No More Learning

[Throws up another skull. ]
Hamlet — There's another: why may not that be the skull of
a lawyer? Where be his quiddits now, his quillets, his cases, his
tenures, and his tricks? why does he suffer this rude knave now
to knock him about the sconce with a dirty shovel, and will not
tell him of his action of battery? Humph! This fellow might
be in 's time a great buyer of land, with his statutes, his recog
nizances, his fines, his double vouchers, his recoveries: is this
the fine of his fines, and the recovery of his recoveries, to have
his fine pate full of fine dirt? will his vouchers vouch him no
more of his purchases, and double ones too, than the length and
breadth of a pair of indentures? The very conveyances of his
lands will hardly lie in this box; and must the inheritor himself
have no more? ha?
Horatio- Not a jot more, my lord.
Hamlet Is not parchment made of sheepskins?
Horatio- Ay, my lord, and of calfskins too.
Hamlet-They are sheep, and calves, which seek out assurance
in that. I will speak to this fellow. -Whose grave's this, sir?
――――


## p. 13214 (#662) ##########################################

SHAKESPEARE
13214
First Clown - Mine, sir.
[Sings]-Oh, a pit of clay for to be made.
For such a guest is meet.
Hamlet-I think it be thine indeed; for thou liest in 't.
First Clown-You lie out on 't, sir, and therefore it is not
yours; for my part, I do not lie in 't, and yet it is mine.
Hamlet - Thou dost lie in 't, to be in 't and say it is thine:
'tis for the dead, not for the quick; therefore, thou liest.
First Clown-'Tis a quick lie, sir: 'twill away again, fro
me to you.
Hamlet-What man dost thou dig it for?
First Clown. - For no man, sir.
Hamlet What woman, then?
First Clown
For none, neither.
Hamlet Who is to be buried in 't?
First Clown-One that was a woman, sir; but rest her soul,
she's dead.
-
――――――
Hamlet-How absolute the knave is! we must speak by the
card, or equivocation will undo us. By the Lord! Horatio, these
three years I have taken note of it: the age is grown so picked,
that the toe of the peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier,
he galls his kibe. How long hast thou been a grave-maker?
First Clown-Of all the days i' the year, I came to 't that day
that our last king Hamlet overcame Fortinbras.
Hamlet - How long is that since?
First Clown-Cannot you tell that? every fool can tell that.
It was the very day that young Hamlet was born: he that is
mad, and sent into England.
Hamlet-Ay, marry: why was he sent into England?
First Clown. Why, because he was mad: he shall recover his
wits there; or if he do not, 'tis no great matter there.
Hamlet-Why?
-
First Clown-Twill not be seen in him there: there, the
men are as mad as he.
Hamlet How came he mad?
First Clown-Very strangely, they say.
Hamlet How strangely?
First Clown-Faith, e'en with losing his wits.
Hamlet-Upon what ground?
First Clown - Why, here in Denmark. I have been sexton
here, man and boy, thirty years.


## p. 13215 (#663) ##########################################

SHAKESPEARE
13215
Hamlet-How long wi a man lie i' the art ere he rot?
First Clown-Faith, if he be not rotten before he die (as
we have many pocky corses nowadays, that will scarce hold the
laying in), he will last you some eight year, or nine year: a tan-
ner will last you nine year.
Hamlet - Why he more than another?
First Clown-Why, sir, his hide is so tanned with his trade
that he will keep out water a great while; and your water is a
sore decayer of your whoreson dead body. Here's a skull now:
this skull hath lain i' the earth three-and-twenty years.
Hamlet-Whose was it?
First Clown-A whoreson mad fellow's it was: whose do you
think it was?
Hamlet - Nay, I know not.
First Clown-A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! 'a
poured a flagon of Rhenish on my head once. This same skull,
sir, this same skull, sir, was Yorick's skull, the king's jester.
Hamlet-This?
[Takes the skull.
First Clown- E'en that.
Hamlet-Let me see. Alas, poor Yorick! -I knew him,
Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy,- he
hath borne me on his back a thousand times: and now, how
abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rises at it. Here
hung those lips, that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where
be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of
merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar?
Not one
now, to mock your own grinning? quite chapfallen. Now,
Now, get
you to my lady's chamber and tell her, let her paint an inch
thick, to this favor she must come; make her laugh at that.
Pr'ythee, Horatio, tell me one thing.
Horatio- What's that, my lord?
Hamlet - Dost thou think Alexander looked o' this fashion i'
the earth?
Horatio- E'en so.
Hamlet - And smelt so? pah!
Horatio- E'en so, my lord.
――――――
[Puts down the skull.
Hamlet-To what base uses we may return, Horatio. Why
may not imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander, till he
find it stopping a bung-hole?
Horatio-"Twere to consider too curiously, to consider so.
Hamlet-No, faith, not a jot: but to follow him thither with
modesty enough, and likelihood to lead it; as thus: Alexander


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13216
SHAKESPEARE
died, Alexander was buried, Alexander returned into dust; the
dust is earth; of earth we make loam; and why of that loam,
whereto he was converted, might they not stop a beer-barrel ?
D
Imperial Cæsar dead, and turned to clay,
Might stop a hole to keep the wind away:
Oh! that that earth, which kept the world in awe,
Should patch a wall t' expel the winter's flaw!
IAGO'S SOLDIER-SONGS
From Othello>
Lay by these. -
AND
ND let me the canakin clink, clink;
And let me the canakin clink:
A soldier's a man;
A life's but a span:
Why then let a soldier drink.
KING STEPHEN was a worthy peer,
His breeches cost him but a crown;
He held them sixpence all too dear,
With that he called the tailor-lown.
He was a wight of high renown,
And thou art but of low degree:
'Tis pride that pulls the country down,
Then take thine auld cloak about thee.
ESDEMONA [singing] —
DESDEMONA'S LAST SONG
From Othello'
A poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,
Sing all a green willow;
Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,-
Sing willow, willow, willow:
The fresh streams ran by her and murmured her moans;
Sing willow, willow, willow;
Her salt tears fell from her, and softened the stones. -
Sing willow, willow, willow. -
--


## p. 13217 (#665) ##########################################

SHAKESPEARE
13217
Pr'ythee, hie thee; he'll come anon. -
-
Sing all a green willow must be my garland.
Let nobody blame him, his scorn I approve,—
Nay, that's not next. - - Hark! who is it that knocks?
――
Emilia It is the wind.
Desdemona -
-
-
XXII-827
I called my love false love; but what said he then?
Sing willow, willow, willow:
If I court no women, you'll couch with no men.
HARK! HARK! THE LARK
From Cymbeline ›
H
ARK! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus 'gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes:
With everything that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise;
Arise, arise!
F
FEAR NO MORE
From Cymbeline'
EAR no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages:
Golden lads and lasses must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Fear no more the frown o' the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
Care no more to clothe, and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.


## p. 13218 (#666) ##########################################

13218
SHAKESPEARE
Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Nor th' all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan:
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.
No exorciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have;
And renownèd be thy grave!
TIME'S GLORY
From the Rape of Lucrece›
IME'S glory is to calm contending kings,
TIM
To unmask falsehood, and bring truth to light;
To stamp the seal of time in aged things,
To wake the morn, and sentinel the night,
To wrong the wronger till he render right;
To ruinate proud buildings with thy hours,
And smear with dust their glittering golden towers;
To fill with worm-holes stately monuments,
To feed oblivion with decay of things,
To blot old books, and alter their contents,
To pluck the quills from ancient ravens' wings,
To dry the old oak's sap, and cherish springs;
To spoil antiquities of hammered steel,
And turn the giddy round of Fortune's wheel.
To show the beldame daughters of her daughter,
To make the child a man, the man a child,
To slay the tiger that doth live by slaughter,
To tame the unicorn and lion wild;
To mock the subtle, in themselves beguiled;
To cheer the plowman with increaseful crops,
And waste huge stones with little water-drops.


## p. 13219 (#667) ##########################################

SHAKESPEARE
13219
WEAR
SONNETS
EARY with toil I haste me to my bed,-
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head,
To work my mind when body's work's expired.
For then my thoughts (from far where I abide)
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see;
Save that my soul's imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.
Lo! thus by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.
LET me confess that we two must be twain,
Although our undivided loves are one;
So shall those blots that do with me remain,
Without thy help by me be borne alone.
In our two loves there is but one respect,
Though in our lives a separable spite,
Which though it alter not love's sole effect,
Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.
I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
Lest my bewailèd guilt should do thee shame:
Nor thou with public kindness honor me,
Unless thou take that honor from thy name;
But do not so: I love thee in such sort,
As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.
WHEN most I wink, then do mine eyes best see,
For all the day they view things unrespected;
But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee,
And darkly bright are bright in dark directed.
Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright,
How would thy shadow's form, form happy show
To the clear day with thy much clearer light,
When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so?
How would, I say, mine eyes be blessèd made
By looking on thee in the living day,


## p. 13220 (#668) ##########################################

13220
SHAKESPEARE
When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade
Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay?
All days are nights to see, till I see thee,
And nights bright days, when dreams do show thee me.
How heavy do I journey on the way,
When what I seek (my weary travel's end)
Doth teach that ease and that repose to say,
"Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend! "
The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,
Plods dully on to bear that weight in me,
As if by some instinct the wretch did know,
His rider loved not speed being made from thee.
The bloody spur cannot provoke him on
That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide,
Which heavily he answers with a groan,
More sharp to me than spurring to his side;
For that same groan doth put this in my mind,-
My grief lies onward, and my joy behind.
WHAT is your substance, whereof are you made,
That millions of strange shadows on you tend?
Since every one hath, every one, one shade,
And you, but one, can every shadow lend.
Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit
Is poorly imitated after you;
On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set,
And you in Grecian tires are painted new;
Speak of the spring, and foison of the year,
The one doth shadow of your beauty show,
The other as your bounty doth appear:
And you in every blessed shape we know.
In all external grace you have some part,
But you like none, none you, for constant heart.
OH, HOW much more doth beauty beauteous seem,
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odor which doth in it live.
The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye
As the perfumed tincture of the roses;
Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly
When summer's breath their maskèd buds discloses :


## p. 13221 (#669) ##########################################

SHAKESPEARE
13221
But, for their virtue only is their show,
They live unwooed, and unrespected fade;
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odors made:
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,-
When that shall fade, my verse distils your truth.
NoT marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unswept stone, besmeared with sluttish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,-
Nor Mars his sword, nor war's quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory.
'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room
Even in the eyes of all posterity,
That wear this world out to the ending doom.
So, till the Judgment that yourself arise,
You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.
-
LIKE as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light.
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow;
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:
And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
SINCE brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
But sad mortality o'ersways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
Oh! how shall summer's honey-breath hold out
Against the wreckful siege of battering days,


## p. 13222 (#670) ##########################################

13222
SHAKESPEARE
When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays?
Oh, fearful meditation! where, alack,
Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
Oh, none! unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.
TIRED with all these, for restful death I cry;-
As, to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimmed in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honor shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disabled,
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly (doctor-like) controlling skill,
And simple truth miscalled simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill:
Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that to die I leave my love alone.
OR I shall live your epitaph to make,
Or you survive when I in earth am rotten:
From hence your memory death cannot take,
Although in me each part will be forgotten.
Your name from hence immortal life shall have,
Though I, once gone, to all the world must die:
The earth can yield me but a common grave,
When you entombèd in men's eyes shall lie.
Your monument shall be my gentle verse,
Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read;
And tongues to be your being shall rehearse,
When all the breathers of this world are dead;
You still shall live (such virtue hath my pen),
Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.
FROM you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,
That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him;


## p. 13223 (#671) ##########################################

SHAKESPEARE
13223
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odor and in hue,
Could make me any summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew.
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose:
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you; you pattern of all those.
Yet seemed it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.
THE forward violet thus did I chide:-
[smells,
Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that
If not from my love's breath? the purple pride
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells,
In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed.
The lily I condemnèd for thy hand,
And buds of marjoram had stolen thy hair;
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,
One blushing shame, another white despair:
A third, nor red nor white, had stolen of both,
And to this robbery had annexed thy breath;
But for his theft, in pride of all his growth,
A vengeful canker eat him up to death.
More flowers I noted, yet I none could see
But sweet or color it had stolen from thee.
WHEN in the chronicle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme,
In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights;
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have expressed
Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring;
And for they looked but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing:
For we, which now behold these present days,
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
NOT mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
Of the wide world, dreaming on things to come,


## p. 13224 (#672) ##########################################

13224
SHAKESPEARE
Can yet the lease of my true love control,
Supposed as forfeit to a cónfined doom.
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured,
And the sad augurs mock their own presage;
Incertainties now crown themselves assured,
And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
Now, with the drops of this most balmy time
My love looks fresh, and death to me subscribes,—
Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme,
While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes;
And thou in this shalt find thy monument,
When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.
TH' EXPENSE of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action: and till action, lust
Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust;
Enjoyed no sooner but despised straight;
Past reason hunted, and no sooner had,
Past reason hated, as a swallowed bait
On purpose laid to make the taker mad:
Mad in pursuit, and in possession so;
Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;
A bliss in proof and proved, a very woe:
Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream.
All this the world well knows; yet none knows well
To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.
CRABBED AGE AND YOUTH
From The Passionate Pilgrim'
RABBED age and youth
Cannot live together:
Youth is full of pleasance,
Age is full of care;
CR
Youth like summer morn,
Age like winter weather;
Youth like summer brave,
Age like winter bare.
Youth is full of sport,
Age's breath is short;
Youth is nimble, age is lame;


## p. 13225 (#673) ##########################################

SHAKESPEARE
13225
Youth is hot and bold,
Age is weak and cold;
Youth is wild, and age is tame.
Age, I do abhor thee,
Youth, I do adore thee;
Oh, my love, my love is young!
Age, I do defy thee;
O sweet shepherd! hie thee,
For methinks thou stay'st too long.
BEAUTY
From The Passionate Pilgrim'
B
EAUTY is but a vain and doubtful good:
A shining gloss that fadeth suddenly;
A flower that dies when first it 'gins to bud;
A brittle glass, that's broken presently;
A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower,
Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour.
And as goods lost are seld or never found;
As faded gloss no rubbing will refresh ;
As flowers dead lie withered on the ground,
As broken glass no cement can redress:
So beauty blemished once, for ever lost,
In spite of physic, painting, pain, and cost.
LIVE WITH ME
From The Passionate Pilgrim'
IVE with me and be my love,
L
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
And the craggy mountain yields.
There will we sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
There will I make thee a bed of roses,
With a thousand fragrant posies;


## p. 13226 (#674) ##########################################

13226
SHAKESPEARE
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;
A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Then live with me and be my love.
LOVE'S ANSWER
IF THAT the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love.
THRENOS
From The Phoenix and Turtle'
B
EAUTY, truth, and rarity,
Grace in all simplicity,
Here inclosed in cinders lie.
Death is now the Phoenix's nest;
And the turtle's loyal breast
To eternity doth rest.
Leaving no posterity:
'Twas not their infirmity,
It was married chastity.
Truth may seem, but cannot be;
Beauty brag, but 'tis not she:
Truth and beauty buried be.
To this urn let those repair
That are either true or fair;
For these dead birds sigh a prayer.


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