Page:The poetical works of William Blake; a new and verbatim text from the manuscript engraved and letterpress originals (1905).djvu/70

 Perhaps more glorious in the philosophic mind. When I sit at my home, a private man, My thoughts are on my gardens and my fields, How to employ the hand that lacketh bread. If Industry is in my diocese, Religion will flourish; each man's heart Is cultivated and will bring forth fruit. This is my private duty and my pleasure; But, as I sit in council with my prince, My thoughts take in the gen'ral good of the whole, And England is the land favour'd by Commerce; For Commerce, tho' the child of Agriculture, Fosters his parent, who else must sweat and toil, And gain but scanty fare. Then, my dear Lord, Be England's trade our care; and we, as tradesmen, Looking to the gain of this our native land.

Clar. O my good Lord, true wisdom drops like honey From your tongue, as from a worship'd oak. Forgive, my Lords, my talkative youth, that speaks Not merely what my narrow observation has Pick'd up, but what I have concluded from your lessons. Now, by the Queen's advice, I ask your leave To dine to-morrow with the Mayor of London: If I obtain your leave, I have another boon To ask, which is the favour of your company. I fear Lord Percy will not give me leave.

Percy. Dear Sir, a prince should always keep his state, And grant his favours with a sparing hand, Or they are never rightly valued. These are my thoughts: yet it were best to go: But keep a proper dignity, for now You represent the sacred person of Your father; 'tis with princes as 'tis with the sun; If not sometimes o'er- clouded, we grow weary Of his officious glory.

Clar. Then you will give me leave to shine sometimes, My Lordi

Lord. Thou hast a gallant spirit, which I fear Will be imposed on by the closer sort.

Clar. Well, I'll endeavour to take Lord Percy's advice; I have been used so much To dignity that I'm sick on't.

Queen Phil. Fie, Fie, Lord Clarence! you proceed not to business, But speak of your own pleasures. I hope their Lordships will excuse your giddiness.

Clar. My Lords, the French have fitted out many Small ships of war, that, like to ravening wolves, Infest our English seas, devouring all Our burden'd vessels, spoiling our naval flocks. The merchants do complain, and beg our aid.