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That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit: and, upon this charge,
Cry-God for Harry! England! and Saint George!

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WHAT's he that wishes so?

My cousin Westmoreland?-No, my fair cousin :
If we are marked to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold;

Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires:
But if it be a sin to covet honour,

I am the most offending soul alive.

No, 'faith, my coz, wish not a man from England:
God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour,
As one man more, methinks, would share from me,
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more:
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through 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 called the feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named,
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 Saint Crispian:

Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say, These wounds I had on Crispian's Day.
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
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 Talbot, Salisbury and Gloster,-
Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered:
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 remembered:

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 accursed they were not here; And hold their manhoods cheap, while any speaks, That fought with us upon St. Crispian's Day.

THERE is a tide in the affairs of men,
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life,

Is bound in shallows, and in miseries.

SHAKESPEARE'S "Julius Cæsar."

OTHELLO'S ADDRESS TO
SENATE.

(26)

SHAKESPEARE'S "OTHELLO."

THE

MOST potent, grave, and reverend signiors,
My very noble and approved good masters,-
That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter,
It is most true; true, I have married her;
The very head and front of my offending

Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech,
And little blessed with the soft phrase of peace;
For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith,
Till now some nine moons wasted, they have used
Their dearest action in the tented field;
And little of this great world can I speak,
More than pertains to feats of broils and battle;
And therefore little shall I grace my cause,

In speaking for myself: yet, by your gracious patience,
I will a round unvarnished tale deliver

Of my whole course of love: what drugs, what charms, What conjuration, and what mighty magic,

(For such proceeding I am charged withal),

I won his daughter.

I do beseech you,
Send for the lady to the Sagittary,

And let her speak of me before her father:
If you do find me foul in her report,

The trust, the office, I do hold of you,

Not only take away, but let your sentence

Even fall upon my life.

Ancient, conduct them: you best know the place. And, till she come, as truly as to heaven

I do confess the vices of my blood,

So justly to your grave ears I'll present
How I did thrive in this fair lady's love,
And she in mine.

Her father loved me; oft invited me;
Still questioned me the story of my life,
From year to year; the battles, sieges, fortune,
That I have passed.

I ran it through, even from my boyish days,
To the very moment that he bade me tell it.
Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances;
Of moving accidents by flood and field;

Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach;
Of being taken by the insolent foe

And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence,
And portance in my travel's history:

(Wherein of antres vast, and deserts idle,

Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven,

It was my hint to speak),—such was my process;-
And of the Cannibals that each other eat,
The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads

Do grow beneath their shoulders. These things to hear
Would Desdemona seriously incline;

But still the house affairs would draw her thence;
Which ever as she could with haste dispatch,
She'd come again, and with a greedy ear
Devour up my discourse: which I observing,
Took once a pliant hour; and found good means
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate,
Whereof by parcels she had something heard,
But not intentively: I did consent;
And often did beguile her of her tears,
When I did speak of some distressful stroke
That my youth suffered. My story being done,
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs:

She swore,-In faith, 't was strange, 't was passing strange;

'T was pitiful, 't was wonderous pitiful:

She wished she had not heard it; yet she wished
That heaven had made her such a man: she thanked me;
And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her,
I should but teach him how to tell my story,
And that would woo her. Upon this hint I spake:
She loved me for the dangers I had passed;
And I loved her that she did pity them.
This only is the witchcraft I have used:
Here comes the lady, let her witness it.

THE BANISHED PUKE TO HIS
FOLLOWERS.

SHAKESPEARE'S "AS YOU LIKE IT."

Now, my co-mates, and brothers in exile,
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court?
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,
The seasons' 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 shrink with cold, I smile, and say
This is no flattery,-these are counsellors
That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Sweet are the uses of adversity;

Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;
And this our life, exempt from public haunt,

Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.

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