Be but to fleep and feed? A beaft; no man.
Sure he that made us with fuch large difcourfe,
Looking before and after, gave us not that,
That capability, and godlike reason,
To ruft in us unused.

Ibid. A. 4. Sc. 4.

MAN'S PRE-EMINENCE.

There's nothing fituate under heaven's eye,
But hath its bounds in earth, in fea, in sky:
The beafts, the fishes, and the winged fowls,
Are their males' subjects, and at their controuls.
Man, more divine, the mafter of all these,
Lords of the wide world, and wide watry feas,
Indu'd with intellectual fenfe and foul,
Of more pre-eminence than fish and fowl,
Are mafters to their females, and their lords:
Then let your will attend on their accords.

The Comedy of Errors, A. 2. Sc. 1.

MARKS OF A LOVER.

A lean cheek, which you have not; a blue eye and funken, which you have not; an unquestionable fpirit, which you have not; a beard neglected, which you have not ;-but I pardon you for that, for fimply your having no beard is a younger brother's revenue-Then your hofe fhould be ungarter'd, your bonnet unbanded, your fleeve unbuttoned, your fhoes untyed, and every thing about you demonftrating a careless defolation: but you are no fuch man; you are rather point device in your accoutrements, as loving yourself than feeming the lover of any other. As You Like It, A. 3.

Sc. 2.

First, you have learn'd, like Sir Protheus, to wreath your arms, like a male-content; to relifh a lovefong, like a Robin Redbreaft; to walk alone, like one that had the peftilence; to figh like a school-boy, that had loft his ABC; to weep like a young wench, that had buried her grandam; to faft like one that takes diet; to watch like one that fears robbing; to speak puling like a beggar at Hallowmas. You were wont, when you laugh'd, to crow like a cock; when you walk'd, to walk like one of the lions; when you fafted,

it

it was presently after dinner; when you look'd fadly, it was for want of money: and now you are metamorphos'd with a mistress, that when I look on you, I can hardly think you my mafter.

The Two Gentlemen of Verona, A. 2. Sc. 1.

MARRI A G. E.

The worthless peafants bargain for their wives,.
As market-men for oxen, fheep or horse :
But marriage is a matter of more worth
Than to be dealt in by attorney fhip.
For what is wedlock forced-but a hell,
An age of difcord and continual ftrife?
Whereas the contrary bringeth forth bliss,
And is a pattern of celestial peace.

Henry VI. Part I. A. 5. Sc. 6.
The hearts of old gave hands;

But our new heraldry is-hands not hearts.

Othello, A. 3. Sc. 4.

The inftances that fecond marriage move,
Are base refpects of thrift, but none of love.
A fecond time I kill my husband dead,
When fecond husband kiffes me in bed.

Hamlet, A. 2. Sc. 2.

(Hamlet's Remonftrance to his Mother on her Second Marriage.)

Look here upon this picture, and on this ;
The counterfeit prefentment of two brothers.
See what a grace was feated on this brow:
Hyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself;
An eye like Mars, to threaten and command;
A ftation like the herald Mercury,
New lighted on a heaven-kifling hill;
A combination, and a form indeed,
Where every god did feem to fet his feal,

To give the world affurance of a man.

This was your husband -Look you now what follows. Here is your husband, like a mildew'd ear,

Blafting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes!

Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed,

And

And batter on this moor? Ha! have you eyes?
You cannot call it love; for at your age

The hedey in the blood is tame, it's humble,
And waits upon the judgment: and what judgment
Would ftep from this to this? Senfe fure you have,
Elfe could you not have motion: but fure that sense
Is apoplex'd: for madness would not err;
Nor fenfe to extafy was ne'er fo thrall'd,
But it referv'd fome quantity of choice

To ferve in fuch a difference. What devil was't
That thus hath cozen'd you at hoodman's-blind?
Eyes without feeling-feeling without fight,
Ears without hands or eyes, fmelling fans all,
Or but a fickly part of one true fenfe
Could not fo mope.

O fhame! where is thy blush? Rebellious hell!
If thou canst mutiny in a matron's bones,
To flaming youth let virtue be as wax,

And melt in her own fire: proclaim no fhame,
When the compulfive ardour gives the charge;
Since froft itself as actively doth burn,

And reafon panders will.

Hamlet, A. 3. Sc. 4.

His Soliloquy on it.

O that this too, too folid flesh would melt,
Thaw and refolve itself into a dew!

Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd

His cannon 'gainst felf-flaughter! O God! O God!
Seem to me all the ufes of this world!

How weary, ftale, flat and unprofitable?

Fie on't! O fie! 'Tis an unweeded garden,
That grows to feed; things rank and grofs in nature
Poffefs it merely. That it thould come to this!
But two months dead! Nay, not fo much, not two;
So excellent a king; that was, to this,
Hyperion to a Satyr: fo loving to my mother,
That he might not let e'en the winds of heaven
Vifit her face too roughly-Heaven and earth!
Must I remember Why, he would hang on him,
As if increafe of appetite had grown

By what it fed on: And yet within a month

Let

Let me not think on't-Frailty, thy name is Woman!
A little month; or ere these fhoes were old,
With which fhe follow'd my poor father's body,
Like Niobe, all tears: Why fhe, even the-

O Heaven!-a beaft, that wants discourse of reason,
Would have mourned longer-marry'd with my uncle,
My father's brother-but no more like my father,
Than I to Hercules: Within a month;
Ere yet the falt of moft unrighteous tears
Had left the flufhing in her galled eyes,
She marry'd-O moft wicked fpeed, to poft
With fuch dexterity to incestuous sheets!
It is not, nor it cannot, come to good:

But break, my heart; for I must hold my tongue.

Hamlet, A. 1. Sc. 2.

M ARTLE T.

This gueft of fummer,

The temple-haunting martlet, does approve,
By his lov'd masonry; that the heav'ns breath
Smells wooingly here.: no jutty frieze,

Buttress, nor coigne of vantage, but this bird
Hath made his pendant bed, and procreant cradle :
Where they moft breed and haunt, I have obferv'd,
The air is delicate.

Macbeth, A. 1. Sc. 6.

M EDIOCRIT Y.

-For aught I fee, they are as fick, that furfeit with too much, as they that starve with nothing; therefore it is no mean happiness to be feated in the mean. -Superfluity comes fooner by white hairs; but competency lives longer.

The Merchant of Venice, A. 1. Sc. 2.

MEETING OF LOVERS.

Othello. It gives me wonder, great as my content,
To fee you here before me. O my foul's joy!
If after every tempeft come fuch calmness,
May the winds blow till they have weaken'd death!
And let the labouring bark climb hills of feas,
Olympus-high; and duck again as low,

As Hell's from Heaven! If I were now to die,

'Twere

"Twere now to be moft happy; for I fear,
My foul hath her content fo abfolute,
That not another comfort like to this
Succeeds in unknown fate.

Def.

-The heavens forbid

But that our loves and comforts fhould increase
Even as our days do grow!

Oth. Amen to that, fweet powers!

I cannot fpeak enough of this content,
It stops me here; it is too much of joy;

And this, and this, the greatest difcords be [kiffing her.
That e'er our hearts fhall make.

Othello, A. 2. Sc. 1.

MELANCHOLY.

I have neither the fcholar's melancholy, which is emulation; nor the musician's, which is fantastical; nor the courtier's, which is proud; nor the foldier's, which is ambitious; nor the lawyer's, which is politic; nor the lady's, which is nice; nor the lover's, which is all these but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many fimples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the fundry contemplation of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me in a moft humorous sadness.

As You Like It, A. 4.

MELANCHOLY STORIES.

In Winter's tedious nights, fit by the fire

With good old folks, and let them tell thee tales
Of woeful ages, long ago betide :

And ere thou bid good-night, to quit their grief,
Tell thou the lamentable fall of me,

And fend the hearers weeping to their beds.

Sc. I.

King Richard II. A. 5. Sc. 1.

MENA CE.

Thou injurious Tribune!

Within thine eyes fet twenty thousand deaths,
In thy hands clutch'd as many millions,

In thy lying tongue both numbers; I would fay
Thou lyft unto thee, with a voice as free
As I do pray the gods.
Coriolanus, A. 3. Sc. 3.

F

MERCY.