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Have you not made an universal shout,
That Tyber trembled underneath his banks,
To hear the replication of your sounds,
Made in his concave shores ?

And do you now put on your best attire?
And do you now cull out a holiday?

And do you now strew flowers in his way,
That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood?
Be gone!

Run to your houses; fall upon your knees,
Pray to the gods to intermit the plague,
That needs must light on this ingratitude.

Julius Cæsar.



Cassius. Do not presume too much upon my love,


do that I shall be sorry for. Brutus. You have done that you should be sorry for. There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats; For I am arm'd so strong in honesty, That they pass by me, as the idle wind, Which I respect not. I did send to you

For certain sums of gold, which you denied me ;
For I can raise no money by vile means;

No, Cassius, I had rather coin my heart,

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And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring
From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash
By any indirection. I did send

To you for gold to pay my legions,

Which you denied me. Was that done like Cassius?
Should I have answer'd Caius Cassius so?
When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous
To lock such rascal-counters from his friends,
Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts,
Dash him to pieces.

Julius Cæsar.



This is the very painting of your fears;
This is the air-drawn dagger, which you said,
Led you to Duncan. Oh, these flaws and starts
(Impostors to true fear) would well become
A woman's story, at a winter's fire,

Authoriz'd by her grandam. Shame itself!
Why do you make such faces? When all's done,
You look but on a stool.



ANGELS and ministers of grace defend us!—
Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn’d,
Bring with thee airs from heav'n, or blasts from hell,
Be thy intents wicked or charitable,

Thou com'st in such a questionable' shape
That I will speak to thee; I'll call thee Hamlet,
King, father, royal Dane: Oh, answer me!—

Save me, and hover o'er me with your wings,

You heavenly guards!-what would your gracious figure?



How ill this taper burns! ha! who comes here? I think it is the weakness of my eyes,

That shapes this monstrous apparition

It comes upon me! Art thou any thing?

Art thou some god, some angel, or some devil,
That mak'st my blood cold, and my hair to stare?
Speak to me what thou art.

Julius Cæsar.

1 "Questionable" here means inviting question.


SEEMS, madam! nay, it is: I know not seems,
"Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,
Nor customary suits of solemn black,
Nor windy suspiration of forc'd breath;
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
Nor the dejected 'haviour of the visage,
Together with all forms, modes, shows of grief
That can denote me truly: These indeed seem,
For they are actions that a man might play;
But I have that within which passeth show,
These but the trappings and the suits of woe.



Он, now for ever,

Farewell the tranquil mind! farewell content!
Farewell the plumed troop and the big war
That make ambition virtue! Oh, farewell!
Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump,
The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife,
The royal banner, and all quality,

Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war!
Farewell! Othello's occupation's gone.



THOU canst not speak of what thou dost not feel:

Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love,

An hour but married, Tybalt murder'd,

Doating like me, and like me banished,

Then mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair, And fall upon the ground as I do now

Taking the measure of an unmade grave.

Romeo and Juliet.


Macduff. My children too!

Rosse.-Wife, children, servants, all that could be found!
Macduff. And I must be from thence! my wife kill'd too?
Malcolm.-Be comforted.

Let's make us medicines of our great revenge,
To cure this deadly grief.

Macduff. He has no children!

What, all my pretty ones? Did you say all?
Malcolm.-Endure it like a man.

Macduff. I shall.

But I must also feel it as a man.

I cannot but remember such things were

That were most precious to me: did heav'n look on,
And would not take their part? sinful Macduff,
They were all struck for thee! naught that I am!
Not for their own demerits, but for mine
Fell slaughter on their souls.



Он, when the last account 'twixt heaven and earth Is to be made, then shall this hand and seal

Witness against us to damnation !

How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds
Makes deeds ill done! Hadst not thou been by,
A fellow by the hand of nature mark'd,
Quoted, and sign'd to do a deed of shame,
This murder had not come into my mind
But taking note of thy abhorr'd aspect,
Finding thee fit for bloody villany
Apt, liable to be employed in danger,


I faintly broke with thee of Arthur's death;

And thou to be endeared to a king,

Mad'st it no conscience to destroy a prince.-King John


King Henry. How fares my lord? speak, Beaufort, to thy sovereign.

Cardinal Beaufort. If thou be'st Death I'll give thee

England's treasure,

Enough to purchase such another island,

So thou wilt let me live and feel no pain.

King Henry.-Ah, what a sign it is of evil life, When death's approach is seen so terrible!

Warwick.-Beaufort, it is thy sovereign speaks to thee.
Cardinal Beaufort.-Bring me to my trial when you will.

Died he not in his bed? where should he die?
Can I make men live, whether they will or no?—
Oh! torture me no more, I will confess.-

Alive again? then show me where he is,

I'll give a thousand pounds to look upon
He hath no eyes, the dust hath blinded them—

Comb down his hair; look! look! it stands upright,
Like lime-twigs set to catch my winged soul!
Give me some drink, and bid the apothecary
Bring the strong poison that I bought of him.

King Henry.-O thou eternal Mover of the heavens,
Look with a gentle eye upon this wretch;
Oh, beat away the busy meddling fiend

That lays strong siege unto this wretch's soul,
And from his bosom purge this black despair!

Warwick. See how the pangs of death do make him grin.
Salisbury.-Disturb him not, let him pass peaceably.
King Henry.-Peace to his soul, if God's good pleasure be!
Lord Cardinal, if thou think'st on heav'n's bliss,
Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope,-
He dies and makes no sign: O God, forgive him.
Warwick. So bad a death argues a monstrous life.
King Henry. Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.
Henry VI.-Second Part.


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