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Here can I sit alone, unseen of any,

And, to the nightingale's complaining notes,
Tune my distresses, and record my woes.

Thy broom groves,

Whose shadow the dismissed bachelor loves.

Haply, this life is best,

If quiet life be best; sweeter to you,

That have a sharper known; well corresponding
With your stiff age: but, unto us, it is
A cell of ignorance.


Haste me to know it; that I, with wings as swift As meditation, or the thoughts of love,

May sweep to my revenge.

I find thee apt;

And duller should'st thou be than the fat weed
That roots itself in ease on Lethe wharf,
Would'st thou not stir in this.

Had all his hairs been lives, my great revenge
Had stomach for them all.

O, that the slave had forty thousand lives;
One is too poor, too weak for my revenge.

My bloody thoughts, with violent pace,
Shall ne'er look back, ne'er ebb to humble love,
Till that a capable and wide revenge
Swallow them up.

I am disgrac'd, impeach'd, and baffled here;
Pierc'd to the soul with slander's venom'd spear;
The which no balm can cure, but his heart's-blood
Which breath'd this poison.

How stand I then,
That have a father kill'd, a mother stain'd,
Excitements of my reason, and my blood,
And let all sleep? while, to my shame, I see
The imminent death of twenty thousand men,
That, for a fantasy, and trick of fame,

Go to their graves like beds; fight for a plot
Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause,
Which is not tomb enough, and continent,
To hide the slain? O, from this time forth,
My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth.

It is a quarrel most unnatural,

To be reveng'd on him that loveth thee.

Up, sword; and know thou a more horrid bent:
When he is drunk, asleep, or in his rage;
Or in the incestuous pleasures of his bed;
At gaming, swearing; or about some act
That has no relish of salvation in't:

Then trip him, that his heels may kick at heaven;
And that his soul be as damn'd, and black,

As hell, whereto it goes.

This too much lenity
And harmful pity, must be laid aside.
To whom do lions cast their gentle looks?
Not to the beast that would usurp their den.
Whose hand is that the forest bear doth lick?
Not his, that spoils her young before her face.

To hell, allegiance! vows, to the blackest devil!
Conscience, and grace, to the profoundest pit!
I dare damnation: To this point I stand,-
That both the worlds I give to negligence,
Let come what comes; only I'll be reveng'd.

See, how my sword weeps for the poor king's death!
O, may such purple tears be always shed

From those that wish the downfall of our house!
If any spark of life be yet remaining,

Down, down to hell; and say-I sent thee thither,
I, that have neither pity, love, nor fear.

I do suspect the lustful Moor

Hath leap'd into my seat: the thought whereof
Doth, like a poisonous mineral, gnaw my inwards;
And nothing can or shall content my soul,
Till I am even with him, wife for wife.

As he does conceive

He is dishonour'd by a man which ever
Profess'd to him, why, his revenges must
In that be made more bitter.

Do you find

Your patience so predominant in your nature,
That you can let this go? Are you so gospell'd,
To pray for this good man, and his issue,
Whose heavy hand hath bow'd you to the grave,
And beggar'd yours for ever?

O, horrible! O, horrible! most horrible !
If thou hast nature in thee bear it not.

And Cæsar's spirit, ranging for revenge,
With Até by his side, come hot from hell,
Shall in the confines, with a monarch's voice,
Cry Havock, and let slip the dogs of war.

I'll have my bond; I will not hear thee speak:
I'll have my bond and therefore speak no more.
I'll not be made a soft and dull-eyed fool,
To shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield
To Christian intercessors.


Rumour is a pipe

Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures;
And of so easy and so plain a stop,

That the blunt monster with uncounted heads,
The still-discordant wavering multitude,
Can play upon it.

Rumour doth double, like the voice and echo,
The numbers of the fear'd.

I, from the orient to the drooping west,
Making the wind my post-horse, still unfold
The acts commenced on this ball of earth :
Upon my tongues continual slanders ride;
The which in every language I pronounce,
Stuffing the ears of men with false reports.

But this from rumour's tongue
I idly heard; if true, or false, I know not.

By holy Paul, they love his grace but lightly,
That fill his ears with such dissentious rumours.

I find the people strangely fantasy'd;
Possess'd with rumours, full of idle dreams;
Not knowing what they fear, but full of fear.

Old men, and beldams, in the streets
Do prophesy upon it dangerously:

And when they talk of him, they shake their heads,
And whisper one another in the ear;

And he, that speaks, doth gripe the hearer's wrist; Whilst he, that hears, makes fearful action,

With wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling eyes.



They surfeited with honey; and began
To loath the taste of sweetness, whereof little
More than a little is by much too much.

As surfeit is the father of much fast,
So every scope by the immoderate use
Turns to restraint: Our natures do pursue
(Like rats that ravin down their proper bane,)
A thirsty evil; and when we drink, we die.

Who riseth from a feast, With that keen appetite that he sits down? Where is the horse, that doth untread again His tedious measures with the unbated fire That he did pave them first? All things that are, Are with more spirit chased than enjoy'd.

That what we have we prize not to the worth,
Whiles we enjoy it; but being lack'd and lost,
Why, then we rack the value; then we find
The virtue that possession would not show us
Whiles it was ours.

O, ten times faster Venus' pigeons fly,

To seal love's bonds new made, than they are wont, To keep obliged faith unforfeited.


'Tis in my memory lock'd,

And you yourself shall keep the key of it.

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