Warwick.  How shall I enter on this graceless errand?  I must not call her child; for where’s the father That will in such a suit seduce his child?  Then, Wife of Salisbury;—­shall I so begin?  No, he’s my friend; and where is found the friend That will do friendship such endamagement?—­{255} Neither my daughter, nor my dear friend’s wife, I am not Warwick, as thou think’st I am, But an attorney from the court of hell; That thus have housed my spirit in his form To do a message to thee from the king.

This beginning is fair enough, if not specially fruitful in promise; but the verses following are of the flattest order of commonplace.  Hay and grass and the spear of Achilles—­of which tradition

            the moral is,
   What mighty men misdo, they can amend—­

these are the fresh and original types on which our little poet is compelled to fall back for support and illustration to a scene so full of terrible suggestion and pathetic possibility.

The king will in his glory hide thy shame;
And those that gaze on him to find out thee
Will lose their eyesight, looking on the sun. 
What can one drop of poison harm the sea,
Whose hugy vastures can digest the ill
And make it lose its operation?

And so forth, and so forth; ad libitum if not ad nauseam.  Let us take but one or two more instances of the better sort.

   Countess.  Unnatural besiege!  Woe me unhappy,
   To have escaped the danger of my foes,
   And to be ten times worse invir’d by friends!

(Here we come upon two more words unknown to Shakespeare; {256} besiege, as a noun substantive, and invired for environed.)

   Hath he no means to stain my honest blood
   But to corrupt the author of my blood
   To be his scandalous and vile soliciter? 
   No marvel though the branches be infected,
   When poison hath encompassed the roots;
   No marvel though the leprous infant die,
   When the stern dam envenometh the dug. 
   Why then, give sin a passport to offend,
   And youth the dangerous rein of liberty;
   Blot out the strict forbidding of the law;
   And cancel every canon that prescribes
   A shame for shame or penance for offence. 
   No, let me die, if his too boisterous will
   Will have it so, before I will consent
   To be an actor in his graceless lust.

Warwick.  Why, now thou speak’st as I would have thee speak; And mark how I unsay my words again.  An honourable grave is more esteemed Than the polluted closet of a king; The greater man, the greater is the thing, Be it good or bad, that he shall undertake; An unreputed mote, flying in the sun, Presents a greater substance than it is; The freshest summer’s day doth soonest taint The loathed carrion that it seems to kiss; Deep are the blows made with a mighty