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BLOW, winds, and burst your cheeks--- rage louder yet:
Fantaftic lightning, finge, finge my white head.-
Spout cataracts, and hurricanoes fall;

Till you have drown'd the towns and palaces
Of proud ungrateful man.

RUMBLE thy fill; fight whirlwind, rain and fire-
Not fire, wind, rain, or thunder, are my daughters.
I tax not you, ye elements, with unkindness :
I never gave you kingdoms, call'd you children:
You owe me no obedience. Then, let fall
Your horrible pleasure--here I ftand your slave,
A poor, infirm, weak, and defpis'd old man.
Yet I will call you fervile minifters,

That have with two pernicious daughters, join'd
Your high engender'd battle 'gainst a head
So old and white as mine.---Oh! oh! 'tis foul.
LET the great gods,

That keep this dreadful pudder o'er our heads,
Find out their enemies now.--Tremble, thou wretch,
That haft within thee undifcover'd crimes.

Hide, hide, thou murd'rer, hide thy bloody hand.
Thou perjur'd villain, holy hypocrite,
That drink'ft the widow's tears, figh now, and ask
Thefe dreadful fummoners grace.
I am a man,

More finn'd againft, than finning.

My wits begin to burn

Come on, my boy; how doft, my boy? Art cold?
I'm cold myfelf---fhew me this ftraw, fellow :
The art of our neceffity is ftrange,

And can make vile things precious.---My poor knave,
Cold as I am at heart, I've one place there

That's forry yet for thee..

THOU think'ft 'tis much that this contentious storm Invades us to the fkin; fo 'tis to thee:


But, where the greater malady is fix'd,
The leffer is fcarce felt the tempeft in my mind

Does from my fenfes take all feeling else,
Save what beats there. -Filial ingratitude!-
Is it not as this mouth fhould tear this hand
For lifting food to't !--In fuch a night

To fhut me out!- -Pour on, I will endure-
In fuch a night as this? O Regan, Goneril!
Your old kind father, whofe frank heart gave all-
O that way madness lies! let me fhun that-
No more of that.

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POOR naked wretches, wherefoe'er you are, That 'bide the pelting of this pitiless ftorm; How fhall your houseless heads and unfed fides Sustain this shock? your raggedness defend you From feafons fuch as thefe ?

Oh! I have ta'en too little care of this.

Take phyfic, Pomp!

Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,
That thou may'st cast the superflux to them,
And fhew the Heav'ns more just.

YE amaranths! ye rofes, like the morn!
Sweet myrtles, and ye golden orange groves!
Joy-giving, love-infpiring, holy bow'r !
Know, in thy fragrant bofom thou receiv'st
A—murd’rer ! Oh, I shall stain thy lilies,
And horror will ufurp the feat of blifs.
Ha! the fleeps

The day's uncommon heat has overcome her.
Then, take, my longing eyes, your last full gaze
Oh, what a fight is here! how dreadful fair!-
Who would not think that being innocent ?-
Where fhall I ftrike ?-Who ftrikes her, ftrikes himself-


My own life-blood will iffue at her wound-
But, fee, the fmiles !-I never fhall fmile more-
It strongly tempts me to a parting kiss
Ha! fmile again ?-She dreams of him the loves.-
Curfe on her charms !-I'll ftab her through them all.


WHAT noife is this !-not dead ? not yet quite dead ?— 'Tis Emelia-by and by-fhe's dead!

'Tis like she comes to speak of Caffio's death-
The noife was high-Ha! no more moving?
Still as the grave.-Shall fhe come in? were't good ?-
I think the firs again-No-what's the beft ?—
If the comes in, the'll fure fpeak to my wife-
My wife my wife !-what wife ?—I have no wife.-
Oh, infupportable! oh heavy hour!

WHAT a damn'd epicurean rafcal is this I! My heart is ready to crack with impatience. Who fays this is improvident jealoufy? My wife hath fent to him; the hour is fix'd; the match is made. Would any man have thought this? See the hell of having a falfe woman! My bed fhall be abufed, my coffers ranfacked, my reputation gnawn at; and I-fhall not only receive this villanous wrong, but ftand under the adoption of abominable terms and by him that does me wrong. Amaimon founds well, Lucifer well, Barbafon well; yet they are devils additions, the names of fiends; but cuckold, wittol, cuckold-the devil himself hath not fuch a name Page is an-afs, a fecure afs-be will trust his wife; he will not be jealous, I will rather truft a Flaming with my butter; parfon Hugh, the Welshman, with my cheese; an Irifman with my aquavitæ bottle ; or a thief to walk my ambling gelding; than -my wife with herself. Then, the plots; then, she rú





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minates; then, fhe devifes: and what they think in their hearts they may effect, they will break their hearts but they will effect. Heaven be praised for my jealoufy! Eleven o'clock is the hour. I will prevent this: detect my wife; be revenged on Falstaff; and laugh at Page. -I will about it. Better three hours too foon, than a minute too late.-Fy, fy, fy !-cuckold, cuckold, cuckold-O the devil!

HUM! ha! is this a vifion? Is this a dream? Do I
fleep? Mafter Ford, awake; awake, Mafter Ford :
there's a hole made in your beft coat, Mafter Ford.
This 'tis to be married! This 'tis to have linen and
buck-baskets!Well, I will proclaim myself what
I am.
I will now take the letcher. He is at my house.
He cannot 'escape me. 'Tis impoffible he fhould. He
cannot creep into a half-penny purse, nor into a pepper-
box. But, left the devil, that guides him, fhould aid
him, I will fearch impoffible places. Though what I
am, I cannot avoid, yet to be what I would not, fhall
not make me tame. If I have horns to make one mad,
let the proverb go with me-I'll be horn mad.




Ow, every thing doth make a gleeful scene.
The birds chant melody on every bush;
'The fnake lies rolled in the chearful fun;
The green leaves quiver with the cooling wind,
And make a chequer'd fhadow on the ground.


* This article, and, the following, fhould have preceded the examples of Joy.


Under their sweet fhade let us fit a while,
-And hear the babbling echo mock the hounds,
Replying thrilly to the well-tun'd horns,

As if a double hunt were heard at once.


Then, let us fink into a golden flumber;

Whilft hounds and horns, and fweet melodious birds,
Be unto us as is a nurse's fong
Of lullaby, to bring her babe afleep.

WISH'D morning's come! And, now, upon the plains
And diftant mountains, where they feed their flocks,
The happy fhepherds leave their homely huts,
And, with their pipes, proclaim the new-born day.
The chearful birds too, on the tops of trees,
Affemble all in choirs, and, with their notes,
Salute and welcome up the rifing fun.


'N Belmont is a lady richly left,

a from her eyes,

I did receive fair fpeechlefs meffages.

Her name is Portia ; nothing undervalu'd
To Cato's daughter, Brutus' Portia.
Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth ;
For the four winds blow in renowned fuitors.

O, my Antonio! had I but means

To hold a rival place with one of them,

I have a mind prefages me fuch thrift-
That I fhould, queftionlefs, be fortunate.


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