By which he should revive: and even so WOMAN'S GREAT MISTAKE, OR THE And, even in kind love, I do conjure thee,— LUCETTA. Alas! the way is wearisome and long. JUL. A true-devoted pilgrim is not weary And when the flight is made to one so dear, Luc. Better forbear, till Proteus make return. JUL. O, know'st thou not, his looks are my soul's food? Pity the dearth that I have pined in, By longing for that food so long a time. Thou would'st as soon go kindle fire with snow, But qualify the fire's extreme rage, Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason. JUL. The more thou dam'st it up, the more it burns; The current, that with gentle murmur glides, Thou know'st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth rage; But, when his fair course is not hindered, He makes sweet musick with the enamel'd stones, He overtaketh in his pilgrimage; And so by many winding nooks he strays, And make a pastime of each weary step, Luc. But in what habit will you go along? hair. JUL. No, girl; I'll knit it up in silken strings, But tell me, wench, how will the world repute me, For undertaking so unstaid a journey? I fear me, it will make me scandaliz'd. Luc. If you think so, then stay at home, and go not. JUL. Nay, that I will not. Luc. Then never dream on infamy, but go. If Proteus like your journey, when you come, No matter who's displeas'd when you are gone: I fear me, he will scarce be pleas'd withal. JUL. That is the least, Lucetta, of my fear: A thousand oaths, an ocean of his tears, And instances as infinite of love, Warrant me welcome to my Proteus. Luc. All these are servants to deceitful men. JUL. Base men, that use them to so base effect! But truer stars did govern Proteus' birth : Luc. Pray heaven, he prove so, when you come to him! JUL. Now, as thou lov'st me, do him not that wrong, To bear a hard opinion of his truth: Only, in lieu thereof, dispatch me hence: WOMAN'S LOVE. WOMEN fear too much, even as they love; Now, what my love is, proof hath made you And as my love is siz'd, my fear is so. Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear; Where little fears grow great, great love grows there. HAMLET, A. 3, s. 2. WOMAN'S LOVE AT PARTING. THERE cannot be a pinch in death More sharp than this. CYMBELINE, A. 1, s. 2. WOMAN'S SOURCE OF EARTHLY HELENA. Demetrius loves your fair: O happy Your eyes are lode-stars; and your tongue's sweet air More tuneable than lark to shepherd's ear, Sickness is catching; O, were favour so! My ear should catch your voice, my eye your eye, My tongue should catch your tongue's sweet melody. Were the world mine, Demetrius being bated, The rest I'll give to be to you translated. O, teach me how you look; and with what art You sway the motion of Demetrius' heart. HERMIA. I frown upon him, yet he loves me still. HEL. O, that your frowns would teach my smiles such skill! HER. I give him curses, yet he gives me love. HEL. O, that my prayers could such affection move! HER. The more I hate, the more he follows me. HEL. The more I love, the more he hateth me. HER. His folly, Helena, is no fault of mine. HEL. None, but your beauty; 'Would that fault were mine! MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM, a. 1, s. 1. WOMAN THE BETTER MAN. O, cut my lace; lest my heart, cracking it, Break too! What studied torments, tyrant, hast for me? What wheels? racks? fires? What flaying? boiling, In leads, or oils ? what old, or newer torture |