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And yetrun'st toward him still: Thou art not noble;
For all the accommodations that thou bear'st,
Are nursed by baseness: Thou art by no means

For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork
Of a poor worm: Thy best of rest is sleep,
And that thou oft provok'st: yet grossly fear'st
Thy death, which is no more. Thou art not thyself;
For thou exist'st on many a thousand grains,
That issue out of dust: happy thou art not:
For what thou hast not, still thou striv'st to get;
And what thou hast, forget'st: Thou art not certain;
For thy complexion shifts to strange effects*,
After the moon: If thou art rich, thou art poor;
For, like an ass, whose back with ingots bows,
Thou bear'st thy heavy riches but a journey,
And death unloads thee: Friend hast thou none;
For thine own bowels, which do call thee sire,
The mere effusion of thy proper loins,
Do curse the gout, serpigot, and the rheum,
For ending thee no sooner: Thou hast nor youth,
But, as it were, an after-dinner's sleep, [nor age;
Dreaming on both: for all thy blessed youth
Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms
Of palsied eld #; and when thou art old, and rich,
Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor beauty,
To make thy riches pleasant. What's yet in this,
That bears the name of life? Yet in this life
Lie hid more thousa

ath we fear, That makes these ouds all even.

eaths: yet


0, I do fear thee, Claudio; and I quake, * Affects, affections. + Leprous eruption. Old age.

Lest thou a feverish life shouldst entertain,
And six or seven winters more respected
Than a perpetual honour. Dar’st thou die?
The sense of death is most in apprehension;
And the poor beetle, that we tread upon,
In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great
As when a giant dies.


Why give you me this shame? Think


I can a resolution fetch
From flowery tenderness? If I must die,
I will encounter darkness as a bride,
And hug it in mine arms.



Did utter forth a voice! Yes, thou must die:
Thou art too noble to conserve a life
In base appliances. This outward-sainted deputy,-
Whose settled visage and deliberate word
Nips youth i'the head, and follies doth enmew*,
As falcon doth the fowl,—is yet a devil;
His filth within being cast, he would appear
A pond as deep as hell.


Death is a fearful thing.
Isab. And shamed life a hateful.

Claud. Ay, but to die, and go we know not where;
To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot:
This sensible warm motion to become
A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit

* Shut up

To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside
In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice;
To be imprison'd in the viewless * winds,
And blown with restless violence about
The pendent world; or to be worse than worst
Of those, that lawless and incertain thoughts
Imagine howling !—'tis too horrible!
The weariest and most loathed worldly life,
That age, ach, penury, and imprisonment
Can lay on nature, is a paradise
To what we fear of death.


Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful.

A BAWD. The evil that thou causest to be done, That is thy means to live: Do thou, but think What 'tis to cram a maw, or clothe a back, From such a filthy vice: say to thyself, From their abominable and beastly touches I drink, I eat, array myself, and live. Canst thou believe thy living is a life, So stinkingly depending? Go, mend, go, mend.



Take, oh take, those lips away,

That so sweetly were forsworn;
And those eyes, the break of day,
Lights that do mislead the morn:

* Invisible.

But my kisses bring again,
Seals of love, but seald in vain.
Hide, oh hide, those hills of snow,

Which thy frozen bosom bears,
On whose tops the pinks that grow

Are of those that April wears:
But my poor

heart first set free,
Bound in those icy chains by thee.

GREATNESS SUBJECT TO CENSURE. O place and greatness, millions of false eyes, Are stuck upon thee! volumes of report : Run with these false and most contrarious quests Upon thy doings! thousand scapes* of wit Make thee the father of their idle dream, And rack thee in their fancies.


As fast lock'd up in sleep, as guiltless labour When it lies starkly t in the traveller's bones.

ACT V. CHARACTER OF AN ARCH HYPOCRITE. O prince, I conjure thee, as thou believ'st There is another comfort than this world, That thou neglect me not, with that opinion (sible That I am touch'd with madness: make not imposThat which but seems unlike; 'tis not impossible, But one,

the wicked'st caitiff on the ground, May seem as shy, as grave, as just, as absolute, As Angelo; even so may Angelo, In all his dressings, characts, titles, forms, * Sallies.

+ Stiffly. #Habits and characters of office.


Be an arch-villain: believe it, royal prince,
If he be less, he's nothing; but he's more,
Had I more name for badness.



MIRTH AND MELANCHOLY. Now, by two-headed Janus, Nature hath fram'd strange fellows in her time: Some that will evermore peep through their eyes, And laugh, like parrots, at a bagpiper; And other of such vinegar aspect, That they'll not show their teeth in

way of smile, Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable.

You have too much respect upon the world:
They lose it, that do buy it with much care.

I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano;
A stage, where every man must play a part.


Let me play the Fool: With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come; And let my liver rather heat with wine, Than


ħeart cool with mortifying groans. Why should a man, whose blood is warm within, Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster? Sleep when he wakes? and creep into the jaundice By being peevish?

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