My good friends;I'll skip across the fields of thoughtAnd pluck for you the sweetest flowers,That I have from Dame Nature caughtTo cheer the lingering, leaden hours.While vice and virtue side by sideGo hand in hand adown the years,Virtue alone, remains the brideTo banish all our falling tears;And here to-night like stars aboveThese flowers of beauty blush and bloom—Commanding honest human love,—Immortal o'er the voiceless tomb!
My good friends;I'll skip across the fields of thoughtAnd pluck for you the sweetest flowers,That I have from Dame Nature caughtTo cheer the lingering, leaden hours.While vice and virtue side by sideGo hand in hand adown the years,Virtue alone, remains the brideTo banish all our falling tears;And here to-night like stars aboveThese flowers of beauty blush and bloom—Commanding honest human love,—Immortal o'er the voiceless tomb!
Othello thus defends himself against the charge of bewitching Desdemona:
"Most potent, grave and reverend signiors,My very noble and approved good masters,That I have taken away this old man's daughter,It is most true; true, I have married her;The very head and front of my offendingHath this extent, no more. Rude am I in speech,And little blessed with the set phrase ofpeace;For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith,Till now some nine moons wasted, they have usedTheir dearest action in the tented field;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 causeIn speaking for myself; yet, by your gracious patienceI will a round unvarnished tale deliverOf 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 with!""Her father loved me, oft invited me;Still questioned me the story of my life,From year to year; the battles, sieges, fortunesThat I have passed.I ran it through, even from my boyish days,To the very moment that he bade me tell it.Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chancesOf moving accidents, by food and field;Of hair-breadth 'scapes, the imminent deadly breach;Of being taken by the insolent foe,And sold to slavery; of my redemption thenceAnd demeanor in my travel's history;Wherein of caverns vast and deserts idle,Rough quarries, rocks and hills whose heads touch heaven,It was my hint to speak, such was the processAnd of the cannibals that each other eat,The anthropophagi, and men whose headsDo grow beneath their shoulders. These things to hearWould Desdemona seriously incline;But still the house affairs would draw her thence;Which ever as she could with haste despatch,She'd come again, and with a greedy earDevour up my discourse; which I observingTook once a pliant hour; and found good meansTo draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,That I would all my pilgrimage dilateWhereof 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 strokeThat my youth suffered. My story being doneShe gave me for my pains a world of sighs;She swore—in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange;'Twas pitiful; 'twas wondrous 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 witnessit!"
"Most potent, grave and reverend signiors,My very noble and approved good masters,That I have taken away this old man's daughter,It is most true; true, I have married her;The very head and front of my offendingHath this extent, no more. Rude am I in speech,And little blessed with the set phrase ofpeace;For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith,Till now some nine moons wasted, they have usedTheir dearest action in the tented field;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 causeIn speaking for myself; yet, by your gracious patienceI will a round unvarnished tale deliverOf 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 with!"
"Her father loved me, oft invited me;Still questioned me the story of my life,From year to year; the battles, sieges, fortunesThat I have passed.I ran it through, even from my boyish days,To the very moment that he bade me tell it.Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chancesOf moving accidents, by food and field;Of hair-breadth 'scapes, the imminent deadly breach;Of being taken by the insolent foe,And sold to slavery; of my redemption thenceAnd demeanor in my travel's history;Wherein of caverns vast and deserts idle,Rough quarries, rocks and hills whose heads touch heaven,It was my hint to speak, such was the processAnd of the cannibals that each other eat,The anthropophagi, and men whose headsDo grow beneath their shoulders. These things to hearWould Desdemona seriously incline;But still the house affairs would draw her thence;Which ever as she could with haste despatch,She'd come again, and with a greedy earDevour up my discourse; which I observingTook once a pliant hour; and found good meansTo draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,That I would all my pilgrimage dilateWhereof 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 strokeThat my youth suffered. My story being doneShe gave me for my pains a world of sighs;She swore—in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange;'Twas pitiful; 'twas wondrous 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 witnessit!"
Timon of Athens, a wealthy, spendthrift lord, becomes bankrupt by his generous entertainment of friends, but maddened by their ingratitude, retires to a forest cave by the sea, giving this parting curse to the people of Athens, and later scattering gold among a band of thieves. Hear the self-ruined epicure:
"Let me look back upon thee, O thou wallThat girdlest in those wolves! Dive in the earth,And fence not Athens! Matrons turn incontinent!Obedience fail in children! Slaves and fools,Pluck the grave, wrinkled senate from the benchAnd minister in their steads! To general filthsConvert of the instant, green virginity!Do it in yourparents' eyes! Bankrupts, hold fast;Rather than render back, out with your knives,And cut your trusters' throats! bound servants steal!Large-handed robbers your grave masters are;And kill by law! maid, to thy master's bed;Thy mistress is of the brothel! son of sixteen,Pluck the lined crutch from the old, limping sire;With it beat out his brains! piety, and fearReligion to the Gods, peace, justice, truth,Domestic awe, night-rest, and neighborhood,Instruction, manners, mysteries, andtrades,Decrees, observances, customs and laws,Decline to your confounding contraries,And yet confusion live! Plagues incident to men,Your potent and infectious fevers heapOn Athens, ripe for stroke! thou cold sciatica,Cripple our senators, that their limbs may haltAs lamely as their manners! lust and libertyCreep in the minds and marrows of your youth;That 'gainst the stream of virtue they may strive,And drown themselves in riot! itches, blains,Sow all the Athenian blossoms; and their cropBe general leprosy! Breath infect breath;That their society, as their friendship, mayBe merely poison! Nothing I'll bear from thee,But nakedness, thou detestable town!You must eat men. Yet thanks I must you con,That you are thieves professed; that you work notIn holier shapes; for there is boundless theftIn legal professions. Rascal thieves;Here's gold; go, suck the subtle blood of the grape,Till the high fever seethe your blood to frothAnd so 'scape hanging; trust not the physician;His antidotes are poison, and he slaysMore than you rob; take wealth and lives together;Do villainy, do, since you profess to do it,Like workmen. I'll example you with thievery;The sun's a thief, and with his great attractionRobs the vast sea; the moon's an arrant thief,And her pale fire she snatches from the sun;The sea's a thief, whose liquid surges resolvesThe moon into salt tears; the earth's a thief,That feeds and breeds by a composture stolenFrom general excrement; each thing's a thief;The laws, your curb and whip, in their rough powerHave unchecked theft! Love not yourselves; away—Rob one another! There's more gold; cut-throats;All that you meet are thieves! To Athens, go,Break open shops! Nothing can you stealBut thieves do lose it!"
"Let me look back upon thee, O thou wallThat girdlest in those wolves! Dive in the earth,And fence not Athens! Matrons turn incontinent!Obedience fail in children! Slaves and fools,Pluck the grave, wrinkled senate from the benchAnd minister in their steads! To general filthsConvert of the instant, green virginity!Do it in yourparents' eyes! Bankrupts, hold fast;Rather than render back, out with your knives,And cut your trusters' throats! bound servants steal!Large-handed robbers your grave masters are;And kill by law! maid, to thy master's bed;Thy mistress is of the brothel! son of sixteen,Pluck the lined crutch from the old, limping sire;With it beat out his brains! piety, and fearReligion to the Gods, peace, justice, truth,Domestic awe, night-rest, and neighborhood,Instruction, manners, mysteries, andtrades,Decrees, observances, customs and laws,Decline to your confounding contraries,And yet confusion live! Plagues incident to men,Your potent and infectious fevers heapOn Athens, ripe for stroke! thou cold sciatica,Cripple our senators, that their limbs may haltAs lamely as their manners! lust and libertyCreep in the minds and marrows of your youth;That 'gainst the stream of virtue they may strive,And drown themselves in riot! itches, blains,Sow all the Athenian blossoms; and their cropBe general leprosy! Breath infect breath;That their society, as their friendship, mayBe merely poison! Nothing I'll bear from thee,But nakedness, thou detestable town!
You must eat men. Yet thanks I must you con,That you are thieves professed; that you work notIn holier shapes; for there is boundless theftIn legal professions. Rascal thieves;Here's gold; go, suck the subtle blood of the grape,Till the high fever seethe your blood to frothAnd so 'scape hanging; trust not the physician;His antidotes are poison, and he slaysMore than you rob; take wealth and lives together;Do villainy, do, since you profess to do it,Like workmen. I'll example you with thievery;The sun's a thief, and with his great attractionRobs the vast sea; the moon's an arrant thief,And her pale fire she snatches from the sun;The sea's a thief, whose liquid surges resolvesThe moon into salt tears; the earth's a thief,That feeds and breeds by a composture stolenFrom general excrement; each thing's a thief;The laws, your curb and whip, in their rough powerHave unchecked theft! Love not yourselves; away—Rob one another! There's more gold; cut-throats;All that you meet are thieves! To Athens, go,Break open shops! Nothing can you stealBut thieves do lose it!"
Jaques, in the forest of Arden, discourses to the exiled Duke of the fools of fortune, and the nature of man.
"A fool, a fool!—I met a fool in the forestA motley fool;—a miserable world!As I do live by food, I met a fool;Who laid him down and basked him in the sun,And railed on Lady Fortune in good terms.In good set terms,—and yet a motley fool.Good morrow, fool,quoth I.No, sir, quoth he,Call me not fool, till heaven hath sent me fortune;And then he drew a dial from his poke;And looking on it with lack-luster eyeSays very wisely: It is ten o'clock;Thus may we see, quoth he, how the world wags;'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine;And after an hour more, 'twill be eleven;And so from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe,And then from hour to hour, we rot and rot,And thereby hangs a tale! When I did hearThe motley fool thus moral on the time,My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,That fools should be so deep contemplative;And I did laugh sans intermission,An hour by his dial. O noble fool!A worthy fool! Motley is the only wear!""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 seven ages. At first, the infant,Mewling and pewking in the nurse's arms;And then the whining school boy, with his satchel,And shining, morning face, creeping like a snailUnwilling to school; and then the lover,Sighing like furnace, with a woeful balladMade to his mistress' eyebrow; then a soldier;Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,Seeking the bubble reputationEven in the cannon's mouth; and then the justice;In fair, round belly, with good capon lined,With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,Full of wise saws and modern instances,And so, he plays his part. The sixth age shiftsInto the lean and slippered pantaloon;With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side;His youthful hose well saved, a world too wideFor his shrunk shank; and his big, manly voice,Turning again toward childish treble, pipesAnd whistles in his sound; Last scene of allThat ends this strange, eventful historyIn second childishness, and mere oblivion;Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything!"
"A fool, a fool!—I met a fool in the forestA motley fool;—a miserable world!As I do live by food, I met a fool;Who laid him down and basked him in the sun,And railed on Lady Fortune in good terms.In good set terms,—and yet a motley fool.Good morrow, fool,quoth I.No, sir, quoth he,Call me not fool, till heaven hath sent me fortune;And then he drew a dial from his poke;And looking on it with lack-luster eyeSays very wisely: It is ten o'clock;Thus may we see, quoth he, how the world wags;'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine;And after an hour more, 'twill be eleven;And so from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe,And then from hour to hour, we rot and rot,And thereby hangs a tale! When I did hearThe motley fool thus moral on the time,My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,That fools should be so deep contemplative;And I did laugh sans intermission,An hour by his dial. O noble fool!A worthy fool! Motley is the only wear!"
"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 seven ages. At first, the infant,Mewling and pewking in the nurse's arms;And then the whining school boy, with his satchel,And shining, morning face, creeping like a snailUnwilling to school; and then the lover,Sighing like furnace, with a woeful balladMade to his mistress' eyebrow; then a soldier;Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,Seeking the bubble reputationEven in the cannon's mouth; and then the justice;In fair, round belly, with good capon lined,With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,Full of wise saws and modern instances,And so, he plays his part. The sixth age shiftsInto the lean and slippered pantaloon;With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side;His youthful hose well saved, a world too wideFor his shrunk shank; and his big, manly voice,Turning again toward childish treble, pipesAnd whistles in his sound; Last scene of allThat ends this strange, eventful historyIn second childishness, and mere oblivion;Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything!"
In "Measure for Measure" the brave Duke, the pure Isabella and cowardly Claudio discourse thus on death:
"Be absolute for death; either death or life,Shall thereby be sweeter. Reason thus with life,—If I do lose thee, I do lose a thingBut none but fools would keep; a breath thou art,(Servile to all the skiey influences)That dost this habitation, where thou keepest,Hourly afflict; merely, thou art death's fool;For him thou laborest by thy flight to shun,And yet run'st toward him still; Thou art not noble;For all the accommodations that thou bear'stAre nursed by baseness: Thou art by no means valiant:For thou dost fear the soft and tender forkOf a poor worm! Thy best of rest is sleep,And that thou oft provok'st; yet grossly fear'stThy death, which is no more. Thou art not thyself;For thou exist'st on many thousand grainsThat issue out of dust. Happy thou art not;For what thou hast not, still thou striv'st to get;And what thou hast forgett'st; Thou art not certainFor thy complexion shifts to strange effects,After the moon. If thou art rich, thou art poor;For, like an ass, whose back with ingots bows,Thou bear'st thy heavy riches but a journey,And Death unloads thee! Friend hast thou none;For thine own bowels, which do call thee sireThe mere effusion of thy proper loins,Do curse the gout, leprosy, and the rheumFor ending thee no sooner; Thou hast nor youth, nor age,But, as it were, an after-dinner's sleep,Dreaming on both; For all thy blessed youthBecomes as aged, and doth beg the almsOf palsied eld; and when thou art old and richThou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor beautyTo make thy riches pleasant!""O, I do fear thy courage, Claudio; and I quakeLest thou a feverous life should'st entertain,And six or seven winters more respectThan a perpetual honor. Dar'st thou die?The sense of death is most in apprehension;And the poor beetle that we tread upon,In corporal sufferance finds a pang as greatAs when a giant dies!Ay, Isabella, but to die, and go we know not where;To lie in cold obstruction and to rot;This sensible, warm motion to becomeA kneaded clod; and the delighted spiritTo bathe in fiery floods, or to resideIn thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice;To be imprisoned in the viewless winds,And blown with restless violence round aboutThe pendant world; or to be worse than worstOf those, that lawless and uncertain thoughtsImagine howling! 'Tis too horrible!The weariest and most loathed worldly lifeThat age, ache, penury and imprisonmentCan lay on nature, is a paradiseTo what we fear of death!"
"Be absolute for death; either death or life,Shall thereby be sweeter. Reason thus with life,—If I do lose thee, I do lose a thingBut none but fools would keep; a breath thou art,(Servile to all the skiey influences)That dost this habitation, where thou keepest,Hourly afflict; merely, thou art death's fool;For him thou laborest by thy flight to shun,And yet run'st toward him still; Thou art not noble;For all the accommodations that thou bear'stAre nursed by baseness: Thou art by no means valiant:For thou dost fear the soft and tender forkOf a poor worm! Thy best of rest is sleep,And that thou oft provok'st; yet grossly fear'stThy death, which is no more. Thou art not thyself;For thou exist'st on many thousand grainsThat issue out of dust. Happy thou art not;For what thou hast not, still thou striv'st to get;And what thou hast forgett'st; Thou art not certainFor thy complexion shifts to strange effects,After the moon. If thou art rich, thou art poor;For, like an ass, whose back with ingots bows,Thou bear'st thy heavy riches but a journey,And Death unloads thee! Friend hast thou none;For thine own bowels, which do call thee sireThe mere effusion of thy proper loins,Do curse the gout, leprosy, and the rheumFor ending thee no sooner; Thou hast nor youth, nor age,But, as it were, an after-dinner's sleep,Dreaming on both; For all thy blessed youthBecomes as aged, and doth beg the almsOf palsied eld; and when thou art old and richThou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor beautyTo make thy riches pleasant!"
"O, I do fear thy courage, Claudio; and I quakeLest thou a feverous life should'st entertain,And six or seven winters more respectThan a perpetual honor. Dar'st thou die?The sense of death is most in apprehension;And the poor beetle that we tread upon,In corporal sufferance finds a pang as greatAs when a giant dies!Ay, Isabella, but to die, and go we know not where;To lie in cold obstruction and to rot;This sensible, warm motion to becomeA kneaded clod; and the delighted spiritTo bathe in fiery floods, or to resideIn thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice;To be imprisoned in the viewless winds,And blown with restless violence round aboutThe pendant world; or to be worse than worstOf those, that lawless and uncertain thoughtsImagine howling! 'Tis too horrible!The weariest and most loathed worldly lifeThat age, ache, penury and imprisonmentCan lay on nature, is a paradiseTo what we fear of death!"
King Henry the Fourth, on his deathbed thus bitterly rebukes Prince Hal for his heartless haste in taking the crown before the last breath leaves his father:
"Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought;I stay too long by thee, I weary thee.Dost thou so hunger for my empty chair,That thou wilt needs invest thee with mine honorsBefore thy hour be ripe? O, foolish youth!Thou seek'st the greatness that will overwhelm thee.Stay but a little; for my cloud of dignityIs held from falling with so weak a mindThat it will quickly drop; my day is dim.Thou hast stolen that, which after some few hours,Were thine without offense; and at my death,Thou hast sealed up my expectation;Thou life did manifest, thou lov'st me not,And thou wilt have me die assured of it.Thou hid'st a thousand daggers in thy thoughts;Which thou hast whetted on thy stony heart,To stab at half an hour of my life.What! can'st thou not forbear me half an hour?Then get thee gone; and dig my grave thyself;And bid the merry bells ring to thine ear;That thou art crowned, not that I am dead,Let all the tears that should bedew my hearseBe drops of balm, to sanctify thy head;Only compound me with begotten dust;Give that which gave thee life, unto the worms;Pluck down my officers, break my decrees;For now a time is come to mock at form.Harry the Fifth is crowned; up, vanity!Down royal state! all you sage counsellors, hence!And to the English Court assemble now,From every region, apes of idleness!Now, neighbor confines, purge you of your scum;Have you a ruffian, that will swear, drink, dance,Revel the night; rob, murder and commitThe oldest sins, the newest kind of ways!Be happy, he will trouble you no more;England shall double gild his treble guilt;For the Fifth Harry from curbed license plucksThe muzzle of restraint, and the wild dogShall flesh his tooth in every innocent.O, poor Kingdom, sick with civil blows!When that my care could not withhold thy riotsWhat wilt thou do, when riot is thy care?O, thou wilt be a wilderness again,Peopled with wolves, thy old inhabitants!"
"Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought;I stay too long by thee, I weary thee.Dost thou so hunger for my empty chair,That thou wilt needs invest thee with mine honorsBefore thy hour be ripe? O, foolish youth!Thou seek'st the greatness that will overwhelm thee.Stay but a little; for my cloud of dignityIs held from falling with so weak a mindThat it will quickly drop; my day is dim.Thou hast stolen that, which after some few hours,Were thine without offense; and at my death,Thou hast sealed up my expectation;Thou life did manifest, thou lov'st me not,And thou wilt have me die assured of it.Thou hid'st a thousand daggers in thy thoughts;Which thou hast whetted on thy stony heart,To stab at half an hour of my life.What! can'st thou not forbear me half an hour?Then get thee gone; and dig my grave thyself;And bid the merry bells ring to thine ear;That thou art crowned, not that I am dead,Let all the tears that should bedew my hearseBe drops of balm, to sanctify thy head;Only compound me with begotten dust;Give that which gave thee life, unto the worms;Pluck down my officers, break my decrees;For now a time is come to mock at form.Harry the Fifth is crowned; up, vanity!Down royal state! all you sage counsellors, hence!And to the English Court assemble now,From every region, apes of idleness!Now, neighbor confines, purge you of your scum;Have you a ruffian, that will swear, drink, dance,Revel the night; rob, murder and commitThe oldest sins, the newest kind of ways!Be happy, he will trouble you no more;England shall double gild his treble guilt;For the Fifth Harry from curbed license plucksThe muzzle of restraint, and the wild dogShall flesh his tooth in every innocent.O, poor Kingdom, sick with civil blows!When that my care could not withhold thy riotsWhat wilt thou do, when riot is thy care?O, thou wilt be a wilderness again,Peopled with wolves, thy old inhabitants!"
King Lear, the generous old monarch of Britain, in a spasm of parental love, bequeathes his dominion to his two daughters, Goneril and Regan, and gave nothing to the beautiful Cordelia. Hear the old man rave at his ungrateful daughters and the corrupt world:
"Ingratitude! thou marble-hearted fiend,More hideous, when thou show'st in a child,Than the sea monster!Hear, nature, hear!Dear goddess, hear! Suspend thy purpose, ifThou did'st intend to make this creature fruitful!Into her womb convey sterility!Dry up in her the organs of increase;And from her degraded body never springA babe to honor her! If she must teem,Create her a child of spleen; that it may liveAnd be a thwart disnatured torment to her!Let it stamp wrinkles on her brow of youth;With falling tears fret channels in her cheeks;Turn all her mother's pains and benefitsTo laughter and contempt; that she may feelHow sharper than a serpent's tooth it isTo have a thankless child!"Blow, wind, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!You cataracts, and hurricanes, spoutTill you have drenched our steeples, drowned the cocks!You sulphurous and thought-executing fires,Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts,Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,Strike flat the thick rotundity of the world!Crack nature's molds, all germens spill at once,That make ingrateful men!Rumble thy belly full! Spit fire! Spout rain!Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters;I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness,I never gave you kingdom, called you children,You owe me no obedience; why then let fallYour horrible pleasure; here I stand your slave,A poor, infirm, weak and despised old man;But yet I call you servile ministers,That have with two pernicious daughters joinedYour high-engendered battles 'gainst a headSo old as this! I am a man more sinned againstThan sinning,...Ay, every inch a King!When I do stare, see, how the subject quakes!I pardon that man's life; what was thy cause?Adultery;—Thou shalt not die; die for adultery! No!The wren goes to it; and the small gilded flyDoes lecher in my sight.Let copulation thrive, for Gloster's bastard sonWas kinder to his father than my daughtersGot between the lawful sheets;To it luxury, pell-mell, for I lack soldiers.—Behold yon simpering dame,Whose face between her forks presageth snow;That minceth virtue, and does shake the headTo hear of pleasure's name;The fitchew, nor the soiled horse, goes to itWith more riotous appetite.Down from the waist they are centaurs,Though women all above;But to the girdle do the gods inherit,Beneath is all the fiends.Through tattered clothes small vices do appearRobes and furred gowns hide all. Plate sin with goldAnd the strong lance of justice breaks;Arm it in rags, a pigmy's straw doth pierce it!"
"Ingratitude! thou marble-hearted fiend,More hideous, when thou show'st in a child,Than the sea monster!Hear, nature, hear!Dear goddess, hear! Suspend thy purpose, ifThou did'st intend to make this creature fruitful!Into her womb convey sterility!Dry up in her the organs of increase;And from her degraded body never springA babe to honor her! If she must teem,Create her a child of spleen; that it may liveAnd be a thwart disnatured torment to her!Let it stamp wrinkles on her brow of youth;With falling tears fret channels in her cheeks;Turn all her mother's pains and benefitsTo laughter and contempt; that she may feelHow sharper than a serpent's tooth it isTo have a thankless child!"
Blow, wind, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!You cataracts, and hurricanes, spoutTill you have drenched our steeples, drowned the cocks!You sulphurous and thought-executing fires,Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts,Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,Strike flat the thick rotundity of the world!Crack nature's molds, all germens spill at once,That make ingrateful men!Rumble thy belly full! Spit fire! Spout rain!Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters;I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness,I never gave you kingdom, called you children,You owe me no obedience; why then let fallYour horrible pleasure; here I stand your slave,A poor, infirm, weak and despised old man;But yet I call you servile ministers,That have with two pernicious daughters joinedYour high-engendered battles 'gainst a headSo old as this! I am a man more sinned againstThan sinning,...
Ay, every inch a King!When I do stare, see, how the subject quakes!I pardon that man's life; what was thy cause?Adultery;—Thou shalt not die; die for adultery! No!The wren goes to it; and the small gilded flyDoes lecher in my sight.Let copulation thrive, for Gloster's bastard sonWas kinder to his father than my daughtersGot between the lawful sheets;To it luxury, pell-mell, for I lack soldiers.—Behold yon simpering dame,Whose face between her forks presageth snow;That minceth virtue, and does shake the headTo hear of pleasure's name;The fitchew, nor the soiled horse, goes to itWith more riotous appetite.Down from the waist they are centaurs,Though women all above;But to the girdle do the gods inherit,Beneath is all the fiends.
Through tattered clothes small vices do appearRobes and furred gowns hide all. Plate sin with goldAnd the strong lance of justice breaks;Arm it in rags, a pigmy's straw doth pierce it!"
Prospero, the Duke philosopher and magician of the "Tempest," is my greatest conception, where I command invisible spirits to work out the fate of man, and show that love and forgiveness are the greatest attributes. Prospero is blessed with a pure and faithful daughter—Miranda, and an honorable son-in-law—Ferdinand.
"If I have too austerely punished you,Your compensation makes amends; for IHave given you here a thread of mine own life,Or that for which I live; whom once againI tender to thy hand; all thy vexationswere but my trials of thy love, and thouHast strangely stood the test; here afore heavenI ratify this my rich gift. O, Ferdinand,Do not smile at me, that I boost her off,For thou shall find she will outstrip all praise,And make it halt behind her.Then, as my gift, and thine own acquisition,Worthily purchased, take my daughter; ButIf thou dost break her virgin knot beforeAll sanctimonious ceremonies mayWith full and holy rites be ministered,No sweet sprinkling shall the heavens let fallTo make this contract grow; but barren hate,Sour-eyed disdain, and discord, shall beshrewThe union of your bed with weeds so loathlyThat you shall hate it both; therefore, take heedAs Hymen's lamps shall light you!You do look, my son, in a moved sortAs if you were dismayed; be cheerful, Sir;Our revels now are ended; these our actors,As I foretold you, were all spirits, and areMelted into air, into thin air;And, like the baseless fabrick of this visionThe clod-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,The solemn temples, the great globe itself,Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve;And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,Leave not a rock behind; We are such stuffAs dreams are made of, and our little lifeIs rounded with a sleep!Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves;And ye, that on the sands with fruitless feetDo chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly himWhen he comes back; you demi-puppets, thatBy moonshine do the green-sour ringlets make,Whereof the ewe not bites; and you, whose pastimeIs to make midnight mushrooms; that rejoiceTo hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid(Weak masters though you be), I have bedimmedThe noontide sun, called forth the mutinous winds,And 'twixt the green sea and the azured vaultSet roaring war; to the dread rattling thunderHave I given fire, and rifted Jove's stout oakWith his own bolt; the strong based promontoryHave I made shake; and by the spurs plucked upThe pine and cedar; graves, at my command,Have waked their sleepers; gaped, and let them forth,By my so potent art; But this rough magicI here abjure; and when I have requiredSome heavenly music (which even now I do)To work mine end upon their senses, thatThis airy charm is for—I'll break my staff,Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,And deeper than did ever plummet soundI'll drown my books!"
"If I have too austerely punished you,Your compensation makes amends; for IHave given you here a thread of mine own life,Or that for which I live; whom once againI tender to thy hand; all thy vexationswere but my trials of thy love, and thouHast strangely stood the test; here afore heavenI ratify this my rich gift. O, Ferdinand,Do not smile at me, that I boost her off,For thou shall find she will outstrip all praise,And make it halt behind her.Then, as my gift, and thine own acquisition,Worthily purchased, take my daughter; ButIf thou dost break her virgin knot beforeAll sanctimonious ceremonies mayWith full and holy rites be ministered,No sweet sprinkling shall the heavens let fallTo make this contract grow; but barren hate,Sour-eyed disdain, and discord, shall beshrewThe union of your bed with weeds so loathlyThat you shall hate it both; therefore, take heedAs Hymen's lamps shall light you!
You do look, my son, in a moved sortAs if you were dismayed; be cheerful, Sir;Our revels now are ended; these our actors,As I foretold you, were all spirits, and areMelted into air, into thin air;And, like the baseless fabrick of this visionThe clod-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,The solemn temples, the great globe itself,Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve;And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,Leave not a rock behind; We are such stuffAs dreams are made of, and our little lifeIs rounded with a sleep!
Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves;And ye, that on the sands with fruitless feetDo chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly himWhen he comes back; you demi-puppets, thatBy moonshine do the green-sour ringlets make,Whereof the ewe not bites; and you, whose pastimeIs to make midnight mushrooms; that rejoiceTo hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid(Weak masters though you be), I have bedimmedThe noontide sun, called forth the mutinous winds,And 'twixt the green sea and the azured vaultSet roaring war; to the dread rattling thunderHave I given fire, and rifted Jove's stout oakWith his own bolt; the strong based promontoryHave I made shake; and by the spurs plucked upThe pine and cedar; graves, at my command,Have waked their sleepers; gaped, and let them forth,By my so potent art; But this rough magicI here abjure; and when I have requiredSome heavenly music (which even now I do)To work mine end upon their senses, thatThis airy charm is for—I'll break my staff,Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,And deeper than did ever plummet soundI'll drown my books!"
The fall of Cardinal Wolsey from the pinnacle of earthly power was the work of his own duplicity, greed and fraud, and all ministers of state may take warning from this great wreck of unholy ambition! King Henry the Eighth sacrificed everything for his physical and religious ambition. Listen and profit by the last words of the old, ruined Cardinal:
"O, Father Abbot,An old man, broken with the storms of state,Is come to lay his weary bones among ye;Give him a little earth for charity!I have touched the highest point of all my greatnessAnd, from that full meridian of my glory,I haste now to my setting; I shall fallLike a bright exhalation in the evening,And no man see me more!"Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness!This is the state of man; to-day he puts forthThe tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms,And bears his blushing honors thick upon him;The third day, comes a frost, a killing frost;And, when he thinks, good, easy man, full surelyHis greatness is a ripening—nips his root,And then he falls as I do. I have venturedLike little wanton boys that swim on bladdersThis many summers in a sea of glory;But far beyond my depth; my high blown prideAt length broke under me; and now has left meWeary, and old with service, to the mercyOf a rude stream that must forever hide me.Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye;I feel my heart new opened; O, how wretchedIs that poor man that hangs on princes' favors!There is betwixt that smile he would aspire to,That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,More pangs and fears than wars or women have;And when he falls he falls like Lucifer,Never to hope again!The King has gone beyond me, all my gloriesIn that one woman (Anne) I have lost forever;No sun shall ever usher forth mine honors,Or gild again the noble troops that waitedUpon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell,I am a poor fallen man, unworthy nowTo be thy lord and master; seek the King;That sun, I pray, may never set! I have told himWhat and how true thou art; he will advance thee;Some little memory of me will stir him(I know his noble nature) not to letThy hopeful service perish too. Good Cromwell,Neglect him not, make use now, and provideFor thine own future safety.Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tearIn all my miseries; but thou hast forced meOut of thy honest truth to play the woman.Let's dry our eyes; and thus far hear me, Cromwell;And when I am forgotten, as I shall beAnd sleep in dull cold marble, where no mentionOf me more must be heard of, say, I taught thee;Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory,And sounded all the depths and shoals of honorFound thee a way out of his wreck to rise in;A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it!Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me,Cromwell, I charge thee fling away ambition,By that sin fell the angels; how can man then,The image of his own maker hope to win by it?Love thyself least; cherish those hearts that hate thee;Corruption wins not more than honesty!Still in thy right hand carry gentle placeTo silence envious tongues. Be just and fear not!Let all the aims thou aim'st at be thy country's;Thy God's and Truth's; then if thou fall'st, O, Cromwell,Thou fall'st a blessed martyr; serve the King;And, pray thee, lead me in;There take an enventory of all I haveTo the last penny; 'tis the King's; my robeAnd my integrity to heaven, is allI dare now call my own. O, Cromwell, Cromwell,Had I but served my God with half the zealI served my King, he would not in mine ageHave left me naked to mine enemies!"
"O, Father Abbot,An old man, broken with the storms of state,Is come to lay his weary bones among ye;Give him a little earth for charity!I have touched the highest point of all my greatnessAnd, from that full meridian of my glory,I haste now to my setting; I shall fallLike a bright exhalation in the evening,And no man see me more!
"Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness!This is the state of man; to-day he puts forthThe tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms,And bears his blushing honors thick upon him;The third day, comes a frost, a killing frost;And, when he thinks, good, easy man, full surelyHis greatness is a ripening—nips his root,And then he falls as I do. I have venturedLike little wanton boys that swim on bladdersThis many summers in a sea of glory;But far beyond my depth; my high blown prideAt length broke under me; and now has left meWeary, and old with service, to the mercyOf a rude stream that must forever hide me.Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye;I feel my heart new opened; O, how wretchedIs that poor man that hangs on princes' favors!There is betwixt that smile he would aspire to,That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,More pangs and fears than wars or women have;And when he falls he falls like Lucifer,Never to hope again!The King has gone beyond me, all my gloriesIn that one woman (Anne) I have lost forever;No sun shall ever usher forth mine honors,Or gild again the noble troops that waitedUpon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell,I am a poor fallen man, unworthy nowTo be thy lord and master; seek the King;That sun, I pray, may never set! I have told himWhat and how true thou art; he will advance thee;Some little memory of me will stir him(I know his noble nature) not to letThy hopeful service perish too. Good Cromwell,Neglect him not, make use now, and provideFor thine own future safety.Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tearIn all my miseries; but thou hast forced meOut of thy honest truth to play the woman.Let's dry our eyes; and thus far hear me, Cromwell;And when I am forgotten, as I shall beAnd sleep in dull cold marble, where no mentionOf me more must be heard of, say, I taught thee;Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory,And sounded all the depths and shoals of honorFound thee a way out of his wreck to rise in;A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it!Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me,Cromwell, I charge thee fling away ambition,By that sin fell the angels; how can man then,The image of his own maker hope to win by it?Love thyself least; cherish those hearts that hate thee;Corruption wins not more than honesty!Still in thy right hand carry gentle placeTo silence envious tongues. Be just and fear not!Let all the aims thou aim'st at be thy country's;Thy God's and Truth's; then if thou fall'st, O, Cromwell,Thou fall'st a blessed martyr; serve the King;And, pray thee, lead me in;There take an enventory of all I haveTo the last penny; 'tis the King's; my robeAnd my integrity to heaven, is allI dare now call my own. O, Cromwell, Cromwell,Had I but served my God with half the zealI served my King, he would not in mine ageHave left me naked to mine enemies!"
At the conclusion of this greatest of monologues King James arose at the head of the royal banquet board, and lifting a glass of sparkling champagne, proposed three cheers for Shakspere, which were given with intense feeling, echoed and re-echoed through those royal halls like thunder music from the realms of Jupiter.
The King beckoned William to approach the throne chair, and there, in the presence of the nobility of the realm, placed upon his lofty brow a wreath of oak leaves, with a monogram crown ring to decorate the digit finger of the brilliant Bard.
It was worth the gold and glory of all the ages to have heard the "Divine" William scatter his nuggets of eloquence; and until my pilgrimage of a thousand years reincarnates me again into the "Island of Immortality," I shall cherish that banquet night as the greatest milestone in the memory of my ruminating rambles.
Glory, like the sun on rushing river,Shines down the years, forever, and forever!
Glory, like the sun on rushing river,Shines down the years, forever, and forever!
"The sands are numbered that make up my life;Here must I stay, and here my life must end.""Time is the King of man,For he is their parent, and he is their grave,And gives them what he will, not what they crave."
"The sands are numbered that make up my life;Here must I stay, and here my life must end."
"Time is the King of man,For he is their parent, and he is their grave,And gives them what he will, not what they crave."
During the years 1614, 1615 and 1616 Shakspere sauntered about for pleasure and business among the bohemians and nobility of London, Oxford and Stratford, piecing and renewing his personal and real estate for the benefit of his two daughters, Susannah and Judith, and thus making every preparation for that eternal sleep that never fails to shut down the pale and bloodless eyelids of meandering, melancholy man.
The spectacular play of "King Henry the Eighth" was given at the Globe Theatre on the evening of the 29th of June, 1613.
It had been largely advertised as a royal historical dramatic treat, and the nobility were there in great force.
William and myself before leaving London occupied a private box as spectators on the left of the great stage. The audience numbered nearly two thousand, pit, gallery and cockloft being filled to overflowing.
During the third act of the play a cannon was fired, giving a grand salute to the mimic King Henry and his royal train as they appeared before the assembled multitude.
Part of the gun wadding fired by the mock cannon was thrown on the open roof of the Globe, and immediately ignited the thatch, spreading flames around the top rim of the great octagonal playhouse.
Shakspere saw at once the danger of stampeding the audience through the two great, high doors, and with his natural calmness and imperial courage rushed in front of the footlights and said:
"Ladies and gentlemen, there is no danger if you be calm and brave, and file out of the building in good order."
"Those near the right and left doors will please go out slowly, and all the actors will remain on the stage until the people disappear." At this juncture, at the suggestion of William, the actors were ordered to sing "God Save the King," and every mortal escaped unhurt from the building. Yet two hours after it was a mass of blazing cinders and ashes.
Burbage, Jonson, Fletcher, Drayton, Condell, Heming and Peele continued to furnish rare sports and masks for theatrical and court edification, but the brilliant star that had shone with undimmed luster for thirty years on the dramatic stage of London was only glowing with a lambent light, throwing its last rays over the world as it went down in crimson glory over the western hills of Warwickshire.
Yet, while the great poet and dramatist himself would never again tread the play platform, or throw his sonorous, magic voice over a London audience, the great children and characters of his matchless brain would hold the dramatic boards and thrill the heart and soul of mankind as long as human nature laughed and suffered on the globe.
Shakspere had more self-control than any man I ever met, and his reason was ever holding court in his conscience.
He, who reigns within himself, and rulesHis passions, desires and fears, is ever King!
He, who reigns within himself, and rulesHis passions, desires and fears, is ever King!
After thirty years of a wandering battle with Dame Fortune, testing her griefs and glories, it was a sweet consolation for William and myself to drift back to the scenes of childhood and tread again the streets, roads, fields and hills that blessed our boyhood hours.
In the spring of 1614 William and myself wandered over the fields and ridges to Coventry, and visited Warwick Castle. The young Earl of Leicester gave us a hearty welcome; for the praise that William had received at court and the light that dazzled from his lamp of literary fame made him an honored guest in cot or palace, strewing about his pathway the flowers of faith and affection.
Returning to Stratford one evening in May we stood on the same old hill top beyond the Clopton Bridge, looking at the sparkling spires and steeplesof the town; and all seemed as natural as when we left them in the morning of life.
The hills and fields were blooming as of old, the Avon wound its serpentine course to the sea, the song of the ploughman and shepherd swelled from the vale, the lowing of cattle, strolling homeward for the night echoed among the hills, the blackbird, thrush and vagrant crow sang and croaked as they hastened with their mates to their feathered families, and the daisies, wild roses, hedge rows, hawthorn bushes, and grand old elms and oaks bloomed in their everlasting garments of variegated beauty.
As the cardinal colors of the dying day threw their last rays over the placid bosom of the Avon, and the murmur of laughing voices floated up from the town to mingle, as it were, with the curling smoke from glistening chimney tops, William and I scampered down the hill, over the bridge, on by the old mill, and entered the open gate of "New Place," as Judith, his intellectual daughter, welcomed her famous father with exuberant affection.
Here was rest indeed. For like weather-beaten mariners or soldiers of fortune, each of us had been buffeted by the billows of Fate; and yet with all the scars she gave, we never knew a day, though cloudy and stormy, that we could not see rifts of sunshine breaking through the entanglements of adversity.
Our mind, a kingdom was, in every clime,With souls triumphant over tide and time;And though the world might frown upon our wayWe believed in God and sunshine every day!
Our mind, a kingdom was, in every clime,With souls triumphant over tide and time;And though the world might frown upon our wayWe believed in God and sunshine every day!
The strolling players, literary guild and traveling nobles never failed in passing through Stratford to visit Shakspere at his beautiful and comfortable home at "New Place." It was Liberty Hall to every guest that passed the threshold of the retired Bard, where like a full-rigged ship on a summer sea, he moved down in peace, through the sunset beams of a brilliant life, accompanied by his friends and affectionate daughters into the harbor of rest beneath the walls of old Trinity Church.
Susannah, the oldest daughter, had married Dr. John Hall several years before the poet's death, and occupied the old Shakspere house on Henley street, and her mother lived with the family, a solace to her daughter and beautiful granddaughter, Elizabeth Hall.
Mrs. Shakspere, the buxom Anne Hathaway of vanished years, was entirely subdued and found consolation in her devoted daughters and religious duties. She could be found at every prayer meeting and Sunday sermon in the Shakspere pew of Trinity Church.
William seldom attended Puritan meetings, Episcopal conclaves, or Papist masses. He paid formal respect, at long range, to all sacerdotal ceremonies, not bothering himself about dogmas, creeds and bulls, put forth by little, cunning man for earthly power and financial benefit.