« ÎnapoiContinuați »
Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,
III.-LAUGHTER ON SEEING A SHREWD BUFFOON.
A FOOL, a fool! I met a fool i'th'forest, A motley fool, a miserable varlet! As I do live by food I met a fool, Who laid him down, and bask'd him in the sun, And rail'd on lady Fortune in good terms; In good set terms—and yet a motley fool. Good morrow, fool, quoth I. No, sir, quoth he, Call me not fool, till heav'n hath sent me fortune. And then he drew a dial from his poke, And looking on it with lack-lustre eye, Says very wisely, it is ten o'clock: Thus may we see, quoth he, how the world wags; 'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine, And after one hour more 'twill be eleven; And so from hour to hour we ripe and ripe, And then from hour to hour we rot and rot; And thereby hangs a tale. When I did hear The motley fool thus moral on the time, My lungs began to crow like chanticleer, That fools should be so deep contemplative; And I did laugh, sans intermission, An hour by his dial. O noble fool! A worthy fool! Motley's the only wear.
As You Like It.
IV.-RALLYING A PERSON FOR BEING MELANCHOLY.
Let me play the fool With Mirth and Laughter; so let wrinkles come, And let my liver rather heat with wine, Than my heart cool with mortifying groans. Why should a man, whose blood is warm within, Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster ? Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the jaundice By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio, (I love thee, and it is my love that speaks,) There are a sort of men whose visages Do cream and mantle like a standing pond, And do a wilful stillness entertain, With purpose to be dress’d in an opinion Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit, As who should say, I am, Sir Oracle, And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark! I'll tell thee more of this another time; But fish not with this melancholy bait For this fool's gudgeon, this opinion. Come, good Lorenzo, fare ye well a while, I'll end my exhortation after dinner.
Merchant of Venice.
V.SCOFFING AT SUPPOSED COWARDICE.
Satan beheld their plight, And to his mates thus in derision callid: O friends, why come not on those victors proud ? Erewhile they fierce were coming and when we, To entertain them fair with open front And breast, (what could we more?) propounded terms. Of composition, straight they chang'd their minds, Flew off, and into strange vagaries fell, As they would dance: yet for a dance they seem'd Somewhat extravagant and wild, perhaps
For joy of offer'd peace; but I suppose,
VI.-JOY, OR SATISFACTION INEXPRESSIBLE.
have made me happier, I confess,
who most have wrong'd me, I forgive:
VII.-JOY APPROACHING TO TRANSPORT. O Joy, thou welcome stranger, twice three years I have not felt thy vital beam, but now It warms my veins, and plays about my heart; A fiery instinct lifts me from the ground, And I could mount.
VIII. JOY BORDERING ON SORROW.
Desdemona.-My dear Othello!
Othello.--It gives me wonder great as my content, To see you here before me, O my soul's joy! If after every tempest come such calms, May the winds blow till they have waken'd death! And let the labouring bark climb hills of seas Olympus high, and duck again as low As hell's from heav'n! If it were now to die, Twere now to be most happy, for I fear My soul hath her content so absolute, That not another comfort like to this Succeeds in unknown fate.
What you do Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet, I'd have you do it ever. When you sing, I'd have you buy and sell so; so give alms, Pray so; and, for the ordering your affairs, To sing them to. When you do dance, I wish you A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do Nothing but that; move still, still so, And own no other function: each your doing, So singular in each particular, Crowns what you are doing in the present deeds, That all your acts are queens.
Winter's Tale. X.-PITY IN PLAINTIVE NARRATION.
York. And thus in triumph rode along the Duke, While all tongues cried_God save thee, Bolingbroke!
Duchess.-Alas! poor Richard, where rides he the while?
York.-As in a theatre the eyes
XI.-PITY FOR A DEPARTED FRIEND.
Alas! poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now how abhorred in my imagination it is ! my gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols ? your songs ? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar ? Not one now to mock your own grinning? Quite chopfallen? Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come; make her laugh at that.-Hamlet.