But here's a parchment with the seal of Cæsar;
I found it in his closet, 'tis his will;
Let but the commons1 hear this testament
(Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read),
And they would go and kiss dead Cæsar's wounds,
And dip their napkins in his sacred blood;
Yea, beg a hair of him, for memory,
And, dying, mention it within their wills,
Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy,
You all do know this mantle; I remember
The first time ever Cæsar put it on-
'Twas on a summer's evening in his tent,
That day he overcame the Nervii-
Look! in this place ran Cassius' dagger through;
See what a rent the envious Casca made;-
Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabbed;
And as he plucked his cursed steel away
Mark how the blood of Cæsar followed it!
As rushing out of doors, to be resolved2
If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no:
For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar's angel:
Judge, O you gods! how dearly Cæsar loved him :
This was the most unkindest cut of all:
For when the noble Cæsar saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,
Quite vanquished him; then burst his mighty heart;
And, in his mantle muffling up his face,
Even at the base of Pompey's statua,3
Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar fell.
Oh, what a fall was there, my countrymen!
Then I, and you, and all of us fell down,
Whilst bloody treason flourished over us.
Oh, now you weep; and I perceive you feel
The dint of pity: these are gracious drops.
(1) The commons-the common people or plebs Romana.
(2) To be resolved-to have the doubt resolved, to ascertain the point.
(3) Statua-This word was once much used for statue.
(4) All the while-i. e. "the blood of Cæsar flew upon the statue, and trickled
(5) Flourished-i. e. flourished or brandished the sword-triumphed.
(6) Dint-mark, impression.
Kind souls! What! weep you when you but behold
Our Cæsar's vesture wounded? Look you here!
Here is himself, marred, as you see, with traitors.
Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up
To any sudden flood of mutiny.
They that have done this deed are honourable:
What private griefs they have, alas! I know not,
That made them do it; they are wise and honourable,
And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you.
I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts;
I am no orator, as Brutus is;
But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man,
That loved my friend; and that they know full well
That gave me public leave to speak of him.
For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,
Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech,
To stir men's blood; I only speak right on:
I tell you that which you yourselves do know;
Show you sweet Cæsar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths!
And bid them speak for me: but were I Brutus,
And Brutus Antony, there were1 an Antony
Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue
every wound of Cæsar, that should move
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.
OTHELLO'S COURTSHIP.2
Related before the Senate of Venice.
MOST potent, grave, and reverend signiors,
My very noble and approved 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 speech,
And little blest with the soft phrase of peace;
(1) There were, &c.-i. e. I would prove such an Antony as would ruffle, &c. (2) "Othello," Act i., scene 3.
This simple and beautiful narrative affords many instances of the influence which Shakspere's phraseology has had upon our language. His words and expressions, from their aptness and pithiness, have truly become "household terms" amongst us, still keeping their sharp and fresh appearance, like ancient coins in high preservation.
For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith,
Till now some nine moons wasted they have used
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,
I will a round unvarnished tale deliver
Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms,
What conjuration, and what mighty magic
(For such proceeding I am charged withal)
I won his daughter with.
Her father loved me; oft invited me;
Still questioned me the story of my life,
From year to year; the battles, sieges, fortunes,
That I have past.
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-breath 'scapes in the imminent deadly breach;
Of being taken by the insolent foe,
And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence,
And portance1 in my travel's history:
Wherein of antres2 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,3 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,
(1) Portance-port, bearing, conduct.
(2) Antres-from the Latin antrum, a cavern-caves.
(3) Anthropophagi—from the Greek äveρwños, a man, and payɛiv, to eat
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 suffered. My story being done,
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs;
She swore, in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange,
"Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful-
She wished she had not heard it ;-yet she wished
That heaven had made her such a man :-she thanked me,
And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her,
I should but teach him how to tell my story,
And that would woo her. Upon this hint I spake;
She loved me for the dangers I had passed,
And I loved her that she did pity them.
This only is the witchcraft I have used.
ALL the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts-
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
And then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad3
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then the soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,*
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly, with good capon lined,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
(1) Intentively with diligent, undivided attention. (2) "As You Like It," Act ii., scene 7.
(3) Ballad-a song or sonnet.
(4) Pard-leopard.
(5) Saws-see note 4, p. 171.
(6) Modern instances-instances of the folly of the age in which he lives, in comparison with the "good old times."
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shanks; and his big manly voice,
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion;
Sans' teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing.
END OF ALL EARTHLY GLORIES.2
OUR revels now are ended: these our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air;
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve;
And, like this unsubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack3 behind!
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 but the penalty of Adam,
The season's 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
This is no flattery; these are counsellors
That feelingly persuade me what I am."
(1) Sans-a French word-without.
(2) "The Tempest," Act iv., scene 1.
This is said by Prospero, who by magical arts had raised a vision of a masque, or scenic entertainment.
(3) Rack-see note 3, p. 144.
(4) "As You Like It," Act ii., scene 2.
Spoken by an oid nobleman who had retired from the world.
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