CAS. Why man, he doth beftride the narrow world Like a Coloffus! and we petty men Walk under his huge legs, and peep about Brutus-and Cæfar-what should be in that Cæfar ? Oh! you and I have heard our fathers fay, There was a Brutus, one that would have brook'd As eafily as a king. BRU. That you do love me, I am nothing jealous: What you would work me to, I have fome aim: How I have thought of this, and of these times, I shall recount hereafter: for this present, I would not (fo with love I might entreat you) Be any farther mov'd. What you have faid, I will confider; what you have to say, I will with patience hear; and find a time Both meet to hear, and anfwer fuch high things. Till then, my noble friend, chew upon this: L3 Brutus Brutus had rather be a villager, Than to repute himself a son of Rome CAS. I am glad that my weak words Have ftruck but thus much show of fire from Brutus. SHAKSPEARE, CHAP. XV. BELLARIUS, GUIDERIUS, AND ARVIRAGUS. BEL. A GOODLY day! not to keep houfe, with fuch, GUID. Hail, Heav'n! ARV. Hail, Heav'n! BEL. Now for our mountain fport, up to 'yond' hill, Confider, Your legs are young. I'll tread thefe flats. Richer, Richer, than doing nothing for a bauble; Prouder, than ruftling in unpaid for filk. Such gain the cap of him, that makes them fine, :-no life to ours. GUID. Out of your proof you speak; we, poor, unfledg'd, That have a sharper known; well correfponding ARV. What should we speak of, When we are old as you? When we shall hear The freezing hours away? We have feen nothing; Like warlike as the wolf, for what we eat, BEL. How you speak! Did you but know the city's ufuries, And felt them knowingly; the art o' th' court, Is certain falling; or fo flipp'ry that The fear's as bad as falling; the toil of war; l' th' name of fame and honour; which dies i' th' fearch, And hath as oft a fland'rous epitaph, As record of fair act; nay, many time, Doth ill deferve, by doing well; what's worse, Muft curt'fy at the cenfure. -Oh, boys, this story The world might read in me: my body's mark'd And when a foldier was the theme, my name Was not far off: then was I as a tree, Whofe boughs did bend with fruit. But in one night, Shook down my mellow hangings, nay my leaves; GUID. Uncertain favour! BEL. My fault being nothing, as I have told you oft, Follow'd my banishment: and, this twenty years, More pious debts to Heaven, than in all The fore-end of my time-But, up to th' mountains È And we will fear no poison, which attends In place of greater state. I'll meet you in the vallies. SHAKEREALE. BOOK VII. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. CHAP. I. SENSIBILITY. my upon DEAR Senfibility! fource inexhaufted of all that's precious in our joys, or coftly in our forrows! thou chaineft thy martyr down upon his bed of ftraw, and it is thou who lifteft him up to Heaven. Eternal Fountain of our feelings! It is here I trace thee, and this is thy divinity which stirs within me: not, that in fome fad and fickening moments, foul fhrinks back herself, and startles at deftruction'-mere pomp of words!—but that I feel fome generous joys and generous cares beyond myself-all comes from thee, great, great Senforium of the world! which vibrates, if a hair of our head but falls upon the ground, in the remoteft defert of thy creation. Touched with thee, Eugenius draws my curtain when I languish; hears my tale of fymptoms, and blames the weather for the diforder of his nerves. Thou givet a portion of it fome. times to the roughest peasant who traverses the bleakest mountains. He finds the facerated lamb of another's flock. This moment I behold him leaning with his head against his rook, with piteous inclination looking down upon it. |