« AnteriorContinuar »
When I did name her brothers, then fresh tears Stood on her cheeks; as doth the honey dew Upon a gather'd lily almost wither'd.
CRUELTY TO INSECTS.
Mar. Alas, my lord, I have but kill'd a fly.
Tit. But how, if that fly had a father and mother? How would he hang his slender gilded wings, And buz lamenting doings in the air ? Poor harmless fly! That with his pretty buzzing melody, [him. Came here to make us merry; and thou hast kill'd
Lo, by thy side where Rape, and Murder, stands; Now give some 'surance that thou art Revenge, Stab them, or tear them on thy chariot wheels; And then I'll come, and be thy waggoner, And whirl along with thee about the globes. Provide thee proper palfries, black as jet, To hale thy vengeful waggon swift away, And find out murderers in their guilty caves: And, when thy car is loaden with their heads, I will dismount, and by the waggon wheel Trot, like a servile footman, all day long; Even from Hyperion's rising in the east, Until his very downfal in the sea.
TROILUS AND CRESSIDA.
LOVE IN A BRAVE YOUNG SOLDIER.
Call here my varlet*, I'll unarm again:
The Greeks are strong, and skilful to their strength,
O Pandarus! I tell thee, Pandarus, When I do tell thee, There my hopes lie drown'd, Reply not in how many fathoms deep They lie indrench’d. I tell thee, I am mad In Cressid's love: Thou answer'st, She is fair; Pour'st in the open ulcer of my heart Her
eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice ; Handlest in thy discourse, O, that her hand, In whose comparison all whites are ink, Writing their own reproach; to whose soft seisure The cygnet's down is harsh, and spirit of sense Hard as the palm of ploughmen! This thou tellst me, As true thou tell’st me, when I say, I love her; But, saying thus, instead of oil and balm, Thou lay'st in every gash that love hath given me The knife that made it. * A seryant to a knight.
SUCCESS NOT EQUAL TO OUR HOPES, The ample proposition, that hope makes In all designs begun on earth below, [ters Fails in the promis'd largeness: checks and disasGrow in the veins of actions highest rear'd: As knots, by the conflux of meeting sap, Infect the sound pine, and divert his grain Tortive and errant* from his course of growth.
ADVERSITY THE TRIAL OF MAN.
with cheeks abash'd behold our works;
Take but degree away, untune that string, And, hark, what discord follows! each thing meets In mere oppugnancy: The bounded waters Should lift their bosoms higher than the shores, And make a sop of all this solid globe: Strength should be lord of imbecility, And the rude son should strike his father dead: Force should be right; or, rather, right and wrong, * Twisted and rambling. + Joined by affinity. # Absolute.
(Between whose endless jar justice resides)
ACHILLES DESCRIBED BY ULYSSES.
The great Achilles,-whom opinion crowns The sinew and the forehand of our host, Having his ear full of his airy fame, Grows dainty of his worth, and in his tent Lies mocking our designs: With him, Patroclus, Upon a lazy bed the livelong day Breaks scurril jests; And with ridiculous and awkward action (Which, slanderer, he imitation calls,) He pageants* us. Sometime, great Agamemnon, Thy toplesst deputation he puts on; And, like a strutting player, -whose conceit Lies in his hamstring, and doth think it rich To hear the wooden dialogue and sound 'Twixt his stretch'd footing and the scaffoldaget,Such to-be-pitied and o'er-wrested seeming He acts thy greatness in: and when he speaks, 'Tis like a chime a mending; with terms unsquar'dll, Which, from the tongue of roaring Typhon droppd, Would seem hyperboles. At this fusty stuff, The large Achilles, on his press'd bed lolling, From his deep chest laughs out a loud applause; Cries—Excellent !—'tis Agamemnon just.
* In modern language, takes us off. + Supreme. # The galleries of the theatre. ş Beyond the truth.
Now play me Nestor ;-hem, and stroke thy beard,
CONDUCT IN WAR SUPERIOR TO ACTION.
The still and mental parts,That do contrive how many hands shall strike, When fitness calls them on; and know, by measure Of their observant toil, the enemies' weight,Why, this hath not a finger's dignity: They call this-bed-work, mappery, closet-war: So that the ram, that batters down the wall, For the great swing and rudeness of his poise, They place before his hand that made the engine ; Or those, that with the fineness of their souls By reason guide his execution.
I ask, that I might waken reverence,