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I shall be glad to learn of noble men.
Cas. You wrong me every way; you wrong me, Brutus ;
I said an elder soldier, not a better :
Did I say better?
If you did, I care not.
Cas. When Cæsar livd he durst not thus have mov'd me.
Bru. Peace, peace ! you durst not so have tempted him.
Cas. I durst not !
Cas. What, durst not tempt him !
For your life you durst not.
Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love ;
I may do that I shall be sorry for.
Bru. You have done that
There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats ;
For I am arm'd so strong in honesty,
That they pass by me as the idle wind,
Which I respect not. I did send to you
For certain sums of gold, which you denied me ;-
For I can raise no money by vile means :
By heaven, I had rather coin my heart,
And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring
From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash
By any indirection ;-I did send
To you for gold to pay my legions,
denied me : was that done like Cassius ?
Should I have answer'd Caius Cassius so ?
When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous,
To lock such rascal counters from his friends,
Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts,
Dash him to pieces !
Bru. You did.
I did not:-he was but a fool
That brought my answer back.—Brutus hath riv'd my heart :
A friend should bear his friend's infirmities,
But Brutus makes mine greater than they are.
Bru. I do not, till you practise them on me.
Cas. You love me not.
faults. Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults.
Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they do appear
As huge as high Olympus.
Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come,
Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius,
For Cassius is a-weary of the world :
Hated by one he loves ; brav'd by his brother ;
Check'd like a bondman; all his faults observd,
Set in a note-book, learn’d and conn'd by rote,
To cast into my teeth. O, I could weep
My spirit from mine eyes !—There is my dagger,
And here my naked breast ; within, a heart
Dearer than Plutus'? mine, richer than gold :
If that thou beest a Roman, take it forth ;
I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart :
Strike, as thou didst at Cæsar ; for, I know,
When thou didst hate him worst thou lov'dst him better
Than ever thou lov'dst Cassius.
Sheathe your dagger ;
when you will, it shall have scope ;
Do what you will, dishonour shall be humour.
O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb
That carries anger as the flint bears fire ;
Who, much enforced, shews a hasty spark,
And straight is cold again.
Hath Cassius liv'd
To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus,
When grief, and blood ill-temperd, vexeth him ?
Bru. When I spoke that I was ill-temper'd too.
Cas. Do you confess so much ? Give me your hand.
Bru. And my heart too.
O Brutus !
What's the matter ?
Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me,
When that rash humour which my mother gave me
Makes me forgetful ?
Yes, Cassius ; and, from henceforth,
When you are over-earnest with your Brutus,
He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so.
SELECTIONS FROM SHAKSPEARE'S SONGS.
SERENADE. From Cymbeline, Act II. Sc. iii.
Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phæbus 'gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes ;
With everything that pretty is :
My lady sweet, arise ;
INFLUENCE OF Music. From King Henry VIII., Act III. Sc. i.
Orpheus with his lute made trees,
And the mountain-tops that freeze,
Bow themselves, when he did sing :
To his music, plants and flowers
Ever sprung; as sun, and showers
There had made a lasting spring.
Everything that heard him play,
Even the billows of the sea,
Hung their heads, and then lay by-
In sweet music is such art:
Killing care and grief of heart,
Fall asleep, or, hearing, die.
From Midsummer Night's Dream, Act V. Sc. ii.
Now the hungry lion roars,
And the wolf behowls the moon;
Whilst the heavy ploughinan snores,
All with weary task foredone. 1 Phoebus, the sun-god, in the Grecian mythology, drove the chariot of the sun drawn by four horses.
Now the wasted brands do glow,
Whilst the scritch owl, scritching loud,
Puts the wretch that lies in woe
In remembrance of a shroud.
Now it is the time of night
That the graves, all gaping wide,
Every one lets forth his sprite,
In the churchway paths to glide :
And we fairies, that do run,
By the triple Hecate's 1 team,
From the presence of the sun,
Following darkness like a dream,
Now are frolic; not a mouse
Shall disturb this hallowed house.
From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,
That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:
Nor did I wonder at the lilies white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seemed it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.
John Donne, D.D., Dean of St Paul's, stands at the head of a class known
by the name of the Metaphysical Poets. These were such,' says Dr Samuel Johnson, 'as laboured after conceits, or novel turns of thought, usually false, and resting upon some equivocation of language, or exceedingly remote analogy.' Donne is also usually considered as the first writer of satire in rhyming couplets, such as Dryden and Pope carried to perfection. His works consist of satires, elegies, religious poems, complimentary verses, and epigrams.
Vengeance will sit above our faults; but till
She there do sit
We see her not nor them. Thus blind, yet still
We lead her way; and thus whilst we do ill
We suffer it.
Unhappy he whom youth makes not beware
Of doing ill:
Enough we labour under age and care :
In number th' errors of the last place are
The greatest still.
Yet we, that should the ill we now begin
As soon repent,
(Strange thing !) perceive not; our faults are not seen,
But past us ; neither felt, but only in
But we know ourselves least; mere outward shows
Our minds so store,
That our souls, no more than our eyes, disclose
But form and colour: only he who knows
Himself knows more.