Imatges de pÓgina

These tidings nip me and I hang the head

As flowers with frost, or grass beat down with storms.

O break, my heart!-poor bankrupt, break at once!
To prison, eyes! ne'er look on liberty!

Vile earth, to earth resign; end motion here;
And thou, and Romeo, press one heavy bier.

All things, that we ordained festival,
Turn from their office to black funeral:
Our instruments, to melancholy bells:
Our wedding cheer, to a sad burial feast;
Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change;
Our bridal flowers serve for a bury'd corse,
And all things change them to the contrary.

Once a day I'll visit
The chapel where they lie: and tears, shed there,
Shall be my recreation: so long as Nature
Will bear with this exercise, so long


I daily vow to use it.

No, I'll not weep :

I have full cause of weeping; but this heart
Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws,

Or ere I'll weep:-0, fool, I shall



Thou think'st 'tis much, that this contentious storm
Invades us to the skin so 'tis to thee;

But where the greater malady is fix'd,

The lesser is scarce felt. When the mind's free,
The body's delicate: the tempest in my mind
Doth from my senses take all feeling else,

Save what beats there.

What is he, whose grief

Bears such an emphasis? whose phrase of sorrow Conjures the wand'ring stars, and makes them stand Like wonder-wounded hearers.

My grief lies all within,

And these external manners of laments

Are merely shadows to the unseen grief,
That swells with silence in the tortur'd soul.

Thou canst not speak of what thou dost not feel;
Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love,
An hour but marry'd, Tybalt murdered,
Doating like me, and like me banished,

Then might'st thou speak, then might'st thou tear thy hair,

And fall upon the ground, as I do now,

Taking the measure of an unmade grave.

Many a morning hath he there been seen,

With tears augmenting the fresh morning's dew,
Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs.

There's nothing in this world, can make me joy :
Life is as tedious as a twice told tale,

Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man.

Yea, this man's brow, like to a title leaf,
Foretells the nature of a tragic volume:

So looks the strand, whereon th' imperious flood
Hath left a witness'd usurpation.

Let not your ears despise my tongue for ever,
Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound,
That ever yet they heard.

What, man! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows;
Give sorrow words: the grief, that does not speak,
Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break,

Affliction is enamour'd of thy parts,
And thou art wedded to calamity.

Being that

I flow in grief, the smallest twine might lead me.

And but he's something stain'd

With grief, that's beauty's canker, thou might'st call him

A goodly person.

Of comfort no man speak :
Let's talk of graves, of worms, of epitaphs;
Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.
Let's choose executors, and talk of wills;
And yet not so,-for what can we bequeath,
Save our deposed bodies to the ground?

O, I could play the woman with mine eyes,
And braggart with my tongue!

Malcolm. Dispute it like a man.
Macduff. I shall do so;

But 1 must also feel it like a man:

I cannot but remember such things were
That were most precious to me.

O, give me thy hand,

One writ with me in sour misfortune's book!

Now my soul's palace is become a prison:

Ah, would she break from hence! that this my body Might in the ground be closed up in rest:

For never henceforth shall I joy again.

O insupportable! O heavy hour!

Methinks, it should be now a huge eclipse

Of sun and moon; and that the affrighted globe
Should yawn at alteration.

Spirits of peace where are ye? Are ye all gone?
And leave me here in wretchedness behind ye?

Like the lily,

That once was mistress of the field, and flourished, I'll hang my head, and perish.

She shook

The holy water from her heavenly eyes,
And then retir'd, to deal with grief alone.

Accursed and unquiet wrangling days!
How many of you have mine eyes beheld.

Oh! grief hath chang'd me, since you saw me last;
And careful hours, with time's deformed hand
Have written strange defeatures in my face.

All of us have cause

To wail the dimming of our shining star;

But none can cure their harms by wailing them.

Let us not burthen our remembrances

With a heaviness that's gone.

No deeper wrinkles yet? hath sorrow struck


many blows upon this face of mine,

And made no deeper wounds? Oh flatt'ring glass, Like to my followers in prosperity,

Thou dost beguile me!

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased;
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow;
Raze out the written troubles of the brain;
And, with some sweet oblivious antidote,
Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff,
Which weighs upon the heart?

Come what come may;

Time and the hour runs through the roughest day.


Thou best know'st

What torment I did find thee in: thy groans

Did make wolves howl, and penetrate the breasts
Of ever-angry bears.

Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come,
Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius,
For Cassius is aweary of the world:

Hated by one he loves; brav'd by his brother;
Check'd like a bondman; all his faults observ'd,
Set in a note-book, learn'd, and conn'd by rote,
To cast into my teeth. O, I could weep
My spirit from mine eyes!

I have in equal balance justly weigh'd


What wrongs our arms may do, what wrongs we suffer,
And find our griefs heavier than our offences.

My lord, as I was sewing in my closet,
Lord Hamlet, with his doublet all unbrac'd ;
No hat upon his head; his stockings foul'd,
Ungarter'd, and down-gyved to his ancle;
Pale as his shirt; his knees knocking each other;
And with a look so piteous in purport,

As if he had been loosed out of hell,
To speak of horrors, he comes before me.


Go, go, be gone, to save your ship from wreck ;
Which cannot perish, having thee on board,
Being destined to a drier death on shore.


If it were now to die,

"Twere now to be most happy; for, 1 fear,
My soul hath her content so absolute,

That not another comfort like to this
Succeeds in unknown fate.

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