To second ills with ills, each elder worse; CYMBELINE, A. 5, s. 1. INSINCERITY. NOTES of sorrow, out of tune, are worse Than priests and fanes that lie. CYMBELINE, A. 4, s. 2. INTENSITY OF FEELING INCREASED BY THE GREATNESS PRIZE. THIS jealousy OF OF THE Is for a precious creature: as she's rare, In that be made more bitter. Fear o'ershades me: Of his ill-ta en suspicion! Come, Camillo; I will respect thee as a father; if Thou bear'st my life off hence. WINTER'S TALE, A. 1, s. 2. IN TIME WE HATE THAT WHICH WE OFTEN FEAR. CHARMIAN. Madam, methinks, if you did love him dearly, You do not hold the method to enforce The like from him. CLEOPATRA. What should I do, I do not? CHAR. In each thing give him way, cross him in nothing. CLEO. Thou teachest like a fool: the way to lose him. CHAR. Tempt him not so too far: I wish, forbear; In time we hate that which we often fear. ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA, A. 1, s. 3. INVOCATION TO THE POWERS OF DARKNESS. THE raven himself is hoarse, That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan Under my battlements. Come, come, you spirits That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here; And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full Of direst cruelty! make thick my blood, Stop up the access and passage to remorse; That no compunctious visitings of nature Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between The effect, and it! Come to my woman's breasts, And take my milk for gall, you murd'ring ministers, Wherever in your sightless substances You wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick night! And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell! That my keen knife see not the wound it makes; Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark, To cry, Hold, hold! Cawdor! Great Glamis! worthy Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter! MACBETH, A. 1, s. 5. LOVE REGRETTED. ENOBARBUS. Under a compelling occasion, let women die: It were pity to cast them away for nothing; though, between them and a great cause, they should be esteemed nothing. Cleopatra, catching but the least noise of this, dies instantly; I have seen her die twenty times upon far poorer moment: I do think, there is mettle in death, which commits some loving act upon her, she hath such a celerity in dying. ANTONY. She is cunning past man's thoughts. ENO. Alack, sir, no; her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love: We cannot call her winds and waters, sighs and tears; they are greater storms and tempests than almanacks can report: this cannot be cunning in her; if it be, she makes a shower of rain as well as Jove. ANT. 'Would I had never seen her! ENO. O, sir, you had then left unseen a wonderful piece of work; which not to have been blessed withal, would have discredited your travel. ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA, A. 1, s. 2. LOVE'S TRUE COURSE NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. LYSANDER. Ah me! for ought that ever I could read, Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth: But, either it was different in blood; HERMIA. Or cross! too high to be enthrall'd to low! Lys. Or else misgraffed, in respect of years; HER. Or spite! too old to be engaged to young! Lys. Or else it stood upon the choice of friends: HER. O hell! to choose love by another's eye! Lys. Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it; Making it momentary as a sound, Swift as a shadow, short as any dream; It stands as an edíct in destiny: Then let us teach our trial patience, Because it is a customary cross; As due to love, as thoughts, and dreams, and sighs, Wishes, and tears, poor fancy's followers. MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM, A. 1, s. 1. IN THE REPROOF OF CHANCE LIES THE TRUE PROOF OF MEN. WITH due observance of thy godlike seat, Thy latest words. In the reproof of chance Lies the true proof of men: the sea being smooth, How many shallow bauble boats dare sail Upon her patient breast, making their way But let the ruffian Boreas once enrage The strong-ribb'd bark through liquid mountains cut, Bounding between the two moist elements, Whose weak untimber'd sides but even now Doth valour's show, and valour's worth, divide, ness, The herd hath more annoyance by the fly, Than by the tiger; but when the splitting wind Makes flexible the knees of knotted oaks, And flies fled under shade, Why, then, the thing of courage, As rous'd with rage, with rage doth sympathize, And with an accent tun'd in self-same key, Returns to chiding fortune. TROILUS AND CRESSIDA, A. 1, s. 3. |