bard_bot 1.0.0

checksums.yaml

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+---
+SHA1:
+  metadata.gz: 755fd8cef923a7493329412b2d7c7bc310f67959
+  data.tar.gz: 898684bfa21d5f188386722aeb34ef8d01893246
+SHA512:
+  metadata.gz: f4e37d228b6ca90c3b7b67a5b4c78dc890c8023437f988be7c04965b494d60413afd9caa22b5d8b35b61d2ff274c96a14232994b78327c5da5ccb109b1f7a6ab
+  data.tar.gz: 6da37fee2d5f385d44074b97d44385c46adf3f29b532bf34c292a55786f632be6328ac6dd712d866774843b28f26d8f1ab78892c63e01c8bbf3bc623bbd5feaa

data/LICENSE.md

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+The MIT License (MIT)
+
+Copyright (c) 2014 R. Scott Reis
+
+Permission is hereby granted, free of charge, to any person obtaining a copy
+of this software and associated documentation files (the "Software"), to deal
+in the Software without restriction, including without limitation the rights
+to use, copy, modify, merge, publish, distribute, sublicense, and/or sell
+copies of the Software, and to permit persons to whom the Software is
+furnished to do so, subject to the following conditions:
+
+The above copyright notice and this permission notice shall be included in
+all copies or substantial portions of the Software.
+
+THE SOFTWARE IS PROVIDED "AS IS", WITHOUT WARRANTY OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR
+IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO THE WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY,
+FITNESS FOR A PARTICULAR PURPOSE AND NONINFRINGEMENT. IN NO EVENT SHALL THE
+AUTHORS OR COPYRIGHT HOLDERS BE LIABLE FOR ANY CLAIM, DAMAGES OR OTHER
+LIABILITY, WHETHER IN AN ACTION OF CONTRACT, TORT OR OTHERWISE, ARISING FROM,
+OUT OF OR IN CONNECTION WITH THE SOFTWARE OR THE USE OR OTHER DEALINGS IN
+THE SOFTWARE.

data/README.md

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+## Bard Bot -- Shakespearean Markov
+
+Usage:
+```ruby
+require 'bard_bot'
+BardBot.config do |config|
+  c.character = :lear
+  c.prefix = 3
+end
+BardBot.generate_sentence
+```
+
+Available Configuration:
+* `:character` (*default `:hamlet`*) - Choose character corpus. Use `BardBot.characters` to see available. `:random` is also a supported option.
+* `:prefix` (*default 2*) - Markov prefix to use when generating sentences. Lower prefixes will give more chaotic output and higher prefixes will give output closer to corpus material.
+* `:max_length` (*default 100*) - Maximum length in words for a generated sentence. Sentences will terminates on a valid punctuation or the maximum length, whichever is shorted.
+* `:character_dir` (*default `:default`*) - Directory for corpus. Another directory besides the default can be specified here to support input.

data/Rakefile

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+require 'rspec/core/rake_task'
+RSpec::Core::RakeTask.new(:spec)
+task default: :spec

data/data/antonius.txt

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+Caesar, my lord. I shall remember: When Caesar says 'Do this,' it is perform'd. Caesar. Fear him not, Caesar, he's not dangerous; He is a noble Roman, and well given. So to most noble Caesar. O mighty Caesar! dost thou lie so low? Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils, Shrunk to this little measure? Fare thee well. I know not, gentlemen, what you intend, Who else must be let blood, who else is rank: If I myself, there is no hour so fit As Caesar's death's hour, nor no instrument Of half that worth as those your swords, made rich With the most noble blood of all this world. I do beseech ye, if ye bear me hard, Now, whilst your purpled hands do reek and smoke, Fulfil your pleasure. Live a thousand years, I shall not find myself so apt to die: No place will please me so, no mean of death, As here by Caesar, and by you cut off, The choice and master spirits of this age. I doubt not of your wisdom. Let each man render me his bloody hand: First, Marcus Brutus, will I shake with you; Next, Caius Cassius, do I take your hand; Now, Decius Brutus, yours; now yours, Metellus; Yours, Cinna; and, my valiant Casca, yours; Though last, not least in love, yours, good Trebonius. Gentlemen all,—alas! what shall I say? My credit now stands on such slippery ground, That one of two bad ways you must conceit me, Either a coward or a flatterer. That I did love thee, Caesar, O! 'tis true: If then thy spirit look upon us now, Shall it not grieve thee dearer than thy death, To see thy Antony making his peace, Shaking the bloody fingers of thy foes, Most noble! in the presence of thy corse? Had I as many eyes as thou hast wounds, Weeping as fast as they stream forth thy blood, It would become me better than to close In terms of friendship with thine enemies. Pardon me, Julius! Here wast thou bay'd, brave hart; Here didst thou fall; and here thy hunters stand, Sign'd in thy spoil, and crimson'd in thy leth O world! thou wast the forest to this hart; And this, indeed, O world! the heart of thee. How like a deer, strucken by many princes, Dost thou here lie! Pardon me, Caius Cassius: The enemies of Caesar shall say this; Then, in a friend, it is cold modesty. Therefore I took your hands, but was indeed Sway'd from the point by looking down on Caesar. Friends am I with you all, and love you all, Upon this hope, that you shall give me reasons Why and wherein Caesar was dangerous. That's all I seek: And am moreover suitor that I may Produce his body to the market place; And in the pulpit, as becomes a friend, Speak in the order of his funeral. Be it so; I do desire no more. O! pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, That I am meek and gentle with these butchers; Thou art the ruins of the noblest man That ever lived in the tide of times. Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood! Over thy wounds now do I prophesy, Which like dumb mouths do ope their ruby lips, To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue, A curse shall light upon the limbs of men; Domestic fury and fierce civil strife Shall cumber all the parts of Italy; Blood and destruction shall be so in use, And dreadful objects so familiar, That mothers shall but smile when they behold Their infants quarter'd with the hands of war; All pity chok'd with custom of fell deeds: And Caesar's spirit, ranging for revenge, With Ate by his side come hot from hell, Shall in these confines with a monarch's voice Cry 'Havoc!' and let slip the dogs of war; That this foul deed shall smell above the earth With carrion men, groaning for burial. You serve Octavius Caesar, do you not? Caesar did write for him to come to Rome. Thy heart is big, get thee apart and weep. Passion, I see, is catching; for mine eyes, Seeing those beads of sorrow stand in thine, Began to water. Is thy master coming? Post back with speed, and tell him what hath chanc'd: Hare is a mourning Rome, a dangerous Rome, No Rome of safety for Octavius yet; Hie hence and tell him so. Yet, stay awhile; Thou shalt not back till I have borne this corpse Into the market-place; there shall I try, In my oration, how the people take The cruel issue of these bloody men; According to the which thou shalt discourse To young Octavius of the state of things. Lead me your hand. For Brutus' sake, I am beholding to you. You gentle Romans,— Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, 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 Caesar. The noble Brutus Hath told you Caesar was ambitious; If it were so, it was a grievous fault, And grievously hath Caesar answer'd 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 Caesar'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 home to Rome, Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill: Did this in Caesar seem ambitious? When that the poor have cried, Caesar 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 judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts, And men have lost their reason. Bear with me; My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, And I must pause till it come back to me. But yesterday the word of Caesar might Have stood against the world; now lies he there, And none so poor to do him reverence. O masters! if I were dispos'd to stir Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong, Who, you all know, are honourable men. I will not do them wrong; I rather choose To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and you, Than I will wrong such honourable men But here's a parchment with the seal of Caesar; I found it in his closet, 'tis his will. Let but the commons hear this testament— Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read— And they would go and kiss dead Caesar's wounds, And dip their napkins in his sacred blood, Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, And, dying, mention it within their wills, Bequeathing it as a rich legacy Unto their issue. Have patience, gentle friends; I must not read it: It is not meet you know how Caesar lov'd you. You are not wood, you are not stones, but men; And, being men, hearing the will of Caesar, It will inflame you, it will make you mad. 'Tis good you know not that you are his heirs; For if you should, O! what would come of it. Will you be patient? Will you stay awhile? I have o'ershot myself to tell you of it. I fear I wrong the honourable men Whose daggers have stabb'd Caesar; I do fear it. You will compel me then to read the will? Then make a ring about the corpse of Caesar, And let me show you him that made the will. Shall I descend? and will you give me leave? Nay, press not so upon me; stand far off. If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this mantle: I remember The first time ever Caesar put it on; 'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent, That day he overcame the Nervii. Look! in this place ran Cassius' dagger through: See what a rent the envious Casca made: Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb'd; And, as he pluck'd his cursed steel away, Mark how the blood of Caesar follow'd it, As rushing out of doors, to be resolv'd If Brutus so unkindly knock'd or no; For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel: Judge, O you gods! how dearly Caesar lov'd him. This was the most unkindest cut of all; For when the noble Caesar saw him stab, Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms, Quite vanquish'd him: then burst his mighty heart; And, in his mantle muffling up his face, Even at the base of Pompey's status, Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell. O! what a fall was there, my countrymen; Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, Whilst bloody treason flourish'd over us. O! now you weep, and I perceive you feel The dint of pity; these are gracious drops. Kind souls, what! weep you when you but behold Our Caesar's vesture wounded? Look you here, Here is himself, marr'd, as you see, with traitors. Stay, countrymen! Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up To such a sudden flood of mutiny. They that have done this deed are honourable: What private griefs they have, alas! I know not, That made them do it; they are wise and honourable, And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you. I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts: I am no orator, as Brutus is; But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man, That love my friend; and that they know full well That gave me public leave to speak of him. For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, To stir men's blood: I only speak right on; I tell you that which you yourselves do know, Show you sweet Caesar's wounds, poor poor dumb mouths, And bid them speak for me: but were I Brutus, And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue In every wound of Caesar, that should move The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny. Yet hear me, countrymen; yet hear me speak. Why, friends, you go to do you know not what. Wherein hath Caesar thus deserv'd your loves? Alas! you know not: I must tell you then. You have forgot the will I told you of. Here is the will, and under Caesar's seal. To every Roman citizen he gives, To every several man, seventy-five drachmas. Hear me with patience. Moreover, he hath left you all his walks, His private arbours, and new-planted orchards, On this side Tiber; he hath left them you, And to your heirs for ever; common pleasures, To walk abroad, and recreate yourselves. Here was a Caesar! when comes such another? Now let it work: mischief, thou art afoot, Take thou what course thou wilt! How now, fellow! Where is he? And thither will I straight to visit him. He comes upon a wish. Fortune is merry, And in this mood will give us any thing. Belike they had some notice of the people, How I had mov'd them. Bring me to Octavius. These many then shall die; their names are prick'd. He shall not live; look, with a spot I damn him. But, Lepidus, go you to Caesar's house; Fetch the will hither, and we shall determine How to cut off some charge in legacies. This is a slight unmeritable man, Meet to be sent on errands: is it fit, The three-fold world divided, he should stand One of the three to share it? Octavius, I have seen more days than you: And though we lay these honours on this man, To ease ourselves of divers slanderous loads, He shall but bear them as the ass bears gold, To groan and sweat under the business, Either led or driven, as we point the way; And having brought our treasure where we will, Then take we down his load, and turn him off, Like to the empty ass, to shake his ears, And graze in commons. So is my horse, Octavius; and for that I do appoint him store of provender. It is a creature that I teach to fight, To wind, to stop, to run directly on, His corporal motion govern'd by my spirit. And, in some taste, is Lepidus but so; He must be taught, and train'd, and bid go forth; A barren-spirited fellow; one that feeds On abject orts, and imitations, Which, out of use and stal'd by other men, Begin his fashion: do not talk of him But as a property. And now, Octavius, Listen great things: Brutus and Cassius Are levying powers; we must straight make head; Therefore let our alliance be combin'd, Our best friends made, and our best means stretch'd out; And let us presently go sit in council, How covert matters may be best disclos'd, And open perils surest answered. Tut! I am in their bosoms, and I know Wherefore they do it: they could be content To visit other places; and come down With fearful bravery, thinking by this face To fasten in our thoughts that they have courage; But 'tis not so. Octavius, lead your battle softly on, Upon the left hand of the even field. Why do you cross me in this exigent? No, Caesar, we will answer on their charge. Make forth; the generals would have some words. In your bad strokes, Brutus, you give good words: Witness the hole you made in Caesar's heart, Crying, 'Long live! hail, Caesar!' Not stingless too. Villains! you did not so when your vile daggers Hack'd one another in the sides of Caesar: How show'd your teeth like apes, and fawn'd like hounds, And bow'd like bondmen, kissing Caesar's feet; Whilst damned Casca, like a cur, behind Struck Caesar on the neck. O you flatterers! Old Cassius still! Where is he? This is not Brutus, friend; but, I assure you, A prize no less in worth. Keep this man safe, Give him all kindness: I had rather have Such men my friends than enemies. Go on, And see whe'r Brutus be alive or dead; And bring us word unto Octavius' tent, How every thing is chanc'd. This was the noblest Roman of them all; All the conspirators save only he Did that they did in envy of great Caesar; He only, in a general honest thought And common good to all, made one of them. His life was gentle, and the elements So mix'd in him that Nature might stand up And say to all the world, 'This was a man!' 

data/data/brutus.txt

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+A soothsayer bids you beware the ides of March. Not I. I am not gamesome: I do lack some part Of that quick spirit that is in Antony. Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires; I'll leave you. Cassius, Be not deceiv'd: if I have veil'd my look, I turn the trouble of my countenance Merely upon myself. Vexed I am Of late with passions of some difference, Conceptions only proper to myself, Which give some soil perhaps to my behaviours; But let not therefore my good friends be griev'd,— Among which number, Cassius, be you one,— Nor construe any further my neglect, Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war, Forgets the shows of love to other men. No, Cassius; for the eye sees not itself, But by reflection, by some other things. Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius, That you would have me seek into myself For that which is not in me? What means this shouting? I do fear the people Choose Caesar for their king. I would not, Cassius; yet I love him well. But wherefore do you hold me here so long? What is it that you would impart to me? If it be aught toward the general good, Set honour in one eye and death i' the other, And I will look on both indifferently; For let the gods so speed me as I love The name of honour more than I fear death. Another general shout! I do believe that these applauses are For some new honours that are heaped on Caesar. That you do love me, I am nothing jealous; What you would work me to, I have some aim: How I have thought of this and of these times, I shall recount hereafter; for this present, I would not, so with love I might entreat you, Be any further mov'd. What you have said I will consider; what you have to say I will with patience hear, and find a time Both meet to hear and answer such high things. Till then, my noble friend, chew upon this: Brutus had rather be a villager Than to repute himself a son of Rome Under these hard conditions as this time Is like to lay upon us. The games are done and Caesar is returning. I will do so. But, look you, Cassius, The angry spot doth glow on Caesar's brow, And all the rest look like a chidden train: Calphurnia's cheek is pale, and Cicero Looks with such ferret and such fiery eyes As we have seen him in the Capitol, Being cross'd in conference by some senators. Ay, Casca; tell us what hath chanc'd to-day, That Caesar looks so sad. I should not then ask Casca what had chanc'd. What was the second noise for? Was the crown offered him thrice? Tell us the manner of it, gentle Casca. 'Tis very like: he hath the falling-sickness. What said he, when he came unto himself? And after that he came, thus sad, away? What a blunt fellow is this grown to be! He was quick mettle when he went to school. And so it is. For this time I will leave you: To-morrow, if you please to speak with me, I will come home to you; or, if you will, Come home to me, and I will wait for you. What, Lucius! ho! I cannot, by the progress of the stars, Give guess how near to day. Lucius, I say! I would it were my fault to sleep so soundly. When, Lucius, when! Awake, I say! what, Lucius! Get me a taper in my study, Lucius: When it is lighted, come and call me here. It must be by his death: and, for my part, I know no personal cause to spurn at him, But for the general. He would be crown'd: How that might change his nature, there's the question: It is the bright day that brings forth the adder; And that craves wary walking. Crown him?—that! And then, I grant, we put a sting in him, That at his will he may do danger with. The abuse of greatness is when it disjoins Remorse from power; and, to speak truth of Caesar, I have not known when his affections sway'd More than his reason. But 'tis a common proof, That lowliness is young ambition's ladder, Whereto the climber-upward turns his face; But when he once attains the upmost round, He then unto the ladder turns his back, Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees By which he did ascend. So Caesar may: Then, lest he may, prevent. And, since the quarrel Will bear no colour for the thing he is, Fashion it thus; that what he is, augmented, Would run to these and these extremities; And therefore think him as a serpent's egg Which, hatch'd, would, as his kind, grow mischievous, And kill him in the shell. Get you to bed again; it is not day. Is not to-morrow, boy, the ides of March? Look in the calendar, and bring me word. The exhalations whizzing in the air Give so much light that I may read by them. Brutus, thou sleep'st: awake and see thyself. Shall Rome, &c. Speak, strike, redress! Brutus, thou sleep'st: awake! Such instigations have been often dropp'd Where I have took them up. 'Shall Rome, &c.' Thus must I piece it out: Shall Rome stand under one man's awe? What, Rome? My ancestors did from the streets of Rome The Tarquin drive, when he was call'd a king. 'Speak, strike, redress!' Am I entreated To speak, and strike? O Rome! I make thee promise; If the redress will follow, thou receiv'st Thy full petition at the hand of Brutus! 'Tis good. Go to the gate: somebody knocks. Since Cassius first did whet me against Caesar, I have not slept. Between the acting of a dreadful thing And the first motion, all the interim is Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream: The genius and the mortal instruments Are then in council; and the state of man, Like to a little kingdom, suffers then The nature of an insurrection. Is he alone? Do you know them? Let 'em enter. They are the faction. O conspiracy! Sham'st thou to show thy dangerous brow by night, When evils are most free? O! then by day Where wilt thou find a cavern dark enough To mask thy monstrous visage? Seek none, conspiracy; Hide it in smiles and affability: For if thou path, thy native semblance on, Not Erebus itself were dim enough To hide thee from prevention. I have been up this hour, awake all night. Know I these men that come along with you? He is welcome hither. He is welcome too. They are all welcome. What watchful cares do interpose themselves Betwixt your eyes and night? Here lies the east: doth not the day break here? Give me your hands all over, one by one. No, not an oath: if not the face of men, The sufferance of our souls, the time's abuse, If these be motives weak, break off betimes, And every man hence to his idle bed; So let high-sighted tyranny range on, Till each man-drop by lottery. But if these, As I am sure they do, bear fire enough To kindle cowards and to steel with valour The melting spirits of women, then, countrymen, What need we any spur but our own cause To prick us to redress? what other bond Than secret Romans, that have spoke the word And will not palter? and what other oath Than honesty to honesty engag'd, That this shall be, or we will fall for it? Swear priests and cowards and men cautelous, Old feeble carrions and such suffering souls That welcome wrongs; unto bad causes swear Such creatures as men doubt; but do not stain The even virtue of our enterprise, Nor th' insuppressive mettle of our spirits, To think that or our cause or our performance Did need an oath; when every drop of blood That every Roman bears, and nobly bears, Is guilty of a several bastardy, If he do break the smallest particle Of any promise that hath pass'd from him. O! name him not: let us not break with him; For he will never follow any thing That other men begin. Shall no man else be touch'd but only Caesar? Our course will seem too bloody, Caius Cassius, To cut the head off and then hack the limbs, Like wrath in death and envy afterwards; For Antony is but a limb of Caesar. Let us be sacrificers, but not butchers, Caius. We all stand up against the spirit of Caesar; And in the spirit of men there is no blood: O! then that we could come by Caesar's spirit, And not dismember Caesar. But, alas! Caesar must bleed for it. And, gentle friends, Let's kill him boldly, but not wrathfully; Let's carve him as a dish fit for the gods, Not hew him as a carcass fit for hounds: And let our hearts, as subtle masters do, Stir up their servants to an act of rage, And after seem to chide 'em. This shall make Our purpose necessary and not envious; Which so appearing to the common eyes, We shall be call'd purgers, not murderers. And, for Mark Antony, think not of him; For he can do no more than Caesar's arm When Caesar's head is off. Alas! good Cassius, do not think of him: If he love Caesar, all that he can do Is to himself, take thought and die for Caesar: And that were much he should; for he is given To sports, to wildness, and much company. Peace! count the clock. Never fear that: if he be so resolv'd, I can o'ersway him; for he loves to hear That unicorns may be betray'd with trees, And bears with glasses, elephants with holes, Lions with toils, and men with flatterers; But when I tell him he hates flatterers, He says he does, being then most flattered. Let me work; For I can give his humour the true bent, And I will bring him to the Capitol. By the eighth hour: is that the uttermost? Now, good Metellus, go along by him: He loves me well, and I have given him reasons; Send him but hither, and I'll fashion him. Good gentlemen, look fresh and merrily; Let not our looks put on our purposes, But bear it as our Roman actors do, With untir'd spirits and formal constancy: And so good morrow to you every one. Boy! Lucius! Fast asleep? It is no matter; Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber: Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies Which busy care draws in the brains of men; Therefore thou sleep'st so sound. Portia, what mean you? Wherefore rise you now? It is not for your health thus to commit Your weak condition to the raw cold morning. I am not well in health, and that is all. Why, so I do. Good Portia, go to bed. Kneel not, gentle Portia. You are my true and honourable wife, As dear to me as are the ruddy drops That visit my sad heart. O ye gods! Render me worthy of this noble wife. Hark, hark! one knocks. Portia, go in awhile; And by and by thy bosom shall partake The secrets of my heart. All my engagements I will construe to thee, All the charactery of my sad brows. Leave me with haste. Lucius, who's that knocks? Caius Ligarius, that Metellus spoke of. Boy, stand aside. Caius Ligarius! how? O! what a time have you chose out, brave Caius, To wear a kerchief. Would you were not sick. Such an exploit have I in hand, Ligarius, Had you a healthful ear to hear of it. A piece of work that will make sick men whole. That must we also. What it is, my Caius, I shall unfold to thee as we are going To whom it must be done. Follow me then. Caesar, all hail! Good morrow, worthy Caesar: I come to fetch you to the senate-house. Most mighty Caesar, let me know some cause, Lest I be laugh'd at when I tell them so. This dream is all amiss interpreted; It was a vision fair and fortunate: Your statue spouting blood in many pipes, In which so many smiling Romans bath'd, Signifies that from you great Rome shall suck Reviving blood, and that great men shall press For tinctures, stains, relics, and cognizance. This by Calphurnia's dream is signified. I have, when you have heard what I can say: And know it now: the senate have concluded To give this day a crown to mighty Caesar. If you shall send them word you will not come, Their minds may change. Besides, it were a mock Apt to be render'd, for some one to say 'Break up the senate till another time, When Caesar's wife shall meet with better dreams.' If Caesar hide himself, shall they not whisper 'Lo! Caesar is afraid?' Pardon me, Caesar; for my dear dear love To your proceeding bids me tell you this, And reason to my love is liable. Caesar, 'tis strucken eight. That every like is not the same, O Caesar! The heart of Brutus yearns to think upon. Trebonius doth desire you to o'er-read, At your best leisure, this his humble suit. What said Popilius Lena? Look, how he makes to Caesar: mark him. Cassius, be constant: Popilius Lena speaks not of our purposes; For, look, he smiles, and Caesar doth not change. Where is Metellus Cimber? Let him go, And presently prefer his suit to Caesar. He is address'd; press near and second him. I kiss thy hand, but not in flattery, Caesar; Desiring thee, that Publius Cimber may Have an immediate freedom of repeal. Great Caesar,— People and senators be not affrighted; Fly not; stand still; ambition's debt is paid. And Cassius too. Where's Publius? Talk not of standing. Publius, good cheer; There is no harm intended to your person, Nor to no Roman else; so tell them, Publius. Do so; and let no man abide this deed But we the doers. Fates, we will know your pleasures. That we shall die, we know; 'tis but the time And drawing days out, that men stand upon. Grant that, and then is death a benefit: So are we Caesar's friends, that have abridg'd His time of fearing death. Stoop, Romans, stoop, And let us bathe our hands in Caesar's blood Up to the elbows, and besmear our swords: Then walk we forth, even to the market-place; And waving our red weapons o'er our heads, Let's all cry, 'Peace, freedom, and liberty!' How many times shall Caesar bleed in sport, That now on Pompey's basis lies along No worthier than the dust! What! shall we forth? Soft! who comes here? A friend of Antony's. Thy master is a wise and valiant Roman; I never thought him worse. Tell him, so please him come unto this place, He shall be satisfied; and, by my honour, Depart untouch'd. I know that we shall have him well to friend. But here comes Antony. Welcome, Mark Antony. O Antony! beg not your death of us. Though now we must appear bloody and cruel, As, by our hands and this our present act, You see we do, yet see you but our hands And this the bleeding business they have done: Our hearts you see not; they are pitiful; And pity to the general wrong of Rome— As fire drives out fire, so pity pity— Hath done this deed on Caesar. For your part, To you our swords have leaden points, Mark Antony; Our arms, in strength of malice, and our hearts Of brothers' temper, do receive you in With all kind love, good thoughts, and reverence. Only be patient till we have appeas'd The multitude, beside themselves with fear, And then we will deliver you the cause Why I, that did love Caesar when I struck him, Have thus proceeded. Or else were this a savage spectacle. Our reasons are so full of good regard That were you, Antony, the son of Caesar, You should be satisfied. You shall, Mark Antony. By your pardon; I will myself into the pulpit first, And show the reason of our Caesar's death: What Antony shall speak, I will protest He speaks by leave and by permission, And that we are contented Caesar shall Have all true rites and lawful ceremonies. It shall advantage more than do us wrong. Mark Antony, here, take you Caesar's body. You shall not in your funeral speech blame us, But speak all good you can devise of Caesar, And say you do 't by our permission; Else shall you not have any hand at all About his funeral; and you shall speak In the same pulpit whereto I am going, After my speech is ended. Prepare the body then, and follow us. Then follow me, and give me audience, friends. Cassius, go you into the other street, And part the numbers. Those that will hear me speak, let 'em stay here; Those that will follow Cassius, go with him; And public reasons shall be rendered Of Caesar's death. Be patient till the last. Romans, countrymen, and lovers! hear me for my cause; and be silent, that you may hear: believe me for mine honour, and have respect to mine honour, that you may believe: censure me in your wisdom, and awake your senses, that you may the better judge. If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of Caesar's, to him I say, that Brutus' love to Caesar was no less than his. If then that friend demand why Brutus rose against Caesar, this is my answer: Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more. Had you rather Caesar were living, and die all slaves, than that Caesar were dead, to live all free men? As Caesar loved me, I weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honour him; but, as he was ambitious, I slew him. There is tears for his love; joy for his fortune; honour for his valour; and death for his ambition. Who is here so base that would be a bondman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so rude that would not be a Roman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so vile that will not love his country? If any, speak; for him have I offended. I pause for a reply. Then none have I offended. I have done no more to Caesar, than you shall do to Brutus. The question of his death is enrolled in the Capitol; his glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy, nor his offences enforced, for which he suffered death. Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony: who, though he had no hand in his death, shall receive the benefit of his dying, a place in the commonwealth; as which of you shall not? With this I depart: that, as I slew my best lover for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please my country to need my death. My countrymen,— Good countrymen, let me depart alone, And, for my sake, stay here with Antony. Do grace to Caesar's corpse, and grace his speech Tending to Caesar's glories, which Mark Antony, By our permission, is allow'd to make. I do entreat you, not a man depart, Save I alone, till Antony have spoke. Stand, ho! What now, Lucilius! is Cassius near? He greets me well. Your master, Pindarus, In his own change, or by ill officers, Hath given me some worthy cause to wish Things done, undone; but, if he be at hand, I shall be satisfied. He is not doubted. A word, Lucilius; How he receiv'd you, let me be resolv'd. Thou hast describ'd A hot friend cooling. Ever note, Lucilius, When love begins to sicken and decay, It useth an enforced ceremony. There are no tricks in plain and simple faith; But hollow men, like horses hot at hand, Make gallant show and promise of their mettle; But when they should endure the bloody spur, They fall their crests, and, like deceitful jades, Sink in the trial. Comes his army on? Hark! he is arriv'd. March gently on to meet him. Stand, ho! Speak the word along. Judge me, you gods! Wrong I mine enemies? And, if not so, how should I wrong a brother? Cassius, be content; Speak your griefs softly: I do know you well. Before the eyes of both our armies here, Which should perceive nothing but love from us, Let us not wrangle: bid them move away; Then in my tent, Cassius, enlarge your griefs, And I will give you audience. Lucilius, do you the like; and let no man Come to our tent till we have done our conference. Let Lucius and Titinius guard our door. You wrong'd yourself to write in such a case. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself Are much condemn'd to have an itching palm; To sell and mart your offices for gold To undeservera. The name of Cassius honours this corruption, And chastisement doth therefore hide his head. Remember March, the ides of March remember: Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake? What villain touch'd his body, that did stab, And not for justice? What! shall one of us, That struck the foremost man of all this world But for supporting robbers, shall we now Contaminate our fingers with base bribes, And sell the mighty space of our large honours For so much trash as may be grasped thus? I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, Than such a Roman. Go to; you are not, Cassius. I say you are not. Away, slight man! Hear me, for I will speak. Must I give way and room to your rash choler? Shall I be frighted when a madman stares? All this! ay, more: fret till your proud heart break; Go show your slaves how choleric you are, And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge? Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouch Under your testy humour? By the gods, You shall digest the venom of your spleen, Though it do split you; for, from this day forth, I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter, When you are waspish. You say you are a better soldier: Let it appear so; make your vaunting true, And it shall please me well. For mine own part, I shall be glad to learn of noble men. If you did, I care not. Peace, peace! you durst not so have tempted him. No. For your life you durst not. You have done that you should be sorry for. There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats; For I am arm'd so strong in honesty That they pass by me as the idle wind, Which I respect not. I did send to you For certain sums of gold, which you denied me; For I can raise no money by vile means: By heaven, I had rather coin my heart, And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash By any indirection. I did send To you for gold to pay my legions, Which you denied me: was that done like Cassius? Should I have answer'd Caius Cassius so? When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, To lock such rascal counters from his friends, Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts; Dash him to pieces! You did. I do not, till you practise them on me. I do not like your faults. A flatterer's would not, though they do appear As huge as high Olympus. Sheathe your dagger: Be angry when you will, it shall have scope; Do what you will, dishonour shall be humour. O Cassius! you are yoked with a lamb That carries anger as the flint bears fire, Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, And straight is cold again. When I spoke that I was ill-temper'd too. And my heart too. What's the matter? Yes, Cassius; and from henceforth When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so. Get you hence, sirrah; saucy fellow, hence! I'll know his humour, when he knows his time: What should the wars do with these jigging fools? Companion, hence! Lucilius and Titinius, bid the commanders Prepare to lodge their companies to-night. Lucius, a bowl of wine! O Cassius! I am sick of many griefs. No man bears sorrow better: Portia is dead. She is dead. Impatient of my absence, And grief that young Octavius with Mark Antony Have made themselves so strong;—for with her death That tidings came:—with this she fell distract, And, her attendants absent, swallow'd fire. Even so. Speak no more of her. Give me a bowl of wine. In this I bury all unkindness, Cassius. Come in, Titinius. Welcome, good Messala. Now sit we close about this taper here, And call in question our necessities. No more, I pray you. Messala, I have here received letters, That young Octavius and Mark Antony Come down upon us with a mighty power, Bending their expedition towards Philippi. With what addition? Therein our letters do not well agree; Mine speak of seventy senators that died By their proscriptions, Cicero being one. No, Messala. Nothing, Messala. Why ask you? Hear you aught of her in yours? Now, as you are a Roman, tell me true. Why, farewell, Portia. We must die, Messala: With meditating that she must die once, I have the patience to endure it now. Well, to our work alive. What do you think Of marching to Philippi presently? Your reason? Good reasons must, of force, give place to better, The people 'twixt Philippi and this ground Do stand but in a forc'd affection; For they have grudg'd us contribution: The enemy, marching along by them, By them shall make a fuller number up, Come on refresh'd, new-added, and encourag'd; From which advantage shall we cut him off, If at Philippi we do face him there, These people at our back. Under your pardon. You must note beside, That we have tried the utmost of our friends, Our legions are brim-full, our cause is ripe: The enemy increaseth every day; We, at the height, are ready to decline. There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; Omitted, all the voyage of their life Is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat; And we must take the current when it serves, Or lose our ventures. The deep of night is crept upon our talk, And nature must obey necessity, Which we will niggard with a little rest. There is no more to say? Lucius! My gown. Farewell, good Messala: Good-night, Titinius. Noble, noble Cassius, Good-night, and good repose. Every thing is well. Good-night, good brother. Farewell, every one. Give me the gown. Where is thy instrument? What! thou speak'st drowsily? Poor knave, I blame thee not; thou art o'erwatch'd. Call Claudius and some other of my men; I'll have them sleep on cushions in my tent. I pray you, sirs, lie in my tent and sleep: It may be I shall raise you by and by On business to my brother Cassius. I will not have it so; lie down, good sirs; It may be I shall otherwise bethink me. Look, Lucius, here's the book I sought for so; I put it in the pocket of my gown. Bear with me, good boy, I am much forgetful. Canst thou hold up thy heavy eyes awhile, And touch thy instrument a strain or two? It does, my boy: I trouble thee too much, but thou art willing. I should not urge thy duty past thy might; I know young bloods look for a time of rest. It was well done, and thou shalt sleep again; I will not hold thee long: if I do live, I will be good to thee. This is a sleepy tune: O murderous slumber! Lay'st thou thy leaden mace upon my boy, That plays thee music? Gentle knave, good-night; I will not do thee so much wrong to wake thee. If thou dost nod, thou break'st thy instrument; I'll take it from thee; and, good boy, good-night. Let me see, let me see; is not the leaf turn'd down Where I left reading? Here it is, I think. How ill this taper burns! Ha! who comes here? I think it is the weakness of mine eyes That shapes this monstrous apparition. It comes upon me. Art thou any thing? Art thou some god, some angel, or some devil, That mak'st my blood cold and my hair to stare? Speak to me what thou art. Why com'st thou? Well; then I shall see thee again? Why, I will see thee at Philippi then. Now I have taken heart thou vanishest: Ill spirit, I would hold more talk with thee. Boy, Lucius! Varro! Claudius! Sirs, awake! Claudius! He thinks he still is at his instrument. Lucius, awake! Didst thou dream, Lucius, that thou so criedst out? Yes, that thou didst. Didst thou see any thing? Sleep again, Lucius. Sirrah, Claudius! Fellow thou! awake! Why did you so cry out, sirs, in your sleep? Ay: saw you any thing? Go, and commend me to my brother Cassius. Bid him set on his powers betimes before, And we will follow. They stand, and would have parley. Words before blows: is it so, countrymen? Good words are better than bad strokes, Octavius. O! yes, and soundless too; For you have stol'n their buzzing, Antony, And very wisely threat before you sting. Caesar, thou canst not die by traitors' hands, Unless thou bring'st them with thee. O! if thou wert the noblest of thy strain, Young man, thou couldst not die more honourable. Ho! Lucilius! hark, a word with you. Even so, Lucilius. Even by the rule of that philosophy By which I did blame Cato for the death Which he did give himself; I know not how, But I do find it cowardly and vile, For fear of what might fall, so to prevent The time of life: arming myself with patience, To stay the providence of some high powers That govern us below. No, Cassius, no: think not, thou noble Roman, That ever Brutus will go bound to Rome; He bears too great a mind: but this same day Must end that work the ides of March begun; And whether we shall meet again I know not. Therefore our everlasting farewell take: For ever, and for ever, farewell, Cassius! If we do meet again, why, we shall smile; If not, why then, this parting was well made. Why, then, lead on. O! that a man might know The end of this day's business, ere it come; But it sufficeth that the day will end, And then the end is known. Come, ho! away! Ride, ride, Messala, ride, and give these bills Unto the legions on the other side. Let them set on at once, for I perceive But cold demeanour in Octavius' wing, And sudden push gives them the overthrow. Ride, ride, Messala: let them all come down. Where, where, Messala, doth his body lie? Titinius' face is upward. O Julius Caesar! thou art mighty yet! Thy spirit walks abroad, and turns our swords In our own proper entrails. Are yet two Romans living such as these? The last of all the Romans, fare thee well! It is impossible that ever Rome Should breed thy fellow. Friends, I owe more tears To this dead man than you shall see me pay.— I shall find time, Cassius, I shall find time.— Come therefore, and to Thassos send his body: His funerals shall not be in our camp, Lest it discomfort us. Lucilius, come; And come, young Cato;—let us to the field. Labeo and Flavius, set our battles on:— 'Tis three o'clock; and, Romans, yet ere night We shall try fortune in a second fight. Yet, countrymen, O! yet hold up your heads! And I am Brutus, Marcus Brutus, I; Brutus, my country's friend; know me for Brutus! Come, poor remains of friends, rest on this rock. Sit thee down, Clitus: slaying is the word; It is a deed in fashion. Hark thee, Clitus. Peace, then! no words. Hark thee, Dardanius. Come hither, good Volumnius: list a word. Why this, Volumnius: The ghost of Caesar hath appear'd to me Two several times by night; at Sardis once, And this last night here in Philippi fields. I know my hour is come. Nay, I am sure it is, Volumnius. Thou seest the world, Volumnius, how it goes; Our enemies have beat us to the pit: It is more worthy to leap in ourselves, Than tarry till they push us. Good Volumnius, Thou know'st that we two went to school together: Even for that our love of old, I prithee, Hold thou my sword-hilts, whilst I run on it. Farewell to you; and you; and you, Volumnius. Strato, thou hast been all this while asleep; Farewell to thee too, Strato. Countrymen, My heart doth joy that yet, in all my life, I found no man but he was true to me. I shall have glory by this losing day, More than Octavius and Mark Antony By this vile conquest shall attain unto. So fare you well at once; for Brutus' tongue Hath almost ended his life's history: Night hangs upon mine eyes; my bones would rest, That have but labour'd to attain this hour. Hence! I will follow. I prithee, Strato, stay thou by thy lord: Thou art a fellow of a good respect; Thy life hath had some smatch of honour in it: Hold then my sword, and turn away thy face, While I do run upon it. Wilt thou, Strato? Farewell, good Strato.—Caesar, now be still; I kill'd not thee with half so good a will. 

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+A little more than kin, and less than kind. Not so, my lord; I am too much i' the sun. Ay, madam, it is common. Seems, madam! Nay, it is; I know not 'seems.' 'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black, Nor windy suspiration of forc'd breath, No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, Nor the dejected haviour of the visage, Together with all forms, modes, shows of grief, That can denote me truly; these indeed seem, For they are actions that a man might play: But I have that within which passeth show; These but the trappings and the suits of woe. I shall in all my best obey you, madam. O! that this too too solid flesh would melt, Thaw and resolve itself into a dew; Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! O God! How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable Seem to me all the uses of this world. Fie on 't! O fie! 'tis an unweeded garden, That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature Possess it merely. That it should come to this! But two months dead: nay, not so much, not two: So excellent a king; that was, to this, Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother That he might not beteem the winds of heaven Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth! Must I remember? why, she would hang on him, As if increase of appetite had grown By what it fed on; and yet, within a month, Let me not think on't: Frailty, thy name is woman! A little month; or ere those shoes were old With which she follow'd my poor father's body, Like Niobe, all tears; why she, even she,— O God! a beast, that wants discourse of reason, Would have mourn'd longer,—married with mine uncle, My father's brother, but no more like my father Than I to Hercules: within a month, Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the flushing in her galled eyes, She married. O! most wicked speed, to post With such dexterity to incestuous sheets. It is not nor it cannot come to good; But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue! I am glad to see you well: Horatio, or I do forget myself. Sir, my good friend; I'll change that name with you. And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio? Marcellus? I am very glad to see you. Good even, sir. But what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg? I would not hear your enemy say so, Nor shall you do mine ear that violence, To make it truster of your own report Against yourself; I know you are no truant. But what is your affair in Elsinore? We'll teach you to drink deep ere you depart. I pray thee, do not mock me, fellow-student; I think it was to see my mother's wedding. Thrift, thrift, Horatio! the funeral bak'd meats Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables. Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven Ere I had ever seen that day, Horatio! My father, methinks I see my father. In my mind's eye, Horatio. He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again. Saw who? The king, my father! For God's love, let me hear. But where was this? Did you not speak to it? 'Tis very strange. Indeed, indeed, sirs, but this troubles me. Hold you the watch to-night? Arm'd, say you? From top to toe? Then saw you not his face? What! look'd he frowningly? Pale or red? And fix'd his eyes upon you? I would I had been there. Very like, very like. Stay'd it long? His beard was grizzled, no? I will watch to-night; Perchance 'twill walk again. If it assume my noble father's person, I'll speak to it, though hell itself should gape And bid me hold my peace. I pray you all, If you have hitherto conceal'd this sight, Let it be tenable in your silence still; And whatsoever else shall hap to-night, Give it an understanding, but no tongue: I will requite your loves. So, fare you well. Upon the platform, 'twixt eleven and twelve, I'll visit you. Your loves, as mine to you. Farewell. My father's spirit in arms! all is not well; I doubt some foul play: would the night were come! Till then sit still, my soul: foul deeds will rise, Though all the earth o'erwhelm them, to men's eyes. The air bites shrewdly; it is very cold. What hour now? The king doth wake to-night and takes his rouse, Keeps wassail, and the swaggering up-spring reels; And, as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down, The kettle-drum and trumpet thus bray out The triumph of his pledge. Ay, marry, is 't: But to my mind,—though I am native here And to the manner born,—it is a custom More honour'd in the breach than the observance. This heavy-headed revel east and west Makes us traduc'd and tax'd of other nations; They clepe us drunkards, and with swinish phrase Soil our addition; and indeed it takes From our achievements, though perform'd at height, The pith and marrow of our attribute. So, oft it chances in particular men, That for some vicious mole of nature in them, As, in their birth,—wherein they are not guilty, Since nature cannot choose his origin,— By the o'ergrowth of some complexion, Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason, Or by some habit that too much o'er-leavens The form of plausive manners; that these men, Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect, Being nature's livery, or fortune's star, Their virtues else, be they as pure as grace, As infinite as man may undergo, Shall in the general censure take corruption From that particular fault: the dram of eale Doth all the noble substance of a doubt, To his own scandal. Angels and ministers of grace defend us! Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn'd, Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell, Be thy intents wicked or charitable, Thou com'st in such a questionable shape That I will speak to thee: I'll call thee Hamlet, King, father; royal Dane, O! answer me: Let me not burst in ignorance; but tell Why thy canoniz'd bones, hearsed in death, Have burst their cerements; why the sepulchre, Wherein we saw thee quietly inurn'd, Hath op'd his ponderous and marble jaws, To cast thee up again. What may this mean, That thou, dead corse, again in complete steel Revisit'st thus the glimpses of the moon, Making night hideous; and we fools of nature So horridly to shake our disposition With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls? Say, why is this? wherefore? what should we do? It will not speak; then, will I follow it. Why, what should be the fear? I do not set my life at a pin's fee; And for my soul, what can it do to that, Being a thing immortal as itself? It waves me forth again; I'll follow it. It waves me still. Go on, I'll follow thee. Hold off your hands! My fate cries out, And makes each petty artery in this body As hardy as the Nemean lion's nerve. Still am I call'd. Unhand me, gentlemen, By heaven! I'll make a ghost of him that lets me: I say, away! Go on, I'll follow thee. Whither wilt thou lead me? speak; I'll go no further. I will. Alas! poor ghost. Speak; I am bound to hear. What? O God! Murder! Haste me to know't, that I, with wings as swift As meditation or the thoughts of love, May sweep to my revenge. O my prophetic soul! My uncle! O all you host of heaven! O earth! What else? And shall I couple hell? O fie! Hold, hold, my heart! And you, my sinews, grow not instant old, But bear me stiffly up! Remember thee! Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat In this distracted globe. Remember thee! Yea, from the table of my memory I'll wipe away all trivial fond records, All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past, That youth and observation copied there; And thy commandment all alone shall live Within the book and volume of my brain, Unmix'd with baser matter: yes, by heaven! O most pernicious woman! O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain! My tables,—meet it is I set it down, That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain; At least I'm sure it may be so in Denmark: So, uncle, there you are. Now to my word; It is, 'Adieu, adieu! remember me. I have sworn 't. Hillo, ho, ho, boy! come, bird, come. O! wonderful. No; you will reveal it. How say you, then; would heart of man once think it? But you'll be secret? There's ne'er a villain dwelling in all Denmark, But he's an arrant knave. Why, right; you are i' the right; And so, without more circumstance at all, I hold it fit that we shake hands and part; You, as your business and desire shall point you,— For every man hath business and desire, Such as it is,—and, for mine own poor part, Look you, I'll go pray. I am sorry they offend you, heartily; Yes, faith, heartily. Yes, by Saint Patrick, but there is, Horatio, And much offence, too. Touching this vision here, It is an honest ghost, that let me tell you; For your desire to know what is between us, O'ermaster't as you may. And now, good friends, As you are friends, scholars, and soldiers, Give me one poor request. Never make known what you have seen to-night. Nay, but swear't. Upon my sword. Indeed, upon my sword, indeed. Ah, ha, boy! sayst thou so? art thou there, true-penny? Come on,—you hear this fellow in the cellar-age,— Consent to swear. Never to speak of this that you have seen, Swear by my sword. Hic et ubique? then we'll shift our ground. Come hither, gentlemen, And lay your hands again upon my sword: Never to speak of this that you have heard, Swear by my sword. Well said, old mole! canst work i' the earth so fast? A worthy pioner! once more remove, good friends. And therefore as a stranger give it welcome. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy. But come; Here, as before, never, so help you mercy, How strange or odd soe'er I bear myself, As I perchance hereafter shall think meet To put an antic disposition on, That you, at such times seeing me, never shall, With arms encumber'd thus, or this head-shake, Or by pronouncing of some doubtful phrase, As, 'Well, well, we know,' or, 'We could, an if we would;' Or, 'If we list to speak,' or, 'There be, an if they might;' Or such ambiguous giving out, to note That you know aught of me: this not to do, So grace and mercy at your most need help you, Swear. Rest, rest, perturbed spirit! So, gentlemen, With all my love I do commend me to you: And what so poor a man as Hamlet is May do, to express his love and friending to you, God willing, shall not lack. Let us go in together; And still your fingers on your lips, I pray. The time is out of joint; O cursed spite, That ever I was born to set it right! Nay, come, let's go together. Well, God a-mercy. Excellent well; you are a fishmonger. Then I would you were so honest a man. Ay, sir; to be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand. For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a good kissing carrion,—Have you a daughter? Let her not walk i' the sun: conception is a blessing; but not as your daughter may conceive. Friend, look to 't. Words, words, words. Between who? Slanders, sir: for the satirical rogue says here that old men have grey beards, that their faces are wrinkled, their eyes purging thick amber and plum-tree gum, and that they have a plentiful lack of wit, together with most weak hams: all which, sir, though I most powerfully and potently believe, yet I hold it not honesty to have it thus set down; for you yourself, sir, should be old as I am, if, like a crab, you could go backward. Into my grave? You cannot, sir, take from me any thing that I will more willingly part withal; except my life, except my life, except my life. These tedious old fools! My excellent good friends! How dost thou, Guildenstern? Ah, Rosencrantz! Good lads, how do ye both? Nor the soles of her shoe? Then you live about her waist, or in the middle of her favours? In the secret parts of Fortune? O! most true; she is a strumpet. What news? Then is doomsday near; but your news is not true. Let me question more in particular: what have you, my good friends, deserved at the hands of Fortune, that she sends you to prison hither? Denmark's a prison. A goodly one; in which there are many confines, wards, and dungeons, Denmark being one o' the worst. Why, then, 'tis none to you; for there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so: to me it is a prison. O God! I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams. A dream itself is but a shadow. Then are our beggars bodies, and our monarchs and outstretched heroes the beggars' shadows. Shall we to the court? for, by my fay, I cannot reason. No such matter; I will not sort you with the rest of my servants, for, to speak to you like an honest man, I am most dreadfully attended. But, in the beaten way of friendship, what make you at Elsinore? Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks; but I thank you: and sure, dear friends, my thanks are too dear a halfpenny. Were you not sent for? Is it your own inclining? Is it a free visitation? Come, come, deal justly with me: come, come; nay, speak. Why anything, but to the purpose. You were sent for; and there is a kind of confession in your looks which your modesties have not craft enough to colour: I know the good king and queen have sent for you. That you must teach me. But let me conjure you, by the rights of our fellowship, by the consonancy of our youth, by the obligation of our ever-preserved love, and by what more dear a better proposer could charge you withal, be even and direct with me, whether you were sent for or no! Nay, then, I have an eye of you. If you love me, hold not off. I will tell you why; so shall my anticipation prevent your discovery, and your secrecy to the king and queen moult no feather. I have of late,—but wherefore I know not,—lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me but a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form, in moving, how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? man delights not me; no, nor woman neither, though, by your smiling, you seem to say so. Why did you laugh then, when I said, 'man delights not me?' He that plays the king shall be welcome; his majesty shall have tribute of me; the adventurous knight shall use his foil and target; the lover shall not sigh gratis; the humorous man shall end his part in peace; the clown shall make those laugh whose lungs are tickle o' the sere; and the lady shall say her mind freely, or the blank verse shall halt for't. What players are they? How chances it they travel? their residence, both in reputation and profit, was better both ways. Do they hold the same estimation they did when I was in the city? Are they so followed? How comes it? Do they grow rusty? What! are they children? who maintains 'em? how are they escoted? Will they pursue the quality no longer than they can sing? will they not say afterwards, if they should grow themselves to common players,—as it is most like, if their means are no better,—their writers do them wrong, to make them exclaim against their own succession? Is it possible? Do the boys carry it away? It is not very strange; for my uncle is King of Denmark, and those that would make mows at him while my father lived, give twenty, forty, fifty, a hundred ducats a-piece for his picture in little. 'Sblood, there is something in this more than natural, if philosophy could find it out. Gentlemen, you are welcome to Elsinore. Your hands, come then; the appurtenance of welcome is fashion and ceremony: let me comply with you in this garb, lest my extent to the players—which, I tell you, must show fairly outward—should more appear like entertainment than yours. You are welcome; but my uncle-father and aunt-mother are deceived. I am but mad north-north-west: when the wind is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw. Hark you, Guildenstern; and you too; at each ear a hearer: that great baby you see there is not yet out of his swaddling-clouts. I will prophesy he comes to tell me of the players; mark it. You say right, sir; o' Monday morning; 'twas so indeed. My lord, I have news to tell you. When Roscius was an actor in Rome,— Buzz, buzz! Then came each actor on his ass,— O Jephthah, judge of Israel, what a treasure hadst thou! Why One fair daughter and no more, The which he loved passing well. Am I not i' the right, old Jephthah? Nay, that follows not. Why, As by lot, God wot. And then, you know, It came to pass, as most like it was.— The first row of the pious chanson will show you more; for look where my abridgment comes. You are welcome, masters; welcome, all. I am glad to see thee well: welcome, good friends. O, my old friend! Thy face is valanced since I saw thee last: comest thou to beard me in Denmark? What! my young lady and mistress! By 'r lady, your ladyship is nearer heaven than when I saw you last, by the altitude of a chopine. Pray God, your voice, like a piece of uncurrent gold, be not cracked within the ring. Masters, you are all welcome. We'll e'en to't like French falconers, fly at anything we see: we'll have a speech straight. Come, give us a taste of your quality; come, a passionate speech. I heard thee speak me a speech once, but it was never acted; or, if it was, not above once; for the play, I remember, pleased not the million; 'twas caviare to the general: but it was—as I received it, and others, whose judgments in such matters cried in the top of mine—an excellent play, well digested in the scenes, set down with as much modesty as cunning. I remember one said there were no sallets in the lines to make the matter savoury, nor no matter in the phrase that might indict the author of affectation; but called it an honest method, as wholesome as sweet, and by very much more handsome than fine. One speech in it I chiefly loved; 'twas Æneas' tale to Dido; and thereabout of it especially, where he speaks of Priam's slaughter. If it live in your memory, begin at this line: let me see, let me see:— Therugged Pyrrhus, like the Hyrcanian beast,— 'tis not so, it begins with Pyrrhus:— The rugged Pyrrhus, he whose sable arm, Black as his purpose, did the night resemble When he lay couched in the ominous horse, Hath now this dread and black complexion smear'd With heraldry more dismal; head to foot Now is he total gules; horridly trick'd With blood of fathers, mothers, daughters, sons, Bak'd and impasted with the parching streets, That lend a tyrannous and damned light To their vile murders: rousted in wrath and fire, And thus o'er-sized with coagulate gore, With eyes like carbuncles, the hellish Pyrrhus Old grandsire Priam seeks. So proceed you. It shall to the barber's, with your beard. Prithee, say on: he's for a jig or a tale of bawdry, or he sleeps. Say on; come to Hecuba. 'The mobled queen?'— 'Tis well; I'll have thee speak out the rest soon. Good my lord, will you see the players well bestowed? Do you hear, let them be well used; for they are the abstracts and brief chronicles of the time: after your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live. God's bodikins, man, much better; use every man after his desert, and who should 'scape whipping? Use them after your own honour and dignity: the less they deserve, the more merit is in your bounty. Take them in. Follow him, friends: we'll hear a play to-morrow. Dost thou hear me, old friend; can you play the Murder of Gonzago? We'll ha't to-morrow night. You could, for a need, study a speech of some dozen or sixteen lines, which I would set down and insert in't, could you not? Very well. Follow that lord; and look you mock him not. My good friends, I'll leave you till night; you are welcome to Elsinore. Ay, so, God be wi' ye! Now I am alone. O! what a rogue and peasant slave am I: Is it not monstrous that this player here, But in a fiction, in a dream of passion, Could force his soul so to his own conceit That from her working all his visage wann'd, Tears in his eyes, distraction in 's aspect, A broken voice, and his whole function suiting With forms to his conceit? and all for nothing! For Hecuba! What 's Hecuba to him or he to Hecuba That he should weep for her? What would he do Had he the motive and the cue for passion That I have? He would drown the stage with tears, And cleave the general ear with horrid speech, Make mad the guilty and appal the free, Confound the ignorant, and amaze indeed The very faculties of eyes and ears. Yet I, A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak, Like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause, And can say nothing; no, not for a king, Upon whose property and most dear life A damn'd defeat was made. Am I a coward? Who calls me villain? breaks my pate across? Plucks off my beard and blows it in my face? Tweaks me by the nose? gives me the lie i' the throat, As deep as to the lungs? Who does me this? Ha! Swounds, I should take it, for it cannot be But I am pigeon-liver'd, and lack gall To make oppression bitter, or ere this I should have fatted all the region kites With this slave's offal. Bloody, bawdy villain! Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain! O! vengeance! Why, what an ass am I! This is most brave That I, the son of a dear father murder'd, Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell, Must, like a whore, unpack my heart with words, And fall a-cursing, like a very drab, A scullion! Fie upon't! foh! About, my brain! I have heard, That guilty creatures sitting at a play Have by the very cunning of the scene Been struck so to the soul that presently They have proclaim'd their malefactions; For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ. I'll have these players Play something like the murder of my father Before mine uncle; I'll observe his looks; I'll tent him to the quick: if he but blench I know my course. The spirit that I have seen May be the devil: and the devil hath power To assume a pleasing shape; yea, and perhaps Out of my weakness and my melancholy— As he is very potent with such spirits— Abuses me to damn me. I'll have grounds More relative than this: the play 's the thing Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king. To be, or not to be: that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep; No more; and, by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause. There's the respect That makes calamity of so long life; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of dispriz'd love, the law's delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscover'd country from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied 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. Soft you now! The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons Be all my sins remember'd. I humbly thank you; well, well, well. No, not I; I never gave you aught. Ha, ha! are you honest? Are you fair? That if you be honest and fair, your honesty should admit no discourse to your beauty. Ay, truly; for the power of beauty will sooner transform honesty from what it is to a bawd than the force of honesty can translate beauty into his likeness: this was sometime a paradox, but now the time gives it proof. I did love thee once. You should not have believed me; for virtue cannot so inoculate our old stock but we shall relish of it: I loved you not. Get thee to a nunnery: why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners? I am myself indifferent honest; but yet I could accuse me of such things that it were better my mother had not borne me. I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious; with more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act them in. What should such fellows as I do crawling between heaven and earth? We are arrant knaves, all; believe none of us. Go thy ways to a nunnery. Where's your father? Let the doors be shut upon him, that he may play the fool nowhere but in's own house. Farewell. If thou dost marry, I'll give thee this plague for thy dowry: be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny. Get thee to a nunnery, go; farewell. Or, if thou wilt needs marry, marry a fool; for wise men know well enough what monsters you make of them. To a nunnery, go; and quickly too. Farewell. I have heard of your paintings too, well enough; God hath given you one face, and you make yourselves another: you jig, you amble, and you lisp, and nickname God's creatures, and make your wantonness your ignorance. Go to, I'll no more on't; it hath made me mad. I say, we will have no more marriages; those that are married already, all but one, shall live; the rest shall keep as they are. To a nunnery, go. Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue; but if you mouth it, as many of your players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus; but use all gently: for in the very torrent, tempest, and—as I may say—whirlwind of passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance, that may give it smoothness. O! it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious periwigpated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rage, to split the ears of the groundlings, who for the most part are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb-shows and noise: I would have such a fellow whipped for o'er-doing Termagant; it out-herods Herod: pray you, avoid it. Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor: suit the action to the word, the word to the action; with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature; for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure. Now, this overdone, or come tardy off, though it make the unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve; the censure of which one must in your allowance o'erweigh a whole theatre of others. O! there be players that I have seen play, and heard others praise, and that highly, not to speak it profanely, that, neither having the accent of Christians nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed that I have thought some of nature's journeymen had made men and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably. O! reform it altogether. And let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set down for them; for there be of them that will themselves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too, though in the mean time some necessary question of the play be then to be considered; that's villanous, and shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it. Go, make you ready. How now, my lord! will the king hear this piece of work? Bid the players make haste. Will you two help to hasten them? What, ho! Horatio! Horatio, thou art e'en as just a man As e'er my conversation cop'd withal. Nay, do not think I flatter; For what advancement may I hope from thee, That no revenue hast but thy good spirits To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flatter'd? No; let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp, And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee Where thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou hear? Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice And could of men distinguish, her election Hath seal'd thee for herself; for thou hast been As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing, A man that fortune's buffets and rewards Hast ta'en with equal thanks; and bless'd are those Whose blood and judgment are so well comingled That they are not a pipe for fortune's finger To sound what stop she please. Give me that man That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart, As I do thee. Something too much of this. There is a play to-night before the king; One scene of it comes near the circumstance Which I have told thee of my father's death: I prithee, when thou seest that act afoot, Even with the very comment of thy soul Observe mine uncle; if his occulted guilt Do not itself unkennel in one speech, It is a damned ghost that we have seen, And my imaginations are as foul As Vulcan's stithy. Give him heedful note; For I mine eyes will rivet to his face, And after we will both our judgments join In censure of his seeming. They are coming to the play; I must be idle: Get you a place. Excellent, i' faith; of the chameleon's dish: I eat the air, promise-crammed; you cannot feed capons so. No, nor mine now. My lord, you played once i' the university, you say? And what did you enact? It was a brute part of him to kill so capital a calf there. Be the playcrs ready? No, good mother, here's metal more attractive. Lady, shall I lie in your lap? I mean, my head upon your lap? Do you think I meant country matters? That's a fair thought to lie between maids' legs. Nothing. Who, I? O God, your only jig-maker. What should a man do but be merry? for, look you, how cheerfully my mother looks, and my father died within's two hours. So long? Nay, then, let the devil wear black, for I'll have a suit of sables. O heavens! die two months ago, and not forgotten yet? Then there's hope a great man's memory may outlive his life half a year; but, by'r lady, he must build churches then, or else shall he suffer not thinking on, with the hobby-horse, whose epitaph is, 'For, O! for, O! the hobby-horse is forgot.' Marry, this is miching mallecho; it means mischief. We shall know by this fellow: the players cannot keep counsel; they'll tell all. Ay, or any show that you'll show him; be not you ashamed to show, he'll not shame to tell you what it means. Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring? As woman's love. Wormwood, wormwood. If she should break it now! Madam, how like you this play? O! but she'll keep her word. No, no, they do but jest, poison in jest; no offence i' the world. The Mouse-trap. Marry, how? Tropically. This play is the image of a murder done in Vienna: Gonzago is the duke's name; his wife, Baptista. You shall see anon; 'tis a knavish piece of work: but what of that? your majesty and we that have free souls, it touches us not: let the galled jade wince, our withers are unwrung. This is one Lucianus, nephew to the king. I could interpret between you and your love, if I could see the puppets dallying. It would cost you a groaning to take off my edge. So you must take your husbands. Begin, murderer; pox, leave thy damnable faces, and begin. Come; the croaking raven doth bellow for revenge. He poisons him i' the garden for's estate. Hisname's Gonzago; the story is extant, and writ in very choice Italian. You shall see anon how the murderer gets the love of Gonzago's wife. What! frighted with false fire? Why, let the stricken deer go weep, The hart ungalled play; For some must watch, while some must sleep: So runs the world away. Would not this, sir, and a forest of feathers, if the rest of my fortunes turn Turk with me, with two Provincial roses on my razed shoes, get me a fellowship in a cry of players, sir? A whole one, I. For thou dost know, O Damon dear, This realm dismantled was Of Jove himself; and now reigns here A very, very—pajock. O good Horatio! I'll take the ghost's word for a thousand pound. Didst perceive? Upon the talk of the poisoning? Ah, ha! Come, some music! come, the recorders! For if the king like not the comedy, Why then, belike he likes it not, perdy. Come, some music! Sir, a whole history. Ay, sir, what of him? With drink, sir? Your wisdom should show itself more richer to signify this to his doctor; for, for me to put him to his purgation would perhaps plunge him into far more choler. I am tame, sir; pronounce. You are welcome. Sir, I cannot. Make you a wholesome answer; my wit's diseased; but, sir, such answer as I can make, you shall command; or, rather, as you say, my mother: therefore no more, but to the matter: my mother, you say,— O wonderful son, that can so astonish a mother! But is there no sequel at the heels of this mother's admiration? Impart. We shall obey, were she ten times our mother. Have you any further trade with us? So I do still, by these pickers and stealers. Sir, I lack advancement. Ay, sir, but 'While the grass grows,'—the proverb is something musty. O! the recorders: let me see one. To withdraw with you: why do you go about to recover the wind of me, as if you would drive me into a toil? I do not well understand that. Will you play upon this pipe? I pray you. I do beseech you. 'Tis as easy as lying; govern these ventages with your finger and thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it will discourse most eloquent music. Look you, these are the stops. Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me. You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass; and there is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ, yet cannot you make it speak. 'Sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me. God bless you, sir! Do you see yonder cloud that's almost in shape of a camel? Methinks it is like a weasel. Or like a whale? Then I will come to my mother by and by They fool me to the top of my bent. [Aloud.] I will come by and by. By and by is easily said. Leave me, friends. 'Tis now the very witching time of night, When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world: now could I drink hot blood, And do such bitter business as the day Would quake to look on. Soft! now to my mother. O heart! lose not thy nature; let not ever The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom; Let me be cruel, not unnatural; I will speak daggers to her, but use none; My tongue and soul in this be hypocrites; How in my words soever she be shent, To give them seals never, my soul, consent! Now might I do it pat, now he is praying; And now I'll do't: and so he goes to heaven; And so am I reveng'd. That would be scann'd: A villain kills my father; and for that, I, his sole son, do this same villain send To heaven. Why, this is hire and salary, not revenge. He took my father grossly, full of bread, With all his crimes broad blown, as flush as May; And how his audit stands who knows save heaven? But in our circumstance and course of thought 'Tis heavy with him. And am I then reveng'd, To take him in the purging of his soul, When he is fit and season'd for his passage? No. Up, sword, and know thou a more horrid hent; When he is drunk asleep, or in his rage, Or in the incestuous pleasure of his bed, At gaming, swearing, or about some act That has no relish of salvation in't; Then trip him, that his heels may kick at heaven, And that his soul may be as damn'd and black As hell, whereto it goes. My mother stays: This physic but prolongs thy sickly days. Mother, mother, mother! Now, mother, what's the matter? Mother, you have my father much offended. Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue. What's the matter now? No, by the rood, not so: You are the queen, your husband's brother's wife; And,—would it were not so!—you are my mother. Come, come, and sit you down; you shall not budge; You go not, till I set you up a glass Where you may see the inmost part of you. How now! a rat? Dead, for a ducat, dead! Nay, I know not: is it the king? A bloody deed! almost as bad, good mother, As kill a king, and marry with his brother. Ay, lady, 'twas my word. Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell! I took thee for thy better; take thy fortune; Thou find'st to be too busy is some danger. Leave wringing of your hands: peace! sit you down, And let me wring your heart; for so I shall If it be made of penetrable stuff, If damned custom have not brass'd it so That it is proof and bulwark against sense Such an act That blurs the grace and blush of modesty, Calls virtue hypocrite, takes off the rose From the fair forehead of an innocent love And sets a blister there, makes marriage vows As false as dicers' oaths; O! such a deed As from the body of contraction plucks The very soul, and sweet religion makes A rhapsody of words; heaven's face doth glow, Yea, this solidity and compound mass, With tristful visage, as against the doom, Is thought-sick at the act. Look here, upon this picture, and on this; The counterfeit presentment of two brothers. See, what a grace was seated on this brow; Hyperion's curls, the front of Jove himself, An eye like Mars, to threaten and command, A station like the herald Mercury New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill, A combination and a form indeed, Where every god did seem to set his seal, To give the world assurance of a man. This was your husband: look you now, what follows. Here is your husband; like a mildew'd ear, Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes? Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed, And batten on this moor? Ha! have you eyes? You cannot call it love, for at your age The hey-day in the blood is tame, it's humble, And waits upon the judgment; and what judgment Would step from this to this? Sense, sure, you have, Else could you not have motion; but sure, that sense Is apoplex'd; for madness would not err, Nor sense to ecstasy was ne'er so thrall'd But it reserv'd some quantity of choice, To serve in such a difference. What devil was 't That thus hath comen'd you at hoodman-blind? Eyes without feeling, feeling without sight, Ears without hands or eyes, smelling sans all, Or but a sickly part of one true sense Could not so mope. O shame! where is thy blush? Rebellious hell, If thou canst mutine in a matron's bones, To flaming youth let virtue be as wax, And melt in her own fire: proclaim no shame When the compulsive ardour gives the charge, Since first itself as actively doth burn, And reason panders will. Nay, but to live In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed, Stew'd in corruption, honeying and making love Over the nasty sty,— A murderer, and a villain; A slave that is not twentieth part the tithe Of your precedent lord; a vice of kings; A cut-purse of the empire and the rule, That from a shelf the precious diadem stole, And put it in his pocket! A king of shreds and patches,— Save me, and hover o'er me with your wings, You heavenly guards! What would your gracious figure? Do you not come your tardy son to chide, That, laps'd in time and passion, lets go by The important acting of your dread command? O! say. How is it with you, lady? On him, on him! Look you, how pale he glares! His form and cause conjoin'd, preaching to stones, Would make them capable. Do not look upon me; Lest with this piteous action you convert My stern effects: then what I have to do Will want true colour; tears perchance for blood. Do you see nothing there? Nor did you nothing hear? Why, look you there! look, how it steals away; My father, in his habit as he liv'd; Look! where he goes, even now, out at the portal. Ecstasy! My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time, And makes as healthful music. It is not madness That I have utter'd: bring me to the test, And I the matter will re-word, which madness Would gambol from. Mother, for love of grace, Lay not that flattering unction to your soul, That not your trespass but my madness speaks; It will but skin and film the ulcerous place, Whiles rank corruption, mining all within, Infects unseen. Confess yourself to heaven; Repent what's past; avoid what is to come; And do not spread the compost on the weeds To make them ranker. Forgive me this my virtue; For in the fatness of these pursy times Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg, Yea, curb and woo for leave to do him good. O! throw away the worser part of it, And live the purer with the other half. Good night; but go not to mine uncle's bed; Assume a virtue, if you have it not. That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat, Of habits devil, is angel yet in this, That to the use of actions fair and good He likewise gives a frock or livery, That aptly is put on. Refrain to-night; And that shall lend a kind of easiness To the next abstinence: the next more easy; For use almost can change the stamp of nature, And master ev'n the devil or throw him out With wondrous potency. Once more, goodnight: And when you are desirous to be bless'd, I'll blessing beg of you. For this same lord, I do repent: but heaven hath pleas'd it so, To punish me with this, and this with me, That I must be their scourge and minister. I will bestow him, and will answer well The death I gave him. So, again, good-night. I must be cruel only to be kind: Thus bad begins and worse remains behind. One word more, good lady. Not this, by no means, that I bid you do: Let the bloat king tempt you again to bed; Pinch wanton on your cheek; call you his mouse; And let him, for a pair of reechy kisses, Or paddling in your neck with his damn'd fingers, Make you to ravel all this matter out, That I essentially am not in madness, But mad in craft. 'Twere good you let him know; For who that's but a queen, fair, sober, wise, Would from a paddock, from a bat, a gib, Such dear concernings hide? who would do so? No, in despite of sense and secrecy, Unpeg the basket on the house's top, Let the birds fly, and, like the famous ape, To try conclusions, in the basket creep, And break your own neck down. I must to England; you know that? There's letters seal'd; and my two schoolfellows, Whom I will trust as I will adders fang'd, They bear the mandate; they must sweep my way, And marshal me to knavery. Let it work; For 'tis the sport to have the enginer Hoist with his own petar: and it shall go hard But I will delve one yard below their mines, And blow them at the moon. O! 'tis most sweet, When in one line two crafts directly meet. This man shall set me packing; I'll lug the guts into the neighbour room. Mother, good-night. Indeed this counsellor Is now most still, most secret, and most grave, Who was in life a foolish prating knave. Come, sir, to draw toward an end with you. Good-night, mother. Safely stowed. What noise? who calls on Hamlet? O! here they come. Compounded it with dust, whereto 'tis kin. Do not believe it. That I can keep your counsel and not mine own. Besides, to be demanded of a sponge! what replication should be made by the son of a king? Ay, sir, that soaks up the king's countenance, his rewards, his authorities. But such officers do the king best service in the end: he keeps them, like an ape, in the corner of his jaw; first mouthed, to be last swallowed: when he needs what you have gleaned, it is but squeezing you, and, sponge, you shall be dry again. I am glad of it: a knavish speech sleeps in a foolish ear. The body is with the king, but the king is not with the body. The king is a thing— Of nothing: bring me to him. Hide fox, and all after. At supper. Not where he eats, but where he is eaten: a certain convocation of politic worms are e'en at him. Your worm is your only emperor for diet: we fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots: your fat king and your lean beggar is but variable service; two dishes, but to one table: that's the end. A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king, and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm. Nothing, but to show you how a king may go a progress through the guts of a beggar. In heaven; send thither to see: if your messenger find him not there, seek him i' the other place yourself. But, indeed, if you find him not within this month, you shall nose him as you go up the stairs into the lobby. He will stay till you come. For England! Good. I see a cherub that sees them. But, come; for England! Farewell, dear mother. My mother: father and mother is man and wife, man and wife is one flesh, and so, my mother. Come, for England! Good sir, whose powers are these? How purpos'd, sir, I pray you? Who commands them, sir? Goes it against the main of Poland, sir, Or for some frontier? Why, then the Polack never will defend it. Two thousand souls and twenty thousand ducats Will not debate the question of this straw: This is the imposthume of much wealth and peace, That inward breaks, and shows no cause without Why the man dies. I humbly thank you, sir. I'll be with you straight. Go a little before. How all occasions do inform against me, And spur my dull revenge! What is a man, If his chief good and market of his time Be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more. Sure he that made us with such large discourse, Looking before and after, gave us not That capability and god-like reason To fust in us unus'd. Now, whe'r it be Bestial oblivion, or some craven scruple Of thinking too precisely on the event, A thought, which, quarter'd, hath but one part wisdom, And ever three parts coward, I do not know Why yet I live to say 'This thing's to do;' Sith I have cause and will and strength and means To do 't. Examples gross as earth exhort me: Witness this army of such mass and charge Led by a delicate and tender prince, Whose spirit with divine ambition puff'd Makes mouths at the invisible event, Exposing what is mortal and unsure To all that fortune, death and danger dare, Even for an egg-shell. Rightly to be great Is not to stir without great argument, But greatly to find quarrel in a straw When honour's at the stake. How stand I then, That have a father kill'd, a mother stain'd, Excitements of my reason and my blood, And let all sleep, while, to my shame, I see The imminent death of twenty thousand men, That, for a fantasy and trick of fame, Go to their graves like beds, fight for a plot Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause, Which is not tomb enough and continent To hide the slaim? O! from this time forth, My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth! Has this fellow no feeling of his business, that he sings at grave-making? 'Tis e'en so; the hand of little employment hath the daintier sense. That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once; how the knave jowls it to the ground, as if it were Cain's jaw-bone, that did the first murder! This might be the pate of a politician, which this ass now o'er-offices, one that would circumvent God, might it not? Or of a courtier, which could say, 'Good morrow, sweet lord! How dost thou, good lord?' This might be my Lord Such-a-one, that praised my Lord Such-a-one's horse, when he meant to beg it, might it not? Why, e'en so, and now my Lady Worm's; chapless, and knocked about the mazzard with a sexton's spade. Here's fine revolution, an we had the trick to see 't. Did these bones cost no more the breeding but to play at loggats with 'em? mine ache to think on 't. There's another; why may not that be the skull of a lawyer? Where be his quiddities now, his quillets, his cases, his tenures, and his tricks? why does he suffer this rude knave now to knock him about the sconce with a dirty shovel, and will not tell him of his action of battery? Hum! This fellow might be in 's time a great buyer of land, with his statutes, his recognizances, his fines, his double vouchers, his recoveries; is this the fine of his fines, and the recovery of his recoveries, to have his fine pate full of fine dirt? will his vouchers vouch him no more of his purchases, and double ones too, than the length and breadth of a pair of indentures? The very conveyance of his lands will hardly lie in this box, and must the inheritor himself have no more, ha? Is not parchment made of sheep-skins? They are sheep and calves which seek out assurance in that. I will speak to this fellow. Whose grave's this, sir? I think it be thine, indeed; for thou liest in 't. Thou dost lie in 't, to be in 't and say it is thine: 'tis for the dead, not for the quick; therefore thou liest. What man dost thou dig it for? What woman, then? Who is to be buried in 't? How absolute the knave is! we must speak by the card, or equivocation will undo us. By the Lord, Horatio, these three years I have taken note of it; the age is grown so picked that the toe of the peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier, he galls his kibe. How long hast thou been a grave-maker? How long is that since? Ay, marry; why was he sent into England? Why? How came he mad? How strangely? Upon what ground? How long will a man lie i' the earth ere he rot? Why he more than another? Whose was it? Nay, I know not. This! Let me see. Alas! poor Yorick. I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy; he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? quite chapfallen? Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come; make her laugh at that. Prithee, Horatio, tell me one thing. Dost thou think Alexander looked o' this fashion i' the earth? And smelt so? pah! To what base uses we may return, Horatio! Why may not imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander, till he find it stopping a bung-hole? No, faith, not a jot; but to follow him thither with modesty enough, and likelihood to lead it; as thus: Alexander died, Alexander was buried, Alexander returneth into dust; the dust is earth; of earth we make loam, and why of that loam, whereto he was converted, might they not stop a beer-barrel? Imperious Caesar, dead and turn'd to clay, Might stop a hole to keep the wind away: O! that that earth, which kept the world in awe, Should patch a wall to expal the winter's flaw. But soft! but soft! aside: here comes the king. The queen, the courtiers: who is that they follow? And with such maimed rites? This doth betoken The corse they follow did with desperate hand Fordo its own life; 'twas of some estate. Couch we awhile, and mark. That is Laertes, A very noble youth: mark. What! the fair Ophelia? What is he whose grief Bears such an emphasis? whose phrase of sorrow Conjures the wandering stars, and makes them stand Like wonder-wounded hearers? this is I, Hamlet the Dane. Thou pray'st not well. I prithee, take thy fingers from my throat; For though I am not splenetive and rash Yet have I in me something dangerous, Which let thy wisdom fear. Away thy hand! Why, I will fight with him upon this theme Until my eyelids will no longer wag. I lov'd Ophelia: forty thousand brothers Could not, with all their quantity of love, Make up my sum. What wilt thou do for her? 'Swounds, show me what thou'lt do: Woo't weep? woo't fight? woo't fast? woo't tear thyself? Woo't drink up eisel? eat a crocodile? I'll do't. Dost thou come here to whine? To outface me with leaping in her grave? Be buried quick with her, and so will I: And, if thou prate of mountains, let them throw Millions of acres on us, till our ground, Singeing his pate against the burning zone, Make Ossa like a wart! Nay, an thou'lt mouth, I'll rant as well as thou. Hear you, sir; What is the reason that you use me thus? I lov'd you ever: but it is no matter; Let Hercules himself do what he may, The cat will mew and dog will have his day. So much for this, sir: now shall you see the other; You do remember all the circumstance? Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting That would not let me sleep; methought I lay Worse than the mutines in the bilboes. Rashly,— And prais'd be rashness for it, let us know, Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well When our deep plots do pall; and that should teach us There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will. Up from my cabin, My sea-gown scarf'd about me, in the dark Grop'd I to find out them, had my desire, Finger'd their packet, and in fine withdrew To mine own room again; making so bold— My fears forgetting manners—to unseal Their grand commission; where I found, Horatio, O royal knavery! an exact command, Larded with many several sorts of reasons Importing Denmark's health, and England's too, With, ho! such bugs and goblins in my life, That, on the supervise, no leisure bated, No, not to stay the grinding of the axe, My head should be struck off. Here's the commission: read it at more leisure. But wilt thou hear me how I did proceed? Being thus be-netted round with villanies,— Ere I could make a prologue to my brains They had begun the play,—I sat me down, Devis'd a new commission, wrote it fair; I once did hold it, as our statists do, A baseness to write fair, and labour'd much How to forget that learning; but, sir, now It did me yeoman's service. Wilt thou know The effect of what I wrote? An earnest conjuration from the king, As England was his faithful tributary, As love between them like the palm should flourish, As peace should still her wheaten garland wear, And stand a comma 'tween their amities, And many such-like 'As'es of great charge, That, on the view and knowing of these contents, Without debatement further, more or less, He should the bearers put to sudden death, Not shriving-time allow'd. Why, even in that was heaven ordinant. I had my father's signet in my purse, Which was the model of that Danish seal; Folded the writ up in form of the other, Subscrib'd it, gave't th' impression, plac'd it safely, The changeling never known. Now, the next day Was our sea-fight, and what to this was sequent Thou know'st already. Why, man, they did make love to this employment; They are not near my conscience; their defeat Does by their own insinuation grow. 'Tis dangerous when the baser nature comes Between the pass and fell-incensed points Of mighty opposites. Does it not, thinks't thee, stand me now upon— He that hath kill'd my king and whor'd my mother, Popp'd in between the election and my hopes, Thrown out his angle for my proper life, And with such cozenage—is 't not perfect conscience To quit him with this arm? and is 't not to be damn'd To let this canker of our nature come In further evil? It will be short: the interim is mine; And a man's life's no more than to say 'One.' But I am very sorry, good Horatio, That to Laertes I forgot myself; For, by the image of my cause, I see The portraiture of his: I'll count his favours: But, sure, the bravery of his grief did put me Into a towering passion. I humbly thank you, sir. Dost know this water-fly? Thy state is the more gracious; for 'tis a vice to know him. He hath much land, and fertile: let a beast be lord of beasts, and his crib shall stand at the king's mess: 'tis a chough; but, as I say, spacious in the possession of dirt. I will receive it, sir, with all diligence of spirit. Your bonnet to his right use; 'tis for the head. No, believe me, 'tis very cold; the wind is northerly. But yet methinks it is very sultry and hot for my complexion. I beseech you, remember— Sir, his definement suffers no perdition in you; though, I know, to divide him inventorially would dizzy the arithmetic of memory, and yet but yaw neither, in respect of his quick sail. But, in the verity of extolment, I take him to be a soul of great article; and his infusion of such dearth and rareness, as, to make true diction of him, his semblable is his mirror; and who else would trace him, his umbrage, nothing more. The concernancy, sir? why do we wrap the gentleman in our more rawer breath? What imports the nomination of this gentleman? Of him, sir. I would you did, sir; in faith, if you did, it would not much approve me. Well, sir. I dare not confess that, lest I should compare with him in excellence; but, to know a man well, were to know himself. What's his weapon? That's two of his weapons; but, well. What call you the carriages? The phrase would be more german to the matter, if we could carry cannon by our sides; I would it might be hangers till then. But, on; six Barbary horses against six French swords, their assigns, and three liberal-conceited carriages; that's the French bet against the Danish. Why is this 'imponed,' as you call it? How if I answer no? Sir, I will walk here in the hall; if it please his majesty, 'tis the breathing time of day with me; let the foils be brought, the gentleman willing, and the king hold his purpose, I will win for him an I can; if not, I will gain nothing but my shame and the odd hits. To this effect, sir; after what flourish your nature will. Yours, yours. He does well to commend it himself; there are no tongues else for 's turn. He did comply with his dug before he sucked it. Thus has he—and many more of the same bevy, that I know the drossy age dotes on—only got the tune of the time and outward habit of encounter, a kind of yesty collection which carries them through and through the most fond and winnowed opinions; and do but blow them to their trial, the bubbles are out. I am constant to my purposes; they follow the king's pleasure: if his fitness speaks, mine is ready; now, or whensoever, provided I be so able as now. In happy time. She well instructs me. I do not think so; since he went into France, I have been in continual practice; I shall win at the odds. But thou wouldst not think how ill all 's here about my heart; but it is no matter. It is but foolery; but it is such a kind of gain-giving as would perhaps trouble a woman. Not a whit, we defy augury; there's a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, 'tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all. Since no man has aught of what he leaves, what is 't to leave betimes? Let be. Give me your pardon, sir; I've done you wrong; But pardon 't, as you are a gentleman. This presence knows, And you must needs have heard, how I am punish'd With sore distraction. What I have done, That might your nature, honour and exception Roughly awake, I here proclaim was madness. Was't Hamlet wrong'd Laertes? Never Hamlet: If Hamlet from himself be ta'en away, And when he's not himself does wrong Laertes, Then Hamlet does it not; Hamlet denies it. Who does it then? His madness. If 't be so, Hamlet is of the faction that is wrong'd; His madness is poor Hamlet's enemy. Sir, in this audience, Let my disclaiming from a purpos'd evil Free me so far in your most generous thoughts, That I have shot mine arrow o'er the house, And hurt my brother. I embrace it freely; And will this brother's wager frankly play. Give us the foils. Come on. I'll be your foil, Laertes; in mine ignorance Your skill shall, like a star i' the darkest night, Stick fiery off indeed. No, by this hand. Very well, my lord; Your Grace hath laid the odds o' the weaker side. This likes me well. These foils have all a length? Come on, sir. One. Judgment. I'll play this bout first; set it by awhile. Come.—Another hit; what say you? Good madam! I dare not drink yet, madam; by and by. Come, for the third, Laertes. You but dally; I pray you, pass with your best violence. I am afeard you make a wanton of me. Nay, come, again. How does the queen? O villany! Ho! let the door be lock'd: Treachery! seek it out. The point envenom'd tool—. Then, venom, to thy work. Here, thou incestuous, murderous, damned Dane, Drink off this potion;—is thy union here? Follow my mother. Heaven make thee free of it! I follow thee. I am dead, Horatio. Wretched queen, adieu! You that look pale and tremble at this chance, That are but mutes or audience to this act, Had I but time,—as this fell sergeant, death, Is strict in his arrest,—O! I could tell you— But let it be. Horatio, I am dead; Thou liv'st; report me and my cause aright To the unsatisfied. As thou'rt a man, Give me the cup: let go; by heaven, I'll have 't. O God! Horatio, what a wounded name, Things standing thus unknown, shall live behind me. If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, Absent thee from felicity awhile, And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain, To tell my story. What war-like noise is this? O! I die, Horatio; The potent poison quite o'er-crows my spirit: I cannot live to hear the news from England, But I do prophesy the election lights On Fortinbras: he has my dying voice; So tell him, with the occurrents, more and less, Which have solicited—The rest is silence. 

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+How now! who calls? Madam, I am here. What is your will? And stint thou too, I pray thee, nurse, say I. It is an honour that I dream not of. I'll look to like, if looking liking move; But no more deep will I endart mine eye Than your consent gives strength to make it fly. Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, Which mannerly devotion shows in this; For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss. Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer. Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake. Then have my lips the sin that they have took. You kiss by the book. Come hither, nurse. What is yond gentleman? What's he that now is going out of door? What's he, that follows there, that would not dance? Go, ask his name.—If he be married, My grave is like to be my wedding bed. My only love sprung from my only hate! Too early seen unknown, and known too late! Prodigious birth of love it is to me, That I must love a loathed enemy. A rime I learn'd even now Of one I danc'd withal. Ay me! O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father, and refuse thy name; Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, And I'll no longer be a Capulet. 'Tis but thy name that is my enemy; Thou art thyself though, not a Montague. What's Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot, Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part Belonging to a man. O! be some other name: What's in a name? that which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet; So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd, Retain that dear perfection which he owes Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name; And for that name, which is no part of thee, Take all myself. What man art thou, that, thus bescreen'd in night, So stumblest on my counsel? My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words Of that tongue's uttering, yet I know the sound: Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague? How cam'st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore? The orchard walls are high and hard to climb, And the place death, considering who thou art, If any of my kinsmen find thee here. If they do see thee they will murder thee. I would not for the world they saw thee here. By whose direction found'st thou out this place? Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face, Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night. Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny What I have spoke: but farewell compliment! Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say 'Ay;' And I will take thy word; yet, if thou swear'st, Thou mayst prove false; at lovers' perjuries, They say, Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo! If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully: Or if thou think'st I am too quickly won, I'll frown and be perverse and say thee nay, So thou wilt woo; but else, not for the world. In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond, And therefore thou mayst think my haviour light: But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true Than those that have more cunning to be strange. I should have been more strange, I must confess, But that thou over-heard'st, ere I was 'ware, My true love's passion: therefore pardon me, And not impute this yielding to light love, Which the dark night hath so discovered. O! swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon, That monthly changes in her circled orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable. Do not swear at all; Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, Which is the god of my idolatry, And I'll believe thee. Well, do not swear. Although I joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract to-night: It is too rash, too unadvis'd, too sudden; Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be Ere one can say it lightens. Sweet, good-night! This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. Good-night, good-night! as sweet repose and rest Come to thy heart as that within my breast! What satisfaction canst thou have to-night? I gave thee mine before thou didst request it; And yet I would it were to give again. But to be frank, and give it thee again. And yet I wish but for the thing I have: My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep; the more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite. I hear some noise within; dear love, adieu! Anon, good nurse! Sweet Montague, be true. Stay but a little, I will come again. Three words, dear Romeo, and good-night indeed. If that thy bent of love be honourable, Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow, By one that I'll procure to come to thee, Where, and what time, thou wilt perform the rite; And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay, And follow thee my lord throughout the world. I come, anon.—But if thou mean'st not well, I do beseech thee,— By and by; I come:— To cease thy suit, and leave me to my grief: To-morrow will I send. A thousand times good-night! Hist! Romeo, hist! O! for a falconer's voice, To lure this tassel-gentle back again. Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud, Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies, And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine, With repetition of my Romeo's name. Romeo! At what o'clock to-morrow Shall I send to thee? I will not fail; 'tis twenty years till then. I have forgot why I did call thee back. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, Remembering how I love thy company. 'Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone; And yet no further than a wanton's bird, Who lets it hop a little from her hand, Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, And with a silk thread plucks it back again, So loving-jealous of his liberty. Sweet, so would I: Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing. Good-night, good-night! parting is such sweet sorrow That I shall say good-night till it be morrow. The clock struck nine when I did send the nurse; In half an hour she promis'd to return. Perchance she cannot meet him: that's not so. O! she is lame: love's heralds should be thoughts, Which ten times faster glide than the sun's beams, Driving back shadows over lowering hills: Therefore do nimble-pinion'd doves draw Love, And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings. Now is the sun upon the highmost hill Of this day's journey, and from nine till twelve Is three long hours, yet she is not come. Had she affections, and warm youthful blood, She'd be as swift in motion as a ball; My words would bandy her to my sweet love, And his to me: But old folks, many feign as they were dead; Unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead. O God! she comes. O honey nurse! what news? Hast thou met with him? Send thy man away. Now, good sweet nurse; O Lord! why look'st thou sad? Though news be sad, yet tell them merrily; If good, thou sham'st the music of sweet news By playing it to me with so sour a face. I would thou hadst my bones, and I thy news. Nay, come, I pray thee, speak; good, good nurse, speak. How art thou out of breath when thou hast breath To say to me that thou art out of breath? The excuse that thou dost make in this delay Is longer than the tale thou dost excuse. Is thy news good, or bad? answer to that; Say either, and I'll stay the circumstance: Let me be satisfied, is 't good or bad? No, no: but all this did I know before. What says he of our marriage? what of that? I' faith, I am sorry that thou art not well. Sweet, sweet, sweet nurse, tell me, what says my love? Where is my mother! why, she is within; Where should she be? How oddly thou repliest: 'Your love says, like an honest gentleman, Where is your mother?' Here's such a coil! come, what says Romeo? I have. Hie to high fortune! Honest nurse, farewell. Good even to my ghostly confessor. As much to him, else are his thanks too much. Conceit, more rich in matter than in words, Brags of his substance, not of ornament: They are but beggars that can count their worth; But my true love is grown to such excess I cannot sum up half my sum of wealth. Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds, Towards Phœbus' lodging; such a waggoner As Phaethon would whip you to the west, And bring in cloudy night immediately. Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night! That runaway's eyes may wink, and Romeo Leap to these arms, untalk'd of and unseen! Lovers can see to do their amorous rites By their own beauties; or, if love be blind, It best agrees with night. Come, civil night, Thou sober-suited matron, all in black, And learn me how to lose a winning match, Play'd for a pair of stainless maidenhoods: Hood my unmann'd blood, bating in my cheeks, With thy black mantle; till strange love, grown bold, Think true love acted simple modesty. Come, night! come, Romeo! come, thou day in night! For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night, Whiter than new snow on a raven's back. Come, gentle night; come, loving, black-brow'd night, Give me my Romeo: and, when he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night, And pay no worship to the garish sun. O! I have bought the mansion of a love, But not possess'd it, and, though I am sold, Not yet enjoy'd. So tedious is this day As is the night before some festival To an impatient child that hath new robes And may not wear them. O! here comes my nurse, And she brings news; and every tongue that speaks But Romeo's name speaks heavenly eloquence. Now nurse, what news? What hast thou there? the cords That Romeo bade thee fetch? Ah me! what news? why dost thou wring thy hands? Can heaven be so envious? What devil art thou that dost torment me thus? This torture should be roar'd in dismal hell. Hath Romeo slain himself? say thou but 'I,' And that bare vowel, 'I,' shall poison more Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice: I am not I, if there be such an 'I;' Or those eyes shut that make thee answer 'I.' If he be slain, say 'I;' or if not 'no:' Brief sounds determine of my weal or woe. O break, my heart!—poor bankrupt, break at once! To prison, eyes, ne'er look on liberty! Vile earth, to earth resign; end motion here; And thou and Romeo press one heavy bier! What storm is this that blows so contrary? Is Romeo slaughter'd, and is Tybalt dead? My dearest cousin, and my dearer lord? Then, dreadful trumpet, sound the general doom! For who is living if those two are gone? O God! did Romeo's hand shed Tybalt's blood? O serpent heart, hid with a flowering face! Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave? Beautiful tyrant! fiend angelical! Dove-feather'd raven! wolvish-ravening lamb! Despised substance of divinest show! Just opposite to what thou justly seem'st; A damned saint, an honourable villain! O, nature! what hadst thou to do in hell When thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend In mortal paradise of such sweet flesh? Was ever book containing such vile matter So fairly bound? O! that deceit should dwell In such a gorgeous palace. Blister'd be thy tongue For such a wish! he was not born to shame: Upon his brow shame is asham'd to sit; For 'tis a throne where honour may be crown'd Sole monarch of the universal earth. O! what a beast was I to chide at him. Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband? Ah! poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name, When I, thy three-hours wife, have mangled it? But, wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin? That villain cousin would have kill'd my husband: Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring; Your tributary drops belong to woe, Which you, mistaking, offer up to joy. My husband lives, that Tybalt would have slain; And Tybalt's dead, that would have slain my husband: All this is comfort; wherefore weep I then? Some word there was, worser than Tybalt's death, That murder'd me: I would forget it fain; But O! it presses to my memory, Like damned guilty deeds to sinners' minds. 'Tybalt is dead, and Romeo banished!' That 'banished,' that one word 'banished,' Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt's death Was woe enough, if it had ended there: Or, if sour woe delights in fellowship, And needly will be rank'd with other griefs, Why follow'd not, when she said 'Tybalt's dead,' Thy father, or thy mother, nay, or both, Which modern lamentation might have mov'd? But with a rearward following Tybalt's death, 'Romeo is banished!' to speak that word Is father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet, All slain, all dead: 'Romeo is banished!' There is no end, no limit, measure, bound In that word's death; no words can that woe sound.— Where is my father and my mother, nurse? Wash they his wounds with tears: mine shall be spent, When theirs are dry, for Romeo's banishment. Take up those cords. Poor ropes, you are beguil'd, Both you and I, for Romeo is exil'd: He made you for a highway to my bed, But I, a maid, die maiden-widowed. Come, cords; come, nurse; I'll to my wedding bed; And death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead! O! find him; give this ring to my true knight, And bid him come to take his last farewell. Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day: It was the nightingale, and not the lark, That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear; Nightly she sings on you pomegranate tree: Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. Yon light is not daylight, I know it, I: It is some meteor that the sun exhales, To be to thee this night a torch-bearer, And light thee on thy way to Mantua: Therefore stay yet; thou need'st not to be gone. It is, it is; hie hence, be gone, away! It is the lark that sings so out of tune, Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps. Some say the lark makes sweet division; This doth not so, for she divideth us: Some say the lark and loathed toad change eyes; O! now I would they had chang'd voices too, Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray, Hunting thee hence with hunts-up to the day. O! now be gone; more light and light it grows. Nurse! Then, window, let day in, and let life out. Art thou gone so? my lord, my love, my friend! I must hear from thee every day in the hour, For in a minute there are many days: O! by this count I shall be much in years Ere I again behold my Romeo. O! think'st thou we shall ever meet again? O God! I have an ill-divining soul: Methinks I see thee, now thou art so low, As one dead in the bottom of a tomb: Either my eyesight fails, or thou look'st pale. O fortune, fortune! all men call thee fickle: If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him That is renown'd for faith? Be fickle, fortune; For then, I hope, thou wilt not keep him long, But send him back. Who is't that calls? is it my lady mother? Is she not down so late, or up so early? What unaccustom'd cause procures her hither? Madam, I am not well. Yet let me weep for such a feeling loss. Feeling so the loss, I cannot choose but ever weep the friend. What villain, madam? Villain and he be many miles asunder. God pardon him! I do, with all my heart; And yet no man like he doth grieve my heart. Ay, madam, from the reach of these my hands. Would none but I might venge my cousin's death! Indeed, I never shall be satisfied With Romeo, till I behold him—dead— Is my poor heart so for a kinsman vex'd: Madam, if you could find out but a man To bear a poison, I would temper it, That Romeo should, upon receipt thereof, Soon sleep in quiet. O! how my heart abhors To hear him nam'd, and cannot come to him, To wreak the love I bore my cousin Tybalt Upon his body that hath slaughter'd him. And joy comes well in such a needy time: What are they, I beseech your ladyship? Madam, in happy time, what day is that? Now, by Saint Peter's church, and Peter too, He shall not make me there a joyful bride. I wonder at this haste; that I must wed Ere he that should be husband comes to woo. I pray you, tell my lord and father, madam, I will not marry yet; and, when I do, I swear, It shall be Romeo, whom you know I hate, Rather than Paris. These are news indeed! Not proud, you have; but thankful, that you have: Proud can I never be of what I hate; But thankful even for hate, that is meant love. Good father, I beseech you on my knees, Hear me with patience but to speak a word. Is there no pity sitting in the clouds, That sees into the bottom of my grief? O! sweet my mother, cast me not away: Delay this marriage for a month, a week; Or, if you do not, make the bridal bed In that dim monument where Tybalt lies. O God! O nurse! how shall this be prevented? My husband is on earth, my faith in heaven; How shall that faith return again to earth, Unless that husband send it me from heaven By leaving earth? comfort me, counsel me. Alack, alack! that heaven should practise stratagems Upon so soft a subject as myself! What sayst thou? hast thou not a word of joy? Some comfort, nurse? Speakest thou from thy heart? Amen! Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much. Go in; and tell my lady I am gone, Having displeas'd my father, to Laurence' cell, To make confession and to be absolv'd. Ancient damnation! O most wicked fiend! Is it more sin to wish me thus forsworn, Or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue Which she hath prais'd him with above compare So many thousand times? Go, counsellor; Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain. I'll to the friar, to know his remedy: If all else fail, myself have power to die. That may be, sir, when I may be a wife. What must be shall be. To answer that, I should confess to you. I will confess to you that I love him. If I do so, it will be of more price, Being spoke behind your back, than to your face. The tears have got small victory by that; For it was bad enough before their spite. That is no slander, sir, which is a truth; And what I spake, I spake it to my face. It may be so, for it is not mine own. Are you at leisure, holy father, now; Or shall I come to you at evening mass? O! shut the door! and when thou hast done so, Come weep with me; past hope, past cure, past help! Tell me not, friar, that thou hear'st of this, Unless thou tell me how I may prevent it: If, in thy wisdom, thou canst give no help, Do thou but call my resolution wise, And with this knife I'll help it presently, God join'd my heart and Romeo's, thou our hands; And ere this hand, by thee to Romeo seal'd, Shall be the label to another deed, Or my true heart with treacherous revolt Turn to another, this shall slay them both. Therefore, out of thy long-experienc'd time, Give me some present counsel; or behold, 'Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife Shall play the umpire, arbitrating that Which the commission of thy years and art Could to no issue of true honour bring. Be not so long to speak; I long to die, If what thou speak'st speak not of remedy. O! bid me leap, rather than marry Paris, From off the battlements of yonder tower; Or walk in thievish ways; or bid me lurk Where serpents are; chain me with roaring bears; Or shut me nightly in a charnel-house, O'er-cover'd quite with dead men's rattling bones, With reeky shanks, and yellow chapless skulls; Or bid me go into a new-made grave And hide me with a dead man in his shroud; Things that, to hear them told, have made me tremble; And I will do it without fear or doubt, To live an unstain'd wife to my sweet love. Give me, give me! O! tell me not of fear! Love, give me strength! and strength shall help afford. Farewell, dear father! Where I have learn'd me to repent the sin Of disobedient opposition To you and your behests; and am enjoin'd By holy Laurence to fall prostrate here, And beg your pardon. Pardon, I beseech you! Henceforward I am ever rul'd by you. I met the youthful lord at Laurence' cell; And gave him what becomed love I might, Not stepping o'er the bounds of modesty. Nurse, will you go with me into my closet, To help me sort such needful ornaments As you think fit to furnish me to-morrow? Ay, those attires are best; but, gentle nurse, I pray thee, leave me to myself to-night; For I have need of many orisons To move the heavens to smile upon my state, Which, well thou know'st, is cross and full of sin. No, madam; we have cull'd such necessaries As are behoveful for our state to-morrow: So please you, let me now be left alone, And let the nurse this night sit up with you; For, I am sure, you have your hands full all In this so sudden business. Farewell! God knows when we shall meet again. I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins, That almost freezes up the heat of life: I'll call them back again to comfort me: Nurse! What should she do here? My dismal scene I needs must act alone. Come, vial. What if this mixture do not work at all? Shall I be married then to-morrow morning? No, no; this shall forbid it: lie thou there. What if it be a poison, which the friar Subtly hath minister'd to have me dead, Lest in this marriage he should be dishonour'd Because he married me before to Romeo? I fear it is: and yet, methinks, it should not, For he hath still been tried a holy man. I will not entertain so bad a thought. How if, when I am laid into the tomb, I wake before the time that Romeo Come to redeem me? there's a fearful point! Shall I not then be stifled in the vault, To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in, And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes? Or, if I live, is it not very like, The horrible conceit of death and night, Together with the terror of the place, As in a vault, an ancient receptacle, Where, for these many hundred years, the bones Of all my buried ancestors are pack'd; Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth, Lies festering in his shroud; where, as they say, At some hours in the night spirits resort: Alack, alack! is it not like that I, So early waking, what with loathsome smells, And shrieks like mandrakes' torn out of the earth, That living mortals, hearing them, run mad: O! if I wake, shall I not be distraught, Environed with all these hideous fears, And madly play with my forefathers' joints, And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud? And, in this rage, with some great kinsman's bone, As with a club, dash out my desperate brains? O, look! methinks I see my cousin's ghost Seeking out Romeo, that did spit his body Upon a rapier's point. Stay, Tybalt, stay! Romeo, I come! this do I drink to thee. O, comfortable friar! where is my lord? I do remember well where I should be, And there I am. Where is my Romeo? Go, get thee hence, for I will not away. What's here? a cup, clos'd in my true love's hand? Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end. O churl! drunk all, and left no friendly drop To help me after! I will kiss thy lips; Haply, some poison yet doth hang on them, To make me die with a restorative. Thy lips are warm! Yea, noise? then I'll be brief. O happy dagger! This is thy sheath; there rest, and let me die. 

data/data/katharina.txt

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+I pray you, sir, is it your will To make a stale of me amongst these mates? I' faith, sir, you shall never need to fear: I wis it is not half way to her heart; But if it were, doubt not her care should be To comb your noddle with a three-legg'd stool, And paint your face, and use you like a fool. A pretty peat! it is best Put finger in the eye, an she knew why. Why, and I trust I may go too; may I not? What! shall I be appointed hours, as though, belike, I knew not what to take, and what to leave? Ha! Of all thy suitors, here I charge thee, tell Whom thou lov'st best: see thou dissemble not. Minion, thou liest. Is't not Hortensio? O! then, belike, you fancy riches more: You will have Gremio to keep you fair. If that be jest, then all the rest was so. Her silence flouts me, and I'll be reveng'd. What! will you not suffer me? Nay, now I see She is your treasure, she must have a husband; I must dance bare-foot on her wedding-day, And, for your love to her, lead apes in hell. Talk not to me: I will go sit and weep Till I can find occasion of revenge. Well have you heard, but something hard of hearing: They call me Katharine that do talk of me. Mov'd! in good time: let him that mov'd you hither Remove you hence. I knew you at the first, You were a moveable. A joint-stool. Asses are made to bear, and so are you. No such jade as bear you, if me you mean. Too light for such a swain as you to catch, And yet as heavy as my weight should be. Well ta'en, and like a buzzard. Ay, for a turtle, as he takes a buzzard. If I be waspish, best beware my sting. Ay, if the fool could find it where it lies. In his tongue. Yours, if you talk of tails; and so farewell. That I'll try. So may you lose your arms: If you strike me, you are no gentleman; And if no gentleman, why then no arms. What is your crest? a coxcomb? No cock of mine; you crow too like a craven. It is my fashion when I see a crab. There is, there is. Had I a glass, I would. Well aim'd of such a young one. Yet you are wither'd. I care not. I chafe you, if I tarry: let me go. Go, fool, and whom thou keep'st command. Where did you study all this goodly speech? A witty mother! witless else her son. Yes; keep you warm. Call you me daughter? now, I promise you You have show'd a tender fatherly regard, To wish me wed to one half lunatic; A mad-cap ruffian and a swearing Jack, That thinks with oaths to face the matter out. I'll see thee hang'd on Sunday first. No shame but mine: I must, forsooth, be forc'd To give my hand oppos'd against my heart Unto a mad-brain rudesby, full of spleen; Who woo'd in haste and means to wed at leisure. I told you, I, he was a frantic fool, Hiding his bitter jests in blunt behaviour; And to be noted for a merry man, He'll woo a thousand, 'point the day of marriage, Make friends invite, and proclaim the banns; Yet never means to wed where he hath woo'd. Now must the world point at poor Katharine, And say, 'Lo! there is mad Petruchio's wife, If it would please him come and marry her.' Would Katharine had never seen him though! Let me entreat you. Are you content to stay? Now, if you love me, stay. Nay, then, Do what thou canst, I will not go to-day; No, nor to-morrow, nor till I please myself, The door is open, sir, there lies your way; You may be jogging whiles your boots are green; For me, I'll not be gone till I please myself. 'Tis like you'll prove a jolly surly groom, That take it on you at the first so roundly. I will be angry: what hast thou to do? Father, be quiet; he shall stay my leisure. Gentlemen, forward to the bridal dinner: I see a woman may be made a fool, If she had not a spirit to resist. Patience, I pray you; 'twas a fault unwilling. I pray you, husband, be not so disquiet: The meat was well if you were so contented. The more my wrong the more his spite appears. What, did he marry me to famish me? Beggars, that come unto my father's door, Upon entreaty have a present alms; If not, elsewhere they meet with charity: But I, who never knew how to entreat, Nor never needed that I should entreat, Am starv'd for meat, giddy for lack of sleep; With oaths kept waking, and with brawling fed. And that which spites me more than all these wants, He does it under name of perfect love; As who should say, if I should sleep or eat 'Twere deadly sickness, or else present death. I prithee go and get me some repast; I care not what, so it be wholesome food. 'Tis passing good: I prithee let me have it. I like it well: good Grumio, fetch it me. A dish that I do love to feed upon. Why, then the beef, and let the mustard rest. Then both, or one, or anything thou wilt. Go, get thee gone, thou false deluding slave, That feed'st me with the very name of meat. Sorrow on thee and all the pack of you, That triumph thus upon my misery! Go, get thee gone, I say. Faith, as cold as can be. I pray you, let it stand. I thank you, sir. I'll have no bigger: this doth fit the time, And gentlewomen wear such caps as these. Why, sir, I trust I may have leave to speak, And speak I will; I am no child, no babe: Your betters have endur'd me say my mind, And if you cannot, best you stop your ears. My tongue will tell the anger of my heart, Or else my heart, concealing it, will break: And rather than it shall, I will be free Even to the uttermost, as I please, in words. Love me or love me not, I like the cap, And it I will have, or I will have none. I never saw a better-fashion'd gown, More quaint, more pleasing, nor more commendable. Belike you mean to make a puppet of me. I dare assure you, sir, 'tis almost two; And 'twill be supper-time ere you come there. The moon! the sun: it is not moonlight now. I know it is the sun that shines so bright. Forward, I pray, since we have come so far, And be it moon, or sun, or what you please. An if you please to call it a rush-candle, Henceforth I vow it shall be so for me. I know it is the moon. Then God be bless'd, it is the blessed sun: But sun it is not when you say it is not, And the moon changes even as your mind. What you will have it nam'd, even that it is; And so, it shall be so for Katharine. Young budding virgin, fair and fresh and sweet, Whither away, or where is thy abode? Happy the parents of so fair a child; Happier the man, whom favourable stars Allot thee for his lovely bed-fellow! Pardon, old father, my mistaking eyes, That have been so bedazzled with the sun That everything I look on seemeth green: Now I perceive thou art a reverend father; Pardon, I pray thee, for my mad mistaking. Husband, let's follow, to see the end of this ado. What! in the midst of the street? No, sir, God forbid; but ashamed to kiss. Nay, I will give thee a kiss: now pray thee, love, stay. Mistress, how mean you that? 'He that is giddy thinks the world turns round:' I pray you, tell me what you meant by that. A very mean meaning. And I am mean, indeed, respecting you. What is your will, sir, that you send for me? They sit conferring by the parlour fire. Fie, fie! unknit that threatening unkind brow, And dart not scornful glances from those eyes, To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor: It blots thy beauty as frosts do bite the meads, Confounds thy fame as whirlwinds shake fair buds, And in no sense is meet or amiable. A woman mov'd is like a fountain troubled, Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty; And while it is so, none so dry or thirsty Will deign to sip or touch one drop of it. Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper, Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee, And for thy maintenance commits his body To painful labour both by sea and land, To watch the night in storms, the day in cold, Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe; And craves no other tribute at thy hands But love, fair looks, and true obedience; Too little payment for so great a debt. Such duty as the subject owes the prince, Even such a woman oweth to her husband; And when she's froward, peevish, sullen, sour, And not obedient to his honest will, What is she but a foul contending rebel, And graceless traitor to her loving lord?— I am asham'd that women are so simple To offer war where they should kneel for peace, Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway, When they are bound to serve, love, and obey. Why are our bodies soft, and weak, and smooth, Unapt to toil and trouble in the world, But that our soft conditions and our hearts Should well agree with our external parts? Come, come, you froward and unable worms! My mind hath been as big as one of yours, My heart as great, my reason haply more, To bandy word for word and frown for frown; But now I see our lances are but straws, Our strength as weak, our weakness past compare, That seeming to be most which we indeed least are. Then vail your stomachs, for it is no boot, And place your hands below your husband's foot: In token of which duty, if he please, My hand is ready; may it do him ease. 

data/data/lear.txt

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+Attend the Lords of France and Burgundy, Gloucester. Meantime we shall express our darker purpose. Give me the map there. Know that we have divided In three our kingdom; and 'tis our fast intent To shake all cares and business from our age, Conferring them on younger strengths, while we Unburden'd crawl toward death. Our son of Cornwall, And you, our no less loving son of Albany, We have this hour a constant will to publish Our daughters' several dowers, that future strife May be prevented now. The princes, France and Burgundy, Great rivals in our youngest daughter's love, Long in our court have made their amorous sojourn, And here are to be answer'd. Tell me, my daughters,— Since now we will divest us both of rule, Interest of territory, cares of state,— Which of you shall we say doth love us most? That we our largest bounty may extend Where nature doth with merit challenge. Goneril, Our eldest-born, speak first. Of all these bounds, even from this line to this, With shadowy forests and with champains rich'd, With plenteous rivers and wide-skirted meads, We make thee lady: to thine and Albany's issue Be this perpetual. What says our second daughter, Our dearest Regan, wife to Cornwall? Speak. To thee and thine, hereditary ever, Remain this ample third of our fair kingdom, No less in space, validity, and pleasure, Than that conferr'd on Goneril. Now, our joy, Although our last, not least; to whose young love The vines of France and milk of Burgundy Strive to be interess'd; what can you say to draw A third more opulent than your sisters? Speak. Nothing? Nothing will come of nothing: speak again. How, how, Cordelia! mend your speech a little, Lest you may mar your fortunes. But goes thy heart with this? So young, and so untender? Let it be so; thy truth then be thy dower: For, by the sacred radiance of the sun, The mysteries of Hecate and the night, By all the operation of the orbs From whom we do exist and cease to be, Here I disclaim all my paternal care, Propinquity and property of blood, And as a stranger to my heart and me Hold thee from this for ever. The barbarous Scythian, Or he that makes his generation messes To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom Be as well neighbour'd, pitied, and reliev'd, As thou my sometime daughter. Peace, Kent! Come not between the dragon and his wrath. I lov'd her most, and thought to set my rest On her kind nursery. Hence, and avoid my sight! So be my grave my peace, as here I give Her father's heart from her! Call France. Who stirs? Call Burgundy. Cornwall and Albany, With my two daughters' dowers digest the third; Let pride, which she calls plainness, marry her. I do invest you jointly with my power, Pre-eminence, and all the large effects That troop with majesty. Ourself by monthly course, With reservation of a hundred knights, By you to be sustain'd, shall our abode Make with you by due turn. Only we shall retain The name and all th' addition to a king; The sway, revenue, execution of the rest, Beloved sons, be yours: which to confirm, This coronet part between you. The bow is bent and drawn; make from the shaft. Kent, on thy life, no more. Out of my sight! Now, by Apollo,— O vassal! miscreant! Hear me, recreant! On thine allegiance, hear me! Since thou hast sought to make us break our vow,— Which we durst never yet,—and, with strain'd pride To come betwixt our sentence and our power,— Which nor our nature nor our place can hear,— Our potency made good, take thy reward. Five days we do allot thee for provision To shield thee from diseases of the world; And, on the sixth, to turn thy hated back Upon our kingdom: if, on the tenth day following Thy banish'd trunk be found in our dominions, The moment is thy death. Away! By Jupiter, This shall not be revok'd. My Lord of Burgundy, We first address toward you, who with this king Hath rivall'd for our daughter. What, in the least, Will you require in present dower with her, Or cease your quest of love? Right noble Burgundy, When she was dear to us we did hold her so, But now her price is fall'n. Sir, there she stands: If aught within that little-seeming substance, Or all of it, with our displeasure piec'd, And nothing more, may fitly like your Grace, She's there, and she is yours. Will you, with those infirmities she owes, Unfriended, new-adopted to our hate, Dower'd with our curse, and stranger'd with our oath, Take her, or leave her? Then leave her, sir; for, by the power that made me, I tell you all her wealth.—For you, great king, I would not from your love make such a stray To match you where I hate; therefore, beseech you To avert your liking a more worthier way Than on a wretch whom nature is asham'd Almost to acknowledge hers. Better thou Hadst not been born than not to have pleas'd me better. Nothing: I have sworn; I am firm. Thou hast her, France; let her be thine, for we Have no such daughter, nor shall ever see That face of hers again, therefore be gone Without our grace, our love, our benison. Come, noble Burgundy. Let me not stay a jot for dinner: go, get it ready. How now! what art thou? What dost thou profess? What wouldst thou with us? What art thou? If thou be as poor for a subject as he is for a king, thou art poor enough. What wouldst thou? Whom wouldst thou serve? Dost thou know me, fellow? What's that? What services canst thou do? How old art thou? Follow me; thou shalt serve me; if I like thee no worse after dinner I will not part from thee yet. Dinner, ho! dinner! Where's my knave? my fool? Go you and call my fool hither. You, you, sirrah, where's my daughter? What says the fellow there? Call the clotpoll back. Where's my fool, ho? I think the world's asleep. How now! where's that mongrel? Why came not the slave back to me when I called him? He would not! Ha! sayest thou so? Thou but rememberest me of mine own conception: I have perceived a most faint neglect of late; which I have rather blamed as mine own jealous curiosity than as a very pretence and purpose of unkindness: I will look further into 't. But where's my fool? I have not seen him this two days. No more of that; I have noted it well. Go you and tell my daughter I would speak with her. Go you, call hither my fool. O! you sir, you, come you hither, sir. Who am I, sir? 'My lady's father!' my lord's knave: you whoreson dog! you slave! you cur! Do you bandy looks with me, you rascal? I thank thee, fellow; thou servest me, and I'll love thee. Now, my friendly knave, I thank thee: there's earnest of thy service. How now, my pretty knave! how dost thou? Why, my boy? Take heed, sirrah; the whip. A pestilent gall to me! Do. Why, no, boy; nothing can be made out of nothing. A bitter fool! No, lad; teach me. Dost thou call me fool, boy? What two crowns shall they be? When were you wont to be so full of songs, sirrah? An you lie, sirrah, we'll have you whipped. How now, daughter! what makes that frontlet on? Methinks you are too much of late i' the frown. Are you our daughter? Does any here know me? This is not Lear: Does Lear walk thus? speak thus? Where are his eyes? Either his notion weakens, his discernings Are lethargied. Ha! waking? 'tis not so. Who is it that can tell me who I am? I would learn that; for, by the marks of sovereignty, knowledge and reason, I should be false persuaded I had daughters. Your name, fair gentlewoman? Darkness and devils! Saddle my horses; call my train together. Degenerate bastard! I'll not trouble thee: Yet have I left a daughter. Woe, that too late repents; O! sir, are you come? Is it your will? Speak, sir. Prepare my horses. Ingratitude, thou marble-hearted fiend, More hideous, when thou show'st thee in a child, Than the sea-monster. Detested kite! thou liest: My train are men of choice and rarest parts, That all particulars of duty know, And in the most exact regard support The worships of their name. O most small fault, How ugly didst thou in Cordelia show! Which, like an engine, wrench'd my frame of nature From the fix'd place, drew from my heart all love, And added to the gall. O Lear, Lear, Lear! Beat at this gate, that let thy folly in, And thy dear judgment out! Go, go, my people. It may be so, my lord. Hear, Nature, hear! dear goddess, hear! Suspend thy purpose, if thou didst intend To make this creature fruitful! Into her womb convey sterility! Dry up in her the organs of increase, And from her derogate body never spring A babe to honour her! If she must teem, Create her child of spleen, that it may live And be a thwart disnatur'd torment to her! Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth, With cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks, Turn all her mother's pains and benefits To laughter and contempt, that she may feel How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is To have a thankless child! Away, away! What! fifty of my followers at a clap, Within a fortnight? I'll tell thee. Life and death! I am asham'd That thou hast power to shake my manhood thus, That these hot tears, which break from me perforce, Should make thee worth them. Blasts and fogs upon thee! Th' untented woundings of a father's curse Pierce every sense about thee! Old fond eyes, Beweep this cause again, I'll pluck ye out, And cast you, with the waters that you lose, To temper clay. Yea, is it come to this? Let it be so: I have another daughter, Who, I am sure, is kind and comfortable: When she shall hear this of thee, with her nails She'll flay thy wolvish visage. Thou shalt find That I'll resume the shape which thou dost think I have cast off for ever; thou shalt, I warrant thee. Go you before to Gloucester with these letters. Acquaint my daughter no further with any thing you know than comes from her demand out of the letter. If your diligence be not speedy I shall be there before you. Ay, boy. Ha, ha, ha! What canst tell, boy? No. I did her wrong,— No. Why? I will forget my nature. So kind a father! Be my horses ready? Because they are not eight? To take it again perforce! Monster ingratitude! How's that? O! let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven; Keep me in temper; I would not be mad! How now! Are the horses ready? Come, boy. 'Tis strange that they should so depart from home, And not send back my messenger. Ha! Mak'st thou this shame thy pastime? What's he that hath so much thy place mistook To set thee here? No. No, I say. No, no; they would not. By Jupiter, I swear, no. They durst not do't; They could not, would not do 't; 'tis worse than murder, To do upon respect such violent outrage. Resolve me, with all modest haste, which way Thou mightst deserve, or they impose, this usage, Coming from us. O! how this mother swells up toward my heart; Hysterica passio! down, thou climbing sorrow! Thy element's below. Where is this daughter? Follow me not; stay here. Deny to speak with me! They are sick! they are weary, They have travell'd hard to-night! Mere fetches, The images of revolt and flying off. Fetch me a better answer. Vengeance! plague! death! confusion! Fiery! what quality? Why, Gloucester, Gloucester, I'd speak with the Duke of Cornwall and his wife. Inform'd them! Dost thou understand me, man? The king would speak with Cornwall; the dear father Would with his daughter speak, commands her service: Are they inform'd of this? My breath and blood! Fiery! the fiery duke! Tell the hot duke that— No, but not yet; may be he is not well: Infirmity doth still neglect all office Whereto our health is bound; we are not ourselves When nature, being oppress'd, commands the mind To suffer with the body. I'll forbear; And am fall'n out with my more headier will, To take the indispos'd and sickly fit For the sound man. Death on my state! Wherefore Should he sit here? This act persuades me That this remotion of the duke and her Is practice only. Give me my servant forth. Go, tell the duke and's wife I'd speak with them, Now, presently: bid them come forth and hear me, Or at their chamber-door I'll beat the drum Till it cry sleep to death. O, me! my heart, my rising heart! but, down! Good morrow to you both. Regan, I think you are; I know what reason I have to think so: if thou shouldst not be glad, I would divorce me from thy mother's tomb, Sepulchring an adult'ress.—O! are you free? Some other time for that. Beloved Regan, Thy sister's naught: O Regan! she hath tied Sharp-tooth'd unkindness, like a vulture, here: I can scarce speak to thee; thou'lt not believe With how deprav'd a quality—O Regan! Say, how is that? My curses on her! Ask her forgiveness? Do you but mark how this becomes the house: 'Dear daughter, I confess that I am old; Age is unnecessary: on my knees I beg That you'll vouchsafe me raiment, bed, and food.' Never, Regan. She hath abated me of half my train; Look'd black upon me; struck me with her tongue, Most serpent-like, upon the very heart. All the stor'd vengeances of heaven fall On her ingrateful top! Strike her young bones, You taking airs, with lameness! You nimble lightnings, dart your blinding flames Into her scornful eyes! Infect her beauty, You fen-suck'd fogs, drawn by the powerful sun, To fall and blast her pride! No, Regan, thou shalt never have my curse: Thy tender-hefted nature shall not give Thee o'er to harshness: her eyes are fierce, but thine Do comfort and not burn. 'Tis not in thee To grudge my pleasures, to cut off my train, To bandy hasty words, to scant my sizes, And, in conclusion, to oppose the bolt Against my coming in: thou better know'st The offices of nature, bond of childhood, Effects of courtesy, dues of gratitude; Thy half o' the kingdom hast thou not forgot, Wherein I thee endow'd. Who put my man i' the stocks? This is a slave, whose easy-borrow'd pride Dwells in the fickle grace of her he follows. Out, varlet, from my sight! Who stock'd my servant? Regan, I have good hope Thou didst not know on 't. Who comes here? O heavens, If you do love old men, if your sweet sway Allow obedience, if yourselves are old, Make it your cause; send down and take my part! Art not asham'd to look upon this beard? O Regan, wilt thou take her by the hand? O sides! you are too tough; Will you yet hold? How came my man i' the stocks? You! did you? Return to her? and fifty men dismiss'd! No, rather I abjure all roofs, and choose To wage against the enmity o' the air; To be a comrade with the wolf and owl, Necessity's sharp pinch! Return with her! Why, the hot-blooded France, that dowerless took Our youngest born, I could as well be brought To knee his throne, and, squire-like, pension beg To keep base life afoot. Return with her! Persuade me rather to be slave and sumpter To this detested groom. I prithee, daughter, do not make me mad: I will not trouble thee, my child; farewell. We'll no more meet, no more see one another; But yet thou art my flesh, my blood, my daughter; Or rather a disease that's in my flesh, Which I must needs call mine: thou art a boil, A plague-sore, an embossed carbuncle, In my corrupted blood. But I'll not chide thee; Let shame come when it will, I do not call it: I do not bid the thunder-bearer shoot, Nor tell tales of thee to high-judging Jove. Mend when thou canst; be better at thy leisure: I can be patient; I can stay with Regan, I and my hundred knights. Is this well spoken? I gave you all— Made you my guardians, my depositaries, But kept a reservation to be follow'd With such a number. What! must I come to you With five-and-twenty? Regan, said you so? Those wicked creatures yet do look well-favour'd, When others are more wicked; not being the worst Stands in some rank of praise. I'll go with thee: Thy fifty yet doth double five-and-twenty, And thou art twice her love. O! reason not the need; our basest beggars Are in the poorest thing superfluous: Allow not nature more than nature needs, Man's life is cheap as beast's. Thou art a lady; If only to go warm were gorgeous, Why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear'st, Which scarcely keeps thee warm. But, for true need,— You heavens, give me that patience, patience I need! You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, As full of grief as age; wretched in both! If it be you that stir these daughters' hearts Against their father, fool me not so much To bear it tamely; touch me with noble anger, And let not women's weapons, water-drops, Stain my man's cheeks! No, you unnatural hags, I will have such revenges on you both That all the world shall—I will do such things,— What they are yet I know not,—but they shall be The terrors of the earth. You think I'll weep; No, I'll not weep: I have full cause of weeping, but this heart Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws Or ere I'll weep. O fool! I shall go mad. Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout Till you have drench'd our steeples, drown'd the cocks! You sulphurous and thought-executing fires, Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder, Strike flat the thick rotundity o' the world! Crack nature's moulds, all germens spill at once That make ingrateful man! Rumble thy bellyfull Spit, fire! spout, rain! Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters: I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness; I never gave you kingdom, call'd you children, You owe me no subscription: then, let fall Your horrible pleasure; here I stand, your slave, A poor, infirm, weak, and despis'd old man. But yet I call you servile ministers, That have with two pernicious daughters join'd Your high-engender'd battles 'gainst a head So old and white as this. O! O! 'tis foul. No, I will be the pattern of all patience; I will say nothing. Let the great gods, That keep this dreadful pother o'er our heads, Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch, That hast within thee undivulged crimes, Unwhipp'd of justice; hide thee, thou bloody hand; Thou perjur'd, and thou simular of virtue That art incestuous; caitiff, to pieces shake, That under covert and convenient seeming Hast practis'd on man's life; close pent-up guilts, Rive your concealing continents, and cry These dreadful summoners grace. I am a man More sinn'd against than sinning. My wits begin to turn. Come on, my boy. How dost, my boy? Art cold? I am cold myself. Where is this straw, my fellow? The art of our necessities is strange, That can make vile things precious. Come, your hovel. Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart That's sorry yet for thee. True, my good boy. Come, bring us to this hovel. Let me alone. Wilt break my heart? Thou think'st 'tis much that this contentious storm Invades us to the skin: so 'tis to thee; But where the greater malady is fix'd, The lesser is scarce felt. Thou'dst shun a bear; But if thy flight lay toward the roaring sea, Thou'dst meet the bear i' the mouth. When the mind's free The body's delicate; the tempest in my mind Doth from my senses take all feeling else Save what beats there. Filial ingratitude! Is it not as this mouth should tear this hand For lifting food to 't? But I will punish home: No, I will weep no more. In such a night To shut me out! Pour on; I will endure. In such a night as this! O Regan, Goneril! Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all,— O! that way madness lies; let me shun that; No more of that. Prithee, go in thyself; seek thine own ease: This tempest will not give me leave to ponder On things would hurt me more. But I'll go in. In, boy; go first. You houseless poverty,— Nay, get thee in. I'll pray, and then I'll sleep. Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm, How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides, Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you From seasons such as these? O! I have ta'en Too little care of this. Take physic, pomp; Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel, That thou mayst shake the superflux to them, And show the heavens more just. Didst thou give all to thy two daughters? And art thou come to this? What! have his daughters brought him to this pass? Couldst thou save nothing? Didst thou give them all? Now all the plagues that in the pendulous air Hang fated o'er men's faults light on thy daughters! Death, traitor! nothing could have subdu'd nature To such a lowness, but his unkind daughters. Is it the fashion that discarded fathers Should have thus little mercy on their flesh? Judicious punishment! 'twas this flesh begot Those pelican daughters. What hast thou been? Why, thou wert better in thy grave than to answer with thy uncovered body this extremity of the skies. Is man no more than this? Consider him well. Thou owest the worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume. Ha! here's three on's are sophisticated; thou art the thing itself; unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou art. Off, off, you lendings! Come; unbutton here. What's he? First let me talk with this philosopher. What is the cause of thunder? I'll talk a word with this same learned Theban. What is your study? Let me ask you one word in private. O! cry you mercy, sir. Noble philosopher, your company. Come, let's in all. With him; I will keep still with my philosopher. Come, good Athenian. A king, a king! To have a thousand with red burning spits Come hizzing in upon 'em,— It shall be done; I will arraign them straight. Come, sit thou here, most learned justicer; Thou, sapient sir, sit here. Now, you she foxes! I'll see their trial first. Bring in their evidence. Thou robed man of justice, take thy place; And thou, his yoke-fellow of equity, Bench by his side. You are o' the commission, Sit you too. Arraign her first; 'tis Goneril. I here take my oath before this honourable assembly, she kicked the poor king her father. She cannot deny it. And here's another, whose warp'd looks proclaim What store her heart is made on. Stop her there! Arms, arms, sword, fire! Corruption in the place! False justicer, why hast thou let her 'scape? The little dogs and all, Tray, Blanch, and Sweet-heart, see, they bark at me. Then let them anatomize Regan, see what breeds about her heart. Is there any cause in nature that makes these hard hearts? You, sir, I entertain you for one of my hundred; only I do not like the fashion of your garments: you will say, they are Persian attire; but let them be changed. Make no noise, make no noise; draw the curtains: so, so, so. We'll go to supper i' the morning: so, so, so. No, they cannot touch me for coining; I am the king himself. Nature's above art in that respect. There's your press-money. That fellow handles his bow like a crow-keeper: draw me a clothier's yard. Look, look! a mouse. Peace, peace! this piece of toasted cheese will do 't. There's my gauntlet; I'll prove it on a giant. Bring up the brown bills. O! well flown, bird; i' the clout, i' the clout: hewgh! Give the word. Pass. Ha! Goneril, with a white beard! They flatter'd me like a dog, and told me I had white hairs in my beard ere the black ones were there. To say 'ay' and 'no' to everything I said! 'Ay' and 'no' too was no good divinity. When the rain came to wet me once and the wind to make me chatter, when the thunder would not peace at my bidding, there I found 'em, there I smelt 'em out. Go to, they are not men o' their words: they told me I was every thing; 'tis a lie, I am not ague-proof. Ay, every inch a king: When I do stare, see how the subject quakes. I pardon that man's life. What was thy cause? Adultery? Thou shalt not die: die for adultery! No: The wren goes to 't, and the small gilded fly Does lecher in my sight. Let copulation thrive; for Gloucester's bastard son Was kinder to his father than my daughters Got 'tween the lawful sheets. To 't luxury, pell-mell! for I lack soldiers. Behold yond simpering dame, Whose face between her forks presageth snow; That minces virtue, and does shake the head To hear of pleasure's name; The fitchew nor the soiled horse goes to 't With a more riotous appetite. Down from the waist they are Centaurs, Though women all above: But to the girdle do the gods inherit, Beneath is all the fiends': There's hell, there's darkness, there is the sulphurous pit, Burning, scalding, stench, consumption; fie, fie, fie! pah, pah! Give me an ounce of civet, good apothecary, to sweeten my imagination: there's money for thee. Let me wipe it first; it smells of mortality. I remember thine eyes well enough. Dost thou squiny at me? No, do thy worst, blind Cupid; I'll not love. Read thou this challenge; mark but the penning of it. Read. O, ho! are you there with me? No eyes in your head, nor no money in your purse? Your eyes are in a heavy case, your purse in a light: yet you see how this world goes. What! art mad? A man may see how this world goes with no eyes. Look with thine ears: see how yound justice rails upon yon simple thief. Hark, in thine ear: change places; and, handy-dandy, which is the justice, which is the thief? Thou hast seen a farmer's dog bark at a beggar? And the creature run from the cur? There thou mightst behold the great image of authority; a dog's obey'd in office. Thou rascal beadle, hold thy bloody hand! Why dost thou lash that whore? Strip thine own back; Thou hotly lust'st to use her in that kind For which thou whipp'st her. The usurer hangs the cozener. Through tatter'd clothes small vices do appear; Robes and furr'd gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold, And the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks; Arm it in rags, a pigmy's straw doth pierce it. None does offend, none, I say none; I'll able 'em: Take that of me, my friend, who have the power To seal the accuser's lips. Get thee glass eyes; And, like a scurvy politician, seem To see the things thou dost not. Now, now, now, now; Pull off my boots; harder, harder; so. If thou wilt weep my fortunes, take my eyes; I know thee well enough; thy name is Gloucester: Thou must be patient; we came crying hither: Thou know'st the first time that we smell the air We waul and cry. I will preach to thee: mark. When we are born, we cry that we are come To this great stage of fools. This' a good block! It were a delicate stratagem to shoe A troop of horse with felt; I'll put it in proof, And when I have stol'n upon these sons-in-law, Then, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill! No rescue? What! a prisoner? I am even The natural fool of fortune. Use me well; You shall have ransom. Let me have surgeons; I am cut to the brains. No seconds? All myself? Why this would make a man a man of salt, To use his eyes for garden water-pots, Ay, and laying autumn's dust. I will die bravely as a bridegroom. What! I will be jovial: come, come; I am a king, My masters, know you that? Then there's life in it. Nay, an you get it, you shall get it by running. Sa, sa, sa, sa You do me wrong to take me out o' the grave; Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears Do scald like molten lead. You are a spirit, I know; when did you die? Where have I been? Where am I? Fair day-light? I am mightily abus'd. I should even die with pity To see another thus. I know not what to say. I will not swear these are my hands: let's see; I feel this pin prick. Would I were assur'd Of my condition! Pray, do not mock me: I am a very foolish fond old man, Fourscore and upward, not an hour more or less; And, to deal plainly, I fear I am not in my perfect mind. Methinks I should know you and know this man; Yet I am doubtful: for I am mainly ignorant What place this is, and all the skill I have Remembers not these garments; nor I know not Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me; For, as I am a man, I think this lady To be my child Cordelia. Be your tears wet? Yes, faith. I pray, weep not: If you have poison for me, I will drink it. I know you do not love me; for your sisters Have, as I do remember, done me wrong: You have some cause, they have not. Am I in France? Do not abuse me. You must bear with me. Pray you now, forget and forgive: I am old and foolish. No, no, no, no! Come, let's away to prison; We two alone will sing like birds i' the cage: When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down, And ask of thee forgiveness: so we'll live, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues Talk of court news; and we'll talk with them too, Who loses and who wins; who's in, who's out; And take upon's the mystery of things, As if we were God's spies: and we'll wear out, In a wall'd prison, packs and sets of great ones That ebb and flow by the moon. Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia, The gods themselves throw incense. Have I caught thee? He that parts us shall bring a brand from heaven, And fire us hence like foxes. Wipe thine eyes; The goujeres shall devour them, flesh and fell, Ere they shall make us weep: we'll see 'em starve first. Come. Howl, howl, howl, howl! O! you are men of stones: Had I your tongues and eyes, I'd use them so That heaven's vaults should crack. She's gone for ever. I know when one is dead, and when one lives; She's dead as earth. Lend me a looking-glass; If that her breath will mist or stain the stone, Why, then she lives. This feather stirs; she lives! if it be so, It is a chance which does redeem all sorrows That ever I have felt. Prithee, away. A plague upon you, murderers, traitors all! I might have sav'd her; now, she's gone for ever! Cordelia, Cordelia! stay a little. Ha! What is 't thou sayst? Her voice was ever soft, Gentle and low, an excellent thing in woman. I kill'd the slave that was a hanging thee. Did I not, fellow? I have seen the day, with my good biting falchion I would have made them skip: I am old now, And these same crosses spoil me. Who are you? Mine eyes are not o' the best: I'll tell you straight. This is a dull sight. Are you not Kent? He's a good fellow, I can tell you that; He'll strike, and quickly too. He's dead and rotten. I'll see that straight. You are welcome hither. Ay, so I think. And my poor fool is hang'd! No, no, no life! Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, And thou no breath at all? Thou'lt come no more, Never, never, never, never, never! Pray you, undo this button: thank you, sir. Do you see this? Look on her, look, her lips, Look there, look there! 

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+Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance. You are a lover; borrow Cupid's wings, And soar with them above a common bound. And, to sink in it, should you burden love; Too great oppression for a tender thing. If love be rough with you, be rough with love; Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down. Give me a case to put my visage in: A visor for a visor! what care I, What curious eye doth quote deformities? Here are the beetle brows shall blush for me. Tut! dun's the mouse, the constable's own word. If thou art Dun, we'll draw thee from the mire, Of—save your reverence—love, wherein thou stick'st Up to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, ho! I mean, sir, in delay We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day. Take our good meaning, for our judgment sits Five times in that ere once in our five wits. Why, may one ask? And so did I. That dreamers often lie. O! then, I see, Queen Mab hath been with you. She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes In shape no bigger than an agate-stone On the fore-finger of an alderman, Drawn with a team of little atomies Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep: Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners' legs; The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers; The traces, of the smallest spider's web; The collars, of the moonshine's watery beams; Her whip, of cricket's bone; the lash, of film; Her waggoner, a small grey-coated gnat, Not half so big as a round little worm Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid; Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut, Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub, Time out o' mind the fairies' coach-makers. And in this state she gallops night by night Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love; O'er courtiers' knees, that dream on curtsies straight; O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees; O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream; Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues, Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are. Sometimes she gallops o'er a courtier's nose, And then dreams he of smelling out a suit; And sometimes comes she with a tithe pig's tail, Tickling a parson's nose as a' lies asleep, Then dreams he of another benefice; Sometime she driveth o'er a soldier's neck, And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish bladed, Of healths five fathom deep; and then anon Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes; And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two, And sleeps again. This is that very Mab That plats the manes of horses in the night; And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs, Which once untangled much misfortune bodes; This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs, That presses them and learns them first to bear, Making them women of good carriage: This is she— True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy; Which is as thin of substance as the air, And more inconstant than the wind, who woos Even now the frozen bosom of the north, And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence, Turning his face to the dew-dropping south. He is wise; And, on my life, hath stol'n him home to bed. Nay, I'll conjure too. Romeo! humours! madman! passion! lover! Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh: Speak but one rime and I am satisfied; Cry but 'Ay me!' couple but 'love' and 'dove;' Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word. One nickname for her purblind son and heir, Young Adam Cupid, he that shot so trim When King Cophetua lov'd the beggar-maid. He heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not; The ape is dead, and I must conjure him. I conjure thee by Rosaline's bright eyes, By her high forehead, and her scarlet lip, By her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh, And the demesnes that there adjacent lie, That in thy likeness thou appear to us. This cannot anger him: 'twould anger him To raise a spirit in his mistress' circle Of some strange nature, letting it there stand Till she had laid it, and conjur'd it down; That were some spite: my invocation Is fair and honest, and in his mistress' name I conjure only but to raise up him. If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark. Now will he sit under a medlar tree, And wish his mistress were that kind of fruit As maids call medlars, when they laugh alone. O Romeo! that she were, O! that she were An open et caetera, thou a poperin pear. Romeo, good night: I'll to my truckle-bed; This field-bed is too cold for me to sleep: Come, shall we go? Where the devil should this Romeo be? Came he not home to-night? Why that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline, Torments him so, that he will sure run mad. A challenge, on my life. Any man that can write may answer a letter. Alas! poor Romeo, he is already dead; stabbed with a white wench's black eye; shot through the ear with a love-song; the very pin of his heart cleft with the blind bow-boy's butt-shaft; and is he a man to encounter Tybalt? More than prince of cats, I can tell you. O! he is the courageous captain of compliments. He fights as you sing prick-song, keeps time, distance, and proportion; rests me his minim rest, one, two, and the third in your bosom; the very butcher of a silk button, a duellist, a duellist; a gentleman of the very first house, of the first and second cause. Ah! the immortal passado! the punto reverso! the hay! The pox of such antick, lisping, affecting fantasticoes, these new tuners of accents!—'By Jesu, a very good blade!—a very tall man! a very good whore.'—Why, is not this a lamentable thing, grandsire, that we should be thus afflicted with these strange flies, these fashion-mongers, these pardonnez-mois, who stand so much on the new form that they cannot sit at ease on the old bench? O, their bons, their bons! Without his roe, like a dried herring. O flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified! Now is he for the numbers that Petrarch flowed in: Laura to his lady was but a kitchen-wench; marry, she had a better love to be-rime her; Dido a dowdy; Cleopatra a gipsy; Helen and Hero hildings and harlots; Thisbe, a grey eye or so, but not to the purpose. Signior Romeo, bon jour! there's a French salutation to your French slop. You gave us the counterfeit fairly last night. The slip, sir, the slip; can you not conceive? That's as much as to say, such a case as yours constrains a man to bow in the hams. Thou hast most kindly hit it. Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy. Right. Well said; follow me this jest now till thou hast worn out the pump, that, when the single sole of it is worn, the jest may remain after the wearing sole singular. Come between us, good Benvolio; my wit faints. Nay, if thy wits run the wild-goose chase, I have done, for thou hast more of the wild-goose in one of thy wits than, I am sure, I have in my whole five. Was I with you there for the goose? I will bite thee by the ear for that jest. Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting; it is a most sharp sauce. O! here's a wit of cheveril, that stretches from an inch narrow to an ell broad. Why, is not this better now than groaning for love? now art thou sociable, now art thou Romeo; now art thou what thou art, by art as well as by nature: for this drivelling love is like a great natural, that runs lolling up and down to hide his bauble in a hole. Thou desirest me to stop in my tale against the hair. O! thou art deceived; I would have made it short; for I was come to the whole depth of my tale, and meant indeed to occupy the argument no longer. A sail, a sail! Good Peter, to hide her face; for her fan's the fairer face. God ye good den, fair gentlewoman. 'Tis no less, I tell you; for the bawdy hand of the dial is now upon the prick of noon. Yea! is the worst well? very well took, i' faith; wisely, wisely. A bawd, a bawd, a bawd! So ho! No hare, sir; unless a hare, sir, in a lenten pie, that is something stale and hoar ere it be spent. An old hare hoar, and an old hare hoar, Is very good meat in Lent: But a hare that is hoar, is too much for a score, When it hoars ere it be spent. Romeo, will you come to your father's? we'll to dinner thither. Farewell, ancient lady; farewell, Lady, lady, lady. Thou art like one of those fellows that when he enters the confines of a tavern claps me his sword upon the table and says, 'God send me no need of thee!' and by the operation of the second cup draws him on the drawer, when, indeed, there is no need. Come, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy mood as any in Italy; and as soon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be moved. Nay, an there were two such, we should have none shortly, for one would kill the other. Thou! why, thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a hair more or a hair less in his beard than thou hast. Thou wilt quarrel with a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou hast hazel eyes. What eye, but such an eye, would spy out such a quarrel? Thy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat, and yet thy head hath been beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling. Thou hast quarrelled with a man for coughing in the street, because he hath wakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun. Didst thou not fall out with a tailor for wearing his new doublet before Easter? with another, for tying his new shoes with old riband? and yet thou wilt tutor me from quarrelling! The fee-simple! O simple! By my heel, I care not. And but one word with one of us? Couple it with something; make it a word and a blow. Could you not take some occasion without giving? Consort! What! dost thou make us minstrels? an thou make minstrels of us, look to hear nothing but discords: here's my fiddlestick; here's that shall make you dance. 'Zounds! consort! Men's eyes were made to look, and let them gaze; I will not budge for no man's pleasure, I. But I'll be hang'd, sir, if he wear your livery: Marry, go before to field, he'll be your follower; Your worship in that sense may call him 'man.' O calm, dishonourable, vile submission! Alla stoccata carries it away. Tybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk? Good king of cats, nothing but one of your nine lives, that I mean to make bold withal, and, as you shall use me hereafter, dry-beat the rest of the eight. Will you pluck your sword out of his pilcher by the ears? make haste, lest mine be about your ears ere it be out. Come, sir, your passado. I am hurt. A plague o' both your houses! I am sped. Is he gone, and hath nothing? Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch; marry, 'tis enough. Where is my page? Go, villain, fetch a surgeon. No, 'tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door; but 'tis enough, 'twill serve: ask for me to-morrow, and you shall find me a grave man. I am peppered, I warrant, for this world. A plague o' both your houses! 'Zounds, a dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat, to scratch a man to death! a braggart, a rogue, a villain, that fights by the book of arithmetic! Why the devil came you between us? I was hurt under your arm. Help me into some house, Benvolio, Or I shall faint. A plague o' both your houses! They have made worms' meat of me: I have it, And soundly too:—your houses! 

data/data/puck.txt

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+How now, spirit! whither wander you? The king doth keep his revels here to-night. Take heed the queen come not within his sight; For Oberon is passing fell and wrath, Because that she as her attendant hath A lovely boy, stol'n from an Indian king; She never had so sweet a changeling; And jealous Oberon would have the child Knight of his train, to trace the forests wild; But she, perforce, withholds the loved boy, Crowns him with flowers, and makes him all her joy. And now they never meet in grove, or green, By fountain clear, or spangled starlight sheen, But they do square; that all their elves, for fear, Creep into acorn-cups and hide them there. Fairy, thou speak'st aright; I am that merry wanderer of the night. I jest to Oberon, and make him smile When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile, Neighing in likeness of a filly foal: And sometime lurk I in a gossip's bowl, In very likeness of a roasted crab; And, when she drinks, against her lips I bob And on her wither'd dewlap pour the ale. The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale, Sometime for three-foot stool mistaketh me; Then slip I from her bum, down topples she, And 'tailor' cries, and falls into a cough; And then the whole quire hold their hips and loff; And waxen in their mirth, and neeze, and swear A merrier hour was never wasted there. But, room, fairy! here comes Oberon. I remember. I'll put a girdle round about the earth In forty minutes. Ay, there it is. Fear not, my lord, your servant shall do so. Through the forest have I gone, But Athenian found I none, On whose eyes I might approve This flower's force in stirring love. Night and silence! who is here? Weeds of Athens he doth wear: This is he, my master said, Despised the Athenian maid; And here the maiden, sleeping sound, On the dank and dirty ground. Pretty soul! she durst not lie Near this lack-love, this kill-courtesy. Churl, upon thy eyes I throw All the power this charm doth owe. When thou wak'st, let love forbid Sleep his seat on thy eyelid: So awake when I am gone; For I must now to Oberon. What hempen home-spuns have we swaggering here, So near the cradle of the fairy queen? What! a play toward; I'll be an auditor; An actor too perhaps, if I see cause. A stranger Pyramus than e'er play'd here! I'll follow you, I'll lead you about a round, Through bog, through bush, through brake, through brier: Sometime a horse I'll be, sometime a hound, A hog, a headless bear, sometime a fire; And neigh, and bark, and grunt, and roar, and burn, Like horse, hound, hog, bear, fire, at every turn. My mistress with a monster is in love. Near to her close and consecrated bower, While she was in her dull and sleeping hour, A crew of patches, rude mechanicals, That work for bread upon Athenian stalls, Were met together to rehearse a play Intended for great Theseus' nuptial day. The shallowest thick-skin of that barren sort, Who Pyramus presented in their sport Forsook his scene, and enter'd in a brake, When I did him at this advantage take; An ass's nowl I fixed on his head: Anon his Thisbe must be answered, And forth my mimick comes. When they him spy, As wild geese that the creeping fowler eye, Or russet-pated choughs, many in sort, Rising and cawing at the gun's report, Sever themselves, and madly sweep the sky; So, at his sight, away his fellows fly, And, at our stamp, here o'er and o'er one falls; He murder cries, and help from Athens calls. Their sense thus weak, lost with their fears thus strong, Made senseless things begin to do them wrong; For briers and thorns at their apparel snatch; Some sleeves, some hats, from yielders all things catch. I led them on in this distracted fear, And left sweet Pyramus translated there; When in that moment, so it came to pass, Titania wak'd and straightway lov'd an ass. I took him sleeping,—that is finish'd too,— And the Athenian woman by his side; That, when he wak'd, of force she must be ey'd. This is the woman; but not this the man. Then fate o'er-rules, that, one man holding troth, A million fail, confounding oath on oath. I go, I go; look how I go; Swifter than arrow from the Tartar's bow. Captain of our fairy band, Helena is here at hand, And the youth, mistook by me, Pleading for a lover's fee. Shall we their fond pageant see? Lord, what fools these mortals be! Then will two at once woo one; That must needs be sport alone; And those things do best please me That befall preposterously. Believe me, king of shadows, I mistook. Did not you tell me I should know the man By the Athenian garments he had on? And so far blameless proves my enterprise, That I have 'nointed an Athenian's eyes; And so far am I glad it so did sort, As this their jangling I esteem a sport. My fairy lord, this must be done with haste, For night's swift dragons cut the clouds full fast, And yonder shines Aurora's harbinger; At whose approach, ghosts, wandering here and there, Troop home to churchyards: damned spirits all, That in cross-ways and floods have burial, Already to their wormy beds are gone; For fear lest day should look their shames upon, They wilfully themselves exile from light, And must for aye consort with black-brow'd night. Up and down, up and down; I will lead them up and down: I am fear'd in field and town; Goblin, lead them up and down. Here comes one. Here, villain! drawn and ready. Where art thou? Follow me, then, To plainer ground. Thou coward! art thou bragging to the stars, Telling the bushes that thou look'st for wars, And wilt not come? Come, recreant; come, thou child; I'll whip thee with a rod: he is defil'd That draws a sword on thee. Follow my voice: we'll try no manhood here. Ho! ho! ho! Coward, why com'st thou not? Come hither: I am here. Yet but three? Come one more; Two of both kinds make up four. Here she comes, curst and sad: Cupid is a knavish lad, Thus to make poor females mad. On the ground Sleep sound: I'll apply To your eye, Gentle lover, remedy When thou wak'st, Thou tak'st True delight In the sight Of thy former lady's eye: And the country proverb known, That every man should take his own, In your waking shall be shown: Jack shall have Jill; Nought shall go ill; The man shall have his mare again, And all shall be well. When thou wak'st, with thine own fool's eyes peep. Fairy king, attend, and mark: I do hear the morning lark. Now the hungry lion roars, And the wolf behowls the moon; Whilst the heavy ploughman snores, All with weary task fordone. Now the wasted brands do glow, Whilst the screech-owl, screeching loud, Puts the wretch that lies in woe In remembrance of a shroud. Now it is the time of night That the graves, all gaping wide, Every one lets forth his sprite, In the church-way paths to glide: And we fairies, that do run By the triple Hecate's team, From the presence of the sun, Following darkness like a dream, Now are frolic; not a mouse Shall disturb this hallow'd house: I am sent with broom before, To sweep the dust behind the door. If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumber'd here While these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding but a dream, Gentles, do not reprehend: If you pardon, we will mend. And, as I'm an honest Puck, If we have unearned luck Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue, We will make amends ere long; Else the Puck a liar call: So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, And Robin shall restore amends. 

data/data/romeo.txt

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+Is the day so young? Ay me! sad hours seem long. Was that my father that went hence so fast? Not having that, which having, makes them short. Out— Out of her favour, where I am in love. Alas! that love, whose view is muffled still, Should, without eyes, see pathways to his will. Where shall we dine? O me! What fray was here? Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all. Here's much to do with hate, but more with love: Why then, O brawling love! O loving hate! O any thing! of nothing first create. O heavy lightness! serious vanity! Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms! Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health! Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is! This love feel I, that feel no love in this. Dost thou not laugh? Good heart, at what? Why, such is love's transgression. Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast, Which thou wilt propagate to have it press'd With more of thine: this love that thou hast shown Doth add more grief to too much of mine own. Love is a smoke rais'd with the fume of sighs; Being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes; Being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears: What is it else? a madness most discreet, A choking gall, and a preserving sweet. Farewell, my coz. Tut! I have lost myself; I am not here; This is not Romeo, he's some other where. What! shall I groan and tell thee? Bid a sick man in sadness make his will; Ah! word ill urg'd to one that is so ill. In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman. A right good mark-man! And she's fair I love. Well, in that hit you miss: she'll not be hit With Cupid's arrow; she hath Dian's wit; And, in strong proof of chastity well arm'd, From love's weak childish bow she lives unharm'd. She will not stay the siege of loving terms, Nor bide the encounter of assailing eyes, Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold: O! she is rich in beauty; only poor That, when she dies, with beauty dies her store. She hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste; For beauty, starv'd with her severity, Cuts beauty off from all posterity. She is too fair, too wise, wisely too fair, To merit bliss by making me despair: She hath forsworn to love, and in that vow Do I live dead that live to tell it now. O! teach me how I should forget to think. 'Tis the way To call hers exquisite, in question more. These happy masks that kiss fair ladies' brows Being black put us in mind they hide the fair; He, that is strucken blind cannot forget The precious treasure of his eyesight lost: Show me a mistress that is passing fair, What doth her beauty serve but as a note Where I may read who pass'd that passing fair? Farewell: thou canst not teach me to forget. Your plantain leaf is excellent for that. For your broken shin. Not mad, but bound more than a madman is; Shut up in prison, kept without my food, Whipp'd and tormented, and—Good den, good fellow. Ay, mine own fortune in my misery. Ay, if I know the letters and the language. Stay, fellow; I can read. Signior Martino and his wife and daughters; County Anselme and his beauteous sisters; the lady widow of Vitruvio; Signior Placentio, and his lovely nieces; Mercutio and his brother Valentine; mine uncle Capulet, his wife and daughters; my fair niece Rosaline; Livia; Signior Valentio and his cousin Tybalt; Lucio and the lively Helena. A fair assembly: whither should they come? Whither? Whose house? Indeed, I should have asked you that before. When the devout religion of mine eye Maintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fires! And these, who often drown'd could never die, Transparent heretics, be burnt for liars! One fairer than my love! the all-seeing sun Ne'er saw her match since first the world begun. I'll go along, no such sight to be shown, But to rejoice in splendour of mine own. What! shall this speech be spoke for our excuse, Or shall we on without apology? Give me a torch: I am not for this ambling; Being but heavy, I will bear the light. Not I, believe me: you have dancing shoes With nimble soles; I have a soul of lead So stakes me to the ground I cannot move. I am too sore enpierced with his shaft To soar with his light feathers; and so bound I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe: Under love's heavy burden do I sink. Is love a tender thing? it is too rough, Too rude, too boisterous; and it pricks like thorn. A torch for me; let wantons, light of heart, Tickle the senseless rushes with their heels, For I am proverb'd with a grandsire phrase; I'll be a candle holder, and look on. The game was ne'er so fair, and I am done. Nay, that's not so. And we mean well in going to this masque; But 'tis no wit to go. I dream'd a dream to-night. Well, what was yours? In bed asleep, while they do dream things true. Peace, peace! Mercutio, peace! Thou talk'st of nothing. I fear too early; for my mind misgives Some consequence yet hanging in the stars Shall bitterly begin his fearful date With this night's revels, and expire the term Of a despised life clos'd in my breast By some vile forfeit of untimely death. But he, that hath the steerage of my course, Direct my sail!, On, lusty gentlemen. What lady is that which doth enrich the hand Of yonder knight? O! she doth teach the torches to burn bright. It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear; Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear! So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows, As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows. The measure done, I'll watch her place of stand, And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand. Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night. If I profane with my unworthiest hand This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this; My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand To smooth that rough touch with a tenderkiss. Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too? O! then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do; They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair. Then move not, while my prayers' effect I take. Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purg'd. Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urg'd! Give me my sin again. What is her mother? Is she a Capulet? O dear account! my life is my foe's debt. Ay, so I fear; the more is my unrest. Can I go forward when my heart is here? Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out. He jests at scars, that never felt a wound. But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun! Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief, That thou her maid art far more fair than she: Be not her maid, since she is envious; Her vestal livery is but sick and green, And none but fools do wear it; cast it off. It is my lady; O! it is my love: O! that she knew she were. She speaks, yet she says nothing: what of that? Her eye discourses; I will answer it. I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks: Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, Having some business, do entreat her eyes To twinkle in their spheres till they return. What if her eyes were there, they in her head? The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven Would through the airy region stream so bright That birds would sing and think it were not night. See! how she leans her cheek upon her hand: O! that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek. She speaks: O! speak again, bright angel; for thou art As glorious to this night, being o'er my head, As is a winged messenger of heaven Unto the white-upturned wond'ring eyes Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds, And sails upon the bosom of the air. Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this? I take thee at thy word. Call me but love, and I'll be new baptiz'd; Henceforth I never will be Romeo. By a name I know not how to tall thee who I am: My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, Because it is an enemy to thee: Had I it written, I would tear the word. Neither, fair maid, if either thee dislike. With love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls; For stony limits cannot hold love out, And what love can do that dares love attempt; Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me. Alack! there lies more peril in thine eye Than twenty of their swords: look thou but sweet, And I am proof against their enmity. I have night's cloak to hide me from their eyes; And but thou love me, let them find me here; My life were better ended by their hate, Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love. By Love, that first did prompt me to inquire; He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes. I am no pilot; yet, wert thou as far As that vast shore wash'd with the furthest sea, I would adventure for such merchandise. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops,— What shall I swear by? If my heart's dear love— O! wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied? The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine. Wouldst thou withdraw it? for what purpose, love? O blessed, blessed night! I am afeard, Being in night, all this is but a dream, Too flattering-sweet to be substantial. So thrive my soul,— A thousand times the worse, to want thy light. Love goes toward love, as schoolboys from their books; But love from love, toward school with heavy looks. It is my soul that calls upon my name: How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night, Like softest music to attending ears! My dear! At the hour of nine. Let me stand here till thou remember it. And I'll still stay, to have thee still forget, Forgetting any other home but this. I would I were thy bird. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast! Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest! Hence will I to my ghostly father's cell, His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell. Good morrow, father! That last is true; the sweeter rest was mine. With Rosaline, my ghostly father? no; I have forgot that name, and that name's woe. I'll tell thee, ere thou ask it me again. I have been feasting with mine enemy, Where on a sudden one hath wounded me, That's by me wounded: both our remedies Within thy help and holy physic lies: I bear no hatred, blessed man; for, lo! My intercession likewise steads my foe. Then plainly know my heart's dear love is set On the fair daughter of rich Capulet: As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine; And all combin'd, save what thou must combine By holy marriage: when and where and how We met we woo'd and made exchange of vow, I'll tell thee as we pass; but this I pray, That thou consent to marry us to-day. Thou chidd'st me oft for loving Rosaline. And bad'st me bury love. I pray thee, chide not; she, whom I love now Doth grace for grace and love for love allow; The other did not so. O! let us hence; I stand on sudden haste. Good morrow to you both. What counterfeit did I give you? Pardon, good Mercutio, my business was great; and in such a case as mine a man may strain courtesy. Meaning—to curtsy. A most courteous exposition. Pink for flower. Why, then, is my pump well flowered. O single-soled jest! solely singular for the singleness. Switch and spurs, switch and spurs; or I'll cry a match. Thou wast never with me for anything when thou wast not here for the goose. Nay, good goose, bite not. And is it not then well served in to a sweet goose? I stretch it out for that word 'broad;' which added to the goose, proves thee far and wide a broad goose. Here's goodly gear! One, gentlewoman, that God hath made for himself to mar. I can tell you; but young Romeo will be older when you have found him than he was when you sought him: I am the youngest of that name, for fault of a worse. What hast thou found? I will follow you. A gentleman, nurse, that loves to hear himself talk, and will speak more in a minute than he will stand to in a month. Nurse, commend me to thy lady and mistress. I protest unto thee,— What wilt thou tell her, nurse? thou dost not mark me. Bid her devise Some means to come to shrift this afternoon; And there she shall at Friar Laurence' cell, Be shriv'd and married. Here is for thy pains. Go to; I say, you shall. And stay, good nurse; behind the abbey wall: Within this hour my man shall be with thee, And bring thee cords made like a tackled stair; Which to the high top-gallant of my joy Must be my convoy in the secret night. Farewell! Be trusty, and I'll quit thy pains. Farewell! Commend me to thy mistress. What sayst thou, my dear nurse? I warrant thee my man's as true as steel. Ay, nurse: what of that? both with an R. Commend me to thy lady. Amen, amen! but come what sorrow can, It cannot countervail the exchange of joy That one short minute gives me in her sight: Do thou but close our hands with holy words, Then love-devouring death do what he dare; It is enough I may but call her mine. Ah! Juliet, if the measure of thy joy Be heap'd like mine, and that thy skill be more To blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath This neighbour air, and let rich music's tongue Unfold the imagin'd happiness that both Receive in either by this dear encounter. Tybalt, the reason that I have to love thee Doth much excuse the appertaining rage To such a greeting; villain am I none, Therefore farewell; I see thou know'st me not. I do protest I never injur'd thee, But love thee better than thou canst devise, Till thou shalt know the reason of my love: And so, good Capulet, which name I tender As dearly as my own, be satisfied. Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up. Draw, Benvolio; beat down their weapons. Gentlemen, for shame, forbear this outrage! Tybalt, Mercutio, the prince expressly hath Forbidden bandying in Verona streets. Hold, Tybalt! good Mercutio! Courage, man; the hurt cannot be much. I thought all for the best. This gentleman, the prince's near ally, My very friend, hath got his mortal hurt In my behalf; my reputation stain'd With Tybalt's slander, Tybalt, that an hour Hath been my kinsman. O sweet Juliet! Thy beauty hath made me effeminate, And in my temper soften'd valour's steel! This day's black fate on more days doth depend; This but begins the woe others must end. Alive! in triumph! and Mercutio slain! Away to heaven, respective lenity, And fire-ey'd fury be my conduct now! Now, Tybalt, take the villain back again That late thou gav'st me; for Mercutio's soul Is but a little way above our heads, Staying for thine to keep him company: Either thou, or I, or both, must go with him. This shall determine that. O! I am Fortune's fool. Father, what news? what is the prince's doom? What sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand, That I yet know not? What less than doomsday is the prince's doom? Ha! banishment! be merciful, say 'death;' For exile hath more terror in his look, Much more than death: do not say 'banishment.' There is no world without Verona walls, But purgatory, torture, hell itself. Hence banished is banish'd from the world, And world's exile is death; then 'banished,' Is death mis-term'd. Calling death 'banished,' Thou cutt'st my head off with a golden axe, And smil'st upon the stroke that murders me. 'Tis torture, and not mercy: heaven is here, Where Juliet lives; and every cat and dog And little mouse, every unworthy thing, Live here in heaven and may look on her; But Romeo may not: more validity, More honourable state, more courtship lives In carrion flies than Romeo: they may seize On the white wonder of dear Juliet's hand, And steal immortal blessing from her lips, Who, even in pure and vestal modesty, Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin; Flies may do this, but I from this must fly: They are free men, but I am banished. And sayst thou yet that exile is not death? Hadst thou no poison mix'd, no sharp-ground knife, No sudden mean of death, though ne'er so mean, But 'banished' to kill me? 'Banished!' O friar! the damned use that word in hell; Howlings attend it: how hast thou the heart, Being a divine, a ghostly confessor, A sin-absolver, and my friend profess'd, To mangle me with that word 'banished?' O! thou wilt speak again of banishment. Yet 'banished!' Hang up philosophy! Unless philosophy can make a Juliet, Displant a town, reverse a prince's doom, It helps not, it prevails not: talk no more. How should they, when that wise men have no eyes? Thou canst not speak of that thou dost not feel: Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love, An hour but married, Tybalt murdered, Doting like me, and like me banished, Then mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair, And fall upon the ground, as I do now, Taking the measure of an unmade grave. Not I; unless the breath of heart-sick groans, Mist-like, infold me from the search of eyes. Nurse! Spak'st thou of Juliet? how is it with her? Doth she not think me an old murderer, Now I have stain'd the childhood of our joy. With blood remov'd but little from her own? Where is she? and how doth she? and what says My conceal'd lady to our cancell'd love? As if that name, Shot from the deadly level of a gun, Did murder her; as that name's cursed hand Murder'd her kinsman. O! tell me, friar, tell me, In what vile part of this anatomy Doth my name lodge? tell me, that I may sack The hateful mansion. Do so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide. How well my comfort is reviv'd by this! But that a joy past joy calls out on me, It were a grief so brief to part with thee: Farewell. It was the lark, the herald of the morn, No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east: Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops: I must be gone and live, or stay and die. Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death; I am content, so thou wilt have it so. I'll say yon grey is not the morning's eye, 'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow; Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat The vaulty heaven so high above our heads: I have more care to stay than will to go: Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so. How is't, my soul? let's talk; it is not day. More light and light; more dark and dark our woes. Farewell, farewell! one kiss, and I'll descend. Farewell! I will omit no opportunity That may convey my greetings, love, to thee. I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve For sweet discourses in our time to come. And trust me, love, in my eye so do you: Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu! adieu! If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep, My dreams presage some joyful news at hand: My bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne; And all this day an unaccustom'd spirit Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts. I dreamt my lady came and found me dead;— Strange dream, that gives a dead man leave to think,— And breath'd such life with kisses in my lips, That I reviv'd, and was an emperor. Ah me! how sweet is love itself possess'd, When but love's shadows are so rich in joy! News from Verona! How now, Balthasar? Dost thou not bring me letters from the friar? How doth my lady? Is my father well? How fares my Juliet? That I ask again; For nothing can be ill if she be well. Is it even so? then I defy you, stars! Thou know'st my lodging: get me ink and paper, And hire post-horses; I will hence to-night. Tush, thou art deceiv'd; Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do. Hast thou no letters to me from the friar? No matter; get thee gone, And hire those horses: I'll be with thee straight. Well, Juliet, I will he with thee to-night. Let's see for means: O mischief! thou art swift To enter in the thoughts of desperate men. I do remember an apothecary, And hereabouts he dwells, which late I noted In tatter'd weeds, with overwhelming brows, Culling of simples; meagre were his looks, Sharp misery had worn him to the bones: And in his needy shop a tortoise hung, An alligator stuff'd, and other skins Of ill-shap'd fishes; and about his shelves A beggarly account of empty boxes, Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds, Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses, Were thinly scatter'd, to make up a show. Noting this penury, to myself I said An if a man did need a poison now, Whose sale is present death in Mantua, Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him. O! this same thought did but fore-run my need, And this same needy man must sell it me. As I remember, this should be the house: Being holiday, the beggar's shop is shut. What, ho! apothecary! Come hither, man. I see that thou art poor; Hold, there is forty ducats; let me have A dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear As will disperse itself through all the veins That the life-weary taker may fall dead, And that the trunk may be discharg'd of breath As violently as hasty powder fir'd Doth hurry from the fatal cannon's womb. Art thou so bare, and full of wretchedness, And fear'st to die? famine is in thy cheeks, Need and oppression starveth in thine eyes, Contempt and beggary hang upon thy back; The world is not thy friend nor the world's law: The world affords no law to make thee rich; Then be not poor, but break it, and take this. I pay thy poverty, and not thy will. There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murders in this loathsome world Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell: I sell thee poison, thou hast sold me none. Farewell; buy food, and get thyself in flesh. Come, cordial and not poison, go with me To Juliet's grave, for there must I use thee. Give me that mattock, and the wrenching iron. Hold, take this letter; early in the morning See thou deliver it to my lord and father. Give me the light: upon thy life I charge thee, Whate'er thou hear'st or seest, stand all aloof, And do not interrupt me in my course. Why I descend into this bed of death, Is partly, to behold my lady's face; But chiefly to take thence from her dead finger A precious ring, a ring that I must use In dear employment: therefore hence, be gone: But, if thou, jealous, dost return to pry In what I further shall intend to do, By heaven, I will tear thee joint by joint, And strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs. The time and my intents are savage-wild, More fierce and more inexorable far Than empty tigers or the roaring sea. So shalt thou show me friendship. Take thou that: Live, and be prosperous; and farewell, good fellow. Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death, Gorg'd with the dearest morsel of the earth, Thus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open, And, in despite, I'll cram thee with more food! I must, indeed; and therefore came I hither. Good gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man; Fly hence and leave me: think upon these gone; Let them affright thee. I beseech thee, youth, Put not another sin upon my head By urging me to fury: O! be gone: By heaven, I love thee better than myself. For I come hither arm'd against myself: Stay not, be gone; live, and hereafter say A madman's mercy bade thee run away. Wilt thou provoke me? then have at thee, boy! In faith, I will. Let me peruse this face: Mercutio's kinsman, noble County Paris! What said my man when my betossed soul Did not attend him as we rode? I think He told me Paris should have married Juliet: Said he not so? or did I dream it so? Or am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet, To think it was so? O! give me thy hand, One writ with me in sour misfortune's book: I'll bury thee in a triumphant grave; A grave? O, no! a lanthorn, slaughter'd youth, For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes This vault a feasting presence full of light. Death, lie thou there, by a dead man interr'd, How oft when men are at the point of death Have they been merry! which their keepers call A lightning before death: O! how may I Call this a lightning? O my love! my wife! Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath, Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty: Thou art not conquer'd; beauty's ensign yet Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks, And death's pale flag is not advanced there. Tybalt, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet? O! what more favour can I do to thee, Than with that hand that cut thy youth in twain To sunder his that was thine enemy? Forgive me, cousin! Ah! dear Juliet, Why art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe That unsubstantial Death is amorous, And that the lean abhorred monster keeps Thee here in dark to be his paramour? For fear of that I still will stay with thee, And never from this palace of dim night Depart again: here, here will I remain With worms that are thy chambermaids; O! here Will I set up my everlasting rest, And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss A dateless bargain to engrossing death! Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide! Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on The dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark! Here's to my love! O true apothecary! Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die. 

data/lib/bard_bot.rb

@@ -0,0 +1,52 @@
+# BardBot
+# Author::    R. Scott Reis  (https://github.com/EvilScott)
+# Copyright:: Copyright (c) 2014 R. Scott Reis
+# License::   MIT (http://opensource.org/licenses/MIT)
+
+$LOAD_PATH.unshift(File.join(File.dirname(__FILE__), 'bard_bot'))
+%w( config dictionary ).each { |klass| require klass }
+
+require 'english'
+$FIELD_SEPARATOR = ' '
+$OUTPUT_FIELD_SEPARATOR = ' '
+
+module BardBot
+  VERSION = '1.0.0'
+
+  class << self
+    def config
+      @config ||= Config.new
+      yield @config if block_given?
+      @config
+    end
+
+    def dictionaries
+      @dictionaries ||= Hash.new do |h, char|
+        h[char] = Dictionary.new(config)
+      end
+      yield @dictionaries if block_given?
+      @dictionaries
+    end
+
+    def clear_dictionaries!
+      @dictionaries.clear
+    end
+
+    def generate_sentence
+      dictionaries[config.character].generate_sentence
+    end
+
+    def characters
+      Dir[config.character_dir + '/*.txt'].map do |char|
+        char.split(File::SEPARATOR).last.sub('.txt', '').to_sym
+      end
+    end
+
+    def method_missing(meth)
+      if /^generate_(?<num>\d+)_sentences$/ =~ meth.to_s
+        return Array.new.fill(0...num.to_i) { generate_sentence }.join
+      end
+      super
+    end
+  end
+end

data/lib/bard_bot/config.rb

@@ -0,0 +1,25 @@
+module BardBot
+  class Config
+    attr_accessor :prefix, :max_length
+    attr_writer :character, :character_dir
+
+    def initialize
+      @character = :hamlet
+      @prefix = 2
+      @max_length = 100
+      @character_dir = :default
+    end
+
+    def character_dir
+      if @character_dir == :default
+        return File.join(File.dirname(__FILE__), '..', '..', 'data')
+      end
+      @character_dir
+    end
+
+    def character
+      return BardBot.characters.sample if @character == :random
+      @character
+    end
+  end
+end

data/lib/bard_bot/dictionary.rb

@@ -0,0 +1,31 @@
+module BardBot
+  class Dictionary
+    def initialize(config)
+      @prefix = config.prefix.to_i
+      @max_length = config.max_length
+      @file_path = File.join(config.character_dir, "#{config.character}.txt")
+      @dictionary = Hash.new { |h, k| h[k] = [] }
+      load_corpus!
+    end
+
+    def load_corpus!
+      corpus = File.read(@file_path).split
+      until corpus.length < (@prefix + 1)
+        key = corpus.first(@prefix).join
+        @dictionary[key] << corpus[@prefix]
+        corpus.shift
+      end
+    end
+
+    def generate_sentence
+      tuple = @dictionary.keys.sample
+      sentence = tuple
+      @max_length.times do
+        sentence += ' ' + @dictionary[tuple].sample
+        break if %w( ? ! . ).include?(sentence[-1])
+        tuple = sentence.split.last(2).join
+      end
+      sentence.downcase.capitalize
+    end
+  end
+end

data/spec/bard_bot_spec.rb

@@ -0,0 +1,64 @@
+require 'spec_helper'
+
+describe BardBot do
+  after(:each) do
+    BardBot.dictionaries(&:clear)
+  end
+
+  describe '#config' do
+    it 'returns the config' do
+      expect(BardBot.config).to be_an_instance_of BardBot::Config
+    end
+
+    it 'yields the config' do
+      BardBot.config { |c| c.character = :foo }
+      expect(BardBot.config.character).to eq :foo
+    end
+  end
+
+  describe '#dictionaries' do
+    it 'returns the dictionaries' do
+      expect(BardBot.dictionaries).to be_an_instance_of Hash
+    end
+
+    it 'yields the dictionaries' do
+      BardBot.dictionaries { |d| d[:foo] = :bar }
+      expect(BardBot.dictionaries[:foo]).to eq :bar
+    end
+  end
+
+  describe '#clear_dictionaries!' do
+    it 'removes existing dictionaries' do
+      BardBot.dictionaries { |d| d[:foo] = :bar }
+      BardBot.clear_dictionaries!
+      expect(BardBot.dictionaries.empty?).to be_truthy
+    end
+  end
+
+  describe '#generate_sentence' do
+    it 'generates a sentence from the dictionary' do
+      BardBot.config.character = :foo
+      BardBot.dictionaries { |d| d[:foo] = double('fake_dictionary') }
+      expect(BardBot.dictionaries[:foo])
+        .to receive(:generate_sentence).and_return('bar')
+      expect(BardBot.generate_sentence).to eq 'bar'
+    end
+  end
+
+  describe '#generate_x_sentences' do
+    it 'generates x sentences from the dictionary' do
+      BardBot.config.character = :foo
+      BardBot.dictionaries { |d| d[:foo] = double('fake_dictionary') }
+      expect(BardBot.dictionaries[:foo])
+        .to receive(:generate_sentence).and_return('foo', 'bar', 'baz')
+      expect(BardBot.generate_3_sentences).to eq 'foo bar baz'
+    end
+  end
+
+  describe '#characters' do
+    it 'lists available characters' do
+      expect(BardBot.characters).to be_an_instance_of Array
+      expect(BardBot.characters.length).to eq 9
+    end
+  end
+end

data/spec/data/integrity_spec.rb

@@ -0,0 +1,10 @@
+require 'spec_helper'
+
+describe 'Integrity' do
+  it 'tests data readability' do
+    BardBot.characters.each do |character|
+      BardBot.config.character = character
+      expect { BardBot.generate_sentence }.to_not raise_exception
+    end
+  end
+end

data/spec/lib/config_spec.rb

@@ -0,0 +1,41 @@
+require 'spec_helper'
+
+module BardBot
+  describe Config do
+    let(:config) { Config.new }
+
+    describe '#initialize' do
+      it 'creates a new config with defaults' do
+        expect(config.instance_variable_get(:@character)).to eq :hamlet
+        expect(config.instance_variable_get(:@prefix)).to eq 2
+        expect(config.instance_variable_get(:@max_length)).to eq 100
+        expect(config.instance_variable_get(:@character_dir)).to eq :default
+      end
+    end
+
+    describe '#character_dir' do
+      it 'returns the default character directory' do
+        character_dir = config.character_dir.split(File::SEPARATOR).last(3)
+        expect(character_dir).to eq %w( .. .. data )
+      end
+
+      it 'returns the specified character directory' do
+        config.character_dir = '/foo/bar'
+        expect(config.character_dir).to eq '/foo/bar'
+      end
+    end
+
+    describe '#character' do
+      it 'returns the specified character' do
+        config.instance_variable_set(:@character, :foo)
+        expect(config.character).to eq :foo
+      end
+
+      it 'returns a random character' do
+        expect(BardBot).to receive(:characters).and_return([:bar])
+        config.instance_variable_set(:@character, :random)
+        expect(config.character).to eq :bar
+      end
+    end
+  end
+end

data/spec/lib/dictionary_spec.rb

@@ -0,0 +1,54 @@
+require 'spec_helper'
+
+module BardBot
+  describe Dictionary do
+    let(:fake_config) { Config.new }
+
+    describe '#initialize' do
+      it 'creates a new dictionary' do
+        expect_any_instance_of(Dictionary)
+          .to receive(:load_corpus!).and_return(nil)
+        dictionary = Dictionary.new(fake_config)
+        expect(dictionary).to be_an_instance_of Dictionary
+        expect(dictionary.instance_variable_get(:@prefix)).to be_a Integer
+        expect(dictionary.instance_variable_get(:@max_length)).to be_a Integer
+        expect(dictionary.instance_variable_get(:@file_path)).to be_a String
+        expect(dictionary.instance_variable_get(:@dictionary)).to be_a Hash
+      end
+    end
+
+    describe '#load_corpus!' do
+      before(:each) do
+        expect(File).to receive(:read).and_return('foo bar baz bbq')
+      end
+
+      it 'loads the corpus into the dictionary' do
+        dictionary = Dictionary.new(fake_config)
+        expected = {
+          'foo bar' => %w(  baz  ),
+          'bar baz' => %w(  bbq  )
+        }
+        expect(dictionary.instance_variable_get(:@dictionary)).to eq expected
+      end
+
+      it 'works with different prefix lengths' do
+        fake_config.prefix = 1
+        dictionary = Dictionary.new(fake_config)
+        expected = {
+          'foo' => %w(  bar  ),
+          'bar' => %w(  baz  ),
+          'baz' => %w(  bbq  )
+        }
+        expect(dictionary.instance_variable_get(:@dictionary)).to eq expected
+      end
+    end
+
+    describe '#generate_sentence' do
+      it 'generates a sentence using a markov chain from the dictionary' do
+        expect(File).to receive(:read).and_return('foo bar baz!')
+        actual = Dictionary.new(fake_config).generate_sentence
+        expect(actual).to eq 'Foo bar baz!'
+      end
+    end
+  end
+end

data/spec/spec_helper.rb

@@ -0,0 +1,5 @@
+$LOAD_PATH.unshift(File.join(File.dirname(__FILE__), '..', 'lib'))
+
+require 'bard_bot'
+require 'bundler/setup'
+Bundler.require :spec

metadata

@@ -0,0 +1,78 @@
+--- !ruby/object:Gem::Specification
+name: bard_bot
+version: !ruby/object:Gem::Version
+  version: 1.0.0
+platform: ruby
+authors:
+- R. Scott Reis
+autorequire: 
+bindir: bin
+cert_chain: []
+date: 2015-01-12 00:00:00.000000000 Z
+dependencies:
+- !ruby/object:Gem::Dependency
+  name: rspec
+  requirement: !ruby/object:Gem::Requirement
+    requirements:
+    - - "~>"
+      - !ruby/object:Gem::Version
+        version: '3.1'
+  type: :development
+  prerelease: false
+  version_requirements: !ruby/object:Gem::Requirement
+    requirements:
+    - - "~>"
+      - !ruby/object:Gem::Version
+        version: '3.1'
+description: BardBot can generate markov sentences for your from a number of Shakespearean
+  character corpora
+email: reis.robert.s@gmail.com
+executables: []
+extensions: []
+extra_rdoc_files: []
+files:
+- LICENSE.md
+- README.md
+- Rakefile
+- data/antonius.txt
+- data/brutus.txt
+- data/hamlet.txt
+- data/juliet.txt
+- data/katharina.txt
+- data/lear.txt
+- data/mercutio.txt
+- data/puck.txt
+- data/romeo.txt
+- lib/bard_bot.rb
+- lib/bard_bot/config.rb
+- lib/bard_bot/dictionary.rb
+- spec/bard_bot_spec.rb
+- spec/data/integrity_spec.rb
+- spec/lib/config_spec.rb
+- spec/lib/dictionary_spec.rb
+- spec/spec_helper.rb
+homepage: https://github.com/EvilScott/bard_bot
+licenses:
+- MIT
+metadata: {}
+post_install_message: 
+rdoc_options: []
+require_paths:
+- lib
+required_ruby_version: !ruby/object:Gem::Requirement
+  requirements:
+  - - ">="
+    - !ruby/object:Gem::Version
+      version: '0'
+required_rubygems_version: !ruby/object:Gem::Requirement
+  requirements:
+  - - ">="
+    - !ruby/object:Gem::Version
+      version: '0'
+requirements: []
+rubyforge_project: 
+rubygems_version: 2.2.2
+signing_key: 
+specification_version: 4
+summary: Shakespearean markov sentence generation
+test_files: []