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(O wicked wit, and gifts, that have the power
So to seduce!) won to his shameful luft
The will of my most feeming virtuous queen.
Oh Hamlet, what a falling off was there !
But foft" methinks I scent the morning air-
Brief let me be: Sleeping wi hin mine orchard,
My custom always in the afternoon,
Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole
With juice of cursed hebony in a phial,
And in the porches of mine ear did pour
The leperous diftilment. ---
Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother's hand,
Of life, of crown, of queen, at once bereft ;
Cut off ev'n in the bloffoms of

my
No reck’ning made ! but sent to my account
With all my imperfections on my head !

HAM. Oh horrible! oh horrible! most horrible!,

Ghost. If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not ;
But howsoever thou pursu'st this act,
Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive
Against thy mother aught; leave her to Hear'n,
And to those thorns that in her bofoin lodge,
To prick and sting her.' Fare thee well at once !
The glow-worm shows the matin to be near,
And 'gins to pale his ineffectual fire.
Adieu, adieu, adieu ! 'remember me.

Ham. O all you host of Heav'n! O earth! what else?
And Mall I couple Hell? oh fie ! hold heart !
And you, my finews, grow not instant od,
But bear me ftify up. Remember thee!
Ay, thou poor ghost, while mem'ry holds a feat
In this distracted globe! remernber thee !
Yea, from the tablet of my memory
I'll wipe away all trivial fond records,
All faws of books, all forms, all pressures past,

That

That youth and observation copied there;
And thy commandment all alone fhall live
Within the book and volu'me of my brain,
Uomix'd with baser matter.

SHAXSPEARE.

CHAP. XXX.
HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY ON DEATH.
To be, or not to be ?--that is the queftion.--
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The stings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms againft a sea of troubles,
And by oppofing end them-To dic--to fleep-
No more ;

and by a sleep, to say, we end
The beart-ach, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to;'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be with'd. To dieto sleep-
To feep! perchance to dream! ay, there's the rub
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have lhuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. --There's the respect
That makes calamity of fo long life:
- For who would bear the whips and scorns o'th' time,
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay,
The infolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
Το
groan

and sweat under a weary life;
But that the dread of something after death
(That undiscover'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns) puzzles the will ;
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,

Than

Than Hy to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all:
And thus the native hue of refolution
Is ficklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.

SHAKSPEARE

CHAP. XXXI.

SOLILOQUY OF THE KING IN HAMLET,
OH! my offence is rank, it smells to Hear'n,
It hath the primal, eldest curse upon't;
A brother's murder, Pray I cannot:
Though inclination be as sharp as 'twill,
My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent;
And, like a man to double business bound,
I stand in pause where I shall fiaft begin,
And both neglect. What if this cursed hand
Were thicker than itself with brother's blood ?
Is there not rain enough in the sweet Heav'ns
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 forestalled ere we come to fall,
Or pardon'd being down? Then I'll look up;
My fault is paft. But oh, what form of prayer
Can serve myturn? 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 th' offence ?
In the corrupted currents of this world,
Offence's gilded hand may Ihove by justice;

And

And oft 'tis seen, the wicked prize itself
Buys out the laws. But ’ris not so above.
There is no shuffing; there she action lies
In its true nature, and we ourselves compellid,
Ev'n to the teeth and forehead of our faults,
To give in evidence, What then? what refts?
Try w! at repentance can; what can it not?
Yet what can it, when one cannot repent?
Oh wretched state ! oh bosom black as death!
Oh limed soul, that, ftraggling to be free,
Art more engag'd! Help, angels ! make essay !
Bow, fubborn knees; and heart, with strings of steel,
Be soft as finews of the new-born babe !
All may be well.

SHAKSPLARE.

CHAP. XXXII.

ODE ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY.

DESCEND

ESCEND, ye Nine! descend and fing: | The breathing instruments inspire ;

Wake into voice each fient ftring,
And sweep the founding lyre!

In a fadly pleasing strain
Let the warbling lute complain :

Let the loud trumpet found,
'Till the roofs all around

The shrill echoes rebound:
While in more lengthend notes and flow,
The deep, majestic, folemn organs blow.

Hark! the numbers soft and clear
Gently steal upon the ear;
Now louder, and yet louder rise,
And fill with spreading sounds the skies;

Exulting

PATHETIC PIECES

PIECES. Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes, In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats;

Till, by degrees, remote and small,

The strains decay,

And melt away
In a dying, dying fall.

By Music, minds an equal temper know,

Not swell too high, nor sink too low, If in the breast tumultuous joys arise, Music. her soft, assuasive voice applies ;

Or, when the soul is press’d with cares,

Exalts her in enlivening airs.
Warriors the fires with animated sounds :
Poors balm into the bleeding lover's wounds:

Melancholy lifts her head,
Morpheus rouses from his bed,
Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes,

Lift'ning Envy drops her snakes ;
Intestine war no more our Pallions wage,
And giddy Factions hear away

their

ragę

But when our country's cause provokes to arms,
How martial music

every

bosom warms!
So when the first bold vessel dar'd the feas,
High on the stern the Thracian rais'd his ftrain,

While Argo saw her kindred trees
Descend from Pelion to the main,

Transported demigods stocd round,
And men grew heroes at the found,

Ipflam'd with glory's charms:
Each chief his sev’nfold shield display'd,
And half unsheath'd the shining blade :
And seas, and rocks, and skies rebound
To arms! to arms! to arms!

S

But

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