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For well we know, no hand of blood and bone
Can gripe the sacred handle of our sceptre,
Unless he do profane, steal, or usurp.

And though you think, that all, as you have done,
Have torn their souls, by turning them from us,
And we are barren, and bereft of friends ;-
Yet know, my master, God omnipotent,
Is mustering in his clouds, on our behalf,
Armies of pestilence; and they shall strike
Your children yet unborn, and unbegot,
That lift your vassal hands against my head
And threat the glory of my precious crown.
Tell Bolingbroke, (for yond, methinks, he is,)
That every stride he makes upon my land,
Is dangerous treason: he is come to ope
The purple testament of bleeding war;
But ere the crown he look for live in peace,
Ten thousand bloody crowns of mothers' sons
Shall ill become the flower of England's face;
Change the complexion of her maid-pale peace
To scarlet indignation, and bedew

Her pastures' grass with faithful English blood.

NORTH. The King of heaven forbid, our lord

the king

Should so with civil and uncivil arms

Be rush'd upon! Thy thrice-noble cousin,

καὶ γὰρ τοσοῦτόν γ' οἶδα μήτιν ̓ ἂν βροτῶν
ὁσίων λαβέσθαι τῶνδε τῶν σκήπτρων χερὶ
εἰ μὴ δι ̓ ὕβρεως, ἢ βίᾳ συλωμένων.
καὶ δῆθ ̓ ἅπαντας ἐξ ἴσου νομίζετε
ὑμῖν προδόντας τἀμὰ λωβᾶσθαι φρένας,
ἡμᾶς τ ̓ ἐρήμους καὶ φίλων ἀνωφελείς·
ἀλλ ̓ ἴσθ ̓, ὁ δαίμων παγκρατὴς, ἐμὸν σέβας,
ἐπωφέλειαν ἡμὶν ἐν νέφων πτυχαῖς
νῦν ἐξαθροίζει, πάμφαγον νόσων στρατόν
σκήψουσι δ' αὗται τοῖς τ ̓ ἀγεννήτοις τέκνοις
καὶ τοῖς ἐπίσποροισιν, οἵ γ ̓ ὑπηκόους
τολμᾶτ ̓ ἐφ' ἡμῖν ὧδ ̓ ἐπαίρεσθαι χέρας,
ὡς ἐξελῶντες τοῦδε φιλτάτου θρόνου.
ἀλλ ̓ εἴπαθ ̓ ὑμεῖς τοῦτό μοι Βολιμβρόκῳ-
ἕστηκε δ' ἡμῶν οὐχ ἕκας, ταύτης ὅτι
γῆς ἐμβατεύων ἀνομίαν ὀφλισκάνει
δεινὴν καθ ̓ ἡμῶν· καὶ γὰρ αἱματοσταγείς
δέλτους ὅδ' Αρεος ὡς ἀναπτύξων πάρα

κράτος δ', ὃ θηρᾷ, πρὶν καθ' ἥσυχον νέμειν,
Ô
κεφαλαὶ πεσοῦνται μυρίων φονορρύτοι
παίδων, προσώπῳ δυσπρεπῆ μιάσματα
χθονὸς πατρῴας, ὥστ ̓ ἐρυθριᾶν χόλῳ,
λευκὴν μεταλλάξασαν εἰρήνης χρόα,

βρέχειν τε πιστὸν αἷμα ποιηροὺς ἀγρούς.

ΝΟΡ. Αλλ' εὔχομαι τὸ σεμνὸν οὐρανοῦ κράτος,

λόγῳ στράτευμ' οἰκεῖον, οὐκ ἔργῳ, τόδε,

τὠμῷ τυράννῳ μὴ προσορμᾶσθαι βία σὲ δ ̓ οὖν, ὁ σὸς μάλ' εὐγενὴς ἀνέψιος,

Harry Bolingbroke, doth humbly kiss thy hand;
And by the honourable tomb he swears,
That stands upon thy royal grandsire's bones ;
And by the royalties of both your bloods,
Currents that spring from one most gracious head ;
And the buried hand of warlike Gaunt;
And by the worth and honour of himself,
Comprising all that may be sworn or said,—
His coming hither hath no further scope,
Than for his lineal royalties, and to beg
Enfranchisement immediate on his knees;
Which on thy royal party granted once,
His glittering arms he will commend to rust,
His barbed steeds to stables, and his heart
To faithful service of your majesty.
This, swears he, as he is a prince, is just ;
And, as I am a gentleman, I credit him.

SHAKSPERE.

ὦναξ, προνοία προσκυνεῖ φιλόφρονι τύμβον τ ̓ ἔνορκος τίμιον μαρτύρεται ὅς σοι τὸ κλεινὸν ἀμπέχει πάππου δέμας, ζεῦγός τε διπλοῦν αἵματος τυραννικοῦ, (δύω ῥέοντε νάματ ̓ ἐκ πηγῆς μιᾶς) Γαυντοῦ τ ̓ ἀρίστου χεῖρα τὴν ὑπὸ χθονὶ, τιμάς θ' ἑαυτοῦ κἀξίωμα συλλαβὼν, καὶ πάνθ ̓ ὅσ ̓ εἰπεῖν ἢ διομνύειν πρέπει, ὡς ἦλθεν οὐ δράσων τι, λιπαρῶν δ ̓ ἃ χρὴ γένους κατ ̓ ἀγχιστεῖα πανδίκως ἔχειν· καὶ τἄλλ ̓, ὅσωνπερ ἐστὶν ἐνδεὴς, γόνυ κάμπτων, λιταῖς τε προσκυνῶν, αιτούμενος· ἃ δῆτ ̓ ἔνορκος εἰ χαρίζεσθαι θέλεις ἤδη τὰ λαμπρὰ διαβόρῳ σκεύη πίνῳ ἵππους χαλινωθέντας ἐπιτρέψει σταθμοῖς καὶ πιστὸν, ὦναξ, κῆρ ὑπουργίᾳ σέθεν. εἶναι δίκαι, ὄμνυσι πρὸς σκήπτρου, τάδε, ὄμνυμι δ' αὐτὸς, πάνθ' ὅσ ̓ εὐόρκως λέγει, πρὸς τοῦδε κρατὸς εὐγενοῦς, ὡς πείθομαι.

A. D. G., 1853

WITCH OF FYFE.

THE Second nycht quhan the new moon set,

O'er the roaring sea we flew ; The cockle-shell our trusty bark, Our sailis of the grein sea-rue.

And the bauld windis blew, and the fire-flauchtis flew,

And the sea ran to the skie;

And the thunner it growlit, and the sea-dogs howlit, As we gaed scouryng bye.

And aye we mountit the sea-grein hillis,

Quhill we brushit thro' the cludis of the hevin ; Than sousit dounright like the stern-shot light, Fra the liftis blue casement driven.

But our taickil stood, and our bark was good,
And sae pang was our pearily prow,
Quhan we culdna speil the brow of the wavis,
We needilit them throu below.

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