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Our court you know, is haunted
A man in all the world's new fashion planted,
This is he,
That kiss'd his hand away in courtesy ;
A barren-spirited fellow: one that feeds
Which, out of use, and stal'd by other men,
Do but think,
How sweet a thing it is to wear a crown;
And all that poets feign of bliss and joy.
Why doth the crown lie there upon his pillow,
O polish'd perturbation! golden care!
To many a watchful night!-he sleeps with 't now,
As he, whose brow, with homely biggin bound,
I must be cruel, only to be kind:
Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind,
Let me be cruel, not unnatural:
I will speak daggers to her, but use none;
O, tiger's heart, wrapp'd in a woman's hide!
She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves of France, Whose tongue more poisons than the adder's tooth! How ill-beseeming is it in thy sex
To triumph, like an amazonian trull,
Upon their woes, whom fortune captivates.
Spare not the babe,
Whose dimpled smiles from fools exhaust their mercy;
Hath doubtfully pronounc'd thy throat shall cut,
Was this a face
To be expos'd against the warring winds?
To stand against the deep dread bolted thunder?
Of quick, cross lightning? mine enemy's dog,
That face of his the hungry cannibals
Would not have touch'd, would not have stain❜d with
But you are more inhuman, more inexorable,-
Thou art come to answer
A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch
Neither bended knees, pure hands held up, Sad sighs, deep groans, nor silver-shedding tears, Could penetrate her uncompassionate sire.
My lord of Winchester, you are a little,
For what they have been: 'tis a cruelty,"
All the infections that the sun sucks up
As wicked dew as e'er my mother brush'd
If heaven have any grievous plague in store,
On thee, the troubler of the poor world's peace!
Take with thee my most heavy curse;
If ever he have child, abortive be it,
May fright the hopeful mother at the view;
The worm of conscience still be-gnaw thy soul !
And take deep traitors for thy dearest friends!
Let this pernicious hour
Now the red pestilence strike all trades in Rome,
All the contagion of the south light on you,
If he say so, may his pernicious soul
You nimble lightnings, dart your blinding flames.
Feed not thy sovereign's foe, my gentle earth,
The tyrant custom, most grave senators,
But to my mind,-though I am native here,
More honor'd in the breach, than the observance.
Thou, Nature, art my goddess; to thy law
And that shall lend a kind of easiness
To the next abstinence; the next more easy: For use almost can change the stamp of nature, And either curb the devil, or throw him out With wond'rous potency.
Danger knows full well,
That Cæsar is more dangerous than he.
Now I will unclasp a secret book,
He that stands upon a slippery place,
Thus have I shunn'd the fire, for fear of burning;