'Tis yet to know, (Which, when I know that boasting is an honour, Alas, why would you heap those cares on me? Heaven knows, I had no such intent; But that necessity so bow'd the state, The name of Cassius honours this corruption, Who will believe thee, Isabel ? My unsoil'd name, the austereness of my life, My vouch against you, and my place i' the state, Will so your accusation over-weigh, That you shall stifle in your own report, And smell of calumny. But I was born so high, Our aiery buildeth in the cedar's top, And dallies with the wind, and scorns the sun. These signs have mark'd me extraordinary; A faulcon, tow'ring in her pride of place, GRIEF. Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows. When sorrows come, they come not single spies, One woe doth tread upon another's heel, Sorrow breaks seasons, and reposing hours, Some grief shews much of love; But much of grief shews still some want of wit. To mourn a mischief that is For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite The robb'd that smiles, steals something from the thief; Grief fills the room up of my absent child; Why, let the stricken deer go weep, For some must watch, while some must sleep; F Sorrow, and grief of heart, Make him speak fondly, like a frantic man. The thorny point Of bare distress hath ta'en from me the show Of smooth civility. O, that this too too solid flesh would melt, His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! O God! Seem to me all the uses of this world! Fie on't! O fie! 'tis an unweeded garden, It is not, nor it cannot come to, good : But break, my heart; for I must hold my tongue! I am sick of this false world; and will love nought Then, Timon, presently prepare thy grave; I am the most unhappy woman living, Such a want-wit sadness makes of me, In sooth, I know not why I am so sad; A heavier task could not have been impos'd, Would I could answer This comfort with the like! But I have words, You see me here, you Gods, a poor old man, As full of grief as age; wretched in both! O heaven! a beast that wants discourse, or reason, He rais'd a sigh so piteous and profound, And end his being. What say you now? What comfort have we now? That bids me be of comfort any more. Had he the motive and the cue for passion, Most subject is the fattest soil to weeds; Why do you keep alone, Of sorriest fancies your companions making? 'Tis sweet, and commendable in your nature, Hamlet, To do obsequious sorrow: But to persevere Of impious stubbornness; 'tis unmanly grief. I am a man, More sinn'd against, than sinning. There's matter in these sighs; these profound heaves You must translate: 'tis fit we understand them. There's something in his soul, O'er which his melancholy sits on brood; Nor doth the general care But let not therefore my good friends be griev'd, A heavy heart bears not an humble tongue; I found her, straying in the park, Like a cloistress, she will veiled walk, |