And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming,
And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,
And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping,
And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,
And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping,
And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing;
And so never ending, but always descending,
Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending,
All at once and all o'er, with a mighty upróar,—
And this way the Water comes down at Lodore,



Lorenzo. How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!

Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music

Creep in our ears; soft stillness, and the night,
Become the touches of sweet harmony.

Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold.

There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st,
But in his motion like an angel sings,

Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins:
Such harmony is in immortal souls;
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.—

[Enter Musicians.

Come ho, and wake Diana with a hymn;
With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear,
And draw her home with music.


Jessica. I'm never merry when I hear sweet music.
Lor. 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 sound,
Or any air of music touch their ears,
You shall perceive them make a mutual stand,
Their savage eyes turned to a modest gaze,

By the sweet power of music. Therefore, the poet
Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods;
Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage,
But music 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 treasons, stratagems, and spoils;
The motions of his spirit are dull as night,
And his affections dark as Erebus:

Let no such man be trusted.-Mark the music.

[Enter PORTIA and NERCISSA at a distance.


Por. That light we see is burning in my hall:How far that little candle throws his beams!

So shines a good deed in a naughty world.

Ner. When the moon shone, we did not see the candle.
Por. So doth the greater glory dim the less:
A substitute shines brightly as a king,
Until a king be by; and then his state
Empties itself, as doth an inland brook
Into the main of waters.-Music! hark!

Ner. It is your music, madam, of the house.
Por. Nothing is good, I see, without respect;
Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by day.
Ner. Silence bestows that virtue on it, madam
Por. The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark,
When neither is attended; and, I think,
The nightingale, if she should sing by day,
When every goose is cackling, would be thought
No better a musician than the wren.

How many things by season season'd are

To their right praise and true perfection!

Shakspeare (Merchant of Venice').


What's he that wishes for more men from England?
My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin,

If we are mark'd 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 am not covetous of 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
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 nam'd
And rouse him at the name of Crispian :

He that outlives this day, and sees old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
say, To-morrow is Saint Crispian :


Then will he strip his sleeve, and show his scars.
Old men forget; yet all shall he forget,

But he'll remember, with advantages,

The feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in their mouths as household words,-
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Sal'sbury and Glo'ster,—
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.
This story shall the goodman 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 accurs'd they were not here;
And hold their manhood cheap, whiles any speaks,
That fought with us upon St. Crispin's day.

Shakspeare (Henry V.')


K. Henry. O hard condition! twin-born with greatness, Subject to the breath of every fool, whose sense

No more can feel but his own wringing!

What infinite heart's ease must kings neglect,

That private men enjoy ?

And what have kings, that privates have not too,
Save ceremony, save general ceremony ?
And what art thou, thou idol ceremony?

What kind of god art thou, that suffer'st more
Of mortal griefs, than do thy worshippers?
What are thy rents? what are thy comings-in ?
O ceremony, shew me but thy worth!

What is thy soul of adoration?

Art thou aught else but place, degree, and form,
Creating awe and fear in other men?

Wherein thou art less happy being fear'd

Than they in fearing.

What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet,
But poison'd flattery? O, be sick, great greatness,
And bid thy ceremony give thee cure!

Think'st thou the fiery fever will go out

With titles blown from adulation?

Will it give place to flexure and low bending?

Canst thou, when thou command'st the beggar's knee,
Command the health of it? No, thou proud dream,
That play'st so subtly with a king's repose;

I am a king that find thee; and I know,
'Tis not the balm, the sceptre, and the ball,
The sword, the mace, the crown imperial,
The inter-tissued robe of gold and pearl,
The farced title running 'fore the king,
The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp
That beats upon the high shore of this world,
No, not all these, thrice-gorgeous ceremony,


Not all these, laid in bed majestical,

Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave;
Who, with a body fill'd, and vacant mind,
Gets him to rest, cramm'd with distressful bread:
Never sees horrid night, the child of hell;
But, like a lackey, from the rise to set,
Sweats in the eye of Phoebus, and all night
Sleeps in Elysium; next day, after dawn,
Doth rise, and help Hyperion to his horse;
And follows so the ever-running year,
With profitable labour, to his grave :
And, but for ceremony, such a wretch,

Winding up days with toil, and nights with sleep,
Had the fore-hand and vantage of a king.


Shakspeare (Henry V.')



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Macb. You know your own degrees; sit down: at first And last the hearty welcome.


Thanks to your majesty.

Macb. Ourself will mingle with society,

And play the humble host.

Our hostess keeps her state; but, in best time,

We will require her welcome.

Lady M. Pronounce it for me, sir, to all our friends ;

For my heart speaks, they are welcome.

Enter first Murderer, to the door.

Macb. See, they encounter thee with their hearts' thanks:

Both sides are even: Here I'll sit i' the midst :

Be large in mirth; anon, we'll drink a measure
The table round.-There's blood upon thy face.
Mur. 'Tis Banquo's then.

Macb. "Tis better thee without, than he within.

Is he despatch'd?

Mur. My lord, his throat is cut; that I did for him.

Macb. Thou art the best o' the cut-throats: Yet he 's good,

That did the like for Fleance: if thou didst it,

Thou art the nonpareil.

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