Poems on several occasions written by the Honoura ble Sir Robert Howard.
About this Item
Title
Poems on several occasions written by the Honoura ble Sir Robert Howard.
Author
Howard, Robert, Sir, 1626-1698.
Publication
London :: Printed for Francis Saunders ...,
1696.
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Cite this Item
"Poems on several occasions written by the Honoura ble Sir Robert Howard." In the digital collection Early English Books Online. https://name.umdl.umich.edu/A44657.0001.001. University of Michigan Library Digital Collections. Accessed April 30, 2024.
Pages
ACT. 4. SCEN. 5.
Enter Albertus, and Others.
Alb.
HOw far is't to his Quarters now?
1.
A little way, Sir.
Alb.
Be sure that all the Soldiers march in order,And on their lives no outrage to the Country.Let all be done in silence. No Scouts return'd yet?
1.
Not any, Sir.
Alb.
I am jealous of this Court, the King enclinedBut little, suspition could not mingle with his nature,The Princesse has confirm'd him sure; we actOn the uncertain'st Stage, the strangest parts
descriptionPage 107
That ever yet were play'd, I would the worldVVould take it so. VVe have now steptBeyond the power of Retreat or Fortune,The one's too poor for us, and we for t'other.VVe are like tired Gamesters with ill CardsVVeary to hold the game, and yet play onTo save if not to win; perhapsIf we prevailed, Ambition would as wellPlay on the game as now we do,Though from a modester designe.How little ought man to be trusted thenWith power in this world, when even the thingsHe aims to thrive by are the crimes of Kings,Good Princes, like best Juglers, still find firstThe lesser sleights of others. How now,
Enter Mess.
What news?
Mess.
As we were scouting on the way,Which leads unto Cracovia, we espiedThe Body of an Army moving withinTwo hours march.
Alb.
Ha, it must be so—she has don't.Bid instantly Botiscay march with haste,
[exit Mess.
For fear we are hindred joyning with my son.Amidst th••se crimes a little policy does well,It must be so, all we can hope for now will be to makeBut good conditions——To put it to the venture of a day were madnesse,We can have no supplies, they may have more.And yet—I know not what to think,Distractions mingle with my thoughts,
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And we still lose our judgments with successe.Our resolutions waited on us thenLike servants wanting wages. All MankindIs one of those two Cowards,—Either to wish to dieWhen we should live, or live when we should die.Some fear, some wish, too early, or too lateMost fall, yet none must chuse his Fate;Those that prepare for every storm, do seldom castThemselves away,It is but bravely sinking at the last.
[Exit.
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