« PreviousContinue »
Tent* in my cheeks; and school-boys' tears take up The glasses of my sight! A beggar's tongue Make motion through my lips; and my arm'd knees, Who bow'd but in my stirrup, bend like his That hath receiv'd an alms ! -I will not doʻt: Lest I surcease to honour mine own truth, And, by my body's action, teach my mind A most inherent baseness. VOLUMNIA'S RESOLUTION ON THE PRIDE OF
CORIOLANUS. At thy choice then: To beg of thee, it is my more dishonour, Than thou of them. Come all to ruin; let Thy mother rather feel thy pride, than fear Thy dangerous stoutness; for I mock at death With as big heart as thou. Do as thou list. Thy valiantness was mine, thou suck’dst it from me; But owet thy pride thyself.
CORIOLANUS'S DETESTATION OF THE VULGAR. You common cryf of curse! whose breath I hate As reekş o’ the rotten fens, whose loves I prize As the dead carcasses of unburied men That do corrupt my air, I banish you; And here remain with your uncertainty! Let every feeble rumour shake your hearts! Your enemies, with nodding of their plumes, Fan you into despair; have the power
still To banish your defenders; till, at length, Your ignorance (which finds not till it feels,) Making not reservation of yourselves, (Still your own foes,) deliver Abated || captives, to some nation That won you without blows!
you, as most
* Dwell. † Own. Pack. $ Vapour. || Subdued.
That, when the sea was calm, all boats alike Show'd mastership in floating: fortune's blows, When most struck home, being gentle wounded,
A noble cunning: you were us'd to load me
ON COMMON FRIENDSHIPS.
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 dissention of a doit,* break out To bitterest enmity: So fellest foes, Whose passions and whose plots have broke their
sleep To take the one the other, by some chance, Some trick not worth an egg, shall grow dear friends, And interjoin their issues.
MARTIAL FRIENDSHIP. Let me twine Mine arms about that body, where against My grained ash an hundred times hath broke, And scard the moon with splinters. Here I clipt The anvil of my sword; and do contest As hotly and as nobly with thy love, As ever in ambitious strength I did Contend against thy valour. Know thou first, I loved the maid I married; never man Sigh'd truer breath: but that I see thee here, Thou noble thing! more dances my wrapt heart, Than when I first my wedded mistress saw Bestride my threshold. Why, thou Mars! I tell
We have a power on foot; and I had purpose
A small coin. + Embrace. Arm. $ Full.
Twelve several times, and I have nightly since
ACT V. THE SEASON OF SOLICITATION. He was not taken well: he had not din’d: The veins unfill'd, our blood is cold, and then We pout upon the morning, are unapt To give or to forgive; but when we have stuff'd These pipes and these conveyances of our blood With wine and feeding, we have suppler souls Than in our priest-like fasts: therefore I'll watch
him Till he be dieted to my request.
My wife comes foremost; then the honour'd mould Wherein th was fram'd, and in her hand The grandchild to her blood. But, out, affection: All bond and privilege of nature, break! Let it be virtuous, to be obstinate. What is that courtsey worth, or those doves? eyes, Which can make gods forsworn?-I melt, and am
* A young goose.
Forgive my tyranny; but do not say,
The noble sister of Publicola,
CORIOLANUS'S PRAYER FOR HIS SON.
Think with thyself, How more unfortunate than all living women Are we come hither: since that thy sight, which
should Make our eyes flow with joy, hearts dance with com
forts, Constrains them weep, and shake with fear and
sorrow; Making the mother, wife, and child, to see The
son, the husband, and the father, tearing His country's bowels out. And to poor we,, Thine enmity's most capital: thou barrist us Our prayers to the gods, which is a comfort
That all but we enjoy.
We must find
PEACE AFTER A SIEGE.
Ne'er through an arch so hurried the blown tide, As the recomforted through the gates. Why, hark
you: The trumpets, sackbuts, psalteries, and
fifes, Tabors and cymbals, and the shouting Romans, Make the sun dance.
Madam, so I did.
them, but To look
him: till the diminution Of space had pointed him sharp as my
needle: Nay, follow'd him, till he had melted from The smallness of a gnat to air; and then Have turn’d mine eye, and wept.-But, good. Pisanio, When shall we hear from him?