1

Reproaching with want of Friendship.

for

You have done that you should be sorry
There is no terrour, Cassius, in your threats;
For I am arm'd so strong in honesty,
That they pass by me, as the idle wind,
Which I respect not. I did send to you

For certain sums of gold, which you deny'd me;
For I can raise no money by vile means;
No, Cassius, I had rather coin my heart,
And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring
From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash
By any indirection. I did send

To you for gold to pay my legions,

Which you deny'd me: Was that done like Cassius?
Should I have answer'd Caius Cassius so?

When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous,

To lock such rascal-counters from his friends,
Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts,
Dash him to pieces.

Reproaching with want of Manliness.

0 proper stuff!

This is the very painting of your fears;
This is the air-drawn dagger, which, you said,
Led you to Duncan. Oh, these flaws and starts,
(Impostors to true fear) would well become
A woman's story, at a winter's fire,

Authoriz'd by her grandam. Shame itself!
Why do you make such faces? When all's done,
You look but on a stool.

Ibid

Ibid. Macbeth.

Reproaching with want of Courage and Spirit.

Thou slave, thou wretch, thou coward,

Thou little valiant, great in villany!

Thou ever strong upon the stronger

side!

Thou fortune's champion, thou dost never fight
But when her humorous ladyship is by
To teach thee safety! thou art perjur'd too,
And sooth'st up greatness. What a fool art thou,
A ramping fool; to brag and stamp, and swear,
Upon my party! Thou cold-blooded slave,
Hast thou not spoke like thunder on my side,
Been sworn my soldier? Bidding me depend
Upon thy stars, thy fortune, and thy strength?

And dost thou now fall over to my foes?
Thou wear a lion's hide! doff it for shame,
And hang a calf's skin on those recreant limbs.

FEAR AND TERROUR.

King John.

Fear is a mixture of aversion and sorrow, discomposing and debilitating the mind upon the approach or anticipation of evil. When this is attended with surprise and much discomposure, it grows into terrour and consternation.

Fear, violent and sudden, opens wide the eyes and mouth, shortens the nose, gives the countenance an air of wildness, covers it with deadly paleness, draws back the elbows parallel with the sides, lifts up the open hands, with the fingers spread, to the height of the breast, at some distance before it, so as to shield it from the dreadful object. One foot is drawn back behind the other, so that the body seems shrinking from the danger, and putting itself in a posture for flight. The heart beats violently, the breath is quick and short, and the whole body is thrown into a general tremour. The voice is weak and trembling, the sentences are short, and the meaning confused and incoherent.

Terrour before dreadful Actions described.

Between the acting of a dreadful thing,
And the first motion, all the interim is
Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream;
The genius, and the mortal instruments,
Are then in council, and the state of man,
Like to a little kingdom, suffers then
The nature of an insurrection.

Shakespeare's Jul. Cas.

Terrour of Evening and Night described.

Light thickens, and the crow

Makes wing to the rooky wood;

Good things of day begin to droop and drowse;
While night's black agents to their prey do rouse,

Thou marvell'st at my words: but hold thee still;
Things, bad begun, make strong themselves by ill.
Ibid. Macbeth.

Fear from a dreadful Object.

Angels and ministers of grace

defend us

Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn'd,

Bring with thee airs from heav'n, or blasts from hell,
Be thy intents wicked or charitable,

Thou com'st in such a questionable shape

That I will speak to thee.

Save me, and hover o'er me with your wings,

You heav'nly guards!-what would your gracious figure?

Horrour at a dreadful Apparition.

Ibid. Hamlet.

How ill this taper burns! ha! who comes here ?
I think it is the weakness of my eyes,

That shapes this monstrous apparition

It comes upon me-Art thou any thing?

Art thou some God, some angel, or some devil,
That mak'st my blood cold, and my hair to start,
Speak to me, what thou art.

Ibid. Julius Cesar,

Terrour from committing Murder.

Mac. I've done the deed-didst not thou hear a noise?
Lady. I heard the owl scream, and the crickets cry.

Did you not speak?

Mac. When?

Lady. Now.

Mac. As I descended ?

Lady. Ay.

Mac. Hark!-who lies i' th' second chamber?
Lady. Donalbain.

Mac. This is a sorry sight.

Lady. A foolish thought to say a sorry sight.

Mac. There's one did laugh in his sleep, and one cry'd murder !

That they did wake each other; I stood and heard them :

But they did say their pray'rs, and address'd them

Again to sleep.

Shakespeare's Macbeth.

Fear of being discovered in Murder.

Alas, I am afraid they have awak'd,

And 'tis not done; th' attempt, and not the deed,
Confounds us—— -Hark! I laid the daggers ready,
He could not miss them. Had he not resembled
My father as he slept, I had done it.

SORROW.

Shakespeare's Macbeth.

Sorrow is a painful depression of spirit, upon the deprivation of good, or arrival of evil; when it is silent and thoughtful, it is sadness; when long indulged, so as to prey upon and possess the mind, it becomes habitual, and grows into melancholy; when tossed by hopes and fears, it is distraction; when these are swallowed up by it, it settles into despair.

In moderate sorrow, the countenance is dejected, the eyes are cast downward, the arms hang loose, sometimes a little raised, suddenly to fall again; the hands open, the fingers spread, and the voice plaintive, frequently interrupted with sighs. But when this passion is in excess, it distorts the countenance, as if in agonies of pain; it raises the voice to the loudest complainings, and sometimes even to cries and shrieks; it wrings the hands, beats the head and breast, tears the hair, and throws itself on the ground; and, like other passions, in excess, seems to border on frenzy.

Sadness.

Anth. In sooth, I know not why I am so sad.
It wearies me; you say it wearies you:
But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,
What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born,
I am to learn.

And such a want-wit sadness makes of me,
That I have much ado to know myself.

Gra. You look not well, signor Anthonio;
You have too much respect upon the world:
They lose it that do buy it with much care;

Believe me, you are marvellously chang'd.

Anth. I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano ; A stage, where every one must play his part; And mine's a sad one. Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice.

Deep Melancholy described.

She never told her love,

But let concealment, like a worm i' th' bud,
Feed on her damask cheek. She pin'd in thought,

And with a green and yellow melancholy

She sat like Patience on a monument

Smiling at Grief.

Pensive foreboding.

Ibid. Twelfth Night.

My mother had a maid call'd Barbara,
She was in love; and he she lov'd prov'd mad,
And did forsake her she had a song of willow
An old thing 'twas, but it express'd her fortune,
And she dy'd singing it: That song to night
Will not go from my mind, I have much to do
But to go hang my head all o' one side,
And sing it like poor Barbara.

Silent Grief.

Ibid. Othelle.

Seems, madam! nay, it is: I know not seems, 'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,

Nor customary suits of solemn black,

Nor windy suspiration of forc'd breath;
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
Nor the dejected 'haviour of the visage,
Together with all forms, modes, shows of grief
That can denote me truly: These indeed seem,
For they are actions that a man might play;
But I have that within which passeth show,
These but the trappings and the fruits of woe.

Inward Sorrow.

Say that again.

The shadow of my sorrow! Ha! let's see:
'Tis very true, my grief lies all within ;
And these external manners of lament

Ibid. Hamlet.