Thou would'st as soon go kindle fire with snow, Luc. But qualify the fire's extreme rage, Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason. JUL. The more thou dam'st it up, the more it burns; The current, that with gentle murmur glides, Thou know'st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth rage; But, when his fair course is not hindered, He makes sweet musick with the enamel'd stones, Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge He overtaketh in his pilgrimage; And so by many winding nooks he strays, Luc. But in what habit will you go along? JUL. No, girl; I'll knit it up in silken strings, With twenty odd-conceited true-love knots : To be fantastick, may become a youth Of greater time than I shall show to be. Lucetta, as thou lov'st me, let me have What thou think'st meet, and is most mannerly: But tell me, wench, how will the world repute me, For undertaking so unstaid a journey? I fear me, it will make me scandaliz'd. Luc. If you think so, then stay at home, and go not. JUL. Nay, that I will not. Luc. Then never dream on infamy, but go. If Proteus like your journey, when you come, No matter who's displeas'd when you are gone: I fear me, he will scarce be pleas'd withal. JUL. That is the least, Lucetta, of my fear: A thousand oaths, an ocean of his tears, And instances as infinite of love, Warrant me welcome to my Proteus. Luc. All these are servants to deceitful men. JUL. Base men, that use them to so base effect! But truer stars did govern Proteus' birth: Luc. Pray heaven, he prove so, when you come to him! JUL. Now, as thou lov'st me, do him not that wrong, To bear a hard opinion of his truth: Only, in lieu thereof, dispatch me hence: TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA, A. 2, s. 7. WOMAN'S LOVE. WOMEN fear too much, even as they love; And women's fear and love hold quantity; In neither aught, or in extremity. Now, what my love is, proof hath made you know; And as my love is siz'd, my fear is so. Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear; Where little fears grow great, great love grows there. HAMLET, A. 3, s. 2. WOMAN'S LOVE AT PARTING. THERE cannot be a pinch in death More sharp than this. CYMBELINE, A. 1, s. 2. WOMAN'S SOURCE OF EARTHLY HAPPINESS. HELENA. Demetrius loves your fair: O happy fair! Your eyes are lode-stars; and your tongue's sweet air More tuneable than lark to shepherd's ear, When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear. Sickness is catching; O, were favour so! Your's would I catch, fair Hermia; ere I go, My ear should catch your voice, my eye your eye, My tongue should catch your tongue's sweet melody. Were the world mine, Demetrius being bated, HERMIA. I frown upon him, yet he loves me still. HEL. O, that your frowns would teach my smiles such skill! HER. I give him curses, yet he gives me love. HEL. O, that my prayers could such affection move! HER. The more I hate, the more he follows me. HEL. The more I love, the more he hateth me. HER. His folly, Helena, is no fault of mine. HEL. None, but your beauty; 'Would that fault were mine! MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM, A. 1, s. 1. WOMAN THE BETTER MAN. WOE the while! O, cut my lace; lest my heart, cracking it, Break too! What studied torments, tyrant, hast for me? What wheels? racks? fires? What flaying? boiling, In leads, or oils ? what old, or newer torture Together working with thy jealousies, Fancies too weak for boys, too green and idle For girls of nine!-O, think, what they have done, And then run mad, indeed; stark mad! for all To have him kill a king; poor trespasses, Of the young prince; whose honourable thoughts (Thoughts high for one so tender,) cleft the heart That could conceive, a gross and foolish sire, Blemish'd his gracious dam: this is not, no, Laid to thy answer: But the last,—O, lords, When I have said, cry, woe!-the queen, the queen, The sweetest, dearest creature's dead; and vengeance for't Not dropp'd down yet. I say, she's dead: I'll swear't: if word, nor oath, Prevail not, go and see: if you can bring Tincture, or lustre, in her lip, her eye, Heat outwardly, or breath within, I'll serve you As I would do the gods.-But, O thou tyrant! Do not repent these things; for they are heavier Than all thy woes can stir: therefore betake thee To nothing but despair. A thousand knees |