Imatges de pÓgina
PDF
EPUB

ANATHEMA ON SELF, IF GUILTY.

O, THEN my best blood turn

To an infected jelly; and my name

Be yok'd with his, that did betray the Best!
Turn then my freshest reputation to

A savour, that may strike the dullest nostril
Where I arrive; and my approach be shunn'd,
Nay, hated too, worse than the great'st infection
That e'er was heard, or read!

WINTER'S TALE, A. 1, s. 2.

ANATOMY OF FRIENDSHIP.

LORD. Might we but have that happiness, my lord, that you would once use our hearts, whereby we might express some part of our zeals, we should think ourselves for ever perfect.

TIMON. O, no doubt, my good friends; but the gods themselves have provided that I shall have much help from you: How had you been my friends else? why have you that charitable title from thousands, did you not chiefly belong to my heart? I have told more of you to myself, than you can with modesty speak in your own behalf; and thus far I confirm you. 0, you gods, think I, what need we have any friends, if we should ne'er have need of them? they were the most needless creatures living, should we ne'er have use for them: and would most resemble sweet instruments hung up in cases, that keep their sounds to themselves. Why, I have often wished myself poorer, that I might come nearer to you. We are born to do benefits; and what better or properer can we call our own, than the riches of our friends?

O, what a precious comfort 'tis, to have so many, like brothers, commanding one another's fortunes! O joy, e'en made away ere it can be born! Mine eyes cannot hold out water, methinks; to forget their faults, I drink to you.

TIMON OF ATHENS, A. 1, s. 2.

AN OLD SINNER ACTING THE
CHARACTER OF VIRTUE.

HARRY, I do not only marvel where thou spendest thy time, but also how thou art accompanied for though the camomile, the more it is trodden on, the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears. That thou art my son, I have partly thy mother's word, partly my own opinion; but chiefly, a villainous trick of thine eye, and a foolish hanging of thy nether lip, that doth warrant me. If, then, thou be son to me, here lies the point;Why, being son to me, art thou so pointed at ? Shall the blessed sun of heaven prove a micher, and eat blackberries ? a question not to be asked. Shall the son of England prove a thief, and take purses ? a question to be asked. There is a thing, Harry, which thou hast often heard of, and it is known to many in our land by the name of pitch: this pitch, as ancient writers do report, doth defile; so doth the company thou keepest: for, Harry, now I do not speak to thee in drink, but in tears; not in pleasure, but in passion; not in words only, but in woes also:And yet there is a virtuous man, whom I have often noted in thy company, but I know not his

name.

A good portly man, i'faith, and a corpulent; of a cheerful look, a pleasing eye, and a most noble carriage; and, as I think, his age some fifty, or, by'r-lady, inclining to threescore; and, now I remember me, his name is Falstaff: if that man should be lewdly given, he deceiveth me; for, Harry, I see virtue in his looks. If then the tree may be known by the fruit, as the fruit by the tree, then, peremptorily I speak it, there is virtue in that Falstaff: him keep with, the rest banish. And tell me now, thou naughty varlet, tell me, where hast thou been this month?

K. HENRY IV., Part I., A. 2, s. 4.

AN OVER GENEROUS NATURE RE-
ACTING AGAINST ITSELF.

O, BLESSED breeding sun, draw from the earth
Rotten humidity; below thy sister's orb
Infect the air! Twinn'd brothers of one womb,-
Whose procreation, residence, and birth,

Scarce is dividant,-touch them with several fortunes;

The greater scorns the lesser: Not nature, To whom all sores lay siege, can bear great fortune,

But by contempt of nature.

Raise me this beggar, and denude that lord:
The senator shall bear contempt hereditary,
The beggar native honour.

It is the pasture lards the brother's sides,
The want that makes him lean. Who dares,
'who dares,

In purity of manhood stand upright,
And say, This man's a flatterer? if one be,
So are they all; for every grize of fortune
Is smooth'd by that below: the learned pate
Ducks to the golden fool: All is oblique;
There's nothing level in our cursed natures,
But direct villainy. Therefore, be abhorr'd
All feasts, societies, and throngs of men!
His semblable, yea, himself, Timon disdains:
Destruction fang mankind!-Earth, yield me
[Digging.
Who seeks for better of thee, sauce his palate
With thy most operant poison! What is here?
Gold? yellow, glittering, precious gold? No,
gods,

roots!

I am no idle votarist. Roots, you clear heavens! Thus much of this, will make black, white; foul, fair;

Wrong, right; base, noble; old, young; coward, valiant.

Ha, you gods! why this? What this, you gods? Why, this

Will lug your priests and servants from your sides;

Pluck stout men's pillows from below their heads:

This yellow slave

Will knit and break religions; bless the accurs'd;
Make the hoar leprosy ador'd; place thieves,
And give them title, knee, and approbation,
With senators on the bench: this is it,
That makes the wappen'd widow wed again;
She, whom the spital-house, and ulcerous sores
Would cast the gorge at, this embalms and
spices

To the April day again. Come, damned earth,

Thou common whore of mankind, that put'st odds

Among the rout of nations, I will make thee
Do thy right nature.-[March afar off]-Ha!
a drum ?-Thou'rt quick,

But yet I'll bury thee: Thou'lt go, strong thief,
When gouty keepers of thee cannot stand :-
Nay, stay thou out, for earnest.

[Keeping some gold.

TIMON OF ATHENS, A. 4, s. 3.

ANTAGONISM OF THE SOLDIER AND THE PRIEST.

You are for dreams and slumbers, brother priest, You fur your gloves with reason. Here are your

reasons:

You know, an enemy intends you harm;
You know, a sword employed is perilous,
And reason flies the object of all harm :
Who marvels, then, when Helenus beholds
A Grecian and his sword, if he do set
The very wings of reason to his heels,
And fly like chidden Mercury from Jove,
Or like a star dis-orb'd?-Nay, if we talk of

reason,

Let's shut our gates, and sleep: Manhood and honour

Should have hare hearts, would they but fat their thoughts

With this cramm'd reason; reason and respect Make livers pale, and lustihood deject.

TROILUS AND CRESSIDA, A. 2, s. 2.

« AnteriorContinua »