I will encounter darkness as a bride,

And hug it in mine arms.

THE HYPOCRISY OF ANGELO.

There my father's grave

Did utter forth a voice! Yes, thou must die:
Thou art too noble to conserve a life

In base appliances. This outward-sainted deputy,-
Whose settled visage and deliberate word
Nips youth i'the head, and follies doth enmew,
As falcon doth the fowl,-is yet a devil;
His filth within being cast, he would appear
A pond as deep as hell.

THE TERRORS OF DEATH.

Death is a fearful thing.

Isab. And shamed life a hateful.

Claud. Ay, but to die, and go we know not where;

To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot:
This sensible warm motion to become
A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit
To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside
In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice;
To be imprison'd in the viewlesst winds,
And blown with restless violence about
The pendent world; or to be worse than worst
Of those, that lawless and incertain thoughts
Imagine howling!-'tis too horrible!
The weariest and most loathed worldly life,
That age, ach, penury, and imprisonment
Can lay on nature, is a paradise
To what we fear of death.

VIRTUE AND GOODNESS.

Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful.

A BAWD.

The evil that thou causest to be done,
That is thy means to live: Do thou but think
What 'tis to cram a maw, or clothe a back,
From such a filthy vice: say to thyself,-

From their abominable and beastlyches
I drink, I eat, array myself, and live.
Canst thou believe thy living is a life,

So stinkingly depending? Go, mend, go, mend.

ACT IV.

SONG.

Take, oh take, those lips away,
That so sweetly were forsworn;
And those eyes, the break of day,
Lights that do mislead the morn:
But my kisses bring again,
Seals of love, but seal'd in vain.
Hide, oh hide, those hills of snow,

Which thy frozen bosom bears,
On whose tops the pinks that grow
Are of those that April wears:
But my poor heart first set free,
Bound in those icy chains by thee.

GREATNESS SUBJECT TO CENSURE.

O place and greatness, millions of false eyes, Are stuck upon thee! volumes of report Run with these false and most contrarious quests Upon thy doings! thousand 'scapes* of wit Make thee the father of their idle dream, And rack thee in their fancies.

SOUND' SLEEP.

As fast lock'd up in sleep, as guiltless labour When it lies starklyf in the traveller's bones.

ACT V.

CHARACTER OF AN ARCH HYPOCRITE.

O prince, I conjure thee, as thou believ'st prince,

There is another comfort than this world,
That thou neglect me not, with that opinion
That I am touch'd with madness: make not impos-

sible

That which but seems unlike: 'Tis not impossible

But one, the wicked'st caitiff on the ground,
May seem as shy, as grave, as just, as absolute,
As Angelo; even so may Angelo,

In all his dressings,* characts, titles, forms,
Be an arch-villain: believe it, royal prince,
If he be less, he's nothing; but he's more,
Had I more name for badness.

MIRTH AND MELANCHOLY.

NOW, by two-headed Janus,

Nature hath fram'd strange fellows in her time:
Some that will evermore peep through their eyes,
And laugh, like parrots, at a bag-piper;
And other of such vinegar aspect,

That they'll not show their teeth in way of smile,
Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable.

WORLDLINESS.

You have too much respect upon the world: They lose it, that do buy it with much care.

THE WORLD'S TRUE VALUE.

I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; A stage where every man must play a part.

CHEERFULNESS.

Let me play the Fool:

With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come:

1

And let my liver rather heat with wine,
Than my heart cool with mortifying groans.
Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,
Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?

Sleep when he wakes? and creep Into the jaundice
By being peevish?

AFFECTED, GRAVITY.

I tell thee what, Antonio,

I love thee, and it is my love that speaks;-
There are a sort of men, whose visages
Do cream and mantle, like a standing pond;
And do a wilful stillness* entertain,
With purpose to be dress'd in an opinion
Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit;
As who should say, I'am Sir Oracle,
And, when I ope my lips, let no dog bark!
O, my Antonio, I do know of these,
That therefore only are reputed wise,
For saying nothing.

LOQUACITY.

Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice: his reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff; you shall seek all day ere you find them; and, when you have them, they are not worth the search.

MEDIOCRITY.

For aught I see, they are as sick, that surfeit with too much, as they that starve with nothing: It is no mean happiness, therefore, to be seated in the mean; superfluity comes sooner by white hairs, but competency lives longer.

SPECULATION MORE EASY THAN PRACTICE.

If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages, princes' palaces. It is a good divine that follows his own instructions: I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done, than be one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching. The brain may devise laws for the blood; but a hot temper leaps over a cold decree; such a hare is madness the youth, to skip o'er the meshes of good counsel the cripple.

* Obstinate silence.

A b

THE JEW'S MALICE.

Bass. This is signior Antonio.

Shy. [Aside.] How like a fawning publican he

looks!

I hate him, for he is a Christian:

But more, for that, in low simplicity,

He lends out money gratis, and brings down
The rate of usance here with us in Venice.

- If I can catch him once upon the hip,

I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him
He hates our sacred nation; and he rails,
Even there where merchants most do congregate,
On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift,
Which he calls interest: Cursed be my tribe,
If I forgive him!

HYPOCRISY.

Mark you this, Bassanio,

The devil can cite scripture for his purpose.
An evil soul, producing holy witness,
Is like a villain with a smiling cheek;
A goodly apple rotten at the heart;
O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!

THE JEW'S EXPOSTULATION.

Signior Antonio, many a time and oft,
In the Rialto you have rated me
About my monies, and my usances:*
Still have I borne it with a patient shrug;
For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe:
You call me-misbeliever, cut-throat dog,
And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine,
And all for use of that which is mine own.
Well then it now appears, you need my help:
Go to then; you come to me, and you say,
Shylock, we would have monies: You say so,
You, that did void your rheum upon my beard,
And foot me, as you spurn a stranger cur
Over your threshold: Monies is your suit.
What should I say to you? Should I not say,