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Thou art the ruins of the noblest man,
Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood!
MEETING OF SATAN AND DEATH AT THE GATE OF HELL. Milton.
Meanwhile the adversary of God and Man,
He scours the right hand coast, sometimes the left,
Hell bounds, high reaching to the horrid roof,
The one seem'd woman to the waist, and fair,
And shook a dreadful dart; what seem'd his head
Satan was now at hand; and from his seat
The undaunted Fiend what this might be admired, Admired, not fear'd: God and his Son except, Created thing naught valued he, nor shunn'd, And with disdainful look thus first began.
"Whence and what art thou, execrable shape! That dar'st, though grim and terrible, advance Thy miscreated front athwart my way
To yonder gates? through them I mean to pass,
To whom the goblin, full of wrath replied, "Art thou that traitor angel, art thou he, Who first broke peace in Heaven, and faith, till then Unbroken, and in proud rebellious arms Drew after him the third part of Heaven's sons Conjured against the Highest, for which both thou And they, outcast from God, are here condemn'd To waste eternal days in woe and pain? And reckon'st thou thyself with spirits of Heaven, Hell-doom'd! and breath'st defiance here and scorn, Where I reign king, and to inflame thee more, Thy king and lord! Back to thy punishment, False fugitive! and to thy speed add wings, Lest with a whip of scorpions I pursue Thy lingering, or with one stroke of this dart Strange horrow seize thee, and pangs unfelt before."
So spake the grisly terror, and in shape, So speaking and so threat'ning, grew tenfold More dreadful and deform'd: on the other side, Incensed with indignation, Satan stood Unterrified, and like a comet burn'd, That fires the length of Ophiuchus huge In the arctic sky, and from his horrid hair Shakes pestilence and war. Each at the head Level'd his deadly aim: their fatal hands No second stroke intend; and such a frown Each cast at the other, as when two black clouds With heaven's artillery fraught, come rattling on. Over the Caspian, they stand front to front Hovering a space, till winds the signal blow To join their dark encounter in mid air: So frowned the mighty combatants, that Hell Grew darker at their frown; so match'd they stood;
For never but once more was either like
SCÈNE FROM THE TRAGEDY OF KING JOHN.-Shakspeare·
SCENE. A room in the castle, Northampton.
Hubert. Heat me these irons hot: and, look thou stand Within the arras: when I strike my foot Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth And bind the boy, which you shall find with me, Fast to the chair: be heedful: hence and watch.
Attendant. I hope, your warrant will bear out the deed.
Hub. Uncleanly scruples! Fear not you; look to't.[Exeunt Attendants.
Arthur. Good morrow, Hubert. Hub. Good morrow, little prince. Arth. As little prince (having so great a title To be more prince,) as may be.-You are sad. Hub. Indeed, I have been merrier. Arth. Mercy on me! Methinks, nobody should be sad but I: Yet, I remember, when I was in France, Young gentlemen would be as sad as night, Only for wantonness. By my christendom, So I were out of prison, and kept, sheep, I should be merry as the day is long; And so I would be here, but that I doubt
My uncle practices more harm to me:
Arth. Are you sick, Hubert? You look pale to-day. In sooth, I would you were a little sick; That I might sit all night, and watch with you. I warrant, I love you more than you do me.
Hub. His words do take possession of my bosom.Read here, young Arthur. [Showing a paper.] How now, foolish rheum! [Aside.
Turning dispiteous torture out the door!
And will you?
And I will.
Arth. Have you the heart? When your head did but ache,
I knit my handkerchief about your brows,
And with my hand at midnight held your head ;