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He that outlives this day, and fees old age,
Will, yearly on the vigil, feaft his neighbours,
And fay-To-morrow is Saint Crifpian :
Then, will he ftrip his fleeve, and fhew his fcars.
Old men forget, yet fhall not all forget,

What feats they did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in their mouths as houfhold-words,
Harry the king, Bedford, and Exeter,

Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Glo'fter,
Be, in their flowing cups, freshly remembered.
This ftory fhall the good man teach his fon :
And Crifpian's day fhall 'ne'er go by,
From this time to the ending of the world,
But we in it fhall 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 fo vile,
This day fhall 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 Crifpian's day.





H! think, thou favour'd of the powers divine!

Think of thy father's age, and pity mine!

In me, that father's rev'rend image trace,

Those filver hairs, that venerable face;

His trembling limbs, his helpless perfon, fee!
In all my equal-but in mifery !

Yet now, perhaps fome turn of human fate`
Expels him, helpless, from his peaceful state :
Think, from fome powerful foe thou feeft him fly,
And beg protection with a feeble cry.

Yet, ftill, one comfort in his foul may rife ;
He hears his fon ftill lives to glad his eyes :
And, hearing, ftill may hope a better day
May fend him thee, to chase that foe away.
No comfort to my griefs, no hopes remain ;
The best, the braveft of my sons are flain!
Yet, what a race, ere Greece to Ilion came!
The pledge of many a lov'd, and loving dame.
Nineteen one mother bore!-Dead! all are dead!
How oft, alas! has wretched Priam bled?
Still one was left their loss to recompense;
His father's hope, his country's last defence.
Him, too, thy rage has flain! beneath thy fteel,
Unhappy! in his country's caufe he fell !

THINK of thy father, and this face behold!
See him in me, as helpless, and as old—
Tho' not fo wretched: there, he yields to me,
The firft of men-in fov'reign misery :

Thus forc'd to kneel, thus grov'ling to embrace
The fcourge and ruin of my realm and race:
Suppliant, my childrens' murd'rer to implore,
And kifs thofe hands- yet reeking with their gore.




O be or not be ?


that is the question.

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer
The flings and arrows of outrageous fortune ;
Or to take arms against a fea of troubles,
And, by oppofing, end them ?-To die-to fleep-
No more and, by a fleep, to fay we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to 'tis a confummation
Devoutly to be wifh'd. To die-to fleep-

To fleep-perchance to dream-ay, there's the rub.-
For, in that fleep of death, what dreams may come,
When we have fhuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause.-There's the respect
That makes calamity of fo long life.

For, who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th' oppreffor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pang of defpis'd love, the law's delay,
The infolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To groan and fweat under a weary life?
But that the dread of fomething after death
(That undiscover'd country, from whose bourne
No traveller returns) puzzles the will;
And makes us rather bear thofe ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus, confcience does make cowards of us all :
And, thus, the native hue of refolution

Is fickly'd o'er with the pale caft of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lofe the naine of action.

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MEAN-TIME, the village rouzes up the fire:

While, well attested, and as well believ'd,

Heard folemn, goes the goblin-story round;
Till fuperftitious horror creeps o'er all.
Or, frequent, in the founding hall, they wake
The rural gambol. Ruftic mirth goes round.
The fimple joke, that takes the fhepherd's heart,
Eafily pleas'd; the long loud laugh, fincere ;
The kifs, fnatch'd hafty from the fide-long maid,
On purpose guardlefs, or pretending sleep;
The leap, the flap, the haul; and shook to notes
Of native mufic, the refpondent dance.
Thus, jocund, fleets, with them, the winter-night.

THE city fwarms intenfe. The public haunt,
Full of each theme, and warm with mix'd discourse,
Hums indiftinct.. The fons of riot flow
Down the loose stream of falfe-inchanted joy,
To fwift deftruction. On the rankled foul,
The gaming fury falls; and, in one gulph
Of total ruin, honour, virtue, peace,
Friends, families, and fortune, headlong fink.
Up fprings the dance along the lighted dome,

Mix'd and evolv'd, a thousand sprightly ways.
The glittering court effuses every pomp.
The circle deepens. Beam'd from gaudy robes,
Tapers, and fparkling gems, and radiant eyes,
A foft efulgence o'er the palace waves:

While, a gay infect, in his fummer-fhine,

The fop, light fluttering, spreads his mealy wings.

DREAD o'er the scene, the ghost of Hamlet stalks ; Othello rages poor Monimia mourns ;

And Belvidera pours her foul in love.
Terror alarms the breast. The comely tear

Steals o'er the cheek. Or elfe, the comic muse
Holds to the world a picture of itself,

And raises. fly, the fair impartial laugh.
Sometimes, the lifts her ftrain, and paints the scenes
Of beauteous life; whate'er can deck mankind,
Or charm the heart, in generous Bevil fhew'd.

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Elfe, whence this pleasing hope, this fond defire,
This longing after immortality?

Or, whence this fecret dread, and inward horror,
Of falling into nought? Why fhrinks the foul
Back on herself, and ftartles at deftruction ?-
"Tis the divinity that ftirs within us:

'Tis heav'n itself, that points out-an hereafter,
And intimates-eternity to man.

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