“rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot
Straight at the heart of yon prowling vidette;
Ring me a ball in the glittering spot
That shines on his breast like an amulet!”
“Ah, captain! here goes for a fine-drawn bead,
There ’s music around when my barrel ’s in tune!”
Crack! went the rifle, the messenger sped,
And dead from his horse fell...
From “King Richard III.,” Act I. Sc. 1.
NOW is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York,
And all the clouds that lowered upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;
Our bruisèd arms hung up for monuments;
Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,...
