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From JULIUS CÆSAR.

83. Mark Antony's Oration over the dead body of Cæsar. Act III. Sc. 2.

Ant. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is often interréd with their bones:
So let it be with Cæsar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you Cæsar was ambitious:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault;
And grievously hath Cæsar answered it.
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest,
(For Brutus is an honorable man;
So are they all, all honorable men ;)
Come I to speak in Cæsar's funeral.

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If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.
You all do know this mantle: I remember
The first time ever Cæsar put it on;

'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent,
That day he overcame the Nervii :-

Look! in this place ran Cassius' dagger through:
See, what a rent the envious Casca made:

Through this, the well-belovéd Brutus stabbed;
And, as he plucked his curséd steel away,

Mark how the blood of Cæsar followed it,
As rushing out of doors, to be resolved
If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no;

For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar's angel:
Judge, O you gods, how dearly Cæsar loved him!
This was the most unkindest cut of all:

For when the noble Cæsar saw him stab,

Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,

Quite vanquished him: then burst his mighty heart!
And, in his mantle muffling up his face,

Even at the base of Pompey's statue,

Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar fell.

O, what a fall was there, my countrymen!

Then I, and you, and all of us fell down,
Whilst bloody treason flourished over us.
O, now you weep; and, I perceive, you feel,
The dint of pity: these are gracious drops.
Kind souls, what weep you, when you but behold
Our Cæsar's vesture wounded. Look you here,
Here is himself, marred, as you see, with traitors.

Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up
To such a sudden flood of mutiny.

They that have done this deed are honorable;
What private griefs they have, alas! I know not,
That made them do it; they are wise and honorable,
And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you.

I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts;
I am no orator, as Brutus is;

But as you know me all, a plain blunt man,

That loves my friend; and that they know full well
That gave me public leave to speak of him.
For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,
Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech,
To stir men's blood: I only speak right on;

I tell you that which you yourselves do know;

Show you sweet Cæsar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mout: s
And bid them speak for me: But were I Brutus,
And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony
Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue
In every wound of Cæsar, that should move
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.

From MACBETH.

84. Macbeth's Irresolution before the Murder of Duncan, Act I. Sc. 7.

Mach. If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well
It were done quickly: If the assassination
Could trammel up the consequence, and catch,
With his surcease, success; that but this blow
Might be the be-all and the end-all, here,
But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,
We'd jump the life to come. - But in these cases,
We still have judgment here; that we but teach
Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return
To plague the inventor: This even-handed justice
Commends the ingredients of our poisoned chalice
To our own lips. He's here in double trust:
First, as I am his kinsman and his subject,
Strong both against the deed: then, as his host,
Who should against his murtherer shut the door,
Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan
Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been
So clear in his great office, that his virtues
Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against
The deep damnation of his taking-off:

And pity, like a naked new-born babe,
Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubim, horsed
Upon the sightless couriers of the air,
Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye,
That tears shall drown the wind.

I have no spur

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A dark Cave. In the middle, a Caldron boiling. Thunder.

Enter the three Witches.

1st Witch. Thrice the brinded cat hath mewed.

2nd Witch.

3rd Witch. 1st Witch.

Thrice; and once the hedge-pig whined.
Harpier cries : — 'Tis time, 'tis time.
Round about the caldron go;
In the poisoned entrails throw.
Toad, that under cold stone,
Days and nights hast thirty-one
Sweltered venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i' the charméd pot!
Double, double, toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.
2nd Witch. Fillet of a fenny snake,

All.

All.

In the caldron boil and bake:
Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg, and owlet's wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble;
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
Double, double, toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.

D. SONGS.

86. ARIEL'S SONG.

Where the bee sucks, there suck I;

In a cowslip's bell I lie :

There I couch when owls do cry,

On the bat's back I do fly

After summer merrily:

Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,

Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

The Tempest. Act V. Sc. 1.

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Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,

If not from my love's breath? The purple pride

Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells,
In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed.
The lily I condemnéd for thy hand,
And buds of marjoram had stolen thy hair:
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,
One blushing shame, another white despair;
A third, nor red nor white, had stolen of both,
And to his robbery had annexed thy breath;
But for his theft, in pride of all his growth
A vengeful canker eat him up to death.

More flowers I noted, yet I none could see,
But sweet or color it had stolen from thee.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE SHAKSPEARIAN DRAMATISTS.

BEN JONSON. 1573-1637. (Manual, p. 152.)

89. FROM THE SAD SHEPHERD; or, a TALE OF ROBIN Hoon. Alken, an old Shepherd, instructs Robin Hood's men how to Bad a Witch, and how she is to be hunted.

Alken. Within a gloomy dimble' she doth dwell,

Down in a pit o'ergrown with brakes and briars,

Close by the ruins of a shaken abbey,

Torn with an earthquake down unto the ground,
'Mongst graves, and grots, near an old charnel-house,
Where you shall find her sitting in her fourm,

As fearful, and melancholic, as that

She is about; with caterpillars' kells,

And knotty cobwebs, rounded in with spells.
Then she steals forth to relief, in the fogs,
And rotten mists, upon the fens and bogs,

Down to the drownéd lands of Lincolnshire;

To make ewes cast their lambs, swine eat their farrow;
The housewife's tun not work, nor the milk churn;

Writhe children's wrists, and suck their breath in sleep;

Get vials of their blood; and where the sea
Casts up his slimy ooze, search for a weed
To open locks with, and to rivet charms,
Planted about her, in the wicked seat
Of all her mischiefs, which are manifold.

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Wherewith she kills; where the sad mandrake grows,
Whose groans are deathful; the dead numbing nightshade;
The stupefying hemlock; adder's tongue,

And martegan; 2 the shrieks of luckless owls,
We hear, and croaking night-crows in the air;
Green-bellied snakes; blue fire-drakes in the sky;
And giddy flitter-mice3 with leather wings;

1 Dingle, or dell.

2 A kind of lily.

3 Bats.

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