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My words fly up, my thoughts remain below:
Words without thoughts never to heaven go.

Hamlet. Act iii. Sc. & Dead, for a ducat, dead !

Sc. 4. And let me wring your heart; for so I shall, If it be made of penetrable stuff.

Ibid. Such an act That blurs the grace and blush of modesty.

Ibid. False as dicers' oaths.

Ibid. A rhapsody of words.


What act That roars so loud, and thunders in the index ? Ibid. Look here, upon this picture, and on this, The counterfeit presentment of two brothers. See, what a grace was seated on this brow: Hyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself; An eye like Mars, to threaten and command; A station like the herald Mercury New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill, A combination and a form indeed, Where every god did seem to set his seal, To give the world assurance of a man.

Ibid. At your age The hey-day in the blood is tame, it's humble. Ibid. O shame! where is thy blush? Rebellious hell, If thou canst mutine in a matron's bones, To flaming youth let virtue be as wax, And melt in her own fire: proclaim no shame When the compulsive ardour gives the charge, Since frost itself as actively doth burn, And reason panders will.

Ibid A cutpurse of the empire and the rule, That from a shelf the precious diadem stole, And put it in his pocket!


A king of shreds and patches.

Hamlet. Act iii. Sc. 4, Conceit in weakest bodies strongest works.

ibid. How is 't with you, That you do bend your eye on vacancy?

Ibid. This is the very coinage of your brain : This bodiless creation ecstasy Is very cunning in.

Ibid. Bring me to the test, And I the matter will re-word; which madness Would gambol from. Mother, for love of grace, Lay not that flattering unction to your soul.

Ibid. Confess yourself to heaven; Repent what's past; avoid what is to come. Ibid Assume a virtue, if you have it not. That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat, Of habits devil, is angel yet in this.

Refrain to-night,
And that shall lend a kind of easiness
To the next abstinence: the next more easy;
For use almost can change the stamp of nature.
I must be cruel, only to be kind :
Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind. Ibid.
For 't is the sport to have the enginer
Hoist with his own petar.

Diseases desperate grown
By desperate appliance are relieved,
Or not at all."


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Act iv. Sc. 3.

A man may

fish with the worm that hath eat of a king, and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm. Ibid.

2 Extreme remedies are very appropriate for extreme diseases. — HIPPO

CRATES: Aphorism i.

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Sure, he that made us with such large discourse,
Looking before and after, gave us not
That capability and godlike reason
To fust in us unused.

Hamlet Act iv. Sc. 4,
Rightly to be great
Is not to stir without great argument,
But greatly to find quarrel in a straw
When honour's at the stake.

So full of artless jealousy is guilt,
It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.

Sc. 3.
We know what we are, but know not what we may


To-morrow is Saint Valentine's day,
All in the morning betime.


and donn'd his clothes.

Come, my coach! Good night, sweet ladies; good night.

When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
But in battalions.

There's such divinity doth hedge a king,
That treason can but peep to what it would.

Nature is fine in love, and where 't is fine,
It sends some precious instance of itself
After the thing it loves.

Ibid. There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; . . . and there is pansies, that's for thoughts.

Ibid You must wear your rue with a difference. There's a daisy; I would give you some violets, but they withered.

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His beard was as white as snow,
All flaxen was his poll.
A very riband in the cap of youth.

That we would do,
We should do when we would.

Sc. 7.


One woe doth tread upon another's heel,
So fast they follow.

Hamlet. Act iv. Sc. 7.
Nature her custom holds,
Let shame

what it will.

Ibid, 1 Clo. Argal, he that is not guilty of his own death shortens not his own life.

2 Clo. But is this law ?
1 Clo. Ay, marry, is ’t; crowner's quest law.

Act o. Sc. 1.
There is no ancient gentlemen but gardeners. Ibid.
Cudgel thy brains no more about it.

Ibid. Has this fellow no feeling of his business? Ibid. Custom hath made it in him a property of easiness.

Ibid. The hand of little employment hath the daintier sense.

Ibid A politician, one that would circumvent God.

Ibid Why may not that be the skull of a lawyer ? Where be his quiddities now, his quillets, his cases, his tenures, and his tricks?

Ibid. One that was a woman, sir; but, rest her soul, she's


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How absolute the knave is! we must speak by the card, or equivocation will undo us.

The age is grown so picked that the toe of the peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier, he galls his kibe.


1 Thus woe succeeds a woe, as wave a wave. — HERRICK : Sorrows


Woes cluster; rare are solitary woes;
They love a train, they tread each other's heel.

Young : Night Thoughts, night . line 63
And woe succeeds to woe.

POPE: The Iliad, book xvi. line 139.

Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio : a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now; your gambols, your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar ? Not one now, to mock your own grinning ? Quite chap-fallen? Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come.

Hamlet. Act v. Sc. 1. To what base uses we may return, Horatio! Why may not imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander, till we find it stopping a bung-hole ?

Ibid. 'T were to consider too curiously, to consider so. Ibid. Imperious Cæsar, dead and turn'd to clay, Might stop a hole to keep the wind away.

Ibid. Lay her i' the earth : And from her fair and unpolluted flesh May violets spring !1

Ibid. A ministering angel shall my sister be.?

Ibid. Sweets to the sweet: farewell !

Ibid I thought thy bride-bed to have deck’d, sweet maid, And not have strew'd thy grave.

Ibid. Though I am not splenitive and rash, Yet have I something in me dangerous.

Ibid. Forty thousand brothers Could not, with all their quantity of love, Make up my sum.


1 And from his ashes may be made
The violet of his native land.

Tennyson : In Memorinm, zvüi. ? A ministering angel thou. — Scott : Marmion, canto vi. st. 30.

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