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And not the king exil'd thee. Or suppose,
Devouring pestilence hangs in our air,
And thou art flying to a fresher clime.
Look, what thy soul holds dear, imagine it
To lie that way thou go'st, not whence thou com'st.
Suppose the singing birds, musicians;

The grass whereon thou tread'st, the presence floor;
The flow'rs, fair ladies; and thy steps no more

Than a delightful measure or a dance,

For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite
The man, that mocks at it, and sets it light.

THOUGHTS ineffectual to moderate AFFLICTIONS.


Oн, who can hold a fire in his hand,
By thinking on the frosty Caucasus?
Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite,
By bare imagination of a feast?

Or wallow naked in December snow,
By thinking on fantastic summer's heat?
Oh, no, the apprehension of the good
Gives but the greater feeling to the worse;
Fell Sorrow's tooth doth never rankle more
Than when it bites, but lanceth not the sore.



THIS royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle,
This earth of Majesty, this seat of Mars,

This other Eden, demi-Paradise,

This fortress built by nature for herself,
Against infection, and the hand of war;
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or of a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happy lands:


England, bound in with the triumphant sea,
Whose rocky shores beat back the envious siege
Of wat'ry Neptune, is bound in with shame,
With inky blots, and rotten parchment-bonds.

That England, that was wont to conquer others,
Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.



-KNOW'ST thou not,

That when the searching eye of heav'n is hid
Behind the globe, and lights the lower world,
Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen,
In murders, and in outrage bloody here:
But when from under this terrestrial ball
He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines,
And darts his light through every guilty hole,
Then murders, treasons, and detested sins,

The cloak of night being pluck'd from off their backs,
Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves.



PRINCES bave but their titles for their glories,
An outward honour, for an inward toil;
And, for unfelt imaginations,

They often feel a world of endless cares;
So that between their titles, and low name,
There's nothing differs but the outward fame.


IN common worldly things 'tis call'd ungrateful
With dull unwillingness to pay a debt,
Which with a bounteous hand was kindly lent:
Much more to be thus opposite to heav'n;
For it requires the royal debt it lent you.


O MOMENTARY grace of mortal men,

Which we more hunt for than the grace of God!
Who builds his hope in air of your fair looks,

Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast,

Ready with every ncd to tumble down
Into the fatal bowels of the deep.


I CALL'D thee then poor shadow, painted queen,
One heav'd on high, to be huri'd down below:
A mother only mock'd with two fair babes;
A dream of what thou wast; a garish flag,
To be the aim of ev'ry dangerous shot;
A sign of dignity, a breath, a bubble;

A queen in jest, only to fill the scene.

Where is thy husband now, where be thy brothers?
Where be thy children? wherein dost thou joy?
Who sues and kneels, and says, God save the queen ?
Where be the bending peers that flatter'd thee?
Where be the thronging troops that follow'd thee?
Decline all this, and see what now thou art.
For happy wife, a most distressed widow;
For joyful mother, one that wails the name;
For one being su`d to, one that humbly sues;
For queen, a very caitiff crown'd with care;
For one that scorn'd at me, now scorn'd of me;
For one being fear'd of all, now fearing one;
For one commanding all, obey'd of none.
Thus hath the course of justice wheel'd about,
And left thee but a very prey to time;

Having no more but thought of what thou wert,
To torture thee the more, being what thou art.



O THEN I see Queen Mab hath been with you.
She is the fancy's midwife, and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agat-stone
On the fore finger of an alderman,
Drawn with a team of little atomies,
Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep:

Her waggon-spokes made of long spinner's legs;
The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers;
The traces, of the smallest spider's web;

The collars, of the moonshine's wat'ry beam;
Her whip, of cricket's bone; the lash of film;
Her waggoner, a small grey-coated gnat,
Not half o big as a round little worm,
Prickt from the lazy finger of a maid,
Her chariót is an empty hazle-nut,
Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub,
Time out of mind the fairies' coach-makers:
And in this state she gallops night by night,
Thro' lovers' brains, and then they dream of love:
On courtiers' knees, that dream on curtsies straight:
O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees: ..
O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream,
Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,
Because their breaths with sweet-meats tainted are.
Sometimes she gallops o'er a courtier's nose,
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit:
And sometimes comes she with a tithe-pig's tail,
Tickling the parson as he lies asleep;

Then dreams he of another benefice.
Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck,
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,
Of healths five fathom deep; and then anon
Drums in his ears, at which he starts and wakes,
And being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two,
And sleeps again.



I Do remember an apothecary,

And hereabouts he dwells, whom late I noted
In tatter'd weeds, with overwhelming brows,
Culling of simples; meagre were his looks;
Sharp misery had worn him to the bones;
And in his needy shop a tortoise hung,
An alligator stuft, and other skins
Of ill-shap'd fishes; and about his shelves
A beggarly account of empty boxes;

Green earthern pots, bladders, and musty seeds,
Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses,
Were thinly scatter'd to make up a show.



-WHY then, you princes,

o you with cheeks abash'd behold our works?
nd think them shame which are, indeed, nought else
ut the protractive trials of great Jove,

to find persistive constancy in man?

The fineness of which metal is not found
In fortune's love; for then, the bold and coward,
The wise and fool, the artist and unread,
The hard and soft, seem all affin'd, and kin.
But in the wind and tempest of her frown,
Distinction with a broad and pow'rful fan,
Puffing at all, winnows the light away;
And what hath mass, or matter by itself,
Lies rich in virtue, and unmingled.


THE youngest son of Priam, a true knight;
Not yet mature, yet matchless; firm of word ;
Speaking in deeds, and deedless in his tongue;
Not soon provok'd, nor being provck'd, soon calm'd.
His heart and hand both open, and both free;
For what he has he gives; what thinks he shews:
"Yet gives he not, till judgment guide his bounty;
Nor dignifies an impair thought with breath :
Manly as Hector, but more dangerous;
For Hector in his blaze of wrath subscribes
To tender objects: but he in heat of action
Is more vindicative than jealous love.



Now my co-mates and brothers in exile,

Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods
More free from peril, than the envious court?
kere feel we but the penalty of Adam,

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