Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself,
And falls on the other side.
Outliving Reputation.
I have lived long enough: my way of life
Is fall’n into the sear, the yellow leaf :
And that which should
accompany
old
age, As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, I must not look to have; but, in their stead, Curses, not loud, but deep, mouth-honour, breath Which the poor heart would fain deny, but dare not.
To-morrow. Tomorrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays, have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle ! Life’s but a walking shadow : a poor player, That struts and frets his hour
upon
the
stage,
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
Youthful Friendship.
INJURIOUS Hermia ! most ungrateful maid !
Have you cons
nsrired, have
you
with these contrived To bait me with this foul derision ? Is all the counsel, that we two have shared,
The sisters' vows, the hours that we have spent,
When we have chid the hasty-footed time
For parting us,-0, and is all forgot?
All school-days' friendship, childhood innocence ?
We, Hermia, like two artificial gods,
Have with our neelds created both one flower,
Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion,
Both warbling of one song, both in one key;
As if our hands, our sides, voices, and minds,
Had been incorporate. So we grew together,
Like to a double-cherry, seeming parted;
But yet a union in partition,
Two lovely berries moulded on one stem :
So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart;
Two of the first, like coats in heraldry,
Due but to one, and crowned with one crest.
Poetic Imaginings. Lovers, and madmen, have such seething brains, Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend More than cool reason ever comprehends. The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, Are of imagination all compact : One sees more devils than vast hell can hold; That is, the madman: the lover, all as frantic, Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt: The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven; And, as imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing A local habitation, and a name.
Hero. Nature never framed a woman's heart
Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice :
Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes,
Misprising what they look on; and her wit
Values itself so highly, that to her
All matter else seems weak: she cannot love,
Nor take no shape nor project of affection,
She is so self-endeared.
Urs. Sure, I think so;
And therefore, certainly, it were not good
She knew his love, lest she make sport at it.
Hero. Why, you speak truth : I never yet saw man,
How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featured,
But she would spell him backward: if fair-faced,
She'd swear, the gentleman should be her sister;
If black, why, Nature, drawing of an antic,
Made a foul blot; if tall, a lance ill-headed ;
If low, an agate very vilely cut;
If speaking, why, a vane blown with all winds;
If silent, why, a block moved with none.
So turns she every man the wrong side out;
And never gives to truth and virtue, that
Which simpleness and merit purchaseth.
Urs. Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable.
Hero. No: not to be so odd, and from all fashions, As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable : But who dare tell her so? If I should speak,
She'd mock me into air; O, she would laugh me
Out of myself, press me to death with wit.
Therefore let Benedick, like covered fire,
Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly :
It were a better death than die with mocks;
Which is as bad as die with tickling.
Maternal Grief and Love. (Arthur, Son of GEFFREY, elder Brother of King John, and rightful
Heir to the Throne of England, has been taken Prisoner by the Eng
lish.) King Philip of France, Cardinal Pandulph, Constance,
mother of Arthur. K. Philip. Look, who comes here ! a grave unto a soul ; Holding the eternal spirit, against her will, In the vile prison of afflicted breath :I pr’ythee, lady, go away with me.
Constance. Lo, now! now see the issue of your peace !
K. Phi. Patience, good lady! comfort, gentle Constance !
Const. No, I defy all counsel, all redress,
But that which ends all counsel, true redress,
Death, death :-O amiable, lovely death!
Thou odoriferous stench! sound rottenness !
Arise forth from the couch of lasting night,
Thou hate and terror to prosperity,
And I will kiss thy détestable bones ;
And put my eyeballs in thy vaulty brows;
And ring these fingers with thy household worms;
And stop this gap of breath with fulsome dust,
And be a carrion monster like thyself:
Come, grin on me, and I will think thou smil'st,
And buss thee as thy wife! Misery's love,
O, come to me!
K. Phi. O fair affliction, peace.
Const. No, no, I will not, having breath to cry :-O, that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth! Then with a passion would I shake the world; And rouse from sleep that fell anatomy, Which cannot hear a lady's feeble voice, Which scorns a modern invocation.
Pandulph. Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow.
Const. Thou art not holy, to belie me so;
I am not mad : this hair I tear, is mine;
My name is Constance; I was Geffrey's wife;
Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost :
I am not mad ;-I would to Heaven, I were !
For then, 'tis like I should forget myself :
O, if I could, what grief should I forget !-
Preach some philosophy to make me mad,
And thou shalt be canonized, cardinal :
For, not being mad, but sensible of grief,
My reasonable part produces reason
How I may be delivered of these woes,
And teaches me to kill or hang myself;
If I were mad, I should forget my son ;
Or madly think, a babe of clouts were he:
I am not mad; too well, too well I feel
The different plague of cach calamity.
K. Phi. Bind up those tresses.
Const. Yes, that I will; and wherefore will I do it? I tore them from their bonds; and cried aloud,
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