This rock and these demesnes have been my world:
Where I have liv'd at honest freedom; paid
More pious debts to heaven, than in all

The fore-end of my time.-But, up to the mountains;
This is not hunters' language:-He, that strikes
The venison first, shall be the lord o' the feast ;

To him the other two shall minister :

And we will fear no poison, which attends
In place of greater state.

The Force of Nature.

How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature!
These boys know little they are sons to the king;
Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive.
They think they are mine: and though train'd up
meanly

I' the cave, wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit
The roofs of palaces; and nature prompts them,

In simple and low things, to
Beyond the trick of others.

prince it much

thus

This Polydore,
The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, whom
The king his father called Guiderius—Jove !
When on my three-foot stool I sit, and tell
The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out
Into my story say," Thus mine enemy fell;
And thus I set my foot on his neck;" even then
The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats,
Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in posture
That acts my
words. The younger brother, Cadwal,
(Once Arviragus), in as like a figure,

Strikes life into my speech, and shows much more
His own conceiving.

No, 'tis slander ;

Slander.

Whose edge is sharper than the sword: whose tongue Outvenoms all the worms of Nile; whose breath Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie

All corners of the world: kings, queens, and states, Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave

This viperous slander enters.

Weariness

Labour.

Can snore upon the flint, when restive cloth
Finds the down pillow hard.

Thou divine nature, how thyself thou blazon'st
In these two princely boys! They are as gentle
As zephyrs, blowing below the violet,

:

Not wagging his sweet head and yet as rough,
Their royal blood enchafed, as the rudest wind,
That by the top doth take the mountain pine,
And make him stoop to the vale. 'Tis wonderful,
That an invisible instinct should frame them,
To royalty unlearn'd; honour untaught:
Civility not seen from other; valour,

That wildly grows in them, but yields a crop
As if it had been sow'd.

Funeral Dirge.

Fear no more the heat o' the sun,

Nor the furious winter's rages;

Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages;
Golden lads and girls all must
As chimney sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o' the great,
Thou are past the tyrant's stroke,
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;

Thou hast finish'd joy and moan :
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

No exorciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee !
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have ;
And renowned be thy grave!

ACT V.

A Routed Army.

No blame be to you, sir; for all was lost, But that the heavens fought: the king himself Of his wings destitute, the army broken, And but the backs of Britons seen, all flying

Through a straight lane; the enemy, full-hearted,
Lolling the tongue with slaughtering, having work
More plentiful than tools to do't, struck down
Some mortally, some slightly touch'd, some falling
Merely through fear; that the straight pass was damm'd
With dead men, hurt behind, and cowards living
To die with lengthen'd shame.

-000

OTHELLO.

Othello, a valiant Moor, has won the affections of Desdemona, the daughter of Brabantio, a senator of Venice, and married her, unknown to her father. On hearing of the marriage, Brabantio is greatly irritated, and summons Othello before the Duke and Senators, where the Moor justifies his conduct, and is sent to Cyprus to command the Venetian forces against the Turks, who have despatched a fleet against Cyprus. Othello arrives at Cyprus, where Desdemona, by previous arrangement, follows him. Here lago, who is a villain of the deepest dye, plots with Roderigo, a foolish Venetian, against Othello and his lieutenant Cassio. In the meantime, Othello, incited to the act by Iago, murders Desdemona, and stabs himself, falling dead by her side. Iago, who completes his career of crime by stabbing his wife Emilia, is condemned to the torture, as a punishment for his wicked actions. Of this tragedy, Dr. Johnson remarks, "The fiery openness of Othello; magnanimous, artless, and credulous; boundless in his confidence, ardent in his affections, inflexible in his resolution, and obdurate in his revenge; the soft simplicity of Desdemona, confident of merit, and conscious of innocence; the cool malignity of Iago, silent in his resentment, subtle in his designs, and studious at once of his interest and his vengeance, are such proofs of Shakspere's skill in human nature, as I suppose it is vain to seek in any modern writer."

Аст I.

lago's Dispraise of Honesty.

We cannot all be masters, nor all masters

Cannot be truly followed.

You shall mark

Many a duteous and knee-crooking knave,

That, doting on his own obsequious bondage,
Wears out his time, much like his master's ass,
For naught but provender; and when he's old, cashier'd:
Whip me such honest knaves. Others there are
Who, trimm'd in forms and visages of duty,
Keep yet their hearts attending on themselves,
And, throwing but shows of service on their lords,
Do well thrive by them, and, when they have lined
their coats,

Do themselves homage: these fellows have some soul,
And such a one do I profess myself.

For, sir,

It is as sure as you are Roderigo,

Were I the Moor, I would not be Iago:

In following him, I follow but myself;
Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty,
But seeming so, for my peculiar end:
For when my outward action doth demonstrate
The native act and figure of my heart
In compliment extern,* 'tis not long after
But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve
For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.

Love the sole inducement for Othello to marry.

For know, Iago,

But that I love the gentle Desdemona,
I would not my unhoused free condition

*In merely external civility.