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Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
24. SOLILOQUY OF THE KING IN HAMLET.
BHAKSPEABE. Were thicker than itself with brother's blood p Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens, To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy, But to confront the visage of offence ? And what's in prayer, but this two-fold force To be forestalléd, ere we come to fall, Or pardon'd, being down ? — Then I'll look up; My fault is past. But, 0, what form of prayer Can serve my turn? Forgive me my foul murder !That cannot be; since I am still possess'd Of those effects for which I did the murder, My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen. May one be pardon'd and retain the offence ? In the corrupted currents of this world, Offence's gilded hand may shove by justice; And oft ’tis seen, the wicked prize itself Buys out the law. But 'tis not so above : There is no shuffling, there the action lies In its true nature, and we ourselves compellid E'en to the teeth and forehead of our faults. To give in evidence. What then ? What rests: Try what repentance can : what can it not? Yet what can it, when one can not repent? O wretched state ! O bosom, black as death! O limèd soul, that, struggling to be free, Art more engaged! Help, angels ! make assay! Bow, stubborn knees ! and, heart with strings of steei, Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe ; All may be well.
As man’s ingratitude.
Although thy breath be rude.
As benefits forgot :
Though thou the waters warp,
As friend remember'd not.
26. SONG : TAKE, OH TAKE. Take, oh take, those lips away,
That so sweetly were forsworn; And those eyes, the break of day,
Lights that do mislead the mor, But my kisses bring again, Seals of love, but sealed in vain. (Iide, oh hide those hills of snow,
Which thy frozen bosom bears, On whose tops the pinks that grow,
Are of those that April wears ; But my poor heart first set free, Bound in those icy chains to thee.
27. LOVE AND THE BLOSSOM. On a day, (alack the day !) Love, whose month is ever May, Spy'd a blossom passing fair, Playing in the wanton air; Through the velvet leaves the wind All unseen 'gan passage find; That the lover, sick to death, Wish'd himself the heaven's breath. Air (quoth he) thy cheeks may blow Air, would I might triumph so! But, alack! my hand is sworn, Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn, Vow, alack, for youth unmeet, Youth so apt to pluck a sweet. Do not call it sin in me That I am forsworn for thee : Thou for whom e'en Jove would swear Juno but an Ethiop were ; And deny himself for Jove, Turning mortal for thy love.
28. WINTER : A SONG.
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail ;
And milk comes frozen home in pail;
And coughing drowns the parsun's saw
And Marian's nose looks red and raw
She never told her love,
30. A GOOD CONSCIENCE. What stronger breast-plate than a heart untainted ? Thrice is he armed that hath his quarrel just; And he but naked, though lock'd up in steel, Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.
31. A GOOD NAME. Good name in man and woman , dear my lord, Is the immediate jewel of their souls. Who steals my purse steals trash ; 'tis something, nothing 'Twas mine, 'tis his; and has been slave to thousands. But he that filches from me my good name, Robs me of that which not enriches him, And makes me poor indeed.
32. VARIOUS THOUGHTS.
1 I am sure care's an enemy to life. 2 Love sought is good, but love unsought is better. 3 Our doubts are traitors,
And make us lose the good we oft might wir,
By fearing to attempt. 4 The miserable have no other medicine,
But only hope.
And the poor beetle that we tread upon,
As when a giant dies.
That could endure the tooth-ache patiently. 7 Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,
And therefore is wing'd Cupid painted blind.
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven,
A local habitation and a name.
Of him that hears it, never in the tongue
Of him that makes it. 11 This fellow picks up wit as pigeons peas,
And utters it again when God doth please. 12 The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose. 13 What! wouldst thou have a serpent sting thee twice? 14 The man that hath no music in himself,
Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, aud spoils.
And so from hour to hour we rot and rot,