Imatges de pÓgina
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In silence sad,

Trip we after the night's shade:
We the globe can compass soon,
Swifter than the wand'ring moon.

Come now a roundel, and a fairy song;
Then for the third part of a minute, hence:
Some, to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds;
Some, war with rear-mice for their leathern wings,
To make my small elves coats; and some, keep back
The clamorous owl, that nightly hoots, and wonders
At our quaint spirits:

Be kind and courteous to this gentleman;

Hop in his walks, and gambol in his eyes;

Feed him with apricocks, and dewberries,
With purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries;
And pluck the wings from painted butterflies,
To fan the moon-beams from his sleeping eyes:
Nod to him, elves, and do him courtesies.

Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck,
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,
Of healths five fathoms deep; and then anon
Drums in his ear; at which he starts, and wakes,
And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two,
And sleeps again.

And sometimes comes she with a tithe-pig's tail,
Tickling a parson's nose as a' lies asleep,
Then dreams he of another benefice.


Who should be trusted, when one's own right hand

Is perjur'd to the bosom? Protheus,

I am sorry, I must never trust thee more,
But count the world a stranger for thy sakc.
The private wound is deepest.

But, fare thee well, most foul, most fair! farewell!
Thou pure impiety, and impious purity!
For thee I'll lock up all the gates of love,
And on my eye-lids shall conjecture hang,
To turn all beauty into thoughts of harm,
And never shall it more be gracious.

My love to Hermia,

Melted as doth the snow, seems to me now
As the remembrance of an idle gawd,
Which in my childhood I did dote upon.

So the whole ear of Denmark

Is by a forged process of my death
Rankly abus'd.

You told a lie; an odious, damned lie ; Upon my soul, a lie ; a wicked lie.


Death makes no conquest of this conqueror;
For now he lives in fame, though not in life.

The evil, that men do, lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones.

Men's evil manners live in brass: their virtues
We write in water.

Adieu, and take thy praise with thee to heav'n!
Thy ignominy sleep with thee in the grave,
But not remember'd in thy epitaph !

Glory is like a circle in the water,
Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself,

"Till, by broad spreading, it disperse to nought.



Let fame, that all hunt after in their lives,
Live registered upon our brazen tombs,
And then grace us in the disgrace of death.
After my death I wish no other herald,
No other speaker of my living actions,
To keep mine honour from corruption,
But such an honest chronicler as Griffith.

O, your desert speaks loud; and I should wrong it,
To lock it in the wards of covert bosom,

When it deserves with characters of brass

A forted residence, 'gainst the tooth of time
And razure of oblivion.


Tell me, where is fancy bred ;
Or in the heart, or in the head?
How begot, how nourished?
It is engendered in the eyes,
With gazing fed: and fancy dies
In the cradle where it lies.

All impediments in fancy's course

Are motives of more fancy.


What fates impose, that men must needs abide;
It boots not to resist both wind and tide.


O momentary grace of mortal men,

Which we more hunt for than the grace of God
Who builds his hope in air of your fair looks,
Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast;

Ready, with every nod, to tumble down

Into the fatal bowels of the deep.


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.

'Tis the curse of service;
Preferment goes by letter, and affection,
Not by the old gradation, where each second
Stood heir to the first.

She may help you to many fair preferments;
And then deny her aiding hand therein,
And lay those honours on your high desert.

may she not? She may-ay marry, may she,


Whence is that knocking!

How is't with me, when every noise appals me?

His horrid image doth unfix my hair,

And make my seated heart knock at my ribs,
Against the use of nature.

You make me strange

Even to the disposition that I owe,

When now I think you can behold such sights,
And keep the natural ruby of your cheeks,

When mine are blanch'd with fear.

Why, what should be the fear?

I do not set my life at a pin's fee;

And, for my soul, what can it do to that,
Being a thing immortal.

O, these flaws, and starts, (Impostors to true fear,) would well become A woman's story, at a winter's fire,

Authoriz'd by her grandam.

Thou shalt be punish'd for thus frighting me,
For I am sick, and capable of fears;

Oppress'd with wrongs, and therefore full of fears;
A widow, husbandless, subject to fears;

A woman, naturally born to fears;

And though thou now confess, thou did'st but jest,
With my vex'd spirits I cannot take a truce,
But they will quake and tremble all this day.

But that I am forbid

To tell the secrets of my prison-house,

I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word
Would harrow up thy soul; freeze thy young blood;
Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres;
Thy knotted and combined locks to part,

And each particular hair to stand on end,

Like quills upon the fretful porcupine.

The devil damn thee black, thou cream-fac'd loon! Where got'st thou that goose look?

Accursed be the tongue that tells me so,

For it hath cow'd my

better part

of man!

I have almost forgot the taste of fears:

The time has been, my senses would have cool'd
To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair
Would at a dismal treatise rouse, and stir

As life were in't: I have supp'd full of horrors;
Direness, familiar to my slaught' rous thoughts,
Cannot once start me.


He that can endure

To follow with allegiance a fallen lord,

Doth conquer him that did his master conquer,
And earns a place i' the story.

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