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O thoughts of men accurs'd!

Past, and to come, seem best; things present, worst.

Happiness courts thee in her best array;
But, like a mis-behav'd and sullen wench,
Thou pout'st upon thy fortune and thy love:
Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable.

He reads much;

He is a great observer, and he looks

Quite through the deeds of men: he loves no plays,
As thou dost, Anthony; he hears no music :
Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort,
As if he mock'd himself, and scorn'd his spirit
That could be mov'd to smile at any thing.

Worthy Montano, you were wont be civil;
The gravity and stillness of your youth
The world hath noted, and your name is great
In mouths of wisest censure; What's the matter,
That you unlace your reputation thus,
And spend your rich opinion, for the name
Of a night-brawler? give me answer to it.

She is peevish, sullen, froward,

Proud, disobedient, stubborn, lacking duty;
Neither regarding that she is my child,
Nor fearing me as if I were her father.


Dreams are the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy;
Which is as thin of substance as the air;
And more inconstant than the wind.

If I may trust the flattering eye of sleep,
My dreams presage some joyful news at hand:
My bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne;
And, all this day, an unaccustom'd spirit
Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.

Ah me! how sweet is love itself possest,
When but love's shadows are so rich in joy!

Thy spirit within thee hath been so at war,
And thus hath so bestir'd thee in thy sleep,
That beads of sweat have stood upon thy brow,
Like bubbles in a late-disturbed stream:
And in thy face strange motions have appear'd,
Such as we see when men restrain their breath
On some great sudden haste.

There are a kind of men so loose of soul,
That in their sleeps will mutter their affairs.

There is some ill a-brewing towards my rest,
For I did dream of money bags to-night.

Dreams are toys:

Yet, for this once, yea, superstitiously,

I will be squar'd by this.

Then came wand'ring by

A shadow like an angel, with bright hair

Dabbled in blood; and he shriek'd out aloud,Clarence is come, false, fleeting, perjur'd Clarence,That stabb'd me in the field by Tewkesbury.

By the apostle Paul, shadows to-night
Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard,
Than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers,
Armed in proof, and led by shallow Richmond.


Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,
But not express'd in fancy: rich, not gaudy:
For the apparel oft proclaims the man.

What, is the jay more precious than the lark,
Because his feathers are more beautiful?
Or is the adder better than the eel,
Because his painted skin contents the eye?
O, no, good Kate; neither art thou the worse
For this poor furniture, and mean array.

Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor:
For 'tis the mind that makes the body rich;
And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds,
So honour peereth in the meanest habit.

We will return unto thy father's house,
And revel it as bravely as the best,

With silken coats, and caps, and golden rings,
With ruffs, and cuffs, and fardingals, and things;
With scarfs, and fans, and double change of bravery,
With amber bracelets, beads, and all this knavery.

My dukedom to a beggarly denier,

I do mistake my person all this while :
Upon my life, she finds, although I cannot,
Myself to be a marvellous proper man.
I'll be at charges for a looking-glass;
And entertain a score or two of tailors,
To study fashions to adorn my body
Since I am crept in favour with myself,
I will maintain it with some little cost.

Thy gown? why, ay:-Come tailor let us see 't.
O mercy, God! what masking stuff is here?
What 's this? a sleeve? 'tis like a demi-cannon:


What! up and down, carv'd like an apple-tart?
Here's snip, and nip, and cut, and slish, and slash,
Like to a censer in a barber's shop:-

Why, what, o' devil's name, tailor, call'st thou this?


O Lord! me thought, what pain it was to drown!
What dreadful noise of water in my ears!
What sights of ugly death within mine eyes!
Methought, I saw a thousand fearful wrecks;
A thousand men, that fishes gnaw'd upon.


Strike up the drums and let the tongue of war
Plead for our interest.

Your drums, being beaten, will cry out;
And so shall you, being beaten : Do but start
An echo with the clamour of thy drum,
And even at hand a drum is ready brac'd,
That shall reverberate all as loud as thine;
Sound but another, and another shall,
As loud as thine, rattle the welkin's ear,
And mock the deep-mouth'd thunder.


They were red hot with drinking;

So full of valour, that they smote the air

For breathing in their faces; beat the ground

For kissing of their feet.

I have drugg'd their possets,

That death and nature do contend about them,

Whether they live, or die.

And now, in madness,

Being full of supper, and distempering draughts, Upon malicious bravery, dost thou come

To start my quiet.

If I can fasten but one cup upon him,

With that which he hath drunk to-night already, He'll be as full of quarrel and offence

As my young mistress' dog.

Give me the cups;

And let the kettle to the trumpet speak,
The trumpet to the cannoneer without,

The cannons to the heavens, the heaven to earth,
Now the king drinks to Hamlet.

No jocund health, that Denmark drinks to-day,
But the great cannon, to the clouds shall tell;
And the king's rouse the heaven shall bruit again,
Re-speaking earthly thunder.

Give me a bowl of wine :

In this I bury all unkindness, Cassius.

Give me a bowl of wine:

I have not that alacrity of spirit,

Nor cheer of mind, that I was wont to have.



Diseased nature oftentimes breaks forth
In strange eruptions; and the teeming earth
Is with a kind of cholick pinch'd and vext,

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