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Not all the water in the rough rude sea
Can wash the balm from an anointed king:
The breath of worldly men cannot depose
The deputy elected by the Lord:

For every man that Bolingbroke hath press'd,
To lift shrewd steel against our golden crown,
God for his Richard hath in heavenly pay

A glorious angel: then, if angels fight,

Weak men must fall; for heaven still guards the right.




LET's talk of graves and worms and epitaphs ;

Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes

Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.

Let's choose executors, and talk of wills;-
And yet not so;-for what can we bequeath,
Save our deposed bodies to the ground?
Our lands, our lives, and all, are Bolingbroke's ;
And nothing can we call our own, but death,
And that small model of the barren earth

Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.—

οὐ γὰρ θαλάσσης ἀγρίας δυςχειμέρου
ὕδωρ ἄπειρον βασίλεως ἀποκλύσαι
οἷόν τ' ἄλειφαρ ὅσιον, οὐδὲ ταῖς βροτῶν
βουλαῖς ἔνεστι δύναμις, ὥστε καὶ θεοῦ
τὸν ἐκκριθένθ ̓ ὕπαρχον ἐκβαλεῖν θρόνων.
ὅσους δ ̓ ἐκεῖνος ἐκ βίας στείλας ἄγει
εἰς στέμμα χρυσοῦν τοὐμὸν ὀξύτομα βέλη
χαλκήλατ ̓ αἰχμάζοντας, ἄντιον θεὸς
τούτων ἑκάστῳ λαμπρὸν ἄγγελον τρέφει
θεῖον Ριχάρδῳ τῷ φίλῳ παραστάτην.
ὅπου δὲ συλλάβωσι δαίμονες μάχης,
πίπτειν ἀνάγκη τόλμαν ἀσθενῆ βροτῶν,
τοῦ γὰρ δικαίου πάνθ ̓ ὑπερμαχεῖ θεός.




ΕΥΛΑΙ τάφοι τε κἀπιτύμβιοι γραφαὶ ἡμῖν ἂν εἴη τἀπίλοιπα τῶν λόγων· φέρ ̓ ἐγγράφωμεν εἰς κόνιν δελτούμενοι λύπης δακρυτὰ σύμβολ ̓ ὀμμάτων δρόσῳ· δόμων δ ̓ ἐπιτρόπους διαδόχους τε χρημάτων ἑλώμεθ ̓· οὐ μὴν ταῦτά γ· ὡς τί μέλλομεν ἡμεῖς καταλιπεῖν πλὴν τὰ σώματα χθόνι ῥιφθέντ ̓ ἄτιμα τῆς πάρος χλιδῆς ἄτερ; κείνου μὲν οὖν νῦν οἱ βαθεῖς ἡμῶν γύαι, αὐτοὶ δὲ χἡμεῖς, καὶ τὰ πάνθ ̓ ἁπλῷ λόγῳ, 10 οὐδ ̓ ἴδιον ἡμῶν οὐδὲν ἄλλο, πλὴν θανεῖν, τὸ τ ̓ εὐτελὲς τύπωμα τῆς χέρσου χθόνος, λεπτῷ γε πελάνῳ σῶμ ̓ ὅσον κρύπτειν μόνον.

v. 12. Vid. Soph. Electr. 54.

For heaven's sake, let us sit upon the ground,

And tell sad stories of the death of kings:

How some have been deposed, some slain in war, Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed;

Some poisoned by their wives; some sleeping killed; All murdered:-for within the hollow crown

That girds the mortal temples of a king,

Keeps Death his court: and there the antic sits,
Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp;
Allowing him a breath, a little scene

To monarchize, be feared, and kill with looks;
Infusing him with self and vain conceit,—
As if this flesh, which walls about our life,
Were brass impregnable; and, humoured thus,
Comes at the last, and with a little pin

Bores through his castle wall, and-farewell king!
Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
With solemn reverence; throw away respect,
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty;

For ye have but mistook me all this while :

I live with bread like you, feel want, taste grief,

Need friends-subjected thus,

How can you say to me, I am a king?

πρὸς θεῶν, χαμαὶ κλιθέντες αναμετρώμεθα
μύθοις θανόντων βασιλέων οἰκτρὰς τύχας·
ὥς οἱ μὲν Ἄρεως ἔργον, οἱ δὲ τῶν θρόνων
ἐξέπεσον· ἄλλον δ ̓ ἐκφοβοῦσ ̓ ἀλάστορες
ὧν αὐτὸς ἀρχῆς κἀπενόσφισεν βίου

ὁ δ ̓ αὖ καθεύδων ἔννυχος διώλετο,
ὁ δ ̓ ἐκ δάμαρτος φαρμάκων· βίᾳ γε μὴν
οἱ πάντες—ἐν γὰρ στέμματος κοίλῳ κύτει,
ὃ κρατ ̓ ἄνακτος ἀμπέχει βροτήσιον,
θρόνοις κάθηται Θάνατος· ἐν δ ̓ ὁ κέρτομος
γελᾷ τυράννοις ἀγλαΐσμασιν χλιδής,
ψιλὴν παρείς σφιν αἰθέρος δόσιν, χρόνον
βραχύν τιν ̓ ὠμοῖς ἐγκαθυβρίζειν τρόποις,
φόνον τε γοργοῖς ὄμμασιν βλέπειν· ἐπεὶ
αὐθαδίᾳ νιν ἐξεχαύνωσεν κενῇ,

ὡς δῆθεν ἕρκος σάρκινον ψυχῆς τοδὲ
χαλκῷ πέριξ πυργωθέν.—ὧδ ̓ ἀεὶ τρυφαῖς
θάλπων νιν ἕρπει δ ̓ οὖν τέλος, κεντεῖ δ ̓ ἀκμῇ
σμικροῦ γ ̓ ἀτράκτου ῥῦμα τοῦτο τειχέων·
βέβηκε δ' ἄναξ φροῦδος·—οὐ πυκάζεται
κάρα τις ὑμῶν, μηδὲ προστροπαῖς ἄγαν
σεμναῖς τὸ λοιπὸν ἐγκατιλλώψει βροτῷ;
αἰδῶ παλαιὰν μέθετε, ῥίπτετ ̓ ἐντροπῆς
πατρίους παραδοχὰς, πρόσπολόν θ ̓ ὑπουργίαν,
οὐδὲν γὰρ ἄλλ ̓ ἤ μ' ἀγνοεῖτε δεῦρ ̓ ἀεί·
ὑμῖν γε ταὐτὸν κἀμέ τοι σῖτον τρέφει
ἀλγῶ σπανίζων, γεύομαι δ ̓ ἄχους φίλων
δεῖ κἀμ ̓ ἀρωγῆς· εἶτα, τῶνδ ̓ ὑπήκοον,
πῶς δὴ βασιλέα τοὔνομ ̓ ἀνταυδῶν μὲ ἐχρῆν ;

ν. 37. Eur. Bacch. 201. ed. Dind.





Clif. My gracious liege, this too much lenity And harmful pity must be laid aside.—

To whom do lions cast their gentle looks?
Not to the beast that would usurp their den.
Whose hand is that the forest bear doth lick?
Not his, that spoils her young before her face.
Who 'scapes the lurking serpent's mortal sting?
Not he, that sets his foot upon her back.

The smallest worm will turn, being trodden on;
And doves will peck, in safeguard of their brood.
Ambitious York did level at thy crown,

Thou smiling, while he knit his angry brows:
He, but a duke, would have his son a king,
And raise his issue, like a loving sire:

Thou, being a king, blessed with a goodly son,
Didst yield consent to disinherit him,

Which argued thee a most unloving father.
Unreasonable creatures feed their young:

And though man's face be fearful to their eyes,

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