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ANTONY'S ORATION AT CÆSAR'S FUNERAL. "JULIUS CÆSAR," Act III, Scene 2.

RIENDS, Romans, countrymen, lend me

your ears;

I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.

The evil that men do lives after them,
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Cæsar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you, Cæsar was ambitious:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Cæsar answer'd it.
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest
(For Brutus is an honorable man,
So are they all, all honorable men),
Come I to speak in Cæsar's funeral.

He was my friend, faithful and just to me:
But Brutus says, he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honorable man.

He hath brought many captives home to Rome,
Whose ransom did the general coffers fill:
Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious?

When that the poor have cried, Cæsar hath wept:
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.
Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honorable man.
You all did see, that on the Lupercal

I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse.

Was this ambition?

Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious;
And, sure, he is an honorable man.

I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause;
What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him?
O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason!-Bear with me;
My heart is in the coffin there with Cæsar,
And I must pause till it come back to me.

But yesterday the word of Cæsar might

Have stood against the world: now lies he there,
And none so poor to do him reverence.
O masters! if I were dispos'd to stir
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,
I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong,
Who, you all know, are honorable men:
I will not do them wrong; I rather choose
To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and you,
Than I will wrong such honorable men.
But here's a parchment, with the seal of Cæsar;
I found it in his closet; 'tis his will:

You will compel me, then, to read the will? Then make a ring about the corpse of Cæsar, And let me show you him that made the will.

If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.
You all do know this mantle: I remember
The first time ever Cæsar put it on ;
'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent,
That day he overcame the Nervii.

Look! in this place, ran Cassius' dagger through:
See what a rent the envious Casca made:
Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb'd;
And, as he pluck'd his cursed steel away,
Mark how the blood of Cæsar follow'd it,
As rushing out of doors, to be resolv'd
If Brutus so unkindly knock'd, or no;
For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar's angel:
Judge, O you gods, how dearly Cæsar lov'd him!
This was the most unkindest cut of all;

For, when the noble Cæsar saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,
Quite vanquish'd him: then burst his mighty
heart;

And, in his mantle muffling up his face,
Even at the base of Pompey's statue,

Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar fell.
O, what a fall was there, my countrymen !
Then I, and you, and all of us fell down,
Whilst bloody treason flourish'd over us.
O, now you weep; and, I perceive, you feel
The dint of pity: these are gracious drops.
Kind souls, what! weep you, when you but behold
Our Cæsar's vesture wounded? Look you here,
Here is himself, marr'd, as you see, with traitors.

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Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up To such a sudden flood of mutiny.

They that have done this deed are honorable:
What private griefs they have, alas! I know not,
That made them do it; they are wise and honor-
able,

And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you.
I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts:
I am no orator, as Brutus is;

But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man,
That love my friend; and that they know full wel!
That gave me public leave to speak of him.
For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,
Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech,
To stir men's blood: I only speak right on;
I tell you that which you yourselves do know,
Show you sweet Cæsar's wounds, poor, poor dumb
mouths,

And bid them speak for me: but, were I Brutus,
And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony
Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue
In every wound of Cæsar, that should move
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.

SHYLOCK AND ANTONIO.

"MERCHANT OF VENICE," Act I, Scene 3.

Antonio, to oblige his friend Bassanio, becomes his surety for repayment of a loan.

Bassanio. This is Signior Antonio.

Shall I bend low, and in a bondman's key,

Shylock (aside). How like a fawning publican Say this: "Fair sir, you spit on me on Wednes

he looks!

I hate him for he is a Christian;

But more for that in low simplicity

He lends out money gratis and brings down
The rate of usance here with us in Venice.
If I can catch him once upon the hip,

I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him.
He hates our sacred nation, and he rails,
Even there where merchants most do congregate,
On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift,
Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe,
If I forgive him.

Antonio. Shylock, although I neither lend nor borrow

By taking nor by giving of excess,

Yet, to supply the ripe wants of my friend,

I'll break a custom.

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Shy. When Jacob grazed his uncle Laban's sheep

Ant. And what of him? did he take interest? Shy. No, not take interest, not, as you would say,

Directly interest: mark what Jacob did.

This was a way to thrive, and he was blest:
And thrift is blessing, if men steal it not.
Mark you this, Bassanio,

Ant.

The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.
An evil soul producing holy witness

Is like a villain with a smiling cheek,
A goodly apple rotten at the heart.

Shy. Signior Antonio, many time and oft
In the Rialto you have rated me
About my money and my usances:
Still have I borne it with a patient shrug,
For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe.
You call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog,
And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine,
And all for use of that which is mine own.
Well then, it now appears you need my help:
Go too, then; you come to me and
you say,
"Shylock, we would have moneys: you say so;
You that did void your rheum upon my beard,
And foot me as you spurn a stranger cur
Over your threshold: moneys is your suit.
What should I say to you? Should I not say,
"Hath a dog money? is it possible

A cur can lend three thousand ducats?" or

day last;

You spurned me such a day; another time You called me dog; and for these courtesies I'll lend you thus much moneys?'

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Ant. I am as like to call thee so again, To spit on thee again, to spurn thee too. If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not As to thy friends; for when did friendship take A breed for barren metal of his friend ? But lend it rather to thine enemy.

Who, if he break, thou mayest with better face Exact the penalty.

Shy. Why, look you, how you storm!

I would be friends with you and have your love, Forget the shames that you have stain'd me with,

Supply your present wants and take no doit

Of usance for my moneys, and you'll not hear

me:

This is kind I offer.

Bass. This were kindness.
Shy.

This kindness will I show.
Go with me to a notary, seal me there
Your single bond; and in a merry sport,
If you repay me not on such a day,
In such a place, such sum or sums as are
Express'd in such condition, let the forfeit
Be nominated for an equal pound

Of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken
In what part of your body pleaseth me.

Ant. Content i' faith: I'll seal to such a bond, And say there is much kindness in the Jew.

Bass. You shall not sign to such a bond for

me.

I'll rather dwell in my necessity.

Ant. Why, fear not, man; I will not forfeit it: Within these two months-that's a month before This bond expires-I do expect return

Of thrice three times the value of this bond.
Shy. O father Abram, what these Christians

are,

Whose own hard dealing teaches them suspect
The thoughts of others! Pray you, tell me this?
If he should break his day, what should I gain?
A pound of man's flesh taken from a man
Is not so estimable, profitable neither,
As flesh of muttons, beefs, or goats. I say
To buy his favor, I extend this friendship:
If he will take it, so; if not, adieu :
And, for my love, I pray you wrong me not.
Ant. Yes, Shylock, I will seal unto this bond.

Shy. Then meet me henceforth at the notary's; Give him directions for this money bond, And I will go and purse the ducats straight; See to my house, left in the fearful guard

[Exit.]

Of an unthrifty knave, and presently
I will be with you.

Ant. Hie thee, gentle Jew.

The Hebrew will turn Christian: he grows kind.

HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY ON DEATH. 66 HAMLET," Act III, Scene 1.

Ham. To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die,-to sleep,-
No more; and, by a sleep, to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to,-'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die,—to sleep ;-
To sleep! perchance to dream;-ay, there's the
rub;

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect,
That makes calamity of so long life:

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,

The pangs of disprized love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would these fardels
bear,

To grunt and sweat under a weary life;
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveler returns, puzzles the will;
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.

Hor.

HAMLET AND THE GHOST.
"HAMLET," Act I, Scene 4.

Enter GHOST.

Look, my lord, it comes!

Ham. Angels and ministers of grace defend

us !

Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damned, Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell.

Be thy intents wicked, or charitable,
Thou comest in such a questionable shape,
That I will speak to thee; I'll call thee, Hamlet,
King, father, royal Dane: O, answer me :
Let me not burst in ignorance! but tell,
Why thy canonized bones, hearsed in death,
Have burst their cerements! why the sepulchre,
Wherein we saw thee quietly in-urned,
Hath oped his ponderous and marble jaws,
To cast thee up again! What may this mean,
That thou, dead corse, again, in complete steel,
Revisit'st thus the glimpses of the moon,
Making night hideous; and we fools of nature,
So horridly to shake our disposition,

With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls? Say, why is this? wherefore? what should we do?

Hor. It beckons you to go away with it,
As if it some impartment did desire
To you alone.

Mar. Look, with what courteous action
It wafts you to a more removéd ground:
But do not go with it.

Hor. No, by no means.

Ham. It will not speak; then will I follow it. Hor. Do not, my lord.

Ham. It wafts me still :

Go on, I'll follow thee.

Where wilt thou lead me? speak, I'll go no further.

Ghost. Mark me.

Ham. I will.

Ghost. My hour is almost come,

When I to sulphurous and tormenting flames Must render up myself.

Ham. Alas, poor ghost!

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And little of this great world can I speak, More than pertains to feats of broil and battle, And therefore little shall I grace my cause

In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience,

I will a round unvarnish'd 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.

Bra.
A maiden never bold;
Of spirit so still and quiet, that her motion
Blush'd at herself; and she, in spite of nature,
Of years, of country, credit, everything,

To fall in love with what she fear'd to look on !

It is a judgment maim'd and most imperfect
That will confess perfection so could err
Against all rules of nature, and must be driven
To find out practices of cunning hell,
Why this should be. I therefore vouch again
That with some mixtures powerful o'er the blood,
Or with some dram conjured to this effect,
He wrought upon her.

Duke.

To vouch this, is no proof,
Without more wider or more overt test
Than these thin habits and poor likelihoods
Of modern seeming do prefer against him.
First Sen. But, Othello, speak;

Did you by indirect and forced courses
Subdue and poison this young maid's affections?
Or came it by request and such fair question
As soul to soul affordeth?

Duke. Say it, Othello.

Othello. Her father lov'd me; oft invited me;
Still question'd me the story of my life,
From year to year, the battles, sieges, fortunes,
That I have pass'd.

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 importance 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 the process;
And of the Cannibals that each other eat,
The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads
Do grow beneath their shoulders. This to hear
Would Desdemona seriously incline,

But still the house-affairs would draw her thence:
Which ever as she could with haste despatch,
She'ld 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 suffer'd. My story being done,
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs:
She swore,—it faith, 't was strange, 't was passing
strange;

'T was pitiful, 't was wondrous pitiful:

She wish'd she had not heard it; yet she wish'd That Heaven had made her such a man: she

thank'd 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.

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