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Yea, beg a hair of him for memory,
And, dying, mention it within their wills,
Bequeathing it as a rich legacy
Unto their issue.
you have tears, prepare to shed them now.
You all do know this mantle : I remember
The first time ever Cæsar put it on:
'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent,
That day he overcame the Nervii :-5
Look, in this place ran Cassius’k dagger through:
See what a rent the envious Casca? made :
Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb’d;
And, as he pluck’d his cursed steel away,
Mark how the blood of Cæsar followed it!
As rushing out of doors, to be resolved
If Brutus so unkindly knock’d, or no;
For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar's angel :8
Judge, 0 ye gods, how dearly Cæsar loved him!
This was the nnkindest cut of all;
For when the noble Cæsar saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,
Quite vanquished 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.
0, what a fall was there, my countrymen !
Then I, and you, and all of us fell down;
Whilst bloody treason flourished over. us.
O, now you weep; and I perceive, you feel
The dint10 of pity: these are gracious drops.
Kind souls, what, weep you, when you but behold
Our Cæsar's vesture wounded ? Look you here,
Here is himself-marr'd, as you see, by traitors!
Good friends! sweet friends ! let me not stir you up
To such a sudden flood of mutiny.
They that have done this deed are honourable ;
What private griefs they have, alas, I know not,
That made them do it; they are wise and honourable,
And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you.
I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts :
I am no orator, as Brutus is;
But, as you know me all, a plain, blunt man,
That love my friend ; and that they know full well,
That gave me public leave to speak of him:
For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,
Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech,
To stir men's blood; I only speak right on:
I tell you that which you yourselves do know;
Show you sweet Cæsar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths,
And bid them speak for me. But were I Brutus,
And Brutus, Antony, there were an Antony
Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue
In every wound of Cæsar, that should move
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.
SPEECH OF HENRY V. BEFORE THE BATTLE OF
Westmoreland.-0 that we now had here But one ten thousand of those men in England That do no work to-day!
Henry. What's he that wishes so? My cousin Westmoreland ?-No, my fair cousin; If we are mark’d to die, we are enough To do our country loss; and if to live, The fewer men, the greater share of honour. No, no! I pray thee,-wish not one man more. Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, throughout my host, That he which hath no stomach to this fight, Let him depart; his passport shall be made, And crowns for convoy put into his purse : We would not die in that man's company, That fears his fellowship to die with us. This day is call’d the feast of Crispian ; He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a-tiptoe when this day is nam'd, And rouse him at the name of Crispian. He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly, on the vigil,” feast his neighbours, And say-To-morrow is St. Crispian; Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, And say, " These wounds I had on Crispin's day."
Old men forget; yet all shall he forget,
But he'll remember with advantages,
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words,
Harry the king, Bedford, and Exeter,
Warwick, and Taibot, Salisbury, and Glo'ster,
Be, in their flowing cups, freshly remember'd.
This story shall the good man teach his son ;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember'd.
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle+ his condition.
And gentlemen in England, now a-bed,
Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap while any speaks
That fought with us upon St. Crispian’s day.
THE WORLD COMPARED TO A STAGE.
All the world's a stage ;
And all the men and women, merely players :
They have their exits and their entrances ;
And one man, in his time, plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the INFANT,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
And, then, the whining SCHOOL-BOY, with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping, like snail,
Unwillingly to school.—And, then, the LOVER ;
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad,
Made to his mistress' eyebrow.—Then, the soLDIEN ;
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard ;'
Jealous in honour; sudden and quick in quarrel ;
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the JUSTICE;
In fair round belly, with good capon lined ;
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut ;
Full of wise sawsand modern instances :3
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd PANTALOON !*
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side : 5
His youthful hose, well sav'd, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound.—Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is SECOND CHILDISHNESS, and mere oblivion ;6
Sans' teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.