E'en at the base of Pompey's statue,

(Which all the while ran blood,) great Cesar fell.
10. O what a fall was there, my countrymen !
Then I, and you, and all of us, fell down!
Whilst bloody treason flourish'd over us.
O, now you weep; and I perceive you feel
The dint of pity; These are gracious drops.
Kind souls! What, weep you when you but behold
Our Cesar's vesture wounded? Look you here!-
Here is himself-marr'd, as you see, by traitors.

11. Good friends! Sweet friends! Let me not stir you up To such a sudden flood of mutiny!

They that have done this deed are honorable!

What private griefs they have, alas, I know not,

That made them do it! They are wise and honorable,
And will, no doubt, with reason answer you.

12. I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts! I am no orator, as Brutus is;

But, as you know me all, a plain, blunt man,

That love my friend-and that they knew full well,
That gave me public leave to speak of him!
For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,
Action, nor utterance, nor power of speech,
To stir men's blood.

13. I only speak right on,

I tell you that which you yourselves do know-

Show you sweet Cesar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths,
And bid them speak for me. But, were I Brutus.

And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony
Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue
In every wound of Cesar, that should move
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.

LESSON CLI.

Othello's Apology for his Marriage.-TRAGEDY OF OTHELLO

1. MOST potent, grave and reverend seigniors:

My very noble and approv'd good masters:
That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter,
It is most true; true, I have married her:
The very head and front of my offending
Hath this extent; no more.

2.
Rude am I in speech,
And little bless'd with the set phrase of peace:
For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith,
Till now, some nine moons wasted, they have us'd
Their dearest action in the tented field;
And little of this great world can I speak,
More than pertains to feats of broils and battle;
And therefore, little shall I grace my cause,
In speaking of myself. Yet by your patience,
I will a round unvarnish'd tale deliver,

Of my whole course of love; what drugs what charms,
What conjuration, and what mighty magic,

(For such proceedings I am charg'd withal)

won his daughter with.

3. Her father lov'd me; oft invited me; Still question'd me the story of my life

From year to year: the battles, sieges, fortunes,
That I had past.

I ran it through, e'en from my boyish days
To the very moment that he bade me tell it.
Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances:
Of moving accidents by flood and field:

Of hair breadths 'scapes in the imminent deadly brcach: Of being taken by the insolent foe,

And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence,

And with it all my travel's history.

Would Desdemona seriously incline;

But still the house affairs would draw her thence;
Which ever as she could with haste despatch,
She'd come again, and with a greedy ear
Devour up my discourse. Which I observing,
Took once a pliant hour, and found good means
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate;
Whereof by parcels she had something heard,
But not distinctly.

5.

I did consent;

And often did beguile her of her tears,

When I did speak of some distressful stroke

That my youth suffer'd. My story being done,
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs.

She swore in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange; "Twas pitiful; 'twas wond'rous pitiful ;

She wish'd she had not heard it; yet she wish'd
That heaven had made her such a man.

6.
She thank'd me,
And bade me, if I had a friend that lov'd her,
I should but teach him how to tell my story,
And that would woo her. On this hint I spake;
She lov'd me for the dangers I had pass'd;
And I lov'd her, that she did pity them.
This is the only witchcraft which I've us'd.

LESSON CLII.

Soliloquy of Hamlet* on Death.-TRAGEDY OF Hamlet.
1. To be or not to be-that is the question,
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The stings and arrows of outrageous fortune-
Or to take arms against a sea of trouble,
And, by opposing, end them? To die—to sleep-
No more? And, by a sleep, to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to.

Devoutly to be wish'd.—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.

3.

There's the respect,
That makes calamity of so long life;

For, who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely
The pangs of despis'd love the law's delay-
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes-t
When he himself might his quietus† make
With a bare bodkin.

4.

Who would fardels‡ bear,
To groan and sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after death,
(That undiscover'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns) puzzles the will,

*A Prince of Denmark,

+ Quietus, rest, repose.

+ Fardel, a bundle, or little pack.

And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of?

5. 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 away,
And lose the name of action.

LESSON CLIII.

Cato's* Soliloquy on the Immortality of the Soul.-TRAGEDY OF CATO.

1. It must be so-
-Plato,† thou reasonest well!

Else, whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,

This longing after immortality?

Or, whence this secret dread, and inward horror,

Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul

Back- on herself, and startles at destruction? 'Tis the divinity that stirs within us:

"Tis heaven itself that points out an hereafter, And intimates Eternity to man.

2. Eternity!-thou pleasing, dreadful thought! Through what variety of untried being,

Through what new scenes and changes must we pass ?
The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me:

But shadows, clouds and darkness rest upon it.
Here will I hold. If there's a Power above us,
(And that there is, all nature cries aloud

Through all her works,) he must delight in virtue;
And that which he delights in must be happy.

But when? Or where? This world was made for Cesar.
I'm weary of conjectures- -this must end them.
[Laying his hand on his sword.

Marcus Portius Cato, an eminent Roman, born 94 years B. C. He was a lover of Philosophy, and a brave general; a man of great integrity, and strong attachment to his country. He boldly opposed the conspiracy of Catiline, and the ambition of Julius Cesar. After the battle of Pharsalia, Cato fled to Utica, in Africa, and being pursued by Cesar, he advised his friends to flee, and his son to trust to Cesar's clemency. He then retired to his apartment, and read Plato on the IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL, twice over; and then stabbed himself with his sword, and died, aged 48-B. C 46 years.

A Grecian Philosopher.

3. Thus I am doubly arm'd. My death* and life,† -
My bane* and antidotef are both before me.
This in a moment brings me to an end;
But this informs me I shall never die.
The soul, secur'd in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years:
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth:
Unhurt amidst the war of elements,

The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds.

LESSON CLIV.

Speech of Catiline‡ before the Roman Senate, on hearing his sentence of banishment.-CROLY'S CATILINE.

1. "BANISHED from Rome!"-what's banished, but set free From daily contact of the things I loathe ?

"Tried and convicted traitor!"-Who says this?
Who'll prove it, at his peril, on my head?
"Banished?"-I thank you for't. It breaks my chain!

I held some slack allegiance till this hour—

But now my sword's my own. Smile on, my lords;
I scorn to count what feelings, withered hopes,
Strong provocations, bitter, burning wrongs,

I have within my heart's hot cells shut up,
To leave you in your lazy dignities.

2. But here I stand and scoff you :-here I fling Hatred and full defiance in your face.

Your Consul's merciful. For this all thanks.
He dares not touch a hair of Catiline.

"Traitor!" I go-but I return. This-trial!
Here I devote your senate! 1 ve had

To stir a fever in the blood of age,

wrongs,

Or make the infant's sinew strong as steel.

3. This day's the birth of sorrows!-This hour's work Will breed proscriptions.-Look to your hearths, my lords, For there henceforth shall sit, for household gods,

Shapes hot from Tartarus !—all shames and crimes ;

The sword.

† A book written by Plato.

+ A Roman Senator accused of a conspiracy against the government, and

banished.

Marcus Tullius Cicero.