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You all do know this mantle : I remember
The first time ever Caesar put it on ;
'T was 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-belovéd Brutus stabbed;
And, as he plucked his cursed steel away,
Mark how the blood of Caesar followed it,
As rushing out of doors, to be resolved
If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no;
For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel:
Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved
This was the most unkindest cut of all;
For when the noble Caesar saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,
Quite vanquished him : then burst his mighty
And, in his mantle muffling up his face,
Even at the base of Pompey's statua,
Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell.
0, what a fall was there, my countrymen
Then I, and you, and all of us fell down,
Whilst bloody treason flourished 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 Caesar's vesture wounded ? Look you here,
Here is himself, marred, as you see, with traitors.
Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir
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
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
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 Caesar's wounds, poor, poor dumb
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 Caesar, that should move
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.
Here is the will, and under Caesar's seal:—
To every Roman citizen he gives,
To every several man, seventy-five drachmas.
2 CIT. Most noble Caesar !—we'll revenge his
3 CIT. O royal Caesar !
ANT. Hear me with patience.
Citizens. Peace, ho!
ANT. Moreover, he hath left you all his walks,
His private arbors, and new-planted orchards,
On this side Tiber; he hath left them you,
And to your heirs forever, — common pleasures,
To walk abroad, and recreate yourselves.
Here was a Caesar ! when comes such another
1 CIT. Never, never !— Come away, away !
We'll burn his body in the holy place,
And with the brands fire the traitors' houses.
Take up the body.
BEATRICE. 0, My God can it be possible I have To die so suddenly So young to go Under the obscure, cold, rotting, wormy ground ! To be nailed down into a narrow place ; To see no more sweet sunshine ; hear no more Blithe voice of living thing; muse not again Upon familiar thoughts, sad, yet thus lost, — How fearful :
LUCRETIA. Child, perhaps It will be granted. We may all then live To make these woes a tale for distant years; O, what a thought ! It gushes to my heart Like the warm blood.
BEATR. Yet both will soon be cold. O, trample out that thought! Worse than despair, Worse than the bitterness of death, is hope; It is the only ill which can find place Upon the giddy, sharp, and narrow hour Tottering beneath us. Plead with the swift frost That it should spare the eldest flower of spring ; Plead with awakening earthquake, o'er whose
Even now a city stands, fair, strong, and free;
Now stench and blackness yawns, like death.
With famine, or wind-walking pestilence,
Blind lightning, or the deaf sea, not with man 1
Cruel, cold, formal man righteous in words,
In deeds a Cain. No, mother, we must die,
Since such is the reward of innocent lives,
Such the alleviation of worst wrongs.
And whilstourmurderers live, and hard, cold men,
Smiling and slow, walk through a world of tears
To death as to life's sleep, 't were just the grave
OTHELLO'S DESPAIR. FROM “othello, THE MooR of venice.” THE LAMENTATION.
0, Now, forever Farewell the tranquil mind farewell content Farewell the pluméd troop, and the big wars, That make ambition virtue ! 0, farewell ! Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump, The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife, The royal banner, and all quality, Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war ! And, O you mortal engines, whose rude throats The immortal Jove's dread clamors counterfeit, Farewell Othello's occupation 's gone Had it pleased Heaven To try me with affliction ; had he rained All kinds of sores, and shames, on my bare head; Steeped me in poverty to the very lips; Given to captivity me and my utmost hopes; I should have found in some part of my soul A drop of patience : but, alas, to make me A fixed figure, for the time of scorn To point his slow unmoving finger at 1– Yet could I bear that too; well, very well: But there, where I have garnered up my heart, — Where either I must live, or bear no life, The fountain from the which my current runs, Or else dries up ; to be discarded thence
It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul, -
Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars 1–
It is the cause. – Yet I'll not shed her blood ;
Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than Snow,
And smooth as monumental alabaster.
Yet she must die, else she'll betray more men.
Put out the light, and then — Put out the light !
If I quench thee, thou slaming minister,
I can again thy former light restore,
Should I repent me:– but once put out thylight,
Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature,
I know not where is that Promethean heat,
That can thy light relume. When I have plucked
I cannot give it vital growth again,
It needsmust wither:—I'll smelliton the tree.—
O balmy breath, that dost almost persuade
Justice to break her sword — One more, one
In Ore : —
Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee,
And love thee after: —one more, and this the last:
So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep,
But they are cruel tears: this sorrow's heavenly :
It strikes, where it doth love.
Behold, I have a weapon; A better never did itself sustain Upon a soldier's thigh : I have seen the day, That, with this little arm and this good sword, I have made my way through more impediments Than twenty times your stop: — but, Owain boast! Who can control his fate "t is not so now.— Be not afraid, though you do see me weaponed; Here is my journey's end, here is Iny butt, And very sea-mark of my utmost sail. Do you go back dismayed "t is a lost fear; Man but a rush against Othello's breast, And he retires: — where should Othello go?— Now, how dost thoulook now? Oill-starred wench! Pale as thy smock when we shall meet at compt, This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven, And fiends will snatch at it. Cold, cold, my girl? Even like thy chastity. — O cursed, cursed slave — Whip me, ye devils, From the possession of this heavenly sight ! Blow me about in winds ! roast me in sulphur ! Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire — O Desdemonal Desdemonas dead! Oh! Oh! Oh!
Soft you : a word or two, before you go.
I have done the state some service, and they know
No more of that. —I pray you, in your letters,
When you shall these unlucky deeds relate,
Speak of me as I am ; nothing extenuate,
Nor set down aught in malice: then, must you
Of one that loved, not wisely, but too well:
Of one not easily jealous, but, being wrought,
Perplexed in the extreme ; of one, whose hand,
Like the base Indian, threw a pearl away,
Richer than all his tribe ; of one, whose subdued
Albeit unused to the melting mood,
Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees
Their medicinal gum. Set you down this;
And say, besides, – that in Aleppo once,
Where a malignant and a turbaned Turk
Beat a Venetian, and traduced the state,
I took by the throat the circumcised dog,
And smote him — thus. [Stabs himself.
THE DIREAM OF EUGENE ARAM.
TwAs in the prime of summer time,
An evening calm and cool,
And four-and-twenty happy boys
Came bounding out of school;
There were some that ran, and some that leapt
Like troutlets in a pool.
Away they sped with gamesome minds And souls untouched by sin ;
To a level mead they came, and there
They drave the wickets in :
Pleasantly shone the setting sun
Over the town of Lynn.
Like sportive deer they coursed about, And shouted as they ran,
Turning to mirth all things of earth
As only boyhood can ;
But the usher sat remote from all,
A melancholy man
His hat was off, his vest apart,
To catch heaven's blessed breeze;
For a burning thought was in his brow,
And his bosom ill at ease ;
So he leaned his head on his hands, and read
The book between his knees.
Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er,
Nor ever glanced aside, –
For the peace of his soul he read that book
In the golden eventide;
Much study had made him very lean,
And pale, and leaden-eyed.
At last he shut the ponderous tome; With a fast and fervent grasp
He strained the dusky covers close, And fixed the brazen hasp :
“O God! could I so close my mind, And clasp it with a clasp "
Then leaping on his feet upright,
Some moody turns he took, -
Now up the mead, then down the mead,
And past a shady nook, -
And, lo he saw a little boy
That pored upon a book.
“My gentle lad, what is 't you read, –
Romance or fairy fable -
Or is it some historic page,
Of kings and crowns unstable "
The young boy gave an upward glance, —
“It is “The Death of Abel.’”
The usher took six hasty strides,
As smit with sudden pain, –
Six hasty strides beyond the place,
Then slowly back again :
And down he sat beside the lad,
And talked with him of Cain;