Изображения страниц
PDF
EPUB

HUMAN LIFE.

Reason thus with life,—

If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing

That none but fools would keep: a breath thou art, (Servile to all the skiey influences,)

That do this habitation, where thou keep'st,

Hourly afflict: merely, thou art Death's fool;
For him thou labour'st by thy flight to shun,

Yet run'st toward him still: thou art by no means valiant;
For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork

Of a poor worm; thy best of rest is sleep,
And that thou oft provok'st; yet grossly fear'st
Thy death, which is no more. Thou'rt not thyself;
For thou exist'st on many a thousand grains
That issue out of dust: happy thou art not;
For what thou hast not, still thou striv'st to get;
And what thou hast, forget'st; thou art not certain;
For thy complexion shifts to strange effects,
After the moon: if thou art rich, thou art poor;
For, like an ass, whose back with ingots bows,
Thou bear'st thy heavy riches but a journey,
And death unloads thee: friend hast thou none;
For thy own bowels, which do call thee sire,
The mere effusion of thy proper loins,
Do curse the gout, serpigo, and the rheum,

Forending thee no sooner: thou hast nor youth, nor age,
But, as it were, an after-dinner sleep,

Dreaming on both! for all thy blessed youth
Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms

Of palsied eld; and when thou'rt old, and rich.
Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor beauty,

What's yet in this
Yet in this life

To make thy riches pleasant.
That bears the name of life?

Lie hid more thousand deaths: yet death we fear,
That makes these odds all even.

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 school-boy, 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, the soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard;
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in 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 age 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
Tnd whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
Ahat ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing.

MERCY.

The quality of mercy is not strained ;
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath it is twice blessed;
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes :
"Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown:
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway,

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,

It is an attribute to God himself;

And earthly power doth then show likest God's,
When mercy seasons justice.

MOONLIGHT.

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!
Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears; soft stillness and the night,
Become the touches of sweet harmony.

Sit, Jessica look, how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold:

There's not the smallest orb, which thou behold'st,
But in his motion like an angel sings,

Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubims:

Such harmony is in immortal souls ;

But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay

Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.

HENRY IV AND RICHARD II.

YORK. Then, as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke, Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,

Which his aspiring rider seemed to know,

With slow, but stately pace, kept on his course,
While all tongues cried-God save thee, Bolingbroke!
You would have thought the very windows spake,
So many greedy looks of young and old
Through casements darted their desiring eyes
Upon his visage; and that all the walls,
With painted imagery, had said at once-
Jesu preserve thee! welcome, Bolingbroke!
Whilst he from one side to the other turning,
Bare-headed, lower than his proud steed's neck,
Bespake them thus-I thank you, Countrymen :
And thus still doing, thus he pass'd along.

DUCH. Alas! poor Richard! where rid he the while?
YORK. As in a theatre, the eyes of meu,

After a well graced actor leaves the stage,
Are idly bent on him that enters next,

Thinking his prattle to be tedious:

Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes
Did scowl on Richard; no man cried, God save him;
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home;

But dust was thrown upon his sacred head;
Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off,
His face still combating with tears and smiles,
The badges of his grief and patience,--

That had not God, for some strong purpose, steeled
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
And barbarism itself have pitied him.

Nay then, farewell,

WOLSEY.

I have touched the highest point of all my greatness;
And from that full meridian of my glory,

I haste now to my setting: I shall fall
Like a bright exhalation in the evening,
And no man see me more.

So farewell to the little good you bear me.
Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness!
This is the state of man; to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him:
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost;
And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness was a ripening,-nips his root,
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
These many summers in a sea of glory;
But far beyond my depth: my high blown pride
At length broke under me; and now has left me,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.

Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye;
I feel my heart new opened: O, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours.
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
The sweet aspect of princes, and our ruin,
More pangs and fears than war or women have;

« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »