Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountains' tops.
MORTALITY.
Reason thus with life:
If I do lose thee, 1 do lofe a thing
That none but fools would reck. A breath thou art, Servile to all the skiey influences
That do this habitation, where thou keep'ft,
Hourly afflict merely thou art Death's fool;
For him thou labour'ft by thy flight to fhun,
And yet runn'ft toward him ftill. Thou art not noble;
For all th' accommodations, that thou bear'st,
Are nurs'd by bafenefs. Thou'rt by no means valiant;
For thou doft fear the foft and tender fork
Of a poor worm. Thy beft of reft is fleep,
And that thou oft provok'ft; yet grofsly fear'ft
Thy death, which is no more. Thou'rt not thyfelf;
For thou exift'ft on many thousand grains,
That iffue out of duft. Happy thou art not;
For what thou haft not, ftill thou ftriv'ft to get;
And what thou haft, forgett'ft. Thou art not certain
For thy complexion fhifts to ftrange effects,
After the moon. If thou art rich, thou'rt poor;
For like an afs, whofe back with ingots bows,
Thou bear'it thy heavy riches but a journey,
And Death unloadeth thee. Friend thou haft none;
For thy own bowels, which do call thee Sire,
The mere effufion of thy proper loins,
Do curfe the Gout, Serpigo, and the Rheum,
For ending thee no fooner., Thou haft nor youth,
But, as it were, an after-dinner's fleep,
Dreaming on both; for all thy blessed youth
Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms
Of palfied eld; and when thou'rt old and rich,
Thou haft neither heat, affection, limb, nor beauty,
To make thy riches pleasant. What's yet in this,
That bears the name of life? Yet death we fear,
That makes these odds all even.
Measure for Meafure, A. 3. Sc. 1.
-She fhould have dy'd hereafter;
'There would have been a time for fuch a word.-
T'o-morrow-and to-morrow-and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last fyllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to duty death. Out, out, brief candle !!
Life's but a walking fhadow; a poor player,
That ftruts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an ideot, full of found and fury,
Signifying nothing..
Duncan is in his grave;
After life's fitfull fever he fleeps well ::
Treafon has done his worst ; nor fteel, nor poifon,
Malice domeftic, foreign levy, nothing
Their going hence, ever as their coming hither;
-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 feven ages. At first the infant,,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms:
And then the whining school-boy with his fatchel,,
And fhining morning face, creeping like fnail.
Unwillingly to fchool. And then the lover,,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad.
Made to his miftrefs' eyebrow. Then, a foldier ;
Full of ftrange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous
Jealous in honour, fudden 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 lin❜d,
With eyes fevere, and beard of formal cut ̧
Full of wife faws and modern instances;
And fo he plays his part. The fixth age fhifts
Into the lean and flipper'd pantaloon,
With fpectacles on nofe, and pouch on fide;
His youthful hofe well fav'd, a world too wide
For his fhrunk fhank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his found. Laft fcene of all,
That ends this ftrange eventful history,
Is fecond childishness, and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, fans eyes, fans tafte, fans every thing.
As You Like It, A 2. Sc. 5.
Blood hath been shed ere now, i'the olden time,
Ere human ftatute purg'd the gentle weal;
Aye, and fince too, murders have been perform'd
Too terrible for the ear: but now, they rife again,
With twenty mortal murders on their crowns,
And push us from our stools.
It will have blood, they fay; blood will have blood: Stones have been known to move, and trees to speak; Augurs, and understood relations, have
Bymaggot pies, and choughs, and rooks, brought forth, The fecret'ft man of blood.
Methought, I heard a voice cry, Sleep no more!
Macbeth doth murder fleep; the innocent fleep;
Sleep, that knits up the ravell'd fleeve of care,
The death of each day's life, fore labour's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's fecond course,
Chief nourisher in life's feaft.
Still it cry'd, Sleep no more, to all the house.
Glamis hath murder'd fleep, and therefore Cawdor
Shall fleep no more; Macbeth fhall fleep no more.
Macbeth, A. 2. Sc. z.
MURDERER'S LOOK.
The image of a wicked heinous fault
Lives in his eye; that clofe afpect of his,
Does fhew the mood of a much-troubled breast.
And I do fearfully believe 'tis done,
What we fo fear'd he had a charge to do.
"Tis good; tho' mufic oft hath fuch a charm To make bad good, and good provoke to harm.
Meafure for Meafure, A. 4. Sc. x.
Let mufic found, while he doth make his choice;
Then, if he lose, he makes a fwan-like end,
Fading in mufic. That the comparison
May ftand more juft, my eye shall be the ftream
And wat'ry death-bed for him. He may win
And what is mufic then? Then mufic is
Even as the flourish when true fubjects bow
To a new-crowned monarch: fuch it is
As are thofe dulcet founds in break of day,
That creep into the dreaming bridegroom's ear,.
And fummon him to marriage.
The Merchant of Venice, A. 3. Sc. z.
I'm never merry, when I hear sweet mufic.
The reason is, your fpirits 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 perchance but hear a trumpet found,
Or any air of mufic touch their ears,
You shall perceive them make a mutual stand;
Their favage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze,
By the sweet power of mufic. Therefore, the poet
Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, ftones, and floods.;
Since nought fo ftockish, hard, and full of rage,
But mufic for the time doth change his nature.
The man that hath no mufic in himself,
Nor is not mov'd with concord of sweet founds,
Is fit for treafons, ftratagems, and fpoils;
The motions of his fpirits are dull as night,
And his affections dark as Erebus:
Let no fuch man be trufted.
The Merchant of Venice, A.5. Sc. F.
If mufic be the food of love, play on;
Give me excess of it; that, furfeiting,
The appetite may ficken, and fo die.
That train again;-it had a dying fall:
O, it came o'er my ear, like the sweet south,
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing, and giving odour.
Twelfth Night, A. 1. Sc. 1.
How four fweet mufic is,
When time is broke, and no proportion kept!
So is it in the mufic of men's lives.
And here have I the daintinefs of ear,
To check time broke in a diforder'd ftring;
But, for the concord of my state and time,
Had not an ear, to hear my true time broke.
King Richard II. A. 5. Sc. 4.
NATURAL AFFECTION.
O! fhe, that hath a heart of that fine frame,
Το pay this debt of love but to a brother,
How will she love, when the rich golden fhaft
Hath kill'd the flock of all affections elfe
That live in her? when liver, brain, and heart,
These fov'reign thrones, are all fupply'd, and fill'd,
(Her sweet perfections) with one felf-fame King!
The Twelfth Night, A. 1. Sc. 1,
NEWS-TELLERS.
I faw a fmith ftand with his hammer, thus,
The whilft his iron did on the anvil cool,
With open mouth swallowing a taylor's news;
Who with his fhears, and measure in his hand,
Standing on flippers, which his nimble hafte
Had falfely thruft upon contrary feet,
Told of a many thousand warlike French,
That were embattled and rank'd in Kent.
Another lean, unwafh'd artificer
Cuts off his tale, and talks of Arthur's death.
King John, A. 4. Sc. 2.
The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve.
Lovers, to bed! 'tis almoft fairy time.
A Midsummer Night's Dream, A. 5. Sc. 1.
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