The king, your father, was reputed for
A prince most prudent, of an excellent
And unmatch'd wit and judgment: Ferdinand,
My father, king of Spain, was reckon'd one
The wisest prince, that there had reign'd by
many
year before: It is not to be question'd
That they had gather'd a wise council to them. Of every realm, that did debate this business, Who deem'd our marriage lawful: Wherefore I humbly
Beseech you, sir, to spare me, till I may
Be by my friends in Spain advis'd; whose counsel
I will implore; if not; i'the name of God,
Your pleasure be fulfill'd!
K. HENRY VIII., A. 2, s. 4.
THE WIFE THE GREATER VILLAIN. GLAMIS thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be What thou art promis'd:-Yet do I fear thy nature;
It is too full o' the milk of human kindness, To catch the nearest way: Thou would'st be great;
Art not without ambition; but without
The illness should attend it. What thou would'st
That would'st thou holily; would'st not play
And yet would'st wrongly win: thou'd'st have, great Glamis,
That which cries, Thus thou must do, if thou have it :
And that which rather thou dost fear to do,
Than wishest should be undone. Hie thee hither,
That I may pour my spirits in thine ear;
And chastise with the valour of my tongue
All that impedes thee from the golden round,
Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem
To have thee crown'd withal.
THE WILL FOR THE DEED.
THE kinder we, to give them thanks for nothing.
Our sport shall be, to take what they mistake:
And what poor duty cannot do,
Noble respect takes it in might, not merit.
Where I have come, great clerks have purposed
To greet me with premeditated welcomes;
Where I have seen them shiver and look pale,
Make periods in the midst of sentences,
Throttle their practis'd accent in their fears,
And, in conclusion, dumbly have broke off,
Not paying me a welcome: Trust me, sweet,
Out of this silence, yet, I pick'd a welcome;
And in the modesty of fearful duty
I read as much, as from the rattling tongue
Of sawcy, and audacious eloquence.
Love, therefore, and tongue-tied simplicity,
In least, speak most, to my capacity.
MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM, A. 5, s. 1.
THE WISE WOMAN.
SHE that was ever fair, and never proud;
Had tongue at will, and yet was never loud;
Never lack'd gold, and yet went never gay;
Fled from her wish, and yet said,-now I may;
She that, being anger'd, her revenge being nigh,
Bade her wrong stay, and her displeasure fly:
She that in wisdom never was so frail,
To change the cod's head for the salmon's tail;
She that could think, and ne'er disclose her mind,
See suitors following, and not look behind;
She was a wight,-if ever such wight were.
The weary way hath made you melancholy. PRINCE. No, uncle; but our crosses on the way
Have made it tedious, wearisome, and heavy :
I want more uncles here to welcome me.
GLO. Sweet prince, the untainted virtue of
Hath not yet div'd into the world's deceit :
No more can you distinguish of a man,
Than of his outward show; which, God he knows,
Seldom, or never, jumpeth with the heart.
Those uncles, which you want, were dangerous;
Your grace attended to their sugar'd words,
But look'd not on the poison of their hearts:
God keep you from them, and from such false
friends!
PRINCE. God keep me from false friends! but they were none.
K. RICHARD III., A. 3, s. 1.
These dangerous unsafe lunes o' the king! beshrew them!
He must be told on't, and he shall: the office
Becomes a woman best; I'll take't upon me:
If I prove honey-mouth'd, let my tongue blister;
And never to my red-look'd anger be
The trumpet any more:-Pray you, Emilia,
Commend my best obedience to the queen;
If she dares trust me with her little babe,
I'll show't the king, and undertake to be
Her advocate to th' loudest: We do not know
How he may soften at the sight o'the child;
The silence often of pure innocence
Persuades, when speaking fails.
Tell her, Emilia, I'll use that tongue I have: if wit flow from it, As boldness from my bosom, let it not be doubted I shall do good.
WINTER'S TALE, A. 2, s. 2.
THESE are the ushers of Marcius: before him He carries noise, and behind him he leaves tears;
Death, that dark spirit, in's nervy arm doth lie; Which being advanc'd, declines; and then men
THE WORLDLY EPOCH OF
CIVILIZATION.
So may the outward shows be least themselves;
The world is still deceiv'd with ornament.
In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt,
But, being season'd with a gracious voice,
Obscures the show of evil? In religion,
What damned error, but some sober brow
Will bless it, and approve it with a text,
Hiding the grossness with fair ornament ?
There is no vice so simple, but assumes
Some mark of virtue on his outward parts.
How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false
As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins
The beards of Hercules, and frowning Mars;
Who inward search'd, have livers white as milk?
And these assume but valour's excrement,
To render them redoubted. Look on beauty,
And you shall see 'tis purchas'd by the weight;
Which therein works a miracle in nature,
Making them lightest that wear most of it:
So are those crisped snakey golden locks,
Which make such wanton gambols with the
wind,
Upon supposed fairness, often known
To be the dowry of a second head,
The scull that bred them, in the sepulchre.
Thus ornament is but the guiled shore
To a most dangerous sea; the beauteous scarf
Veiling an Indian beauty; in a word,
The seeming truth which cunning times put on To entrap the wisest.
MERCHANT OF VENICE, A. 3, s. 2.
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