He's not prepar'd for death! kitchens Even for our We kill the fowl of season; shall we serve heaven With less respect than we do minister To our gross selves? Good, good my lord, bethink you: Who is it that hath died for this offence? There's many have committed it. ANG. The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept: Those many had not dar'd to do that evil, ISAB. Yet show some pity. ANG. I show it most of all, when I show justice; For then I pity those I do not know, Which a dismiss'd offence would after gall; wrong, Lives not to act another. Be satisfied; Your brother dies to-morrow; be content. And he, that suffers: O, it is excellent Could great men thunder For every pelting, petty officer, Would use his heaven for thunder: nothing but thunder. Merciful heaven! Thou rather, with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt, Split'st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak, Than the soft myrtle;-O, but man, proud man! Most ignorant of what he's most assur'd, Plays such fantastick tricks before high heaven, We cannot weigh our brother with ourself: Great men may jest with saints: 'tis wit in them; But, in the less, foul profanation. That in the captain's but a cholerick word, ANG. Why do you put these sayings upon me? ISAB. Because authority, though it err like others, Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself, That skins the vice o'the top: Go to your bosom; Knock there; and ask your heart, what it doth know That's like my brother's fault: if it confess A natural guiltiness, such as is his, Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue ANG. She speaks, and 'tis Such sense, that my sense breeds with it.- ISAB. Gentle my lord, turn back. ANG. I will bethink me:-Come again to morrow. ISAB. Hark, how I'll bribe you: Good my lord, turn back. ANG. How! bribe me? ISAB. Ay, with such gifts, that heaven shall share with you. Not with fond shekels of the tested gold, ANG. Well: come to me What's this? what's this? Is this her fault, or mine? The tempter or the tempted, who sins most? Not she; nor doth she tempt: but it is I, Shall we desire to raze the sanctuary, That I desire to hear her speak again, And feast upon her eyes? What is't I dream on ? O cunning enemy, that, to catch a saint, With saints dost bait thy hook! Most dangerous Is that temptation, that doth goad us on To sin in loving virtue: never could the strumpet, With all her double vigour, art, and nature, Once stir my temper; but this virtuous maid Subdues me quite;-Ever till now, When men were fond, I smil'd and wonder'd how. MEASURE FOR MEASURE, A. 2, s. 2. THE HEART. DUCHESS. What gone, my lord; and bid me not farewell ? GLOSTER. Witness my tears, I cannot stay to speak. K. HENRY VI., PART II., A. 2, s. 4. THE HEART'S ANGUISH. Ir is the cause, it is the cause, my soul,- Yet she must die, else she'll betray more men. I can again thy former light restore, That can thy light relume. When I have pluck'd thy rose, I cannot give it vital growth again, It needs must wither:-I'll smell it on the tree. O balmy breath, that dost almost persuade Justice to break her sword!—One more, one more. Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee, And love thee after:-One more, and this the last: So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep, OTHELLO, A. 5, s. 2. THE HEART'S DESOLATION. THOU common friend, that's without faith or love; (For such is a friend now,) treacherous man! Thou hast beguil'd my hopes; nought but mine eye Could have persuaded me: Now I dare not say, I have one friend alive; thou would'st disprove me. Who should be trusted now, when one's right hand Is perjur'd to the bosom? Proteus, I am sorry I must never trust thee more, But count the world a stranger for thy sake. The private wound is deepest: O time, most curst! 'Mongst all foes, that a friend should be the worst. TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA, A. 5, s. 4. |