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Edw. Nay, start not; I have cause
War. And so have I;
Édw. I scorn it, Sir, Elizabeth hath charms, And I have equal right with you to admire them; So all commanding in the name of Warwick, That he alone should rerel in the charms Of beauty, and monopolize perfection, I knew not of your love.
War. By Heav'n 'tis false! You knew it all, and meanly took occasion, Whilst I was busy'd in the noble office Your grace thought fit to honour me withal, To tamper with a weak unguarded woman To bribe her passions high, and basely steal A treasure which your kingdom could not pur.
chase. Edw. How know you that? But be it as it may, I had a right; nor will I tampely yield My claim to happiness, the privilege To choose the partner of my throne and bed; It is a branch of my prerogative. War. Prerogative what's that? the boast of
tyrants; A borrow'd jewel, glittring in the crown With specious lustre, lent but to betray: You had it, Sir , and hold it-from the people. Edw. And therefore do I prize it; I would
guard Their liberties, and they shall strengthen mine; But when proud Faction and her rebel crew, Insult their sov'reign , trample on his laws,
And bid defiance to his pow'r , the people, In justice to themselves, will then defend His cause, and vindicate the rights they gave
War. Go to your darling people, then; for soon, If I mistake not, 'twill be needful; try Their boasted zeal, and see if one of them Will dare to lift his arm up in your cause, If I forbid them.
Edw. Is it so my lord ? Then mark my words : I've been your slave too
long, And you
have rul'd me with a rod of iron ;
War. Look well then to your own;
Edw. Nor he who threaten'd Edward
EARL OF WARWICK
C H A P. X I I.
Orlando and Adam.
there? Adam. What , my young master ? Oh, my
gentle master, Oh, my sweet master,
you memory of old Sir Rowland! Why, what makes you here? Why are you virtuous ? Why do people love you? And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and var
liant? Why would you be so fond to overcome The bony priser of the humorous Duke? Your praise is come too swiftly home before you. now you not, master,
to some kind of men Their graces serve them but as enemies? No more do your's: your virtues, gentle master,
Are sanctified and holy traitors to you.
Orla. Why what's the matter!
Adam. O unhappy youth, Come not within these doors; within this roof The enemy of all your graces lives : Your brother--(no; no brother; yet the son Yet not the son; I will not call him son Of him I was about to call his father,) Hath heard your praises, and this night he means To burn the lodging where you us’d to lie, And you within it: if he fail of that, He will have other means to cut you off I overheard him, and his practices: This is no palace; this house is but a butchery; Abhor it,
fear it, do not enter it. Orla. Why, whither Adam wouldst thou have
? Adam. No matter whither, so you come not
here. Qrla. What, wouldst thou have me go and beg,
my food ?
Or with a base and boisterous sword enforce
crowns, The thrifty hire I sav'd under your father, Which I did store to be
servant: Tho'I look old, yet I am strong and lusty i For in my youth I never did apply
Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood;
business and necessities.
thou prun'st a rotten tree,
Adam. Master, go on, and I will follow thee
till almost fourscore, Here lived I, but now live here no more. At seventeen years many their fortunes seek, But at fourscore it is too late a week ; Yet fortune cannot recompence me better Than to die well, and not my master's debtor.
SHAKESPRARE, CHAP. X II I.
Scroop and Richard.
prepar'd : The worst is wordly loss thou canst unfold.
Say, is my kingdom lost? Why, 'twas my care ;
steel. White beards have arm'd their thin and hairless
scalps Against thy Majesty ; boys, with women's voices, Strive to speak big, and clasp their female joints In stiff unwieldy arms , against thy crown; The very
beadsmen learn to bend their bows
K. Rich. Too well, too well, thou tell'st a tale Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? where is Bagot? What is become of Busby? where is Green ?
-No matter where ; of comfort no man speake Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs, Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth! Let's chuse executors, and talk of wills; And yet not sofor what can we bequeath, Save our deposed bodies to the ground ? Our lands, our lives, and all, are Bolingbrok's,