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

purse:

We would not die in that man's company,

That fears his fellowship to die with

us.

This day is called - the feast of Crispian:

He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,

Will stand on tip-toe when this day is

named,

And rouse him at the name of Crispian:

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 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 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.

To the lascivious pleasing of a lute. But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,

Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;

I, that am rudely stamped, and want love's majesty,

To strut before a wanton ambling nymph,

I, that am curtailed of this fair proportion,

Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,

Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time

Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,

And that so lamely and unfashionable

That dogs bark at me as I halt by

And, if King Edward be as true and just

As I am subtle, false, and treacher

ous,

This day should Clarence closely be newed up;

About a prophecy, which saysthat G

Of Edward's heirs the murderer shall be.

Dive, thoughts, down to my soul: here Clarence comes. SHAKSPEARE.

BOADICEA.

WHEN the British warrior queen,
Bleeding from the Roman reds,
Sought, with an indignant mien,
Counsel of her country's gods,

Sage beneath the spreading oak
Sat the Druid, hoary chief;
Every burning word he spoke
Full of rage and full of grief.
"Princess' if our aged eyes
Weep upon thy matchless wrongs,
'Tis because resentment ties

All the terrors of our tongues.

Rome shall perish: write that word In the blood that she has spilt, Perish, hopeless and abhorred,

Deep in ruin as in guilt.

Rome, for empire far renowned,

Tramples on a thousand states: Soon her pride shall kiss the ground: Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!

Other Romans shall arise,

Heedless of a soldier's name; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,

Harmony the path to fame.

Then the progeny that springs

From the forests of our land, Armed with thunder, clad with wings.

Shall a wider world command.

Regions Cæsar never knew

Thy posterity shall sway; Where his eagles never flew, None invincible as they."

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;

Put out our holy fires; no timbrel

ring;

Let's home and sleep; for such great overthrows

A candle burns too bright a sacrifice; A glow-worm's tail too full a flame. You say, I doat upon these Ro

mans:

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

Not half so fearful;-not a flight drawn home,

A round stone from a sling, a lover's wish,

E'er made that haste they have. By heavens!

I have seen these Britons that you magnify,

Run as they would have out-run time, and roaring,

Basely for mercy, roaring; the light shadows,

That in a thought scour o'er the fields of corn,

Halted on crutches to them. Yes, Bonduca,

I have seen thee run too, and thee, Nennius;

Yea, run apace, both; then when Penyus,

The Roman girl, cut through your armed carts,

And drove them headlong on ye down the hill; —

Then when he hunted ye like Britain foxes,

More by the scent than sight: then did I see

These valiant and approved men of Britain,

Like boding owls, creep into tods of ivy,

And hoot their fears to one another nightly.

I fled too,

But not so fast; your jewel had been lost then,

Young Hengo there; he trasht me, Nennius:

For when your fears outrun him, then stept I,

And in the head of all the Romans' fury

Took him, and, with my tough belt

My helm still on my head, my sword my prow,

Turned to my foe my face, he cried out nobly,

"Go, Briton, bear thy lion's whelp off safely;

Thy manly sword has ransomed thee: grow strong,

And let me meet thee once again in arms:

Then if thou stand'st, thou art mine." I took his offer,

And here I am to honor him.

There's not a blow we gave since Julius landed,

That was of strength and worth, but like records

They file to after-ages. Our Registers The Romans are, for noble deeds of honor;

And shall we burn their mentions with upbraidings?

Had we a difference with some petty Isle,

Or with our neighbors, lady, for our landmarks,

The taking in of some rebellious Lord,

Or making a head against commotions,

After a day of blood, peace might be argued:

But where we grapple for the ground we live on,

The Liberty we hold as dear as life, The gods we worship, and next those, our honors,

And with those swords that know no end of battle:

Those men beside themselves allow no neighbor;

Those minds that, where the day is, claim inheritance;

And where the sun makes ripe the fruits, their harvest;

And where they march, but measure out more ground

To add to Rome, and here in the bowels on us;

It must not be; no, as they are our

foes,

And those that must be so until we

tire 'em,

Let's use the peace of Honor, that's fair dealing;

But in our ends, our swords.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,

Robed in the sable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the poet stood; (Loose his beard, and hoary hair Streamed, like a meteor, to the troubled air),

And with a master's hand, and prophet's fire,

Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre. "Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert cave,

Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath!

O'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave,

Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe;

Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal

day,

To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.

I. 3.

"Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, That hushed the stormy main:

Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy

bed:

Mountains! ye mourn in vain Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topped head.

On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, Smeared with gore, and ghastly pale:

Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail;

The famished eagle screams, and passes by.

Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,

Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes,

Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,

Ye died amidst your dying country's cries

No more I weep. They do not sleep.

On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, I see them sit, they linger yet,

Avengers of their native land: With me in dreadful harmony they join,

And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.