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The Qualities of Herbs and Flowers.
Friar Lawrence. The gray-eyed morn smiles on the

frowning night,
Checkering the eastern clouds with streaks of light;
And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels
From forth day's pathway, made by Titan's wheels:
Now, ere the sun advance his burning eye,
The day to cheer, and night's dank dew to dry,
I must up-fill this osier cage of ours,
With baleful weeds, and precious-juicèd flowers.
The earth, that's Nature's mother, is her tomb;
What is her burying grave, that is her womb:
And from her womb children of divers kind
We, sucking on her natural bosom, find;
Many for many virtues excellent,
None but for some, and yet all different.
O, mickle is the powerful grace, that lies
In herbs, plants, stones, and their true qualities :
For naught so vile, that on the earth doth live,
But to the earth some special good doth give;
Nor aught so good, but, strained from that fair use,
Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse :
Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied ;
And vice sometime's by action dignified.
Within the infant rind of this small flower
Poison hath residence, and med’cine power:
For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part :
Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart.
Two such opposed foes encamp them still
In man as well as herbs, grace and rude will ;
And, where the worser is predominant,
Full soon the canker death eats up that plant.

Romeo and Juliet's Parting.
(Romeo, having slain Tybalt in combat, is banished.)
Juliet. Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day:
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear;
Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate-tree :
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

Romeo. It was the lark, the herald of the morn,
No nightingale : look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east :
Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain-tops ;
I must be

gone and live, or stop and die.
Jul. Yon light is not day-light, I know it, I:
It is some meteor that the sun exhales,
To be to thee this night a torch-bearer,
And light thee on thy way to Mantua :
Therefore stay yet, thou need’st not to be gone.

Rom. Let me be ta’en, let me be put to death ;
I am content, so thou wilt have it so.
I'll say, yon gray is not the morning's eye,
'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow;
Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat
The vaulty heaven so high above our heads :
I have more care to stay, than will to go ;-
Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so !-
How is’t, my soul ? let's talk, it is not day.

Jul. It is, it is; hie hence, be gone, away;
It is the lark that sings so out of tune,
Straining harsh discords, and unpleasing sharps.
Some say, the lark makes sweet division;

This doth not so, for she divideth us :
Some say, the lark and loathèd toad change eyes;
O, now I would they had changed voices too!
Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray,
Hunting thee hence with hunts-up to the day.
O, now be gone ; more light and light it grows.

Rom. More light and light ?—more dark and dark our

woes.

OTHELLO.

OTHELLO's Address to the Senate.

Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors,
My very noble and approved good masters, –
That I have ta’en away this old man's daughter,
It is most true; true I have married her;
The
very

head and front of my offending
Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech,
And little blessed with the set phrase of peace;
For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith,
Till now, some nine moons wasted, they have used
Their dearest action in the tented field;
And little of this great world can I speak,
More than pertains to feats of broil and battle ;
And therefore little shall I grace my cause,
In speaking for myself: Yet, by your gracious patience,
I will a round, unvarnished tale deliver
Of

my whole course of love; what drugs, what charins, What conjuration, and what mighty magic (For such proceeding I am charged withal), I won his daughter with.

.... I do beseech you, Send for the lady to the Sagittary, And let her speak of me before her father : If you

do find me foul in her report, The trust, the office, I do hold of you, Not only take away, but let your sentence Even fall upon my

life. Duke. Fetch Desdemona hither.

Oth. Ancient, conduct them; you best know the place. And, till she come, as truly as to Heaven I do confess the vices of my blood, So justly to your grave ears I'll present How I did thrive in this fair lady's love, And she in mine.

Her father loved me; oft invited me; Still questioned me the story of my life, From year to year; the battles, sieges, fortunes, That I have passed. I ran it through, even from my boyish days, To the very moment that he bade me tell it. Wherein I spoke of most disast'rous chances, Of moving accidents, by flood and field; Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach ; Of being taken by the insolent foe, And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence, 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 tha

each other eat, The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads Do grow beneath their shoulders. These things to hear,

Would Desdemona seriously incline;
But still the house-affairs would draw her thence;
Which ever as she could with haste dispatch,
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, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange;
'Twas pitiful, 'twas 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;
Here comes the lady, let her witness it.

OTHELLO's Lamentation.

O now, forever, Farewell the tranquil mind! farewell, content ! Farewell the plumèd troop, and the big wars That make ambition virtue! O, farewell ! Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump,

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