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me,

For certain sums of gold, which you denied me; Cas.

O Brutus ! For I can raise no money by vile means :

BRU.

What's the matter? By Heaven, I had rather coin my heart,

Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash, When that rash humor which my mother gave me By any indirection. I did send

Makes me forgetful ? To you for gold to pay my legions,

BRU. Yes, Cassius ; and from henceforth,
Which you denied me : Was that done like Cassius ? When you are over-earnest with your Brutus,
Should I have answered Caius Cassius so? He 'll think your mother chides, and leave you so.
When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous,
To lock such rascal counters from his friends, Bru. O Cassius ! I am sick of many griefs.
Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts, Cas. Of your philosophy you make no use,
Dash him to pieces !

If you give place to accidental evils.
CAS.
I denied you not.

Bru. No man bears sorrow better :- Portia is BRU. You did.

dead. Cas.

I did not :-- he was but a fool CAS. Ha ! Portia ? That brought my answer back. Brutus hath BRU. She is dead. rived my heart :

Cas. How ’scaped I killing, when I crossed you A friend should bear his friend's infirmities,

so ? -
But Brutus makes mine greater than they are. O insupportable and touching loss !

Bru. I do not, till you practise them on me. Upon what sickness ?
CAs. You love me not.

BRU.

Impatient of my absence, BRU.

I do not like your faults. And grief that young Octavius with Mark Antony CAS. A friendly eye could never see such faults. Have made themselves so strong ; - for with her BRU. A flatterer's would not, though they do death appear

That tidings came ; -- with this she fell distract, As huge as high Olympus.

And, her attendants absent, swallowed fire, Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, CAS. And died so ? come,

BRU. Even so.
Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius,

Cas. O ye immortal gods !
For Cassius is a-weary of the world :
Hated by one he loves ; braved by his brother ; Enter LUCIUS, with wine and tapers.
Checked like a bondman ; all his faults observed,
Set in a note-book, learned and conned by rote,

Bru. Speak no more of her. Give me a bowl To cast into my teeth. O, I could weep

of wine : My spirit from mine eyes ! — There is my dagger, In this I bury all unkindness, Cassius. (Drinks.) And here my naked breast; within, a heart

Cas. My heart is thirsty for that noble Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold :

pledge. If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth ;

Fill, Lucius, till the wine o'erswell the cup; I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart.

I cannot drink too much of Brutus' love. (Drinks.) 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.

THE ROYAL GUEST. BRU.

Sheath your dagger :

They tell me I am shrewd with other men ; Be angry when you will, it shall have scope;

With thee I’m slow, and difficult of speech. Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor. O Cassius, you are yokéd with a lamb

With others I may guide the car of talk:

Thou wing'st it oft to realms beyond my reach. That carries anger, as the flint bears fire; Who, much enforcéd, shows a hasty spark,

If other guests should come, I'd deck my hair, And straight is cold again.

And choose my newest garment from the shelf; CAS.

Hath Cassius lived when thou art bidden, I would clothe my heart To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus,

With holiest purpose, as for God himself. When grief, and blood ill-tempered, vexeth him?

Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered too. For them I while the hours with tale or song, Cas. Do you confess so much ? Give me your Or web of fancy, fringed with careless rhyme ; hand.

But how to find a fitting lay for thee, BRU. And my heart too.

Who hast the harmonies of every time ?

SHAKESPEARE.

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COMPLIMENT AND ADMIRATION.

TO MISTRESS MARGARET HUSSEY.

MERRY Margaret,
As midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon,
Or hawk of the tower ;
With solace and gladness,
Much mirth and no madness,
All good and no badness ;
So joyously,
So maidenly,
So womanly
Her demeaning, -
In everything
Far, far passing
That I can indite,
Or suffice to write,
Of merry Margaret,
As midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon
Or hawk of the tower ;
As patient and as still,
And as full of good-will,
As fair Isiphil,
Coliander,
Sweet Pomander,
Good Cassander;
Steadfast of thought,
Well made, well wrought;
Far may be sought
Ere you can find
So courteous, so kind,
As merry Margaret,
This midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon,
Or hawk of the tower.

JOHN SKELTON.

"Twixt the souls of friend and friend : But upon the fairest boughs,

Or at every sentence' end, Will I Rosalinda write;

Teaching all that read to know The quintessence of every sprite

Heaven would in little show. Therefore Heaven nature charged

That one body should be filled With all graces wide enlarged :

Nature presently distilled Helen's cheek, but not her heart,

Cleopatra's majesty, Atalanta's better part,

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,

Fringéd all about with gold, Where doth sit the fairest fair

That ever eye did yet behold.

It is Phillis, fair and bright,

She that is the shepherd's joy, She that Venus did despite,

And did blind her little boy.

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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.

Why should this desert silent be?

For it is unpeopled ? No; Tongues I 'll hang on every tree,

That shall civil sayings show: Some, how brief the life of man

Runs his erring pilgrimage ; That the stretching of a span

Buckles in his sum of age : Some, of violated vows

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A VIOLEt in her lovely hair,
A rose upon her bosom fair !

But 0, her eyes
A lovelier violet disclose,
And her ripe lips the sweetest rose

That's 'neath the skies.

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.

A lute beneath her graceful hand Breathes music forth at her command ;

But still her tongue Far richer music calls to birth Than all the minstrel power on earth

Can give to song.

SHAKESPEARE

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