Chapter 33
But yesterday the word of Cæsar, might Have stood against the world; now lies he there, And none so poor to do him reverence. O Masters! if I were disposed to stir Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong, Who, you all know, are honorable men. I will not do them wrong; I rather choose To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you, Than I will wrong such honorable men: But here's a parchment, with the seal of Cæsar,-- I found it in his closet; 't is 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 Cæsar'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.--
If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this mantle; I remember The first time ever Cæsar, ever put it on; 'T was on a summer's evening in his tent; That day he overcame the Nervii.-- Look! In this place ran Cassius's dagger through: See what a rent the envious Casca made: Through this, the well-belovéd Brutus stabbed; And as he plucked his curséd steel away, Mark, how the blood of Cæsar, followed it!-- This was the most unkindest cut of all! For when the noble Cæsar, saw him stab, Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms, Quite vanquished him! Then burst his mighty heart; And, in his mantle muffling up his face, Even at the base of Pompey's statue, Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar, fell. O, what a fall was there, my countrymen! Then I and you, and all of us, fell down, Whilst bloody treason flourished 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 Cæsar, vesture wounded? Look ye here! Here is himself--marred, as you see, by traitors. Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up To such a sudden flood of mutiny! They that have done this deed are honorable! What private griefs they have, alas, I know not, That made them do it! They are wise and honorable, 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 all know me, 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 Cæsar'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 Cæsar, that should move The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny! Shakespeare.
CCXLI.
HAMLETS SOLILOQUY.
To be,--or not to be;--that is the question:-- Whether 't is 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 heartache, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to,--'t is a consummation Devoutly to be wished. 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 despiséd 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 undiscovered 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 pale cast of thought; And enterprises of great pith and moment, with this regard, their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action. Shakespeare.
CCXLII.
SOLILOQUY OF HAMLET'S UNCLE.
Oh! my offence is rank; it smells to heaven; It hath the primal, eldest curse upon 't, A brother's murder! Pray I cannot, Though inclination be as sharp as 't will: My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent; And like a man to double business bound, I stand in pause where I shall first begin, And both neglect. What if this curséd hand Were thicker than itself with brother's blood; Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy, But to confront the visage of offence? And what's in prayer, but this twofold force,-- To be forestalled, ere we come to fall, Or pardoned being down? Then I'll look up; My fault is past.--But, O, what form of prayer Can serve my turn? "Forgive me my foul murder!" That cannot be; since I am still possessed Of those effects for which I did the murder,-- My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen. May one be pardoned, and retain the offence? In the corrupted currents of this world, Offence's gilded hand may shove by justice; And oft 't is seen, the wicked prize itself Buys out the law: but 't is not so above; There is no shuffling; there the action lies In his true nature; and we ourselves compell'd, Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults, To give in evidence. What then? What rests? Try what repentance can: what can it not? Yet what can it, when one can not repent? O wretched state! O bosom, black as death! O limed soul, that, struggling to be free, Art more engag'd! Help, angels! make assay! Bow, stubborn knees; and, heart, with strings of steel, Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe! All may be well. Shakespeare.
CCXLIII.
PERSEVERANCE KEEPS HONOR BRIGHT.
Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, A great-sized monster of ingratitudes. Those scraps are good deeds past, which are devoured As fast as they are made, forgot as soon As done, Perseverance, dear my lord, Keeps honor bright. To have done, is to hang Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail In monumental mockery. Take the instant way; For Honor travels in a strait so narrow, Where one but goes abreast: keep then the path; For Emulation hath a thousand sons, That one by one pursue: if you give way, Or hedge aside from the direct forthright, Like to an entered tide, they all rush by, And leave you hindmost;-- Or, like a gallant horse fallen in first rank, Lie there for pavement to the abject rear, O'errun and trampled on. Then what they do in present, Though less than yours in past, must o'ertop yours: For Time is like a fashionable host, That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand; And with his arms outstretched, as he would fly, Grasps-in the comer: Welcome ever smiles, And Farewell goes out sighing. O, let not Virtue seek Remuneration for the thing it was; For beauty, wit, High birth, vigor of bone, desert in service, Love, friendship, alacrity, are subjects all To envious and calumniating Time. One touch of Nature makes the whole world kin,-- That all, with one consent, praise new-born gauds, Though they are made and moulded of things past; And give to dust, that is a little gilt, More land than gilt o'erdusted. The present eye praises the present object: Then marvel not, thou great and complete man, That all the Greeks begin to worship Ajax; Since things in motion sooner catch the eye Than what not stirs: The cry went once on thee, And still it might, and yet it may again, If thou wouldst not entomb thyself alive, And case thy reputation in thy tent; Whose glorious deeds, did but in these fields of late, Made emulous missions 'mongst the gods themselves, And drave great Mars to faction. Shakespeare.
CCXLIV.
MACBETH'S SOLILOQUY.
Is this a dagger, which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? come, let me clutch thee:-- I have thee not; and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight, or art thou but A dagger of the mind--a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? I see thee yet, in form as palpable As this which now I draw. Thou marshal'st me the way that I was going; And such an instrument I was to use. Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses, Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still; And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood, Which was not so before. There's no such thing: It is the bloody business, which informs Thus to mine eyes.--Know, o'er the one half world Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse The curtained sleep; now Witchcraft celebrates Pale Hecate's offerings; and withered Murder, Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf, Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth, Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear Thy very stones prate of my where-about, And take the present horror from the time, Which now suits with it. Whiles I threat, he lives; Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives. I go, and it is done; the bell invites me. [A bell rings.] Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell, That summons thee to heaven or to hell. Shakespeare.
CCXLV.
ROMEO IN THE GARDEN.
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; 't is 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 eye 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 wondering 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. Shakespeare.
CCXLVI.
POLONIUS TO LAERTES.
My blessing with you! And these few precepts in thy memory, Look thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue, Nor any unproportioned thought his act. Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar: The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel; But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatched, unfledged comrade: beware Of entrance to a quarrel; but, being in, Bear it, that the opposed may beware of thee. Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice; Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment. Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not expressed in fancy; rich not gaudy; For the apparel oft proclaims the man; And they in France, of the best rank and station, Are most select and generous chief in that. Neither a borrower nor a lender be; For loan oft, loses both itself and friend; And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. This above all,--to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man! Shakespeare.
CCXLVII.
WOLSEY, ON BEING CAST OFF BY THE KING.
Nay, then, farewell! I have touched the highest point of all my greatness; And, from that full meridian of my glory I haste now to my setting: I shall fall Like a bright exhalation in the evening, And no man see me more. Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness! This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow, blossoms, And bears his blushing honors thick upon him: The third day comes a frost, a killing frost; And, when he thinks,--good easy man,--full surely His greatness is a ripening,--nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, These many summers in a sea of glory; But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride At length broke under me; and now has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye! I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors! There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and his ruin, More pangs and fears than wars or women have. And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again! Shakespeare.
CCXLVIII.
WOLSEY TO CROMWELL.
Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. Let's dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Cromwell; And, when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me more must be heard of,--say, I taught thee,-- Say, Wolsey,--that once trod the ways of glory, And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor,-- Found thee away, out of his wreck, to rise in; A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it.-- Mark but my fall, and that which ruined me! Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition! By that sin fell the angels: how can man, then, The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't? Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee: Corruption wins not more than honesty; Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not. Let all the ends thou aim'st at, be thy country's, Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fallest, O Cromwell, Thou fallest a blesséd martyr! Serve the king; And--Prithee, lead me in: There, take an inventory of all I have, To the last penny; 't is the king's; my robe, And my integrity to Heaven, is all I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell! Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, He would not, in mine age, Have left me naked to mine enemies! Shakespeare.
CCXLIX.
GRIFFITH'S DESCRIPTION OF CARDINAL WOLSEY.
Men's evil manners live in brass; their virtues We write in water. May it please your highness To hear me speak his good now? This Cardinal, Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly Was fashioned to much honor. From his cradle, He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one: Exceeding wise, fair spoken, and persuading; Lofty and sour to them that lov'd him not, But to those men that sought him, sweet as summer; And though he were unsatisfied in getting, (Which was a sin), yet in bestowing, madam, He was most princely; ever witness for him Those twins of learning that he raised in you, Ipswich and Oxford! one of which fell with him, Unwilling to outlive the good he did it; The other, though unfinish'd, yet so famous, So excellent in art, and still so rising, That Christendom shall ever speak his virtue. His overthrow heaped happiness upon him; For then and not till then, he felt himself, And found the blessedness of being little: And to add greater honors to his age Than man could give him, he died fearing God. Shakespeare.
BOOK SECOND.
RECENT SELECTIONS
FOR
RECITATION AND DECLAMATION
IN PROSE AND POETRY.
BOOK SECOND.
RECENT SELECTIONS.
PROSE.
CCL.
THE ORATORS OF REVOLUTIONS.
And then and thus comes the orator of that time, kindling with their fire; sympathizing with that great beating heart; penetrated, not subdued; lifted up rather by a sublime and rare moment of history made real to his consciousness; charged with the very mission of life, yet unassured whether they will hear or will forbear; transcendent good within their grasp, yet a possibility that the fatal and critical opportunity of salvation will be wasted; the last evil of nations and of men overhanging, yet the siren song of peace--peace when there is no peace--chanted madly by some voice of sloth or fear,--there and thus the orators of revolutions come to work their work! And what then is demanded, and how it is to be done, you all see; and that in some of the characteristics of their eloquence they must all be alike. Actions, not law or policy: whose growth and fruits are to be slowly evolved by time and calm; actions daring, doubtful but instant; the new things of a new world,--these are what the speaker counsels; large, elementary, gorgeous ideas of right, of equality, of independence, of liberty, of progress through convulsion,--these are the principles from which he reasons, when he reasons,--these are the pinions of the thought on which he soars and stays; and then the primeval and indestructible sentiments of the breast of man,--his sense of right, his estimation of himself, his sense of honor, his love of fame, his triumph and his joy in the dear name of country, the trophies that tell of the past, the hopes that gild and herald her dawn,--these are the springs of action to which he appeals,--these are the chords his fingers sweep, and from which he draws out the troubled music, "solemn as death, serene as the undying confidence of patriotism," to which he would have the battalions of the people march! Directness, plainness, a narrow range of topics, few details, few but grand ideas, a headlong tide of sentiment and feeling; vehement, indignant, and reproachful reasonings,--winged general maxims of wisdom and life; an example from Plutarch; a pregnant sentence of Tacitus; thoughts going forth as ministers of nature in robes of light, and with arms in their hands; thoughts that breathe and words that burn,--these vaguely, approximately, express the general type of all this speech. R. Choate.
CCLI.
THE ELOQUENCE OF REVOLUTIONS