Imatges de pÓgina

Teach me, dear creature, how to think and speak;

Lay open to my earthy gross conceit, Smother'd in errors, feeble, shallow, weak,

The folded meaning of your words' deceit. Against my soul's pure truth why labour you, To make it wander in an unknown field? you a god? would you create me new ? Transform me, then, and to your power I'll yield.




WHAT! are men mad? Hath nature given them eyes

To see this vaulted arch, and the rich crop
Of sea and land, which can distinguish 'twixt
The fiery orbs above, and the twinn'd stones
Upon the number'd beach? and can we not
Partition make with spectacles so precious,
'Twixt fair and foul?

CYMBELINE, A. 1, s. 7.


O! LET me clip you

In arms as sound, as when I woo'd; in heart As merry, as when our nuptial day was done, And tapers burn'd to bedward.

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NESTOR. I have, thou gallant Trojan, seen thee oft,

Labouring for destiny, make cruel way

Through ranks of Greekish youth: and I have seen thee,

As hot as Perseus, spur thy Phrygian steed,
Despising many forfeits and subduements,
When thou hast hung thy advanced sword i' the

Not letting it decline on the declined;
That I have said to some my standers-by,
Lo, Jupiter is yonder, dealing life!

And I have seen thee pause, and take thy breath,
When that a ring of Greeks have hemm'd thee in,
Like an Olympian wrestling: This have I seen;
But this thy countenance, still lock'd in steel,
I never saw till now. I knew thy grandsire,
And once fought with him: he was a soldier

But, by great Mars, the captain of us all,

Never like thee: Let an old man embrace thee; And, worthy warrior, welcome to our tents. ENEAS. 'Tis the old Nestor.

HECTOR. Let me embrace thee, good old chronicle,

That hast so long walk'd hand in hand with time:

Most reverend Nestor, I am glad to clasp thee.




SHE hath abated me of half


train ;

Look'd black upon me; struck me with her tongue,

Most serpent-like, upon the very heart :

All the stor❜d vengeances of heaven fall

On her ungrateful top! Strike her young bones,
You taking airs, with lameness!

You nimble lightnings, dart your blinding flames
Into her scornful eyes! Infect her beauty,
You fen-suck'd fogs, drawn by the powerful sun,
To fall and blast her pride!

KING LEAR, A. 2, s. 4.



When the blood burns, how prodigal the soul
Lends the tongue vows: these blazes, daughter,
Giving more light than heat,-extinct in both,
Even in their promise, as it is a making,—
You must not take for fire. From this time,
Be somewhat scanter of your maiden presence:
Set your entreatments at a higher rate,
Than a command to parley.

HAMLET, A. 1, s. 3.

AGONY OF CONSCIOUSNESS. AY, so, God be wi' you:-Now I am alone. O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I! Is it not monstrous, that this player here, But in a fiction, in a dream of passion, Could force his soul so to his own conceit, That from her working, all his visage wann'd; Tears in his eyes, distraction in his aspect, A broken voice, and his whole function suiting

With forms to his conceit? And all for nothing! For Hecuba?

What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba,

That he should weep for her? What would he do,
Had he the motive and the cue for passion,
That I have? He would drown the stage with

And cleave the general ear with horrid speech;
Make mad the guilty, and appal the free,
Confound the ignorant; and amaze, indeed,
The very faculties of eyes and ears.

Yet I,

A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak,
Like John a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause,
And can say nothing; no, not for a king,
Upon whose property, and most dear life,
A damn'd defeat was made. Am I a coward?
Who calls me villain? breaks my pate across?
Plucks off my beard, and blows it in my face?
Tweaks me by the nose? gives me the lie i' the

As deep as to the lungs? Who does me this?

Why, I should take it: for it cannot be,
But I am pigeon-liver'd, and lack gall
To make oppression bitter; or, ere this,
I should have fatted all the region kites
With this slave's offal: Bloody, bawdy villain!
Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless vil-

Why, what an ass am I! This is most brave;
That I, the son of a dear father murder'd,
Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell,
Must, like a whore, unpack my heart with words,
And fall a cursing, like a very drab,

A scullion!

Fye upon't! foh!

I have heard,

About my brain! Humph!

That guilty creatures, sitting at a play,
Have by the very cunning of the scene
Been struck so to the soul, that presently
They have proclaim'd their malefactions;

For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ. I'll have these players

Play something like the murder of my father,
Before mine uncle: I'll observe his looks;
I'll tent him to the quick; if he do blench,
I know my course. The spirit that I have seen,
May be a devil: and the devil hath power
To assume a pleasing shape: yea, and, perhaps,
Out of my weakness, and my melancholy,
(As he is very potent with such spirits,)
Abuses me to damn me: I'll have grounds
More relative than this: The play's the thing,
Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king.

HAMLET, A. 2, s. 2.


PORTIA. Go, draw aside the curtains, and discover

The several caskets to this noble prince :-
Now make your choice.

MOROCCO. The first, of gold, who this inscription bears ;

Who chooseth me, shall gain what many men desire. The second, silver, which this promise carries ;Who chooseth me, shall get as much as he deserves. This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt;—

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