Page 1000 - Shakespeare - Vol. 2

Like strengthless hinges, buckle under life,
Impatient of his fit, breaks like a fire
Out of his keeper’s arms, even so my limbs,
Weakened with grief, being now enraged with grief,

Are thrice themselves. Hence, therefore, thou nice crutch! [145]
A scaly gauntlet now with joints of steel
Must glove this hand. And hence, thou sickly quoif!
Thou art a guard too wanton for the head

Which princes, fleshed with conquest, aim to hit.
Now bind my brows with iron, and approach [150]
The ragged’st hour that time and spite dare bring
To frown upon the enraged Northumberland!

Let heaven kiss earth! Now let not Nature’s hand
Keep the wild flood confined! Let order die!
And let this world no longer be a stage [155]
To feed contention in a lingering act.

But let one spirit of the first-born Cain
Reign in all bosoms, that, each heart being set
On bloody courses, the rude scene may end,
And darkness be the burier of the dead! [160]

[TRAVERS]
This strainèd passion doth you wrong, my lord.

LORD BARDOLPH
Sweet earl, divorce not wisdom from your honour.

MORTON
The lives of all your loving complices
Lean on your health, the which, if you give o’er
To stormy passion, must perforce decay. [165]

[You cast the event of war, my noble lord,
And summed the account of chance, before you said,
‘Let us make head.’ It was your presurmise
That, in the dole of blows, your son might drop.
You knew he walked o’er perils, on an edge, [170]

More likely to fall in than to get o’er.
You were advised his flesh was capable