Yet so much is my poverty of spirit, So mighty and so many my defects, That I would rather hide me from my greatness,— Than in my greatness covet to be hid, 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. More bitterly could I expostulate, Save that, for reverence to some alive, I give a sparing limit to my tongue. ἀλλ ̓ ἐς τοσοῦτον σμίκρ ̓ ὅμως ἐγὼ φρονῶ, 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. * * * * * πρὸς τοῖσδε πικρὰ μᾶλλον ἐγκαλεῖν ἔχω, If not to bless us and the land withal, 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 : SHAKSPERE. κἂν μὴ τυχῇ σοι τήνδε γῆν εὐδαίμονα 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; H. R., 1850. THE FATAL SISTERS. Now the storm begins to lower, 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. |