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YOUTH, thou bear'st thy father's face; Frank nature, rather curious than in haste, Hath well compos'd thee. Thy father's moral
May'st thou inherit too! Welcome to Paris.
But goers backward.
ALL's Well THAT ENDS WELL, A. 1, s. 2.
HIGH-SOULED FEELINGS MASTER
ING PHYSICAL INFIRMITY. For this I shall have time enough to mourn. In poison there is physick; and these news, Having been well, that would have made me
sick, Being sick, have in some measure made me well: And as the wretch, whose fever-weakened joints, Like strengthless hinges, buckle under life, Impatient of his fit, breaks like a fire Out of his keeper's arms; even so my
limbs, Weaken’d with grief, being now enrag'd with
grief, Are thrice themselves : hence therefore, thou
nice crutch; A scaly gauntlet now, with joints of steel, Must glove this hand : and hence, thou sickly
quoif; Thou art a guard too wanton for the head, Which princes, flesh'd with conquest, aim to hit. Now bind my brows with iron; And approach The ragged’st hour that time and spite dare bring, To frown upon the enrag'd Northumberland ! Let heav'n kiss earth! Now let not nature's
hand Keep the wild flood confin'd! let order die ! And let this world no longer be a stage, To feed contention in a lingering act; But let one spirit of the first-born Cain Reign in all bosoms, that, each heart being set On bloody courses, the rude scene may end, And darkness be the burier of the dead !
K. HENRY IV., PART II., A. 1, s. 1.
HIGH AND LOW.
On fair ground,
I could myself
two tribunes. COMINUS. But now 'tis odds beyond arith
metick; And manhood is callid foolery, when it stands Against a falling fabrick. Will you hence, Before the tag return? whose rage doth rend Like interrupted waters, and o'erbear What they are used to bear. MEN.
Pray you, be gone : I'll try whether my old wit be in request With those that have but little; this must be
patch'd With cloth of any colour.
CORIOLANUS, A. 3, s. 1.
IF at home, sir, He's all my exercise, my mirth, my matter: Now my sworn friend, and then mine enemy; My parasite, my soldier, statesman, all : He makes a July's day short as December; And, with his varying childness, cures in me Thoughts that would thick my blood.
WINTER'S TALE, A. 1, s. 2.
HOME - KEEPING YOUTHS HAVE
EVER HOMELY WITS. ANTONIO. Tell me, Panthino, what sad talk
my brother held you in the cloister? PANTHINO. 'Twas of his nephew Proteus,
your son. ANT. Why, what of him ?
Pan. He wonder'd, that your lordship Would suffer him to spend his youth at home; While other men, of slender reputation, Put forth their sons to seek preferment out: Some, to the wars, to try their fortune there; Some, to discover islands far away; Some, to the studious universities. For any, or for all these exercises, He said, that Proteus, your son, was meet: And did request me, to importune you, To let him spend his time no more at home, Which would be great impeachment to his age, In having known no travel in his youth. Ant. Nor need'st thou much importune me
to that Whereon this month I have been hammering. I have consider'd well his loss of time; And how he cannot be a perfect man, Not being try'd, and tutor’d in the world : Experience is by industry atchiev'd, And perfected by the swift course of time.
TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA, A. 1, s. 3.
HONOUR IS FROM ABOVE.
YOUR presence glads our days ; honour we
love, For who hates honour, hates the gods above.
PERICLES, A. 2, s. 3.
HOPE OFT AFFORDS MORE PLEASURE THAN POSSESSION.
Who riseth from a feast, With that keen appetite that he sits down? Where is the horse that doth untread again His tedious measures with the unbated fire That he did pace them first ? All things that are, Are with more spirit chased than enjoy'd. How like a younker, or a prodigal, The scarfed bark puts from her native bay, Hugg’d and embraced by the strumpet wind ! How like the prodigal doth she return; With over-weather'd ribs, and ragged sails, Lean, rent, and beggar'd by the strumpet wind!
MERCHANT OF VENICE, A. 2, s. 6.
HORRORS OF CIVIL WAR. Look on thy country, look on fertile France, And see the cities and the towns defac'd By wasting ruin of the cruel foe! As looks the mother on her lowly babe, When death doth close his tender dying eyes, See, see, the pining malady of France; Behold the wounds, the most unnatural wounds, Which thou thyself hast given her woful breast! O, turn thy edged sword another
way; Strike those that hurt, and hurt not those that
help! One drop of blood, drawn from thy country's
bosom, Should grieve thee more than streams of foreign
gore; Return thee, therefore, with a flood of tears, And wash away thy country's stained spots !
K. HENRY VI., PART I., A. 3, s. 3.