himself in verse as with an inevitable attribute, but on the rare
occasions when he condescended to step down from the great line to
"the other harmony of prose" he is as splendid as in all else. In
_Hamlet_ we have this sudden passage:--

"I have of late, (but wherefore I know not), lost all my mirth,
foregone all custom of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily
with my disposition, that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to
me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy the air, look
you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof
fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me,
than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.

"What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! how infinite in
faculty! in form and moving, how express and admirable! in action,
how like an angel! in apprehension, how like a god! the beauty of
the world! the paragon of animals! And yet to me what is this
quintessence of dust?"

And the most beautiful letter in the world is that written by Antonio to
Bassanio in _The Merchant of Venice_. When it is remembered that it
was out of his friendship for Bassanio that Antonio entered into his
bond with Shylock, the supreme exquisiteness of the few words from
friend to friend render this letter unsurpassable:--

"Sweet Bassanio, my ships have all miscarried, my creditors grow
cruel, my estate is very low, my bond to the Jew is forfeit, and
since, in paying it, it is impossible I should live, all debts are
cleared between you and me if I might see you at my death;
notwithstanding, use your pleasure; if your love do not persuade