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I will be master of what is mine own:
She is my goods, my chattels; she is my house,
My household-stuff, my field, my barn,
My horse, my ox, my ass, my any thing;
And here she stands, touch her whoever dare;
I'll bring mine action on the proudest he
That stops my way in Padua.
A jest's prosperity lies in the ear
Of him that hears it, never in the tongue
Of him that makes it.
So, get you hence in peace; and tell the Dauphin,
His jest will savour but of shallow wit,
When thousands weep, more than did laugh at it.
Oft have I heard of you, my lord Biron,
Before I saw you: and the world's large tongue
Proclaims you for a man replete with mocks;
Full of comparisons, and wounding flouts;
Which you on all estates will execute,
That lie within the mercy of your wit.
But, indeed, my invention
Comes from my pate, as bird-lime does from frize, It plucks out brains and all.
So wither'd, and so wild in their attire ;
That look not like the inhabitants o' the earth,
You owe this strange intelligence? or why
Upon this blasted heath you stop our way
With such prophetic greeting? Speak, I charge you.
How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags?
What is't you do?
I conjure you, by that which you profess,
(Howe'er you come to know it,) answer me :
Though you untie the winds, and let them fight
Against the churches; though the yesty waves
Confound and swallow navigation up;
Though bladed corn be lodg'd, and trees blown down;
Though castles topple on their warders' heads;
Though palaces, and pyramids, do slope
Their heads to their foundations; though the treasure
Of nature's germins tumble all together,
Even till destruction sicken, answer me
To what I ask
If you can look into the seeds of time,
And say which grain will grow, and which will not ;
Speak then to me, who neither beg, nor fear,
Your favours, nor your hate.
When shall we three meet again,
In thunder, lightning, or in rain?
And be the juggling fiends no more believ'd,
That palter with us in a double sense;
That keep the word of promise to our ear,
And break it to our hope.
Infected be the air wherein they ride;
And damn'd all those that trust them!
Have wak'd their sleepers; oped, and let them forth, By my so potent art.
She is abus'd, stol'n from me-and corrupted
By spells and medicines bought of mountebanks :
For nature so preposterously to err,
Being not deficient, blind, or lame of sense,
Sans witchcraft could not.
I never had to do with wicked spirits;
But you, that are polluted with your lusts,
Stain'd with the guiltless blood of innocents,
Corrupt and tainted with a thousand vices,-
Because you want the grace that others have,
You judge it straight a thing impossible
To compass wonders, but by help of devils.
Pour in sow's blood, that hath eaten
Her nine farrow; grease, that's sweaten
From the murderer's gibbet, throw
Into the flame.
A woman mov'd is like a fountain troubled,
Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty;
And, while it is so, none so dry or thirsty
Will deign to sip, or touch one drop of it.
A woman impudent and mannish grown
Is not more loath'd, than an effeminate man
In time of action.
Come on, come on; you are pictures out of doors,
Bells in your parlours, wild cats in your kitchens,
Saints in your injuries, devils being offended,
Players in your housewifery, and housewives in your
'Tis beauty, that doth oft make women proud;
But, God he knows, thy share thereof is small :
'Tis virtue that doth make them most admir'd;
The contrary doth make thee wondered at.
Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible ;
Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless.
Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes,
Misprising what they look on; and her wit
Values itself so highly, that to her
All matter else seems weak: she cannot love,
Nor take no shape nor project of affection,
She is so self-endeared.
We cannot fight for love as men may do ;
We should be woo'd, and were not made to woo.
Men give like gods: but when they weep and kneel, All their petitions are as freely theirs
As they themselves would owe them.
In her youth
There is a prone and speechless dialect,
Such as moves men.
I grant, I am a woman; but withal,
A woman that Lord Brutus took to wife :
I grant, I am a woman; but withal,
A woman well-reputed; Cato's daughter.
Think you, I am no stronger than my sex,
Being so father'd, and so husbanded?
You, that have so fair parts of woman on you,
Have too a woman's heart; which ever yet
Affected eminence, wealth, sovereignty.
I have no other but a woman's reason;
I think him so, because I think him so.
Maids, in modesty, say No, to that
Which they would have the profferer construe Aye.
Why are our bodies soft, and weak, and smooth,
Unapt to toil and trouble in the world;
But that our soft conditions, and our hearts,
Should well agree with our external parts.
They spake not a word;
But, like dumb statues, or breathless stones,
Star'd on each other, and look'd deadly pale.
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.
I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano;
A stage, where every man must play a part,
And mine a sad one.
You have too much respect upon the world:
They lose it, that do buy it with much care.
I am in this earthly world; where, to do harm,
Is often laudable: to do good, sometimes,
Accounted dangerous folly.
O, world, thy slippery turns! Friends now fast sworn,
Whose double bosoms seem to wear one heart,
Whose hours, whose bed, whose meal, and exercise,
Are still together, who twin, as 'twere, in love
Unseparable, shall within this hour,
On a dissension of a doit, break out
To bitterest enmity: So, fellest foes,
Whose passions and whose plots have broke their sleep