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My mind

Yet stav awhile; forbear thy bloody hand,
And let me see the stroke before it comes,
That eren then, when I shall lose


life, may be more steadfast on my God. Light. What means your highness, to mistrust me thus ? Edw. What mean’st thou, to dissemble with me thus ? Light. These hands were never stained with innocent

blood, Nor shall they now be tainted with a king's.

Edu. Forgive my thought, for having such a thought. One jewel have I left-receive thou this. Still fear I, and I know not what's the cause, But every joint shakes as I give it thee. Oh, if thou harbour'st murder in thy heart, Let the gift change thy mind, and save thy soul. Know that I am a king; oh, at that name I feel a hell of grief! Where is my crown ? Gone, gone !—and do I still remain alive?

Ligiit. You're overwatched, my lord ;-lie down and


Edw. But that grief keeps me waking, I should sleep; For not these ten days have these eyelids closed. Now as I speak they fall, and yet with fear Open again. Oh, wherefore sitt'st thou here? Light. If you mistrust me, I'll be gone, my

lord. Edw. No, no, for if thou mean'st to murder me, Thou wilt return again; and therefore stay.

Light. He sleeps.
Edw. Oh, let me not die! yet stay,


awhile ! Light. How now, my

lord ? Edzı. Something still buzzeth in mine ears, And tells me if I sleep I never wake;

This fear is that which makes me tremble thus.
And therefore tell me, wherefore art thou come ?

Light. To rid thee of thy life.-Matrevis, come!

Edw. I am too weak and feeble to resist.— Assist me, sweet God, and receive my soul !

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Mer. O, then, I see, Queen Mab hath been with you.
She is the fairies' midwife; and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agate-stone
On the fore-finger of an alderman,
Drawn with a team of little atomies
Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep:
Her wagon-spokes made of long spinners' legs;
The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers;
The traces, of the smallest spider's web;
The collars, of the moonshine's wat’ry beams :
Her whip, of cricket’s bone; the lash, of film :
Her wagoner, a small gray-coated gnat,
Not half so big as a round little worm
Pricked from the lazy finger of a maid:
Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut,
Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub,
Time out of mind the fairies' coach-makers.
And in this state she gallops night by night


Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love :
On courtiers' knees, that dream on court’sies straight :
O’er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees :
O’er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream;
Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,
Because their breaths with sweet-meats tainted are;
Sometimes she gallops o'er a courtier's nose,
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit;
And sometimes comes she with a tithe-pig's tail,
Tickling a parson's nose as ’a lies asleep,
Then dreams he of another benefice:
Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck,
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,
Of healths five fathom deep; and then anon
Drums in his ear; at which, he starts and wakes ;
And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two,
And sleeps again.

This is that very Mab,
That plats the manes of horses in the night,
And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs,
Which, once untangled, much misfortune bodes.
This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs,
That presses them, and learns them first to bear,
Making them women of good carriage.
This, this is she-

Romeo. Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace;
Thou talk'st of nothing.

Mer. True, I talk of dreams;
Which are the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy ;
Which is as thin of substance as the air

And more inconstant than the wind, who woos

Even now the frozen bosom of the north,
And, being angered, puffs away from thence,
Turning his face to the dew-dropping south.

ROMEO in the Garden.

Romeo. He jests at scars that never felt a wound.

[Juliet enters above, at a window.
But soft! what light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun !--
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief,
That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she:
Be not her maid, since she is envious;
Her vestal livery is but sick and green,
And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.-
It is my lady; 0, it is my love:
O, that she knew she were !-
She speaks, yet she says nothing; what of that?

I will answer it.-
I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks :
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in the spheres till their return.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head ?
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,
As daylight doth a lamp; her eye in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright,
That birds would sing, and think it were not night.
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand !
O, that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!

. . She speaks :


O, spea!: again, bright angel ! for thou art
As glorious to this night, being o'er my head,
As is a wingèd messenger of heaven
Unto the white-upturnèd wond'ring eyes
Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him,
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds,
And sails upon the bosom of the air.

Juliet's Confession of her Love.
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.
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


So thou wilt woo; but, else, not for the world.
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond;
And therefore thou



'haviour 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.

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