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Nips youth i' the head, and follies doth emmew,
As faulcon doth the fowl-is yet a devil.
Claudio. The princely Angelo?

Isabella. Oh, 'tis the cunning livery of hell,
The damned'st body to invest and cover
In princely guards! Dost thou think, Claudio,
If I would yield him my virginity,

Thou might'st be freed?

Claudio. Oh, heavens! it cannot be.

Isabella. Yes, he would give it thee, for this rank offence, So to offend him still: this night's the time

That I should do what I abhor to name,

Or else thou dy'st to-morrow.

Claudio. Thou shalt not do't.

Isabella. Oh, were it but my life,

I'd throw it down for your deliverance

As frankly as a pin.

Claudio. Thanks, dear Isabel.

Isabella. Be ready, Claudio, for your death to-morrow.

Claudio. Yes.-Has he affections in him,

That thus can make him bite the law by the nose?

When he would force it, sure it is no sin;

Or of the deadly seven it is the least.

Isabella. Which is the least?

Claudio. If it were damnable, he, being so wise,

Why should he for the momentary trick

Be perdurably fin'd? Oh, Isabel!

Isabella. What says my brother?

Claudio. Death is a fearful thing.

Isabella. And shamed life a hateful.

Claudio. Aye, but to die, and go we know not where;

To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot;

This sensible warm motion to become
A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit

In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice;
To be imprison'd in the viewless winds,
And blown with restless violence round about
The pendant world; or to be worse than worst
Of those, that lawless and incertain thoughts
Imagine howling!-'tis too horrible!
The weariest and most loathed worldly life,
That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment
Can lay on nature, is a paradise

To what we fear of death.

Isabella. Alas! alas!

Claudio. Sweet sister, let me live: What sin you do to save a brother's life, Nature dispenses with the deed so far, That it becomes a virtue."

What adds to the dramatic beauty of this scene and the effect of Claudio's passionate attachment to life is, that it immediately follows the Duke's lecture to him, in the character of the Friar, recommending an absolute indifference

to it.

"Reason thus with life,

If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing,

That none but fools would keep: a breath thou art,

Servile to all the skyey influences

That do this habitation, where thou keep'st,

Hourly afflict: merely, thou art death's fool;

For him thou labour'st by thy flight to shun,

And yet run'st toward him still: thou art not noble ;

For all the accommodations, that thou bear'st,

Are nurs'd by baseness: thou art by no means valiant ;

For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork

And that thou oft provok'st; yet grossly fear'st
Thy death, which is no more. Thou art not thyself;

For thou exist'st on many a thousand grains
That issue out of dust: happy thou art not;

For what thou hast not, still thou striv'st to get;

And what thou hast, forget'st: thou art not certain ;
For thy complexion shifts to stran effects,

After the moon: if thou t rich, thou art poor;
For, like as ass, whose back with ingots bows
Thou bear'st thy heavy riches but a journey,
And death unloads thee: friend thou hast none;
For thy own bowels, which do call thee sire,
The mere effusion of thy proper loins,

Do curse the gout, serpigo, and the rheum,

For ending thee no sooner; thou hast nor youth, nor age;

But, as it were, an after-dinner's sleep,

Dreaming on both for all thy blessed youth

Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms

Of palsied eld; and when thou art old, and rich,
Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor beauty,

What's yet in this,
Yet in this life
yet death we fear,

To make thy riches pleasant.
That bears the name of life?
Lie hid more thousand deaths;
That makes these odds all even."

THE

MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.

THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR is no doubt a very amusing play, with a great deal of humour, character, and nature in it: but we should have liked it much better, if any one else had been the hero of it, instead of Falstaff. We could have been contented if Shakespear had not been "commanded to shew the knight in love." Wits and philosophers, for the most part, do not shine in that character; and Sir John himself, by no means, comes off with flying colours. Many people complain of the degradation and insults to which Don Quixote is so frequently exposed in his various adventures. But what are the unconscious indignities which he suffers, compared with the sensible mortifications which Falstaff is made to bring upon himself? What

And that thou oft provok'st; yet grossly fear'st
Thy death, which is no more. Thou art not thyself;

For thou exist'st on many a thousand grains
That issue out of dust: happy thou art not;

For what thou hast not, still thou striv'st to get;
And what thou hast, forget'st: thou art not certain;
For thy complexion shifts to stran effects,
After the moon: if thou t rich, thou art poor;
For, like as ass, whose back with ingots bows
Thou bear'st thy heavy riches but a journey,
And death unloads thee: friend thou hast none;
For thy own bowels, which do call thee sire,
The mere effusion of thy proper loins,

Do curse the gout, serpigo, and the rheum,

For ending thee no sooner; thou hast nor youth, nor age; But, as it were, an after-dinner's sleep,

Dreaming on both for all thy blessed youth

:

Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms

Of palsied eld; and when thou art old, and rich,
Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor beauty,

What's yet in this,
Yet in this life
yet death we fear,

To make thy riches pleasant.
That bears the name of life?
Lie hid more thousand deaths;
That makes these odds all even."

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