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Little of this great world can I speak,
More than pertains to feats of broil and battle;
And therefore little shall I grace my cause,
In speaking for myself.
Lov'd me ; oft invited me; still question’d me
The story of my life, from year;
The battles, sieges, fortunes, that I have pass'd.
I ran it through, even from my boyish days,
To the very moment that he bade me tell it.
Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances,
Of moving accidents, by flood, and field ;
Of hair-breadth scapes i' the imminent deadly breach;
Of being taken by the insolent foe,
And sold to slavery ; of my redemption thence,
And portance in my travel's history:
Wherein of antres vast, and desarts idle,
Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch
It was my bent to speak.
Hear you me, Jessica :
Lock up my doors; and when you hear the drum,
And the vile squeaking of the wry-neck'd fife,
Clamber not you up to the casements then,
Nor thrust your head into the public street
To gaze on Christian fools with varnish'd faces.
You say, you are a better soldier:
Let it appear so; make your vaunting true,
And it shall please me well : For mine own part,
I shall be glad to learn of noble men.
Good Michael, look you to the guard to-night :
Let's teach ourselves that honourable stop,
Not to out-sport discretion.
'Tis the soldiers' life, To have their balmy slumbers wak’d with strife.
You come to me, and you say,
Shylock, we would have monies ; You say so;
You, that did void your rheum upon my beard,
And foot me, as you spurn a stranger cur
Study is like the heaven's glorious sun,
That will not be deep search'd with saucy looks ; Small have continual plodders ever won,
Save base authority from others' books.
Why, universal plodding prisons up
The nimble spirits in the arteries ;
As motion, and long-during action, tires
The sinewy vigour of the traveller.
You shall be as a father to my youth,
My voice shall sound as you do prompt mine ear;
And I will stoop and humble my intents
To your well-practis’d, wise directions.
My other self, my counsel's consistory,
My oracle, my prophet!
My dear cousin,
I, as a child, will go by thy direction.
Do you go back dismay'd ? 'tis a lost fear;
Man but a rush against Othello's breast,
And he retires.
To be, or not to be, that is the question :-
Whether, 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune;
Or to take up arms against a sea of troubles,
And, by opposing, end them ?
There is a prohibition so divine,
That cravens my weak hand.
He is dead; Not by a public minister of justice, Nor by a hired knife; but that self hand Which writ his honour in the acts it did, Hath, with the courage which the heart did lend it, Splitted the heart. Our enemies have beat us to the pit : It is more worthy to leap in ourselves, Than tarry till they push us. If I know this, know all the world besides, That part of tyranny, that I do bear, I can shake off at pleasure. My desolation does begin to make A better life : 'Tis paltry to be Cæsar; Not being fortune, he's but fortune's knave, A minister of her will : And it is great To do that thing that ends all other deeds; Which shackles accidents, and bolts up change.
I saw him beat the surges under him,
And ride upon their backs ; he trod the water,
Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted
The surge most swoln that met him.
The torrent roar'd; and we did buffet it
With lusty sinews; throwing it aside,
And stemming it with hearts of controversy.
O monstrous arrogance ! thou liest
Thou thread, thou thimble,
Thou yard, three-quarters, half-yard, quarter, nail,
Thou flea, thou nit, thou winter-cricket, thou :-
Brav'd in mine own house with a skein of thread !
Away thou rag, thou quantity, thou remnant;
Or I shall so be-mete thee with thy yard,
As thou shalt think on prating whilst thou livost !
What cracker is this same, that deafs our ears
With this abundance of superfluous breath?
Why, what a wasp-stung and impatient fool
Art thou, to break into this woman's mood;
Tying thine ear to no tongue but thine own!
He gives the bastinado with his tongue ;
Our ears are cudgel'd; not a word of his,
But buffets better than a fist of France :
Zounds! I was never so bethump'd with words,
Since I first call’d my brother's father, dad.
These haughty words of hers Have battered me like roaring cannon shot, And made me almost yield upon my knees.
The tongues of mocking wenches are as keen
As is the razor's edge invisible.
You cram these words into mine ears, against The stomach of my sense.
O, he's as tedious As is a tired horse, a railing wife ; Worse than a smoky house :- I had rather live With cheese and garlick, in a windmill, far, Than feed on cates, and have him talk to me, In any summer-house in Christendom.
The fool hath planted in his memory
An army of good words: and I do know
A many fools, that stand in better place,
Garnish'd like him, that for a tricksy word
Defy the matter.
Tut, tut, my lord, we will not stand to prate,
Talkers are no good doers : be assur'd,
We go to use our hands, and not our tongues.
I hold my peace, Sir ? no; No, I will speak as liberal as the air ; Let heaven, and men, and devils, let them all, All, all, cry shame against me, yet I'll speak.
My tongue will tell the
my heart; Or else my heart, concealing it, will break : And, rather than it shall, I will be free, Even to the uttermost, as I please, in words.