« VorigeDoorgaan »
I thank you. By yon bush?-Pray, how far thi
'Ods pittikins* !-can it be six miles yet? [sleep.
A ROUTED ARMY.
No blame be to you, sir; for all was lost, But that the heavens fought: The king himself Of his wings destitute, the army broken, And but the backs of Britons seen, all flying Through a straight lane; the enemy full-hearted, Lolling the tongue with slaughtering, having work More plentiful than tools to do't, struck down Some mortally, some slightly touch'd, some falling Merely thro' fear; that the strait pass was damm'd With dead men, hurt behind, and cowards living To die with lengthen'd shame.
* This diminutive adjuration is derived from God's my pity. + An arrow. + Blocked up.
I, in mine own woe charm'd,
Could not find death, where I did hear him groan; Nor feel him, where he struck: Being an ugly
'Tis strange, he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds, Sweet words; or hath more ministers than we That draw his knives i'the war.
In the most high and palmy* state of Rome,
The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead
As, stars with trains of fire and dews of blood, Disasters in the sun; and the moist star†, Upon whose influence Neptune's empire stands, Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse.
GHOSTS VANISH AT THE CROWING OF A COCK.
Ber. It was about to speak, when the cock crew. Hor. And then it started like a guilty thing Upon a fearful summons. I have heard,
The cock, that is the trumpet of the morn,
+ The moon.
The extravagant and erring* spirit hies
THE REVERENCE PAID TO CHRISTMAS TIME.
It faded on the crowing of the cock. Some say, that ever 'gainst that season comes, Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, This bird of dawning singeth all night long; And then they say no spirit dares stir abroad; The nights are wholsome; then no planets strike, No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm, So hallow'd and so gracious is the time.
But, look, the morn, in russet mantle clad, Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill.
Seems, madam! nay, it is; I know not seems. 'Tis not alone, my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black, Nor windy suspiration of forc'd breath, No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, Nor the dejected 'haviour of the visage, Together with all forms, modes, shows of grief, That can denote me truly: These, indeed, seem, For they are actions that a man might play: But I have that within, which passeth show; These, but the trappings and the suits of woe.
IMMODERATE GRIEF DISCOMMENDED.
'Tis sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet,
To give these mourning duties to your father;
To do obsequious sorrow: But to perséver
HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY ON HIS MOTHER'S MARRIAGE.
His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! O God!
Fie on't! O fie! 'tis an unweeded garden, [ture,
Hyperions to a satyr: so loving to my mother, That he might not beteem the winds of heaven
* Dissolve. + Law. Entirely. Apollo. || Suffer.
Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth!
By what it fed on: And yet, within a month,—
My father's brother; but no more like my
THE EXTENT OF HUMAN PERFECTION.
He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again.
CAUTIONS TO YOUNG FEMALES.
For Hamlet, and the trifling of his favour,
Then weigh what loss your honour may sustain,