Till they had stolen our jewel. All's but nought;
Patience is sottish; and impatience does
Become a dog that's mad; then is it sin,
To rush into the secret house of death,

Ere death dare come to us?-How do you, women?
What, what? good cheer! Why, how now, Charmian?
My noble girls!-Ah, women, women! look,
Our lamp is spent, it's out;-goodsirs, take heart:-
We'll bury him; and then, what's brave, what's noble,
Let's do it after the high Roman fashion,

And make death proud to take us. Come, away;
This case of that huge spirit now is cold.

ACT V.
Death.

My desolation does begin to make
A better life: 'tis paltry to be Cæsar;
Not being fortune, he's but fortune's knave,*
A minister of her will: and it is great

To do that thing that ends all other deeds;
Which shackles accidents, and bolts up chance;
Which sleeps, and never palates more the dung,
The beggar's nurse and Cæsar's.

Cleopatra's Dream, and Description of Antony. Cleo. I dream'd there was an emperor Antony;O, such another sleep, that I might see

But such another man.

Dol.

If it might please you,Cleo. His face was as the heavens; and therein

stuck

A sun and moon; which kept their course, and The little O, the earth.

Dol.

[lighted

Most sovereign creature,Cleo. His legs bestrid the ocean: his reard arm Crested the world: his voice was propertied

*Servant.

As all the tuned spheres, and that to friends;
But when he meant to quail and shake the orb,
He was as rattling thunder. For his bounty,
There was no winter in't; and autumn 'twas,
That grew the more by reaping his delights
Were dolphin-like; they show'd his back above
The elements they lived in: in his livery [were
Walk'd crowns and crownets; realms and isiands
As platest dropp'd from his pocket.

Firm Resolution.

How poor an instrument

May do a noble deed! He brings me liberty.
My resolution's placed, I have nothing

Of woman in me: now from head to foot

I am marble-constant: now the fleeting moon No planet is of mine.

Cleopatra's Speech on applying the Asp. Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have Immortal longings in me: now no more

The juice of Egypt's grape shall moist this lip: Yare, yare,§ good Iras; quick-Methinks I hear Antony call; see him rouse himself

To praise my noble act: I hear him mock

The luck of Cæsar, which the gods give men
To excuse their after-wrath: Husband, I come :
Now to that name my courage prove my title!
I am fire and air; my other elements
I give to baser life.-So,-have you done?
Come then, and take the last warmth of my lips.
Farewell, kind Charmian ;-Iras, long farewell.
Have I the aspic in my lips? dost fall?
If thou and nature can so gently part,
The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch,

*Crush. Silver-money. Inconstant. § Make haste.

Which hurts and is desired.

Dost thou lie still?

If thus thou vanishest, thou tell'st the world
It is not worth leave-taking.

[say,

Char. Dissolve, thick cloud, and rain: that I may The gods themselves do weep!

Cleo.

This proves me base;

If she first meet the curled Antony,

He'll make demand of her; and spend that kiss,
Which is my heaven to have. Come, mortal wretch,
[To the asp which she applies to her breast.
With thy sharp teeth this knot intrinsicate
Of life at once untie : poor venomous fool,
Be angry, and dispatch. O, couldst thou speak!
That I might hear thee call great Cæsar ass
Unpolicied !*

Char.

Cleo.

O eastern star!

Peace, peace!

Dost thou not see my baby at my breast,
That sucks the nurse asleep!

Char.
O, break, O, break!
Cleo. As sweet as balm, as soft as air, as gentle,-
O Antony !-Nay, I will take thee too :-

[Applying another asp to her arm. What, should I stay- [Falls on a bed and dies. Char. In this wide world?-So, fare thee well.— Now boast thee, death! in thy possession lies A lass unparallel'd.

CORIOLANUS.

ACT I.

A Mob.

WHAT Would you have, you curs,

That like nor peace nor war? the one affrights you, * Unpolitic, to leave me to myself.

The other makes you proud. He that trusts you,
Where he should find you lions, finds you hares;
Where foxes, geese; you are no surer, no,
Than is the coal of fire upon the ice,

Or hailstone in the sun. Your virtue is

To make him worthy whose offence subdues him,
And curse that justice did it. Who deserves great-
Deserves your hate: and your affections are [ness,
A sick man's appetite, who desires most that
Which would increase his evil. He that depends
Upon your favours swims with fins of lead,
And hews down oaks with rushes. Hang ye? Trust
With every minute you do change a mind; [ye?
And call him noble, that was now your hate,
Him vile, that was your garland.

An imaginary Description of Coriolanus warring.
Methinks I hear hither your husband's drum;
See him pluck Aufidius down by the hair;
As children from a bear, the Volces shunning him :
Methinks I see him stamp thus, and call thus,-
'Come on, you cowards, you were got in fear,
Though you were born in Rome.' His bloody brow
With his mail'd hand then wiping, forth he goes;
Like to a harvest-man that's task'd to mow
Or all, or lose his hire.

Vir. His bloody brow! O, Jupiter ! no blood! Vol. Away, you fool! it more becomes a man Than gilt his trophy. The breasts of Hecuba, When she did suckle Hector, look'd not lovelier Than Hector's forehead, when it spit forth blood At Grecian swords' contending.

Doing our Duty merits not praise.

Pray now, no more: my mother, Who has a charte* to extol her blood,

* Privilege.

When she does praise me, grieves me. I have done
As you have done, that's what I can; induced
As you have been, that's for my country:
He, that has but effected his good will,
Hath overta'en mine act.

Aufidius's Hatred to Coriolanus.

Nor sleep, nor sanctuary,

Being naked, sick; nor fane, nor Capitol,
The prayers of priests, nor times of sacrifice,
Embarquements all of fury, shall lift up
Their rotten privilege and custom 'gainst
My hate to Marcius: where I find him, were it
At home, upon my brother's guard,* even there,
Against the hospitable canon would I

Wash my fierce hand in his heart.

ACT II.

Popularity.

All tongues speak of him, and the bleared sights Are spectacled to see him your prattling nurse Into a rapturet lets her baby cry,

While she chats him: the kitchen malkin‡ pins Her richest locram§ 'bout her reechy|| neck, Clambering the walls to eye him: stalls, bulks, windows,

Are smother'd up, leads fill'd, and ridges horsed
With variable complexions; all agreeing

In earnestness to see him: seld shewn flamens**
Do press among the popular throngs, and puff
To win a vulgar station ++ our veil'd dames
Commit the war of white and damask, in

Their nicely-gawded‡‡ cheeks, to the wanton spoil
Of Phoebus' burning kisses; such a pother,

*My brother posted to protect him.
Maid. § Best linen.
Seldom. ** Priests.

+ Fit.

Soiled with sweat and smoke. †† Common standing-place. + Adorned.