[Life and Death Weighed.] To be, or not to be, that is the question- And, by opposing, end them? To die-to sleep- The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks To sleep!-perchance to dream!-ay, there's the rub; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear, And makes us rather bear those ills we have, [Fear of Death.] Ay, but to die, and go we know not where ; The weariest and most loathed worldly life, Hamlet. Measure for Measure. [Description of Ophelia's Drowning.] There is a willow grows ascant the brook, Unto that element; but long it could not be, Hamlet. [Perseverance.] Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, A great-siz'd monster of ingratitudes: Those scraps are good deeds past, which are devour'd As done. Perseverance, dear my lord, In For honour travels in a strait so narrow, Where one but goes abreast: Keep, then, the path; Or, like a gallant horse, fall'n in first rank, sent, [The Deceit of Ornament or Appearances.] The world is still deceiv'd with ornament. lead, Which rather threaten'st than dost promise aught, Thy plainness moves me more than eloquence, And here choose I; joy be the consequence. Merchant of Venice. [Mercy.] The quality of mercy is not strain'd; Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings. And earthly power doth then show likest God's, Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy; Merchant of Venice. With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side; Is second childishness, and mere oblivion: As You Like It. [Description of Night in a Camp.] From camp to camp, thro' the foul womb of night, Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs, Give dreadful note of preparation. The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll, [Solitude preferred to a Court Life, and the Advantages And the third hour of drowsy morning name. of Adversity.] Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile, Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, And this our life, exempt from public haunt, Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in every thing. I would not change it! Amiens. Happy is your grace, That can translate the stubbornness of fortune Into so quiet and so sweet a style! As You Like It. [The World Compared to a Stage.] Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy- Jaques. All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players; Even in the cannon's mouth. And then, the justice, Proud of their numbers and secure in soul, The morning's danger: and their gesture sad So many horrid ghosts. O, now, who will behold How dread an army hath enrounded him; [The Blessings of a Shepherd's Life.] O God! methinks it were a happy life To be no better than a homely swain; To sit upon a hill, as I do now, Henry V To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years, And to conclude, the shepherd's homely curds, So farewell to the little good you bear me. Farewell, a long farewell to all my greatness! This is the state of man: To-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him; The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a ripening, nips his root, And then he falls as I do. I have ventur'd, Like little wanton boys, that swim on bladders, These many suinmers in a sea of glory; But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride At length broke under me; and now has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye! I feel my heart new open'd. O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours! There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, More pangs and fears than wars or women have; And, when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again. Henry VIII. [Falstaff's Cowardice and Boasting.] [Falstaff, who is represented as a monster of fat, a sensualist, and a coward, yet is rendered tolerable by his humour, had accompanied Prince Henry and some other dissolute companions on a predatory expedition to Gad's Hill, where they first robbed a few travellers, and afterwards the Prince and Poins set upon Falstaff and others of the party in the dark, and made them take to flight. The following scene takes place afterwards in their favourite London haunt, the Boar's Head Tavern in Eastcheap.] TO PRINCE HENRY and POINs, enter FALSTAFF, Gadshill, BARDOLPH, and PETO. Poins. Welcome, Jack. Where hast thou been? Fal. A plague of all cowards, I say, and a vengeance too!-marry, and amen! Give me a cup of sack, boy. Ere I lead this life long, I'll sow nether stocks, and mend them, and foot them too. A plague of all cowards! Give me a cup of sack, rogue. Is there no virtue extant ? He drinks. P. Henry. Didst thou never see Titan kiss a dish of butter pitiful-hearted Titan, that melted at the sweet tale of the sun?—if thou didst, then behold that compound. Fal. You rogue, here's lime in this sack too. There is nothing but roguery to be found in villanous man. Yet a coward is worse than a cup of sack with lime in it-a villanous coward. Go thy ways, old Jack; die when thou wilt, if manhood, good manhood, be not forgot upon the face of the earth, then am I a shotten herring. There live not three good men unhanged in England; and one of them is fat, and grows old. God help the while!-a bad world, I say! I would I were a weaver; I could sing all manner of songs. A plague of all cowards, I say still! P. Henry. How now, wool-sack-what mutter you! Fal. A king's son! If I do not beat thee out of thy kingdom with a dagger of lath, and drive all thy subjects afore thee like a flock of wild geese, I'll never wear hair on my face more. You Prince of Wales ! P. Henry. Why, you whoreson round man !—what's the matter? Fal. Are you not a coward?-answer me to that; and Poins there? [To Poins. P. Henry. Ye fat paunch, an ye call me coward, I'll stab thee. Fal. I call thee coward! I'll see thee damn'd ere I call thee coward; but I would give a thousand pound I could run as fast as thou canst. You are strait enough in the shoulders; you care not who sees your back. Call you that backing of your friends? A plague upon such backing!-give me them that will face me. Give me a cup of sack; I am a rogue, if I drunk to-day. P. Henry. O villain! thy lips are scarce wiped since thou drunk'st last. Fal. All's one for that. A plague of all cowards, still say I! [He drinks. P. Henry. What's the matter? Fal. What's the matter?-here be four of us have ta'en a thousand pound this morning. P. Henry. Where is it, Jack?-where is it? Fal. Where is it?-taken from us it is: a hundred upon poor four of us. P. Henry. What, a hundred, man? Fal. I am a rogue, if I were not at half-sword with a dozen of them two hours together. I have 'scap'd by miracle. I am eight times thrust through the doublet, four through the hose, my buckler cut through and through, my sword hacked like a hand-saw, ecce signum. never dealt better since I was a man. All would not do. A plague of all cowards! Let them speak: if they speak more or less than truth, they are villains, and the sons of darkness. P. Henry. Speak, sirs. How was it? Peto. No, no, they were not bound. Fal. You rogue, they were bound, every man of them; or I am a Jew else, an Ebrew Jew. Gads. As we were sharing, some six or seven fresh men set upon us Fal. And unbound the rest, and then came in the other. P. Henry. What! fought you with them all? Fal. All I know not what you call all; but if I fought not with fifty of them, I am a bunch of radish; if there were not two or three and fifty upon poor old Jack, then am I-no two-legged creature. Poins. Pray heaven, you have not murdered some of them. Fal. Nay, that's past praying for; I have peppered two of them: two, I am sure, I have paid; two rogues in buckram suits. I tell thee what, Hal-if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse. Thou know'st my old ward; here I lay, and thus I bore my point. Four rogues in buckram let drive at me P. Henry. What ! four ?-thou saidst but two even now. Fal. Four, Hal; I told thee four. Poins. Ay, ay, he said four. Fal. Dost thou hear me, Hal? P. Henry. Ay, and mark thee too, Jack. Fal. Do so, for it is worth the list'ning to. These nine in buckram, that I told thee of P. Henry. So, two more already. Fal. Began to give me ground. But I follow'd me close, came-in foot and hand; and with a thought, seven of the eleven I paid. P. Henry. O monstrous !-eleven buckram men grown out of two! Fal. But, as the devil would have it, three misbegotten knaves, in Kendal green, came at my back, and let drive at me; for it was so dark, Hal, that thou couldst not see thy hand. P. Henry. These lies are like the father that begets them; gross as a mountain, open, palpable. Why, thou clay-brain'd guts; thou knotty-pated fool; thou whoreson, obscene, greasy tallow-keech Fal. What, art thou mad?-art thou mad?-is not the truth the truth! P. Henry. Why, how couldst thou know these men in Kendal green, when it was so dark thou couldst not see thy hand! Come, tell us your reason? What say'st thou to this! Poins. Come, your reason, Jack, your reason. Fal. What, upon compulsion? No; were I at the strappado, or all the racks in the world, I would not tell you on compulsion. Give you a reason on compulsion!-if reasons were as plenty as blackberries, I would give no man a reason upon compulsion, I– P. Henry. I'll be no longer guilty of this sin; this sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horse backbreaker, this huge hill of flesh ! Fal. Away, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat's tongue, you stock-fish. O for breath to utter what is like thee !-you tailor's yard, you sheath, you bow-case, you vile standing tuck; P. Henry. Well, breathe a while, and then to it again; and when thou hast tired thyself in base comparisons, hear me speak but this. Poins. Mark, Jack. P. Henry. We two saw you four set on four; you bound them, and were masters of their wealth. Mark now, how a plain tale shall put you down. Then did we two set on you four; and, with a word, outfaced you from your prize, and have it; yea, and can show it you here in the house; and, Falstaff, you carried your guts away as nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roared for mercy, and still ran and roared, as ever I heard bull-calf. What a slave art thou, to hack thy sword as thou hast done, and then say it was in fight! What trick, what device, what starting hole, canst thou now find out, to hide thee from this open and apparent shame? Poins. Come, let's hear, Jack; what trick hast thou now? Fal. By the Lord, I knew ye as well as he that made ye. Why, hear ye, my masters. Was it for me to kill the heir-apparent?-should I turn upon the true prince! Why, thou know'st I am as valiant as Hercules; but beware instinct; the lion will not touch the true prince. Instinct is a great matter; I was a coward on instinct. I shall think the better of myself, and thee, during my life; I, for a valiant lion, and thou, for a true prince. But, lads, I am glad you have the money. Hostess, clap to the doors; watch to-night, pray to-morrow. Gallants, lads, boys, hearts of gold, all the titles of good fellowship come to you! What! shall we be merry?-shall we have a play extempore! P. Henry. Content; and the argument shall be thy running away. Fal. Ah! no more of that, Hal, an thou lov'st me. First Part of Henry IV. [Falstaff arrested by his hostess, Dame Quickly.] TO FALSTAFF and IIOSTESS, with BARDOLPH and two Sheriff's Officers, enter the CHIEF JUSTICE, attended. Ch. Just. What's the matter? keep the peace here, ho! Host. Good, my lord, be good to me! I beseech you, stand to me! Ch. Just. How now, Sir John! what, are you brawling here! Doth this become your place, your time, and business! You should have been well on your way to York. Stand from him, fellow! Wherefore hang'st thou on him? Host. O my most worshipful lord, an't please your grace, I am a poor widow of Eastcheap, and he is arrested at my suit. Ch. Just. For what sum? Host. It is more than for some, my lord; it is for He hath eaten me out of house all, all I have. and home; he hath put all my substance into that fat belly of his : but I will have some of it out again, or I'll ride thee o' nights, like the mare. Fal. I think I am as like to ride the mare, if I have any vantage of ground to get up. Ch. Just. How comes this, Sir John Fie! what exclamation? Are you not ashamed to enforce a man of good temper would endure this tempest of poor widow to so rough a course to come by her own! Fal. What is the gross sum that I owe thee! Host. Marry, if thou wert an honest man, thyself and the money too. Thou didst swear to me upon a A Goblet from the Boar's-Head Tavern, supposed to parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in my Dolphin-chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal fire, on Wednesday in Whitsun-week, when the prince broke thy head for likening his father to a singing-man of Windsor; thou didst swear to me then, as I was washing thy wound, to marry me, and make me my lady, thy wife. Canst thou deny it? Did not goodwife Keech, the butcher's wife, come in then, and call me gossip Quickly coming in to borrow a mess of vinegar, telling us she had a good dish of prawns; whereby thou didst desire to eat some; whereby I told thee, they were ill for a green wound? And didst thou not, when she was gone down stairs, desire me to be no more so familiarity with such poor people; saying, that ere long they should call me madam? And didst thou not kiss me, and bid me fetch thee thirty shillings! I put thee now to thy book-oath; deny it, if thou canst. Fal. My lord, this is a poor mad soul; and she says, up and down the town, that her eldest son is like you: she hath been in good case, and, the truth is, poverty hath distracted her. * Ch. Just. You speak as having power to do wrong; but answer in the effect of your reputation, and satisfy the poor woman. Fal. Come hither, hostess. Enter a MESSENGER. [Taking her aside. Ch. Just. Now, master Gower; what news? Gower. The king, my lord, and Henry prince of Wales, Are near at hand: the rest the paper tells. Fal. As I am a gentleman Host. Nay, you said so before. Fal. As I am a gentleman. Come, no more words of it. Host. By this heavenly ground I tread on, I must be fain to pawn both my plate and the tapestry of my dining-chambers. Fal. Glasses, glasses is the only drinking; and for thy walls, a pretty slight drollery, or the story of the prodigal, or the German hunting in water-work, is worth a thousand of these bed-hangings, and these flybitten tapestries. Let it be ten pound, if thou canst. Come, if it were not for thy humours, there is not a better wench in England. Go, wash thy face, and draw thy action. Come, thou must not be in this humour with me; do'st not know me? Come, come, I know thou wast set on to this. Host. Pray thee, Sir John, let it be but twenty nobles; I am loath to pawn my plate, in good earnest, la ! Fal. Let it alone; I'll make other shift: you'll be a fool still. Host. Well, you shall have it, though I pawn my gown. I hope you'll come to supper? * Fal. Will I live?-Go with her, with her; hook on, hook on. [To the officers. Second Part of Henry IV. BEN JONSON. The second name in the dramatic literature of this period has been generally assigned to BEN JONSON, though some may be disposed to claim it for the more Shakspearian genius of Beaumont and Fletcher. Jonson was born ten years after Shakspeare-in 1574-and appeared as a writer for the stage in his twentieth year. His early life was full of hardship and vicissitude. His father, a clergyman in Westminster (a member of a Scottish family from Annandale), died before the poet's birth, and his mother marrying again to a bricklayer, Ben was brought from Westminster school and put to the same employment. Disliking the occupation of his father-in-law, he enlisted as a soldier, and served in the Low Countries. He is reported to have killed one of the enemy in single combat, in the view of both armies, and to have otherwise distinguished himself for his youthful bravery. As a poet, Jonson afterwards reverted with pride to his conduct as a soldier. On his return to England, he entered St John's college, Cambridge; but his stay there must have been short-probably on account of his straitened circumstances-for, about the age of twenty, he is found married, and an actor in London. Ben made his debut at a low theatre near quarrelled with another performer, and on their fighting a duel with swords, Jonson had the misfortune to kill his antagonist, and was severely wounded himself. He was committed to prison on a charge of murder, but was released without a trial. On regaining his liberty, he commenced writing for the stage, and produced, in 1596, his Every Man in his Humour. The scene was laid in Italy, but the characters and manners depicted in the piece were English, and Jonson afterwards recast the whole, and transferred the scene to England. In its revised form, Every Man in his Humour' was brought out at the Globe Theatre in 1598, and Shakspeare was one of the performers in the play. He had himself produced some of his finest comedies by this time, but Jonson was no imitator of his great rival, who blended a spirit of poetical romance with his comic sketches, and made no attempt to delineate the domestic manners of his countrymen. Jonson opened a new walk in the drama: he felt his strength, and the public cheered him on with its plaudits. Queen Elizabeth patronised the new poet, and ever afterwards he was a man of mark and likelihood.' In 1599, appeared his Every Man out of his Humour, a less able performance than its predecessor. Cynthia's Revels and the Poetaster followed, and the fierce rivalry and contention which clouded Jonson's afterlife seem to have begun about this time. He had attacked Marston and Dekker, two of his brother dramatists, in the Poetaster.' Dekker replied with spirit in his 'Satiromastix,' and Ben was silent for two years, living upon one Townsend, and scorning the world,' as is recorded in the diary of a contemporary. In 1603, he tried if tragedy had a more kind aspect,' and produced his classic drama of Sejanus. Shortly after the accession of King James, a comedy called Eastward Hoe, was written conjointly by Jonson, Chapman, and Marston. Some passages in this piece reflected on the Scottish nation, and the matter was represented to the king by one of his courtiers (Sir James Murray) in so strong a light, that the authors were thrown into prison, and threatened with the loss |