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 reafon,
To ruft in us unufed.

MAN'S

Ibid. A. 4. Sc. 4,

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' fubjects, and at their controuls.
Man, more divine, the mafter of all thefe,
Lords of the wide world, and wide watry
feas,
Indu'd with intellectual sense and foul,
Of more pre-eminence than fifh and fowl,
Are matters to their females, and their lords:
Then let your will attend on their accords.

The Comedy of Errors. A. z. Sc.

and

MARK S O F A LOVER. A lean cheek, which you have not; a blue eye 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 hose should be ungarter'd, your bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoes untyed, and every thing about you demonftrating a careless desolation: but you are no fuch man; you are rather point device in your accoutrements, as loving yourself, than seeming 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 relish a lovefong, like a Robin Redbreast; 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 miftrefs, that when I look on you, I can hardly think you my master.

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

M ARRIAGE.

The worthlefs peafants bargain for their wives,
As market-men for oxen, fheep or horfe:
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 blifs,
And is a pattern of celeftial peace.

Hen. 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 bafe 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-kiffing 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 whole fome 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

'I he heydey in the blood is tame, it's humble,

And waits upon the judgement: and what judgement
Would step from this to this? Senfe fure you have,
Elfe could you not have motion: but fure that fenfe
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, smelling fans all,
Or but a fickly part of one true sense
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 meltin her own fire: proclaim no shame,
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!
How weary, ftale, flat and unprofitable
Seem to me all the ufes of this world!
Fie on't! O fie! 'Tis an unweeded garden,

That grows to feed; things rank and grofs in nature
Poffefs it merely. That it fhould 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!
Muft I remember?-Why, the would hang on him,
As if increase 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 thefe fhoes were old,
With which the follow'd my poor father's body,
Like Niobe, all tears: Why fhe, even the

O Heaven!-a beaft, that wants difcourfe of reafon,
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 flushing in her galled eyes,
She marry'd-O moft wicked speed, to poft
With fuch dexterity to incestuous fheets!
It is not, nor it cannot, come to good:

But break, my heart; for I must hold my tongue.
Hamlet, A.1. Sc. z.

MART LE 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 E D 1 0. CRIT Ý.

-For aught I fee, they are as fick, that furfeit

with too much, as they that ftarve with nothing; therefore it is no mean happiness to be feated in the mean. -Superfluity comes fooner by white hairs; but ompetency 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 waken'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 speak enough of this content,
It ftops me here; it is too much of joy;
And this, and this, the greateft difcords be
That e'er our hearts fhall make.

[kiffing her.

Othello, A. 2. Sc. 1,

MELANCHOLY.

S

I have neither the fcholar's melancholy, which is emulation; nor the mufician'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 thefe: 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 humourous fadness.

As You Like It, A. 4. Sc. r.

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.

King Richard II. A. 5. Sc. r.

MEN A 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 ly'ft! unto thee, with a voice as free
As I do pray the gods.

K

Coriolanus, A. 3. Sc. 3.

MERCY,