O mother, mother!
What have you done? Behold, the heavens do ope,
The gods look down, and this unnatural scene
They laugh at. O, my mother, mother! O!
You have won a happy victory to Rome
But for your son, believe it, O believe it,
Most dangerously you have with him prevailed,
If not most mortal to him.
Now o'er the one half-worldNature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuseThe curtain'd sleep. Witchcraft celebratesPale Hecate's offerings, and withered murder,Alarumed by his sentinel the wolf,Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace,With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his designMoves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth,Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fearThy very stones prate of my whereabout,And take the present horror from the time,Which now suits with it. Whiles I threat, he lives:Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives. A bell rings
I go, and it is done; the bell invites me.Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knellThat summons thee to heaven or to hell.
Oh, Harry, thou hast robbed me of my youth!I better brook the loss of brittle lifeThan those proud titles thou hast won of me;They wound my thoughts worse than thy sword my flesh.But thoughts, the slaves of life, and life, time's fool,And time, that takes survey of all the world,Must have a stop. Oh, I could prophesy,But that the earthly and cold hand of deathLies on my tongue. No Percy, thou art dust,And food for—
For worms, brave Percy. Fare thee well, great heart.Ill-weaved ambition, how much art thou shrunk!
] With three or four loggerheads amongst three or four score hogsheads. I have sounded the very base strings of humility. Sirrah, I am sworn brother to a leash of drawers, and can call them all by their Christian names, as Tom, Dick, and Francis. They take it already upon their salvation that, though I be but Prince of Wales, yet I am the king of courtesy, and tell me flatly I am no proud Jack like Falstaff, but a Corinthian, a lad of mettle, a good boy...and when I am King of England I shall command all the good lads of Eastcheap. They call drinking deep "dyeing scarlet"...to conclude, I am so good a proficient in one quarter of an hour that I can drink with any tinker in his own language during my life. I have misused the King's press damnably. I have got, in exchange of a hundred and fifty soldiers, three hundred and odd pounds...I pressed me none but such toasts and butter, with hearts in their bellies no bigger than pins' heads, and they have bought out their services; and now my whole charge consists of...slaves as ragged as Lazarus in the painted cloth, where the glutton's dogs licked his sores, and such as indeed were never soldiers, but discarded unjust servingmen, younger sons to younger brothers, revolted tapsters, and hostlers tradefallen, the cankers of a clam world and a long peace...no eye hath seen such scarecrows. Banish Bardolph, banish Poins, but for sweet Jack Falstaff, kind jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff, valiant Jack Falstaff, and therefore more valiant being, as he is, old Jack Falstaff,
Banish not him they Harry's company,
Banish not him thy Harry's company.
Banish plump Jack, and banish all the world
By his (Hotspur's) lightDid all the chivalry of England moveTo do brave acts. He was indeed the glassWherein the noble youth did dress themselves.He had no legs that practiced not his gait;And speaking thick, which nature made his blemish,Became the accents of the valiant,For those that could speak low and tardily Would turn their own perfection to abuse To seem like him. So that in speech, in gait,In diet, in affections of delight,In military rules, humors of blood,He was the mark and glass, copy and book,That fashioned others. And him—oh wondrous him!—Oh, miracle of men!—him did you leave,Second to none, unseconded by you,To look upon the hideous god of warIn disadvantage.
So came I a widow,And never shall have length of life enoughTo rain upon remembrance with mine eyes,That it may grow and sprout as high as heavenFor recordation [remembrance] to my noble husband.
I know thee not, old man. Fall to thy prayers.How ill white hairs become a fool and jester!I have long dreamt of such a kind of manSo surfeit-swelled. So old, and so profane,But being awaked I do despise my dream.Make less thy body hence, and more they grace;Leave gormandizing. Know the grave doth gapeFor thee thrice wider than for other men.Reply not with a fool-born jest.Presume not that I am the thing I was...When thou dost hear I am as I have been,Approach me, and thou shalt be as thou wast,The tutor and the feeder of my riots.Till then, I banish thee, on pain of death,As I have done the rest of my misleaders,Not to come near our person by ten mile. Seems madam? Nay, it is. I know not "seems."'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,Nor customary suits of solemn black,Nor windy suspiration of forced breath,No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,Nor the dejected havior of the visage,Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief,That can denote me truly. These indeed seem,For they are actions that a man might play.But I have that within which passes show;These but the trappings and the suits of woe. But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majestyTo strut before a wanton ambling nymph;I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion,Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,Deformed, unfinish'd, sent before my timeInto this breathing world, scarce half made up,And that so lamely and unfashionableThat dogs bark at me as I halt by them;Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,Have no delight to pass away the time,Unless to spy my shadow in the sun
And descant on mine own deformity.
Was ever woman in this humour woo'd?
Was ever woman in this humour won?
I'll have her; but I will not keep her long.
What! I, that kill'd her husband and his father,
To take her in her heart's extremest hate,
With curses in her mouth, tears in her eyes,
The bleeding witness of her hatred by;
Having God, her conscience, and these bars
And I nothing to back my suit at all,
But the plain devil and dissembling looks,
And yet to win her, all the world to nothing!
Marshal, demand of yonder champion The cause of his arrival here in arms,Ask him his name and orderly proceedTo swear him in the justice of his cause.
In God's name and the king's, say who thou art,And why thou comest thus knightly clad in arms;Against what man thou com'st, and what thy quarrel.Speak truly on thy knighthood and thy oath,As so defend thee heaven and thy valor!
My name is Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,Who hither come engagèd by my oath(Which God defend a knight should violate!)Both to defend my loyalty and truthTo God, my king, and my succeeding issueAgainst the Duke of Hereford that appeals me;And, by the grace of God and this mine arm,To prove him, in defending of myself,A traitor to my God, my king, and me;And as I truly fight, defend me heave!
I weep for joyTo stand upon my kingdom once again.Dear earth, I do salute thee with my hand,Though rebels wound thee with their horses' hoofs.As a long-parted mother with her childPlays fondly with her tears and smiles in meeting,So weeping, smiling, greet I htee, my earth,...Feed not my foe, my gentle earth,Nor with with thy sweets comfort his ravenous sense;But let thy spiders that suck up thy venom,And heavy-gaited toads, lie in their way,Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet...Mock not my senseless conjuration, lords.This earth shall have a feeling, and these stones Proved armèd soldiers ere her native kingShall falter under foul rebellion's arms. This royal throne of kings, this sceptered isle,This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,This other Eden, demi-paradise,This fortress built by nature for herselfAgainst infection and the hand of war,This happy breed of men, this little world,This precious stone set in the silver sea,...This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England
Landlord of England art thou now, not king
Thou, nature, art my goddess; to thy lawMy services are bound. Wherefore should IStand in the plague of custom, and permitThe curiosity of nations to deprive me,For that I am some twelve or fourteen moon-shinesLag of a brother? Why bastard? wherefore base?When my dimensions are as well compact,My mind as generous, and my shape as true,As honest madam's issue? Why brand they usWith base? with baseness? bastardy? base, base?Who, in the lusty stealth of nature, takeMore composition and fierce qualityThan doth, within a dull, stale, tired bed,Go to the creating a whole tribe of fops,Got 'tween asleep and wake? ...if this letter speed,And my invention thrive, Edmund the baseShall top the legitimate. I grow; I prosper:Now, gods, stand up for bastards! Down from the waist they're centaurs,Though women all above.But to the girdle do the Gods inherit;Beneath is all the fiends'; there's hell, there's darkness, There's the sulfurous pit, burning, scalding, Stench, consumption! Fie, fie, fie! Pah, pah! Give me an ounce of civet, good apothecary, To sweeten my imagination. The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne,Burned on the water. The poop was beaten gold;Purple the sails, and so perfumed that The winds were lovesick with them. The oars were silver,Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke and madeThe water which they beat to follow faster,As amorous of their strokes. For her own person,It beggared all description. She did lieIn her pavilion, cloth-of-gold of tissue,O'erpicturing that Venus where we seeThe fancy outwork nature. On each side herStood dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids,With divers-colored fans, whose wind did seemTo glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool,And what they undid did.