And portance in my travel's history;
Wherein of antres vast, and deserts idle,

Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven,

It was my hint to speak;

- such was the process;

And of the cannibals that each other eat,

The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads.
Do grow beneath their shoulders. This to hear,
Would Desdemona seriously incline:

But still the house affairs would draw her thence;
Which ever as she could with haste despatch,

She'd come again, and with a greedy ear
Devour up my discourse: which I observing,
Took once a pliant hour, and found good means
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate,
Whereof by parcels she had something heard,
But not intentively. I did consent;
And often did beguile her of her tears,
When I did speak of some distressful stroke
That my youth suffered. My story being done,
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs:

She swore In faith, 't was strange, 't was passing strange;
'T was pitiful, 't was wondrous pitiful :

She wished she had not heard it; yet she wished

That Heaven had made her such a man: she thanked me;

And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her,

I should but teach him how to tell my story,

And that would woo her. Upon this hint, I spake :

She loved me for the dangers I had passed;

And I loved her, that she did pity them.

This only is the witchcraft I have used.

THE WINNING OF JULIET.*

JULIET. Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face:
Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek,

For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night.

* An extract from the love scene in the garden, in the play of Romeo and Juliet. Romeo, in ambuscade at night, is discovered by Juliet listening to her declaration of love for him.

Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny
What I have spoke: but farewell compliment !
Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say, Ay:
And I will take thy word; yet, if thou swear'st,
Thou mayst prove false; at lovers' perjuries,
They say, Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo,
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully:
Or if thou think'st I am too quickly won,
I'll frown and be perverse, and say thee nay,
So thou wilt woo; but else, not for the world.
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond;
And therefore thou mayst think my 'havior light.
But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true
Than those that have more cunning to be strange.
I should have been more strange, I must confess,
But that thou overheard'st, ere I was 'ware,
My true love's passion: therefore pardon me;
And not impute this yielding to light love,

Which the dark night hath so discovered.

ROMEO. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear,

That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops —

JULIET. O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon, That monthly changes in her circled orb,

Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.
ROMEO. What shall I swear by?

JULIET. Well, do not swear: although I joy in thee,

I have no joy of this contract to-night;

It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden :

Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be
Ere one can say, It lightens. Sweet, good night!
This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath,
May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.
Good night, good night! as sweet repose and rest
Come to thy heart, as that within my breast!

ROMEO. O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?

JULIET. What satisfaction canst thou have to-night?

ROMEO. The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine.
JULIET. I gave thee mine before thou didst request it :

And yet I would it were to give again.

ROMEO. Wouldst thou withdraw it? for what purpose, love?
JULIET. But to be frank, and give it thee again.

And yet I wish but for the thing I have :
My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep; the more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite.

WOLSEY ON THE VICISSITUDES OF LIFE.*

FAREWELL, a long farewell, to all my greatness.
This is the state of man; to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him;
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost;
And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root,

And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This many summers in a sea of glory;

But far beyond my depth; my high-blown pride
At length broke under me; and now has left me,
Weary, and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye ;
I feel my heart new opened: O, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors!
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs and fears, than wars or women have;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,

Never to hope again.

* Cardinal Wolsey was one of the highest officers of King Henry VIII. of England. Being suddenly deprived of all his honors by the king, and consequently disgraced, Shakespeare represents him as uttering this speech on retiring from office.

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune;
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And, by opposing, end them?-To die, to sleep,-
No more ; — and, by a sleep, to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 't is a consummation

Devoutly to be wished. To die; -to sleep ;

To sleep! perchance to dream;-ay, there's the rub:
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause; there's the respect

That makes calamity of so long life:

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life;
But that the dread of something after death,-
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveler returns, — puzzles the will;
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.

POLONIUS'S ADVICE TO HIS SON.

GIVE thy thoughts no tongue,

Nor any unproportioned thought his act.
Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar.
The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel;
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment
Of each new-hatched, unfledged comrade. Beware
Of entrance to a quarrel; but, being in,

Bear it, that the opposer may beware of thee.
Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice:
Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.
Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,

But not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy ;
For the apparel oft proclaims the man;

And they in France, of the best rank and station,
Are most select and generous, chief in that.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be:

For loan oft loses both itself and friend;
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
This above all, to thine own self be true;
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
Farewell; my blessing season this in thee.

THE SEVEN AGES OF MAN.

ALL the world's a stage,

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 satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then, the Lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad

Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a Soldier ;