And would be glad he met with some mischance,

I'd have him poisoned with a pot of ale.

Why, look you, I am whipped and scourged with rods,

Nettled, and stung with pismires, when I hear

Of this vile politician, Bolingbroke. In Richard's time,- What do you call the place?

A plague upon't! it is in Gloucestershire;

'Twas where the madcap duke his uncle kept;

His uncle York; - where I first bowed my knee

Unto this king of smiles, this Bolingbroke,

When you and he came back from Ravenspurg.

Why, what a candy deal of courtesy This fawning greyhound then did proffer me!

Look, when his infant fortune came

We never valued this poor seat of England;

And therefore, living hence, did give ourself

To barbarous license; as 'tis ever common,

That men are merriest when they are from home.

But tell the Dauphin, -I will keep my state;

Be like a king, and show my sail of greatness,

When I do rouse me in my throne of France:

For that I have laid by my majesty, And plodded like a man for workingdays;

But I will rise there with so full a glory,

That I will dazzle all the eyes of France,

Yea, strike the Dauphin blind to look on us.

Such outer things dwell not in my desires:

But, if it be a sin to covet honor,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, 'faith, my coz, wish not a man
from England:

God's peace! I would not lose so great an honor,

As one man more, methinks, would share from me,

For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more:

Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,

That he who hath no stomach to this fight,

Let him depart; his passport shall be made,

And crowns for convoy put into his

purse:

We would not die in that man's company,

That fears his fellowship to die with

us.

This day is called the feast of Crispian:

He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,

Will stand on tip-toe when this day is

named,

And rouse him at the name of Crispian :

Crispian:

Then will he strip his sleeves, and show his scars,

And say, these wounds I had on Crispian's day.

Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,

But he'll remember, with advantages,

What feats he did that day: then shall our names,

Familiar in their mouths as household words,

Harry the king, Bedford, and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloster,

Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered:

This story shall the good man teach his son;

And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,

From this day to the ending of the world,

But we in it shall be remembered: We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

For he, to-day, that sheds his blood with me,

Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,

This day shall gentle his condition: And gentlemen in England, now abed,

accursed

Shall think themselves they were not here, And hold their manhood cheap, while any speaks

That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

SHAKSPEARE.

KING RICHARD'S SOLILOQUY.

Richard III.-Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this son of York;

And all the clouds, that lowered upon our house,

In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;

I, that am rudely stamped, and want love's majesty,

To strut before a wanton ambling nymph,

I, that am curtailed of this fair proportion,

Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,

Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time

Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,

And that so lamely and unfashionable

That 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; And therefore, since I cannot prove

And, if King Edward be as true and just

As I am subtle, false, and treacher

ous,

This day should Clarence closely be mewed up;

About a prophecy, which says that G

Of Edward's heirs the murderer shall be.

Dive, thoughts, down to my soul: here Clarence comes. SHAKSPEARE.

BOADICEA.

WHEN the British warrior queen, Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought, with an indignant mien, Counsel of her country's gods,

Sage beneath the spreading oak Sat the Druid, hoary chief; Every burning word he spoke Full of rage and full of grief.

"Princess! if our aged eyes

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties

All the terrors of our tongues.

Rome shall perish: write that word In the blood that she has spilt, Perish, hopeless and abhorred,

Deep in ruin as in guilt.

Rome, for empire far renowned,

Tramples on a thousand states; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground: Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!

Other Romans shall arise,

Heedless of a soldier's name; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,

Harmony the path to fame.

Then the progeny that springs

From the forests of our land, Armed with thunder, clad with wings,

Shall a wider world command.

Regions Cæsar never knew

Thy posterity shall sway; Where his eagles never flew, None invincible as they."