Obrázky na stránke
PDF
ePub

Scene from King Lear.'-The Country near Dover.
Enter GLOSTER, and EDGAR dressed like a peasant.

Glo. When shall we come to the top of that same hill?
Edg. You do climb up it now: look how we labour.
Glo. Methinks, the ground is even.

Edg.

Hark, do you hear the sea?

Glo.

Horrible steep:

No, truly.

Edg. Why, then your other senses grow imperfect By your eyes' anguish.

Glo.

So may it be, indeed:

Methinks thy voice is alter'd; and thou speak'st

In better phrase and matter than thou didst.

Edg. You are much deceiv'd; in nothing am I chang'd,

But in my garments.

Glo.

Methinks, you are better spoken.

Edg. Come on, sir; here's the place!-stand still.-How fearful And dizzy 'tis, to cast one's eyes so low!

The crows and choughs, that wing the midway air,
Shew scarce so gross as beetles: half-way down
Hangs one that gathers samphire-dreadful trade!
Methinks he seems no bigger than his head:
The fishermen, that walk upon the beach,
Appear like mice: and yon tall anchoring bark,
Diminish'd to her cock; her cock, a buoy
Almost too small for sight: the murmuring surge,
That on the unnumber'd idle pebbles chafes,
Cannot be heard so high.-I'll look no more;
Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight
Topple down headlong.

Glo.

Set me where you stand.
Edg. Give me your hand: you are now within a foot
Of the extreme verge: for all beneath the moon
Would I not leap upright.

Glo.

Let go my hand.

Here, friend, is another purse; in it, a jewel

Well worth a poor man's taking fairies, and gods,
Prosper it with thee! Go thou further off;

Bid me farewell, and let me hear thee going.
Edg. Now fare you well, good sir.

[blocks in formation]

large

cock-boat

[GLOSTER leaps, and falls along.

rob

And yet I know not how conceit may
The treasury of life, when life itself
Yields to the theft: had he been where he thought,
By this had thought been past.-Alive or dead?"
Ho, you sir! friend!-Hear you, sir!-speak!
Thus might he pass indeed :-yet he revives :
What are you, sir?

Glo.

Away, and let me die.

Edg. Hadst thou been aught but gossamer, feathers, air,
So many fathom down precipitating,

Thou hadst shiver'd like an egg: but thou dost breathe;
Hast heavy substance; bleed'st not; speak'st; art sound.
Ten masts at each1 make not the altitude
Which thou hast perpendicularly fell;
Thy life's a miracle. Speak yet again.
Glo. But have I fallen, or no?

Edg. From the dread summit of this chalky bourn:
Look up a-height;—the shrill-gorg'd lark so far
Cannot be seen or heard: do but look up.

Glo. Alack, I have no eyes.

Is wretchedness depriv'd that benefit,

To end itself by death? 'Twas yet some comfort,
When misery could beguile the tyrant's rage,

And frustrate his proud will.

Edg.

Give me your arm:

Up: so.-How is 't? Feel you your legs? You stand.
Glo. Too well, too well.

Edg.

This is above all strangeness:

Upon the crown o' the cliff, what thing was that
Which parted from you?

Glo.

A poor unfortunate beggar.
Edg. As I stood here below, methought his eyes
Were two full moons; he had a thousand noses,
Horns whelk'd, and wav'd like the enridged sea;
It was some fiend: therefore, thou happy father,
Think that the clearest gods, who make them honours
Of men's impossibilities, have preserv'd thee.

Glo. I do remember now: henceforth I'll bear

Affliction, till it do cry out itself,

'Enough, enough,' and die. That thing you speak of,
I took it for a man; often 'twould say,

'The fiend, the fiend: ' he led me to that place.

shrill-throated

Description of Night in a Camp.—From King Henry V.'
From camp to camp, through the foul womb of night,
The hum of either army stilly sounds,

That the fix'd sentinels almost receive

The secret whispers of each other's watch:

Fire answers fire; and through their paly flames

Each battle 2 sees the other's umber'd3 face:

pale

1 At each is supposed to be a misprint. Various corrections have been proposed, as attach'd;

on end; at length; at least.

2 Body of troops; an obsolete usage.

3 Darkened as if with umber-an iron ore of a dark-brown colour.

Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs
Piercing the night's dull ear; and from the tents,
The armourers, accomplishing the knights,
With busy hammers closing rivets up,

Give dreadful note of preparation.

The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll,
And the third hour of drowsy morning name.
Proud of their numbers, and secure in soul,
The confident and over-lusty French
Do the low-rated English play at dice;
And chide the cripple tardy-gaited night,
Who, like a foul and ugly witch, doth limp

So tediously away. The poor condemned English,
Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires

Sit patiently, and inly ruminate

The morning's danger; and their gesture sad
Investing lank-lean cheeks, and war-worn coats,
Presenteth them unto the gazing moon

So many horrid ghosts. O, now, who will behold
The royal captain of this ruin'd band,

Walking from watch to watch, from tent to tent,
Let him cry-Praise and glory on his head!
For forth he goes, and visits all his host;
Bids them good-morrow, with a modest smile :

And calls them-brothers, friends, and countrymen.
Upon his royal face there is no note

How dread an army hath enrounded him;
Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour
Unto the weary and all-watched night;
But freshly looks, and overbears attaint
With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty;
That every wretch, pining and pale before,
Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks:
A largess universal, like the sun,

His liberal eye doth give to every one,
Thawing cold fear.

[blocks in formation]

Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly

When summer's breath their masked buds discloses :
But, for their virtue only is their show,

They live unwoo'd, and unrespected fade;

Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;

Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made:
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall fade, by verse distils your truth.

weariness

dog-rose

LX.

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;

Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,

Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,

And Time, that gave, doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow;
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow.
And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

LXXI.

No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it; for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O, if (I say) you look upon this verse,
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse;
But let your love even with my life decay :

Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
And mock you with me after I am gone.

Song from 'As You Like It!

Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind

As man's ingratitude;

Thy tooth is not so keen,

Because thou art not seen,

Although thy breath be rude.

Heigh, ho! sing, heigh, ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly :
Then, heigh ho! the holly!

This life is most jolly.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
Thou dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:

Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp

As friend remembered not.

Heigh, ho! sing, heigh, ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving, mere folly:
Then, heigh ho! the holly!

This life is most jolly.

weave into ice

Ben Jonson: 1573-1637.

From a Poem to the Memory of Shakspeare.
Soul of the age!

The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage!
My Shakspeare, rise! I will not lodge thee by
Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie
A little further off, to make thee room:
Thou art a monument without a tomb,
And art alive still, while thy book doth live,
And we have wits to read, and praise to give.
That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses,
I mean with great but disproportioned Muses :
For if I thought my judgment were of years,
I should commit thee surely with thy peers,
And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine,
Or sporting Kyd,2 or Marlowe's 3 mighty line.
And though thou had small Latin and less Greek,
From thence to honour thee I will not seek
For names; but call forth thund'ring Eschylus,4
Euripides, and Sophocles 5 to us,

1

Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead,
To live again, to hear thy buskin tread,

And shake a stage: or when thy socks were on,
Leave thee alone for the comparison

Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome
Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come.
Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to shew,
To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe.
He was not of an age, but for all time!
And all the Muses still were in their prime,
When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm
Our ears, or like a Mercury, to charm!
Nature herself was proud of his designs,
And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines!
Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit,
As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit.
The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,9

[blocks in formation]

Neat Terence,10 witty Plautus,10 now not please;
But antiquated and deserted lie,

As they were not of nature's family.
Yet must I not give nature all; thy art,

My gentle Shakspeare, must enjoy a part.

40

1 John Lyly, born about 1554, wrote masques and plays for court entertainments. He was the originator of the affected style of writing called Euphuism.

2 Thomas Kyd, a play-writer about 1588. Jonson speaks sarcastically of Kyd, for he was the reverse of lively.

3 Christopher Marlowe, the greatest of Shakspeare's precursors. He was the first to introduce blank verse on the stage.

4 Eschylus, the father of Greek tragedy, born 525 B.C.

5 Euripides, born 480 B.C., and Sophocles, born about 495 B.C., were the other two great masters of Greek tragedy.

6 Pacuvius, one of the most celebrated of the early Roman tragedians, born about 220 B.C.

7 Accius, another Roman tragic poet, born about 170 B.C.

8 Lucan, a Roman poet, born here, 38 A.D.

9 Aristophanes, a Greek comic writer, born 444 B.C.

10 Terence, born 195 B.C., and Plautus, born 254 B.C., Roman comic poets.

« PredošláPokračovať »