Antony And Cleopatra Shakespeare Quotes

The breaking of so great a thing should make A greater crack: the round world Should have shook lions into civil streets, And citizens to their dens.

In time we hate that which we often fear.

Make death proud to take us.

Give to a gracious message a host of tongues, but let ill tidings tell themselves when they be felt.

We, ignorant of ourselves, Beg often our own harms, which the wise powers Deny us for our good; so find we profit By losing of our prayers.

Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety.

But she makes hungry Where she most satisfies...

Finish, good lady; the bright day is done, And we are for the Dark.

Music, moody food Of us that trade in love.

That truth should be silent I had almost forgot. (Enobarbus)

The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch Which hurts and is desired.

Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have Immortal longings in me: now no more The juice of Egypt's grape shall moist this lip: Yare, yare, good Iras; quick. Methinks I hear Antony call; I see him rouse himself To praise my noble act; I hear him mock The luck of Caesar, which the gods give men To excuse their after wrath: husband, I come: Now to that name my courage prove my title! I am fire and air; my other elements I give to baser life. So; have you done? Come then, and take the last warmth of my lips. Farewell, kind Charmian; Iras, long farewell. Kisses them. IRAS falls and dies Have I the aspic in my lips? Dost fall? If thou and nature can so gently part, The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch, Which hurts, and is desired. Dost thou lie still? If thus thou vanishest, thou tell'st the world It is not worth leave-taking.

Come, sir, come, I'll wrestle with you in my strength of love. Look, here I have you, thus I let you go, And give you to the gods.

The crown o' the earth doth melt. My lord! O, wither'd is the garland of the war, The soldier's pole is fall'n: young boys and girls Are level now with men; the odds is gone, And there is nothing left remarkable Beneath the visiting moon.

My salad days, When I was green in judgment: cold in blood, To say as I said then! But, come, away; Get me ink and paper: He shall have every day a several greeting, Or I'll unpeople Egypt.

If you find him sad, say I am dancing. If in mirth, report that I am sudden sick.

Here was a woman about the year 1800 writing without hate, without bitterness, without fear, without protest, without preaching. That was how Shakespeare wrote, I thought, looking at Antony and Cleopatra; and when people compare Shakespeare and Jane Austen, they may mean that the minds of both had consumed all impediments; and for that reason we do not know Jane Austen and we do not know Shakespeare, and for that reason Jane Austen pervades every word that she wrote, and so does Shakespeare.

The barge she sat in, like a burnish’d throne, Burn’d on the water; the poop was beaten gold; Purple the sails, and so perfumed that The winds were love-sick with them; the oars were silver, Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made The water which they beat to follow faster, As amorous of their strokes. For her own person, It beggar’d all description.

But you gods will give us Some faults to make us men.

If it be love indeed, tell me how much. There's beggary in the love that can be reckoned. I'll set a bourn how far to be beloved. Then must thou needs find out new heaven, new earth.

How shall I abide In this dull world, which in thy absence is No better than a sty?

The April's in her eyes: it is love's Spring, And these the showers to bring it on..

Her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love; we cannot call her winds and waters, sighs and tears; they are greater storms and tempests than almanacs can report...

He kiss’d, –the last of many doubled kisses, –this orient pearl.

All strange and terrible events are welcome, but comforts we despise

The worm is not to be trusted...

But yet let me lament With tears as sovereign as the blood of hearts That thou my brother, my competitor In top of all design, my mate in empire, Friend and companion in the front of war, The arm of mine own body, and the heart Where mine his thoughts did kindle—that our stars Unreconcilable should divide Our equalness to this.

Let him forever go!-Let him not, Charmian. Though he be painted one way like a Gorgon, The other way he's a Mars.

For what good turn? Messenger: For the best turn of the bed.

Kingdoms are clay: our dungy earth alike Feeds beast as man.

Our separation so abides, and flies, That thou, residing here, go'st yet with me, And I, hence fleeting, here remain with thee.

My desolation does begin to make a better life.

Where souls do couch on flowers we’ll hand in hand...

There's beggary in the love that can be reckon'd.

she did lie In her pavillion--cloth-of-gold of tissue-- O'er-picturing that Venus where we see The fancy out-work nature

Alack, sir, no; her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love. We cannot call her winds and waters sighs and tears; they are greater storms and tempests than almanacs can report: this cannot be cunning in her; if it be, she makes a shower of rain as well as Jove.

What our contempt often hurls from us, We wish it our again; the present pleasure, By revolution lowering, does become The opposite of itself

Let Rome in Tiber melt and the wide arch / Of the ranged empire fall. Here is my space. / Kingdoms are clay; our dungy earth alike / Feeds beast as man.

And strange it is That nature must compel us to lament Our most persisted deeds.

Throw my heart Against the flint and hardness of my fault: Which, being dried with grief, will break to powder, And finish all foul thoughts.

The bright day is done, and we are for the dark.

Let’s do ’t after the high Roman fashion And make death proud to take us.

Que ella que con su muerte le dice a nuestro César: "Me conquisté yo misma".

and Anthony, Enthroned i'th'market-place, did sit alone Whistling to th'air, which but for vacancy Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too, And made a gap in Nature.

Melt Egypt into Nile!

Though age from folly could not give me freedom, It does from childishness

Gracious Queen, even Herod of Judea wouldn’t dare look at you unless you were in a good mood.

I am dying, Egypt, dying; only I here importune death awhile, until Of many thousand kisses the poor last I lay upon thy lips.

being an artist: "And this susceptibility of theirs is doubly unfortunate , I thought, returning again to my original enquiry into what state of mind is propitious for creative work, because the mind of an artist, in order to achieve to the prodigious effort of freeing whole and entire the work that is in him, must be incandescent, like Shakespeare's mind, I conjectured, looking at the book which lay open at Antony and Cleopatra. There must be no obstacle in it, no foreign matter unconsumed.

Now he'll outstare the lighting. To be furious Is to be frightened out of fear, and in that mood The dove will peck the estridge; and I see still A diminution in our captain's brain Restores his heart. When valor preys on reason, It eats the sword it fights with.

Shakespeare will not allow Falstaff to die upon stage. We see and hear the deaths of Hamlet, Cleopatra, Antony, Othello, and Lear. Iago is led away to die silently under torture. Macbeth dies offstage but he goes down fighting. Falstaff dies singing the Twenty-third Psalm, smiling upon his fingertips, playing with flowers, and crying aloud to God three or four times. That sounds more like pain than prayer. We do not want Sir John Falstaff to die. And of course he does not. He is life itself.

Kind sir, give me a good fortune. Fortuneteller: I don’t make fortunes; I only see them. Charmian: Then see a good one for me. Fortuneteller: Your beauty will be even greater than it is now. Charmian (to the others) He means I’ll get fat. Iras No, he means you’ll use makeup when you’re old. Fortuneteller: You will love more than you are loved. Charmian: I had rather heat my liver with drinking.

Whoever is born on a day I forget to send a message to Antony will die a beggar. Bring ink and paper, Charmian. Welcome, my good Alexas. Charmian, did I ever love Caesar as much as this? Oh, that splendid Caesar! May you choke on any other sentiments like that! Say, “That splendid Antony.” The courageous Caesar! By Isis, I’ll give you bloody teeth if you ever compare Caesar with Antony, my best man among men.

Nay, pray you, seek no color for your going, But bid farewell and go. When you sued staying, Then was the time for words. No going then! Eternity was in our lips and eyes, Bliss in our brows’ bent, none our parts so poor But was a race of heaven. They are so still, Or thou, the greatest soldier of the world, Art turned the greatest liar.

I didn’t say free, madam. No, I didn’t say that. He’s bound to Octavia. CLEOPATRA For what favor? MESSENGER For the favor of sleeping in her bed. CLEOPATRA I am pale, Charmian. MESSENGER He’s married to Octavia, madam. CLEOPATRA May you die of the worst disease!

Though you can guess what temperance should be, You know not what it is

Qui cherche et ne saisit pas ce qui s'offre ne le reverra jamais plus.

Give me to drink Mandragora. Why, madam? That I might sleep out this great gap of time my Antony is away.

You shall find there a man who is the abstract of all faults that all men follow.

Antony shall be brought drunken forth, and I shall see some squeaking Cleopatra boy my greatness I’ th’ posture of a whore.

When valor preys on reason, it eats the sword it fights with.

In nature's infinite book of secrecy A little I can read.

Sometime we see a cloud that's dragonish, A vapor sometime like a bear or lion, A towered citadel, a pendant rock, A forked mountain, or blue promontory With trees upon't that nod unto the world And mock our eyes with air. Thou hast seen these signs: They are black vesper's pageants.

Egypt, thou knew'st too well My heart was to thy rudder tied by the strings, And thou shouldst tow me after: o'er my spirit Thy full supremacy thou knew'st, and that Thy beck might from the bidding of the gods Command me.

Oh, Charmian, Where think’st thou he is now? Stands he or sits he? Or does he walk? Or is he on his horse? O happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony! Do bravely, horse, for wott’st thou whom thou mov’st? The demi-Atlas of this earth, the arm And burgonet of men. He’s speaking now, Or murmuring “Where’s my serpent of old Nile?” For so he calls me. Now I feed myself With most delicious poison. Think on me, That am with Phoebus’ amorous pinches black And wrinkled deep in time. Broad-fronted Caesar, When thou wast here above the ground, I was A morsel for a monarch. And great Pompey Would stand and make his eyes grow in my brow. There would he anchor his aspect, and die With looking on his life.

It is no surprise that the only woman in antiquity who could be the subject of a full-length biography is Cleopatra. Yet, unlike Alexander, whom she rivals as the theme of romance and legend, Cleopatra is known to us through overwhelmingly hostile sources. The reward of the ‘good’ woman in Rome was likely to be praise in stereotyped phrases; in Athens she won oblivion.

It may take a decade or two before the extent of Shakespeare's collaboration passes from the graduate seminar to the undergraduate lecture, and finally to popular biography, by which time it will be one of those things about Shakespeare that we thought we knew all along. Right now, though, for those who teach the plays and write about his life, it hasn't been easy abandoning old habits of mind. I know that I am not alone in struggling to come to terms with how profoundly it alters one's sense of how Shakespeare wrote, especially toward the end of his career when he coauthored half of his last ten plays. For intermixed with five that he wrote alone, Antony and Cleopatra, Coriolanus, The Winter's Tale, Cymbeline, and The Tempest, are Timon of Athens (written with Thomas Middleton), Pericles (written with George Wilkins), and Henry the Eighth, the lost Cardenio, and The Two Noble Kinsmen (all written with John Fletcher).

It hath been taught us from the primal state / That he which is was wished until he were, / And the ebbed man, ne'er loved till ne'er worth love, / Comes feared by being lacked. This common body, / Like to a vagabond flag upon the stream, / Goes to and back, lackeying the varying tide / To rot itself with motion.

When we debate, Our trivial difference loud, we do commit Murder in healing wounds.

Fortune knows we scorn her most when most she offers blows.

You shall be more beloving than beloved.

Make me revenger.

with a wound I must be cured

Let him that loves me strike me dead.

And make death proud to take us.

I'll make death love me

The armourer of my heart

I am alone the villain of the earth

Whose heart I thought I had, for she had mine

...make death proud to take us.

¡Ah, por fin conmigo! Muere luego y vive antes; revive con besos. Si tal poder tuvieran, yo mis labios gastaría besando.

Soothsayer’s warning to Antony in Antony and Cleopatra, “If thou dost play with him at any game, / Thou art sure to lose” (2.3.26–27),

Riotous madness, To be entangled with those mouth-made vows, Which break themselves in swearing!

Now, for the love of Love and her soft hours, Let's not confound the time with conference harsh.

I do not like 'But yet,' it does allay The good precedence; fie upon 'But yet'! 'But yet' is as a gaoler to bring forth Some monstrous malefactor.

I that do bring the news made not the match.

As for describing the smell of a spaniel mixed with the smell of torches, laurels, incense, banners, wax candles and a garland of rose leaves crushed by a satin heel that has been laid up in camphor, perhaps Shakespeare, had he paused in the middle of writing Antony and Cleopatra — But Shakespeare did not pause. Confessing our inadequacy, then, we can but note that to Flush Italy, in these the fullest, the freest, the happiest years of his life, meant mainly a succession of smells. Love, it must be supposed, was gradually losing its appeal. Smell remained. Now that they were established in Casa Guidi again, all had their avocations. Mr. Browning wrote regularly in one room; Mrs. Browning wrote regularly in another. The baby played in the nursery. But Flush wandered off into the streets of Florence to enjoy the rapture of smell. He threaded his path through main streets and back streets, through squares and alleys, by smell. He nosed his way from smell to smell; the rough, the smooth, the dark, the golden. He went in and out, up and down, where they beat brass, where they bake bread, where the women sit combing their hair, where the bird-cages are piled high on the causeway, where the wine spills itself in dark red stains on the pavement, where leather smells and harness and garlic, where cloth is beaten, where vine leaves tremble, where men sit and drink and spit and dice — he ran in and out, always with his nose to the ground, drinking in the essence; or with his nose in the air vibrating with the aroma. He slept in this hot patch of sun — how sun made the stone reek! he sought that tunnel of shade — how acid shade made the stone smell! He devoured whole bunches of ripe grapes largely because of their purple smell; he chewed and spat out whatever tough relic of goat or macaroni the Italian housewife had thrown from the balcony — goat and macaroni were raucous smells, crimson smells. He followed the swooning sweetness of incense into the violet intricacies of dark cathedrals; and, sniffing, tried to lap the gold on the window- stained tomb. Nor was his sense of touch much less acute. He knew Florence in its marmoreal smoothness and in its gritty and cobbled roughness. Hoary folds of drapery, smooth fingers and feet of stone received the lick of his tongue, the quiver of his shivering snout. Upon the infinitely sensitive pads of his feet he took the clear stamp of proud Latin inscriptions. In short, he knew Florence as no human being has ever known it; as Ruskin never knew it or George Eliot either.

What say you? Hence, Horrible villain! or I'll spurn thine eyes Like balls before me; I'll unhair thy head: Thou shalt be whipp'd with wire, and stew'd in brine, Smarting in lingering pickle.

Pero derrochar el tiempo que le llama cual tambor con la fuerza de su rango y del nuestro, debe reprenderse como se riñe al muchacho que, maduro, por un placer fugaz sacrifica la cordura traicionando a la razón.

My nightingale, We have beat them to their beds. What, girl! though grey Do something mingle with our younger brown, yet ha' we A brain that nourishes our nerves, and can Get goal for goal of youth. Behold this man; Commend unto his lips thy favouring hand: Kiss it, my warrior: he hath fought to-day As if a god, in hate of mankind, had Destroy'd in such a shape.

O, whither hast thou led me, Egypt? See How I convey my shame out of thine eyes By looking back what I have left behind 'Stroyed in dishonour. Cleopatra: O my lord, my lord, Forgive my fearful sails! I little thought You would have followed. Antony: Egypt, thou knew'st too well My heart was to thy rudder tied by th' strings, And thou shouldst tow me after. O'er my spirit Thy full supremacy thou knew'st, and that Thy beck might from the bidding of the gods Command me. Cleopatra: O, my pardon! Antony: Now I must To the young man send humble treaties, dodge And palter in the shifts of lowness, who With half the bulk o' th' world played as I pleased, Making and marring fortunes. You did know How much you were my conqueror, and that My sword, made weak by my affection, would Obey it on all cause. Cleopatra: Pardon, pardon! Antony: Fall not a tear, I say; one of them rates All that is won and lost. Give me a kiss. Even this repays me. We sent our schoolmaster; is 'a come back? Love, I am full of lead. Some wine Within there, and our viands! Fortune knows We scorn her most when she offers blows.

Did you see Octavia? MESSENGER Yes, revered Queen. CLEOPATRA Where? MESSENGER In Rome, Madam. I saw her face as she walked with her brother and Mark Antony. CLEOPATRA Is she as tall as I am? MESSENGER She is not, madam. CLEOPATRA Did you hear her speak? Is her voice pitched high or low? MESSENGER Madam, I heard her speak. She has a low-pitched voice. CLEOPATRA That’s not so good. He cannot like her long. MESSENGER Like her? Oh, Isis, that’s impossible. CLEOPATRA You’re right. Charmian, she’s both dull-spoken and dwarfishly little.—Did she carry herself with majesty? Compare her to any memory you might have of royalty. MESSENGER She creeps along. Moving or standing still, her bearing is about the same. She has a body, not a life. She’s more like a statue than a living, breathing human being. CLEOPATRA Is this true? MESSENGER If not, then I have no powers of observation. CHARMIAN There aren’t three people in all of Egypt who could do better. CLEOPATRA He’s very observant. I can tell. She doesn’t have anything going for her so far. This messenger is wise. CLEOPATRA (to MESSENGER ) How old do you think she is? MESSENGER She was a widow previously, madam CLEOPATRA A widow? Do you hear that, Charmian? MESSENGER And I think she’s at least thirty. CLEOPATRA Do you remember her face? Was it long or round? MESSENGER Round enough to be unattractive. CLEOPATRA Usually that means a person is foolish. What color is her hair? MESSENGER Brown, madam, and her forehead As low as she would wish it.

No more light answers. Let our officers Have note what we purpose. I shall break The cause of our expedience to the Queen And get her leave to part. For not alone The death of Fulvia, with more urgent touches, Do strongly speak to us, but the letters too Of many our contriving friends in Rome Petition us at home. Sextus Pompeius Hath given the dare to Caesar and commands The empire of the sea. Our slippery people, Whose love is never linked to the deserver Till his deserts are past, begin to throw Pompey the Great and all his dignities Upon his son, who - high in name and power, Higher than both in blood and life - stands up For the main soldier; whose quality, going on, The sides o' th' world may danger. Much is breeding Which, like the courser's hair, hath yet but life And not a serpent's poison.

As for the other experiences, the solitary ones, which people go through alone, in their bedrooms, in their offices, walking the fields and the streets of London, he had them; had left home, a mere boy, because of his mother; she lied; because he came down to tea for the fiftieth time with his hands unwashed; because he could see no future for a poet in Stroud; and so, making a confidant of his little sister, had gone to London leaving an absurd note behind him, such as great men have written, and the world has read later when the story of their struggles has become famous. London has swallowed up many millions of young men called Smith; thought nothing of fantastic Christian names like Septimus with which their parents have thought to distinguish them. Lodging off the Euston Road, there were experiences, again experiences, such as change a face in two years from a pink innocent oval to a face lean, contracted, hostile. But of all this what could the most observant of friends have said except what a gardener says when he opens the conservatory door in the morning and finds a new blossom on his plant: — It has flowered; flowered from vanity, ambition, idealism, passion, loneliness, courage, laziness, the usual seeds, which all muddled up (in a room off the Euston Road), made him shy, and stammering, made him anxious to improve himself, made him fall in love with Miss Isabel Pole, lecturing in the Waterloo Road upon Shakespeare. Was he not like Keats? she asked; and reflected how she might give him a taste of Antony and Cleopatra and the rest; lent him books; wrote him scraps of letters; and lit in him

Lo último que hizo, Majestad, fue dar un beso, el último de miles, a esta perla oriental. Sus palabras se clavaron en mi pecho. CLEOPATRA Y de ahí mi oído ha de arrancarlas. ALEXAS «Buen amigo —dice—, haz saber que el fiel romano envía a la gran egipcia el tesoro de una ostra y que, además, por compensar tan vil regalo, rodearé su rico trono de otros reinos. Todo el Oriente —díselo— la llamará señora». Saludó y con dignidad montó un airoso corcel, que relinchó con tal brío que silenció brutalmente mi respuesta.

CAESAR Evet, öyle öldürmüş olacak kendini. Hekimi söylüyordu: Bir sürü denemeler yaptırmış Kolay ölmenin yolunu bulmak için. Alın götürün onu yatağı üstünde, Kadınlarını da çıkartın bu anıttan dışarı. Antonius'un yanına gömülsün Kleopatra. Böylesine ünlü bir çifti, hiçbir mezar Birleştirememiştir yeryüzünde. Sebep olanların da içini sarsan Büyük olaylardan biri bu yaşadığımız: Onların hikayesinin insanlara duyuracağı acı Daha küçük olmayacak Onları acınacak hale düşürenlerin zaferinden. Ordumuz bu ölüm törenine saygı ile katılacak, Sonra Roma'ya döneceğiz. Sayfa:164

Yeminlerin tanrıların tahtını da sarssa, Nasıl inanabilirdim benim olduğuna, Benim kalacağına? Kimdi Fulvia'yı aldatan? İnsan deli olmalı ki kansın O yalnız ağızdan edilen, Edilir edilmez de bozulan yeminlere! ANTONIUS Canım kraliçem benim... KLEOPATRA Yok, rica ederim, bahaneler arama gitmene: Hoşçakal de ve git. Kalmak istediğin günlerde Neler söylemiştin neler. Gitme sözü yoktu o zaman. Sonsuzluk dudaklarımızda, gözlerimizde, Mutluluk kaşımız kirpiğimizdeydi, o zaman. Varlığımızın tek kılında bile Tanrısal bir şeyler vardı. Bugün bunlar yine var, Yok dersen, dünyanın en büyük yalancısısın, Dünyanın en büyük askeri de olsan.

Kleopatra Öyleyse, sevgilim, soğuyan yüreğimden Buz gibi taşlar yağdırsın gökler Zehirleyerek hem de kanımın kaynağını: İlk taş boynuma düşsün ve erisin canımla birlikte. İkinci taş Caesarion'un başını alsın, Silsin birer birer izlerini soyumun; Bugün yiğit Mısırlılar'ımla birlikte Mezarsız bıraksın hepsini bu eriyen buz kasırgası; Nil'in sinekleri, kurtları gömsün yesin onları! Antonius Ferahladı yüreğim. İskenderiye'ye mi iniyor Caesar, Peki, ben de orda çıkarım karşısına. Kara gücümüz yiyitçe duruyor ayakta. Dağılan donanmamız da toparlanıyor, yeniden Yarıyor denizleri, meydan okuyarak. Nerelere gitmişti bu yüreğim benim? Dinle beni, kraliçe, bu dudakları öpmek için Bir daha dönersem savaştan, Üstüm başım kan içinde döneceğim. Kılıcımla ben yazacağım tarihimizi. Umutsuz değilim henüz. Sayfa:108

1595, Richard Field, fellow-alumnus of the King Edward grammar school in Stratford-upon-Avon, printed The lives of the noble Grecians and Romanes, compared together by that grave learned philosopher and historiographer, Plutarke of Chaeronea: translated out of Greeke into French by James Amiot, abbot of Bellozane, Bishop of Auxerre, one of the Kings privie counsell, and great Amner of France, and out of French into English, by Thomas North. This was the book that got Shakespeare thinking seriously about politics: monarchy versus republicanism versus empire; the choices we make and their tragic consequences; the conflict between public duty and private desire. He absorbed classical thought, but was not enslaved to it. Shakespeare was a thinker who always made it new, adapted his source materials, and put his own spin on them. In the case of Plutarch, he feminized the very masculine Roman world. Brutus and Caesar are seen through the prism of their wives, Portia and Calpurnia; Coriolanus through his mother, Volumnia; Mark Antony through his lover, Cleopatra. Roman women were traditionally silent, confined to the domestic sphere. Cleopatra is the very antithesis of such a woman, while Volumnia is given the full force of that supreme Ciceronian skill, a persuasive rhetorical voice.40 Timon of Athens is alone and unhappy precisely because his obsession with money has cut him off from the love of, and for, women (the only females in Timon’s strange play are two prostitutes). Paradoxically, the very masculinity of Plutarch’s version of ancient history stimulated Shakespeare into demonstrating that women are more than the equal of men. Where most thinkers among his contemporaries took the traditional view of female inferiority, he again and again wrote comedies in which the girls are smarter than the boys—Beatrice in Much Ado about Nothing, Rosalind in As You Like It, Portia in The Merchant of Venice—and tragedies in which women exercise forceful authority for good or ill (Tamora, Cleopatra, Volumnia, and Cymbeline’s Queen in his imagined antiquity, but also Queen Margaret in his rendition of the Wars of the Roses).41

As for the other experiences, the solitary ones, which people go through alone, in their bedrooms, in their offices, walking the fields and the streets of London, he had them; had left home, a mere boy, because of his mother; she lied; because he came down to tea for the fiftieth time with his hands unwashed; because he could see no future for a poet in Stroud; and so, making a confidant of his little sister, had gone to London leaving an absurd note behind him, such as great men have written, and the world has read later when the story of their struggles has become famous. London has swallowed up many millions of young men called Smith; thought nothing of fantastic Christian names like Septimus with which their parents have thought to distinguish them. Lodging off the Euston Road, there were experiences, again experiences, such as change a face in two years from a pink innocent oval to a face lean, contracted, hostile. But of all this what could the most observant of friends have said except what a gardener says when he opens the conservatory door in the morning and finds a new blossom on his plant: — It has flowered; flowered from vanity, ambition, idealism, passion, loneliness, courage, laziness, the usual seeds, which all muddled up (in a room off the Euston Road), made him shy, and stammering, made him anxious to improve himself, made him fall in love with Miss Isabel Pole, lecturing in the Waterloo Road upon Shakespeare. Was he not like Keats? she asked; and reflected how she might give him a taste of Antony and Cleopatra and the rest; lent him books; wrote him scraps of letters; and lit in him such a fire as burns only once in a lifetime, without heat, flickering a red gold flame infinitely ethereal and insubstantial over Miss Pole; Antony and Cleopatra; and the Waterloo Road. He thought her beautiful, believed her impeccably wise; dreamed of her, wrote poems to her, which, ignoring the subject, she corrected in red ink; he saw her, one summer evening, walking in a green dress in a square. “It has flowered,” the gardener might have said, had he opened the door; had he come in, that is to say, any night about this time, and found him writing; found him tearing up his writing; found him finishing a masterpiece at three o’clock in the morning and running out to pace the streets, and visiting churches, and fasting one day, drinking another, devouring Shakespeare, Darwin, The History of Civilisation, and Bernard Shaw.