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XXI.-Brutus' Harrangue on the Death of Cesar.-Ів. ROMANS, Countrymen and Lovers!-Here me for my cause; and be silent, that you may hear. Believe me for mine honor; and have respect to mine honor, that you may believe. Censure me in your wisdom; and awake your senses, that you may the better judge.If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of Cesar's, to him, I say, that Brutus' love to Cesar was no less than his. If, then, that friend demand why Brutus rose against Cesar, this is my answer: not that I loved Cesar less, but that I loved Rome more. Had you rather Cesar were living, and die all slaves; than that Cesar were dead, to live all freemen? As Cesar loved me, I weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honor him: but, as he was ambitious, I slew him. There are tears for his love, joy for his fortune, honor for his valor, and death for his ambition. -Who's here so base, that would be a bondman? IF any, speak; for him I have offended. Who's here so rude, that would not be a Roman? If any, speak; for him I have offended. Who's here so vile, that will not love his country? If any, speak; for him I have offended. I pause for a reply

None! Then none have I offended. I have done no more to Cesar than you shall do to Brutus. The question of his death is enrolled in the Capitol; his glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy; nor his offences enforced, for which he suffered death.

Here comes his body, mourn'd by Mark Antony; who, though he had no hand in his death, shall receivo the benefit of his dying, a place in the commonwealth; as which of you shall not? With this I depart-that as I slew my best lover for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please my country to need my death.

XXII.-Antony's Oration over Cesar's Body.

FRIENDS, Romans, Countrymen! Lend me your ears.
I come to bury Cesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do, lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones:

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So let it be with Cesar! Noble Brutus-
Hath told you, Cesar was ambitious.
If it were so, it was a grievous fault;
And grievously hath Cesar answer'd it.
Here under leave of Brutus, and the rest,
(For Brutus is an honorable man,
So are they all, all honorable men)
Come I to speak in Cesar's funeral-

He was my friend, faithful and just to me :

Bu. Brutus says he was ambitious;
A:d Brutus is an honorable man.

He hath brought many captives home to Rome,
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:
Did this in Cesar seem ambitious?

When that the poor have cried, Cesar hath wept!
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honorable man.

You all did see, that, on the Lupercal,
I thrice presented him a kingly crown;
Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition?
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And sure, he, is an honorable man.

I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke;
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once; not without cause;
What cause withholds you then to mourn for him?
O judgment! Thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason. Bear with me:
My heart is in the coffin there with Cesar;
And I must pause till it come back to me.

But yesterday the word, Cesar, might
Have stood against the world! now lies he there,
And none so poor to do him reverence.
O Masters! If I were dispos'd 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 then wrong-1 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 Cesar;
I found it in his closet: 'tis 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 Cesar'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,

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Unto their issue.

If you have tears, prepare to shed ther now,
You all do know this mantle: I remember
The first time ever Cesar put it on;
'Twas on a summer's evening in his tent,
That day he overcome the Nervii--
Look! in this place ran Cassius' dagger through---
See what a rent the envious Casca made-
Through this the weil beloved Brutus stabb'd;
And, as he pluck'd his cursed steel away,
Mark how the bod of Cesar follow'd it!
This, was the unkindest cut of ali!
For when the noble Cesar saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than traitor's arms,
Quite vanquish'd him! Then burst his mighty heart
And in his mantle muffling up his face,
E'en at the base of lompey's statue,
(Which all the while ran blood) great Cesar fell.
O what a fall was there, my countrymen!
Then I, and you, and all of us, fell down;
Whilst bloody treason flourish'd 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 behold
Our Cesar's vesture wounded? Look you here!-
Here is himself-marr'd, 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 reason answer you.
I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts!
I am no orator, as Brutus is;

But, as you know me all, 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 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 Cesar'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 tongne
In every wound of Cesar, that should move
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.

XXIII.-Falstaff's Soliloquy on Honor. - HENRY IV.

OWE heaven a death; 'Tis not due yet; and I would be loth to pay him before his day. What need I be so forward with him that calls not on me? Well, 'tis ne matter-honor pricks me on.-But how, if honor prick me off when I come on? How then? Can honor set to a leg? No; or an arm? No; or take away the grief of a wound? No. Honor hath no skill in surgery, then ? No. What is honor? A word. What is that word honor? Air; a trim reckoning. Who hath it? He that died a Wednesday. Doth he feel it? No. Doth he hear it No. Is it insensible, then? Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? No. Why? Detraction will not suffer it. Therefore, I'll none of it. Honor is a mere 'seutcheon-and so ends my catechism. XXIV.-Part of Richard IIId's Soliloquy the night preeeding the Battle of Bosworth.

TRAGEDY OF RICHARD III.

"TIS now the dead of night, and half the world

Is with a lonely solemn darkness hung;

Yet I (so coy a dame is sleep to me)

With all the weary courtship of

My care tir'd thoughts, can't win her to my bed, [ing.
Though e'en the stars do wink, as' twere, with over watch
I'll forth, and walk awhile. The air's refreshing,

And the ripe harvest of the new mown hay

Gives it a sweet and wholesome odor.

How awful is this gloom! and hark! From camp to camp

The hum of either army stilly sounds,

That the fix'd sentinels almost receive

The secret whisper of each other's watch!

Steed threatens steed in high and boasting neighings,
Piercing the night's dull ear. Hark! From the tents,
The armorers, accomplishing the knights,
With clink of hammers closing rivets up,
Give dreadful note of preparation: while some,
Like sacrifices, by their fires of watch,
With patience sit, and inly ruminate
The morning's danger. Byyon heaven, my stern
Impatience chides this tardy gated night,
Who, like a foul and ugly witch, does limp
So tediously away. I'll to my couch,
And once more try to sleep her into morning

AS YOU LIKE IT.

XXV. The World compared to a Stage.

ALL the world is a stage;

And all the men and women, merely players.
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man, in his time, plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the Infant;
Mewling and paking in the nurse's arms.
And then the whining Schoolboy; with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping like a snail,
Unwillingly to school. And, then the Lover,
Sighing like furnace; with a woeful ballad
Made to his Mistress' eyebrow. Then, a Soldier;
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard;
Jealous in honor; sudden and quick in quarrel;
Seeking the bubble, reputation,

Even in the cannon's mouth. And then, the Justice'
In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd;
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut;
Full of wise saws and modern instances:
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon;
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side;
His youthful hose well sav'd a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second Childishness, and mere Oblivion;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing,

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