So many miles upon her peaceful bosom,
Frighting her pale-fac'd visages with war?—
waking, according to Richard,
Our peace, which in our country's cradle,
Draws the sweet infant breath of gentle sleep:—
bedrenching "with crimson tempest"
The fresh green lap of fair king Richard's land:—
frighting "fair peace" from "our quiet confines," laying
The summer's dust with showers of blood,
Rained from the wounds of slaughter'd Englishmen:
bruising
Her flowerets with the armed hoofs
Of hostile paces.
Perhaps it is not too fanciful to note in this play a peculiar recoil from the mere instruments of warfare, the contact of the "rude ribs," the "flint bosom," of Barkloughly Castle or Pomfret or