THE TELL-TALE HEART Edgar Allan Poe

TRUE!—nervous—very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why
will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses—not destroyed—
not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the
heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken!
and observe how healthily—how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived,
it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved
the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I
had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! One of his eyes resembled that of
a vulture—a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran
cold; and so by degrees—very gradually—I made up my mind to take the life of the old
man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you
should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded—with what
caution— with what foresight—with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never
kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night,
about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it—oh, so gently! And then,
when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed,
closed, so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have
laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly—very, very slowly, so that
I might not disturb the old man’s sleep.
 I HAVE A DREAM Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
Address delivered at the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom Washington, D.C., August 28, 1963

[I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest
demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation.]

Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand
today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great
beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves, who had been seared in the flames of
withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their
captivity.

But one hundred years later, the Negro still is not free. One hundred years
later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the
chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of
poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later,
the Negro is still languished in the corners of American society and finds himself an
exile in his own land. And so we’ve come here today to dramatize a shameful
condition.

In a sense we’ve come to our nation's capital to cash a check. When the
architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the
Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every
American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men, yes, black men as well
as white men, would be guaranteed to the “Unalienable Rights of Life, Liberty, and the
pursuit of Happiness.”

It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note insofar
as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation,
America has given the Negro people a bad check, a check which has come back marked
"insufficient funds." But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We
refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of
this nation. And so we’ve come to cash this check, a check that will give us upon
demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice.
 ANNABEL LEE Edgar Allan Poe
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,

In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,

Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
 REMEMBER Christina Georgina Rosetti

Remember me when I am gone away,

Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you planned:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.
 KING LEAR William Shakespeare
SUMMARY
Lear, the aging king of Britain, decides to step down from the throne and divide his kingdom evenly among his three
daughters. First, however, he puts his daughters through a test, asking each to tell him how much she loves him. Goneril and
Regan, Lear’s older daughters, give their father flattering answers. But Cordelia, Lear’s youngest and favorite daughter, remains
silent, saying that she has no words to describe how much she loves her father. Lear flies into a rage and disowns Cordelia. The
king of France, who has courted Cordelia, says that he still wants to marry her even without her land, and she accompanies him to
France without her father’s blessing.
Lear quickly learns that he made a bad decision. Goneril and Regan swiftly begin to undermine the little authority that
Lear still holds. Unable to believe that his beloved daughters are betraying him, Lear slowly goes insane. He flees his daughters’
houses to wander on a heath during a great thunderstorm, accompanied by his Fool and by Kent, a loyal nobleman in disguise.
Meanwhile, an elderly nobleman named Gloucester also experiences family problems. His illegitimate son, Edmund,
tricks him into believing that his legitimate son, Edgar, is trying to kill him. Fleeing the manhunt that his father has set for him,
Edgar disguises himself as a crazy beggar and calls himself “Poor Tom.” Like Lear, he heads out onto the heath.
When the loyal Gloucester realizes that Lear’s daughters have turned against their father, he decides to help Lear in spite of the
danger. Regan and her husband, Cornwall, discover him helping Lear, accuse him of treason, blind him, and turn him out to
wander the countryside. He ends up being led by his disguised son, Edgar, toward the city of Dover, where Lear has also been
brought.
In Dover, a French army lands as part of an invasion led by Cordelia in an effort to save her father. Edmund apparently
becomes romantically entangled with both Regan and Goneril, whose husband, Albany, is increasingly sympathetic to Lear’s cause.
Goneril and Edmund conspire to kill Albany.
The despairing Gloucester tries to commit suicide, but Edgar saves him by pulling the strange trick of leading him off an
imaginary cliff. Meanwhile, the English troops reach Dover, and the English, led by Edmund, defeat the Cordelia-led French. Lear
and Cordelia are captured. In the climactic scene, Edgar duels with and kills Edmund; we learn of the death of Gloucester; Goneril
poisons Regan out of jealousy over Edmund and then kills herself when her treachery is revealed to Albany; Edmund’s betrayal of
Cordelia leads to her needless execution in prison; and Lear finally dies out of grief at Cordelia’s passing. Albany, Edgar, and the
elderly Kent are left to take care of the country under a cloud of sorrow and regret.

CORDELIA: O my dear father! Restoration hang

Thy medicine on my lips; and let this kiss
Repair those violent harms that my two sisters
Have in thy reverence made!
[KENT: Kind and dear princess!]
CORDELIA: Was this a face
To be opposed against the warring winds?
To stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder?
In the most terrible and nimble stroke
Of quick, cross lightning? to watch—poor perdu!—
With this thin helm? Mine enemy’s dog,
Though he had bit me, should have stood that night
Against my fire; and wast thou fain, poor father,
To hovel thee with swine, and rogues forlorn,
In short and musty straw? Alack, alack!
’Tis wonder that thy life and wits at once
Had not concluded all. He wakes; speak to him.
[Doctor: Madam, do you; ’tis fittest.]
CORDELIA: How does my royal lord? How fares
your majesty?
KING LEAR: You do me wrong to take me out o’ the
grave:
Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound
Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears
Do scald like molten lead.
CORDELIA: Sir, do you know me?
KING LEAR: You are a spirit, I know: when did you
die?
CORDELIA: Still, still, far wide!
[Doctor: He’s scarce awake: let him alone awhile.]
KING LEAR: Where have I been? Where am I? Fair
daylight?
I am mightily abused. I should e’en die with pity,
To see another thus. I know not what to say.
I will not swear these are my hands: let’s see;
I feel this pin prick. Would I were assured
Of my condition!
CORDELIA: O, look upon me, sir,
And hold your hands in benediction o’er me:
No, sir, you must not kneel.
KING LEAR: Pray, do not mock me:
I am a very foolish fond old man,
Fourscore and upward, not an hour more nor less;
And, to deal plainly,
I fear I am not in my perfect mind.
Methinks I should know you, and know this man;
Yet I am doubtful for I am mainly ignorant
What place this is; and all the skill I have
Remembers not these garments; nor I know not
Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me;
For, as I am a man, I think this lady
To be my child Cordelia.
CORDELIA: And so I am, I am.
KING LEAR: Be your tears wet? yes, ‘faith. I pray,
weep not:
If you have poison for me, I will drink it.
I know you do not love me; for your sisters
Have, as I do remember, done me wrong:
You have some cause, they have not.
CORDELIA: No cause, no cause.
KING LEAR: Am I in France?
KENT: In your own kingdom, sir.
KING LEAR: Do not abuse me.
CORDELIA: Will’t please your highness walk?
KING LEAR: You must bear with me:
Pray you now, forget and forgive: I am old and foolish.
JULIUS CAESAR
In Rome, people are celebrating the triumphant return of Julius Caesar, a noted general. A soothsayer advises Caesar that the
fifteenth of March (the ides of March) will be a dangerous day for him. Two Roman nobles, Cassius and Brutus, discuss Caesar’s
growing power. Cassius urges Brutus to oppose Caesar for fear that Caesar may become king. Brutus ponders joining the
conspiracy against Caesar and ultimately agrees to join with the conspirators. On the ides of March, Calphurnia, Caesar’s wife,
persuades him to stay home because she fears for his safety. However, after hearing that the senators plan to crown him, Caesar
changes his mind and decides to go. In the street, Caesar brushes aside attempts to warn him of the conspiracy. Inside the Senate,
the conspirators gather
around Caesar and stab him to death, bathing their arms and hands in his blood. Mark Antony learns of the assassination and
sends Brutus a message that he will follow Brutus as he followed Caesar. Brutus gives Antony permission to speak at Caesar’s
funeral and inflamed by Antony’s words, the people set off to attack the conspirators. Antony joins with Octavius to raise an army
and fight against Brutus and Cassius. The opposing armies
confront each other at Philippi. Brutus and Cassius are defeated, and Brutus kills himself. Antony praises Brutus as the only
honorable conspirator, and Octavius orders Brutus’ funeral rites.

ANTONY: Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me

your ears;
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you Caesar was ambitious:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Caesar answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest—
For Brutus is an honourable man;
So are they all, all honourable men—
Come I to speak in Caesar’s funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me:
But Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
He hath brought many captives home to Rome
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:
Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?
When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept:
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
You all did see that on the Lupercal
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And, sure, he is an honourable man.
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause:
What cause withholds you then, to mourn for him?
O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason. Bear with me;
My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,
And I must pause till it come back to me.
HAMLET

Hamlet: To be, or not to be--that is the question:

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep--
No more--and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. 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,
Th' 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 th' 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 undiscovered 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
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprise of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.
MACBETH
If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well
It were done quickly: if the assassination
Could trammel up the consequence, and catch
With his surcease success; that but this blow
Might be the be-all and the end-all here,
But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,
We'ld jump the life to come. But in these cases
We still have judgment here; that we but teach
Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return
To plague the inventor: this even-handed justice
Commends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice
To our own lips. He's here in double trust;
First, as I am his kinsman and his subject,
Strong both against the deed; then, as his host,
Who should against his murderer shut the door,
Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan
Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been
So clear in his great office, that his virtues
Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against
The deep damnation of his taking-off;
And pity, like a naked new-born babe,
Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubim, horsed
Upon the sightless couriers of the air,
Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye,
That tears shall drown the wind. I have no spur
To prick the sides of my intent, but only
Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself
And falls on the other.