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So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years,
Pass'd over, to the end they were created,
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.
Ah! what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely!
Gives not the hawthorn-bush a sweeter shade
To shepherds looking on their silly sheep,
Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy
To kings that fear their subjects' treachery?
O yes, it doth, a thousandfold it doth.

And to conclude, the shepherd's homely curds,
His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle,
His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade,
All which secure and sweetly he enjoys,

Is far beyond a prince's delicates;

His viands sparkling in a golden cup,
His body couched in a curious bed,

When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him.

[The Vicissitudes of Life.]

Henry VI.

So farewell to the little good you bear me. Farewell, a long farewell to all my greatness! This is the state of man: To-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him; The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a ripening, nips his root, And then he falls as I do. I have ventur'd, Like little wanton boys, that swim on bladders, These many summers in a sea of glory; But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride At length broke under me; and now has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye! I feel my heart new open'd. O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours! There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, More pangs and fears than wars or women have; And, when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again.

Henry VIII.

[Falstaff's Cowardice and Boasting.]

[Falstaff, who is represented as a monster of fat, a sensualist, and a coward, yet is rendered tolerable by his humour, had accompanied Prince Henry and some other dissolute companions on a predatory expedition to Gad's Hill, where they first robbed a few travellers, and afterwards the Prince and Poins set upon

Falstaff and others of the party in the dark, and made them take to flight. The following scene takes place afterwards in their favourite London haunt, the Boar's Head Tavern in Eastcheap.]

TO PRINCE HENRY and POINS, enter FALSTAFF, Gadshill, BARDOLPH, and PETO.

Poins. Welcome, Jack. Where hast thou been? Fal. A plague of all cowards, I say, and a vengeance too! marry, and amen! Give me a cup of sack, boy. Ere I lead this life long, I'll sow nether stocks, and mend them, and foot them too. A plague of all cowards! Give me a cup of sack, rogue. Is there no virtue extant ? [He drinks. P. Henry. Didst thou never see Titan kiss a dish of butter?-pitiful-hearted Titan, that melted at the sweet tale of the sun?-if thou didst, then behold that compound.

Ful. You rogue, here's lime in this sack too. There is nothing but roguery to be found in villanous man. Yet a coward is worse than a cup of sack with lime in it—a villanous coward. Go thy ways, old Jack

die when thou wilt, if manhood, good manhood, be not forgot upon the face of the earth, then am I a shotten herring. There live not three good men unhanged in England; and one of them is fat, and grows old. God help the while!-a bad world, I say! I would I were a weaver; I could sing all manner of songs. A plague of all cowards, I say still!

P. Henry. How now, wool-sack?- what mutter you?

Fal. A king's son! If I do not beat thee out of thy kingdom with a dagger of lath, and drive all thy subjects afore thee like a flock of wild geese, I'll never wear hair on my face more. You Prince of Wales !

P. Henry. Why, you whoreson round man !-what's the matter?

Fal. Are you not a coward?-answer me to that; and Poins there? [To Poins. P. Henry. Ye fat paunch, an ye call me coward, I'll stab thee.

Fal. I call thee coward! I'll see thee damn'd ere I call thee coward; but I would give a thousand pound I could run as fast as thou canst. You are strait enough in the shoulders; you care not who sees your back. Call you that backing of your friends? A plague upon such backing!-give me them that will face me. Give me a cup of sack; I am a rogue, if I drunk to-day.

P. Henry. O villain ! thy lips are scarce wiped since thou drunk'st last.

Fal. All's one for that. A plague of all cowards, still say I! [He drinks.

P. Henry. What's the matter?

Fal. What's the matter?-here be four of us have ta'en a thousand pound this morning.

P. Henry. Where is it, Jack?-where is it?

Fal. Where is it?-taken from us it is: a hundred upon poor four of us.

P. Henry. What, a hundred, man?

Fal. I am a rogue, if I were not at half-sword with a dozen of them two hours together. I have 'scap'd by miracle. I am eight times thrust through the doublet, four through the hose, my buckler cut through and through, my sword hacked like a hand-saw, ecce signum. I never dealt better since I was a man. All would not do. A plague of all cowards! Let them speak if they speak more or less than truth, they are villains, and the sons of darkness.

P. Henry. Speak, sirs. How was it?
Gads. We four set upon some dozen-
Fal. Sixteen, at least, my lord.
Gads. And bound them.

Peto. No, no, they were not bound.

Fal. You rogue, they were bound, every man of them; or I am a Jew else, an Ebrew Jew.

Gads. As we were sharing, some six or seven fresh men set upon us

Fal. And unbound the rest, and then came in the other.

P. Henry. What! fought you with them all? Fal. All I know not what you call all; but if I fought not with fifty of them, I am a bunch of radish; if there were not two or three and fifty upon poor old Jack, then am I no two-legged creature.

Poins. Pray heaven, you have not murdered some of them.

Fal. Nay, that's past praying for; I have peppered two of them: two, I am sure, I have paid; two rogues in buckram suits. I tell thee what, Hal-if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse. Thou know'st my old ward; here I lay, and thus I bore my point. Four rogues in buckram let drive at meP. Henry. What! four-thou saidst but two even

now.

Fal. Four, Hal; I told thee four. Poins. Ay, ay, he said four.

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Fal. Dost thou hear me, Hal?

P. Henry. Ay, and mark thee too, Jack.

Fal. Do so, for it is worth the list'ning to. These nine in buckram, that I told thee of

P. Henry. So, two more already.
Fal. Their points being broken-
Poins. Down fell their hose.

Fal. Began to give me ground. But I follow'd me close, came-in foot and hand; and with a thought, seven of the eleven I paid.

P. Henry. O monstrous !-eleven buckram men grown out of two!

Fal. But, as the devil would have it, three misbegotten knaves, in Kendal green, came at my back, and let drive at me; for it was so dark, Hal, that thou couldst not see thy hand.

P. Henry. These lies are like the father that begets them; gross as a mountain, open, palpable. Why, thou clay-brain'd guts; thou knotty-pated fool; thou whoreson, obscene, greasy tallow-keech

Fal. What, art thou mad?-art thou mad?-is not the truth the truth!

P. Henry. Why, how couldst thou know these men in Kendal green, when it was so dark thou couldst not see thy hand? Come, tell us your reason? What say'st thou to this!

Poins. Come, your reason, Jack, your reason.

Fal. What, upon compulsion? No; were I at the strappado, or all the racks in the world, I would not tell you on compulsion. Give you a reason on compulsion!-if reasons were as plenty as blackberries, I would give no man a reason upon compulsion, I

P. Henry. I'll be no longer guilty of this sin; this sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horse backbreaker, this huge hill of flesh!

Fal. Away, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat's tongue, you stock-fish. O for breath to utter what is like thee !-you tailor's yard, you sheath, you bow-case, you vile standing tuck;

P. Henry. Well, breathe a while, and then to it again; and when thou hast tired thyself in base comparisons, hear me speak but this.

Poins. Mark, Jack.

P. Henry. We two saw you four set on four; you bound them, and were masters of their wealth. Mark now, how a plain tale shall put you down. Then did we two set on you four; and, with a word, outfaced you from your prize, and have it; yea, and can show it you here in the house; and, Falstaff, you carried your guts away as nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roared for mercy, and still ran and roared, as ever I heard bull-calf. What a slave art thou, to hack thy sword as thou hast done, and then say it was in fight! What trick, what device, what starting hole, canst thou now find out, to hide thee from this open and apparent shame?

Poins. Come, let's hear, Jack; what trick hast thou

now?

Fal. By the Lord, I knew ye as well as he that made ye. Why, hear ye, my masters. Was it for me to kill the heir-apparent?-should I turn upon the true prince? Why, thou know'st I am as valiant as Hercules; but beware instinct; the lion will not touch the true prince. Instinct is a great matter; I was a coward on instinct. I shall think the better of myself, and thee, during my life; I, for a valiant

lion, and thou, for a true prince. But, lads, I am glad you have the money. Hostess, clap to the doors; watch to-night, pray to-morrow. Gallants, lads, boys, hearts of gold, all the titles of good fellowship come to you! What! shall we be merry?-shall we have a play extempore?

P. Henry. Content; and the argument shall be thy running away.

Fal. Ah! no more of that, Hal, an thou lov'st me. First Part of Henry IV.

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Host. It is more than for some, my lord; it is for all, all I have. He hath eaten me out of house and home; he hath put all my substance into that fat belly of his : but I will have some of it out again, or I'll ride thee o' nights, like the mare.

Fal. I think I am as like to ride the mare, if I have any vantage of ground to get up.

Ch. Just. How comes this, Sir John Fie! what man of good temper would endure this tempest of exclamation! Are you not ashamed to enforce a poor widow to so rough a course to come by her own! Fal. What is the gross sum that I owe thee! Host. Marry, if thou wert an honest man, thyself and the money too. Thou didst swear to me upon a

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A Goblet from the Boar's-Head Tavern, supposed to
be that alluded to by Dame Quickly.

parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in my Dolphin-chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal fire, on Wednesday in Whitsun-week, when the prince broke thy head for likening his father to a singing-man of Windsor; thou didst swear to me then, as I was washing thy wound, to marry me, and make me my lady, thy wife. Canst thou deny it? Did not goodwife Keech, the butcher's wife, come in then, and call me gossip Quickly coming in to borrow a mess of vinegar, telling us she had a good dish of prawns; whereby thou didst desire to eat some; whereby I told thee, they were ill for a green wound? And didst thou not, when she was gone down stairs, desire me to be no

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Ch. Just. Now, master Gower; what news?

Gower. The king, my lord, and Henry prince of Wales,

Are near at hand: the rest the paper tells.

Fal. As I am a gentleman

Host. Nay, you said so before.

Fal. As I am a gentleman. Come, no more words of it.

Host. By this heavenly ground I tread on, I must be fain to pawn both my plate and the tapestry of my dining-chambers.

Fal. Glasses, glasses is the only drinking; and for thy walls, a pretty slight drollery, or the story of the prodigal, or the German hunting in water-work, is worth a thousand of these bed-hangings, and these flybitten tapestries. Let it be ten pound, if thou canst. Come, if it were not for thy humours, there is not a better wench in England. Go, wash thy face, and draw thy action. Come, thou must not be in this humour with me; do'st not know me? Come, come, I know thou wast set on to this.

Host. Pray thee, Sir John, let it be but twenty nobles; I am loath to pawn my plate, in good earnest, la!

Fal. Let it alone; I'll make other shift: you'll be a fool still.

*

Host. Well, you shall have it, though I pawn my gown. I hope you'll come to supper? * Fal. Will I live?-Go with her, with her; hook on, hook on. [To the officers. Second Part of Henry IV.

BEN JONSON.

The second name in the dramatic literature of this period has been generally assigned to BEN JONSON, though some may be disposed to claim it for the more Shakspearian genius of Beaumont and Fletcher. Jonson was born ten years after Shakspeare-in 1574 and appeared as a writer for the stage in his twentieth year. His early life was full of hardship and vicissitude. His father, a clergyman in Westminster (a member of a Scottish family from Annandale), died before the poet's birth, and his mother marrying again to a bricklayer, Ben was brought from Westminster school and put to the same employment. Disliking the occupation of his father-in-law, he enlisted as a soldier, and served in the Low Countries. He is reported to have killed one of the enemy in single combat, in the view of both armies, and to have otherwise distinguished himself for his youthful bravery. As a poet, Jonson afterwards reverted with pride to his conduct as a soldier. On his return to England, he entered St John's college, Cambridge; but his stay there must have been short-probably on account of his straitened circumstances-for, about the age of twenty, he is found married, and an actor in London. Ben made his debut at a low theatre near

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Ben: Jonson.

quarrelled with another performer, and on their fighting a duel with swords, Jonson had the misfortune to kill his antagonist, and was severely wounded himself. He was committed to prison on a charge of murder, but was released without a trial. On regaining his liberty, he commenced writing for the stage, and produced, in 1596, his Every Man in his Humour. The scene was laid in Italy, but the characters and manners depicted in the piece were English, and Jonson afterwards recast the whole, and transferred the scene to England. In its revised form, Every Man in his Humour' was brought out at the Globe Theatre in 1598, and Shakspeare was one of the performers in the play. He had himself produced some of his finest comedies by this time, but Jonson was no imitator of his great rival, who blended a spirit of poetical romance with his comic sketches, and made no attempt to delineate the domestic manners of his countrymen. Jonson opened a new walk in the drama: he felt his strength, and the public cheered him on with its plaudits. Queen Elizabeth patronised the new poet, and ever afterwards he was a man of mark and likelihood.' In 1599, appeared his Every Man out of his Humour, a less able performance than its predecessor. Cynthia's Revels and the Poetaster followed, and the fierce rivalry and contention which clouded Jonson's afterlife seem to have begun about this time. He had attacked Marston and Dekker, two of his brother dramatists, in the 'Poetaster.' Dekker replied with spirit in his 'Satiromastix,' and Ben was silent for two years, 'living upon one Townsend, and scorning the world,' as is recorded in the diary of a contemporary. In 1603, he tried if tragedy had a more kind aspect,' and produced his classic drama of Sejanus. Shortly after the accession of King James, a comedy called Eastward Hoe, was written conjointly by Jonson, Chapman, and Marston. Some passages in this piece reflected on the Scottish nation, and the matter was represented to the king by one of his courtiers (Sir James Murray) in so strong a light, that the authors were thrown into prison, and threatened with the loss

of their ears and noses. They were not tried; and sayings and deeds often to the worst; oppressed when Ben was set at liberty, he gave an entertain-with fantasy, which hath ever mastered his reason, ment to his friends (Selden and Camden being of a general disease in many poets.' the number): his mother was present on this joyous occasion, and she produced a paper of poison, which she said she intended to have given her son in his liquor, rather than he should submit to personal mutilation and disgrace, and another dose which she intended afterwards to have taken herself. The old lady must, as Whalley remarks, have been more of an antique Roman than a Briton. Jonson's own conduct in this affair was noble and spirited. He had no considerable share in the composition of the piece, and was, besides, in such favour, that he would not have been molested; but this did not satisfy him,' says Gifford; and he, therefore, with a high sense of honour, voluntarily accompanied his two friends to prison, determined to share their fate.' We cannot now ascertain what was the mighty satire that moved the patriotic indignation of James; it was doubtless softened before publication; but in some copies of Eastward Hoe' (1605), there is a passage in which the Scots are said to be dispersed over the face of the whole earth;' and the dramatist sarcastically adds,But as for them, there are no greater friends to Englishmen and England, when they are out on't, in the world, than they are; and for my part, I would a hundred thousand of them were there (in Virginia), for we are all one countrymen now, you know, and we should find ten times more comfort of them there than we do here.' The offended nationality of James must have been laid to rest by the subsequent adulation of Jonson in his Court Masques, for he eulogised the vain and feeble monarch as one that would raise the glory of England more than Elizabeth.* Jonson's three great comedies, Volpone, or the Fox, Epicene, or the Silent Woman, and the Alchemist, were his next serious labours; his second classical tragedy, Catiline, appeared in 1611. His fame had now reached its highest elevation; but he produced several other comedies, and a vast number of court entertainments, ere his star began sensibly to decline. In 1619, he received the appointment of poet laureate, with a pension of a hundred merks. The same year Jonson made a journey on foot to Scotland, where he had many friends. He was well received by the Scottish gentry, and was so pleased with the country, that he meditated a poem, or drama, on the beauties of Lochlomond. The last of his visits was made to Drummond of Hawthornden, with whom he lived three weeks, and Drummond kept notes of his conversation, which, in a subsequent age, were communicated to the world. In conclusion, Drummond entered on his journal the following character of Ben himself:'He is a great lover and praiser of himself; a contemner and scorner of others; given rather to lose a friend than a jest; jealous of every word and action of those about him, especially after drink, which is one of the elements in which he liveth; a dissembler of ill parts which reign in him; a bragger of some good that he wanteth; thinketh nothing well but what either he himself or some of his friends and countrymen hath said or done; he is passionately kind and angry; careless either to gain or keep; vindictive, but, if well answered, at himself; for any religion, as being versed in both ;† interpreteth best

This character, it must be confessed, is far from being a flattering one; and probably it was, unconsciously, overcharged, owing to the recluse habitsh and staid demeanour of Drummond. We believe it, however, to be substantially correct. Inured to hardships and to a free boisterous life in his early days, Jonson seems to have contracted a roughness of manner, and habits of intemperance, which never wholly left him. Priding himself immoderately on his classical acquirements, he was apt to slight and condemn his less learned associates; while the conflict between his limited means and his love of social pleasures, rendered him too often severe and saturnine in his temper. Whatever he did was done with labour, and hence was highly prized. His contemporaries seemed fond of mortifying his pride, and he was often at war with actors and authors. With the celebrated Inigo Jones, who was joined with him in the preparation of the Court Masques, Jonson waged a long and bitter feud, in which both parties were to blame. When his better nature prevailed, and exorcised the demon of envy or spleen, Jonson was capable of a generous warmth of friendship, and of just discrimination of genius and character. His literary reputation, his love of conviviauty, and his high colloquial powers, rendered his society much courted, and he became the centre of a band of wits and revellers. Sir Walter Raleigh founded a club, known to all posterity as the Mermaid Club, at which Jonson, Shakspeare, Beaumont and Fletcher, and other poets, exercised themselves with wit-combats' more bright and genial than their wine.* One of the favourite haunts of these bright-minded men was the Falcon Tavern, near the theatre in Bankside, Southwark, of which a sketch has been preserved. The latter days of Jonson were dark and painful. Attacks of palsy confined him to his house, and his necessities compelled him to write for the stage when his pen had lost its vigour, and wanted the charm of novelty. In 1630, he produced his comedy, the New Inn, which was unsuccessful on the stage. The king sent him a present of £100, and raised his laureate pension to the same sum per annum, adding a yearly tierce of canary wine. Next year, however, we find Jonson, in an Epistle Mendicant, soliciting assistance from the lord-treasurer. He continued writing to the last. Dryden has styled the latter works of Jonson his dotages; some are certainly unworthy of him, but the Sad Shepherd, which he left unfinished, exhibits the poetical fancy of a youthful composition. He died in 1637, and was buried in Westminster Abbey, where a square stone, marking the spot where the poet's body was disposed vertically, was long afterwards shown, inscribed only with the words, O RARE BEN JONSON!'

An account of these entertainments, as essentially connected with English literature, is given at the close of this article.

+ Drummond here alludes to Jonson having been at one period of his life a Roman Catholic. When in prison, after killing the actor, a priest converted him to the church of Rome, and he continued a member of it for twelve years. At the expiration of that time, he returned to the Protestant communion.

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that Jonson drank out the full cup of wine at the communion As a proof of his enthusiastic temperament, it is mentioned, table, in token of his reconciliation with the church of Eng

land.

*Many were the wit-combats betwixt Shakspeare and Ben Jonson, which two I behold like a Spanish great galleon and an English man-of-war: Master Jonson, like the former, was built far higher in learning; solid, but slow in his performances. Shakspeare, with the English man-of-war, lesser in bulk, but lighter in sailing, could turn with all tides, tack about and take advantage of all winds, by the quickness of his wit and invention.'-Fuller's Worthies.

Besides the Mermaid, Jonson was a great frequenter of a club called the Apollo, at the Old Devil Tavern, Temple Bar, for which he wrote rules-Leges Conviviales—and penned a welcome over the door of the room to all those who approved of the 'true Phobian liquor.' Ben's rules, it must be said, discounte nanced excess.

16AMATISTS.

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Jonson founded a style of regular English comedy, found, it is not a pleasing reality. When the great ressive, well compacted, and fitted to endure, yet artist escapes entirely from his elaborate wit and ot very attractive in its materials. His works, alto-personified humours into the region of fancy (as in ether, consist of about fifty dramatic pieces, but by ar the greater part are masques and interludes. His rincipal comedies are, 'Every Man in his Humour,'

'Volpone,' the Silent Woman,' and the Alchemist. His Roman tragedies may be considered literal impersonations of classic antiquity, robust and richly graced, yet stiff and unnatural in style and construction. They seem to bear about the same resemblance to Shakspeare's classic dramas that sculpture does to actual life. The strong delineation of character is the most striking feature in Jonson's comedies. The voluptuous Volpone is drawn with great breadth and freedom; and generally his portraits of eccentric characters-men in whom some peculiarity has grown to an egregious excess-are ludicrous and impressive. His scenes and characters show the labour of the artist, but still an artist possessing rich resources; an acute and vigorous intellect; great knowledge of life, down to its lowest descents; wit, lofty declamation, and a power of dramatising his knowledge and observation, with singular skill and effect. His pedantry is often misplaced and ridiculous: when he wishes to satirise his opponents of the drama, he lays the scene in the Court of Augustus, and makes himself speak as Horace. In one of his Roman tragedies, he prescribes for the composition of a mucus, or wash for the face! His comic theatre is a gallery of strange, clever, original portraits, powerfully drawn, and skilfully disposed, but many of them repulsive in expression, or so exaggerated, as to look like caricatures or libels on humanity. We have little deep passion or winning tenderness to link the beings of his drama with those we love or admire, or to make us sympathise with them as with existing mortals. The charm of reality is generally wanting, or when

the lyrical passages of Cynthia,' Epicene,' and the whole drama of the Sad Shepherd'), we are struck with the contrast it exhibits to his ordinary manner. He thus presents two natures; one hard, rugged, gross, and sarcastic-'a mountain belly and a rocky face,' as he described his own person-the other airy, fanciful, and graceful, as if its possessor had never combated with the world and its bad passions, but nursed his understanding and his fancy in poetical seclusion and contemplation.

Petreius. The straits and needs of Catiline being
such,

As he must fight with one of the two armies
That then had near inclosed him, it pleas'd fate
To make us the object of his desperate choice,
Wherein the danger almost pois'd the honour:
And, as he rose, the day grew black with him,
And fate descended nearer to the earth,
As if she meant to hide the name of things
Under her wings, and make the world her quarry.
At this we roused, lest one small minute's stay
Had left it to be inquired what Rome was;
And (as we ought) arm'd in the confidence
Of our great cause, in form of battle stood,
Whilst Catiline came on, not with the face
Of any man, but of a public ruin :

His countenance was a civil war itself;
And all his host had, standing in their looks,
The paleness of the death that was to come;
Yet cried they out like vultures, and urged on,
As if they would precipitate our. fates.
Nor stay'd we longer for 'em, but himself
Struck the first stroke, and with it fled a life,
Which out, it seem'd a narrow neck of land
Had broke between two mighty sens, and either
Flow'd into other; for so did the slaughter;
And whirl'd about, as when two violent tides
Meet and not yield. The furies stood on hills,
Circling the place, and trembling to see men
Do more than they; whilst pity left the field,
Griev'd for that side, that in so bad a cause
They knew not what a crime their valour was.
The sun stood still, and was, behind the cloud
The battle made, seen sweating, to drive up
His frighted horse, whom still the noise drove backward:
And now had fierce Enyo, like a flame,
Consum'd all it could reach, and then itself,
Had not the fortune of the commonwealth,
Come, Pallas-like, to every Roman thought;
Which Catiline seeing, and that now his troops
Cover'd the earth they 'ad fought on with their trunks,
Ambitious of great fame, to crown his ill,
Collected all his fury, and ran in
(Arm'd with a glory high as his despair)
Into our battle, like a Libyan lion
Upon his hunters, scornful of our weapons,
Careless of wounds, plucking down lives about him,
Till he had circled in himself with death:
Then fell he too, t' embrace it where it lay.
And as in that rebellion 'gainst the gods,
Minerva holding forth Medusa's head,
One of the giant brethren felt himself
Grow marble at the killing sight; and now,
Almost made stone, began to inquire what flint,
What rock, it was that crept through all his limbs;
And, ere he could think more, was that he fear'd:
So Catiline, at the sight of Rome in us,
Became his tomb; yet did his look retain
Some of his fierceness, and his hands still mov'd,

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