What!-Ha!-Beset by hares! Ye men of Altorf,
What fear ye? See what things you fear-the shows
And surfaces of men! Why stand ye wondering there?
Why look ye on a man that's like yourselves?
And see him do the deeds yourselves might do,
And act them pot? Or know you not yourselves
That ye are men?-that ye have hearts and thoughts
To feel and think the deeds of men, and hands
To do them?
You hunt the chamois, and you've seen him take
The precipice, before he'd yield the freedom
His Maker gave him; and you are content
To live in bonds, that have a thought of freedom
Which Heaven ne'er gave the little chamois!
Why gaze ye still with blanched cheeks on me?
Lack ye the manhood even to look on,
And see bold deeds achieved by other's hands?
Or is't that cap still holds your thralls to fear?
Be free, then! There! Thus do I trample on
The insolence of Gesler!
6. Duchess of Gloster's Rage against her Son, Richard III.* A grievous burden was thy birth to me; Tetchy and wayward was thy infancy:
Thy school-days frightful, desperate, wild, and furious;
Thy prime of manhood daring, bold, and venturous;
Thy age confirm'd, proud, subtle, sly, and bloody,-
More mild, but yet more harmful, kind in hatred;
What comfortable hour canst thou name,
That ever grac'd me in thy company?
Either thou wilt die by right'ous ordinance
Ere from this war thou turn a conqueror;
Or I with grief and extreme rage shall perish,
And never more behold thy face again.
Therefore, take with thee my most grievous curse;
*In this piece two words are marked in which the measure of the verse requires the place of the accent to be changed.
Which in the day of battle tire thee more
Than all the complete armour that thou wear'st!
My prayers on the adverse party fight;
And there the little souls of Edward's children
Whisper the spirits of thine enemies,
And promise them success and victory.
Bloody thou art,-bloody will be thy end,-
Shame serves thy life, and doth thy death attend!
1. Coriolanus' Hate of the Common People.
Yon common cry of curs! whose breath I hate
As reek o' the rotten fens; whose loves I prize
As the dead carcases of unburied men
That do corrupt my air ;-I banish you ;
And here remain with your uncertainty!
Let every feeble rumour shake your hearts!
Your enemies, with nodding of their plumes,
Fan you into despair! Have the power still
To banish your defenders; till, at length,
Your ignorance (which finds not, till it feels),
Making not reservation of yourselves
(Still your own foes), deliver you,
As most abated captives, to some nation
That won you without blows! Despising
For the city, thus I turn
you,
There is a world elsewhere.
2. Zanga's Hatred of Alonzo.
'Tis twice five years since that great man
(Great let me call him, for he conquered me)
Made me the captive of his arm in fight.
He slew my father, and threw chains o'er me,
While I with pious rage pursued revenge.
I then was young; he placed me near his person,
And thought me not dishonoured by his service.
One day (may that returning day be night,
The stain, the curse of each succeeding year!)-
For something or for nothing, in his pride
He struck me!—(while I tell it, do I live?)—
He smote me on the cheek!-I did not stab him,
For that were poor revenge.-E'er since, his folly
Hath striven to bury it beneath a heap
Of kindness, and thinks it is forgot.
Insolent thought! and, like a second blow!
Has the dark adder venom? So have I,
When trod upon! Proud Spaniard, thou shalt feel me !
3. Shylock's Hatred of Antonio.
[Aside.] How like a fawning publican he looks! I hate him, for he is a Christian;
But more, for that, in low simplicity,
He lends out money gratis, and brings down
The rate of usance here with us in Venice.
If I can catch him once upon the hip,
I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him.
He hates our sacred nation, and he rails,
Even there, where merchants most do congregate,
On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift,
Which he calls interest! Cursed be my tribe,
If I forgive him! [Turning to Antonio.]
Signior Antonio, many a time and oft
In the Rialto you have rated me
About my moneys and my usances:
Still I have borne it with a patient shrug;
For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe :
You call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog,
And spat upon my Jewish gaberdine,
And all for use of that which is mine own.
Well, then, it now appears you need my help:
Go to, then; you come to me, and you say—
Shylock, we would have moneys." You say so; You that did void your rheum upon my beard,
And foot me, as you spurn a stranger cur
Over your threshold ; moneys is your suit.
What should I say to you? Should I not say-
"Hath a dog money? is it possible
A cur can lend three thousand ducats?" or
Shall I bend low, and in a bondman's key,
With 'bated breath, and whispering humbleness,
Say this-
"Fair Sir, you spat on me on Wednesday last;
You spurn'd me such a day; another time
You call'd me dog; and for these courtesies
I'll lend you thus much moneys?"
4. Brutus' desire to be Revenged on Tarquin.
ye what brings me here? 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 !
The worthiest of the worthy!
O my countrymen ! You all can witness when that she went forth,
It was a holiday in Rome: old age
Forgot its crutch; labour its task! all ran!
And mothers, turning to their daughters, cried—
There, there's Lucretia!"-Now look where she lies, That beauteous flower, that innocent sweet rose, Torn up by ruthless violence-gone! gone! Say-would you seek instruction! would you seek What ye should do?-Ask ye yon conscious walls Which saw his poison'd brother,-saw his crimes Committed there, and they will cry, Revenge!— Ask yonder senate-house, whose stones are purple With human blood, and it will cry, Revenge! Go to the tomb, where lie his murder'd wife, And the poor queen who lov'd him as her son,
Their unappeased ghosts will shriek, Revenge!
The temples of the gods, the all-viewing heaven-
The gods themselves-will justify the cry,
And swell the general sound-Revenge! Revenge!
5. W. Tell's Determination to be Revenged on Gesler. 'Tis Melctal's voice.
Where are his eyes? Have they put out his eyes?
Has Gesler turn'd the little evening of
The old man's life to night, before its time?
To such black night as sees not with the day
All round it! Father, speak; pronounce the name
Of Gesler!
Where's Erni? Where's thy son? Is he alive,
And are his father's eyes torn out?
Something to tear-to rend, were't worth it-something
Most ravenous and bloody !—something like
Gesler!-
!—a wolf!-no, no; a wolf's a lamb
To Gesler! It is a natural hunger makes
The wolf a savage; and savage as he is,
Yet with his kind he gently doth consort,
'Tis but his lawful prey he tears; and that
He finishes—not mangles, and then leaves
To live! They slander him who call him cruel :
He does not know that he is cruel-no-
Not when he rends an infant. I would let
The wolf go free for Gesler! List, father,
List. Father, thou shalt be reveng'd. My Emma,
Melctal's thy father: that's his name till I
Return. Yes, father, thou shalt be reveng'd!
Lead him in, Emma, lead him in; the sun
Grows hot-the old man's weak and faint. Mind, father,
Mind, thou shalt be reveng'd! In, wife-in-in.
Thou shalt be sure reveng'd!
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