why Brutus rose against Cæsar, this is my answer; not that I loved Cæsar less, but that I loved Rome more. Had you rather Cæsar were living, and die all slaves; than that Cæsar were dead, to live all freemen ?-As Cæsar loved me, I weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honour him ; but as he was ambitious, I slew him! There are tears for his love, joy for his fortune, honour for his valour, and death for his ambition !-Who's here so base, that would be a bondman? if any, speak! for him have I offended. Who's here so rude, that would not be a Roman? if any, speak! for him have I offended. Who's here so vile, that will not love his country? if any, speak for him have I offended.-I pause for a reply.

None? then none have I offended! I have done no more to Cæsar, than you should 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, mourned by Mark Antony; who, though he had no hand in his death, shall receive 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. Shakspeare.

Hamlet's Soliloquy on Death.

To be or not to be ?-that is the question,-
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer
The stings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,

And, by opposing, end them ?To die-to sleep-
No more!—and, by a sleep, to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to 'tis a consummation

- Devoutly to be wish'd. To die-to sleep

To sleep?-perchance to dream!-ay, there's the rub!— For, in that sleep of death, what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause.-There's the respect,
That makes calamity of so long life.

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns

That patient merit of the unworthy takes-
When he himself might his quietus make,
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To groan and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death-
That undiscover'd country, from whose bourne
No traveller returns!-puzzles the will
1;
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus, conscience does make cowards of us all :
And, thus, the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action!

Mark Antony's Oration.

Shakspeare.

Friends, Romans, Countrymen !-lend me your ears.
I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them ;
The good is oft interred with their bones :
So let it be with Cæsar!-Noble Brutus
Hath told you Cæsar was ambitious—
If it was so, it was a grievous fault;
And grievously hath Cæsar answered it!
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest-
For Brutus is an honourable man!
So they are all ! all, honourable men-
Come I to speak in Cæsar's funeral.

He was my friend, faithful and just to me—
But Brutus says he was ambitious—

And Brutus is an honourable man!

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

When that the poor have cried, Cæsar hath wept.
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff!—
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious ;
And Brutus is an honourable 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 honourable 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 Cæsar;
And I must pause till it come back to me !
But yesterday the word of Cæsar might
Have stood against the world—now lies he there,
And none so poor as do him reverence!
O masters! if I were disposed to stir

Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,
I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong,
Who, you
all know are honourable men !-
I will not do them wrong: I rather choose
To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you,
Than I will wrong such honourable men !—
But here's a parchment with the seal of Cæsar-
I found it in his closet-'tis his will!

Let but the commons hear his testament-
Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read,—
And they will go and kiss dead Cæsar'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

Unto their issue !

If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this mantle ? I remember

The first time ever Cæsar put it on ;

'Twas on a summer's evening in his tentThat day he overcame the Nervii !–

Look! in this place ran Cassius' dagger through !-
See what a rent the envious Casca made !—
Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb'd!
And as he pluck'd his cursed steel away,
Mark how the blood of Cæsar follow'd it !-
As rushing out of doors to be resolved
If Brutus so unkindly knock'd or no;
For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar's angel!
Judge, O ye gods, how dearly Cæsar loved him!
This, this was the unkindest cut of all;

For when the noble Cæsar 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,

Even at the base of Pompey's statue

Which all the while ran blood! Great Cæsar fell!
Oh what a fall was there, my countrymen !
Then I, and you, and all of us, fell down;
Whilst bloody treason flourish'd over us!
feel
Oh, now you weep, and I perceive you
The dint of pity: these are gracious drops!
& Kind souls! what! weep you when you but behold
Our Cæsar'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 honourable !-
What private griefs they have, alas! I know not,
That made them do it: they are wise and honourable,
And will, no doubt, with reason answer you.
I come not, friends, to steal away your

I am no orator as Brutus is:

hearts:

But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man,
That loves his 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 the power of speech,
To stir men's blood; I only speak right on! que
I tell you that which you yourselves do know ;&
Show you sweet Cæsar'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 tongue
In every wound of Cæsar, that should move
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny! Shakspeare.

Shylock justifying his meditated Revenge.

If it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge. He hath disgraced me, and hindered me of half a million laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated my enemies! And what's his reason? I am a Jew! Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands? organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Is he not fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same summer and winter, as a Christian is? If you stab us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that! If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility? Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example? Why, Revenge! The villany you teach me I will execute; and it shall go hard, but I will better the instruction.

Othello's Despair.

Had it pleased heaven

Shakspeare.

To try me with misfortune-had it rain'd
All kinds of sores and shames on my bare head,
Steep'd me in poverty to the very lips,

Given to adversity me and my utmost hopes-
I should have found in some part of my soul
A drop of patience! But, alas ! to make me
A fixed figure for the hand of scorn
To point its slow, unmoving finger at !—
Yet could I bear that !-well!-very well!
But there, where I had garner'd up my heart-