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Eleven of the dramas were printed during Shakspeare's life, probably from copies piratically obtained. It was the interest of the managers that new and popular pieces should not be published; but we entertain the most perfect conviction, that the poet intended all his original works, as he had revised some, for publication. The Merry Wives of Windsor' is said to have been written in fourteen days, by command of Queen Elizabeth, who wished to see Falstaff in love. Shakspeare, however, was anxious for his fame, as well as eager to gratify the queen; when the temporary occasion was served, he returned to his play, filled up his first imperfect outline, and heightened the humour of the dialogue and character. Let not the example of this greatest name in English literature be ever quoted to support the false opinion, that excellence can be attained without study and labour!

In 1623 appeared the first collected edition of Shakspeare's dramatic works--seven years after his own death, and six months after that of his widow, who, we suspect, had a life-interest in the plays. The whole were contained in one folio volume, and a preface and dedication were supplied by the poet's fellow comedians, Hemming and Condell.

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guage (like 'light from heaven')—his imagery and versification.

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That Shakspeare deviated from the dramatic unities of time, place, and action, laid down by the ancients, and adopted by the French theatre, is wellknown, and needs no defence. In his tragedies, he amply fulfils what Aristotle admits to be the end and object of tragedy, to beget admiration, terror, or sympathy. His mixture of comic with tragic scenes is sometimes a blemish, but it was the fault of his age; and if he had lived to edit his works, some of these incongruities would doubtless have been expunged. But, on the whole, such blending of opposite qualities and characters is accordant with the actual experience and vicissitudes of life. No course of events, however tragic in its results, moves on in measured, unvaried solemnity, nor would the English taste tolerate this stately French style. The great preceptress of Shakspeare was Nature: he spoke from her inspired dictates, warm from the heart and faithful to its fires;' and in his disregard of classic rules, pursued at will his winged way through all the labyrinths of fancy and of the human heart. These celestial flights, however, were regulated, as we have said, by knowledge and taste. Mere poetical imagination might have created a Caliban, or evoked the airy spirits of the enchanted island and the Midsummer Dream; but to delineate a Desdemona or Imogen, a Miranda or Viola, the influence of a pure and refined spirit, cultivated and disciplined by 'gentle arts,' and familiar by habit, thought, and example, with the better parts of wisdom and humanity, were indispensably requisite. Peele or Marlow might have drawn the forest of Arden, with its woodland glades, but who but Shakspeare could have supplied the moral beauty of the scene?—the refined simplicity and gaiety of Rosalind, the philosophic meditations of Jaques, the true wisdom, tenderness, and grace, diffused over the whole of that antique half-courtly and half-pastoral drama. These and similar personations, such as Benedict and Beatrice, Mercutio, &c., seem to us even more wonder

The plots of Shakspeare's dramas were nearly all borrowed, some from novels and romances, others from legendary tales, and some from older plays. In his Roman subjects, he followed North's translation of Plutarch's Lives; his English historical plays are chiefly taken from Holinshed's Chronicle. From the latter source he also derived the plot of Macbeth,' perhaps the most transcendent of all his works. A very cursory perusal will display the gradual progress and elevation of his art. In the Two Gentlemen of Verona,' and the earlier comedies, we see the timidity and immaturity of youthful genius; a halfformed style, bearing frequent traces of that of his predecessors; fantastic quibbles and conceits (which he never wholly abandoned); only a partial development of character; a romantic and playful fancy; but no great strength of imagination, energy, or passion. In Richard II and III., the creative and masterful than the loftier characters of Shakspeare. No mind are visible in the delineation of character. In types of them could have existed but in his own the Midsummer Night's Dream,' the Merchant of mind. The old drama and the chroniclers furnished Venice,' 'Romeo and Juliet,' &c., we find the ripened the outlines of his historical personages, though poetical imagination, prodigality of invention, and a destitute of the heroic ardour and elevation which searching, meditative spirit. These qualities, with he breathed into them. Plutarch and the poets a finer vein of morality and contemplative philo- kindled his classic enthusiasm and taste; old Chapsophy, pervade As You Like It,' and the Twelfth man's Homer perhaps rolled its majestic cadences Night.' In 'Henry IV.,' the 'Merry Wives,' and' Mea- over his ear and imagination; but characters in sure for Measure,' we see his inimitable powers of which polished manners and easy grace are as precomedy, full formed, revelling in an atmosphere of dominant as wit, reflection, or fancy, were then unjoyous life, and fresh as if from the hand of nature. known to the stage, as to actual life. They are He took a loftier flight in his classical dramas, con- among the most perfect creations of his genius, and, ceived and finished with consummate taste and free-in reference to his taste and habits, they are valuable dom. In his later tragedies, Lear,' Hamlet' (in its improved form), Othello,' Macbeth,' and the Tempest,' all his wonderful faculties and acquirements are found combined-his wit, pathos, passion, and sublimity-his profound knowledge and observation of mankind, mellowed by a refined humanity and benevolence-his imagination richer from skilful culture and added stores of information-his unrivalled lanof character or passion, we conceive Shakspeare to have laboured for ultimate and lasting fame, not immediate theatrical effect. His audiences must often have been unable to follow his philosophy, his subtle distinctions, and his imagery. The actors must have been equally unable to give effect to many of his personations. He was apparently indifferent to both-at least in his great works-and wrote for the mind of the universe. There was, however, always enough of ordinary nature, of pomp, or variety of action, for the multitude; and the English historical plays, connected with national pride and glory, must have rendered their author popular.

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materials for his biography.

In judgment, Shakspeare excels his contemporary dramatists as much as in genius, but at the same time it must be confessed that he also partakes of their errors. To be unwilling to acknowledge any faults in his plays, is, as Hallam remarks, an extravagance rather derogatory to the critic than honourable to the poet.' Fresh from the perusal of any of his works, and under the immediate effects of his inspirations-walking, as it were, in a world of his creating, with beings familiar to us almost from infancy-it seems like sacrilege to breathe one word of censure. Yet truth must admit that some of his plays are hastily and ill-constructed as to plot; that his proneness to quibble and play with words is brought forward in scenes where this peculiarity constitutes a positive defect; that he is sometimes indelicate where indelicacy is least pardonable, and where it jars most painfully with the associations of

the scene; and that his style is occasionally stiff, turgid, and obscure, chiefly because it is at once highly figurative and condensed in expression. Ben Jonson has touched freely, but with manliness and fairness, on these defects.

'I remember,' he says, 'the players have often mentioned it as an honour to Shakspeare, that in his writing (whatsoever he penned) he never blotted out a line. My answer hath been, would he had blotted a thousand! which they thought a malevolent speech. I had not told posterity this, but for their ignorance who chose that circumstance to commend their friend by wherein he most faulted, and to justify mine own candour; for I loved the man, and do honour his memory on this side idolatry as much as any. He was, indeed, honest, and of an open and free nature; had an excellent phantasy, brave notions, and gentle expressions, wherein he flowed with that facility, that sometimes it was necessary he should be stopped, sufflimandus erat, as Augustus said of Haterius. His wit was in his own power; would the rule of it had been so too! Many times he fell into those things could not escape laughter, as when he said, in the person of Cæsar, one speaking to him, "Cæsar, thou dost me wrong," he replied, "Cæsar did never wrong but with just cause," and such like, which were ridiculous. But he redeemed his vices with his virtues. There was ever more in him to be praised than to be pardoned.'

The first edition of Shakspeare was published, as already stated, in 1623. A second edition was published in 1632, the same as the first, excepting that it was more disfigured with errors of the press. A third edition was published in 1644, and a fourth in 1685. The public admiration of this great English classic now demanded that he should receive the honours of a commentary; and Rowe, the poet, gave an improved edition in 1709. Pope, Warburton, Johnson, Chalmers, Steevens, and others, successively published editions of the poet, with copious notes. The best of the whole is the voluminous edition by Malone and Boswell, published in twentyone volumes, in 1821. The critics of the great poet are innumerable, and they bid fair, like Banquo's progeny, to stretch to the crack of doom.' The scholars of Germany have distinguished themselves by their philosophical and critical dissertations on the genius of Shakspeare. There never was an author, ancient or modern, whose works have been so carefully analysed and illustrated, so eloquently expounded, or so universally admired.

He so sepulchred in such pomp dost lie,
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.
Milton on Shakspeare, 1630.

'Since the beginning of the present century,' says a writer in the Edinburgh Review (1840), 'Shakspeare's influence on our literature has been very great; and the recognition of his supremacy not only more unqualified, but more intelligent than ever. In many instances, indeed, and particularly by reason of the exaggerated emphasis which is so apt to infect periodical writing, the veneration for the greatest of all poets has risen to a height which amounts literally to idolatry. But the error is the safest which can be committed in judging the works of genius; and the risk of any evil consequences is

* Jonson's allusion is to the following line in the third act of Julius Cæsar

Know Cæsar doth not wrong, nor without cause
Will he be satisfied.

The passage was probably altered by Ben's suggestion, or still more likely it was corrupted by the blunder of the player.

excluded by that inquiring temper, which is as characteristic of literature in our times, as is its appearance of comparative animation.'

The difficulty of making selections from Shakspeare must be obvious. If of character, his characters are as numerous and diversified as those in human life; if of style, he has exhausted all styles, and has one for each description of poetry and action; if of wit, humour, satire, or pathos, where shall our choice fall, where all are so abundant? We have felt our task to be something like being deputed to search in some magnificent forest for a handful of the finest leaves or plants, and as if we were diligently exploring the world of woodland beauty to accomplish faithfully this hopeless adventure. Happily, Shakspeare is in all hands, and a single leaf will recall the fertile and majestic scenes of his inspiration.

[Murder of King Duncan.]

[Macbeth, prompted by ambition, and pushed on by his savage wife, resolves to murder the king, then his guest, and seize the crown.]

MACBETH and a Servant.

Macb. Go bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready, She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed. Is this a dagger which I see before me, [Exit Servant. The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight?—

-or art thou but

A dagger of the mind, a false creation
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.

Thou marshal'st me the way that I was going;

And such an instrument I was to use.
Or else worth all the rest. I see thee still;
Mine eyes are made the fools o' th' other senses,
And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood,
Which was not so before. There's no such thing.
It is the bloody business, which informs
Thus to mine eyes. Now, o'er one half the world
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtain'd sleep: now witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings; and wither'd Murder,
Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf,
Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace,
With Tarquin's ravishing strides, tow'rds his design
Moves like a ghost. Thou sound and firm-set earth,
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
Thy very stones prate of my whereabout,
And take the present horror from the time,
Which now suits with it. Whilst I threat, he lives-
Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.

I go, and it is done; the bell invites me:
Hear it not, Duncan, for it is a knell
That summons thee to heaven or to hell.

Enter Lady МАСВЕТН.

[A bell rings.

[Exit.

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Lady. Alack! I am afraid they have awak'd; And 'tis not done. Th' attempt, and not the deed,

Confounds us. Hark!

He could not miss 'em.

My father as he slept, I My husband!

I laid their daggers ready;
Had he not resembled

[Enter Macbeth] had done't.

Macb. I've done the deed-didst thou not hear a noise?

Enter Lady MACBETH.

Lady. My hands are of your colour; but I shame
To wear a heart so white. [Knock.] I hear a knocking
At the south entry. Retire we to our chamber;
A little water clears us of this deed,

How easy is it then? Your constancy

Hath left you unattended. [Knocking.] Hark, more knocking!

Lady. I heard the owl scream, and the crickets cry. Get on your night-gown, lest occasion call us,

Did not you speak ?

Macb. When?

Lady. Now.

Macb. As I descended?

Lady. Ay.

Macb. Hark-who lies i' th' second chamber?

Lady. Donalbain.

Macb. This is a sorry sight.

[Looks on his hands.

Lady. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight. Mach. There's one did laugh in's sleep, and one cried, Murder!

That they did wake each other; I stood and heard them;

But they did say their prayers, and address'd them Again to sleep.

Lady. There are two lodg'd together.

Macb. One cried, God bless us ! and Amen! the other;

As they had seen me with these hangman's hands,
Listening their fear, I could not say, Amen,
When they did say, God bless us.

Lady. Consider it not so deeply.

Macb. But wherefore could not I pronounce Amen? I had most need of blessing, and Amen Stuck in my throat.

Lady. These deeds must not be thought, After these ways; so, it will make us mad.

Macb. Methought I heard a voice cry, Sleep no

more!

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Macb. I'll go no more.

I am afraid to think what I have done;
Look't on't again, I dare not.

Lady. Infirm of purpose:

Give me the daggers. The sleeping and the dead
Are but as pictures; 'tis the eye of childhood
That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed,
I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal,
For it must seem their guilt.

Knocking within.

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[Love Scene by Night in a Garden.]

Romeo. He jests at scars, that never felt a woundIt is the east, and Juliet is the sun! But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks;

[Juliet appears above at a window. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief, Be not her maid since she is envious; That thou her maid art far more fair than she; Her vestal livery is but sick and green, And none but fools do wear it; cast it offIt is my lady; O! it is my love;

O that she knew she were !

She speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that?
Her eye discourses; I will answer it-

I am too bold; 'tis not to me she speaks:
Two of the fairest stars of all the heav'n,
Having some business, do intreat her eyes,
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head?
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,
As daylight doth a lamp: her eyes in heav'n
Would through the airy region stream so bright,
That birds would sing, and think it were not night.
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!
Jul. Ah me!

Rom. She speaks.

Oh, speak again, bright angel! for thou art
As is a winged messenger of heav'n,
As glorious to this sight, being o'er my head,
Unto the white-upturned, wond'ring eyes
Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him,
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds,
And sails upon the bosom of the air.

Jul. O Romeo, Romeo-wherefore art thou Romeo!
Deny thy father, and refuse thy name :
Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
And I'll no longer be a Capulet.

Rom. Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at

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Jul. "Tis but thy name that is my enemy:
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
What's Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face-nor any other part
Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!
[Exit. What's in a name? That which we call a rose,
By any other name would smell as sweet.
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes,
Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name;
And for that name, which is no part of thee,
Take all myself.

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Rom. By a name

I know not how to tell thee who I am:
My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,
Because it is an enemy to thee.

Had I it written, I would tear the word.

Jul. My ears have yet not drunk a hundred words Of that tongue's uttering, yet I know the sound. Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?

Rom. Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike. Jul. How cam'st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore? The orchard walls are high, and hard to climb; And the place death, considering who thou art, If any of my kinsmen find thee here.

Rom. With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls,

For stony limits cannot hold love out;

And what love can do, that dares love attempt:
Therefore thy kinsmen are no let to me.

Jul. If they do see thee, they will murder thee. Rom. Alack! there lies more peril in thine eye Than twenty of their swords; look thou but sweet, And I am proof against their enmity.

Jul. I would not for the world they saw thee here. Rom. I have night's cloak to hide me from their eyes, And but thou love me, let them find me here; My life were better ended by their hate, Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love.

Jul. By whose direction found'st thou out this place? Rom. By love, that first did prompt me to inquire; He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes.

I am no pilot; yet wert thou as far

As that vast shore, wash'd with the farthest sea,
I would adventure for such merchandise.

Jul. Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face,
Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek
For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night.
Fain would I dwell on form; fain, fain deny
What I have spoke-but farewell compliment !
Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say ay;
And I will take thy word. Yet if thou swear'st,
Thou may'st prove false: at lovers' perjuries,
They say, Jove laughs. O, gentle Romeo!

If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully;
Or, if thou think'st I am too quickly won,
I'll frown and be perverse, and say thee nay,
So thou wilt woo; but else not for the world.
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond,

And therefore thou may'st think my 'haviour light;
But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true
Than those that have more coying to be strange.
I should have been more strange, I must confess,
But that thou over-heard'st, ere I was 'ware,
My true love's passion; therefore pardon me,
And not impute this yielding to light love,
Which the dark night hath so discover'd.

Rom. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear,
That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops-
Jul. O swear not by the moon, th' inconstant moon,
That monthly changes in her circled orb:
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.
Rom. What shall I swear by ?

Jul. Do not swear at all;

Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, Which is the god of my idolatry,

And I'll believe thee.

Rom. If my heart's dear love

Jul. Well, do not swear. Although I joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract to-night; It is too rash, too unadvis'd, too sudden, Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be, Ere one can say it lightens. Sweet, good-night! This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower, when next we meet. Good-night, good-night-as sweet repose and rest Come to thy heart, as that within my breast! Rom. O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?

Jul. What satisfaction canst thou have to-night? Rom. Th' exchange of thy love's faithful vow for

mine,

Jul. I gave thee mine before thou did'st request it: And yet I would it were to give again.

Rom. Wouldst thou withdraw it? for what purpose,

love?

Jul. But to be frank, and give it thee again.
And yet I wish but for the thing I have:
My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep; the more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite.

I hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu !
[Nurse calls within.
Anon, good nurse! Sweet Montague, be true.
Stay but a little, I will come again.

Rom. O blessed, blessed night! I am afear'd,
Being in night, all this is but a dream;
Too flattering sweet to be substantial.

Re-enter JULIET above.

[Exit.

Jul. Three words, dear Romeo, and good-night indeed.

If that thy bent of love be honourable,
Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow,
By one that I'll procure to come to thee,
Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite;
And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay,
And follow thee, my love, throughout the world.
[Within: Madam !

I come, anon--but if thou mean'st not well,

I do beseech thee-[Within: Madam !] By and by,

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Jul. Romeo !

Rom. My sweet

Jul. At what o'clock to-morrow Shall I send to thee?

Rom. At the hour of nine.

Jul. I will not fail; 'tis twenty years till then.

I have forgot why I did call thee back.

Rom. Let me stand here till thou remember it. Jul. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there; Rememb'ring how I love thy company.

Rom. And I'll still stay to have thee still forget, Forgetting any other home but this.

Jul. "Tis almost morning. I would have thee gone;
And yet no further than a wanton's bird,
Who lets it hop a little from her hand,

Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves,
And with a silk thread plucks it back again,
So loving-jealous of his liberty.

Rom. I would I were thy bird.
Jul. Sweet, so would I:

Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing.
Good-night, good-night: parting is such sweet sorrow,
That I shall say good-night, till it be morrow. [Exit.
Rom. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy

breast!

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[Description of a Moonlight Night, with fine Music.]

Lor. The moon shines bright: in such a night as this,

When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees,
And they did make no noise; in such a night,
Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojans' wall,
And sigh'd his soul toward the Grecian tents,
Where Cressid lay that night.

Jes. In such a night

Did Thisbe fearfully o'ertrip the dew;
And saw the lion's shadow ere himself,
And ran dismay'd away.

Lor. In such a night

Stood Dido with a willow in her hand

Upon the wide sea-banks, and waft her love

To come again to Carthage.

Jes. In such a night

Medea gather'd the enchanted herbs
That did renew old son.

Lor. In such a night

Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew,

And with an unthrift love did run from Venice As far as Belmont.

Jes. And in such a night

Did young Lorenzo swear he lov'd her well;
Stealing her soul with many vows of faith,

And ne'er a true one.

Lor. And in such a night

Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew, Slander her love, and he forgave it her.

*

*

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!
Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears; soft stillness and the night
Become 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 cherubins;
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'm 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 perchance but hear a trumpet sound,
Or any air of music touch their cars,
You shall perceive them make a mutual stand;
Their savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze,

By the sweet power of music. Therefore the poet Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods;

Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage,
But music for the time doth change his nature.
The man that hath not music in himself,
Nor is not mov'd with concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils;
The motions of his spirit are dull as night,
And his affections dark as Erebus :
Let no such man be trusted.

Merchant of Venice.

[Ghost Scene in Hamlet.]

Hamlet. The air bites shrewdly; it is very cold. Horatio. It is a nipping and an eager air.

Ham. What hour now?

Hor. I think it lacks of twelve.

Marcellus. No, it is struck.

Hor. Indeed? I heard it not. It then draws near the season

Wherein the spirit held his wont to walk. [Noise of warlike music within. What does this mean, my lord?

Ham. The king doth wake to-night, and takes his

rouse,

Keeps wassail, and the swagg'ring up-spring reels;
And as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down,
The kettle-drum and trumpet thus bray out
The triumph of his pledge.

Hor. Is it a custom ?

Ham. Ay, marry is't:

But to my mind, though I am native here,
And to the manner born, it is a custom

More honoured in the breach than the observance.
This heavy-headed revel, east and west,

Makes us traduced and tax'd of other nations; They clepe us drunkards, and with swinish phrase Soil our addition; and, indeed, it takes

From our achievements, though perform'd at height, The pith and marrow of our attribute.

So oft it chances in particular men,

That for some vicious mole of nature in them,
As in their birth, wherein they are not guilty,
Since nature cannot choose his origin,

By the o'ergrowth of some complexion,

Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason;
Or by some habit, that too much o'erleavens
The form of plausive manners; that these men
Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect,
Being nature's livery, or fortune's star,
Their virtues else, be they as pure as grace,

As infinite as man may undergo,

Shall in the general censure take corruption

From that particular fault.-The dram of base
Doth all the noble substance often dout
To his own scandal.

Enter GHOST.

Hor. Look, my lord, it comes!

Ham. Angels and ministers of grace defend us!
Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn'd,
Bring with thee airs from heav'n or blasts from hell,
Be thy intents wicked or charitable,

Thou com'st in such a questionable shape,
That I will speak to thee. I'll call thee Hamlet,
King, Father, Royal Dane; Oh, answer me ;
Let me not burst in ignorance; but tell
Why thy canonis'd bones, hears'd in death,
Have burst their cerements? Why the sepulchre,
Wherein we saw thee quietly inurn'd,
Hath op'd his ponderous and marble jaws,
To cast thee up again? What may this mean,
That thou, dead corse, again, in complete steel,
Revisit'st thus the glimpses of the moon,
Making night hideous, and we fools of nature,
So horribly to shake our disposition
With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls!
Say, why is this? Wherefore? What should we do!
[Ghost beckons Hamlet.
Hor. It beckons you to go away with it,
As if it some impartment did desire
To you alone.

Mar. Look, with what courteous action
It waves you off to a removed ground:
But do not go with it.

Hor. No, by no means.

[Holding Hamlet.

Ham. It will not speak: then I will follow it.

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