There my father's grave Did utter forth a voice! Yes, thou must die: In base appliances. This outward-sainted deputy,- Nips youth i' the head, and follies doth enmew As falcon doth the fowl,-is yet a devil; His filth within being cast, he would appear RESOLUTION. Our doubts are traitors, And make us lose the good we oft might win, THE PRAYERS OF MAIDENS EFFECTUAL. Go to lord Angelo, And let him learn to know, when maidens sue, As they themselves would owe* them. MERCY FREQUENTLY MISTAKEN. Mercy is not itself that oft looks so; MERCY IN GOVERNORS COMMENDED. No ceremony that to great ones 'longs, THE DUTY OF MUTUAL FORGIVENESS. Alas! alas! Why, all the souls that were, were forfeit once; * Have. THE ABUSE OF AUTHORITY. O, it is excellent To have a giant's strength; but it is tyrannous Could great men thunder As Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet, Would use his heaven for thunder; nothing but [thunder. Thou rather, with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt, Most ignorant of what he's most assured, Plays such fantastic tricks before high Heaven, THE PRIVILEGE OF AUTHORITY. Great men may jest with saints: 'tis wit in them; That in the captain's but a choleric word, TEMPORAL FAR BETTER THAN ETERNAL DEATH. Better it were a brother died at once, HOPE. The miserable have no other medicine, Isab. Ay, with such gifts, that Heaven shall share Lucio. You had marr'd all else. [with you, Isab. Not with fond shekels of the tested gold, * Preserved from the corruption of the world. THE TERRORS OF DEATH MOST IN APPREHENSION. O, I do fear thee, Claudio; and I quake, Than a perpetual honour. Darest thou die? REFLECTIONS ON THE VANITY OF LIFE. Reason thus with life, If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing, That none but fools would keep a breath thou art That does this habitation, where thou keep'st, And yet runn'st toward him still: thou art not noble; Are nursed by baseness: thou art by no means valiant; For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork Of a poor worm: thy best of rest is sleep, And that thou oft provokest; yet grossly fear'st Thy death, which is no more: thou art not thyself; For thou exist'st on many a thousand grains That issue out of dust: happy thou art not; For what thou hast not, still thou strivest to get; For thy complexion shifts to strange effects,* For, like an ass, whose back with ingots bows, *Affects, affections. |