I shall be glad to learn of noble men. Cas. You wrong me every way; you wrong me, Brutus I said an elder soldier, not a better : Did I say better? Bru. If you did, I care not. ; Cas. When Cæsar liv'd he durst not thus have mov'd me. Bru. No. Cas. What, durst not tempt him! Bru. For your life you durst not. Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love; I may do that I shall be sorry for. Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for. For certain sums of gold, which you denied me ;— By heaven, I had rather coin my heart, And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring To you for gold to pay my legions, Which you denied me was that done like Cassius? When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, Cas. Bru. You did. Cas. I denied you not. I did not :-he was but a fool That brought my answer back.—Brutus hath riv'd my Bru. I do not like your faults. Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults. heart: Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they do appear As huge as high Olympus.1 Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come, Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius, For Cassius is a-weary of the world : Hated by one he loves; brav'd by his brother; I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart : Strike, as thou didst at Cæsar; for, I know, When thou didst hate him worst thou lov'dst him better Bru. Be angry Sheathe your dagger ; when you will, it shall have scope; Cas. Cas. Bru. O Brutus ! What's the matter? Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me, When that rash humour which my mother gave me Makes me forgetful? Bru. Yes, Cassius; and, from henceforth, When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so. 1 A mountain on the boundary of Thessaly and Macedonia, of great height, and consequently regarded as the seat of the gods. 2 The god of riches. SELECTIONS FROM SHAKSPEARE'S SONGS. SERENADE. From Cymbeline, Act II. Sc. iii. Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise,1 His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin INFLUENCE OF MUSIC. From King Henry VIII., Act III. Sc. i. Orpheus with his lute made trees, There had made a lasting spring. Everything that heard him play, Hung their heads, and then lay by In sweet music is such art: Killing care and grief of heart, Fall asleep, or, hearing, die. APPROACH OF THE FAIRIES. From Midsummer Night's Dream, Act V. Sc. ii. Now the hungry lion roars, And the wolf behowls the moon; Whilst the heavy ploughman snores, All with weary task foredone. 1 Phoebus, the sun-god, in the Grecian mythology, drove the chariot of the sun drawn by four horses. C Now the wasted brands do glow, In remembrance of a shroud. That the graves, all gaping wide, By the triple Hecate's 1 team, Following darkness like a dream, Now are frolic; not a mouse Shall disturb this hallowed house. SONNET. From you have I been absent in the spring, That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him. Of different flowers in odour and in hue, Could make me any summer's story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew: Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose ; 1 The goddess who presided over magic. She is often identified with Diana and Luna, and is therefore represented with three heads. JOHN DONNE: 1573-16 3 1. John Donne, D.D., Dean of St Paul's, stands at the head of a class known by the name of the Metaphysical Poets. These were such,' says Dr Samuel Johnson, 'as laboured after conceits, or novel turns of thought, usually false, and resting upon some equivocation of language, or exceedingly remote analogy.' Donne is also usually considered as the first writer of satire in rhyming couplets, such as Dryden and Pope carried to perfection. His works consist of satires, elegies, religious poems, complimentary verses, and epigrams. ODE. Vengeance will sit above our faults; but till We see her not nor them. Thus blind, yet still Unhappy he whom youth makes not beware Enough we labour under age and care: Yet we, that should the ill we now begin (Strange thing!) perceive not; our faults are not seen, The punishment. But we know ourselves least; mere outward shows Our minds so store, That our souls, no more than our eyes, disclose Himself knows more. |