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Our court you know, is haunted
With a refined traveller of Spain;

A man in all the world's new fashion planted,
That hath a mint of praises in his brain:
One, whom the music of his own vain tongue
Doth ravish, like enchanting harmony;
A man of compliments.

This is he,

That kiss'd his hand away in courtesy ;
This is the ape of form, Monsieur the nice,
That, when he plays at tables, chides the dice
In honourable terms.

A barren-spirited fellow: one that feeds
On objects, arts, and imitations;

Which, out of use, and stal'd by other men,
Begin his fashion: Do not talk of him,
But as a property.


Do but think,

How sweet a thing it is to wear a crown;
Within whose circuit is Elysium,

And all that poets feign of bliss and joy.

Why doth the crown lie there upon his pillow,
Being so troublesome a bed fellow ?

O polish'd perturbation! golden care!
That keep'st the ports of slumber open wide

To many a watchful night!-he sleeps with 't now,
Yet not so sound, and half so deeply sweet,

As he, whose brow, with homely biggin bound,
Snores out the watch of night.


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;
My tongue and soul in this be hypocrites.

O, tiger's heart, wrapp'd in a woman's hide!
How could'st thou drain the life-blood of the child?

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;
Think it a bastard, whom the oracle

Hath doubtfully pronounc'd thy throat shall cut,
And mince it sans remorse.

Was this a face

To be expos'd against the warring winds?

To stand against the deep dread bolted thunder?
In the most terrible and nimble stroke

Of quick, cross lightning? mine enemy's dog,
Though he had bit me, should have stood that night
Against my fire.

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,-
O, ten times more, than tigers of Hyrcania

Thou art come to answer

A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch
Uncapable of pity, void and empty
From every dram of mercy.

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,
By your good favour, too sharp; men so noble,
However faulty, yet should find respect

For what they have been: 'tis a cruelty,"
To load a falling man.


All the infections that the sun sucks up
From bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall, and make him
By inch-meal a disease! His spirits hear me,
And yet I needs must curse.

As wicked dew as e'er my mother brush'd
With raven's feathers from unwholesome fen,
Drop on you both! a south-west blow on ye,"
And blister you all o'er!

If heaven have any grievous plague in store,
Exceeding those that I can wish upon thee,
O, let them keep it, till thy sins be ripe,
And then hurl down their indignation

On thee, the troubler of the poor world's peace!

Take with thee my most heavy curse;
Which, in the day of battle, tire thee more,
Than all the complete armour that thou wear'st!

If ever he have child, abortive be it,
Prodigious, and untimely brought to light,
Whose ugly and unnatural aspect

May fright the hopeful mother at the view;
And that be heir to his unhappiness.

The worm of conscience still be-gnaw thy soul !
Thy friends suspect for traitors while thou liv'st,

And take deep traitors for thy dearest friends!
No sleep close up that deadly eye of thine,
Unless it be while some tormenting dream
Affrights thee with a hell of ugly devils!
Thou elvish-mark'd, abortive, rooting hog!

Let this pernicious hour
Stand aye accursed in the calender!
May never glorious sun reflex his beams
Upon the country where you make abode!
But darkness and the gloomy shade of death
Environ you; till mischief, and despair,
Drive you to break your necks, or hang yourselves.

Now the red pestilence strike all trades in Rome,
And occupations perish!

All the contagion of the south light on you,
You shames of Rome! you herd of-Boils and plagues
Plaster you o'er; that you may be abhorr'd
Further than seen, and one infect another
Against the wind a mile!

If he say so, may his pernicious soul
Rot half a grain a day! he lies to the heart.

You nimble lightnings, dart your blinding flames.
Into her scornful eyes! Infect her beauty,
You fen-suck'd fogs, drawn by the powerful sun,
To fall and blast her pride!

Feed not thy sovereign's foe, my gentle earth,
Nor with thy sweets comfort his rav'nous sense:
But let thy spiders, that suck up thy venom,
And heavy gaited toads, lie in their way.

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The tyrant custom, most grave senators,
Hath made the flinty and steel couch of war
My thrice-driven bed of down.

But to my mind,-though I am native here,
And to the manner born,—it is a custom

More honor'd in the breach, than the observance.

Thou, Nature, art my goddess; to thy law
My services are bound; wherefore should I
Stand to the plague of custom.

Refrain to-night;

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.
We are two lions litter'd in one day,
And I the elder and more terrible.

Now I will unclasp a secret book,
And to your quick-conceiving discontents
I'll read you matter deep and dangerous;
As full of peril, and advent'rous spirit,
As to o'er-walk a current, roaring loud,
On the unsteadfast footing of a spear.

He that stands upon a slippery place,
Makes nice of no vile hold to stay him up.

Thus have I shunn'd the fire, for fear of burning;
And drench'd me in the sea, where I am drown'd.

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