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 hast 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 as do him reverence!

O masters! if I were disposed 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!
Let but the commons hear his testament

-

Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read -
And they will go and kiss dead Cæsar's wounds,
And dip their napkins in his sacred blood;
Yea, beg a hair of him for memory;
And, dying, mention it within their wills,
Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy,

Unto their issue!

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 followed it!
As rushing out of doors, to be resolved
If Brutus so unkindly knock'd, or no ;
For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar's angel!
Judge, O ye gods, how dearly Cæsar loved him!
This, this was the unkindest cut of all;

For when the noble Cæsar saw him stab! —
Ingratitude, more strong than traitor's 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!

Oh! what a fall was there, my countrymen !
Then I, and you, and all of us, fell down;
Whilst bloody treason flourish'd over us!
Oh 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, by traitors!

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 honorable,

And will, no doubt, with reason 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 loves his friend — and that they know full well,

That gave me public leave to speak of him-
For I have neither writ, 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!

SHAKSPERE.

HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY ON HIS MOTHER'S MARRIAGE.

OH that this too, too solid flesh would melt,

Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!

Or, that the Everlasting had not fix'd
His canon 'gainst self-slaughter!
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable,
Seem to me all the uses of this world!

Fie on't! oh fie! 'tis an unweeded garden,

That grows to seed: things rank and gross in nature
Possess it merely.-That it should come to this!
But two months dead!-nay, not so much; not two!
So excellent a king! that was, to this,

Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother,
That he would not let the winds of heaven
Visit her face too roughly.—Heaven and earth!
Must I remember? Why, she would hang on him,
As if increase of appetite had grown

By what it fed on: yet, within a month,

Let me not think - Frailty, thy name is woman!

A little month! or ere those shoes were old,

With which she follow'd my poor father's body,
Like Niobe, all tears why she, even she,
Married with mine uncle, my father's brother,
But no more like my father, than I to Hercules. -
It is not, nor it cannot come to good.
But, break my heart, for I must hold my tongue.

SHAKSPERE.

EXTRACT FROM HAMLET.

I HAVE of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth, foregone all custom of exercises; and, indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition, that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appeareth nothing to me, but a foul and pestilent congregation of vapors. What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! how infinite in faculties! in form, and moving, how express and admirable! in action, how like an angel! in apprehension, how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? man delights not me; no, nor woman neither.

SHAKSPERE.

To be

HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY ON DEATH.

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
No more! and, by a sleep, to say we end

-to sleep

The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to- 'tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wish'd. 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 despised 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 fardels bear,
To groan and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death -
That undiscover'd country, from whose bourne
No traveller 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!

SHAKSPERE.

HAMLET'S DIRECTIONS TO THE PLAYERS.

SPEAK the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue. But if you mouth it, as many of our players do, I had as lief the town crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with the hand, thus; but use all gently; for in the very