Songs

Oberon, to Robin
This is thy negligence. Still thou mistak’st,
Or else committ’st thy knaveries willfully.
Robin 
Believe me, king of shadows, I mistook.
Did not you tell me I should know the man
By the Athenian garments he had on?
And so far blameless proves my enterprise
That I have ’nointed an Athenian’s eyesAphesis;
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Roses, their sharp spines being gone,
Not royal in their smells alone,
But in their hue;
Maiden pinks, of odor faint,
Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint,
And sweet thyme true;
Primrose, firstborn child of Ver,
Merry springtime’s harbinger,
With her bells dim;
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Desdemona
My mother had a maid called Barbary.
She was in love, and he she loved proved mad
And did forsake her. She had a song of willow,
An old thing ’twas, but it expressed her fortune,
And she died singing it. That song tonight
Will not go from my mind. I have much to do
But to go hang my head all at one side
And sing it like poor Barbary.
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Cassio
‘Fore God, they have given me a rouse already.
Montano
Good faith, a little one; not past a pint, as I
am a soldier.
Iago
Some wine, ho! Sings.

And let me the cannikin clink, clink,
And let me the cannikin clink.
A soldier’s a man,
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A goodly medicine for my aching bones!
O world, world, world ! Thus is the poor agent despised.
O traitors and bawds, how earnestly are
you set a-work, and how ill requited! Why should
our endeavor be so loved and the performance so
loathed? What verse for it? What instance for it?
Let me see:

Full merrily the humble-bee doth sing,
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Enobarbus, to Antony
Ha, my brave emperor,
Shall we dance now the Egyptian bacchanals
And celebrate our drink?
Pompey
Let’s ha ‘t, good soldier.
Antony
Come, let’s all take hands
Till that the conquering wine hath steeped our sense
In soft and delicate Lethe.
Enobarbus
All take hands.
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King Lear
My wits begin to turn.—
Come on, my boy. How dost, my boy? Art cold?
I am cold myself.—Where is this straw, my fellow?
The art of our necessities is strange
And can make vile things precious. Come, your hovel.—
Poor Fool and knave, I have one part in my heart
That’s sorry yet for thee.
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King Lear
Blow winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage, blow!
You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout
Till you have drenched our steeples, drowned the cocks.
You sulph’rous and thought-executing fires,
Vaunt-couriers of oak-cleaving thunderbolts,
Singe my white head. And thou, all-shaking thunder,
Strike flat the thick rotundity o’ th’ world.
Crack nature’s molds, all germens spill at once
That makes ingrateful man.
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Fool
Nuncle, give me
an egg, and I’ll give thee two crowns.
King Lear
What two crowns shall they be?
Fool
Why, after I have cut the egg i’ th’ middle and eat
up the meat, the two crowns of the egg. When thou
clovest thy crown  i’ th’ middle and gav’st away
both parts,
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Malvolio
My masters, are you mad? Or what are you?
Have you no wit, manners, nor honesty but to
gabble like tinkers at this time of night? Do you
make an ale-house of my lady’s house, that you
squeak out your coziers’ catches without any mitigation
or remorse of voice? Is there no respect of
place,
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