To sit upon a hill, as I do now;
To carve out dials quaintly, point by point,
Thereby to see the minutes how they run,-
How many make the hour full complete,
How many hours bring about the day,
How many days will finish up the year,
How many years a mortal man may live.
When this is known, then to divide the time:
So many hours must I tend my flock;
So many hours must I take my rest;
So many hours must I contemplate;
So many hours must I sport myself;
So many days my ewes have been with young;
So
many
weeks ere the poor fools will yean;
So many years ere I shall shear the fleece.
So minutes, hours, days, months, and years,
Passed over to the end they were created,
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.
Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely!
Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade
To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep,
Than doth a rich embroidered canopy
To kings, that fear their subjects' treachery?
Oh, yes, it does; a thousandfold it does.
And to conclude, the shepherd's homely curds,
His cold, thin drink out of his leather bottle,
His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade,
All which secure and sweetly he enjoys,
Is far beyond a prince's delicates;
His viands sparkling in a golden cup,
His body couched in a curious bed,
When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him.
(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 have possession of some store of crowns.
Who's this? O God! it is my father's face,
Whom in this conflict I unwares have killed.
O heavy times, begetting such events!
From London by the king was I pressed forth;
My father, being the Earl of Warwick's man,
Came on the part of York, pressed by his master;
And I, who at his hands received 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!
K. Hen. O piteous spectacle! O bloody times!
Whilst lions war and battle for their dens,
Poor harmless lambs abide their enmity.
(Enter a Father who has killed his Son, with the body in his arms.)
Fath. 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!
Oh, 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 Oh, that my death would stay these ruthless deeds! [grief!
Son. How will my mother, for my 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 my country, for these woful chances, Condemn the king, and ne'er be satisfied!
Son. Did ever son so rue a father's death?
Fath. Did ever father so bemoan a son?
K. Hen. Did ever king so grieve for subjects' woe?
ENGLAND'S heart! Oh never fear
The sturdy good old stock;
Nothing's false or hollow here,
But solid as a rock :
England's heart is sound enough,
And safe in its old place,
Honest, loyal, blithe, and bluff,
And open as her face.
England's heart! With beating nerves
It rallies for the throne,-
And, like Luther, well preserves
The knee for God alone!
England's heart is sound enough,
Unshaken and serene,
Like her oak-trees, true and tough,
And old, but glad and green!
England's heart! All Europe hurled
To ruin, strife, and death,
Sees yet one Zoar in all the world,
The Goshen of the earth!
England's heart is sound enough—-
And though the skies be dark,
Though winds be loud, and waves be rough-
Safe as Noah's ark!
England's heart,—ay, God be praised,
That thus, in patriot pride,
An English cheer can yet be raised
Above the stormy tide!
Safe enough and sound enough,
It thrills the hearts to feel
A man's a bit of English stuff,
All true from head to heel!
BATTLE OF BOSWORTH. A.D. 1485.
(SCENE-A tent. KING RICHARD III. reclining, as if asleep. He starts up from a frightful dream.)
K. Rich. Give me another horse! Bind up my wounds! Have mercy, Jesu! Soft,-I did but dream.
how dost thou afflict me!
The lights burn blue. It is now dead midnight.
Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh.
What do I fear? Myself? There's none else by.
Richard loves Richard; that is, I am I.
Is there a murderer here? No ;-yes; I am:
Then fly. What, from myself? Great reason; why?
Lest I revenge. What? Myself upon myself?
I love myself. Wherefore? For any good,
That I myself have done unto myself?
Oh no; alas! I rather hate myself,
For hateful deeds committed by myself.
I am a villain. Yet I lie; I am not.
Fool, of thyself speak well. Fool, do not flatter.
My conscience has a thousand several tongues,
And every tongue brings in a several tale,
And every tale condemns me for a villain.
Perjury, perjury in the highest degree;
Murder, stern murder, in the direst degree;
All several sins, all used in each degree,
Throng to the bar, crying all, Guilty! guilty!
I shall despair. There is no creature loves me.
Nay, wherefore should they? Since that I myself
Find in myself no pity to myself.
Methought the souls of all that I had murdered
Came to my tent; and every one did threat
To-morrow's vengeance on the head of Richard.
(SCENE-The battlefield of Bosworth. Enter KING RICHARD and CATESBY.)
K. Rich. A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse! Cates. Withdraw, my lord, I'll help you to a horse. K. Rich. Slave, I have set my life upon a cast, And I will stand the hazard of the die. I think there be six Richmonds in the field; Five have I slain to-day, instead of him :— A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!
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