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Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.

MIRTH.

A fool, a fool! I meet a fool i' th' forest,

A motly fool, a miserable varlet!

As I do live by food, I met a fool,

Who laid him down, and basked him in the sun,

And railed on lady Fortune in good terms;

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O joy, thou welcome stranger, twice three years
I have not felt thy vital beam, but now

It warms my veins, and plays about my heart;
A fiery instinct lifts me from the ground,
And I could mount.

LOVE.

Clasp me a little longer, on the brink

Of fate! while I can feel thy dear caress;

And, when this heart hath ceased to beat, O, thinkAnd let it mitigate thy woe's excess,

-

That thou hast been to me all tenderness,

A friend, to more than human friendship, just.

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Heaven knows how I shall reach my journey's end;
For the way is long before me, and my feet
God help me! sore with travelling. I would gladly,
If it pleased God, at once lie down and die.

Traveller. Nay, nay, cheer up! a little food and rest
Will comfort you; and then your journey's end
May make amends for all. You shake your head,

And weep. Is it some mournful business, then,
That leads you from your home?

HOPE.

O Hope, sweet flatterer, whose delusive touch
Sheds on afflicted minds the balm of comfort;
Relieves the load of poverty; sustains
The captive bending with the weight of bonds,
And smoothes the pillow of disease and pain!
Send back th' exploring messenger with joy,
And let me hail thee from that friendly grove.

HATRED.

He is my bane, I cannot bear him;

One heaven and earth can never hold us both;
Still shall we hate, and with defiance deadly
Keep rage alive till one be lost forever;
As if two suns should meet in one meridian,
And strive in fiery combat for the passage

ANGER.

My liege, I did deny no prisoners;

But I remember, when the fight was done,
When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,
Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dressed,
Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin, new-reaped,
Showed like a stubble land at harvest-home;

He was perfumed like a milliner;

And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held
A pouncet-box, which ever and anon

He gave his nose, and took't away again;
Who, therewith angry when it next came there,
Took it in snuff — and still he smiled and talked;
And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,

He called them untaught knaves, unmannerly,
To bring a slovenly, unhandsome corse

Betwixt the wind and his nobility.

With many holiday and lady terms,

He questioned me, among the rest : demanded
My prisoners, in your majesty's behalf.

I then, all smarting with my wounds, being galled
To be so pestered with a popinjay,

Out of my grief and my impatience

Answered neglectingly — I know not what

He should, or he should not; for he made me mad,

To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,

And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman

Of guns, and drums, and wounds, (heaven save the mark!)

And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earth

Was parmacity for an inward bruise;
And that it was great pity, so it was,
That villanous saltpetre should be digged
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed
So cowardly; and, but for these vile guns,
He would himself have been a soldier.
This bald, unjointed chat of his, my lord,
I answered indirectly, as I said.

And, I beseech you, let not his report
Come current for an accusation,

Betwixt my love and your high majesty.

REVENGE.

O, I could play the woman with mine eyes,
And braggart with my tongue! - But, gentle Heaven,
Cut short all intermission: front to front,

Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself;

Within my sword's length set him; if he 'scape,
Heaven forgive him too!

Cassius.

REPROACH.

-Do not presume too much upon my love.

I may do that I shall be sorry for.

Brutus.

You have done that you should be sorry for.
There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats;
For I am armed so strong in honesty,

That they pass by me as the idle wind,
Which I respect not. I did send to you

For certain sums of gold, which you denied me;
For I can raise no money by vile means;

No, Cassius, I had rather coin my heart,

And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring

From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash
By any indirection. I did send

To you for gold to pay my legions,

Which you denied me.

Was that done like Cassius ?

Should I have answer'd Caius Cassius so?

When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous

To lock such rascal counters from his friends,
Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts,
Dash him to pieces!

FEAR.

How ill this taper burns! Ha! who comes here?

I think it is the weakness of my eyes,

That shapes this monstrous apparition

It comes upon me! Art thou any thing?

Art thou some god,

some angel, or some devil,

That mak'st my blood cold, my hair to stare ?
Speak to me what thou art.

GRIEF.

Seems, madam! Nay, it is: I know not seems.

'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,

Nor customary suits of solemn black,
Nor windy suspiration of forced breath;
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
Nor the dejected 'havior of the visage,
Together with all forms, modes, shows of grief,
That can denote me truly. These indeed seem,
For they are actions that a man might play;
But I have that within which passeth show,
These but the trappings and the suits of woe.

REMORSE.

O, when the last account 'twixt heaven and earth
Is to be made, then shall this hand and seal
Witness against us to damnation!

How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds
Makes deeds ill done! Hadst not thou been by,
A fellow by the hand of nature marked,
Quoted, and signed to do a deed of shame,
This murder had not come into my mind:
But taking note of thy abhorred aspect,
Finding thee fit for bloody villany,
Apt, liable to be employed in danger,

I faintly broke with thee of Arthur's death;
And thou, to be endeared to a king,
Mad'st it no conscience to destroy a prince.

DESPAIR.

O thou eternal Mover of the heavens !
Look with a gentle eye upon this wretch;
O, beat away the busy, meddling fiend,
That lays strong siege unto this wretch's soul,
And from his bosom purge this black despair!

SURPRISE.

Old men and beldames, in the streets,

Do prophesy upon it dangerously:

Young Arthur's death is common in their mouths; And when they talk of him, they shake their heads, And whisper one another in the ear;

And he that speaks doth gripe the hearer's wrist;

Whilst he that hears makes fearful action
With wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling eyes.
I saw a smith stand with his hammer, thus,
The whilst his iron did on the anvil cool,
With open mouth swallowing a tailor's news;
Who, with his shears and measure in his hand,
Standing on slippers, (which his nimble haste
Had falsely thrust upon contrary feet,)
Told of a many thousand warlike French

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