« PreviousContinue »
out of use. To promise is most courtly and fashionable: performance is a kind of will or testament, which argues a great sickness in his judgment that makes it.
WRONG AND INSOLENCE.
Now breathless wrong.
insolence shall break his wind, With fear and horrid flight.
Wilt thou draw near the nature of the gods?
Thanks, to men
INVITATION TO LOVE.
The birds chant melody on every bush; The snake lies rolled in the cheerful sun; The green leaves quiver with the cooling wind; And make a chequer'd shadow on the ground: Under their sweet shade, Aaron, let us sit, And-whilst the babbling echo mocks the hounds, Replying shrilly to the well tun'd horns,
As if a double hunt were heard at once,-
is a nurse's
[birds, Of lullaby, to bring her babe asleep.
DESCRIPTION OF A MELANCHOLY VALLEY. A barren detested vale, you see, it is: The trees, though summer, yet forlorn and lean, O’ercome with moss, and baleful misletoe. Here never shines the sun; here nothing breeds, Unless the nightly owl, or fatal raven. And, when they show'd me this abhorred pit, They told me, here, at dead time of the night, A thousand fiends, a thousand hissing snakes, Ten thousand swelling toads, as many urchins*, Would make such fearful and confused cries, As any mortal body, hearing it, Should straight fall mad, or else die suddenly.
DESCRIPTION OF A RING.
LAVINIA AT HER LUTE.
Fair Philomela, she but lost her tongue, And in a tedious sampler sew'd her mind: But, lovely niece, that mean is cut from thee; A craftier Terius hast thou met withal, And he hath cut those pretty fingers off, That could have better sewed than Philomel. O, had the monster seen those lily hands Tremble, like aspen leaves, upon a lute, And make the silken strings delight to kiss them: He would not then have touch'd them for his life; Or, had he heard the heavenly harmony, Which that sweet tongue hath made, He would have dropp'd his knife, and fell asleep, As Cerberus at the Thracian poet's* feet.
ACT III. LAVINIA'S LOSS OF HER TONGUE DESCRIBED. O, that delightful engine of her thoughts, That blabb'd them with such pleasing eloquence, Is torn from forth that pretty hollow cage: Where, like a sweet melodious bird, it
sung Sweet varied notes, enchanting every ear!
For now I stand as one upon a rock, Environ'd with a wilderness of sea; Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave, Expecting ever when some envious surge Will, in his brinish bowels, swallow him.
When I did name her brothers, then fresh tears Stood on her cheeks; as doth the honey dew Upon a gather'd lily almost wither'd.
CRUELTY TO INSECTS.
Mar. Alas, my lord, I have but kill'd a fly.
Tit. But how, if that fly had a father and mother? How would he hang his slender gilded wings, And buz lamenting doings in the air? Poor harmless fly! That with his pretty buzzing melody, shim. Came here to make us merry; and thou hast kill'd
Lo, by thy side where Rape, and Murder, stands; Now give some 'surance that thou art Revenge, Stab them, or tear them on thy chariot wheels; And then I'll come, and be thy waggoner, And whirl along with thee about the globes. Provide thee proper palfries, black as jet, To hale thy vengeful waggon swift away, And find out murderers in their guilty caves: And, when thy car is loaden with their heads, I will dismount, and by the waggon wheel Trot, like a servile footman, all day long; Even from Hyperion's rising in the east, Until his very downfal in the sea.
Call here my varlet*, I'll unarm again:
The Greeks are strong, and skilful to their strength,
O Pandarus! I tell thee, Pandarus,When I do tell thee, There my hopes lie drown'd, Reply not in how many fathoms deep They lie indrench’d. I tell thee, I am mad In Cressid's love: Thou answer'st, She is fair; Pour'st in the open ulcer of my heart Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice ; Handlest in thy discourse, O, that her hand, In whose comparison all whites are ink, Writing their own reproach; to whose soft seisure The cygnet's down is harsh, and spirit of sense Hard as the palm of ploughmen! This thou tell'st me, As true thou tell'st me, when I say, I love her; But, saying thus, instead of oil and balm, Thou lay'st in every gash that love hath given me The knife that made it. A seryant to a knight.