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SIXTH BOOK.

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF SHAKESPEARE. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, the greatest poetical and dramatic genius of our own, or perhaps of any other country, was born at Stratford-on-Avon, in Warwickshire, in 1564, and died. there in 1616.

We have few authentic details of the life of this wonderful man, and can state with certainty only the following bare facts-that he married young; went to London, where he became an actor of no great ability, and a writer of plays and poems; and that he returned to Stratford, where he lived in comfort and respectability until his death.

This is all we know of the private life of one, whose name is familiar to us as "household words," and whose memory is dear to every Englishman, and indeed to many men of other climes and nations, who claim for the poet a world-wide citizenship.

His works are numerous and varied, and appear to include every type of human character, from the noble and virtuous, to the worthless and profane. Every circumstance, in which we can be placed, finds an appropriate expression in some page of his; and every hope and every emotion seems to have been chronicled by his masterly pen: so that he is most truly a poet of all time and all nations.

His works show a love of pure morality and deep religious feeling. Never do we find vice made to appear like virtue, or crime attractive and unpunished. In his final creations, Lear, Hamlet, Othello, &c., our feelings are warmly excited

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on behalf of noble characters oppressed or deceived; and throughout his other plays our sentiments are the same. It is true that some coarse expressions are occasionally met with in Shakespeare's pages, but these are due to the age in which he lived, and not to the disposition of the poet himself.

HENRY THE FOURTH'S ADDRESS TO SLEEP.

How many thousand of my poorest subjects
Are at this hour asleep! Sleep! gentle sleep!
Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weigh mine eyelids down,
And steep my senses in forgetfulness?

Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee,

And hushed with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber,
Than in the perfumed chambers of the great,
Under the canopies of costly state,

And lulled with sounds of sweetest melody?

O thou dull god! why liest thou with the vile,
In loathsome beds, and leav'st the kingly couch,
A watch-case, or a common 'larum bell?

Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast
Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains
In cradle of the rude imperious surge,

And in the visitation of the winds,
Who take the ruffian billows by the top,

Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them
With deaf'ning clamours in the slippery clouds
That, with the hurly, death itself awakes?
Canst thou, O partial sleep! give thy repose
To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude;
And, in the calmest and most stillest night,
With all appliances and means to boot,1

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