I would this music would come. I am advised
to give her music a-mornings; they say it will
Guiderius, as Polydor
Let us bury him
And not protract with admiration what
Is now due debt.
I see a man’s life is a tedious one.
I have tired myself, and for two nights together
Have made the ground my bed.
The fingers of the powers above do tune
The harmony of this peace.Synecdoche and Metaphor The vision
Which I made known to Lucius ere the stroke
Of this yet scarce-cold battle at this instant
Is full accomplished.
Why did you throw your wedded lady from you?
Think that you are upon a rock,
Methinks I see him now—
Ay, so thou dost,
Upon a time—unhappy was the clock
That strook the hour!—it was in Rome—accurs’d
The mansion where!—’twas at a feast—O would
Our viands had been poison’d,
Let the time run on
To good or bad.
Were not in fault, for she was beautiful;
Mine ears, that heard her flattery, nor my heart,
O most delicate fiend!
Who is’t can read a woman?
By med’cine life may be prolong’d, yet death
Will seize the doctor too. How ended she?
Stand by my side, you whom the gods have made
Preservers of my throne. Woe is my heart
That the poor soldier that so richly fought,
Come, sir, are you ready for death?
Yea, bloody cloth, I’ll keep thee, for I wish’d
Thou shouldst be color’d thus. You married ones,
If each of you should take this course,
All other doubts, by time let them be clear’d,
Fortune brings in some boats that are not steer’d.
Fear no more the heat o’ th’ sun,
Nor the furious winter’s rages,
Thersites’ body is as good as Ajax’,
When neither are alive.
And let us, Polydore, though now our voices
Have got the mannish crack, sing him to th’ ground,
Why, he but sleeps!
If he be gone, he’ll make his grave a bed.
With female fairies will his tomb be haunted,
O thou goddess,
Thou divine Nature, thou thyself thou blazon’st
In these two princely boys! They are as gentle
As zephyrs blowing below the violet,
Those that I reverence, those I fear—the wise:
At fools I laugh, not fear them.
Nobly he yokes
A smiling with a sigh, as if the sigh
Was that it was for not being such a smile;
These are kind creatures. Gods, what lies I have heard!
Our courtiers say all’s savage but at court.
I love thee; I have spoke it;
How much the quantity, the weight as much,
Society is no comfort
To one not sociable.
The sweat of industry would dry and die,
But for the end it works to. Come, our stomachs
Will make what’s homely savory;
Plenty and peace breeds cowards; hardness ever
Of hardiness is mother.
I love and hate her; for she’s fair and royal,
And that she hath all courtly parts more exquisite
Now for our mountain sport: up to yond hill,
Your legs are young; I’ll tread these flats.
Which buys admittance (oft it doth), yea, and makes
Diana’s rangers false themselves, yield up
Their deer to th’ stand o’ th’ stealer;
That such a crafty devil as is his mother
Should yield the world this ass! A woman that
Bears all down with her brain,
Sir, as I told you always; her beauty and her brain go not together. She’s a good sign, but I have seen small reflection of her wit.
Thither write, my queen,
And with mine eyes I’ll drink the words you send,
Though ink be made of gall.
Dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant
Can tickle where she wounds!