I know not how to tell thee who I am: My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, Because it is an enemy to thee.
Had I it written, I would tear the word.
Jul. My ears have yet not drunk a hundred words Of that tongue's uttering, yet I know the sound. Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?
Rom. Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike. Jul. How cam'st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore? The orchard walls are high, and hard to climb; And the place death, considering who thou art, If any of my kinsmen find thee here.
Rom. With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls,
For stony limits cannot hold love out;
And what love can do, that dares love attempt: Therefore thy kinsmen are no let to me.
Jul. If they do see thee, they will murder thee. Rom. Alack! there lies more peril in thine eye Than twenty of their swords; look thou but sweet, And I am proof against their enmity.
Jul. I would not for the world they saw thee here. Rom. I have night's cloak to hide me from their eyes, And but thou love me, let them find me here; My life were better ended by their hate, Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love.
Jul. By whose direction found'st thou out this place? Rom. By love, that first did prompt me to inquire; He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes.
I am no pilot; yet wert thou as far
As that vast shore, wash'd with the farthest sea,
I would adventure for such merchandise.
Jul. Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face, Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night. Fain would I dwell on form; fain, fain deny What I have spoke-but farewell compliment ! Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say ay; And I will take thy word. Yet if thou swear'st, Thou may'st prove false: at lovers' perjuries, They say, Jove laughs. O, gentle Romeo! If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully; Or, if thou think'st I am too quickly won, I'll frown and be perverse, and say thee nay, So thou wilt woo; but else not for the world. In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond, And therefore thou may'st think my 'haviour light; But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true Than those that have more coying to be strange. I should have been more strange, I must confess, But that thou over-heard'st, ere I was 'ware, My true love's passion; therefore pardon me, And not impute this yielding to light love, Which the dark night hath so discover'd.
Rom. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear, That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops
Jul. O swear not by the moon, th' inconstant moon, That monthly changes in her circled orb: Lest that thy love prove likewise variable. Rom. What shall I swear by ?
Jul. Do not swear at all;
Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, Which is the god of my idolatry,
And I'll believe thee.
Rom. If my heart's dear love
Jul. Well, do not swear. Although I joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract to-night; It is too rash, too unadvis'd, too sudden, Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be, Ere one can say. it lightens. Sweet, good-night! This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower, when next we meet. Good-night, good-night-as sweet repose and rest Come to thy heart, as that within my breast!
Rom. O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?
Jul. What satisfaction canst thou have to-night? Rom. Th' exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine.
Jul. I gave thee mine before thou did'st request it: And yet I would it were to give again.
Rom. Wouldst thou withdraw it? for what purpose,
Jul. But to be frank, and give it thee again. And yet I wish but for the thing I have: My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep; the more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite.
I hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu ! [Nurse calls within. Anon, good nurse! Sweet Montague, be true. Stay but a little, I will come again.
Rom. O blessed, blessed night! I am afear'd, Being in night, all this is but a dream; Too flattering sweet to be substantial.
Jul. Three words, dear Romeo, and good-night indeed.
If that thy bent of love be honourable, Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow, By one that I'll procure to come to thee, Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite; And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay, And follow thee, my love, throughout the world. [Within: Madam !
I come, anon-but if thou mean'st not well,
I do beseech thee[Within: Madam !] By and by, I come-
To cease thy suit, and leave me to my grief. To-morrow will I send.
Rom. So thrive my soul
Jul. A thousand times good night. Rom. A thousand times the worse, to want thy light. Love goes tow'rd love, as school-boys from their books; But love from love, tow'rds school with heavy looks.
Jul. Hist! Romeo, hist! O for a falconer's voice, To lure this tassel gentle back again. Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud; Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies, And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine, With repetition of my Romeo's name.
Rom. It is my soul that calls upon my name. How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night, Like softest music to attending ears!
Jul. Romeo !
Rom. My sweet!
Jul. At what o'clock to-morrow
Shall I send to thee?
Rom. At the hour of nine.
Jul. I will not fail; 'tis twenty years till then.
I have forgot why I did call thee back.
Rom. Let me stand here till thou remember it. Jul. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there; Rememb'ring how I love thy company.
Rom. And I'll still stay to have thee still forget, Forgetting any other home but this.
Jul. "Tis almost morning. I would have thee gone; And yet no further than a wanton's bird, Who lets it hop a little from her hand,
Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, And with a silk thread plucks it back again, So loving-jealous of his liberty.
Rom. I would I were thy bird. Jul. Sweet, so would I :
Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing. Good-night, good-night: parting is such sweet sorrow, That I shall say good-night, till it be morrow. [Exit. Rom. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy
'Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest! Hence will I to my ghostly friars' close cell, His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell.
[Description of a Moonlight Night, with fine Music.]
Lor. The moon shines bright: in such a night as this,
When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees, And they did make no noise; in such a night, Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojans' wall, And sigh'd his soul toward the Grecian tents, Where Cressid lay that night.
Jes. In such a night
Did Thisbe fearfully o'ertrip the dew; And saw the lion's shadow ere himself, And ran dismay'd away.
Lor. In such a night
Stood Dido with a willow in her hand
Upon the wide sea-banks, and waft her love To come again to Carthage.
Jes. In such a night
Medea gather'd the enchanted herbs That did renew old son.
Lor. In such a night
Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew,
And with an unthrift love did run from Venice As far as Belmont.
Jes. And in such a night
Did young Lorenzo swear he lov'd her well; Stealing her soul with many vows of faith,
And ne'er a true one.
Lor. And in such a night
Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew, Slander her love, and he forgave it her.
How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears; soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony.
Sit, Jessica; look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold; There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st, But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins; Such harmony is in immortal souls; But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. Come, ho, and wake Diana with a hymn : With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear, And draw her home with music.
Jes. I'm never merry when I hear sweet music. Lor. The reason is, your spirits are attentive; For do but note a wild and wanton herd, Or race of youthful and unhandled colts, Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud
(Which is the hot condition of their blood); If they perchance but hear a trumpet sound, Or any air of music touch their ears,
You shall perceive them make a mutual stand; Their savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze,
By the sweet power of music. Therefore the poet Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods;
Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage, But music for the time doth change his nature. The man that hath not music in himself, Nor is not mov'd with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils; The motions of his spirit are dull as night, And his affections dark as Erebus : Let no such man be trusted.
Hamlet. The air bites shrewdly; it is very cold. Horatio. It is a nipping and an eager air.
Ham. What hour now?
Hor. I think it lacks of twelve.
Marcellus. No, it is struck.
Hor. Indeed? I heard it not. It then draws near
Wherein the spirit held his wont to walk. What does this mean, my lord? [Noise of warlike music within.
Ham. The king doth wake to-night, and takes his rouse,
Keeps wassail, and the swagg'ring up-spring reels; And as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down, The kettle-drum and trumpet thus bray out The triumph of his pledge.
Hor. Is it a custom ? Ham. Ay, marry is't:
But to my mind, though I am native here, And to the manner born, it is a custom
More honoured in the breach than the observance. This heavy-headed revel, east and west,
Makes us traduced and tax'd of other nations; They clepe us drunkards, and with swinish phrase
Soil our addition; and, indeed, it takes
From our achievements, though perform'd at height, The pith and marrow of our attribute.
So oft it chances in particular men,
That for some vicious mole of nature in them, As in their birth, wherein they are not guilty, Since nature cannot choose his origin,
By the o'ergrowth of some complexion, Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason; Or by some habit, that too much o'erleavens The form of plausive manners; that these men Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect, Being nature's livery, or fortune's star, Their virtues else, be they as pure as grace, As infinite as man may undergo,
Shall in the general censure take corruption From that particular fault.- -The dram of base
Doth all the noble substance often dout To his own scandal.
Hor. Look, my lord, it comes!
Ham. Angels and ministers of grace defend us! Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn'd, Bring with thee airs from heav'n or blasts from hell, Be thy intents wicked or charitable,
Thou com'st in such a questionable shape, That I will speak to thee. I'll call thee Hamlet, King, Father, Royal Dane; Oh, answer me ; Let me not burst in ignorance; but tell Why thy canonis'd bones, hears'd in death, Have burst their cerements? Why the sepulchre, Wherein we saw thee quietly inurn'd, Hath op'd his ponderous and marble jaws, To cast thee up again? What may this mean, That thou, dead corse, again, in complete steel, Revisit'st thus the glimpses of the moon, Making night hideous, and we fools of nature, So horribly to shake our disposition
With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls! Say, why is this? Wherefore? What should we do! Hor. It beckons you to go away with it, [Ghost beckons Hamlet. As if it some impartment did desire To you alone.
Mar. Look, with what courteous action It waves you off to a removed ground: But do not go with it.
Hor. No, by no means.
Ham. It will not speak. then I will follow it.
Ham. Why, what should be the fear? I do not set my life at a pin's fee; And, for my soul, what can it do to that, Being a thing immortal as itself?
It waves me forth again.-I'll follow it
Hor. What if it tempt you tow'rd the flood, my lord; Therefore, 'tis certain he was not ambitious.
Or to the dreadful summit of the cliff,
That beetles o'er his base into the sea; And there assume some other horrible form, Which might deprive your sovereignty of reason, And draw you into madness? Think of it. The very place puts toys of desperation, Without more motive, into every brain, That looks so many fathoms to the sea, And hears it roar beneath.
Ham. It waves me still.-Go on, I'll follow thee. Mar. You shall not go, my lord. Ham. Hold off your hands.
Mar. Be rul'd; you shall not go. Ham. My fate cries out,
And makes each petty artery in this body As hardy as the Nemean lion's nerve. Still am I call'd. Unhand me, gentlemen-
[Breaking from them. By heav'n, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me- I say, away! Go on-I'll follow thee.
[Exeunt Ghost and Hamlet. Hor. He waxes desperate with imagination. Mar. Let's follow! "Tis not fit thus to obey him. Hor. Have after. To what issue will this come? Mar. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark. Hor. Heaven will direct it. Mar. Nay, let's follow him.
[Mark Antony over Caesar's Body.]
1st Cit. If it be found so, some will dear abide it. 2d Cit. Poor soul! his eyes are red as fire with
3d Cit. There's not a nobler man in Rome than Antony.
4th Cit. Now, mark him, he begins again to speak. Ant. But yesterday, the word of Caesar might Have stood against the world; now lies he there, And none so poor to do him reverence.
Oh, masters! if I were dispos'd 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 Cresar: I found it in his closet; 'tis his will.
Let but the commons hear this testament (Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read), And they would go and kiss dead Caesar'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.
4th Cit. We'll hear the will; read it, Mark Antony. All. The will! the will! We will hear Caesar's will!
Ant. Have patience, gentle friends! I must not read it;
Ant. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your It is not meet you know how Cæsar lov'd you.
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 were so, it was a grievous fault, And grievously hath Cæsar answer'd it. Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest (For Brutus is an honourable man, So are they 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? Oh, 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.
You are not wood, you are not stones, but men ; And, being men, hearing the will of Caesar, It will inflame you, it will make you mad. 'Tis good you know not that you are his heirs; For, if you should, Oh, what would come of it!
4th Čit. Read the will; we will hear it, Antony. You shall read us the will; Cæsar's will!
Ant. Will you be patient? will you stay a while? I have o'ershot myself, to tell you of it.
I fear I wrong the honourable men
Whose daggers have stabb'd Cæsar. I do fear it. 4th Cit. They were traitors.
All. The will the testament !
2d Cit. They were villains, murderers! The will! Read the will!
Ant. You will compel me, then, to read the will? Then make a ring about the corpse of Caesar, And let me show you him that made the will. Shall I descend? And will you give me leave? All. Come down.
2d Cit. Descend. [He comes down from the pulpit 3d Cit. You shall have leave.
4th Cit. A ring! Stand round!
1st Cit. Stand from the hearse, stand from the body. 2d Cit. Room for Antony-most noble Antony! Ant. Nay, press not so upon me; stand far off. All. Stand back! room! bear back! Ant. 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 tent, That 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;
1st Cit. Methinks there is much reason in his And, as he plucked his cursed steel away,
Mark how the blood of Cæsar followed it !
As rushing out of doors, to be resolv'd
If Brutus so unkindly knock'd, or no.
For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar's angel; Judge, Oh you gods! how dearly Cæsar lov'd him. This was the most unkindest cut of all; For when the noble Cæsar saw him stab, Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' 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 statua,
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. Oh, now you weep; and I perceive you feel 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, with traitors. 1st Cit. O piteous spectacle !
2d Cit. O noble Cæsar!
3d Cit. O woful day!
4th Cit. O traitors! villains!
1st Cit. O most bloody sight!
Whereof by parcels she had something heard, But not intentively. I did consent, And often did beguile her of her tears, When I did speak of some distressful stroke That my youth suffer'd. My story being done, She gave me for my pains a world of sighs;
She swore in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange,
'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful
She wish'd she had not heard it, yet she wish'd
That heaven had made her such a man :-she thank'd
And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, I should but teach him how to tell my story; And that would woo her. On this hint I spake ; She lov'd me for the dangers I had pass'd, And I lov'd her that she did pity them.
O then, I see queen Mab hath been with you. She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes In shape no bigger than an agate-stone On the fore-finger of an alderman,
2d Cit. We will be reveng'd! Revenge! About- seek-burn-fire-kill-slay! Let not a trai-Drawn with a team of little atomies,
[Othello's Relation of his Courtship to the Senate.]
Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors, My very noble and approv'd good masters; That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter, It is most true; true, I have married her; The very head and front of my offending
Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech,
And little blest with the soft phrase of peace; For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith, Till now, some nine moons wasted, they have us'd Their dearest action in the tented field; And little of this great world can I speak, More than pertains to feats of broil and battle; And therefore shall I little grace my cause In speaking for myself. Yet by your gracious patience I will a round unvarnish'd tale deliver Of my whole course of love: what drugs, what charms, What conjuration, and what mighty magic (For such proceeding I am charg'd withal) I won his daughter with.
Her father lov'd me, oft invited me ; Still question'd me the story of my life, From year to year; the battles, sicges, fortunes, That I have past.
I ran it through, ev'n from my boyish days, To the very moment that he bade me tell it : Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances, Of moving accidents by flood and field;
Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' th' imminent deadly breach; Of being taken by the insolent foe,
And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence, And portance in my travel's history. Wherein of antres vast and deserts idle,
Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven,
It was my lot to speak, such was the process; And of the cannibals that each other eat, The anthropophagi, and men whose heads
Do grow beneath their shoulders. These things to hear Would Desdemona seriously incline;
But still the house affairs would draw her thence; Which ever as she could with haste despatch, She'd come again, and with a greedy ear Devour up my discourse: which I observing, Took once a pliant hour, and found good means To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart, That I would all my pilgrimage dilate,
Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep : Her wagon-spokes made of long spinners' legs; The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers; The traces, of the smallest spider's web; The collars, of the moonshine's wat'ry beams; Her whip, of cricket's bone; the lash, of film; Her wagoner, a small grey-coated gnat, Not half so big as a round little worm, Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid: Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub, Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut,
Time out of mind the fairies' coach-makers, And in this state she gallops night by night, Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love; On courtiers' knees, that dream on courtsies straight; O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees; O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream, Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,
Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are. Sometimes she gallops o'er a courtier's nose, And then dreams he of smelling out a suit: And sometimes comes she with a tithe-pig's tail, Tickling a parson's nose as a' lies asleep, Then dreams he of another benefice! Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck, And then he dreams of cutting foreign throats, Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades, Of healths five fathom deep; and then anon Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes; And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two, And sleeps again. This is that very Mab That plats the manes of horses in the night; And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs, Which once untangled, much misfortune bodes.
[End of All Earthly Glories.] Our revels now are ended: these our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits, and Are melted into air, into thin air; And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve; And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind! We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.
[Life and Death Weighed.]
To be, or not to be, that is the question— Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings 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 th' 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 bourn No traveller returns) puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have, Than fly to others that we know not off? 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.
Ay, but to die, and go we know not where ; To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot; This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice; To be imprison'd in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendant world; or to be worse than worst Of those, that lawless and incertain thoughts Imagine howling: 'tis too horrible!
The weariest and most loathed worldly life, That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment, Can lay on nature, is a paradise To what we fear of death.
[Description of Ophelia's Drowning.]
There is a willow grows ascant the brook, That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream; There with fantastic garlands did she make, Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples (That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them), There on the pendant boughs her coronet weeds Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke, When down her weedy trophies and herself Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide, And, mermaid-like, a while they bore her up, Which time she chaunted snatches of old tunes, As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and indued
Unto that element; but long it could not be, Till that her garments, heavy with their drink, Pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious lay To muddy death.
Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, Wherein he puts alms for Oblivion,
A great-siz'd monster of ingratitudes : Those scraps are good deeds past, which are devour'd As fast as they are made, forgot as soon As done. Perseverance, dear my lord, Keeps honour bright to have done, is to hang Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail,
For honour travels in a strait so narrow, In monumental mockery. Take the instant way,
Where one but goes abreast: Keep, then, the path; For Emulation hath a thousand sons, That one by one pursue; if you give way, Or hedge aside from the direct forthright, Like to an enter'd tide, they all rush by, And leave you hindmost.-
Or, like a gallant horse, fall'n in first rank, Lie there for pavement to the abject rear,
O'er-run and trampled on : then what they do in pre
[The Deceit of Ornament or Appearances. The world is still deceiv'd with ornament. In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt, But being season'd with a gracious voice, Obscures the show of evil? In religion, What damned error, but some sober brow Will bless it, and approve it with a text, Hiding the grossness with fair ornament? There is no vice so simple, but assumes Some mark of virtue on its outward parts. How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars; Who, inward search'd, have livers white as milk! And these assume but valour's excrement, To render them redoubted. Look on beauty, And you shall see 'tis purchas'd by the weight, Which therein works a miracle in nature, Making them lightest that wear most of it. So are those crisped, snaky, golden locks, Which make such wanton gambols with the wind Upon supposed fairness; often known To be the dowry of a second head, The skull that bred them in the sepulchre. Thus ornament is but the gilded shore To a most dangerous sea; the beauteous scarf Veiling an Indian beauty; in a word, The seeming truth which cunning times put on T' entrap the wisest: therefore, thou gaudy gold, Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee: Nor none of thee, thou pale and common drudge "Tween man and man: but thou, thou meagre
Which rather threaten'st than dost promise aught, Thy plainness moves me more than eloquence, And here choose I; joy be the consequence.
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