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But sometimes in the air, as we; sometimes
Ascend to Heaven, by merit thine, and see
What life the gods live there, and such live thou.



Well, though my troubled spirit's somewhat eas'd,
It's not repos'd in that security

As I could wish: but I must be content,
Howe'er I set a face on't to the world.
Would I had lost this finger, at a venture,
So Wellbred had ne'er lodg'd within my house,
Why't cannot be, where there is such resort
Of wanton gallants and young revellers,
That any woman should be honest long.
Well, to be plain, if I but thought the time
Had answer'd their affections, all the world
Should not persuade me but I'd been wrong'd!
Marry, I hope they ha' not got that start;
For opportunity hath balk'd 'em yet,

And shall do still, while I have eyes and ears

To attend the impositions of my heart.



Alas, the day! What shall I do with my doublet and hose? What did he, when thou saw'st him? What said he? How look'd he? Wherein went he? What makes he here; Did he ask for me? Where remains he? How parted he with thee? And when shalt thou see him again? Answer me in one word.


Thy steady temper, Porcius,

Can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud and Cæsar,
In the calm lights of mild philosophy;
I'm tortur'd, even to madness, when I think
On the proud victor; every time he's nam'd,
Pharsalia rises to my view; I see

The insulting tyrant prancing o'er the field,

Strew'd with Rome's citizens, and drench'd in slaughter.

O Porcius, is there not some chosen curse,

Some hidden thunder in the stores of heaven,
Red with uncommon wrath, to blast the man
Who owes his greatness to his country's ruin?



Why do you stay so long, my lords of France;
Yon island carrions, desperate of their bones,
Ill-favour'dly become the morning field;
Their ragged curtains poorly are let loose,

And our air shakes them passing scornfully.
Big Mars seems bankrupt in their beggar'd host,
And faintly through a rusty beaver peeps.
Their horsemen sit like fixed candlesticks,

With torch staves in their hand, and their poor jades
Lob down their heads, dropping the hides and hips;
gum down-roping from their pale-dead eyes;
And in their pale-dull mouths the gimmal bit
Lies foul with chew'd grass, still and motionless;
And their executors, the knavish crows,
Fly o'er them all, impatient for their hour.
Description cannot suit itself in words,

To demonstrate the life of such a battle
In life so lifeless as it shews itself.



My lord of Warwick,--and my brother Glo'ster,

Follow Fluellen closely at the heels;

The glove, which I have given him for a favour,
May, haply, purchase him a box o' the ear;
It is the soldier's; I, by bargain should,

Wear it myself. Follow, good cousin Warwick;
If that the soldier strike him, (as I judge
By his blunt bearing, he will keep his word)
Some sudden mischief may arise of it:

For I do know Fluellen vafiant,

And touch'd with choler, hot as gunpowder,

And quickly will return an injury:

Follow, and see there be no harm between them,—

Go you with me, uncle of Exeter.



Now had the Grecians snatch'd a short repast,
And buckled on their shining arms with haste.
Troy rous'd as soon; for on this dreadful day
The fate of fathers, wives, and infants, lay.
The gates unfolding pour forth all their train:
Squadrons on squadrons cloud the dusky plain;
Men, steeds, and chariots, shake the trembling ground;
The tumult thickens, and the skies resound.
And now with shouts the shocking armies clos'd,
To lances, lances, shields to shields, oppos'd;
Host against host with shadowy legions drew,
The sounding darts in iron tempests flew ;
Victors and vanquish'd join promiscuous cries,
Triumphant shouts and dying groans arise:
With streaming blood the slippery fields are dy'd,
And slaughter'd heroes swell the dreadful tide.


PERPLEXITY, or Anxiety much raised, and which is always attended with some degree of fear and uneasiness, draws all the parts of the body together: gathers up the arms upon the breast, unless one hand covers the eyes, or rubs the forehead; draws down the eyebrows; hangs the head upon the breast; casts down the eyes, shuts and pinches the eyelids close; shuts the mouth, and pinches the lips close, or bites them. Suddenly the whole body is vehemently agitated. The person walks about busily; stops abruptly. Then he talks to himself, or makes grimaces. If he speaks to another, his pauses are long; the tone of his voice unvarying, and his sentences broken, expressing only half of what

arises in his mind.

Yes; 'tis Emelia :—by and by,—she's dead.
'Tis like she comes to speak of Cassio's death;
The noise was high.-Ha! no more moving?
Still as the grave, shall she come in? Were't good?
I think, she stirs again ;-No-What's the best?
If she come in, she'll sure speak to my wife.


Against his will! Ha! it may be so. He's young, and may be bribed for them; they've various means to draw the unwary in. If it be so, I'm lost, deceived, betrayed, and my bosom, my full-fraught bosom, is unlocked and opened to mockery and laughter! Heaven forbid! He cannot be that viper; sting the hand that raised and cherished him! Were this stroke added, I should be cursed. But it cannot be; no, it cannot be.


VEXATION, Occasioned by some real or imaginary misfortune, agitates the whole frame; and besides expressing itself with the looks, gestures, restlessness, and tone of perplexity, it adds complaint, fretting, and lamenting.


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 warn'd,
Tears in his eyes; distraction in 's aspect,

A broken voice, and his whole function suiting
With forms to his conceit? And all for nothing!
For Hercuba!

What's Hercuba to him, or he to Hercuba,
That he should weep for her?


Why, there, there, there! a diamond gone, cost me two thousand ducats in Frankfort! The curse never fell upon our nation till now; I never felt it till now:-Two thousand ducats in that; and other precious, precious jewels, -I would my daughter were dead at my foot, and the jewels in her ear! would she were hearsed at my foot, and the ducats in her coffin! No news of them? why so;-and I know not what's spent in the search. Why, thou loss upon loss! the thief gone with so much, and so much to find the thief; and no satisfaction, no revenge; nor no ill luck stirring, but what lights o' my shoulders; no sighs, but o' my breathing; no tears, but o' my shedding.


-For aught that I could ever read,
Could ever hear by tale or history,

The course of true love never did run smooth;
But either it was different in blood,

Or else misgrafted, in respect of years,

Or else it stood upon the choice of friends,
Or, if there were a sympathy in choice,
War, death, or sickness, did lay siege to it;
Making it momentary as a sound,
Swift as a shadow, short as any dream,
Brief as the lightning in the collied night,

That in a spleen unfolds both heaven and earth;

And ere a man hath power to say,-behold,

The jaws of darkness do devour it up,

So quick bright things come to confusion.



What shall King Henry be a pupil still,
Under the surly Glo'ster's governance?
Am I a queen in title and in style,
And must be made a subject to a duke?
I tell thee, Poole, when in the city tours
Thou ran'st a tilt in honour of my love,
And stol'st away the ladies' hearts of France;
I thought King Henry had resembled thee,
In courage, courtship, and proportion:
But all his mind is bent to holiness,

To number Ave Marias on his beads;

His champions are, the prophets and apostles;
His weapons, holy saws of sacred writ;

His study is his tilt-yard, and his loves
Are brazen images of canonized saints.

I would, the college of Cardinals

Would choose him Pope, and carry him to Rome,
And set a triple crown upon his head;

That were a state fit for his holiness.



I can as well be hang'd, as tell the manner of it; it was mere foolery. I did not mark it, I saw Mark Anthony offer him a crown;-yet 'twas not a crown neither, 'twas one of these coronets ;-and, as I told you, he put it by once; but, for all that, to my thinking, he would fain have had it. Then he offered it to him again; then he put it by again; but to my thinking, he was very loath to lay his fingers off it. And then he offered it the third time he put it the third time by; and still as he refused it, the rabblement hooted, and clapp'd their chopp'd hands, and threw up their sweaty night-caps, and utter'd such a deal of stinking breath, because Cæsar refused the crown, that it had almost choked Cæsar; for he swoon'd, and fell down at it; and for mine own part, I durst not laugh, for fear of opening my lips, and receiving the bad air.



Is it not, therefore, astonishing, that any man should ever have dreamed of the possibility, that a beautiful and magnificent system might arise from the fortuitous concourse of certain bodies, carried toward one another by I know not what imaginary impulse? I see not, why he, who is capable of ascribing the production of a world to a cause so inadequate, may not expect, from the fortuitous scattering about of a set of letters of ivory, or metal, a regular history to appear. But I believe, he who hopes to produce, in this way, one single line, will find himself for ever disappointed. If the casual concourse of atoms has produced a whole universe, how comes it, that we never find a city, a temple, or so much as a portico, which are all less considerable works, produced in the same manner? One would imagine they, who prate so absurdly about the organization of the world, had no eyes, or had never opened them to view the glories of this immense theatre.



And the soldiers plaited a crown of thorns, and put it on his head, and they put on him a purple robe, and said, Hail, King of the Jews! and they smote him with their hands:

And they that passed by railed on him, wagging their heads, and saying, Ah, thou that destroyest the temple, and buildest it in three days, save thyself, and come down from the cross.

Likewise also the chief priests mocking, said among themselves, with the scribes, He saved others; himself he cannot save. Let Christ, the King of Israel, descend now from the cross, that we may see and believe. And they that were crucified with him reviled him.

Alas, poor York! But that I hate thee deadly,
I should lament thy miserable state,

I pr'ythee, grieve, to make me merry, York;
Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance.
What, hath thy fiery heart so parch'd thine entrails,
That not a tear can fall for Rutland's death?

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