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Which almost burst to belch it in the sea.

Brak. Awak'd you not with this sore agony ?

Clar. No, no; my dream was lengthen'd after life; O then began the tempest to my soul : I pass'd, methought, the melancholy flood, With that grim ferryman which poets write of, Unto the kingdom of perpetual night. The first that there did greet my stranger-soul, Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick, Who cry'd aloud "What scourge for perjury Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence ?" And so he vanish'd. Then came wand'ring by A shadow like an angel, with bright hair Dabbled in blood, and he shriek'd out aloud « Clarence is come, false, fleeting, perjured Clarence, That stabb'd me in the field by Tewksbury; Seize on him, furies, take him to your torments !". With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends Environd me, and howled in mine ears Such hideous cries, that with the very noise I trembling wak’d; and for a season after Could not believe but that I was in hell: Such terrible impression made my dream.

Brak. No marvel, lord, that it affrighted you';
I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it.

Clar. Ah ! Brakenbury, I have done those things
That now give evidence against my soul,
For Edward's sake; and see how he requites me!
O God! if my deep prayers cannot appease thee,
But thou wilt be aveng'd on my misdeeds,
Yet execute thy wrath on me alone:
O spare my guiltless wife, and my poor children!
I pr’ythee, Brakenbury, stay by me :
My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep.

SHAKSPEARE.

C C

CHAP. XXIII.

QUEEN MAB.

O THEN I see Queen Mab hath been with you.
She is the fancy's midwife, and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agate-stone
On the fore-finger of an alderman;
Drawn with a team of little atomies,
Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep:
Her waggon spokes made of long spinners' legs;
The cover of the wings of grashoppers ;
The traces of the smallest spider's web;
The collars of the moonshine's watery beams;
Her wbip of cricket's bone ; the lash of film;
Her waggoner a small grey-coated goat,
Not half so big as a round little worm,
Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid.
Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut,
Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub,
Time out of mind the fairies' coachmakers.
And in this state she gallops, night by night,
Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love :
On courtiers' knees, that dream on curtsies strait :
O’er lawyers' fingers, who strait dream on fees :
O’er ladies' lips, who strait on kisses dream:
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 the parson as he 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 ears, at which he starts and wakes ;

And being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two.
And sleeps again.

SHAKSPEARE.

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CHAP. XXIV.

APOTHECARY.

I DO remember an apothecary,
And hereabouts he dwells, witom late I noted
In tatter'd weeds, with overwhelming brows,
Culling of simples; meagre were his looks ;
Sharp misery had worn him to the bones :
And in his needy shop a tortoise hung,
An alligator stuff'd, and other skins
Of ill-shap'd fishes; and about his shelves
A beggarly account of empty boxes ;
Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds,
Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses
Were thinly scatter'd to make up a show.
Noting this penury, to myself I said,
An' if a man did need a poison now,
Whose sale is present death in Mantua,
Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.
Oh, this same thought did but fore-run my need,
And this same needy man must sell it me.
As I remember, this should be the house.

SHAKSPEARE.

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IF aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
May hope, chaste Eve, to sooth thy modest ear,

Like thy own solemn springs,

Thy springs, and dying gales,
O Nymph preserv'd, while now the bright hair'd sun
Sits on yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts

With brede ethereal wove,

O'erhang his wavy bed:
Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat,
With short shrill shrieks flits by on leathern wing,

Or where the beetle winds

His small but sullen horn,
As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim born in heedless hum:

Now teach me, maid compos'd,

To breathe some softened strain,
Whose numbers stealing through thy dark’ning vale,
May not unseemly with its stillness suit,

As musing slow, I hail

Thy genial lov'd return
For when thy folding star arising shows
His paly circlet, at his warming lamp

The fragrant Hours, and Elves

Who slept in flow'rs the day, And many a nymph who breathes her brows with sedge, And sheds the fresh'ning dew, and lovelier still,

The pensive Pleasures sweet

Prepare thy shadowy car.
Then lead, calm Votress, where some sheety lake
Cheers the loan heath, or some time hallowed pile,

Or up-land fallows gray

Reflect its last cool gleam.
But when chill blust'ring winds, or driving rain,
Forbid my willing feet, be mine the hut,

That from the mountain's side,

Views wilds, and swelling floods,
And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires,
And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all

Thy dewy fingers draw
The gradual dusky veil.

While spring shall pour his show'rs as oft he wont,
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!

While summer loves to sport

Beneath thy ling'ring light:
While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves :
Or Winter yelling through the troublous air,

Affrights thy shrinking train,

And rudely rends thy robes;
So long, sure-found beneath the Sylvan shed,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science rose-lipp'd Health,

Thy gentlest influence own,
And hymn thy fav'rite name!

COLLINS.

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SWEET daughter of a rough and stormy sire,
Hoar Winter's blooming child; delightful spring!..

Whose unshorn locks with leaves
And swelling buds are crown'd;

From the green islands of eternal youth,
(Crown'd with fresh biooms, and ever-springing shade)

Turn hither turn thy step,
O thou, whose powerful voice

More sweet than softest touch of Daric reed,
Or Lydian flute, can sooth the madding winds,

And thro' the stormy deep
Breathe thy own tender calm.

Thee, best belov'd! the virgin train await;
With songs and festal rites, and joy to rove

Thy blooming wilds among,
And vales and dewy lawps,

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