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More pangs and fears than wars or women have;
Follow I must, I cannot go before,
While Gloster bears this base and humble mind. Were I a man, a duke, and next of blood,
I would remove these tedious stumbling-blocks,
He hath brought many captives to Rome,
When that the poor have cried, Cæsar hath wept :
To climb steep hills,
Requires slow pace at first; anger is like
A full-hot horse; who being allow'd his way,
Give him no breath, but now
Make boot of his distraction: never anger
Made good guard for itself.
Anger's my meat; I sup upon myself,
Now, by the ground that I am banish'd from
I am burn'd up with inflaming wrath; rage, whose heat hath this condition, That nothing can allay, nothing but blood, The blood, and dearest valu'd blood, of France.
O, that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth!
It were for me
To throw my sceptre at the injurious gods;
Away to heaven, respective lenity,
I, then all-smarting, with my wounds being cold,
I am about to weep; but, thinking that
We are a queen, (or long have dream'd so,) certain, The daughter of a king, my drops of tears
I'll turn to sparks of fire.
This strained passion doth you wrong, my Lord: Sweet Earl, divorce not wisdom from your honour.
They are as gentle
Not wagging his sweet head; and yet as rough,
Go, shew your
And make your
Fret, till your proud heart break; slaves how choleric you are, bondsmen tremble. Must I budge? Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouch Under your testy humour? By the gods,
You shall digest the venom of your spleen,
What sudden anger's this? how have I reap'd it?
There is a fair behaviour in thee, captain;
Mislike me not for my complexion,-
Seems, madam! nay, it is; I know not seems,
You have slander'd nature in my form;
Which, howsoever rude exteriorly,
Is yet the cover of a fairer mind
Than to be butcher of an innocent child.
A braver choice of dauntless spirits, Than now the English bottoms have waft o'er, Did never float upon the swelling tide, To do offence and scath in Christendom. The interruption of their churlish drums Cuts off more circumstance: they are at hand. All the unsettled humours of the land,Rash, inconsiderate, fiery voluntaries, With ladies' faces, and fierce dragons' spleens,Have sold their fortunes at their native homes, Bearing their birthrights proudly on their backs, To make a hazard of new fortunes here. Remember whom you are to cope withal ;A sort of vagabonds, rascals, and run-aways, A scum of Bretagnes, and base lackey peasants, Whom their o'er-cloyed country vomits forth To desperate ventures and assur'd destruction. His marches are expedient to this town, His forces strong, his soldiers confident. Thus far into the bowels of the land Have we march'd on without impediment. We are but warriors for the working day : Our gayness, and our gilt, are all be-smirch'd With rainy marching in the painful field. There's not a piece of feather in our host, (Good argument I hope we will not fly,) And time has worn us into slovenry: But, by the mass, our hearts are in the trim.
Within a ken, our army
Big Mars seems bankrupt in their beggar'd host,
With torch-staves in their hand; and their poor jades
Their armours, that march'd hence so silver-bright,
Our colours do return in those same hands
Authority bears off a credent bulk,
That no particular scandal once can touch,
Authority, though it err like others,
Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself,