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Brief let me be: Sleeping within mine orchard,
My cuftom always in the afternoon,
Upon my fecure hour thy uncle ftole
With juice of curfed ebony in a phial,
And in the porches of mine ear did pour ̋
The leperous diftilment.-

3

Thus was I, fleeping, by a brother's hand,
Of life, of crown, of Queen, at once bereft;
Cut off even in the bloffoms 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 haft nature in thee, bear it not;
But howfoever thou purfu'ft this act,

Taint not thy mind, nor let thy foul contrive
Against thy mother aught; leave her to Heav'n,
And to those thorns that in her bofom lodge,
To prick and fting her. Fare thee well at once!
The glow-worm fhews the matin to be near,

And 'gins to pale his ineffectual fire.

Adieu, adieu, adieu ! Remember me.

HAM. 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 feat
In this distracted globe! Remember thee!
Yea, from the tablet of my memory

I'll wipe away all trivial fond records,

All faws of books, all forms, all preffures paft, .
That youth and obfervation copied there;
And thy commandment all alone shall live

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HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY ON DEATH.

To be, or not to be ?-that is the queftion.

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to fuffer
The ftings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a fea of troubles,
And by oppofing end them ?-To die,-to fleep-
No more and by a fleep, to fay, we end

The heartach, and the thousand natural shocks
'That flesh is heir to 'Tis a confummation

Devoutly to be wifh'd.

To die-to fleep

To fleep perchance to dream ?ay, there's the rub;
For in that fleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have fhuffled off this mortal coil,

Muft give us pause.-There's the respect
'That makes calamity of fo long life:

For who would bear the whips and fcorns of th' time,
Th' oppreffor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,.

The pangs of defpis'd love, the law's delay,

The infolence of office, and the fpurns

That patient merit of th' unworthy takes ;
When he himself might his quietus make

With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
Το
groan and sweat under a weary life;
But that the dread of fomething after death
(That undiscover'd country, from whofe bourne
No traveller returns) puzzles the will,

And

And makes us rather bear thofe ills we have,
Than to fly to others that we know not of?
Thus confcience does make cowards of us all :
And thus the native hue of refolution

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

SHAKSPEARE.

CHAP.

XXXI.

SOLILOQUY OF THE KING IN HAMLET.

OH!

my
offence is rank, it smells to heav'n,
It hath the primal, eldeft curfe upon't;
A brother's murder- -Pray I cannot :
Though inclination be as fharp as 'twill,
My ftronger guilt defeats my ftrong intent::
And like a man to double business bound,
I ftand in pause where I shall 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 fnow? Whereto ferves mercy,
But to confront the vifage of offence ?

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And what's in prayer, but this two-fold force,
To be foreftalled ere we come to fall,

Or pardon'd being down -Then I'll look up:
My fault is past.- -But oh, what form of prayer
Can ferve my turn? Forgive me my foul murder?
That cannot be, fince I am ftill poffefs'd

Of thofe effects for which I did the murder,

My crown, mine own ambition, and my Queen.
May one be pardon'd, and retain th' offence?
In the corrupted currents of this world,
Offence's gilded hand may fhove by Juftice;
And oft 'tis feen, the wicked prize itself
Buys out the law. But 'tis not fo above.
There is no fhuffling; there the action lies
In its true nature, and we ourselves compell'd
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 foul, that, ftruggling to be free,
Art more engaged! Help, angels! make affay!
Bow, ftubborn knees; and, heart, with ftrings of steel,
Be foft as finews of the new-born babe!

All may be well.

CHAP. XXXII.

SHAKSPEARE.

ODE ON ST. CECILIA's DAY.

DESCEND, ye Nine! defcend and fing;

The breathing inftruments infpire,

Wake into voice each filent ftring,

And sweep the founding lyre!

In a fadly-pleafing strain

Let the warbling lute complain :

Let the loud trumpet found,
Till the roofs all around

The fhrill echoes rebound:

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While in more lengthen'd notes and flow,

The deep majeftic, folemn organs blow.
Hark! the numbers foft and clear,
Gently steal upon the ear;

Now louder and yet louder rise,

And fill with spreading founds the skies; Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes, In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats; Till by degrees, remote and small,

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By mufic, minds an equal temper know,
Nor fwell too high, nor fink too low.
Ifin the breast tumultuous joys arise,
Mufic her foft, affuafive voice applies;

Or when the foul is prefs'd with cares,
Exalts her in enlivening airs,

Warriors fhe fires with animated founds:

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 fnakes;
Inteftine war no more our Paffions wage,
And giddy Factions hear away their rage.

But when our country's caufe provokes to arms,
How martial mufic every bofom warms!

So when the firft bold veffel dar'd the feas,
High on the ftern the Thracian raiś'd his strain,

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