Fear and terror are but slender bonds of attachment; when you remove them, as fear ceases, terror begins. All the incitements of victory are on our side; no wives inflame the Romans; no parents are there to call shame on their flight; they have no country, or it is elsewhere. Few in number, fearful from ignorance, gazing on unknown woods and seas, the gods have delivered them, shut in and bound, into your hands. Let not their vain aspect, the glitter of silver and gold, which neither covers nor wounds, alarm you. In the very line of the enemy we shall find our friends; the Britons will recognize their own

cause; the Gauls will recollect their former freedom; the other Germans will desert them, as lately the Usipii have done. No objects of terror are behind them; naught but empty castles, ageridden colonies, dissension between cruel masters and unwilling slaves, sick and discordant cities.

Here is a leader, an army; there are tributes and payments, and the badges of servitude, which to bear forever, or instantly to avenge, lies in the power of your arms. Go forth, then, into the field. Think of your ancestors! Think of your posterity! - Agricola, Chapter 30-2.

"ALL THE WORLD'S A STAGE»

Jaques-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 schoolboy, with his satchel,

And shining morning face, creeping like snail, Unwillingly to school: And then, the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress's eyebrow: Then, a soldier, Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honor, 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 slipper'd 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 towards childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound: Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
- From As You Like It, Act II., Scene 7.

"A FOOL, A FOOL!-I MET A FOOL≫ Jaques A fool, a fool!-I met a fool i' the forest,

A motley fool; - a miserable world!-
As I do live by food, I met a fool;

Who laid him down and basked him in the sun

"Call me not fool till Heaven hath sent me fortune: "

And then he drew a dial from his poke;
And looking on it with lack-lustre eye,
Says very wisely, "It is ten o'clock:

Thus may we see, quoth he, how the world wags;

'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine;

And after an hour more, 'twill be eleven;
And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe,
And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot;
And thereby hangs a tale." When I did hear
The motley fool thus moral on the time,
My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,
That fools should be so deep contemplative:
And I did laugh, sans intermission

An hour by his dial.- O noble fool!

A worthy fool! Motley's the only wear.

O worthy fool! one that hath been a courtier ;
And says, if ladies be but young and fair,
They have the gift to know it; and in his
brain,-

Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit
After a voyage, he hath strange places
cramm'd

With observation, the which he vents
In mangled forms.-O, that I were a fool!
I am ambitious for a motley coat.

Duke Senior-Thou shalt have one.
Jaques - It is my only suit ;

Provided that you weed your better judgments
Of all opinion that grows rank in them,
That I am wise. I must have liberty
Withal, as large a charter as the wind,
To blow on whom I please; for so fools have;
And they that are most galled with my folly.
They most must laugh: And why, sir, must they

so?

Gloster-Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York; And all the clouds, that lower'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;

Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;

Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings;
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visaged war hath smoothed his wrinkled
front,

And now,- instead of mounting barbed steeds,
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,—
He'capers nimbly in a lady's chamber,
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.

But I,-that am not shaped for sportive tricks,
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;
I, that am rudely stamped, and want love's
majesty

To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deform'd, unfinish'd, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable,
That dogs bark at me, as I halt by them:-
Why I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time;
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun,
And descant on mine own deformity:

And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,
To entertain these fair well-spoken days,-
I am determined to prove a villain,
And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,
By drunken prophecies, libels, and dreams,
To set my brother Clarence, and the king,
In deadly hate, the one against the other:
And, if King Edward be as true and just,
As I am subtle, false, and treacherous,
This day should Clarence closely be mew'd up;
About a prophecy, which says-that G
Of Edward's heirs the murderer shall be,
Dive, thoughts, down to my soul! Here Clarence

comes.

-Richard III., Act I, Scene 1.

THE DREAM OF CLARENCE

Clarence-O, I have passed a miserable night.
So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights,
That, as I am a Christian faithful man,

I would not spend another such a night,
Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days;
So full of dismal terror was the the time.
Methought, that I had broken from the Tower,
And was embark'd to cross to Burgundy,
And, in my company, my brother Gloster;
Who from my cabin tempted me to walk
Upon the hatches, thence we look'd toward
England,

And cited up a thousand heavy times,
During the wars of York and Lancaster,
That had befallen us. As we paced along
Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,
Methought, that Gloster stumbled; and, in fall-
ing,

Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard,
Into the tumbling billows of the main.

O Lord! methought, what pain it was to drown!
What dreadful noise of water in mine ears!
What sights of ugly death within mine eyes!
Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks;
A thousand men, that fishes gnaw'd upon;
Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,
Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels,

All scatter'd in the bottom of the sea;
Some lay in dead men's skulls; and in those
holes

Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept
(As 'twere in scorn of eyes) reflecting gems,
That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep,
And mock'd the dead bones that lay scatter'd by.

Brakenbury-Had you such leisure in the time of death

To gaze upon these secrets of the deep?

Clarence-Methought I had, and often did I

strive

To yield the ghost: but still the envious flood Kept in my soul, and would not let it forth To seek the empty, vast, and wand'ring air; But smother'd it within my panting bulk, Which almost burst to belch it in the sea.

Brakenbury-Awaked you not with this sore agony?

Clarence-O, no, my dream was lengthen'd after life;

O, then began the tempest to my soul!

I pass'd, methought, the melancholy flood,
With that grim ferryman which poets write of,
Unto the kingdom of perpetual night.
The first that there did greet my stranger soul
Was my great father-in-law, renowned War-
wick;

Who cried aloud, — « What scourge for perjury
Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?»
And so he vanish'd: Then came wand'ring by
A shadow like an angel, with bright hair
Dabbled in blood; and he shriek'd out aloud. -
"Clarence is come,- false, fleeting, perjured

Clarence,

Wolsey

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 honors thick upon him:
The third day, comes a frost, a killing frost;
And,-when he thinks, good easy man, full
surely

His greatness is a ripening,-nips his root.
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This 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 forever 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 prince's favors!
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.

Cromwell - O my lord,

Must I then leave you? must I needs forego
So good, so noble, and so true a master?
Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron,
With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord.-
The king shall have my service; but my prayers
Forever, and forever, shall be yours.

Wolsey-Cromwell, I did not think to shed a

tear

In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me,
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.
Let's dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Crom-

well;

And,-when I am forgotten, as I shall be;
And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention
Of me more must be heard of,- say, I taught
thee,

Say, Wolsey,- that once trod the ways of glory, And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor,

Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in. A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it Mark but my fall, and that, that ruin'd me.

Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition :
By that sin fell the angels; how can man then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by't?
Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate
thee;

Corruption wins not more than honesty.
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,
To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear

not:

Let all the ends thou aim'st at, be thy country's, Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fall'st, O Cromwell,

Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king; And,-Pry'thee, lead me in:

There take an inventory of all I have,

To the last penny; 'tis the king's: my robe,

And my integrity to Heaven, is all

I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell,

Had I but served my God with half the zeal
I served my king, he would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies.

Cromwell-Good sir, have patience.

Wolsey-So I have. Farewell

The hopes of court! my hopes in heaven do dwell. [Exeunt.

-From Henry VIII, Act III., Scene 2.

ANTONY OVER THE BODY OF CÆSAR Antony-O mighty Cæsar! dost thou lie so low! Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils, Shrunk to this little measure?- -Fare thee well. I know not, gentlemen, what you intend, Who else must be let blood, who else is rank; If I myself, there is no hour so fit

As Cæsar's death-hour; nor no instrument

Of half that worth, as those your swords, made rich

With the most noble blood of all this world.

I do beseech ye, if you bear me hard,

Now, whilst your purpled hands do reek and smoke,

Fulfill your pleasure. Live a thousand years,

I shall not find myself so apt to die;

No place will please me so, no mean of death,
As here by Cæsar, and by you cut off,
The choice and master spirits of this age.

That I did love thee, Cæsar, oh! 'tis true;
If then thy spirit look upon us now,
Shall it not grieve thee, dearer than thy death,
To see thy Antony making his peace,
Shaking the bloody fingers of thy foes,
Most noble in the presence of thy corse?
Had I as many eyes as thou hast wounds,
Weeping as fast as they stream forth thy blood,
It would become me better, than to close
In terms of friendship with thine enemies.
Pardon me, Julius!-here wast thou bay'd, brave

heart,

Here didst thou fall; and here thy hunters stand, Signed in thy spoil, and crimsoned in thy lethe.

O pardon me, thou piece of bleeding earth,
That I am meek and gentle with these butchers!
Thou art the ruins of the noblest man
That ever lived in the tide of times.

Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood!
Over thy wounds now do I prophesy,—
Which like dumb mouths do ope their ruby lips,
To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue,—
A curse shall light upon the limbs of men ;
Domestic fury, and fierce civil strife,
Shall cumber all the parts of Italy:
Blood and destruction shall be so in use,
And dreadful objects so familiar,

That mothers shall but smile when they behold
Their infants quartered with the hands of war;
All pity choked with custom of fell deeds:
And Cæsar's spirit ranging for revenge,
With Até by his side, come hot from hell,
Shall in these confines, with a monarch's voice,
Cry, "Havoc !" and let slip the dogs of war;
That this foul deed shall smell above the earth
With carrion men, groaning for burial.

-From "Julius Cæsar,” Act III., Scene 1.

BRUTUS ON THE DEATH OF CÆSAR Brutus-Romans, countrymen, and lovers! Hear me for my cause; and be silent, that you may hear. Believe me for mine honor; and have respect to mine honor that you may believe. Censure me in your wisdom; and awake your senses, that you may the better judge. If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of Cæsar's,—to him I say, that Brutus's love to Cæsar was no less than his. If, then, that friend demand why Brutus rose against Cæsar, this is my answer: Not that I loved Cæsar less, but that I loved Rome more. Had you rather Cæsar were living, and die all slaves, than that Cæsar were dead, to live all freemen? As Cæsar loved me, I weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honor him, but as he was ambitious, I slew him. There are tears, for his love; joy, for his fortune honor, for his valor; and death, for his ambition! Who is here so base, that would be a bondman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so rude, that would not be a Roman ? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so vile that will not love his country? If any, speak; for him have I offended. I pause for a reply

Citizens - None, Brutus, none !

Then none have I offended. I have done done no more to Cæsar than you shall do to Brutus. The question of his death is enrolled in the Capitol; his glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy; nor his offenses enforced, for which he suffered death.

Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony; who, though he had no hand in his death, shall receive the benefit of his dying, a place in the commonwealth: As which of you shall not? With this I depart: That, as I slew my best lover for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please my country to need my death.

- From Julius Cæsar, Act III., Scene 2.

ANTONY'S FUNERAL ORATION OVER CÆSAR

Antony- Friends, Romans, Countrymen! lend

me your ears;

I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interrèd with their bones:
So let it be with Cæsar. Noble Brutus
Hath told you Cæsar was ambitious:-
If it were so, it was a grievous fault;
And grievously hath Cæsar answered it!
Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest,—
For Brutus is an honorable man!

So are they all! all honorable men, -
Come I to speak in Cæsar's funeral.

He was my friend, faithful and just to me,-
But Brutus says he was ambitious;

And Brutus is an honorable man!

He hath brought many captives home to Rome,
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:
Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious?

When that the poor have cried, Cæsar hath wept.
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff! -

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honorable man!

You all did see, that, on the Lupercal,

I thrice presented him a kingly crown,

Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?— Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;

And sure he is an honorable man!

I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke ;
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once; not without cause:
What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him?
O judgment thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason! Bear with me:
My heart is in the coffin there with Cæsar,
And I must pause till it come back to me-

But yesterday, the word of Cæsar might
Have stood against the world; - now lies he there,
And none so poor to do him reverence!
O masters! if I were disposed to stir
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,
I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong,
Who, you all know, are honorable men!—

I will not do them wrong: I rather choose
To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and you,
Than I will wrong such honorable men! —
But here's a parchment with the seal of Cæsar,-
I found it in his closet,- 'tis his will!
Let but the commons hear this testament,-
Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read,—
And they would go and kiss dead Cæsar's wounds,
And dip their napkins in his sacred blood;
Yea, beg a hair of him for memory,
And, dying, mention it within their wills,
Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy,
Unto their issue! ...

If you have tears, prepare to shed them now;
You all do know this mantle : I remember
The first time ever Cæsar put it on ;
'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent,-
That day he overcame the Nervii ! -

Look! in this place, ran Cassius' dagger through;
See what a rent the envious Casca made!-

William Shakespeare - Continued

Through this,- the well-beloved Brutus stabbed
And, as he plucked his cursed steel away,
Mark how the blood of Cæsar followed it!
As rushing out of doors, to be resolved
If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no l
For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar's angel.
Judge, O ye gods, how dearly Cæsar loved him!
This was the most unkindest cut of all!
For when the noble Cæsar saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,
Quite vanquished him: then burst his mighty
heart;

And in his mantle muffling up his face
Even at the base of Pompey's statue,
Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar fell.
Oh what a fall was there, my countrymen !
Then I and you, and all of us, fell down,
Whilst bloody treason flourished over us.
Oh! now you weep; and I perceive you feel
The dint of pity; these are gracious drops.
Kind souls! what, weep you, when you but behold
Our Cæsar's vesture wounded? Look you here!
Here is himself, marred, as you see, by traitors.*

Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up

To such a sudden flood of mutiny:

They that have done this deed are honorable :
What private griefs they have, alas! I know not,
That made them do it; they are wise, and honor-
able,

And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you.
I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts;
I am no orator, as Brutus is;

But as you know me all, a plain blunt man,
That love my friend, and that they know full well
That gave me public leave to speak of him:
For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,
Action, nor utterance, nor power of speech,
To stir men's blood. I only speak right on:
I tell you that which you yourselves do know:
Show your sweet Cæsar's wounds, poor, poor, dumb
mouths,

And bid them speak for me. But were I Brutus,
And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony
Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue
In every wound of Cæsar, that should move
The stones of Rome to rise in mutiny.

Hamlet-Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue; but, if you mouth it, as many of our players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor, do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus: but use all gently; for, in the very torrent, tempest, and, as I may say, whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. Oh! it offends me to the soul, to hear a robustious, periwig-pated fellow, tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings; who, for the most part, * « With traitors" in Valpy and other texts.

are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb show and noise. I would have such a fellow whipped for o'erdoing Termagant; it out-Herods Herod. Pray you avoid it.

Be not too tame, neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor; suit the action to the word, the word to the action; with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature; for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to Nature; to show virtue her own feature; scorn her own image; and the very age and body of the time, his form and pressure. Now, this overdone, or come tardy off, though it make the unskillful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve: the censure of which one must, in your allowance, o'erweigh a whole theatre of others. O! there be players that I have seen play, - and heard others praise, and that highly, not to speak it profanely, that, neither having the accent of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed, that I have thought some of Nature's journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably!

No more ;-and, by a sleep, to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to ;- 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished! To die; - to sleep; -
To sleep? perchance to dream;-ay, there's the
rub;

For, in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,

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 despised 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 traveler 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;