The deck, with glove, or hat, or handkerchief, Still waving, as the fits and stirs of his mind Could best express how slow his soul sail'd on, How swift his ship. CYMBELINE, A. 1, s. 4. LOVE'S PARTING. I WOULD have broke mine eye-strings; crack'd them, but To look upon him; till the diminution Of space had pointed him sharp as my needle; CYMBELINE, A. 1, s. 4. LOVE'S PERTURBATION. MADAM, you have bereft me of all words, Express'd, and not express'd. MERCHANT OF VENICE, A. 3, s. 2. LOVE'S SECRETS. OBERON. Go thy way: thou shalt not from this grove, Till I torment thee for this injury.— My gentle Puck, come hither: Thou remember'st PUCK. I remember. ОВЕ. That very time I saw, (but thou could'st not,) Flying between the cold moon and the earth, And loos'd his love-shaft smartly from his bow, moon; And the imperial vot'ress passed on, In maiden meditation, fancy-free. Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell: Before, milk-white; now purple with love's wound, And maidens call it love-in-idleness. Fetch me that flower; the herb I show'd thee once; The juice of it on sleeping eye-lids laid, Having once this juice, I'll watch Titania when she is asleep, (Be it on lion, bear, or wolf, or bull, MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM, A. 2, s. 2. LOVE'S WISDOM AND PRESCIENCE. LYSANDER. Fair love, you faint with wandering in the wood; And to speak troth, I have forgot our way; We'll rest us, Hermia, if you think it good, And tarry for the comfort of the day. HERMIA. Be it so, Lysander, find you out a bed, For I upon this bank will rest my head. Lys. One turf shall serve as pillow for us both; One heart, one bed, two bosoms and one troth. HER. Nay, good Lysander; for my sake, my dear, Lie further off yet, do not lie so near. LYS. O, take the sense, sweet, of my Love takes the meaning, in love's conference. So that but one heart we can make of it: HER. Lysander riddles very prettily:Now much beshrew my manners and my pride, If Hermia meant to say, Lysander lied. But, gentle friend, for love and courtesy MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM, A. 2, s. 3. MAIDS LIKE NOT MAUDLINS. SILVIUS. Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, Phebe: Say, that you love me not; but say not so In bitterness: The common executioner, Whose heart the accustom'd sight of death makes hard, Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck, Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN, at a distance. PHEBE. I would not be thy executioner; I fly thee, for I would not injure thee. Thou tell'st me, there is murder in mine eye: 'Tis pretty, sure, and very probable, That eyes, that are the frail'st and softest things, Who shut their coward gates on atomies,— Should be call'd tyrants, butchers, murderers! Now I do frown on thee with all my heart; And, if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee: Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains Some scar of it; lean but upon a rush, The cicatrice and capable impressure Thy palm some moment keeps: but now mine eyes, Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not; That can do hurt. SIL. O dear Phebe, If ever, (as that ever may be near,) You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy, Then shall you know the wounds invisible That love's keen arrows make. PHE. But, till that time Come not thou near me: and, when that time comes, Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not; As, till that time, I shall not pity thee. ROSALIND. And why, I pray you? [Advancing.] Who might be your mother, That you insult, exult, and all at once, Over the wretched? What though you have more beauty, (As, by my faith, I see no more in you Than without candle may go dark to bed,) |