Thou mighty one! that with thy power has turn'd
Green Neptune into purple,—whose approach
Comets prewarn,—whose havock in vast field
Unearthèd skulls proclaim,—whose breath blows down
The teeming Ceres' foyson,—who dost pluck
With hand armipotent from forth blue clouds
The masoned turrets,—that both mak'st and break'st
The stony girths of cities;—me, thy pup|il,
Young'st follower of thy drum, instruct this day
With military skill, that to thy laud
I may advance my streamer, and by thee
Be styled the lord o' the day: Give me, great Mars,
Some token of thy pleasure!
(Here there is heard clanging of armour, with a short thunder, as the burst of a battle; whereupon they all rise and bow to the altar.)
Shakspere again.
Oh, great Corrector of enormous times!
Shaker of o'er rank states! Thou grand Decid|er
Of dusty and old ti|tles;|—that heal'st with blood
The earth when it is sick, and cur'st the world
O' the pleurisy of people! I do take
Thy signs auspiciously, and in thy name
To my design march boldly. Let us go! (Exeunt.)
Palamon's prayer in V. ii (i. L.) not equal to V. i. or iii. (i. L.), but is yet clearly Shakspere's.
The passionate and sensitive Palamon has chosen the Queen of Love as his Patroness, and it is in her Temple that, in the [47:1]second scene, he puts up his prayers. This scene is not equal to the first or third, having the poetical features less prominently brought out, while the tone of thought is less highly pitched, and also less consistently sustained. But it is distinctly Shakspeare's. The rugged versification is his, and the force of language. Even the incompetent old husband bit is his. One unpleasing sketch of the deformity of decrepit old age, which need not be quoted, is largely impressed with his air of truth, and some personifications already noticed are also in his manner.
Act V. scene ii. (Weber; i. Littledale) is Shakspere's.
A Shakspere touch.
Palamon. Our stars must glister with new fire, or be
To-day extinct: our argument is love!
... (They kneel.)
Hail, sovereign Queen of Secrets! who hast pow|er
To call the fiercest tyrant from his rage
To weep unto a girl!—that hast the might
Even with an eye-glance to choke Mars's drum,
And turn the alarm to whis|pers!|...
What gold-like pow|er
Hast thou not power upon? To Phœbus thou
Add'st flames hotter than his: the heavenly fires
Did scorch his mortal son, thou him: The Hunt|ress
All moist and cold, some say, began to throw
Her bow away and sigh. Take to thy grace
Me thy vowd soldier,—who do bear thy yoke
As 'twere a wreath of roses, yet is heav|ier
Than lead itself, stings more than net|tles:—
I have never been foul-mouthed against thy law;
... I have been harsh
To large confessors, and have hotly askt | them
If they had mothers: I had one,—a wom|an,
And women 'twere they wronged....
Brief,—I am
To those that prate and have done,—no compan|ion;
To those that boast and have not,—a defi|er;
To those that would and cannot,—a rejoi|cer!
Yea, him I do not love, that tells close offices
The foulest way, nor names concealments in
The boldest language: Such a one I am,
And vow that lover never yet made sigh
Truer than I....
(Music is heard, and doves are seen to flutter: they fall upon their faces.)