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Brief let me be: Sleeping within mine orchard,
My custom always in the afternoon,
Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole
With juice of cursed ebony in a phial,
And in the porches of mine ear did pour“
The leperous diftilment.
Thus was I, fleeping, by a brother's hand,
Of life, of crown, of Queen, at once bereft;
Cut off even in the blossoms of my fin;"
No reck’ning made !-but sent to my account
With all my imperfections on my head !
HAM. Oh horrible! oh horrible! moft horrible!
Ghost. If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not ;
But howsoever thou pursu'it this act,";
Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive
Against thy mother aught; leave her to Heav'n,
And to those thorns that in her bofom lodge,
To prick and sing her. Fare thee well at once!
The glow-worm thews the matin to be near, .
And 'gins to pale his ineffectual fire.
Adieu, adieu, adieu ! Remember me,
Hami Oh; all ye host of heav'n ! oh earth! what else
And shall I couple hell? oh fie! hold, my heart !
And you, my finews, grow not instant old ! .
But bear me ftifly up. Remember thee !
Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat
In this distracted globe! Remember thee!
Yea, from the tablet of my memory
I'll wipe away all trivial fond records,
All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past,
That youth and observation copied there ;
And thy commandment all alone fhall live
Within the book and volume of my brain,
Unmix'd with baser matter.
HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY ON DEATH.
To be, or not to be ? —that is the question.-
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The stings 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 heartach, and the thousand natural shocks
'That flesh is heir to :'Tis a confummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To dieto sleep
To jeep: perchance to dream-ay, there's the rub;
l'or in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Muft give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life:
For who would bear the whips and scorns of th' time,
'Th'oppreffor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes ;
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
and sweat under a weary life;
But that the dread of something after death
(That undiscover'd country, from whose bourne
No traveller returns) puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear thofe ills we have,
Than to fly to others that we know not of ?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all :
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is ficklied 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 a£tion.
SOLILOQUY of the KING IN HAMLET.
It hath the primal, eldest curse upon't ;
A brother's murder-Pray I cannot:
Though inclination be as sharp as 'cwill,
My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent: ;
And like a man to double business bound,
I stand in pause where I fall first begin,
And both neglect. : What if this cursed hand
Were thicker than itself with brother's blood ?
Is there not rain enough in the sweet heav'ns
To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy,
But to confront the visage of offence ?
And what's in prayer, but this two-fold force,
To be forestalled ere we come to fall,
Or pardon'd being down. Then I'll look up:
My fault is paft.--But oh, what form of prayer
Can serve my turn? Forgive me my foul murder ?
That cannot be, since I am still possess'd
Of those effects for which I did the murder,
My crown, mine own ambition, and my
May one be pardon'd, and retain th' offences
In the corrupted currents of this world,
Offence's gilded hand may shove by Justice;
And oft 'tis feen, the wicked prize itself
Buys out the law. But 'tis not so above.
There is no fhuffling; there the action lies
In its true nature, and we ourselves compellid
Ev'n to the teeth and forehead of our faults,
To give in evidence. What then? what rests ?
Try what repentance can: What can it not!
Yet what can it, when one cannot repent ?
Oh wretched ftate! oh bosom black as death !
Oh limed soul, that, struggling to be free,
Art more engaged ! Help, angels ! make affay !
Bow, stubborn knees; and, heart, with strings of steel,
Be soft as fiņews of the new-born babe!
All may be well.
С НАР. XXXII.
ODE ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY.
DEscEND, ye Nine ! descend and fing;
The breathing instruments inspire,
Wake into voice each silent string,
And sweep the founding lyre !
In a fadly-pleasing frain
Let the warbling lute complain :
Let the loud crumpet found,
Till the roofs all around
The Thrill echoes rebound :
While in more lengthen'd notes and flow,
The deep majestic, folemn organs blow.
Hark! the numbers foft and clear,
Gently steal upon the ear ;
Now louder and yet louder rise,
And fill with spreading sounds the skies ;
Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes,
In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats ;
Till by degrees, remote and small,
The strains decay,
In a dying, dying fall.
By music, minds an equal temper know,
Nor swell too high, nor fink too low. Ifin the breast tumultuous joys arise, Mufic her soft, afluafive voice applies;
Or when the soul is press'd with cares,
Exalts her in enlivening airs,
Warriors she fires with animated sounds :
Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds:
Melancholy lifts her head,
Morpheus rouses from his bed,,
Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes,
Lift'ning Envy drops her snakes;
Inteftine war no more our Passions wage,
And giddy Factions hear away their rage.
But when our country's cause provokes to arms,
How martial music every bofom warms !
So when the first bold vessel dar'd the seas,
High on the stern the Thracian rais'd his strain,