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Take not away the taper, leave it burning :
[Exit Lady. To your protection I commend me, Gods; From fairies, and the tempters of the night,
[Iachimo rises from the trunk. lach. The crickets sing, and man's o’erlabour'd sense Repairs itself by reit: our Tarquin thus Did softly press the rushes, ere he wakend The chality he wounded. Cytherea, How bravely thou becom'st thy bed! Fresh lily, And whiter than the sheets! that I might touch! But kiss, one kiss-Rubies unparagon'd, How. dearly they do't ! -'Tis her breathing, that Perfumes the chamber thus : the flame o' the taper Bows toward her, and would under-peep her lids, 'To see the inclosed light, now canopy'd Under these windows: white and azure, lac'd With blue of heaven's own tinct. But my design's To note the chamber-I will write all down, Such, and fuch, pictures--there, the window-fuch The adornment of her bed-the arras, figuresWhy, such and such-and the contents o' the story~ Ah, but some natural notes about her body, Above ten thousand meaner moveables, Would testify, to enrich my inventory. O Sleep, thou ape of Death, lie dull
her! And be her sense but as a monument, Thus in a chapel lying !- Come off, come off. -
[Taking off her bracelet. As flippery as the Gordian knot was hard. 'Tis mine; and this will witness outwardly, As strongly as the conscience does within, To the madding of her Lord. On her left breast A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops I'the bottom of a cowslip. Here's a voucher, Stronger than ever law could make: this secret Will force him think I've pick'd the lock, and ta'en The treasure of her honour. No more-to what end?
Why should I write this down, that's rivetted,
[Goes into the trunk ; the Scene closes
No. XXII.CYM BELI NE.
Act III. Scene. III. A Forest with a Cave, ir
how to adore the heavens; and bows you:
Guid. Hail, heaven!
Bel. Now for our mountain sport. · Up to yond hill;
And often, to our comfort, shall we find
Guid. Out of your proof you speak. We, poor, unfledgid,
That have a sharper known; well corresponding | Wich your Aiff
but unto us, it is
Arv. What should we speak of,
Bel. How you speak !
Firft with the best of note. Cymbeline lov'd me;
Guid. Uncertain favour !
Bel. My fault being nothing, as I have told you oft, But that two villains, whose false oaths prevail'd Before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline, I was confederate with the Romans ; lo Follow'd my banishment; and, these twenty years, This rock and these demesnes have been my world; Where I have liv'd at honest freedom; paid More pious debts to heaven, than in all The fore-end of my time.---But, up to the mountains ! This is not hunters' language: he that strikes The venison first, shall be the lord o' the feast; To him the other two shall minister : And we will fear no poison which attends In place of greater state. I'll meet you in the vallies.
[Exeunt Guid, and Arv. How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature ! These boys know little they are fons to the king; Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive. They think they are mine; and though train'd up thus
mcanly l' the cave, wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit The roofs of palaces; and nature prompts them, In simple and low things, to prince it, much Beyond the trick of others. This Poly.dore, The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, whom The King his father called Guiderius -- Jove! When on my three-foot ftool I sit, and tell The warliké feats I have done, his spirits fly out Into my story: fay, Thus mine enemy fell; And thus I set my foot on his neck: even then The princely blood flows in his cheek; he fweats, Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in potture That acts my words. The younger brother Cadwal,
(Once Arviragus) in as like a figure,
No. XXIII.KING LEA R. Act III. SCENE II. A Heath. Storm.
Enter Lear and Fool.
LOW winds, and crack your cheeks; rage, blow! You cataracts, and hurricanoes, spout Till you have drench'd our steeples, drownd the cocks ! You fulphurous and thought-executing fires, Vaunt-couriers of oak-cleaving thunder-bolts, inge my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder, Strike fat the thick rotundity o' the world ; Crack nature's mould; all germins spill at once That make ingrateful man!
Fool. O nuncle, court-holy-water in a dry house is better than the rain-waters out o’door. Good nuncle, in, and alk thy daughter's blessing : here's a night that pities neither wise men nor fools.
Lear. Rumble thy belly full, fpit fire, spout rain ;