- A Mother's impassioned.

Q. Mar. O, Ned, sweet Ned! speak to thy mother, boy!

Canst thou not speak!-O traitors! murderers!

They, that stabb'd Cæsar, shed no blood at all,

Did not offend, nor were not worthy blame,
If this foul deed were by, to equal it.
He was a man; this, in respect, a child;
And men ne'er spend their fury on a child. "
What's worse than murderer, that I may
name it?

No, no; my heart will burst, an if I speak : And I will speak, that so my heart may burst.

Butchers and villains, bloody cannibals! How sweet a plant have you untimely cropp'd!

You have no children, butchers! if you had, The thought of them would have stirr'd up

remorse :

But, if you ever chance to have a child,
Look in his youth to have him so cut off,
As, deathsmen! you have rid this sweet
young prince!

Where is that devil's butcher, Hard-favour'd Richard? Richard, where art thou?

Thou art not here: Murder is thy almsdeed;

Petitioners for blood thou ne'er put'st back. K. Edw. Away, I say; I charge ye, bear her hence.

Q. Mar. So come to you, and yours, as to this prince!

H. VI., 3 pt., V: 5. 990.

-Almost universal.

3 Gent. One of the prettiest touches of all, and that which angl'd for mine eyes (caught the water, though not the fish,) was, when at the relation of the queen's death, with the manner how she came to it, (bravely confess'd, and lamented by the king,) how attentiveness wounded his daughter; till, from one sign of dolour to another, she did, with an "alas!" I would fain say, bleed tears; for, I am sure, my heart wept blood. Who was most marble there changed colour; some swoon'd; all sorrow'd if all the world could have seen 't, the woe had been universal.

W. T., V: 2. 615.

Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink.

Bushy. 'Tis nothing but conceit, my gracious lady.

Queen. "Tis nothing less: conceit is still deriv'd

From some forefather grief; mine is not so;
For nothing hath begot my something grief;
Or something hath the nothing that I grieve;
'Tis in reversion that I do possess ;
But what it is, that is not yet known; what
I cannot name; 't is nameless woe, I wot.
R. II., II: 2. 696.

Sorrow concealed, like an oven stopp'd,
Doth burn the heart to cinders where it is.
Fair Philomela, she but lost her tongue,
And in a tedious sampler sew'd her mind :
But, lovely niece, that mean is cut from thee;
A craftier Tereus hast thou met withal,
And he hath cut those pretty fingers off,
That better could have sew'd than Philomel.
Oh! had the monster seen those lily hands
Tremble like aspen-leaves upon a lute,
And make the silken strings delight to kiss
them,

He would not then have touch'd them for his life.

Or had he heard the heavenly harmony
Which that sweet tongue hath made,
He would have dropp'd his knife, and fell
asleep,

As Cerberus at the Tracian poet's feet.
Come, let us go, and make thy father blind:
For such a sight will blind a father's eye:
One hour's storm will drown the fragrant
meads;

What will whole months of tears thy father's eyes?

Do not draw back, for we will mourn with thee;

O, could our mourning ease thy misery! Tit. And., II: 5. 1213

grace good rest!

Sorrow breaks seasons, and reposing hours, Makes the night morning, and the noon-tide

night.

Princes have but their titles for their glories, An outward honour for an inward toil;

To weep with them that weep doth ease some deal;

But sorrow flouted at his double death.
Luc.

Ah, that this sight should make so deep a wound,

And yet detested life not shrink thereat!

She, in my judgment, was as fair as you; But since she did neglect her lookingglass,

And threw her sun-expelling mask away,

The air hath starv'd the roses in her cheeks,

And pinch'd the lily-tincture of her face, That now she is become as black as I.

-Its Voice.

Pro. *

And left thee there; where thou didst vent thy groans,

As fast as mill-wheels strike.

T., I: 2. 11.

-Leads to Bitterness.

If ancient sorrow be most rev

Give mine the benefit of seniory,

And let my griefs frown on the upper hand. If sorrow can admit society,

Tell o'er your woes again by viewing mine: I had an Edward, till a Richard kill'd him; I had a husband, till a Richard kill'd him; Thou hadst an Edward, till a Richard kill'd him :

Thou hadst a Richard, till a Richard kill'd him.

Duch. I had a Richard too, and thou didst kill him;

I had a Rutland too, thou holp'st to kill him;

Q. Mar. Thou hadst a Clarence too, and
Richard kill'd him.

From forth the kennel of thy womb hath crept

A hell-hound, that doth hunt us all to death:

That dog, that had his teeth before his eyes To worry lambs, and lap their gentle blood; That foul defacer of God's handy-work, That excellent grand tyrant of the earth, That reigns in galled eyes of weeping souls; Thy womb let loose, to chase us to our graves.

O upright, just and true-disposing God, How do I thank Thee, that this carnal cur Preys on the issue of his mother's body, And makes her pew-fellow with others' moan!

Duch. O, Harry's wife, triumph not in my woes;

God witness with me, I have wept for thine. R. III., IV: 4. 1034.

But, you must know, your father lost a father;

That father lost, lost his; and the survivor bound

In filial obligation, for some term

To do obsequious sorrow: But to persevere In obstinate condolement, is a course

Of impious stubbornness; 't is unmanly grief:

It shows a will most incorrect to heaven;
A heart unfortified, a mind impatient;
An understanding simple and unschool'd:
For what we know must be, and is as com-

mon

As any the most vulgar thing to sense,
Why should we, in our peevish opposition,
Take it to heart? Fie! 't is a fault to heaven,
A fault against the dead, a fault to nature,
To reason most absurd; whose common

theme

Is death of fathers, and who still hath cried, From the first corse till he that died to-day, "This must be so." We pray you, throw to earth

This unprevailing woe; and think of us
As of a father: for let the world take note,
You are the most immediate to our throne;
And, with no less nobility of love

Than that which dearest father bears his son,
Do I impart toward you. For your intent
In going back to school in Wittenberg,
It is most retrograde to our desire:
And we beseech you, bend you to remain
Here, in the cheer and comfort of our eye,
Our chiefest courtier, cousin, and our son.
H., I: 2. 1394.

- Mingled. Tro.

But sorrow, that is couch'd in seeming

gladness,

Is like that mirth fate turns to sudden sad

ness.

T. C., I: 1. 1103.

-Not Long-lived. Cam. My lord, your sorrow was too sore

laid on;

Which sixteen winters cannot blow away,
So many summers dry scarce any joy
Did ever so long live; no sorrow,
But killed itself much sooner.

W. T., V: 3. 616.