Por. Is your name Shylock?
Shylock. Shylock is my name.

Por. Of a strange nature is the suit you follow;
Yet in such rule, that the Venetian law

Cannot impugn you, as you do proceed-
Then must the Jew be merciful.

Shy. On what compulsion must I? tell me that.
Por. The quality of mercy is not strain'd;
It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven,
Upon the place beneath; it is twice bless'd-
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes;
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes
The thronéd monarch better than his crown;
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway,
It is enthronéd in the hearts of kings,

It is an attribute to God himself;

And earthly power doth then show likest God's
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this,—
That in the course of justice, none of us

Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy;
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much

To mitigate the justice of thy plea:

Which if though follow, this strict court of Venice Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there. Shy. My deeds upon my head! I crave the law,

The penalty and forfeit of my bond.

We trifle time; I pray thee, pursue sentence.

Por. A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine; The court awards it, and the law doth give it. Shy. Most rightful judge!

Por. And you must cut this flesh from off his breast; The law allows it and the court awards it.

Shy. Most learned judge;-A sentence; come pre

pare.

Por. Tarry a little:-there is something else—
This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood;
The words expressly are, a pound of flesh:
Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh;
But in the cutting of it, if thou dost shed

One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods
Are by the laws of Venice, confiscate
Unto the state of Venice.

Shy. Is that the law?

Por. Thyself shall see the act:

Why doth the Jew pause? take thy forfeiture.
Shy. Give me my principal, and let me go.
Por. He hath refused it in the open court;
He shall have merely justice, and his bond.
Shy. Shall I not have barely my principal?
Por. Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture,
To be so taken at thy peril, Jew.

Shy. Why then the devil give him good of it!
I'll stay no longer question.

Por. Tarry, Jew;

The law hath yet another hold on you.

It is enacted in the laws of Venice,

If it be proved against an alien,

That by direct or indirect attempts,
He seek the life of any citizen,

The party 'gainst the which he doth contrive,
Shall seize one half his goods: the other half
Comes to the privy coffer of the state;
And the offender's life lies in the mercy
Of the duke only, 'gainst all other voice.
In which predicament I say, thou stand'st.
Down therefore, and beg mercy of the duke.

Duke. That thou shalt see the difference of our spirit, I pardon thee thy life, before thou ask it;

For half thy wealth, it is Antonio's;
The other half comes to the general state,
Which humbleness may drive unto a fine.

SHAKESPEARE.

THE SLEEP-WALKING SCENE.

MACBETH.-Act V.-Scene 1.

Enter a Doctor and a Gentlewoman.

Doctor. I have two nights watched with you, but can perceive no truth in your report. When was it she last walked?

Gentlewoman. Since his majesty went into the field, I have seen her rise from her bed, throw her nightgown upon her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon it, read it, afterwards seal it, and again return to bed; yet all this while in a most fast sleep. Enter Lady Macbeth, with a taper.

Lo you, here she comes! This is her very guise; and upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close. Doct. You see, her eyes are open.

Gent. Ay, but their sense is shut.

Doct. What is it she does now? Look, how she rubs her hands.

Gent. It is an accustomed action with her to seem thus washing her hands; I have known her to continue in this a quarter of an hour.

Lady M. Yet here's a spot.

Doct. Hark! she speaks; I will set down what comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly. Lady M. Out, damned spot! out, I say. One! Two! why then 'tis time to do't:-Hell is murky ;-Fie, my lord, fie, a soldier and afear'd? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account? Yet who would have thought the old man to have so much blood in him?

Doct. Do you mark that?

Lady M. The thane of Fife had a wife: Where is she now? What, will these hands ne'er be clean? No more o' that, my lord, no more o' that; you mar all with this starting. Here's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little. hand. Oh! oh! oh!

SHAKESPEARE.

THE PENITENT'S LAMENTATION.

JANE SHORE.Act V.-Scene 2.

Enter Jane Shore, her hair hanging loose on her shoulders, and bare-footed.

Jane Shore. Yet, yet endure, nor murmur, O my soul! For are not thy transgressions great and numberless? Do they not cover thee like rising floods,

And press thee like a weight of waters down?
Wait then with patience, till the circling hours
Shall bring the time of thy appointed rest,
And lay thee down to death.

And hark! methinks the roar of them pursuing,
Sinks like the murmurs of a falling wind,
And softens into silence. Does revenge
And malice then grow weary and forsake me?
My guards, too, that observ'd me still so close,
Tire in the task of their inhuman office

And loiter far behind.

Alas! I faint,

The time has been

My spirits fail at once.
When this unfriendly door, that bars my passage,
Flew wide, and almost leap'd from off its hinges,
To give me entrance here: when this good house
Has poured forth all its dwellers to receive me;
When my approaches made a little holiday,

And every face was dressed in smiles to meet me;
But now 'tis otherwise; and those who bless'd me,
Now curse me to my face. Why should I wander,
Stray further on, for I can die ev'n here?

[She sits down. I can no more; [lies down.] receive me, thou cold

earth,

Thou common parent, take me to thy bosom,
And let me rest with thee.

Enter Belmour.

Belmour. Upon the ground!

Thy miseries can never lay thee lower.

Look up, thou poor afflicted one! thou mourner,
Whom none has comforted! Be of courage;-
Your husband lives! 'tis he, my worthiest friend.

Enter Shore.

Jane S. Still art thou there? still dost thou hover

round me?

Oh, save me, Belmour, from his angry shade!

Bel. 'Tis he himself! he lives! look up:-
Jane S. I dare not.

Oh! that my eyes could shut him out for ever.

Shore. Am I so hateful then, so deadly to thee, To blast thy eyes with horror? Since I am grown A burden to the world, myself and thee,

Would I had ne'er survived to see thee more.

Jane S. Oh! thou most injur'd-dost thou live indeed?

Forgive me!-but forgive me!

Shore. Be witness for me, ye celestial host, Such mercy and such pardon as my soul

Accords to thee, and begs of heav'n to show thee,

May such befall me, at my latest hour,

And make my portion blest or curst for ever.

Jane S. Then all is well, and I shall sleep in peace;—

'Tis very dark, and I have lost you now:

Was there not something I would have bequeath'd you? But I have nothing left me to bestow,

Nothing but one sad sigh. O! mercy, heav'n! [Dies.

ROWE.

THREE PRAYERS.

Beneath a cross, beyond the town,
Before a shrine for sorrows made,
Three simple maidens knelt them down,
And from their hearts devoutly pray'd.

One, dreaming of created things-
The purple sea, the perfect sky,
Bright, happy birds with painted wings,
Glad buds that bloom before they die,

The waving woods--the scented air

Clung to her heart, and through her sighs
Was heard the gentle maiden's pray'r;