Was the wassailing Head of the bristly Boar! We are minions of the moon, Doughty heroes, hot for fight! May a cloud her brightness shroud, And help us to a purse to-night. Buckram'd varlets! coward knaves! Angels, watches, rings unfob!-- Prince and Poins. Up with staves, and down with braves-- We true men the robbers rob! Touchstone. Mistress Audrey, in the dance, With your love-lorn swain advance. Though our carpet *s not so sheen As shady Arden's forest green, And the lamps are not so bright As chaste Luna's silver light, Nor our company so gay As when trips the sprightly fay, I will dance, and I will sing, Mingling in the laughing ring. Chorus. Shout for the Head of the bristly Boar! Jovial spirits, as we are now, Did merrily bound while the cup went round Under the holly and mistletoe bough. Sing O the green holly! sing O the green holly! Nothing's so sweet as divine melancholy. Ingratitude blighting true friendships of old, No bleak winter wind is so bitter and cold. The room now seemed to extend in width and in length; the sounds of revelry ceased, and other characters appeared upon the scene. Lady Macbeth, her eyes bending on vacancy, her lips moving convulsively, her voice audible, but in fearful whispers, slept her last sleep of darkness, guilt, and terror. The Weird Sisters danced round their magic caldron, hideous, anomalous, and immortal! The noble Moor ended “life's fitful season,” remorseful and heartbroken. The “Majesty of buried Denmark” revisited “the pale glimpses of the moon.” Ariel, dismissed by Pros-pero, warbled his valedictory strain, and flew to his bright dwelling, “under the blossom that hangs on the bough.” The chiefs and sages of imperial Rome swept along in silent majesty. Lear, on his knees, bareheaded, with heavenward eye, quivering lip, and hands clasped together in agony, pronounced the terrible curse, and in his death realised all that can be imagined of human woe. Shylock, the representative of a once-despised and persecuted race, pleaded his cause before the senate, and lost it by a quibble. Obe-ron, Puck, and the ethereal essences of a Midsummer Night's Dream flitted in the moonbeams. Benedick and Beatrice had their wars of wit and combats of the tongue. The Lady Constance, alternately reproachful, despairing, and frenzied, exhibited a matchless picture of maternal tenderness. Juliet breathed forth her sighs to the chaste stars. Isabella read a lesson to haughty authority, when she asks her brother's forfeited life at the hands