СНАР. XVIII.
THE PROGRESS OF LIFE.
And all the men and women merely players ; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts: His acts being feven ages. At first the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurfe's arms,
And then the whining fchool-boy, with his fatchel, And shining morning face, creeping like fnail Unwillingly to fchool. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistrefs' eye-brow. Then a foldier, Full of ftrange oaths, and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honour, fudden and quick in quarrel; Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly, with good capon lin’d, With eyes fevere, and beard of formal cut, Full of wife faws and modern inftances, And fo he plays his part. The fixth age Into the lean and flipper'd pantaloon, With spectacles on nofe, and pouch on fide; His youthful hofe well fay'd, a world too wide For his fhrunk fhank; and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes, And whistles in his found.. Laft fcene of all, That ends this ftrange eventful hiftory,
Is fecond childishness, and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, fans eyes, fans tafte, fans every thing.
THE ENTRY OF BOLINGBROKE AND RICHARD INTO LONDON.
DUKE AND DUCHESS OF YORK.
Y Lord, you told me, you would tell the
When weeping made you break the ftory off, Of our two coufins coming into London. YORK. Where did I leave?
DUCH. At that fad ftop, my Lord,
Where rude mifgovern'd hands, from window-tops, Threw duft and rubbish on king Richard's head. YORK. Then, as I faid, the duke, great Bolingbroke, Mounted upon a hot and fiery fteed,
Which his afpiring rider feem'd to know,
With flow, but stately pace, kept on his course;
While all tongues cried, God fave thee, Bolingbroke! You would have thought the very windows fpake,.
So many greedy looks of young and old Through cafements darted their defiring eyes Upon his vifage; and that all the walls With painted imag'ry had faid at once, Jefu preferve thee! welcome Bolingbroke! Whilft he, from one fide to the other turning, Bare-headed, lower than his proud fteed's neck, Bespoke them thus: I thank you countrymen ; And thus ftill doing, thus he pafs'd along.
DUCH. Alas! poor Richard, where rides he the while? YORK. As in a theatre, 'the eyes of men,
After a well-grac'd actor leaves the stage,
Are idly bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his prattle to be tedious:
Even fo, or with much more contempt, men's eyes Did fcowl on Richard; no-man cry'd, God save him! No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home : But duft was thrown upon his facred head; Which with fuch gentle forrow he shook off, (His face ftill combating with tears and fmiles, The badges of his grief and patience)
That had not God, for fome strong purpose, fteel'd The hearts of men, they muft perforce have melted, And barbarifm itself have pitied him.
But Heaven hath a hand in these events,
To whofe high will we bound our calm contents.
If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing
That none but fools would reck; a breath thou art,
Servile to all the skiey influences,
That do this habitation, where thou keep'ft, Hourly afflict; merely thou art death's fool;
For him thou labour'ft by thy flight to fhun,
And yet runn'it tow'rd him ftill. Thou art not noble; For all th' accommodations that thou bear'st, Are nurs'd by baseness: thou'rt by no means valiant ; For thou doft fear the foft and tender fork
Of a poor worm. Thy beft of reft is fleep, And that thou oft provok’ft; yet grossly fear'st
Thy death, which is no more. For thou exift'ft on many a thousand grains, That iffue out of duft. Happy thou art not; For what thou haft not, ftill thou striv'ft to get; And what thou haft, forget'ft. Thou art, not certain; For thy complexion shifts to strange effects,
If thou art rich, thou'rt poor;
For, like an ass, whose back with ingots bows,
Thou bear'ft thy heavy riches but a journey, And death unloadeth thee. Friend thou haft none: For thy own bowels, which do call thee fire, The mere effusion of thy proper loins,
Do curfe the Gout, Serpigo, and the Rheum,
For ending thee no fooner. Thou haft nor youth nor age; But as it were an after dinner's fleep,
Dreaming on both; for all thy bleffed youth
Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms
Of palfied Eld; and when thou'rt old and rich, Thou haft neither heat, affection, limb, nor bounty,
To make thy riches pleasant.
That bears the name of life
What's yet in this
yet in this life
Lie hid more thousand deaths; yet death we fear,
That makes these odds all even
HOTSPUR's DESCRIPTION OF A FOP,
I DO remember, when the fight was done, When I was dry with rage, and extreme toil, Breathlefs and faint, leaning upon my fword,
Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly drefs'd;
Fresh as a bridegroom, and his chin, new reap'd, Show'd like a ftubble land at harvest home. He was perfumed like a milliner;
And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held A pouncet-box, which ever and anon
He gave his nose, and took't away again; Who therewith angry, when it next came there, Took it in fnuff.-And still he smil'd, and talk'd; And as the foldiers bare dead bodies by, He call'd them untaught knaves, unmannerly, To bring a flovenly, unhandfome corfe Betwixt the wind and his nobility.
With many holiday and lady terms
He queftion'd me: amongst the rest demanded My prifoners, in your majesty's behalf.
I then, all fmarting with my wounds; being gall'd To be fo pefter'd with a popinjay,
Out of my grief, and my impatience,
Answer'd, neglectingly, I know not what : He fhould, or fhould not; for he made me mad, To fee him fhine so brisk, and smell so sweet, And talk fo like a waiting gentlewoman,
Of guns, and drums, and wounds; (God fave the mark) And telling me, the fovereign'ft thing on earth Was parmacity, for an inward bruife;
And that it was great pity, fo it was, This villainous falt-petre fhould be digg'd Out of the bowels of the harmless earth, Which many a good tall fellow had destroy'd
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