Were they not forced with those that should be ours,
We might have met them dareful, beard to beard,
And beat them backward home. What is that noise?
Sey. It is the cry of women, my good lord.

Macb. I have almost forgot the taste of fears.
The time has been, my senses would have cooled
To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair
Would at a dismal treatise rouse, and stir

As life were in't; I have supped full with horrors;
Direness, familiar to my slaught'rous thoughts,
Cannot once start me. -Wherefore was that cry?
Sey. The queen, my lord, is dead.

Mach. She should have died hereafter;

There would have been a time for such a word.-
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

And then is heard no more it is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.-

Enter a MESSENGER.

Thou com'st to use thy tongue; thy story quickly.

Mess. Gracious, my lord,

I should report that which I say I saw,

But know not how to do it.

Macb. Well, say, sir.

Mess. As I did stand my watch upon the hill, I looked towards Birnam, and anon, methought The wood began to move.

Macb. Liar, and slave!

Mess. Let me endure your wrath, if't be not so;
Within this three mile may you see it coming;
I say, a moving grove.

Mach. If thou speak'st false,

Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive,

Till famine cling thee: if thy speech be sooth,

I care not if thou dost for me as much.-

I pull in resolution and begin

To doubt the equivocation of the fiend,

That lies like truth: "Fear not, till Birnam wood

Do come to Dunsinane;"-and now a wood

(Striking him.

Comes towards Dunsinane.-Arm, arm, and out!

If this which he avouches does appear,

There is nor flying hence, nor tarrying here.

I 'gin to be a-weary of the sun,

And wish the estate o' the world were now undone.

Ring the alarum-bell:-Blow, wind! come, wrack!
At least we'll die with harness on our back.

(Exeunt.

QUARREL OF BRUTUS AND CASSIUS-SHAKESPEARE.

Cas. That you have wronged me doth appear in this
You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella,
For taking bribes here of the Sardians;
Wherein my letters, praying on his side,
Because I knew the man, were slighted off.

Bru. You wronged yourself to write in such a case.
Cas. In such a time as this it is not meet
That every nice offence should bear his comment.
Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself
Are much condemned to have an itching palm;
To sell and mart your offices for gold
To undeservers.

Cas. I an itching palm ?

You know that you are Brutus that speak this,
Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last.
Bru. The name of Cassius honours this corruption,
And chastisement doth therefore hide its head.

Cas. Chastisement!

Bru. Remember March, the Ides of March remember;
Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake?
What villain touched his body, that did stab,
And not for justice? What! shall one of us,
That struck the foremost man of all this world
But for supporting robbers, shall we now
Contaminate our fingers with base bribes,
And sell the mighty space of our large honours
For so much trash as may be grasped thus?—
I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon,
Than such a Roman.

Cas. Brutus, bay not me;

I'll not endure it; you forget yourself,
To hedge me in. I am a soldier, I,
Older in practice, abler than yourself
To make conditions.

Bru. Go to; you are not, Cassius.
Cas. I am.

Bru. I say you are not.

Cas, Urge me no further, I shall forget myself;

Have mind upon your health, tempt me no further.
Bru. Away, slight man!

Cas. Is't possible?

Bru. Hear me, for I will speak.

Must I give way and room to your rash choler?

Shall I be frighted when a madman stares?

Cas. O ye gods, ye gods! must I endure all this?

Bru. All this? ay, more; fret, till your proud heart break;

Go, shew your slaves how choleric you arc,

And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge?

Must I observe you? must I stand and crouch

Under your testy humour? By the gods,

You shall digest the venom of your spleen,

Though

do split you; for, from this day forth,

I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter,
When you are waspish.

Cas. Is it come to this?

Bru. You say you are a better soldier;

Let it appear so; make your vaunting true,

And it shall please me well; for mine own part,

I shall be glad to learn of noble men.

Cas. You wrong me every way; you wrong me, Brutus;

I said an elder soldier; not a better;

Did I say "better?"

Bru. If you did, I care not.

Cas. When Cæsar lived, he durst not thus have moved me.

Bru. Peace, peace! you durst not so have tempted him.

Cas. I durst not?

Bru. No.

Cas. What, durst not tempt him?

Bru. For your life you durst not.

Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love;

I may do that I shall be sorry for.

Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for. There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats;

For I am armed so strong in honesty,

That they pass by me as the idle wind,

Which I respect not. I did send to you

For certain sums of gold, which you denied me;—
For I can raise no money by vile means.

By heaven, I had rather coin my heart,

And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring
From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash
By any indirection! I did send

To you for gold to pay my legions,

Which you denied me.

Was that done like Cassius ?
Should I have answered Caius Cassius so?
When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous,
To lock such rascal counters from his friends,
Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts;
Dash him to pieces!

Cas. I denied you not.

Bru. You did.

Cas. I did not ;-he was but a fool

That brought my answer back.-Brutus hath rived my heart;

A friend should bear his friend's infirmities,

But Brutus makes mine greater than they are.

Bru. I do not, till you practise them on me.
Cas. You love me not.

Bru. I do not like your faults.

Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults.
Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they do appear
As huge as high Olympus.

Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come,
Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius,

For Cassius is a-weary of the world;

Hated by one he loves; braved by his brother;
Checked like a bondman; all his faults observed,
Set in a note-book, learned, and conned by rote,
To cast into my teeth. O, I could weep
My spirit from mine eyes!-There is my dagger
And here my naked breast; within, a heart
Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold;
If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth;

I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart;

Strike, as thou didst at Cæsar; for, I know,

When thou didst hate him worst thou lov'dst him better
Than ever thou lovedst Cassius.

Bru. Sheathe your dagger;

Be angry when you will, it shall have scope;
Do what you will, dishonour shall be humour.
O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb

That carries anger as the flint bears fire;
Who, much enforced, shews a hasty spark,
And straight is cold again.

Cas. Hath Cassius lived

To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus.
When grief, and blood ill-tempered, vexeth him?

Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered too.
Cas. Do you confess so much? give me your hand.
Bru. And my heart too.

Cas. O Brutus!

Bru. What's the matter?

Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me, When that rash humour which my mother gave me Makes me forgetful?

Bru. Yes, Cassius; and, from henceforth,

When you are over-earnest with your Brutus,

He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so.

SCENES FROM HAMLET.

ACT. I.-SCENE II.

Hamlet. O, that this too, too solid flesh would melt, Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!

Or that the Everlasting had not fixed

His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God!
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world!

Fie on 't! Ah, fie! 'tis an unweeded garden,

That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature
Possess it merely. That it should come to this!
But two months dead-nay, not so much, not two;
So excellent a king; that was, to this,

Hyperion to a Satyr: so loving to my mother,
That he might not beteem the winds of heaven
Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth!
Must I remember? Why, she would hang on him,
As if increase of appetite had grown

By what it fed on;-and yet, within a month

Let me not think on 't;-Frailty, thy name is woman!
A little month; or ere those shoes were old,
With which she followed my poor father's body,
Like Niobe,-all tears: why she, even she-

O heaven! a beast, that wants discourse of reason,

Would have mourned longer-married with mine uncle,
My father's brother; but no more like my father,

Than I to Hercules; within a month;

Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears

Had left the flushing of her galled eyes,

She married.

It is not, nor it cannot come to good;

But break, my heart-for I must hold my tonguə.

Enter HORATIO, BERNARDO, and MARCELLUS.

Hor. Hail to your lordship!

Ham. I am glad to see you well:

Horatio--or I do forget myself.

Hor. The same, my lord, and your poor servant ever.

Ham. Sir, my good friend; I'll change that name with you.

And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio ?—

Marcellus?

Mar. My good lord

Ham. I am very glad to see you. Good-even, sir— But what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg?