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Till when, humbly leave I take,
Lest the great Pan do awake,
That sleeping lies in a deep glade,

Under a broad beech's shade.
I must go, I must run
Swifter than the fiery sun.

II.

THE RIVER GOD TO AMORET.

I AM this fountain's god. Below
My waters to a river grow,
And 'twixt two banks with osiers set,
That only prosper in the wet,
Through the meadows do they glide,
Wheeling still on every side,
Sometime winding round about
To find the evenest channel out.
And if thou wilt go with me,
Leaving mortal company,
In the cool streams shalt thou lie,
Free from harm as well as I;
I will give thee for thy food
No fish that useth in the mud,
But trout and pike, that love to swim
Where the gravel from the brim
Through the pure streams may be seen;
Orient pearl fit for a queen
Will I give, thy love to win,
And a shell to keep them in;
Not a fish in all my brook
That shall disobey thy look,

But, when thou wilt, come gliding by
And from thy white hand take a fly:
And to make thee understand
How I can my waves command,
They shall bubble whilst I sing,
Sweeter than the silver string.

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III.

THE SATYR.

THOU divinest, fairest, brightest,
Thou most powerful maid and whitest,
Thou most virtuous and most blessed,
Eyes of stars, and golden tressed
Like Apollo! tell me, sweetest,
What new service now is meetest
For the Satyr? Shall I stray
In the middle air, and stay
The sailing rack, or nimbly take
Hold by the moon, and gently make
Suit to the pale queen of night
For a beam to give thee light?
Shall I dive into the sea
And bring thee coral, making way
Through the rising waves that fall
Like snowy fleeces? Dearest, shall
I catch thee wanton fawns, or flies
Whose woven wings the summer dyes
Of many colors? get thee fruit,
Or steal from heaven old Orpheus' lute?
All these I'll venture for, and more,
To do her service all these woods adore.

FROM "THE NICE VALOUR."
[By Fletcher.]

HENCE, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly!
There's nought in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see't,
But only melancholy;

O sweetest melancholy!
Welcome, folded arms and fixed eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,

A look that's fasten'd to the ground,
A tongue chain'd up without a sound!
Fountain heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly hous'd save bats and owls!
A midnight bell, a parting groan,
These are the sounds we feed upon;
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy
valley;

Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.

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[WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE was born at Stratford on Avon, in April, 1564; there also he died, April 23d (old style), 1616. The following are the titles of his poems, with the dates of publication: Venus and Adonis, 1593; The Rape of Lucrece, 1594; The Passionate Pilgrim (a miscellany which includes only a few pieces by Shakespeare), 1599; The Phenix and the Turtle (printed with pieces on the same subject by other poets of the time, at the end of Robert Chester's Love's Martyr, or Rosalin's Complaint), 1601; Sonnets, 1609; A Lover's Complaint (in the same volume with the Sonnets), 1609.]

ADVICE OF POLONIUS TO HIS
SON, ON SETTING FORTH ON
HIS TRAVELS.

[From Hamlet.]

GIVE thy thoughts no tongue, Nor any unproportioned thought his act, Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,

Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel;

But do not dull thy palm with enter

tainment

Of each new-hatch'd, unfledg'd com

rade.

Beware

Neither a borrower nor a lender be:

For loan oft loses both itself and friend; And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.

This above all-to thine own self be

true;

And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou can'st not then be false to any

man.

Farewell; my blessing season this in thee.

HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY ON Life
AND DEATH.

Of entrance to a quarrel; but, being in, To be, or not to be, -
Bear it, that the opposer may beware of

thee.

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When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause; there's the respect That makes calamity of so long life: For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,

The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay,

The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,

To grunt and sweat under a weary life; But that the dread of something after death,

The undiscovered country, from whose bourn

No traveller returns, - puzzles the will; And makes us rather bear those ills we have,

Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;

And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;

And enterprises of great pith and moment,

With this regard, their currents turn a-wry, And lose the name of action.

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Let me not burst in ignorance! but tell Why thy canoniz'd bones, hearsed in death,

Have burst their cerements! why the sepulchre,

Wherein we saw thee quietly inurn'd, Hath oped his ponderous and marble jaws,

To cast thee up again! What may this mean,

That thou, dead corse, again, in complete steel,

Revisit'st thus the glimpses of the moon, Making night hideous; and we fools of nature,

So horribly to shake our disposition, With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls?

HAMLET'S ESTEEM FOR

HORATIO.

NAY, do not think I flatter: For what advancement may I hope from thee,

That no revenue hast but thy good spirits

To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flattered?

No, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp;

And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee,

Where thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou hear?

Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice,

And could of men distinguish her election,

She hath seal'd thee for herself; for thou hast been

As one, in suffering all, that suffers no

thing;

A man that fortune's buffets and rewards

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THE VISIONARY DAGGER.
[From Macbeth.]

Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.

I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind; a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed
brain ?

I see the vet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.

Thou marshall'st me the way that I was

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DRAW thy sword;

That if my speech offend a noble heart, Thy arm may do thee justice: here is mine.

Behold, it is the privilege of mine honors, My oath, and my profession: I protest,Maugre thy strength, youth, place, and eminence,

Despite thy victor sword, and fire-new fortune,

Thy valor, and thy heart, thou art a traitor :

False to thy gods, thy brother, and thy father;

Conspirant 'gainst this high illustrious prince;

And from the extremest upward of thy

head,

To the descent and dust beneath thy feet, A most toad-spotted traitor. Say thou, "No,"

This sword, this arm, and my best spirits, are bent

To prove upon thy heart, whereto I speak, Thou liest.

THE STORM. [From King Lear.]

POOR naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are,

That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,

CLEOPATRA ON THE CYDNUS. [From Antony and Cleopatra.]

THE barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne,

Burn'd on the water: the poop was beaten gold;

Purple the sails, and so perfumed, that The winds were love-sick with them: the oars were silver;

Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made

The water which they beat to follow faster,

As amorous of their strokes. For her

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