HOTSPUR.

Shrewsbury.

SHREWSBURY.

OTSPUR. My cousin Vernon! welcome, by my soul.

VERNON. 'Pray God my news be worth a welcome, lord.

The Earl of Westmoreland, seven thousand strong,
Is marching hitherwards; with him, Prince John.
HOT. No harm; what more?

VER.

And further, I have learned,

The King himself in person is set forth,

Or hitherwards intended speedily,

With strong and mighty preparation.

HOT. He shall be welcome too. Where is his son,

The nimble-footed mad-cap Prince of Wales,

And his comrades that daffed the world aside,

And bid it pass?

VER.

All furnished, all in arms;

All plumed like estridges, that wing the wind,
Baited like eagles having lately bathed;

Glittering in golden coats like images;

As full of spirit as the month of May,
And gorgeous as the sun at midsummer;
Wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls.
I saw young Harry, with his beaver on,
His cuisses on his thighs, gallantly armed,
Rise from the ground like feathered Mercury,

And vaulted with such ease into his seat,
As if an angel dropped down from the clouds,
To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus,

And witch the world with noble horsemanship.

KING HENRY. How bloodily the sun begins to peer Above yon busky hill! the day looks pale

At his distemperature.

PRINCE HENRY.

The southern wind

Doth play the trumpet to his purposes;

And, by his hollow whistling in the leaves,
Foretells a tempest and a blustering day.

K. HEN. Then with the losers let it sympathize; For nothing can seem foul to those that win.

HOT. O Harry, thou hast robbed me of my youth. I better brook the loss of brittle life

Than those proud titles thou hast won of me;

They wound my thoughts, worse than thy sword my

But Thought 's the slave 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 earthy and cold hand of Death
Lies on my tongue. - No, Percy, thou art dust,

And food for

[Dies.

P. HEN. For worms, brave Percy. Fare thee well,

great heart!

Ill-weaved ambition, how much art thou shrunk !
When that this body did contain a spirit,

A kingdom for it was too small a bound;

But now, two paces of the vilest earth

Is room enough. This earth, that bears thee dead, Bears not alive so stout a gentleman.

If thou wert sensible of courtesy,

I should not make so dear a show of zeal.
But let my favors hide thy mangled face;
And, even in thy behalf, I 'll thank myself
For doing these fair rites of tenderness.
Adieu, and take thy praise with thee to heaven!
Thy ignomy sleep with thee in the grave,
But not remembered in thy epitaph! -

He sees FALLSTAFF on the ground.

What! old acquaintance! could not all this flesh
Keep in a little life? Poor Jack, farewell!
I could have better spared a better man.
Oh! I should have a heavy miss of thee,
If I were much in love with vanity.
Death hath not struck so fat a deer to-day,
Though many dearer, in this bloody fray.

William Shakespeare.

Shurton Bars.

WRITTEN AT SHURTON BARS, NEAR BRIDGEWATER.

A

ND hark, my love! The sea-breeze moans Through yon reft house! O'er rolling stones In bold ambitious sweep,

The onward-surging tides supply

The silence of the cloudless sky

With mimic thunders deep.

Dark reddening from the channelled Isle
(Where stands one solitary pile
Unslated by the blast),

The watchfire, like a sullen star,
Twinkles to many a dozing tar
Rude cradled on the mast.

Even there-beneath that lighthouse tower In the tumultuous evil hour,

Ere peace with Sara came,

Time was, I should have thought it sweet

To count the echoings of my feet

And watch the storm-vexed flame.

And there in black soul-jaundiced fit,
A sad gloom-pampered man to sit,
And listen to the roar:

When mountain surges bellowing deep
With an uncouth monster leap
Plunged foaming on the shore.

Then by the lightning's blaze to mark
Some toiling tempest-shattered bark;
Her vain distress-guns hear;
And when a second sheet of light

Flashed o'er the blackness of the night,

To see no vessel there!

*

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

Sidmouth.

TO A LADY, ON LEAVING HER AT SIDMOUTH.

go, - it is a part

YES! It must fortune has assigned me,

Must go, and leave, with aching heart,
What most that heart adores behind me.

Still I shall see thee on the sand

Till o'er the space the water rises, Still shall in thought behind thee stand, And watch the look affection prizes.

But ah! what youth attends thy side,

With eyes that speak his soul's devotion, To thee as constant as the tide

That gives the restless wave its motion?

Still in thy train must he appear
Forever gazing, smiling, talking?

Ah! would that he were sighing here,
And I were there beside thee walking!

Wilt thou to him that arm resign,

Who is to that dear heart a stranger, And with those matchless looks of thine The peace of this poor youth endanger?

Away this fear that fancy makes

When night and death's dull image hide thee: