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,

Which you 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!

Cas.

Bru. You did.

Cas.

I denied you not.

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.

Bru.

I do not like your 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 observ'd,
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 be'st 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.

Bru.

Sheath your dagger :

Be angry when you will, it shall have scope;

QUARREL OF BRUTUS AND CASSIUS.

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, shows a hasty spark,
And straight is cold again.

Cas.
Hath Cassius liv'd
To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus,
When grief, and blood ill-temper'd, 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.

Cas.

Bru.

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?

Bru.

Yes, Cassius; and, from henceforth,

When you are over-earnest with your Brutus,

He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so.

Shakspeare (Julius Cæsar').

OTHELLO'S ACCOUNT OF HIS COURTSHIP OF DESDEMONA.

Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors,
My very noble and approv'd good masters,—

That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter,
It is most true; true, I have married her;

The very head and front of my offending

Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech,
And little bless'd with the soft phrase of peace;
For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith,
Till now some nine moons wasted, they have us'd
Their dearest action in the tented field;

And little of this great world can I speak,
More than pertains to feats of broil and battle;
And therefore little shall I grace my cause

In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience,

105

I will a round unvarnish'd tale deliver

Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms,
What conjuration, and what mighty magic,-

For such proceeding I am charg'd withal,—

I won his daughter

Her father lov'd me; oft invited me;

Still question'd me the story of my life,

From year to year,-the battles, sieges, fortunes,
That I have pass'd.

I ran it through, even from my boyish days,
To the very moment that he bade me tell it.
Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances;
Of moving accidents by flood and field;

Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach;
Of being taken by the insolent foe

And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence,

And portance* in my travel's history:

Wherein of antres† vast, and deserts idle,

Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven,

It was my hint to speak,—such was the process;—

And of the Cannibals that each other eat,

The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads

Do grow beneath their shoulders. These things to hear
Would Desdemona seriously incline;

But still the house affairs would draw her thence;

Which ever as she could with haste despatch,

She'd come again, and with a greedy ear

Devour up my discourse: which I observing,
Took once a pliant hour, and found good means
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate,
Whereof by parcels she had something heard,
But not intentively: I did consent;

And often did beguile her of her tears,
When I did speak of some distressful stroke
That my youth suffer'd. My story being done,
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs:

She swore,-In faith, 't was strange, 't was passing strange;

* Conduct, behaviour.

Caves. From Lat. antrum.

OTHELLO'S ACCOUNT OF HIS COURTSHIP.

'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful:

She wish'd she had not heard it; yet she wish'd

That Heav'n had made her such a man: she thank'd me;

And bade me, if I had a friend that lov'd her,

I should but teach him how to tell my story,

And that would woo her. Upon this hint I spake :

She lov'd me for the dangers I had pass'd;

And I lov'd her that she did pity them.

This only is the witchcraft I have us'd.

Shakspeare ('Othello").

107

SCENE FROM AS YOU LIKE IT.'

The Forest of ARDEN.

Enter DUKE Senior, AMIENS, and other Lords, in the dress of
Foresters.

Duke S. Now, my co-mates, and brothers in exile,
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court?
Here feel we not the penalty of Adam.
The seasons' difference,-as, the icy fang,
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind,
Which when it bites and blows upon my body,
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say
This is no flattery,-these are counsellors
That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Sweet are the uses of adversity;

Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,

Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;

And this our life, exempt from public haunt,

Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.

Ami. I would not change it: Happy is your grace,
That can translate the stubbornness of fortune

Into so quiet and so sweet a style.

Duke S. Come, shall we go and kill us venison ? And yet it irks me, the poor dappled fools,— Being native burghers of this desert city,

Should, in their own confines, with forked heads
Have their round haunches gor'd.

1 Lord.

Indeed, my lord,

The melancholy Jaques grieves at that;
And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp
Than doth your brother who hath banish'd you.
To-day, my lord of Amiens and myself
Did steal behind him, as he lay along

Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out
Upon the brook that brawls along this wood:
To the which place a poor sequester'd stag,
That from the hunters' aim had ta’en a hurt,
Did come to languish; and, indeed, my lord,
The wretched animal heav'd forth such groans,
That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat
Almost to bursting; and the big round tears
Cours'd one another down his innocent nose
In piteous chase: and thus the hairy fool,
Much marked of the melancholy Jaques,
Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook,
Augmenting it with tears.

Duke S.

But what said Jaques ?

Did he not moralise this spectacle ?

1 Lord. O, yes, into a thousand similes.

First, for his weeping into the needless stream;

'Poor deer,' quoth he, 'thou mak'st a testament

As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more

To that which had too much.' Then being there alone, Left and abandon'd of his velvet friend;

''T is right,' quoth he; 'thus misery doth part
The flux of company:' Anon, a careless herd,
Full of the pasture, jumps along by him,

And never stays to greet him; 'Ay,' quoth Jaques,
Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens;
'Tis just the fashion: Wherefore do you look
Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there ? '
Thus most invectively he pierceth through
The body of the country, city, court,
Yea, and of this our life: swearing that we
Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what's worse,
To fright the animals, and to kill them up,