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What villain touched his body, that did stab,
Cas. Brutus, bay not me;
Bru. Go to; you are not, Cassius.
Cas. Urge me no more; I shall forget myselt;
Bru. Away, slight man!
Bru. Hear me, for I will speak. -
Cas. Must I endure all this?
Bru. All this? Ay, more. Fret till your proud heart break; Go, show your slaves, how choleric you are, And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge ? Must I observe you ? must I stand and crouch Under your testy humor? You shall digest the venom of your spleen, Though it do split you; for, from this day forth, I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter, Wien 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,
Cas. You wrong me every way — you wrong me, Brutus;
Bru. If you did, I care not.
Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love;
Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for.
Cas. I denied you not.
Cas. I did not; -- he was but a fool
A friend should bear a friend's infirmities;
Bru. I do not, till you practise them on me.
Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they do appear As huge as high Olympus.
Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come.!
Bru. Sheathe your dagger;
Cas. Hath Cassius lived
Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered too.
Bru. What's the matter ?
Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me,
Bru. Yes, Cassius, and from henceforth,
77. Pen, Ink, and Paper.
There was little in my inkstand, and nothing in my head, when I sat down, with a fair sheet of Bath-post before me, to write an essay for a lady's portfolio. At first, with a degree of self-complacency, which, perhaps, none but an author in favor can feel, I contemplated the blank under my eye, which was to be enlivened by my wit, or enriched with my eloquence.
As I mended my pen to begin, thought I, “ The wisest men on earth could not anticipate what I shall do here, nor the shrewdest guess the subject which will speedily adorn these pages; for I myself am not yet in the secret, nor do I know what I am going to write.” This reflection startled me, and “What will it be?" came with such importunity into my mind, that I could not help replying, “ What, indeed!” There was silence among my thoughts — a deadwhite silence; and though I called them, — called them repeatedly and earnestly, as if I were a drowning man, to come to my assistance, - not one would move or speak.
I looked with consternation around, but saw nothing except pen, ink, and paper; nay, do what I would, I could make no more of them; pen, ink, and paper they were, and remained. Every moment increased my perplexity, for whatever might be their good-will, or their occult capabilities, they could do nothing for me of themselves; the pen could not go to the ink, the ink could not come to the paper, the paper could not pour forth ideas and array itself with words, as the earth in spring throws out verdure and powers froni its bosom, spontaneously spreading beauty and fertility where all had been waste and barren before.
Alas! my immaculate sheet lay in view, like an untrodden wilderness of snow, which I must cross, without a bush, or a knoll, or a single inequality on the surface, to guide my course, or awaken one pleasing association amidst the dreary monotony of the scene. And truly, if it had been what it so chillingly resembled, — the very sight of it freezing my blood, — I felt just then as though I would rather have been “the man perishing amidst the snow,” in immortality of verse, than the living being that I was, by a comfortable fireside, with no perils to fear beyond such as I might encounter at a mahogany writing-desk, in traversing with my finger-ends a few sheets of cream-colored paper.
To consummate my misery, I recollected that one of my fair friend's correspondents, being in a similar dilemma, though not, as in my case, from the folly of self-confidence, had the felicity to fall asleep, and dream so entertainingly, that I only wondered how he could find in his heart to awake, unless it was for the pleasure of telling his dream. But, though fervently invoked, Apollo in no shape, and least of all in the shape of Morpheus, would come to my relief; nor could I dream of sleeping in such distress, for had I slept, whatever might have been my visions, pen, ink, and paper, would have haunted me; and I knew that, when I awoke, I should find nothing before me but pen, ink, and paper still.
Again, with a feeling too forlorn to be remembered without a relapse of it, I took up my pen: the ink bad already dried
Spontaneously, of one's own internal or native feeling, of one's own accord, by its owr; force or energy, without the impulse of a foreign cause ly, 110. - Immaculate, spotless, pure, unstained, without a blemish: im, 33; ate, 76. - Monotony, figuratively-an irksome sameness or want of variety. - Apollo, the god of archery, music, prophecy, and poetry. Morpheus, the god of sleep, and also of dreams,