Part 23 (1/2)
(_Henry VI._)
If there were reason for these miseries, Then into limits could I bind my woes; When heaven doth weep, doth not the earth o'er-flow?
If the winds rage, doth not the sea wax mad, Threatening the welkin with his big-swoln face?
And wilt thou have a reason for this coil?
I am the sea: hark, how her sighs do blow!
She is the weeping welkin, I the earth; Then must my sea be moved with her sighs; Then must my earth with her continual tears Become a deluge, overflow'd and drowned.
(_t.i.tus Andronicus._)
This battle fares like to the morning's war When dying clouds contend with growing light, What time the shepherd blowing of his nails Can neither call it perfect day nor night.
Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea Forced by the tide to combat with the wind; Now sways it that way, like the self-same sea Forced to retire by fury of the wind.
Sometime the flood prevails and then the wind: Now one the better, then another best; Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast, Yet neither conqueror nor conquered.
So is the equal poise of this fell war.
(_Henry VI._)
In the last five examples the epic treatment and the personifications are noteworthy.
Comparisons from animal life are forcible and striking:
How like a deer, stricken by many princes, Dost thou lie here! (_Julius Caesar._)
Richard III. is called:
The wretched b.l.o.o.d.y and usurping boar That spoil'd your summer fields and fruitful vines, Swills your warm blood like wash and makes his trough In your embowell'd bosoms; this foul swine Lies now even in the centre of this isle.
The tiger now hath seized the gentle hind.
(_Richard III._)
The smallest objects are noted:
As flies to wanton boys are we to the G.o.ds; They kill us for their sport. (_King Lear._)
_Marcus_: Alas! my lord, I have but kill'd a fly.
_t.i.tus_: But how if that fly had a father and a mother?
How would he hang his slender gilded wings, And buzz lamenting doings in the air!
Poor harmless fly!
That, with his pretty buzzing melody, Came here to make us merry! and thou Hast kill'd him!
(_t.i.tus Andronicus._)
Shakespeare has abundance of this idyllic miniature painting, for which all the literature of the day shewed a marked taste.
Tamora says:
My lovely Aaron, wherefore look'st thou sad, When everything doth make a gleeful boast?
The birds chant melody on every bush, The snake lies rolled in the cheerful sun, The green leaves quiver with the cooling wind And make a chequer'd shadow on the ground.
(_t.i.tus Andronicus._)
And Valentine in _Two Gentlemen of Verona_:
This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods, I better brook than flouris.h.i.+ng peopled towns; Here can I sit alone, unseen of any, And to the nightingale's complaining notes Tune my distresses and record my woes.