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Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud,
A GOOD DEED COMPARED.
NOTHING GOOD OUT OF SEASON.
The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark, When neither is attended; and I think, The nightingale, if she should sing by day, When every goose is cackling, would be thought No better a musician than the wren. How many things by season season'd are To their right praise, and true perfection!-Peace, hoa! the moon sleeps with Endymion, And would not be awak'd !
This night, methinks, is but the daylight sick,
Ask me no reason why I love you; for though love use reason for his precisian, he admits him not for his counsellor: You are not young, no more am I; go to then, there's sympathy: you are merry, so am I; Ha! ha! then there's more sympathy: You love sack, so do I; Would you desire better sympathy? Let it suffice thee, Mistress Page, (at the least,
the love of a soldier can suffice), that I love thee. I will not say, pity me, 'tis not a soldier-like phrase;
love me. By me,
Thine own true knight,
For thee to fight. John Falstaff Mrs. Ford. Why, this is the very same; the very hand, the very words: What doth he think of us?
but I say,
Mrs. Ford. What shall I do?--There is a gentleman, my dear friend; and I fear not mine own shame, so much as his peril: I had rather than a thousand pound, he were out of the house.
Mrs. Page. For shame, never stand you had rather, and you had rather; your husband's here at hand, bethink you of some conveyance: in the house you cannot hide him.-0, how have you deceived me!.-Look, here is a basket; if he be of any reasonable stature, he may creep in here; and throw foul linen upon him, as if it were going to bucking: Or, it is whiting time, send him by your two men to Datchet Mead.
Mrs. Ford. He's too big to go in there: What shall I do?
Enter FALSTAFF. Let me see't, let me see't! () let me see't! I'll in, I'll in;- follow your friend's counsel;—I'll in.
Mrs. Page. What! sir John Falstaff! Are these your letters, knight?
Fal. I love thee, and none but thee; help me away: let me creep in here; I'll never[He goes into the basket ; they cover him with foul linen.
Mrs. Page. Help to cover your master, boy: Call your men, inistress Ford:-You dissembling knight!
Enter Falstaff disguised, with a buck's head on. The Windsor vell hath struck twelve; the minute draws on: Now, the hot-blooded gods assist me!Remember, Jove, thou wast a bull for thy Europa; love set on thy horns.—0 powerful love! that, in some respects, makes a beast a man; in some other, a man a beast.—You were also, Jupiter, a swan, for the love of Leda;–0, omnipotent love! how near the god drew to the complexion of a goose?-A fault done first in the form of a beast;-0 Jove, a beastly fault; and then another fault in the semblance of a fowl; think on't, Jove; a foul fault. When gods have hot backs, what shall poor men do? For me, I am here a Windsor stag; and the fattest, I think, i' the forest:- Who comes here?
Midsummer Night's Dream.
A FATHER'S AUTHORITY,
A RECLUSE LIFE.
Therefore, fair Hermia, question your desires,
TRUE LOVE EVER CROSSED.
For aught that ever I could read,