Properties
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- 15187
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T06:24:48.293Z
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- text
- Prefumes to reach, all the whole heape must die:
Yon sometimes famous Princes, like thy felse,
Drawne by report, adventrous by defire,
Tell thee with speachlesse tongues, and semblance pale,
That without covering, faue yon field of Starres,
Heere they stand Martyrs flaine in **Cupids** Warres;
And with dead cheekes, aduise thee to defist,
For going on deaths not, whom none resist.
**Terr. Antiochus,** I thanke thee, who hath taught,
My frayle mortalitie to know it felse;
And by those fearefull obiectes, to prepare
This body, like to them, to what I must:
For Death remembered should be like a myrrour,
Who tels vs, life’s but breath, to trust it errour:
He make my Will then, and as fickemen doe,
Who know the World, fec Heaven, but feeling woe,
Gripe not at earthly loyes as earft they did;
So I bequeath a happy peace to you,
And all good men, as every Prince should doe,
My ritches to the earth, from whence they came:
But my vnpotted fire of Love, to you:
Thus ready for the way of life or death,
I way te the sharpest blow (**Antiochus**)
A 3. Scorning
I. i. 19—55
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# The Play of
**Anh 10.**
Scorning advice; read the conclusion there
Which read and not expounded, tis decreed,
As these before thee, thou thy felse shalt bleed.
Dough. Of all fayd yet, mayst thou prooue prosperous,
Of all fayd yet, I wish thee happinesse.
Peri. Like a bold Champion I assume the Listes,
Nor aske aduise of any other thought,
But faythfulnesse and courage.
# The Riddle.
I am no Viper, yet I feed
On mothers flesh which did me breed:
I fought a Husband, in which labour,
I found that kindness in a Father;
Hee’s Father, Sonne, and Husband mildly;
I, Mother, Wife; and yet his child:
How they may be, and yet in two,
As you will line resolve it you.
**Abrt:**
Sharpe Phificke is the last: But & you powers!
That giues heaven countlesse eyes to view mens actes,
Why cloude they not their fights perpetually,
If this be true, which makes me pale to read it?
Faire Glasse of light, I lou’d you, and could still,
Were not this glorious Casket stor’d with ill:
But I must tell you, now my thoughts reuolt,
For hee’s no man on whom perfections waite,
That knowing finne within, will touch the gate.
You are a faire Violl, and your fense, the stringes;
Who finger’d to make man his lawfull musicke,
Would draw Heaven downe, and all the Gods to harken:
But being playd vpon before your time,
Hell onely daunceth at so harsh a chime:
Good footh, I care not for you.
**Ant.** Prince Pericle, touch not; vpon thy life;
For that’s an Article within our Law,
As dangerous as the rest: your time’s expir’d,
Either expound now, or receive your sentence.
Peri.
I. i. 56—90
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