Imatges de pÓgina


We are oft to blame in this,

'Tis too much prov'd,—that, with devotion's visage, And pious action, we do sugar o'er

The devil himself.

You vow, and swear, and superpraise my parts,
When, I am sure, you hate me with your hearts.

Thus do I ever make my fool my purse :

For I mine own gain'd knowledge should profane,
If I would time expend with such a snipe,
But for my sport and profit.

So are those crisped snaky golden locks,
Which make such wanton gambols with the wind,
Upon supposed fairness, often known

To be the dowry of a second head,
The scull that bred them, in the sepulchre.

I'll be


your foil, Laertes; in mine ignorance Your skill shall, like a stár i'the darkest night, Stick firy off indeed.


He had a fever when he was in Spain,
And, when the fit was on him, I did mark
How he did shake: 'tis true, this god did shake :
His coward's lips did from their colour fly;

And that same eye, whose bend doth awe the world,
Did lose its lustre:




May be he is not well,

Infirmity doth still neglect all office,

Whereto our health is bound; we're not ourselves, When nature, being oppress'd, commands the mind To suffer with the body.


Oh, who can hold a fire in his hand,
By thinking on the frosty Caucasus?
Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite,
By bare imagination of a feast?

Or wallow naked in December snow,
By thinking on fantastic summer's heat?
Oh no, the apprehension of the good,
Gives but the greater feeling to the worse.

Dangerous conceits, are, in their natures, poisons,
Which, at the first, are scarce found to distaste;
But, with a little act upon the blood,

Burn like the mines of sulphur.

The lunatic, the lover, and the poet,
Are of imagination all compact.


What! can'st thou not forbear me half an hour?
get thee gone, and dig my grave thyself,
And bid the merry bells ring to thine ear,
That thou art crowned, not that I am dead.

Prince. I never thought to hear you speak again
King. Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought:
I stay too long by thee, I weary thee.


Doth thou so hunger for my empty chair,

That thou wilt needs invest thee with my honours,
Before thy hour be ripe? O foolish youth!
Thou seek'st the greatness that will overwhelm thee.


Methinks, nobody should be sad but I:
Yet, I remember, when I was in France,
Young gentlemen would be as sad as night,
Only for wantonness. By my christendom,
So I were out of prison, and kept sheep,
I should be merry as the day is long.

Seldom when

The steeled gaoler is the friend of men.

So we'll live,

And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh
At gilded butterflies; and hear poor rogues
Talk of Court-news, and we'll talk with them too;
Who loses, and who wins; who's in, who's out;
And take upon us the mystery of things,
As if we were God's spies: And we'll wear out,
In a wall'd prison, packs and sets of great ones,
That ebb and flow by th' moon.

What, rate, rebuke, and roughly send to prison
Th' immediate heir of England! was this easy?
May this be wash'd in Lethe, and forgotten?


O, she is fallen

Into a pit of ink! that the wide sea

Hath drops too few to wash her clean again ;
And salt too little, which may season give
To her foul tainted flesh !

Such an act,

That blurs the grace and blush of modesty :
Calls virtue, hypocrite: takes off the rose
From the fair forehead of an innocent love,
And sets a blister there: makes marriage vows
As false as dicer's oaths; O, such a deed,
As from the body of contraction plucks
The very soul; and sweet religion makes
A rhapsody of words.

Within a month;
Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears
Had left the flushing of her galled eyes,
She marry'd:-O most wicked speed.

Why, she would hang on him

As if increase of appetite had grown

By what it fed on: And yet, within a month,—
Let me not think on't ;-Frailty, thy name is woman!

O, Hamlet, what a falling off was there!
From me, whose love was of that dignity,
That it went hand in hand even with the vow
I made to her in marriage; and to decline
Upon a wretch, whose natural gifts were poor
To those of mine!

But virtue, as it never will be mov'd,

Though lewdness court it in a shape of heaven;
So lust, though to a radiant angel link'd,
Will sate itself in a celestial bed,

And prey on garbage.

O, 'tis the spite of hell, the fiend's arch-mock,
To lip a wanton in a secure couch,

And to suppose her chaste.

Look to her, Moor; have a quick eye to see;
She has deceiv'd her father, and may thee.

If I do prove her haggard,

Though that her jesses were my dear heart-strings,
I'd whistle her off, and let her down the wind,
To prey at fortune.

She's gone; I am abus'd; and my relief

Must be to loathe her.

O thou weed,

Who art so lovely fair, and smell'st so sweet,
That the sense aches at thee,-Would, thou had'st
ne'er been born!

I should make very forges of my cheeks,
That would to cinders burn up modesty,
Did I but speak thy deeds.

Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast,
With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts,
(O wicked wit and gifts, that have the power
So to seduce!) won to his shameful lust
The will of my most seeming-virtuous queen.

This was your husband,-Look you now, what follows:
Here is your husband; like a mildew'd ear,
Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes?
Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed,
And batten on this moor? Ha! have you eyes?
You cannot call it, love: for, at your age,
The hey-day in the blood is tame, it's humble,
And waits upon the judgment; And what judgment
Would step from this to this?

What devil was't,

That thus hath cozen'd you at hoodman-blind?
Eyes without feeling, feeling without sight,
Ears without hand or eyes, smelling sans all,
Or but a sickly part of one true sense
Could not so mope.

« AnteriorContinua »