Some villain, ay, and singular in his art,
Hath done you both this cursèd injury.
Imo. Some Roman courtezan.

Pis. No, on my life.

I'll give but notice you are dead, and send him
Some bloody sign of it; for 'tis commanded
I should do so you shall be missed at court,
And that will well confirm it.

Imo. Why, good fellow,

What shall I do the while? Where bide? How live?

Pis.... The ambassador,

Lucius the Roman, comes to Milford-Haven
To-morrow. Now, if you could wear a mind
Dark as your fortune is; and but disguise
That, which, to appear itself, must not yet be,
But by self-danger; you should tread a course
Pretty, and full of view: yea, haply, near
The residence of Posthumus: so nigh, at least,
That though his actions were not visible, yet
Report should render him hourly to your ear,
As truly as he moves.

Imo. O, for such means!

Though peril to my modesty, not death on't,
I would adventure.

Pis. Well, then, here's the point:
You must forget to be a woman; change
Command into obedience: fear, and niceness
(The handmaids of all women, or, more truly,
Woman its pretty self), to a waggish courage;
Ready in gibes, quick-answered, saucy, and
As quarrelous as the weasel: nay, you must
Forget that rarest treasure of your cheek,

Exposing it (but, O, the harder heart!
Alack, no remedy!) to the greedy touch
Of common-kissing Titan; and forget
Your laboursome and dainty rims, wherein
You made great Juno angry.

Imo. Nay, be brief:

I see into thy end, and am almost

A man already.

Pis. First, make yourself but like one.
Fore-thinking this, I have already fit

('Tis in my cloak-bag), doublet, hat, hose, all
That answer to them: would you, in their serving,

And with what imitation you can borrow

From youth of such a season, 'fore noble Lucius
Present yourself, desire his service, tell him

Wherein you are happy (which you'll make him know,
If that his head have ear in music), doubtless,
With joy he will embrace you; for he's honourable,
And, doubling that, most holy. Your means abroad
You have me, rich; and I will never fail
Beginning, nor supplyment.

Imo. Thou art all the comfort

The gods will diet me with. Pr'ythee, away:
There's more to be considered; but we'll even
All that good time will give us : this attempt

I'm soldier to, and will abide it with

A prince's courage. Away, I pr'ythee.

Pis. Well, madam, we must take a short farewell; Lest, being missed, I be suspected of

Your carriage from the court.

...

To some shade,

And fit you to your manhood:-May the gods

Direct you to the best!

The Dissolution of all Things.

OUR revels now are ended: these our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air:

And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve;
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind: We are such stuff
As dreams are made of, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

PROSPERO abjures his Magic.

Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves; And ye, that on the sands with printless foot Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him, When he comes back: you demi-puppets, that By moonshine do the green-sour ringlets make, Whereof the ewe not bites; and you, whose pastime Is to make midnight-mushrooms; that rejoice To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid (Weak masters though you be) I have bedimmed The noontide sun, called forth the mutinous winds, And 'twixt the green sea and the azured vault Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder Have I given fire, and rifted Jove's stout oak With his own bolt: the strong-based promontory Have I made shake and by the spurs plucked un

The pine, and cedar: graves, at my command,
Have waked their sleepers; oped, and let them forth
By my so potent art: But this rough magic

:

I here abjure and, when I have required
Some heavenly music (which even now I do),
To work mine end upon their senses, that
This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff,
Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,
And, deeper than did ever plummet sound,
I'll drown my book.

[Solemn music.

Ben Jonson.

CATILINE, HIS CONSPIRACY.

The Morning of the Conspiracy.-LENTULUS, CETHEGUS, and CATILINE meet, before the other Conspirators are ready.

Lent. It is, methinks, a morning full of fate;

It riseth slowly, as her sullen car

Had all the weights of sleep and death hung at it.
She is not rosy-fingered, but swoln black;

Her face is like a water turned to blood,
And her sick head is bound about with clouds,
As if she threatened night ere noon of day.

It does not look as it would have a hail

Or health wished in it, as on other morns.

Ceth. Why, all the fitter, Lentulus: our coming

Is not for salutation: we have business.

Cat. Said nobly, brave Cethegus. Where's Autronius?

Ceth. Is he not come?

Cat. Not here.

Ceth. Not Vargunteius?

Cat. Neither.

Ceth. A fire in their beds and bosoms,

That so well serve their sloth rather than virtue!
They are no Romans, and at such high need
As now

Lent. Both they, Longinus, Lecca, Curius,
Fulvius, Gabinus, gave me word last night,
By Lucius Bestia, they would all be here,
And early.

We're spirit-bound,

Ceth. Yes! as you, had I not called you.—
Come, we all sleep, and are mere dormice; flies
A little less than dead: more dulness hangs
On us than on the morn.
In ribs of ice; our whole bloods are one stone:
And honour cannot thaw us, nor our wants,
Though they burn hot as fevers to our states.
Cat. I muse they would be tardy at an hour
Of so great purpose.

Ceth. If the gods had called

Them to a purpose, they would just have come
With the same tortoise speed, that are thus slow
To such an action, which the gods will envy;
As asking no less means than all their powers
Conjoined to effect. I would have seen Rome burnt
By this time, and her ashes in an urn:

The kingdom of the senate rent asunder:

And the degenerate talking gown run frighted

Out of the air of Italy.

Cat. Spirit of men,