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So looked Macbeth, whose guilty eye
Discerned an air-drawn dagger nigh;
And so the prince of Denmark stared,
When first his father's ghost appeared.
At length our hero silence broke,
And thus, in wildest accents, spoke :
"Cut off my whiskers! O ye gods!
I'd sooner lose my ears, by odds:
Madam, I'd not be so disgraced,
So lost to fashion and to taste,
To win an empress to my arms,

Though blest with more than mortal charms.
My whiskers! zounds!" He said no more,
But quick retreated through the door,

And sought a less obdurate fair,

To take the beau with all his hair.

WOODWORTH.

A VERY POOR HORSE.

PETRUCHIO is coming, in a new hat and an old jerkin: a pair of old breeches, thrice turned: a pair of boots that have been candle cases, one buckled, another laced an old rusty sword ta'en out of the town armory, with a broken hilt, and shapeless, with two broken points. His horse hipped with an old mothy saddle, the stirrups of no kindred; besides, possessed with the glanders, and like to mose in the chine; troubled with the lampass, infected with the fashions, full of wind-galls, sped with spavins, raied with the yellows, past cure of the fives, stark spoiled with the staggers, begnawn with the bots; swayed in the back, and shoulder-shotten; ne'er-legged before, and with a half-checked bit, and a head-stall of sheep's leather, which, being restrained to keep him from stumbling, hath been often burst, and now repaired with knots; one girt six times pieced, and a woman's crupper of velure, which hath two letters for her name, fairly set down in studs, and here and there pieced with packthread. His lackey comes with him, for all the world caparisoned like the horse; with a linen stock on one leg, and a kersey boot-hose on the other, gartered with a red and blue list; an old hat, and The humor of forty fancies pricked in 't for a feather: a monster, a very monster in apparel; and not like a Christian foot-boy, or a gentleman's lackey.

SHAKSPEARE.

FALSTAFF'S MORAL LECTURE

PEACE. good pint-pot; peace, good tickle-brain. — Harry, I do not oniv marvel where thou spendest thy time, but also how thou art accompanied: for though the chamomile, the more it is trodden on, the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears. That thou art my son, I have partly thy mother's word, partly my own opinion; but chiefly, a villainous trick of thine eye, and a foolish hanging of thy nether lip, that doth warrant me. If, then, thou be son to me, here lies the point-Why, being son to me, art thou so pointed at? Shall the blessed sun of heaven prove a micher, and eat blackberries? a question not to be asked. Shall the son of England prove a chief, and take purses? a question to be asked. There is ? thing, Harry, which thou hast often heard of, and it is known to many in our land by the name of pitch: this pitch, as ancient writers do report, doth defile; so doth the company thou keepest: for, Harry, now I do not speak to thee in drink, but in tears; not in pleasure, but in passion; not in words only, but in wues also. And yet there is a virtuous man, whom I have often noted in thy company, but I know not his name—a good portly man, i' faith, and a corpulent; of a cheerful look, a pleasing eye, and a most noble carriage; and, as I think, his age some fifty, or, by 'r lady, inclining to threescore; and now I remember me, his name is Falstaff: if that man should be lewdly given, he deceiveth me; for, Harry, I see virtue in his looks. If, then, the tree may be known by the fruit, as the fruit by the tree, then, peremptorily I speak it, there is virtue in that Faistaff: him keep with, the rest banish.

SHAKSPEAKE

DIALOGUES-SERIOUS AND COMIC..

THE TRIUMPH OF JULIUS CÆSAR.

FLAVIUS -MARULLUS- CITIZENS.

Flav. Hence; home, you idle creatures, get you home:
Is this a holiday? What! know you not,

Being mechanical, you ought not walk,
Upon a laboring day, without the sign.

Of your profession?- Speak, what trade art thou?
1 Cit. Why, sir, a carpenter.

Mar. Where is thy leather apron and thy rule?
What dost thou with thy best apparel on?-
You, sir; what trade are you?

2 Cit. Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman,

I am but, as you would say, a cobbler.

Mar. But what trade art thou? Answer me directly.

2 Cit. A trade, sir, that, I hope, I may use with a safe conscience; which is, indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles.

Mar. What trade, thou knave; thou naughty knave, what trade?

2 Cit. Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me: yet, if you be out, sir, I can mend you.

Mar. What meanest thou by that? Mend me, thou saucy fellow ?

2 Cit. Why, sir, cobble you.

Flav. Thou art a cobbler, art thou?

2 Cit. Truly, sir, all that I live by is, with the awl: I meddle with no tradesman's matters, nor woman's matters, but with awl. I am, indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes; when they are in great danger, I recover them. As proper men as ever trod upon neat's leather, have gone upon my handiwork.

Flav. But wherefore art not in thy shop to-day? Why dost thou lead these men about the streets?

2 Cit. Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself into more work. But, indeed, sir, we make holiday, to see Cæsar, and to rejoice in his triumph.

Mar. Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home? What tributaries follow him to Rome,

To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels?

You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!
0 you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome,
Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft
Have you climbed up to walls and battlements.
To towers and windows, yea, to chimney tops,
Your infants in your arms, and there have sat
The live-long day, with patient expectation,
To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome:
And when you saw his chariot but appear,
Have you not made an universal shout,
That Tiber trembled underneath her banks,
To hear the replication of your sounds,
Made in her concave shores?

And do you now put on your best attire?
And do you now call out a holiday?
And do you now strew flowers in his way,
That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood?
Begone;

Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,
Pray to the gods to intermit the plague
That needs must light on this ingratitude.

Flav. Go, go, good countrymen, and, for this fault,
Assemble all the poor men of your sort;

(Exeunt Titizens.)

Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears
Into the channel, till the lowest stream
Do kiss the most exalted shores of all.
See, whe'r their basest metal be not moved,
They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness.
Go you down that way toward the capitol;
This way will I disrobe the images,

If you do find them decked with ceremonies.
Mar. May we do so?

You know, it is the feast of Lupercal.

Flav. It is no matter; let no images
Be hung with Cæsar's trophies. I'll about,
And drive away the vulgar from the streets:

So do you, too, where you perceive them thick.
These growing feathers plucked from Cæsar's wing,
Will make him fly an ordinary pitch;

Who else would soar above the view of men,

And keep us all in servile fearfulness.

SHAKSPEART

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Cas. Will you go see the order of the course?

Bru. Not I.

Cas. I pray you, do.

Bru. I am not gamesome: I do lack some part
Of that quick spirit that is in Antony.

Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires;
I'll leave you.

Cas. Brutus, I do observe you now of late:
I have not from your eyes that gentleness,
And show of love, as I was wont to have:
You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand
Over your friend that loves you.

Bru.

Be not deceived: if I have vail'd

Cassius,
look,

my

I turn the trouble of my countenance
Merely upon myself. Vexéd I am,
Of late, with passions of some difference,
Conceptions only proper to myself,

Which give some soil, perhaps, to my behaviors.
But let not therefore my good friends be grieved;
(Among which number, Cassius, be you one ;)
Nor construe any further my neglect,

Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war,

Forgets the shows of love to other men.

Cas. Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your passion,

By means whereof, this breast of mine hath buried

Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations.

Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face?
Bru. No, Cassius, for the eye sees not itself,
But by reflection, by some other things.

Cas. 'T is just:

And it is very much lamented, Brutus,

That you have no such mirrors, as will turn
Your hidden worthiness into your eye,

That you might see your shadow. I have heard,
Where many of the best respect in Rome,
(Except immortal Cæsar,) speaking of Brutus,
And groaning underneath this age's yoke,
Have wished that noble Brutus had his eyes.

Bru Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius,

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