しまらいおんの日記

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13.FUNERAL DIRGE

FUNERAL DIRGE.
(Sung by a Mother over her Son.)

Call for the robin redbreast and the wren,
Since o'er shady groves they hover,
And with leaves of flowers do cover
The friendless bodies of unburied men.
Call unto his funeral dole
The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole,
To raise him hillocks that shall heep him warm ;
And when gay tombs are robb'd sustain no harm :
But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men,
For with his nails he 'll dig them up again.

11.A WICKED DREAM

A WICKED DREAM.

Vittoria Corombona. To pass away the time I'll tell your grace
A dream I had last night.
Brachiano. Most wishedly.
Vittoria Corombona. A foolish idle dream.
Methought I walk'd, about the mid of night,
Into a churchyard, where a goodly yew-tree
Spread her large root in ground. Under that yew,
As I sat sadly leaning on a grave
Checquer'd with cross-sticks, there came stealing in
Your duchess and my husband ; one of them
A pickaxe bore, th' other a rusty spade,
And in rough terms they 'gan to challenge me
About this yew.
Brack. That tree ?
Vittoria Corombona. This harmless yew.
They told me my intent was to root up
That well-known yew, and plant in the stead of it
A withered blackthorn : and for that they vow'd
To bury me alive. My husband straight
With pickaxe 'gan to dig ; and your fell duchess
With shovel, like a fury, voided out
The earth, and scattered bones : Lord, how, methought,
I trembled, and yet for all this terror
I could not pray.
Flamineo (aside). No; the devil was in your dream.
Vittoria Corombona. When to my rescue there arose, methought,
A whirlwind, which let fall a massy arm
From that strong plant;
And both were struck dead by tliat sacred yew,
In that base shallow grave which was their due.
Flamineo {aside). Excellent devil! she hath taught him in a dream
To make away his duchess and her husband.

Webster.

10.PATIENCE

PATIENCE.

Duke. What comfort do you find in being so calm ?
Candido. That which green wounds receive from sovereign balm.
Patience, my lord! why, 'tis the soul of peace ;
Of all the virtues 'tis nearest kin to heaven;
It makes men look like gods. The best of men
That e'er wore earth about him was a sufferer,
A soft, meek, patient,humble, tranquil spirit,
The first true gentleman that ever breath'd.
The stock of patience then cannot be poor ;
All it desires, it has ; what award more ?
It is the greatest enemy to law
That can be, for it doth embrace all wrongs,
And so chains up lawyers and women's tongues :
'Tis the perpetual prisoner's liberty,
His walks and orchards : 'tis the bond-slave's freedom,
And makes him seem proud of his iron chain,
As though he wore it more for state than pain;
It is the beggars' music, and thus sings,
Although their bodies beg, their souls are kings.
O my dread liege ! it is the sap of bliss,
Bears us aloft, makes men and angels kiss :
And last of all, to end a household strife,
It is the honey 'gainst a waspish wife.

Decker.