Hearing Applaufe and univerfal Shout,
Giddy in Spirit, ftill gazing in a Doubt,
Whether thofe Pearls of Praise be his or no ;
So thrice fair Lady ftand I even fo,"
As doubtful whether what I fee be true,
Until confirm'd, fign'd, ratify'd by you. Baffanio. Ib.
Only my Blood speaks to you in my Veins,
And there is fuch Confufion in my Powers,
As after fome Oration fairly fpoke
By a beloved Prince, there doth appear
Among the buzzing pleafed Multitude,
Where every fomething being blent together,
Turns to a wild of nothing, fave of Joy
Expreft, and not exprest.
The Quality of Mercy is not ftrain'd;
It droppeth as the gentle Rain from Heav'n
Upon the place beneath. It is twice bless'd,
It bleffeth him that gives, and him that takes.
'Tis Mightieft in the Mightieft, it becomes
The throned Monarch better than his Crown:
His Scepter fhews the force of temporal Power,
The Attribute to Awe and Majefty,
Wherein doth fit the Dread and Fear of Kings;
But Mercy is above this fceptred Sway,
It is enthroned in the Hearts of Kings,
It is an Attribute to God himself;
And earthly Power doth then fhew likeft God's,
When Mercy feafons Justice,
The Reason is, your Spirits are attentive;
For do but note a wild and wanton Herd,
Or Race of youthful and unhandled Colts,
Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud,
Which is the hot Condition of their Blood;
If they but hear perchance a Trumpet found,
Or any Air of Mufick touch their Ears,
You fhall perceive them make a mutual stand;
Their favage Eyes turn'd to a modeft Gaze
By the fweet Power of Mulic. Therefore the Poet
Did fain that Orpheus drew Trees, Stones and Floods,
Since naught fo fiockifh, hard, and full of Rage,
But Mufic for the time doth change his Nature:
The Man that hath no Music in himself,
Nor is not mov'd with Concord of sweet Sounds,
Is fit for Treafons, Stratagems, and Spoils;
The Motions of his Spirit are dull as Night,
And his Affections dark as Erebus.
Let no fuch Man be trufted.
The Crow doth fing as fweetly as the Lark,
When neither is attended; and I think
The Nightingale, if she should fing by Day,
When every Goofe is cackling, would be thought
No better a Mufician than the Wren.
How many things by Seafon feafon'd are
To their right Praise and true Perfection?
Beauty provoketh Thieves fooner than Gold.
Rofalind. As you Like it.
For Solitude against Courts.
Now my Co-nates, and Brothers in Exile,
Hath not old Custom made this Life more sweet
Than that of painted Pomp? Are not thefe Woods
More free from Peril than the envious Court?
Here feel we not the Penalty of Adam,
The Seafon's Difference, as the Icy Fang
And churlish chiding of the Winter's Wind?
Which when it bites and blows upon my Body,
Even till I fhrink with Cold, I fmile, and fay,
This is no Flattery: Thefe are Counsellors
That feelingly perfuade me what I am.
Sweet are the Ufes of Adverfity,
Which, like the Toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious Jewel in his Head:
And this our Life exempt from publick Haunt,
Finds Tongues in Trees, Books in the running Brooks,
Sermons in Stones, and Good in every thing.
Duke Sen. Thou seeft we are not all alone unhappy:
This wide and univerfal Theatre
Prefents more woful Pageants than the Scene
Wherein we play.
Faq. All the World's a Stage,
And all the Men and Women meerly Players;
They have their Exits and their Entrances,
And one Man in his time plays many Parts:
His Acts being feven Ages. At firft the Infant,
Mewling and puking in the Nurfe's Arms?
And then, the whining Schoolboy with his Satchel
And fhining Morning-face, creeping like Snail"
Unwillingly to School. And then the Lover,
Sighing like Furnace, with a woful Ballad
Made to his Miftrefs's Eye-brow. Then a Soldier,
Full of ftrange Oaths, and bearded like the Pard,
Jealous in Honour, fudden and quick in Quarrel,
Seeking the Bubble Reputation,
Even in the Canon's Mouth. And then the Justice
In fair round Belly, with good Capon lin'd,
With Eyes fevere, and Beard of formal cut,
Full of wife Saws, and modern Instances,
And fo he plays his Part. The fixth Age shifts
Into the lean and flipper'd Pantaloon,
With Spectacles on Nose, and Pouch on fide;
His youthful Hofe well fav'd, a world too wide
For his fhrunk Shank, and his big manly Voice
Turning again toward childish trebble Pipes,
And whiftles in his found. Laft Scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful History,
Is fecond Childifhnefs, and meer Oblivion,
Sans Teeth, fans Eyes, fans Tafte, fans every thing. Ib.
The Duty of the Wife to her Husband.
Fie, fie, unknit that threatning unkind Brow,
And dart not fcornful Glances from thofe Eyes,
To wound thy Lord, thy King, thy Governor.
It blots thy Beauty, as Frofts bite the Meads,
Confounds thy Fame, as Whirlwinds fhake fair Buds,
And in no Senfe is meet or amiable.
A Woman mov'd is like a Fountain troubled,
Muddy, ill feeming, thick, bereft of Beauty;
And while it is fo, none fo dry or thirsty
Will dain to fip, or touch a drop of it.
Thy Husband is thy Lord, thy Life, thy Keeper,
Thy Head, thy Soveraign; one that cares for thee
And for thy Maintenance: Commits his Body
To painful Labour, both by Sea and Land;
To watch the Night in Storms, the Day in Cold;
While thou ly'ft warm at home, fecure and fafe,
And craves no other Tribute at thy Hands,
But Love, fair Looks, and true Obedience;
Too little Payment for fo great a Debt.
Such Duty as the Subject owes the Prince,
Even fuch, a Woman oweth to her Husband:
And when the is froward, peevish, fullen, fower,
And not obedient to his honeft Will;
What is the but a foul contending Rebel,
And graceless Traitor to her loving Lord?
I am afhani'd that Women are so fimple,
To offer War where they should kneel for Peace';
Or feek for Rule, Supremacy, and Sway,
When they are bound to ferve, love, and obey.
Why are our Bodies foft, and weak and smooth,
Unapt to foil and trouble in the World,
But that our foft Conditions, and our Hearts,
Should well agree with our external Parts?
Come, come, you're froward and unable Worms,
My Mind hath been as big as one of yours,
My Heart as great, my Reafon haply more,
To bandy Word for Word, and Frown for Frown;
But now I fee our Launces are but Straws,
Our Strength is weak, our Weakness paft compare,
That feeming to be moft, which we indeed leaft are:
Then vale your Stomachs, for it is no boot,
And place your Hands below your Husband's Foot:
In token of which Duty, if he please,
My Hand is ready, may it do him Eafe.
Katherina. in the Taming of the Shrew.
The Remedy of Evils generally in ourselves.
Our Remedies oft in our felves do lye,
Which we afcribe to Heav'n: The fated Sky
Gives us free Scope, only doth backward pull
Our flow Designs, when we our felves are dull. Helena.
in All's well that Ends well.
Virtue the true Rife of Dignity.
From lowest place, whence virtuous things proceed,
The Place is dignify'd by th' Doer's Deed.
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