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CAS. Why man, he doth beftride the narrow world Like a Coloffus! and we petty men

Walk under his huge legs, and peep about
To find ourselves dishonourable graves.
Men at fome times are mafters of their fates;
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our ftars,
But in ourselves, that we are underlings.

Brutus-and Cæfar-what should be in that Cæfar ?
Why should that name be founded more than yours?
Write them together: yours is as fair a name :
Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well;
Weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with 'em,
Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Cæfar.
Now, in the names of all the gods at once,
Upon what meats does this our Cæsar feed,
That he is grown fo great? Age, thou art fhamed;
Rome, thou haft loft the breed of noble bloods.
When went there by an age, fince the great flood,
But it was fam'd with more than with one man ?
When could they fay, till now, that talk'd of Rome,
That her wide walls encompafs'd but one man?

Oh! you

and I have heard our fathers fay,

There was a Brutus, one that would have brook'd
Th' eternal devil to keep his flate in Rome

As eafily as a king.

BRU. That you do love me, I am nothing jealous: What you would work me to, I have fome aim: How I have thought of this, and of these times, I shall recount hereafter: for this present, I would not (fo with love I might entreat you) Be any farther mov'd. What you have faid, I will confider; what you have to say, I will with patience hear; and find a time Both meet to hear, and anfwer fuch high things. Till then, my noble friend, chew upon this:

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Brutus

Brutus had rather be a villager,

Than to repute himself a son of Rome
Under fuch hard-conditions as this time
Is like to lay upon us.

CAS. I am glad that my weak words

Have ftruck but thus much show of fire from Brutus.

SHAKSPEARE,

CHAP. XV.

BELLARIUS, GUIDERIUS, AND ARVIRAGUS.

BEL. A GOODLY day! not to keep houfe, with fuch,
Whofe roof's as low as ours: fee! boys, this gate
Inftructs you how t' adore the heav'ns; and bows you
To morning's holy office. Gates of monarchs
Are arch'd fo high, that giants may jet through,
And keep their impious turbans on, without
Good-morrow to the fun. Hail, thou fair Heav'n!
We houfe i' th' rock, yet ufe thee not fo hardly
As prouder livers do.

GUID. Hail, Heav'n!

ARV. Hail, Heav'n!

BEL. Now for our mountain fport, up to 'yond' hill,

Confider,

Your legs are young. I'll tread thefe flats.
When you above perceive me like a crow,
That it is place which leffens and fets off;
And you may then revolve what tales I told you,
Of courts, of princes, of the tricks in war;
That fervice is not service, fo being done,
But being fo allow'd. To apprehend thus,
Draws us a profit from all things we fee;
And often to our comfort fhall we find
The fharded beetle in a fafer hold,
Than is the full wing'd eagle. Oh, this life
Is nobler than attending for a check :

Richer,

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Richer, than doing nothing for a bauble;

Prouder, than ruftling in unpaid for filk.

Such gain the cap of him, that makes them fine,
Yet keeps his book uncrofs'd:-

:-no life to ours.

GUID. Out of your proof you speak; we, poor, unfledg'd,
Have never wing'd from view o' th' neft; nor know
What air's from home. Haply this life is beft,
If quiet life is beft; fweeter to you,

That have a sharper known; well correfponding
With your
ftiff age: but unto us, it is
A cell of ign'rance; travelling abed;
A prifon, for a debtor that not dares
To ftride a limit.

ARV. What should we speak of,

When we are old as you? When we shall hear
The rain and wind beat dark December? how,
In this our pinching cave, fhall we difcourfe

The freezing hours away? We have feen nothing;
We're beaftly; fubtle as the fox for
prey,

Like warlike as the wolf, for what we eat,
Our valour is to chafe what flies: our cage
We make a choir, as doth the prifon'd bird,
And fing out bondage freely..

BEL. How you speak!

Did you but know the city's ufuries,

And felt them knowingly; the art o' th' court,
As hard to leave, as keep; whofe top to climb,

Is certain falling; or fo flipp'ry that

The fear's as bad as falling; the toil of war;
A pain that only feems to feek out danger

l' th' name of fame and honour; which dies i' th' fearch, And hath as oft a fland'rous epitaph,

As record of fair act; nay, many time,

Doth ill deferve, by doing well; what's worse,

Muft curt'fy at the cenfure. -Oh, boys, this story

The world might read in me: my body's mark'd
With Roman fwords; and my report was once
First with the beft of note. Cymbeline lov'd me;

And when a foldier was the theme, my name

Was not far off: then was I as a tree,

Whofe boughs did bend with fruit. But in one night,
A ftorm, or robbery, call it what you will,

Shook down my mellow hangings, nay my leaves;
And left me bare to weather.

GUID. Uncertain favour!

BEL. My fault being nothing, as I have told you oft,
But that two villains (whofe falfe oaths prevail'd
Before my perfect honour) fwore to Cymbeline
I was confed'rate with the Romans: fo

Follow'd my banishment: and, this twenty years,
This rock and these demefnes have been my world;
Where I have liv'd at honeft freedom, paid

More pious debts to Heaven, than in all

The fore-end of my time-But, up to th' mountains È
This is not hunter's language; he that strikes
The venifon firft, fhall be the lord o' th' feast;
To him the other two fhall minifter,

And we will fear no poison, which attends

In place of greater state.

I'll meet you in the vallies.

SHAKEREALE.

BOOK VII.

DESCRIPTIVE PIECES.

CHAP. I.

SENSIBILITY.

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DEAR Senfibility! fource inexhaufted of all that's precious in our joys, or coftly in our forrows! thou chaineft thy martyr down upon his bed of ftraw, and it is thou who lifteft him up to Heaven. Eternal Fountain of our feelings! It is here I trace thee, and this is thy divinity which stirs within me: not, that in fome fad and fickening moments, foul fhrinks back herself, and startles at deftruction'-mere pomp of words!—but that I feel fome generous joys and generous cares beyond myself-all comes from thee, great, great Senforium of the world! which vibrates, if a hair of our head but falls upon the ground, in the remoteft defert of thy creation. Touched with thee, Eugenius draws my curtain when I languish; hears my tale of fymptoms, and blames the weather for the diforder of his nerves. Thou givet a portion of it fome. times to the roughest peasant who traverses the bleakest mountains. He finds the facerated lamb of another's flock. This moment I behold him leaning with his head against his rook, with piteous inclination looking down upon it.

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