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I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends,
Exceed account: but the full sum of me
Is sum of something: which, to term in gross,
Is an unlesson'd girl, unschool'd, unpractised:
Happy in this, she is not yet so old

But she may learn; and happier than this,
She is not bred so dull but she can learn;
Happiest of all, is, that her gentle spirit
Commits itself to yours to be directed,
As from her lord, her governor, her king.
Myself, and what is mine, to you and yours
Is now converted: but now I was the lord
Of this fair mansion, master of my servants,
Queen o'er myself; and even now, but now,
This house, these servants, and this same myself,
Are yours, my lord; I give them with this ring;
Which when you part from, lose, or give away,
Let presage the ruin of your love,

And be my vantage to exclaim on you.

Merchant of Venice, Acts II. and III.

THE SEVEN AGES.

The banished duke, with Jaques and other lords, are in the forest of Arden, sitting at their plain repast. Orlando, who had been wandering in the forest in quest of food for an old servant, Adam, who could go no further," suddely comes upon the party, and with his sword drawn, exclaims,

Orlando.

Forbear, I say;

He dies that touches any of this fruit,
Till I and my affairs are answer'd.

Jaques. An you will not

Be answer'd with reason, I must die.

Duke Sen. What would you have? Your gentleness shall force,
More than your force move us to gentleness.

Orla. I almost die for food, and let me have it.

Duke Sen. Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.

Orla. Speak you so gently? Pardon me, I pray you;

I thought that all things had been savage here;

And therefore put I on the countenance

Of stern commandment. But whate'er you are,
That in this desert inaccessible,

Under the shade of melancholy boughs,

Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time;

If ever you have look'd on better days;

If ever been where bells have knoll'd to church;

If ever sat at any good man's feast;

If ever from your eyelids wiped a tear,
And know what 'tis to pity, and be pitied;
Let gentleness my strong enforcement be:

In the which hope, I blush, and hide my sword.

Duke Sen. True it is that we have seen better days;
And have with holy bell been knoll'd to church;
And sat at good men's feasts; and wiped our eyes
Of drops that sacred pity hath engender'd:
And therefore sit you down in gentleness,

And take upon command1 what help we have
That to your wanting may be minister'd.

Orla. Then but forbear your food a little while,
Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn,
And give it food. There is an old poor man,
Who after me hath many a weary step
Limp'd in pure love; till he be first sufficed,-
Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger,—
I will not touch a bit.

Duke Sen. Go find him out,

And we will nothing waste till your return.

Duke Sen. Thou seest, we are not all alone unhappy:

Orla. I thank ye: and be bless'd for your good comfort

This wide and universal theatre

Presents more woful pageants than the scene
Wherein we play in.

Jaq. All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms:
And then, the whining school-boy with his satchel,
And shining morning-face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school: And then the lover;
Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad

Made to his mistress' eyebrow: Then, a soldier;
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon's mouth: And then, the justice;
In fair round belly, with good capon lined,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,2
Full of wise saws and modern3 instances,
And so he plays his part: The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon;
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side:
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound: Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness, and mere oblivion:
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing.

[Exit

As You Like It, Act II. Scene VII.

CLARENCE'S DREAM.

The Duke of Clarence, having been imprisoned in the Tower, for the pur pose of being murdered, by his brother Richard III., thus relates to Sir Robert Brakenbury, the lieutenant of the Tower, his dream of the preceding night:

1 At your command.

2 In Shakspeare's time beards were of different cuts, according to different characters and profes mons. The soldier had one fashion, the judge another, &c. 3 Trite, common instances

Brakenbury. Why looks your grace so heavily to-day?
Clarence. O, I have pass'd a miserable night,

So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights,
That as I am a Christian faithful man,!
I would not spend another such a night,

Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days;
So full of dismal terror was the time.

Brak. What was your dream, my lord? I pray you tell me.
Clar. Methought, that I had broken from the Tower,
And was embark'd to cross to Burgundy;

And, in my company, my brother Gloster:
Who from my cabin tempted me to walk

Upon the hatches; thence we look'd toward England,
And cited up a thousand heavy times,
During the wars of York and Lancaster,
That had befall'n us. As we paced along
Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,

Methought, that Gloster stumbled; and, in falling,
Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard
Into the tumbling billows of the main.

O Lord! methought, what pain it was to drown!
What dreadful noise of water in mine ears!
What sights of ugly death within mine eyes!
Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks;
A thousand men, that fishes gnaw'd upon;
Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,
Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels,

All scatter'd in the bottom of the sea.

Some lay in dead men's skulls; and, in those holes,
Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept
(As 'twere in scorn of eyes) reflecting gems,
That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep,
And mock'd the dead bones that lay scatter'd by.
Brak. Had you such leisure in the time of death
To gaze upon these secrets of the deep?

Clar. Methought I had; and often did I strive
To yield the ghost; but still the envious flood
Kept in my soul, and would not let it forth
To seek the empty, vast, and wandering air;
But smother'd it within my panting bulk,
Which almost burst to belch it in the sea.

Brak. Awaked you not with this sore agony?
Clar. O, no, my dream was lengthen'd after life;

O, then began the tempest to my soul!

I pass'd, methought, the melancholy flood,
With that grim ferryman which poets write of,
Unto the kingdom of perpetual night.

The first that there did greet my stranger soul,
Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick;
Who cried aloud, What scourge for perjury
Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?
And so he vanish'd: Then came wandering by
A shadow like an angel, with bright hair

1 That is, not an infidel.

2 Invaluable.

Dabbled in blood; and he shriek'd out aloud,
Clarence is come—false, fleeting,' perjured Clarencɩ—
That stabb'd me in the field by Tewksbury;
Seize on him, furies, take him to your torments!
With that, methought a legion of foul fiends
Environ'd me, and howled in mine ears
Such hideous cries, that, with the very noise,
I trembling waked, and, for a season after,
Could not believe but that I was in hell:
Such terrible impression made my dream.
Brak. No marvel, lord, though it affrighted you;
I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it.

Clar. O Brakenbury, I have done these things,—
That now give evidence against my soul,
For Edward's sake, and see how he requites me!
O God! if my deep prayers cannot appease thee,
But thou wilt be avenged on my misdeeds,

Yet execute thy wrath on me alone:

O, spare my guiltless wife, and my poor children!

Richard III, Act I. Scene IV.

FALL OF CARDINAL WOLSEY.

Cardinal Wolsey, after his fall from the favor of Henry VIII., thus solilo quize, and afterwards confers with his servant Cromwell

Wolsey. Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness!

This is the state of man; to-day he puts forth

The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him:
The third day, comes a frost, a killing frost;
And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a ripening,-nips his root,
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This many summers in a sea of glory;
But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride
At length broke under me; and now has left me,
Weary, and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.
Vain pomp, and glory of this world, 1 hate ye;
I feel my heart new open'd: O, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors!
There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire to,
That sweet aspéct of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,

Never to hope again.

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A great man should decline? Nay, and you weep,

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A still and quiet conscience. The king has cured me,
I humbly thank his grace; and from these shoulders,
These ruin'd pillars, out of pity, taken

A load would sink a navy, too much honor:

O 'tis a burden, Cromwell, 'tis a burden,

Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven.

Crom. I am glad, your grace has made that right use of it.
Wol. I hope I have; I am able now, methinks,

(Out of a fortitude of soul I feel,)

To endure more miseries, and greater far,
Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer.
What news abroad?

Crom.

The heaviest, and the worst,

Is your displeasure with the king.

Wol.

God bless him!

Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen Lord Chancellor in your place.

Wol.

That's somewhat sudden:

But he's a learned man. May he continue
Long in his highness' favor, and do justice
For truth's sake, and his conscience; that his bones,
When he has run his course, and sleeps in blessings,
May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on 'em!1
What more?

Crom.

That Cranmer is return'd with welcome, Install'd lord archbishop of Canterbury.

Wol. That's news indeed.
Crom.

Last, that the Lady Anne,

Whom the king hath in secrecy long married,

This day was view'd in open, as his queen,
Going to chapel; and the voice is now

Only about her coronation.

Wol. There was the weight that pull'd me down. O Cromwell, The king has gone beyond me, all my glories

In that one woman I have lost for ever:

No sun shall ever usher forth mine honors,

Or gild again the noble troops that waited

Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell;

I am a poor fallen man, unworthy now

To be thy lord and master: Seek the king;

That sun I pray may never set! I have told him

What, and how true thou art; he will advance thee;
Some little memory of me will stir him,

(I know his noble nature,) not to let

Thy hopeful service perish too:

Good Cromwell,

1 The chancellor is the general guardian of orphans.

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