A STATUE. What was he that did make it ?-See, my lord, Would you not deem it breath'd? and that those veins Did verily bear blood? The very life seems warm upon her lip. Leon. The fixture of her eye has motion in't As we are mock'd with art. Still, methinks, There is an air comes from her. What fine chisel KING JOHN. COWARDICE AND PERJURY. O Lymoges! O Austria! thou dost shame That bloody spoil: thou slave, thou wretch, thou coward! Thou little valiant, great in villany! Thou ever strong upon the stronger side! Thou fortune's champion, that dost never fight But when her humorous ladyship is by To teach thee safety! thou art perjured, too, And dost thou now fall over to my foes? THE HORRORS OF A CONSPIRACY. I had a thing to say-but let it go; Had baked thy blood, and made it heavy, thick; Or if that thou couldst see me without eyes, I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts: A MOTHER'S GRIEF FOR THE LOSS OF A SON. Father cardinal, I have heard you say, That we shall see and know our friends in heaven: If that be true, I shall see my boy again; For, since the birth of Cain the first male child, * Do off. † Showy ornaments. G To him that did but yesterday suspire,* There was not such a gracious+ creature born. And so he'll die; and, rising so again, When I shall meet him in the court of heaven Pand. You hold too heinous a respect of grief. K. Phil. You are as fond of grief as of your child. DESPONDENCY. There's nothing in this world can make me joy : ARTHUR'S PATHETIC SPEECHES TO HUBERT. Methinks, nobody should be sad but I: * Breathe. † Graceful. I knit my handkerchief about your brows, (The best I had, a princess wrought it me,) And with my hand at midnight held your head; Saying, What lack you? and, Where lies your grief? If Heaven be pleased that you, must use me ill, So much as frown on you? Alas! what need you be so boist❜rous rough? Nay, hear me, Hubert, drive these men away, I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word, Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you, Is there no remedy? Hub. None, but to lose your eyes. Arth. Oh, Heaven !—that there were but a mote in yours, A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wand'ring hair, Any annoyance in that precious sense! Then, feeling what small things are boist'rous there, Your vile intent must needs seem horrible. PERFECTION ADMITS OF NO ADDITION. To gild refined gold, to paint the lily, To throw a perfume on the violet, To smooth the ice, or add another hue To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish, DESPAIR. If thou didst but consent To this most cruel act, do but despair, Will serve to strangle thee; a rush will be A beam to hang thee on; or wouldst thou drown thyself, Put but a little water in a spoon, |