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; O joy, thou welcome stranger, twice three years It warms my veins, and plays about my heart; 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. Heaven knows how I shall reach my journey's end; Traveller. Nay, nay, cheer up! a little food and rest And weep. Is it some mournful business, then, HOPE. O Hope, sweet flatterer, whose delusive touch HATRED. He is my bane, I cannot bear him; One heaven and earth can never hold us both; ANGER. My liege, I did deny no prisoners; But I remember, when the fight was done, He was perfumed like a milliner; And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held He gave his nose, and took't away again; He called them untaught knaves, unmannerly, Betwixt the wind and his nobility. With many holiday and lady terms, He questioned me, among the rest : demanded I then, all smarting with my wounds, being galled 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, I beseech you, let not his report Betwixt my love and your high majesty. REVENGE. O, I could play the woman with mine eyes, Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself; Within my sword's length set him; if he 'scape, 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. That they pass by me as the idle wind, For certain sums of gold, which you denied me; 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 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, 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 ? GRIEF. Seems, madam! Nay, it is: I know not seems. 'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black, REMORSE. O, when the last account 'twixt heaven and earth How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds I faintly broke with thee of Arthur's death; DESPAIR. O thou eternal Mover of the heavens ! 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 |