SPEECH OF RICHARD THE SECOND TO THE
FROM THE PLAY OF RICHARD THE SECOND.'
Discomfortable cousin! know'st thou not,
That when the searching eye of Heaven is hid
Behind the globe, that lights the lower world,
Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen
In murders, and in outrage, bloody hire;
But when, from under this terrestrial ball,
He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines,
And darts his light through every guilty hole,
Then murders, treasons, and detested sins,
The cloak of night being pluck'd from off their backs,
Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves?
So when this thief, this traitor, Bolingbroke,
Who all this while hath revell'd in the night,
Whilst we were wand'ring with the antipodes,
Shall see us rising in our throne, the east,
His treasons will sit blushing in his face,
Not able to endure the sight of day,
But, self-affrighted, tremble at his sin.
Not all the water in the rough rude sea
Can wash the balm off from an anointed king:
The breath of worldly men cannot depose
The deputy elected by the lord;
For every man that Bolingbroke hath press'd
To lift shrewd steel against our golden crown,
God for his Richard hath in Heavenly pay
A glorious angel: then, if angels fight,
Weak men must fall; for Heaven still guards the right.
JOHN OF GAUNT'S DEATH-BED SPEECH IN RELATION TO KING RICHARD THE SECOND, AND THE DISGRACE OF THE NATION.
FROM THE PLAY OF RICHARD THE SECOND.'
Methinks I am a prophet new inspir'd;
And thus, expiring, do foretel of him :
His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last,
For violent fires soon burn out themselves;
Small showers last long, but sudden storms are short;
He tires betimes that spurs too fast betimes;
With eager feeding, food doth choke the feeder:
Light vanity, insatiate cormorant,
Consuming means, soon preys upon itself.
This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise;
This fortress built by nature for herself,
Against infection, and the hand of war;
This happy breed of men; this little world;
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office 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,
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,
Fear'd by their breed, and famous by their birth,
Renown'd for their deeds as far from home
(For Christian service, and true chivalry),
As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry,
Of the world's ransom, blessed Mary's son:
This land of such dear souls, this dear, dear land,
Dear for her reputation through the world,
Is now leas'd out, (I die pronouncing it),
Like to a tenement, or pelting farm:
England, bound in with the triumphant sea,
Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege
Of watery Neptune, is now bound in with shame,
With inky blots, and rotten parchment bonds;
That England, that was wont to conquer others,
Hath made a shameful conquest of itself:
O, would the scandal vanish with my life,
How happy then were my ensuing death!
RICHARD II. TO SIR STEPHEN SCROOP ON RECEIVING THE NEWS OF THE REVOLT OF HIS SUBJECTS.
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 Heaven's sake, let us sit upon the ground,
And tell sad stories of the death of kings:
How some have been deposed; some slain in war;
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed;
Some poisoned by their wives; some sleeping kill'd;
All murdered: For within the hollow crown
That rounds the mortal temples of a king,
Keeps Death his court; and there the antic sits,
Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp,
Allowing him a breath, a little scene,
To monarchize, be feared, and kill with looks;
Infusing him with self and vain conceit,
As if this flesh, which walls about our life,
Were brass impregnable,—and, humoured thus,
Comes at the last, and with a little pin
Bores through his castle walls, and-farewell, king!
Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
With solemn reverence; 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, taste grief,
Need friends. Subjected thus,
How can you say to me—I am a king?
SUBMISSION OF KING RICHARD THE SECOND.
What must the king do now? Must he submit?
The king shall do it. Must he be deposed?
The king shall be contented. Must he lose
The name of king? o' God's name, let it go:
I'll give my jewels for a set of beads;
My gorgeous palace for a hermitage;
My gay apparel for an alms-man's gown;
My figur'd goblets for a dish of wood;
My sceptre for a palmer's walking staff;
My subjects for a pair of carved saints;
And my large kingdom for a little grave;
A little little grave, an obscure grave;—
Or I'll be buried in the king's highway;
Some way of common trade, where subjects' fect
May hourly trample on their sovereign's head;
For on my heart they tread, now whilst I live;
And buried once, why not upon my head?-
ROMEO'S DESCRIPTION OF THE
APOTHECARY.
FROM THE PLAY OF ROMEO AND JULIET.'
I do remember an apothecary,
And hereabouts he dwells,- -whom last I noted In tatter'd weeds, with overwhelming brows,. Culling of simples; meagre were his looks,
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