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For certain sums of gold, which you denied me; Cas.
O Brutus ! For I can raise no money by vile means :
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,
If you give place to accidental evils.
Bru. No man bears sorrow better :- Portia is BRU. You did.
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 ? -
Bru. I do not, till you practise them on me. Upon what sickness ?
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.
Cas. O ye immortal gods !
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 ?
COMPLIMENT AND ADMIRATION.
TO MISTRESS MARGARET HUSSEY.
"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.
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.
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
A VIOLEt in her lovely hair,
But 0, her eyes
That's 'neath the skies.
Fair Portia's counterfeit? What demi-god
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.