An age of poverty; from which lingering penance
Of such a misery doth she cut me off.
Commend me to your honourable wife:
Tell her the process of Antonio's end,
Say, how I lov'd you, speak me fair in death;
And, when the tale is told, bid her be judge,
Whether Bassanio had not once a love.
Repent not you that you shall lose your friend,
And he repents not that he pays your debt;
For, if the Jew do cut but deep enough,
I'll pay it instantly with all my heart.

MERCHANT OF VENICE, A. 4, s. 1.

THE SALT OF MANHOOD. WHY, have you any discretion? have you any Is eyes ? Do you know what a man is? not birth, beauty, good shape, discourse, manhood, learning, gentleness, virtue, youth, liberality, and such like, the spice and salt that season a man?

TROILUS AND Cressida, a. 1, s. 2.

THE SEARED HEART.

YET one time he did call me by my name:
I urg'd our old acquaintance, and the drops
That we have bled together. Coriolanus
He would not answer to: forbad all names;
He was a kind of nothing, titleless,

Till he had forg'd himself a name i' the fire
Of burning Rome.

I minded him, how royal 'twas to pardon
When it was less expected: He replied,
It was a bare petition of a state

To one whom they had punish'd.

I offer'd to awaken his regard

For his private friends: His answer to me was, He could not stay to pick them in a pile

Of noisome musty chaff: He said, 'twas folly For one poor grain or two, to leave unburnt, And still to nose the offence.

CORIOLANUS, A. 5, S. I.

THE SEARED HEART.

I TELL you, he does sit in gold, his eye Red as 'twould burn Rome; and his injury The gaoler to his pity. I kneel'd before him; 'Twas very faintly he said, Rise; dismiss'd me Thus, with his speechless hand: What he would do,

He sent in writing after me; what he would not,
Bound with an oath, to yield to his conditions;
So, that all hope is vain,

Unless his noble mother, and his wife;
Who, as I hear, mean to solicit him

For mercy to his country. Therefore, let's hence,
And with our fair entreaties haste them on.

CORIOLANUS, A. 5, s. 1.

THE SETTING OF A GREAT MAN'S

SUN.

THERE was the weight that pull'd me down. O
Cromwell,

The king has gone beyond me, all my glories
In that one woman I have lost for ever:
No sun shall ever usher forth mine honours,
Or gild again the noble troops that waited

Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell;

I am a poor fallen man, unworthy now

To be thy lord and master: Seek the king;
That sun, I pray, may never set! I have told

him

What, and how true thou art: he will advance thee;

Some little memory of me will stir him,

(I know his noble nature,) not to let

Thy hopeful service perish too: Good Cromwell,
Neglect him not; make use now, and provide
For thine own future safety.

Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries; but thou hast forc'd me
Out of thy honest truth to play the woman.
Let's dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Crom-
well;

And,-when I am forgotten, as I shall be;

And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me more must be heard of,—say, I taught

thee;

Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour,-
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ;
A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it.
Mark but my fall, and that that ruin'd me.
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition;
By that sin fell the angels; how can man then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by't?
Love thyself last cherish those hearts that hate
thee;

Corruption wins not more than honesty.

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not:

Let all the ends, thou aim'st at, be thy country's, Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fall'st, O Cromwell,

Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king; And,-Pry'thee, lead me in:

There take an inventory of all I have,

To the last penny; 'tis the king's: my robe,
And my integrity to heaven, is all

I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell,

Had I but serv'd my God with half the zeal
I serv'd my king, he would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies.

Farewell The hopes of court! my hopes in heaven do dwell.

K. HENRY VIII., A. 3, s. 2.

THE SHREW'S PORTRAIT.

O, SHE misused me past the endurance of a block; an oak, but with one green leaf on it, would have answer'd her; my very visor began to assume life, and scold with her: She told me, not thinking I had been myself, that I was the prince's jester; that I was duller than a great thaw; huddling jest upon jest, with such impossible conveyance, upon me, that I stood like a man at a mark, with a whole army shooting at me: She speaks poniards, and every word stabs: if her breath were as terrible as her terminations, there were no living near her, she would infect to the north star. I would not marry her, though she were endowed with all that Adam had left him before he transgressed: she would have made Hercules have turned spit;

yea, and have cleft his club to make the fire too. Come, talk not of her: you shall find her the infernal Até in good apparel. I would to God, some scholar would conjure her; for, certainly, while she is here, a man may live as quiet in hell, as in a sanctuary; and people sin upon purpose, because they would go thither; so, indeed, all disquiet, horror, and perturbation follow her.

Will your grace command me any service to the world's end? I will go on the slightest errand now to the Antipodes, that you can devise to send me on; I will fetch you a toothpicker now from the farthest inch of Asia; bring you the length of Prester John's foot; fetch you a hair off the great Cham's beard; do you any embassage to the Pigmies, rather than hold three words' conference with this harpy.

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING, A. 2, s. 1.

THE SLEEP OF INNOCENCE.
Good gentlemen, look fresh and merrily;
Let not our looks put on our purposes;
But bear it as our Roman actors do,
With untir'd spirits, and formal constancy :
And so, good-morrow to you every one.

[Exeunt all but BRUTUS.
Boy! Lucius!-Fast asleep? It is no matter;
Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber :
Thou hast no figures, nor no fantasies,

Which busy care draws in the brains of men: Therefore thou sleep'st so sound.

JULIUS CÆSAB, A. 2, s. 1.