Some villain, ay, and singular in his art, Pis. No, on my life. I'll give but notice you are dead, and send him Imo. Why, good fellow, What shall I do the while? Where bide? How live? Pis.... The ambassador, Lucius the Roman, comes to Milford-Haven Imo. O, for such means! Though peril to my modesty, not death on't, Pis. Well, then, here's the point: Exposing it (but, O, the harder heart! Imo. Nay, be brief: I see into thy end, and am almost A man already. Pis. First, make yourself but like one. ('Tis in my cloak-bag), doublet, hat, hose, all And with what imitation you can borrow From youth of such a season, 'fore noble Lucius Wherein you are happy (which you'll make him know, Imo. Thou art all the comfort The gods will diet me with. Pr'ythee, away: I'm soldier to, and will abide it with A prince's courage. Away, I pr'ythee. Pis. Well, madam, we must take a short farewell; Lest, being missed, I be suspected of Your carriage from the court. ... To some shade, And fit you to your manhood:-May the gods Direct you to the best! The Dissolution of all Things. OUR revels now are ended: these our actors, And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, PROSPERO abjures his Magic. Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves; And ye, that on the sands with printless foot Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him, When he comes back: you demi-puppets, that By moonshine do the green-sour ringlets make, Whereof the ewe not bites; and you, whose pastime Is to make midnight-mushrooms; that rejoice To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid (Weak masters though you be) I have bedimmed The noontide sun, called forth the mutinous winds, And 'twixt the green sea and the azured vault Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder Have I given fire, and rifted Jove's stout oak With his own bolt: the strong-based promontory Have I made shake and by the spurs plucked un The pine, and cedar: graves, at my command, : I here abjure and, when I have required [Solemn music. Ben Jonson. CATILINE, HIS CONSPIRACY. The Morning of the Conspiracy.-LENTULUS, CETHEGUS, and CATILINE meet, before the other Conspirators are ready. Lent. It is, methinks, a morning full of fate; It riseth slowly, as her sullen car Had all the weights of sleep and death hung at it. Her face is like a water turned to blood, It does not look as it would have a hail Or health wished in it, as on other morns. Ceth. Why, all the fitter, Lentulus: our coming Is not for salutation: we have business. Cat. Said nobly, brave Cethegus. Where's Autronius? Ceth. Is he not come? Cat. Not here. Ceth. Not Vargunteius? Cat. Neither. Ceth. A fire in their beds and bosoms, That so well serve their sloth rather than virtue! Lent. Both they, Longinus, Lecca, Curius, We're spirit-bound, Ceth. Yes! as you, had I not called you.— Ceth. If the gods had called Them to a purpose, they would just have come The kingdom of the senate rent asunder: And the degenerate talking gown run frighted Out of the air of Italy. Cat. Spirit of men, |