And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence,

And portance in my travel's history.

Wherein of antres vast and deserts idle,

Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven, It was my lot to speak, such was the process;

And of the cannibals that each other eat,

The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads

Do grow beneath their shoulders. Those things to hear

Would Desdemona seriously incline;

But still the house affairs would draw her thence;
Which ever as she could with haste dispatch,
She'd come again, and with a greedy ear

Devour up my discourse: which I observing,
Took once a pliant hour, and found good means
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate,
Whereof by parcels she had something heard,
But not intentively. I did consent,

And often did beguile her of her tears,

When I did speak of some distressful stroke

That my youth suffer'd. My story being done,

She gave me for my pains a world of sighs;

She swore-in faith 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange, 'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful

She wish'd she had not heard it, yet she wish'd

That heaven had made her such a man-she thank'd ma,

And bade me, if I had a friend that lov'd her,

I should but teach him how to tell my story;

And that would woo her. On this hint I spake;
She lov'd me for the dangers I had pass'd,
And I lov'd her that she did pity them.

DESCRIPTION OF NIGHT IN A CAMP.

From camp to camp, thro' the foul womb of night,
The hum of either army stilly sounds,

That the fix'd sentinels almost receive

The secret whispers of each other's watch.
Fire answers fire; and through their paly flames,
Each battle sees the other's umber'd face.
Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs,
Piercing the night's dull ear; and from the tents,
The armourers, accomplishing the knights,

With busy hammers closing rivets up,

Give dreadful note of preparation.

The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll,
And the third hour of drowsy morning name.
Proud of their numbers and secure in soul;

The confident and over-lusty French

For the low-rated English play at dice,

And chide the cripple tardy-gaited night,

Who, like a foul and ugly witch, does limp

So tediously away. The poor condemned English,
Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires

Sit patiently, and inly ruminate

U

The morning's danger: and their gesture sad
(Investing lank lean checks, and war-worn coats)
Presenting them unto the gazing moon

So many horrid ghosts. O, now, who will behold
The royal captain of this ruin'd band,

Walking from watch to watch, from tent to tent,
Let him cry praise and glory on his head!

For forth he goes and visits all his, host,
Bids them good-morrow with a modest smile,
And calls them brothers, friends, and countrymen.
Upon his royal face there is no note

How dread an army hath enrounded him;
Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour
Unto the weary and all-watched night;
But freshly looks, and overbears attaint,
With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty;
That every wretch, pining and pale before,
Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks.
A largess universal, like the sun,

His liberal eye doth give to every one,
Thawing cold fear.

[Henry the Fifth.}

THE BLESSINGS OF A SHEPHERD'S LIFE.

O God! methinks it were a happy life

To be no better than a homely swain;

To sit upon a hill, as I do now,

To carve out dials quaintly, point by point,
Thereby to see the minutes how they run :
How many make the hour full complete,
How many hours bring about the day,
How many days will finish up the year,
How many years a mortal man may live.
When this is known, then to divide the times:
So many hours must I tend my flock;

So many hours must I take my rest;
So many hours must I contemplate ;
So many hours must I sport myself;

So many days my ewes have been with young;
So many weeks ere the poor fools will yearn;
So many years ere I shall shear the fleece:
So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years,
Pass'd over, to the end they were created,
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.
Ah! what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely:
Gives not the hawthorn-bush a sweeter shade

To shepherds looking on their silly sheep,

Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy

To kings that fear their subjects' treachery?
O yes, it doth, a thousandfold it doth.
And to conclude, the shepherd's homely curds,
His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle,
His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade,
All which secure and sweetly he enjoys,

Is far beyond a prince's delicates;
His viands sparkling in a golden cup,
His body couched in a curious bed,
When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him.

THE VICISSITUDES OF LIFE.

So farewell to the little good you bear me.
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 ventur'd,
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 open'd. O how wretch'd
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours!
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or woman have;
And, when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.

[Henry the Sixth.}.

[Henry the Eighth.]

THE MURDER OF KING DUNCAN.

Macbeth and a Servant,

CBETH, FROMPTED BY AMBITION, AND PUSHED ON BY HIS SAVAGE WIFE, RESOLVES TO MURDER THE KING.]

Macb. Go bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready,

She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed.

Is this a dagger which I see before me,

[Excit Servant.]

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-oppress'd 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' th' 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. Now, o'er one half the world
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtain'd sleep: now witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings; and wither'd Murder,
Alarm'd by his sentinel, the wolf,

Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace,
With Tarquin's ravishing strides, tow'rds his design
Moves like a ghost. Thou sound and firm-set earth,
Hear not, my steps, which way they walk, for fear
The very stones prate of my whereabout,
And take the present horror from the time,
Which now suits with it. Whilst I threat, he lives-
Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.

I go, and it is done; the bell invites me:
Hear it not Duncan, for it is a knell
That summons thee to heaven or to hell.

[A bell rings.]

[Enter Lady Macbeth.] hath made me bold: Hark! peace!

Lady. That which hath made them drunk,
What hath quench'd them, hath given me fire.
It was the owl that shriek'd, the fatal bellman,
Which gives the stern'st good-night-he is about it—
The doors are open; and the surfeited grooms
Do mock their charge with snores. I have drugg'd their possets.
That death and nature do contend about them,
Whether they live or die.

Macb. [Within.] Who's there?-what ho!

Lady. Alack! I am afraid they have awak'd; And 'tis not done. Th' attempt, and not the deed, Confounds us. Hark! I laid their daggers ready; He could not miss 'em. Had he not resembled

My father as he slept, I [Enter Macbeth.] had done 't. My husband.

Macb. I've done the deed-didst thou not hear a noise?

Lady. I heard the owl scream, and the crickets cry. Did not you speak? Mach.

When?

Lady. Now.

Macb. As I descended?

Macb. There's one did laugh in 's sleep, and one cried, Murder!

That they did wake each other; I stood and heard them;

But they did say their prayers, and address'd them

Again to sleep.

Lady. There are two lodg'd together.

Macb. One cried, God bless us! and Amen! the other;

As they had seen me with these hangman's hands,

Listening their fear, I could not say, Amen,

When they did say God bless us.

Lady. Consider it not so deeply.

Macb. But wherefore could not I pronounce Amen! I had most need of blessing, and Amen

Stuck in my throat.

Lady. These deeds must not be thought,

After these ways; so, it will make us mad.

Macb. Methought I heard a voice cry, Sleep no more!
Macbeth does murder sleep-the innocent sleep-

Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care,
The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast.

Lady. What do you mean?

Macb. Still it cry'd, Sleep no more, to all the house; Glamis hath murder'd sleep. And therefore Cawdor Shall sleep no more; Macbeth shall sleep no more!

Lady. Who was it that thus cry'd? Why, worthy Thane,
You do unbend your noble strength, to think

So brain-sickly of things. Go get some water,
And wash this filthy witness from your hand.

Why did you bring these daggers from the place?
They must lie there. Go, carry them, and smear
The sleepy grooms with blood.

Macb. I'll go no more.

I am afraid to think what I have done;

Look on't again, I dare not.

Lady. Infirm of purpose:

Give me the daggers. The sleeping and the dead
Are but as pictures; 'tis the eye of childhood

That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed,

I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal,
For it must seem their guilt.

[Exit.]

Macb. Whence is that knocking! [Starting.] How is't with me, when every noise appals me?

[Knocking within.]

What hands are here ?-ha! they pluck out mine eyes.
Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood

Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnardine,

Making the green one red

[Enter Lady Macbeth.]

Lady. My hands are of your colour; but I shame

To wear a heart so white. [Knock.] I hear a knocking
At the south entry. Retire we to our chamber;

A little water clears us of this deed,

How easy is it then? Your constancy

Hath left you unattended. [Knocking.] Hark, more knocking!

Get on your night-gown, lest occasion call us,

And show us to be watchers. Be not lost

So poorly in your thoughts.

Macb. To know my deed, 't were best not know myself. [Knock.] Wake, Duncan, with this knocking. Ay, 'would thou could'st!

[Exeunt.]