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up, my son!

I call thee, and thou dost not speak:

They tell me this is death!
And fearful things are whispering

That I the deed have done!
For the honour of thy father's name,


look “Well might I know death's hue and mien;

But on thine aspect, boy,
What, till this moment, have I seen

Save pride and tameless joy ?
Swiftest thou wert to battle,

And bravest there of all;
How could I think a warrior's frame

Thus like a flower should fall ?

"I will not bear that still cold look

Rise up, thou fierce and free! Wake as the storm wakes! I will brook

All, save this calm, from thee. Lift brightly up, and proudly,

Once more thy kindling eyes: Hath my word lost its power on earth?

I say to thee, arise ! “Didst thou not know I loved thee well?

Thou didst not! and art gone, In bitterness of soul, to dwell

Where man must dwell alone. Come back, young fiery spirit !

If but one hour, to learn The secrets of the folded heart,

That seemed to thee so stern.

“Thou wert the first, the first fair child

That in mine arms I pressed;

Thou wert the bright one that hast smiled

Like summer on my breast.
I reared thee as an eagle,

To the chase thy steps I led,
I bore thee on my battle-horse,-

I look upon thee—dead!

"Lay down my warlike banners here,

Never again to wave,
And bury my red sword and spear,

Chiefs, in my first-born's grave;
And leave me I have conquered,

I have slain—my work is done! Whom have I slain? Ye answer not;

Thou too art mute, my son!”

And thus his wild lament was poured

Through the dark resounding night, And the battle knew no more his sword,

Nor the foaming steed his might. He heard strange voices moaning

In every wind that sighed; From the searching stars of heaven he shrank

Humbly the conqueror died.

Hamlet on His Mother's Marriage.


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0, that this too too solid flesh would melt, Thaw and resolve itself into a dew ! Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God ! How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable Seem to me all the uses of this world ! Fie on 't! o fie! 'tis an unweeded garden,

That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature
Possess it mereiy. That it should come to this !
But two months dead ! nay, not so much, not two:
So excellent a king; that was, to this,
Hyperion to a satyr: so loving to my mother,
That he might not beteem the winds of heaven
Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth!
Must I remember? why, she would hang on him,
As if increase of appetite had grown
By what it fed on: and yet, within a month-
Let me not think on 't—Frailty, thy name is woman!
A little month, or ere those shoes were old
With which she follow'd my poor father's body,
Like Niobe, all tears :—why she, even she,-
O God! a beast that wants discourse of reason
Would have mourn'd longer,--married with my uncle,
My father's brother, but no more like my father
Than I to Hercules: within a month;
Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears
Had left the flushing in her galled eyes,
She married !
It is not, nor it cannot come to good:
But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue !

-Hamlet, i., 2.


(See Tone Drill No. 182.) [The tone of Sarcasm denotes a keen disrespect, bordering sometimes on cruelty. The speaker seems to snarl and bite, and, at times, to enjoy his verbal torture of the victim.]

Reply to Mr. Corry.


Has the gentleman done? Has he completely done? He was unparliamentary from the beginning to the end of his speech. There was scarce a word that he uttered that was not a violation of the privileges of the House. But I did not call him to order. Why? Because the limited talents of some men render it impossible for them to be severe without being unparliamentary. But before I sit down I shall show him how to be severe and parliamentary at the same time. On any other occasion, I should think myself justifiable in treating with silent contempt anything which might fall from that honorable member; but there are times when the insignificance of the accuser is lost in the magnitude of the accusation. I know the difficulty the honorable gentleman labored under when he attacked me, conscious that, on a comparative view of our characters, public and private, there is nothing he could say which would injure me. The public would not believe the charge. I despise the false

. hood. If such a charge were made by an honest man, I would answer it in the manner I shall do before I sit down. But I shall first reply to it when not made by an honest man.

Reply to Mr. Walpole.


The atrocious crime of being a young man, which the honourable gentleman has, with such spirit and decency, charged upon me, I shall neither attempt to palliate nor deny; but content myself with wishing that I may be one of those whose follies may cease with their youth, and not of those who continue ignorant in spite of age and experience.

Whether youth can be attributed to any man as a reproach, I will not, Sir, assume the province of determining; but surely, age may justly become contemptible, if the opportunities which it brings have passed away without improvement, and vice appear to prevail when the passions have subsided. The wretch who, after having seen the consequences of a thousand errors, continues still to blunder, and in whom age has only added obstinacy to stupidity, is surely the object either of abhorrence or contempt; and deserves not that his gray head should secure him from insults. Much more, Sir, is he to be abhorred who, as he has advanced in age, has receded from virtue, and become more wicked with less temptation; who prostitutes himself for money which he cannot enjoy, and spends the remainder of his life in the ruin of his country.

Shylock to Antonio.


You come to me, and you say,
“Shylock, we would have moneys:" you say so;
You, that did void your rheum upon my beard,
And foot me as you spurn a stranger cur
Over your threshold: moneys is your suit.
What should I say to you? Should I not say
“Hath a dog money? is it possible
A cur can lend three thousand ducats ?" or
Shall I bend low and in a bondman's key,
With bated breath and whispering humbleness,
Say this,-
“Fair sir, you spit on me on Wednesday last;

You spurn'd me such a day; another time
You call’d me dog; and for these courtesies
I'll lend you thus much moneys ?”
-Merchant of Venice, i., 3.


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