ime is the nurse and breeder of all good: here if thou ftay, thon canft not fee thy love; efides, thy ftaying will abridge thy life.

The Two Gentlemen of Verona, A. 3. Sc. 1.

How poor are they that have not patience!
What wound did ever heal but by degrees?

Thou know'ft we work by wit, and not by witchcraft;
And wit depends on dilatory time.

Othello, A. 2. Sc. 3.

Patience unmov'd, no marvel though the paufe;
They can be meek that have no other caufe;
A wretched foul, bruis'd with adverfity,
We bid be quiet, when we hear it cry;
But, were we burden'd with like weight of pain,
As much, or more, fhould we ourselves complain:
So thou, that haft no unkind mate to grieve thee,
With urging helplefs patience wouldft relieve me:
But if thou live to fee like right bereft,
This fool-begg'd patience in thee will be left.

The Comedy of Errors, A. 2. Se. .

PATRIOTISM.

If it be aught toward the general good,
Set honour in one eye, and death i' the other,
And I will look on both indifferently;

For let the Gods fo fpeed me as I love
The name of honour more than I fear death.

Julius Cæfar, A. 1. Sc. 2:

PATRONAGE

momentary grace of mortal men,

Which we more hunt for than the grace of God!
Who builds his hope in air of your fair looks,
Lives like a drunken failor on a maft,.

Ready with every nod to tumble down

Into the fatal bowels of the deep.

Richard III. A. 3.

Sc.

PE A CE.

So fhaken as we are, fo wan with care,

Eind we a time for frighted peace to pant,

And breathe short-winded accents of new broils
To be commenc'd in ftronds afar remote.

No

No more the thirsty entrance of this foil

Shall damp her lips with her own children's blood:
No more fhall trenching war channel her fields,
Nor bruise her flow'rets with the armed hoofs
Of hoftile pacers. Thofe oppofed eyes,
Which, like the meteors of a troubled heaven,
All of one nature, of one fubftance bred,.
Did lately meet in the intestine shock:
And furious close of civil butchery,
Shall now in mutual well-befeeming ranks
March all one way; and be no more oppos'd
Against acquaintance, kindred, and allies:
The edge of war, like an ill-fheathed knife,
No more shall cut his mafter. Henry IV. Part 1. A. 1. Sc. H.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths,
Our bruifed arms hung up for monuments,
Qur ftern alarams chang'd to merry-meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures:
Grim-vifag'd war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front;
And now-inftead of mounting barbed feeds
To fright the fouls of fearful adverfaries,
He capers nimbly, in a lady's chamber,
To the lafcivious pleafing of a lute.

In

peace

PE ACE

Richard 111. A. 1. Sc. 1.

AND WAR..

there's nothing fo becomes a man

As modeft ftillnefs and humility:

But when the blaft of war blows in our ears,...
Then imitate the action of the tyger ;—
Stiffen the finews, fummon up the blood,
Difguife fair nature with hard-favour'd rage:
Then lend the eye a terrible afpect;

Let it pry through the portage of the head,

Like the brafs cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it,
As fearfully as doth a galled rock

O'erhang and jutty his confounded bafe,
Swill'd with the wild and wafteful ocean.

Now fet the teeth, and ftretch the noftril wide;
Hold hard the breath, and bend up every fpirit
To his full height.

Henry V. A. 3. Sc. 1

PERI L.

When laft the young Orlando parted from you,
He left a promise to return again

Within an hour; and pacing through the foreft,
Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy,
Lo, what befel! he threw his eye afide,
And mark what object did prefent itself.
Under an oak, whofe boughs were mofs'd with age,
And high top bald with dry antiquity,

A wretched, ragged man, o'ergrown with hair,
Lay fleeping on his back: about his neck

A green and gilded fnake had wreath'd itself,
Who, with her head, nimble in threats, approach'd
The opening of his mouth; but, fuddenly
Seeing Orlando, it unlinked itself,

And, with indented glides, did flip away
Into a bush; under which bufh's fhade

A lionefs, with udders all drawn dry,

Lay couching head on ground, with cat-like watch,
When that the fleeping man fhould stir; for 'tis
The royal difpofition of that beaft

To prey on nothing that doth feem as dead..

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

PERSEVERANCE..

Time hath, my Lord, a wallet at his back,

Wherein he puts alms for Oblivion,

A great-fiz'd monster of Ingratitude's

Thofe fcraps are good deeds paft, which are devour'd
As faft as they are made, forgot as foon

As done.-Perseverance, dear my Lord,

Keeps honour bright: to have done, is to hang
Quite out of fashion, like a rusty nail,

In monumental mockery. Take the inftant way,.
For honour travels in a ftreight fo narrow,
Where one but goes abreaft: Keep then the path
For Emulation hath a thousand fons,

That one by one purfue, if you give way,
Or hedge afide from the direct forthright,
Like to an enter'd tide, they all rush by,
And leave you hindmoft-

Or, like a gallant horfe, fall'n in first rank,

Lie there for pavement to the abject rear,

O'er-run and trampled on: then what they do in prefent,
Though lefs than yours in paft, muft o'ertop yours:
For time is like a fashionable hoft,

That flightly shakes his parting gueft by the hand,
And with his arms outstretch'd, as he would fly,
Grafps in the comer: Welcome ever fmiles,
And Farewell goes out fighing. O! let not Virtue feek
Remuneration for the thing it was; for beauty, wit,
High birth, vigour of bone, defert in fervice,

Love, friendship, charity, are fubjects all

To envious and calumniating Time.

Troilus and Creffida, A. 3. Sc. 3.

A woman sometimes fcorns what beft contents her;
Send her another; never give her o'er;

For fcorn at firft makes after love the more.
If the do frown, 'tis not în hate of you;
But rather to beget more love in you:
If fhe do chide, 'tis not to have you gone;
For why, the fools are mad if left alone.
Take no repulfe, whatever the doth fay;
For, get you gone, fhe doth not mean away!
Flatter, and praife, commend, extol their graces;
Tho' ne'er fo black, fay they have angels' faces.
That man that hath a tongue, I fay, is no man,
If with his tongue he cannot win a woman.

The Two Gentlemen of Verona, A. 3. Sc. L

PERSONAL VIRTU E.

Strange it is that our bloods,

Of colour, weight, and heat, pour'd all together,
Would quite confound diftinction, yet stand off

In differences fo mighty. If the be

All that is virtuous (fave what thou dislik'ft,
A poor phyfician's daughter) thou diflik't
Of virtue for the name: but do not fo.

From lowest place when virtuous things proceed,
The place is dignify'd by th' doer's deed.

Where

Where great addition fwells, and virtue none,
It is a dropfy'd honour; good alone,
Vilenefs is fo:

Is good without a name.

The property by what it is should go,

Not by the title. She is young, wife, fair;
In thefe to Nature fhe 's immediate heir;

And these breed honour: That is honour's fcor,
Which challenges itself as honour's born,

And is not like the fire. Honours beft thrive,
When rather from our acts we them derive,
Than our fore-goers: the mere word 's a flave,
Debauch'd on every tomb, on every grave;
A lying trophy; and as oft is dumb,

Where duft and damn'd oblivion is the tomb

Of honour'd bones,indeed. All'sWellthat Ends Well, A.2. Sc. 3.

PERTURBATION

If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well
It were done quickly: If the affaffination
Could trammel up the confequence, axi catch,
With his furceafe, fuccefs; that but this blow
Might be the be-all and the end-all, here,
But here, upon this bank and fhoal of time-
We'd jump the life to come. But, in these cafes,
We ftill have judgment here; that we but teach
Bloody inftructions, which, being taught, return
To plague the inventor: thus even-handed juftice
Commends the ingredients of our poifon'd chalice
To our own lips. He's here in double trust:
Firft, as I am his kinfman, and his fubject,
Strong both against the deed: then, as his hoft,
Who fhould againft his murderer fhut the door,
Not bear the knife myself. Befides, this Duncan
Hath borne his faculties fo meek, hath been
So clear in his great office, that his virtues
Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against
The deep damnation of his taking off:
And Pity, like a naked new-born babe,
Striding the blaft, or heaven's cherubim, hors'd
Upon the fightlefs courfers of the air,

Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye,

That