Doth speak of you, his cheek looks pale! and with Hor. And you in Hell, as often as he hears GLEN. I blame him not at my nativity The front of Heav'n was full of fiery shapes, Of burning creffets; know that at my birth The frame and the foundation of the earth Shook like a coward. HOT. So it would have done At the fame feason, if your mother's cat GLEN. The Heav'ns were all on fire, the earth did tremble. Hor. O, then the earth fhook to fee the Heav'ns on fire! And not in fear of your nativity. Difeased Nature oftentimes breaks forth In frange eruptions; and the teeming earth By the imprisoning of unruly wind Within her womb, which, for enlargement ftriving, GLEN. Coufin, of many men I do not bear these croffings: give me leave And And all the courses of my life do fhow That chides the banks of England, Wales, or Scotland, And bring him out that is but woman's fon, Нот. I think there is no man fpeaks better Welsh. Hor. Marry, and I'm glad of it with all my heart; I'd rather be a kitten, and cry mew! 'Than one of thefe fame metre-ballad mongers! "Tis like the forc'd gait of a fhuffling nag. GLEN. I can call fpirits from the vafty deep. HOT. Why, fo can I, or fo can any man ; But will they come when you do call for them? GLEN. Why, I can teach thee to command the devil. By telling truth; Tell truth and fhame the devil. SHAKSPEARE. CHAP. XV. HOTSPUR READING A LETTER. Bur for my own part, my Lord, I could be well " contented to be there in refpect of the love I bear your "house." He could be contented to be there; why is he not then? "In refpect of the love he bears our house." He fhows in this, he loves his own barn better than he loves our houfe. Let me fee fome more. "The pur "pose you undertake is dangerous." Why, that is certain it is dangerous to take a cold, to fleep, to drink: but I tell you, my Lord fool, out of this nettle danger we pluck this flower fafety. "The purpose you undertake is dangerous, the friends you have named uncertain, the time "itself unforted, and your whole plot too light for the "counterpoife of fo great an oppofition." Say you fo! fay you fo! I fay unto you again, you are a fhallow cowardly hind, and you lie. What a lackbrain is this! By the Lord, our plot is a good plot as ever was laid; our friends true and conftant; a good plot, good friends, and full of expectation; an excellent plot, very good friends. What a frofty fpirited rogue this is! Why, my lord of York commends the plot, and the general courfe of the action. By this hand, if I were now by this rafcal, I could brain him with his lady's fan. Are there not my ther, my uncle, and myself, Lord Edmund Mortimer, my lord of York, and Owen Glendower! Is there not, befides, the Douglas? Have I not all their letters to meet me in arms by the ninth of next month? and are there not fome of them fet forward already? What a Pagan rascal is this! an infidel! Ha! you fhall fee now, in very fincerity of fear and cold heart, will he to the King, and lay open all our proceedings. O, I could divide myself, and go to buffets, for moving fuch a dish of skimmed milk fa with fo honourable an action. Hang him, let him tell the King. We are prepared, I will fet forward to night. SHAKSPEARE. CHAP. XVI. HENRY IV'S SOLILOQUY ON SLEEP. How many thousands of my pooreft fubjects Why rather, Sleep, lay'ft thou in fmoky cribs, And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy flumber, And lull'd with founds of sweetest melody? O thou dull God! why lay'ft thou with the vile Wilt thou, upon the high and giddy maft, And in the vifitation of the winds, Who take the ruffian billows by the top, Curling their monftrous heads, and hanging there SHAKSPEARE, CHAP. XVII. HENRY IV AND PRINCE HENRY. P. HEN. I NEVER thought to hear you speak again. K. HENRY. Thy with was father, Harry, to that thought. I ftay too long by thee, I weary t thee. Doft thou fo hunger for my empty chair, That thou wilt needs inveft thee with my honours, Thou seek'st the greatness that will o'erwhelm thee. Is held from falling with so weak a wind, Thou haft ftol'n that which, after fome few hours, Thy life did manifeft, thou lov'dst me not: And bid the merry bells ring to thine ear, Only compound me with forgotten dust, Give that which gave thee life unto the worms, |