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Yea, from the table of my memory
THE EXTENT OF HUMAN PERFECTION.
He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again.
OPHELIA'S DESCRIPTION OF HAMLET'S MAD ADDRESS
Pol. Mad for thy love?
My lord, I do not know ;
What said he?
Oph. He took me by the wrist, and held me hard ; Then goes he to the length of all his arm; And, with his other hand thus o'er his brow, He falls to such perusal of my face, As he would draw it. Long stay'd he so; At last-a little shaking of mine arm, And thrice bis head this waving up and down,He rais’d a sigh so piteous and profound, As it did seem to shatter all his bulk*, And end his being: That done, he lets me go: And, with his head over his shoulder turn'd, He seem'd to find his way without his eyes: For out o' doors he went without their helps, And, to the last, bended their light on me.
Beshrew my jealousy !
HAPPINESS CONSISTS IN OPINJON.
Why, then 'tis none to you; for there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so: to me it is a prison.
REFLECTIONS ON MAN. I have of late, (but, wherefore, I know not,) lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises : and, indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition, that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a steril promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me, than a foul and pestilent congreation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason! how infinite in facul. ties ! in form, and moving, how express and admirable! in action, how like an angel ! in apprehen
sion, how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me, nor woman neither; though, by your smiling, you seem to say so. HAMLET'S REFLECTIONS ON THE PLAYER AND HIMSELF.
0, what a rogue and peasant slave am I! Is it not monstrous, that this player here, But in a fiction, in a dream of passion, Could force his soul to his own conceit, That from her working, all his visage wann'd; Tears in his eyes, distraction in's aspect, A broken voice, and his whole function suiting With forms to his conceit! And all for nothing! For Hecuba! What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hccuba, That he should weep for her? What would he do, Had he the motive and the cue for passion That I have? He would drown the stage with tears, And cleave the general ear with horrid speech; Make mad the guilty, and appal the free, Confound the ignorant; and amaze, indeed, The very faculties of eyes and ears. Yet I, A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak, Like John à-dreams, unpregnant of my cause, And can say nothing; no, not for a king, Upon whose property, and most dear life, A damn'd defeat* was made. Ani I a coward ? Who calls me villain? breaks my pate across Plucks off my beard, and blows it in my face? Tweaks me by the nose? gives me the lie i'the throat; As deep as to the lungs? Who does me this? Ha! Why, I should take it: for it cannot be, But I am pigeon-liver'd, and lack gall To make oppression bitter; or, ere this, I should have fatted all the region kites
With this slave's offal: Bloody, bawdy villain!
We are oft to blame in this, 'Tis too much prov'd ş, – that, with devotion's visage, And pious action, we do sugar o'er The devil himself. King.
0, 'tis too true! how smart A lash that speech doth give my conscience! The harlot's cheek, beautified with plastering art, * Unnatural.
+ Search his wounds. Shrink or start. $ Too frequent.
Is not more ugly to the thing that helps it,
SOLILOQUY ON LIFE AND DEATH.