For certain sums of gold, which you denied me; And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring Which you denied me: Was that done like Cassius? For Cassius is a-weary of the world: Than ever thou lov'dst Cassius. BRU. O Cassius, you are yokéd with a lamb Who, much enforcéd, shows a hasty spark, CAS. Hath Cassius lived To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, When grief, and blood ill-tempered, vexeth him? BRU. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered too. CAS. Do you confess so much? Give me your hand. BRU. And my heart too. THE ROYAL GUEST. THEY tell me I am shrewd with other men ; If other guests should come, I'd deck my hair, For them I while the hours with tale or song, Or web of fancy, fringed with careless rhyme; But how to find a fitting lay for thee, Who hast the harmonies of every time? COMPLIMENT AND ADMIRATION. TO MISTRESS MARGARET HUSSEY. MERRY Margaret, As midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon, Or hawk of the tower; So maidenly, So womanly Her demeaning, - Or hawk of the tower; Sweet Pomander, So courteous, so kind, As merry Margaret, This midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon, Or hawk of the tower. "Twixt the souls of friend and friend: But upon the fairest boughs, Or at every sentence' end, Teaching all that read to know Sad Lucretia's modesty. Thus Rosalind of many parts By heavenly synod was devised; Of many faces, eyes, and hearts, To have the touches dearest prized. Heaven would that she these gifts should have, And I to live and die her slave. SHAKESPEARE. PHILLIS THE FAIR. ON a hill there grows a flower, Fair befall the dainty sweet! By that flower there is a bower Where the heavenly muses meet. In that bower there is a chair, Fringed all about with gold, Where doth sit the fairest fair That ever eye did yet behold. It is Phillis, fair and bright, And did blind her little boy. Who would not that face admire? Who would not this saint adore? Who would not this sight desire? Though he thought to see no more. Thou that art the shepherd's queen, Look upon thy love-sick swain ; By thy comfort have been seen Dead men brought to life again. NICHOLAS BRETON PORTIA'S PICTURE. FROM "THE MERCHANT OF VENICE." FAIR Portia's counterfeit? What demi-god Hath come so near creation? Move these eyes? Or whether, riding on the balls of mine, Seem they in motion? Here are severed lips, Parted with sugar breath; so sweet a bar Should sunder such sweet friends: Here in her hairs The painter plays the spider; and hath woven A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men, Faster than gnats in cobwebs : But her eyes, How could he see to do them? having made one, Methinks it should have power to steal both his, And leave itself unfurnished. SHAKESPEARE |