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And from her derogate body never spring
A babe to honour her!

If she must teem,
Create her child of spleen; that it may live,
And be a thwart disnatured torment to her!
Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth;
With cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks;
Turn all her mother's pains, and benefits,
To laughter and contempt; that she may feel
How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is
To have a thankless child !

All things superfluous. O, reason not the need : our basest beggars Are in the poorest thing superfluous : Allow not nature more than nature needs, Man’s life is cheap as beast's: thou art a lady ; If only to go warm were gorgeous, Why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear’st, Which scarcely keeps thee warm.-But, for true need, You Heavens, give me that patience, patience I need ! You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, As full of grief as age; wretched in both ! If it be you that stir these daughters' hearts Against their father, fool me not so much To bear it tamely; touch me with noble anger ! O, let not women's weapons, water-drops, Stain my man's cheeks !-No, you unnatural hags, I will have such revenges on you both, That all the world shall—I will do such things, – What they are, yet I know not; but they shall be The terrors of the carth. You think, I'll weep; No, I'll not weep ;

I have full cause of weeping; but this heart
Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws,
Or ere I'll weep :-0, fool, I shall go mad!

LEAR in the Storm.

Blow, wind, and crack your cheeks ! rage! blow!
You cataracts, and hurricanoes, spout
Till

you have drenched our steeples, drowned the cocks !
You sulphurous and thought-executing fires,
Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunder-bolts,
Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,
Strike flat the thick rotundity o'the world !
Crack nature's moulds, all germens spill at once,
That make ingrateful man!....
Rumble thy belly-full! Spit, fire ! spout, rain!
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters :
I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness,
I never gave you kingdom, called you children,
You owe me no subscription; why then, let fall
Your horrible pleasure; here I stand, your slave,
A poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man:

I call you servile ministers,
That have with two pernicious daughters joined
Your high engendered battles, 'gainst a head
So old and white as this. O! O! 'tis foul !

But yet

*

Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are,
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides,
Your looped and windowed raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these? O, I have ta’en
Too little care of this ! Take physic, pomp;

Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel ;
That thou mayst shape the superflux to them,
And show the heavens more just.

Vices concealed by Greatness. Through tattered clothes small vices do appear; Robes, and furred gowns, hide all. Plate sin with gold, And the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks : Arm it in rags, a pigmy's straw doth pierce it.

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The banished Duke and his Lords in the Forest of Arden.

Duke. Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile,
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court ?
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,
'The seasons' difference; as the icy fang,
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind,
Which when it bites and blows upon my body,
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and

say,
This is no flattery: these are counsellors
That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Sweet are the uses of adversity;
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head :
And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.

Amiens. I would not change it. Happy is your grace,
That can translate the stubbornness of fortune
Into so quiet and so sweet a style.

Duke. Come, shall we go and kill us venison ?
And yet it irks me, the poor dappled fools,-
Being native burghers of this desert city,
Should, in their own confines, with forkèd heads
Have their round haunches gored.

Lord. Indeed, my lord,
The melancholy Jaques grieves at that;
And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp
Than doth your brother that hath banished you.
To-day, my lord of Amiens and myself
Did steal behind him, as he lay along
Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out
Upon the brook that brawls along this wood;
To the which place a poor sequestered stag,
That from the hunter's aim had ta'en a hurt,
Did come to languish; and indeed, my lord,
The wretched animal heaved forth such groans,
That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat
Almost bursting; and the big round tears
Coursed one another down his innocent nose,
In piteous chase : and thus, the hairy fool,
Much marked of the melancholy Jaques,
Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook,
Augmenting it with tears.

ROSALIND's Points of a Lover. A lean cheek; which you have not: a blue eye, and sunken; which you have not: an unquestionable spirit ; which

you have not: a beard neglected; which you have not:—but I pardon you for that; for, simply, your having no beard is a younger brother's revenue. — Then your

hose should be ungartered, your bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe untied, and every thing about you demonstrating a careless desolation. But you are no such man; you are rather point-device in your accoutrements ; as loving yourself, than seeming the lover of any other.

How ROSALIND cures Love.

too.

Rosalind. Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip, as madmen do; and the reason why they are not so punished and cured, is, that the lunacy is so ordinary, that the whippers are in love

Yet I profess curing it by counsel. Orlando. Did you ever cure any so?

Ros. Yes, one; and in this manner. He was to imagine me his love, his mistress; and I set him every day to woo me: at which time would I, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate, changeable, longing, and liking; proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles; for every passion something, and for no passion truly any thing, as boys and women are for the most part cattle of this colour: would now like him, now loathe him; then entertain him, then forswear him ; now weep for him, then spit at him; that I drave my suitor from his mad humour of love, to a living humour of madness; which was, to forswear the full stream of the world, and to live in a nook merely monastic. And thus I cured and this way will I take upon me to wash your

liver as clean as a sound sheep's heart, that there shall not be one spot of love in't.

him;

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