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Dying for Lore. Rosalind. The poor world is almost six thousand years old, and in all this time there was not any man died in his own person, videlicet, in a love-cause. Troïlus had his brains dashed out with a Grecian club; yet he did what he could to die before; and he is one of the patterns of love. Leander, he would have lived many a fair year, though Hero had turned nun, if it had not been for a hot midsummer night: for, good youth, he went but forth to wash him in the Hellespont, and, being taken with the cramp, was drowned; and the foolish chroniclers of that age found it was—Hero of Sestos. But these are all lies; men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.

JAQUES's Melancholy.

I have neither the scholar's melancholy, which is emulation; nor the musician's, which is fantastical; nor the courtier's, which is proud; nor the soldier's, which is ambitious; nor the lawyer's, which is politic; nor the lady's, which is nice; nor the lover's, which is all these : but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects; and, indeed, the sundry contemplation of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me, is a most humorous sadness.

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 schoolboy, 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 ;
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard;
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel;
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even at the cannon's mouth. And then, the justice,
In fair round belly, with good capon lined,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances,
And so he plays his part. The sixth stage shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side;
His youthful hose well saved a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound: Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing.

TWELFTH NIGHT.

Music the Food of Love. If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die.

That strain again ;—it had a dying fall:
Oh, it came o’er my ear like the sweet south,
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing, and giving odour.—Enough; no more;
'Tis not so sweet now, as it was before.
O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou !
That, notwithstanding thy capacity
Receiveth as the sea, naught enters there,
Of what validity and pitch soever,
But falls into abatement and low price,
Even in a minute ! so full of shapes is fancy,
That it alone is high-fantastical.

Woman's Louc.

DUKE, CESARIO.

Duke. There is no woman's sides,
Can bide the beating of so strong a passion
As love doth give my heart: no woman's heart
So big, to hold so much; they lack retention.
Alas, their love may be called appetite, -
No motion of the liver, but the palate, –
That suffer surfeit, cloyment, and revolt;
But mine is all as hungry as the sea,
And can digest as much : make no compare
Between that love a woman can bear me,
And that I owe Olivia.

Cesario. Ay, but I know,-
Duke. What dost thou know?

Cesario. Too well what love women to men may owe:
In faith, they are as true of heart as we.
My father had a daughter loved a man,

As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman,
I should your lordship.

Duke. And what's her history?

Cesario. A blank, my lord: she never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought; And with a green and yellow melancholy, She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed? We men may say more, swear more; but, indeed, Our shows are more than will; for still we prove Much in our vows, but little in our love,

MACBETH.

The Character of MACBETH.

Lady Macbeth. ... Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and

shalt be
What thou art promised.—Yet do I fear thy nature;
It is too full o' the milk of human kindness,
To catch the nearest way.

Thou wouldst be great;
Art not without ambition ; but without
The illness should attend it. What thou wouldst highly,
That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false,
And yet wouldst wrongly win : thou’dst have, great Glamis,
That which cries, Thus thou must do, if thou have it;
And that which rather thou dost fear to do,
Than wishest should be undone. Hie thee hither,
That I may pour my spirits in thine ear;
And chastise, with the valour of my tongue,

All that impedes thee from the golden round,
Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem
To have thee crowned withal.

MACBETH'S Soliloquy on Duncan's Murder.

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If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well
It were done quickly. If the assassination
Could trammel

up
the

consequence, and catch, With his surcease, success

that but this blow Might be the be-all and the end-all here, But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,We'd jump the life to come.—But, in these cases, We still have judgment here; that we but teach Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return To plague the inventor. This even-handed justice Commends the ingredients of our poisoned chalice To our own lips. He's here in double trust : First, as I am his kinsman and his subject, Strong both against the deed; then, as his host, Who should against his murderer shut the door, Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been So clear in his great office, that his virtues Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against The deep damnation of his taking-off: And pity, like a naked new-born babe Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubin horsed Upon the sightless couriers of the air, Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, That tears shall drown the wind. I have no spur To prick the sides of my intent, but only

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