It is not, nor it cannot come to, good;

But break, my heart: for I must hold my tongue!

On the Immortality of the Soul.

To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die,—to sleep,-
No more; and, by a sleep, to say we end

The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to,-'tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wished.

To die,-to sleep ;

To sleep! perchance to dream;-ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect,

That makes calamity of so long life:

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of disprized love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns

That patient merit of the unworthy takes,

When he himself might his quietus make

With a bare bodkin? who would these fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life;
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will;
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all:

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.

HAMLET'S Madness.

Ophelia. O, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown! The courtier's, soldier's, scholar's eye, tongue, sword; The expectancy and rose of the fair state,

The glass of fashion, and the mould of form,

The observed of all observers! quite, quite down!
And I, of ladies most deject and wretched,
That sucked the honey of his music vows,
Now see that noble and most sovereign reason,
Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh ;
That unmatched form and feature of blown youth,
Blasted with ecstasy: O, woe is me!

To have seen what I have seen, see what I see!

HAMLET's Friendship for HORatio.

Hamlet. Horatio, thou art e'en as just a man As e'er my conversation coped withal.

Nay, do not think I flatter:

For what advancement may I hope from thee,

That no revenue hast, but thy good spirits,

To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flattered?

No, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp;

And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee,

Where thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou hear?
Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice,

And could of men distinguish her election,

She hath sealed thee for herself: for thou hast been
As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing;

A man, that fortune's buffets and rewards

Hast ta'en with equal thanks: and blest are those,
Whose blood and judgment are so well co-mingled,
That they are not a pipe for Fortune's finger

To sound what stop she please: give me that man
That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him

In

my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart, As I do thee.

KING LEAR.

CORDELIA'S Love.

Good, my lord,

You have begot me, bred me, loved me: I
Return those duties back as are right fit,
Obey you, love you, and most honour you.
Why have my sisters husbands, if they say,

They love you, all? Haply, when I shall wed,

That lord, whose hand must take my plight, shall carry love with him, half my care, and duty:

Half my

Sure, I shall never marry like my sisters,

To love my father all.

LEAR's Curse on his Daughter GONERIL.

Hear, Nature,

Dear goddess, hear! Suspend thy purpose, if

Thou didst intend to make this creature fruitful.

Into her womb convey sterility!

Dry up in her the organs of increase ;

And from her derogate body never spring
A babe to honour her! If she must teem,
Create her child of spleen; that it may live,
And be a thwart disnatured torment to her!
Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth;
With cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks;
Turn all her mother's pains, and benefits,
To laughter and contempt; that she may
How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is
To have a thankless child!

All things superfluous.

feel

O, reason not the need: our basest beggars Are in the poorest thing superfluous:

Allow not nature more than nature needs,

Man's life is cheap as beast's: thou art a lady;

If only to go warm were gorgeous,

Why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear'st,
Which scarcely keeps thee warm.-But, for true need,
You Heavens, give me that patience, patience I need!
You see me here, you gods, a poor old man,
As full of grief as age; wretched in both!
If it be you that stir these daughters' hearts
Against their father, fool me not so much
To bear it tamely; touch me with noble anger!
O, let not women's weapons, water-drops,
Stain my man's cheeks! —No, you unnatural hags,
I will have such revenges on you both,

That all the world shall-I will do such things,

What they are, yet I know not; but they shall be
The terrors of the earth. You think, I'll weep ;

No, I'll not weep ;—

I have full cause of weeping; but this heart
Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws,
Or ere I'll weep:-O, fool, I shall go mad!

LEAR in the Storm.

Blow, wind, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!

You cataracts, and hurricanoes, spout

Till you have drenched our steeples, drowned the cocks! You sulphurous and thought-executing fires,

Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunder-bolts,

Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,

Strike flat the thick rotundity o' the world!
Crack nature's moulds, all germens spill at once,
That make ingrateful man!....

Rumble thy belly-full! Spit, fire! spout, rain!
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters:
I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness,
I never gave you kingdom, called you children,
You owe me no subscription; why then, let fall
Your horrible pleasure; here I stand, your slave,
A poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man :
But yet I call you servile ministers,
That have with two pernicious daughters joined
Your high engendered battles, 'gainst a head
So old and white as this. O! O! 'tis foul!

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Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are,
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides,
Your looped and windowed raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these? O, I have ta'en
Too little care of this!

Take physic, pomp;