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There's nothing but the common slime
Of human clay and human crime!
My rags are not so rich, but they
Will serve as well to cloak-decay.

“And night will come; and thou wilt lie

Beneath a purple canopy ;
With lutes to lull thee, flowers to shed
Their feverish fragrance round thy bed;
A princess to unclasp thy crest,
A Spartan spear to guard thy rest.
Dream, -happy one! thy dreams will be
Of danger and of-perfidy;
The Persian lance,—the Carian club!
I shall sleep sounder in my tub!

DISGUST AND CONTEMPT.

Hamlet. O God! your only jig-maker. What should a man do but bemerry? for, look you, how cheerfully my mother looks, and my father died within these two hours.

Ophelia. Nay, 't is twice two months, my lord.

Ham. So long? Nay, then, let the devil wear black, for I'll have a suit of sables. O heavens ! die two months ago and not forgotten yet! Then there's hope a great man's memory may outlive his life half a year; but, by'r lady, he must build churches then, or else shall he suffer not thinking on, with the hobby-horse, whose epitaph is, “For 0! for O! the hobby-horse is forgot!"

ALARM AND GRIEF.

Macduff. Approach the chamber, and destroy your sight
With a new Gorgon. Do not bid me speak:
See, and then speak yourselves. Awake! awake!
Ring the alarum-bell. Murder and treason!
Banquo and Donalbain! Malcolm! awake!
Shake off this downy sleep, death's counterfeit,
And look on death itself!-up, up, and see
The great doom's image! Malcolm! Banquo!
As from your graves rise up, and walk like sprites
To countenance this horror! Ring the bell.

Lady Macbeth. What's the business,
That such a hideous trumpet calls to parley
The sleepers of the house ? speak, speak !
Macd.

O gentle lady!
'T is not for you to hear what I can speak:
The repetition, in a woman's ear,
Would murder as it fell.–0 Banquo! Banquo!
Our royal master's murder'd !

CONTEMPT.
Polonius. What do you read, my lord ?
Hamlet. Words, words,—words.
Pol. What is the matter, my lord ?
Ham. Between whom?
Pol. I mean the matter that you read, my lord.

Ham. Slanders, sir: for the satirical rogue says here that old men have gray beards; that their faces are wrinkled; their eyes purging thick amber and plum-tree gum; and that they have a plentiful lack of wit, together with most weak hams: all which, sir, though I most powerfully and potently believe, yet I hold it not honesty to have it thus set down; for you yourself, sir, should be old as I am,-if, like a crab, you

could

go

backward.

SARCASM.

Julia. Why! do you think I'll work ?
Duke. I think 't will happen, wife.
Julia. What! rub and scrub your noble palace clean ?
Duke. Those taper fingers will do it daintily.
Julia. And dress your victuals (if there be any)? Oh! I shall go mad.

[ToBIN.
REMORSE AND HUMILIATION.
King. Oh! my offense is rank,-it smells to heaven;
It hath the primal eldest curse upon it,
A brother's murder! Pray can I not,
Though inclination be as sharp as will:
My stronger-guilt defeats my strong intent;
And, like a man to double business bound,
I stand in pause where I shall first begin,
And both neglect. What if this cursed hand
Were thicker than itself with brother'sblood,
Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens
To wash it white-as snow? Whereto serves mercy
But to confront the visage of offense ?
And what's in prayer, but this two-fold force,-
To be forestalled, ere we come to fall,
Or pardon'd, being down? Then, I'll look up:
My fault is past. But, oh! what form of prayer
Can serve my turn? Forgive me my foul-murder !
That can not be; since I am still possess'd
Of those effects for which I did the murder,-
My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen.
May one be pardon'd and retain th' offense ?
In the corrupted currents of this world
Offense’s gilded hand may shove by justice;
And oft 't is seen, the wicked prize itself
Buys out the law; but 't is not so—above;
There is no shuffling,—there the action lies
In his true nature; and we ourselves compell'a,

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Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults,
To give in evidence. What then? what rests ?
Try what repentance can: what can it not !
Yet what can it, when one can not repent?
O wretched state! O bosom, black as death!
O limed soul, that, strugglingto be free,
Art more engaged! Help,-angels ! make assay:
Bow, stubborn knees; and, heart, with strings of steel,
Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe !
All may be well.

CONTRITION AND DOUBT.

Hamlet. Ay, so, God be wi' you! Now I am alone. Oh, what a rogue and peasant slave am I! Is it not monstrous that this player here, But in a fiction, in a dream of passion, Could force his soul so to his own conceit, That, from her working, all his visage wann'd; Tears in his eyes, distraction in his aspect, A broken voice, and his whole function suiting With forms to his conceit? and all for nothing! For Hecuba! What's Hecubato him, or he-to Hecuba, That he should weep for her ? What would he do Had he the motive and the cue for passion That I have? He would drown the stage with tears, And cleave the general ear with horrid speech. Make mad the guilty, and appall the free, Confound the ignorant; and amaze, indeed, The very faculties of eyes and ears. Yet 1,A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak, And can say nothing: no, not for a king, Upon whose property, and most dear life, A damn'd defeat was made.-Am I a coward ? Who calls me villain ? breaks my pate across ? Plucks off my beard, and blows it in my face? Tweaks me by the nose? gives me the lie i' the throat As deep as to the lungs? Who does me this ? Ha! Why, I should take it; for it can not be, But I am pigeon-liver'd, and lack gall To make oppression bitter, or ere this I should have fatted all the region kites With this slave's offal: bloody, bawdy villain ! Remorseless, treacherous, cruel, kindless villain! Oh, vengeance! Why, what an ass am I! This is most brave, That I, the son of a dear father murdered, Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell,

Must, like a wench, unpack my heart with words,
And fall a cursing, like a very drab,
A scullion !
Fie upon 't! foh! About, my brain -I have heard
That guilty creatures, sitting at a play,
Have by the very cunning of the scene
Been struck so to the soul, that presently
They have proclaimed their malefactions;-
For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak
With most miraculous organ. I'll have these players
Play something like the murder of my father
Before mine uncle: I'll observe his looks;
I'll tent him to the quick: if he but blench,
I know my course. The spirit that I have seen
May be the devil: and the devil hath power
T'assume a pleasing shape; yea, and perhaps
Out of my weakness, and my melancholy
(As he is very potent with such spirits),
A buses me to damn me. I'll have grounds
More relative than this: the play's the thing
Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king.

PLOTTING CRUELTY AND HORROR.

Macbeth. Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee:
I have thee not, and yet I see thee stilt.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling—as to sights or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As that which now I draw.
Thou marshal st me the way that I was going;
And such an instrument I was to use.
Mine eyes are made the fools of the other senses,
Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still;
And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood,
Which was not so before. There's no such thing:
It is the bloody business which informs
Thus to mine eyes. Now, o'er one half the world
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtain'd sleep; now witchcraft-celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings; and withered murder,
Alarmed by his sentinel, the wolf,
Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace,
With Tarquin's ravishing strides toward his design-
Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth,
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear

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Thy very stones prate of my whereabout,
And take the present horror from the time,
Which now suits with it. Whiles I threat, he lives :-
Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.
I go, and it is done; the bell invites me.
Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell,
That summons thee to heaven or to hell,

FEAR.

“Ah! mercy on my soul. What is that? My old friend's ghost? They say none but wicked folks walk; I wish I were at the bottom of a coal-pit. See ! how long and pale his face has grown since his death: he never was handsome; and death has improved him very much the wrong way. Pray do not come near me! I wish'd you very well when you were alive; but I could never abide a dead man, cheek by jowl with me. Ah, ah, mercy on us! No nearer, pray; if it be only to take leave of me that you are come back, I could have excused you the ceremony with all my heart; or if you—mercy on us! no nearer, pray;-or if you have wronged any body, as you always loved money little, I give you the word of a frightened Christian, I will pray as long as you please for the deliverance or repose of your departed soul. My good, worthy, noble friend, do, pray disappear, as ever you would wish your old friend to come to his senses again.”

SORROW AND GRIEF.

"I love it! I love it! and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize,
I've bedewed it with tears and embalmed it with sighs;
'T is bound by a thousand bands to my heart,
Not a tie will break, not a link will start;
Would you know the spell? a mother sat there !
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.
In childhood's hour I lingered near
That hallowed seat with a listening ear
To the gentle words that mother would give
To fit me to die and teach me to live;
She told me shame would never betide
With truth for my creed and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer
As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.
I sat and watched her many a day
When her eye grew dim and her locks were gray,
And I almost worshiped her when she smiled
And turned from her Bible to bless her child :
Years rolled on, but the last one sped,
My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled !
I felt how much the heart can bear
When I saw her die in that old arm-chair.

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