I understand a fury in your words,
But not your words.

Oth. Why, what art thou?

Des. Your wife, my lord; your true and loyal wife.
Oth. Come, swear it; damn thyself;

Lest, being like one of heaven, the devils themselves
Should fear to seize thee: therefore, be double damned;
Swear thou art honest.

Des. Heaven doth truly know it.

O now,

for ever,

Farewell the tranquil mind! Farewell content!
Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars,

That make ambition virtue! O farewell!
Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump,
The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife,
The royal banner; and all quality,

Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war!
And, O you mortal engines, whose rude throats

Oth. Heaven truly knows, that thou art false as Th' immortal Jove's dread clamors counterfeit, hell.

Des. To whom, my lord? With whom? How am I
false?

Oth. O, Desdemona, away! away! away!
Des. Alas, the heavy day! why do you weep?
Am I the occasion of these tears, my lord?
If, haply, you my father do suspect
An instrument of this your calling back,

Lay not your blame on me; if you have lost him,
Why, I have lost him too.

Oth. Had it pleased Heaven

To try we with affliction; had he rained

All kinds of sores, and shames, on my bare head;
Steeped me in poverty to the very lips ;
Given to captivity me and my utmost hopes;
I should have found in some part of my soul
A drop of patience. But, alas! to make me
A fixed figure, for the time of scorn
To point his slow, unmoving finger at-
O! O!

Yet could I bear that too; well, very well,
But there, where I have garnered up my heart;
Where either I must live, or bear no life:
The fountain from the which my current runs,
Or else dries up; to be discarded thence!
Or keep it as a cistern, for foul toads

To knot and gender in! Turn thy complexion there!
Patience, thou young and rose-lipped cherubim ;
Ay, there, look grim as hell!

Des. I hope, my noble lord esteems me honest.
Oth. O, ay; as summer-flies are in the shambles,
That quicken even with blowing. O thou weed,
Who art so lovely fair, and smell'st so sweet,

That the sense aches at thee, would thou hadst ne'er been born!

Des. Alas! what ignorant sin have I committed?
Oth. Was this fair paper, this most goodly book,
Made to write shame upon! what, committed!
Committed! O thou public commoner!

I should make very forges of my cheeks
That would to cinders burn up modesty,
Did I but speak thy deeds.—What, committed!
Heaven stops the nose at it, and the moon winks:
The bawdy wind, that kisses all it meets,

Is hushed within the hollow mine of earth,
And will not hear it.

Her name, that was as fresh

As Dian's visage, is now begrimed and black
As mine own face.

Farewell! Othello's occupation's gone!
DESDEMONA'S FAITHFULNESS.

Des. O good Iago,

What shall I do to win my lord again?

Good friend, go to him; for, by this light of heaven,
I know not how I lost him. Here I kneel-

[Kneeling.

If e'er my will did trespass 'gainst his love,
Either in discourse of thought, or actual deed
Or that mine eyes, mine ears, or any sense,
Delighted them in any other form;
Or that I do not yet, and ever did,

And ever will-though he do shake me off
To beggarly divorcement-love him dearly,
Comfort, forswear me! Unkindness may do much,
And his unkindness may defeat my life,
But never taint my love.

DESDEMONA IS DISCOVERED ASLEEP IN HER BED,
[Enter OTHELLO, with a light and sword.]
Oth. It is the cause, it is the cause, iny soul-
Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars!
It is the cause.-Yet I'll not shed her blood,
Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow,
And smooth as monumental alabaster.

[Lays down the sword.
Yet she must die, else she'll betray more men.
Put out the light, and then put out the light!
If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,

I can again thy former light restore,
Should I repent me; but once put out thy light,
Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature,

I know not where is that Promethean heat
That can thy light relume.
When I have plucked thy rose,

[Sets down the taper.

I cannot give it vital growth again;
It needs must wither: I smell it on the tree.

[Kissing her

O balmy breath, that dost almost persuade
Justice herself to break her sword! One more,
Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee,
And love thee after: one more, and this the last :
So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep,
But they are cruel tears; this sorrow's heavenly;
It strikes where it doth love.

OTHELLO'S CONFUSION AFTER HAVING MURDERED
HIS WIFE.

Yes 'tis Emilia :-by-and-by-she's dead.
'Tis like, she comes to speak of Cassio's death:

The noise was high. Ha! no more moving?
Sill as the grave. Shall she come in? wert 't good?
I think she stirs again ;-no-what's the best?
If she comes in, she'll sure speak to my wife :-
My wife! my wife! what wife? I have no wife.
O insupportable! O heavy hour!
Methinks it should be now a huge eclipse

Of sun and moon; and that the affrighted globe
Should yawn at alteration.

Had she been true,

If Heaven would make me such another world,
Of one entire and perfect chrysolite,

I'd not have sold her for it.

OTHELLO'S Bitter remorse.

Behold! I have a weapon:

A better never did itself sustain

Upon a soldier's thigh: I've seen the day,
That, with this little arm, and this good sword,
I have made my way through more impediments
Than twenty times your stop.-But, O vain boast!
Who can control his fate? it is not so now.

Be not afraid, though you do see me weaponed.
Here is my journey's end, here is my butt,
And very sea-mark of my utmost sail.
Do you go back dismayed? 'tis a lost fear;
Man but a rush against Othello's breast,
And he retires: where should Othello go?
Now-how dost thou look now? O ill-starred wench!
Pale as thy smock! when we shall meet at compt,
This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven,
And fiends will snatch at it. Cold, cold, my girl?
E'en like thy chastity-

O cursed, cursed slave !-Whip me, ye devils,
From the possession of this heavenly sight!
Blow me about in winds! roast me in sulphur!
Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire!
O Desdemona! Desdemona! dead?
Dead? O! O!O!

OTHELLO'S LAST SPEECH.

Soft you; a word or two before you go.

I have done the state some service, and they know it;

No more of that.-I pray you, in your letters,
When you shall these unlucky deeds relate,
Speak of me as I am nothing extenuate,

Nor set down aught in malice: then must you speak
Of one that loved not wisely, but too well:
Of one not easily jealous, but, being wrought,
Perplexed in the extreme; of one whose hand,
Like the base Judean, threw a pearl away

Richer than all his tribe; of one whose subdued eyes,
Albeit unused to the melting mood,
Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees
Their medicinal gum. Set you down this :
And say, besides, that in Aleppo once,
Where a malignant and a turbaned Turk
Beat a Venetian, and traduced the state,
I took by the throat the circumcised dog,
And smote him-thus.

[Stabs himself.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

FROM JULIUS CÆSAR."

CASSIUS, IN CONTEMPT OF CÆSAR.
WAS born free as Cæsar; so were you:
We both have fed as well; and we can both
Endure the winter's cold as well as he.
For once, upon a raw and gusty day,
The troubled Tiber chafing with his shores,
Cæsar says to me, "Dar'st thou, Cassius, now
Leap in with me into this angry flood,
And swim to yonder point?"-Upon the word,
Accoutred as I was, I plunged in,

And bade him follow: so, indeed, he did.
The torrent roared, and we did buffet it
With lusty sinews; throwing it aside,
And stemming it with hearts of controversy.
But ere we could arrive the point proposed,
Cæsar cried, "Help me, Cassius, or I sink."
I, as Æneas, our great ancestor,

Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder
The old Anchises bear, so from the waves of Tiber
Did I the tired Cæsar: and this man

Is now become a god; and Cassius is

A wretched creature, and must bend his body
If Cæsar carelessly but nod on him.—
He had a fever when he was in Spain;
And, when the fit was on him, I did mark
How he did shake: 'tis true, this god did shake,
His coward lips did from their color fly;

And that same eye, whose bend doth awe the world,
Did lose his lustre ; I did hear him groan:

Ay, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans
Mark him, and write his speeches in their books,
Alas! it cried-"Give me some drink, Titinius "-
As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me,
A man of such a feeble temper should
So get the start of this majestic world,
And bear the palm alone.

OPPORTUNITY TO BE SEIZED ON ALL AFFAIRS
There is a tide in the affairs of men,
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
On such a full sea are we now afloat;
And we must take the current when it serves
Or lose our ventures.

ANTONY'S CHARACTER OF BRUTUS.
This was the noblest Roman of them all :
All the conspirators, save only he,
Did that they did, in envy of great Cæsar;
He, only, in a general honest thought,
And common good to all, made one of them.
His life was gentle; and the elements
So mixt in him, that nature might stand up,
And say to all the world, "This was a man!"
WILLIAM Shakespeare.

Away she ran -- and her friends began
Each tower to search, and each nook to scan:
And young Lovell cried, "O, where dost thou hide?
I'm lonesome without thee, my own dear bride."

They sought her that night, and they sought her next
day,

Amid the darnel, hemlock, and the base weeds,
Which now spring rife from the luxurious compost
Spread o'er the realm, how this sweet lily rose-
How from the shade of those ill neighboring plants
Her father sheltered her, that not a leaf
Was blighted, but, arrayed in purest grace,
She bloomed unsullied beauty. Such perfections

And they sought her in vain when a week passed Might have called back the torpid breast of age

away;

In the highest, the lowest, the loneliest spot,
Young Lovell sought wildly-but found her not.
And years flew by, and their grief at last
Was told as a sorrowful tale long past;

And when Lovell appeared, the children cried,
"See! the old man weeps for his fairy bride."

At length an oak chest, that had long lain hid,
Was found in the castle-they raised the lid,
And a skeleton form lay mouldering there
In the bridal wreath of that lady fair!
O, sad was her fate!-in sportive jest
She hid from her lord in the old oak chest.
It closed with a spring!—and, dreadful doom,
The bride lay clasped in her living tomb!

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.

LUCILIS JUNIUS BRUTUS' ORATION OVER
THE BODY OF LUCRETIA.

FROM

BRUTUS."

To long-forgotten rapture; such a mind
Might have abashed the boldest libertine
And turned desire to reverential love
And holiest affection! O my countrymen !
You all can witness when that she went forth
It was a holiday in Rome; old age
Forgot its crutch, labor its task-all ran,
And mothers, turning to their daughters, cried,
"There, there's Lucretia!" Now look ye where she
lies!

That beauteous flower, that innocent sweet rose,
Torn up by ruthless violence-gone! gone! gone!
Say, would you seek instruction! would ye ask
What ye should do? Ask ye yon conscious walls
Which saw his poisoned brother-

Ask yon deserted street, where Tullia drove
O'er her dead father's corse, 't will cry, revenge!
Ask yonder senate-house, whose stones are purple
With human blood, and it will cry, revenge!
Go to the tomb where lies his murdered wife,
And the poor queen, who loved him as her son,
Their unappeasèd ghosts will shriek, revenge!
The temples of the gods, the all-viewing heavens,

OULD you know why I summoned you to- The gods themselves, shall justify the cry,
gether?

Ask ye what brings me her? Behold this
dagger,

Clotted with gore! Behold that frozen corse!
See where the lost Lucretia sleeps in death!
She was the mark and model of the time,

The mould in which each female face was formed
The very shrine and sacristy of virtue!
Fairer than ever was a form created

By youthful fancy when the blood strays wild,
And never-resting thought is all on fire!
The worthiest of the worthy! Not the nymph
Who met old Numa in his hallowed walks,
And whispered in his ear her strains divine,
Can I conceive beyond her ;-the young choir
Of vestal virgins bent to her. 'T is wonderful

And swell the general sound, revenge! revenge!
And we will be revenged, my countrymen !
Brutus shall lead you on; Brutus, a name
Which will, when you're revenged, be dearer to him
Than all the noblest titles earth can boast.
Brutus your king !-No, fellow-citizens !

If mad ambition in this guilty frame
Had strung one kingly fibre, yea, but one-
By all the gods, this dagger which I hold
Should rip it out, though it intwined my heart.
Now take the body up. Bear it before us
To Tarquin's palace; there we'll light our torches,
And in the blazing conflagration rear

A pile, for these chaste relics, that shall send
Her soul amongst the stars. On! Brutus leads you'
JOHN HOWARD PAYNE.

(Watkins.)

Life's a short summer- The man lives twice who lives the first life well.
man is but a flower;

(Herrick.)
(Johnson.) Make, then, while yet ye may, your God your friend,
By turns we catch the
(Mason.)
fatal breath and die- Whom Christians worship, yet not comprehend.
(Pope.)

(Hill.) The cradle and the tomb, The trust that's given, guard, and to yourself be just; alas! so nigh. (Prior.) For live we how we may, yet die we must. To be is better far than

not to be, (Sewell.) Though all man's life may seem a tragedy; (Spenser.)

But light cares speak when mighty griefs are dumb

The bottom is but shallow whence they come.

(Dana.) (Shakespeare.)

THE BEAUTIES OF ENGLISH ORTHOGRAPHY.

(Daniel.)

a

PRETTY deer is dear to me,

A hare with downy hair,
A hart I love with all my heart,
But barely bear a bear.

'Tis plain that no one takes a plane,
To have a pair of pears,
Although a rake may take a rake
To tear away the tares.

A scribe in writing right may write,
May write and still be wrong;
For write and rite are neither right,
And don't to right belong.

Robertson is not Robert's son,

Nor did he rob Burt's son,
Yet Robert's sun is Robin's sun,
And everybody's sun.

Beer often brings a bier to man,

Coughing a coffin brings,

And too much ale will make us ail,
As well as other things.

The person lies who says he lies,
When he is not reclining;
And when consumptive folks decline,
They all decline declining.

Quails do not quail before the storm,
A bow will bow before it;
We cannot rein the rain at all-
No earthly power reigns o'er it.