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Whose top-branch overpeer'd Jove's spreading

tree, And kept low shrubs from winter's powerful

wind. These eyes, that now are dimmed with death's

black veil, Have been as piercing as the mid-day sun, To search the secret treasons of the world : The wrinkles in my brows, now fill’d with blood, Were liken’d oft to kingly sepulchres; For who liv'd king, but I could dig his grave ? And who durst smile, when Warwick bent his

brow ? Lo, now my glory smear'd in dust and blood ! My parks, my walks, my manors that I had, Even now forsake me; and of all

my Is nothing left me but my body's length! Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and

dust? And, live we how we can, yet die we must. Ah, Montague, If thou be there, sweet brother, take my hand, And with thy lips keep in my soul a while ! Thou lov'st me not; for, brother, if thou didst, Thy tears would wash this cold congealed blood, That glews my lips, and will not let me speak. Come quickly, Montague, or I am dead.

K. HENRY VI., PART III., A. 5, s. 2.

lands,

DEATH'S CHANGES. 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 !

a

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 chap-fallen ? 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, A. 5, s. I.

DEATH'S COLDNESS AND HOLINESS.

Nay, sure, he's not in hell; he's in Arthur's bosom, if ever man went to Arthur's bosom. 'A made a finer end, and went away, an it had been any christom child; ’a parted even just between twelve and one, e'en at turning o’the tide: for after I saw him fumble with the sheets, and play with flowers, and smile upon his fingers' ends, I knew there was but one way ; for his nose was as sharp as a pen, and ’a babbled of green fields. How now, sir John ? quoth I: what, man! be of good cheer. So'a cried outGod, God, God! three or four times : now I, to comfort him, bid him, ’a should not think of God; I hoped, there was no need to trouble himself with any such thoughts yet: So, 'a bade me lay more clothes on his feet: I put my hand into the bed, and felt them, and they were as cold as any stone; then I felt to his knees, and so upward, and upward, and all was as cold as any stone.

K. HENRY V., A. 2, s. 3.

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INDICATIONS OF JEALOUSY.

Is whispering nothing ? Is leaning cheek to cheek ? is meeting noses ? Kissing with inside lip? stopping the career

? Of laughter with a sigh? (a note infallible Of breaking honesty :) horsing foot on foot ? Skulking in corners ? wishing clocks more swift? Hours, minutes ? noon, midnight ? and all eyes

blind With the pin and web, but theirs, theirs only, That would unseen be wicked ? is this nothing ? Why, then the world, and allthat's in't, is nothing; The covering sky is nothing; Bohemia nothing; My wife is nothing; nor nothing have these

nothings, If this be nothing.

WINTER'S TALE, A. 1, 8. 2.

DECISION. COME, I have learn'd, that fearful commenting Is leaden servitor to dull delay; Delay leads impotent and snail-pac'd beggary : Then fiery expedition be my wing, Jove's Mercury, and herald for a king ! Go, muster men: My counsel is

my

shield; We must be brief, when traitors brave the field.

K. BICHARD 111., A. 4, s. 3.

DECLINE OF A NATION. WOE the while! our fathers' minds are dead, And we are govern’d with our mothers' spirits ; Our yoke and sufferance show us womanish.

JULIUS CÆSAR, A. 1, s. 3.

DEMORALIZATION OF WAR. HOLD, Clifford; do not honour him so much, To prick thy finger, though to wound his heart: What valour were it, when a cur doth grin, For one to thrust his hand between his teeth, When he might spurn him with his foot away ? It is war's prize to take all vantages; And ten to one is no impeach of valour.

K. HENRY VI., PART III., A. 1, s. 4.

DEPRIVATION OFT BRINGS CON

SCIOUSNESS OF WORTH. THERE's a great spirit gone! Thus did I desire it: What our contempts do often hurl from us, We wish it ours again; the present pleasure, By revolution lowering, does become The opposite of itselfshe's good, being gone; The hand could pluck her back, that shov'd her on.

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA, A. 1, s. 2.

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DESPERATION OF PHYSICAL

COURAGE.
NORFOLK.

Warlike sovereign,
This found I on my tent this morning.
K. RICHARD.

[Reads. Jockey of Norfolk, be not too bold,

For Dickon thy master is bought and sold. A thing devised by the enemy.Go, gentlemen, every man unto his charge: Let not our babbling dreams affright our souls ; Conscience is but a word that cowards use,

Devis'd at first to keep the strong in awe;
Our strong arms be our conscience, swords our

law.
March on, join bravely, let us to't pell-mell;
If not to heaven, then hand in hand to hell.

What shall I say more than I have infer'd ? Remember whom you are to cope withal ;A sort of vagabonds, rascals, and run-aways, A scum of Bretagnes, and base lackey peasants, Whom their o'er-cloy'd country vomits forth To desperate ventures and assur’d destruction. You sleeping safe, they bring you to unrest; You having lands, and blest with beauteous wives, They would distrain the one, distain the other. And who doth lead them, but a paltry fellow, Long kept in Bretagne at our mother's cost ? A milk-sop, one that never in his life Felt so much cold as over shoes in snow? Let’s whip these stragglers o'er the sea again ; Lash hence these over-weening rags of France, These famish'd beggars, weary of their lives; Who, but for dreaming on this fond exploit, For want of means, poor rats, had hanged them

selves. If we be conquered, let men conquer us, And not these bastard Bretagnes, whom our

fathers Have in their own land beaten, bobb’d, and

thump'd, And, on record, left them the heirs of shame. Shall these enjoy our lands ? lie with our wives ? Ravish our daughters ?-Hark, I hear their

drum. Fight, gentlemen of England! fight, bold yeomen! Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the head! Spur your proud horses hard, and ride in blood;

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