
That rounds the mortal temples of a King,
Keeps Death his court; and there the antic fits,
Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp ;
Allowing him a breath, a little scene
To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks :
Infufing him with self and yain conceit,
As if this flesh which walls about our life,
Were brass impregnable ; and, humour'd thus,
Comes at the last, and with a little pin
Bores through his castle walls, and farewel King!
Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
With folemn rev'rence : throw away respect,
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty,
For you have but mistook me all this while.
I live on bread like you, feel want like you;
Tafte grief, need friends, like you: subjected thus,
How can you say to me I am a King?

SHAKESPEAR

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