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One writ with me in sour misfortune's book!
I'll bury thee in a triumphant grave
For here lies Juliet.

- 0, my love ! my wife !
Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath,
Hath had no power yet upon tny 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, ly'st thou there in thy bloody sheet ?
0, what more favor 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! I will 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 will stay still with thee;
And never from this palace of dim night
Depart again : here, here will I remain
With worms that are thy chamber-maids ; 0, here
Will I set up my everlasting rest;
And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars
From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, iook 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, unsavory guide!
Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on
The dashing rocks, my sea-sick weary bark !
Here's to my love !-Drinks.] 0, true apothecary !
Thy drugs are quick.-Thus with a kiss I die.

The lines in this speech describing the loveliness of Juliet, who is supposed to be dead, have been compared to those in which it is said of Cleopatra after her death, that she looked “as she would take another Antony into her strong toil of grace ;" and a question has been started which is the finest, that we do not pretend to decide. We can more easily decide between Shakspeare and any other author, than between him and him. self. Shall we quote any more passages to show his genius or che beauty of ROMEO AND JULIET? At that rate, we might quote the whole. The late Mr. Sheridan, on being shown a volume of the Beauties of Shakspeare, very properly asked"But where are the other eleven ?" The character of Mercutio in this play is one of the most mercurial and spirited of the productions of Siakspeare's comic muse.


We wish that we could pass this play oyer, and say nothing about it. All that we can say must fall far short of the subject, or even of what we ourselves conceive of it. To attempt to give a description of the play itself, or of its effects upon the mind, is mere impertinence: yet we must say something. It is then the best of all Shakspeare's plays, for it is the one in which he was the most in earnest. He was here fairly caught in the web of his own imagination. The passion which he has taken as his subject is that which strikes its root deepest into the human heart; of which the bond is the hardest to be uploosed ; and the cancelling and tearing to pieces of which gives the greatest revulsion to the frame. This depth of nature, this force of passion, this tug and war of the elements of our being, this firm faith in filial piety, and the giddy anarchy and whirling tumult of the thoughts at finding this prop failing it, the contrast between the fised, immovable basis of natural affection, and the rapid, irregular starts of imagination, suddenly wrenched from all its accustomed holds and resting places in the soul, this is what Shakspeare has given, and what nobody else but he could give. So we believe.—The mind of Lear, staggering between the weight of attachment and the hurried movements of passion, is like a tall ship driven about by the winds, buffeted by the furious waves, but ihat still rides above the storm, having its anchor fixed in the bottom of the sea; or it is like the sharp rock circled by the eddy, ing whirlpool that foams and beats against it, or like the solid promontory pushed from its basis by the force of an earthquake.

The character of Lear itself is very finely conceived for the purpose. It is the only ground on which such a story could be would be too painful, the shock too great, but for the interven. tion of the Pool, whose well-timed levity comes in to break the continuity of feeling when it can no longer be borne, and to bring into play again the fibres of the heart just as they are rigid from over-strained excitement. The imagination is glad to take refuge in the half.comio, half-serious comments of the Fool, just as the mind under the extreme anguish of a surgical operation vents itself in sallies of wit. The character was also a gro tesque ornament of the barbarous times, in which alone the tragic ground work of the story could be laid. In another point of view it is indispensable, inasmuch as while it is a diversion to the too great intensity of our disgust, it carries the pathos to the highest pitch of which it is capable, by showing the pitiable weak. ness of the old king's conduct and its irretrievable consequences in the most familiar point of view. Lear may well * beat at the gate which let his folly in," after, as the Pool says, "he has made his daughters his mothers." The character is dropped in the third act to make room for the entrance of Edgar as mad Tom, which well aceords with the increasing bustle and wild. ness of the incidents; and nothing can be more complete than the distinction between Lear's real and Edgar's assumed mad. ness, while the resemblance in the cause of their distresses, from the severing of the nearest ties of natural affection, keeps up • unity of interest. Shakspeare's mastery over his subject, if it was not art, was owing to a knowledge of the connecting links of the passions, and their effect upon the mind, still more wonderful than any systematic adherence to rules, and anticipated and out did all the efforts of the most refined art, not inspired and render ed instinctive by genius.

One of the most perfect displays of dramatic power is the fing interview between Lear and his daughter, after the designed affronts upon him, which, till one of his knights reminds him of them, his sanguine temperament had led him to overlook. He returns with his train from hunting, and his usual impatience breaks out in his first words, “Let me not stay a jot for dinner; go, get it ready." He then encounters the faithful Kent in dis guise, and retains him in his service; and the first trial of his honest duty is to trip up the heels of the officious Stowand, whe

makes so prominent and despicable a figure through the piece. On the entrance of Gonerill the following dialogue takes place :

“ LEAR. How now, daughter? what makes that frontlet on? Methinks, you are too much of late i' the frown Fool. Thou wast a pretty fellow, when thou haďst no need to care for her frowning ; now thou art an O without a figure ; I am better than thou art now; I am a fool, thou art nothing. Yes, forsooth, I will hold my tongue; (To Gonerill.] So your face bids me, though you say nothing. Mom, mum.

He that keeps nor crust nor crum,

Weary of all, shall want some-
That's a sheal'd peascod!

[Pointing to Lear.
GONERILL. Not only, sir, this your all-licens'd fool,
But other of your insolent retinue
Do hourly carp and quarrel ; breaking forth
In rank and not-to-be-endured riots.
I had thought, by making this well known unto you,
To have found a safe redress; but now grow fearful,
By what yourself too late have spoke and done,
That you protect this course, and put it on
By your allowance ; which if you should, the fault
Would not 'scape censure, nor the redresses sleep,
Which in the tender of a wholesome weal,
Might in their working do you that offence
(Which else were shame), that then necessity .
Would call discreet proceeding.

FOOL. For you trow, nuncle,

The hedge-sparrow fed the cuckoo so long,

That it had its head bit off by its young.
So out went the candle, and we were left darkling.

LEAR. Are you our daughter ? "
GONERILL. Come, sir,
I would you would make use of that good wisdom
Whereof I know you are fraught; and put away
These dispositions, which of late transform you
From what you rightly are.
FOOL. May not an ass know when the cart draws che horse !

- Whoop, Jug, I love thee.
LEAR. Does any here know me? Why, this is not Lear :
Does Lear walk thus ? speak thus ?-Where are his eyes?
Either his notion weakens, or his discernings
Are lethargy'd- Ha! waking Tis not so.

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