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When clouds are seen, wise men put on their cloaks; When great leaves fall, then winter is at hand; When the sun sets, who doth not look for night? Untimely storms makes men expect a dearth. All may be well; but if God sort it so, ’Tis more than we deserve or I expect.
A horse, a horse! my kingdom for a horse!
Who dares not stir by day must walk by night, And have is have, however men do catch. Near or far off, well won is still well shot, And I am I, howe’er I was begot.
Then let confusion of one part confirm The other’s peace. Till then, blows, blood, and death!
K. Phi. Let it be so. Say, where will you assault? K. John. We from the west will send destruction Into this city’s bosom. Aust. I from the north. K. Phi. Our thunder from the south Shall rain their drift of bullets on this town. Bast. [Aside.] O prudent discipline! From north to south— Austria and France shoot in each other’s mouth. I’ll stir them to it.—Come, away, away!
Well, whiles I am a beggar, I will rail, And say there is no sin but to be rich; And being rich, my virtue then shall be To say there is no vice but beggary. Since kings break faith upon commodity, Gain, be my lord, for I will worship thee.
Arm, arm, you heavens, against these perjur’d kings! A widow cries; be husband to me, heavens! Let not the hours of this ungodly day Wear out the [day] in peace; but ere sunset, Set armed discord ’twixt these perjur’d kings!
Thou wear a lion’s hide! Doff it for shame, And hang a calve’s-skin on those recreant limbs. Aust. O, that a man should speak those words to me! Bast. And hang a calve’s-skin on those recreant limbs. Aust. Thou dar’st not say so, villain, for thy life. Bast. And hang a calve’s-skin on those recreant limbs.
Then, by the lawful power that I have, Thou shalt stand curs’d and excommunicate, And blessed shall he be that doth revolt From his allegiance to an heretic, And meritorious shall that hand be call’d, Canonized and worshipp’d as a saint, That takes away by any secret course Thy hateful life.
Whoever wins, on that side shall I lose;
You are as fond of grief as of your child.
Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale
evils that take leave, On their departure most of all show evil.
You, in the right of Lady Blanch your wife, May then make all the claim that Arthur did.
So I were out of prison and kept sheep, I should be as merry as the day is long;
If I in act, consent, or sin of thought Be guilty of the stealing that sweet breath Which was embounded in this beauteous clay, Let hell want pains enough to torture me.
I am a scribbled form, drawn with a pen Upon a parchment, and against this fire Do I shrink up.
For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite The man that mocks at it and sets it light.
O, 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?
Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain, For they breathe truth that breathe their words in pain.
Where will doth mutiny with wit’s regard. Direct not him whose way himself will choose,
A thousand flatterers sit within thy crown,
Love they to live that love and honor have.
Right, you say true: as Herford’s love, so his, As theirs, so mine, and all be as it is.
Comfort’s in heaven, and we are on the earth, Where nothing lives but crosses, cares, and grief.
Things past redress are now with me past care.
if angels fight, Weak men must fall, for heaven still guards the right.
Cry woe, destruction, ruin, and decay: The worst is death, and death will have his day.
Snakes, in my heart-blood warm’d, that sting my heart!
within the hollow crown That rounds the mortal temples of a king Keeps Death his court,
wise men ne’er sit and wail their woes, But presently prevent the ways to wail; To fear the foe, since fear oppresseth strength, Gives in your weakness strength unto your foe,
You may my glories and my state depose, But not my griefs; still am I king of those.
Your cares set up do not pluck my cares down: My care is loss of care, by old care done, Your care is gain of care, by new care won; The cares I give I have, though given away, They tend the crown, yet still with me they stay.
The love of wicked men converts to fear, That fear to hate, and hate turns one or both To worthy danger and deserved death.
I tore it from the traitor’s bosom, King; Fear, and not love, begets his penitence. Forget to pity him, lest thy pity prove A serpent that will sting thee to the heart.
So shall my virtue be his vice’s bawd, An’ he shall spend mine honor with his shame, As thriftless sons their scraping fathers’ gold. Mine honor lives when his dishonor dies, Or my sham’d life in his dishonor lies: Thou kill’st me in his life; giving him breath, The traitor lives, the true man’s put to death.
If thou do pardon, whosoever pray, More sins for this forgiveness prosper may. This fest’red joint cut off, the rest rest sound, This let alone will all the rest confound.
Duch. Not yet, I thee beseech. For ever will I walk upon my knees, And never see day that the happy sees, Till thou give joy, until thou bid me joy By pardoning Rutland, my transgressing boy. Aum. Unto my mother’s prayers I bend my knee.
And if I were thy nurse, thy tongue to teach, ‘Pardon’ should be the first word of thy speech. I never long’d to hear a word till now, Say “pardon,” King, let pity teach thee how. The word is short, but not so short as sweet, No word like ‘pardon’ for kings’ mouths so meet. York. Speak it in French, King, say “pardonne moy.” Duch. Dost thou teach pardon pardon to destroy? Ah, my sour husband, my hard-hearted lord, That sets the word itself against the word! Speak “pardon” as ’tis current in our land, The chopping French we do not understand.
If all the year were playing holidays, To sport would be as tedious as to work;
I’ll so offend, to make offense a skill, Redeeming time when men think least I will.
I understand thy kisses, and thou mine, And that’s a feeling disputation, But I will never be a truant, love, Till I have learn’d thy language, for thy tongue Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penn’d, Sung by a fair queen in a summer’s bow’r, With ravishing division, to her lute.
That, being daily swallowed by men’s eyes, They surfeited with honey and began To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof a little More than a little is by much too much.
When thou ran’st up Gadshill in the night to catch my horse, if I did not think thou hadst been an ignis fatuus or a ball of wildfire, there’s no purchase in money.
To the latter end of a fray and the beginning of a feast Fits a dull fighter and a keen guest.
Yea, but how if honor prick me off when I come on? how then? Can honor set to a leg? No. Or an arm? No. Or take away the grief of a wound? No. Honor hath no skill in surgery then? No. What is honor? A word. What is in that word honor? What is that honor? Air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? He that died a’ Wednesday. Doth he feel it? No. Doth he hear it? No. ’Tis insensible then? Yea, to the dead. But will[’t] not live with the living? No. Why? Detraction will not suffer it. Therefore I’ll none of it, honor is a mere scutcheon. And so ends my catechism.
It is not possible, it cannot be, The King should keep his word in loving us. He will suspect us still, and find a time To punish this offense in other faults.
Look how we can, or sad or merrily, Interpretation will misquote our looks,
The better part of valor is discretion,
They bring smooth comforts false, worse than true wrongs.
