Must give us pause. There's the respect Peavad meile puhkust andma. Seal on hirm That makes calamity of so long life. Mis teeb õnnetuse sellest pikast elust For who would bear the whips and scorns of Kuna kes taluks aja piitsutusi ja põlgust, time, Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's Rõhuja väära, uhke solvamist contumely The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, Äratõugatud armastuse valupisteid, seaduse viivitust The insolence of office, and the spurns Ametniku jultumust, ja halvakspanu, That patient merit of th' unworthy takes, Mida kannatab vääritu kannatlik väärtus, When he himself might his quietus make Kui ta ise võib ennast lõpetada With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear, Vaid pistodaga ? kes kannataks koormaid, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, Pahuralt kurdaks ja higistaks tüütava elu all
other through their mutual union. Events take the darker turn after that. Tybalt, still smarting from the incident at the Capulets' ball, had previously sent a letter to the Montagues challenging Romeo to a duel. Meeting Romeo by happenstance, he attempts to provoke a fight. Romeo refuses to fight Tybalt because they are now kinsmen -- although Tybalt doesn't know it, as he doesn't yet know that Romeo has married Juliet. Mercutio, who is also unaware of the marriage, is angered by Tybalt's insolence and Romeo's seeming indifference and takes up the challenges himself. Benvolio tries to make peace and reminds everyone of the Prince's decree. In the ensuing swordplay, Romeo attempts to allay Mercutio's anger, momentarily placing his arm around him. By doing so, however, Romeo inadvertently pulls Mercutio into Tybalt's rapier, fatally wounding him. Mercutio dies, wishing "a plague a'both your houses," before he passes. Romeo, in his anger, pursues and slays Tybalt. Although
If you can help it, don't uphold imposture; But do not rail at true devoutness, either; And if you must fall into one extreme, Then rather err again the other way. SCENE II DAMIS, ORGON, CLEANTE DAMIS What! father, can the scoundrel threaten you, Forget the many benefits received, And in his base abominable pride Make of your very favours arms against you? ORGON Too true, my son. It tortures me to think on't. DAMIS Let me alone, I'll chop his ears off for him. We must deal roundly with his insolence; 'Tis I must free you from him at a blow; 'Tis I, to set things right, must strike him down. CLEANTE Spoke like a true young man. Now just calm down, And moderate your towering tantrums, will you? We live in such an age, with such a king, That violence can not advance our cause. SCENE III MADAME PERNELLE, ORGON, ELMIRE, CLEANTE, MARIANE, DAMIS, DORINE MADAME PERNELLE What's this? I hear of fearful mysteries! ORGON Strange things indeed, for my own eyes to witness;
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause: there's the respect That makes calamity of so long life; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscover'd country from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution
of comprehension, and from impatience of knowing what the next sentence might bring, was incapable of attending to the sense of the one before her eyes. His belief of her sister's insensibility she instantly resolved to be false; and his account of the real, the worst objections to the match, made her too angry to have any wish of doing him justice. He expressed no regret for what he had done which satisfied her; his style was not penitent, but haughty. It was all pride and insolence. But when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr. Wickham--when she read with somewhat clearer attention a relation of events which, if true, must overthrow every cherished opinion of his worth, and which bore so alarming an affinity to his own history of himself--her feelings were yet more acutely painful and more difficult of definition. Astonishment, apprehension, and even horror, oppressed her. She wished to discredit it entirely, repeatedly exclaiming, "This must be false
annaabi.ee 
