Ay, and that tongue of his,

that bade the Romans

Mark him, and write his speeches in their books.--
Alas, (it cried,) Give me some drink, Titinius...
As a sick girl. Ye gods! it doth amaze me,
A man of such a feeble temper should

So get the start of the majestic world,
And bear the palm alone.

EXALTED MISERY.- Dowe.

O royalty! what joys hast thou to boast,
To recompense thy cares? Ambition seems
The passion of a God. Yet from my throne
Have I, with envy, seen the naked slave
Rejoicing in the music of his chains,
And singing toil away; and then at eve
Returning peaceful to his couch of rest :--
Whilst I sat anxious and perplexed with cares :
Projecting. plotting, fearful of event;

Or, like a wounded snake, lay down to writhe
The sleepless night, upon a bed of state.

EXCULPATION.-Shakespeare.

Friends, Romans. Countrymen! lend me your ears:
I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do, lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones.
So let it be with Cæsar! The noble Brutus
Hath told you, Cæsar was ambitious --

If it were so, it was a grievous fault;

And grievously hath Cæsar answered it

Here under leave of Brutus . . . and the rest-
For Brutus is an honourable man...

So are they all! all... honourable men

Come I to speak in Cæsar's funeral.

He was my Friend-faithful and just to me But Brutus says, he was ambitious...

And Brutus is an honourable man!

He hath brought many captives back to Rome... Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:

Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious?

When that the poor have cried, Cæsar hath wept ;-
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff!...
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;

And Brutus is an honourable man!

You all did see. that, on the Lupercal,

I, thrice, presented him a kingly crown,

Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?
Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious...

And sure he is an honourable man!

I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke;

But here I am to speak what I do know.

You all did love him once- not without cause!
What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him?
O Fudgement! thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason! Bear with me:
My heart is in the coffin there with Cæsar..
And I must pause till it come back to me!

EXHORTATION AGAINST AMBITION.—Shakespeare. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear

In all my miseries, . . . but thou hast forced me—
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.
Let's dry our eyes: and thus far hear me. Cromwell;
And, when I am forgotten; .. as I shall be.
And sleep in dull cold marble. where no mention
Of me more must be heard of.-- say I taught thee,
Say,-Wolsey,-that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths... and shoals of honour,-
Found thee a way, out of his wreck. to rise in;
A safe and sure one, though thy master miss'd it.
Mark but my fall. and that that ruin'd me.
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition;
By that sin fell the Angels: how can man then-
The image of his Maker,- hope to win by't?
Love thyself last;— cherish those that hate thee :-
Corruption wins not more than honesty.

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace.

To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not:

Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's.

Thy God's and truth's, then, if thou fall'st, O Cromwell,

Thou fall'st a blessed martyr! Serve the king;

And. B... pry'thee, lead me in.

There, take an inventory of all I have,.

...

To the last penny, 'tis the king's; my robe,

And my integrity to Heaven, is all

I dare-now-call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell,

Had I but served my God with half the zeal

I served my King, . . . He would not, in mine age

Have left me-naked-to mine enemies.

EXHORTATION TO COURAGE.—Shakespeare.

But wherefore do you droop? Why look you sad?
Be great in act, as you have been in thought;
Let not the world see fear and sad distrust
Govern the motion of a kingly eye

Threaten the threatener, and outface the brow
Of bragging horror; so shall inferior eyes,
[That borrow their behaviours from the great, |
Grow great by your example; and put on
The dauntless spirit of resolution;

Show boldness and aspiring confidence.

What, shall they seek the lion in his den,

And fright him ... there;- and make him tremble there?--
Oh let it not be said! Forage and run,...
To meet displeasure farther from the doors,
And grapple with him ere he come so nigh.

FAREWELL TO GREATNESS.-Shakespeare.
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 ventured
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders.—
These many summers, 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 prince's favours!
There is. betwixt that smile he would aspire to
That sweet aspect of princes, and his ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer...
Never to hope again.

Why start at death? Where is he? Death arrived
Is past; not come, or gone-he's never here.
Ere hope, sensation fails: black-boding man
Receives - not suffers,-death's tremendous blow.
The knell, the shroud, the mattock, and the grave,
The deep damp vault, the darkness, and the worm;
These are the bugbears of a winter's eve,
The terrors of the living, not the dead.
Imagination's fool, and error's wretch,

Man makes a death which Nature never made;
Then on the point of his own fancy falls;
And feels a thousand deaths in fearing one.

GRATITUDE.-Shakespeare.
I have five hundred crowns,-

The thrifty hire I saved under your father,
Which I did store to be my foster -nurse,

When service should in my old limbs lie lame,
And unregarded age in corners thrown ;--
Take that: and... He that doth the ravens feed,
Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,
Be comfort to my age! Here is the gold;

All this I give you. Let me be your servant;—
Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty :
For in my youth I never did apply

Hot and rebellious liquors to my blood;
Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo
The means of weakness and debility:
Therefore my age is as a lusty winter,
Frosty but kindly: let me go with you...
I'll do the service of a younger man
In all your business and necessities.

GRIEF.

He asked no question

Byron.

all were answered now By the first glance on that still marble brow. It was enough- she died—what recked it how? The love of youth, the hope of better years, The only living thing he could not hate, Was reft at once: and he deserved his fate... But did not feel it less.-- The good explore In peace, those realms where guilt can never soar: The proud - the wayward who have fixed below Their joy--and find this earth enough for woe, Lose in that one... their all-perchance a miteBut who in patience parts with all delight? Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern Mask hearts where grief hath little left to learn; And many a withering thought lies hid, not lost, In smiles... that least befit who wear them most.

Byron.

The mind that broods o'er guilty woes,
Is like the scorpion girt by fire:

In circle narrowing as it glows,
The flames around their captive close;
Till, inly searched by thousand throes
And maddening in her ire,

One, and a sole relief she knows :
The sting...she nourished for her foes,
[Whose venom never yet was vain,-
Gives but one pang, and cures all pain, |
She darts into her desperate brain.
So do the dark in soul expire,
Or live... like scorpion girt by fire;
So writhes the mind remorse hath riven-

Unfit for earth, undoomed for heaven;
Darkness above, despair beneath,
Around it flame, within it... death!

HATRED.

Why, get thee gone, . . horror and night go with thee,
Sisters of Acheron, go hand in hand,

Go dance about the bower, and close them in;
And tell them that I sent you to salute them.
Profane the ground, and-for the ambrosial rose
And breath of jessamin,-let hemlock blacken
And deadly night-shade poison all the air:
For the sweet nightingale may ravens croak,
Toads pant, and adders rustle through the leaves:
May serpents, winding up the trees, let fall
Their hissing necks upon them from above,
And mingle kisses... such as I would give them.

HONESTY TRUE NOBILITY.— Alex. Bell.
I shall not grieve your lordship by a claim
Of kindred blood, which often brings disgrace.
I prize gradations in the social scale:
They mainly tend to harmony and peace;
But there exists a rank which far transcends
The stars and coronets that shine in courts:
It takes no sounding name to make men stare;
No blazoning heraldry proclaims its pomp;
Its modest title is-plain honesty.

Though homely be its garb, though coarse its fare,
And though it live unnoticed by the crowd;
Still, spite of fashion's fools, the honest man
Is yet the highest noble of the land!

Yes, honesty's the poor man's best estate,
And still is his when other gifts take wing.

'Tis regal breath makes lords.- but honest men
Receive their honour from the King of kings!

HONOUR.—

Shakespeare.

Well, 'tis no matter;- honour prick me on. Yea, but how if honour pricks me off when I come on? How then? Can honour set to a leg? No. Or an arm? No. Or take away the grief of a wound? No Honour hath no skill in surgery then? No. What is honour? A word. What is in that word? Honour! What is that honour? Air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? He that died o' Wednesday.-Doth he feel it? No.-Doth he hear it? No. Is it insensible, then? Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? No. Why? Detraction will not suffer it :- therefore I'll none of it.-Honour is a mere 'scutcheon... and so ends my catechism.