Much more to be thus opposite with heaven, For it requires the royal debt it lent you. King Richard III., ii. 2, 87. 'Tis sweet and commendable in your nature,

Hamlet,

To give these mourning duties to your father: But, you must know, your father lost a father; That father lost, lost his, and the survivor bound

In filial obligation for some term

To do obsequious sorrow: but to persevere
In obstinate condolement is a course

Of impious stubbornness; 't is unmanly grief;
It shows a will most incorrect to heaven,
A heart unfortified, a mind impatient,
An understanding simple and unschooled.

Hamlet, i. 2, 87.

Lady Capulet. O child! O child! my soul, and not my child!

Dead art thou! Alack! my child is dead; And with my child my joys are buried.

Friar Lawrence. Peace, ho, for shame! confusion's cure lives not

In these confusions. Heaven and yourself Had part in this fair maid; now heaven hath all,

And all the better is it for the maid :
Your part in her you could not keep from death,
But heaven keeps his part in eternal life.
The most you sought was her promotion :
For 'twas your heaven she should be advanced;
And weep ye now, seeing she is advanced
Above the clouds, as high as heaven itself?
O in this love, you love your child so ill,
That you run mad, seeing that she is well.

Enter the KING, SALISBURY, WARWICK, to the CARDINAL in bed.

King. How fares my lord? speak, Beaufort, to thy sovereign.

Car. If thou be'st death, I'll give thee
England's treasure,

Enough to purchase such another island,
So thou wilt let me live, and feel no pain.
King. Ah, what a sign it is of evil life,
Where death's approach is seen so terrible!
War. Beaufort, it is thy sovereign speaks

to thee.

Car. Bring me unto my trial when you will. Died he not in his bed? where should he

die?

Can I make men live, whether they will or no?
O, torture me no more! I will confess.
Alive again? then show me where he is :
I'll give a thousand pound to look upon him.
He hath no eyes, the dust hath blinded them.
Comb down his hair; look, look! it stands
upright,

Like lime-twigs set to catch my winged soul.
Give me some drink; and bid the apothecary
Bring the strong poison that I bought of him.

King. O thou eternal Mover of the heavens, Look with a gentle eye upon this wretch ! O, beat away the busy meddling fiend That lays strong siege unto this wretch's soul And from his bosom purge this black despair! War. See, how the pangs of death do make him grin!

Sal. Disturb him not; let him pass peaceably.

King. Peace to his soul, if God's good pleasure be!

Lord Cardinal, if thou think'st on heaven's

Like to a little kingdom, suffers then
The nature of an insurrection.
Julius Cæsar, ii. 1, 62.

CLARENCE'S DREAM.

Brakenbury. Why looks your grace so heavily to-day?

Clarence. O, I have passed a miserable night,

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

Though 't were to buy a world of happy days,

So full of dismal terror was the time! . . .

Brak. Awaked you not with this sore agony? Clar. O, no, my dream was lengthened

after life;

O, then began the tempest to my soul!
I passed, 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 War-
wick;

Who cried aloud, "What scourge for perjury Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?"

And so he vanished: then came wandering by A shadow like an angel, with bright hair Dabbled in blood; and he shrieked out aloud, "Clarence is come; false, fleeting, perjured Clarence,

That stabbed me in the field by Tewksbury; Seize on him, Furies, take him to your torments!"

With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends
Environed me about, 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 the dream.
Brak. No marvel, my lord, though it af-
frighted you;

I promise you, I am afraid to hear you tell it. Clar. O Brakenbury, I have done those things,

Which now bear 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 in me alone,
O, spare my guiltless wife and my poor chil-

dren!

I pray thee, gentle keeper, stay by me;
My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep.
King Richard III., i. 4, 1.

But oh! the devil"—there the villain stopped; | Whilst Dighton thus told on: "We smothered The most replenished sweet work of nature, That from the prime creation e'er she framed." Thus both are gone with conscience and remorse;

They could not speak; and so I left them both,

To bring this tidings to the bloody king.
King Richard III., iv. 3, 1.

THE UNREST OF A GUILTY CONSCIENCE.

KING HENRY THE FOURTH IN HIS PALACE.

How many thousands of my poorest subjects Are at this hour asleep! O sleep, O gentle sleep,

Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down
And steep my senses in forgetfulness?
Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee
And hushed with buzzing night-flies to thy
slumber,

Than in the perfumed chambers of the great,
Under the canopies of costly state,
And lulled with sound of sweetest melody?
O thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile
In loathsome beds, and leavest the kingly
couch

A watch-case or a common 'larum-bell?
Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast
Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his

brains

In cradle of the rude imperious surge
And in the visitation of the winds,
Who take the ruffian billows by the top,
Curling their monstrous heads and hanging
them

With deafening clamor in the slippery clouds,
That, with the hurly, death itself awakes ?
Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose
To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude,
And in the calmest and most stillest night,
With all appliances and means to boot,
Deny it to a king? Then happy low, lie
down!

Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
Second Part of King Henry IV., iii. 1, 4-

SUICIDE.

O, THAT this too too solid flesh would melt, Thaw and resolve itself into a dew! Or that the Everlasting had not fixed His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God!

God!

How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable,

Seem to me all the uses of this world!
Fie on 't! ah fie! 't is an unweeded garden,
That grows to seed; things rank and gross
in nature
Possess it merely.
Hamlet, i. 2, 129.

To be, or not to be: that is the question: Whether 't is nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;

No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to, 't is a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;

For in that sleep of death what dreams may

come

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of
time,

The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,

The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus he native hue of resolution
Is sicklied er yith the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.

certain :

For thy complexion shifts to strange effects, After the moon. If thou art rich, thou 'rt

poor;

For, like an ass whose back with ingots bows, Thou bear'st thy heavy riches but a journey, And death unloads thee. Friend hast thou

none; For thine own bowels, which do call thee sire, The mere effusion of thy proper loins, Do curse the gout, serpigo, and the rheum, For ending thee no sooner. Thou hast nor youth nor age,

But, as it were, an after-dinner's sleep,
Dreaming on both; for all thy blessed youth
Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms
Of palsied eld; and when thou art old and

rich,

Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor

beauty,

To make thy riches pleasant. What's yet in this

That bears the name of life? Yet in this life Lie hid more thousand deaths: yet death we fear,

That makes these odds all even.

Measure for Measure, iii. 1, 5. So part we sadly in this troublous world, To meet with joy in sweet Jerusalem. Third Part of King Henry VI., v. 5, 7. Look, what thy soul holds dear, imagine it To lie that way thou go'st, not whence thou King Richard II., i. 3, 286. God shall be my hope, My stay, my guide, and lantern to my feet. Second Part of King Henry VI., ii. 3. 24. Now, God be praised, that to believing souls Gives light in darkness, comfort in despair!

comest.

Second Part of King Henry VI., ii. 1, 65.