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O shame! where is thy blush? Rebellious hell,
If thou canst mutine in a matron's bones,

To flaming youth let virtue be as wax,

And melt in her own fire : proclaim no shame,
When the compulsive ardour gives the charge;
Since frost itself as actively doth burn,

And reason panders will.

Had it pleas'd heaven

To try me with affliction; had he rain'd

All kinds of sores, and shames, on my bare head;
Steep'd me in poverty to the very lips;
Given to captivity me and my utmost hopes;
I should have found in some part of my soul
A drop of patience: but (alas!) to make me
A fixed figure, for the type of scorn
To point his low unmoving finger at,-

Yet could I bear that too; well, very well:
But there, where I have garner'd up my heart;
Where either I must live, or bear no life;
The fountain from the which my current runs,
Or else dries up; to be discarded thence!
Or keep it as a cistern, for foul toads

To knot and gender in ! turn thy complexion there!
Patience, thou young and rose-lipp'd cherubin;
Ay, there, look grim as hell!


Blow, blow, thou winter wind,

Thou art not so unkind

As man's ingratitude;

Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.

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Ingratitude! thou marble-hearted fiend,

More hideous, when thou shew'st thee in a child, Than the sea-monster!

Filial ingratitude!

Is it not as this mouth should tear this hand,

For lifting food to't.

We'll no more meet, no more see one another :-
But yet thou art my flesh, my blood, my daughter,
Or, rather, a disease that's in my flesh,

Which I must needs call mine; thou art a boil,
A plague-sore, or imbossed carbuncle,

In my corrupted blood: but I'll not chide thee.

I hate ingratitude more in a man,

Than lying, vainness, babbling drunkenness,
any taint of vice, whose strong corruption

Inhabits our frail blood.

This was the most unkindest cut of all:
For when the noble Cæsar saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,
Quite vanquish'd 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.

I have kept back their foes,

While they have told their money, and let out
Their coin upon large interest; I myself,
Rich only in large hurts;-All those, for this?
Is this the balsam, that the usuring senate
Pour into captains' wounds?

She hath tied

Sharp-tooth'd unkindness, like a vulture, here.



If she must teem,

Create her child of spleen, that it may live,
And be a thwart disnatur'd torment to her!
Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth;
With cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks;
Turn all her mother's pains, and benefits,
To laughter and contempt; that she may feel,
How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is,
To have a thankless child!

He ne'er drinks,
But Timon's silver treads upon his lip;
And yet, (O, see the monstrousness of man,
When he looks out in an ungrateful shape!)
He does deny him.

Not a man would speak,-
Nor I (ungracious) speak unto myself
For him, poor soul.-The proudest of you all
Have been beholden to him in his life:
Yet none of you would once plead for his life.

O villains, vipers, damn'd without redemption;
Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man;

Snakes in my heart-blood warm'd, that sting my heart;
Three Judasses, each one thrice worse than Judas!

Pr'ythee, lead me in:

There take an inventory of all I have,

To the last penny; 'tis the king's: my robe,
And my integrity to heaven, is all

I dare now call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell,
Had I but serv'd my God with half the zeal
I serv'd my king, he would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies.


My lords, I care not, (so much I am happy
Above a number,) if my actions


Were tried by every tongue, every eye saw them,
Envy and base opinion set against them,

I know my life so even.

I humbly thank your highness:

And am right glad to catch this good occasion
Most thoroughly to be winnow'd, where my chaff
And corn shall fly asunder: for, I know,


There's none stands under more calumnious tongues, Than I myself, poor man.


Let the Volces

Plough Rome and harrow Italy; I'll never
Be such a gostling to obey instinct; but stand,
As if a man were author of himself,
And knew no other kin.


Now for our Irish wars :

We must supplant those rough rug-headed kerns,
Which live like venom, where no venom else,
But only they, have privilege to live.


Our doubts are traitors,

And make us lose the good we oft might win,

By fearing to attempt.

That we would do,

We should do when we would; for this would changes,
And hath abatements and delays as many,

As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents;
And then this should is like a spendthrift sigh,
That hurts by easing.



Now, whether it be Beastial oblivion, or some craven scruple

Of thinking too precisely on the event,

A thought, which, quarter'd, hath but one part wisdom,
And, ever, three parts coward,-I do not know
Why yet I live to say, This thing's to do.

Like a man to double business bound,
I stand in pause where I shall first begin,
And both neglect.



The venom clamours of a jealous woman
Poison more deadly than a mad dog's tooth.

Trifles, light as air,

Are, to the jealous, confirmation strong
As proofs of holy writ.

These are the forgeries of jealousy:

And never, since the middle summer's spring,
Met we on hill, in dales, forest, or mead,
By paved fountain, or by rushy brook,
Or on the beached margent of the sea,

To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind,
But with thy brawls thou hast disturb'd our sport.

'Tis not to make me jealous,

To say my wife is fair, feeds well, loves company,
Is free of speech, sings, plays, and dances well;
Where virtue is, these are more virtuous :
Nor from mine own weak merits will I draw
The smallest fear, or doubt of her revolt;
For she had eyes, and chose me.

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