220 
SHAKESP£ARE*S GARDEN 
Will these moss’d trees, 
That have outlived the eagle, page thy heels, 
And skip where thou point’st out ? Will the cold brook, 
Candied with ice, caudle thy morning taste, 
To cure thy o’er-night’s surfeit! 
IV. iii. 223. 
That numberless upon me stuck as leaves 
Do on the oak, have with one winter’s brush 
Fell from their boughs and left me open, bare 
For every storm that blows: I, to bear this, 
That never knew but better, is some burden. 
IV. iii. 263. 
Apem. There’s a medlar for thee, eat it. 
Tim . On what I hate I feed not. 
Apem. Dost hate a medlar ? 
Tim. Ay, though it look like thee. 
Apem. An thou hadst hated meddlers sooner, thou shouldst 
have loved thyself better now. What man didst thou ever 
know unthrift that was beloved after his means ? 
IV. iii. 305. 
Tim. Your greatest want is, you want much of meat. 
Why should you want ? Behold, the earth hath roots ; 
Within this mile break forth a hundred springs; 
The oaks bear mast, the briers scarlet hips-; 
The bounteous housewife, nature, on each bush 
Lays her full mess before you. Want ? why want ? 
1st Ban. We cannot live on grass, on berries, water, 
As beasts and birds and fishes. 
IV. iii. 419. 
Go, suck the subtle blood o’ the grape, 
Till the high fever seethe your blood to froth. 
IV. iii. 432. 
Pain. Nothing else : you shall see him a palm in Athens 
again, and flourish with the highest. 
V. i. 12. 
1st Sen. Noble and young, 
When thy first griefs were but a mere conceit, 
Ere thou hadst power or we had cause of fear, 
We sent to thee, to give thy rages balm, 
To wipe out our ingratitude with loves 
Above their quantity. 
V. iv. 14. 
