we'll sit,

Ruling in large and ample empery, O'er France, and all her almost kingly dukedoms,

Orlay these bones in an unworthy urn, Tombless, with no remembrance over them:

Either our history shall, with full mouth,

Speak freely of our acts; or else our grave,

Like Turkish mute, shall have a tongueless mouth,

Not worshipped with a waxen epitaph.

Enter AMBASSADORS OF FRANCE. Now are we well prepared to know the pleasure

Of our fair cousin Dauphin; for we hear

Your greeting is from him, not from

the king.

[And as the Dauphin sends us tennis-balls,]

We are glad the Dauphin is so pleasant with us:

His present, and your pains, we thank you for:

When we have matched our rackets to these balls,

We will, in France, by God's grace, play a set,

Shall strike his father's crown into the hazard:

Tell him, he hath made a match with such a wrangler,

That all the courts of France will be disturbed

With chaces. And we understand him well,

How he comes o'er us with our wilder days,

Not measuring what use we made of them.

And tell the pleasant prince, — this mock of his

Hath turned his balls to gun-stones; and his soul

Shall stand sore charged for the wasteful vengeance That shall fly with them: for many a thousand widows

Shall this his mock mock out of their dear husbands:

Mock mothers from their sons, mock castles down;

And some are yet ungotten, and unborn,

That shall have cause to curse the Dauphin's scorn.

But this lies all within the will of God,

To whom I do appeal; and in whose

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

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 rememberèd: 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,

Shall think themselves accursed 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.

Such the bard's prophetic words, Pregnant with celestial fire, Bending as he swept the chords Of his sweet but awful lyre.

She, with all a monarch's pride, Felt them in her bosom glow: Rushed to battle, fought, and died; Dying, hurled them at the foe.

Ruffians! pitiless as proud,

Heaven awards the vengeance due; Empire is on us bestowed,

Shame and ruin wait for you.
COWPER.

BONDUCA.

[Bonduca the British queen, taking occasion from a defeat of the Romans to impeach their valor, is rebuked by Caratac.]

QUEEN BONDUCA, I do not grieve your fortune.

If I grieve, 'tis at the bearing of your fortunes;

You put too much wind to your sail : discretion

And hardy valor are the twins of honor,

And nursed together, make a conqueror;

Divided, but a talker. 'Tis a truth, That Rome has fled before us twice, and routed;

A truth we ought to crown the gods for, lady,

And not our tongues.

You call the Romans fearful, fleeing Romans,

And Roman girls:

Does this become a doer? are they such?

Where is your conquest then? Why are your altars crowned with wreaths of flowers,

The beast with gilt horns waiting for the fire?

The holy Druidés composing songs
Of everlasting life to Victory?
Why are these triumphs, lady? for
a May-game?

For hunting a poor herd of wretched
Romans?

Is it no more? shut up your temples,

Britons,

And let the husbandman redeem his

heifers;

Witness these wounds, I do; they were fairly given:

I love an enemy, I was born a soldier;

And he that in the head of 's troop defies me,

Rending my manly body with his sword,

I make a mistress. Yellow-tressèd Hymen

Ne'er tied a longing virgin with more joy,

Than I am married to that man that wounds me:

And are not all these Romans? Ten struck battles

I sucked these honored scars from, and all Roman.

Ten years of bitter nights and heavy marches,

When many a frozen storm sung through my cuirass,

And made it doubtful whether that or I

Were the more stubborn metal, have I wrought through, And all to try these Romans. Ten times a night

I have swum the rivers, when the stars of Rome

Shot at me as I floated, and the billows

Tumbled their watery ruins on my shoulders,

Charging my battered sides with troops of agues,

And still to try these Romans; whom I found

As ready, and as full of that I brought,

(Which was not fear nor flight,) as