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THE MENTAL SACRIFICES REQUIRED OF THE GREAT. UPON the king! let us our lives, our souls, Our debts, our careful wives, our children, and Our sins, lay on the king;—we must bear all. O hard condition! twin-born with greatness, Subjected to the breath of every fool,

Whose sense no more can feel but his own wringing!

What infinite heart's ease must kings neglect,
That private men enjoy?

And what have kings, that privates have not too,
Save ceremony, save general ceremony?
And what art thou, thou idol ceremony ?
What kind of god art thou, that suff'rest more
Of mortal griefs, than do thy worshippers?
What are thy rents? what are thy comings-in?
0 ceremony, show me but thy worth!
What is the soul of adoration?

Art thou aught else but place, degree, and form,
Creating awe and fear in other men?

Wherein thou art less happy, being fear'd,
Than they in fearing.

What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet,
But poison'd flattery? O, be sick, great greatness,
And bid thy ceremony give thee cure!
Think'st thou, the fiery fever will go out
With titles blown from adulation?

Will it give place to flexure and low bending? Canst thou, when thou command'st the beggar's knee,

Command the health of it? No, thou proud dream,

That plays so subtly with a king's repose;
I am a king, that find thee; and I know,

'Tis not the balm, the sceptre, and the ball,
The sword, the mace, the crown imperial,
The inter-tissued robe of gold and pearl,
The farced title running 'fore the king,
The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp
That beats upon the high shore of this world,
No, not all these, thrice-gorgeous ceremony,
Not all these, laid in bed majestical,

Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave;
Who, with a body fill'd, and vacant mind,
Gets him to rest, cramm'd with distressful bread;
Never sees horrid night, the child of hell;
But, like a lackey, from the rise to set,
Sweats in the eye of Phoebus, and all night
Sleeps in Elysium; next day, after dawn,
Doth rise, and help Hyperion to his horse;
And follows so the ever-running year
With profitable labour, to his grave:
And, but for ceremony, such a wretch,
Winding up days with toil, and nights with
sleep,

Had the fore-hand and vantage of a king.
The slave, a member of the country's peace,
Enjoys it; but in gross brain little wots,

What watch the king keeps to maintain the

peace,

Whose hours the peasant best advantages.

K. HENRY V., A. 4, s. 1.

THE GREAT SOUL CANNOT STOOP

TO VILENESS.

for.

You have done that you should be sorry
There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats;
For I am arm'd 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, indirection. I did send

By any

To you for gold to pay my legions,

Which you denied me: Was that done like
Cassius?

Should I have answer'd 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!

JULIUS CÆSAR, A. 4, s. 3.

THE GREAT SOUL'S PRESAGE. GIVE me my robe, put on my crown; I have Immortal longings in me: Now no more The juice of Egypt's grape shall moist this lip:Make haste, good Iras; quick.—Methinks, I

hear

Antony call; I see him rouse himself

To praise my noble act; I hear him mock
The luck of Caesar, which the gods give men
To excuse their after wrath: Husband, I come :
Now to that name my courage prove my title!
I am fire, and air; my other elements

I give to baser life.-So,-have you done?
Come then, and take the last warmth of my
lips.

Farewell, kind Charmian;-Iras, long farewell. [Kisses them. IRAS falls and dies. Have I the aspick in my lips? Dost fall?

If thou and nature can so gently part,

The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch,
Which hurts, and is desir'd. Dost thou lie
still?

If thus thou vanishest, thou tell'st the world
It is not worth leave-taking.

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA, A. 5, s. 2.

THE GREAT SYMPATHISE EVEN IN ANTAGONISM.

CORIOLANUS. Prepare thy brow to frown: Know'st thou me yet?

AUFIDIUS. I know thee not:-Thy name? COR. My name is Caius Marcius, who hath done

To thee particularly, and to all the Volsces,
Great hurt and mischief; thereto witness may
My surname, Coriolanus: The painful service,
The extreme dangers, and the drops of blood
Shed for my thankless country, are requited
But with that surname; a good memory,
And witness of the malice and displeasure
Which thou should'st bear me: only that name
remains ;

The cruelty and envy of the people,
Permitted by our dastard nobles, who

Have all forsook me, hath devoured the rest;
And suffer'd me by the voice of slaves to be
Whoop'd out of Rome. Now, this extremity
Hath brought me to thy hearth; Not out of
hope,

life;

for if

Mistake me not, to save my
I had fear'd death, of all the men i'the world
I would have 'voided thee: but in mere spite,

To be full quit of those my banishers,

Stand I before thee here. Then if thou hast
A heart of wreak in thee, that will revenge
Thine own particular wrongs, and stop those
maims

Of shame seen through thy country, speed thee straight,

And make my misery serve thy turn; so use it, That my revengeful services may prove

As benefits to thee; for I will fight

Against my canker'd country with the spleen
Of all the under fiends. But if so be

Thou dar'st not this, and that to prove more fortunes

Thou art tir'd, then, in a word, I also am
Longer to live most weary, and present
My throat to thee, and to thy ancient malice:
Which not to cut, would thee show but a fool;
Since I have ever follow'd thee with hate,
Drawn tuns of blood out of thy country's breast,
And cannot live but to thy shame, unless
It be to do thee service.

AUF.

O Marcius, Marcius,

Each word thou hast spoke hath weeded from my heart

A root of ancient envy. If Jupiter

Should from yon cloud speak divine things, and

say,

'Tis true; I'd not believe them more than thee, All noble Marcius.-O, let me twine

Mine arms about that body, where against
My grained ash an hundred times hath broke,
And scar'd the moon with splinters! Here I clip
The anvil of my sword; and do contest
As hotly and as nobly with thy love,
As ever in ambitious strength I did

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