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Yet so much is my poverty of spirit,

So mighty and so many my defects,

That I would rather hide me from my greatness,—
Being a bark to brook no mighty sea,—

Than in my greatness covet to be hid,
And in the vapour of my glory smother'd.
But, God be thank'd, there is no need of me;
(And much I need to help you, if need were,)
The royal tree hath left us royal fruit,
Which, mellow'd by the stealing hours of time,
Will well become the seat of majesty,
And make, no doubt, us happy by his reign.
On him I lay what you would lay on me,
The right and fortune of his happy stars,-

Which God defend, that I should wring from him!

Buck. My Lord, this argues conscience in your grace,

But the respects thereof are nice and trivial,

All circumstances well consider'd.

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More bitterly could I expostulate,

Save that, for reverence to some alive,

I give a sparing limit to my tongue.
Then, good my Lord, take to your royal self
This proffer'd benefit of dignity:

ἀλλ ̓ ἐς τοσοῦτον σμίκρ ̓ ὅμως ἐγὼ φρονῶ,
τοσαῦτά τ ̓ εἰμὶ καὶ τόσ ̓ ἐστερημένος,
ὥσθ ̓ ἡδέως ἂν,—ἀσθενοῦς νεὼς δίκην,
οὐκ ἀντιτείνειν δυνάμενον πολλῷ σάλῳ, -
κρυφθέντα δόξαν λανθάνειν με, μᾶλλον ἢ
χρήζειν στέγεσθαι τῷ κλέει, μέσῳ τ ̓ ἐμῆς
δόξης ἐν ἀτμῷ συγκαλύπτεσθαί ποτε.
χάριν δ ̓ ὀφείλω τοῖς θεοῖς, ὁθούνεκ' οὐ
χρεία τίς ἐστ ̓ ἐμοῦ γε· κεἰ γὰρ ἦν, ἐγὼ
πόλλ ̓ ἐνδεὴς ὢν οὐ σθένω προσάρκεσαι.)
δένδρου γὰρ ἡμῖν καρπὸς ἐκ τυραννικού
τυραννικὸς πέφυκεν, ὅσπερ εἰς τέλος
χρόνου λάθρα βαίνοντος ἀκμάζων, ἕδραν
σεμνὴν ἔοικεν εὖ κρατῶν νέμειν καλῶς,
ἡμᾶς τ ̓ ἀνάσσων ὀλβίους καθιστάναι.
τούτῳ μεθίημ ̓ ἣν ἐμοί γ ̓ ἐγχειρίσειν
ἐμέλλετ ̓ ἀρχὴν, δαιμόνων εὐδαιμόνων
θέορτον αἶσαν καὶ μέρος πεπρωμένον,
ἧς μὴ στεροῖμι τόνδε, πρὸς θεῶν, βίᾳ.

Β. Ἐκ τῶνδε δήπου τῶν λόγων ἔχων καλῶς τῆς γ ̓ εὐλαβείας προὐφάνης· ἃ δ ̓ εὐλαβεῖ σμίκρ ̓ ἐστὶ πάντα καὶ πρὸς οὐδὲν ἔρχεται κέν' ὄντα, πάντα γ' εὖ περισκοπουμένῳ.

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πρὸς τοῖσδε πικρὰ μᾶλλον ἐγκαλεῖν ἔχω,
αἰδούμενος δὲ τοὺς ἔτι ζῶντας τινὰς,
ἐν τοῖσδε φεύγω νῦν τὸ μὴ μακρηγορεῖν.
φέρ ̓ οὖν, ἄριστε, προσδέχου καὐτὸς τόδε
αἰτητὸν οὐκ ὂν, ἀλλὰ δωρητὸν κλέος.

If not to bless us and the land withal,
Yet to draw forth your noble ancestry
From the corruption of abusing time,
Unto a lineal true derived course.

MAYOR. Do, good my Lord, your citizens entreat you.

BUCK. Refuse not, mighty Lord, this proffer'd love.

CATESBY. O make them joyful, grant their lawful suit.

GLO. Alas! why would you heap those cares on me!

I am unfit for state and majesty :
I do beseech you take it not amiss;
I cannot, nor I will not, yield to you.

SHAKSPERE.

κἂν μὴ τυχῇ σοι τήνδε γῆν εὐδαίμονα
ἡμᾶς τε ποιεῖν, ἀλλὰ τὠρχαῖον γένος
σώσας πανώλους ἐκ χρόνου διαφθορᾶς
εἰς ὀρθὸν ἀκραιφνῆ τε μεταβαλεῖς τρόπον.

ΜΑ. Πίθου· πολῖται γὰρ σὲ λιπαροῦσ ̓, ἄναξ.

Β. Μὴ τῶνδε, δέσποτ, εὐμένειαν ἐκβαλῇς.

ΚΑ. Τούτοις χαρίζου ταῦτα τἄννομ ̓ εἰκάθων.

Γ. Φεῦ.

τί τοῦτο κῆδος ἐμβαλεῖν ζητεῖτ ̓ ἐμοί;
οὔ μοι τὸ σεμνὸν οὐδὲ τοὔντιμον πρέπει.
μὴ τοῖσδε δυσφορεῖτε, πρὸς θεῶν, φίλοι.
οὔ μοι πάρεσθ ̓ ἕκοντι πείθεσθαι τάδε.

H. R., 1850.

THE FATAL SISTERS.

Now the storm begins to lower,
(Haste the loom of Hell prepare,)

Iron sleet of arrowy shower

Hurtles in the darken'd air.

Glittering lances are the loom

Where the dusky warp we strain, Weaving many a soldier's doom, Orkney's woe and Randver's bane.

See the grisly texture grow,

('Tis of human entrails made ;) And the weights that play below, Each a gasping warrior's head.

Shafts for shuttles, dipt in gore,

Shoot the trembling cords along ;

Sword, that once a monarch bore,

Keep the tissue close and strong.

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