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I, in mine own woe charm'd,
Could not find Death, where I did hear him groan;
Nor feel him, where he ftruck. Being an ugly monfter,
'Tis ftrange he hides him in fresh cups, foft beds,*
Sweet words; or hath more minifters than we,
That draw his knives i' th' war. Cymbeline, A. 5. Sc. 2.
Oh, now doth Death line his dead chaps with steel;
The fwords of folders are his teeth, his fangs :
And now he feafts, mouthing the fleth of men,
In undetermin'd diff'rences of kings.
Death! death! oh amiable, lovely death!
Thou odoriferous ftench, found rottennefs;
Arife forth from thy couch of lafting night,
Thou hate and terror to profperity,
And I will kifs thy deteftable bones,
And put my eye-balls in thy vaulty brows,
And ring thefe fingers with thy household worms,
And stop this gap of breath with fulfome duft,
And be a carrion monfter like thyself;
Come, grin on me, and I will think thou fmil'ft,
And kifs thee as thy wife! Mifery's love,
O come to me!
Nothing in his life Became him like the leaving it: he died As one that had been studied in his death, To throw away the dearest thing he ow'd As 'twere a careless trifle.
Oh, vanity of fickness! fierce extremes
In their continuance will not feel themfelves.
Death, having prey'd upon the outward parts,
Leaves them invifible, his fiege is now
Against the mind; the which he pricks and wounds
With many legions of strange fantasies,
Which, in their throng and prefs to that last hold,
King John, A. 5. Sc. 7.
Cowards die many times before their deaths;
The valiant never tafte of death but once.
Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,
It seems to me moft ftrange that men fhould fear;
Seeing that death, a neceffary end,
Will come when it will come.
Julius Cæfar, A. 2. Sc. 2.
Why, he that cuts off twenty years of life,
Cuts off fo many years of fearing death. Ibid, A. 3. Sc. 1.
Ah! that deceit should steal fuch gentle shape,
And with a virtuous vizor hide deep vice!
King Richard III. A. 2. Sc. 2.
The world is ftill deceiv'd with ornament.
In law, what plea fo tainted and corrupt,
But, being feafon'd with a gracious voice,
Obfcures the fhew of evil? In religion,
What damned error, but fome fober brow
Will blefs it, and approve it with a text,
Hiding the groffnefs with fair ornament ?
There is no vice fo fimple, but affumes
Some mark of virtue on its outward parts.
How many cowards, whofe hearts are all as falíe
As ftairs of fand, wear yet upon their chins
The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars,
Who, inward fearch'd, have livers white as milk!
And these affume but valour's excrement,
To render them redoubted. Look on beauty,
And you shall fee 'tis purchas'd by the weight,
Which therein works a miracle in nature,
Making them lightest that wear most of it:
So are those crifped fnaky golden locks,
Which make fuch wanton gambols with the wind
Upon fuppofed fairness, often known
To be the dowry of a fecond head,
The skull that bred them in the fepulchre.
Thus ornament is but the guiled fhore
To a most dang'rous fea; the beauteous fcarf
Veiling an Indian beauty: in a word,
The feeming truth which cunning times put on
To entrap the wifeft. The Merchant of Venice, A. 3. Sc. 1.
There's no art
To find the mind's conftruction in the face:
He was a gentleman on whom I built
An abfolute truft.
DEER WOUNDED. To-day my Lord of Amiens, and myself, Did fteal behind him, as he lay along Under an oak, whofe antique root peeps out Upon the brook that brawls along this wood; To the which place a poor fequefter'd flag, That from the hunter's aim had ta'en a hurt, Did come to languifh; and indeed, my Lord, The wretch'd animal heav'd forth fuch groans, That their discharge did ftretch his leathern coat Almost to bursting; and the big round tears Cours'd one another down his innocent nofe In piteous chace; and thus the hairy fool, Much marked of the melancholy Jaques, Stood on th' extremeft verge of the fwift brook, Augmenting it with tears. As you Like It, A. 2. Sc. 1.
Why, Love forfwore me in my mother's womb;
And, for I fhould not deal in her foft laws,
She did corrupt frail Nature with fome bribe
To fhrink mine arm up like a wither'd shrub;
To make an envious mountain on my back,
Where fits deformity to mock my body;
To shape my legs of an unequal fize;
To difproportion me in every part,
Like to a chaos, or unlick'd bear-whelp,
That carries no impreffion like the dam.
And am I then a man to be belov'd?
Oh monftrous fault, to harbour fuch a thought!
Henry VI. Part ÏII. A. 3. Sc. 2.
But I, that am not shap'd for sportive tricks,
Nor made to court an am'rous looking-glass-
I, that am rudely ftampt, and want love's majesty
To ftrut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by diffembling Nature;
Deform'd, unfinish'd, fent before my time
Into this breathing world, fcarce half made up;
And that fo lamely and unfashionably,
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them:
Why I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to spy my fhadow in the fun,
And defcant on mine own deformity.
And therefore, fince I cannot prove a lover,
To entertain thefe fair well-fpoken days,
I am determin'd to prove a villain,
And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
King Richard III. A. 1. Sc. 1,
Let's take the inftant by the forward top;
For we are old, and on our quick'ft decrees
Th' inaudibland noiseless foot of Time
Steals ere we can effect them.
All's Well that End's Well, A. 5. Sc. 2.-
Come-I have learn'd that fearful. Commenting
Is leaden fervitor to dull Delay;
Delay leads impotent and fnail-pac'd Beggary.
Before the curing of a ftrong difeafe,
E'en in the inftant of repair and health,
The fit is strongeft: evils that take leave,
In their departure most of all fhew evil.
Richard III. A. 4. Sc. 3.
Do not repent thefe things; for they are heavier
Than all thy woes can ftir: therefore betake thee
To nothing but defpair. A thousand knees,
Ten thousand years together, naked, fafting,
Upon a barren mountain, and ftill winter,
In ftorm perpetual, could not move the Gods
To look that way thou wert.
King John, A. 3. Sc. 3. ›
The Winter's Tale, A. 3. Sc. z. C.5
— If thou didst but consent
To this most cruel act, do but despair;
And if thou want'ft a cord, the fmalleft thread
That ever spider twifted from her womb
Will ftrangle thee; a rush will be a beam
To hang thee on: or, wouldst thou drown thyself,
Put but a little water in a spoon,
And it fhall be as all the ocean,
Enough to ftifle fuch a villain up.
Slave, I have fet my life upon a cast, And I will ftand the hazard of the die.
I think there be fix Richmonds in the field; Five have I flain to-day instead of him,
A horfe! a horfe! my kingdom for a horse!
King Richard III. A. 5. Sc. 8.
-I will to-morrow
(And betimes I will) unto the weird Sifters;
More fhall they speak; for now I'm bent to know,
By the worst means, the worst: for mine own good
All caufes fhall give way. I am in blood
Stept in fo far, that, fhould I wade no more,
Returning were as tedious as go o'er.
Strange things I have in head, that will to hand;
Which must be acted ere they may be scann'd.
What if it tempt you tow'rd the flood, my Lord;
Or to the dreadful fummit of the cliff,
That beetles o'er his bafe into the fea;
And there aflume fome other horrible form,
Which might deprive your fov'reignty of reason,
And draw you into madnefs? Think of it.
The very place puts toys of defperation,
Without more motive, into every brain,
That looks fo many fathoms to the fea,
And hears it roar beneath.