Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors,

My very noble and approv'd good masters,

That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter,

It is most true; true, I have married her:

The very head and front of my offending

Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech,

And little bless'd with the soft phrase of peace:

For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith,

Till now some nine moons wasted, they have used

Their dearest action in the tented field,

And little of this great world can I speak,

More than pertains to feats of broil and battle,

And therefore little shall I grace my cause

In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience,

I will a round unvarnish'd tale deliver

Of my whole course of love.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Othello. Act i. Sc. 3.

Each in his narrow cell forever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

Thomas Gray (1716-1771): Elegy in a Country Churchyard. Stanza 4.

May no rude hand deface it,

And its forlorn hic jacet!

William Wordsworth (1770-1850): Ellen Irwin.

And raw in fields the rude militia swarms,

Mouths without hands; maintain'd at vast expense,

In peace a charge, in war a weak defence;

Stout once a month they march, a blustering band,

And ever but in times of need at hand.

John Dryden (1631-1701): Cymon and Iphigenia. Line 400.

The rude sea grew civil at her song,

And certain stars shot madly from their spheres

To hear the sea-maid's music.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): A Midsummer Night's Dream. Act ii. Sc. 1.

Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!

This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth

The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms,

And bears his blushing honours thick upon him;

The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,

And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely

His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root,

And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,

Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,

This many summers in a sea of glory,

But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride

At length broke under me and now has left me,

Weary and old with service, to the mercy

Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me.

Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye:

I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched

Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours!

There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to,

That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,

More pangs and fears than wars or women have:

And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,

Never to hope again.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): King Henry VIII. Act iii. Sc. 2.