THE TWO QUEENS-NIGHT AND HANG there, my verse, in witness of my love : survey With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above, Thy huntress' name, that my full life doth sway. O Rosalind! these trees shall be my books, And in their barks my thoughts I'll character; That every eye, which in this forest looks, Shall see thy virtue witness'd every where. AS YOU LIKE IT, A. 3, s. 2. THE TYRANT'S LAST MOMENTS. outward walls; The cry is still, They come! Our castle's strength Will laugh a siege to scorn: here let them lie, Till famine, and the ague, eat them up. Were they not forc'd with those that should be The time has been, my senses would have cool'd To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair Direness, familiar to my slaught'rous thoughts, Cannot once start me.-Wherefore was that cry? SEY. The queen, my lord, is dead. MACB. She should have died hereafter; There would have been a time for such a word.— To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more: it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. MACBETH, A. 5, s. 5. THE UBIQUITY OF THE MIND. My wind, cooling my broth, Would blow me to an ague, when I thought What harm a wind too great might do at sea. I should not see the sandy hour-glass run, But I should think of shallows and of flats And see my wealthy Andrew dock'd in sand, Vailing her high-top lower than her ribs, To kiss her burial. Should I go to church, And see the holy edifice of stone, And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks? Which touching but my gentle vessel's side, Would scatter all her spices on the stream; And, in a word, but even now worth this, thought Shall I have the To think on this; and shall I lack the thought, That such a thing, bechanc'd, would make me sad? MERCHANT Of venice, a. 1, s. 1. TRUTH NOT ALWAYS PLEASANT. THY truth then be thy dower: For, by the sacred radiance of the sun; KING LEAR, A. 1, s. 1. THE UNION OF NATURE AND ART. THE barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne, Burn'd on the water: the poop was beaten gold; Purple the sails, and so perfumed, that The winds were love-sick with them: the oars were silver; Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made The water, which they beat, to follow faster, As amorous of their strokes. person, For her own It beggar'd all description: she did lie Her gentlewomen, like the Nereides, So many mermaids, tended her i'the eyes, Upon her landing, Antony sent to her, It should be better, he became her guest; For what his eyes eat only. I saw her once Hop forty paces through the publick street: And having lost her breath, she spoke, and panted, That she did make defect, perfection, And, breathless, power breathe forth. Cloy th' appetites they feed; but she makes hungry, Where most she satisfies. For vilest things ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA, A. 2, s. 2. THE UNITY OF FAITH WHERE WHEN Proteus cannot love where he's belov'd. Into a thousand oaths; and all those oaths Thou hast no faith left now, unless thou had'st two, And that's far worse than none; better have none Than plural faith, which is too much by one: TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA, A. 5, s. 4. THE UNSEASONED IN TIME OF DANGER. THE devil damn thee black, thou cream-fac'd loon, Where got'st thou that goose look? Go prick thy face, and over-red thy fear, |