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Now old desire doth in his death-bed lie,

And young affection gapes to be his heir; That fair, which love groan’d for, and would die,

With tender Juliet matched is now not fair. Now Romeo is belov'd and loves again,

Alike bewitched by the charm of looks; But to his foe suppos'd he must complain,

And she steal love's sweet bait from fearful hooks; Being held a foe, he may not have access

To breathe such vows as lovers use to swear:
And she as much in love, her means much less

To meet her new-beloved any where:
But passion lends them power, time means to meet,
Temp’ring extremities with extreme sweet,


Pol. Farewell! How now, Ophelia ? what's the matter?
Oph. O my lord, my lord, I have been so affrighted !
Pol. With what, in the name of heaven?

Oph. My lord, as I was sewing in my closet,
Lord Hamlet,—with his doublet all unbrac'd;
No hat upon his head; his stockings foul'd,
Ungarter'd, and down-gyved to his ancle;
Pale as his shirt; his knees knocking each other;
And with a look so piteous in purport,
As if he had been loosed out of hell,
To speak of horrors,-he comes before me.

Pol. Mad for thy love?

My lord I do not know;
But truly I do fear it.

What said he?
Oph. He took me by the wrist, and held me hard ;
Then goes he to the length of all his arm;
And with his other hand thus o'er his brow,

He falls to such perusal of my face,
As he would draw it. Long stay'd he so ;
At last,-a little shaking of mine arm,
And thrice his head thus waving up and down,
He raised a sigh so piteous and profound,
As it did seem to shatter all his bulk,
And end his being: that done, he lets me go:
And, with his head over his shoulder turn'd,
He seeni'd to find his way without his eyes;
For out o doors he went without their help.
And, to the last, bended their light on me.


Doubt thou the stars are fire,

Doubt, that the sun doth move,
Doubt truth to be a liar;

But never doubt I love.


Oph. And will he not come again ?
And will he not come again ?

No, no, he is dead,

Go to thy death-bed,
He never will come again.
His beard was as white as snow,
All flaxen was his poll:

He is gone, he is gone,
And we cast away moan ;
God 'a mercy on his soul !


Oth. O, my fair warrior !

My dear Othello!
Oth. It gives me wonder great as my content
To see you here before me. O my soul's joy!
If after every tempest comes such calms,
May the winds blow till they have waken’d death!
And let the laboring bark climb hills of seas
Olympus-high; and duck again as low
As hell's from heaven! If it were now to die
'Twere now to be most happy; for I fear,
My soul hath her content so absolute,
That not another comfort like to this
Succeeds in unknown fate.

Des. The heavens forbid
But that our loves and comforts should increase
Even as our days do grow !

Amen to that, sweet powers !
I cannot speak enough of this content,
It stops me here; it is too much of joy:
And this, and this, the greatest discords be,
That o'er our hearts shall make!

O, you are well tun'd now !
But I'll set down the pegs that make this music;
As honest as I am.

[Aside. Oth.

Come, let's to the castle.News, friends: our wars are done, the Turks are drown'd. How do our old acquaintance of this isle ? Honey, you shall be well desir'd in Cyprus, I have found great love amongst them. O my sweet, I pratile out of fashion, and I dote In mine own comforte. I prythee, good Iago, Go to the bay, and disembark my coffers : Bring thou the master to the citadel; He is a good one, and his worthiness Does challenge much respect. Come Desdemona, Once more well met at Cyprus.


Des. The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,

Sing all a green willow; [Singing.
Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,

Sing willow, willow, willow:
The fresh streams ran by her, and murmured her moans;

Sing willow, willow, willow;
Her salt tears fell from her and softened the stones,

Sing willow, willow, willow;
Sing all a green willow must be my garland.



Ariel invisible, singing and playing. Ferdinand following him.

Fer. Where should this music be? i' the air, or the earth? It sounds no more ;-and sure, it waits upon Some god of the island. Sitting on a bank, Weeping again the king my father's wreck, This music crept by me upon the waters ; Allaying both their fury and my passion, With its sweet air: thence I have followed it Or it hath drawn me rather:-But 'tis gone. No, it begins again.

[ARIEL sings.
Full fathom five thy father lies;

Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes :

Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Hark! now I hear them-ding-dong, bell,

[Burden, ding-dong.


Ariel. Where the bee sucks, there lurk I; In a cowslip's bell I lie: There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat's back I do fly,

After summer, merrily: Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

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