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Edge, sting, or operation, I am safe:
Your wife Octavia, with her modest eyes,
And still conclusion, shall acquire no honour
Demurring upon me

... Noblest of men, woo't die ?

Hast thou no care of me? shall I abide

In this dull world, which in thy absence is
No better than a sty? O! see, my women,
The soldier's pole is fallen; young boys and girls,
Are level now with men: the odds is gone,
And there is nothing left remarkable

Beneath the visiting moon.

Charmian.

Iris. She is dead too, our sovereign.

(She faints.)

O! quietness, lady!

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Charmian. Peace, peace, Iras.

Cleopatra. No more, but e'en a woman; and commanded By such poor passions as the maid that milks,

And does the meanest chares.-It were for me

To throw my sceptre at the injurious gods,
To tell them, that this world did equal theirs,
Till they had stolen our jewel. All's but naught;
Patience is sottish; and impatience does
Become a dog that's mad: Then is it sin,

To rush into the secret house of death,
Ere death dare come to us?

:

We'll bury him and then what's brave, what's noble,
Let's do it after the high Roman fashion,

And make death proud to take us. Come, away:
This case of that huge spirit now is cold.-Sc. 13.
Cleopatra.
This proves me base:
If she first meet the curled Antony,

He'll make demand of her; and spend that kiss,
Which is my heaven to have. Come, mortal wretch,

(To the asp, which she applies to her breast)

With thy sharp teeth this knot intrinsicate

Of life at once untie; poor venomous fool,

Be angry and despatch

Charmian. Now boast thee, death! in thy possession lies A lass unparalleled.-Act 5, Sc. 2.

CYMBELINE.

This play has many just sentiments, some natural dialogues, and some pleasing scenes, but they are obtained at the expense of much incongruity. To remark the folly of the fiction, the absurdity of the conduct, the confusion of the names and manners of different times, and the impossibility of the events in any system of life, were to waste criticism upon unresisting imbecility, upon faults too evident for detection, and too gross for aggravation.-Johnson.

Iachimo. Strange fowl light upon neighbouring ponds.Act 1, Sc. 5.

Imogen.

Most miserable

Is the desire that's glorious: Blessed be those,
How mean soe'er, that have their honest wills,
Which seasons comfort.-Sc. 7.

Iachimo. What! are men mad? Hath nature given them

eyes

To see this vaulted arch, and the rich crop
Of sea and land, which can distinguish 'twixt
The fiery orbs above, and the twin'd stones
Upon the number'd beach? and can we not
Partition make with spectacles so precious
"Twixt fair and foul?

Had I this cheek

To bathe my lips upon; this hand, whose touch,
Whose every touch, would force the feeler's soul
To the oath of loyalty; this object, which
Takes prisoner the wild motion of mine eye,
Fixing it only here. . . . .-Id.

2nd Lord.

Alas! poor princess,

Thou divine Imogen, what thou endur'st.

The heavens hold firm

The walls of thy dear honour; keep unshak'd

That temple, thy fair mind.-Act 2, Sc. 1.

Iachimo. The crickets sing, and man's o'erlabour'd sense Repairs itself by rest: . . .

'Tis her breathing that

Perfumes the chamber thus: The flame o' the taper
Bows towards her; and would underpeep her lids,

To see the enclosed lights, now canopied

Under these windows: white and azure, lac'd

With blue of heaven's own tinct.-Sc. 2.

Cloten.

Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,

And Phoebus 'gins arise,

His steeds to water at those springs

On chalic'd flowers that lies;

And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes;

With everything that pretty bin:
My lady sweet arise;

Arise, arise.-Sc. 3.

Britain is

A world by itself; and we will nothing pay,
For wearing our own noses.

Queen.... Remember, sir, my liege,
The kings your ancestors; together with
The natural bravery of your isle; which stands
As Neptune's park, ribbed and paled in

With rocks unscaleable, and roaring waters;
With sands, that will not bear your enemies' boats,
But suck them up to the top-mast. . . .

Cloten. We have yet many among us can gripe as hard as Cassibelan: I do not say, I am one; but I have a handWhy tribute? why should we pay tribute? If Cæsar can hide the sun from us with a blanket, or put the moon in his pocket, we will pay him tribute for light; else, sir, no more tribute, pray you now.-Act 3, Sc. 1.

Imogen.

You good gods,

Let what is here contain❜d relish of love,

Of my lord's health, of his content,-yet not
That we two are asunder, let that grieve him,-
(Some griefs are med'cinable); that is one of them,
For it doth physick love;-of his content,

All but in that!-Good wax, thy leave:-bless'd be,
You bees, that make these locks of counsel! Lovers,
And men in dangerous bonds, pray not alike;
Though forfeiters you cast in prison, yet
You clasp young Cupid's tables.

Then, true Pisanio,

say, and speak thick,

how far it is

To this same blessed Milford: And, by the way,
Tell me how Wales was made so happy, as

To inherit such a haven.-Sc. 2.

Belarius. ...

To apprehend thus,

Draws us a profit from all things we see:

And often to our comfort shall we find
The sharded beetle in a safer hold

Than is the full-wing'd eagle. O! this life
Is nobler, than attending for a check;
Richer, than doing nothing for a babe;
Prouder, than rustling in unpaid-for silk:
Such gain the cap of him, that makes him fine,
Yet keeps his book uncross'd: ..

How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature!
These boys know little, they are sons to the king;
Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive,

They think, they are mine: and, though train'd up thus meanly

I' the cave, wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit
The roofs of palaces. Sc. 3.

Pisanio.

Slander;

Whose edge is sharper than the sword; whose tongue
Outvenoms all the worms of Nile; whose breath
Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie

All corners of the world: kings, queens, and states,
Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave,
This viperous slander enters.-Sc. 4.

Imogen.

Our Britain seems as of it, but not in it;
In a great pool, a swan's nest.-Id.

Imogen.

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O! thou goddess,

Is breach of all.-Act 4, Sc. 2.
Belarius.

I' the world's volume

Thou divine nature, how thyself thou blazon'st
In these two princely boys! They are as gentle
As zephyrs, blowing below the violet,

Not wagging his sweet head: and yet as rough,
Their royal blood enchaf'd, as the rud'st wind,
That by the top doth take the mountain pine,
And make him stoop to the vale. "Tis wonderful,
That an invisible instinct should frame them
To royalty unlearned; honour untaught;
Civility not seen from other; valour,
That wildly grows in them, but yields a crop
As if it had been sow'd!-Id.

With finest flowers,

Arviragus.
Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidéle,
I'll sweeten thy sad grave: Thou shalt not lack
The flower, that's like thy face, pale primrose; nor

The azur'd harebell, like thy veins; no, nor
The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander,

Out-sweeten'd not thy breath: the ruddock would,
With charitable bill, . .

.. bring thee all this;

Yea, and furr'd moss besides, when flowers are none,
To winter-ground thy corse.

And let us, Polydore, though now our voices

Have got the mannish crack, sing him to the ground,
As once our mother.

Guiderius. Cadwal,

I cannot sing: I'll weep, and word it with thee:
For notes of sorrow, out of tune, are worse

Than priests and fanes that lie.

Arviragus.

Belarius. Great griefs, I see,

Is quite forgot.
Arviragus.

We'll speak it then.

medicine the less: for Cloten

If you'll go fetch him,

We'll say our song the whilst.-Brother begin.

(Erit BELARIUS.)

Guiderius. Nay, Cadwal, we must lay his head to the east ; My father hath a reason for't.

'Tis true.

Guiderius. Come on then, and move him.

Arviragus.

Arviragus.

So.-Begin.

SONG.

Guiderius. Fear no more the heat o' the sun,

Nor the furious winter's rages;

Thou thy worldly task hath done,

Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages:

(Re-enter BELARIUS, with the body of CLOTEN.)

We have done our obsequies: Come, lay him down. Belarius. Here's a few flowers, but about midnight, more The herbs, that have on them cold due o' the night,

Are strewings fitt'st for graves.-Id.

TITUS ANDRONICUS.

Tamora. Sweet mercy is nobility's true badge.-Act 1, Sc. 2. Titus.

Lavinia is surpris'd.

Saturninus. Surpris'd, by whom?

Bassianus. By him that justly may

Bear his betroth'd from all the world away.-Id.

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