Thy very stones prate of my whereabout,
And take the present horror from the time,

Which now suits with it. Whiles I threat, he lives; Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.

I

go, and it is done; the bell invites me; Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell

That summons thee to heaven, or to hell.

[A bell rings.]

IF 'TWERE DONE WHEN 'TIS DONE.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. MACBETH. EXTRACT.

IF 'twere done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well
It were done quickly: if the assassination
Could trammel up the consequence, and catch
With his surcease, success; that but this blow
Might be the be-all and the end-all here,
But here, upon this bank and shoal of time
We'd jump the life to come. But in these cases,
We still have judgment here; that we but teach
Bloody instructions, which being taught, return
To plague the inventor: This even-handed justice
Commends the ingredients of our poisoned chalice
To our own lips. He's here in double trust:
First, as I am his kinsman and his subject,
Strong both against the deed; then, as his host,
Who should against his murderer shut the door,
Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan
Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been

So clear in his great office, that his virtues
Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against
The deep damnation of his taking-off:

And pity, like a naked new-born babe,
Striding the blast, or Heaven's cherubim, horsed
Upon the sightless couriers of the air,
Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye,
That tears shall drown the wind.

I have no spur

To prick the sides of my intent, but only
Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itsel',
And falls on the other.

PORTIA TO SHYLOCK.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. MERCHANT OF VENICE. EXTRACT.

THE quality of mercy is not strained,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven.
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blessed;
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes :
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown.
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway,

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings;
It is an attribute to God himself ;

And earthly power doth then shew likest God's,
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,

Though justice be thy plea, consider this,
That in the course of justice none of us
Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy;
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much
To mitigate the justice of thy plea.

Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice
Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there.

THE PILGRIM.

WALTER RALEIGH. EXTRACT.

GIVE me my scallop-shell of quiet,

My staff of faith to walk upon;
My scrip of joy, immortal diet;
My bottle of salvation;

My gown of glory (hope's true gauge),
And thus I'll take my pilgrimage.
Blood must be my body's balmer,
No other balm will there be given,
Whilst my soul, like quiet Palmer,
Travelleth towards the land of Heaven;
Over the silver mountains,

Where spring the nectar fountains,

There will I kiss the bowl of bliss,
And drink mine everlasting fill
Upon every milken hill;

My soul will be a-dry before,

But after, it will thirst no more.

Then, by that happy, blissful day,
More peaceful pilgrims I shall see,
That have cast off their rags of clay,
And walk apparelled fresh, like me.

TO SLEEP.

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

COME, Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace,
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
The indifferent judge between the high and low.
With shield of proof shield me from out the prease
Of those fierce darts, Despair at me doth throw;
O make in me those civil wars to cease!

I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.

Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed;
A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light;
A rosy garland, and a weary head.
And if these things, as being thine by right,
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me
Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see.

TO BE OR NOT TO BE.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. HAMLET. EXTRACT.

To be, or not to be, that is the question;-
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune;

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,

And, by opposing, end them? To die, to sleep, —

No more; and, by a sleep, to say we end

The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep:

To sleep! perchance to dream;-ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of disprized love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.