When that the sleeping man should stir; for 'tis
The royal disposition of that beast

To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead :
This seen, Orlando did approach the man,

And found it was his brother, his elder brother.

Celia. O I have heard him speak of that same brother; And he did render 1 him the most unnatural

That liv'd 'mongst men.

Oliver. And well he might so do,

For well I know he was unnatural.

Rosalind. But to Orlando - Did he leave him there,

Food to the suck'd and hungry lioness?

Oliver. Twice did he turn back, and purpos'd so;
But kindness nobler ever than revenge,

And nature stronger than his just occasion,
Made him give battle to the lioness,

Who quickly fell before him; in which hurtling
From miserable slumber I awak'd.

Celia. Are you his brother?

Was't you that did so oft contrive to kill him?
Oliver. 'Twas I.

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

I.

Claudio. Death is a fearful thing.3

Isabel. And shameful life a hateful.

2

Claudio. Ay, but to die, and go we know not where ; To lie in cold obstruction and to rot:

This sensible warm motion to become

A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit

To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside
In thrilling regions of thick ribbed ice;
To be imprisoned in the viewless winds,
And blown with restless violence round about
The pendant world: or to be worse than worst
Of these, that lawless and incertain thoughts
Imagine howling!-'tis too horrible!
The weariest and most loathed worldly life
That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment
Can lay on nature, is a paradise

To what we fear of death.

1 Represent.

2 Hurtling, disturbance; hurtle, from heurter, to strike against.

3 This passage must be understood as describing the terrors of a profligate young man condemned to die.

II.

THE DUTY OF MUTUAL FORGIVENESS.

Alas! alas!

Why, all the souls that were, were forfeit once;
And He that might the vantage best have took
Found out the remedy. How would you be,
If He, which is the top of judgment, should
But judge you as you are? O, think on that;
And mercy then will breathe within your lips,

Like man new made.

Merciful Heaven!

Thou rather, with thy sharp and sulphureous bolt, Splitt'st the unwedgeable and gnarled1 oak

Than the soft myrtle :- O, but man, proud man! Drest in a little brief authority;

Most ignorant of what he's most assured,

His glassy2 essence,

like an angry ape,

Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven,
As make the angels weep.

MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.

Is all the counsel that we two have shar'd, The sisters' vows, the hours that we have spent, When we have chid the hasty-footed time For parting us,- O, and is all forgot?

All school days' friendship, childhood innocence?
We, Hermia, like two.artificial3 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;
And will you rend our ancient love asunder?
To join with men in scorning your poor friend?
It is not friendly, 'tis not maidenly.
Our sex as well as I may chide you for it,
Though I alone do feel the injury.

1 Knotted.

13 Ingenious.

2 Frail, brittle.

4 Needles.

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

I.

Portia. The quality of mercy is not strain'd:
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice bless'd:
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 sceptr'd sway,
It is enthron'd 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. Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this,
That, in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy;

And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy.

II.

Lorenzo. How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon the 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 patines1 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.

Jessica. I am never merry when I hear sweet music
Lorenzo. The reason is your spirits are attentive:
For do but note a wild and wanton herd,
Or race of youthful or unhandled colts,

Fetching mad bounds, bellowing, and neighing loud,
Which is the hot condition of their blood;

A small plate.

If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound,
Or any air of music touch their ears,

You shall perceive them make a mutual stand,
Their savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze,

By the sweet power of music: therefore the poet
Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods;
Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage,
But music for the time doth change all nature:
The man that hath no music in himself,
Nor is not mov'd with concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils;
The motions of his spirit are dull as night,
And his affections dark as Erebus1:

Let no such man be trusted.

KING JOHN.

I.

THE GRIEF OF CONSTANCE FOR THE LOSS OF HER

SON ARTHUR.

Const. Father cardinal, I have heard you say
That we shall see and know our friends in heaven.
If that be true, I shall see my boy again;

For, since the birth of Cain, the, first male child,
To him that did but yesterday suspire2,
There was not such a gracious creature born.
But now will canker sorrow eat my bud,
And chase the native beauty from his cheek;
And he will look as hollow as a ghost,
As dim and meagre as an ague's fit;
And so he'll die; and, rising so again,
When I shall meet him in the court of heaven
I shall not know him: therefore, never, never,
Must I behold my pretty Arthur more.

Pand. You hold too heinous a respect of grief.
Const. He talks to me that never had a son.

K. Phi. You are as fond of your grief as of your child.
Const. Grief fills the room up of my absent child,

Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me;

Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form;
Then have I reason to be fond of grief.

1 A poetic exaggeration, a hyperbole.

2 Breathe.

II.

Arthur. Good morning, Hubert.
Hubert. Good morrow, little Prince.

You are sad.

A. As little Prince (having so great a title
To be more Prince) as may be. -
H. Indeed I have been merrier.

A.
Mercy on me!
Methinks nobody should be sad but I:
Yet, I remember, when I was in France,
Young gentlemen would be sad as night
Only for wantonness. By my christendom,
So I were out of prison, and kept sheep,
I should be as merry as the day is long;
And so I would be here, but that I doubt
My uncle practises more harm to me;
He is afraid of me, and I of him :

Is it my fault that I was Geoffrey's son ?
No indeed it's not; and I would to heaven
I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert.
H. If I talk to him, with his innocent prate
He will awake my mercy, which lies dead:
Therefore will I be sudden, and despatch.

(Aside.)
A. Are you sick, Hubert? you look pale to-day :
In sooth, I would you were a little sick;
That I might sit all night and watch with you;
I warrant, I love you more than you do me.

H. His words do take possession of my bosom.
Read here, young Arthur. (Showing a paper.)
Can you not read it? is it not fair writ?

A. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect:
Must you with hot irons burn out both my eyes?
H. Young boy, I must.

A.

H.

And will you?

And I will.

A. Have you a heart? when your head did but ache,

I knit my handkerchief about your brows,

(The best I had, a princess wrought it me,)

And I did never ask it you again:

And with my hand at midnight held your head;
And, like the watchful minutes to the hour,
Still an anon cheered up the heavy time,

Saying, what lack you? and where lies your grief?
Or, what good love may I perform for you?
Many a poor man's son would have lain still,
And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you;