These are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain, Behold! how they toss their torches on high; To light him to his prey! And, like another Helen, fired another Troy ! DRYDEN. ARIEL'S SONG. WHERE the bee sucks, there suck I; In a cowslip's bell I lie; There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat's back 1 do fly, After summer, merrily: Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. SHAKSPEARE. FAIRY SONG. OVER hill, over dale, Thorough bush, thorough briar, Over park, over pale, Thorough flood, thorough fire. I do wander every where, In those freckles live their savours; SHAKSPEARE. DIRGE. FEAR no more the heat o' the sun, Fear no more the frown o' the great, To thee the reed is as the oak: * Looby, lubber. Fear no more the lightning flash, Thou hast finish'd joy and moan: SHAKSPEARE. HUBERT AND ARTHUR. Enter HUBERT and Executioners. Hub. Heat me these irons hot; and look thou stand Within the arras: when I strike my foot Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth; to't. Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you. Enter ARTHUR. Arth. Good morrow, Hubert. Hub. Good morrow, little prince. Arth. As little prince (having so great a title To be more prince) as may be. You are sad. Hub. Indeed, I have been merrier. Methinks no body should be sad but I: Is it my fault that I was Geoffrey's son? I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert. Aside. Arth. Are you sick, Hubert ? you look pale to-day: In sooth, I would you were a little sick, Hub. His words do take possession of my bosom.Read here, young Arthur. How now, foolish rheum! [Showing a paper. [Aside. Turning dispiteous torture out of door? I must be brief; lest resolution drop Out at mine eyes, in tender, womanish tears.- Arth. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect: Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes ? Arth. And will you? Hub. And I will. Arth. Have you the heart? When your head did but ache, I knit my handkerchief about your brows, (The best I had, a princess wrought it me) And with my hand at midnight held your head; Still and anon cheer'd up the heavy time; Saying, What lack you? and, Where lies your grief? Or, What good love may I perform for you? Many a poor man's son would have lain still, And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you; But you, at your sick service, had a prince. Nay, you may think my love was crafty love, And call it cunning: Do, and if you will: If heaven be pleased that you must use me ill, Why, then you must.-Will you put out mine eyes? These eyes, that never did, nor never shall, So much as frown on you? Hub. I have sworn to do it; And with hot irons must I burn them out. Arth. Ay, none, but in this iron age, would do it! Even in the matter of mine innocence: But for containing fire to harm mine eye. Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer'd iron ? And told me, Hubert should put out mine eyes, I would not have believed him: no tongue but Hubert's. [HUBERT stamps, and the men enter. Hub. Come forth; do as I bid you. Arth. O save me, Hubert, save me! my eyes are out, Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men. Hub. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here. Arth. Alas, what need you be so boisterous rough? I will not struggle, I will stand stone still. |