That never tarnishes: whether Third Edward,
Or the Prince of Wales, or Montacute, or Mortimer, 29
Or ev'n the least by birth, shall gain the brightest fame,
Is in his hand to whom all men are equal.
The world of men are like the num'rous stars
That beam and twinkle in the depth of night, 33
Each clad in glory according to his sphere;
But we, that wander from our native seats
And beam forth lustre on a darkling world,
Grow larger as we advance: and some, perhaps 37
The most obscure at home, that scarce were seen
To twinkle in their sphere, may so advance
That the astonish'd world, with uptum'd eyes,
Regardless of the moon, and those that once were bright, 41
Stand only for to gaze upon their splendor.
[He here knights the Prince, and other young Nobles.]
Now let us take a just revenge for those
Brave Lords, who fell beneath the bloody axe
At Paris. Thanks, noble Harcourt, for 'twas 45
By your advice we landed here in Brittany,
A country not yet sown with destruction.
And where the fiery whirlwind of swift war
Has not yet swept its desolating wing. 49
Into three parties we divide by day,
And separate march, but join again at night;
Each knows his rank, and Heav'n marshal all. [Exeunt.
SCENE, English Court. Lionel, Duke of Clarence; Queen Philippa; Lords; Bishop; &c.
Clarence. My Lords, I have by the advice of her 1
Whom I am doubly bound to obey, my Parent
And my Sovereign, call'd you together.
My task is great, my burden heavier than
My unfledg'd years; 5
Yet, with your kind assistance. Lords, I hope
England shall dwell in peace; that, while my father
Toils in his wars, and turns his eyes on this
His native shore, and sees commerce fly round 9
With his white wings, and sees his golden London
And her silver Thames, throng'd with shining spires
And corded ships, her merchants buzzing round
Like summer bees, and all the golden cities 13
In his land overflowing with honey,
Glory may not be dimm'd with clouds of care.
Say, Lords, should not our thoughts be first to commerce?
My Lord Bishop, you would recommend us agriculture? 17
Bishop. Sweet Prince, the arts of peace are great,
And no less glorious than those of war,
