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The first time ever Cæfar put it on;
'Twas on a fummer's evening, in his tent; That day he overcame the Nervii
Look! In this place, ran Caffius' dagger through-
See what a rent the envious Cafca made-
Through this, the well-belov'd Brutus ftabb'd;
And, as he pluck'd his curfed steel away,
Mark how the blood of Cæfar follow'd it!-
This, this, was the unkindeft cut of all:
For, when the noble Cæfar faw him ftab,
Ingratitude, more ftrong than traitors arms,
Quite vanquish'd him. Then, burft his mighty heart;
And, in his mantle muffling up his face,
Even at the bafe of Pompey's ftatue,
Oh, what a fall was there, my countrymen!
Then I, and you, and all of us, fell down;
Whilft bloody treason flourish'd over us.
Oh, now you weep; and, I perceive, you feel
The dint of pity. These are gracious drops.
Kind fouls!-What! weep you when you but behold
Our Cæfar's vetture wounded? Look you here!-
Here is himself-marry'd, as you fee, by traitors.
Good friends! fweet friends! let me not ftir you up To any fudden flood of mutiny.
They, that have done this deed, are honourable.
What private griefs they have, alas! I know not,
That made them do it: they are wife and honourable.
And will, no doubt, with reason answer you.
I come not, friends, to fteal away your hearts:
I am no orator, as Brutus is:
But, as you know me all, a plain, blunt man,
That love my friend; and that they know full well,
That gave me public leave to speak of him
For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,
Action, nor utt'rance, nor the power of speech,
To ftir men's blood. I only speak right on.
I tell you that, which you yourselves do know
Shew you sweet Cæfar's wounds; poor, poor dumb mouths!
And bid them fpeak for me.-But, were I Brutus,
And Brutus, Antony-there were an Antony
Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue
In every wound of Cæfar, that should move
The ftones of Rome to rise and mutiny.
HOTSPUR'S DESCRIPTION OF A FOP
Y liege, I did deny no prifoners.
But I remember, when the fight was done,
When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,
Breathlefs and faint, leaning upon my fword,
Came there a certain lord; neat; trimly dreffed ;
Freth as a bridegroom; and his chin new reap'd,
Shewed like a stubble-land at harvest-home..
He was perfum'd like a milliner:
And, twixt his finger and his thumb, he held
And, ftill, he filed, and talked :
And, as the foldiers bare dead bodies by,
He called them "untaught knaves, unmannerly,
To bring a flovenly unhandsome corfe
"Betwixt the wind and his nobility."
With many holiday and lady terms,
He queftioned me: amongst the reft, demanded
My prifoners in your Majefty's behalf.
I, then, all-fmarting with my wounds, being gall'd
To be fo pestered with a popinjay,
Out of my grief, and my impatience,
Answered, neglectingly-I know not what-
He fhould, or thould not-for he made me mad ;
To fee him fhine fo brifk, and smell fo fweet,
A talk fo like a waiting gentlewoman,
Of guns, and drums, and wounds
And telling me, the fovereign'ft thing on earth
Was parmacity for an inward bruise;
And that it was great pity, so it was,
This villainous faitpetre fhould be digg'd
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had deftroyed
So cowardly and, but for these vile guns-
He would himself have been a foldier.
SOLILOQUY OF HAMLET'S UNCLE.
H! my offence is rank: it fmells to heav'n:
It hath the primal, eldeft curfe upon't!--
A brother's murder!- -Pray I cannot :
Though inclination be as sharp as 'twill,
My ftronger guilt defeats my ftrong intent;
And, like a man to double business bound,
I stand in pause where I shall first begin-
And both neglect.-What if this curfed hand
Were thicker than itself with brother's blood?
Is there not rain enough in the fweet heav'ns,
To wash it white as fnow? Whereto serves mercy,
But to confront the vifage of offence?
And what's in prayer, but this twofold force;
To be foreftalled, ere we come to fall;
Or pardon'd, being down?Then, I'll look up.-
My fault is paft.But, oh! what form of prayer
Can ferve my turn ?-Forgive me my foul murder!
That cannot be, fince I am still poffefs'd
Of thofe effects for which I did the murder
My crown, my own ambition, and my queen.
May one be pardon'd, and retain the offence ?—
In the corrupted currents of this world,
Offence's gilded hand may shove by justice;
And oft 'tis feen, the wicked prize itself
Buys out the laws. But, 'tis not fo above.
There, is no fhuffling: there, the action lies
In its true nature, and we ourselves compell'd,
Ev'n to the teeth and forehead of our faults,
To give in evidence. What then? What refts?-
Try what repentance can-What can it not ♪
Yet what can it, when one cannot repent ?-
Oh wretched ftate !---oh bosom black as death!-
Oh limed foul! that. ftruggling to be free,
Art more engag'd !---Help, angels !---Make affay!
Row, ftubborn knees; and, heart, with strings of steel,
Be foft as finews of the new-born babe!
And all the men and women, merely players.
They have their exits, and their entrances :
And one man, in his time, plays many parts;
His acts being seven ages.-At first, the Infant;
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.-
And, then, the whining School-boy; with his fatchel,
And shining morning face, creeping, like snail,
Unwillingly to school.-And, then, the Lover;
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eye-brow.-Then, a Soldier
Full of ftrange oaths, and bearded like the pard;
Jealous in honour; fudden and quick in quarrel;
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the canon's mouth.-And, then, the Juftice;
In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd,
eyes fevere, and beard of formal cut;
Full of wife faws and modern inftances:
And fo he plays his part.-The fixth age fhifts
Into the lean and flipper'd Pantaloon;
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on fide;
His youthful hofe, well fav'd, a world too wide
For his fhrunk fhank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his found.-Laft fcene of all,
That ends this ftrange eventful history,
Is fecond Childishness, and mere Oblivion ;
Sans teeth, fans eyes, fans tafte, fans every thing.