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Who much enforc'd, shows a hasty spark,
And straight is cold again.

Cas. Hath Cassius lived

To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus,
When grief and blood ill-temper'd vexeth him!
Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-temper'd too.
Cas. Do you confess so much? Give me your hand.
Bru. And my heart toe.-[Embracing.

Cas. O Brutus !

Bru. What's the matter?


Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with When the rash humor which my mother gave me, Makes me forgetful?

Bru. Yes, Cassius; and from henceforth,

When you are over earnest with your Brutus,
He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so,

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I.-Hamlet's advice to the Players.—


PEAK the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you; trippingly on the tongue. But if you mouth it, as many of our players do, I had as lief the town crier had spoken my lines. And do not saw the air too much with your hands; but use all gently: For in the very torrent, tempest, and, as I may say, whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. Oh! it offends me to the soul, to hear a robusteous, perriwig pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings; who (for the most part) are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb shows and noise. Pray you avoid it.

Be not too tame, neither; but let your own discretion be your tutor. Suit the action to the word, the word to the action; with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature; for any thing so overdone is from the purpose of playing; whose end is-to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her

own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time, his form and pressure. Now, this overdone, or come tardy off, though it make the unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve; the censure of one of which must, in your allowance, o'erweigh a whole theatre of others. Oh! There be players that I have seen play, and heard others praise, and that highly, that, neither having the accent of Christian, nor the gait of Christain, pagan nor man, have so strutted and bellowed, that I have thought some of Nature's journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably.



II.-Douglass' account of himself.—


Y name is Norval. On the Grampian hills
My father feeds his flocks; a frugal swain,
Whose constant cares were to increase his store,
And keep his only son, myself, at home.
For I had heard of battles, and I long'd
To follow to the field some warlike lord;
And heaven soon granted what my sire denied.
This moon, which rose last night, round as my shield,
Had not yet filled her horns, when, by her light,
A band of fierce barbarians, from the hills,
Rush', like a torrent, down upon the vale,
Sweeping our flocks and herds. The shepherds fled
For safety and for succor. I alone,

With bended bow and quiver full of arrows,
Hover'd about the enemy, and mark'd

The road he took; then hasted to my friends,
Whom, with a troop of fifty chosen men,
I met advancing. The pursuit I led,

Till we o'ertook the spoil encumber'd foe.

We fought and conquer'd. Ere a sword was drawn,
An arrow from my bow had pierc'd their chief,

Who wore that day the arms which now I wear.
Returning home in triumph, I disdain'd

The shepherd's slothful life; and having heard

That our good king had summon'd his bold peers,
To lead their warriors to the Carron side,

I left my father's house and took with me
A chosen servant to conduct my steps-

Yon trembling coward who forsook his master.
Journeying with this intent, I pass'd these towers,
And, heaven directed, came this day to do
The happy deed, that gilds my humble name.

III.-Douglass' account of the Herinit.—IB.
BENEATH a mountain's brow, the most remote
And inaccessible, by shepherds trod,

In a deep cave, dug by no mortal hand,
A hermit liv'd; a melancholy man,
Who was the wonder of our wand'ring swains.
Austere and lonely, cruel to himself,

Did they report him; the cold earth his bed,
Water his drink, his food the shepherds? alms.
I went to see him; and my heart was touch'd
With rev'rence and with pity. Mild he spake;
And, entering on discourse, such stories told,
As made me oft revisit his sad cell.

For he had been a soldier in his youth;
And fought in famous battles, when the peers
Of Europe, by the bold Godfredo led,
Against th' usurping infidel display'd
The blessed cross, and won the Holy Land.
Pleas'd with my admiration, and the fire

His speech struck from me, the old man would shake
His years away, and act his young encounters:
Then, having show'd his wounds, he'd sit him down,
And all the live long day discourse of war.
To help my fancy, in the smooth green turf
He cut the figures of the marshall'd hosts;
Describ'd the motions, and explain'd the use
Of the deep column and the lengthen'd line,
The square, the crescent, and the phalanx firm;
For, all that Saracen or Christian knew

Of war's vast art, was to this hermit known.

IV.-Sempronius' Speech for War.-TRAG. OF CATS. M'Gods Can a Roman senate long debate,

Y voice is still for war.

Which of the two to choose, slavery or death!
No-let us rise at once, gird on our swords,
And at the head of our remaining troops.
Attack the fee, break through the thick array
Of his throng'd legions, and charge home upon him.
Perhaps some arm more lucky than the rest,

May reach his heart, and free the world from bondage.
Rise, Fathers, rise; 'tis Rome demands your help:
Rise and revenge her slaughter'd citizens,

Or share their fate. The corps of half her senate
Manure the fields of Thessaly, while we
Sit here deliberating in cold debates,
If we should sacrifice our lives to honor,
Or wear them out in servitude and chains.
Rouse up, for shame! Our brothers of Pharsalia

of York, and Owen Glendower? Is there not, besides, the Douglas? Have I not all their letters to meet me in arms by the ninth of the next month? And are there not some of them set forward already? What a pagan rascal is this! An infidel!-Ha! You shall see, now, in the very sincerity of fear and cold heart, will he to the king, and lay open all our proceedings. O! I could divide myself, and go to buffets, for moving such a dish of skimmed milk with so honorable an action. Hang him! Let him tell the king. We are prepared. I will set forward to-night.


VIII-Othello's Apology for his Marriage.-
[OST potent, grave and reverend seigniors:
My very noble and approv'd good masters:
That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter,
It is most true; true, I have married her :
The very head and front of my offerding

Hath this extent; no more. Rude am I in speech,
And little bless'd with the set phrase of peace:
For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith,
Till now, some Bine moons wasted, they have us'à
Their dearest action in the tented field;
And little of this great world can I speak,
More than pertains to feats of broils and battle;
And therefore little shall I grace my cause,

In speaking of myself. Yet by your patience,

I will a round unvarnish'd tale deliver,

Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms,
What conjuration, and what mighty magic,

(For such proceedings I am charg'd withall)

I won his daughter with.

Her father lov'd me; oft invited me ;

Still question'd me the story of my life

From year to year: the battles, sieges, fortunes,
That I had past.

I ran it through, e'en from my boyish days

To the very moment that he bade me tell it.
Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances:
Of moving accidents by flood and field;

Of hairbreadth 'scapes in th' imminent deadly breach;
Or being taken by the insolent foe, 3

And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence,
And with it all my travel's history.

-All these to hear

Would Desdemona seriously incline

But still the house affairs would draw her thence;
Which ever as she could with haste dispatch,
She'd come again, and with a greedy ear
Devour up my discourse. Which I observing
Took once a pliant hour, and found good means
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate;
Whereof by parcels she had something heard,
But not distinctly. I did consent;
And often did beguile her of her tears,
When I did speak of some distressful stroke
That my youth suffer’d. My story being done,
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs.

She swore in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange ; 'Twas pitiful; 'twas wondrous pitiful;

She thank'd me;

She wish'd she had not heard it; yet she wish'd
That heaven had made her such a man.
And bade me, if I had a friend that lov'd her,
I should but teach him how to tell my story,
And that would woo her. On this hint I spake ;
She lov'd me for the dangers I had pass'd;
And I lov'd her that she did pity them.
This only is the witchcraft which I've us’d.

IX.---Henry IV.'s Soliloquy on Sleep.---SHAKESPEARE.
H We at this hour asleep 10 gentle sleep!
OW many thousands of my poorest subjects

Nature's soft nurse! how have I frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down,
And steep my senses in forgetfulness?
Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoaky cribs,
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee,

And hush'd with buzzing night flies to thy slumber,
Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great,

Under the canopies of costly state,

And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody?
O thou dull god! Why liest thou with the vile,
In loathsome beds, and leav'st the kingly couch,
A watch-case to a common larum-bell?"
Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast,
Seal up the shipboy's eyes and rock his brains
In cradle of the rude imperious surge,
And in the visitation of the winds,
Who take the ruffian billows by the tops,
Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them
With deaf'ning clamors in the slipp'ry shrouds,
That with the hurly, death itself awakes;
Can'st thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose
To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude,

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