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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.
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,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
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:
Duke. There is no woman's sides,
Cesario. Ay, but I know,-
Cesario. Too well what love women to men may owe:
As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman,
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,
The Character of MACBETH.
Lady Macbeth. ... Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and
Thou wouldst be great;
All that impedes thee from the golden round,
MACBETH'S Soliloquy on Duncan's Murder.
If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well
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