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He's not prepar'd for death!

kitchens

Even for our

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?

There's many have committed it.

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 súccessive 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;
And do him right, that, answering one foul

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 tyrammous
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!
Drest in a little brief authority;

Most ignorant of what he's most assur'd,
His glassy essence,-like an angry ape,

Plays such fantastick tricks before high heaven,
As make the angels weep; who, with our spleens,
Would all themselves laugh mortal.

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,
Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy.

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 A natural guiltiness, such as is his,

Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue
Against my brother's life.

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,
Or stones, whose rates are either rich, or poor,
As fancy values them: but with true prayers,
That shall be up at heaven, and enter there,
Ere sunrise: prayers from preserved souls,
From fasting maids, whose minds are dedicate
To nothing temporal.

ANG.
To-morrow.

Well: come to me

What's this? what's this? Is this her fault, or mine?

The tempter or the tempted, who sins most?
Ha!

Not she; nor doth she tempt: but it is I,
That lying by the violet, in the sun,
Do, as the carrion does, not as the flower,
Corrupt with virtuous season. Can it be,
That modesty may more betray our sense
Than woman's lightness? Having waste ground
enough,

Shall we desire to raze the sanctuary,
And pitch our evils there? O, fy, fy, fy!
What dost thou ? or what art thou, Angelo?
Dost thou desire her foully, for those things
That make her good? O, let her brother live:
Thieves for their robbery have authority,
When judges steal themselves. What? do I
love her,

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.

THE HEART.

DUCHESS. 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.

Ir is the cause, it is the cause, my soul,-
Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars!-
It is the cause.-Yet I'll not shed her blood;
Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow,
And smooth as monumental alabaster.

Yet she must die, else she'll betray more men.
Put out the light, and then put out the light:
If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,

I can again thy former light restore,
Should I repent me:-but once put out thine,
Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature,
I know not where is that Promethean heat,

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,
But they are cruel tears: This sorrow's heavenly;
It strikes, where it doth love.

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.

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