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Shorten my days thou canst with sullen sorrow,
These dangerous unsafe lunes o' the king! bestrew them!
He must be told on 't, and he shall; the office
What have kings
And, but for ceremony, such a wretch,
Princes have but their titles for their glories,
They often feel a world of restless cares;
So that, between their titles, and low name,
O, a kiss
Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge!
Teach not thy lip such scorn; for it was made
When first this order was ordain'd, my Lords,
Well, now can I make any Joan a lady :-
The charm dissolves apace;
And as the morning steals upon the night,
We must not make a scare-crow of the law,
Setting it up to fear the birds of
And let it keep one shape, till custom make it
Their perch, and not their terror.
There is no power in Venice
Can alter a decree established:
'Twill be recorded for a precedent;
We have strict statutes, and most biting laws,
That goes not out to prey.
Dead to infliction, to themselves are dead;
Till thou canst rail the seal from off my bond,
Hear him but reason in divinity,
And, all-admiring, with an inward wish,
You would desire the king were made a prelate.
List his discourse of war, and you shall hear
A fearful battle render'd in music :
Turn him to any cause of policy,
The Gordian knot of it he will unloose,
This fellow's of exceeding honesty,
And knows all qualities, with a learned spirit,
Sirrah, your brother is legitimate;
Your father's wife did after wedlock bear him :
Let us see
Leave, gentle wax; and manners, blame us not:
Here are a few of the unpleasant'st words
Read o'er this:
And after, this and then to breakfast, with
What appetite you have.
Why, how now, gentlemen!
What see you in those papers that you lose
So much complexion? look ye, how they change! Their cheeks are paper.-Why, what read you there, That hath so cowarded and chas'd
Out of appearance?
Out, out, brief candle,
Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player,
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces,
And, like an insubstantial pageant faded,
Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness!
O Gentlemen, the time of life is short:
The lion, dying, thrusteth forth his paw,
And wounds the earth, if nothing else, with rage
To be o'erpow'r'd.
What, shall they seek the lion in his den ?
And fright him there; and make him tremble there? O, let it not be said.
A lioness, with udders all drawn dry,
Lay couching, head on ground, with cat-like watch, When that the sleeping man should stir; for 'tis The royal disposition of that beast,
prey on nothing that doth seem as dead.
So looks the pent-up lion o'er the wretch