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And thought me not dishonour'd by his service.
One day (may that returning day be night,
The stain, the curse, of each succeeding year!)
For something, or for nothing, in his pride
He struck me: (while I tell it, do I live?)
He smote me on the cheek !—I did not stab him:
That were poor revenge.-E'er since, his folly
Has striven to bury it beneath a heap
Of kindnesses, and thinks it is forgot:
Insolent thought, and like a second blow!
Has the dark adder venom? So have I,
When trod upon. Proud Spaniard, thou shalt feel
me!-

By nightly march he purpos'd to surprise
The Moorish camp; but I have taken care
They shall be ready to receive his favour.
Failing in this, (a cast of utmost moment,)
Would darken all the conquests he has won.-
Be propitious, O Mahomet, on this important hour;
And give, at length, my famish'd soul revenge!

3.-Marcellus's Speech to the Mob.

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Young.

WHEREFORE rejoice? that Cæsar comes in triumph! What conquest brings he home?

What tributaries follow him to Rome,

To grace in captive bonds his chariot-wheels?
You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!
Oh you hard hearts! you cruel men of Rome!
Knew you not Pompey? many a time and oft
Have you climb'd up to walls and battlements,
To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops,
Your infants in your arms, and there have sat
The live-long day, with patient expectation,
To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome;
And when you saw his chariot but appear,
Have you not made an universal shout,
That Tiber trembled underneath his banks
To hear the replication of your sounds
Made in his concave shores?

And do you now put on your best attire?

And do you now cull out a holiday?
And do you now strew flowers in his way,
That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood?
Be gone

Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,
Pray to the gods to intermit the plagues,
That needs must light on this ingratitude.

Shakespeare.

4.-Richmond encouraging his Soldiers.

THUS far into the bowels of the land
Have we march'd on without impediment.
Richard, the bloody and devouring chief,
Whose rav'nous appetite has spoil'd your fields,
Laid this rich country waste, and rudely cropp'd
Its ripen'd hopes of fair posterity,—

Is now even in the centre of the isle.

Thrice is he arm'd who hath his quarrel just;
And he but naked, though lock'd up in steel,
Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted:
The very weight of Richard's guilt shall crush him.
Then let us on, my friends, and boldly face him.
In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man,
As mild behaviour and humanity;

But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Let us be tigers, in our fierce deportment.
For me, the ransom of my bold attempt,
Shall be this body on the earth's cold face;
But if we thrive, the glory of the action,
The meanest soldier here shall share his part of.
Advance your standards, draw your willing swords,
Sound drums and trumpets, boldly and cheerfully:
The word's "St George, Richmond, and Victory!"
Shakespeare.

5.-Douglas's Account of Himself.

My name is Norval: on the Grampian hills
My father feeds his flocks; a frugal swain,
Whose constant cares were to increase his store,
And keep his only son, myself, at home.

For I had heard of battles, and I long'd

To follow to the field some warlike lord;

And Heaven soon granted what my sire denied. This moon, which rose last night round as my shield, ad not yet fill'd her horns, when, by her light, d of fierce barbarians, from the hills,

F

With

How

ike a torrent down upon the vale,

our flocks and herds.

The shepherds fled nd for succour. I alone,

bow, and quiver full of arrows,
out the enemy, and mark'd

The ad he took, then hasted to my friends,
Whom, with a troop of fifty chosen men,
I met advancing. The pursuit I led,

Till we o'ertook the spoil-encumbered foe.
We fought and conquer'd. Ere a sword was drawn,
An arrow from my bow had pierc'd their chief,
Who wore that day the arms which now I wear.
Returning home in triumph, I disdain'd

The shepherd's slothful life; and having heard
That our good king had summon'd his bold peers
To lead their warriors to the Carron side,
I left my father's house, and took with me
A chosen servant to conduct my steps:-
Yon trembling coward who forsook his master.
Journeying with this intent, I pass'd these towers,
And, heaven-directed, came this day, to do
The happy deed that gilds my humble name. Home.

6.-Henry V.'s Speech at Agincourt.

WHAT'S he that wishes more men from England?
My cousin Westmoreland?-No, my fair cousin :
If we are mark'd to die, we are enow

To do our country loss; and, if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
No, no, my lord, wish not a man from England.
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, throughout my
host,

That he who hath no stomach to this fight,
May straight depart: his passport shall be made;
And crowns for convoy put into his purse:

We would not die in that man's company.-
This day is called the Feast of Crispian.
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that outlives this day, and sees old age,
Will, yearly on the vigil, feast his neighbours,
And say-to-morrow is Saint Crispian:
Then will he strip his sleeve, and show his scars.
Old men forget, yet shall not all forget,

What feats they 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 Glos'ter,
Be in their flowing cups, freshly remember'd:
This story shall the goodman teach his son;
And Crispian's day shall ne'er go by,
From this time to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered;

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 e'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;

And gentlemen in England, now a-bed,

Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here; And hold their manhoods cheap, while any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispian's day. Shakespeare.

7.-Speech of Edward the Black Prince.

COUNTRYMEN,

We're here assembled for the toughest fight,
That ever strain'd the force of English arms.
See yon wide field, with glitt'ring numbers gay!
Vain of their strength, they challenge us for slaves,
And bid us yield their pris'ners at discretion.
If there's an Englishman among you all,
Whose soul can basely truckle to such bondage,
Let him depart. For me, I swear, by Heav'n,
By my great father's soul, and by my fame,
K k

My country ne'er shall pay a ransom for me!
Nor will I stoop to drag out life in bondage,
And take my pittance from a Frenchman's hands.
This I resolve, and hope, brave countrymen,
Ye all resolve the same.

I see the gen'rous indignation rise,

That soon will shake the boasted power of France:
Their monarch trembles 'midst his gaudy train,
To think the troops he now prepares to meet,
Are such as never fainted yet with toil.
They're such as yet no power on earth could awe,
No army baffle, and no town withstand.
Heav'ns! with what pleasure, with what love I gaze,
In ev'ry face to view his father's greatness!
Those fathers, those undaunted fathers, who,
In Gallic blood, have often dy'd their swords.
Those fathers, who in Cyprus wrought such feats,
Who taught the Syracusans to submit,
Tam'd the Calabrians, the fierce Saracens,
And have subdued, in many a stubborn fight,
The Palestinean warriors. Scotland's fields,
That have so oft been drench'd with native gore,
Bear noble record; and the fertile isle

Of fair Hibernia, by their swords subjected,
An ample tribute and obedience pays.

On her high mountains, Wales receiv'd their laws,
And the whole world has witness'd to their glory.
View all yon glitt'ring grandeur as your spoils,
The sure reward of this day's victory.

Strain every faculty, and let your minds,

Your hopes, your ardours, reach their utmost bounds;
Follow your standards, with a fearless spirit;

Follow the great examples of your sires;
Follow, in me, your brother, prince, and friend.
Draw, fellow-soldiers, catch th' inspiring flame;
We fight for England, liberty, and fame.

Shirley.

8.-How Douglas learned the Art of War. BENEATH a mountain's brow, the most remote And inaccessible, by shepherds trode,

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