He's not prepar'd for death! Even for our kitchens We kill the fowl of season; shall we serve heaven With less respect than we do minister To our gross selves? Good, good my lord, bethink you: Who is it that hath died for this offence? ANG. The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept: Those many had not dar'd to do that evil, If the first man that did the edict infringe, Had answer'd for his deed: now, 'tis awake; Takes note of what is done; and, like a prophet, Looks in a glass, that shows what future evils, (Either now, or by remissness new-conceiv'd, And so in progress to be hatch'd and born,) Are now to have no successive degrees, But, where they live, to end. ISAB. Yet show some pity. ANG. I show it most of all, when I show justice; For then I pity those I do not know, Which a dismiss'd offence would after gall; wrong, Lives not to act another. Be satisfied; Your brother dies to-morrow; be content. ISAB. So you must be the first, that gives this sentence; And he, that suffers: O, it is excellent To have a giant's strength; but it is tyranous To use it like a giant. Could great men thunder As Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet, For every pelting, petty officer, Would use his heaven for thunder: nothing but thunder. Merciful heaven! Thou rather, with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt, Split'st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak, Than the soft myrtle;-O, but man, proud man! Most ignorant of what he's most assur❜d, Plays such fantastick tricks before high heaven, We cannot weigh our brother with ourself: Great men may jest with saints: 'tis wit in them; But, in the less, foul profanation. That in the captain's but a cholerick word, ANG. Why do you put these sayings upon me? ISAB. Because authority, though it err like others, Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself, That skins the vice o'the top: Go to your bosom; Knock there; and ask your heart, what it doth know That's like my brother's fault: if it confess Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue ANG. She speaks, and 'tis Such sense, that my sense breeds with it. Fare you well. ISAB. Gentle my lord, turn back. ANG. I will bethink me :- -Come again to morrow. ISAB. Hark, how I'll bribe you: Good my lord, turn back. ANG. How! bribe me? ISAB. Ay, with such gifts, that heaven shall share with you. Not with fond shekels of the tested gold, ANG. Well: What's this? what's this? Is this her fault, or mine ? The tempter or the tempted, who sins most? Not she; nor doth she tempt: but it is I, Shall we desire to raze the sanctuary, That I desire to hear her speak again, And feast upon her eyes? What is't I dream on ? O cunning enemy, that, to catch a saint, With saints dost bait thy hook! Most dangerous Is that temptation, that doth goad us on To sin in loving virtue: never could the strumpet, With all her double vigour, art, and nature, Once stir my temper; but this virtuous maid Subdues me quite;-Ever till now, When men were fond, I smil'd and wonder'd how. MEASURE FOR MEASURE, A. 2, s. 2. DUCHESS. THE HEART. What gone, my lord; and bid me not farewell? GLOSTER. Witness my tears, I cannot stay to speak. K. HENRY VI., PART II., A. 2, s. 4. THE HEART'S ANGUISH. It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul,— Yet she must die, else she'll betray more men. That can thy light relume. When I have pluck'd thy rose, I cannot give it vital growth again, It needs must wither:-I'll smell it on the tree. O balmy breath, that dost almost persuade Justice to break her sword!-One more, one more. Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee, And love thee after:-One more, and this the last: So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep, OTHELLO, A. 5, s. 2. THE HEART'S DESOLATION. THOU common friend, that's without faith or love; (For such is a friend now,) treacherous man! Thou hast beguil'd my hopes; nought but mine eye Could have persuaded me: Now I dare not say, I have one friend alive; thou would'st disprove me. Who should be trusted now, when one's right hand Is perjur'd to the bosom? Proteus, I am sorry I must never trust thee more, But count the world a stranger for thy sake. The private wound is deepest: O time, most curst! 'Mongst all foes, that a friend should be the worst. TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA, A. 5, s. 4. |