But you must know, your father lost a father; That father lost his; and the survivor bound, In filial obligation, for some term
To do obsequious sorrow: but to perséver In obstinate condolement, is a course
Of impious stubbornness; 'tis unmanly grief: It shews a will most incorrect to heaven; A heart unfortified, or mind impatient; An understanding simple and unschool'd: For what we know must be, and is as common As any the most vulgar thing to sense, Why should we, in our peevish opposition, Take it to heart? Fie! 'tis a fault to heaven, A fault against the dead, a fault to nature, To reason most absurd; whose common theme Is death of fathers, and who still hath cried, From the first corse, till he that died to-day, This must be so.
JULIUS CÆSAR. ACT 1. Sc. 1.
Mar. WHEREFORE rejoice? What conquest brings
What tributaries follow him to Rome,
To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels?
ὀρθῶς προσάπτεις· ἀλλὰ δεῖ σκοπεῖν τόδε· ὁ σὸς πατὴρ γὰρ πατέρ ̓ ἀπώλεσέν ποτε, πρότερον ὁμοίως αὐτὸν ἐστερημένον· καὶ τοὺς ἔτ ̓ ὄντας, οἷα δὴ τέκνοις πρέπει, ἄγοντας ἦμαρ λυπρὸν εὐσεβέστατα
ἔδει κτερίζειν τοὺς ἀεὶ τεθνηκότας. τὸ δ ̓ ἄνδρα λίαν δυσφορεῖν λυπούμενον αὐθαδίαν τοι πᾶσι τοῦτ ̓ ὀφλισκάνει οὐδ ̓ εὐσεβὲς γὰρ, ἀλλ ̓ ἀνανδρίας κακῆς· ὅθεν θέλημα καὶ μάλ ̓ ἐξελέγχεται ἀκόλαστον εἰς Θεὸν, καρδία τ ̓ ἀμήχανος, ἢ νοῦς ἀναιδὴς, ἅμα δ ̓ ἀπαίδευτοι φρένες. ὃν γάρ τις οἶδεν ὄντ ̓ ἀναγκαῖον πότμον καὶ κοινὸν ὥς τι τῶν μάλιστ ̓ εἰθισμένων 39 πρὸς ὄμματ ̓ ἐλθεῖν πραγμάτων καθ ̓ ἡμέραν, πῶς ἀντιτείνειν δυσλόφως τ ̓ ἄγειν πρέπει; ἐπεὶ τοιοῦτος εἰς Θεόν θ ̓ ἁμαρτάνει
κεἰς τοὺς θανόντας καὶ φύσιν βροτῶν ὁμοῦ, λόγου δ ̓ ἀπέστη πλεῖστ ̓ ἐπεὶ λόγος φιλεῖ πατέρων διδάσκειν θάνατον, ἀπὸ δὲ τοῦ βροτῶν πρῶτον θανόντος ἐς τὸν ἐν τῇδ ̓ ἡμέρᾳ θρήνοισιν ἀεὶ τοὺς νεκροὺς ὀδύρεται, «Οὐκ ἔσθ' ὅπως τάδ ̓ οὐ γενήσεταί ποτε.”
ΜΑΡ. Τι χάρμα; ποῖον νόστιμον φέρει κράτος; πομπὴν τίν ̓ αἰχμαλωτίδ ̓ εἰς Ρώμην ἄγει, ὀχήματος τροχοῖσι δεσμίαν χάριν ;
1 Cf. Soph. Elect. 355 : ὥστε τῷ τεθνηκότι | τιμὰς προσάπτειν, κ. τ. λ.
stones, you worse than senseless
O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome, Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft Have you climb'd up to walls and battlements, To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops, Your infants in your arms, and there have sat The live-long day, with patient expectation, To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome: And when you saw his chariot but appear, Have you not made an universal shout, That Tyber trembled underneath her banks, To hear the replication of your sounds, Made in her concave shores?
And do you now put on your best attire? And do you now cull out a holiday? And do you now strew flowers in his way, That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood? Be gone;
Run to your houses, fall upon your knees, Pray to the gods to intermit the plague That needs must light on this ingratitude.
Flav. Go, go, good countrymen, and, for this fault, Assemble all the poor men of your sort;
Draw them to Tyber banks, and weep your tears Into the channel, till the lowest stream
Do kiss the most exalted shores of all.
ὦ ξύλα, πέτροι τε, κεἴ τι τῶνδ ̓ ἀνουστερον, ὦ δεινὰ Ρώμης θρέμματ ̓, ὦ σκληραι φρένες, Πομπεῖον οὐκ ἐγνώκαθ ̓; οἵ γε πολλὰ δὴ τοίχων ἐπεμβαίνοντες, ἠδ ̓ ἐπαλξέων, πύργων τε θυρίδων τ', ἀλλὰ κἀετῶν ἔπι, αὐτοῖσι νηπίοισιν, ὧδε τλημόνως πανήμεροι κάθησθ ̓ ἄν, εἰ Ρώμης ὁδοὺς τὸν κλεινὸν ἄνδρα διαπερῶντ ̓ ἴδοιτέ πως· ὁπότε δ ̓ ἐς ὄψιν καὶ πρόσω δίφρος μόλοι, ξύμπαντες ἐν τῷδ ̓ οὐχὶ πάγκοινον βοὴν ἐπωρθιάζεθ', ὥσθ' ὑπ ̓ ὄχθαισιν τρόμῳ πτῆξαι Θύβριν κλύουσαν, ἐν κοίλαις ὅσος ἀκταῖσιν ὑμῖν ἀντεφώνησεν κτύπος ; εἶτ ̓ ἐνδυτοὶ τανῦν γε κάλλεσιν πέπλων, τόδ ̓ ὡς ἑορτὴν ἦμαρ ἐξαιρεῖσθ ̓ ἄγειν; καὶ τῷδε νῦν ἐστρώσατ ̓ ἄνθεσιν στίβον τῷ γ ̓ ἐν σφαγαῖς χλίοντι Πομπείου περᾶν; ἀλλ ̓ ἐκποδὼν ἀπέλθετ ̓ εἰς οἴκους δρόμῳ, 21 καὶ προσπίτνοντες γονυπετεῖς ἕδρας θεοὺς λιταῖς σεβίζετ', ἣν ἀπείρξωσιν νόσον
τὴν ἐμπεσεῖν μέλλουσαν ὧδ ̓ ἀγνώμοσιν. ΦΛΑ. Ὦ ξυμπολῖται, τῆσδ ̓ ἁμαρτίας ὕπερ οὐκ εἶ ̓ ἀθροίσεθ ̓ ὅστις ὡς ὑμεῖς ἀνὴρ πένης κέκληται, καὶ προσελθόντες πέλας Θύβριδος παρ' ὄχθας τέγξετ ̓ εἰς κρουνὸν λίβη ξύμμικτα δακρύων, ἔς τ ̓ ἂν αἱ κάτω ῥοαὶ θόρωσ ̓ ἐπ' ἀκτὰς τὰς μάλισθ' ὑπερτάτας; 30
MERCHANT OF VENICE ACT 5. Sc. 1.
Lor. How sweet the moon-light sleeps upon this bank!
Here will we set, and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears; soft stillness and the night, Becomes the touches of sweet harmony.
Sit, Jessica: look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold; There's not the smallest orb, which thou behold'st, But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubims: Such harmony is in immortal souls; But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.— Come ho, and wake Diana with a hymn; With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear, And draw her home with music.
Jes. I am never merry when I hear sweet music. Lor. The reason is, your spirits are attentive: For do but note a wild and wanton herd,
Or race of youthful and unhandled colts,
Fetching mad bounds, bellowing, and neighing loud, Which is the hot condition of their blood; If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound, Or any air of music touch their ears,
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