I might have said, "No part of it is mine; This shame derives itself from unknown loins"!

But mine, and mine I lov'd, and mine I prais'd,

And mine that I was proud on; mine so much,

That I myself was to myself not mine,
Valuing of her; why, she-O, she is fall'n
Into a pit of ink! that the wide sea
Hath drops too few to wash her clean again;
And salt too little, which may season give
To her foul tainted flesh!

M. A., IV: 1. 245.

Thou seek'st the greatness that will overwhelm thee.

Stay but a little; for my cloud of dignity
Is held from falling with so weak a wind,
That it will quickly drop: my day is dim.
Thou hast stol'n that, which, after some few
hours,

Were thine without offence; and, at my death,

Thou hast seal'd up my expectation:
Thy life did manifest, thou lov'dst me not,
And thou wilt have me die assured of it.
Thou hid'st a thousand daggers in thy
thoughts;

Which thou hast whetted on thy stony heart,
To stab at half an hour of my life.

What! canst thou not forbear me half an hour?

Then get thee gone; and dig my grave thy

APPAREL.-Petrucio's Wonderful.

:

Bion. Why, Petrucio is coming, in a new hat and an old jerkin; a pair of old breeches thrice turn'd; a pair of boots that have been candle-cases, one buckled, another lac'd; an old rusty sword ta'en out of the town armoury, with a broken hilt, and chapeless; with two broken points: his horse hipp'd with an old mothy saddle, and stirrups of no kindred besides, possessed with the glanders, and like to mose in the chine; troubled with the lampass, infected with the fashions, full of windgalls, sped with spavins, raied with the yellows, past cure of the fives, stark spoil'd with the staggers, begnawn with the bots; sway'd in the back, and shoulder-shotten; ne'er legged before; and with a half-cheeked bit, and a head-stall of sheep's leather, which, being restrain'd to keep him from stumbling, hath been often burst, and now repaired with knots; one girth six times piec'd, and a woman's crupper of velure, which hath two letters for her name, fairly set down in studs, and here and there piec'd with packthread.

Bap. Who comes with him?

Bion. O, sir, his lackey, for all the world caparison'd like the horse; with a linen stock on one leg, and a kersey boot-hose on the other, gartered with a red and blue list; an old hat, and "The humour of forty fancies" pricked in 't for a feather: a monster, a very monster in apparel.

T. S., III: 2. 468.

APPEAL.—Queen Katharine's.

Q. Kath. Sir, I desire you, do me right and justice;

And to bestow your pity on me: for
I am a most poor woman, and a stranger,
Born out of your dominions; having here
No judge indifferent, nor no more assurance
Of equal friendship and proceeding. Alas,
sir,

In what have I offended you? what cause Hath my behaviour given to your displeasure,

That thus you should proceed to put me off, And take your good grace from me? Heav

en witness,

I have been to you a true and humble wife,
At all times to your will conformable:
Ever in fear to kindle your dislike,
Yea, subject to your countenance; glad, or

sorry

As I saw it inclin'd. When was the hour, I ever contradicted your desire,

Or made it not mine too? Or which of your friends

Have I not strove to love, although I knew.
He were mine enemy? what friend of mine
That had to him deriv'd your anger, did I
Continue in my liking? nay, gave notice
He was from thence discharg'd? Sir, call
to mind

That I have been your wife, in this obedience,

Upward of twenty years, and have been

blest

With many children by you: If, in the

course

And process of this time, you can report, And prove it too, against mine honour aught,

My bond to wedlock, or my love and duty,
Against your sacred person, in God's name,
Turn me away; and let the foul'st contempt
Shut door upon me, and so give me up
To the sharpest kind of justice.

H. VIII., II: 4. 1071. APPEARANCE.-May Cover Valor. K. Hen. * *

Good God! why should they mock poor fellows thus?

The man, that once did sell the lion's skin While the beast lived, was kill'd with hunting him.

A many of our bodies shall, no doubt,
Find native graves; upon the which, I trust,
Shall witness live in brass of this day's

work;

And those that leave their valiant bones in France,

Dying like men, though buried in your dunghills,

They shall be fam'd; for there the sun shall greet them,

And draw their honours reeking up to heaven;

Leaving their earthly parts to choke your clime,

The smell whereof shall breed a plague in France.

Mark then a bounding valour in our English;

That, being dead, like to the bullet's graz

ing,

Break out into a second course of mischief,

Killing in relapse of mortality.

Let me speak proudly:- Tell the Constable,

We are but warriors for the working day: Our gayness, and our gilt, are all besmirched

With rainy marching in the painful field; There's not a piece of feather in our host, (Good argument, I hope, we shall not fly,) And time hath worn us into slovenry: But, by the mass, our hearts are in the trim: And my poor soldiers tell me yet ere night

They'll be in fresher robes; or they will pluck

The gay new coats o'er the French soldiers' heads,

And turn them out of service.

What damned error, but some sober brow Will bless it, and approve it with a text, Hiding the grossness with fair ornament? There is no vice so simple, but assumes Some mark of virtue on his outward parts. How many.cowards, whose hearts are all as false

As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars, Who, inward search'd, have livers white as milk!

And these assume but valour's excrement, To render them redoubted! Look on beauty, And you shall see 't is purchas'd by the weight;

Which therein works a miracle in nature,
Making them lightest that wear most of it:
So are those crisped snaky golden locks,
Which make such wanton gambols with the
wind,

Upon supposed fairness, often known
To be the dowry of a second head,
The skull that bred them in the sepulchre.
Thus ornament is but the guiled shore

To a most dangerous sea; the beauteous scarf

Veiling an Indian beauty; in a word,
The seeming truth which cunning times put

Fal. Not so, my lord; your ill angel is light; but, I hope, he that looks upon me, will take me without weighing: and yet, in some respects, I grant, I cannot go, I cannot tell: Virtue is of so little regard in these costermonger times, that true valour is turned bear-herd: Pregnancy is made a tapster, and hath his quick wit wasted in giving reckonings: all the other gifts appertinent to man, as the malice of this age shapes them, are not worth a gooseberry. You, that are old, consider not the capacities of us that are young: you measure the heat of our livers with the bitterness of your galls and we that are in the vaward of our youth, I must confess, are wags too.

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