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THE
SHAKSPEAEIM READEE:
A COLLECTION
THfeko^Ai^5ftA^SiI> ^Jays
SffiffiSPElEE;
CAKEFULLT REVISED, WITH
INTRODUCTORY AND EXPLANATORY NOTES,
AND
A MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR.
PBEPABBD EXPRESSLY FOR THE USB OF CLASSES, AND THE
FAMILY READING CIRCLE.
BY
JOHN W. S. HOWS,
PROFESSOR OF ELOCUTION IN COLUMBIA COLLEQE.
The Man, whom Nature's self had made
To mock herself, and Truth to imitate.
Spenstr.
NEW YORK:
D. APPLETON & 00., 443 & 445 BROADWAY.
1866.
Entebid, according to Act of Congress, In t)»e year 1S19, by
D. APPLETON A CO.,
In the Clerk's Office of the Olstrict Court of the United States for the Southern
District of New York.
TO
THE HON. OODEN HOFFMAN,
THIS ATTEMPT TO EEKDEB
SHAKSPEARE
AE imEXCEFTIONABLE CLASS BOOK,
■\MD AN ACCEPTABLE FAMILY READEK,
IS
Slcifjpcctfuns
AS
A TESTIMONIAL OF GRATEFUL ESTEEM,
BT
JOHN W. a HOWS.
I
PREFACE.
At a period when the fame of Shakspeare is " striding the woild
like a colossus," and editions of his works are multiplied witli a pro¬
fusion that testifies the desire awakened in all classes of society to
read and study his imperishable compositions,—there needs, perhaps,
but little apology for the following selections of his works, prepared
expressly to render them unexceptionable for the use of Schools,
and acceptable, for Family reading. Apart firom the fact, that
Shakspeare is the " well-spring " from which may be traced the ori¬
gin of the purest poetry in our language,—a long course of profes¬
sional experience has satisfied me that a necessity exists for the
addition of a work like the present, to our stock of Educational
literature. His writings are peculiarly adapted for the purposes of
elocutionary exercise, when the system of instruction pursued by the
Teacher is based upon the true principle of the art, viz.—careful
analysis of the structure and meaning of language, rather than a
servile adherence to the arbitrary and mechanical rules of Elocution.
To impress upon the mind of the pupil that words are the expo¬
sition of thought, and that in reading, or speaking, every shade of
thought and feeliitg has its appropriate shade of modulated tone,
ought to be the especial aim of every Teacher; and an author
like Shakspeare, whose every line embodies a volume of meaning,
should surely form one of our Elocutionary Text Books. I have
invariably found that the attention of youthful puuils is more readily
Viii PREFACE.
awakened by the force and beauty of his langnage, than by that ot
all other writers. Interest is uniformly excited in the student by
the infinite variety of character that our great poet introduces into
his creations, whilst the perceptive faculties of the reader become
quickened and roused into action by the wonderful power he ex¬
hibits in " making his persons act and speak by the influence of
those general passions and principles by which all minds are agi¬
tated." The study of Elocution, under impressions so favorable,
becomes an exercise truly intellectual, and the objectionable, but still
necessary mechanism of the art, is reduced to its proper subordinate
and auxiliary position.
That his entire works could not be introduced into schools is
evident; nor do the "Selections," "Beauties," and occasional
"Extracts," found in our Class Readers, precisely meet the wants of
a pupil. These are at best the ." bricks,"—unsatisfactory speci¬
mens of the imperishable structure that the genius of our poet has
reared, for the admiration of every age and every clime.
" The real power of Shakspeare is not shown only by particular
passages, but much also by the progress of his fables and the tenor
of his dialogue." Uncormected extracts will always fail to interest
and impress the young to the same extent as a coherent story and
an animated scene.
Acting upon these' convictions, I have endeavored to extract the
essence, as it were, of sixteen of Shakspeare's most approved Dra¬
mas—preserving in each the main story entire, by the md of brief
explanatory notes coimecting the selections. The strictly poetical
passages have been generally retained in preference to the comic
portions, my limits compelling me to a choice between the two.
Conceding the necessity of this almost imperative choice, I believe
that the selections are those, to which the lovers of Shakspeare
most firequently and most satisfactorily recur.
Of the liberties I have been compelled to take with my author
FEEFACE.
ix
[ seareely know how to speak with becoming propriety. I profess
jo share the common veneration entertained for the pure unmutilated
text of Shakspeare; and can estimate at what it is worth that ultra
fastidiousness, which denounces the great "Poet of Nature" for
having made his characters speak agreeably to the spirit of his men
age. StQl, in preparing a selection of his works for the express pur¬
pose contemplated in my design, I have not hesitated to exercise a
severe revision of his language, beyond that adopted in any similar
undertaking—" Bowdler's Family Shakspeare " not even excepted
and simply, because I practically know the impossibility of intro¬
ducing Shakspeare as a Class Book, or as a satisfactory Reading
Book for Families, without this precautionary revision.
To render the selections better adapted for expressive reading,
I have also ventured to disencumber several passages of unneces¬
sary circumlocution, consulting standard authorities to aid me in this
portion of my labors.
I may be held amenable at the bar of criticism, for what may be
deemed by many a profanation of Shakspeare.
In extenuation of my temerity, I may be permitted to say, that
although the undertaking of such a work as the present, has been
urged upon me by convictions, practically enforced, of its necessity,
I have long been restrained from making the attempt from con¬
scientious scruples as to its propriety. But to— •
" Do a great
I have done
" A little toroTig."
a
Shakspeare, in the original, is effectually excluded from our
Schools; and modem refinement is fast banishing him from the
Home Reading Circle. To bring his profound moral and intellec¬
tual teachings to bear upon the early mental training of the young,
and to extend his gemal influences around the Domestic Hearth.
X
mFACB.
seemed to me justifiable attempts; expedient to be made at all
hazaids.
I have therefore prepared these selections with such a carefully
e:q>uigated Text, that the Book may be introduced into our Schools
with perfect confidence, by the most fastidious Teacher; and with
equal propriety it can be used for reading aloud in the most refined
and pure^ninded Family, or Social Circle.
In justice to myself, I may be permitted to add, that I have
avoided, as far as it was practicaUe with the nature of my design,
the 8ubstituti(Hi of any language of my own for the pure text of
Shakspeare. I have been compelled occasionally tc resort to the
use of synonymes, but these have been adopted but sparingly.
When difiiculties beset me in the original, 1 have preferred, in most
cases, excision to aUeradon. I may possibly have
—Cut he^ond the wound,
To make the tureeomfUU;**
but there is high medical authorl^ for believing that this is the
most successful treatment in desperate cases.
With this explanatory, and I may add, deprecatory prefiusa^ I
submit the result of my humble, but very toilsome labors, to the
test of public opinion.
Nsw-TpBK, mruary 32,1843
LIFE
'if
WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.
The few incidents in Shakspeare's life are surrounded wlti)
douUt and fable;' indeed,until lately, little could be smd of his
Biography, hut that " he was bom, lived, and died." The researches
of Malone, and more recently those of Collier, Enight,andHalliwell,
have however thrown some light on the Poet's history, and from
these authorities we are enabled to compile a brief memoir of his life
sufiScient for our present design, referring the youthful student to the
more elaborate sources to which we are indebted.
William Shakspeare was bom at Stratford-upon-Avon, in the
county of Warwick, England, in April, 1564. He was baptized on
the 26th of the month, and a tradition exists that he was bom on
the 23d April, the anniversary of St. George the tutelar Saint of Eng¬
land. His &ther, John Shakspeare, was a wool-comber, or glover, who
had risen above his somewhat obscure position by marrying a rural
heiress, Mary Arden, possessed of a small estate in Warwickshire.
Shakspeare's father rose to be high bailiff and chief alderman of Strat¬
ford ; but became depressed in circumstances about the year 1578.
William was the eldest of six surviving children, and after re¬
ceiving some education in the grammar school of his native town,
he is said to have been brought home to assist in his father's business.
There is an entire blank in his history for several years of his early
life, but it may well be conjectured, that he was then treasuring up
materials for those imperishable works which have rendered him the
most eminent genius the world has ever produced. Some of his
biographers have endeavored to prove that a portion of this period
was passed in a lawyer's office, from the familiaritv he exhibits in his
XIV LIFE OF WILLUM SHAESFEABE.
works, with technical legal phrase and illustrations. But similar
evidence might be adduced to prove his preparation for the church,
or for the medical professicn, for his works abound in tlie profoundest
theological truths, and he appears to be equally well skilled in the
elementary knowledge of medical science.
The amount of Shakspeare's educational acquirements has been
the subject of eager scrutiny and controversy. Ben Jonson, with
whom he was on terms of intimate acquaintance, says, he had " little
Latin and less Greek." This is admitting that he knew something
of both languages. His choice of two classical subjects for his early
poetry, Venus and Adonis, and Lucrece, and the numerous allusions
in his Plays to the mythology of the ancients, appear to warrant the
conclusion that he was, at least, deeply imbued with the spirit and
taste of classical literature. But, genius such as Shakspeare's did
not derive its inspiration from mere classical learning. He was
doubtless an irregular student, yet his native intellect and com¬
prehensive mind enabled him, by study and observation, and " al¬
most by intuition, to treasure up stores of knowledge by which he
subsequently distanced all the university-bied wits and authors of his
times."
On the 28th of November, 1582, Shakspeare was married to Anne
Hathaway, the daughter of a " substantial yeoman " of the village oi
Shottery, about a mile from Stratford, and in the year 1586, it is
ascertained that he removed to London, and commenced the occupa¬
tion of a Player.
Much conjectural speculation has been expended upon the pro¬
bable causes, which induced Shakspeare to adopt the profession of an
actor, but no authentic accounts can be traced to ascertain the pre¬
cise facts. During the period of his father's elevation to office,
companies of players were frequently in the habit of performing at
Stratford; among these players were several who were Shakspeare's
townsmen. An acquaintance with these persons may naturally have
been formed by the future Dramatist, and when circumstances iiv-
duced him to quit Stratford, the intimacy with his old associates may
have been resumed and his connection with the stage decided upon.
Shakspeare soon rose to distinction in the theatre, for in the year
1689 he became a shareholder in the Blackfriaxs Theatre. In 1596
ne v^ a proprietor, and in 1603 he was named second in a new patent
LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKSPEAEE.
XV
granted to the King's Players, by James L, on that monarch's acces*
sion to the British throne.
That the extraordinary powers of Shakspeare as a Dramatic
writer, was the cause of his rapid elevation in the theatre, is a fact
almost beyond dispute, for his talents as an actor never appear to
have risen beyond a respectable mediocrity. A contemporary author*
ity (supposed to be Lord Southampton) says that he was " of good
account in the companyand traditionary evidence assigns him the
character of the " Ghost in Hamlet," and " Adam in As you like
It," as being among the chief parts he sustained in his own plays.
With the nobles, the wits, and poets of his day, he lived in fami¬
liar intercourse. Even royalty unbended to do honor to the immortal
Dramatist; his Plays were the favorite recreation of the haughty
Elizabeth, and even the weak-minded James 1. was not insensible
to the genius of the great Poet. Ben Jonson, in a eu.ogy on Shaks¬
peare, speaks of his Dramas, " That so did take Eliza and our
Jamesand other contemporary authorities confirm the fact of his
popularity.
It is likely that Shakspeare began his career as a Dramatic
Author by altering and adapting Plays for the Stage, furnished by
other Dramatists, and subsequently, as he felt his powers expand, he
poured forth in rapid succession that series of splendid Dramas, which
are the imperishable monuments of his genius. No distinct chrono-
lo^cal account can be given of these wonderful productions. It is
however tolerably well established, that the whole of the thirty-seven
Plays were produced before the year 1612, as it is supposed in that
year he retii-ed finally to his native town, where he had previously
purchased an estate, called New Place, the principal house in Strat¬
ford. He had by this time acquired a handsome competency; and, in
the words of his biographer Rowe, " The latter part of his life was
spent, as all men of good sense will wish theirs to be, in ease, retire¬
ment, and the conversation of his friends."
Four years were passed by Shakspeare in this dignified retirement.
He died on the 23d April, 1616, having just completed his fifty-
second year. His widow survived him seven years. His two
daughters were both married at the time of his death, (his only son,
Hanmet, had died in 1696,) but all these died without issue, and there
now remains no lineal representative of the Poet. He was interred
Xvi UFB OF WILLIAM SHAESPEABX.
ia the Church of Stratford-upon-Avon, where a monument to his
memory still exists in good preservation, and a flat grave-stone in
front of the monument indicates the Poet's grave. On the stone is
inscribed these lines, which tradition ascribes to be his own composi¬
tion.
" Good frend, for letv* take forbeare
To digg the dvBt encloated bean:
Bleie be ye maa yt tpaiet thee ttonea.
And cvnt be he yt moves my bones."
We dose this brief and unsatisfactory memoir of the life of
Shakspeare, by the following comprehensive suirunary of his charac¬
ter, by Hallam the Historian.
" The name of Shakspeare is the greatest in our literature. No
man ever came near to him in the creative powers of his mind; no
man had ever such strength at once, arid such varie^ of imegina-
ttOD,"
CONTENTS.
fas'
Haklet, Pbince of Denxabx, 1
Much Ado About NoiBna, 53
Macbeth, 79
Xa You Like It, Ill
Othello, 145
The Tempest, 172
Romeo and Juliet, 201
The Mebchamt of Venice, 235
Kins Leab, 262
Midsummeb-Nioht's Dbeam, 299
,julius gjesab, • 318
Twelfth-Nisht ; Or, What You Will, .... 355
Measube for Measure, 372
Kins John, 385
Kins Henry IV, 414
Kins Henby VIII, ...... .429
HAMLET,
PRINCE OF DENMARK.
Bbakspkark is supposed to have taken the Plot of this Play, frcm " the Hii/tory of
Hamlet," as it is found narrated in Saxo Grammaticos, the Danish Historian. An English
translation of this particnlar story was pablished during the Poet's life, entitled " Historie
of Hamblet, Prince of Denmark," and from this version, it is conjectured that Shak-
ipeare drew the materials, which have assisted him in this master-piece of tragic com¬
position. As this Play is the most finished and the most popular of our Author's
productions, we have incorporated into our selections nearly all the prominent sceues.
We cannot better introduce the youthful student into a just discrimination of the
leading characteristics of Hamlet, than by furnishing the following clear analysis from the
pen of Goethe. He says—
" It is clear to me that Shakspeare's intention was to exhibit tho effects of a great
action imposed as a duty upon a mind too feeble for its accomplishment.
" In this sense, I find the character consistent throughout. There is an oak planted in
a china vase, proper only to receive the most delicate flowers ; the roots strike out, and
the vessel flies to pieces. A pare, noble, highly moral disposition, but withont that
energy of son! which constitutes the hero, sinks under a load which it can neither support
nor resolve to abandon altogether. All his obligations are sacred to him; hot this alone
is above his powers.
" An impossibility b required at hb hands; not an impossibility in itself, but that which
b so to him. Observe how he shifts, turns, hesitate, advances, and recedes ; how he b
continually reminded and reminding himself of his great commission, which he, nevertho'
febs, in the end, seems almost entirely to lose sight of; and tbb without ever recovering
hb former tranquillity."
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
CLAunrcs, King of Denmark.
Hamlet, son to the former, and nephew to the present King.
PoLONiDS, Lord Chamberlain.
Hokatio, friend to Hamlet.
Laertes, son to Polonius.
2
2
SHA£SF£ARUN SEAS£B«
voltimand, Cornelius, > nmirtirra
Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, i
OsRic, a Courtier.
Another Courtier.
A Priest.
. Marcellus,-)
Bernardo, \
Francisco, a soldier.
Re¥naldo, servant to Polonius. '
A Captain.
An Ambassador.
Ghost of Hamlet's father.
Fortinbras, Prince of Norway.
Gertrude, Queen of Denmark, and mother of Hamlet.
Ophelia, daughter of Folonius.
hards, Ladies, Officers, Soldiers, Players, Grave-diggers, Sailors, Me»
sengers, and other Attendants.
SCENE,—Elsinore.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—^Elsinore. A Platform before the Castle.
Francisco on Ms post. Enter to Mm Bernardo.
Ber. Who's there ?
Fran. Nay, answer me: stand, and unfold
yourself.
Ber. Long live the, king!
Fran. Bernardo ?
Ber. He.
Fran. You come most carefully upon your hour.
Ber. 'Tis now struck twelve; get thee to bed, Francisco.
Fran. For this relief, much thams: 'tis bitter cold.
And I am sick at heart.
Ber. Have you had quiet guard ?
Fran. Not a mouse stirring.
Ber. Well, good night.
!f you do meet Horatio and MarceUus,
The rivals of my watch, bid them make haste.
Enter Horatio and Marcellus.
Fran. I think I hear them—Stand, ho! Who is there ?
Hor. PViends to this ground.
Mar. And liegemen to the Dane.
Fran. Give you good night.
Mar. O, farewell, honest soldier:
Who hath reliev'd you ?
hamlet.
3
Fran. Beniardo hath my place.
Give you good night. {Exit Francisco.
Mar. Holla, Bernardo!
Ber.' Say.
What, is Horatio there ?
Hor. A piece of him.
Ber. Welcome, Horatio; welcome, good Marcellus.
Hor. What, has this thing appear'd again to-night ?
Ber. I have seen nothing.
Mar. Horatio says, 'tis but our fantasy; ■
And win not let belief take hold of him,
Touching this dreaded sight, twice seen of us:
Therefore I have entreated him, along
With us to watch the minutes of this night;
That, if again this apparition come.
He may approve our eyes, and speak to it.
Hor. Tush! tush! 'twill not appear.
Ber. Sit down awhile;
And let us once again assail your ears.
That are so fortified against our story.
What we two nights have seen.
Hor. Well, sit we down,
And let us hear Bernardo speak of this.
Ber. Last night of all.
When yon same star, that's westward from the pole,
Had made his course to illume that part of heaven
Where now it burns, Marcellus, and myself.
The bell then beating one,—
Mar. Peace, break thee oflT; look, where it comes again!
♦ Enter Ghost.
Ber. In the same figure, like the king that's dead.
Mar. Thou art a scholar, speak to it, Horatio.
Ber. Looks it not like the king ? mark it, Horatio.
Her. Most like: it harrows me with fear, and wonder.
Ber. It would be spoke to.
Mar. Speak to it, Horatio.
Hor. What art thou, that usurp'st this time of night,
Together with that fair and warlike form
In which the majesty of buried Denmark
Did sometimes march ? by heaven I charge thee, speak.
Mar. It is offended.
Ber. See ! it stalks away.
Hor. Stay; speak: speak,! charge thee, speak. \ [Exit Ghosi
Mar. 'Tis gone, and will not answer. )
Ber. How now, Horatio ? you tremble, and loolf^iale:
Is not this something more than fantasy ?
What think you of it ?
Hor. I might not this believe.
4
SHAKSFEARJAN EEA,J)ER-
Without the sensible and true avouch
Of mine own eyes.
Mar. Is it not like the king 1
Hot. As thou art to thyself:
Such was the very armour be had on,
When he the ambitious Norway combated;
So frown'd he once, when, in an angry parle,
He smote the sledded Polack on the ice.
'Tis strange.
Mar. Thus, twice before, and jump at this decid hour,
With martial stalk hath he gone by our watch.
Hot. In what particular thought to work, I know not;
But, in the gross and scope of mine opinion.
This bodes some strange eruption to our state.
In the most high and palmy state of Rome, ,
A little ere the mightiest Junius fell.
The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead
Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets.
As, stars with trains of fire shed dews of blood.
Disaster's dimm'd the sun; and the moist star.
Upon whose infiuence Neptune's empire stands,
Was sick almost to dooms-day with eclipse.
And even the like precurse of fierce events,—
As harbingers preceding still the fates,
[And prologue to the omen coming on,—
Have heaven and earth together demonstrated
Unto our climates and coimtrymen.—
Re-enter Ghost.
But, soft; behold! lo, where it comes again!
I'll cross it, though it blast me.—Stay, illusion.'
If thou hast any sound, or use of voice.
Speak to me:
If there be any good thing to be done.
That may to mee do ease, and grace to mo
Speak to me:
If thou art privy to thy country's fate.
Which, happily, foreknowing may avoid,
O,speak!
Or, if thou hast uphoarded in thy life
Extorted treasure from the depths of earth.
For which, they say, you spirits oft walk in death:
Speak of it:—stay, and speak. \_ExU Ghost
Mar. 'Tis gone!
We do it wrong, being so majestical.
To offer it the show of violence.
Ber. It was about to speak, when the cock crew.
Hor. And then it started like a guilty thing
Upon a fearful summons. I have heard,
hamlet.
5
The cock, that is the trumpet to the mom,
Doth witli his lofty and shrill-sounding throat
Awake the god of day; and, at his warning,
Mfhether in sea or fire, in earth or air,
The extravagant and erring spirit hies
To his confine: and of the truth hereir
This present object made probation.
Mar. It faded on the crowing of the cock.
Some say, that ever 'gainst that season comes
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated.
This bird of dawning singeth all night long:
And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad;
The nights are wholesome; then no planets strilce.
No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to harm.
So hallow'd and so gracious is the time.
Hot. So have I heard, and do in part believe it.
But, look, the morn, in russet mantle clad.
Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill:
Break we our watch up; and, by my advice.
Let us impart what we have seen to-night
Unto young Hamlet: for, upon my life.
This spirit, dumb to us, speak to him:
Do you consent we shsdl acquaint him with it.
As needful in our loves, fitting our duty ?
Mar. Let's do't, I pray; and I this morning know
Where we shall find him most convenient. [Exeunt.
SCENE II.—The same. A Room of State in the same.
Enter the King, Queen, Hamlet, Polonius, Laertes, Lonfb, and
Attendants.
King. Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother's death
The memory be green; and that it us befitted
To bear our hearts in grief, and our whole kingdom
To be contracted in one brow of woe;
Yet so far hath discretion fought with nature.
That we with wisest sorrow think on him.
Together with remembrance of ourselves.
Therefore our sometime sister, now our queen.
The imperial jointress of this warlike state.
Have we, as 'twere, with a defeated joy,—
Taken to wife; nor have we herein ba»f'd
Your better wisdoms, which have freely gone
With this affair along:—For all, our thanks.
And now, Laertes, what's the news with you ?
You told us of some suit ? What is't, Laertes J
Laertes. My dread lord.
Your leave and favor to return to France;
6
SHAESPEARIAN READER.
From whence though willingly I came to Denmark,
To show my duty in your coronation ;
Yet now, I must confess, that duty done, ■
My thoughts and wishes bend again toward France,
And bow them to your gracious leave and pardon.
King. Have you your father's leave.? What says Poloniua?
Pol. He hath, my lord,—
I do beseech you, give him leave to go.
King. Take thy fair hour, Laertes; time be thine,
And thy best graces: spend it at thy will.—
But now, my cousin Hamlet, and my son,
Ham. A little more than kin, and less than kind. [Aside.
King. How is it that the clouds still hang on you t
Ham. Not so, my lord, I am too much i' the sun.
Queen. Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted color off,
And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark.
Do not, for ever, with thy vailed lids
Seek for thy noble father in the dust:
Thou know'st, 'tis common; all that live, must die,
Passing through nature to eternity.
Ham. Ay, madam, it is common.
Queen. . If it be.
Why seems it so particular with thee ?
Ham. Seems, madam! nay, it is; I know not seems.
'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother.
Nor customary suits of solemn black.
Nor windy suspiration of forc'd breath.
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye.
Nor the dejected 'havior of the visage.
Together with all forms, modes, shows of grief.
That can denote me truly: These, indeed, seem.
For they are actions that a man might play :
But I have that within, which passeth show'
These, but the trappings and the suits of woe.
King. 'Tis sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet,
To give these mourning duties to your father:
But, you must know, your father lost a father;
That fa&er lost, lost his; and the survivor bound.
In filial obligation, for some term
To do obsequious sorrow: But to persever
In obstinate condolement, is a course
Of impious stubbornness; 'tis unmanly grief:
It shows a will most incorrect to heaven;
A heart unfortified, or mind impatient:
An understanding simple and unschool'd:
For what, we know, must be; and is as common
As any of the most vulgar thing to sense.
Why should we, in our peevish opposition.
Take it to heart ? Fye ! 'tis a fault to heaven.
hamlet. 7
We pray you, throw to earth
This unprevailing woe; and think of us
As of a father: for let the world take note,
You are the most immediate to our throne;
Our chiefest courtier, cousin, and our son.
Queen. Let not thy mother lose her prayers, Hamlet;
I pray thee stay with us; go not to Wittenberg.
Ham. I shall in all my best obey you, madam.
King. Why, 'tis a loving and a fair reply;
Be as ourself in Denmark.—Madam, come;
This gentle and unforc'd accord of Hamlet
. Sits smiling to my heart: in grace whereof.
No jocund health, that Denmark drinks to-day
But the great cannon to the clouds shall teU;
Re-speaking earthly thunder. Come away.
[Exeunt Kme, Queen, Lords, Polonius, and Laertes,
Ham. O, that this too too solid flesh would melt, *
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!
Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd
His canon 'gainst self-slaughter!
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me all the usee of this world!
Fye on't! O fye! 'tis an unweeded garden.
That grows to seed; things rank, and gross in nature,
Possess it merely. That it should come to this!
But two months dead!—nay, not so much, not two;
So excellent a king; that was, to this,
» Hyperion to a sat3rr: so loving to my mother.
That he might not beteem the winds of heaven
Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth'.
Must I remember ? And yet, within a month,—
Let me not think on't;—^Frailty, thy name is woman !—
A little month; or ere those shoes were old.
With which she foUow'd my poor father's body,
Like Niobe, all tears;—^why she, even she,—
O heaven! a beast, that wants discourse of reason.
Would have moum'd longer,—married with my uncle,
My father's brother; but no more like my father.
Than I to Hercules;
It is not, nor it cannot come to, good;
But break, my heart; for I must hold my tongue !
Enter Horatio, Bernardo, and Marcellus.
Hot. Hail to your lordship!
Ham. I am glad to see you well
Horatio,—or I do forget myself.
Hor. The same, my lord, and your poor servant ever. ^
Ham. Sir, my good friend; I'U change that name with you.
8
SHAESFKAUIAN UEADE&.
And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio ?—
Marcellus ?
Mar. My good lord.
Ham. I am very glad to see you; good even, sir,-^
But what, iir faith, make you from Wittenberg 1
Hor. A truant disposition, good my lord.
Ham. I would not hear your enemy say so;
Nor shall you do mine ear tiiat violence.
To make it truster of your own report
Against yourself: I know, you are no truant.
But what is your affair in Elsinore ?
We'll teach you to drink deep, ere you depart.
Hor. My lord, I came to see your father's funeral.
Ham. I pray thee, do not mock me, fellow-student;
I tliink, it was to see my mother's wedding.
Hor. Indeed, my lord, it foUow'd hard upon. '
Ham. Thrift, thrift, Horatio! the funeral bak'd meats
Did cold^ furnish forth the marriage tables.
'Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven
Or ever I had seen that day, Horatio !—
My father,—Methinks, I see my father.
Har. Where,
My lord ?
Ham. In my mind's eye, Horatio.
Hor. I saw him once, he was a goodly king.
Ham. He was a man, take him for all in all,
I shall not look upon his like again.
Hor. My lord. I think I saw him yestem.ght.
Ham. Saw! who?
Hor. My lord, the king your father.
Ham. The king my fotJicr!
Hor. Season your admiration for a while
With an attent ear; till I may deliver.
Upon the witness of these gentlemen.
This marvel to you.
Ham. For heaven's love, let me hear.
Hor. "Two nights together had these gentlemen,
Marcellus and Bernardo, on their watch.
In the dead waist and middle of the night.
Been thus encounter'd. A figure like your fatliei.
Armed at point, exactly, cap-4-pe.
Appears before them, and, with solemn march,
Goes slow and stately by them: thrice he walk'd,
By their oppress'd and fear-surprised eyes.
Within his truncheon's length; whilst they, distQl'd
Almost to jelly with the act of fear.
Stand dumb, and speak not to him. This to me
In dreadful secrecy impart they did;
HAMLET.
And I with theni, the third night kept the watch;
Where, as they had deliver'd, both in time,
Form of the thing, each word made true and good.
The apparition comes; I knew your father;
These hands are not more like.
Ham. But where was this ?
Mar. My lord, upon the platformArhere we watch'd.
Ham. Did you not speak to it ?
Hor. • My lord, I did:
But answer made it none: yet once, .methought.
It lifted up its head, and did address
Itself to motion, like as it would speak:
But, even then, the morning cock crew loud;
And at the sound it shrunk in haste away.
And vanish'd from our sight.
Ham. 'Tis very strange.
Hor. As I do live, my honor'd lord, 'tis true;
And we did think it writ down in our duty.
To let you know of it.
Ham. Indeed, indeed, sirs, but this troubles me.
Hold you the watch to-night ?
All. We do, my lord.
Ham. Arm'd,say you ?
All. Arm'd, my lord.
Ham. From top to toe
All. My lord, from head to foot.
Ham. Then saw you not
His face.
Hor. O, yes, my lord; he wore his beaver up.
Ham. What, look'd he frowningly ?
Hor. A countenance more
In sorrow than in anger.
Ham. Pale, or red 1
Hor. Nay, very pale.
Ham. And fix'd his eyes upon you 1
Hor. Most constantly.
Ham. I would, I had been there.
Hor. It would have much amaz'd you.
Ham. Very like.
Very Uke: Stay'd it long ?
Hor. While one with moderate haste might tell a hundred.
Ham. His beard was grizzl'd ? no ?
Hor. It was, as I have seen it in his life,
A sable silver'd.
Ham. I will watch to-night;
Perchance, 'twill walk again.
Hor. I warrant, it will.
Ham. If it assume my noble father's person,
PU speak to it, though hell itself should gape,
2'*
10
shakspearian eeaseb.
And bid me hold my peace. I pray you all,
If you have hitherto conceal'd this sight,
Let it be tenable in your silence still;
And whatsoever else shaU hap to-night,
Give it an understanding, but no tongue;
I will requite your loves: So, fare you well:
Upon the platform, 'twixt eleveiP^ind twelve,
ru visit you.
All. Our duty to your honor.
Ham. Your loves, as mine to you: Farewell.
[^Exeunt Hokatio, Marcellus, and Bebnakdo
My father's spirit in arms! all is not well;
I doubt some foul play: 'would, the night were come!
TiU then sit still, my soul: Foul deeds wUl rise.
Though aU the earth o'erwhelms them, to men's eyes.
[ExU.
SCENE in.—A Room in Polonius' Howse.
Enter Laertes and Ophelia.
Laer. My necessaries are embark'd ; farewell:
And, sister, as the winds give benefit.
Pray let me hear from you.
Oph. Do you doubt that ?
Lckt. For Hamlet, and the trifling of his favor,
Hold it a fashion, and a toy in blood;
For he himself is subject to his birth:
He may not, as imvalued persons do,
Carve for himself:
Then weigh what loss your honor may sustain.
If with too credent ear you list his songs.
Fear it, Ophelia, fear it, my dear sister;
And keep you in the rear of your afiection.
Out of the shot and danger of desire;
The chariest maid is prodigal enough.
If she immask her beauty to the moon.
Oph. I shall the eflTect of this good lesson keep.
As watchman to my heart: But, good my brother,
Do not, as some ungracious pastors do.
Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven;
Whilst, like a puff'd and recMess libertine.
Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads.
And recks not his own rede.
Laer. O fear me not.
I stay too long;—^But here my father comes.
Enier Polonius.
Pol. Yet here, Laertes! aboard, aboard, for shame;
The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail,
HAMLET.
11
aind you are staid for: There, my blessiug with you!
[Laying his hand on Laertes' head
And these few precepts in thy memory
Look thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue,
Nor any unproportion'd thought his act.
Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar.
The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried.
Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel;
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment
Of each new-hatch'd, unfledg'd comrade. Beware
Of entrance to a quarrel: but, being in.
Bear it, that the opposer may beware of thee.
Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice:
Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.
Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy.
But not express'd m fancy: rich, not gaudy:
For the apparel oft proclaims the man;
And they in France, of the best rank and station.
Are most select and generous, chief in that.
Neither a borrower, nor a lender be:
For loan oft loses both itself and friend:
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
This above aU,—^To thine ownself be true;
And it must follow, as the night the day,
" Thou canst not then be false to any man.
Farewell; my blessing season this in thee!
Laer. Most humbly do I take my leave, my lord.
Pol. The time invites you; go, your servants tend.
Laer. Farewell, Ophelia: and remember well
What I have said to you.
Opft. 'Tis in my memory lock'd.
And you yourself shall keep the key of it.
Laer. Farewell.
SCENE Vf.—The Platform.
Enter Hamlet, Horatio, and Marcelltjs.
Ham. The air bites shrewdly; it is very cold.
Hor. It is a nipping and an eager air.
Ham. What hour now ?
Hor. I think, it lacks of twelve.
Mar. No, it is stnick.
Hor. Indeed ? I heard it not; then it draws near the season,
Wherein the spirit held his wont to walk.
[A flourish of trumpets, and ordnance shot off, within.
What does this mean, my lord ?
Ham. The king doth wake to-night, and takes his rouse.
And, as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down.
12
shaksfearian eeadeb.
The kettle-drum and trumpet thus bray out
The triumph of his pledge.
Hot Is it a custom ?
Ham. Ay, marry, is't:
But to my mind,—^though I am native here.
And to the manner born,—^it is a custom
More honor'd in the breach, than the observance.
ErUer Ghost.
Hor. Look, my lord, it comes!
Ham. Angels and ministers of grace defend us 1
Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn'd.
Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell,
Be thy intents wicked, or charitable.
Thou com'st in such a questionable shape.
That I will speak to thee; I'll call thee Hamlet,
King, father, royal Dane : O, answer me:
Let me not burst in ignorance! but tell.
Why thy canoniz'd bones, hearsed in death.
Have burst their cerements! why the sepulchre,
Wherein we saw thee quietly in-um'd.
Hath op'd his ponderous and marble jaws.
To cast thee up again ! What may this mean.
That thou, dead corse, again, in complete steel,
Revisit'st thus the glimpses of the moon.
Making night hideous; and we fools of nature.
So horribly to shake our disposition.
With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls ?
Say why is this ? wherefore ? what should we do ?
Hot. It beckons you to go away with it,
As if it some impartment did desire
To you alone.
Mar. Look, with what courteous action
It waves you to a more removed ground:
But do not go with it.
Hor. No, by no means.
Ham. It will not speak; then I will follow it.
Hor. Do not, my lord.
Ham. Why, what should be the fear *
1 do not set my life at a pin's fee;
And, for my soul, what can it do to that.
Being a thing immortal as itself ?
It waves me forth again;—^I'll follow it.
Har. What, if it tempt you toward the flood, my lord,
Or to the dreadful summit of the cliff".
That beetles o'er his base into the sea ?
And there assume some other horrible form.
And draw you into madness ?
baulet.
Ham. It waves me still
gk) on, I'l follow thee. •
Mar. You shall not go, my lord.
Ham. Hold off your hands.
Hor. Be rul'd, you shall not go.
Ham. My fate cries out,
And makes each petty artery in this body
As hardy as the Nemean lion's Uiirve.— [Ghost beckons.
Still am I call'd;—unhand me, gentlemen:—
[Breaking from them.
By heaven, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me;—
I say, away:—Go on, I'll follow thee.
[Exeunt Ghost and hahlei
SCENE V.—A more remote Part of the Platform.
Re-enter Ghost and hamlet.
Ham. Whither wilt thou lead me 1 speak, I'll go no further
Ghost. Mark me.
Ham. I will.
Ghost. My hour is almost come,
When I to sulphurous and tormenting flames
Must render up myself.
Ham. Alas, poor ghost!
Ghost. Pity me not, but lend thy serious hearing
To what I shall unfold.
Ham. Speak, I am bound to hear.
Ghost. So art thou to revenge, when thou shall hear.
Ham. What?
Ghost. I am thy father's spirit;
Doom'd for a certain term to walk the night,
Andffor the day confin'd to fast in fires.
Till the foul crimes, done in my days of nature.
Are burnt and purg'd away. But that I am forbid
To tell the secrets of my prison-house,
I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word
Would harrow'"up thy soul; freeze thy young blood;
Make thy two eyes, Uke stars, start from their spheres
Thy knotted and combined locks to part.
And each particular hair to stand on end.
Like quills upon the fretful porcupine:
But this eternal blazon must not be
To ears of flesh and blood:—List, list, O list!—
If thou didst ever thy dear father love,
Ham. O heaven!
Ghost. Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder
Ham. Murder ?
Ghost. Murder most foul, as in the best it is;
But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.
14
SHAKSPEAniAN READER.
Ham. Haste me to know it; that I, with wings as swift
As meditation,«r the thoughts of love,
May sweep to my revenge.
Ghost. I find thee apt;
And duller should'st thou be than the fat weed
That rots itself in ease on Lethe wharf,
Would'st thou not stir in this. Now, Hamlet, hear:
*Tis given out, that sleeping in mine orchard,
A serpent stung me; so the whole ear of Denmark
Is by a forged process of my death
Rankly abus'd: but know, thou noble youth,
The serpent that did sting thy father's life,
Now wears his crown.
Ham. O, my prophetic soul! my uncle!
Ghost. Ay,—
With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts,
He won to his shameful love
The will of my most seeming virtuous queen:
O, Hamlet, what a falling-off was there!
From me, whose love was of that dignity.
That it went hand in hand even with the vow
I made to her in marriage; and to decline
Upon a wretch, whose natural gifts were poor
To those of mine !
But, soft! methinks, I scent the morning air;
Brief let me be:—Sleeping within mine orchari,
My custom always of the afternoon.
Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole.
With juice of cursed hebenon in a vial.
And in the porches of mine ears did pour
The leperous distilment; whose effect
Holds such an enmity with blood of man.
That, swift as quicksilver, it courses through
The natural gates and alleys of the body;
And, with a sudden vigor, it doth posset
And curd, like eager droppings into milk,
The thin and wholesome blood : so did it mine •
Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother's hand.
Of life, of crown, of queen, at once dispatch'd:
Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin.
No reckoning made, but sent to my account
With all my imperfections on my head.
Ham. O, horrible! O, horrible! most horrible
Ghost. If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not
But, howsoever thou pursu'st this act.
Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive
Against thy mother aught; leave her to heaven,
And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge.
To goad and sting her. Fare thee well at once
hamlet.
16
The glow-worm shows the r;,atin to be near,
And 'gins to pale his ineffectual fire:
Adieu, adieu, adieu! remember me. \ExU.
Ham. Hold, hold, my heart:
And you, my sinews, grow not instant old.
But bear me stiffly up!—Remember thee ?
Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat
[n this distracted globe. Remember thee ?
Yea, from the table of my memory
I'll wipe away aU trivial fond records,
All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past
That youth and observation copied there;
And thy commandment all alone shall live
Within the book and volume of my brain,
Unmix'd with baser matter: yes, by heaven.
I have swom't.
Hor. [ Wilhin.'l My lord, my lord,
Mar. [ Wiihiru\ Lord Hamlet,
Hor. [ Within.'] Heaven secure him !
Ham. So be it.
Mar. [ Within.] Hlo, ho, ho, my lord!
Ham. Hillo, ho, ho, boy! come, bird, come.
Enter Horatio and Marcellus.
Mar. How is't, my noble lord ?
Hor. What news, my lord ?
Ham. O, wonderful!
Hor. Good my lord, tell it.
Ham. No;
You wiU reveal it.
Hor. Not I, my lord, by heaven.
Mar. Nor I, my lord.
Ham. How say you then; would heart of man once think it ?—
But you'll be secret,
Hor. Mar. Ay, by heaven, my lord.
Ham. There's ne'er a villain, dwelling in all Denmark,
But he's an airant knave.
Hor. There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave.
To tell us this.
Ham. Why, right; you are in the right:
And so, without more circumstance at all,
I hold it fit that we shake hands, and part:
You, as your business, and desire, shall point you;—
For every man hath business, and desire.
Such as it is,—and for my own poor part.
Look you, I will go pray.
Hor. These are but wild and whirling words, my lord.
Ham. I am sorry they offend you, heartily; yes,
"Faith, heartily.
16
SBAESFEARIAN READER.
Hrrr. There's no offence, my lord
Ham. Yes, by St. Patrick, but there is, Horatio,
And much offence too. Touching this vision here,—
It is an honest ghost, that let me tell you;
For your desire to know what is between us,
O'er-master it as you may. And now, good friends.
As you are friends, scholars, and soldiers.
Give me one poor request
Hor. What is't, my lord ?
We will.
Ham. Never make known what you have seen to-night
Hnr. Mar. My lord, we will not.
Ham. Nay, but swear't
Hor. Propose the oath, my lord.
Ham. Never to speak of this that you have seen.
Swear by my sword.
Ghost. IBeneath.'] Swear.
Hor. O day and night, but this is wondrous strange'
Ham. And therefore as a stranger give it welcome.
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
But come;
Here, as before, never, so help you mercy!
How strange or odd soe'er I bear myself.
As I, perchance, hereafter, shall think meet
To put an antic disposition on.—
That you, at such times seeing me, never shall
With arms encumber'd thus, oi this head-shake.
Or by pronouncing of some doubiful phrase.
As, Well, well, we know ;—or. We could, and if we 'lutuli ;—oj^
If we list to speak ;—or. There be, an if they might;—
Or such ambiguous giving out, to note
That you know aught of me:—This do you swear.
So grace and mercy at your most need help you!
Ghost. [Beneath.] Swear.
Ham. Rest, rest, perturbed spirit! So, gentlemen.
With all my love I do commend me to you:
And what so poor a man as Hamlet is
May do, to express his love and friending to you,
God willing, shall not lack. Let us go in together;
And still yom: fingers on your lips, I pray.
The time is out of joint;—O cursed spite!
That ever I was bom to set it right!
Nay, come, let's go together. Exeunt.
HAMLET.
17
ACT II.
SCENE I.
Hunlet ba. low put on his counterfeit madness. He visits Ophelia in this antit
gnise/' and the afiiighted maiden narrates to her father the circorostances altendiog
sis visit.
Ophelia.—Polonius.
Poi. How now, Ophelia ? what's the matter ?
Ofh. O, my lord, my lord, I have been so affrighted ! *
Pol. With what, in the name of heaven.
Oph. My lord, as I was sewing in my closet,
Lord Hamlet,—^with his doublet all unbrac'd;
Pale as his shirt; his knees knocking each other;
He comes before me.
Pol. Mad for thy love ?
Oph. My lord, I do not know ;
But, truly, I do fear it.
Pol. What said he ?
Oph. He took me by the wrist, and held me hard;
Then goes he to the length of all his arm ;
And, with his other hand thus o'er his brow.
He falls to such perusal of ray face.
As he would draw it. Long stay'd he so;
At last,—A little shaking of mine arm.
And thrice his head thus waving up and down,—
He rais'd a sigh so piteous and profound.
As it did seem to shatter all his bulk.
And end his being: That done, he lets me go:
And, with his head over his shoulder tum'd.
He seem'd to find his way without his eyes;
For out o'doors he went without their helps.
And, to the last, bended their light on me_.
Pol. Come, go with me; I will go seek the king.
This is the very ecstasy of love ;
What, have you given him any hard words of late ?
Oph. No, my good lord; but, as you did command,
I did repel his letters, and denied ,
His access to me.
Pol. That hath made him mad.
Come, go we to the king:
This must be known ; which, being kept close, Hiight move
More grief to hide, than hate to utter love. [Exeunt
SCENE n.—A Room in (he Castle.
Enter King, Queen, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and Attendants.
King. Welcome, dear Rosencrantz, and Guildenstern!
Moreover that we much did long to see you.
18
SHAKSPEAKIAN READER.
The need, we have to use you, did provoke
Our hasty sending. Sometiung have you heard
Of Hamlet's transformation; so I call it.
Since not the exterior nor the inward man
Resembles that it was: What it should be.
More than his father's death, that thus hath put him
So much from the understanding of himself,
I cannot dream of; I entreat you both.
That you vouchsafe your rest here in our court
Some little time: so by your companies
To draw hi* on to pleasures; and to gather.
Whether aught, to us unknown, afflicts him thus, ^
That, open'd, lies within our remedy.
Queen. Good gentlemen, he hath much talk'd of you;
And, sure I am, two men there are not living.
To whom he more adheres. If it will please you
So to expend your time with us a while.
Your visitation shall receive such thanks
As fits a king's remembrance.
Ros. Both your majesties
Might, by the sovereign power you have of us.
Put your dread pleasures more into command
Than to entreaty.
Guil. But we both obey;
And here give up ourselves, in the full bent.
To lay our service freely at your feet,
To be commanded.
King. Thanks, Rosencrantz, and gentle Guildenstern.
Queen. And I beseech you instantly to visit
My too much changed son.—Go, some of you.
And bring these gentlemen where Hamlet is.
[Exeunt Rosenckastz, Guildensteen, and srnne Attendanta
Enler PoLONms.
Pol. I now do think, (or else this brain of mine
Hunts not the trail of policy so sure
As it hath us'd to do,) that I have found
The very cause of Hamlet's lunacy.
King. O, speak of that; that do I long to hear.
Pol. My liege, and madam, to expostmate
What majesty should be, what duty is.
Why day is day, night, niglit, and time is time.
Were nothing but to waste night, day, and time.
Therefore,—since brevity is the soul of wit,'
And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes,—
[ will be brief: Your noble son is mad :
Mad call I it; for, to define true madness.
What is't, but to be nothing else but mad:
But let that go.
HAMLET.
19
Queen. More matter, with less art.
Pol. Madam, 1 swear, I use no art at all.
That he is mad, 'tis true, 'tis pity ;
And pity tis, 'tis true: a foolish figure ;
But farewell it, for I will use no art.
Mad let us grant him then: and now remains,
That we find out the cause of this efiect;
Or, rather say, the cause of this defect;
For this effect, defective, comes by cause;
Thus it remains, and the remainder thus.
Perpend.
I have a daughter ; have, while she is mine ;
Who, in her duty and obedience, mark.
Hath given me this; Now gather, and surmise.
—To the celestial, and my soui's idol, the most heaviified Ophelia,-—-
That's an ill phrase, a vile phrase; beautified is a vile phrase; hit
you shall hear.—Thus :—
In her e-xcellent white bosom, these, &c.—
Queen. Came this from Hamlet to her ?
Pol. Good madam, stay awhile; I will be faithful.— [Reads
Doubt thou, the stars are fire;
Doubt, that the sun doth move ;
Doubt truth to be a liar;
But never doubt, I love.
O dear Ophelia, I am ill at these numbers; I have not art to
reckon my groans: but that I love thee best, O most best, believe H.
Adieu.
Thine evermore, most dear lady, whilst
this machine is to him, Hamlet
This, in obedience, hath my daughter shown me:
\nd more above, hath his sohcitings.
As they fell out by time, by means, and place,
All given to mine ear.
King. But how hath she
Receiv'd his love ?
Pol. What do you think of me ?
King. As of a man faithful and honorable.
Pol. I would fain prove so. But what might you think,
When I had seen this hot love on the wing,
(As I perceiv'd it, I must tell you that.
Before my daughter told me,) what might you.
Or my dear majesty your queen here, think,
If I had play'd the desk, or table-book;
Or given my heart a working, mute and dumb.
Or look'd upon this love with idle sight ;
What might you think ? no, I went round to work,
And my young mistress thus did I bespeak;
Lord Hamlet is a prince out of thy sphere;
This must not be; and then I precepts gave her,
20
shakspearian reader.
That she should lock herself from his resort.
Admit no messengers, receive no tokens.
JVhich done, she took the fruits of my advice.
And he, repulsed, (a short tale to make,)
Fell into a sadness; then into a fast;
Thence to a watch; thence into a weakness;
Thence to a lightness; and, by this declension,
Into the madness wherein now he raves.
And all we mourn for.
King. Do you think, 'tis this ?
Queen. It may be, very likely.
Pol. Hath tiiere been such a time, (I'd f^ know that,)
That I have positively said, 'Tis so,
When it prov'd otherwise ?
King. Not that I know.
Pol. Take this from this, if this be otherwise:
[Pointing to his head and shoulder.
If circumstances lead me, I will find
Where truth is hid, though it were hid indeed
Within the centre.
King. How may we try it further ?
Pol. You know, sometimes he walks for hours together,
Here in the lobby.
Queen. So he does, indeed.
Pol. At such a time I'll loose my daughter to him:
Be you and I behind an arras then;
Mark the encounter; if he love her not.
And be not from his reason fallen thereon,
XjOt me be no assistant for a state.
But keep a farm, and carters.
King. We will tiy it.
Enter Hamlet, reading.
Queen. But, look, where sadly the poor wretch comes reading.
Pol. Away, I do beseech you, both away;
I'll board him presently:—O, give me leave.—
[Exeuvi King, Queen, and Attendants.
How does my good lord Hamlet ?
Ham. ExceUent well.
Pol. Do you know me, my lord ?
Ham. Excellent well; you are a fishmonger.
Pol. Not I, my lord.
Ham. Then I would you were so honest a man.
Pol. Honest, my lord ?
Ham. Ay, sir; to be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man
picked out of ten thousand.
Pol. That's very true, my lord.
Ham. For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a god,
kissing carrion, Have you a daughter ?
HAMLET.
21
Pd. [Asufe.]. Still harping on my daughter.—yel he knew me
not at first; he said I was a fishmonger: He is far gone, far gone :
• and truly in my youth I suffered much extremity for love: very
near this. I'll speak to him again.—What do you read, my lord 1
Ham. Words, words, words !
Pol. What is the matter, my lord ?
Ham. Between who?
Pol. I mean, the matter that you read, my lord.
Ham. Slanders, sir: for the satirical rogue says here, that old
men have gray beards; that their faces are wrinkled; their eyes
purging thick amber, and plum-tree gum; and thai they have a
plentiful lack of wit, together with most weak hams: All of which,
sir, though I most powerfully and potently believe, yet I hoid it not
honesty vo have it thus set down; for yourself, sir, shall be as old as
I am, if, like a crab, you could go backward.
Pol. Though this be madness, yet there's method in it. [Aside.']
Will you walk out of the air, my lord ?
Ham. Into my grave ?
Pol. Indeed, that is out o' the air.—How pregnant sometimes his
replies are! a happiness that often madness hits on, which reason
and sanity could not so prosperously be delivered of. I wiU leave
him, and suddenly contrive the means of meeting between hitn and
my daughter.—^My honorable lord, I will most humbly take my
leave of you.
Ham. You cannot, sir, take from me any thing that T will more
willingly part withal; except my life, except my life, except my life.
Pol. Fare you well, my lord.
Ham. These tedious old fools!
Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstekn.
Pol. You go to seek the lord Hamlet; there he is.
jRos. Heaven save you, sir! [ToPolonius.
[Exit POLONIUS.
Cruil, My honor'd lord !—
Ham. My excellent good friends! How dost thou, Guildenstem ?
Ah, Rosencrantz ! Good lads, how do ye both ? What news ?
Ros. None, my lord ; but that the world's grown honest.
Ham. Then is doomsday near: But your news is not true. But
in the beaten way of friendship, what make you at Elsinore ?
■ Ros. To visit you, my lord; no other occasion.
Ham.. Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks; but I thank
you. Were you not sent for ? Is it your own inclining ? Is it a
free visitation 1 Come, come; deal justly with me; come, come ;
nay, speak.
Guil. What should we say, my lord ?
Ham. Any thing—^but to the purpose. Ydu were sent for; and
jiere is a kind of confession in your looks, which your modesties
have not craft enough to color: I know, the good king and queen
have sent for vou.
22
SHAKSPEARIAN READER,
Ros. To what end, my lord ?
Ham. That you must teach me. But let me conjure you, by the
rights of our fellowship, by the consonancy of our youth, by the
obligation of our ever-preserved love, and by what more dear a better
proposer, could charge you withal, be even and direct with me,
whether you were sent for, or no ?
Ros. What say you ? [To Guildenstern.
Ham. Nay, then I have an eye of you; \Asi&.'\—^if you love me,
hold not olf.
Chiil. My lord, we were sent for.
Ham. I will tell you why; so shall my anticipation prevent your
discovery, and your secrecy to the king and queen moult no feather.
I have of late, (but, wherefore, I know not,) lost all my mirth, for¬
gone all custom of exercises: and, indeed, it goes so heavily with my
disposition, that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a steril
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 con¬
gregation of vapors. What a piece of work is a man ! How noble
in reason! how infinite in faculties! in form, and moving, how
express and admirable ! in action, how like an angel! in apprehen¬
sion, how like a god! the bequty of the world! the paragon of
animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust ? man
delights not me, nor woman neither; though, by your smiling, you
seem to say so.
Ros. My lord, there is no such stufi" in my thoughts.
Ham. Why ^ you laugh then, when I said, Man delights not
me 7
Ros. To think, my lord, if you. delight not in man, what lenten
entertainment the players shall receive for you: we met them on
the way ; and hither are they coming, to offer you service.
Ham. He that plays the king shall be welcome; his majesty shall
have tribute of me : the adventurous knight shall use his foil and
target: the lover shall not sigh gratis; the humorous man shall end
his part in peace: the clown shall make those laugh, whose lungs
are tickled o' the sere; and the lady shall say her mind freely, or the
blank verse shall halt for't.—^What players are they ?
Ros. Even those you were wont to take such delight in, the tra¬
gedians of the city.
Ham. How chances it, they travel ? their residence, both in repu«
ation and profit, was better both ways.
Ros. I think, their inhibition comes by the means of the late
innovation.
Ham. Do they hold the same estimation they did when I was in
the city ? Are they so followed ?
Ros. No, indeed, they are not.
Bam. It is not very strange: for my uncle is king of Denmark;
and those, that would make mouths at him while my father lived,
give twenty, forty, fifty, an hundred ducats a-piece, for his picture in
HAMLET.
23
Ktde. There is something in this more than natural, if philosophy
could find it out. [Flourish of trumpets unthin.
Chdl. There are the players.
Ham. Gentlemen, you are welcome to Elsinore. Your hands. You
are welcome: but my uncle-father, and aunt-mother, are deceived.
GuU. In what, my dear lord ?
Ham. I am but mad north-northwest: when the wind is southerly
I know a hawk from * handsaw.
Enter Polonius.
Pol. Well be with you, gentlemen!
Ham. Hark you, Guildenstem,—and you too;—at each ear a hearer;
that great baby, you see there, is not yet out of his swaddling clothes.
Ros. Happily, he's the second time come to them; for, they say,
an old man is twice a child.
Ham. I will prophesy, he comes to tell me of the players; mark
.V.—You say right, sir: o' Monday morning; 'twas then, indeed.
Pol. My lord, I have news to teU you.
Ram. My lord, I have news to tell you. When Roscias was an
actor in Rome,
Pol. The actors are come hither, my lord.
Ham. Buz, buz !
Pol. Upon my honor,
Ham. Then came each actor on his ass,
Pol. The best actors in the world, either for tragedy, comedy,
history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral, tragical-histori¬
cal, tragical-comical, historical-pastoral, scene individable, or poem
unlimited: Seneca cannot be too heavy, nor Plautus too light. For
the law of writ and the liberty, these are the only men.
Ham. O Jephthah, judge of Israel,—^what a treasure hadst thou!
Pol. What a treasure had he, my lord ?
Ham. Why—One fair daughter, and no more.
The which he loved passing well.
Pol. StiU on my daughter. [Aside.
Ham. Am not I i' the right, old Jephthah ?
Pol. If you call me Jephthah, my lord, I have a daughter, that I
love passing well.
Ham. Nay, that follows not.
Pol. What follows then, my lord ?
Ham. Why, As hy lot, God wot, and then, you know. It came to
pass. As most like it was,—The first row of the pious chanson will
show you more ; for look, my abridgment comes.
The Playeis enter, and at Hamlet's reqaest, the first player recites a spei*5h.
Ham. 'Tis well; I'll have thee speak out the rest of this soon.—
Good my lord, will you see the players well bestowed ? Do you
hear, let them be well used; for they are the abstract, ard brief
chronicles, of the time: After your death you were better' Have a
bad epitaph, than their ill re jort while you DVe.
Pol. My lord, I will use hem according to their desert.
24
SHAKSPEARIAN READER.
Ham. Much better: Use every man after his desert, and who
shall 'scape whipping! Use them after your own honor and dig¬
nity : The less they deserve the more merit is in your bounty. Take
them in.
Pol. Come, sirs.
SExit PoLONTcrs with some of the Players,
s: we'U hear a play to-morrow.—Dost
thou hear me, old friend; can you play the murder of Gonzago ?
Is/ Play. Ay, my lord.
' Ham. We'll have it to-morrow night. You could, for a need,
study a speech of some dozen or sixteen lines, which I would, set
down, and insert in't ? could you not 1
Is/ Play. Ay, my lord.
Ham. Very well,—foUow that lord; and look you mock him not.
{Exit Player.] My good friends, {To Ros. arid Gun,.] I'll leave
you till night: you are welcome to Elsinore.
Ros. Good my lord.
{Exeunt Rosekcrantz and GxnLDENSTBEM.
Ham. Ay, so, heaven be wi' you:—Now I am alone.
O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!
Is it not monstrous, that this player here.
But in a fiction, in a dream of passion,
Could force his soul so to his own conceit.
That from her working all his visage wann'd;
Tears in Ms eyes, distraction in Ms aspect,
A broken voice, and Ms whole function suiting
With forms to Ms conceit 1 and all for notMng!
For Hecuba!
What's Hecuba to Mm, or he to Hecuba,
That he should weep for her 7 What would he do.
Had he the motive and the cue for passion.
That I have 7 He would drown the stage with tears,
And cleave the general ear, with horrid speech;
Make mad the guilty, and appal the free.
Confound the ignorant; ana amaze, indeed.
The very faculties of eyes and ears.
Yet I,
A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak.
Like John a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause.
And can say notMng; no, not for a king.
Upon whose property, and most dear life,
A damn'd defeat was made. Am I a coward 7
Who calls me villain 7 breaks my pate across 7
Plucks off my beard, and blows it in my face 7
Tweaks me by the nose 7 gives me the lie i' the throat,
As deep as to the lungs 7 Who does me tMs 7
Ha! • .
Why, I should take it: for it cannot be^
But I am pigeon-livered and lack gall.
HAMLET.
29
To make oppression bitter; or, ere this,
I should have fatted all the region kites
With this slave's offal:
Why, what an ass am I ? This is most brave;
P^e upon't! fob! About my brains! Humph! I nave heard.
That guilty creatures sitting at a play.
Have by the very cunning of the scene
Been struck so to the soul, that presently
They have proclaim'd their malefactions;
For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak
With most miraculous organ. I'll have these players
Play something like the murder of my father,
Before mine uncle: I'll observe his looks;
I'll tent him to the quick; if he do blench,
I know my course. The spirit that I have seen,
May be a devil: and the devil hath power.
To assume a pleasing shape; yea, and, perhaps,
Out of my weakness, and my melancholy,
(As he is very potent with such spirits,)
Abuses me to damn me; I'll have grounds
More relative than this : the play's the thing.
Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king. [ExiL
ACT III.
SCENE I.—A Room in the Castle,
Enter King, Queen, Poeonius, Ophelia, Rosencrantz, and
Guildenstern.
#
King. And can you, by no drift of conference
Get from him, why he puts on this confusion;
Grating so harshly all his days of quiet
With tufbulent and dangerous lunacy ?
Ros. He does confess, he feels himself distracted ;
But from what cause he will by no means speak.
Guil. Nor do we find him forward to be sounded;
But, with a crafty madness keeps aloof.
When we would bring him on to some confession
Of his true state.
Queen. Did he receive you well ?
Ros. Most like a gentleman.
Guil. But with much forcing of his disposifion.
Ros. Niggard of question ; but, of our demands.
Most free in his reply.
Queen. Did you assay him
To any pastime ?
26
shakspeaeian readeit.
Ros. Madam, it so fell out, that certain players
We o'er-raught on the way : of these we told him;
And there did seem in him a kind of joy
To hear of it: They are about the court •
And, as I think, they have already order
This night to play before him.
Pol. 'Tis most true:
And he beseech'd me to entreat your majesties.
To hear and see the matter.
King. With aU my heart; and it doth much content me
To hear him so inclin'd.
Good gentlemen, give him a further edge.
And drive his purpose on to these delights.
Ros. We shall, my lord.
[Exeunt Rosencrantz and GuiLDENSTEna
King. Sweet Gertrude, leave us too:
For we have closely sent for Hamlet hither;
That he, as 'twere by accident, may here
Affront Ophelia:
Her father, and myself (lawful espials,)
Will so bestow ourselves, that, seeing, unseen.
We may of their encounter frankly judge :
And gather by liim, as he is behav'd.
If't be the affliction of his love or no.
That thus he suffers for.
Queen. I shall obey you :
And, for your part, Ophelia, I do wish.
That your good beauties be the happy cause
Of Hamlet's wildness ; so shall I hope your virtues
Will bring him to his wonted way again.
To both your honors. •
Oph. Madam, I wish it ipay. [Exit Queer
Pol. Ophelia, walk you here:—Gracious, so please you.
We will bestow ourselves;—Read on this book; [To Ophelia
That show of such an exercise may color
Your loneliness.—We are oft to blame in this,—
'Tis too much prov'd, that, with devotion's visage,
And pious action, we do sugar o'er
The devil himself.
King. O, 'tis too true! how smart
A lash that speech doth give my conscience !
Pol. I hear him coming; let's withdraw, my lord.
[Exeunt. King a-nd Po' osica
Enter Hamlet.
Ham. 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 ;
nAKT.ET.
7)
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And, by opposing, end them ?—To die,—to sleep,—
No more ;—and, % a sleep, to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to,—'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. 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,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely
The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay.
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin ? who would fardels bear.
To groan and sweat under a weary life ;
But that the dread of something after death,—
The undiscover'd 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 enterprises of great pith and moment.
With this regard, their currents turn awry.
And lose the name of action.—Soft you, now !
The fair Ophelia ;—Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.
Oph. Good my lord.
How does your honor for this many a day ?
Ham. I humbly thank you ; well.
Oph. My lord, I have remembrances of yours
That I have longed long to re-deliver;
I pray you, now receive them.
Ham. No, not I;
I never gave you aught.
Oph. My honor'd lord, you know right well, you did;
And, with them, words of so sweet breath compos'd
As made the things more rich: their perfume lost,
Take these again ; for to the noble mind.
Rich gifts wax poor, when givers prove unkind.
There, my lord.
Qamlet falU into a wild extravagance of speech, and then exite
28
shakspearian eeadee.
Oph. O, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown!
The courtier's, soldiers, scholar's, eye, tongue, sword '•
The expectancy and rose of the fair state,
The glass of fashion, and the mould of form,
T'le observ d of all observers ! quite, quite down!
And I, of ladies most deject and wretched.
That suck'd the honey of his music vows.
Now see that noble and most sovereign reason.
Liite sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh;
That unmatch'd form and feature of blown youth, ^
Blasted with ecstasy: O, woe is me!
To have seen what I have seen, see what I see
Re-enter King and Polorius.
King. Love ! his affections do not that way tend;
Nor what he spake, though it lack'd form a little.
Was not like madness. There's something in his' sonl,
O'or which his melancholy sits on brood :
And, I do doubt, the hatch, and the disclose.
Will be some danger: Which for to prevent,
I have, in quick determination.
Thus set it down; He shall with speed to England
For the demand of our neglected tribute:
Haply, the seas, and countries different.
With" variable objects, shall expel
This something-settled matter in his heart;
Whereon his brains still beating, puts him thus
From fashion of himself. What think you on't 1
Pol. It shall do well; but yet I do believe.
The origin and commencement of his grief
Sprung from neglected love.—How now, Ophelia 1
You need not tell us what lord Hamlet said;
We heard it ail.—My lord, do as you please; '
But, if you hold it fit, after the play.
Let his queen mother all alone entreat him
To show his grief; let her be round with him;
And I'll be plac'd, so please you, in the ear
Of all their conference : If she find him not.
To England send him : or confine him, where
Your wisdom best shall think.
King. It shall be so:
Madness in great ones must not imwatch'd go.
[ Exeunt
SCENE n.—A Hall in the same.
Enter Hamlet, and certain Players.
Hum. Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you,
trippingly on the tongue: but if you mouth it, as many of our play*
hamlet.
29
ers do, I had as lief the towii-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw
the air too much with your hand, tiius; but use aJ gently; for in
the very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say) whirlwind of your
passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance, that may give it
smoothness. O, it offends me to the soul, to hear a robustious peri-
wig-'pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the
ears of the groundlings ; who, for the most part are capable of no¬
thing but inexplicable dumb shows, and noise ; I would have such a
fellow whipped for o'erdoing Termagant; it cut-herods Herod: pray
^ou, avoid it.
' 1st Play. I warrant, your honor.
Ham. Be not too tame neither, hut let your own discretion be
your tutor; suit the action to the word, the word to the action; with
this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature;
for any thing so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end,
both at the first, and now, was, and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror
up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image,
and the very age and body of the time, his form and pressure. Now
this, overdone, or come tardy off, though it make the unskilful laugh,
cannot but make the judicious grieve; the censure of which one,
must, in your allowance, o'erweigh a whole theatre of others. O,
there be players, that I have seen play,—and heard others praise,
and that highly,—not to speak it profanely, that, neither having the
accent of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, Pagan, nor manjiave
so strutted, and bellowed, that I have thought some of nature's
journeymen had made then, and not made them well, they imitated
humanity so abominably.
1st Play. 1 hope, we have reformed that indifferently with us.
Ham. O, reform it altogether. And let those, that play your
clowns, speak no more than is set down for them; for there be of
them, that wiU themselves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren
spectators to laugh too; though, in the mean time, some necessary
question of the play be then to be considered : that's vill«,"tous; and
shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it. Cro, make
you ready [Exeunt PWers.
Ham. What, ho; Horatio!
Enter Horatio,
Hot. Here, sweet lord, at your service.
Ham. Horatio, thou art e'en as just a man
As e'er my conversation cop'd withal.
Hor. O', my dear lord,—
Ham. Nay, do not think I flatter:
For what advancement may I hope from thee.
That no revenue hast, but thy gooo spirits.
To feed and clothe thee ? \^y should the poor be ftatter'd f
No, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp;
And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee.
Where thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou hear 7
30
SHAKSF£ABIAN BEADER.
Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice,
And could of men distinguish her election,
She hath seal'd thee for herself: for thou hast been
As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing;
A man, that fortune's buffets and rewards
Hath ta'en with equal thanks: and bless'd are those,
Whose blood and judgment are so well co-mingled,
That they are not a pipe for fortune's finger
To sound what stop she please: Give me that man
That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him
In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart,
As I do thee.—Something too much of this.—
There is a play to-night before the king:
One scene of it comes near the circumstance.
Which J have told thee of my father's death.
I pr'ythee, when thou seest that act a-foot,
Even with the very comment of thy soul
Observe my uncle: if his occulted guilt
Do not itself unkennel in one speech,
It is a damned ghost that we have seen;
And my imaginations are as foul
As Vulcan's stithy. Give him heedful note:
For 1 mine eyes wl rivet to his face;
And, after, we will both our judgments join
In censure of his seeming.
Hor. Well, my lord.
Ham. They are coming to the play; I must be idle:
Get you a place.
Danish march. A flourish. Enter King, Queen, PoLONiua,
Ophelia, Rosenckantz, Guildenstern, and others.
King. How fares our cousin Hamlet ?
Ham. Excellent, i'faith; of the camelion's dish:
I eat the air promise-crammed: You cannot feed capons so.
King. I have nothing with this answer, Hamlet; these words are
not mine.
Ham. No, nor mine now. My lord,—you played once in the
university, you say f [To Polonius.
Pol. That did I, my lord; and was accounted a good actor.
Ham. And what did you enact ?
Pol. I did enact Julius Csesar: I was killed i'the Capitol; Brutus
killed me.
Ham. It was a brute part of him, to kill so capital a calf there.—
P < the players ready ?
Ros. Ay, my lordthey s*ay upon your patience.
Queen. Come hither, my dear Hamlet, sit by ine.
Ham. No, good mother, here's metal more attract! te.
Pol. O ho! do you mark that 2 [To the Kino.
HAMLET.
31
Ham. Lady, shall I lie in your lap ?
[Iixjing down at Ophelia's fetU
Oph. You are merry, my lord.
Ham. Who, I ?
Oph. Ay, my lord. »
Ham. O! your only jig-maker. What should a man do but be
merry? for, look you, how cheerfully my mother looks, and my
father died within these two hours.
Oph. Nay, 'tis twice two months, my lord. '
Ham. So long ? Nay, then let the devil wear black, for I'll have
a suit of sables. O heavens ! die two months ago, and not forgotten
yet ? Then there's hope, a great man's memory may outhve his Ufo
half a year: But, by'r-lady, he must build churches then.
Ovh. What means the play, my lord ?
Ham. Marry, this is michmg mallecho; it means mischief.
Oph. But what is the argument of the play ?
Enter Prologue.
Ham. We shall know by this fellow.
Pro. Eor us, and for our tragedy.
Here stooping to your clemency.
We heg your hearing patiently.
Ham. Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring ?
Oph. 'Tis brief, my lord.
Ham. As woman's love.
The play selected by Hamlet is performed before the courtin which the soppmed
murder of bis father is exhibited.
The player Q.aeeD protests to her husband—that—
—Both here, and hence, pursue me lasting strife,
f, once a widow, ever I be wife !
Ham. If she should break it now, [To Ophelia.
P. King. 'Tis deeply sworn. Sweet, leave me here a while;
My spirits grow dull, and fain I would beguile >
The tedious day with sleep. {Sleeps,
P. Queen. Sleep rock thy brain.
And never come mischance between us twain ! {Exit.
Ham. Madam, how like you tliis play ?
Queen. The lady doth protest too much, methinks.
Ham. O, but she'll keep her word.
King. Have you heard the argument ? Is there no offence in't ?
Ham. No, no, they do but jest, poison in jest • no offence i'tlie
world.
King. What do you call the play ?
Ham. The mouse-trap. Marry, how? Tropically. This play
is the image of a murder done in Vienna: Gonzago is the Duke's
name; his wife, Baptista: you shall see anon; 'tis a knavish piece
of work: But what of that ? your majesty, and we that have free
32
shakspeaeian header.
souls, it touches us not: Let the galled jade wince, our withers are
unwrung.—
Enter a Player, as Lmcianus.
This is one Lucianus, nephew to the king.
Oph. You are as good as a chorus, my lord.
Ham. I could interpret between you and your love, if I could see
cne puppets dallying.—Begin, murderer;—begin ;
• The croaking raven doth bellow for revenge.
hue. Thoughts Mack, hands apt, drugs Jit, and time agreeing;
Confederate season, else no creature seeing ;
Thou mixture rardc, of midnight weeds collected.
With Hecate's ban thrice blasted, thrice infected.
Thy natural magic and dire property.
On wholesome lye usurp immediately.
\^Pours the poison into the sleepePs ears.
Ham. He poisons him i' the garden for his estate. His name's
Gonzago; the story is extant, and written in very choice Italian:
You snail see anon, how the murderer gets the love of Gonzago'a
wife.
Oph. The king rises.
Ham. What! frighted with false fire!
Queen. How fares my lord ?
Pol. Give o'er the play.
King. Give me some light:—away!
Pol. Lights, lights, lights !
[Exeunt all but Hamlet and Horatio.
Ham. Why, let the strucken deer go weep.
The hart ungalled play :
For some must watch, while some must sleep;
Thus runs the world away;—
O good Horatio, I'll take the ghost's word for a thousand pound
Did st perceive ?
Hot. Very well, my lord.
Ham, Upon the talk of the poisoning,
Hot. I did very well note him.
Ham. Ah, ha!—Come, some music; come, the recorders.
For if the king like not the comedy.
Why then, behke,—^he likes it not, perdy.
Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.
Come, some music.
Guil. Good my lord, vouchsafe me a word with you.
Ham. Sir, a whole history. ^
Guil, The king, sir,
Ham. Ay, sir, what of him ?
GuU. Is, in his retirement, marvellous distempered.
Ham. With drink, sir 7
b:amlet.
33
Chiil, No, my lord, with choler.
Ham. Your wisdom should show itself more richer, to signify (Ma
to the doctor; for, for me to put him to Ms purgation, would, perhaps,
plunge him into more clioler.
Guil. Good my lord, put your discourse into some frame, and
start not so wildly from my-affair.
Ham. I am tame, sir :—pronounce.
GuU. The queen, your mother, in most great affliction of spirit,
hath sent me to you.
Ham. You are welcome.
Guil. Nay, good my lord, this courtesy is not of the right breed.
If it shall please you to make me a wholesome answer, I will do your
mother's commandment: if not, your pardon, and my return, shall
be the end of my business.
Ham. Sir, I cannot.
Guil. What, my lord ?
Ham. Make you a wholesome answer; my wit's diseased: But
sir, such answer as I can make, you shall command ; or, rather, as
you say, my mother: therefore, no more, but to the matter; My
mother, you say,
Ros. i"hen thus she says; Your behavior hath struck her into
amazement and admiration.
Ham. O wonderful son, that can so astonish a mother!—But is
there no sequel at the heels of this mother's admiration; impart.
Ros. She desires to speak with you in her closet.
Ham. We shall obey, were she ten times our mother. Have you
any further trade with us ?
Ros. My lord, you once did love me.
Ham. And do still, by these pickers and stealers.
Ros. Good my lord, what is your cause of distemper ? you do,
surely, but bar the door upon your own liberty, if you deny your
griefs to your friend.
Ham. Sir, I lack advancement.
Ros. How can that be, when you have the voice of the king him¬
self for your succession in Denmark ?
Ham. Ay sir, but While the grass grows,—^the proverb is some-
tiling musty
Enter the Players, with recorders.
O, the recorders;—^let me see one.—To withdraw with you;—Why
do you go about to recover the wind of me, as if you would drive me
into a toil ?
Guil. O, my lord, if my duty be too bold, my love is too unman¬
nerly.
Ham. I do not well understand that. Will you play upon tMs
nipe ?
Guil. My lord, I cannot.
Ham. I pray you.
GuU. Believe me, I cannot.
3*
34 SHAESFEABIAN BEAOI«.
Ham. I do beseech you.
Guil. I know no touch of it, my lord.
Ham. 'Tis as easy as lying: govern these ventages with youi
.fingers and thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it wU. dis«
course most eloquent music. Look you, these are the stops.
Chiil. But these cannot I command to any utterance of harmony
I have not the skill.
Ham. Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of
me. You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops
you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me
from my lowest note to the top of my compass: and there is much
mnsic, excellent voice, in this little organ; yet cannot you make it
speak. S'blood, do you think, I am easier to be played on than a
pipe ? CaU me what instrument you will, though you can fret mCi
you cannot play upon me.
Evler PoLONius.
God bless you, sir.
Pol. My lord, the queen would speak with you, and presently.
Ham. Do you see yonder cloud, that's almost in shape of a camel 1
Pol. By the mass, and 'tis like a camel, indeed.
Ham. Methinks, it is like a weasel.
Pol. It is backed like a weasel.
Ham. Or, like a whale ?
Pol. Very like a whale. •
Ham. Then will I come to my mother by and by.—^They fool mo
to the top of my bent.—I wiU come by and by.
Pol. I will say so. [Exit PoLOinus,
Ham. By and by is easily said.—Leave me, friends.
[Exeunt Ros., Gun,., Hoe., ^
'Tis now the very witching time of night;
When churchyards yawn, and heU itself breathes out
Contagion to this world: Now could I drink hot blood.
And do such business as the bitter day
Would quake to look on. Soft; now to my mother.
O, heart, lose not thy nature; let not ever
The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom:
Let me be cruel, not unnatural:
I will speak daggers to her, but use none. ^ExU.
SCENE nr.—A Room in the same*
Enter King, Rosenceantz, and Guildensteen.
King. I like him not: nor stands it safe M*ith us.
To let his madness range. Therefore, prepare yon;
I your commission will forthwith dispatch.
And he to England shall along with you:
The terms of our estate may not endure
hamlet.
85
Hazard so near itS.
Arm you, I pray you, to this.speedy voyage;
For we will fetters put upon this fear.
Which now goes too free-footed.
Ros. Guil. We will haste us.
[Exeunt Rosencramtz and Guildensteek.
Enter Polonius.
Pol. My lord, he's going to his mother's closet;
Behind the arras I'll convey myself.
To hear the process; I'll warrant, she'll tax him home.
And, as you said, and wisely was it said,
'Tis meet, that some more audience than a mother.
Since nature makes them partial, should o'erhear
The speech of vantage. Fare you well, my liege:
I'll call upon you ere you go to bed.
And tell you what I know.
King. Thanks, dear my lord, [Exit PoLonro.
O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven;
It hath the primal eldest curse upon't,
A brother's murder !—^Pray can I not.
Though inclination be as sharp as will;
My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent;
And, like a man to double business bound,
I stand in pause where I shall first begin.
And both neglect. What if this cursed hand
Were thicker than itself with brother's blood ?
Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens.
To wash it white as snow ? Whereto serves mercy.
But to confront the visage of offence ?
And what's in prayer, J)ut this, two-fold force,—
To be forestalled, ere we come to fall.
Or pardon'd, being down ? Then I'll look up;
My fault is past. But, O, what form of prayer
Can serve my turn ? I'orgive me my foul murder !—
That cannot be; since I am still possess'd
Of those effects for which I did the murder,
My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen.
May one be pardon'd, and retain the offence ?
In the corrupted currents of this world.
Offence's gilded hand may shove by justice;
And oft 'tis seen, the wicked prize itself
Buys out the law: But 'tis not so above:
There is no shuffling, there the action lies
In his true nature; and we ourselves compell'd,
Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults.
To give in evidence. What then ? what rests 7
Trv what repentance can : What can it not 1
36
SHAESFEABIAN READER.
Vet what can it, when one cannot repent ?
O wretched state ! O bosom, black as death!
O limed soul; that struggling to be free,
Art more engag'd ! Help, angels, make assay!
Bow, stubborn knees! and, heart, with strings cf steel,
Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe;
All may be well! [Retires and kntfl*
SCENE rV.—Another Room in the same.
Enter Qtoen and PoLOUius.
Pol. He will come straight. Look, you lay home to him;
Tell him, his pranks have been too broad to bear with;
And that your grace hath screen'd and stood between
Much heat and him. I'll silence me e'en here,
fray you, be round with him.
Queen. I'll warrant you;
Fear me not: withdraw, I hear him coming.
[PoLONius hides himself
Enter Hamlet.
Ham. Now, mother; what's the matter ?
Queen. Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended.
Ham. Mother, you have my father much offended.
Queen. Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue.
Ham. Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue.
Queen. Why, how now, Hamlet ?
Ham. What's the matter now ?
Queen. Have you forgot me ?
Ham. No, by the rood, not so;
You are the queen, your husband's brother's wife;
And,—'would it were not so !—^you are my mother.
Queen. Nay, then I'll set those to you that can speak.
Ham. Come, come, and sit you down ; you shall not budge;
You go not, till I set you up a glass
Where you may see the inmost part of you.
Queen. What wilt thou do ? thou wilt not murder me ?
Help, help, ho!
Pol. [Behind.] What, ho! help!
Ham. How now! a rat ? [Dratos.
Dead, for a ducat, dead.
[Hamlet makes a pass thrmgh the arras
Pol. [Behind.] O, I am slain. [Falls, and dies.
Queen. O me, what hast thou done 1
Ham. Nay, I know not:
Is it the king ?
[Lifts up the arras, and draws forth PoLOniua
Queen. O, what a rash and bloody deed is this!
HAMLET.
Ham. A bloody deed ;—almost as bad, good mother,
As kill a king, and marry with his brother.
Qtteen., As kill a king!
Ham. Ah, lady, 'twas my word.—.
Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell!
[ To PoLONrai
I took thee {fft thy better;
Leave wringing of your hands; Peace, sit you down.
And let me wring your heart: for so I shall,
If t be made of penetrable stuff;
If damned custom have not braz'd it so.
That it be proof and bulwark against sense.
Queen. What have I done, that thou dar'st •flug thy tongua
In noise so rude against me 1
Ham. Such an act.
That blurs the grace and blush of modesty;
Calls virtue, hypocrite; takes off the rose
From the fair forehead of an innocent love.
And sets a blister there; makes marriage vows
As false as dicers' oaths : O, such a deed
As from the body of contraction plucks
The very soul; and sweet religion makes
A rhapsody of words: Heaven s face doth glow;
Yea, this solidity and compound mass.
With tristful visage, as against the doom.
Is thought-sick at the act.
Queen. Ah me, what act.
That roars so loud, and thunders in the index ?
Ham. Look here, upon this picture, and on tWs;
The counterfeit presentment of two brothers.
See, what a grace was seated on this brow;
Hyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself;
An eye like Mars, to threaten and command;
A station like the herald Mercury,
New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill;
A combination, and a form, indeed.
Where every God did seem to set his seal.
To give the world assurance of a man:
This was your husband.—Look you now, what follows
Here is your husband; like a mildew'd ear.
Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes ?
Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed.
And batten on this moor ? Ha I have you eyes 4
you cannot call it love: for, at your age.
The hey-day in the blood is tame; it's humble.
And waits upon the judgment: and what judgment
Would step from this to this ?
O shame! where is thy blush ?
Queen. O Hamlet, speakno more,
38
SHAKSPEARIAN READER.
Thou tum'st my eyes into my very soul;
And there I see such black and grained spots,
As will not leave their tinct.
Speak to me no more;
These words, like daggers, enter in mine ears:
No more, sweet Hamlet.
Ham. A murderer, and a Tillain:
A slave, that is not twentieth part the tithe
Of your precedent lord:—a vice of kings:
A cutpurse of the empire and the rule;
That from a shelf the precious diadem stole.
And put it in his pocket!
Queen. No more.
Enter Ghost.
Ham. A king
Of shreds and patches:—
Save me, and hover o'er me with your wings.
You heavenly guards !—What would your gracious figure t
Queen. Alas! he's mad.
Ham. Do you not come your tardy son to chide,
That, laps'd in time and passion, lets go by
The important acting of your dread command ?
O, say.
Ghost. Do not forget; this visitation
Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose.
But, look ! amazement on thy mother sits:
O, step between her and her fighting soul;
Speak to her, Hamlet.
Ham. How is it with you, lady ?
. Queen. Alas, how is't with you ?
That you do bend your eye on vacancy.
And with the incorporal air do hold discourse ?
O gentle son.
Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper
Sprinkle cool patience. Whereon do you look ?
Ham. On him! on him !—Look you, how pale he glares!
His form and cause conjoin'd, preaching to stones.
Would make them capable.—^Do not look upon me;
Lest, with this piteous action, you convert
My stern effects: then what I have to do
Will want true color; tears, perchance, for blood.
Queen. To whom do you speak this ?
Ham. Do you see nothing there ?
Queen. Nothing at all; yet all, that is, I see.
Ham. Nor did you nothing hear ?
Queen. No» nofliing, but ourselves.
Ham. Why, look you there ! look how it steals away!
hamlet.
39
My father, in his native habit as he lived I
Look, where he goes, even now, out at the portal! [Exit Ghost
Queen. This is the very coinage of your brain:
This bodiless creation ecstasy
Is very cunning in. '
Ham. Ecstasy!
My pulscf as yours, doth temperately keep time.
And makes as healthful music: It is not madness,
That I have utter'd: bring me to the test, .
And I the matter will re-word; which madness
Would gambol from. Mother, for love of grace,
Lay not that flattering unction to your soul.
That not your trespass, but my madness, speaks:
It will but skin and film the ulcerous place;
Whiles rank corruption, mining all within.
Infects unseen. Confess yourself to heaven ;
Repent what's past: avoid what is to come.
Queen. O Hamlet! thou hast cleft my heart in twain.
Ham. O throw away the worser part of it,
And live the purer with the other half.
Good night:—
And when you are desirous to be bless'd,
I'll blessing beg of you.—^For this same lord,
^Pointing to Polontua.
I do repent:
I will bestow him, and will answer well
The death I gave him. So, again, good night!
I must be cruel, only to be kind:
Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.
ACT IV.
The guilty King and Queen, alarmed at the consequences which may resnlt from
Hamlet's evident knowledge of their crimes, determine to send him to England under the
cha^e of Rosencrantz and Golldenstem, with private instructions to the king of Eng¬
land to effect ** The present death of HanUet.** Thb is done, and the young prinoe
sails for England. Ophelia, overcome with grief, at the death of her father, becomes
distracted, and seeks an interview with the Queen. Young Laertes returns from
France, and charges the King with being privy to the murder of Polonius.
SCENE V.—^Elsinore. A Room in the Castle.
Enter Queen and Horatio.
Queen. 1 wiU not speak with her.
not. She is importunate; indeed, distract.
Queen. Let her come in. [Exit HoEATia
'Twere good she were spoken with; for she may strew
Dangerous conjectures in iil-breeding minds.
40
shaksfearian beadek.
Enter Ophelia.
Oph. Where is the beauteous majesty of Denmark 1
Queen. How now, Ophelia ?
Oph. Hmo should I your true love hnow
From another one 7
By his cockle hat and staff.
And his sandal shoon 7
Queen. Alas, sweet lady, what imports this song ?
Oph. Say you ? nay, pray you, mark.
He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone ;
At his head a grass-green turf.
At his heels a stone.
O, ho!
Queen. Nay, but Ophelia,
Oph. Pray you, mark.
White his shroud as the mountain snow, [/Sings.
Enter King.
Queen. Alas, look here,my lord.
Oph. Larded all toith sweet flowers ;
Which bewept to the grave did go.
With true-love showers.
King. How do you, pretty lady ?
Oph. Well, Heaven 'ield you! They say, the owl was a baker's
daughter. We know what we are, but, know not what we
may be.
King. How lon^ hath she been thus ?
Oph. I hope, all will be well. We must be patient: but I cannot
choose but weep, to think, they should lay him i' the cold ground:
My brother shall know of it, and so I thank you for your good
counsel. Come, my coach! (Jood night, ladies; good night, sweet
ladies ; good night, good night. [Exit,
King. Follow her close; give her good watch, I pray you.
[Exit HoRATia.
O! This is the poison of deep grief; it springs
All from her father's death:
Enter a Gentleman.
What's the matter ?
Gent. Save yourself, my lord.
The young Laertes, in a riotous head,
O'erbears your officers: The rabble call him, lord;
They cry. Choose we; Laertes shall be king !
Caps, hands, and tongues, applaud it to the clouds,
Laertes shall be king, Laertes king!
HAULET.
41
Queen, How cheerfully on the false trail they cry!
King. The doors are Broke. ll^nse wiihilL
Enter Laertes.
Laer. Where is this king ?—Sirs, stand you all without.
O thou vile king, give me my father.
Queen. Calmly, good Laertes.
King. What is tlie cause, Laertes,
That t% rebellion looks so giant-like ?—
Let him go, Gertrude; do not fear our person;
There's such divinity doth hedge a kuig.
That treason can but peep to what it would.
Why art thou thus incens'd;—Let him go, Gertrude
Speak, man.
Laer. Where is my father ?
King. Dead.
Queen. But not by him.
King. Let him demand his fill.
Laer. How came he dead ? I'll not be juggled with:
To this point I stand,—
That both the worlds I give to negligence, .
Let come what comes; only Til be reveng'd
Most throughly for my father.
King. Who shall stay you ?
Laer. My will, not all the world's:
And, for my means, I'll husband them so well.
They shall go far with little.
King. Good Laertes,
That 1 am guiltless of your father's death.
And am most sensibly in grief for it.
It shall as level to your judgment 'pear.
As day does to your eye.
Enter Ophelia farUastically dressed unth straws and Jlmeers
Laer. O rose of May!
Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia!—
O heavens! is't possible, a young maid's wits
Should be as mortal as an old man's life 1
Nature is fine in love : and, where 'tis fine,
It sends some precious instance of itself
After tlie thing it loves.
Oph. They bore him harrfac'd on the bier ;
Hey no nonny, nonny hey nonny:
And in his grave rained many a tear
?are you well, my dove'
42
SHAKSFEARIAN READER.
Laer. Hadst thou Uiy wits, and didst persuade revenge, •
It could not move thus.
Oph. You must sing, Down ordown, an you call him a-dotcn-a,
O, how the wheel becomes it! It is the false steward, that stole hii
master's daughter.
Laer. This nothing's more than matter.
Oph. There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray you, love,
remember: and there is pansies, that's for thoughts.
Laer. A document in madness ; thoughts and remembrance
fitted.
Oph. There's fennel for you, and columbines"-there's rue for
you; and here's some for me:—we may call it, herb of grace o'Sun-
days:—you may wear your rue with a diflTerence.—^There's a daisy:
•—I would give you some violets; but they withered all, when my
father died:—They say, he made a good end,
For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy,— [Str^s.
Laer. Thought and affliction, passion, all.
She turns to favor, and to prettiness.
Oph. And will he not come again 1
And will he not come again 7
No, no, he is dead.
Go to thy death-bed.
He never toill come again.
His beard was as white as snow.
All flaxen was his poll :
He is gone, he is gone.
And we cast away moan;
And peace be toiih his soul!
And with all Christian souls! I pray heaven be wi' ycu!
[ExitOroELU.
Laer, Do you see this, O heaven.
King. Laertes, I must commune with your grief.
Or you deny me right. Go but apart.
Make choice of whom your wisest friends you wiU,
And they shall hear and judge 'twixt you and me;
If by direct or by collateral hand
They find us touch'd, we wiU our kingdom give.
Our crown, our life, and all that we call ours.
To you in satisfaction; but, if not,
Be you content to lend your patience to us.
And we shall jointly labor with your soul
To give it due content.
Laer. Let this be so;
His means of death, his obscure funeral,—
No trophy, sword, nor hatchment, o'er his bones.
No noble rite, nor formal ostentation,—
Cry to be heard, as 'twere from heaven to earth,
That I must call't in question.
HAMLET. 43
I
King. So you shall;
And, where the offence is, let the great axe fall.
I pray you, go with me. [Exeunt,
The ship in which Hamlet is embarked for England is attacked by pirates; Hamlet
boards the pirate*s vessel, and is captured, but is treated with mercy, and landed on the
Danish coast. He sends letters to the King and Horatio, announcing his return, and de¬
sires the latter to repair to him immediately.
In the interim, the King and Laertes become reconciled, and plan together the death
of Hamlet.
Jjaertes is to engage the Prince at a match of fencing, and with a poisoned rapier bf
engages to slay Hamlet, and thus revenge the death of Polonius. The conference is inter*
rupted by the Q-ueen, who rashes in to announce the fate of Ophelia.
Enter Queen.
King. How now, sweet queen ?
Queen. One woe doth tread upon another's heel,
So fast they follow:—Your sister's drown'd, Laertes.
Laer. Drown'd! O, where!
Queen. The'^e is a willow grows ascaunt the brook,
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream;
Therewith fantastic garlands did she make
Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples,
There on the pendant boughs her coronet weeds
Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke;
When down her weedy trophies, and herself.
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide;
And, mermaid-like, a while they bore her up:
Which time, she chanted snatches of old tunes;
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and indu'd
Unto that element: but long it could not be.
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.
Laer. Alas then, she is drown'd ?
Queen. Drown'd, drown'd.
Laer. Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia,
And therefore I forbid my tears: But yet
It is our trick; nature her custom holds,
Let shame say what it will; when these are gone,
The woman will be out.—Adieu, my lord!
I have a speech of fire, that fain would blaze,
But that this folly drowns it. [Exit.
King. Let's follow, Gertrude;
How much I had to do to calm his rage!
Now fear I, this will give it start again;
Therefore, let's follow. [Exeund.
44
SHAESPEARUn READER.
ACT V.
SCENE I.—A Church-Yard.
Enter Two Clowns, with spades^ tf-c.
Isi Clo. Is she to be burled in christian burial, that wilfully seckii
her own salvation ?
2nd Clo. I tell thee, she is; therefore make her grave straight:
the crowner hath set on her, and finds it christian burial.
ls< Clo. How can that be, unless she drowned herself in her own
defence ?
2nd Clo. Why, 'tis found so.
\st Clo. It must be se offendendo; it cannot be else. For here
lies the point: If I drown myself wittingly, it argues an act: and an
act hath three branches; it is, to act, to do, and to perform: Argal,
she drowned herself wittingly.
2nd Clo. Nay, but hear you, goodman delver.
IsZ Clo. Give me leave. Here lies the water; good: here stands
the man; good: If the man go to this water, arid drown himself, it
is, will he, nill he, he goes; mark you that: but if the water come to
him, and drown him, he drowns not himself: Argal, he, that is not
guilty of his own death, shortens not his own life.
2nd Clo. But is this law ?
1st Clo. Ay, marry is't; crowner's-quest law.
2nd Clo. Will you ha' the truth on't ? If this had not been a
gentlewoman, she should have been buried out of christian burial.
1st Clo. Why, there thou say'st: And the more pity; that great
folks shall have countenance in this world to drown or hang them¬
selves, more than their even christian. Come, my spade. There is
no ancient gentlemen but gardeners, ditchers, and gravemakers; they
hold up Adam's profession.
2nd Clo. Was he a gentleman ?
1st Clo, He was the first that ever bore arms.
2nd Clo. Why, he had none.
1st Clo. What, art a heathen ? How dost thou understand the
scripture ? The scripture says, Adam digged; Could he dig without
arms ? I'll put another question to thee: if thou answerest me not
to the purpose, confess thyself
2iid Clfi. Go to.
1st Clo. What is he, that builds stronger than either the mason,
the shipwright, or the carpenter 1
2d Clo. The gallows-maker; for that frame outlives a thousand
tenants.—■
1st Clo. I like thy wit well, in good faith; the gallows does well:
But how does it well ? it does well to those that do ill: now thou dost
al, to say, the gallows is built stronger than the church;.aigal, tha
gallows may do well to thee. To't again; come.
2nd Clo. Who builds stronger than a mason, a shipwright, or a
sarpenter ?
)
HAMLET.
45
Is/ Clo. Ay, tell me that, and unyoke.
ind Clo. Marry, now I can teU.
1st Clo. To't.
2nd Clo. Mass, I cannot tell.
Enter Hamlet and Horatio, at a distance.
Is/ Clo. Cudgel thy brains no more about it; for your dull ass will
not mend his pace with beating: and, when you are asked this ques¬
tion next, say, a grave-maker; the houses that he makes, last till
doomsday. Go, get thee to Yaughan, and fetch me a stoup of
liquor. \Exil 2nd Clown.
1st Clown digs, and sings.
In youth, when I did love, did love,
Methought, it was very sweet.
To contract, O, the time, for, ah, my behove
O, methought, there was nothing meet.
Ham. Has this fellow no feeling of his business ? he sings at
grave-making.
Hor. Custom hath made it in him a property of easiness.
Ham. 'Tis e'en so: the hand of little employment hath the diuntier
sense. That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once: How
the knave jowls it to the ground, as if it were Cain's jaw-bone, that
did the first murder ! This might be the pate of a politician; one
that would circumvent heaven, might it not ?
Hor. It might, my lord.
Ham. Did these bones cost no more the breeding, but to play at
loggats with them ? mine ache to think on't. There's another:
Why may not that be tbe skull of a lawyer ? Where be his quiddits
now, his quiliits, his cases, hia-tenures, and his tricks ? why does he
suffer this rude knave now to knock him about the sconce with a
dirty shovel, and will not tell him of his action of battery ? Humph!
This fellow might be in's time a great buyer of land, with his statutes,
his recognizances, his fines, his double vouchers, his recoveries: Is
this the fine of his fines, and the recovery of his recoveries, to have
his fine pate full of fine dirt ? wiU his vouchers vouch him no more
of liis purchases, and double ones too, than the length and breadth
of a pair of indentures ? The very conveyances of his lands will
hardly lie in his box; and must the inheritor himself have no more ?
ka?
Hor. Not a jot more, my lord.
Ham. I will speak to this fellow:—Whose grave is this, sirrah ?
1st Clo. Mine, sir.—
O, a pit of clay for to he made, [Sings.
For such a guest is meet.
'Ham. I think it be thine, indeed; for thou liest in't.
1st Clo. You lie out on't, sir, and therefore it is not yours: for my
part, I do not lie in't. yet it is mine.
46
SHAKSPEARIAM READER.
Ham, Thou dost lie in't, to be in't, and say it Is thine: 'tis fiar the
dead, not for the quick; therefore thou liest.
1st Clo. 'Tis a quick lie, sir; 'twill away again, from me to you
Ham. What man dost thou dig it for ?
J St Clo. For no man, sir.
Ham. Wliat woman, then ?
Ck). For none neither.
Ham. Who is to be buried in't ? _
1st Clo. One that was a woman, sir; but, rest her soul, she's
dead.
Ham. How absolute the knave is ! we must speak by the card, or
equivocation will undo ns. By the lord, Horatio, these three years
I have taken note of it; the age is grown so picked, that the toe of
the peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier, he galls his kibe.
—How long hast thou been a grave-maker ?
ls< Clo. Of all the days i' the year, I came to't that day that our
last king Hamlet overcame Fortinbras.
Ham. How long's that since ?
Isl Clo. Cannot you tell that ? every fool can tell that: It was
that very day that young Hamlet was bom: he that is mad, and sent
into England.
Ham. Ay, marry, why was he sent into England ?
Isl Clo. Why, because he was mad : he shall recover his wits
(here ; or, if he do not, 'tis no great matter there.
Ham. Why ?
ls< Clo. 'Twill not be seen in him there; there the men are as
mad as he.
Ham. How came he mad ?
1st Ch. Very strangely, they say.
Ham. How strangely ?
1st Clo. 'Faith, e'en with losing his wits.
Ham. Upon what ground ?
1st Cw. Why, here in Denmark; I have been sexton here, map
and boy, thirty years.
Ham. How long will a man lie i' the earth ere he rot ?
1st Clo. Why, sir, here's a skull now hath lain you i' the earth
three-and-tvi enty years.
Ham. Whose was it ?
1st Clo. A mad fellow's it was ; Whose do you think it was ?
Ham. Nay, I know not.
1st Clo. A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! he poured a flagon
of Rhenish on my head once. This same skull, sir, was Yorick's
skull, the king's jester.
^ , [Takes the sltuU.
1st Clo. E en that.
Ham. Alas, poor Yorick!—I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of in¬
finite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath home me on his back a
thousand times. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know
*>t how oft. Where be your gibes now ? your gambols ? your
hamlet.
47
Bongs ? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set uie table
on a roar ? Not one now to mock your own grinning ? quite chap-
fallen ? Now get you to my lady's chamber, and teil her, let her
paint an inch thick, to this favor she must come; make her laugh at
that.—^Pr'ythee, Horatio, tell me one thing.
Hor. What's that, my lord ?
Ham. Dost thou think, Alexander looked o' this fashion i'
the earth 1
Hor. E'en so.
Ham. And smelt so ? pah! [Throws down the skull.
Hor. E'en so, my lord.
Ham. To what base uses we may return, Horario! Why may
not imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander, tid he find it stop¬
ping a bung-hole ?
Hor. 'Twere to consider too curiously, to consider so ?
Ham. No, faith, not a jot; but to follow him thither with modesty
f enough, and likelihood to lead it: As thus; Alexander died, Alex¬
ander was buried, Alexander returned to dust; the dust is earth;
of earth we make loam: And why of that loam, whereto he was
converted, might they not stop a beer-barrel ?
Imperious Caesar, dead, and turn'd to clay.
Might stop a hole to keep the wind away:
O, that the earth, which kept the world in awe.
Should patch a wall to expel the winter's flaw!
But soft! but soft! aside;—Here comes the king.
Enter Priests, ^c., in procession; the corpse of Ophelia, Laertes,
and Mourners following; King, Queen, their Trains, ^c.
The queen, the courtiers: Who is this they follow ?
And with such maimed rites ! This doth betoken.
The corse, they follow, did with desperate hand
Foredo its own life. 'Twas of some estate:
Couch we awhile, and mark. [Retiring with Horatio
Laer. What ceremony else ?
Ham. That is Laertes.
A very noble youth: Mark.
Laer. What ceremony else 1
1 Priest. Her obsequies have been so far enlarg'd
As we have warranty: Her death was doubtful;
And, but that great command o'ersways the order.
She should in ground unsanctified have lodg'd
TiU the last trumpet; for charitable prayers.
Shards, flints, and pebbles, should be thrown on her.
Yet here she is allowed her virgin crants.
Her maiden strewments, and the bringing home
Of bell and burial.
Laer. Must there no more be done ?
» Priest. No more be done!
48
'SHAKSFEARIAN READER.
We should profane the service of the dead
To sing a requiem, and such rest to her,
As to peace-parted souls.
Laer. Lay her i' the earth,—
And from her fair and unpolluted flesh
May violets spring!—I tell thee, churlish priest,
A minist'ring angel shall my sister be.
When thou liest howling.
Ham. What, the fair Ophelia!
Queen. Sweets to the sweet: Farewell: [ScatieringJlowert.
1 hop'd, thou should'st have been my Hamlet's wife ;
I thought, thy bride-bed to have deck'd, sweet maid,
And not have strew'd thy grave.
Laer. O, treble woe
Fall ten times treble on that Cursed head.
Whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense
Depriv'd thee of!—Hold off the earth awhile.
Till I have caught her once more in mine arms:
[Leaps inio the grave.
Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead;
Till of this flat a mountain you have made.
To o'er-top old PeUon, or the skyish head
Of blue Olympus.
Ham. [Advancing.] What is he, whose grief
Bears such an emphasis ? whose phrase of sorrow
Conjures the wand'ring stars, and makes them stand
Like wonder-wounded hearers ? this is I,
Hamlet the Dane. [Leaps into the grave
Laer. The devil take thy soul! [Grappling with him.
Ham. Thou pray'st not well.
I pr'ythee, take thy fingers from my throat;
For, though I am not splenetive and rash.
Yet have! in me something dangerous.
Which let thy wisdom fear: Hold off thy hand.
King. Pluck them asunder.
Queen. Hamlet, Hamlet!
All. Gentlemen,
Hot. Good my lord, be quiet.
[TVie Attendants part them, and they come out of the grave.
Ham. Why, I will fight with him upon this theme.
Until my eyelids wiU no longer wag.
Queen. O my son! what theme ?
Ham. I loved Ophelia; forty thousand brothers
Could not with all their quantity of love
Make up my sum.—What wilt thou do for her ?
King. O, he is mad, Laertes.
Ham. Zounds, show me what thou'lt do;
Woul'tweep? woul't fight? woul'tfast? woul't tear thyself t
Woul't drink up Esil ? eat a crocodile ?
hamlet.
49
I'll do't.—^Dost thou come here to whine ?'
To outface me with leaping in her grave ?
Be buried quick with her, and so will I:
And, if thou prate of mountains, let them throw
Millions of acres on us; till our ground
Singeing his pate against the burning zone.
Make Ossa like a wart! Nay, an thou'lt mouth,
I'll rant as well as thou.
Queen. This is mere madness,
And thus awhile the fit will work on him;
Anon, as patient as the female dove.
When tliat her golden couplets are disclos'd.
His silence will sit drooping.
Ham. Hear you, sir;
What is the reason, that you use me thus ?
I lov'd you ever: But it is no matter;
Let Hercules himself do what he may,
The cat will mew, and dog will have his day, [Exit.
King. I pray thee, good Horatio, wait upon him.—
f Exit Horatio.
Strengthen your patience in our last night's speech; [To Laertes.
We'll put the matter to the present push.—
Good Gertrude, set some watch over your son.—
This grave shall have a living monument:
An hour of quiet shortly shall we see ;
Till then, in patience our proceeding be. [Exeunt
Hamlet has learned the intentions of the King, in sending him to England, and
while consulting with Hoiatio how to act, a messenger comes from Clandius inviting the
Prince to a trial of skill " in fencing, with Laertes; Hamlet accepts the challenge, and
the scene changes to a Hall in the Palace where the court are assembled to witness the
enconnter.
SCENE the last.—A Hall in the Castle. i
Enter Hamlet, Horatio, King, Queen, Laertes, Lords, Osrio,
and Attendants with foils, 4-c.'
King. Come, Hamlet, come, and take this hand from me.
[ The King puts the hand of Laertes into that of HamlEt.
Ham. Give me your pardon, sir: I have done you wrong;
But pardon it as you are a gentleman.
Let my disclaiming from a purpos'd evil
Free me so far in your most generous thoughts.
That I have shot my arrow o'er the house,
And hurt my brotlier.
Laer. I am satisfied in nature.
Whose motive, in this case, should stir me most
To my revenge:
I do receive your ofier'd love like love.
And will not wrong it.
4
5G
SHAKSFEARIAN READER.
Ham. I embrace it freely;
And will this brother's wager frankly play.—
Give us the foils; come on.
Laer. Come, one for me.
Ham. I'll be your foil, Laertes; in mine ignorance
Your skill shall, like a star i' the darkest night,
Stick fiery off indeed.
Laer. , You mock me, sir.
Ham. No, by this hand.
King. Give them the foils, young Osric.—Cousin Hamlet,
You know the wager ?
Ham. Very well, my lord;
Your grace hath laid the odds o' the weaker side.
King. I do not fear it: I have seen you both:—
But since he's better'd, we have therefore odds.
Laer. This is too heavy, let me see another.
Ham. This likes me well: These foils have all a length ?
[ They prepare to play
Osr. Ay, my good lord.
King. Set me the stoups of wine upon that table •---
If Hamlet give the first or second hit.
Or quit in answer of the third exchange.
Let all the battlements their ordnanoe fire ;
The king shall drink to Hamlet's better breath ;
And in the cup an union shall he throw,
Richer than that which four successive kings
In Denmark's crown have worn; Give me the cups;
And let the kettle to the trumpet speak.
The trumpet to the cannoneer without.
The cannons to the heavens, the heaven to earth.
Now the king drinks to Hamlet.—Come, begin;—
And you, the judges, bear a wary eye.
Ham. Come on, sir,
Laer. Come, my lord. [They play.
Ham. One.
Laer. No.
Ham. Judgment.
' Osr. A hit, a very palpable hit.
Laer. Well,—again.
King. Stay, give me drink; Hamlet, this pearl is thine;
Here's to thy health.—Give him the cup.
[Trumpets sound; and cannon shot off within.
Ham. rU play this bout first, set it by awhile.
Come.—Another hit; What say you ? ' [ They play,
Laer. A touch, a touch, I do confess.
King. Our son shall win.
Queen. The queen carouses to thy fortune, HamleL
Ham. Good madam,
King. Gertrude, do not drink.
hamlet.
51
Queen. I will, my lord ;—I pray you, pardon me.
King. It is the poison'd cup; it is too late. ' [Aside,
Laer. I'll hit him now ;
And yet it is almost against my conscience. [Aside.
Ham. Come, for the third, Laertes : You do but dally ;
I pray you, pass with your best violence ;
I am afeard, you make a wanton of me.
Laer. Say you so ? come on. [ They play.
[Laertes wounds Hamlet; then, in scuffling, they
change rapiers, and Hamlet wounds Laertes.
King. Part them, they are incens'd.
/fom. Nay, come again. [ Tfte Queen/aHs.
Osr. Look to the queen there, ho!
Hor. They bleed on both sides:—How is it, my lord ?
Osr. How is't, Laertes ?
Laer. Why, as a woodcock to my own springe, Osric;
I lun justly kill'd with mine own treachery.
Ham, How does the queen ?
King. She swoons to see them bleed.
Queen. No, no, the drink, the drink,—O my dear Hamlet!—
The drink, the drink ;—I am poison'd! [Dies.
Ham. O villany !—Ho ! let the door be lock'd :
Treachery ! seek it out. [LaertesyhZZs.
Laer. It is here, Hamlet: Hamlet, thou art slain;
No medicine in the world can do thee good;
In thee there is not half an hour's life ;
The treacherous instrument is in thy hand,
Unbated, and envenom'd: the foul practice
Hath turn'd itself on me ; lo, here I lie.
Never to rise again; Thy mother's poison'd;
I can no more ;• the king, the king's to blame.
Ham. The point
Envenom'd too!—^Then, venom, to thy work. [Stabs the Elno.
Follow my mother.
Laer. He is justly serv'd;
It is a poison temper'd by himself.—
Exchange forgiveness with me, noble Hamlet:
Mine and my father's death come not upon thee;
Nor thine on me! [Dies,
Ham. Heaven make thee free of it! I follow thee.
You that look pale and tremble at this chance,
Tiiat are but mutes or audience to this act.
Had I but time, (as this fell sergeant, death.
Is strict in his arrest,) O, I could tell you,—
But let it be:—Horatio, I am dead;
Thou liv'st; report me and my cause aright
To the unsatisfied.
Hor. Never believe it;
52
SHAESFEARIAM READER.
I am more an antique Roman than a Dane,
Here's yet some liquor left.
Ham. As thou'rt a man,—
Give me the cup ; let go; by heaven I'll have it.—
O Heaven !—Horatio, what a wounded name.
Things standing thus unknown, shall live behind me !
If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart.
Absent thee from felicity awhile,
And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain,
To tell my story.—O, 1 die, Horatio;
/ The potent poison quite o'er-crows my spirit;
The rest is silence.
Her. Now cracks a noble heart;—Good-night, sweet prinoD;
And lights of angels sing thee to thy rest!
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING
Various sources have be assigned, from which Shakspeare borrowed .]«a story of
%is comedy; Orlando Furioso, The Faery Queen, and a novel of Bandello's, havo
•ach been cited as furnishing the original conception of the plot. It is perhaps of little
:»onsequence whence the poet drew his materials: the play itself is so full of life and
sharacter, so teeming with wit, poetry, and humor, as to render the mere superstructure
on wliich the incidents are founded a matter of no account to the general reader.
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
Don Pedro, Prince of Arragon.
Don John, his illegitimate brother.
Claddio, a young lord of Florence, favorite to Don Pedro.
Benedick, <t young lord of Fadva, favorite likewise to Don Pedro
Leonato, governor of Messina.
Antonio, Ai« brother.
Balthazar, servant to Don Pedro.
Boracuio, Cohrsvz, followers of Don John.
Dogberry, Verges, two foolish officers.
A Sexton, A Friar, A Boy.
Hero, daughter to Leonato.
Beatrice, niece to Leonato.
Margaret, Ursula, gentlewomen attending on Heio.
Messengers,Watch,and Attendants.
SCENE,—Messina.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—Before Leonato's House.
Enter Leonato, Hero, Beatrice, and others, with, a Mjssenger.
Leon. I learn in this letter, that Don Pedro of Arragon comes tliis
night to Messina.
54
SHAESFEAKIAN READER.
Mess. He is very near by this; he was not three leagues off when
1 left him.
Leon. How many gentlemen have you lost in this action ?
Mess. But few of any sort, and none of name.
Leon. A victory is twice itself, when the achiever brings home
full numbers. I find here, that Don Pedro hath bestowed much
oonor on a young Florentine, called Claudio.
Mess. Much deserved on his part, and equally remembered by
Don Pedro: He hath borne himself beyond the promise of his age;
doing, in the figure of a lamb, the feats of a lion: he hath, indeed,
better bettered expectation, than you must expect of me to tell you
how.
Leon. He hath an uncle here in Messina will be very much glad
of it.
Mess. I have already delivered him letters and there appears
much joy in him; even so much, that" joy could not show itself
modest enough, without a badge of bitterness.
Leon. Did he break out into tears ?
Mess. In great measure.
Leon. A kind overflow of kindness: There are no faces truer
than those that are so washed. How much better is it to weep at
joy, than to joy at weeping ?
Beat. I pray you, is signior Montanto returned from the wars,
or no ?
Mess. I know none of that name, lady; there was none such in
tlie army of any sort.
Leon. What is he that you ask for, niece ?
Hero. My cousin means signior Benedick of Padua.
Mess. O, he is returned, and as pleasant as ever he was.
Beat. I pray you, how many hath he killed and eaten in these
wars ? But how many hath he killed ? for, indeed, I promised to
eat all of his killing.
Leon. Faith, niece, you tax signior Benedick too much; but he'll
be meet with you, I doubt it not.
Mess. He hath done good service, lady, in the.se wars.
BeM. You had musty victual, and he hath holp to eat it: he is a
very valiant trencher-man. \\e hath an excellent stomach.
Mess. And a good soldier too, lady.
Beat. And a good soldier to a lady;—^But what is he to a lord ?
Mess. A lord to a lord, a man to a man; stuffed with all honor¬
able virtues.
Beat It is so, indeed: he is no less than a stuffed man : but for
the stuffing,—Well, we are all mortal.
Leon. You must not, sir, mistake my niece; there is a kind of
meiTj' war betwixt signior Benedick and her: they never meet, but
there is a skirmish of wit beiween them.
Beat. Alas, he gets no'hing by that. In our last conflict, four of
his five wits went halting off, and >jw is the old man governed with
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHIMG.
55
one : so that if he have wit enough to keep himself warm, fet him
bear it for a difference between Wmself and his horse; for it is all
the wealth that he hath left, to be known a reasonable creature.—
Who is his companion now ? He hath every month a new sworn
brother.
Aless. Is it possible ?
Beat. Very easily possible: he wears his faith but as the fashion
of his hat, it ever changes with the next block.
Mess. I see, lady, the gentleman is not in your books.
Beat. No: an he were, I would bum my study. But, I pray you,
who is his companion ?
Mess. He is most in the company of the right noble Claudio.
Beat. O! he will hang upon him like a disease: he is sooner
caught than the pestilence: and the taker runs presently mad.
Heaven help the noble Claudio ! if he have caught the Benedick, it
will cost him a thousand pound ere he be cured.
Mess. I will hold friends with you, lady.
Beat. Do, good friend.
Leon. You will never run mad, niece.
Beat. No, not till a hot January.
Mess. Don Pedro is approached.
Enter Dm Pedeo, attended by Balthazar and others, Don John,
Claudio, and Benedick.
D. Pedro. Good signior Leonato, you are come to meet your
trouble: the fashion of the world is to avoid cost, and you en¬
counter it.
hem. Never came trouble to my house in the likeness of your
grace; for trouble being gone, comfort should remain; but when
you depart from me, sorrow abides, and happiness takes his leave.
D. Pedro. You embrace your charge too willingly.—I think, this
is your daughter.
Lem. Her mother hath many times told me so.
D. Pedro. Be happy, lady, for you are like an honorable father.
Bene. If signior Leonato be her father, she would not have his
head on her shoulders, for all Messina, as like him as she js.
Beat. I wonder that you will still be talking, signior Benedick;
nobody marks you.
Bene. What, my dear lady Disdain! are you yet living ?
Beat. Is it possible, disdain should die, while she hath such meet
food to feed it, as signior Benedick 1 Courtesy itself must convert
to disdain, if you come in her presence.
Bene. Then is courtesy a tum-coat:—But it is certain, I am loved
of all ladies, only you excepted: and I would I could find in my heart
that I had not a hard heart; for, truly, I love none.
- Beat. A dear happiness to woman; they would else have been
troubled with a pernicious suitor. I had rather hear my dog bark at
a crow, than a man swear he loves me.
56
SRAESFEARIAN HEADER.
Bene. Heaven keep your ladyship still in that mind! so some geU'
tleman or other shall 'scape a predestinate scratched face.
Beat. Scratching could not make it worse, an 'twere such a face
as yours were.
Bene. Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher.
Beat. A bird of my tongue, is better than a beast of yours.
Bene. I would, my horse had the speed of your tongue; and so
good a continuer: But keep your way; I have done.
Beat. Y ou always end with a jade's trick ; I know you of old.
D. Pedro. This is the sum of all:—Leonato,—signior Claudio, and
signior Benedick,—my deiir friend Leonato hath invited you all. I
tell him, we shall stay here at the least a month; and he heartily
prays some occasion may detain us longer: 1 dare swear he is no
hypocrite, but prays from his heart.
Leon. If you swear, my lord, you shall not be forsworn.—Let me
bid you welcome, my lord: being "reconciled to the prince your
brother, I owe you all duty.
D. John. I thank you: I am not of many words, but I thank you.
Leon. Please it your grace lead on ?
D. Pedro. Your hand, Leonato; we will go together.
[Exfuni all but Benedick and Clattdio.
Claud. Benedick, didst thou note the daughter of signior Leonato?
Bene. I noted her not: but I looked on her.
Claud. Is she not a modest young lady ?
Bene. Do you question me as an honest man should do, for my
simple true judgment; or would you have me speak after my cus¬
tom, as being a professed tyrant to their sex ?
Claud. No, I pray thee, speak in sober judgment.
Bene. Why, i' faith, methinks she is too low for a high praise, too
brown for a fair praise, and too little for a great praise: only this
commendation I can afford her; that were she other than she is, she
were unhandsome; and being no other but as she is, I do not like
her.
Claud. Thou thinkest I am in sport; I pray thee, tell me truly
how thou likest her ?
Bene. Would you buy her, that you inquire after her ?
Claud. Can the world buy such a jewel ? •
Bene. Yea, and a case to put it into. But speak you this with a
sad brow ? or do you play the flouting jack ; to tell us Cupid is a
good hare-finder, and Vulcan a rare carpenter ? Come, in what key
shall a man take you, to go in the song ?
Claud. In mine eye, she is the sweetest lady that ever I looked
on..
Bene. I can see yet without spectacles, and I see no such matter:
there's her cousin, an she were not possessed with a fury, exceeds
her as much in beauty, as the first of May doth the last of December.
But 1 hope, you have no intent to turn husband; have you ?
Claud. I would scarce trust myself, though I had sworn the con¬
trary, if Hero would be my wife.
much ado about nothino.
67
Bene. Is it come to this, i' faith ? llath not the world one man,
but he will wear his cap with suspicion ? Shall I never see a bacho<
lor of three-score again ? Go to, i' faith : an thou wilt needs thrust
thy neck into a yoke, wear the print of it, and sigh away Sundays.
lK)ok, Don Pedro is returned to seek you.
Re-eniet Don Pedro.
D. Pedro. What secret hath held you here, that you followed not
to Leonato's ?
Bene. I would, your grace would constrain me to tell.
D. Pedro. I charge thee on thy allegiance.
Bene. You hear, count Claudio: I can be secret as a dumb man,
I would have you think so; but on my allegiance,—mark you tliis,
on my allegiance:—He is in love. With who ?—^now that is your
grace's part.—Mark, how short his answer is: With Hero, Leonato's
short daughter.
Claud. If this were so, so were it uttered.
Bene. Like the old tale, my lord: " it is not so, nor 'twas not so!
but, indeed. Heaven forbid it should be so."
Claud. If my passion change not shortly. Heaven forbid it should
be otherwise.
D. Pedro. Amen, if you love her; for the lady is very well
worthy.
Claud. You speak this to fetch me in, my lord.
D. Pedro. By my troth, I speak my thought.
Claud. And, in faith, my lord, I spoke mine.
Bene. And, by my two faiths and troths, my lord, I spoke mine.
Claud. That I love her, I feel.
D. Pedro. That she is worthy, I know.
Bene. That I neither feel how she should be loved, nor know how
she should be worthy, is the opinion that fire caimot melt out of me;
I will die in it at the stake.
D. Pedro. Thou wast ever an obstinate heretic in the despite of
beauty.
Claud. And never could maintain his part, but in the force of his
will.
Bene. Because I will not do them the wrong to mistrust any
woman, I will do myself the right to trust none; and the fine is, (for
the which I may go the finer,) I will live a bachelor.
D. Pedro. I shall see thee, ere I die, look pale with love.
Bene. With anger, with sickness, or with hunger, my lord; not
with love: prove, tliat ever I lose more blood with love, than I will
get again with drinking, pick out mine eyes with a ballad-maker's
pen, and hang me up for the sign of blind Cupid.
D. Pedro. Well, if ever thou dost fall from this faith, thou wilt
prove a notable argument.
Bene. If I do, hang me in a bottle like a cat, and shoot at me; and"
Be that hits me, let hkn be clapped on the shoulder, and called Adam.
4*
58
shaksfearian reader.
D. Pedro. Well, as time shall try:
In lime the savage bull doth bear ike yoke.
Bene. The savage bull may; but if ever the sensible Benedick
bear it, pluck off the bull's horns, and set them in my forehead: and
.et me be vilely painted; and in such great letters as they write. Here is
^od horse to hire, let them signify under my sign,—Here you may see
Benedick, the married man.
Claud. If this should ever happen, thou would'st be hom-mad.
D. Pedro. Nay, if Cupid have not spent all his quiver in Venice,
thou wilt quake for this shortly.
Bene. I look for an earthquake too then.
D. Pedro. Well, you will temporize w ith the hours. In the
meantime, good signior Benedick, repair to Leonato's; commend mo
to him, and tell him, I will not fail him at supper; for, indeed, he
hath made great preparation.
Bene. I fove almost matter enough in me for such an embassage;
and so I commit you—
Claud. To the tuition of Heaven: From my house, (if I had it)—
D. Pedro. The sixth of July: Your loving friend. Benedick.
Bene. Nay, mock not, mock not: The body of your discourse is
sometime guarded with fragments, and tlie guards are but slightly
basted on neither: ere you flout old ends any further, examine you*
conscience ; and so I leave you. \_Exit Benedick.
Claud. My liege, your highness now may do me good.
D. Pedro. My love is thine to teach; teach it but now.
And thou shalt see how apt it is to leam
Any hard lesson that may do thee good.
Claud. Hath Leonato any son, my lord ?
D. Pedro. No child but Hero, she's his only heir:
Dost thou affect her, Claudio ?
Claud. O my lord.
When you went onward on this ended action,
I look'd upon her with a soldier's eye.
That lik'd, but had a rougher task in hand
Than to drive liking to the name of love;
But now I am retum'd, and that war-thoughts
Have left their places vacant, in their rooms
Come thronging soft and delicate desires.
All prompting me how foir young Hero is.
Saying, I lik'd her ere I went to wars.
ZJ. Pedro. Thou wilt be like a lover presently
And tire the hearer with a book of words :
If thou dost love fair Hero, cherish it;
And I will break with her, and with her father.
And thou shalt have her: Was't not to this end,
That thou began'st to twist so fine a story ?
Claud. How sweetly do you minister to love,
That know love's grief by Ms con plexion!
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
59
But lest my iilsing might too sudden seem,
I would have salv'd it with a longer treatise.
D. Pedro. What need the bridge much broader than the flood ?
The fairest grant is the necessity:
Look, what will serve, is fit: 'tis once, thou lov'st;
And I will: fit thee with the remedy.
[ know, we shall have revelling to-nighi;
[ will assume thy part in some disguise.
And tell fair Hero I am Claudio;
\nd in her bosom I'll unclasp my heart,
\nd take her hearing prisoner with the force
\nd strong encounter of my amorous tale:
Then, after, to her father will I break;
And ti'.e conclusion is, she shall be thine:
In practice let us put it presently. [Exeunt.
ACT II.
SCENE I.—A Hall in Leonato's House.
Enter Leonato, Antonio, Hero, Beatrice, and others.
Leon. Was not count John here at supper ?
Ant. I saw him not.
Beat. How tartly that gentleman looks! I never can see him, but
I am heart-burned an hour after.
Hero. He is of a very melancholy disposition.
peat. He were an excellent man, that were made just in the mid¬
way between him and Benedick; the one is too like an image, and
says nothing; and the other, too like my lady's eldest son, evermore
tattling.
Leotu Then half signior Benedick's tongue in count John's mouth,
and half count John's melancholy in signior Benedick's face,—
Beat. With a good leg, and a good foot, uncle, and money enough
in his purse, such a man would win any woman in the world,—^if he
could get her good will.
Leon. By my troth, niece, thou wilt never get thee a husband, if
tliou be so shrewd of thy tongue.
Ant. Well, niece, [to Hero,] I trust you will be ruled by you»
father.
Beat. Yes, faith; it's my cousin's duty to make courtesy, and say.
Father, as L please you:—but yet for all that, cousin, let him be a
handsome fellow, or else make another courtesy, and say. Father, as
it please me.
Learn. Well, niece, I hope to see you one day fitted with a hus¬
band.
Beat. Not till men are made of some other metal than earth.
Would it not grieve a woman to be over-mastered with a piece of
valiant dust ? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward
60
SIIAKSPEARIAN BEADEK.
marl ? No, uncle, I'll hold none. Adam's sons are my brethren; and
truly, I hold it a sin to match in my kindred.
Leon. Daufrhter, remember what I told you: if the prince do
solicit you in ti:at kind, you know your answer.
Beat. I'he fault will be in the music, cousin, if you be not woo'd
in good time: if the prince be too important, tell him, there is measure
in every thing, and so dance out the answer. For hear me. Hero;
wooing, wedding, and repentmg, is as a Scotch jig, a measure, and a
cinque-pace: the first suit is hot and hasty, like a Scotch jig, and full
as fantastical; the wedding, mannerly-modest, as a measure full of
state and ancientry; and then comes repentance, and, with his bad
legs, falls into the cinque-pace faster and faster, till he sink into his
grave.
Leon. Cousin, you apprehend passing shrewdly.
Beat. I have a good eye, uncle, I can see a church by daylight.
Leon. The revellers are entering; brother, make good room.
The Plot arranged by Don Pedro, is carried into execution at the masked Ball given
byLeunato. The Prince disguised as Ciaudio, wooes Hero, and obtains ctrnfession of hei
ove. He al»o breaks the matter to Lconato, who cheerfully consents to the union of hU
daughter with Ciaudio.
Don Pedro, Leonato, Ciaudio, and Hero, now undertake to bring Beaedick and
Beatrice * into a mountain of affection.' —Their plans are carried out in the two follow¬
ing scenes.
SCENE in.—Leonato's Garden.
Enter Benedick and a Boy.
Bene. Boy,— ^ ,
Boy. Signior.
Bene. In my chamber-window lies a book; bring it hither to me ir
the orchard.
Boy. I am here already, si*.
Bene. I know that;—but I would have thee hence, and here again.
{Exit Boy.]—I do much wonder, that one man, seeing how much
another man is a fool when he dedicates his behaviors to love, will,
after he hath laughed at such shallow follies in others, become the
argument of his own scorn, by falling in love : And such a man is
Ciaudio. I have known when there was no music with him but the
drum and fife; and now had he rather hear the tabor and the pipe;
I have known, when he would have walked ten mile afoot, to see a
good armor; and now will he lie ten nights awake, carving tlie fashion
of a new doublet. Ho was wont to speak plain, and to the purpose,
like an honest man, and a soldier; and now is he tum'd orthographeri
his words are a very fantastical banquet, just so many strange dishes.
May I be so converted, and see with these eyes ? I cannot teil; 1
think not: I will not be sworn, but love may transform me to an
oyster; but I'll take my oath on it, till he hath made an oyster of me,
ho shall never make me such a fool. One woman is fair; yet I am
well; another is wise; yet I am well: another virtuous; yet I am
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
61
well: but till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come
in my grace. Rich, she shall be, that's certain ; wise, or I'll none;
virtuous, or I'll never cheapen her; fair, or I'll never look on her ;
mild, or come not near me -, noble, or not I for an angel; of good
discourse, an excellent musician, and her hair shall be of what color
it please. Ha! tiie prince and monsieur Love! I will hide me in
the arbor. [ Withdraws,
Enter Don Pedro, Leonato, and Clauiio.
D. Pedro. Come, shall we hear this music ?
Claud. Yea, my good lord:—How still the evening is,
As hush'd on purpose to grace harmony!
D. Pedro. See you where Benedick hath hid himself ?
Claud. O, very well, my lord: the music ended,
We'll fit the kid fox with a pennyworth.
Enter Balthazar, with music.
D. Pedro. Come Balthazar, we'll hear that song again.
Balth. O good my lord, tax not so bad a voice
To slander music any more than once.
D. Pedro. It is the witness still of excellency,
To put a strange face on his own perfection:—
I pray thee, sing, and let me woo no more.
Balth. Because you talk of wooing, I will sing:
Since many a wooer doth commence his suit
To her he thinks not worthy ; yet he wooes ;
Yet he will swear, he loves.
D. Pedro. Nay, pray thee, come;
Or, if thou wilt hold longer argument,
Do it in notes.
Balth. Note this before my notes.
There's not a note of mine that's worth the noting.
D. Pedro. Why these are very crotchets that he speaks;
Note, notes, forsooth, and noting ! [Musi&
Bene. Now, Divine air'. now is his soul ravished!
Balthazar sings.
I. Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more ;
Men were deceivers ever;
One foot in sea, and one on shore ;
To one thing amstant never:
Then sigh not so.
But let them go.
And he you hlithe and bonny;
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into, Hey nonny, nonny.
n. Sing no more ditties, sing no mo
Of dumps so dull and heavy ;
62
SHAKSFEARIAN READER.
The fraud of men was ever so.
Since summer first was leavy.
Then sigh not so, &c.
D. Pedro. By my ti oth, a good song.
Balth. And an ill sijger, my lord.
Claud. Ha ? no; no, faith; thou singest well enough for a smft
Bene. [Ashfe.]—An he had been a dog, that should have howled
Jius, they would have hanged him; and, I pray Heaven his bad
voice bode no mischief! I had as lief have heard the night raven,
come what plague could have come after it.
D. Pedro. Yea, marry; [to Claudio.]—Dost thou hear, Baltha*
zar ? I pray thee, get us some excellent music; for to-morrow
night we would have it at the lady Hero's chamber-window.
Balth. The best I can, my lord.
D. Pedro. Do so: farewell. [Exeunl Balthazar and music.]
Come hither, Leonato: What was it you told me of to-day? that
your niece Beatrice was in love with signior Benedick ?
Claud. O, ay:—Stalk on, stalk on: the fowl sits. [Aside to
Pedro.]—I did never think that lady would have loved any man.
Leon. No, nor I neither; but most wonderful, that she should so
dote on signior Benedick, whom she hath in all outward behaviors
seemed ever to abhor.
Bene. Is't possible ? Sits the wind in that corner ? [Aside.
Leon. By my troth, my lord, I cannot tell what to think of it; but
that she loves him with an enraged affection,—it is past the infinite
of thought.
D. Pedro. May be, she d^th but counterfeit.
Claud. 'Faith, like enough.
Leon. Counterfeit! There never was counterfeit of passion came
■o near the life of passion, as she discovers it.
D. Pedro. Why, what effects of passion shows she ?
Claud. Bait the hook well; this fish will bite. [Aside.
Leon. What effects, my lord! She wiU sit you,—
You heard my daughter teU you how.
Claud. She did, indeed.
D. Pedro. How, how, I pray you? You amaze me: I would
have thought her spirit had been invincible against all assaults of
affection.
Leon. I would have sworn it had, my lord; especially against
Benedick.
Bene. [Aside.]—should think this a gull, but that the white-
bearded fellow speaks it; knavery caimot, sure, hide itself in such
reverence.
Claud. He hath ta'en the infection ; hold it up. [Aside.
D. Pedro. Hath she made her affection known to Benedick ?
Leon. No; and swears she never will: that's her torment.
Claud. 'Tis true, indeed; so your daughter says: Shall I, says
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
63
«he, {hat have so oft encountered him with scorn, write to him that 1
bve him ? 0
Leon. This says she now when she is beginning to write to him;
for she'll be up twenty times a night: and there will she sit till she
have writ a sheet of paper:—my daughter tells us all. Then she
will tear the letter into a thousand half-pence; rail at herself, that
she should write to one that she knew would flout her; I measure
him, says she, by my own spirit; for I would flout him, if he writ to
me; yea, thrugh I love him, I should.
Claud. Then down upon her knees she falls, weeps, sobs, beats
her heart, tears her hair, prays, curses;—O sweet Benedick !
Leon. She doth indeed; my daughter says so: and the ecstasy
hath so much overborne her, that my daughter is sometimes afraid
she will do a desperate outrage to herself: It is very true.
D. Pedro. It were good, that Benedick knew of it by some other,
if she will not discover it.
Claud. To what end ? He would but make a sport of it, and
torment the poor lady worse.
D. Pedro. An he should, it were an alms to hang him: She's an
excellent sweet lady; and, out of all suspicion, she is virtuous.
Claud. And she is exceeding wise.
D. Pedro. In every thing, but in loving Benedick.
Leon. I am sorry for her, as I have just cause, being her uncle
and her guardian.
D. P&iro. I would she had bestowed this dotage on me; I would
have dalT'd all other'respects, and made her half myself: I pray you,
tell Benedick of it, and hear what he will say.
Leon. Were it good, think you 1
Claud. Hero thinks surely, she will die; for she says, she will
die if he love her not; and she will die ere she makes her love
known: and she will die if he woo her, rather than she will 'bate
one breadth of her accustomed crossness.
D. Pedro. She doth well: if she should make tender of her love,
'tis very possible he'll scorn it: for the man, as you know all, hath a
contemptuous spirit.
Claud: He is a very proper man.
D. Pedro. He hath, indeed, a good outward happiness.
Claud. And in my mind, very wise.
D. Pedro. He doth, indeed, show some sparks that are like wit.
Leon. And I take him to be valiant.
D. Pedro. As Hector, I assure you; and in the managing of
quarrels you may say he is wise; for either he avoids them with
great discretion, or undertakes them with- a most Christian-like
fear. Well, I am sorry for your niece: Shall we go see Benedick,
and tell him of her love ?
Claud. Never teU him, my lord; let her wear it out with good
tounsel.
Leon. Nay, that's impossible; she may wear her heart out first.
64
SHAESPEAEIAN KEADEB.
D. Pedro. Well, we'll hear further of it by 3'our daugh er: let i'
cool the while. I love Benedick well: and I could wish he would
modestly examine himself to see how much he is unworthy so good
a lady.
Jj'on. My lord, will you walk ? dinner is ready.
Claud. If he do not doat on her upon this, I will never trust my
expectation. {Aside.
D. Pedro. Let there be the same net spread for her: and that
must your daughter, and her gentlewoman cany. The sport will
be, when they hold one an opinion of another's dotage, and no such
matter; that's the scene that I would see, which will be merely a
dumb show. Let us send her to call him to dinner. {Aside.
{Exeuril Don Pedro, Claxjdio, and Leonato.
Beredick advances from the arbor.
Bene. This can be no trick : The conference was sadly borne
They have the truth of this from Hero. They seem to pity the
lady; it seems, her affections have their full bent. Love me! why,
it must be requited. I hear how I am censured : they say, I will
bear myself proudly, if I perceive the love come from her; they say
too, that she will rather die than give any sign of affection.—did
never think to marry—I must not seem proud:—Happy are they
that hear their detractions, and can put them to mending. They
say, the lady is fair; 'tis a truth, I can bear the n witness : and vir¬
tuous—'tis so, I cannot reprove it; and wise, but for loving me
By my troth, it is no addition to her wit;—nor no great argument
of her folly, for 1 will be horribly in love with her.—may chance
have some odd quirks and remnants of wit broken on me, because I
have railed so long against marriage: But doth not the appetite -
alter ? A man loves the meat in his youth, that he cannot endure
in his age: Shall quips, and sentences, and these paper bullets of the -
brain, awe a man from the career of his humor? No: When I
said, I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I were
married.—Here comes Beatrice : By this day, she's a fair lady: I do
spy some marks of love in her.
Enter Beatrice.
Beat. Against my will, I am sent to bid you come in to dinner.
Bene. Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains.
Beat. I took no more pains for those thanks, than you fake paiw
to thank me; if it had been painful, I would not have come.
Bene. You take pleasure then in the message ?
Beat. Yea, just so much as you may take upon a knife's point,
and choke a daw withal:—You have no stomach, signior; fare you
_ {Exit.
Dene. Ha ! Against my will I am sent to hid you come to dinner
—there's a double meaning in that. / took no more pains for those
thanks, than you took pains to thank me—that's as much as to say,
Any pains that I take for you is as easy as thanks :—^If J do not take
pity of her, I am a villain; if I do not love her, I am a Jew • I will
go get her picture. '{Exit.
MITCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
66
ACT III.
SCENE I.—^Leonato's Garden.
jE?i/er'hero, Margaret^ and Ursula.
Hero. Good Margaret, rin thee into the parlor;
There thou shalt find my cousin Beatrice
Proposing with the prince and Claudio:
Whisper her ear, and tell her, I and Ursula
Walk in the orchard, and our whole discourse
Is all of her; say, that thou overheard'st us ;
And bid her steal into the pleached bower,
Where honeysuckles, ripen'd by the sun.
Forbid the sun to enter;—^like favorites.
Made proud by princes, that advance their pride
Against that power that bred it;—there will she hide her,
To listen our purpose : This is thy office,
Bear thee-wel. in it, and leave us alone.
Marg. I'll make her come, I warrant you, presently. Exit.
Hero. Now, Ursula, when Beatrice doth come,
As we do trace this alley up and down.
Our talk must only be of Benedick ;
When I do name him, let it be thy part
To praise him more than ever man did merit:
My talk to thee must be, how Benedick
Is sick in love with Beatrice : Of this matter
Is little Cupid's crafty arrow made.
That only wounds by hear-say. Now begin;
Enter Beatrice, behind.
For look where Beatrice, like a lapwing, runs
Close by the ground, to hear our conference.
Urs. The pleasant'st angling is to see the fish
Cut with her golden oars the silver stream.
And greedily devour the treacherous bait:
So angle we for Beatrice ; who even now
Is couched in the woodbine coverture:
Fear you not my part of the dialogue.
Hero. Then go we near her, that her ear lose nothing
Of the false sweet bait that we lay for it.—
[They advance to the h noer
No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful;
I know, her s])irits are as coy and wild
As haggards* of the rock.
Urs. But are you sure
That Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely ?
Hero. So says the prince, and my new-trothed lord.
* A species of hawks.
66
SHAESPEARIAN READER.
Urs, And did they bid you tell her of it, madam f
Hero. They did entreat me to acquaint her of it:
But I persuaded them, if they lov'd Benedick,
To wish him wrestle with affection.
And never to let Beatrice knyv of ii.
Urs. Why did you so ?
Hero. Nature never framed a woman's heart
Of prouder stuff"than that of Beatrice :
Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes,
Misprising what they look on; and her wit
Values itself so highly, that to her
All matter else seems weak: she caimot love,
Nor take no shape nor project of affection.
She is so self-endeared.
Urs. Sure, I think so;
And therefore, certainly, it were not good
She knew his love, lest she make sport at it.
Hero. Why, you speak truth: I never yet saw ma^
How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featur'd,
But she would spell him backward: if fair-faced,
She'd swear, the gentleman should be her sister;
If black, why, nature, drawing of an antic.
Made a foul blot: if tall, a lance ill-headed;
If low, an agate very vilely cut:
If speaking, why, a vane blown with all winds;
If silent, why, a block moved with none.
So turns she every man the wrong side out:
And never gives to truth and virtue, that
Which simpleness and merit purchaseth.
Urs. Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable.
Hero. No: not to be so odd, and from all fashiona,
As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable:
But who dare tell her so ? If I should speak.
She'd mock me into air; O, she would laugh me
Out of myself, press me to death with wit.
Therefore let Benedick, bke cover'd fire.
Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly;
It were a better death than die with mocks.
Urs. Yet tell her of it; hear what she will say.
Hero. No; rather I will go to Benedick,
And counsel him to fight against his passion :
And, truly, I'll derise some honest slanders
To sia'n my cousin with: One doth not know,
How much an ill word may empoison liking.
Urs. O, do not do your cousin such a wrong.
She cannot be so much without true judgment,
(Haring so swift and excellent a wit.
As she is priz'd to have,) as to refuse
So rare a g< ^eman as signior Benedick.
MtJCH ADO ABOUT NOTHINO.
67
Hero. He is the only man of Italy, '
Always excepted my dear Claudio.
Ifrs. I pray you, be not angry with me, madam,
Speaking my fancy; signior Benedick,
For shape, for bearing, argument, and valor.
Goes foremost in report through Italy.
Hero. Indeed, he hath an excellent good name.
Urs. His excellence did earn it, ere he had it.—
When are you married, madam 1
Hero. Why, every day;—to-morrow: Come, go in;
I'll show thee some attires; and have thy counsel.
Which is the best to furnish me to-morrow.
Urs. She's lim'd, I warrant you ; we have caught her, madam.
Hero. If it proves so, then loving goes by haps:
Some Cupid kiUs with arrows, some with traps.
[Exeunt Hero and Ursuu,
Beatrice advances.
Beat. What fire is in my ears ? Can this be true ?
Stand I condemn'd for pride and scorn so much 1
Contempt, farewell! and maiden pride, adieu !
No glory lives behind the back of such.
And Benedick, love on, I will requite thee;
Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand ;
If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee
To bind our loves up in a holy band:
For others say, thou dost deserve; and I
Believe it better than reportingly. [Exit.
Beatrice and Benedick are successfully played upon, and a mutual ailection grows up
between them.
A double plot is now developed. Don John, brother to Pedro* envious, dis*
contented man, is jealous of Claudio*s interest with the Prince, and determines to revenge
himself. For this purpose he plans with his servant, Uorachio, to throw suspicion on the
character of Hero. Don John undertakes to place the Prince and Claudio within hearing,
near Hero*s chamber window, while Borachio addresses Margaret, Hero*s waiting woman,
by the name of her mistress, while she returns the greeting most familiarly.
Borachio, returning from' this interview, meets his fellow servant, Conrade, to whom
be discloses the business he had been engaged in. They are overheard by the city watch,
and are taken in custody.
The following scene introduces one of Shakspeare*s most celebrated characters.
Dogberry, the constable, is a masterpiece of humor,—the type of a class, the ignorant
supercilious " Ji^ck in office.**
SCENE m.—A SlveeL
Enter Dogberry and Verges, with the Watch.
Dogb. Are you good men and true ?
Verg. Yea, or else it were pity but they should suffer salvation,
Dody and soul.
68
SHAESFEABIAN BEADEB.
Dosrb. Nay, that were a punishment too good for them, if the*
should have any allegiance in them, being chosen for the prince's
watch.
Verg. Well, give them their charge, neighbor Dogberry.
Dngb. First, who think you the most desartless man to be con«
stable ?
Is/ Watch. Hugh Oatcake, sir, or George Seacoal; for they can
write and read.
Dogo. Come hither, neighbor Seacoal: Heaven hath blessed you
tsdlh a good name: to be a well-favored man is the gift of fortune j
but to write and read comes by nature.
2nd Watch. Both which, master constable,
Dogb. You have; I knew it would be your answer. Well, for
your favor, sir, why, give Heaven thanks, and make no boast of it;
and for your writing and reading, let that appear when there is no
need of such vanity. You are thought here to be the most senseless
and fit man for the constable of the watch, therefore bear you the
lantern: This is your charge; You shall comprehend all vagrom
men ; you are to bid any man stand, in the prince's name.
2nd Watch. How if he will not stand ?
Dogb. Why, then, take no note of him, but let him go; and
presently call the rest of the watch together, and thank Heaven you
are rid of a knave.
Verg. If he will not stand when he is bidden, he is none of the
prince s subjects.
D(gb. True, and they are to meddle with none but the prince's
subjects:—You shall also make no noise in the streets ; for, for the
watch to babble and talk, is most tolerable and not to be endured.
2nd Watch, We v/ill rather sleep than talk; we know what belongs
to a watch.
Dogb. Why, you speak like an ancient and most quiet watchman;
for I cannot see how sleeping should offend : only, have a care that
your bills be not stolen :—Well, you are to call at "all the ale-houses
and bid those that are drunk get them to bed.
2nd Watch. How if they will not ?
Dogb. Why then, let them alone till they are sober; if they make
you not then the better answer, you may say they are not the men
you took them for.
2nd Watch. Well, sir.
Dogb. If you meet a thief, you may suspect him, by virtue of you<
office, to be no true man: and for such kind of men, the less you
meddle or make with them, why, the more is for. your honesty.
2nd Watch. If we know him to be a thief, shall we not lay hands
on him ?
Dogb. Truly, by your office, you may; but, I think, they that
touch pitch will be defiled: the most peaceable way for you, if you
do take a thief, is, to let him show himself what he is, and steal out
of your company.
Verg. You have been always called a merciful man, partner.
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
69
Dogb. Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will; much more a
man who hath any honesty in him.
Verg. If you hear a child cry in the night, you must call to the
nurse, and bid her still it.
ind Watch. How if the nurse be asleep, and will not hear us 1
Dogb. Why, t hen, depart in peace, and let the child wake her with
crying; for the ewe that will not hear her lamb when it "baes, will
never answer a calf when he bleats.
Verg. 'Tis very true.
Dogb. This is tlie end uf the charge. You, constable, are to pre¬
sent the prince's own person ; if you meet the prince in the night,
you maj stay him.
Verg. Nay, by'r lady, that, I think, he cannot.
Dogb. Five shillings to one on't, with any man that Knows the
statues, he may stay him; marry, not without the prince be willing:
for, indeed, the watch ought to offend no man; and it is an offence
to stay a man against his wiU.
Verg. By'r lady, I think it be so.
Dogb. Ha, ha, ha! Well, masters, good night: an there be any
matter of weight chances, call up me: keep your fellows' counsel
and your own, and good night.—Come, neighbor.
2nd Watch. Well, masters, we hear our charge; let us go sit here
upon the church-bench till two, and then all to bed. ^
Dogb. One word more, honest neighbors : I pray you, watch about
signior Leonato's door; for the wedding being there to-morrow,
there is a great coil to-night: Adieu, be vigilant, I beseech you.
[^Exeunt Dogberry and Verges.
Enter Borachio and Conrade.
Bora. What! Conrade,—
Watch. Peace, stir not [Aside,
Bora. Conrade, I say !
Con. Here, man, I am at thy elbow.
Bora. Stand thee close then under this pent-house, for it drizzles
rain ; and I will, like a true drunkard, utter all to thee.
Watch. [Aside.]—Some treason, masters; yet stand close.
Bora. Therefore know, I have earned of Don John a thousand
ducats.
Con. Is it possible that any villany should be so dear 1
Bora. Thou should'st rather ask. if it were possible any villany
should be so rich; for when rich villains have need of poor ones,
poor ones may make what price they will.
Con. I wonder at it.
Bora. That shows, thou art unconfirmed; Thou knowest, that Hie
fashion of a doublet, or a hat, or a cloak, is nothing to a man.
Con. Yes, it is apparel.
Bora. I mean, the fashion.
Con. Yes, the fashion is the fashion.
70
SHAKSPEAKIAN BEADSR.
Bora. Tush! I may as well say, the fool's the fool. But seesi
thou not what a deformed thief this fashion is ?
Watch. I know that Deformed; he has been a vile thief this seven
year; he goes up and down like a gentleman: I remember his name.
[Aside.
Bora. Didst thou not hear somebody ?
Con. No; 'twas the vane on the house.
Bora. Seest thou not, I say, what a deformed thief this fashion is ?
now giddily he turns about all the hot bloods, between fourteen and
five and thirty ?
Con. AU this I see; and see, that the fashion wears out more
apparel than the man: But art not thou thyself giddy with the fashion
too, that thou hast shifted out of thy tale into telling me of the
fashion ?
Bora. Not so neither, but know, that I have to-night wooed Mar¬
garet, the lady Hero's gentlewoman, by the name of Hero; she leans
me out at her mistress' chamber window, bids me a thousand times
good night,—I tell this tale vilely:—I should first tell thee how the
prince, Claudio, and my master, planted, and placed, and possessed by
my master Don John, saw afar off in the orchard this amiable en¬
counter.
Con. And thought they, Margaret was Hero ?
Bora. Two of them did, the prince and Claudio, but my master
knew she was Margaret; and partly by his oaths, which first pos¬
sessed them, partly by the dark night, which did deceive them, but
chiefly by my villany, which did confirm any slander that Don John
had made, away went Claudio enraged; swore he would meet her as
he was appointed, next morning at the temple, and there, before the
whole congregation, shame her with what he saw over-night, and
send her home again without a husband.
1st Watch. We charge you in the prince's name, stand.
2nd Watch. Call up flie right master constable: we have here re¬
covered the most dangerous piece of villany that ever was known in
the commonwealth.
1st Watch. And one Deformed is one of them.
Con. Masters, masters.
2nd Watch. You'll be made bring Deformed forth, I warrant you.
Con. Masters,—
1st Watch. Never speak; we charge you, let us obey you to gc
with us.
Bora. We are likely to prove a goodly commodity, being taken up
of the.se men's bills.
Con. A commodity in question, I warrant you. Como we'll
Obey you. [Exit.
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
71
ACT IV.
Clsudio, deceived by the machinations of Don John, believes Hero to be nnfaithfol.
On the day appointed for the marriage, he attends in the chnrch, and, before the
nsiembled gnests, denounces Hero as being false, and refuses to marry her^Hero swoons
on hearing the chaige, and Claudio and fab friends retire. The Priest or Friar engaged
to perform the nuptial ceremony, interferes to appease the wrath of Leonato.
Enter Friar, Hero, Leonato, Benedick, and Beatrice.
Friar. Hear me a little;
For I have only been silent so long, *
And given way unto this course of fortune,
By noting of the lady; I have mark'd
A thousand blushing apparitions start
Into her face; a thousand innocent shames
In angel witnesses bear away those blushes;
And in her eye there hath appear'd a fire.
To bum the errors that these princes hold
Against her maiden truth:—Call me a fool;
Trust not my reading, nor my observations.
Which with experimental zeai doth warrant
Tlie tenor of my book; trust not my age.
My reverence, calling, nor divinity.
If this sweet lady lie not guiltless here
Under some biting error.
Leon. Friar, it cannot be:
Thou seest, that all the grace that she hath left,
Is, that she will not add to her damnation
A sin of peijury; she not denies it:
Why seek'st thou then to cover with excuse
That which appears in proper nakedness ?
Friar. Lady, what man is he you are accus'd of ?
Hero. They know, that do accuse me; I know none:
If I know more of any man alive.
Than that which maiden modesty doth warrant,
Let all my sins lack mercy!—my father.
Prove you that any man with me convers'd
At hours unmeet, or that I yesternight
Maintain'd the change of words with any creature.
Refuse me, hate me, torture me to death.
Friar. There is some strange misprision in the princes.
Bene. Two of them have the very bent of honor;
And if their wisdoms be misled in this.
The practice of it lives in John the bastard,
Whose spirits toil in frame of villanies.
liCon. I know not; If they speak but truth of her.
These hands shall tear her; if they wrong her honor.
The proudest of them shall well hear of it.
Time hath not yet so dried this blood of mine.
72
SHAKSP£AKIAN aEADEB.
Nor age so eat up my invention,
Nor fortune made such havoc of my means,
Nor my bad life reft me so much of friends,
But they shall find, awak'd in such a kind.
Both strength of limb, and policy of mind.
Ability in means, and choice of friends,
To quit me of tliem thoroughly.
Friar. Pause a while,
And let my counsel sway you in this case.
Your daughter here the princes left for dead ;
Let her awhile be secretly kept in,
And publish it that she is dead indeed:
Maintain a mourning ostentation;
And on your family's old monument
Hang mournful epitaphs, and do all rites
That appertain unto a burial.
Leon. What shall become of this ? What will this do t
Friar. Marry, this, well carried, shall on her behalf
Change slander to remorse; that is some good:
She ^ing, as it must be so maintain'd.
Upon the instant that she was accns'd.
Shall be lamented, pitied, and excus'd.
Of every hearer: For it, so falls out.
That what we have we prize not to the worth,
Whiles we enjoy it; but being lack'd and lost,
Why, then we rack the value, then we find
The virtue, that possession would not show us
Whiles it was ours: So will it fare with Claudio:
When he shall hear she died upon his words.
The idea of her life shall sweetly creep
Into his study of imagination;
And every lovely organ of her life
Shall come apparell'd in more precious habit.
More moving-delicate, and full of life.
Into the eye and prospect of his soul.
Than when she lived indeed :—^then shall he mourn.
And wish he had not so accus'd her;
No, though he thought his accusation true.
Let this be so, and doubt not but success '
Will fashion the event in better shape
Than I can lay it down in likelihood.
But if aU aim but this be levell'd false,
The supposition of the lady's death
Will quench the wonder of her infamy:
And, if it sort not well, you may conceal her
(As best befits her wounded reputation,)
In some reclusive and religious life.
Out of all eyes, tongues, minds, and injuries.
'Bene. Signior Leonato, let the friar advise you:
much ado about nothing.
78
And though, you know, my inwardness and love
Is very much unto the prince and Claudlo,
Yet, by mine honor, I will deal in this
As secretly and justly as your soul
Should with your body.
Leon. Being that I flow in grief,
The smallest twine may lead me.
Friar. 'Tis well consented ; presently away ;
For to strange sores strangely they strain the cure.—
Come, lady, die to live ; tins wedding day,
Perhaps, is but prolong'd; have patience, and endure.
[Exeunt Friar, Hero, and Leonato.
Bene. Lady Beatrice, have you wept all tUe while ?
Beat. Yea, and I will weep awhile longer.
Bene. I will not desire that
Beat. You have no reason, I do it freely.
Bene. Surely, I do believe your fair cousin is wrong'd.
Beat. Ah, how much might the man deserve of me that would-
right her. /
Bene. Is there any way to show such friendship ?
Beat. A very even way, but no such friend,
Bene. May a man do it?
Beat. It is a man's office, but not yours.
Bene. I do love nothing in the world so well as you; Is not that
strange ?
Beat. As strange as the thing I know not: It were as possible for
me to say, I loved nothing so well as you : but believe me not; and
vet I lie not; I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing;—1 am sorry for
my cousin.
Bene. By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me.
Beat. Do not swear by it; and eat it.
Bene. I will swear by it, that you love me; and I will make him
eat it, that says, I love not you.
Beat. Will you not eat your word ?
Bene. With no sauce that can be devised to it: I protest, I love
thee.
Beat. Why then, Heaven forgive me !
Bene. What offence, sweet Beatrice ?
Beat. You have staid me in a happy hour; I was about to pro¬
test I I wed you.
Beiie. And do it with all thy heart.
Beat. I love you with so much of my heart that none is .eft to
protest.
Bene. Come, bid me do any thing for thee.
Beat. Kill Claudio.
Bene. Ha! not for the wide world. ■ *
Beat. You kill me to deny it: Farewell.
Bene. Tarry, sweet Beatrice.
Beat. I am gone, thongh I am here;—There is no love in you v—
74
shaespearian reader.
Nay, I pray you, let me go.
Bene. Beatrice,—
Beat. In faith, I will go.
Bene. We'll be friends first.
Beat. You dare easier be friends with me, tlian figlt with mine
enemy.
Bene. Is Claudio thine enemy ?
Beat. Is he not approved in the height a villxn, that hath slan¬
dered, scorned, dishonored my kinswoman ?—O, that I were a man 1
—What! bear her in hand until they come to take hands; and then
witfi public accusation, uncovered slander, unmitigated rancor.—O
Heaven, that I were a man! I would eat his heart in the market¬
place.
Bene. Hear me, Beatrice;— <
Beat. Talk with a man out at a window ?—a proper saying.
Bene. Nay but, Beatrice;—
Beat. Sweet Hero!—she is wronged, she is slandered, she is undone.
Bene. Beat—
Beat. Princes, and counties? Surely, a princely testimony, a
goodly count-confect; a sweet gallant, surely ! O that I were a man
for his sake ! or that I had any friend would be a man for my sake!
But manhood is melted into courtesies, valor into compliment, and
men are only turned into tongue, and trim ones too: he is now as
valiant as Hercules, that only tells a lie, and swears it:—I cannot be
a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving.
Bene. Tarry, good Beatrice : By this hand, I love thee.
Beat. Use it for my love some other way than swearing by it.
Bene. Think you in your soul the count Claudio hath wronged
Hero?
Beat. Yea, as sure as I have a thought, or a soul.
Bene. Enough, I am engaged, I will challenge him; I will kiss
your hand, and so leave you: By this hand, Claudio shall render me
a dear account: As you hear of me, so think of me. Go, comfort
your cousin: I must say, she is dead; and" so, farewell. [Exeunt
SCENE n.—A Prison.
Enter Dogberry, Verges, and Sexton, in gowns ; and the Watch,
with CoNRADE and Borachio.
Dogb. Is our whole dissembly appeared ?
Verg. O, a stool and a cushion for the sexton!
Sexton. Which be the malefactors ?
Dogb. Marry, that am I and my partner. '
Verg. Nay, that's certain; we have the exhibition to examine.
Sexton. But which are the offenders that are to be examined ?
let them come before master constable.
Dogb. Yea, marry, Idl them come before me.—^What is your
name, friend ?
Bora. Borachio.
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
75
Dogb. Pray write down—^Borachio. Yours, sirrah ?
Con. I am a gentleman, sir, and my name is Conrade.
Dogb. Write down—master gentleman Conrade.—Masters, it is
proved already that you are little better than false knaves; and it will
go near to be thought so shortly. How answer you for yourselves ?
Con. Marry, sir, we say we are none.
Dogb. A marvellous witty fellow, I assure you; but I will go
about with him.—Come you hither, sirrah ; a word in your ear, sir;
I say to you, it is thought you are false knaves.
Bora. Sir, I say to you, we are none.
Dogb. Well, stand aside.—They are both in a tale>; Have you
writ down—^that they are none ?
Sexton. Master constable, you go not the way to examine ; you
must call forth the watch that are their accusers.
Dogb. Yea, marry, that's the eftest way: Let the watch come
forth: Masters, I charge you, in the prince's name, accuse these
men.
Isl Watch. This man said, sir, that Don John, the prince's brother
was a villain.
Dogb. Write down—prince John a villain:—^Why this is flat per¬
jury, to call a prince's brother—villain.
Bora. Master constable,—
Dogb. Pray thee, fellow, peace ; I do not like thy look, I promise
thee.
Sexton. What heard you him say else ?
2nd Watch. Marry, that he had received a thousand ducats of
Don John, for accusing the lady Hero wrongfully.
Dogb. Flat burglary, as ever was committed.
Verg. Yea, by the mass, that it is.
Sexton. What else, fellow ?
Isl Watch. And that count Claudio did mean, upon his words, to
disgrace Hero before the whole assembly, and not marry her.
Dogb. O villrdn! thou wilt be condemned into everlasting redemp¬
tion for this.
Sexton. What else ?
2nd Watch. This is all.
Sexton. And this is more, masters, than you can deny. Prince
John is this morning secretly stolen away; Hero was in this manner
accused, in this very manner refused, and upon the grief of this,
suddenly- died.—Master constable, let these men be bound, and
brought to Leonato's ; I will go before arid show him tlieir examina¬
tion. [Exit
Dogb. Come, let them be opinioned.
Verg. Let them be in band.
Con. Off, coxcomb!
Dogb. Where's the sexton? let him write down—the prince's
officer, coxcomb.—Come, bind them:—Thou naughty varlet!
Con. Away! you are an ass, you are an ass.
Dogb, Dost thou not suspect my place ? Dost thou not suspect
76
SHAKSPEARIAN EEAIER.
my years:—O that he were here to write mc down—an ass! but,
masters, remember, that I am an ass; though it be not written down,
yet forget not that I am an ass;—No, thou villain, thou art lull of
piety, as shall be proved upon thee by good witness. I am a wise
fellow ; and, which is more, an officer; and, which is more, a housO'
holder; and, which is more, as pretty a piece of flesh as any is in Mes¬
sina ; and one that knows the law, go to; tind a rich fellow enough,
go to; and a fellow that hath had 'osses; and one that hath two
gowns, and every thing handsome about him : Bring liim away. O,
Slat I had been writ down—an ass ! \_ExeurU..
ACT V.
Heroes innocence is completely established by i!ie confession of Borachio
Claadio, on learning bow nnjnstly he had accused his mistress, implores the forgivenesi
of Leonato, and offers any reparation within his power—supposing that Hero is dead.
Leonato invites him to come to his House, to-morrow morning"—and proposes to give
him the hand of a niece of his, in marriage. Clandio consents. The next Scene winds
UD the story of this incomparable comedy.
SCENE.—A Room in Leonato's House.
Enter Leonato, Antonio, Benedick, Beatrice, Ursula, Friar,
and Hero.
Friar. Did I not tell you she was innocent ?
Leon. So are the prince and Claudio, who accus'd her.
Upon the error that you have heard debated :
But Margaret was in some fault for this;
Although against her will, as it appears
In the true course of all the question.
Ant. Well, I am glad that all things sort so well.
Bene. And so am I, being else by faith enftrc'd
To call young Claudio to a reckoning for it.
Leon. Well, daughter, and you gentlewomen all.
Withdraw into a chamber by yourselves ;
And, when I send for you, come hither mask'd!
The prince and Claudio promis'd by this hour
To visit me:—\ ou know your office, brother;
You must he father to your brother's daughter,
. And give her to young Claudio. [Exeunl Ladies.
Ant. Which I will do with confimi'd countenance.
Bene. Friar, I must entreat your pains, I think.
Friar. To do what, signior ?
Bene. To hind me, or undo me, one of them.—
Signior Leonato, truth it is, good signior,
Youi niece regards me with an eye of favor.
Lean. That eye my daughter lent her; 'Tis most true.
Bene. And I do with an eye of love requite her.
Leon. The sight, whereof, I think, you had from me.
Prom Claudio and the prince; But what's your will ?
much ildo about nothincf.
77
Bene. Your answer, sir, is enigmatical:
But, for my will, my will is, your good will
May stand with ours, this day to be conjoin'd
In the estate of honorable marriage;—
In which, good friar, I shall desire your help.
Leon. My heart is with your liking.
Friar. .^nd my help.
Here comes the prince, and Claudio.
Enter Don Pedro and Claudio, iniih Attendants.
D. Pedro. Good morrow to this fair assembly. "
Leon. Good morrow, prince; good morrow, Claudio;
We here attend you; Are you yet determin'd
To-day to marry with my brother's daughter ?
Clavd. I'll hold my mind, were she an Ethiop.
Leon. Call her forth, brother, here's the friar ready.
[Exit AuroHia
D. Pedro. Good morrow. Benedick; Why, what's the matter,
That you have such a February face.
So full of frost, of storm, and cloudiness ?
Claud. I think, he thinks' upon the savage bull:—
Tush, fear not, man, we'll tip thy horns with gold.
Re-enter Antonio, vnth the Ladies masked.
Claud. Here come other reckonings.
Which is the lady I must seize upon ?
Ant. This same is she, and I do give you her.
Claud. Why, then she's mine: Sweet, let me see your face.
Leon. No, that you shall not, till you take her hand.
Before this (riar, and swear to marry her.
Claud. Give me your hand before this holy friar;
I am your husband, if you like of me.
Hero. And when I lived, I was your other wife: [Vnmasking,
And when you lov'd, you were my other husband.
Claud. Another Hero ?
Hero. Nothing certainer;
One Hero died defam'd; but I do live.
D. Pedro. The former Hero ! Hero that is dead !
Leon. She died my lord, but whiles her slander livec.
Friar. All this amazement can I qualify ;
When, after that the holy rites are ended,
I'll tell you largely of fair Hero's death;
Meantime, let wonder seem familiar.
And to the chapel let us presently.
Bene. Soft and fair, friar.—Which is Beatrice ?
Beat. 1 answer to that name; [UnmaskinQ
What is your will ?
Bene. Do not you love me ?
Beat. No, no more than reason.
78
SHAKSPEARIAN READER.
Bene. Why, then your uncle, and the prince, and Clandio,
Have been deceived ; for they swore you did.
Beat. Do not you love me ?
Bene. No, no more than reason.
Beat. Why, tijen my cousin, Margaret, and Ursula,
Are much deceiv'd; for they swear, you did.
Bene. They swore that you were almost sick for me.
Beat. They swore that you were well-nigh dead for me.
> Bene. 'Tis no such matter:—Then you do not love me ?
Beat. No, truly, but in friendly recompense.
Leon. Come, cousin, I am sure you love the gentleman.
Claud. And I'U be sworn upon't, that he loves her:
For here's a paper, written in his hand,
A halting sonnet of his own pure brain,
Fashion'd to Beatrice.
Hero. - And here's another.
Writ in my cousin's hand, stolen from her pocket,.
Containing her affection unto Benedick.
Bene. A miracle! here's our own hands against our hearts!—•
Come, I will have thee; but, by this light, I take thee for pity.
Beat. I would not deny you;—but, by this good day, I yield upon
great persuasion; and, partly, to save your life, for I was told yon
were in a consumption.
Bene. Peace, I will stop your mouth. [Kissing her.
D. Pedro. How dost thou. Benedick the married man ?
Bene. I'll tell thee what, prince; a college of wit-crackers cannot
flout me out of my humor: Dost thou think, I care for a satire, or an
epigram ? No: if a man will be beaten with brains, he shall wear
nothing handsome about him; In brief, since I do propose to many,
I will think nothing to any purpose that the world can say against it;
and tlierefore never flout at me for what I have said against it; for
man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion.—For t% part, Clau-
dio, I did thiiik to have beaten thee; but in that thou art like to be
my kinsman, live imbruised, and love my cousin.
Claud. I had well hoped, thou wouldst have denied Beatrice, that
I might have cudgelled thee out of thy single life, to make thee a
double dealer; which, ot^t of question, thou wilt be, if my cousin do
I not look exceeding narrow!}'to tliee.
Bene. Come, come, we are friends :—let's have a dance ere we
are married, that we may lighten our own hearts, and our wives'
heels.
Leon. We'll have dancing afterwards.
Bene. First, o' my word ; therefore, play music.—Prince, thou art
sad; get thee a wife, get thee a wife.
Enter a Messenger.
Mess. My lord, your brother John is ta'en in flight.
And brought with armed men back to Messina.
Bene. Think not on him till to-morrow; I'll devise thee brave
punishments for him.—Strike up, pipers. [Dance. Exeunt
MACBETH.
''The traditionary story of Macbeth, on which this Drama » foanded, is related by
HolUnshed, in his Chronicles, and also by George Buchanan in bis Latin " History of
Scotland."
Shakspeare is supposed to have availed himself of HolHnshed's narrative in the con¬
struction of this Play, as the incidents inteoduced by the Poet, are precisely those narrated
by the clironicler. The supernatural agency exercised by the Witches, may appear is
this enlightened age, to be beyond the bounds of credibility, but it should be remembered
that in Shakspeare's time, the belief in witchcraft was universal.
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
Duncan, Kivg of Scolland.
Malcolm, Donalbain, his sons.
Macbeth, Banquo, generals of the King's army.
Macduff, Lenox, Rosse, Menteth, Angus, Cathness, noblemen
of Scotland.
Fleance, son to Banquo.
SiwARD, Earl of Northumberland, general of the English forces.
Young SiWARD, his son.
Seyxon, an officer attending on Macbeth.
Son to Macduff.
An English Doctor. A Scotch Doctor.
A Soldier. A Porter. An old Man.
Lady Macbeth.
Lady Macduff.
Gentlewoman attending on Lady Macbeth.
Uecate, and three Witches.
Lords, Gentlemen, Officers, Soldiers, Murderers, Attendants,
and Messengers.
The Ghost of Banquo, and several other apparitions.
SCENE,—in the end of the Fourth Act, lies in England ; through the
rest of the Play, in Scotland ; and, chiefly, at Machete's Castle.
80
shaesfeabian eeadeb.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—An open Place. Thunder and Lightning.
Enter three Witches.
l.-!/ Witch. When shall we three meet again,
In thunder, lightning, or in rain ?
^nd Witch. When the hurlyburly's done,.
When the battle's lost and won:
3rd Witch. That will be ere set of sun.
1st Witch. Where the place ?
2nd Witch. Upon the heath:
3rd Witch. There to meet with Macbeth.
1st Witch. I come, Graymalkin! •
All. Paddock calls:—Anon.—
Fair is foul, and foul is fair;
Hover through the fog and filthy air. [Witches vanish.
SCENE n.—A Camp near Fores. Alarum withiiu
■ Enter King DtracAN, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lenox, with Attend;
meeting a bleeding Soldier.
Dun. What bloody man is that ? He can report.
As seeraeth by his plight, of the revolt
The newest state.
Mai. This is the sergeant.
Who, like a good and hardy soldier, fought
'Gainst my captivity :—Hail, brave friend !
Say to the king the knowledge of the hroil,
\s thou didst leave it.
Sol. Doubtfully it stood ;
As two spent swimmers, that do cling together.
And choke their art. The "merciless Macdonwald
(Worthy to he a rebel; for, to that.
The multiplying villanies of nature
Do swarm upon him.) from the western isles
Of Kernes and Gallowglasses is supplied;
But all's too weak:
For brave Macbeth, (well he deserves that nrimc,)
Disdaining fortune, with his brandish'd steel.
Which smok'd with bloody execution.
Like valor's minion,
Carv'd out his passage, till he fac'd the slave;
And ne'er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him,
TiU he unseam'd him from the nave to the chaps,
And fix'd his head upon our battlements.
Dun. O, valiant cousin! worthy gentleman!
macbeth.
81
Sot As whence the sun 'gins his reflection
Bliipwrecking storms and direful thunders break;
So from tiiat spring, whence comfort seem'd to come,
Discomfort swells. Mark, king of Scotland, mark,
No sooner justice had, with valor arm'd,-
Compell'd these skipping kemes to trust their heels;
But the Norweyan lord, surveying vantage.
With furbish'd arms, and new supplies of men.
Began a fresh assault.
Dun. Dismay'd not this
Our captains, Macbeth and Banquo ?
Sol. Yes;
As sparrows, eagles; or the hare, the lion.
But I am faint, my gashes cry for help.
Dun. So well thy words become thee, as thy wounds;
They smack of honor both:—Go, get him surgeons.
lExU Soldier, oUencfed
Enter Rosse.
Who comes here ?
Mai. The worthy thane of Rosse.
1/671. What a haste looks through his eyes! So should he look,
That seems to speak things strange.
Rosse. God save the king!
Dun. Whence cam'st thou, worthy thane ?
Rosse. From Fife, great king,
Where the Norweyan banners flout the sky.
And fan our people cold.
Norway himself, with terrible numbers.
Assisted by that most disloyal traitor
The thane of Cawdor, 'gan a dismal conflict:
Till that Bellona's bridegroom, lapp'd in proof.
Confronted him with self-comparisons.
Point against point rebelb'ous, arm 'gainst arm.
Curbing his lavish spirit: And, to conclude.
The victory fell on us;
Dun. Great happiness!
Rosse. That now
Sweno, the Norways' king, craves composition;
Nor would we deign him burial of his men.
Till he disbursed, at Saint Colmes' inch.
Ten thousand dollars to our general use.
Dun. No more that thane of Cawdor shall deceive
Our bo^om interest.—Go, pronounce his present death,
And with his former title greet Macbeth.
Rosse. I'll see it done.
Dun. What he hath lost, noble Macbeth hath won. [ Exeunt.
6*
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shakspearian reader.
SCENE in.—A Heath. Thunder
Enter the three Witches, ^
1st Witch. Where hast thou been, sister ?
2nd Witch. Killing swine.
Zrd Witch. Sister, where thou ?
1st Witch. A sailor's wife had chestnuts in her lap,
And mounch'd and mounch'd and mounch'd ;—Give me, quoth I:
Aroint thee, witch! the rump-fed ronyon cries.
Hei husband's to Aleppo gone, master o' the Tiger:
But in a sieve I'll thither sail, '
And, like a rat without a tail,
I'll do, I'll do, and I'll do.
2nd Witch. I'll give thee a wind.
1st Witch. Thou art kind.
Zrd Witch. And I another.
1st Witch. I myself have all the other:
And the very ports they blow.
All the quarters that they know
I'the shipman's card.
I will drain him dry as hay :
Sleep shall, neither night nor day.
Hang upon his pent-house lid;
He shall" live a man forbid:
Weary sev'n-nights, nine times nine.
Shall he dwindle, peak, and pine :
Though this bark cannot be lost.
Yet it shall be tempest-toss'd.
Look what I have.
2nd Witch. Show me, show me.
1st Witch. Here I have a pilot's thum,
Wreck'd as homeward he did come. [Drum within,
Zrd Witch. A drum, a drum :
Macbeth doth come.
All. The weird sisters, hand in hand.
Posters of the sea and land.
Thus do go about, about;
Thrice to thine,-and thrice to mine.
And thrice again, to make up nine :
Peace!—^the charm's wound up.
Enter Macbeth and Banquo.
Macb. Sc fiul and fair a day I have not seen.
Ban. How far is't call'd to Fores ?—'N^at are these.
So wither'd, and so wild In their attire;
That look not like the inhabitants o' the earth,
And yet are on't ? Live you ? or are you aught
That man may question ? You seem to understand me.
MAJBETH.
83
By each at once her choppy finger laying
Upon her skinny lips:—You should be women,
And yet your beards forbid me to interpret
That you are so.
Macb. Speak, if you can;—^What are you ?
1st Witch. All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, thane of Glamis!
2nd Witch. All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, thane of Cawdor 1
3rd Witch. All hail, Macbeth! that shalt be king hereafter.
Ban. Good sir, why do you start; and seem to fear
Things that do sound so fair ?—I' the name of truth,
Are ye fantastical, or that indeed
Which outwardly ye show ? My noble partner
You greet with present grace, and great prediction
Of noble having, and of royal hope, ,
That he seems wrapt withal; to me you speak not: ^
If you can look into the seeds of time.
And say, which grain will grow, and which will not;
Speak then to me, who neither beg, nor fear.
Your favors, nor your hate.
1st Witch. Hail!
2nd Witch. Hail!
3rd Witch. Hail!
1st Witch. Lesser than Macbeth, and greater.
2nd Witch. Not so happy, yet much happier.
3rd Witch. Thy children shall be kings, though thou be ncne;
So all hail, Macbeth and Banquo !
Ist^itch. Banquo, and Macbeth, all hail!
Macb. Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more:
By Sinel's death, I know, I am thane of Glamis;
But how of Cawdor ? the thane of Cawdor lives,
A prosperous gentleman; and, to be king.
Stands not within the prospect of belief.
No more than to be Cawdor. Say, from whence
You owe this strange intelligence" ? or why
Upon this blasted heath you stop our way
With such prophetic greeting ?—Speak, I charge you.
[Witches vanish
Ban. The earth hath bubbles, as the water has,
And these are of them: Whither are they vanish'd ?
Macb. Into the air: and what seem'd corporal, melted
As breath into the wind.—'Would they had staid!
Ban. Were such things here, as we do speak about ?
Or have we eaten of the insane root.
That takes the reason prisoner ?
Macb. Your children shall be kings.
Ban. You shall be king.
Macb. And thane of Cawdor, too; went it not so ?
Ban. To the self-same tune, and words. Who's here ?
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shakspeabian beader.
Enter Rosse and Angus.
Rosse. The king hath happily received, Macbeth,
The news of thy success : and wiien he reads
Thy personal venture in the rebels' fight,
His wonders and his praises do contend.
Which should be thine, or his: Silenc'd with that,
In viewing o'er the rest o' the self-same day,
He finds thee in the stout Norweyan ranks,
Nothing afeard of what thyself didst make.
Strange images of death. As thick as hail,
Oame post with post; and every one did bear
Thy praises in his kingdom's great defence.
And pour'd them down before him.
Ang. We are sent.
To give thee, from our royal master, thanks;
To herald thee into his sight, not pay tliee.
Rosne. And, for an earnest of a greater honor,
He bade me, from him, call thee thane of Cawdor;
In which addition, hail, most worthy thane !
For it is thine.
Ban. What, can the devil speak true ?
Mach. The thane of Cawdor lives; Why do-yoa dress oeb
In borrowed robes 1
Ang. Who was the thane. Jives yet;
But under heavy judgment bears that life
Which he deserves to lose. Whether he was
Combin'd with Norway; or did line the rebel
With hidden help and vantage; or that with both
He labor'd in his country's wreck, I know not
But treasons capital, confess'd, and prov'd.
Have overthrown him.
Alacb. Glamis, and thane of Cawdor:
The greatest is behind.—Thanks for your pains.—
Do you not hope your children shall be kings,
When those that gave the thane of Cawdor te me..
Promis'd no less to them ?
Ban. That, trusted homs
Might yet enkindle you unto the crown,'
Besides the thane of Cawdor. But 'tis strange
And oftentimes to win us to our harm.
The instruments of darkness tell us truths;
Win us with honest trifles, to betray us
In deepest consequences.—
Cousins, a word, I pray you.
Macb. Two truths are told.
As happy prologues to the swelling act
Of the imperial theme.—I thank you, gentlemen.—
This supernatural soliciting
MACBETH.
S5
Cannot be ill; cannot >e good:—If ill,
Why hath it given me earnest of success,
Commencing iii a truth ? I am thane of Cawdor:
If good^ why do I 3rield to that suggestion
Whose horrid i nage doth unfix my hair.
And make my seated heart knock at my ribs.
Against the use of nature ? Present fears .
Are less than horrible imaginings:
My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical,
Shakes so my single state of man, that function
Is smother'd in surmise; and nothing is.
But what is not.
Ban. Look, how our partner's rapt.
Macb. If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me
Without my stir.
Ban. New honors come upon him
Like our strange garments; cleave not to their mould.
But. with the aid of use.
Macb. Come what come may;
Time and the hour runs through the roughest day.
Ban. Worthy Macbeth, we stay upon your leisure.
Macb. Give me your favor:—my dull brain was wrought
With things forgotten. Kind gentlemen, your pains
Are register'd where every day I turn
The leaf to read them.—Let us toward the king.—
Think upon what hath chanc'd ; and, at more time.
The interim having weigh'd it, let us speak
Our free hearts each to other.
Ban. ^ Very gladly.
Macb. Till then, enough.—Come, friends. [E.j.-koU.
Macbeth goes to Fores to pay his daty to King Dancan, who confirms him in his title
ofThane of Cawdor, and as a farther proof of the royal favor, the King announces his
intention of visiting Macbeth at his Castle in Inverness. Macbeth leaves tlie King to be
tne " harbinger'* of the monarch's proposed visit.
The Scene changes to the Castle of Macbeth, and Lady Macbeth enters, reading a
Letter she has just received from her hnsband.
SCENE V.
Inverness. A Room in Macbeth's Castle.
Enter Lady Macbeth, reading a letter-
Lady M. Tkey met me in the day tf success ; and I have learned
by the perfectest report, they have more in them than mortal knowledge.
When I burned in desire to question them further, they made them¬
selves—air, into which they vanished. Whiles I stood rapt in the
wonder of it, came missives from the king, who all-hailed me. Thane
of Cawdor; by which title, before, these weird sisters saiuted me, and
'eferred me to the coming on of time, with. Hail, king that shalt be I
86
SHAKSPEARIAN READER.
This have I thought good to deliver thee, my deareU jMrtntr my
greatness ; that thou mightest not lose the dues of rpoicing, by being
?ynorant of what greatness is 'promised thee. Lay it to thy heart, and
arewell.
Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be
What thou art promis'd:—Yet do I fear thy nature;
It is too full o' the milk of human kindness,
To catch the nearest way. Thou would'st be great;
Art not without ambition ; but without
The illness should attend it. What thou would'st highly,^
That would'st thou holily; would'st not play false,
And yet would'st wrongly win: thou'dst have, great Glamis,
That which cries. Thus thou must do, if thou have it;
A.nd that which rather thou dost fear to do.
Than wishest should be undone. Hie thee hither,
That I may pour my spirits in thine ear;
And chastise with the valor of my tongue
All that impedes thee from the golden round,
Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem
To have thee crown'd withal. What is your tidings ?
Enter an Attendant.
Atten. The king comes here to-night.
Lady M. Thou'rt mad to say it:
Is not thy master with him ? who, wer't so.
Would have inform'd for preparation.
Atten. So please you, it is true; our thane is coming:
One of my fellows had tBe speed of him :
Who, almost dead for breath, had scarcely more
Than would take up his message.
Lady M. Give him tending.
He brings good news. The raven himself is hoarse,
\_Exit Attendant
That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan
Under my battlements. Come, come, you spirits
That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here;
And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full
Of direst cruelty ! make thick my blood.
Stop up the access and passage to remorse;
That no compunctious visitings of nature
Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between
The effect, and it! Come, you murd'ring ministers.
Wherever in your sightless substances
You wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick night.
And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell!
That my keen knife see not the wound it makes;
Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark.
To cry. Hold, hold! Great Glamisworthy Cawdor!
macboth.
87
Etiier Macbeth.
Greater than both, by tne all-hail hereafter!
Thy letters have transported me beyond
This ignorant present, and I feel now
The future in the instant.
Macb. My dearest love,
Duncan comes here to-night.
Lady M. And when goes hence ?
Macb. To-morrow, as he purposes.
Lady M. O, never
Shall sun that morrow see!
Your face, my thane, is as a book, where men
May read strange matters;—To teguile the time,
Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye.
Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower.
But be the serpent under it. He that's coming
Must be provided for: and you shall put
This night's great business into my dispatch;
Which shall to aU our nights and days to come
Give solely sovereign sv/ay and masterdom.
Macb. We will speak further.
Lady M. Only look up clear.
To alter favor ever is to fear:
Leave all the rest to me. [Exeuni
SCENE VI.—TAc same. Btfore the Cdille.
Hautboys. Servants q/" Macbeth attending.
Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Banquo, Lenox, Macdufe
Rosse, Angus, and Attendants.
Dun. The castle hath a pleasant seat; the air
Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself
Unto our gentle senses.
Ban. This guest of summer.
The temple-haunting martlet, does approve,
By his lov'd mansionry, that She heaven's breath
Smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze, buttress.
No coigne of vantage, but Ais bird hath made
His pendent bed, and procreant cradle: Where they
Most breed and haunt, I have observ'd the air
Is delicate.
Enter Lady Macbeth.
Dun. See, see! our honor'd hostess!
The love that follows us, sometimes is our trouble,
Wliich still we thank as love. Herein I teach you.
How you shall bid Heaven yield us for your pains.
And thank us for your trouble.
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shaespearian reader.
Lady M. All our service
In every point twice done, and then done double,
Were poor and single business to contend
Against those honors deep and broad, wherewith
Your majesty loads our house : For those of old
And the late dignities heap'd up to them,
We rest your hermits.
Dun. Where's the thane of Cawdor 7
We cours'd him at the heels, and had a purpose
To be his purveyor: but he rides well;
And his great love, sharp as his spur, hath holp him
To his home before us: Fair and noble hostess.
We are your guest to-night.
Lady M. Your servants ever
Have theirs, themselves, and what is theirs, in compt.
To make their audit at your highness' pleasure.
Still to return your own.
Dun. Give me your hand:
Conduct me to mine host; we love him highly.
And shall continue our graces towards him.
By your leave, hostess. [Exeunl,
SCENE VII.—The same. A Room in ihe Castle.
Hautboys and torches. Enter, and pass over the stage, a Sewer, ana
divers Servants with dishes and service. Then enter Macbetu.
Mach. 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'd 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 home 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, hors'd
Upon the sightless couriers of the air,
I
MACBETH.
89
Shall biOw the horrid deed in every eye,
That tears shall drown the wind.—I have no spur
To goad the sides of my intent, but only
Vaulting ambition, which o'er-leaps itself, '
And falls on the other.—How now, what news 1
Enter Lady Macbeth.
Lady M. He has almost supp'd; Why have you left the chamber 1
Macb. Hath he ask'd for me ?
Lady M. Know you not, he has ?
Macb. We will proceed no further in this business:
He hath honor'd me of late; and I have bought
Golden opinions from all sorts of people.
Which would be worn now in their newest gloss.
Not cast aside so soon.
Lady M. Was the hope drunk,
Wherein you drass'd yourself? hath it slept since?
And wakes it now, to look so green and pale
At what it did so freely ? From this time.
Such I account thy love. Art thou afeard
To be the same in thine own act and valor.
As thou art in desire 1 Would'st thou have that
Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life.
And live a coward in thine own esteem;
Letting I dare not wait upon I would.
Like the poor cat i' the adage ?
Macb. Pr'ythee, peace;
I dare do all that may become a man;
Who dares do more, is none.
Lady M. What beast was it then,
That made you break this enterprise to me ?
When you durst do it, then you were a man;
And, to be more than what you were, you would
Be so much more the man. Nor time, nor place.
Did then adhere, and yet you would make both;
They have made themselves, and that their fitness now
Does unmake you.
Macb. If we should fail,
Lady M. We fail!
But screw your courage to the sticking place.
And we'll not fail. When Duncan is asleep,
(Whereto the rather shall his day's hard journey
Soundly invite him,) his two chamberlains
Will I with wine and wassel so convince^
That memory, the warder of the brain.
Shall be a fume, and the receipt ot reason
A limbeck* only: When in swinish sleep,
From Alembic, a still.
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shakspearian evades.
Their drenched natures lie, as in a death,
What cannot you and I perform upon
The unguarded Duncan ? what not put upon
His spongy officers; who shall bear the guilt
Of our great quell 1*
Mach. Will it not be receiv'd.
When we have mark'd with blood those sleepy two
Of his own chamber, and us'd their very daggers.
That they have done't?
Lady M. Who dares receive it other.
As we shall make our griefs and clamor roar
Upon his death ?
Macb. I am settled, and bend-up
Each corporal agent to this terrible feat.
Away, and mock the time with fairest show:
False face must hide what the false heart doth know. [Exeunt
ACT II.
SCENE I.—The same. Court within the Castle.
Enter Banquo and Fleance, and a Servant vnth a torch brfore
them.
Ban. How goes the night, boy ?
Fk. The moon is down; I have not heard the clock.
Ban. And she goes down at twelve.
Fie. I take't, 'tis later, sir.
Ban. Hold, take my sword.—There's husbandry in heaven,
Their candles are all out.—Take thee that too.
A heavy summons lies like lead upon me.
And yet I would not sleep : Slerciful powers !
Restrain in me the cursed thoughts, that nature
Gives way to in repose!—Give me my sword;—
Ertier Macbeth, and a Servant with a torch.
Who's there ?
Macb. A friend.
Ban. What, sir, not yet at rest ? The king's a-bed:
He hath been in unusum pleasure, and
Sent forth great largess to your offices:
This diamond he greets your wife withal.
By the name of most kind hostess; and shut up
■fe measureless content.
Macl. Being unprepar'd,
Our will became the servant to defect;
Which else should free have wrought.
Ban. AU's wefi.
• Morder.
macbeth.
9.1
I dreamt last night of the three weird sisters:
To you they have show'd some truth.
Macb. I think not uf them:
Vet, when we can entreat an hour to serve,
Would spend it in some words upon that business,
If you would grant the time.
Ban. At your kind'st leisure.
Macb. If you shall cleave to my consent,—when 'tis,
It shall make honor for you.
Ban. So I lose none.
In seeking to augment it, but still keep
My bosom franchis'd, and allegiance clear,
I shall be counsel'd. ■
Macb. Good repose, the while !
Ban. Thanks, sir: The like to you! [Exit Ban.
Macb. Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready.
She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed. [Exii Serv,
Is this a dagger, which I see before me.
The handle toward my hand ? Come, let me clutch thee:
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling, as to sight ? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind ; a false creation.
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain ?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.
Thou marshal'st me the way that I was going;
And such an instrument I was to use.
Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses.
Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still;
And on thy blade, and dudgeon, gouts of blood.
Which was not so before.—There's no such thing:
It»is the bloody business, which informs
Thus to mine eyes.—^Now o'er the one half world
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtain'd sleep ; now witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings; and wither'd murder,
Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf,
Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace.
With Tarquin's ravishing strides, toward his design
Moves like a ghost ^Thou sure and firm set earth.
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
Thy very stones prate of my where-about.
And take the present horror from the time.
Which now suits with it.—Whiles I threat, he lives ;
Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives. [A hell rings,
I go, and it is done; the bell invites me ;
Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell
That summons thee to heaven, or to hell. [Exit
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shaksfearian reader.
SCENE U.—The same.
Enter Lady Macbeth.
Jjculy M. That which hath made tliem drunk, hath made me bold,
What hath quench'd them, hath given me fire.—Hark! Peace!
It was the owi that shriek'd, the I'atal bellman.
Which gives the stern'st good-night. He is about It:
The doors are open ; and the surfeited grooms
Do mock their charge with snores; I have drugg'd their possets,
That death and nature do contend about them,
Whether they live, or die.
Mach. [ WiLhin.]—Who's there ?—^what, ho!
Lady M. Alack! I am afraid they have awak'd,
And 'tis not done ;—^the attempt, and not the deed.
Confounds us:—Hark!—I laid their daggers ready.
He could not miss them.—Had he not resembled
My father as he slept I had done't.—My husband '
Enter Macbeth.
Macb. I have done the deed;—^Didst thou not hear a noise,
Lady M. I heard the owl scream, and the crickets cry.
Did not you speak ?
Macb. When ?
Lady M. Now.
Macb. As I descended ?
Lady M. Ay.
Macb. Hark!—
Who lies i' the second chamber 1
Lady M. Donalbain.
Macb. This is a sorry sight. [Looking on his hands
Lady M. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight.
Macb. There's one did laugh in his sleep, and one cried, mwrier
That they did wake each other; I stood and heard them:
But they did say their prayers, and addreso'd them
Again to sleep.
Lady M. There are two lodg'd together.
Macb. On§ cried, God bless us! and. Amen, the othei;
As they had seen me, with these hangman's hands.
Listening their fear, I could not say, amen,
When they did say, God bless us.
Lady M. Consider it not so deeply.
Macb. But wherefore could not I pronounce, amen T
I had most need of blessing, and amen
Stuck in my throat.
Lady M. These deeds must not be thought
After these ways; so, it will make us mad.
Macb. Methought. I heard a voice cry, Sleep no meyre !
Macbeth does murder sleep, the innocerU sleep ;
MACBETH.
93
Sleep, that /cnw» up the ravelVd sleave of care,
The death of em k day's life, sore labor's halh.
Balm of hurt m nds, great nature's second course.
Chief mni-isher in life's feast.
Lady M. What do you mean ?
Macb. Still it cried. Sleep no more ! to all the house :
Glamis hath murder'd sleep: and therefore Cawdor
Shall sleep no more, Macbeth shall sleep no more I
Lady M. Who was it that thus cried ? Why, worthy thanc,
You do unbend your noble strength, to think
So brainsickly of things:—Go, get some water,
And wash this filthy witness from your hand.—
Why did you bring these daggers from the place 1
They must lie there: Go, carry them; and smear
The sleepy grooms with blood.
Macb. I'll go no more:
I am afraid to think what I have done;
Look on't again, I dare not.
Lady M. Infirm of purpose !
Give me the daggers; The sleeping, and the dead,
Are but as pictures; 'tis the eye of childhood.
That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed,
I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal,
Por it must seem their guilt. - {Exit. Knocking within,
Macb. Whence is that knocking ?
How is't with me, when every noise appals me 1
What hands are here 1 Ha! the-y pluck out mine eyes !
Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood
Clean from my hand ? No ; this my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnardine.
Making the green—one red.
Re-enter Lady Macbeth.
Lady M. My hands are of your color; but I shame
To wear a heart so white.—{Knock.']—I hear a knocking
At the south entry:—retire we to our chamber.
A little water clears us of this deed:
How easy is it then 1 Your constancy
Hath left you unattended.—{Knocking.]—Hark ! more knocking.
Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us.
And show us to b& watchers:—Be not lost
So poorly in your thoughts.
Macb To know my deed,—'twere best not know myself. {Knock
Wake Duncan with thy knocking ; Ay, 'would thou could'st!
{Exeunt.
Enter Macbtjef, Lenox, and Porter.
.Macd. Was it so late, friend, ere you went to bed,
Tliat you do lie so late ?
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shakspeaeian reader.
Port. 'Faith, sir, we were carousing till the second cock.
Macd. Is thy master stirring ?—
Our knocking has awak'd him; here he comes.
Enter Macbeth.
Len. Good-morrow, noble sir!
Mach, Good-morrow, both!
Macd. Is the king stirring, worthy thane ?
• Mach. Not yet.
Macd. lie did command me to call timely on kim:
I have almost slipp'd the hour.
Mach. I'll bring you to him.
Macd. I know, tbis is a joyful trouble to you;
But yet, 'tis one.
Mach. The labor we delight in, physics pain.
This is the door.
Macd. I'll make so bold to call.
For 'tis my limited service. [Ex'U Maccue?
Len. Goes the king
From hence to-day 1
Mach. He does:—he did appoint so.
Len. The night has been unruly: Where we lay.
Our chimneys were blown down : and, as they say,
Lamentings heard i' the air; strange screams of death;
And prophesying, with accents terrible.
Of dire combustion, and confus'd events,
New hatch'd to the woeful time. The obscure bird
Clamor'd the livelong night: some say, the earth *
Was feverish, and did shake.
Mach. 'Twas a rough night.
Len. My young remembrance cannot parallel
A fellow to it.
Re-enter Macduff.
Macd. O horror ! horror ! horror! Tongue, nor heart,
Cannot conceive, nor name thee !
Mach. Len. What's the matter ?
Macd. Confusion now hath made his master-piece !
Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope
The Lord's anointed temple, and stole thence
The life o' the building.
Mach. What is't you say ? the life ?
Len. Mean you his majesty ?
Macd. Approach the chamber, and destroy your sight
WJ a new Gorgon:—^Do not bid me speak;
See, and then speak yourselves.—Awake ! awake!—
[^Exeunt Macbeth ajid Lerox
Ring the alarum-bell:—^Murder! and treason !
Banquo, and Donalbain ! Malcolm ! awake!
macbeth.
95
Shake off this downy sleep, death's counterfeit,
And look on death itself!—up, up, and see
The great doom's image' Malcolm! Banquo!
As from your graves rise up, and walk like sprights,
To countenance this horror! [BeU rings,
0 Banquo! Banquo!
BrUer Bamquo.
Our royal master's murder'd!
Re-enter Macbeth and Lenox.
Macb. Had I but died an hour before this chance,
1 had lived a blessed time; for, from this instant.
There's nothing serious in mortality:
All is but toys : renown, and grace, is dead;
The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees
Is left this vault to brag of.
Enter Malcolm and Donalbain.
Don. What is amiss ?
Macb. You are, and do not know
The spring, the head, the fountain of your blood
Is stopp'd; the very source of it is stopp'd.
Mood. Your royal father's murder'd. '
Mai. O, by whom ?
Len. Those of his chamber, as it seem'd, had done't:
Their hands and faces were all badg'd with blood.
So were their daggers, which, unwip'd, we found
Upon their pillows:
They star'd, and were distracted; no man's life
Was to be trusted with them.
Macb. O, yet I do repent me of my fury.
That I did kill them.
Macd. Wherefore did you so ?
Macb. Who can be wise, amaz'd, temperate, and furious.
Loyal and neutral, in a moment ? No man:
The expedition of my violent love
Out-ran the pauser reason.—Here lay Duncan,
His silver skin lac'd with his golden blood ;
And his gash'd stabs look'd like a breach in nature
For ruin's wasteful entrance : there, the murderers,
Steep'd in the colors of their trade, their daggers
Unmannerly breech'd witli gore: Who could refrain.
That had a heart to love, and in that heart
Courage to make his love known ?
Ban. Fears and scruples shake us:
In the great hand of Heaven I stand; and, thence,
Against the undivulg'd pretence I fight
Of treasonous malice.
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SHAKSPEARIAN READER.
Macb. And so do I.
All. So all.
Mach. Lot's briefly put on manly readiness,
And meet i' the hall together.
All. Well contented. [Exeunt all hut Mal. oruZ Uoa.
Mai. What will you do ? Let's not consort with them r
To show an unfelt sorrow is an office
Which the false man does easy : I'll to England.
Don. To Ireland, I; our separate fortune
Shall keep us both the safer: where we are,
There's daggersjn men's smiles : the near in blood,
The nearer bloody.
Mal. This murderous shaft that's shot.
Hath not yet lighted; and our safest way
Is, to avoid the aim. Therefore to horse;
And let us not be dainty of leave-taking.
But shift away: There's warrant in that thefl
Which steals itself, when there's no mercy left. [Exeunt
The King's two sons, Malcolm and Donalbain, fly to England, and Macbeth is crowneo
king of Scotland; but fearing the prediction of the witches, that Uanquo's issue should
be king, he employs two murderers," to assassinate Danquo and his son Fieance.
The consequences of guilty ambition aie finely portrayed in the following scene.
ACT III.
SCENE II.—The same. Another Room.
Enter Lady Macbeth, and a Servant.
Lady M. Is Banquo gone from court ?
Serv. Ay, madam, but returns again to-night.
Lady M. Say to the king, I would attend his leisure
For a few words.
(Sera. Madam, I will.
Lady M. Nought's tod, all's spent.
Where our desire is got without content:
'Tis safer to be that which we destroy.
Than, by destruction, dwell in doubtful joy.
Enter Macbeth.
How now, my lord ? why do you keep alone.
Of. sorriest fancies your companions making ?
Using those thoughts, which should indeed have died
With them they think on ? Things witliout remedy
Should be without regard : what's done, is done.
Macb. We have scotch'd the snake, not kill'd it;
She'll close, and be herself; whilst our poor malice
Remains in danger of her former tooth.
MACBETH.
But let
The frame of things disjoint, both the worlds sufier.
Ere we will eat our meal in fear, and sleep
In the affliction of these terrible dreams.
That shake us nightly : better be with the dead,
Whom we, to gain our place, have sent to peace,
Than on the torture of the mind to lie
In restless ecstasy. Duncan is in his grave;
After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well;
Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison.
Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing,
Can touch him further ! '
Lady M. Come on;
Gentle, my lord, sleek o'er your rugged looks;
Be bright and jovial 'mong your guests to-night.
Macb. So shall I, love ; and so, I pray, be you:
Let your remembrance apply to Banquo;
Present him eminence, both with eye and tongue:.
Unsafe the while, that we
Must lave our honors in these flattering streams;
And make our faces vizards to our hearts,
Disguising what they are.
Lady M. You must leave this.
Macb. O, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife !
Thou know'st, that Banquo, and his Pleance, lives.
Lady M. But in them nature's copy's not eteme. •
Macb. There's comfort yet; they are assailable ;
Then be thou jocund : Ere the bat hath flown
Kis cloister'd flight; ere, to black Hecate's summons,
"i'be shard-borne beetle, with his drowsy hums,
Jtatli rung night's yawning peal, there shall be done
A tlocd of dreadful note.
Laily M. What's to be done ?
Macb. Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck,
Ti" thou applaud the deed. Come, seeling night,
Skarf up the tender eye of pitiful day;
And, with thy bloody and invisible hand.
Cancel, and tear to pieces, that great bond
Which keeps me pale!—Light thickens ; and the crow
Makes wing to the rooky wood:
Grwd things of day begin to droop and drowse ;
Whiles night's black agents to their prey do rouse.
Thou marvell'st at my words : but h61d thee still;
I'liings bad begun, make strong themselves by ill:
So pray thee, go with me. [Exeunt
Binquo and Fleance on their return to the Palace, are attacked by " ihe mutdeieii
Ctitiqac U slain, bat Fleance escapes.
6
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SHAKSPEAHIAN READER.
SCENE rV.—A Room of State in the Palace. A Banquet
prepared.
Enter Macbeth, Lady Macbeth, Rosse, Lenox, Lords, and
Attendants.
Macb. You know your own degrees, sit down; at first
And last, the hearty welcome.
Lords. Thanks to your majesty.
Macb. Ourself will mingle with society.
And play the humble host.
Our hostess keeps her state ; but, in best time.
We will require her welcome.
Lady M. Pronounce it for me, sir, to all my friends;
For my heart speaks they are welcome.
Enter first Murderer, to the door.
Macb. See, they encounter thee with their hearts' thanks
Both sides are even: Here I'll sit i' the midst:
Be large in mirth ; anon, we'll drink a measure
The table round.—There's blood upon thy face.
Mur. 'Tis Banquo's then.
Macb. 'Tis better thee without, than he within.
Is he dispatch'd ?
Mur. My lord, his throat is cut; that I did for him.
Macb. Thou art the best o' the cut-throats : Yet he's good.
That did the like for Fleance: if thou^idst it.
Thou art the nonpareil.
Mur. Most royal sir,
Fleance is 'scap'd.
Macb. Then comes my fit again: I had else been perfect;
Whole as the marble, founded as the rock ;
As broad, nnd general, as the casing air :
But now, I am cabin'd, cribb'd, confin'd, bound in
To saucy doubts and fears. But Banquo's safe ?
Mur. Ay, my good lord : safe in* a ditch he bides.
With twenty trenched gashes on his head ;
The least a death to nature.
Macb. Thanks for that;
There the grown serpent lies ; the worm, that's fled,
Hath nature that in time will venom breed.
No teeth for the present.—Get thee gone ; to-morrow
We'll hear, ourselves again. \_ExU Muroerei
Lady M. My royal lord.
You do not give the cheer ; the feast is sold.
That is not often vouch'd, while 'tis a making,
'Tis given with welcome : To feed, were best at home;
From thence, the sauce to meat is ceremony.
Meeting were bare without it.
Macb. Sweet remembrancer!—
1
A.nd health on both!
hen.
?Iow, good digestion w
[The Ghost q/" Banquo rises, and sits in Macbeth's place.
Mach. Here had we now our country's honor roof'd,
Weie the grac'd person of our Banquo present;
Who may I rather challenge for unkindness
Than pity for mischance !
Rosse. His absence, sir,
Lays blame upon his promise. Please it youi highness
To grace us with your royal company ?
Mach. The table's full.
Lcn. Here's a place reserv'd, sir
Mach. Where ?
Len. Here, my lord. What is't that moves your highness ?
Mach. Which of you have done this ?
Lords. What, my good lord ?
Mach. Thou canst not say, I did it: never shake
f hy gory locks at me.
Rosse. Gentlemen, rise *, his highness is not well.
Lady M. Sit, worthy friends :—my lord is often thus,
And hath been from his youth:—'pray you, keep seat;
The fit is momentary; upon a thought
He will again be well; If much you note him.
You shall offend him, and extend his passion;
Feed, and regard him not.—Are you a man ?
Mach. Ay, and a bold one, that dare look on that
Which might appal the devil.
Lady M. O proper stuff!
This is the very painting of your fear:
This is the air^drawn dagger, which, you said.
Led you to Duncan. O, these flaws, and starts,
(Impostors to true fear) would well become
A woman's story, at a winter's fire,
Authoriz'd by her grandam. Shame itself!
Why do' you make such faces ? When all's done.
You look but on a stool.
Mach. Pr'3rthee, see there ! behold! look! lo! how say you ?
Why, what care I ? If thou canst nod, speak too.—
If charnel-houses, and our graves, must send
Those that we bury, back, our monuments
Shall be the maws of kites. [Ghost disappears
Lady M. What! quite unmann'd in folly ?
Mach. If I stand here, I saw him.
Lady M. Fye, for shame!
Mach. Blood hath been shed ere now, i' the olden time,
Ere human statute purg'd the gentle weal;
Ay, and since too, murders have been perform'd
Too terrible for the ear: the times have been,
iOU
I^HAKS?EARIAN READER.
That, when the brains were out, the man would die,
And there an end: but now, they rise again.
With twenty mortal murders on their crowns.
And push us from our stools; This is more strange
Than such a murder is.
Lady M. My worthy lord.
Your noble friends do lack you.
Mach. I do forget:—
Do not muse at me, my most worthy friends •
I have a strange infirmity, which is nothing
To those that know me. Come, love and health to all
Then I'll sit down :—Give me some wine, fill full:—
I drink to the general joy of the whole table, [GAosf rises,
And to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss ;
Would he were here! to all, and him, we thirst.
And all to all.
Lords. Our duties, and the pledge.
Mach. Avaunt! and quit my sight! Let the earth iiide thee! .
Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold ;
Thou hast no speculation in those eyes
Which thou dost glare with !
Lady M. Think of this, good peers.
But as a thing of custom: 'tis no other;
Only it spoils the pleasure of the time.
Mach. What man dare, I dare :
Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear,
The arm'd rhinoceros, oi the Hyrcan tiger.
Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves
Shall never tremble : Or, be alive again,
And dare me to the desert with thy sword ;
If trembling I inhibit thee, prote.st me
The baby of a girl. Hence, horrible shadow! [Ghost disappears.
Unreal mockery, hence !—Why, so ;—being gone,
I am a man again.—Pray you, sit still.
Lady M. You have displac'd the mirth, broke the good meeting,
With most admir'd disorder.
Mach. Can such things be.
And overcome us like a summer's cloud.
Without our special wonder ? You make me strange
Even to the disposition that I owe.
When now I think you can behold such sights.
And keep the natural ruby of your cheeks.
When mine are bianch'd with fear.
Rosse. What sights, my lord ?
Lady M. I pray pu, speak not; he grows worse and Worse;
Question enrages him : at once, good-night;—
Stand not upon the order of your going,
But go at once. » .
MACBETH.
101
Len. Good-night, and better health
Attend his-majesty!
Lady M. A kind good-night to all!
[Exeunt Lords and Attendants,
Mach. It will have blood ; they say, blood will have blood:
Stones have been known to move, and trees to speak;
Augurs, and understood relations, have
By magot-pies, and choughs, and rooks, brought forth
The secret'st man of blood.—What is the night ?
Lady M. Almost at odds with morning, which is which.
Mach. How say'st thou, that Macduff denies his persoA,
At our great bidding ?
Lady M. Did you send to him, sir ?
Mach. I hear it by the way: but I will send:
There's not a one of them, but in his house
I keep a servant fee'd. I will to-morrow,
(Betimes I will,) unto the weird sisters:
More shall they speak; for now I am bent to know.
By the worst means, the worst: for mine own good,
All causes shall give way; I am in blood
Stept in so far, that, should I wade no more.
Returning were as tedious as go o'er;
Strange things I have in head, that will to hand;
Which must be acted, ere they may be scann'd.
Lady M. You lack the season of all natures, sleep.
Mach. Come, we'll to sleep: My strange and self-abuse
Is the initiate fear that wants hard use :—
We are yet but young in deed. " [ExeutU,
SCENE Y.—The Heath. Thunder.
Enter Hecate, meeting the three Witches.
1st Witch. Why, how now, Hecate ? you look angerly,
Hec. Have I not reason, beldams as you are.
Saucy, and over-bold ? How did you dare
To trade and traffic with Macbeth,
In riddles, and affairs of death ;
And I, the mistress of your charms.
The close contriver of all harms.
Was never call'd to bear my part.
Or show the glory of our art ?
And, which is worse, all you have done.
Hath been but for a wairward son.
Spiteful and wrathful; who, as others do.
Loves for his own ends, not for you.
But make amends now: Get you gone,
.\nd at the pit of Acheron
Meet me i' the morning; thither he
Will come to know his destiny.
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SHAKSPEARIAN KEAUEH
Your vessels, and /oar spells, provide.
Your charms, and every thing besde:
I am for the air; this night I'll spend
Unto a dismal-fatal end.
Great business must be wrought ere noon ■
Upon the corner of the moon
There hangs a vaporous drop profound;
I'll catch it ere it come to ground:
And that, distill'd by magic slights.
Shall raise such artificial sprights,
\.s, by the strength of their illusion.
Shall draw him on to bis confusion;
He shall spurn faith, scorn death, and bear
His hopes hove wisdom, grace, and fear r
And you all know, security
Is mortal's chiefest enemy.
Song. [ Within.'] Come away, come away, &c.
Hark, I am cali'd; my little spirit see.
Sits in a foggy cloud, and stays for me. [Exit.
1st Witch. Come, let's make haste: she'll soon be back a^in.
m
Macbeth seeks the " weird sisters" or witches, at " the Pit of Acheron," and adjnrei
them to declare his fate. The witches, by their incantations, raise np spirits who warn
Macbeth, to " Beware Macduff." He is then assured that
—none of woman bom shall harm Macbeth,"
and that
"Macbeth shall never vanquished be. until
Great Bimam wood to high Dunsinane bill
Shall come against him."
He is also shown a line of Eight Kings, who are the issue of Banquo.
Macbeth, acting upon the caution of the witches, surprises the Castle of Macduff, and
puts to the sword Lady Macduff, and all her children; Macduff being absent in England
on a visit to young Malcolm.
SCENE ni.—England. A Room in the Bang's Palace.
Enter Malcolm and Macduff.
Mai. Let us seek out so.ne desolate shade, and there
WeM our sad bosoms empty.
Macd. Let us rather
Hold fast the mortal sword; and, like good men.
Bestride our down-fall'n birthdom: Eachriew mom.
New widows howl; new orphans cry; new sorrows
Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds
As if it felt with Scotland, and yell'd out
Like syllable of dolor.
Mai. What I believe, I'll wafl ;
What know, believe; and, what I can redress.
As I shall find the time to friend, I wilL
MACBETH.
What you have spoke, it may be so, perchance.
This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues.
Was once thought honest; you have lov'd him well;
He hath not touch'd you yet. I am young, but something
You may deserve of him through me; and wisdom
To offer up a weak, poor innocent lamb.
To appease an angry god.
Macd. I am not treacherous.
Mai. But Macbeth is.
A good and virtuous nature may recoil.
In an imperial charge. But 'crave your pardon;
That which you are, my thoughts cannot transpose:"
Angels are bright still, though the brightest.fell;
Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace.
Yet grace must still look so.
Macd. I have lost my hopes.
Mai. Perchance, even there, where I did find my doubts.
Why in that rawness left you wife, and child,
(Those precious motives, those strong knots of love,)
Without leave-taking ?—I pray you
Let not my jealousies be your dishonors.
But mine own safflties":—You may be rightly just.
Whatever I shall think.
Macd. Bleed, bleed, poor country!
Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis sure.
For goodness dares not check thee! wear thou thy wrongs,
Thy title is affeer'd.*—Fare thee well, lord:
I would not be the villain that thou think'st
For the whole space that's in the tyrant's grasp.
And the rich East to boot.
Mai. Be not offended:
I speak not as in absolute fear of you.
I think, our country sinks beneath the yoke;
It weeps, it bleeds: and each new day a gash
Is added to her wounds: I think, withal.
There would be hands uplifted in my right;
And here, from gracious England, have I offer
Of goodly thousands: But, for all this.
When I shall tread upon the tyrant's head.
Or wear it on my sword, yet my poor country
^hall have more vices than it had before;
More suffer, and more sundry ways than ever.
By him that shall succeed.
Macd. What should he be ?
Mai. It is myself I mean: in whom I know
All the particulars of vice so grafted.
That, when they shall be open'd, black Macbeth
Will seem as pure as snow; and the poor state
* Confirmed.
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shakspeaeian eeader.
Esteem him as a lamb, being compar'd
With my confincless liarms. Nay, had I power, 1 shoultl
Uproar ihe universal peace, confound
All unity on earth.
Macd. O Scotland ! Scotland !
Mai. If such a one be fit to govern, speak;
I am as I have spoken.
Macd. Fit to govern !
No, not to live.—O nation miserable,
With an untitled tyrant, bloody-scepter'd.
When shall thou see thy wholesome days again 1
Since that the truest issue of thy throne
By his own interdiction stands accurs'd.
And does blaspheme his breed 1—^Thy royal father
Was a most sainted king: the queen that bore thee,
Oft'ner upon her knees than on her feet.
Died every day she liv'd. Fare thee well!
These evils thou repeat'st upon thyself.
Have banish'd me from Scotland.—O, my breast.
Thy hope ends here!
Mai. Macduff, this noble passion,
Child of integrity, hath from my soul •
Wip'd the black scruples, reconcil'd my thoughts
To thy good truth and honor. Heaven above
Deal between thee and me! for even now
I put myself to thy direction, and
Unspeak mine own detraction ; here abjure
The taints and blames I laid upon myself.
For strangers to my nature: What I am truly.
Is thine, and my poor country's, to command:
Whither, indeed, before thy here-approach.
Old Si ward, with ten thousand warlike men.
All ready at a point, was setting forth:
Now we'll together; And the chance, of goodness.
Be like our warranted quarrel! Why are you silent ?
Macd. Such welcome and unwelcome things at once,
'Tis hard to reconcile.
Enter Rosse.
Maxd. See, who comes here ?
Mai. My countryman; but yet I know him not.
Macd. My ever-gentle cousin, welcome hither.
Mai. I know him now: Good Heaven, betimes remove
The means that make us strangers!
Rosse. Sir, Amen.
Macd. Stands Scotland where it did ?
Rosse. Alas, pooi country
Almost afraid to know itself! It cannot
Be call'd our mother, but our grave: where nothing.
But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile;
AACBETH.
Where sighs, and groans, and shrieks that rent the air,
Are made, not mark'd; where violent sorrow seems
A modern ecstasy; the dead man's knell
Is there scarce ask'd, for who; and good men's lives
Expire before the flowers in their caps,
Dying, or ere they sicken.
Macd. O, relation.
Too nice, and yet too true !
Mai. What is the newest grief?
Rosse. That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker;
Eadh minute teems a new one.
Macd. How does my wife ?
Rosse. Why, well.
Macd. And all my children ?
Rosse. Well too.
Macd. The tyrant has not batter'd at their peace ?
Rosse. No; they were well at peace, when I did leave them.
Macd. Be not a niggard of your speech ; How goes it ?
Rosse. When I came hither to transport the tidings.
Which I have heavily borne, there ran a rumor
Of many worthy fellows that were out;
Which was to my belief witness'd the rather.
For that I saw the t}rrant's power a-foot:
Now is the time of help; your eye in Scotland
Would create soldiers, make our women fight
To dofT their dire distresses.
Mai. Be it their comfort,
We are coming thither: gracious England hath
Lent us good Siward, ana ten thousand men:
An older, and a better soldier, none
That Christendom gives out.
Rosse. 'Would I could answer
This comfort with the like ! But I have words.
That would be howl'd out in the desert air, ■
Where hearing should not latch them.
Macd. What concern they !
The general cause ? or is it a fee-grief.
Due to some single breast ?
Rosse. No mind, that's honest.
But in it shares some woe; though the main part
Pertains to you alone.
Macd. If it be mine.
Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it.
Rosse. Let not your ears despise my tongue for ever.
Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound.
That ever yet they heard.
Macd. Humph! I guess at it. ■
Rosse. Your castle is surpris'd ; your wife, and babes.
Savagely slaughter'd: to relate the manner,
6*
106
SHAESPEASIAN READER.
Wore, on the quarry of these murder'd deer,
To add the death of you.
Mai. Merciful heaven !—
What, man! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows;
Give sorrow words: the grief, that does not speak.
Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break.
Macd. My children too ?
Rosse. Wife, children, servants, a
That could he found.
Macd. And I must he from thence !
My wife kill'd too ?
Rosse. I have said.
Mai. Be comforted:
Let's make us med'cines of our great revenge,
To cure this deadly grief. '
Macd. He has no children.—All my pretty ones ?
Did you say, all? All ?
What, all my pretty chickens, and their dam.
At one fell swoop ?
Mai. Dispute it like a man.
Macd. I shall do so;
But I must feel it as a man:
I cannot but remember such things were.
That were most precious to me.—^Did heaven look on,
And would not take their part ? Sinful Macduff,
They were all struck for thee! naught that I am,
Not for their own demerits, but for mine.
Fell slaughter on their souls : Heaven rest them now!
Mai. Be this the whetstone of your sword: let grief
Convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it.
Macd. O, I could play the woman with mine eyes.
And braggart with my tongue!—^But gentle heaven.
Cut short all intermission ; front to front.
Bring thou this fiend of Scotland, and myself;
Within my sword's length set him; if he 'scape.
Heaven forgive him too!
Mai. This tune goes manly.
Come, go we to the king; our power is ready;
Our lack is nothing but our leave: Macbeth
Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above
Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you may.;
The night is long, that never finds the day. [ExeutU
ACT V.
The action changes .to Dnnsinane, where the English powers, led on by Yonng
Malcolm, Siward, and Macdnlf, are joined by the loyal Scotch. The united forces
inarch towards Dnnsinane Castle to attack Macbeth.
macbetb.
SCENE III.—^Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle.
Enter Macbeth, Doctor, and Attendants.
Macb. Bring me no more reports; let them fly all;
Till Bimam wood remove to Dunsinane,
I cannot taint with fear. Then fly, false thanes,
And mingle with the English epicures:
The mind I sway by, and the heart I bear.
Shall never sagg willi doubt, nor shake with fear.
Enter a Servant.
Thou cream-fac'd loon.
Where got'st thou that goose look ?
Serv. There is ten thousand
Macb. Geese, villain ?
Serv. Soldiers, sir.
Macb. What soldiers, patch ?
Death of thy soul! those linen cheeks of thine
Are counsellors to fear. What soldiers, whey-face ?
Serv. The English force, so please you.
Macb. Take thy face hence.—Seyton!—am sick at heart
When 1 behold—Seytonj I say!—This push
WiU cheer me ever, or (Usseat me now.
I have liv'd long enough: my way of life
Is fall'n into the sear, the yellow leaf:
And that which should accompany old age.
As honor, love, obedience, troops of friends,
I must not look to have; but, in their stead.
Curses not loud, but deep, mouth-honor, breath.
Which the poor heart would fain deny, but dare not.
Seyton I
Enter Seyton.
Sey. What is your gracious pleasure ?
Macb. What news more
Sw. All is confirm'd, my lord, which was reported.
Macb. I'll fight, tiU from my bones my flesh be hack'd.
Give me my armor.
Sey. 'Tis not needed yet.
Macb. I'll put it on.
Send out more horses, skirr the country roimd;
Hang those that talk of fear.—Give roe mine armor,—
How does your patient, doctor ?
Doci. Not so sick, my la
As she is troubled with thick-coming fancjes.
That keep her from her rest.
Macb. Cure her of that;
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd ;
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrov-r;
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shakspearian beadeb.
Raze out the written troubles of the brain;
And, with some sweet oblivious antidote,
Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff,
Which weighs upon the heart ?
Doct. Therein the patient
Must minister to himself.
Macb. Throw physic to the dogs, I'll none of it.—
Come, put mine armor on; give me my staff:—
Seyton, send out.—Doctor, the thanes fly from me :—
Come, sir, dispatch;—If thou could'st, doctor, cast
The water of my land, find her disease.
And purge it to a sound and pristine health,
I would applaud thee to the very echo,
That should applaud again.—
What rhubarb, senna, or what purgative drug.
Would scour these English hence ? Hearest thou of t'lem T
Docl. Ay, my good lord ; your royal preparation
Makes us hear something.
Macb. Bring it after me.—
I will not be afraid of death and bane.
Till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane. \ExiL
SCENE IV.
Country near Dunsinane: A Wood in view.
Enter, with drums and colors, Malcolm, old Siward, and Tils Son,
Macduff, Mekteth, Cathness, Akgus, Lekox, Rosse, ana
Soldiers, marching.
Mai. Cousins, I hope, the days are near at hand.
That chambers will be safe.
Mint. ' We doubt it nothing.
Siw. What wood is this before us ?
M^nl. The wood of Birnam.
Mtl. Let every soldier hew him down a bough.
And bear't before him; thereby shall we shadow
The numbers of our host, aid make discovery
Err in report of us.
Sold. It shall be done.
Siw. We learn no other, but the confident tyrant
Keeps still in Dunsinane, and will endure
Our setting down before't.
Mai. 'Tis his main hope :
For where there is advantage to be given.
Both more and less have given him the revolt;
And none serve with him but constrained things.
Whose hearts are absent too.
Micd. Let our just censures
Attend the true event, and put we on
Industrious soldiership.
MACBExir.
100
Siw. The time approaches,
That will with due decison make us know
What we shall say we have, and what we owe.
Thoughts spec'ilative their unsure hopes relate •
But certain issue strokes must arbitrate :
Towards which, advance the war. [ExeurU, marching
SCENE V.—Dunslnane. Within the Castle.
Enter, with drums and colors, Macbeth, Setton, and Soldiers.
Macb. Hang out our banners on the outward walls;
The cry is still. They come: Our castle's strength
Will laugh a siege to scorn : here let them lie.
Till famine, and the ague, eat them up;
Were they not forc'd with those that should be ours.
We might have met them dareful, beard to beard.
And beat them backward home. What is that noise 1 •
[ A cry witnin, of •■comen
Sey. It is the cry of women, my good lord.
Afacb. I have almost forgot the taste of fears ;
The time has been, my senses would have cool'd
To hear a night-shriek ; and my fell of hair
Would at a dismal treatise rouse, and stir
As life were in't: I have supp'd full with horrors ;
Direness, familiar to my slaught'rous thoughts.
Cannot once start me.—Wherefore was that cry ?
Sey. The queen, my lord, is dead.
Atjcb. She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.—
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day.
To the last syllable of recorded time
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle !
Life's but a walking shadow ; a poor player.
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage.
And then is heard no more : it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury.
Signifying nothing.—
Enter a Messenger.
Thou com'st to use thy tongue ; thy story quickly
Afess. Gracious my lord,
I shall report that which I say I saw.
But know not how to do it.
Macb. Well, say, sir.
Mess. As I did stand my watch upon the hill,
I look'd toward Birnam, and anon, methought,
The wood began to move.
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shakspe7»ria.n reader.
Macb. Liar, and slave ! [Striking him
Miss. Let me endure your wrath, if't be not so;
Within this three mile may you see it coming;
I say, a moving grove.
Macb. If thou speak'st false.
Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive,
Till famine cling thee: if thy speech be sooth,
I care not if thou dost for me as much.—
I pull in resolution; and begin
To doubt the equivocation of the fiend.
That lies like truth: Fear not, till Bimam wood
Do come to Dunsinane;—and now a wood
Comes toward Dunsinane.—Arm, arm, and out!—
If this, which he avouches, does appear,
There is nor fljdng hence, nor tarrying here.
I 'gin to be a-weary of the sun.
And wish the-estate o' the world were now undone.—
Ring the alarum bell:—Blow wnd! come, wrack!
At least we'll die with harness on our back. [Exeunt.
Macbeth leads his follower to the Battle, which termiDates in the defeat of tlii
Usnrper who i» sImo by MacdofT, and Malcolm is declared King of Scotlaad.
AS YOU LIKE IT.
Bli&kspeare took the plot of this delightfol comedy from a novel called, " Rosa' pde,
■X Enphnes' Golden Legacy," written by Lodge, who borrowed his materials from an
old English poem, of the age of Chancer.
Our Fs.et has Improved npon his model, and has constmcted one of the most exqui¬
sitely rinlsbed Pastorai Poems extant in our language.
The Pint and leading incidents of the Comedy, will be clearly Illustrated in the
lelechsd seeaes we have given.
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
DtWE, living in exile.
Frederick, brother to the Duke, and usurper of his dominions.
Amiens, Jaqdes, Lords attending on the Duke in his banishment
Le Beau, a courtier attending upon Frederick.
Charles, his wrestler.
Oliver, J aques, Orlando, sons of Sir Rowland de Bois.
Adam, Dennis, servants to Oliver.
Touchstone, a clown.
Sir Oliver Martext, a vicar.
CoRiN, SiLvius, shepherds.
William, a country fellow, in love with Audrey.
A Person representing Hymen.
Rosalind, daughter to the banished Duke.
Celu, daughter to Frederick.
Fhebe, a shepherdess.
Audrey, a country girl.
Lords belonging to the two Dukes ; Pages, Foresters, and other
Attendants.
The SCENE lies, first, near Oliver's House; afterwards partly in the
Usurper's Court and partly in the Forest of Arden.
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shakspeakian keader.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—An Orchard, near Oliver's House.
Enter Orlando, and Adam.
Orlando. As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion lequeathed
me: By will, but a poor thousand crowns: and, as thou say'st,
charged my brother, on his blessing, to breed me well: and there be¬
gins my sadness. My brother Jaques he keeps at school, and report
speaks goldenly of his profit: for my part, he keeps me rustically at
home, or, to speak mdre properly, stays me here at home unkept:
For call you that keeping for a gentleman of my birth, that differs
not from the stalling of an ox ? His horses are bred better; for,
besides that they are fair with their feeding, they are taught their
manage, and to that end riders dearly hired : but I, his brother, gain
nothing under him but growth ; for the which his animals are as
much bound to him as I. Besides this nothing that he so plentifully
gives me, the something that nature gave me, his countenance seems
to take from me; he lets me feed with his hinds, bars me the place
of a brother, and, as much as in him lies, mines my gentility with my
education. This is it, Adam, that grieves me; and the spirit of my
father, which I think is within me, begins to mutiny against this ser¬
vitude : I will no longer endure it, though yet I know no wise
remedy how to avoid it.
Enter Oliver.
Adam. Yonder comes my master, your brother.
Orl. Go apart, Adam, and thou shall hear how he will shake me up.
OH. Now, sir ! what make you here ?
Orl. Nothing; I am not taught to make any thing.
OH. What mar you then, sir ?
Orl. Marry, sir, I am helping you to mar that which Heaven made,
a poor unworthy brother of yours, with idleness.
OH. Marry, sir, be better employ'd, and be naught awhile.
Orl. Shall I keep your hogs, and eat husks with them 1 What
prodigal portion have I spent, that 1 should come to such penury ?
OH. Know you where you are, sir ?
Orl. O, sir, very well: here in your orchard.
OH. Know you before whom, sir ?
Orl. Ay, better than he I am before knows me. I know, you are
my eldest brother; and, in the gentle condition of blood, you should
know me: The courtesy of nations allows you my better, in that
you are the first-born; but the same tradition takes not away my
blood, were there twenty brothers betwixt us : I have as much of my
father in me, as you; albeit, I confess, your coming before me is
nearer to his reverence.
OH. What, boy I
Orl Come, come, elder brother, you are too young in this.
AS YOTI LIKE IT.
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OK. Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain ?
Orl. I am no villain; I am the youngest son of sir Rowland de
Bois : he was my father; and he is thrice a villain, that says, such a
father begot villains : Wert thou not my brother, I would not take
this hand from thy throat, till this other had pulled out thy tongue
for saying so: thou hast railed on thyself.
Adam. Sweet masters, be patient; for your father's remembrance,
be at accord.
OIL I«t me go, I say.
Orl. I will not, till I please: you shall hear me. My father
charged you in his will to give me good education: you have trained
me like a peasant, obscuring and hiding from me all gentleman-like
qualities: the spirit of my father grows strong in me, and I will no
longer endure it: therefore allow me such exercises as may become
a gentleman, or give me the poor allottery. my father left ijie by testa¬
ment ; with that I will go buy my fortunes.
OH. And what wilt thou do ? beg, when that is spent ? Well, sir,
get you in: I will not long be troubled with you: you shall have
some part of your will: I pray you, leave me.
Orl. I will no further offend you than becomes me for my good.
OH. Get yon with him, you old dog.
Adam. Is old dog my reward ? Most true, I have lost my teeth in
your service.—Heaven be with my old master! he would ndt have
spoke such a word. \^ExeurU Orlando and Adam.
OH. Is it even so ? begin you to grow upon me ? I will physic
your rankness, and yet give no thousand crowns neither.
Oliver, desirous of ridding himself of Orlando, seeks the aid of " Charles, the wrestler,'*
who is engaged to exhibit in a wrestling match, that is to take place before the nsD''ping
Duke and his court. Charles, instigated by Oliver, agrees to challenge Orlando to try
* a fall with him," when by superior skill he hopes to overcome and kill him. In this he is
frustrated by the agility and strength of Orlando, who obtains the victory.
Rosalind the danghter of the exiled Duke, is at her Uncle's court, and accompanied
by Celia her cousin, they witness the wrestling match. Rosalind is struck by the grace
and courage exhibited by OrlAido—and learning tha^ he is the son of one of her Fathei'i
oldest friends, her interest in the young man is increased; she rewards Orlando, with a
gold chain, and a mutualof regard is excited in both their hearts.
Celia watches the growing love of Rosalind, and sportively accuses her with falling in
love " on such a sijddea:" their conversation is interrupted by Duke Frederick, who has
become jealous of Rosalind, and banishes her from his court.
/
Enter Celia, and Rosalind.
Cel. Why, cousin; why, Rosalind;—Cupid have mercy;—Not a
word ?
Ron. Not one to throw at a dog.
Cel. No, thy words are too precious to be cast away upon curs,
throw some af them at me; come, lame me with reasons.
Ros. Then there were two cousins laid up ; when the one should
be lamed with reasons, and the other mad without any.
Cel. But is all this for your father 1
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shaksfearian reader.
Ros, No, some of it for my child's father: O, how full of briers is
this working-day world!
Cel. They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday
foolery; if we walk not in the trodden paths, our very coats wiU
catch them.
Ros. I could shake them off my coat; these burs are in my heart.
Cel. Hem them away.
Ros. I would try; if I could cry hem, and have him.
Cel. Come, come, wrestle with thy affections.
Ros. O, they take the part of a better wrestler than myself.
Cel. Is it possible, on such a sudden, you should fall into so
strong a liking with old sir Rowland's youngest son ?
Ros. The duke my father lov'd his father dearly.
Cel. Doth it therefore ensue, that you should love his son dearly 1
By this kind of chase, I should hate him, for my father hated his father
dearly; yet I hate not Orlando.
Ros. No 'faith, hate him not, for my sake.
Cel. Why should I not ? doth he not deserve well ?
Ros. Let me love him for that; and do you love him, because I
do: Look, here comes the duke.
Cel. With his eyes full of anger.
Enier Duke Frederick, with Lords.
Duke F. Mistress, dispatch you with your safest haste,
And get you from our court.
Ros. Me, uncle ?
Duke F. You, cousin.
Within these ten days if thou be'st found
So near our public court as twenty miles.
Thou diest for it.
Ros. I do beseech your grace,
Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me:
If with myself I hold intelligence.
Or have acquaintance with mine own desires ;
if that I do not dream, or be not frantic,
(As I do trust I am not,) then, dear uncle.
Never so much as in a thought unborn,
Did I offend your highness.
Duke F. Thus do aU traitors:
If their purgation did consist in words.
They are as innocent as grace itself:
Let it suffice thee, that I trust thee not.
Ros, Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor:
Tell me, whereon the likelihood depends.
Dvke F. Thou art thy father's daughter, there's enough.
Ros. So was I, when your highness took his dukedom;
So was I, when your highness banish'd him:
Treason is not inherited, my lord:
Or, if we did derive it from our friends.
as tog life it.
115
WJiat's that to me ? my father was no traitor:
Then, good my liege, mistake me not so much.
To think my poverty is treacherous.
Cel. Dear sovereign, hear me speak.
Duke F. Ay, Celia; we stay'd her for your sake.
Else had she with her father rang'd along.
Cel. I did not then entreat to have her stay.
It was your pleasure, and your own remorse;
I was too young that time to value her,
But now I know her; if she be a traitor.
Why, so am I: we still have slept together;
Rose at an instant, learn'd, play'd, eat together;
And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans.
Still we went coupled, and inseparable.
Duke F. She is too subtle for thee; and her smoothness.
Her very silence, and her patience,
Speak to the people, and they pity her.
Thou art a fool: she robs thee of thy name;
And thou wilt show more bright, and seem more virtuous.
When she is gone: then open not thy lips;
Firm and irrevocable is my doom
Which I have pass'd upon her; she is banish'd.
Cel. Pronounce that sentence then on me, my liege;
I cannot live out of her company.
Duke F. You are a fool:—You, niece, provide yourself;
If you out-stay the time, upon mine honor.
And in tlie greatness of my word, you die.
\^Exeura Duke Frederick, and Lord*
Cel. O my poor Rosalind: whither wilt thou go ?
Wilt thou change fathers ? I will give thee mine.
I charge thee, be not thou more griev'd than I am.
Ros. I have more cause.
Cel. Thou hast not, cousin,
Pr')rthee, be cheerful: know'st thou, not, the duke
Hath banish'd me his daughter ? y
Ros. That he hath not.
Cel. No ? hath not ? Rosalind lacks then the love
Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one :
Shall we be sunder'd ? shall we part, sweet girl 1
No; let my father seek another heir.
Therefore devise with me, n»;w we may fly.
Whither to go, and what to bear with us:
And do not seek to take your charge upon you.
To bear your griefs yourself, and leave me out;
For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale.
Say what thou canst, I'll go along with thee.
Ros. Why, whither shall we go ?
Cel. To see.t my uncle.
Ros. Alas, what danger will it be to us.
lie
SHAESFEARIAN BEADEB.
Maids as we ar?, lo travel forth so far ?
Beauty provi-lteth thieves sooner than gold.
Cel. I'll pat myself in poor and mean attire.
And with a kind of umber smirch my face;
The like do you ; so shall we pass aiong,
And never stir assailants.
Ros. Were it not better,
Because that I am more than common tall,
That I did suit me all points like a man ?
A boar-spear in my hand; and (in my heart
Lie there what hidden woman's fear there will,^
We'll have a swashing and a martial outside;
As many other mannish cowards have,
That do outface it with their semblances.
Cel. What shall I call thee when thou art a man ?
Ros. I'll have no worse a name than Jove's own page.
And therefore, look you, call me, Ganymede.
But what will you be call'd 1
Cel. Something that hath a reference to my state;
No longer Celia, but Aliena.
Ros. But, cousin, what if we assay'd to'steal
The clownish fool out of your father's court ?
Would he not be a comfort to our travel ?
Cel. He'll go along o'er the wide world with me;
Leave me alone to woo him: Let's away.
And get our jewels and our wealth together;
Devise the fittest time, and safest way
To hide us from pursuit that will be made
After my flight: Now go we in content.
To liberty, and not to banishment. [Exeunt.
The action sow be^ns in the Forest of Arden, where the exilei Dike and hk
followers have found refuge.
ACT II.
' SCENE 1.—The Forest of Arden.
Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, oTtd other Lords, in th.. dress tf
Foresters.
Duke S. Now, my co-mates, and brothers in exUe,
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp ? Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court ?
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,
The seasons' difference; as the icy fang.
And churliih chiding of the winter's wind ;
Which, w'.en it bites and blows upon my body,
Even till I shrink with cold, I smUe, and say,—
AS TOU LIKE IT.
This is no flattery: these are counsellors
That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Sweet are the uses of adversity;
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head ;
And this our life, exempt from public haunt.
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, ■
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.
Amu I would not change it: Happy is your grace
That can translate the stubbornness of fortune
Into so quiet and so sweet a style.
Duke S. Come, shall we go and kill us venison ?
And yet it irks me, the poor dappled fools,—
Being native burghers of this desert city,—
Shoiild, in their own confines, with forked heads
Have their round haunches gor'd.
1st Lord. Indeed, my loni,
The melancholy Jacques grieves at that;
And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp
Than doth your brother that hath banish'd you.
To-day, my lord of Amiens, and myself.
Did steal behind him, as he lay along.
Under an oak whose antique root peeps out
Upon the brook that brawls along this wood:
To the w hich place a poor sequester'd stag.
That from the hunters' aim had ta'en a hurt,
Did come to languish ; and, indeed, my lord.
The wretched animal heav'd forth such groans.
That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat
Almost to bursting ; and the big round tears
Cours'd one another down his innocent nose
In piteous chase : and thus the hairy fool.
Much marked of the melancholy Jacques,
Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook,
Augmenting it with tears.
Duke S. But what said Jacques 1
Did he not moralize this spectacle ?
Isl Lord. O, yes, into a thousand similes.
First, for Lis weeping in the needless stream;
Poor deer, quoth he, thou mak'st a testament
As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more
To tluzt which had too much ; Then being alone,
Left and abandon'd of bis velvet friends ;
'Tis right, quoth he; this misery doth part
The flux of company: Anon, a careless herd.
Full of the pasture, jumps along by him.
And never stays to greet him; Ay, quoth Jacques,
Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens ;
Tis just ilw. fashion: Wherefore do you look
118
SHAKSPEARIAN READER.
Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there ?
Thus most invectively he pierceth through
The body of the country, city, court.
Yea, and of this our life: swearing that we
Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what's worse.
To fright the animals, and to kill them up.
In their assign'd and native dwelling place.
Duke S. And did you leave him in this contemplation ?
ind Lord. We did, my lord, weeping, and commenting
Upon the sobbing deer.
Duke S. Show me the place;
I love to cope him in these sullen fits.
For then he's full of matter.
2nd Lord. I'll bring you to him straight. [^Exeunt.
Oliver, foiled in his scheme to destroy Orlando at the wrestling-mateh, plots edMl
means to cut his brother oif/' Adam learns his intentions, and the faithful old mm
reveals them to Orlando.
SCENE m.—Before OMwet's Hmse.
Enter Orlando and Adam, meeting.
Orl. Who's there ?
Adam. What! my young master ?—O, my gentle master,
O, my sweet master, O you memory
Of old Sir Rowland! why, what make you here ?
Why are you virtuous ? Why do people love you ?
And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant ?
Why would you be so fond to overcome
The bony priser of the humorous duke ?
Your praise is come too swiftly home before you.
Know you not, master, to some kind of men
Their graces serve them but as enemies ?
No more do yours; your virtues, gentle master
Are sanctified and holy traitors to you.
O, what a world is this, when what is comely
Envenoms him that bears it!
Orl. Why, what's the matter ?
Adam. O unhappy youth
Come not within these doors; within this roof
The enemy of all your graces lives:
Your brother—(no, no brother; yet the son—
Yet not the son; I will not call him son—
Of him I was about to call his father,)—
Hath heard your praises; and this night he means
To burn the lodging where you used to lie,
And you within it: if he fail of that.
He will have other means to cut you off;
I overheard him, and his practices.
AS YOU LIKE IT,
11»
This is no place, this house is but a butchery;
Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it,
Orl. Why, wliither, Adam, wouldst thou have me go 1
Adam. No matter whither, so you come not here.
Orl. What, "wouldst thou have me go and beg my food 1
Or, with a base and boisterous sword, enforce
A thievish living on the common road 1
This I must do, oi know not what to dc :
Yet this I will not do, do how I can;
1 rather will subject me to the malice
Of a diverted blood, and bloody brother.
Adam. But do not so; I have five hundred crowns.
The thrifty hire I sav'd under your father.
Which I md store to be my foster-nurse.
When service should in my old limbs lie lame.
And unregarded age in corners thrown;
Take that: and He that doth the ravens feed.
Yea, providently caters for the sparrow.
Be comfort to my age ! Here is the gold;
All this I give you: Let me be your servant;
Though 1 look old, yet I am strong and lusty:
For in my youth I never did apply
Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood ;
Nor did not -with unbashful forehead woo
The means of weakness and debility;
Therefore my age is as a lusty winter.
Frosty, but kindly: let me go with you;
I'll do the service of a younger man
In all your business and necessities.
Orl. O good old man ; how well in thee appears
The constant service of the antique world.
When service sweat for duty, not for meed !
Thou art not for the fashion of these times.
Where none will sweat, but for promotion;
And having that,- do choke their service up
Even with the having: it is not so with thee.
But, poor old man, thou ptun'st a rotten tree,
That cannot so much as a blossom yield,
In lieu of all tiiy pains and husbandry :
But come thy ways, we'll go along together;
And ere we have thy youthful wages spent.
We'll light upon some settled low content.
Adam. Master, go on; and I will follow thee,
To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty.—
From seventeen years till now almost fourscore
Here lived I, but now live here no more.
At seventeen years many their fortunes seek;
But at fourscore, it is too late a week:
Yet fortune cannot recompense me better.
Than to die well, and not my master's debtor. [Exeunt
120
shakspeakian reader.
y
SCENE IN.—The Forest o/Arden.
Enter Rosalind in boy's clothes, Celia drest like a Shepherdess, and
Touchstone.
Ros. O Jupiter! how weary are my spirits!
Touch. I care not for my spirits, if my legs were not weary.
Ros. I could find in my heart to disgrace my man's apparel, and
■ to cry like a woman : but I must comfort the weaker vessel, as
doublet and hose ought to show itself courageous to petticoat: there¬
fore, courage, good Aliena.
Cel. I pray you, bear with me ; I can go no further.
Touch. For my part, I liad rather bear with you, than bear you:
yet I should bear no cross, if I did bear you; for, I think, you have
no money in your purse.
Ros. Well, this is the forest of Arden.
Touch. Ay, now am I in Arden: the more fool I; when I was
at home, I was in a better place; but travellers must be content.
Ros. Ay, be so, good Touchstone;—Look you, who comes here;
a young nidn, and an old,-in solemn talk.
Enter Corin, arid Silvius.
Cor. That is Che way to make her scorn you still.
Sil. O Corin, that thcu knew'st how 1 do love her!
Cor. I partly guess; for I have lov'd ere now.
Sil. No, Corin, bei.ig old, thou canst not guess;
Though in thy youth tlioa wast as true a lover
As ever sigh'd upon a midiiight pillow:
But if thy love were ever like to mine,
(As sure I think did never man love so,)
How many actions most ridiculous
Hast thou been drawn to by thy fantasy ?
Cor. Into a thousand that I have forgotten.
Sil. O, thou didst then ne'er love so heartily
If thou remember'st not the slightest folly
That ever love did make thee run into.
Thou hast not lov'd:
O, if thou hast not sat as I do now.
Wearying thy hearer in thy mistress' praise.
Thou hast not lov'd:
Or, if thou hast not broke from company.
Abruptly, as my passion now makes me.
Thou bast not lov'd: O Phebe, Phebe, Phebe I {Exit Silvius.
Ros. Alas, poor shepherd ! searching of thy wound,
I have oy hard adventure found mine own.
Touch. And I mine: We, that are true lovers, run into strange
capers; but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortai
in folly. *
Ros. Thou speak'st wiser, than thou art 'ware of.
AS YOtI LIKE IT.
121
✓ Touch. Nay, I shall ne'er be 'ware of mine own wit, till I breah
my shins against it.
Ros. Jove ! Jove ! this shepherd's passion
Is much upon thy fashion.
Touch. And mine; but it grows something stale with me.
Cel. I pray you, one of you question yond man,
f he for gold will give us any food;
faint almost to death.
Touch. Holla: you, clown I
Ros. Peace, fool; he's not thy kinsman.
Cor. Who calls 1
Touch. Your betters, sir.
Cor. Else are they very wretched.
Ros. Peace, I say:
t...>od even to you, friend.
Cor. And to you, gentle sir, and to you all.
Ros. I pr'ythee, shepherd, if that love, or gold.
Can in this desert place buy entertainment.
Bring us where we may rest ourselves, and feed:
Here's a young maid with travel much oppress'd.
And faints for succor.
Cor. Fair sir, I pity her.
And wish for her sake, more than for mine own,
My fortunes were more able to relieve her:
But I am shepherd to another man.
And do not shear the fleeces that I graze;
My master is of churlish disposition.
And little recks to find the way to heaven
By doing deeds of hospitality:
Besides, his cote, his flocks, and bounds of feed.
Are now on sale, and at our sheepcote now.
By reason of his absence, there is nothing
That you will feed on; but what is, come see.
And in my voice most welcome shall you be.
Ros. What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture ?
Cor. That young swain that you saw here but erewhilo.
That little cares for buying any thing.
Ros. I pray thee, if it stand with honesty.
Buy thou the cottage, pasture, and the flock.
And thou shall have to pay for it of us.
Cel. And we will mend thy wages; I like this place.
And willingly could waste my time in it.
Cor. Assuredly, the thing is to be sold:
Go with me; if you like, upon report.
The soil, the profit, and this kind of life,
I will your very faith, ui feeder be.
And buy it with youi sold right suddenly. \_Exeunt,
7
122
SilAESPEAltlAN READER.
SCENE V.—Another part of the Forest. A Tcible set otiL
Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, Lords, and others.
Duhe S. I think he be transform'd into a beast
For I can no where find hiin lilce a man.
Isf Lord. My lord, he is but even now gone hence;
Here was he merry, hearing of a song.
Duke S. If he, compact of jars, grow musical,
We shall have shortly discord in the spheres :—
lo, seek him ; tell him I would speak with him.
Enter Jaques.
ls< Lord. He saves my labor by his own approach.
Duke S. Why, how now, monsieur! what a life is tliift
That your poor friends must woo your company ?
What! you look merrily.
Jaq. A fool, a fool! 1 met a fool i' the forest,
A motley fool;—a miserable world !—
As I do live by food, I met a fool;
Who laid him down and bask'd him in the sun.
And rail'd on lady Fortune in good terms.
In good set terms,—and yet a motley fool.
Good-morrow, fool, quoth I: No, sir, quoth he.
Call me not fool, till heaven hath sent me fortune :
And then he drew a dial from his poke:
And looking on it with lack-lustre eye,
Says, very wisely. It is ten o'clock;
Thus may we see, quoth he, how the world wags :
' Tis but an hour ago, since it was nine ;
And after an hour more, 'twill he eleven ;
And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe.
And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot.
And thereby hangs a tale. When I did hear
The motley fool thus moral on the time.
My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,
That fools should be so deep contemplative;
And I did laugh, sans intermission.
An hour by his dial.—O noble fool I
A worthy fool! Motley's the only wear.
Duke S. What fool is this ?
Jaq. O worthy fool!—One that hath been a courticT;
And say, if ladies be but young, and fair.
They have the gift to know it: and in his brain,—
Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit
After a voyage,—^he hath strange places cramm'd
With observation, the which he vents
In mangled forms :—O, that I were a fool!
I am ambitious for a motley coat.
Duke S. Thou shalt have one.
*
AS YO? LIKE IT.
123
Jaq. It is my only euit;
Provided, that you weed your better judgments
Of all opinion that grows rank in them,
That I am wise. I must have liberty
Withal, as large a charter as the wind,
To blow on whom I please; for so fools have:
And they that are most galled with my folly.
They most must laugh : And why, sir, must they so 1
The why is plain as way to parish church:
He, that a fool doth very wisely hit,
Doth very foolishly, although he smart,
Not to seem senseless of the bob: if not,
The wise man's folly is anatomiz'd
Even by the squandering glances of the fool.
Invest me in my motley ; give me leave
To speak my mind, and I will through and through
Cleanse the foul body of the infected world,
If they will patiently receive my medicine.
Duice S. Fye on thee ! I can tell what thou would'st do.
Jaq. What, for a counter, would I do, but good ?
Duke S. Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin:
For thou thyself hast been a hbertine.
Jaq. Why, who cries out on pride.
That can therein tax any private party ?
Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea.
Till that the very very means do ebb ?
What woman in the city do I name.
When that I say,»rhe city-woman bears
The cost of princes on unworthy shoulders ?
Who can come in, and say, that I mean her.
When such a one as she, such is her neighbor 1
Or what is he of basest function.
That says, his bravery is not on my cost,
(Thinking that I mean him,) but therein suits
His folly to the mettle of my speech !
There then: How, what then ? Let me see wherein
My tongue hath wrong'd him : if it do him right,
Then he hath wrong'd himself; if he be free,
Why theii, my taxing like a wild goose flies,
Unclaim'd of any man.—But who comes here ?
Enter Orlando, vnth Ms sieord drawn.
Orl. Forbear, and eat no more.
Jaq. Why, I have eat none yei
Orl. Nor shalt not, till necessity be serv'd.
Duke S. Art thou thus bolden'd, man, by thy distress ;
Or else a rude despiser of good manners.
That in civility thou seem'st so empty ?
Orl. You touch'd my vein at flrst; the thorny point
SHAKSPEARIAN HEADER.
Of bare distress hath ta'en from me the show
Of smooth civility: yet am I inland bred,
And know some nurture: But forbear, I say;
He dies that touches any of this fruit.
Till I and my affairs are answered.
Jaq. An you will not be answered with reason, >
I must die.
Duke S. What would you have 1 Vour gentleness shall force
More than your force move us to gentleness.
OrL I almost die for food, and let me have it.
Duke S. Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.
Orl. Speak you so gently ? Pardon me, I pray you.
I thought, that all things had been savage here;
And therefore put I on the countenance
Of stem commandment; But wiiate'er you are,
Tliat in this desert inaccessible.
Under the shade of melancholy boughs.
Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time;
If ever you have look'd on better days;
If ever been where bells have knoU'd to church;
If ever sat at any good man's feast;
If ever from your eyelids wip'd a tear.
And know what 'tis to pity, and be pitied ;
Let gentleness my strong enforcement be:
In the which hope, I blush, and hide my sword.
Duke S. True is it that we have seen better days;
And have with holy bell been knoll'd to church;
And sat at good men's feasts : and wip'd our eyes*
Of drops that sacred pity hath engender'd: ,
And therefore sit you down in gentleness.
And take upon command what help we have.
That to your wanting may be ministred.
Orl. Then, but forbear your food a little while.
Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn.
And give it food. There is an old poor man.
Who after me hath many a weary step
Limp'd in pure love; till he be first sufBc'd,—
Oppress'd with two weak evils, age, and hunger,—
I will not touch a bit.
Duke S. Go find him out.
And we will nothing waste till you return.
Orl. I thank ye; and be bless'd for your good comfort! . f Eirt
Duke S. Thou seest, we are not all alone unhappy;
This wide and universal theatre
Presents more woeful pageants than tlie scene
(Wherein we play in.
Jaq. All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players :
They have their exits, and their entrances;
AS TOU LIKE IT.
And one man in Ws time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
And then, the whining school-boy, with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover.
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier.
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel.
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then, the justice,
In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd.
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut.
Full of wise saws and modem instances.
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts • -
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon.
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side;
His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank ; and his big manly voice.
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all.
That ends this strange eventful history.
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing.
Re-enter Orlando, with Adam.
Duke S. Welcome. Set down your venerable burcoo,
And let him feed.
Orl. I thank you most for him.
Adam. So had you need;
I scarce can speak to thank you for myself.
Duke S. Welcome, fall to; I will not trouble you
As yet, to question you about your fortunes:—
Give us some music; and, good cousin, sing. c-
Amiens sings.
SONG. ^
L Blow, hlmo, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude ;
Thy tooth is not so keen.
Because thou art not seen.
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh, ho.' sing, heigh, ho.' unto the green hoUy :
Most friendship is feigning, most lov ing mere folly
Then, heigh, ho, the holly !
This lye is most jolly.
126
SHAESPEARIAN READER.
n. Freeze, freeze, thou hitter sky.
Thou, dost not bite so nigh.
As benefits ffyrgot:
Thorigh thou the waters warp.
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remembered not.
Heigh, hosing, heigh, ho ! &c.
Duke S. If that you were the good Sir Rowland's son,—
As you have whisper'd faithfully, you were;
And as mine eye doth his eflBgies witness
Most truly limn'd, and living in your face,—
Be truly welcome hither: I am the duke.
That lov'd your father: The residue of your fortune.
Go to my cave and tell me.—Good old man;
"Thou art right welcome as thy master is;
Support him by the arm.—Give me your hand.
And,let me all your fortunes understand. [Exeunt,
Dake Frederick on discovering the flight of his daughter and Rosalind, saspects thi4
Orlando has aided them. He sends for Oliver, and commands biro to seek the fugitivea.
Orlando remains in the forest under the protection of the banished Dnke.^
ACT III.
The Forest.
Enter Orlando, toith a paper.
Orl. Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love:
And thou, thrice crowned queen of night, survey
With thy chaste eye, from thy pale spliere above.
Thy huntress' name, that my full life doth sway.
O Rosalind ! these trees shall be my books.
And in their barks my thoughts I'll character;
That every eye, which in this forest looks.
Shall see thy virtue witness'd every where.
Run, run, Orlando; carve, on every tree.
The fair, the chaste, and nnoxpressive she. [Exit,
Enter Corin, and Touchstone.
Cor. And how like you this shepherd's life, master Touchstone ?
Tmch. Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a good life; but
in respect that it is a shephei I's life, it is naught. In respect that it
is solitary, I like it very well; but in respect that it is private, it is a
very vile life. Now in respect it is in the fields, it pleaseth me well;
but in respect it is not in the court, it is tedious. As it is a spare
life, look you, it fits my humor well; but as there is no more plenty
in it, it goes much against my stomach. Hast any philosophy in
'Hee, shepherd ?
' Cor. No more, but that I know, the more one sickens, the worse
AS YOU LIKE IT.
12T_
at ease he is; and that he that wants money, means, and content, is
without three good friends:—That the property of rain is to wet, and
fire to burn: That good pasture makes fat sheep; and that a great
cause of the night, is lack of the sun : That he, that hath learned no
wit by nature nor art, may complain of good breeding, or comes of a
very dull kindred.
Touch. Such a one is a natural philosopher. Wast ever in court
sl fpherd ? *
Cor. No, sir, I am a true laborer; I earn that I eat, get that ^
wear; owe no man hate, envy no man's happiness; glad of other
men's good, content with my harm: and the greatest of my pride is,
to see my ewes graze, and my lambs feed. Here comes young
master Ganymede, my new mistress's brother.
Enter Rosalind, reading a paper.
Ros. From the east to western Ind,
No jewel is like Rosalind.
Her worth, being mounted on the wind,
Through all the world bears Rosalind.
All the pictures, fairest liu'd.
Are but black to Rosalind.
Let no face be kept in mind.
But the fair of Rosalind.
Touch. I'll rhyme you so, eight years together; dinners, and nup« •
pers, and sleeping hours excepted: it is the right butter woman's
rank to market.
Ros. Out, fool!
Touch. For a taste :
If a hart do lack a hind.
Let him seek out Rosalind.
If the cat will after kind.
So, be sure, will Rosalind.
Winter garments must be lin'd.
So must slender Rosalind.
They thai reap, must sheaf and bind ;
Then to cart toith Rosalind.
Sweetest nut hath sourest rind,
Such a nut is Rosalind.
This is the very false gallop of verses; Why do you infect yourself
with them ?
Ros. Peace, you dull fool: I found them on a tree.
Touch. Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.
Ros. I'll graff it with you, and then I shall graff it with a medlar:
then it will be the earliest fruit in tlie country: for you will be
rotten e'er you be half ripe, and that's the right virtue of the medlar.
Touch. You have said; but whether wisely or no, let the foies'
judge.
128
SHAKSFEABIAN BEADEB.
Enter Celia, reading a paper
Ros. Peace
Ilere comes my sister, reading; stand aside.
Cel. Why should this desert silent be ?
Ear it is unpeopled i No ;
Tongues Vll hang on every tree.
That shall civil sayings show :
Some, how bnef the life of man
Runs his erring pilgrimage ;
That the stretching of a span
Buckles in his sum of age.
Some, of violated vows
'Tunxt the souls of friend and friend:
But upon the fairest boughs.
Or at every sentence^ end.
Will I Rosalinda write :
Teaching all that read to know
The quintessence of every sprite
Heaven would in little show.
Therefore heaven nature charg'd
That one body should be filVd
WitA. all graces wide enlarged:
Nature presently distilVd
Helenas chueek, but not her heart;
Cleopatra's majesty ;
Atalantd's better part;
Sad Lucretia's modesty.
Thus Rosalind of many parts
By heavenly synod was devis'd.
Of many faces, eyes, and hearts
To have the touches dearest priz'd.
Heaven would that she these gifts should have.
And I to live and die her slave.
Ros. O most gentle Jupiter!—what tedious homily of love have
3rou wearied your parishioners withal, and never cry'd, Have patience,
good people !
Cel. How now! back friends;—Shepherd go off a little :—Go
with him, sirrah.
Touch. Come, shepherd, let us make an honorable retreat; though
not with bag and baggage, yet with scrip and scrippage.
[Exeunt Corin, arui Touchstose,
Cel. Didst thou hear these verses ?
Ros. O, yes, I heard them all, Md more too; for some of them
aad in them more feet than the verses would bear.
Cel. That's no matter; t'le feet might bear the verses.
Ros. Ay, but the feet were lame, and could not bear tliomselves
without the verse, and therefore stood lamely in tlie verse.
Cel. But didst thou hear, without wondering how thy na'-ie should
oe hang'd and carved upon these trees ?
/
AS TO0 LIKE IT.
12U
Ros. I was seven of the nine days ont of the wonder, before you
came ; for look here what I found on a palm-tree : I was never so
be-rhymed since Pythagoras' time, that I was an Irish rat, wliich I
can hardly remember.
Cel. Trow you, who hath done this ?
Rks. Is it a man ?
Cel. And a chain, that you once wore, about his neck: Change
you color ?
Ros. I pr'ythee, who ?
Cel. O! it is a hard matter for friends to meet; but mountains
may be removed with earthquakes, and so encounter.
Ros. Nay, but who is it ?
Cel. Is it possible ?
Ros. Nay, I pray thee now, with most petitionary vehemence, tell,
me who it is 1
Cel. O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful, and yet again
wonderful, and after that out of ail whooping!
Ros. Good my complexion! dost thou think, though I am capari-
Eon'd like a man, I have a doublet and hose in my disposition l One
inch of delay more is a South-sea-off discovery. I pr'ythee, tell me,
who is it ? quickly, and speak apace : I would thou couldst stammer,
that thou might'st pour this concealed man out of thy mouth, as wine
comes out of a narrow-mouth'd bottle; either too much at once, or
none at all. I pr'ythee take the cork out of thy mouth, that I may
drink thy tidings. What manner of man ? Is his head worth a hat ?
Cel. It is young Orlando; that tripp'd up the wrestler's heels,
and your heart, boUi in an instant.
Ros. Nay, no mocking; speak sad brow, and "true maid.
Cel. r faith, coz, 'tis he.
Ros. Orlando?
Cel. Orlando.
Ros. Alas the day! what shall I do with my doublet and hose ?—
What did he when thou saw'st him ? What said he ? How look'd
he ? Wherein went he ? What makes he here ? Did he ask for
me ? Where remains he ? How parted he with thee ? and when
shalt thou see him again ? Answer me in one word.
Cel. Yon must borrow me Garagantua's mouth first: 'tis a word
too great for any mouth of this age's size: To say, ay, and no, to
these particulars, is more than to answer in a catechism.
Ros. But doth he know that I am in this forest, and in man's
apparel ? Looks he as freshly as he did the day he wrestled ?
Cel. It is as easy to count atomies, as to resolve the propositions
of a lover:—but take a taste of my finding him, and relish it with a
good observance. I found him under a- tree, like a dropp'd acorn.
Ros. It may well be call'd Jove's tree, when it drops forth such
fruit.
Cel. Give me audience, good madam.
Ros. Proceed.
Cel. There lay he^ stretch'd along, like a wouijded knight.
130
SHAKSPEARIAN READER.
Ros. Though it he pity to see such u sight, it well becomes tlis
ground.
Cel. Cry, holloa! to thy tongue, I pr'ythee; it curvets very un-
reasonably. He was fumish'd like a hunier.
Ros. O ominous ! he comes to kill my heart. ^
Cel. I would sing my song without a burden: thou bring'st me
out of tune.
Ros. Do you not know 1 am a woman ? when I think, I must
speak. Sweet, say on.
Enter Orlando, and Jaqtjes.
Cel. You bring me out:—Soft! comes he not here ?
Kos. 'Tis he; slink by, and note him.
[Celia and Rosalind retire
Jaq. I thank you for your company; but, good faith, I had as
lief have been myself alone.
Orl. And so had I; but yet, for fashion sake, I thank you too for
your society.
Jaq. Heaven be with you; let's meet as little as we can.
Orl. I do desire, we may be better strangers.
Jaq. I pray you, mar no more trees with writing love-songs in
their barks.
Orl. I pray you, mar no more of my verses with reading them ill-
favoredly.
Jaq. Rosalind is your love's name ?
Orl. Yes, just.
Jaq. I do not like her name. ,
Orl. There was no thought of pleasing you, when she was
christen'd.
Jaq. What stature is she of ?
Orl. Just as high as my heart.
Jaq. You are full of pretty answers: Have you not been ac¬
quainted with goldsmith's wives, and conn'd them out of rings ?
Orl. Not so; but I answer you right painted cloth, from whence
you Imve studi^ your questions.
Jaq. You have, a nimble wit; I think it is made of Atalanta's
peels. Will you sit down with me ? and we two will rml against
our mistress the world, and all our miserj\
Orl. I will chide no breather in the world, but myself; against
whom I know most faults.
Jaq. The most fault you have, is to be in love.
CM. 'Tis a fault I will not change for your best virtue. I am
ireary of you.
Jaq. my troth, I was seeking for a fool, when T found you.
OH. He is drown'd in the brook; look but in, and you shall see
kim.
Jaq. There shall I see mine own figure.
Orl. Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher.
Jaq. I'll tarry no longer with you; farewell, good signior love.
AS YOU LIKE IT.
131
Orl. 1 am glad of your departure; adieu, good monsieur melan¬
choly. [Exit Jaques.—Cel. aiid Ros. come forward.
Ros. I will speak to him like a saucy lacquey, and under that
habit play the knave with him.—Do you hear, forester ?
Orl. Very well; what would you ?
Ros. I pray you, what is't a clock ?
Orl. You should ask me, what time o'day; there's no clock in the
forest.
Ros. Then there's no true lover in the forest; else sighing every
minute, and groaning every hour, would detect the lazy foot of time,
as well as a clock.
Orl. And why not the swift foot of time ? had not that been as
proper ?
Ros. By no means, sir: Time travels in divers paces with divers
persons : I'll tell you who time ambles withal, who time trots withal,
who time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal.
Orl. I pr'ythee, who doth he trot withal ?
■Ros. Marry, he trots hard with a young maid, between the con¬
tract of her marriage, and the day it is solemnized.
Orl. Who ambles time withal ?
Ros. With a priest that lacks Latin, and a rich man that hath ncA
the gout; for the one sleeps easily, because he cannot study; and
the other lives merrily, because he feels no pain: the one lacking
the burden of lean and wasteful learning; the other knowing no
burden of heavy tedious penury: These time ambles withal.
Orl. Who doth he gallop withal ?
Ros. With a thief to the gallows: for though he go as softly as
foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there.
Orl. Who stays it still withal ?
Ros. With lawyers in the vacation: for they sleep between term
and term, and then they perceive not how time moves.
Orl. Where dwell you, pretty youth ?
Ros. With this shepherdess, my sister; here in the skirts of the
forest.
Orl. Are you a native of this place ?
Ros. As the rabbit, that you see dwell where she is kindled.
Orl. Your accent is something finer than you could purchase in
so removed a dwelling.
Ros. I have been told so of many: but, indeed, an old religious
uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was in his youth an inland-
man ; one that knew courtship too well, for there he fell in love. I
have heard him read many lectures against it; and I thank fortune,
I am not a woman, to be touch'd with so many giddy offences as
he hath generally tax'd their whole sex withal.
Orl. Can you remember any of tlie principal evils that he laid to
the charge of women ?
Ros. There were none principal; they were all like one another,
as naJf-pence are; every one fault seeming monstrous, till liis fellow
fault came to match it.
132
SHAKSFEABIAN BEADER.
Ori. I pr'ytho'j, recount some of them.
Ros, No; I will not cast away my physic, but on those (hat are
sick. There is a man haunts the fores'., that abuses our young
plants with carving Rosalind on their barks; hangs odes upon haw¬
thorns, and elegies on brambles; all, forsooth, deifying the name of
Rosalind : if 1 could meet that fancy-monger, I would give him some
good counsel, for he seems to have the quotidian of love upon him.
Orl. I am he that is so love-shaked; 1 pray you, tell me your
remedy.
Ros. There is none of my uncle's marks upon you: he taught
me how to know a man in love; in which cage of rushes, I am sure
you are not prisoner.
Orl. Wliat were his marks ?
Ros. A lean cheek; which you have not: a blue eye, and sunk¬
en ; which you have not: an unquestionable spirit; which you
have not: a beard neglected; which you have not:—Then your hose
should be ungarter'd, your bonnet unhanded, your sleeve inbuttoned,
your shoe untied, and every thing about you demonstratii g a careless
desolation. But you are no such man ; yon are rather point-device
in your accoutrements; as loving yourself, than seeming the lover
of any other.
Orl. Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.
Ros. Me believe it ? you may as soon make her that you love be -
lieve it; which, I warrant, she is apter to do, than to confess she
does; that is one of the points in the which women still give the lie
to their consciences. But, in good sooth, are you he that hangs the
verses on the trees, wherein Rosalind is so admired ?
Orl. I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosalind, I am
he, that unfortunate he.
Ros. But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak ?
Orl. Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much.
Ros. Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves as well
a dark house and a whip, as madmen do ; and the reason why they
are not so punished and cured, is, that the lunacy is so ordinary tliat
the whippers are in lors too: Yet I profess curing it by counsel.
Orl. Did you ever cure any so ?
Ros. Yes, one; and in this manner. He was to imagine me his
love, his mistress; and I set him every day to woo me: At which
time would I, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate,
changeable, longing, and liking; proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, in¬
constant, full of tears, full of smiles; for every passion something,
and for no passion truly any thing, as boys and women are for tlie
most part cattle of this color; would now like him, now loath him ;
then entertain him, then forswear him; now weep for him, then spit
at him ; that I drave my suitor from his mad humor of love, to a liv¬
ing humor of madness; which was, to forswear the full stream of
tlin world, and to live in a nook merely monastic : And tlius I cured
him; and this way will I take upon me to wash your liver as clean
as a sound sheep's heart, that there shall not be one spot of love in't-
AS TOU LIKE IT.
13S
Orl. I would not be cured, youth.
Ros. I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosaluid, and
come every day to my cote, and woo me.
Orl. Now, by the faith of my love, I will; tell me whce it is.
Ros. Go with me to it, and I'll show it you : and by the way, you
shall tell me where in the forest you live: Will you go ?
Orl. With all my heart, good youth.
Ros. Nay, you must call me Rosalind :—Come, sister, will you
go ? \_E.Teunt.
Eosalind, still in her male attire, wins the lo\e of Fhebe, a mstie beantj, living in the
ftirest, and by her wit and sprigbtliness gains the attention of the Dnke and his followers.
ACT ly.
SCENE I.—The same.
Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Jaques,
Jaq. I pr'ythee, pretty youth, let me be better acquaintec with
thee.
Ros. They say you are a melancholy fellow.
Jaq. I am so ; I do love it better than laughing.
Ros. Those, that are in extremity of either, are abominable fe.-
lows; and betray themselves to every modem censure, worse than
drunkards.
Jaq. Why, 'tis good to be sad and say nothing.
Ros. Why then, 'tis good to be a post.
Jaq. I have neither the scholar's melancholy, which is emulation ;
nor the musician's, which is fantastical; nor the courtier's, which is
proud ; nor the soldier's, which is ambitious; nor the lawyer's, which
is politic ; nor the lady's, which is nice ; nor the lover's, which is all
these: but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many
simples, extracted from many objects : and, indeed, the sundry con¬
templation of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me,
is a most humorous sadness.
Ros. A traveller ! By my faith, you have great reason to be sad ;
I fear you have sold your own lands, to see other men's; then, to
nave seen much, and to have nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor
bands.
Jaq. Yes, I have gained my experience.
Enter Orlando.
Ros. And your experience makes you sad: I had rather have a
fool to make me merry, than experience to make me sad; and to
travel for it too.
Orl. Good day, and happiness, dear Rosalind !
Jaq. Nay then. Heaven he wi' you, an you talk in blank verse.
Ros. Farewell, monsieur traveller: Look, you lisp, and wear
strange suits ; disable all the benefits of your own country ; be out
134
sqakspearian reader.
of love with your nativity; or I will search think you have swam in a
gondola.—[Exit Jaques.J—Wl.y, how now, Orlando ! where have
you been ail this while ? You a lover ?—An you serve me such an¬
other trick, never come in my sight more.
Orl. My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.
Ros. Break an hour's promise in love ? He that will divide a mi¬
nute into a thousand parts, and break but a part of the thousandtn
part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be said of him, that
Cupid hath clapp'd him o' the shoulder, but I warrant him he.m
whole.
Orl. Pardon me, dear Rosalind.
Ros. Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight; I had
as lief be woo'd of a snail.
Orl. Of a snail ?
Ros. Ay, of a snail; for though he comes slowly, he tarries his
house on his head; a better jointure, I think, than you can make a
wonian : Besides, he brings his destiny with him.
Orl. What's that.
Ros. Why, horns.
Orl. Virtue is no horn-maker; and my Rosalind is virtuous.
Ros. And I am your Rosalind.
Cel. It pleases him to call you so; but he hath a Rosalind of a
better leer than you.
Ros. Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am in a holiday humor,
and like enough to consent:—What would you say to me now, an
I were your very very Rosalind ?
Orl. I would kiss before I spoke.
Ros. Nay, you were better speak first; and when you were grav¬
elled for lack of matter, you might take occasion to kiss.
Orl. How if the kiss be denied ?
Ros. Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins new matter,
Orl. Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress ?
Ros. Marry, that should you, if I were your mistress.
Orl. What, of my suit ?
Ros. Out of your suit. Am not I your Rosalind ?
Orl. I take some joy to say you are, because I would be talking
of her. J
Ros. Well, in her person, I say—I will not have you.
Orl. Then, in mine own person, I die.
Ros. No, faith, die by attorney. The poor world is almost six
thousand years old, and in all this time there was not any man died
in his own person, videlicet, in a love-cause. Troilus had his brains
dashed out with a Grecian club; yet he did what he could to die be¬
fore ; and he is one of the patterns of love. Leander, he would have
lived many a fair year, though Hero had turned nun, if it had not
been for a hot midsummer night; for, good youth, he went but forth
to wash him in the Hellespont, and, being taken with the cramp, was
drowned; and the fooUsh chroniclers of that age found it was—Hero
AS TOH LIKE IT.
135
M Sestos. But these are all lies; men have died from time to time
ind worms have eaten them, but not for love.
Orl. 1 would not have my right Rosalind of this mind; for, I pro-
«st, her frown might kill me.
Ros. By this hand, it will not kill a fly: But come, now I will be
four Rosalind in a more coming-on disposition; and ask me what
fou will, I will grant it.
Orl. Then love me, Rosalind. -
Ros. Yes, faith will I, Fridays, and Saturdays, and all.
Orl. And wilt thou have me 1
Ros. Ay, and twenty such.
Orl. What say'st thou ?
Ros. Are you not good ?
Orl. I hope so.
Ros. Why then, can one desire too much of a good tL'ng 7—Come,
s'ster, you shall be the priest, and marry us.—Give me your hand,
Orlando:—What do you say, sister 7
Orl. Pray thee, marry us.
Cel. I cannot say tlie words.
Ros. You must begin, WiZZ you, Orlando,—
Cel. Go to: Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Rosalind 7
Orl. I will.
Ros. Ay, but when 7
Orl. Why now; as fast as she can marry us.
Ros. Then you must say,—/ take thee, Rosalind, for wife.
Orl. I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.
Ros. I might ask you for your commission ; but,—I do take thee,
Orlando, for my husband : There a girl goes before the priest; and,
certainly, a woman's tliought runs before her actions.
Orl. So do all thoughts; they are winded.
Ros. Now tell me, how long you would have her, after you have
possessed her.
Orl. Jj'or ever and a day.
lios. Kay a day, without the ever: No, no, Orlando; men are
April when they woo, December when they wed: maids are May
when they are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives. I
will be more jealous of thee than a.Barbary pigeon over his hen;
more clamorous than a parrot against rain ; more new-fangled than
an ape ; more giddy in my desires than a monkey : I will weep for
nothing, like Diana in the fountain, and I will do that when you are
disposed to be merry; I will laugh like a hyen, and that when thou
art inclined to sleep. ' /
Orl. But will my Rosalind do so 7
Ros. By my life, she will do as I do.
Orl. O, but she is wise.
Ros. Or else she could not have the wit to do this: the wiser, the
waywarder: Maae the doors upoma woman's wit, and it will out at
the casement; shut that, and 'twill out at the key-hole : stop tliat,
twin fly with the smoke out at the chimnev.
136
SHAKSFEARIAN REASES.
Orl. A man that had a wife with such a wit, he might say,—Wit,
whither will ?
Rns. You shall never take her without her answer, unless you
take her without her tongue.
Orl. For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee.
Ros. Alas, dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours.
Orl. I must attend the duke at dinner; by two o'clock I will be
with thee again.
Ros. Ay, go your ways, go your ways;—I knew what you would
prove; my friends told me as much, and I thought no less;—^tliat
flattering tongue of yours won me: 'tis but one cast away, and so,—
come, death.—Two o'clock is your hour ?
Orl. Ay, sweet Rosalind.
Ros. By my troth, and in good earnest, and by all pretty oaths
that are not dangerous, if you break one jot of your promise, or come
one minute behind your hour, I will think you the most pathetical
break-promise, and the most hollow lover, and the most unworthy of
her you call Rosalind, that may be chosen out of the gross band of
the unfaithful: therefore beware my censure, and keep your promise.
Orl. VVitb no less religion, than if thou wert indeed my Rosa¬
lind : So, adieu.
Ros. Well, time is the old justice tliat examines all such offenders,
and let time try: Adieu! [flant Oklakdo.
Cel. You have simply misus'd our sex in your love-prate; we
must have your doublet and hose plucked over your head.
Ros. O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou didst know
how many fathom deep I am in love! But it cannot be sounded; my
affection hath an unknown bottom like the bay of Portugal.
Cel. Or, rather, bottomless; that as fast as you pour affection in,
it runs out.
Ros. I'll tell thee, Aliena, I cannot be out of the sight of Orlando
I'U go find a shadow, and sigh till he come.
Cel. And I'll sleep. [Exeunt
SCENE m.—The Forest.
Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Olivee.
Oli. Good-morrow, fair ones; Pray you, if you know
Where, in the purlieus of this forest, stands
A sheep-cote, fenc'd about with olive trees ?
Cel. West of this place, down in the neighbor bottom.
The rank of osiers, by the murmuring stream.
Left on your right hand, brings you to the place;
But at this hour the house doth keep itself.
There's none within.
Oli. If that an eye may profit by a tongue.
Then I should know you by description ;
Such garments, and such years: " The boy is fair.
Of female favor, and bestows himself
AS TOU LIKE IT.
Liks a npe sister: but the vxman low.
And Drowner than her brother." Are not you
The owner of the house I did inquire for ?
Cel. It is no boast, being ask'd, to say, we are.
Oli. Orlando doth commend him to you both :
And to that youth he calls his Rosalind,
He sends this bloody napkin : Are you he ?
Ros. I am : what must we understand by this ?
Oli. Some of my shame: if you will know of me
What man I am, and how, and why, and where
This handkerchief was stain'd.
Cel. I pray you, tell it.
Oli. When last the young Orlando parted from you
He left a promise to return again ,
Within an hour ; and, pacing through the forest,
Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy,
Lo, what befell! he threw his eye aside.
And, mark, what object did present itself!
Under an oak, whose boughs were moss'd with age,
And high top bald with dry antiquity,
A wretched ragged man, o'ergrown with hair.
Lay sleeping on his back: about his neck
A green and gilded snake had wreath'd itself.
Who with her head, nimble in threats, approach'd
The opening of his mouth; but suddenly
Seeing Orlando, it unlink'd itself.
And with indented glides did slip away
Into a bush : under which bush's shade
A lioness
Lay couching, head on ground, with cat-like watch^
When that the sleeping man should stir; for 'tis
The royal disposition of that beast.
To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead:
This seen, Orlando did approach the man.
And found it was his brother, his elder brother.
- Cel. O, I have heard him speak of that same brother
And he did render him tlie most unnatural
That liv'd 'mongst men.
Oli. And weU he might so do.
For well I know he was unnatural.
Ros. But, to Orlando;—Did he leave him there,
Food to the fierce and hungry lioness ?
Oli. Twice did he turn his back, and purpos'd so.
But kindness, nobler ever than revenge.
And nature, stronger than his just occasion.
Made him give battle to the lioness.
Who quickly fell beh.re him ; in which hurtling
From miserable slumber I awak'd
Cel. Are you his brother*?
138
SHAKSPEARUN READER.
Ros. Was it you he rescued t
Cel. Was't you that did so oft contrive to kill him ?
OH. 'Tvvas 1; but 'tis not I: I do not shame
•To tell you what I was, since my conversijn
So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am.
Ros. But, for the bloody napkin ?—
OIL By, and by.
When from the first to last, betwixt us two.
Tears our recountments had most kindly bath'd.
As, how I came into that desert place;
In brief, he led me to the gentle duke.
Who gave me fresh array, and entertainment.
Committing me unto my brother's love ;
Who led me instantly unto his cave.
There stripp'd himself, and here upon his arm
The lioness had torn some flesh away.
Which all this while had bled; and now he fainted,
And c^'d, in fainting, upon Rosalind.
Brief, I recover'd him; bound up his wound;
And, after some small space, being strong at hearty
He sent me hither, stranger as I am.
To tell this story, that you might excuse
His broken promise, and to give this napkin,
Dy'd in his blood, unto the shepherd youth
That he in sport doth call his Rosalind.
Cel. Why, how now, Ganymede 1 sweet Ganymede ?
[RosAiOTD/ainft
OIL Many will swoon when they do look on blood.
Cel. There is more in it:—Cousin—Ganymede!
OIL Look, he recovers.
Ros I would, I were at home.
Cel. We'll lead you thither:—
I pray you, will you take him by the arm ?
OIL Be of good cheer, youth:—^You a man ?—^You lack a man's
heart. ^
Ros. I do so, I confess it. Ah, sir, a body would think 'this was
well counterfeited: I pray you, tell your brother how well I counter¬
feited.—Heigh ho !—
Cel. This was not counterfeit; there is too great testimony in your
complexion, that it was a passion of earnest.
Ros. Counterfeit, I assure you.
OIL Well then, take a good heart, and counterfeit to be a man.
Ros. So I do: but i' faith I should have been a woman by right.
Cel. Come, you look paler and paler; pray you, draw homewards:
—Good sir, go with us.
OIL Thrt will I, for I must bear answer back
How you excuse my brother, Rosalind.
Ros. I shall devise something j But, I pray you, commend my
counterfeiting to him.—^WiU you go ? [Exeunl.
AS TOU LIKE IT.
ISO
ACT V.
The Forest of Arden. .
Orlando, and Olivlr
Orl. Is't possible, that on so little acquaintance you should like
her ? that, but seeing, you should love her 1 and, loving, woo ? and,
wooing, she should grant ? and will you persever to enjoy her ?
OIL Neither call uie giddiness of it in question, the poverty of her,
the small acquaintance, my sudden wooing, nor her sudden consent
ing; but say with me, I love Aliena; say, with her, that she loves
me; consent with both, it shall be to your good; for my father's
house, and all the revenue that was old sir Rowland's, will I estate
upon you, and here live and die a shepherd.
Enter Rosalind.
Orl. You have my consent. Let your wedding be to-morrow:
thither will I invite the duke, and all his contented followers: Go
you, and prepare Aliena: for look you, here comes my Rosalind.
Ros. Save you, brother.
OIL And you, fair sister.
Ros. O, my dear Orlando, how it ^ieves me to see thee wear thy
heart in a scarf.
Orl. It is my arm.
Ros. I thought thy heart had been wounded with the claws of a
lion.
Orl. Wounded it is, but with the eyes of a lady.
Ros. Did your brother tell you how I counterfeited to swoon,
when he show'd me your handkerchief ?
Orl. Ay, and greater wonders than that.
Ros. O, I know where you are:—Nay, 'tis true : there was never
any thing so sudden, but the fight of two rams, and Caesar's thrasonical
brag of—I came, saw, and overcame. For your brother and my sister
no sooner met, but they looked; no sooner looked, but they loved ;
no sooner loved, but they sighed; no sooner sighed, but they asked
me another the reason; no sooner knew the reason, but they sought
the remedy : and in these degrees have they made a pair of stairs to
marriage; they are in the very wrath of love, and they will together;
clubs cannot part them.
Orl. They shall be married to-morrow.; and I will bid the duke to
the nuptial. But O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness
through another man's eyes! By so much the more shall I to-mor¬
row be at the height of heart'dieaviness, by how much I shall think
my brother happy, in having what he wishes for.
Ros. Why then, to-morrow I cannot serve your turn for Rosalind ?
Orl. I can live no longer by thinking.
Ros. I will weary you no longer then with idle talking. Know
u£ me then, (fct now J speak to some purpose,) that I know you ax^
140
SHAESPEASIAN READER.
a gentleman of good conceit: I speak not this, that you should beai
a good opinion of my knowledge, insomuch, I say, 1 know you are;
neither do I labor for a greater esteem than may in some little mea¬
sure draw a belief from you, to do yourself good, and not to grace
me. Believe then, if you please, that I can do strange things: I
have, since I was three years old, conversed wiih a manciar, most
profound in this art. If you do love Rosalind so near the heart as
your gesture cries it out, when your brother marries Aliens, shall
you marry her:—I know into what straits of fortune she is driven;
and it is not impossible to me, if it appear not inconvenient to yon,
to set her before your eyes to-morrow, human as she is, and without
any danger.
Orl. Speakest thou in sober meanings ?
Ros. By my life, I do; which I tender dearly, though I say I am
a magician: Therefore, put you in your best array, bid your friends
for if you will be married to-morrow, you shall; and to Rosalind, if
you will.
Enter Silvius, and Phebe.
Look, here comes a lover of mine, and a lover of hers.
Phe. Youth, you have done me much ungentleness,
To show the letter that I writ to you.
Ros. I care not, if 1 have: it is my study.
To seem despiteful and ungentle to you :
You are there follow'd by a faithful shepherd;
Look upon him, love him; he worships you.
Phe. Good shepherd, tell this youth what 'tis to love.
Sil. It is to be all made of sighs and tears;—
And so am I for Phebe.
Phe. And I for Ganymede
Orl. And I for Rosalind.
Ros. And I for no woman.
Sil. It is to be all made of faith and service
And so am I for Phebe.
Phe. And I for Ganymede.
O'l. And I for Rossdind.
Ros. And I for ho woman.
Sil. It is to be all made of fantasy.
All made of passion, and all made of wishes;
All adoration, duty, and observance.
All humbleness, all patience, and impatience,
All purity, all trial, all observance;
And so am I for Phebe.
Phe. And so am I for Ganymede.
Orl. And so am I for Rosalind.
Ros. And so am I for no woman.
Phe. If this be so, why blame you me to love you ?
[To Roraijrd.
Sil. If tliis be so, why blame you me to love you ? [To Phebe.
as you like it.
141
Orl. If tLis be so, why blame you me to love you i
Ros. Who do you speak to, why blame you rm to Ime you t
Orl. To her that is not here, nor doth not hear.
Ros. Pray you, no more of this; 'tis like the howling of Irisly
wolves against the moon.—I wil] help you, \to Silvtus,] if I can
I would love you, \to Phebe,] if I could.—To-morrow meet me all
together.—I will marry you, [to Phebe,] if ever I marry woman, and
I'll be married to-morrow :—I will satisfy you, \to Orlando,] if ever I
satisfied man, and you shall be married to morrow:—I will content
you, [<o SiLvius,] if what pleases you contents you, and you shall
be married to-morrow.—As you [to Orlando] love Rosalind, meet;
—as you [to SiLvrus] love Phebe, meet; And as I love no woman,
I'll meet.—So, fare you well; I have left you commands.
Sil. I'll not fail, if I live.
Phe. Nor I.
Orl. Nor I. [Exeunt.
SCENE rV,—Another Part of the Forest.
Enter Euke Senior, Amiens, Jaques, Orlando, Oliver, and Celia.
Duke S. Dost thou believe, Orlando, that the boy
Can do all this that he hath promised ?
Orl. I sometimes do believe, and sometimes do not;
As those that fear they hope, and know they fear.
Enter Rosalind, Silvius, and Phebe.
Ros. Patience once more, whiles our compact is urg'd
You say, if I bring in your Rosalind, [To the Duke,
You will bestow her on Orlando here ?
Duke S. That would I, had I kingdoms to give with her.
Ros. And you say you will have her, when I bring her ?
[To Orlando.
Orl. Thaf would I, were I of all kingdoms king.
Ros. You say, you'll marry me, if I be willing ? [To Phfbb.
Phe. That will I, should I die the hour after.
Ros. But, if you do refuse to marry me.
You'll give yourself to this most faithful shepherd!
Phe. So is the bargain.
Ros. You say, that you'll have Phebe, if she will 7
[To SiLViua
Sil. Though to have her and death were both one thing.
Ros. I have promis'd to make all this matter even.
Keep you your word, O duke, to give your daughter;—
You yours, Orlando, to receive his daughter:—
Keep your word, Phebe, that you'll marry me ;
Or else, refusing me, to wed this shepherd ;—
K }ep your word, Silvius, tnat you'll marry her.
If she refuse me:—and from hence I go.
To make these doubts all even. r Fxeuni Rosalind, and Celia
142
SHAKSPBARIAN READER.
Duke S. I do remember in this shepherd-boy
Some lively touches of my daughter's favor.
Orl. My lord, the first time that I ever saw him,
Methought he was a brother to your daughter:
But, my good lord, this boy is forest-born;
And hath been tutor'd in the rudiments
Of many desperate studies by his uncle.
Whom he reports to be a great magician,
Olbscured in the circle of Uiis forest.
Enier Tottchstone, and Axtoret.
Jaq. There is, sure, another flood toward, and these couples are
coming to the ark! Here comes a pair of very strange beasts, wliiuh
in all tongues are called fools.
Touch. Salutation and greeting to you all! .
Jaq. Good my lord, bid him welcome; This is the motley-minded
gentleman, that I have so often met in the forest; he hath been a
courtier he swears.
Touch. If any man doubt that, let him put me to my purgation.
I have trod a measure; I have flattered a lady; I have been politic
with my friend, smooth with mine enemy; I have undone three
tailors ; I have had four quarrels, and like to have fought one.
Jaq. And how was that ta'en up ?
Touch. 'Faith, we met, and found the quarrel was upon the
seventh cause.
Jaq. How seventh cause ? Good my lord, like this fellow.
Duke S. I like him very well.
Touch. Sir, I desire you of the like. I press in here, sir, amongst
the rest of the country folks, to swear, and to forswear: according as
marriage binds, and blood breaks;—A poor virgin, sir, an ill-favored
thing, sir, but mine own; a poor humor of mine, sir, to take that
that no man else will: Rich honesty dwells like a miser, sir, in a
poor-house; as your pearl, in your foul oyster.
Duke S. By my faith, he is very swift and sententious.
Touch. According to the fool's bolt, sir.
Jaq. But for the seventh cause; how did you find the quarrel on
the seventh cause ?
Touch. Upon a lie seven times removed ;—Bear your body more
seeming, Audrey:—as thus, sir. I did dislike the cut of a certain
courtier's beard; he sent me word, if I said his beard was not cut
well, he was in the mind it was: This is called the Retort courteous.
If I sent him word again, it was not well cut, he would send me
word, he cut it to please himself: This is called the Quip modest.
If again, it was not well cut, he disabled my judgment: This is
call'd the Reply churlish. If again, it was not well cut, he would
answer, I spake not true : This is called the Reproof valiant. If
again, it was not well cut, he would say I lie: This is call'd the
Countercheck quarrelsome: and so to the Lie circumstantial, and tlie
Lie direct.
a3 ycti like it.
143
Jaq. And how oft did you say, his beard was not well cut ?
Touch. I durst go no further than the Lie circumstantial, nor he
durst not give me the Lie direct; and so we measured swords, and
parted.
Jaq. Can you nominate in order now the degrees of the lie ?
Touch. O, sir, we quarrel in print, by the book; as you have
books for good manners: I will name you the degrees. The first,
the Retort courteous; the second, the Quip modest; the third, the
Reply churlish; the fourth, the Reproof valiant; the fifth, the Coun¬
tercheck quarrelsome; the sixth, the Lie with circumstance -, the
seventh, the Lie direct. All these you may avoid, but the lie direct •,
and you may avoid that too, with an If. I knew when seven justices
could not take up a quarrel; but when the parties were met them¬
selves, one of them thought but of an If, as. If you said so, then 1
said so; And they shook hands, and swore brothers. Your If is
the only peace-maker; much virtue in If.
Jaq. Is not this a rare fellow, my lord 1 he's as good at any thing,
and yet a fool.
Huke S. He uses his folly like a stalking-horse, and under the
presentation of that, he shoots his wit.
Enter Rosalind in woman!s clothes; and Celia.
Ros. To you I give myself, for I am yours. [ To Duke S.
To you J give myself, for I am yours. [To Orlando.
Duke S. If there be truth in sight, you are my daughter.
Orl. If there be truth in sight, you are my Rosalind.
Phe. If sight and shape be true,
Why then,—my love adieu !
Ros. I'll have no father, if you be not he:— [ To Duke S.
I'll have no husband, if you be not he :— [To Orlando.
Nor ne'er wed woman, if you be not she. [To Phebe.
Duke S. O my dear niece, welcome art thou to ne;
Even daughter, welcome in no less degree.
Phe. I will not eat my word, now thou art mine;
Thy faith my fancy to thee doth combine. [To silvioa
Enter Jaques de Bois.
Jaq. de B. Let me have audience for a word or tw5;
I am the second son of old Sir Rowland,
That bring these tidings to this fair assembly:—
Duke Frederick, hearing how that every day^
Men of great worth resorted to this forest,
Address'd a mighty power; which were on foot.
In his own conduct, purposely to take
His brother here, and put him to the sword:
And to the skirts of this wild wood he came ;
Where, meeting with an old religious man.
After some question with him, was converted
Both from his enterprise, ard from the world :
144
SHAESFEARIAN BEADEB.
His crown bequeathing to his hanish'd brother.
And all their lands restor'd to them again
That were with him exil'd: This to he true,
I do engage my life.
Duke S. Welcome, young man;
Thou ofter'st fairly to thy brothers' wedding;
To one, his lands withheld: and to the other,
A land itself at large, a potent dukedom.
First, in this forest, let us do those ends
That here were well begun, and well begot:
And after, every of this happy number.
That have endur'd shrewd days and nights with us.
Shall share the good of our returned fortune.
According to the measure of their states.
Meantime, forget this new-faU'n dignity.
And fall into our rustic revelry:—
Play, music—and you brides and bridegrooms all.
With measure heap'd in joy, to the measures fall.
Jaq. Sir, by your patience; if I heard you rightly.
The auke hath put on a religious life.
And thrown into neglect the pompous court ?
Jaq. de B. He hath.
Jaq. To him will I: out of these convertites
There is much matter to be heard and leam'd.—
You to your former honor I bequeath ; [To DdKE S.
Your patience, and your virtue, well deserves it:—
You [to Orlando] to a love, that your true faith doth merit
You [to Oliver] to your land, and love, and great allies:—
You [lo SiLvius] to a long and well deserved bed ;—
And you [to Touchstone] to wrangling; for thy loving voyage
Is but for two months victual'd:—So to your pleasures;
I am for other than for dancing measures.
Duke S. Stay, Jaques, stay.
Jaq. To see no pastime, I: what you would have
I'll stay to know at your abandon'd cave. [Exit,
Duke S. Proceed, proceed: we will begin these rites.
And we do trust they'll end, in true delights. [A ilince.
OTHELLO, THE MOOK OP VENICE
/
' The Plot is taken from the Hecatommithi, or' Hundred Tales* of GirfJdo Cinthio,
an Italian novelist and dramatist of the second class, in the sixteenth century.*' Dot al¬
though Shakspeare was indebtefl for the general plan of his plot to the Italian novelist,
vet many of the characters are entirely of his own creation, and all of them owe to him
.hat individuality which Shakspeare, of all dramatic poets, seems to possess the power of
transfusing into at| the personages he introduces into his Dramas.
Bishop Lowtli says of this Play, that—** the passion of jealousy, its causes, progress,
incidents, and effects, have been more truly, more acutely, more copiously, and more im¬
pressively delineaed, than has been done by all the disquisitions of all the philosophers
who have treated on this dark argument."
But it may well be added, that the beauties of this immortal Drama are so consplcnoos
as to need no aid of critical illustration.
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
Ddee of Venice.
Brabantio.q Senator.
Two other Senators.
Gratiano, brother to Brabantio.
Lodovico, kinsman to Brabantio.
Othello, the Moor ;
Cassio, his lieutenants
Iaqo, his ancient.
Roderiso, a Venetian Gentleman.
Montano, Otiiello's predecessor in the government of Cyprus.
Clown, servant to Othello. Herald.
Desdemona, daughter to Brabantio, and wife to Othello.
Euilia, wijfe to lago.
Officers, Gentlemen, Messengers, Musicians, Sailors, Attendants, (J-c.
SCENE,—/or the First Act, in Venice ; during the rest of the play, at
a Sea-Port in Ctpros.
6
146
SHAKSPEARIAN READER.
Othello, a noble Moor, in the service of the States of Venice, has won (he aflectiont
of Desdemona, the daughter of Brabantio. The lady leaves her father's house, clandee*
tinely, and is married to the Moor: lago, a seeming friend of Othello, but in reality his
direst foe,"—acquaints Brabantio of Desdemona's flight, and sets the enraged father in
pnrsnit of his daughter and her husband: he then joins the Moor, to avoid susnicion of
his double dealing.
ACT I.
SCENE II.—A Street in Venice.
Enter Othello, Iago, and Attendants.
laso. Though in tlie trade of war I have slain men.
Yet do 1 hold it very stuff o' the conscience,
To do no contriv'd murder; I lack iniquity
Sometimes, to do me service: Nine or ten times
I had thought to have yerk'd him liere under the ribs.
0th. 'Tis better as it is.
Iago. Nay, but he prateu.
And spoke such scurvy and provoking terms
Against your honor.
That, with the little godliness I have,
I did full hard forbear him. But, I pray, sir.
Are you fast married ? for, be sure of this,—
That the magnifico is much beloved;
And hath, in his effect, a voice potential.
As double as tlie duke's ; he will divorce you;
Or put upon you what restraint and grievance
The law (with all his might to enforce it on,)
Will give him cable.
0th. Let him do his spite:
My services, which I have done the signiory.
Shall out-tongue his complaints. 'Tis yet to know,
(Which, when I know that boasting is an honor,
I shall promulgate,) I fetch my life and being
From men of royal siege; and my demerits
May speak, unbonnettM, to as proud a fortune
As this that I have reach'd : For know, Iago,
But that I love the gentle Desdemona,
I would not my unhoused free condition
Put into circumscription and confine
For the sea's worth. But, look! what lights come yonder 7
Enter Cassio, at a distance, and certain Officers, ■with torchex
Iago. These are the raised father, and his friends:
You were best go in.
0th. Not I: I must be found;
My parts, my title, and my perfect soul.
Shall manifest me rightly. Is it they ?
Iago. By Janus, I think no.
OTHELLO.
147
Oth. The servants of the duke and my lieutenant.
The goodness of the night upon you, friends!
Wliat is the news ?
Cas. The duke does greet you, general;
And he requires your haste-post-haste appearance,
Even on the instant.
Oth. What is the matter, think you ?
Cas. Something from Cyprus, as I may divine;
It is a business of some heat: the gallies
Have sent a dozen sequent messengers
This very night, at one another's heels;
And many of the consuls, rais'd, and met.
Are at the duke's already: You have been hotly eall'd for;
When, being not at your lodging to be found.
The senate hath sent about three several quests,
To search you out.
Oth. "lis well I am found by you.
I will but spend a word here in the house.
And go with you. [Exit.
Cas. Ancient, what makes he here ?
lago. He's married.
Cas. To whom ?
Re-enter Othello.
lago. Marry, to—Come, captain, will you go ?
Oth. Have with you.
Cas. Here conies another troop to seek for you.
Enter Brabantio, Rodeeigo, and Officers of night, with tordhes ana
weapons.
lago. It is Brabantio;—general, be advis'd;
He comes to bad intent.
Oth. Hola! stand there !
Rod. Siguier, it is the Moor.
Bra. Down with him, tb'ef!
[They draw on hoth sides,
lago. You, Roderigo! come, sir, I am for you.
Oth. Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them. —
Good Siguier, you shall more command with years.
Than with your weapons.
Bra. O thou foul thief, where hast thou stow'd my daughter ?
Thou hast enchanted her:
For I'll refer me to all things of sense.
If she in chains of magic were not bound.
Whether a maid—so tender, fair, and happy,
So opposite to marriage, that she shunn'd
The wealthy curled darlings of our nation.
Would ever have,, to incur a general mock.
Run from her guardage to the sooty bosom
Of such a thing as tliou:
148
shaks?earian eeadett.
Thou hast practis'd on her with foul charms.
I therefore apprehend and do attach thee,
For an abuser of the world, a practiser
Of arts inhibited and out of warrant;—
Lay hold upon him: if he do resist,
Subdue him at his peril.
Oth. Hold your hands.
Both you of my inclining, and the rest:
Were it my cue to fight, I would have known it
Without a prompter.—Where will you that I go
To answer this your charge ?
Bra. To prison: till fit tim
Of law, and course of direct session,
Call thee to answer.
Oth. What if I do obey ?
How may the duke be therewith satisfied;
Whose messengers are here about my side,
Upon some present business of the state,
To bring me to him.
OJF. 'Tis true, most worthy signior
The duke's in council; and your noble self,
I am sure,' is sent for.
Bra. How, the duke in council!
In this time of the night!—Bring him away:
Mine's not an idle cause: the duke himself,
Or any of my brothers of the state
Cannot but feel this wrong, as 'twere their own:
For if such actions may have passage free.
Bond-slaves, and pagans, shall our statesmen be. [ExeurU
SCENE HI.—The Same. A Council Chamier.
The Duke, and Senators, silling at a taUe; Officers attending.
Duke. There is no composition in these news.
That gives them credit.
ls< Sen. Indeed, they are disproportion'd;
My letters say, a hundred and seven gallies.
Duke. And mine a hundred and forty.
2nd Sen. And mine, two hundred
But though they jump not on a just account,
(As in these cases, where the aim reports,
'Tis oft with difference,) yet do they all confirm
A Turkish fleet, and bearing up to Cyprus.
Duke. Nay, it is possible enough to judgment.
Enter a Messenger.
Mess. The Ottomites, reverend and gracious.
Steering with due course toward the isle of Rhodes,
Have there injointed them with an after fleet.
1 Sen. Ay, so I thought:—How many, as you guess 7
OTHELLO.
149
Mess. Of thirty sail: and now do they re-stem
Their backward course, bearing with frank appearance
Their purposes towards Cyprus.—Signior Montano,
Your trusty and most valiant servitor,
With his free duty recommends you thus.
And prays you to believe him.
Duke. "Tis certain then for Cyprus.—
1$< Sen. Here comes Brabantio, and the valiant Moor.
Enter Brabantio, Othello, Iago, Roderigo, and Officers.
Duke. Valiant Othello, we must straight employ you
Against the general enemy Ottoman.
I did not see you; welcome, gentle signior, [To BRABANTia
We lack'd your counsel and your help to-night.
Bra. So did I yours: Good your gfrace, pardon me;
Neither my place, nor aught I heard of business.
Hath rais'd me from my fed; nor doth the general care
Take hold on me; for my particular grief
Is of so flood-gate and o'erbearing nature.
That it engluts and swallows other sorrows.
And it is still itself.
Duke. Why, what's the matter'
Bra. My daughter! O, my daughter!
Sen. Dead'
Bra. Aye, to me:
She is abus'd, stol'n from me, and corrupted
By spells and medicines bought of mountebanks:'
For nature so preposterously to err.
Being not deficient, blind, or lame of sense.
Sans witchcraft could not
Duke. Whoe'er he be, that, in this foul proceeding
Hath thus beguil'd your daughter of herself.
And you of her, the bloody book of law
You shall yourself read in the bitter letter.
After your own sense; yea, though our proper son
Stood in your action. ^
Bra. Humbly I thank your grace.
Here is the man, this Moor; whom now, it seems.
Your special mandate, for the state afiairs.
Hath hither brought.
Duke tf- Sen. We are very sorry for it.
Duke. What, in your own part, can you say to this ?
[To Othello
Bra. Nothing, but this is so.
Oth. Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors.
My very noble and approv'd good masters,—
That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter.
It is most true; true, I have married her;
The very head and front of my offending
150
shaespeabian header.
Hatn this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech.
And little bless'd with the set phrase of peace;
For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith,
Till now some nine moons wasted, they have us'd
Their dearest action in the tented field;
And little of this great world can I speak.
More than pertains to feats of broil and battle;
And therefore little shall I grace my cause.
In speaking for myself: Yet, by your gracious ptatience^
1 will a round unvarnish'd tale deliver
Of my whole course of love: what drugs, what charma
What conjuration, and what mighty magic,
(For such proceeding I am charg'd withal,)
I won his daughter with.
Bra. A maiden never bold;
Of spirit so still and quiet, that her motion
Blush'd at herself; And she,—^in spite of nature,
Of years, of country, credit, every thing,—
To fall in love with what she fear'd to look on ?
It is a judgment maim'd, and most imperfect, .
That will confess—perfection so could err
Against all rules of nature.
I therefore vouch agiiin.
That with some mixtures powerful o'er the blood.
Or with some dram conjur'd to this effect.
He wrought upon her.
Dvke. To vouch "this, is no proof; Othello, speak
Did you by indirect and forc'd courses
Subdue and poison this young maid's affections;
Or came it by request, and such fair question
As soul to soul affordeth?
Oih. I do beseech you.
Send for the lady to the Sagittary,
And let her speak of me before her father:
If you do find me foul in her report.
The trust, the office, I do hold of you.
Not only take away, but let your sentence
Even fall upon my life.
Dvke. Fetch Desdemona hither.
Olh. Ancient, conduct them : you best know the place.—
[Exeunt Iago, and Attendants
And, till she come, as truly as to heaven
I do confess the vices of my blood.
So justly to your grave ears I'll present
How I did thrive in this fair lady's love.
And she in mine.
Dvke. Say it, Othello.
Oth. Her father lov'd me; oft invited me;
Still questioned me the story of my life.
othello.
Prom year to year; the battles, sieges, fortunes,
That I have pass'd. ^
I ran it through, even from my boyish days,
To the very moment that he bade me tell it.
Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances.
Of moving accidents, by flood and field;
Of hair-breadth scapes i' the imminent deadly broach;
Of being taken by the insolent foe.
And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence,
And portance in my travel's history :
Wherein of antres vast, and deserts wild,
Rongh quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven,
It was my hint to speak, such was the process;
And of the Cannibals that each other eat.
The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads
Do grew beneath their shoulders. These things to hear.
Would Desdemona seriously incline:
But still the house affairs would draw her thence;
Which ever as she could with haste dispatch,
She'd come again, and with a greedy ear
Devour up my discourse: Which I observing.
Took once a pliant hour; and found good means
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,.
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate.
Whereof by parcels she had something heard.
But not intentively : I did consent;
And often "did beguile her of her tears.
When I did speak of some distressful stroke.
That my youth suffer'd. My story being done.
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs:
She swore,—In faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing fe»range
'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful;
She wish'd, she had not heard it; yet she wish'd
That heaven had made her such a man: she thank'd me;
And bade me, if I had a friend that lov'd her,
I should but teach him how to tell my story.
And that would woo her. Upon this hint, I spake •
She lov'd me for the dangers I had pass'd;
And I lov'd her, that she did pity them.
This only is the witchcraft I have us'd;
Here comes the lady, let her witness it.
EnLer Desdemona, Iago, and Attendants.
Duke. I think, this tale would win my daughter too. -
Good Brabantio,
Take up this mangled matter at the best:
Men do their broken weapons rather use.
Than their bare hands.
Bra. I pray you, hear her speak;
If she confess, that she was half the wooer.
152
SHAKSPEARIAN READER.
Destruction on my head, if my bad blame
Light on the man!—^Come hither, gentle mistress;
Do you perceive in all this noble company.
Where most you owe obedience 1
Des. My noble father,
I do perceive here a divided duty:
To you, I am bound for life, and education;
My life, and education, both do learn me
How to respect you ; you are the lord of duty,
I am hitherto your daughter: But here's my husband;
And so much duty as my mother show'd
To you, preferring yon before her father.
So much I challenge that I may profess
Due to the Moor, my lord.
Bra. Heaven be with you I—have done:—
Come hither. Moor:
I here do give thee that with all my heart.
Which, but thou hast alreatly, with all my heart,
I would keep from thee. I have done, my lord.
Proceed to the afiairs of state.
Duke. The Turk with a most mighty preparation ma'tes for Cy.
prus ;—Othello, the fortitude of the place is best known to you: you
must therefore be content to slubber the gloss of your new fortunes
with this more stubborn and boisterous expedition.
Oth. The tyrant custom, most grave senators.
Hath made the flinty and steel couch of war
My thrice-driven bed of down: I do agnize
A natural and prompt alacrity,
I find in hardness; and do undertake ^
These present wars against the Ottomites. .
Most humbly therefore bending to your state,
I crave fit disposition for my wife ;
Due reference of place, and exhibition;
With such acconunodation, and besort.
As levels with her breeding.
Duke. If you please,
Be't at her father's.
Bra. I'll net have it so.
Oth. Nor I.
Des. Nor I; I would not there reside,
To put my father in impatient thoughts,
By being in his eye. Most gracious duke,
To ray unfolding lend a prosperous ear;
And let me find a charter in your voice.
To assist my simpleness.
Duke. What would you, Desdemona?
Des. That I did love the Moor to live with him,
My downright violence and scorn of fortunes
May trumpet to the world: my heart's subdued
OTHELLO.
153
Even to the very quality of my lord:
I saw Othello's visage in his mind;
And to his honors, and his valiant parts,
Did I my soul and fortunes consecrate,
So that, dear lords, if I be left behind,
A moth of peace, and he go to the war,
i shall a heavy interim support
By his dear absence: Let me go with him. "
Olh. Your voices, lords:—'beseech you, let her will
Have a free way. <■
Duke. Be it as you shall privately determine.
Either for her stay, or going: the affair cries—haste.
And speed must answer it; you must hence to-night.
Des. To-night, my lord ?
Duke. This night.
Olh. With all my heart
Duke. At nine i' the morning here we'U meet again.
Othello, leave some officer behind.
And he shall our commission bring to you;
With such things else of quality and respect.
As doth import you.
0th. Please your grace, my ancient;
A man he is of honesty, and trust:
To his conveyance I assign my wife.
With what else needful your good grace shall think
To be sent after me.
Duke. Let it be so.—
Good night to every one.—And, noble signior, [To BEABAHrto.
If virtue no delighted beauty lack.
Your son-in-law is far more fair than black.
Bra. Look to her. Moor: have a quick eye to see;
She has deceiv'd her father, and may thee.
[Exeunt Duke, Senators, Officers, <J*c.
0th. My life upon her faith.—Honest lago.
My Desdemona must I leave to thee;
I pr'ythee, let thy wife attend on her;
And bring them after in the best advantage.—
Come, Desdemona, I have but an hour
Of love, of worldly matters and direction.
To spend with thee: we must obey the time.
[Exeunt Othello, ani desnemosa
ACT II.
SCENE I.—A Sea-port Town in Cyprus.
Desdemona, escorted by lago, Jias proceeded to Cypms, where she is anxiously awaU
lag the arrival of Othello from his victorious expedition against the Ottomites. Cassia
ttae Moor's lientenant, has just landed at Cyprns.
8*
shaksfeabian beabee.
Enter Cassio, and Montano.
Cas. Thanks to the valiant of this warlike isle
That so approve the Moor; O, let the heavens,
Jive him defence against the elements,
For I have lost him on a dangerous sea! •
Mon. Is he well shipp'd 1
Cas. His bark is stoutly timber'd, and his pilot
)f very expert and approv'd allowance ;
Therefore my hopes, not surfeited to death.
Stand in bold cure.
[ Within.] A sail, a sail, a sail!
Enter a Gentleman.
Cas. What noise ?
Gent. The town is empty; on the brow o' the sea
Stand ranks of people, and they cry—a sail.
Cas. My hopes do shape him for the governor.
Gent. They do discharge their shot of courtesy. [Guns heard.
Our friends at least.
Cas. I pray you, sir, go forth.
And give us truth who 'tis that is arriv'd.
Gent. T shall. [Exit
Mon. But, good lieutenant, is your general wiv'd ?
Cas. Most fortunately: he hath achiev'd a maid
That paragons description, and wild fame;
One that excels the quirks of blazoning pens.
And in the essential vesture of creation.
Does bear all excellency.—How now ? who has put in ?
Re-enter Gentleman.
Gent 'Tis one lago, ancient to the general.
Cas. He has made most favorable and happy speed :
Tempests themselves, high seas, and howling winds.
The gutter'd rocks, and congregated sands,—
Traitors ensteep'd to clog the guiltless keel.
As having sense of beauty, do omit
Their mortal natures, letting go safely by
The divine Desdemona.
Mon. What is she ?
Cas. She that I spake of, our great captain's captain.
Left in the conduct of the bold lago;
O, behold.
Enter Desdemona, Emieia, Lago, Rodeeigo, and Attendants.
The riches of the ship is come on shore I
Hail to thee, lady! and the grace of heaven.
Before, behind thee, and on every hand,
Einvheel thee round!
Des. I thank you, valiant Cassio.
What tidings can you tell me of my lord ?
OTHEUO.
155
Cas. He is not yet arriv'd; nor know I aught
But that he's well, and will be shortly here.
Des. O, but I fear;—How lost you company ?
Cas. The great contention of the sea and skies
Parted our fellowship: But, hark! a sail.
See for the news.— [Exit Gentleman.
Good ancient, you are welcome;—^Welcome,mistress: [To Emilia.
Let it not gall your patience, good lago.
That I extend my manners; 'tis my breeding
That gives me this bold show of courtesy. [Kissing her.
lago. Sir, would she give you so much of her lips,
As of her tongue she oft bestows on mo,
You'd have enough.
Des. Alas, she has no speech.
lago. In faith, too much ;
I find it still, when I have list to sleep:
Marry, before your ladyship, I grant,
She puts her tongue a little in her heart.
And chides with thinking.
Emil. You have little cause to say so.
Des. O, fye upon thee, slanderer!
lago. Nay, it is true, or else I am a Turk.
EmU. You shall not write my praise.
lago. No, let me not
Des. What would'st thou write of me, if thou should'st praise me I
lago. O gentle lady, do not put me to't;
For f am nothing, if not critical.
• Des. Come on, assay:—There's one gone to the harbor ?
logo. Ay, madam.
Des. I am not merry; but I do beguile
The thing I am, by seeming otherwise.
Come, how would'st thou praise me ?
lago. I am about it; but, indeed, my invention
Comes from my pate, as birdlime does from frize.
It plucks out brains and all.
She that was ever fair, and never proud.
Had tongue at will, and yet was never loud;
Never lack'd gold, and yet went never gay;
Fled from her wish, and yet said,—now I may,
She that, being anger'd, her revenge being nigh,
Bade her wrong stay, and her displeasure fly;
She that could think, and ne'er disclose her mind,
See suitors following, and not look behind.
She was a wight,—if ever such wight were,—
Des. To do what ?
lago. To nurse young fools, and chronicle small beer.
Des. O most lame and impotent conclusion!—Do not leiim of him,
Emilia, though he be thy husband.—How say you, Cassio ? is he not
a most profane and liberal counsellor ?
156
shaespeakiaif reader.
Cas. He speaks home, madam; you may relish him more in the
soldier, than in the scholar.
lago. [Aside.] He takes her by the palm: Ay, well said, whis¬
per : with as little a web as this, will I ensnare as great a fly as
Cassio. Ay, smile upon him, do; I will gyve thee in tliine own
courtship. You say true; 'tis so, indeed: if such tricks as these
strip you out of your lieutenancy, it had been better you had not
kissed your three Angers sc oil, which now again you are most apt
to play the sir in. Very good; well kissed ! an excellent courtesy!
'tis so, indeed. Yet again your fingers to your lips ?—[Trumpet.]
The Moor, I know his trumpet.
Cas. 'Tis truly so.
Des. Let's meet him, and receive him.
Cas. Lo, where he comes !
Enter Othello, and Attendants.
Oth. O my fair warrior!
Des. My dear Othello!
Oth. It gives me wonder great as my content,
To see you here before me. O my soul's joy!
If after every tempest come such calms.
May the winds blow till they have waken'd death!
If it were now to die,
'Twere now to be most happy; for, I fear,
My soul hath her content so absolute.
That not another comfort like to this
Succeeds in unknown fate.
Des. The heavens forbid.
But that our loves and comforts should increase.
Even as our days do grow !
Oth. Amen to that, sweet powers!—
I cannot speak enough of this content.
It stops me here; it is too much of joy:
And this, and this, the greatest discords be, [Kissing her
That e'er our hearts shall make.
lago. ' O, you are well tun'd now!
But I'll set down the pegs that make this music.
As honest as I am. [Astda
Oth. Come's, let's to the castle.
News, friends; our wars are done, the Turks are drown'd.
How do our old acquaintance of this isle 7
Honey, you shall be well desir'd in Cyprus,
I have found great love amongst them. O my sweet,
I prattle out of fashion, andT dote
In mine own comforts.—^I pr'ythee, good lago.
Go to the bay, and disembark my coffers: ^
Bring thou the master to the citi.del;
He is a good one, and his worthiness
OTHEIXO.
157
Does challenge much respect.—Come, Desdemona,
Once more well met at Cyprus.
lago now commences his plots against the Moor: bis £rst movement is to pnt Othello
—" into a jealousy so strong.
That judgment canuot cure/'
and Cassio is the instrument he selects for his purpose. Under the plea of " carousing ** to
the health of the General and his fair wife, be leads Cassio into a drunken brawl, while •the
Lieutenant is on guard at the Castle. Othelio enters to learn the cause of the dia^
turbance.
Othello, Iago, Cassio, Montano, and Attendants.
Oth. What is the matter here ?
Man. I bleed still, I am hurt to the death;—^he dies
Oth. Hold, for your lives.
Iago. Hold, hold, lieutenant,—sir, Montano,—gentlemen,—
Have you forgot all sense of place and duty ?
Hold, hold ! me general speaks to you; hold, for shame!
Oth. Why, how now, ho! from whence ariseth this ?
Are we turn'd Turks; and to ourselves do that.
Which heaven hath forbid the Ottomites ?
For Christian shame, put by this barbarous brawl:
He that stirs next to carve for his own rage, ■ ^
Holds his soul light; he dies upon his motion.—
Silence that dreadful bell, it frights the isle
From her propriety.—What is the matter, masters ?—
Honest Iago, that look'st dead with grieving.
Speak, who began this ? on thy love, I charge thee.
Iago. I do not know;—friends all but now, even now:
And then, but now,
(As if some planet had unwitted men,)
Swords out, and tilting one at other's breast.
In opposition bloody. I cannot speak
Any beginning to this peevish odds ;
And 'would in action glorious I had lost
These le^s, that brou^t me to a part of it!
Oth. How comes it, Michael, you are thus forgot ?
Cas. I pray you, pardon me, I cannot speak.
Oth. Worflty Montano, you were wont be civil;
The gravity and stillness of your youth
The world hath noted, and your name is great
In mouths of wisest censure; What's the matter.
That you unlace your reputation thus.
And spend your rich opinion, for the name
Of a night-brawler ? give me answer to if.
Mon. Worthy Othello, I am hurt to danger;
Your officer, Iago, can inform you—
While I spare speech, which something now offends me
Of all that I do know: nor know I aught
158
SHAESPEABUN BEAOBB.
By me that's said or done amiss this night;
Unless self-charity be sometime a vice;
And to defend ourselves it be a sin,
When violence assails us.
Oth. Now, by heaven.
My blood begins my safer guides to rule;
And passion, having my best judgment collied,
Assays to lead the way: If I once stir.
Or do but lift this arm, the best of you
Shall sink in my rebuke. Give me to know
How this foul rout began, who set it on:
And he that is approv'd in this offence.
Shall lose me.—What! in a town oi war.
Yet wild, the people's hearts brimful of fear.
To manage private and domestic quarrel.
In night, and on the court and guard of safety!
'Tis monstrous.—lago, who began it ?
Man. If partially afBn'd, or leagu'd in office.
Thou dost deliver more or less than truth.
Thou art no soldier.
I h ther have this tongue cut from my mouth
Than it should do offence to Michael Cassio;
Yet, I persuade myself, to speak the truth
Shall nothing wrong him.—Thus it is, general.
Montano and myself being in speech.
There comes a fellow, crying out for help;
And Cassio following him with determin'd sword,
To execute upon him : Sir, this gentleman
Steps in to Cassio, and entreats his pause ;
Myself the crying fellow did pursue.
Lest, by his clamor, (as it so fell out,)
The town might fall in fright: he, swift of foot.
Outran my purpose; and 1 return'd the rather
For that I heard the clink and fall of swords.
And Cassio high in oath ; which, till to-night,
I ne'er might say before: When I came back,
(For this was brief,) I found them close together,
At blow, and thrust; even as again they were.
When you yourself did part them.
More of this matter can I not report:—
But men are men: the best sometimes forget
Though Cassio did some little wrong to him,—
As men in rage strike those that wish them best,—
Yet, surely Cassio, I believe, receiv'd.
From him that fled, some strange indignity.
Which patience cou i not pass.
0th. I know, lago,
Thy honesty and love doth mince this matter,
Touch me not so near:
I
OTHELLO.
159
Making it .ight to Cassio:—Cassio, I love the«.,
But never more be officer of mine.— [Exit,
lago. What, are you hurt, lieutenant?
Cas. Ay, past all surgery.
lago. Marry, heaven forbid!
Cas. Reputation, reputation, reputation! O, I have .est my repu.
tation! I have lost the immortal part.—My reputation, lago, my
reputation.
lago. As I am an honest man, I thought you had received some
bodily wound; there is more offence in that, than in reputation.
Reputation is an idle and most false imposition; oft got without
merit, and lost without deserving: you have lost no reputation at all,
unless you repute yourself such a ioser. What, man! there are
ways to recover the general again: sue to him again, and he is
yours.
Cas. I will rather sue to be despised, than to deceive so good a
commander, with so slight, so drunken, and so indiscreet an officer.
O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hadst no name to be known
by, let us call thee—devil!
lago. What was he that you follow'd with your sword ? What
had he done to you ?
Cas. 1 know not.
lago. Is it possible ?
Cas. I remember a mass of things, but nothing distinctly; a quar¬
rel, but nothing wherefore.—O, that men should put an enemy in
their mouths to steal away their brains I that we should, with joy,
revel, pleasure, and applause, transform ourselves into beasts !
lago. Why, but you are now well enough: How came you thus
recovered ?
Cas. It hath pleased the demon drunkenness, to mve place to the
demon wrath: one unperfectness shows me another to make me
frankly despise myself.
lago. I could heartily wish this had not befallen; but, since it is
as it is, mend it for your own good.
Cas. I will ask him for my place again ; he shall tell me, I am a
drunkard! Had I as many mouths as Hydra, such an answer would
stop them all. To be now a sensible man, by and by a fool, and pre¬
sently a beast! O strange !—Every inordinate cup is unblessed, and
the ingredient is a demon.
lago. Come, come, good wine is a good familiar creature, if it be
well used; exclaim no more against it. And, good lieutenant, I
think, you think I love you.
Cas. I have well approved it, sir.—^I drunk !
lago. You, or any man living, may be drunk at some time, man.
I'll tell you what you shall do. Our general's wife is now the
general;—I may say so in this respect, for that he hath devoted and
given up himself to the contemplation, mark, and denotement of her
parts and graces:—confess yourself freely to he-; importune her;
she'll help to put you in your piace again : she is of so free, so kind,
160
SHAKSPEARIA^ HEADER.
30 apt, SO blessed a disposition, that she holds it a vice in her good-
less, not to do more than she is requested.
Cas, You advise me well.
lago, I protest, in the sincerity of love, and honest kindness.
Cas. I think it freely ; and, betimes in the morning, I will beseech
-he virtuous Desdemona to undertake for me: I am desperate of my
fortunes, if they check me here.
la^o. You are in the right. Good night, lieutenant; I must to
the watch.
Cas. Good night, honest lago. [jExit Cassio
ACT III.
Iago having effected tlie disgrace of Cassio, urges him to apply to Desdemona, te
seek through her entreaties a reconcniation with Othello. Cassio believing that lage
advises well," beseeches Desdemona to interfere in his behalf with her hosband : she
promises him her aid.
(ago artfully uses the kindness of Desdemona, as a means to excite the jealousy
Othello.
Enter Desdemona, Cassio, and EMinfA.
Des. Be thou assur'd, good Cassio, I will do
All my abilities in thy behalf.
Emil. Good madam, do ; I know, it grieves my husband,
As if the case were his.
Des. O, that's an honest fellow.—Do not doubt, Cassio,
But I will have my lord and you again
As friendly as you were.
Cas. Bounteous madam.
Whatever shall become of Michael Cassio,
He's never any thing hut your true servant.
Des. O, sir, I thank you : You do love my lord:
You have known him long; and he you well assur'd.
He shall in strangeness stand no further off
Than in a politic distance.
Cas. Ay, hut, lady,,
That policy may either last so long,
Or feed upon such nice and waterish diet.
Or breed itself so out of circumstance.
That, I being absent, and my place supplied,
Mj' general will forget my love and service.
Des. Do not doubt that: before Emilia here,
I give thee warrant of thy place; assure thee,
If I do vow a friendship, I'll perform it
To the last article: my lord shall never rest;
I'll intermingle every thing he does
With Cassio's suit: Therefore be merry, Cassio;
For thy solicitor shall rather die.
Than give thy cause away.
othello.
161
Enter Othello and Iago, at a distance.
Emil. Madam, here comes
My lord.
Cas. Madam, I'll take my leave.
Des. Why, stay,
And hear me speak.
Cas. Madam, not now; I am very ill at ease.
Unfit for mine own purposes.
Des. Well, well.
Do your discretion. [Exit CassiO
Jago. Ha! I like not that.
Oth. What dost thou say ?
Iago. Nothing, my lord: or if—I know not what.
Oth. Was not that Cassio, parted from my wife ? _ ^ ^
logo. Cassio, my lord ? No, sure, I cannot think it,
Tliat he would steal away so guilty-like.
Seeing you coming.
Oth. I do believe 'twas he.
Des. How now, my lord 1
I have been talking with a suitor here,
A man that languishes in your displeasure.
Oth. Who is't you mean ?
Des. Why, your lieutenant Cassio. Good my lord
If I have any grace, or power to move you.
His present reconciliation take;
For, if he be not one tliat truly loves you.
That errs in ignorance, and not in cunning,
I have no judgment in an honest face:
I pr'ythee, caS him back.
Oth. Went he hence now <
Des. Ay, sooth ; so humbled.
That he hath left part of his grief with me;
I suffer with him. Good love, call him back.
Oth. Not now, sweet Desdemona; some other time.
Des. But shall't be shortly ?
Oth. The sooner, sweet, for you
Des. Shall't be to-night at supper ?
Oth. No, not to-nighi.
Des. To-morrow dinner then ?
Oth. I shall not dine at home;
I meet the captains at the citadel.
Des. Why then, to-morrow night; or Tuesday mom;
Or Tuesday noon, or night; or Wednesday morn;—
I pray thee, name the time; but let it not
FiXceed three days: in faith, he's penitent.
When shall he come ?
Tell me, Othello. I wonder in my soul.
What you could ask me, that I should deny,
182
shakspearian reader.
Or stand so mammering on. What! Michael Cassio,
That came a wooing with you; and many a time,
When I have spoke of you dispraisingly,
Hath ta'en your part; to have so much to do
To bring him in ! s Trust me, I could do much.—
Olh. 1 will deny thee nothing:
Whereon, I do beseech thee, grant me this,
To leave me but a little to myself.
Des. Shall I deny you 1 no: Farewell, my lord.
Oth. Farewell, my Desdemona: I will come to thee straight.
Des. Emilia, come :—Be it as your fancies teach you;
Whate'er you be, I am obedient. [Exit, loith Emilia.
lago. My noble lord,
Oth. What dost thou say, lago ?
lago. Did Michael Cassio, when you woo'd my lady.
Know of your love ?
Olh. He did, from first to last: Why dost thou ask 7
lago. But for a satisfaction of my thought;
No further harm.
Oth. Why of thy thought, lago 7
lago. I did not think, he had been acquainted with her.
Olh. O, yes; and went between us very oft.
lago. Indeed 7
OtL Indeed ! ay, indeed:—^Discem'st thou aught in that 7
Is he not honest? '
lago. ' Honest, my lord 7
Oth. Ay, honest.
logo. My lord, for aught I know.
Oth. What dost thou think 7
lago. Think, my lord 7
Oth. Think, my lord!
By heaven, he echoes me.
As if there were some monster in his thought
Too hideous to be shown.—Thou dost mean something:
I heard thee say but now,—Thou lik'dst not that.
When Cassio left my wife; What did'st not like 7
And, when I told thee,—he was of my counsel
In my whole course of wooing, thou cry'dst. Indeed ?
And did'st contract and purse thy brow together.
As if thou then had'st shut up in thy brain
Some horrible conceit: If thou dost love me.
Show me thy thought.
lago. My lord, you know I love you.
Oth. I think thou dost;
And,—for I know thou art full of love and honesty,
And weigh'st thy words before thou giv'st them breath.
Therefore these stops of thine fright me the more:
For such things in a false disloyal knave.
Are tricks of custom; but, in a man that's just,
OTHELLO.
103
They are close denotements, working from the hoart,
That passion cannot rule.
lago. For Michael Cassio,—
I dare be sworn, I think that he is honest.
Olh. I think so too.
lago. Men should be what they seem;
Or, Uiose that be not, 'would they might seem none!
Olh. Certain, men should be what they seem.
lago. Why then,
I think, that Cassio is an honest man.
Olh. Nay, yet there's more in this:
I pray thee, speak to me as to thy thinkings.
As thou dost ruminate; and give thy worst of thoughts
The worst of words.
lago. Good my lord, pardon me;
Though I am bound to every act of duty,
I am not bound to that all slaves are free to.
Utter my thoughts ? Why, say, they are vile and false,
As Where's that palace, whereunto foul things
Sometimes intrude not ? who has a breast so purOj
But some uncleanly apprehensions
Keep leets, and law-days, and in session sit
With meditations lawful ?
Olh. Thou dost conspire against thy friend, lago,
If thou but tbink'st him wrong'd, and mak'st his ear
A stranger to thy thoughts.
lago. I do beseech you,—
Though I, perchance, am vicious in my guess.
As, I confess, it is my nature's plague
To spy into abuses; and, oft my jealousy
Shapes faults that are not,—entreat you then.
From one that so imperfectly conjects.
You'd take no notice; nor build yourself a trouble
Out of his scattering and unsure observance:—
It were not for your quiet, nor your good.
Nor for my manhood, honesty, or wisdom.
To let you know my thoughts.
Oth. What dost thou mean ?
lago. Good name, in man, and woman, dear my lord.
Is the immediate jewel of their souls:
Who steals my purse, steals trash; 'tis something, nothirg;
'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands;
But he that filches from me my good name,
Robs me of that, which not enriches him.
And makes me poor indeed.
Olh. By heaven, I'll know thy thought.
lago. You cannot, if my heart were m your hand:
Nor shall not, vhile 'tis in my custodv
Olh. Ha'
164
SHAKSFEABIAN BEADEB.
logo. O, beware, my lord, of jealousy
It is the green-ey'd monster, which doth mock
The meat it feeds on.
0th. O misery!
lago. Poor, and content, is rich, and rich enougn $
But riches, iineless, is as poor as winter.
To him that ever fears he shall be poor:—
Good heaven, the souls of all my tribe defend
From jealousy!
0th. Why! why is this ?
Think'st thou, I'd make a life of jealousy.
To follow stiU the changes of the moon
With fresh suspicions ? No: to be once in doubt,
Is—once to be resolv'd:
Tis not to make me jealous.
To say—my wife is fair, feeds well, loves company,
Is free of speech, sings, plays, and dances well:
Where virtue is, these are more virtuous:
Nor from mine own weak merits will I draw
The smallest fear, or doubt of her revolt;
For she had eyes, and chose me: No, lago;
I'll see, before I doubt; when I doubt, prove;
And, on the proof, there is no more but this,—
Away at once with love, or jealousy.
lago. I am glad of this; for now I shall have reason
To snow the love and duty that I bear you
With franker spirit: therefore, as I am bound.
Receive it from me:—I speak not yet of proof.
Ijook to your wife; observe her well with Cassio:
Wear your eye—thus, not jealous, nor secure:
I would not have your free and noble nature.
Out of self-bounty, be abus'd ; look to't:
She did deceive her father, marrying you;
And, when she seem'd to shake, and fear your looks,
She lov'd them most.
0th. And sp she did.
lago. Why, go to, then;
She that so young, could give out such a seeming.
To seal her father's eyes up, close as oak.
He thought, 'twas witchcraft:—^But I am much to blame;
I humbly do beseech you of your pardon.
For too much loving you.
Oik. I am bound to theo for ever
lago. I see, this hath a little dash'd your spirits.
Olh.' Not a jot, not a jot.
lago. Trust me, I fear it has.
I hope, you will consider, what is spoke
Comes from my love:—But, I do see you are mov'd:—
I am to pray you, not to strain my speech
OTHELLO.
166
To grosser issues, ncr to larger reach,
Than to suspicion.
Oth. I will not.
lago. Should you do so, my lord.
My speech should fall into such vile success
As my thoughts aim not at. Cassio's my worthy friend
My lord, I see you are mov'd.
Oth. No, not much mov'd
I do not think but Desdemona's honest.
lago. Long live she so! and long live you to think so !
Oth. And yet, how nature erring from itself,—
lago. Ay, there's the point:—^As,—to be bold with you,—
Not to aflfect many proposed matches.
Of her own clime, complexion, and degree;
Whereto, we see, in all things nature tends :
Fob ! one may smell, in such, a will most rank.
Foul disproportion, thoughts unnatural.—
But, pardon me; I do not in position.
Distinctly speak of her: though I may fear.
Her will, recoiling to her better judgment.
May fall to match you with her country forms.
And (happily) repent.
Oth. Farewell, farewell:
If more thou dost perceive, let me know more ;
Set on thy wife to observe: Leave me, lago.
lago. My lord, I take my leave. [Going.
Oth. Why did I marry ?—This honest creature, doubtless.
Sees and knows more, much more, than he unfolds.
logo. My lord, I would, I might entreat your honor
To scan this thing no further; leave it to time:
And though it be fit that Cassio have his place,
(For, sure, he fills it up with great ability,)
Yet, if you please to hold him off awhile.
You shall by that perceive him and his means :
Note, if your lady strain his entertainment
With any strong or vehement importunity;
Much will be seen in that. In the meantime.
Let me be thought too busy in my fears,
(As worthy cause I have, to fear—I am,)
And hold her free, I do beseech your honor.
Oth. Fear not my government.
Jago. I once more take my leave. [£a it
Oth. This fellow's of exceeding honesty.
And knows all qualities, with a learned spirit.
Of human dealings : If I do prove her haggard.
Though that her jesses were my dear heart-strings,
I'd whistle her off, and let her down the wind.
To prey at fortune. Haply, for I am black;
And have not those soft parts of conversation
166
SHAKSPEARIAN READER.
That chamberers have: Or, for I am declin'd
Into the vale of years;—^yet that's not much;—
She's gone; I am abus'd; and my relief
Must be—to loath her. Desdemona comes.
Enter Desdemona, avd Emilia.
If she be false, O, then heaven mocks itself!—
I'll not believe it. _
Des. How now, my dear Othello ?
Your dinner, and the generous islanders
By you invited, do attend your presence.
Olh. I am to blame.
Des. Why is your speech so faint ? are you not well 7
Oih. I have a pain upon my forehead here.
Des. Faith, that's with watching; 'twill away again:
Let me but bind it hard, within this hour
It will be well.
0th. Your napkin is too little;
[He puts the handkerchief from him, and it drops,
Let it alone. Come, I'll go in with you.
Des. I am very sorry that you are not well.
[Exeunt 0th. aTid Des
Emil. I am glad I have found this napkin;
This was her first remembrance from the Moor:
My wayward husband hath a hundred times
Woo'd me to steal it: but she so loves the token,
(For he conjur'd her, she would ever keep it,)
That she reserves it evermore about her,
To kiss, and talk to. I'll have the work ta'en out,
And give it lago;
What he'll do with it, heaven knows, not I; ■»
I nothing, but to please his fantasy.
Enter Iago.
lago. How now! what do you here alone ?
Emil. Do not you chide; I have a thing for you.
Iago. A thing for me ?—it is a common thing.
EmU. Ha!
Iago. To have a foolish wife.
Emil. O, is that all ? What will you give me now
For that same handkerchief ?
Iago. What handkerchief 7
Emil. What handkerchief ?
Why, that the Moor first gave to Desdemona;
That which so often you did bid me steal.
1^0. Hast stolen it from her ?
Emil. No, faith; she let it drop by negligence;
And, to the advantage, I, being here, took't up.
Ijook, here it is.
OTHELtO.
167
logo. Give it me.
Emil. What will you do with it, that you have been so earnest
r# have me filch it ?
lago. Why, what's that to you ? [STUztching iu
Emil. If it be not for some purpose of import.
Give it me again: Poor lady! she'll run mad.
When she shall lack it.
lago. Be not you known oft; I have use for it.
Go, leave me. [Eath Emilu.
I will in Cassio's lodging lose this napkin.
And let him find it: Trifies, light as air.
Are, to the jealous, confirmations strong
As proofs of holy writ.
Enter Othello.
Look, where he comes! Not poppy, nor mandragora.
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world.
Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep
Which thou ow'dst yesterday.
Olh. Ha! ha! false to me ?
To me ?
lago. Why, how now, general ? no more of that?
Olh. Avaunt! begone! thou hast set me on the rack.
lago. I am sorry to hear tliis.
Olh. O now, for ever.
Farewell the tranquil mind ! farewell content!
Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars.
That make ambition virtue! O, farewell!
Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump.
The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife.
The royal banner, and all quality.
Pride, pomp, and circumstance, of glorious war!
And O you mortal engines, whose rude throats
The immortal Jove's dread clamors counterfeit.
FarewellOthello's occupation's gone !
lago. Have you not sometimes seen a handkerchief
Spotted with strawberries, in your wife's hand 1
Olh. 1 gave her such a one; 'twas my first gift.
lago. I know not that: but such a handkerchief,
(I am sore it was your wife's,) did I to-day
See Cassio wipe his beard with.
Olh. If it be that,—
lago. If it be that, or any that was hers.
It speaks against her, with the other proofs.
Olh. O, that the slave had forty thousand lives :
One is too poor, too weak for my revenge!
Now do I see 'tis true.—Look here, lago;
All my fond love thus I do blow to heaven:
'Tis gone.—
168
SHAESPEARIAM READER.
Arise, black vengeance, from thy hollow cell!
Yield up, O love, thy crown, and hearted throne.
To tyrannous hate! swell, bosom, with thy fraught,
For tis of aspicks' tongues!
lago. Pray, be content.
0th. O, blood, lago, blood I
lago. Patience, I say; your mind, perhaps, may change,
Oth. Never, lago. Like to the Pontic sea.
Whose icy current and compulsive course
Ne'er feels retiring ebb, but keeps due on
To the Propontick and the Hellespont;
Even so my bloody thoughts, with violent pace.
Shall ne'er look back, ne'er ebb to humble love.
Till that a capable and wide revenge
Swallow them up.—Now, by yond' marble heaven, [Kneels
In the due reverence of a sacred vow
I here engage my words.
lago. Do not rise yet.— [Kneels,
Witness, you ever-burning lights above !
You elements that clip us round about!
Witness, that here lago doth give up
The execution of his wit, hands, heart.
To wrong'd Othello's service ! let him command.
And to obey shall be in me remorse.
What bloody work soever.
Oth. I greet thy love.
Not with vain thanks, but with acceptance bounteous.
And will upon the instant put thee to't:
Within these three days let me hear thee say.
That Cassio's not alive.
lago. My friend is dead; 'tis done, at your request:
But let her live. [Kxeunt,
SCENE IV.—The same.
Enter Desdemona, and Emilia.
Des. Where should I lose that handkerchief, Emilia ?
Emit. I know not, madam.
Des. Believe me:—And, but my noble Moor
Is true of mind, and made of no such baseness
As jealous creatures are, it were enough
To put him to ill thinking.
Emil. Is he not jealous ?
Des. Who, he ? I think, the sun, where he was bom.
Drew all such humors from him.
Emil. Look, where he comes.
Des. I will not leave him now, till Cassio
Be call'd to him.—^How is't with you, my lord ?
othello.
Enter Otiiello.
Olh. Well, my gfood lady;—[Aswfe.]—O, hardness to dissemble
How do you, Desdemona ?
Des. Well, my good lord
0th. Give me your hand: 'Tis a good hand,
A frank one.
Dea. You may, indeed, say so;
For 'twas that hand that gave away my heart.
Olh. A liberal hand: The hearts, of old, gave hands:
But our new heraldry is—hands, not hearts.
Des. I cannot speak of this. Come now your promise.
Oth. What promise, chuck 1
Des. I have sent to bid Cassio come speak with you,
Olh. I have a salt and sullen rheum onends me; '
Lend me thy handkerchief.
Des. Here, my lord.
Oth. That which I gave you.
Des. I have it not about me.
Oth. Not?
Des. No, indeed, my lord.
Oth. That is a fault.
That handkerchief
Did an Egyptian to my mother give;
She was a charmer, and could almost read
The thoughts of people: she told her, while she kept it|
'Twould make her amiable, and subdue my father
Entirely to her love ; but if she lost it.
Or made a gift of it, my father's eye
Should hold her loathly, and his spirits should hunt
After new fancies; She, dying, gave it me;
And bid roe, when my fate would have me wive,
To give it her. I did so: and take heed oft.
Make it a darling like your precious eye;
To lose or give't awav, were such perdition,
As nothing else could match.
Des. Is it possible ?
Oth. 'Tis true; There's magic in the web of it
A sibyl, that had number'd in the world
The sun to make two hundred compasses.
In her prophetic fmy sew'd the work ;•
The worms were hallow'd that did breed the silk,
And it was dy'd in mummy, which the skilful
Conserv'd of maidens' hearts.
Des. Indeed! is't true ?
Oth. Most veritable; therefore look to't well.
Des. Then would to heaven, that I had never seen it.
Oth. Ha! wherefore t
Des. Why do you speak so startingly and rash 7
9
170
SHAKSPEARIAN READER.
0(h. Is't lost ? is't gone ? speak, is it out of the way 1
Des. Heaven bless us!
Olh. -Say you ?
Des. It is not lost; But what and if it were ?
Oth. Ha!
Des. I say, it is not lost.
Olh. Fetch't, let me see it.
Des. Why, so I car, sir, but I will not now;
This is a trick, to put me from my suit;
I pray, let Cassio be receiv'd again.
Olh. Fetch me that handkerchief: my mind nusgives.
Des. Come, come;
You'll never meet a more suflBcient man.
Olh. The handkerchief,
Des. I pray, talk me of Cassio.
Oth. The handkerchief,
Des. A man that, all his time.
Hath founded his good fortune on your love,
Shar'd dangers with you;
Oth. The handkerchief,
Des. In sooth.
You are to blame.
Olh. Away! [Exit Otheua
Emil. Is not this man jealous ?
Des. I ne'er saw this before.
Sure, there's some wonder in this handkerchief:
I am most unnappy in the loss of it.
Emil. 'Tis not a year or two shows us a man: ■
Look you! Cassio and my husband.
Enter Iago, and Cassio.
lago. There is no other way; 'tis she must do't,
And, lo, the happiness ! go, and importune her.
" Des. How now, good Cassio ? what's the news with you ?
Cas. Madam, my former suit: I do beseech you,
That, by your virtuous means, I may again
Exist, and be a member of his love.
Des. Alas! thrice-genth Cassio,
My advocation is not now in tune;
My lord is not my lord ; nor should I know him.
Were he in favor, as in humor, alter'd.
So help me, every spirit sanctified.
As I have spoken for you all my best.
And stood within the blank of his displeasure.
For my free speech! You must a while be patient:
What I can do, I will; and more I will.
Than for myself I dare: let that suffice yoO.
logo. Is my lord angry 1
othello.
171
Emil. He went hence but now,
And, certainly, in strange unquietness.
lago. Can he be angry ?
Something of moment, then: I will go meet him;
There's matter in't indeed, if he he angry.
Des. I pr'ythee do so.—Something, sure, of state,— [Exit Iago
Either from Venice; or some unhatch'd practice,
Made demonstrable here in Cyprus to him,—
Hath puddled his clear spirit: and, in such cases.
Men's natures wrangle with inferior tilings.
Though great ones are their object.
Nay, we must think, men are not gods;
Nor of them look for such observances
As fit the bridal.
Emil. Pray heaven, it be state matters, as you think.
And no conception, nor no jealous toy.
Concerning you.
Des. Alas, the day! I never gave him cause.
Emil. But jealous souls will not be answer'd so;
They are not ever jealous for the cause.
But jealous for they are jealous.
Des. I will go seek Othello.—Cassio, walk hereabout:
If I do find him fit, I'll move your suit.
And seek to affect it to my uttermost.
Cas. I humbly thank your ladyship.
[Exeunt Desdemona, una Emilia.
The catastrophe of this jjiQUeM^omestic tra^dy* » foreshadowed in oar extracts.
Othello, convinced of his wife's dishonor, is instigated by rage and jealonsy to take hei
Jfe. But the innocence of Desdemona is proved b r»h^ confession of Emilia, and the
iisoovery of logo's treachery. Othello, overwhelmed with gfMf and remorse dostroya
bimidf, and lago is delivered a prisoner into the hands of lustion
I
THE TEMPEST.
The TsHptsT is supposed to be the last prodoction of Shakspeare*s mighty geniiu;
Bs it is geoeraily ackoowledged to be the most origioaJ and perfect of his wprks. In this
Play the Poet has literally ** given to airy nothings a local habitation and a name/' en¬
dowing them with qnalities and furnishing them with a fitness of langoage, which investi
these creatnres of his imaginings with ail the charm and semblance of reality.
The story is simple in its constmction, yet it is deeply interesting. Onr selections pi^
sent the main incidents of the plot in consecutive sncoession.
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
Alonzo, King of Naples.
Sebastian, his brother.
Prospero, the rightful Duke of Milan.
Antonio, his brother, the usurping Duke of Milan.
Ferdinand, son to the King of Naples.
Gonzalo, an honest old counsellor of Naples.
Adrian, Francisco, lords.
Caliban, a savage and deformed slave.
Trinculo, a jester.
Stephano, a drunken butler.
Master of a ship. Boatswain, and Mariners.
Miranda, daughter to Prospero.
Ariel, an airy spirit.
Iris, Ceres, Juno, Nymphs, Reapers, spirits.
Other spirits attending on Prospero.
ACT I.
SCENE.—The Sea, with a Ship; afterwards an uninhabned Island.
Pmpeio, the rightfel Dnke of Maan, has been dethroned by his brother Antonio,
And banished from his dominions. Prospero seeks refuge in a desert island, with his
daughter Miranda, and by magic arts, sunounds himself with " potent spirits," whicb
the tempest.
173
Me obedient to his wid. Having learned by hU " magic " that his brother Antonio has
embarked in a vessel for Naples, in company with Alonzo, King of Naples, the king's
son, Ferdinand, together with certain lords of Milan and Naples, Prospero commands his
trusty spirit Ariel, to wreck the vessel near the island, but to save tlie lives of tJie noblA
passengers and crew, and bring them safely to shore. Prospero and his daughter Miranda
witness the destruction of the vessel,
SCENE II.—The Island; before the Cell of Pkospero.
Enter Prospero, and Miranda..
Mira. If by your art, my dearest father, you havo
Put the -wild waters in this roar, allay them :
The sky, it seems, would pour down stinkin? pitch,
But that the sea, mounting to the welkin's cheek.
Dashes the lire out. 0,1 have suffer'd
With th(»e that I saw sufier! a brave vessel.
Who had no doubt some noble creatures in her,
Dash'd all to pieces. O, the cry did knock
Against my very heart! Poor souls ! they perish'd.
Had I been any god of power, I would
Have sunk the sea within the earth, or-e'er
It should the good ship so have swallowed, and
The freighting souls within her.
Pro. Be collected;
No more amazement: tell your piteous heart.
There's no harm done.
Mira. O, woe the day! *
Pro. No harm.
I have done nothing but in care of thee,
(Of thee, my dear one.' thee, my daughter!) who
Art ignorant of what thou art, nought knowing
Of whence I am ; nor that I am more better
Than Prospero, master of a full poor cell.
And thy no greater father.
Mira. More to know
Did never meddle with my thoughts.
Pro. 'Tis time
I should inform thee further. Lend thy hand.
And pluck my magic garment from me.—So; [Lays down hts mantle
Lie there my art.—Wipe thou thine eyes; have comfort.
The direful spectacle of the wreck, which touch'd
The very virtue of compassion in thee,
I have with such provision in mine art
So safely order'd, that there is no soul—
No, not so much perdition as a hair.
Betid to any creature in the vessel
Which thou heard'st cry, which thou saw'st sink.—Sit down;
For thou must now know further.
Mira. You have often
Begun to tell me what I am; but stopp'd
174
SHAKSPEAEIAN REASEB.
And left me to a bootless inquisition;
Concluding, Slay., not yet.—
Pro. The hour's now come;
The very minute bids thee ope thine ear;
Obey, and be attentive. Can'st thou remember
A time before we came unto this cell ?
I do not think thou can'st; for then thou wast not
Out three years old.
Mira. Certainly, sir, I can.
Pro. By what ? by any other house, or person ?
Of any thing the image tell me, that
Hath kept with thy remembrance.
Mira. 'Tis far off:
And rather like a dream than an assurance
That my remembrance warrants: Had I not
Four or five women once, that tended me ?
Pro. Thou had'st, and more, Miranda: But how is it,
That this lives in thy mind ? What seest thou else
In the dark backwara and abysm of time 1
If thou remember'st aught, ere thou cam'st here.
How thou cam'st here, thou may'st.
Mira. But that I do not.
Pro. Twelve years since, Miranda, twelve years since
Thy fatlier was the duke of Milan, and
A prince of power.
Mira. Sir, are not you my father 1
Pro. Thy mother was a piece of virtue, and
She said—thou wast my daughter; and thy father
Was duke of Milan; and his only heir
A iss, no worse issued.
What foul play had we, that wo came from thence;
Or blessed was't, we did ?
Pro. Beth, both, my girl;
By foul play, as thou say'st, were' we heav'd thence ;
But blessedly help hither.
Mira. O, ;ny heart bleeds
To think o' the teen* that 1 ha"e tum'd you to.
Which is from my remembrance! Please you, further.
Pro. My brother, and thy uncle, call'd Antonio,—
I pray tliee, mark me,—that a brother should
Be so perfidious !—he whom, next thyself.
Of all the world I lov'd, and to him put
The manage of my state; as, at that time.
Through all the signories it was tire first.
And Prospero the prime duke; being so reputed
In dignity, and, for the liberal arts.
Without a parallel; those being all my study,
O, the heavens!
♦ Sonow
THF. TEMPEST.
The government I «ast upon my brother,
And to my state grew stranger, being transported,
And rapt in secret studies. Thy false uncle—
Dost thou attend me ?
Mira. Sir, most heedfully.
Pro. Being once perfected how to grant suits.
How to deny them; whom to advance, and whom
To trash* ibr over-topping; new created
The creatures that were mine; I say, or chang'd them
Or else new form'd them; having both the key
Of officer and office, set all hearts i' th' state
To what tune pleas'd his ear; that now he was
The ivy, which had hid my princely trunk,
And suck'd my verdure out on't—^Thou attend'st not;
I pray thee, mark me.
Mira. O good sir, I do.
Pro. I thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicate
To closeness, and the bettering of my mind
With that, which, but by being so retired.
O'er-priz'd all popular rate, in my false brother
Awak'd an evil nature: and my trust.
Like a good parent, did beget of him
A falsehood, in its contrary as great
As my trust was: which had, indeed, no limit,
A confidence sans bound. He being thus lorded.
Not only with what my revenue yielded.
But what my power might else exact,—^like one.
Who having, unto truth, by telling of it.
Made such a sinner of his memory.
To credit his own lie,—he did believe
He was indeed the duke; out of the substitution.
And executing the outward face of royally
With all prerogative:—^Hence his ambition
Growing,—Dost thou hear ?
Mira. Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.
Pro. To have no screen between this part he play'd,
And him he play'd it for, he needs will be
Absolute Milan: Me, poor man!—my library
Was dukedom large enough; of temporai ro3'alties
He thinks me now incapable: confederates
(So dry he was for sway) with the king of Naples,
To give him annual tribute, do him homage;
Subject his coronet to his crown, and bend
The dukedom, yet unbow'd, (alas, poor Milan!)
To most ignoble stooping.
Mira. O the heavens! *
Pro. Mark his condition, and the event; then tell me
If this might be a brother.
• Cut away.
176 SHAESPEARUN READER.
Mira. I should sin
To think but nobly of my grandmother.
Pro. Now the cond tiaa
This king of Naples, being an enemy
To me inveterate, hearkens my brother's suit;
Which was, that he in lieu o' the premises,—
Of homage, and I know not how much tribute, •
Should presently extirpate me and mine
Out of the dukedom ; and confer fair Milan,
With all the honors, on my brother: Whereon,
A treacherous army levied, one midnight
Fated to the purpose, did Antonio open
The gates of Milan; and, i' the dead of darkness.
The ministers for the purpose hurried thence f
Me, and thy crying self.
Mira, Alack, for pity!
I, not rememb'ring how I cry'd out then.
Will cry it o'er again: it is a hint.
That wrings mine eyes to't.
Pro. Hear a little farther.
And then I'll bring thee to the present business
Which now's upon us; without the which, this story
Were most impertinent.
Mira. Wherefore did they not
That hour destroy us ?
Pro. Well demanded, girl;
My tale provokes that question. Dear, they durst not
(So dear the love my people bore me,) nor set
A mark so bloody on the business ; but
With colors fairer painted their foul ends.
In few, they hurried us aboard a bark;
Bore us some leagues to sea; where they prepar'd
A rotten carcase of a boat, not rigg'd.
Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats
Instinctively had quit it: there they hoist us.
To cry to the sea that roar'd to us ; to sigh
To the winds, whose pity, sigliing back again.
Did us but loving wrong.
Mira. Alack ! what trouble
Was I then to you 1
Pro. Ola cherubim
Thou wasl thou didst preserve me 1 Thou didst smile.
Infused wi.h a fortitude from heaven,—
When I have deck'd the sea with drops full salt;
Under my burden groan'd; which rais'd in me
An undergoing stomach, to bear up
Against what should ensue.
Mira. How came we ashore ?
Pro^y Providence divire.
THE TEMPEST.
177
Some food we had, and some fresh water, that
A noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo,
Out of his charity, (who being then appointed
Master of this design,) did give us *, with
Rich garments, linens, stuffs, and necessaries.
Which since have steaded much; so, of his gentleness,
Knowing I lov'd my books, he fumish'd me,
From my own library, with voliunes that
I prize above my dukedom.
ATira, • 'Would I might
But ever see that man!
Pro. Now I arise:—
Sit still, and hear the last of our sea-sorrow.
Here in this island we arrived; and here
Have 1, thy schoolmaster, made thee more profit
Than other princes can, that have more time
For vainer hours, and tutors not so careful.
Mira. Heavens thank you for't! And now, I pray, you, sir,
(For still 'tis beating in my mind,) your reason
For raising this sea-storm ?
Pro. Know thus far forth.—
By accident most strange, bountiful' fortune.
Now, ray dear lady, hath mine enemies
Brought to this shore: and by my prescience
I find my zenith doth depend upon
A most auspicious star; whose influence
If now I court not, but omit, my fortunes
Will ever after droop.—^Here cease more questions;
Thou art inclin'd to sleep; 'tis a good dulness.
And give it way;—know thou can'st not choose.
[MntANUA slupt
Come away, servant, come; I am ready now;
Approach, my Ariel; come.
Enter Arie*
Ari. All hail, great master! gpave sir, hail! I come
To answer thy best pleasure; be't to fly.
To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride
On the curl'd clouds; to thy strong bidding, task
Ariel and all his quality.
Pro. Hast thou, spirit,
Perform'd to point the tempest that I bade thee 7
Ari. To every article.
I boarded the king's ship; now on the beak.
Now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin,
1 flam'd amazement; Sometimes, I'd divide.
And burn m many places; on the top-mast.
The yards and lx>wsprit, would I flame distinctly.
Then meet, and join; Jove's lightnings, the precursors
178
SHAESFEABIAN BEASEB.
O' the dreadful thunder-claps, more momentary
And sight-out-running were not: The fire, and cracks
Of sulphurous roaring, the most mighty Neptune
Seem'd to besiege, and make his bold waves tremble,
Yea, his dread trident shake.
Pro. My brave spirit!
Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil*
Would not infect his reason ?
Ari. Not a soul
But felt a fever of the mad, and play'd •
Some tricks of desperation: All, but mariners,
Plung'd in the foaming brine, and quit the vessel.
Then all a-fire with me. The king's son, Ferdinand,
With hair up-staring, (then like reeds, not hair,)
Was the first man tibat leap'd.
Pro. Why, that's my spirit.
But was not this nigh shore ?
. Ari. Close by, my master.
Pro. But are they, Ariel, safe ?
Ari. Not a hair perish'd t
On their sustaining garments not a blemish.
But fresher than tefore: and, as thou bad'st me.
In troops I have dispers'd them 'bout the isle:
The king's son have I landed by himself;
Whom I left cooling of the air with sighs.
In an odd angle of the isle, and sitting.
His arms in this sad knot.
Pro. Of the king's ship.
The mariners, say, how thou hast dispos'd.
And all the rest o' the fleet ?
Ari. Safely in harbor
Is the king's ship; in the deep nook, where once
Thou call'dst me up at midnight to fetch dew
From the still-vex'a Berraoothes, there she's hid:
The mariners all under hatches stow'd;
Whom, with a charm join'd to their suffer'd labor,
I have left asleep: and for the rest o' the fleet.
Which I dispers'd, they all have met again;
And are upon the Mediterranean flote,t
Bound sadly home for .Naples;
Supposing that they saw the king's ship wreck'd.
And his great person perish.
Pro. Ariel, thy charge
Ew-Ctly is perform'd; but there's more work;
What is the time o' the day ?
Ari. Past the mid season.
Pro. At least two glasses : the time 'twixt six and now
Must by us both be spent most preciously.
* Bottld, tumolt t
THE TEIPEST.
179
Ari. Is there more toil ?—Since thou dost give me pains,
Let me remember thee what thou hast promis'd,
Whic/j is not yet perform'd me.
Pro. How now ? moody ?
What is't thou can'st demand ?
Ari. My liberty.
Pro. Before the time be out ? no more.
Ari. I pray thee
Remember, I have done thee worthy service;
Told thee no lies, made no mistakings, serv'd
Without or grudge, or grumblings: thou didst promise
To bate me a full year.
Pro. Dost thou forget
From what a torment I did free thee ?
Ari. No.
Pro. Thou dost; and think'st
It much to tread the ooze of the salt deep;
To run upon th'5' sharp wind of the north;
To do me business in the veins o' the earth.
When it is bak'd with frost.
Ari. I do not, sir.
Pro. Thou liest, malignant thing! Hast thou forgot
The foul witch Sycorax, who with age and envy.
Was grown into a hoop ? hast thou forgot her 1
Ari. No, sir.
Pro. Thou hast: Where was she bom ? speak * jel ms.
Ari. Sir, in Argier.
Pro. O, was she so ? I must.
Once in a month, recount what thou hast been,
' Which thou forget'st. Tliis vile witch, Sycorax,
For mischiefs manifold, and sorceries terrible
■Po enter human hearing, from Argier,
Thou know'st, was banish'd; for one thing she did,
They would not take her life: Is not this true ?
Ari. Ay, sir.
Pro. This blue-ey'd hag was hither brought.
And here was left by the sailors: Thou, my slave,
As thou report'st thyself, was then her servant;
And, for thou wast a spirit too delicate
To act her earthy and abhorr'd commands,
. Refusing her grand hests, she did confine thee,
By help of her more potent ministers.
And in her most unmitigable rage.
Into a cloven pine; within which rift
Imprison'd, thou did'st painfully remain
A dozen years; within wlpch space she died,
And left thee there; where thou didst vent thy groans.
As fast as mill-whee.s strike: Then was this island,
180
SHAKSPEARIAN HEADER.
Saving her son, not honor'd with
A liuman shape.
Ari. Yes; Caliban her son.
Pro. Dull thing, I say so; he, that Caliban,
Whom now I keep in service. Thou best know'st
What torment I did find thee in : thy groans
Did make wolves howl, and penetrate the breasts
Of ever-angry bears. This Sycorax
Could not again undo; it was mine art.
When I arriv'd, and heard thee, that made gape
The pine, and let thee out.
Ari. I thank thee, master.
Pro. If thou more murmur'st, I will rend an oak.
And peg thee in his knotty entrails, till
Thou hast howl'd away twelve winters.
Ari. Pardon, master:
I will be correspondent to command.
And do my spiriting gently.
Pro. Do so; and after two days
I will discbarge thee.
Ari. That's my noble master!
What shall I do ? say what ? what shall I do ?
Pro. Go, make thyself like to a nymph o' the sea;
Be subject to no sight but mine; invisible
To every eyeball else. Go, take this shape.
And hither come in't: hence, with diligence. [ExU Arixw
Awake, dear heart, awake! thou hast slept well;
Awake!
Mira. The strangeness of your story put
Heaviness in me.
Pro. Shake it off; Come on;
We'll visit Caliban, my^slave, who never
Yields us a kind answer.
Mira. • _ 'Tis r villain, sir,
I do not love to look on.'
Pro. But, as 'tis.
We cannot miss him: he does make our fire.
Fetch in our wood ; and serves in offices
That profit us. What ho ! slave ! Caliban !
Thou earth, thou ! speak.
Cal. [within.] There's wood enough within.
Pro. Come forth, I say; there's other business for thee:
Come forth, thou tortoise ! when ?
Re-enter Ariel, like a water-nymph.
Fine apparition! My quaint Ariel,
Hark in thine ear.
Ari. My lord, it shall be done.
Pro. Thou poisonous slave, come forth!
I2?x«
♦
THE TEMPEST
EnUir Caliban.
Cud. As wicked dew as e'er my mother brush'd
With raven's feather from unwholesome fen,
Drop on you both! a south-west blow on ye,
And blister you all o'er.
Pro. For this, be sure, to-night thou shalt have cramps,
Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up; urchins
Shall, for that vast of night that they may work.
All exercise on thee: thou shalt be pinch'd
As thick as honey-combs, each pinch more stinging
Than bees that made them.
Cal. I must eat my dinner.
This island's mine, by Sycorax my mother,
Wliich thou tak'st from me. When thou camest first.
Thou strok'dst me, and mad'st'much of me; wou-H'st r" me
Water with berries in't; and teach me how
To name the bigger light, and how the less.
That bum by day and night: and then I lov'd theo.
And show'd thee all the qualities o' the isle.
The fresh springs, brine pits, barren place, and fertil't,
Cursed be I that I did so!—All the charms
Of Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on you!
For i am all the subjects that you have.
Which first was mine own king; and here you sty me
In this hard rock, while you do keep from me
The rest of the island.
Pro. Abhorred slave;
Which any print of goodness will not take;
Being capable of all ill! I pitied thee.
Took pains to make thee speak, taught thee each hour
One thing or other: when thou did'st not, savage.
Know thine own meaning, but would'st gabble like
A thing most brutish, I endow'd thy purposes
With words that made them known: But thy vile race.
Though thou did'st learn, had that in't which good nature?
Could not abide to be with; therefore wast thou
Deservedly confin'd into this rocK,
Who had'st deserv'd more than a prison.
Cal. You taught me language ; and my profit on't
Is, I know how to curse: the red plague rid* you.
For learning me your language !
Pro. Hag-seed, hence!
Fetch us in fuel; and be quick, thou wert best,
To-answer other business. Shrug'st thou, malice ?
If thou neglect'st, or dost unwillingly
What I command, I'll rack thee with old cramps;
Fill all thy bones with aches ; make thee roar
^hat beasts shall tremble at thy din.
^ * Destror
isd
shaksfearian reader.
I must ooey: his art is of such power,
It would control my dam's god, Setebos,
c<a.
No, pray thee 1—
\Af^e
And make a vassal of him.
Pro.
So, slave; hence! {Exit Caliban.
Re-mter Ariel invisible, playing and singing; Ferdinand fob
lowing Mm.
Fer. Where should this music be ? i' the air. or the earJi'
It sounds no more:—and sure it waits upon
Some god of 'the island. Sitting on a bank
Weeping again the king my father's wreck.
This music crept by me upon the waters; ^
Allaying both their fury, and my passion.
With its sweet air: thence I have follow'd it.
Or it hath drawn me rather:—^But 'tis gone.
No, it begins again.
Full fathom Jive thy father lies:
Of his bones are coral made ;
Those are pearls, that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade.
But doth su ffer a sea-change
Into sometliing rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Hark! now I hear them, ding-dong, beU.
Fer. The dittty does remember my drown'd father:—
This is no mortal business, nor no sound
That the earth owns:—I hear.it now above me.
Pro. The fringed curtain of thine eye advance
And say, what thou seest yond.
Mira. What is't ? a spirit 7
See, how it looks about! Believe me, sir.
It carries a brave form:—^But 'tis a spirit.
Pro. No, wench; it eats and sleeps, and hath such senses
As we have; such: This gallant, which thou seest.
Was in the wreck; and but he's something stain'd
With grief—^that's beauty's canker—thou might'st call him
A goodly person. He hath lost his fellows.
And strays about to find them.
Mira. I might call him
A thing divine; for nothing natural
I ever saw so noble.
Pro. [Aside.] It goes on, I see.
As my soul prompts it:—Spirit, fine spirit! I'll free thee
Within two days for this.
Ariel sings.
[Burden, ding-dong.
the tempest.
183
Fer. Most sure, the goddess
On whom these airs attend !—^Vouchsafe, my prayer
May know, if you remain upon this island ;
And that you will some good instruction give,
How I may bear me here : My prime request.
Which I do last pronounce, is, 0 you wonder!
If you be maid or no ?
Alira. No wonder, sir;
But, certainly a maid.
Fer. My language ! heavens !—
I am the best of them that speak this speech.
Were I but where 'tis spoken.
Pro. How! the best ?
What- wert thou, if the king of Naples heard thee 7
Fer. A single thing, as I am now, that wonders
To hear thee speak of Naples : He does hear me;
And, that he does, I weep: myself am Naples;
Who with mine eyes, ne'er since at ebb, beheld
The king my father wreck'd.
Mira, Alack, for mercy!
Fer. Yes, faith, and aU his lords; the duke of Milan,
And his brave son, being twain.
Pro. The duke of Milan,
And his more braver daughter, could control thee,
If now 'twere fit to do't:—At the first sight [Aside,
They have chang'd eyes:—Delicate Ariel,
I'll set thee free for this!—A word, good sir;
I fear you have done yourself some wrong: a word.
Mira. Why speaks my father so ungently 7 This
Is the third man that e'er I saw ; the first
That e'er I sigh'd for: pity move my father
To be inclin'd my way!
Fer. O, if a virgin.
And your affection not gone forth, I'll make you
The queen of Naples.
Pro. Soft, sir ; one word more.—
They are both in either's powers; but this swift business [Aside.
I must uneasy make, lest too light winning
Make the prize light.—One word more; I charge thee.
That thou attend me: thou dost here usurp
The name thou ow'st not; and hast put thyself
Upon this island as a spy, to win it
From me, the lord on't.
Fer. No, as I am a man.
Mira. There's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple:
If the ill spirit have so fair an house.
Good thin^ will strive to dwell with't.
Pro. Follow me.— [To Feed,
Speak not you for him; he's a traitor.—Come.
184
shaesfeaeian header.
I'll manacle thy neck and feet together;
Sea-water shalt thou drink, thy food shall be
The fresh-brook muscles, wither'd roots, and husks
Wherein the acorn cradled: Follow.
Fer. No;
I will resist such entertainment, till
Mine enemy has more power. [H« diawt
Mira. O dear father,
Make not too rash a trial of him, for
He's gentle, and not fearful.*
Pro. What, I say.
My foot my tutor! Put thy sword up, traitor;
Who mak'st a show, but dar'st not strike, thy conscience
Is so possess'd with guilt: come; from thy ward ;
For I can here disarm thee with tiiis stick.
And make thy weapon drop.
Mira. Beseech you, father!
Pro. Hence; hang not oh my garments.
Mira. Sir, have pity,
I'll be his surety.
Pro. Silence! one word more
Shall make me chide thee, if not hate thee. What!
An advocate for an impostor ? hush !
Thou think'st there are no more such shapes as he.
Having seen but him and Caliban: Foolish wench!
To the most of men this is a Caliban,
And they to him are angels.
Mira. My ailbctions
Are then most humble; I have no ambition
To see a goodlier man.
Pro. Come on; obey:
Thy nerves are in their infancy again.
And have no vigor in them.
Fer. So they are:
My spirits, as in a dream, are all bound up.
My father's loss, the weakness which I feel.
The wreck of all my friends, or this man's threats.
To whom I am subdued, are but light to me.
Might I but through my prison once a day
Behold this maid: all corners else of the earth
Let liberty make use of; space enough
Have I, in such a prison.
Pro. It works:—Come on.—
Thou hast done well, fine Ariel!—Follow me.— [ To Ferd. and Mm.
Hark, what thou else shalt do me. \To Azisu
Mira. Be of comftirt;
My father's of a better nature, sir.
* Frightfol
THE TEMPEST.
185
Than he appears by speech; this is unwonted,
Which now came from him.
Pro. Thou shalt be as free
As mountain winds; but then exactly do
All points of my command.
Ari. To the syllable.
Pro. Come, follow: speak not for him. \Exeunt,
Ferdinand is compelled, by the power of Prospero, to assume the menial employmeii
of an attendant on the Magician, the more readily to bring the young Prince .^to an w
quaintance with Miranda, who regards him with affection.^
ACT III.
SCENE I,—Brfore Prospero's CelL
Enter Ferdinand, hearing a log,
Fer. There be some sports are painful; but their labor
Delight in them sets off; some kinds of baseness
Are nobly undergone; and most poor matters
Point to rich ends. This my mean task would be
As heavy to me, as 'tis odious; but
The mistress, which I serve, quickens what's dead.
And makes my labors pleasures : O, she is
Ten times more gentle than her father's crabbed;
And he's compos d of harshness. I must remove
Some thousands of these logs, and pile tliem up.
Upon a sore injunction: My sweet mistress
Weeps when she sees me work ; and says, such baseness
Had ne'er like executor. I forget:
But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my labors ;
Most busy, least when 1 do it.
Enter Miranda, and Prospero at a distance.
Mira. Alas, now! pray you
Work not so hard ; I would the lightning had
Burnt up those logs, that you are enjoin'd to pile!
Pray, set it down, and rest you : when this bums,
'Twill weep for liaving wearied you: My father
Is hard at study; pray now, rest yourself;
He's safe for these three hours.
Fer. O most dear mistress.
The sun will set, before I shall discharge
What I must strive to do.
Mira. If you'll sit down,
I'll bear your logs the while; Pray, give me that;
I'll carry it to the pile.
Fer. No: precious creature!
/had ratlier crack my sinews, break my back.
186
SHAESFEARIAN READER.
Than you should such dishonor undergo,
While I sit lazy by.
Mira. It would become me
As well as it does you: and I should do it
With much more ease; for my good will is to it,
And yours it is against.
Pro. Poor worm ! thou art infeoted ;
This visitation shows it.
Mira. You look wearily.
Fer. No, noble mistress; 'tis fresh morning with me
When you are by at night. I do beseech you,
(Chiefly, that I might set it in my prayers,)
What is your name ?
Mira. Miranda:—0 my father,
I have broke your best to say so!
Fer. Admir'd Miranda!
Indeed, the top of admiration ; worth
What's dearest to the world ! Full many a lady
I have ey'd with best regard; and many a time
The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage
Brought my too diligent ear: for several virtues
Have I lik'd several women; never any
With so full soul, but some defect in her
Did quarrel with the noblest grace she ow'd.
And put it to the foil: But you, O you.
So perfect and so peerless, are created
Of every creature's best.
Mira. I do not know
One of my sex; no woman's face remember.
Save, from my glass, mine own; nor have I seen
More that I may call men, than you, good friend,
And my dear father: how features are abroad,
I am skilless of; but, by my modesty,
(The jewel in my dower,) I would not wish
Any companion in the world but you;
Nor can imagination form a shape.
Beside yourself, to like of; But I prattle
Something too widely, and my father's precepts
I therein do forget.
Fer. I am, in my condition,
A prince, Miranda; I do tiiink, a king;
(I would, not so!) and would no more endure
This wooden slavery, than I would sufier
The flesh-fly blow my mouth.—Hear my soul speak ■
The very instant that I saw you, did
My heart fly to your service; there resides.
To make me slave to it; and for your sake.
Am I this patient log-man.
Mira. Do you love me ?
THE TEMPEST.
187
Fer. O heaven, O earth, bear witness to this sound
And crown what I profess with kind event.
If I speak true; if liollowly, invert
What best is boded me, to mischief! I,
Beyond all limit of what else i' the world,
Do love, prize, honor you.
Mira. I am a fool,
To weep at what I am glad of.
Pro. Fair encounter
Of two most rare affections! Heavens rain grace
On that which breeds between them!
Fer. Wherefore weep you 1
Mira. At mine unworthiness, that dare not offer
What I desire to give; and much less take.
What I shall die to want: But this is trifling;
And all the more it seeks to hide itself.
The bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful cunning!
And prompt me, plain and holy innocence!
I am your wife, if you will marry me;
If not, I'll die your maid; to be your fellow
You may deny me; but I'll be your servant.
Whether you will or no.
Fer. • My mistress, dearest.
And I thus humble ever.
Mira. My husband then ?
Fer. Ay, with a heart as willing
As bondage e'er of freedom: here's my hand.
Mira. And mine, with my heart in't: And now farewell,
^ Till half an hour hence.
Fer. A thousand ! thousand !
{Exeunt Fer. and Mis.
Pro. So glad of this as they, I cannot be.
Who are surpris'd with all *, but my rejoicing
At nothing can be more. I'll to my book;
For yet ere supper time, must I perform
Much business appertaining. [Exit.
Caliban and Ariel, under the direction of Prospero, take charge of the oth^ cnaracten
saved from the wreck. Caliban, to whom is confided the care of the Sailors, draws
them into a conspiracy to destroy Prospero. The King and his Company are brooght by
Ariel to another part of the Island.
Enter Alonzo, Sebastian, Antonio, Gonzalo, Adrian, Francisco,
and others.
Gon. By'r la'kin, I can go no further, sir ; >■
My old bones ache: here's a maze trod, indeed.
Through forth-rights and meanders! by your patience,
« needs must rest me.'
Alon. Old lord, I cannot blame thee,
188
SHAESPEAItlAN BEADEB.
Who am myself attach'd with weariness,
To the dulling of my spirits: sit down, and rest.
Even here 1 will put off my hope, and keep it
No longer for my flatterer : he is drown'd.
Whom thus we stray to find; and the sea mocks
Our frustrate search on land: Well, let him go.
ArU. I am right glad that he's so out of hope.
[Aside io Sebastiah
I)o not, for one repulse, forego the purpose
That you resolv'd to effect.
Seb. The next advantage
Will we take thoroughly.
Am. Let it be to-nieht;
For, now they are oppress'd with travel, they
Will not, nor cannot, use such vigilance.
As when they are fresh.
Seb. I say, to-night: no more.
Solemn and strange music; and Prospero above, invisible. Enter
several strange Shapes, bringing in a banquet; they dance about it
withgemle actions of salutation; and inviting the King, <^'C. to eat
they depart.
Alon. What harmony is this ? my good friends, hark!
Gon. Marvellous sweet music!
Akm. Give us kind keepers, heavens! What were these ?
Seb. A living drollery: Now I will believe
That there are unicorns; that, in Arabia
There is one tree, the phmnix' throne; one phcenix
At this hour reigning there.
Ant. I'll believe both;
And what does else want credit, come to me.
And I'll be sworn 'tis true; Travellers ne'er did lie.
Though fools at home condemn them.
Gon. If in Naples
I should report this now, would they believe me ?
If I should say, I saw such islanders,
(For, certes, these are people of the island,)
Who, though they are of monstrous shape, yet, note.
Their manner^are more gentle-kind, than of
Our human.generation you shall find -
Many, nay, tUmost any.
Pro. [Aside.] Honest lord
Thou hast said well; for some of you mere present.
Are worse than demons.
■" A'on. I cannot too much muse.
Such shapes, such gesture, and such sound, expressing
(Although they want the use of tongue) a kind
Of excellent dumb discourse.
Pro. [Aside.'] Praise in departing.
THE TEMPEST.
189
Fran. They vanish'd strangely.
Seb. No matter, since
They have left their viands behind; for we have stomachs.—
Will't please you taste of what is here ?
Alon. Not I.
Oon. Faith, sir, you peed not fear: When we were boys.
Who would believe that there were mountaineers,
Dew-lapp'd like bulls, whose throats had hanging at them
Wallets of flesh ? or that there were such men.
Whose heads stood in their breasts ? which now we find.
Each putter-out on five for one, will bring us
Good warrant of.
Alon. I will stand to, and feed.
Although my last: no matter, since I feel.
The best is past:—^Brother, my lord the duke.
Stand to, and do as we.
Thunder and lightning. Enter Ariei. like a harpy; claps his
vnngs upon the table, and toith a quaint device, the banquet vanishes.
Art. You are three men of sin, whom destiny
(That hath to instrument this lower world.
And what is in't,) the never-surfeited sea
Hath caused to belch up ; and on this island
Where man doth "not inhabit; you 'mongst men
Being most unfit to live. I have made you mad;
[Seeing Alon. Seb. <f-c. draw their swords.
And even v;ith such like valor, men hang and drown
Their proper selves. You fools! I and my fellows
Are ministers of fate; the elements.
Of whom your swords are temper'd, may as well
Wound the loud winds, or with bemock'd-at stabs
Kill the still-closing waters, as diminish
One dowle that's in my plume; my fellow ministers
Are like invulnerable: if you could hurt.
Your swords are now too massy for your strengths,
And will not be uplifted: But, remember,
(For that's my business to you,) that you three
From Milan did supplant good Prospero;
Expos'd unto the sea, which hath requit it.
Him, and his innocent child : for which foul deed
The powers, delaying, not forgetting, have
Incens'd the seas and shores, yea, all the creatures,
Against your peace: Thee, of thy son, Alonzo,
They have bereft; and do pronounce by me,
Ling'ring perdition (worse than any death
Can be at once) shall step by step attend
Yon, and your ways; whose wraths to guard you from
(Which here, in this most desolate isle, else falls
TJpon your heads,) is nothing, but heart's sorrow,
And a clear life ensuing.
190
SHAKSFEARIAN READER.
He vanishes in thunder: then, to soft music, enter the Shapes again,
and dance with mops and mowes, and carry out the table.
Pro. [Asi<fe.] Bravely the figure of this harpy hast thou
Perform'd, my Ariel; a grace it had, devouring:
Of my instruction hast thou nothing 'bated,
In wW thou hadst to say : so, with good life.
And observation strange, my meaner ministers
Their several kinds have done: my high chatms work.
And these, mine enemies, are all knit up
In their distractions: they now are in my power;
And in these fits I leave them, whilst I visit
Young Ferdinand, (whom they suppose isdrown'd,) ,
And his and my loved darling. [ExiiVnosrEno from above.
Gon. r the name of something holy, sir, why stand you -
In this strange stare ?
Alon. O, it is monstrous! monstrous!
Methoiight, the billows spoke, and told me of it;
The winds did sing it to me; and the thunder.
That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounc'd
The name of Prosper; it did bass my trespass.
Therefore my son i' the ooze is bedded; and
I'll seek him deeper than e'er plummet sounded.
And with him there lie mudded. [Exit,
Seb. But one fiend at a time,
I'll fight their legions o'er.
Anl. I'll be thy second. [Exeunt Seb. and Art.
Gon. All three of them are desperate; their great guilt.
Like poison given to work a great time after.
Now 'gins to bite the spirits:—I do beseech you
That are of suppler joints, follow them swiftly.
And hinder them from what tliis ecstasy
May now provoke them to.
Adr. Follow, I pray you. [Exeunt
ACT IV.
SCENE I.—Before Prospero's Cell.
Enter Peospero, FEKDraAND, and !Miearda
Pro. If I have too austerely punish'd you.
Your compensation makes amends; for I
Have given yon here a thread of mine own life,
Or that for which I live; whom once again
I tender to tliy hand: all thy vexations
Were but my trials of thy love, and thou
Hast strangely stood the test: here, afore Heaven,
THE TEMPEST.
191
I ratify this nsy rich gift. O, Ferdinand,
Do not smile at me, that I Ix^t her off,
For thou shaft find she will outstrip all prmse,
And make it halt behind her.
Fer. I do believe it,
Against an oracle.
Pro. Then, as my gift, and thine own acquisition
Worthily purchas'd, take my daughter: But not
Till sanctimonious ceremonies may
With full and holy rite be minister'd:
Then Hymen's lamps shall light you.
Fer. As I hope
For quiet days, fair issue, and long life.
With such love as 'tis now; the strong'st suggestion
Our worser Genius can, shall never taint
Mine honor.
Pro. Fairly spoke:
Sit then, and talk with her, she is thine own.—
What, Ariel: my industrious servant Ariel!
Enter Ariel.
Ari. What would my potent master ? here I am.
Pro. Thou and thy meaner fellows your last service
Did worthily perform; and I must use you
In such another trick: go, bring the rabble.
O'er whom I give thee power, here, to this p.ace:
Incite them to quick motion; for I must
Bestow upon the eyes of this young couple
Some vanity of mine art; it is my promise.
And they expect it from me.
Ari. Presently ?
Pro. Aye, with a twink.
Ari. Before you can say, Come, and go,
And breathe twice; and cry, so, so;
Each one, tripping on his toe.
Will be here with mop and mowe:
Do you love me, master ? no ?
Pro. Dearly, my delicate Ariel: Do not approach,
Till thou dost hear me call.
Ari. Well I conceive. | JBxtfc
Pro. Look, thou be true.
Fer. I warrant you, sir.
Pro. Well.—
Now come, my Ariel: bring a corollary.
Rather than want a spirit: appear, and pertly.—
No tongue; all eyes: be silent. [Sq^ music
A Masque. Enter Ibis.
Iris. Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy rich leas
Of wheat, rye, barley, vetches, oats, and pease;
192
SHAESFEAKIAN SEASEB.
Thy turfy mountains, where live nibbling sheep,
And flat meads thatch'd with stover, them to keep;
Thy banks with peonied and lilied brims.
With spongy April at thy hest* betrims.
To make cold nymphs chaste crowns; and thy broom groves,
Whose shadow the dismissed bachelor loves.
Being lass-lorn; thy pole-clipt vineyard ;
And thy sea-marge, steril, and rocky-hard.
Where thou thyself dost air: The queen o' the sky,
Whose watery arch, and messenger,, am I,
Bids tiiee leave these; and with her sovereign grace,
Here on this grass-plot, in this very place.
To come and sport: her peacocks fly amain;
Approach, rich Ceres, her. to entertain.
ErOer Ceres.
Cer. Hail many-color'd messenger, that ne'er
Dost disobey the wife of Jupiter.
Who, with thy safiVon wing, upon my flowers
Diflusest honey-drops, refreshing showers;
And with each end of thy blue bow dost crown
My bosky acres, and my unshrubb'd down.
Rich scarf to my proud earth; Why hath thy queen
Summon'd me hither, to this short-grass'd green ?
Iris. A contract of true love to celebrate;
And some donation freely to estate
On the bless'd lovers.
Cer. Tell me, heavenly bow.
If Venus, or her son, as thou dost know.
Do now attend the queen ? since they did plot
The means, that dusky Dis my daughter got.
Her and her blind boy's scandal'd company"
I have forsworn.
Iris. Of her society
Be not afraid; I met her deity
Cutting the clouds towards Paphos; and her son
Dove-drawn with her.
Cer. Highest queen of state,
Great Juno comes : I know her by her gait.
Enter JttNO.
Jun. How does my bounteous sister ? Go with me.
To bless this twain, that they may prosperous be
&nd honor'd in their issue.
SONG.
Jun. Horwr, riches, marriage-blessing.
Long continuance, and increasing;
* Commani.
THE TEMFEST.
183
Hourly joys he still upon you !
Juno sinqs her blessings on yott.
Oer. Earth's increase, and foison* plenty.
Bams and gamers never empty ;
Vines, with clust'ring bunches growing ■
Plants, with goodly burden bowing ;
Spring come to you, at the farthest.
In the very end of harvest!
Scarcity and want shall shun you ;
Ceres' blessing so is on you.
Fer. This is a most majestic vision, and
Harmonious charmingly: May 1 be bold
To think these spirits ?
Pro. Spirits, which by mine art
I have from their confines cmled to enact
My present fancies.
Fer. Let me live here ever;
So rare a wonder'd father, and a wife,
Make this place Paradise.
[Juno and Cekes whisper, and send Ieis on employment.
Pro. Sweet now, silence;
Jnno and Ceres whisper seriously ;
There's something else to do : hush, and be mute.
Or else our spell is marr'd
Iris. You nymphs, call'd Naiads, of the wand'ring brocks,
With your sedg'd crowns, ^nd ever harmless looks,
Leave your crisp channels, and on this green land
Answer your summons : Juno does command ;
Come, temperate nymphs, and help to celebrate
A contract of true love; he not too late.
Enter certain Nymphs.
You sun-burn'd sicklemen of August weary,
Come hittier from the furrow, and be merry;
Make holiday : your rye-stmw hats put on.
And these fresh nymphs encounter every one
In country footing.
Enter certain Reape"", properly habited; they join with the Nymphs
in a graceful dance; Ujwards the end whereof Prospero starts ■
suddenly, and speaks ; after which, to a strange, hollow, and con¬
fused noise, they heavily vanish.
Pro. [Aside.] I had forgot that foul conspiracy
Of the beast Caliban, and his confederates.
Against my life ; the minute of their plot
Is almost come.— [To the Spirits.] Well done;—avoid;—no moro.
Fe>. This is most strange : your father's in some passion
That works him strongly.
* Abtmdanca.
10
194
SHAKSPEAEIAN READEK.
Mira. i Never till this day,
Saw I him touch'd with anger so distemper'd.
Pro. You do look, my son, in a mov'd sort ^
As if you were dismay'd : be cheerful, sir:
Our revels now are ended: these our actors.
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces.
The solemn temples, the great globe itself.
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve;
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded.
Leave not a rack behind: We are such stuff
As dreams are made of, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.—Sir, I am vex'd;
Bear with my weakness ; my old brain is troubled.
Be not disturb'd with my infirmity:
If you be pleas'd, retire into my cell.
And there repose; a turn or two I'll walk.
To still my beating mind.
Fer. Mira. We wish your peace. [Exeunt.
Prospero defeats the Plot laid by Caliban, and punishes the C^jspifBton thmiii^ Qm
agency of his attendant spirits.
ACT V.
SCENE I.—Before ihe CeZZ q/" Prospero.
Enter Prospero in his magic robes; and Ariel.
Pro. Now does my project gather to a head:
My charms crack not; my spirits obey; and time
Goes upright with his carriage. How's the day ?
Ari. On the sixth hour; at which time, my lord.
You said our work should cease.
Pro. I did say so.
When first I rais'd the tempest. Say, my spirit,
How fares the king and his 1
Ari. Confin'd together
In the same fashion as you gave in charge;
Just as you left them, sir; all prisoners
In the lime-grove which weather-fends your cell;
They cannot budge, till your release. The king.
His brother, and yours, abide all three distracted ;
And the remainder mourning over them.
Brim-full of sorrow and dismay; but chiefly
Him you term'd, sir. The good oil lord, Gomalo;
His tears run down his beard, like winter's drops
From eaves of reeds: your cliarm so strongly works them,
That if you now beheld them, your affections
Would become tender.
THE TEMPEST.
193
Pro. Dost thou think so, spirit ?
Ari. Mine would, sir, were I human.
Pro. • And mine shall.
Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling
Of their afflictions ? and shall not myself.
One of their kind, that relish all as sharph".
Passion as they, be kindlier mov'd than tKou art ?
Though with their high wrongs I am struck to the quick.
Yet, with my nobler reason 'gainst my fury
Do 1 take part: the rarer action is
In virtue than in vengeance : they being penitent.
The sole drift of my purpose doth extend
Not a frown further; Go, release them, Ariel;
My charms I'll break, their senses I'll restore.
And they shall be themselves.
Ari. I'll fetch them, sir.
Pro. Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and grovxxt;
And ye, that on the sands with printless loot
Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him.
When he comes back; you demi-puppets, that
By moonshine do the green-sour ringlets make.
Whereof the ewe not bites; and ycu, whose pastime
Is to make midnight-mushrooms ; tiiat rejoice
To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid
(Weak masters though ye hie),,I have bedimm'd
The noontide sun, cml'd forth the mutinous winds.
And 'twixt the green sea and the a/.ur'd vault
Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder
Have I given fire, and rifted Jove's stout oak
With his own bolt; the strong-bas'd promontory
Have I made shake; and by the spurs pluck'd up
The pine and cedar: graves, at my command.
Have waked their sleepers; oped, and let them forth
By my so potent art: But this rough magic
I here abjure : and, when I have requir'd
Some heavenly music, (which even now I do,)
To work mine end upon their senses, that
This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff.
Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,
And, deeper than did ever plummet sound,
I'll drown my book. [/Solemn music
Re-enter Ariel ; after Mm, Alonzo, with a frantic gesture, attended
by Gonzalo ; 'Sebastian and Antonio in like manner, attended
by Adrian and Francisco : they all enter the circle which Pros-
pf.ro had made, and there stand charmed; which Prospero ob¬
serving, speaks.
A solemn air, and the best comforter
To an unsetded fancy, cure thy brains.
196
shakspearian seadeb.
Now nseless, boil'd within thy skull! There stand.
For you are spell stopp'd.
Holy Gonzalo, honorable man,
Mine eyes, even sociable to the show of thine,
Fall fellowly drops.—^The charm dissolves apace;
And as the morning steals upon the night.
Melting the darkness, so their rising senses
Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle
Their clearer reason.—O my good Gonzalo,
My true preserver, and a loyal sir
To him thou follow'st; I will pay thy graces
Home, both in word and deed.—Most cruelly
Didst thou, Alonzo, use me and my daughter:
Thy brother was a furtherer in the act;—
Thou'rt pinch'd for't now, Sebastian.—Flesh and blood,
You brother mine, that entertain'd ambition,
Expell'd remorse and nature; who, with Sebastian
(Whose inward pinches therefore are most strong,)
Would have kill'd your king; I do forgive thee.
Unnatural though thou art!—Their understanding
Begins to swell; and the approaching tide
Will shortly fill the reasonable shores.
That now lie foul and muddy. Not one of them.
That yet looks on me, or would know me;—Ariel,
Fetch me the hat and rapier in my cell; {Exit AmBfi
1 will dis-case me, and myself present.
As I was sometime Milan :—quickly, spirit;
Thou shalt ere long be free.
Ariel re-enters, singing, and helps to attire Peospero.
Ari. Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslip's bell I lie ;
There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bat's back I do Jly,
After summer, merrily :
Merrily, merrily, shall I live now.
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
Pro. Why, that's my dainty Ariel: I shall miss thee;
But yet thou shalt have freedom : so, so, so
To the king's ship, invisible as thou art:
There shalt thou find the mariners asleep
Under the hatches; the master, and the boatswain.
Being awake, enforce them to tiiis place;
And presently, 1 pr'ythee.
Ari. I drink the air before me, and return
Or e'er your pulse twice beat. [Exit ArieU
Gon. All torment, trouble, wonder, and amazement
Inhabits here: Some heavenly power guide us
Out of this fearful country!
the tempest.
197
Pro. BehoFd, sir king,
The wronged Dnke of Milan, Prospero:
For more assurance that a living prince
Does now speak to thee, I embrace thy body;
And to thee, and thy company, I bid
A hearty welcome.
Alan. Whe'r thou beest he, or no.
Or some enchanted trifle to abuse me.
As late I have been, I not know: thy pulse
Beats, as of flesh and blood; and, since I saw thee.
The affliction of my mind amends, with which,
I fear, a madness held me: this must crave
(And if this be at all) a most strange story.
Thy dukedom I resign; and I do entreat
Thou pardon me my wrongs:—But how should Prospero
Be living, and be here ?
Pro. First, noble friend.
Let me embrace thine age; whose honor cannot
Be measur'd, or confin'd.
Gon. Whether this be,
Or be not, I'll not swear.
Pro. You do yet taste
Some subtilties o' theisle,that will not let you
Believe things certain;—Welcome, my friends all;—
But you, my brace of lords, were I so minded,
[Aside to Seb., and Ant.
I here could pluck his highness' frown upon you.
And justify you traitors; at this time
I'll tell no tales.
Seb. The devil speaks in him. [Asi<fe.
Pre No:——
For you, most wicked sir, whom to call brother
Would even infect my mouth, I do forgive
Thy rankest fault f all of them; and require
My dukedom of thee, which, perforce, I know.
Thou must restore.
Alon. If thou beest Prospero,
Give us particulars of thy preservation;
How thou hast met us here, who three hours since
Were wreck'd upon this shore; where I have lost,
How sharp the point of this remembrance is!
My dear son Ferdinand.
Pro. I am woe for't, sir.
Alon. Irreparable is the loss; and patience
Says it is past her cure.
Pro. I rather think.
You have not sought her help; of whose soft grace
For the like loss, I have her sovereign aid.
And rest myself content.
198
SHAESFEARIAN HEADER.
Alon. You the like loss 7
Pro. As great to me, as late; and, supportable
To make the dear loss, have I means much weaker
Than you may call to comfort you; for I
Have lost my daughter.
Alort. A daughter 7
0 heavens! that they were living both in Naples,
The king and queen tliere ! tliat they were, 1 wish
Myself weie mudded in that oozy bed
Where my son lies. When did you lose your daughter 7
Pro. In this last tempest. I perceive, uiese lords
At this encounter do so much admire.
That they devour their reason; and scarce think
Their eyes do offices of truth, their words
Are natural breath: but, howsoe'cr you have
Been jostled from your senses, know for certain.
That I am Prospero, and that very duke
Which was thrust forth of Milan; who most strangety.
Upon this shore, where you were wreck'd, was landed,'
To be th'3 lord on't. No more yet of this;
For 'lis a chronicle of day by day.
Not a relation for a breakfast, nor
Befitting this first meeting. Welcome, sir;
This cell's my court: here have I few attendants.
And subjects none abroad: pray you, look in.
My dukedom since you have given me again,
1 will requite you with as good a thing ;
At least bring forth a wonder, to content ye.
As much as me my dukedom.
The enirance of the Cell opens, and discovers Fekdinakd and MirandA,
playing at chess.
Mira. Sweet lord, you play me false.
Per. No, my dearest love,
I would not for the world.
Mira. Yes, for a score of kingdoms you should wrangle.
And I would call it fair piny.
Alon. If this prove
A 'vision of this island, one dear son
Shall I twice lose.
Seb. A most high miracle!
Per. Though the seas threaten, they are merciful:
I have curs'd them without cause. [Feed, knei-ls to Auont
Alon. Now all the blessings
Of a glad father compass thee about!
Arise, and say how thou cam'st here.
Mira. O! wonder!
How many goodly creatures are there here!
How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world.
That has such people in't!
the tempest.
199
Pro. 'Tis new to thee.
Alon. What is this maid, with whom thon wast at play 7
your eld'st acquaintance cannot be three hours;
Is she the goddess that hath sever'd us,
And brought us thus together 7
Fer. Sir, she's mortal;
But, by immortal providertce, she's mine;
I chose her, when I could not ask my father
For his advice; nor thought I had one: she
Is daughter to this famous Duke of Milan.
Of whom so often I have heard renown,
But never saw before; of whom I have
Received a second life, and second-father
This lady makes him to me.
Alon. I am hers:
But O, how oddly will it sound, that I
Must ask my child forgiveness !
Pro. There, sir, stop;
Let us not burden our remembrances
With a heaviness that's gone.
Gon. I have inly wept.
Or should have spoke ere this. Look down, you gods.
And on this couple drop a blessed crown;
For it is you, that have chalk'd forth the way
Which brought us hither!
Alon. I say. Amen, Gonzalo!
Give me your hands: [To Fer. and Mir.
Let grief and sorrow still embrace his heart.
That doth not wish you joy!
Gon. ' Be't so! Amen 1
Re-enter Ariel, with the Master and Boatswain amazedly following,
0 look, sir, look, sir; here are more of us!
1 prophesied, if a gallows were on land.
This fellow could not drown; Now, blasphemy.
Hast thou no mouth by land ? What is the news 7
Boats. The best news is, that we have safely found
Our king, and company; the next our ship,—
Which, but three glasses since, we gave out split,—
Is tight, and yare, and bravely rigg'd, as when
We first put out to sea.'
Ari. Sir, all this service 'i
Have I done since I went. r [Aside
Pro. My tricksy spirit! j
Alon. These are not natural events; they strengthen.
From strange to stranger:—Say, how came you hither 7
Boats. If I did think, sir, I were well awake,
I'd strive to tell you. We were dead of sleep.
And (how, we knov uot) all clapp'd under hatches,
200
SHAESPEASIAN EEADES.
Where, but even now, with strange and several noises
Of roaring, shrieking, howling, gingling chains.
And more diversity of sounds ^1 horrible.
We were awak'd; straightway, at liberty;
Where we, in all her trim, freshly beheld
Our royal, good, and gallant ship; our master
Capering to eye her: On a-trice, so please you,
Even in a dream, we were divided from them,
And were brought moping hither.
Ari. Was't well done ? ? [Aside.
Pro. Bravely, my diligence. Thou shalt be free. J '■
Alon. This is as strange a maze as e'er men trod:
And tliere is in this business more than nature
Was ever conduct of: some oracle
Must rectify our knowledge.
Pro. Sir, my liege.
Do- not infest your mind with beating on
The strangeness of this business: at pick'd leisure.
Which shall be shortly, single I'll resolve you
(Which to you shall seem probable), of every
These happen'd accidents; till when, be cheerful.
And think of each thing well.—Come hither, spirit; [Asufe.
Set Caliban and his companions free:
Untie the spell. [Exit AsiEia
Sir, I invite your highness, and your train.
To my poor cell: where you shall take your rest
For this one night; which (part of it) I'll waste
With such discourse, as, I not doubt, shall make it
Go quick away: the story of my life.
And the particular accidents, gone by.
Since I came to this isle: And in the mom
I'll bring you to your ship, and so to Naples,
Where I have hope to see the nuptial
Of these our dear-beloved solemniz'd ;
And thence retire me to my Milan, where
Every third thought shall be my grave.
Alon. I long
To hear the story of your life, which must
Take the ear strangely..
Pro. I'll deliver all;
And promise you calm seas, auspicious ^es, '
And sail so expeditious, that shall catch
Your royal fleet far off.—My Ariel;—chick,-^
That is thy chaise; then to the elements
Be free, and fare thou well!—
■ Exeunt.
ROMEO AND JULIET.
The story of Roifieo aad Jatiet is considered to be hbtorically tme; the Veronese fii
Ihe date of this tragedy as I3( 3.
**The history of the fair Capnlet and her loved Montagne/' famished themes ton
novelists, and had inspired the ninse of the Poets, previous to Sliakspea e*8 time: lie
has availed himself of these labors to cons^oct his exqaislte Drama; the inimitt^Ie cha*
tacter of Mercntio, however, is an entirely original creation of the Dramatist
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
Escalus, Prince of Verona.
Pari^, a young nobleman, kinsman to the Prince.
Capci et"^' i "fhouses, at variance with each other.
An old man, uncle to Capulet.
Romeo, son to Montague.
Mercutio, kinsman to the Prince, and friend to Romeo.
Benvolio, nephew to Montague, and friend to Romeo.
Tvbai.t, nephew to Lady Capulet.
Friar Laurence, a Franciscan.
Friar John, of the same order.
Balthazar, servant to Romeo.
, Sampson, Gregory, servants to Capulet.
Abram, servant to Montague.
An Apothecary. Three Musicians.
Chorus. Boy. Page to Paris.
Peter. An Officer.
Lady Montague, wife to Montague.
Lady Capulet, wife to Capulet.
Juliet, daughter to Capulet.
Nurse to Juliet.
Citizens of Verona ; several Men and Women, relations to both houses
Maskers, Guards, Watchmen, and Attendav's,
SCENE,—during the greater part of the Play, in Verona ; once, in the
Fifth Act, at Mantua.
10*
202
sbaespearian reader.
The rival Houses of Capniet and Montague were two of the most distin^isned Faral
lies in Verona: An ** ancient grudge** existed between these Houses, and ** civil brawls*
were constantly occnrring between them, in which the connections and retainers of the
opposing heads took part. The Play opens with one of these outbreaks: In tbo midst
of the fray, the Prince of Verona appears, separates the combatants, and declares to Ca-
pulet and Montague—
" If ever you disturb our streets again.
Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.**
Montague and his kinsman Benvolio discourse on the late fray. Romeo joins thent
ACT 1.
SCENE L
Enter Montague, lady Montague, and Benvolio.
Mm. Who set this ancient quarrel now abroach ?—
Speak, nephew, were you by, when it began ?
Ben. Here were the servants of your adversary.
And yours, close fighting ere I did approach :
I drew to part them; in the instant came
The fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepar'd;
Which, as he breath'd defiance to my ears.
He swung about his head, and cut the winds:
While we were interchanging thrusts and blows,
Came more and more, and fought on part and part.
Till the prince -came, who parted either part.
La. Man. O, where is Romeo!—saw you him to^ay
Ri^t glad I am, he was not at this fray.
Ben. Madam, an hour before the worshipp'd sun
Peer'd forth the golden window of the east,
A troubled mind drave me to walk abroad;
Where,—underneath the grove of sycamore.
That westward rooteth from the city's side,— •
So early walking did I see your son : *
Towards him I made; but he was 'ware of me.
And stole into the covert of the wood;
I, measuring his affections by my own,—
"That most are busied when they are most alone,—
Pursu'd my humor, not pursuing his,
And gladly shunn'd who gladly fled from me.
Mm. Many a morning hath he there been seen,
With tears augmenting the fresh morning's dew,
Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs;
But all so soon as the all-cheering sun
Should in the further east begin to draw
The shady curtains from Aurora's bed.
Away from light -steals home my heavy son.
And private in his chamber pens himself;
Shuts up his windows, locks fair daylight out.
ROMEO AND JULIET.
203
And makca himself an artificial night:
Black and poi lentous must this humor prove,
Unless good counsel may the cause remove.
Ben. My noble uncle, do you know the cause 1
Man. I neither know it, nor can learn of him.
Ben. Have you importun'd him by any means 'f
Mon. Both by myself, and many other friends;
But he, his own affections' counsellor.
Is to himself—I will not say, how true—
But to himself so secret and so close.
So far from sounding and discovery.
As is the bud bit with an envious worm.
Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air.
Or dedicate his beauty to tlie sun.
Could we but learn from whence his sorrows grow.
We would as willingly give cure, as know".
ErUer Romeo, at a distance.
Ben. See,- where he comes: So please you, step aside;
I'll know his grievance, or be much denied.
Mon. I would, thou wert so happy by thy stay.
To hear true shrift.—Come, madam, let's away.
\^Exeunt Montague, and Lady
Ben. Good morrow, cousin.
Rom. Is the day so young?
Ben. But new struck nine.
R<m. Ah me ! sad hours seem long.
Was that my father that went hence so fast ?
Ben. It was :—What sadness lengthens Romeo's hours 1
Rom. Not liaving that, which, having, makes them short.
Ben. In love; meseems!
Alas, that love, so gentle in his view.
Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof!
Rom. Alas, that love, whose view is muffled still.
Should, without eyes, see pathways to his will!
Where shall we dine ?—O me!—^What fray was here ?
Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all.
Here's much to do with hate, but more with love;—
O heavy lightness! serious vanity !
Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms!
This love feel I, that feel no love in this.
Dost thou not laugh 1
Ben. No, coz, I rather weep.
Rom. Good heart, at what ?
Ben. At thy good heart's oppression.
Rom. Why, such is love's transgression.—
Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast;
Which thou wilt propagate, to have it^irest
With more of thine: this love, that thou hast shown.
Doth add more grief to too much of mine own.
204
SHAKSPEAEIAN READER.
l.ove is a smoke rais'd with the fume of sighs;
Being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes;
Being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears :
What is it else ? a madness most discreet,
A choking gall, and a preserving sweet.
Farewell, my coz. [doing
Ben. Soft, I will go along;
An if you leave me so, you do me wrong.
Rom. Tut, 1 have lost myself; I am not here;
This is not Romeo, he's some other where.
Ben. Tell me in sadness, who she is you love.
Rom. In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman.
Ben. I aim'd so near, when I suppos'd you lov'd.
Rom. A right good marksman !—And she's fair I lOve.
Ben. A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit.
Rom. Well, in that hit, you miss : she'll not be hit
With Cupid's arrow. She hath Dian's wit;
And, in strong proof of chastity well arm'd.
From love's weak childish bow she lives unharm'd.
She will not stay the siege of loving terms,
Nor bide the encounter of assailing eyes.
Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold:
O ! she is rich in beauty ; only poor.
That when she dies, with beauty dies her store.
She is too fair, too wise; wisely too fair.
To merit bliss by making me despair:
She hath forsworn to love ; and, in that vow.
Do I live dead, that live to tell it now.
Ben. Be rul'd by me, forget to think of her.
Rom. O teach me how I should forget to think.
Ben. By giving liberty unto thine eyes ;
Examine other beauties.
Rom. 'Tis the way
To call hers, exquisite, in question more :
These happy masks, that kiss fair ladies' brows,
Being black, put us in mind they hide the fair;
He, that is stricken blind, cannot forget
The precious treasure of his eyesight lost:
Show me a mistress that is passing fair.
What doth her beauty serve, but as a note
Where I may read, who pass'd that passing fair ?
Farewell; thou canst not teach me to f jrget.
Ben. I'll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt. [Exeunt
The •• County Paris loves the lady Joliet, anu receives her father's permission to pre
fer his salt.—Capalet gives an entertainment, to which he invites yonng Paris: Atth>
feast the fair Rosaline is also to be a guest, and Romeo is persuaded bf hb consii
stenvoUo^to attend, that he may—
*' Compare her face with some that I shall show.
And I will make thee think thy swan a cow."
nOMEO and juliet.
205
SCENE III.—A Room in Capulet's House.
Enter Lady Cafulet, and Nurse.
La. Cap. Nurse, where's my daughter? call her forth to me.
Nurse. Now, by my faith,—at twelve year old.
I bade her come.—What, lamb! what, lady-bird i
Heaven forbid! where's this girl ?—what Juliet!
Enter Juliet
Jul. How now, who calls ?
Nurse. Your mother.
Jul. Madam, I am her*
What is your will ?
La. Cap. This is the matter:—Nurse, give leave awhile,
We must talk in secret.—Nurse, come back again ;
I have remember'd me, thou shalt hear our counsel.
Thou know'st, my daughter's of a pretty age.
Nurse. 'Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour.
La. Cap. She's not fourteen.
Nurse. I'll lay fourteen of my teeth,
And yet, to my teen be it spoken, I have but four,—
She is not fourteen.—How long is it now
To Lammas-tide ?
La. Cap. A fortnight, and odd days.
Nurse. Even or odd, of all days in the year,
"Come Lammas-eve at night, shall she be eighteen.
Heaven mark thee to its grtice !
Thou wast the prettiest babe that e'er I nurs'd.
An I miffht live to see thee married once,
I have my wish.
La. Cap. Marry, that marry is the very theme
I came to talk of:—Tell me, daughter Juliet,
How stands your disposiJon to be married ?
Jul. It is an honor that I dream not of.
La. Cap. Well, think of marriage now.
Thus then, in brief,—
,The valiant Paris seeks you for his love.
Nurse. A man, voung lady ! lady, such a man.
As all the world—^VVhy, he's a man of wax.
La. Cap. Verona's summer hath not such a flower.
Nurse. Nay, he's a flower; in faith, a very flower.
La. Cap. What say you ? can you love the gentleman I
This night you shall behold him at our feast:
Speak briefly, can you like of Paris' love ?
Jul. I'll look to lile, if looking liking move:
But no more deep w II I endart mine eye.
Than your consent gives strength to make it fly.
206
shakspearian reader.
Enter a Servant.
8erv. Madam, the guests are come, supper served up, you called,
my young lady asked for, the nurse wanted in the pantry, and every
thing in extremity. I must hence to wait; I beseech you, follow
straight.
ha. Cap. We follow thee.—Juliet, the county stays. [Exeuni
SCENE IV.—A Street.
Enter Romeo, Mercutio, Benvolio, loith Five or Six Maskers
Torch-bearers, and others.
Rom. What, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse 1
Or shall we on without apology ?
Ben. The date is out of such prolixity :
We'll have no Cupid hood-wink'il with a scarf.
Bearing a Tartar's painted bow of lath.
Scaring the ladies like a crow-keeper ;
Nor no without-book prologue, faintly spoke
After the prompter, for our entrance:
But let them measure us by what they will.
We'll measure them a measure, and be gone.
Rom. Give me a torch,—I am not for this ambling;
Being but heavy, I will bear the light.
Mer. Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.
■ Rom. Not 1, believe me : you have dancing shoes.
With nimble soles : I have a soul of lead.
So stakes me to the ground, I cannot move.
Mer. You are a lover; borrow Cupid's wings.
And soar with tliem above a common bound.
Rom. I am too sore enpierced with his shaft.
To soar with his light feathers ; and so bound,
I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe:
Under love's heavy burden do I sink.
Mer. And, to sink in it, should you burden love ;
Too great oppression for a tender thing.
Rom. Is love a tender thing ? it is too rough.
Too rude, coo boist'rous.
Mer. If love be rough with you, be rough with love;
Give me a case to put my visage in: [Putting on a mask
A visor for a visor!—what care I,
What curious eye doth quote deformities ?
Here are the beetle-brows, shall blush for me.
Ben. Come, knock, and enter; and no sooner in.
But every man betake him to his legs.
Rom. A torch for me: let wantons, light of heart,
Tickle the senseless rushes with their heels;
For I am proverb'd with a grandsire phrase,—
I'll be a candle-holder, and look on.
But 'tis no wit to go.
BOMEO AND JULIET,
207
Mer. Why, may one ask ?
Rom. I dreamt a dream to-night.
Mer. O, then, 1 see, queen Mab hath been -with yon.
She is the fairies' midwife; and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agate-stone
On tie fore-finger of an alderman.
Drawn with a Jeam of little atomies
Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep:
Her wagon-spokes made of long spinners' legs.
The cover, of the win^ of grasshoppers;
The traces, of the smmlest spider's web;
The collars, of the moonshine's wat'ry beams:
Her whip, of cricket's bone; the lash, of film;
Her wagoner, a small gray-coated gnat.
Not half so big as a round little worm
Prick'd fi-om the lazy finger of a maid:
Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut,
Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub.
Time out of mind the fairies' coach-makers.
And in this state she gallops night by night
Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love;
On courtiers' knees, that dream on court'sies straight:
O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees ;
O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream;
Sometime she gallops o'er a courtier's nose.
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit:
And sometimes comes she with a tithe-pig's tail.
Tickling a parson's nose as 'a lies asleep.
Then dreams he of another benefice :
Sometime she driveth o'er a soldier's neck.
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats.
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades.
Of healths five fathom deep; and then anon
Drums in his ear; at which he starts, and wakes;
And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two.
And sleeps again.
Rom. Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace;
Thou talk'st of nothing.
Mer. True, I talk of dreams;
Which are the children of an idle brain.
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy ;
Which is as thin of substance as the air;
And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes
Even now the frozen bosom of the north.
And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence.
Turning his face to the dew-dropping south.
Ben. This wind, you talk of, blows us from ourselves;
Supper is done, and we shall come too late.
Rom. I fear, too ear'y : for my mind misgives.
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SHAESFEARIAN -READER.
Some consequence, yet hanging in the stars,
Shall bitterly begin his fearful date
With this night's revels; and expire the term
Of a despised life, clos'd in my breast.
By some vile forfeit of untimely death:
But He, that hath the steerage of my course,
Direct my sail!—On, gentlemen. [Exeunt,
SCENE V.—A Hall in Capulet's House.
Enter Capclet, ^c. with the Guests, and the Maskers.
Cap. You are welcome, gentlemen! I have seen the day.
That I have worn a visor; and could tell
A whispering tale in a fair lady's ear,
Such as would please ;—'tis gone, 'tis gone, 'tis gone:
You are welcome, gentlemen !—Come, musicians, play.
[Music plays, and they daiKe,
Rom. What lady's that, which doth enrich the hand
Of yonder knight ?
Serv. I know not, sir.
Rom. O, she doth teach the torches to bum bright!
Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear;
The measure done, I'll watch her place of stand,
And, touching hers, make happy my rude hand.
Did my heart love till now ? forswear it, sight!
For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.
Tyb. This, by his voice, should he a Montague:
Fetch me my rapier, boy :—What! dares the slave
Come hither, covered with an antic face,
To fleer and scorn at our solemnity ?
Now, by the stock and honor of my kin.
To strike him dead I hold it not a sin.
Cap. Why, how now, kinsman ? wherefore storm you so T
Tyb. Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe ;
A villain, that is hither come in spite.
To scorn at our solemnity this night.
Cap. Young Romeo is't ? ^
Tyb. 'Tis he, that villain Romeoc
Cap. Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone.
He hears him like a portly gentleman ;
And, to say truth, Verona brags of him.
To he a virtuous and well-govern'd youth :
1 would not for the wealth of all this town,
Here in my house do him disparagement:
Therefore he patient, take no note of him,
.t is my will; the which if thou respect,
Show a fair presence, and put off these frowns,
An ill-beseeming semblance for a feast.
bomeo and juliet.
209
Tyh. It fits, when such a villain is a guest;
111 not endure him.
Cap. He shall be endur'd;
Am I the master here, or you ? go to.
Be quiet, cousin, or—I'll make you quiet.
2'yb. Patience perforce with wilful choler meeting
Makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting.
I will withdraw : but this intrusion shall.
Now seeming sweet, convert to bitfer gall. [Exil,
Rom. If I profane with my unworthy hand [To Juliet.
This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this,—
Jul. Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much.
For palm to palm is holy palmer's kiss.
Rom. Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too 1
Jul. Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.
Rom. Thus, then, dear saint, let lips put up their prayer. [So-
Nurse. Madam, your mother craves a word with you. [lutes her,
Rom. What is her mother ?
Nurse. Marry, bachelor,
Her mother is the lady of the house.
And a good lady, and a wise, and virtuous :
I nurs'd her daughter, that you talk'd withal;
I tell you,—he, that can lay hold of her,
Shall have the chinks.
Rom. Is she a Capulet ?
0 dear account! my life is my foe's debt.
Ben. Away, begone; the sport is at the best.
Rom. Ay, so I fear; the more is my unrest.
Cap. Nay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone;
We have a trifling foolish banquet towards.
Is it e'en so ? Why, then I thank you all;
1 thank you, honest gentlemen; good night:—
I'll to my rest. [Exeunt all but Juliet, and Nurseu
Jul. Come hither, nurse; What is yon gentleman ?
Nurse. The son and heir of old Tiberio.
Jul. What's he, that now is going out of door ?
Nurse. Marry, that, I think, be young Petruchio.
Jul. What's he, that follows there, that would not dance ?
Nurse. I know not.
Jul. Go, ask his name:—if he be married.
My grave is like to be my wedding bed.
Nurse. His name is Romeo, and a Montague;
The only son of your great enemy.
Jul. My only 1 we sprung from my only hate t
Too early seen unknown, and known too late !
Nurse. What's this ? What's this ?
Jul. A rhyme I learn'd even now
Of one I danc'd withal. [One calls withtn, Juliet.
Nurse. Anon, anon: '
Come, let's away: the strangers all are gone. [Exeunt
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SHAKSPEARIAM READER.
ACT II.
Romeo, struck with the beanty and character of forgets his ** Rosaline.'* lie
disengages himself from Mercntio and BenvoJio, and enters Capnlet's garden, to seek
an interview with Jnliet. '
SCENE II.—Capulet's Garden.
Enter Romeo.
Rom. He jests at scars, that never felt a wound.—
[Juliet appears above, at a tcirtdow.
But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks !
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun !—
Arise, fair sun, and lull the envious moon.
Who is already sick and pale with grief,
That thou her maid art far more fair than she:
She speaks, yet she says nothing; What of that 1
Her eye discourses, I will answer it.—
I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks;
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven.
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head ?
The brightness of her cheek wovud shame those stars,
As daylight doth a lamp; her eye in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright.
That birds would sing, and think it were not night.
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand !
O, that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek !
Jul. . Ah me !
Rom. She speaks:
O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art
As glorious to this night, being o'er my head,
As is a winged messenger of heaven
Unto the white-upturned wond'ring eyes
Of mortals, that faU back to gaze on him,
' When he bestrides the lazy pacing clouds,
And sails upon the bosom of the air.
Jul. O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo if
Deny thy father, and refuse thy name :
Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love.
And I'll no longer be a Capulet.
Rom. Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this 7 J Aside.
Jul. 'Tis but thy name, that is my enemy;
What's in a name 7 that which we call a rose,
By any other name would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd.
ROMEO AND JULIET.
fletain that dear perfection which he owes.
Without that title:—Romeo, doff thy name;
And for that name, which is no part of thee,
Take all myself.
liom. I take thee at thy word :
Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized;
Henceforth I never will he Romeo.
Jul. What man art thou, that, thus bescieen'd in night,
So stumblest on my counsel ?
Rom. By a name
I know not how to tell thee who I am:
My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself.
Because it is an enemy to thee.
Jul. My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words
Of that tongue's utterance, yet I know the sound;
Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague ?
Rom. Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike.
JuL How cam'st thou hither, tell me ? and wherefore 7
The orchar J walls are high, and hard to climb;
And the place death, considering who thou art.
If any of my kinsmen find thee here.
Rom. With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls.
For stony limits cannot hold love out;
And what love can do, that dares love attempt;
Therefore thy kinsmen are no let to me.
Jul. If they do see thee, they will murder thee.
Rom. Alack ! there lies more peril in thine eye.
Than twenty of their swords; look thou but sweet.
And I am proof against their enmity.
Jul. I would not for the world they saw thee here:
By whose direction found'st thou out this place 7
Rom. By love, who first did prompt me to inquire;
He lent me coimsel, and I lent him eyes.
I am no pilot; yet, wert thou as far
As that vast shore wash'd with the furthest sea,
I would adventure for such merchandise.
Jul. Thou know'st, the mask of night is on my face;
Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek.
For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night.
Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny
What I have spoke; But farewell compliment!
Dost thou love me 7 I know, thou wilt say—Ay;
And I will take thy word: yet, if thou swear'st.
Thou may'st prove false; at lovers' peijuries.
They say, Jove laughs. O, gentle Romeo,
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully :
Or if thou think'st I am too quickly won,
I'll frown and be perverse, ar^i say thee i ay.
So thou wilt woo; but, else, not for the world.
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6haesfeaeian beadeb.
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond;
And therefore thou may'st think my'havior light:
But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true
Than those that have more cunning to be strange.
I should have been more strange, J must confess.
But that thou over-heard'st, ere I was'ware.
My true love's passion: therefore pardon me;
And not impute this yielding to light love.
Which the dark night hath so discovered.
Rom. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear.
That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops,—
Jul. O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon,
That monthly changes in her circled orb.
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.
Rtm. What shall I swear by ?
Jul. Do not swear at all}
Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self,
Which is the god of my idolatry.
And I'll believe thee.
Rom. If my heart's dear love—
Jul. Well, do not swear: although I joy in thee,
I have no joy in this contract to-night:
It is too rash, too unadvis'd, too sudden ;
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be.
Ere one can say—It lightens. Sweet, gtod night!
This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath.
May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.
Good night, good night! as sweet repose and rest
Come to thy heart, as-that within my breast!
Rom. O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied ?
Jul. What satisfaction canst thou have to-night 7
Rom. The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine.
Jul. I gave thee mine before thou didst request it:
And yet I would it were to give again.
Rom. Wouldst thou withdraw it ? for what purpose, love ?
Jul. But to be frank and give it thee again.
And yet I wish but for the thing I have:
My bounty is as boundless as the sea.
My love as deep; the more I give to thee.
The more I have, for both are infinite. [Nurse calls within.
I hear some noise within; Dear love, adieu!
Anon, good nurse ?—Sweet Montague, be true.
Stay, but a little, I will come again. [Exit.
Rom. O blessed, blessed night! I am afeard.
Being in night, all this is but a dream.
Too flattering-sweet to be substantial.
Re-enter Juliet, above.
Jul. Three words, dear Romeo, and good night, indeed,
If that thv bent of love be honon^le
romeo and juliet.
Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow,
By one that I'll procure to come to thee,
Where, and what time thou wilt perform the rite;
And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay.
And follow thee my lord ^roughout the world.
Nurse. [Within.'] Madam.
Jul. I come, anon:—But if thou mean'st not well,—
I do beseech thee,—
Nurse. [Within.] Madam.
Jul. By and by, T come;—
To cease thy suit, and leave me to my grief;
To-morrow will I send.
Rom. So thrive my soul,—
Jul. A thousand times good night! ■ [JSiXU.
Rom. A tliousand times the worse, to want thy light,—
Love goes toward love, as schoolboys from their books;
But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.
[Retiring iUmly.
Re-enter Juliet, above.
Jul. Hist! Romeo, hist!—O, for a falconer's voice.
To lure this tassel-gentle back again !
Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud;
Else would I tear the cave where echo lies.
And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine
With repetition of my Romeo's name.
Rom. It is my soul that calls upon my name:
How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night,
Like softest music to attending ears !
Jul. Romeo!
Rom. My sweet!
Jul. At what o'clock to-morrow
Shall I send to thee ?
Rom. At the hour of nine.
Jul. I will not fail; 'tis twenty years till then.
I have forgot why I did call thee back.
Rom. Let me stand here till thou remember it.
Jul. I shah forget to have thee still stand there,
Rememb'ring how I love thy company.
Rom. And I'll still stay, to have thee still forget.
Forgetting any other home hut this.
Jul. 'Tis almost morning, I would have thee gone:
And yet no fuither than a wanton's bird ;
Who lets it hop a little from her hand.
Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves.
And with a silk thread plucks it back again
So loving-jealous of his liberty.
Rom. I would, I were thy bird.
Jul. Sweet, so would I:
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&hakspearian header.
Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing.
Good night, good night! parting is such sweet sorrow,
That I shall say—good night, till it be morrow.
Rom. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast
Would 1 were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest!
Hence will I to my ghostly father's cell;
His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell.
SCENE in.—Friar Laurence's Cell.
Enter Friar Laurence, with a basket.
Fri. The ^y-ey'd mom smiles on the frowning-hight.
Checkering the eastern clouds with streaks of light:
Now ere the sun advance his burning eye.
The day to cheer, and night's dank deV to dry,
I must up-fill this osier cage of ours.
With baleful weeds, and precious-juiced flowers.
O, micklc is the powerful grace, that lies
In herbs, plants, stones, and their true qualities:
For nought so vile that on the earth doth live,
But to the earth some special good doth give;
Nor aught so good, but, strain'd from that fair use.
Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse :
Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied;
And vice sometime's by action dignified.
Within the infant rind of this small flower
Poison hath residence, and med'cine power:
For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part j
Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart.
Two such opposed foes encamp them still
In man as well as herbs, grace, and rude will:
And, where the worser is predominant.
Full soon the canker death eats up that plr.'st.
Enter Romeo.
Rom. Good morrow, father!
Fri. Benedicite!
What early tongue so sweet saluteth me ?—
Young son, it argues a distemper'd head,
So soon to i>id good morrow to thy bed :
Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye,
And where care lodges, sleep will never lie;
But where unbruised youth with unstufT'd brain
Doth couch his lirr »s, there golden sleep doth reign.
Therefore thy ear .mess doth me assure.
Thou art up-rous'd by some distemp'rature.
Or, if not so, then here I hit it right—
Our Romeo hath not been in bed to-night.
Rom. That last is true, the sweeter rest was mine.
ROMEO AND JULIET.
Fri. Heaven pardcn sin! wast thou with Rosaline ?
Rom, With Rosaline, my ghostly father ? no;
I have forgot that name, and that name's woe.
Fri. That's my good son: But where hast thou been then ?
Rom. I'll tell thee, ere thou ask it me again.
I have been feasting with mine enemy ;
Where, on a sudden, one hath wounded me.
That's by me wounded; both our remedies
Within thy help and holy physic lies.
Fri. Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift;
Riddling confession fiifds but riddling shrift.
Rom. Then plainly know, my heart's dear love is set
On the fair daughter of rich Capulet:
As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine;
And all combin'd, save what thou must combine
By holy marriage; When, and where, and how.
We met, we woo'd, and made exchange of vow,
I'll tell thee as we pass; but this I pray.
That thou consent to marry us this day.
Fri. Holy Saint Francis! what a change is here I
Is Rosaline, whom thou didst love so dear.
So soon forsaken 1 young men's love then lies
Not truly in their hearts, hut in their eyes.
Jesu Maria! what a deal of brine
Hath wash'd thy sallow cheeks for Rosalipe!
How much salt water thrown away in waste,
To season love that of it doth not taste!
The sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears.
Thy old groans ring yet in my ancient ears;
Lo, here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit
Of an old tear that is not wash'd off yet:
If e'er thou wast thyself, and these woes thine,
Thou and these woes were all for Rosaline;
And art thou chang'd ? pronounce this sentence then-
Women may fall, when there's no strength in men..
Rom. Thou chid'st me oft for loving Rosaline.
Fri. For doting, not for loving, pupil mine.
Rom. And bad'st me bury love.
Fri. Not' in a grave.
To lay one in, another out to have.
Rom. I pray thee, chide not: she, whom I love now.
Doth grace for grace, and love for love allow;
Tiio other did not so.
Fri. O, she knew well,
Tliy love did read by rote, and could not spell,
But come, young waverer, come go with me,
In one respect I'll thy assistant be;
For this alliance may so happy prove.
To turn your households' rancor to pure love.
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shaesflbarian reader.
Rom, O, let us hence; I stand on sudden haste.
fW. Wisely, and slow; they stumble that run fast. [Exeunt,
SCENE IV.—A Street.
Enter Benvolio, and Mercdtio.
Mer. Where should this Romeo be ?—
Came he not home to-night ?
Ben. Not to his father's; I spoke with his man.
Mer. Ah, that same pale hard-hearted girl, that Rosaline,
Torments him so, that he will sure run mad,
Btm. Tybalt, the kinsman of old Capulet,
Ilath sent a letter to his father's house.
Mer. A challenge, on my life.
Ben. Romeo will answer it.
Mer. Any man that can write, may answer a letter.
Ben. Nay, he vyill answer the letter's master, how he dares, being
dared.
Mer. Alas, poor Romeo, he is already dead! shot thorough the
•ear with a love-song; the very pin of his heart cleft with the blind
bow-boy's butt-shaft; And is he a man to encounter Tybalt ?
Ben, Why, what is Tybalt ?
Mer. More than prince of cats, I can tell you. O, he is the
cdurageous captain of compliments. He fights as you sing, keeps
time, distance, and proportion; rests me his minim rest, one, two,
and the third in your bosom; the very butcher of a silk button, a ,
duellist, a gentleman of the very first house,—of the first and second
cause : Ah, tlie immortal passado! the punto reverse! the hay 1
Ben.. The what 1
Mer. The plague of such antic, lisping, affecting fantasticoes;
these few tuners of accents !—Ma foi, a very good blade !—a very
tall man.'—a very fine girl!—Why, is not this a lamentable thing,
grandsire, that we should be thus afflicted with these strange flies,
tiiese fashion-mongers, these pardonnez-moys 7
Enter Romeo.
Ben. Here comes Romeo, here comes Romeo.
Mer. Without his roe, like a dried herring. Signior Romeo, bon
Jour! there's a French salutation for you.
Rom. Good-morrow to you both.
Mer. You gave us the counterfeit last night.
Rom. What counterfeit did I give you ?
Mer. The slip, sir, the slip; Can you not receive ?
Rom. Pardon, good Mercutio, my business, was great; and, in
such case as mine, a man may strain courtesy.
ErUer Nurse, and Peter.
Nurse, Peter!
Peter, Anon?
ROMEO AND JULIET.
217
Nurse. My fan, Peter.
Mer. Pr ythee, do, good Peter, to hide her face; for her fan's the
fairer of the two.
Nurse. Give ye good-morrow, gentlemen.
Mer. Give ye good den, fair gentlewoman.
Nurse. Gentlemen, can any of you tell me where I may find tlie
young Romeo ?
Rom. I am the youngest of that name, for fault of a worse.
Nurse. You say well. If you be he, sir, I desire some confidence
with you.
Mer. Romeo, will you come to your father's?—we'll to dinner
thither.
Rom. I will follow you.
Mer. Farewell, ancient lady; farewell.
[Exeunt Mekcutio, and Benvolio.
Nurse. Marry, farewell!—I pray you, sir, what saucy merchant
was this, that was so full of his roguery ?
Rom. A gentleman, nurse, that loves to hear himself talk; and
will speak more in a minute, than he will stand to in a month.
Nurse. An 'a speak any thing against me, I'll take him down.—
Pray you, sir, a word.: and as 1 told you, my young lady bade me
inquire you out; what she bade me say, I will keep to myself: but
first let me tell ye, if ye should lead her^into fool's paradise, as they
say, it were a very gross kind of behavior, as they say : for the gen¬
tlewoman is young; and, therefore, if you should deal double with
her, truly, it were an ill thing to be offered to any gentlewoman, and
very weak dealing.
Rom. Nurse, commend me to thy lady and mistress. I protest
unto thee,—
Nurse. Good heart! and, i' faith, I will tell her as much: oh, she
will be a joyful woman.
Rom. What wilt thou tell her, nurse ? thou dost not mark me.
Nurse. I will tell her, sir,—that you do protest; which, as I take
it, is a gentlemanlike offer.
Rom. Bid her devise some means to come to shrill
This afternoon;
And there she shall at friar Laurence' cell
Be shriv'd, and mar.i'ed. Here is for thy pains.
Nurse. No, truly, sir; not a penny.
Rom. Go to ; I say, you shall.
Nurse. This afternoon, sir ? well, she shall be there.
Rom. Farewell!—Commend ine to thy lady. ■ [Exit
Nurse. Ay, a thousand times.—Peter !
Peter. Anon ?
Nurse. Peter, take my fan, and go before. [Exeunt,
11
218
shakspkabfaa beader.
SCENE V.—^Capulet's Garden.
Enter Juliet.
Jul. The clock struck nine, when I did send the norsei
In half an hour she promis'd to return.
Perchance, she cannot meet him :—^that's not so.—
O, she is lame ! love's heralds should be thoughts,
Which ten times faster glide than the sun's beams.
Now is the sun upon the highmost hill
Of this day's journey; and from nine till twelve
Is three long hours,—^yet she is not come.
Had she affections, and warm youthful blood,
She'd be as swift in motion as a ball.
Enler Nurse.
O, she comes!—O honey nurse, what news 1
Now, good sweet nurse,—! why look'st thou so sad 1
Though news be sad, yet tell them merrily;—
If good, thou sham'st the music of sweet news
By playing it to me with so sour a face.
Nurse. I am aweary, give me leave a while;—
Fye, how my bones ache ! ^ V\^at a jaunt have I had !
Jul. I would, thou hadst my' bones, and I thy news:
Nay, come, I pray thee, speak ;—good, good nurse, speak.
Nurse. What haste ? can you not stay a while 1
Do you not see, that I am out of breath ?
Jul. How art thou out of breath, when thou hast breath
To say to me—that thou art out of breath ?
The excuse, that thou dost make in this delay.
Is longer man tlie tale thou dost excuse.
Is thy news good, or bad ? answer to that;
Say either, and I'll stay the circumstance;
Let me be satisfied, Is't good or bad ?
Nurse. Well, you have made a simple choice; you know not how
to choose a man.—Go thy ways, girl; serve Heaven.—^What, have
you dined at home ?
Jul. No, no; But all this did I know before;
What says he of our marriage ? what of that ?
Nurse. Oh, how my head aches ! what a head have I!
It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces.—
Beshrew your heart, for sending me about.
To catch my death with jaunting up and domi?
Jul. I' faith, I am sorry that thou art not well:
Sweet, sweet, sweet nurse, tell me, what says my love ?
Nurse. Your love says like an honest gentleman,*
And a courteous, and a kind, and a handsome.
And, I warrant, a virtuous:—^Where is your mother ?
Jul. Where is my mother 1—why, she is within;
KOMEO AND JULIET.
219
Where should she be ? How oddly thou reply'st ?
Ymr love says like an honest gentleman,—
Where is your mother'!
Nurse. Marry, come up, I trow;
Is this the poultice for my aching bones 1
Henceforward do your messages yourself.
Jul. Here's such a coil.—Come, what says Romeo ?
Nurse. Have you got leave to go to shrift to-day ?
Jul. I have.
Nurse. Then hie you hence to friar Laurence' cell,
There stays a husband to make you a wife.
Go; I'll to dinner: hie you to the cell.
Jul. Hie to high fortune I—^lionest nurse, farewell. fExeunt
SCENE VI.—Friar Laurence's Cell.
Enter Friar Laurence, and Romeo.
Fri. So smile the heavens upon this holy act,
That after-hours with sorrow chide us not!
Rom. Amen, amen! but come what sorrow can.
It cannot countervail the exchange of joy
That one short minute gives me in her sight:
Do thou but close our hands with holy words.
Then love-devouring death do what he dare.
It is enough I may but call her mine.
Fri. These violent delights have violent ends.
And in their triumph die ; like fire and powder.
Which, as they kiss, consume: The sweetest honey
Is loathsome in his own deliciousDess,
And in the taste confounds the appetite:
Therefore, love moderately ; long love doth so;
Too Bwift arrives as tardy as too slow.
Enter Juliet.
Here comes the lady;—O, so light a foot
Will ne'er wear out the everlasting flint:
A lover may bestride the gossamers
That idle in the wanton summer air.
And yet not fall; so light is vanity!
Jul. Good even to my ghostly confessor.
Fri. Romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both.
Jul. As much to him, else are his tlianks too much.
Rom. Ah, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy
Be heap'd like mine, and that thy skill be more
To hiazon it, then sweeten with thy breath
This neighbor air, and let rich musjc's tongue
Unfold the imagin'd happiness that both
Receive in either by this dear encounter.
Jtd. Conceit, more rich in matter than in words,
220
SHAKSPEABlAif READER.
Brajrg of his substance, not of ornament:
They are but beggars that can count their worth;
But my true love is grown to such excess,
I cannot sum up half my sum of wealth;
Fri. Come, come with me, and we will make short work;
For, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone.
Till holy church incorporate two in one. [£a:eiint.
ACT III.
Tybalt, indicant at Romeo^t intrasion at Capnlet's feast, seeks occasion to qoarrel with
him; Romeo refuses to h^ht,—Mercntio challenges Tyb^t and falls in the enconnter.
Romeo avenges his death by slaying Tybalt, and is condemned by the Doha to j>erpetaal
ianiihment from Verona.
SCENE II.—A Room in Capulet's House.
Enter Juliet.
Jul. Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds.
Towards Phoebus' mansion; such a wagoner
As Phseton would whip you to the west.
And bring in cloudy night immediately.—
Give me my Romeo: and, when he shall die.
Take him and cut him out in little stars.
And he will make the face of heaven so fine.
That all the world will be in love with night,
And pay no worship to the garish sun.
O, here comes my nurse.
Enter Nurse.
And she brings news; and every tongue that speaks
But Romeo's name, speaks heavenly eloquence.—
Now, nurse, what news ?
Ah me ! why dost thou wring thy hands ?
Nurse. Ah well-a-day! he's dead, he's dead, he's dead!
We are undone, lady, we are undone !—
Alack the day!—he's gone, he's kill'd, he's dead!
Jul. Can heaven be so envious ?
Nurse. Romeo can.
Though heaven cannot:—O Romeo, Romeo!—
Whoever would have thought it ?— Romeo !
Jul. What demon art thou, that dost torment me thus 7
Hath Romeo slain himself ? say thou but ay.
And that bare little word shall poison more
Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice.
Nurse. I saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes,—
"A piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse;
Pale, pale as ashes;—I swooned at the sight.
Jul. O break, my heart!—poor bankrupt, break at oncoi
To prison, eyes! ne'er look on liberty!
EOSIEO AND JULIET.
Vile earth, to earth resign; end motion here;
And thou, and Romeo, press one heavy bier!
Nurse. O Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I had!
O courteous Tybalt! honest gentleman!
That ever I should live to see thee dead!
Jul. What storm is this, that blows so contrary ?
Is Romeo slaughter'd; and is Tybalt dead ?
Nurse. I'ybalt is gone, and Romeo banished;
Romeo, that killed him, he is banished.
Jul. O heaven! did Romeo's hand shed Tybalt's b/3od 1
Nurse. It did, it did; alas the day! it did.
Jul. O serpent heart, hid with a flow'ring face!
Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave ?
O, that deceit should dwell
In such a gorgeous palace!
Nurse. There's no trust,
No faith, no honesty in men; all peijur'd.
Shame come to Romeo !
Jul. Blister'd be thy tongue,
For such a wish! he was not born to shame!
Upon his brow shame is asham'd to sit;
For 'tis a throne where honor may be crown'd
Sole monarch of the universal earth.
O, what a wretch was I to chide at him !
Nurse. Will you speak well of him that kill'd your cousin I
Jul. Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband ?
Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name.
When I, thy three hours' wife, have mangled it ?—
Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring;
Your tributary drops belong to woe.
Which you, mistaking, offer up to joy.
My husband lives, that Tybalt would have slain.
And Tybalt's dead, that would have slain my husband:
All this is comfort; Wherefore weep I then 1
Some word there was, worser than Tybalt's death,
That murder'd me: I would forget it fain;
But, O ! it presses to my memory,
Tybalt is dead, and Romeo—banished.
That—banished, that one word—banished,
Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts.
Romeo is banished. In that one word.
Is father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet,
All slain, all dead.
Where is my father, and my mother, nurse ?
Nurse. Weeping and wailing over Tybalt's corse;
Will yon go to them 7 I will bring you thither.
Jul. Wash they his wounds with tears, mine shall be spent
When theirs are dry, for Romeo's banishment.
Nurse. Hie to youi cha -nber: I'll find Romeo
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SHAESPEABIAN SEAi>£B.
To comfort you: I wot well where he is.
I'll to him; he is hid at Laurence' cell.
Jul. O find him! give this ring to my true knight.
And bid him come to take his last farewell. [Exeunt,
SCENE III.—Friar Laurence's Cell.
Enter Friar Laurence, and Romeo.
Fri. Romeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful roan:
Affliction is enamord of thy parts,
And thou art wedded to calamity.
Rom. Father, what news 1 what is the prince's doom 7
What sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand.
That I yet know not ?
Fri. Too familiar
Is my dear son with such sour company;
I bring thee tidings of the prince's doom.
Rmn. What less than doomsday is the nrince's doom ?
Fri. A gentler judgment vanish'd from his lips,
Not body's deathVbut body's banishment.
Rom. Ha ! banishment ? be merciful, say—death:
For exile hath more terror in his look.
Much more than death: do not say—^banishment.
'Tis death mis-term'd: calling death—^banishment, -
Thou cuit'st my head off with a golden axe.
And smil'st upon the stroke that murders me.
Fri. O deadly sin ! O rude unthankfulness!
Thy fault our law calls death; but the kind prince
Taking thy part, hath rush'd aside the law.
And turn'd that black word death to banishment:
This is dear mercy, and thou seest it not.
Rom. 'Tis torture, and not mercy: heaven is here
Where Juliet lives.
Oh Father! how hast thou the heart.
Being a divine, a ghostly confessor,
A sin-absolver, and my friend profess'd.
To mangle me with that wf-rd—banishment 7
Fri. Thou fond mad man, hear me but speak a word.
Rom. O, thou wilt speak again of banishment.
Fri. I'll give thee armor '»> keep off that word;
Adversity's sweet milk, philosophy.
To comfort thee, though thou art banished.
Rom. Yet banished 7—Hang up philosophy !
Cnless philosophy can make a Juliet.
Fri. O, then ! see that madmen have no ears.
Rom. How should they, when that wise men have no eyes 7
Fri. Let me dispute with "thee of thy estate.
Rom. Thou canst not speak of what thou dost not feel:
Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love.
ROMEO AND JULIET.
22S
In hour but married, Tybalt murdered,
Doting like me, and like me banished,
Tlien might'st thou speak, then might'st thou tear thy hair
And fall upon the ground, as I do now,
Taking the measure of an unmade grave.
Fri. Arise; one knocks; good Romeo, hide thyself.
[^Knocking wiihin.
Rom. Not I; unless the breath of heart-sick groans.
Mist-like, infold me from the search of eyes. [Knocking.
Frl. Hark, how they knock!—Who's there ?—^Romeo, arise;
Thou wilt be taken :—Stay awhile;—stand up ; [Knocking.
What wilfulness is this ?—come, I come. [Knocking.
Who knocks so hard ? whence come you ? what's your will.
Nurse. [Within.] Let me come in, and you shall know my er«
I come from my lady Juliet. [rand.
Fri. Welcome then.
Enter Nurse.
Nurse. O holy friar; O, tell me, holy friar,
Wliere is my lady's lord, where's Romeo ?
Fri. There on the ground, with his own tears made drunk.
Nurse. O, he is even in my mistress' case.
Just in her case !
Fri. 0 woful sympathy!
Piteous predicament!
Nurse. Even so lies she.
Stand up, stand up; stand, an you be a man;
For Juliet's sake, for her sake, rise.
Rom. Spak'st thou of Juliet ? how is it with her ?
Doth she not think me an old murderer.
Now I have stain'd the childhood of our joy
With blood ?
Where is she 1 how doth she 1 and what says she ?
Nurse. O, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps ;
And now falls on her bed; and then starts up.
And Tybalt calls; and then on Romeo cries.
And then down falls again.
.Rom. As if that name.
Shot from the deadly level of a gun.
Did murder,her; as that name's cursed hand
Murder'd her kinsman.—O tell me, friar, tell me,
In what vile part of this anatomy
Doth my name lodge ? tell me, uiat I may sack
The hateful mansion. \I}raws his sword
Fri. Hold thy desperate hand:
Art tliou a man ? thy form cries out thou art;
Thy tears are womanish; thy wild acts denote
The unreasonable fury of a beast.
Thou hast amaz'd me : by my holy order,
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SHAKSFEARIAN READER.
I thought thy disposition better temper'd.
Hast thou slain Tybalt ? wilt thou slay thyself 1 "
And slay thy lady too that lives in thee?
What, rouse thee, man! thy Juliet is alive.
Go, get thee to thy love, as was decreed.
Ascend her chamber, hence and comfort her;
But, look, thou stay not till the watch be set.
For then thou canst not pass to Mantua;
Where thou shall live, till we can find a lime
To blaze your marriage, reconcile your friends,
Beg pardon of the prince, and call thee back
With twenty hundred thousand times more joy
Than thou went'st forth in lamentation.—
Go, before, nurse: commend me to thy lady;
And bid her hasten all the house to rest.
Romeo is coming.
Nurse. O, I could have staid here all the night.
To hear good counsel: O, what learning is!—
My lord, I'll tell my lady you will come.
Rom. Do so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide.
Nurse. Here, sir, a ring she bid me give you, sir:
Hie you, make haste, for it grows very late. \_Exit Nurse
Rtm. How well my comfort is reviv'd by this!
Fri. Go hence : Good night; and here stands all your state;
Either begone before the watch be set.
Or by the break of day disguis'd from hence:
Sojourn in Mantua; I'll find out your man.
And he shall signify from time to time
Every good hap to you, that chances here :
Give me thy hand ; 'tis late: farewell; good night.
Rom. But that a joy past joy calls out on me.
It were a grief, so brief to part with thee:
Farewell. [Exeunt
SCENE V.—Juliet's Chamber.
Enter Romeo, and Juliet.
Jul. Wilt thou be gone ? it is not yet near day:
It, was the nightingale, and not the lark.
That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear;
Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree:
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.
Rom. It was the lark, the herald of the mom.
No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east:
Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops ;
I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
Jul. Yon light is not day-light, I know it, I:
ROMEO AND JULIET.
225
It 15 some meteor that the sun exhales,
To be to thee this night a torch-bearer,
And light thee on thy way to Mantua :
Therefore stay yet, thou need'st not to be gone.
Rom. Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death;
I am content, so thou wilt have it so.
I'll say, yon gray is not the morning's eye,
-'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow ';
Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat
The vanity heaven so high above our heads:
I have more care to stay than will to go;—
Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so.— *
How is't, my soul ? let's talk, it is not day.
Jul. It is, it is, hie hence, be gone, away;
It is the lark that sings so out of tune.
Straining harsh discords, and unpleasing sharps.
O; now be gone; more light and light it grows.
Rom. More light and light ?—more dark and dark our woes.
Enter Nurse.
Nurse. Madam!
Jul. Nurse?
Nurse. Your lady mother's coming to your chamber. [£«. Nurse;
Rom. Farewell, farewell! one kiss, and I'll descend.
[Romeo descends
Jul. Art thou gone so ? my love! my lord! my friend!
I must hear from thee every day i' the hour.
For in a minute there are many days:
O! by this count I shall be much in years.
Ere I again behold my Romeo.
Rrnn. Farewell! I will omit no opportunity
That m^ convey my greetings, love, to thee.
Jul. O, think'st thou, we shall ever meet again ?
Rom. I doubt it not; and all these woes sl^l serve
For sweet discourses in our time to come.
Jul. O Heaven ! I have an ill-divining soul;
Methinks, I see thee, now thou art below.
As one dead in the bottom of a tomb;
Either my eye-sight fails, or thou look'st pale.
Rom. And trust me, love, in my eye, so do you:
Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu! adieu! [Exit Romeo
Jul. O fortune, fortune! all men call thee fickle:
If tliou art fickle, what dost thou with him
That is renown'd for faith ? Be fickle, fortune;
For then, I hope, thou wilt not keep him long,
But send him back.
11*
226
6HAKSFEARIAN READER.
ACT IV.
. Cepulet determines to many Juliet, immediately, to the County Paris; sheUnv^'^
parents in vain, to defer the match,—distracted at the thought of being Goro))eneil ta
marry a second husband while Romeo is yet living^ she consults Friar Ltsurenoe in hei
aztremity.
SCENE I.—Friar Laurence's Cdl.
Enter Friar Laurence, and Paris.
Fri. On Thursday, sir ? the time is very short.
Par. My father Capulet will have it so;
And I am nothing slow, to slack his haste.
Fri. You say, yon do not know the lady's mind;
Uneven is the course, I like it not
Par. Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt's death,
And therefore have I little talk'd of love; •'
Now, sir, her father counts it dangerous.
That she doth give her sorrow so much sway;
And, in his wisdom, hastes our marriage,
To stop the inundation of her tears;
Which, too much minded by herself alone.
May be put from her by society: '
Now, do you know the reason of this haste 1
Fri. I would I knew not why it should be slow'd. [Asidie.
Look, sir, here comes the lady towards my cell.
Enter Juliet.
Par. Happily met, my lady, and my wife!
Jul. That may be, sir, when I may be a wife.
Par. That may be, must be, love, on Thursday next.
Jul. What must be, shall be.
Fri. That's a certain text.
Par. Come you to make confession to this father 7
Jul. To answer that, were to confess to you.
Are you at leisure, holy father, now;
Or shall I come to you at evening mass ?
Fri. My leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now:—
My lord, we must entreat the time alone.
Par. Heaven shield, I should disturb devotion!
Juliet, farewell. [Exil PARia
Jul. O, shut the door! and when thou hast done so.
Come weep with me: Past hope, past cure, past help!
Fri. Ah, Juliet, I already know thy grief;
ft strains me past the compass of my wits:
I hear thou must, and nothing must prorogue it,
On Thursday next be married to this county.
Jul. Tell me not, friar, that thou hear'st of this,
Unless thou tell me how I may prevent it!
ROMEO AND JULIET.
227
tf, in thy wisdom, thou canst give no help.
Do thou but call my resolution wise,
And with this knife I'll help it presently.
Heaven joined my heart and Romeo's, thou our hands*
And ere this hand, by thee to Romeo seal'd.
Shall be the label to another deed,
Or my true heart with tftacherous revolt
Turn to another, this shall slay them both'
Therefore, out of thy long-experienc'd time.
Give me some present counsel; or, behold,
'Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife
Shall play the umpire.
Fri. Hold, daughter; I do spy a kind of hope
Which craves as desperate an execution
As tliat is desperate which we would prevent
If, rather than to marry County Paris,
Thou hast the strength of will to slay thyself;
Then is it likely, thou wilt undertake
A thing like death to chide away this shame.
That cop'st with death himself to'scape from it;
And, if thou dar'st, I'll give thee remedy.
Jul. O, bid me leap, rather than marry Paris,
From off the battlements of yonder tower;
Or walk in thievish ways; or bid me lurk
Where serpents are; chain me with roaring bears;
Or shut me nightly in a charnel-house,
O'er-covered quite with dead men's rattling hones;
Or bid me go into a new-made grave.
And hide me with a dead man in his shroud;
Things that, to hear them told, have made me tremo!«
And I will do it without fear or doubt.
To live an unstain'd wife to my sweet love.
Fri. Hold, then; go home, be merry, give consent
To marry Paris: Wednesday is to-morrow:
To-morrow night look that thou lie alone.
Let not thy nurse lie with thee in thy chamber:
Take thou this phial, being then in bed.
And this distilled liquor drink thou oif;
When, presently, through all thy veins shall run
A cold and drowsy humor, which shall seize
Each vital spirit; fqr no pulse shall keep
His natural progress, but surcease to beat:
No warmth, no breath, shall testify thou liv'st;
The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade
To paly ashes; thy eyes' yiddows fall.
Like death, when he shuts up the day of life;
Each part, depriv'd of supple government.
Shall stiff, and stark, and cold, appear like death:
And in this bofwwM likeness of shrunk death
228
«
shaespeabian reader.
Tlion sha]t remain full two and forty hours,
And then awake as from a pleasant sleep.
Now when the hridegroom in the morning comes
To rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead;
Then (as the niunner of our country is,)
In thy best robes uncover'd on the bier,
Thou shalt be borne to that same ancient vanlt,
Where all tlie kindred of the Capulets lie.
In the mean time, against thou slialt awake,
Shall Romeo by my letters know our drift:
And hither shall he come; and he and I
Will watch thy waking, and that very night
Shall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua.
And this shall free thee from this present shame;
If no unconstant toy, nor womanish fear,
Abate thy valor in the acting it.
Jul. (live me, O give me! tell me not of fear.
Fri. Hold; get you gone, be strong and prosperous
In this resolve: I'll send a friar with speed
To Mantua, with my letters to thy lord.
Jul. Love, give me strength ! and strength shall help afibrd.
Farewell, dear father! [£xeuitf
SCENE III.—Juliet's Chamber.
Enter Juliet, and Nurse.
Jul. Ay, those attires are best:—But, gentle nurse,
I pray thee, leave me to myself to-night;
For I have need of many orisons
To move the heavens to smile upon my state.
Which, well thou know'st, is cross and full of sin.
Enter Lady Capulet.
La. Cap. What, are you busy ? do you need my help ?
Jul. No, madam; we have cull'd such necessaries
As are behoveful for our state to-morrow:
So please you, let me now be left alone.
And let the nurse tliis night sit up with yon ;
For, I am sure, you have your hands full all.
In this so sudden business.
ha. Cap. Good night!
Get thee to bed, and rest; for thou hast need.
[Exeunt Lady Capulet, and Nurse.
Jul. Farewell!—heaven knows, when we shall meet again.
I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins.
That almost freezes up the heat of fife:
I'll call them back again to comfort me:—
Nurse !—What sbomd she do here 1
ROMEO AND JULIET.
229
My dismal scene I needs must act alone.—
Come, phial.—
What if this mixture do not work at all ?
Must I of force be married to the county ?—
No, no;—this shall forbid it:—lie thou there.—
[^Latfing down a dagger.
What if it be a poison, which the friar
Subtly hath minister'd to have me dead;
Lest in this marriage he should be dishonor'd,
Because he married me before to Romeo 1
I fear, it is: and yet, methinks, it should not,
For he hath still been tried a holy man:
I will not entertain so bad a thought.—
How if, when I am laid into the tomb,
I wake before the time that Romeo
Come to redeem me ? there's a fearful point!
Shall I not then be stifled in the vault.
To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in,
And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes ?
Or, if I live, is it not very like.
The horrible conceit of death and night,
Together with the terror of the place.
As in a vault, an ancient receptacle.
Where, for these many hundred years, the bones
Of all my buried ancestors are pack'd;
Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth.
Lies fest'ring in his shroud; where, as they say.
At some hours in the night spirits resort
O ! if I wake, shall I not be distraught,
Environed with all these hideous fears ?
And madly play with my forefathers' joints ?
And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud ?
And, in this rage, with some great kinsman's bone,
As with a club, dash out my desperate brains ?
O, look ! methinks, I see my cousin's ghost
Seeking out Romeo.—Stay, Tybalt, stay!—
Romeo, I come ! this do 1 drink to thee.
[She throws herself on the heJ,
Juliet being sui>i>osed dead is interred in " the Tomb of the Capnlots.*'
ACT 7.
SCENE I.—Mantua. A Street.
Enter Romeo.
Rom. If 1 may trust the flattering eye of sleep.
My dreams presage some joyful news at hand:
My l)o.som's lord sits lightly in his throne;
And, all this day, an unaccustom'd spirit
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SHAESPEARIAN READER.
Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.
I dreamt, my lady came and found me dead;
And breath'd such life with kisses in my lips,
That I reviv'd, and was an emperor.
Enter Balthasak,
News from Verona!—^How now, Balthasar ?
Dost thou not bring me letters from the friar 7
Kow doth my lady 7 Is my father well 7
How fares my Juliet 7 That I ask again;
For nothing can be ill, if she be well.
Bal. Then she is well, and nothing can be ill;
Her body sleeps in Capulet's monument,
And her immortal part with angels lives.
I saw her laid low in her kindred's vault.
And presently took post to tell it you:
0 pardon me for bringing these ill news.
Since you did leave it for my office, sir.
Rom. Is it even so 7 then I defy you, stars !—
Thou know'st my lodging; get r.ie ink and paper.
And hire post-horses; I will hence to-night.
Bal. Pardon me, sir, I will not leave you thus:
Your looks are pale and wild, and do import
Some misadventure.
Rom. Tush, thou art deceiv'd;
Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do.
Hast thou no letters to me from tlie friar 7
Bal. No, my good lord.
Rom. No matter: get thee gone.
And hire those horses; I'll be with thee straight. [Exit Bai iiiasar.
Well, Juliet, I will be with thee to-night.
Let's see for means:—O, mischief! thou art swift
To enter in the thoughts of desperate men!
1 do remember an apothecary,—
And hereabouts he dwells,—whom late I noted
In tatter'd weeds, with overwhelming brows,
Culling of simples; meagre were his looks.
Sharp misery had worn him to theiwnes:
And in his needy shop a tortoise hung.
An allirator stuff'd, and other skins
Of ill-^ap'd fishes; and about his shelves
A beggarly account of empty boxes.
Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds.
Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses,
Were thinly scatter'd to make up a show.
Noting his penury, to myself I said—
An if a man did need a poison now
Whoso sale is present death in Mantua,
Here lives a caitiff wretch would SB ', it him.
BOHEO AND JUUET.
231
O, this same thought did but fore-run my need
As 1 remember, tliis should be the house:
Being holiday, the beggar's shop is shut.—
What, ho! apothecary!
Enter Apothecary.
Ap. W^bo calls so loud ?
Rom. Come hither, man.—I see, that thou art ooor:
Hold, there is forty ducats: let me have
A dram of poison; such soon-speeding gear
As will disperse itself through all the veins,
That the life-weary taker may fall dead.
Ap. Such mortal drags I have; but Mantua's law
Is death, to any he that utters them.
Rom. Art thou so bare and full of wretchedness,
And fear'st to die ? famine is in thy cheeks.
Need and oppression starveth in thy eyes.
Upon thy back hangs ragged misery,
The world is not thy friend, nor the world's law;
The world affords no law to make thee rich;
Then be not poor, but break it, and take this.
Af. My poverty, but not my will, consents.
Rom. I pay thy poverty, and not thy will.
Ap. Put this in any liquid thing you will.
And drink it off; and, if you had the strength
Of twenty men, it would dispatch you straight.
Rom. There is thy gold; worse poison to men's souls,
Doing more murders in this loathsome world.
Than these poor compounds that thou may'st not sell:
I sell thee poison, thou hast sold me none.
Farewell: buy food, and get thyself in flesh.—
Come, cordial, and not poison; go with me
To Juliet's grave, for there must I use thee. [Exeunt,
Friar Laurence learns that the messenger to Romeo has failed. He goes to the church*
yard to remove Joliet from the Tomb.
SCENE in.—A Church-Yard; in it, a Monument belonging to tht
Capulets.
Enter Paris, and his Page, hearing flowers and a torch.
Par. Give me thy torch, boy: Hence, and stand aloof;—
Yet put it out, for I would not be seen.
Under yon yew trees lay thee all along.
Holding thine ear close to the hollow ground;
So shall no foot upon the church-yard tread,
(Being loose, unfirm, with digging up of graves,)
But thou shall hear it: whistle then to me
As signal that thou hear'st something approach.
Give me thoee floworst Do as I tad the^ go.
232
SBAESPEARIAN BEASES.
Page. I am almost afraid to stand alone
Here in the church-yard; yet I will adventure. [Retire*
Far. Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew.
Fair Juliet, that with angels dost remain.
Accept this latest favor at my hands;
That living honor'd thee ; and, being dead.
With funeral praises do adurn thy tomb! \_The Boy whistks.
The boy gives warning, something doth approach.
What cursed foot wanders this way to-night.
To cross my obsequies, and true love's rites ?
What, with a torch!—muffle me, night, a while. [Retires.
Enter Romeo, and Balthasar, with a torch, meUtock, <J<.
Rom. Give me that mattock, and the wrenching iron.
Hold, take this letter; early in the morning
See thou deliver it to my lord and father.
Give me the light: Upon thy life 1 charge thee,
Whate'er thou hear'st or seest, stand all aloof.
And do not interrupt me in my course.
Why I descend into this bed of death.
Is, partly, to behold my lady's face:
But, chiefly, to take thence from her dead finger
A precious ring; a ring, that I must use
In dear employment: therefore hence, be gone:—
But if thou, jealous, dost return to pry
In what I further shall intend to do.
By heaven, I will tear thee joint by joint.
And strew this hungry church-yard with thy limbs:
The time and my intents are savage-wild;
More fierce, and more inexorable far.
Than empty tigers, or the roaring sea.
Bat. I will be gone, sir, and not trouble you.
Rom. So shall thou show me friendship.—^Take thou that
Live, and be prosperous ; and farewell, good fellow.
Bal. For all this same, I'll bide me hereabout;
His looks I fear, and his intents 1 doubt. [Retires.
Rom. Thou detestable maw,
Gorg'd with the dearest morsel of the earth.
Thus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open,
[Breaking'open the door of the monument
And, in despite, I'll cram thee with more food!
Par. Stop thy unhallow'd toil, vile Montague; [Adtaruxs
Can vengeance be pursu'd further than death ?
Condemned villain, I do apprehend thee;
Obey, and go with me, for thou must die.
Rom. I must, indeed ; and therefore came I hither.—
Good gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man.
Fly hence and leave me;—^think upon these gone;
Let them afiright thee:—I beseech thee, youth,
romeo and juliet.
233
Heap not another sin upon my head,
By urging me to fury:—O, be gone!
By heaven, I love thee better than myself;
For I come hither arm'd against myself:
Stay not, be gone;—live, and hereafter say—
A madman's mercy bade thee run away.
Par. 1 do defy thy conjurations,
.\nd do attach thee as a felon here.
Rom. Wilt thou provoke me ? then have at thee, boy.
[Tltey/ght.
Par. O, I am slain!—[Falls.]—^If thou be merciful.
Open the tomb, lay me with Juliet. [Dies.
Rom. In faith, 1 will:—Let me peruse this face—
Mercutio's kinsman, noble County Paris.—
One writ with me in sour misfortune's book!
I'll bury thee in a triumphant grave,—
For here lies Juliet.—O, my love! my wife! »
Death, that hath suck'd the honey ol" thy breath.
Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty :
Thou art not conquer'd ; beauty's ensign yet
Is crimson in thy lips, and in thy cheeks.
And death's pale flag is not advanced there—
Ah, dear Juliet, why art thou yet so fair 1
Here, here will 1 remain: O, here
Will I set up my everlasting rest;
And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars
From this world-wearied flesh.
Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavory guide!
Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on
fhe dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark !
Here's to my love!—[Drinks.]—O, true apothecary!
Thy drugs are quick.—Thus with a kiss I die. [Dies.
Enter, at the other end of the church-yard, Friar Laurence, toiih a
lantern, crow, and spade.
Fri. Saint Francis be my speed ! how oft to-night
Have my old feet stumbled at graves 1—Who's there ?
Who is it that consorts, so late, the dead ?
Bal. Here's one, a friend, and one that knows yon welL
Fri. Bliss be upon you! Tell me, good my friend,
What torch is yond, that vainly lends bis light
To grubs and eyeless skulls; as I discern.
It burneth in the Capel's monument.
Bal. It doth so, holy sir; and there's my master.
One that you love.
Fri. Who is it ?
Bal. Romeo.
Fri. How long hath he been there ?
Bal, Full half an hour.
234
shaesfearian reader.
Fri. Gc with, me to the vault.
Bal. I dare not, sir:
My master knows not, but I am gone hence;
And fearfully did menace me with death.
If I did stay to look on his intents.
Fri. Stay then, I'll go alone:—Fear comes upon me;
O, much I fear some ill unlucky thing.
Bal. As I did sleep under this yew-tree here,
I dreamt my master and another fought.
And that my master slew him.
Fri. Romeo!— rAJtam**
Alack, alack, what blood is this, which stains
The stony entrance of this sepulchre ?—
What mean these masterless and gory swords
To lie discolor'd by this place of peace ? [Enters the monumetU.
Romeo ! O, pale!—Who else ? wliat, Paris too ?
And steep'd in blood ?—Ah, what an unkind hour
Is guilty of this lamentable chance !—
The lady stirs. [Juliet wakes and stirs.
Jul. O, comfortable friar! where is my ord ?
I do remember well where I should be.
And there I am : Where is my Romeo ? [iVowe within.
Fri. I hear some noise.—Lady, come from that nest
Of death, contagion, and unnaturd sleep;
A greater Power than we can contradict
Hath thwarted our intents; come, come away:
Thy husband in thy bosom there lies dead ;
And Paris too; come, I'll dispose of thee
Among a sisterhood of holy nuns ;
Stay not to question, for the watch is coming;
Come, go, good Juliet.—[Noise again.'] I dare stay no longer.
[ExU.
Jul. Go, get thee hence, for I will not away.^—
What's here 1 a cup, clos'd in my true love's hand 7
Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end;—
O churl! drink all; and leave no friendly drop.
To help'me after 7—^I will kiss thy lips ;
Haply, some poison yet doth hang on them.
To make me die with a restorative. [ffisscs him
Thy lips are warm!
ls< Watch. [ WUhin.] Lead, boy :—^Which way 7
Jul. Yea, noise 7—then I'll be brief.—O happy dagger!
[Snatching Romeo's dagger
This is thy sheath; [Slabs herself.'] there rust, and let ine die.
[Falls on Ro.meo's body, and dies.
THE MEECHANT OE VENICE
This Play is jastiy placed among the most perfect of Shakspeare*s compositions. Tlio
naster>piece of character, as exhibited in Shyiock the Jew, would alone entitle it to tliis
classification.
The double plot of this Drama was borrowed by Shakspeare from traditionary stories
current in his time. The Jews at that period wereadespired and persecuted race ; the Poet
has lent himself to the frejadices entertained by Christians against Jews, and yet he lias
made Shyiock appear as the champion and avenger of an oppressed people, rather than the
sordid contemptible character, then thought to be the distinctive quaUfication of " God*i
ancieat people."
dddd
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
Duke of Ve.vice.
Prince of Morocco, > , u .•
Prince of Arraoon, i
Antonio, tfie Merchant 0/Venice.
Bassanio, his friend.
Salanio, Salariko, Gratiano,/rienis to Antonio and Bassanio.
Lorenzo, in love with Jessica.
Shyixick, a Jew.
Tubal, a Jew, his friend.
Launcelot Gobbo, a clown, servant to Sbylock
Old Goobo, father to Launcelot.
Salerio, a messenger from Venice.
Leonardo, servant to Bassanio.
Balthazar, Stefhano, servants to Portia.
Portia, a rich heiress.
Nerissa, her waiting-maid.
JEssiCA,' daughter to Shyiock.
Magnificoes of Venice, Officers of the Court of Justice, Gaoler, Servants,
and other Attendants.
SCENE,—partly at Venice, and partly at Belmont, the Seal of Portia,
on the Continent.
236
sbakspearian reader.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—Venice. A Street.
%
Enter Antokio, Salarino, and Salahio
Ant. In uooth, I know not why I am so sad;
It. wearies me ; you say, it wearies you ;
But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,
What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born,
I am to learn;
And such a want-wit sadness makes of me,
Tii&t I have much ado to know myself.
Salar. Your mind is tossing on the ocean;
There, where your argosies with portly sail,—
Like signiors and rich burghers of the flood,
Or, a.s it were, the pageants of the sea,—
Do overpeer the petty traffickers.
That curt'sy to them, do them reverence.
As they fly by them with their woven wings.
Satan. Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth.
The better part of my affections would
Be with my hopes abroad. 1 should be still
Plucking the grass, to know where sits the wind;
Peering in maps, for ports, and piers, and roads;
And every object, that might make me fear
IMisfortune to my ventures, out of doubt.
Would make me sad.
Salar. My wind, cooling my brofli.
Would blow me to an ague, when I thought
What harm a wind too great might do at sea.
J should not see the sandy hour-glass run.
But I should think of shallows and of flats;
And see my wealthy Andrew dock'd in sand,
Vailing her high-top lower than her ribs.
To kiss her burial. Should I go to church.
And sec the holy edifice of stone.
And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks 7
Which touching but my gentle vessel's side.
Would scatter all her spices on tlie stream;
Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks;
And, in a word, but even now worth this.
And now worth nothing ? Shall I have the thought
To think on this ; and shall I lack the thought.
That such a thing, bechanc'd, would make me sad ?
But tell not me; I know Antonio
Is sad to think upon his merchandise.
Ant. Believe me, no: I thank my fortune for it.
My ventures are not in one bottom trusted.
/
3IEBCHANT OF VENICE.
237
Nor to one place; nor is my whole estate
Upon the fortune )f this present year:
Therefore, my merchandise makes me not sad.
Salan. Why then you are in love.
Am. Fye, fye!
Salan. Not in love neither ? Then let's say, you are sad,
Because you are not merry; and 'twere as easy
For you to laugh, and leap, and say, you are merry.
Because you are not sad. Now, by the two-headed Janus,
Nature hath fram'd strange fellows in her time:
Some that will evermore peep through their eyes.
And laugh, like parrots, at a bag-piper:
And other of such vinegar aspect,
That they'll not show their teeth in way of smile.
Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable.
ErUer Bassanio, Lorenzo, and Gratiano,
Salan. Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman,
Gratiano, and Lorenzo: Fare you well;
We leave you now with better company.
Salar. I would have staid till I had made you merry
If worthier friends had not prevented me.
Ant. Your worth is very dear in my regard.
I take it, your own business calls on you.
And you embrace the occasion to depart.
Salar. Good morrow, my good lords.
Bass. Good signiors both, when shall we laugh ? Say, when 7
You grow exceeding strange: Must it be so ?
Salar. We'll make our ic'sures to attend on yours.
[Exeum Salarino, and Salahi%
Lor. My lord Bassanio. since yon have found Antonio,
We two will leave you : but, at dinner time,
I pray you, have in mind where we must meet.
Bass. I will not fail you.
Gra. You look not well, signior Antonio;
You have too much respect upon the world :
They lose it, that do buy it with much care.
Believe me, you are marvellously chang'd.
Am. I hold the world but as the wond, Gratiano;
A stage, where every man must play a part.
And mine a sad one. , ^
Gra. Let me play the Fool:
With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.
Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,
Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster ?
Sleep when he wakes ? and creep into the jaundice
By being peevish ? I tell thee what, Antonio,—
I love thee, and it is my love that speaks;—
There are a sort of men, whose visages
233
shakspeabun READBB.
Do cream and mantle, like a standing pond;
And do a wilful stillness entertain,
With purpose to be dress'd in an opinion
Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit;
As who should say, I am Sir Oracle,
And, when I ope my lips, let no dog bark
O, my Antonio, I do know of these,
That therefore only are reputed wise,
Vor saying nothing; who, I am very sure.
If they should speak, would almost damn those ears,
Which, hearing them, would call their brothers, fools.
I'll tell thee more of this another time:
But fish not, with this melancholy bait.
For tliis fool's gudgeon, this opinion.—
Come, good Lorenzo: Fare ye well, a wltile;
I'll end my exhortation after dinner.
Lor. Well, we will leave you then till dinner-time.
I must be one of these same dumb wise men.
For Gratiano never lets me speak.
Chra. Well, keep me company but two years more.
Thou shall not know the sound of thine own tongue.
Ant. Farewell; I'll grow a talker for this gear.
Gra. Thanks, i' faith; for silence is only commendable
In a neat's tongue dried, and a maid not vendible.
\^Exeunt Gratiano, arid Lorenzo.
Ant. Is that any thing now ?
Bass. Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any
man in all Venice: His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in
two bushels of chafT; you shall seek all day ere you find them; and,
when you have them, they are not worth the search.
Ant. Well; tell me now, what lady is this same.
To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage.
That you to-day promis'd to tell me of ?
Bass. 'Tis not unknown to you, Antonio,
How much I have disabled mine estate.
By something showing a more swelling port
Than my faint means would grant continuance:
Nor do I now make moan to be abridg'd
From such a noble rate; but my chief care
Is, to come fairly ofi" from the great debts.
Wherein my time, something too prodigal.
Hath left me gaged : To you, Antonio,
1 owe the most, in money, and in love ;
And from your love I have a warranty
To unburden all my plots, and purposes.
How to get clear af all the debts I owe.
Ant. I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it f
And, if it stand, as you yourself still do.
Within the eye of honor, be assur'd
MEKCHAMT OF VENICE.
My purse, my person, my extremes! means.
Lie all nnlock'd to your occasions.
Bass. In my school-days, when I had lost one sha^
I shot his fellow of the self-same flight
The self-same way, with more advised watch.
To find the other forth; and by advent'ring both,
I oft found both : [ urge this childish proof.
Because what follows is pure innocence.
1 owe you much; and, like a wilful youth.
That which I owe is lost: but if you please
To shoot another arrow that self way
Which you did shoot the first, I do not doubt.
As I will watch the aim, or to find both.
Or bring your latter hazard back again.
And thankfully rest debtor for the first.
Am., You know me well, and herein spend but tima
To wind about my love with circumstance;
And, out of doubt, you do me now more wrong,
In making question of my uttermost,
Than if you had made waste, of all I have:
Then do but say to me what I should do.
That in your knowledge may by me be done.
And I am prest into it: therefore, speak. ,
Bass. In Belmont is a lady richly left,
And she is fair, and, fairer than that word,
Of wond'rous virtues; sometimes from her eyes
I did receive fair speechless messages :
Her name is Portia; nothing undervalued
To Cato's daughter, Brutus' Portia.
Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth;
For the four winds blow in from every coast
Renowned suitors: and her sunny locks
Hang on her temples like a golden fleece;
Which makes her seat of Belmont, Colchos' strand,
And many Jasons come in quest of her.
0 my Antonio, had I but the means
To hold a rival place with one of them,
1 have a mind presages me such thrift.
That I should questionless be fortunate.
Am. Thou know'st, that all my fortunes are at sea i
Nor have I money, nor commodity
To raise a present sum: therefore go forth.
Try what my credit can in Venice do;
That shall be rack'd, even to the uttermost.
To furnish thee to Belmont, to fair Portia.
Go, presently inquire, and so will I,
Where money is; and I no question make.
To have it of my trust, or for my sake. ' ExetM
240
SBAESFEARIAN READER.
SCENE n.—^Belmont. A Room in Portia's House.
Enter Portia, and Nerissa.
Por. By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is a-weary of this great
world.
Ner. Yon would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were in the
same abundance as your good fortunes are: And ,yet, for aught I
see, they are as sick that surfeit with too much, as they that starve
with nothing: It is no mean happiness, therefore, to be seated in the
mean; superfluity comes sooner by white hairs, but competency lives
longer.
Por. Good sentences, and well pronounced.
Ner. They would be better, if well followed.
Por. If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do,
chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages, princes' palaces.
It is a good divine that follows his own instructions: I can easier
teach twenty what were good to be done, than be one of the twenty
to follow mine own teaching. The brain may devise laws for the
blood; but a hot temper leaps over a cold decree: such a hare is
madness, the youth, to skip o'er the meshes of good counsel, the
cripple. But this reasoning is not in the fashion to choose me a
husband :—O me, the word choose! I may neither choose whom I
would, nor refuse whom I dislike ; so is the will of a living daughter
curb'd by the will of a dead father:—Is it not hard, Nerissa, that I
cannot choose one, nor refuse none ?
Ner. Your father was ever virtuous; and holy men, at their death,
have good inspirations ; therefore, the lottery, that he hath devised in
these three chests, of gold, silver, and lead, (whereof who chooses
his meaning, chooses you,) will, no doubt, never be chosen by any
rightly, but one who you shall rightly love. But what warmth is
there in your aflection towards any of these princely suitors that are
already come ?
Por. I pray thee, overname them; and as thou namest them, I
will describe thern; and according to my description, level at my af¬
fection.
Ner. First, there is the Neapolitan prince.
Por. Ay, that's a colt, indeed, for he does nothing but talk of his
horse; and he makes it a great appropriation to his own good parts,
that he can shoe him himself.
Ner. Then, is there the county Palatine.
Por. He doth nothing but frown; as who should say. And if yon
will not have me, choose; he hears merry tales, and smiles not: I
fear, he will prove the weeping philosopher when he grows old, being
so full of unmannerly sadness in his youth. I had rather be married
to a death's head with a bone in.his mouth, than to either of these.
Heaven defend me^ from these two I
Ner. How say you by the French lord. Monsieur Le Bon 1
Por. Heaven'made him, and therefore let him pass for a man.
Ner. You need not fear, lady, the having any of these lords; they
merchant of venice.
241
have acquainted me with their determinations: which is, indeed, to
return to their home, and to trouble you with no more suit; unless,
you may be won by some other sort than your father's imposition,
depending on the caskets.
Por. If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I wiU die as chaste as Diana,
unless I be obtained by the manner of my father's will: I am glad
this parcel of wooers are so reasonable; for there is not one among
them but I dote on his very absence, and I pray Heaven grant them
a fair derarture.
Ner. Do you not remember, lady, in your father's time, a Vene.
tian, a scholar, and a soldier, that came hither in company of the
Marquis of Montferrat ?
Por. Yes, yes, it was Bassanio; as I think, so was he called.
Ner. True, madam; he, of all the men that ever my foolish eyes
looked upon, was the best deserving a fair lady.
Por. I remember him well; and I remember him worthy of thy
praise.—^How now! what news ?
Enter a Servant.
Serv. The four strangers seek for you, madam, to take their leave:
and there is a fore-runner come from a fifth, the prince of Morocco;
who brings word, the prince, his master, will be here to-night.
Por. If 1 could bid the fifth welcome with so good heart as I can
bid the other four farewell, I should be glad of his approach. Come,
Nerissa.—Sirrah, go before.—Whiles we shut the gate upon one
wooer, another knocks at the door. ^Exeunt
SCENE 111.—^Venice. A public Place.
ErJ.er Bassanio and Shtlock.
Shy. Three thousand ducats,—^well.
Bass. Ay, sinjbr three months. ■
Shy. FOTjthfee months,—well.
Bass. Pas the which, as I told you, Antonio shall be bound.
Shy. Antonio shall become bound,—^well.
Bass. May you stead me ? WiU you pleasure me ?
ShaU 1 know your answer ?
Shy. Three thousand ducats, for three months, and Antonio
bound.
Bass. Your answer to that.
Shy. Antonio is a good man.
Bass. Have you heard any imputation to the contrary ?
Shy. Ho, no, no, no, no;—my meaning, in saying he is a good
man, is to have you understand me, that he is sufficient: yet his
means are in supposition; he hath an argosy bound to Tripolis,
another to the Indies; 1 understand moreover upon the Rialto, he
hath a third at Mexico, a fourth for England, and other ventures
he hath, squander'd abroad; But ships are but boards, sailors but
men: there be land-rats, and water-rats, water-thieves, and land-
12
242
shakspeakian reader.
thieves;-I mean, pirates ; and then, there is the peril of water, winds,
and rocks: The man is, notwithstanding, sufficient;—^three thousand
ducats;—I think, I may take his bond.
Bass. Be assured you may.
Shy. I will be assured, I may; and, that 1 may be assured, I wiD
bethink me: May I speak with Antonio 1
Bass. If it please you,-dine with us.
Shy. Yes, to smell pork; I will buy with you, sell with you, talk
with you, walk with you, and so following: but I will not eat with
you, drink with you, nor pray with you. What news on the Rialto ?
—^Who is he comes here ?
Enter Antonio.
Bass. This is signior Antonio.
Shy. [Aside.] How like a fawning publican he looks i
I hate him, for he is a Christian:
But more, for that, in low simplicity.
He lends out money gratis, and brings down
The rate of usance here with us in Venice.
If I can catch him once upon the hip,
I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him.
He hates our sacred nation; and he rails.
Even there where merchants most do congregate,
On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift.
Which he calls interest: Cursed be my tribe.
If I forgive him !
Bass. Shylock, do you hear ?
Shy. I am debating of my present store:
And, by the near guess of my memory,
I cannot instantly raise up the gross
Of full three thousand ducats: What of that ?
Tubal, a wealthy Hebrew of my tribe.
Will furnish me ; but soft; How many months
Do you desire ?—Rest you fair, good signior: [ To ANXomok
Your worship was the last man in our mouths.
Ant. Shylock, albeit I neither lend nor borrow.
By taking, nor by giving of excess.
Yet, to supply the ripe wants of my friend,
I'll break a custom:—Is he yet possess'd.
How much you would ?
Shy. Ay, ay, three thousand ducats.
Ant. And for three months.
Shy. I had forgot,—three months, you told me so.
Well then, your bond; and, let me see, But hear you:
Methought, you said, you neither lend, nor borrow,
Upon advantage.
Ant. I do never use it.
Shy. Three thousand ducats—'tis a good round sum.
Three months from twelve, then let me see the rate.
MEKCHANT OF VENICE.
243
Ant. Well, Shylock, shall we be beholden to you )
Shy. Signior Antonio, many a time and oft,
In the Rialto you have rated me
About my monies, and my usances:
Still have I borne it with a patient shrug;
For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe:
You call me—misbeliever, cut-throat dog.
And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine.
And all for use of that which is mine own.
Well then, it now appears, you need my help:
Go to then; you come to me, and you say,
Shylock, we would have monies; You say so;
You, that did void your rheum upon my beard,
And foot me, as you spur a stranger cur
Over your threshold; monies is your suit.
What should I say to you 7 Should I not say.
Hath a dog money ? is it possible,
A cur can lend three thousand ducats ? or
Shall I bend low, and in a bondsman's key.
With 'bated breath, and whispering humbleness.
Say this,
Fair sir, you spit on me on Wednesday last:
You spurn'd me such a day; another time
You call'd me—dog-; and for these courtesies
I'll lend you thus much monies.
Ant. T am as like to call thee so again.
To spit on thee again, to spurn thee too.
If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not
As to thy friends; (for when did friendship take
A breed for barren metal of his friend 7)
But lend it rather to thine enemy;
Who, if he break, thou may'st with better face
Exact the penalty.
Shy. Why, look you, how you storm!
I would be friends with you, and have your love.
Forget the shames that you have stain'd me with.
Supply your present wants, and take no doit
Of usance for my monies, and you'lfnot hear me:
This is kind I offer.
Ant. This were kindness. ^
Shy. This kindness will I show >«•
Go with me to a notary, seal me there
Your single bond; and, in a merry sport,
If you repay me not on such a day.
In such a place, such sum, or sums, as are
Express'd in the condition, let the forfeit
Be nominated for an equal pound
Of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken
In what part of your body pleaseth me.
244
SHAESPEARIAN BEADER.
Ant. Content, in faith; I'll seal to such a bond,
And say, there is much kindness in the Jew.
Bass. You shall not seal to such a bond for me,
I'll rather dwell in my necessity.
Ant. Why, fear not, man; I will not forfeit it.
Within these two months, that's a month before
This bond expires, I do expect return
Of thrice three times the value of this bond.
Shy. O father Abraham, what these Christians are.
Whose own hard dealings teaches them suspect
The thoughts of others ! Pray you, tell me this;
If he should break his day, what should I gain
By the exaction of the forfeiture ?
A pound of man's flesh, taken from a man.
Is not so estimable, profitable neither,
As flesh of muttons, beefs, or goats. I say,
To buy his favor, I extend this friendship;
If he will take it, so; if not, adieu;
And, for my love, I pray you, wrong me not.
Ant. Yes, Shy lock, I will seal unto this bond.
Shy. Then meet me forthwith at the notary's;
Give him direction for this merry bond.
And I will go and purse the ducats straight;
See to my house, left in the fearful guard
Of an unthrifty knave; and presently
I will be vidth you. [E«4
Ant. Hie thee, gentle Jew.
This Hebrew will turn Christian; he grows kind.
Bass. I likex.ot fair terms, and a villain's mind.
Ant. Come on; in this there can be no dismay.
My ships come home a month before the day. [Exeunt.
ACT II.
Bassanio obtains the loan of Uuree thousand ducats from Shylock, on the merchant^
bond» with the penalty of the ponnd of flesh/' as the forfeit fornon-payment. Uethen
prepares for making proposals for Portia's hand, bat previons to his departnre he invites hit
friends to an entertainment:—Shylock is also one of the invited guests.
Lanncelot, a former domestic of the Jew's, has entered into the service of Bassanio,
and is made the messenger between Lorenzo and Jessica, who have planned ui elopo
ment, while Shylock is engaged at Bassanio's feast.
SCENE V.—The same. Before Shylock's Home.
Enter Shylock, and Launcelot.
Shy. Well, thou shalt see, thy eyes shall be thy judge.
The mfiference of old Shylock and Bassanio:—
What, Jessica!—thou shaft not gormandize.
As thou hast done with me;—What, Jessica!—
mehchani:,of venice.
245
And sleep and snore, and rend apparel out;—
Why, Jessica, I say !
Laun. Why, Jessica!
Shy. WTio bids thee call ? I did not bid thee call.
Laun. Your worship was wont to tell me, I could do nothing with*
out bidding.
Enier Jessica.
Jes. Call you 1 What is your will t
Shy. I am bid forth to supper, Jessica;
There are my keys:—^But wherefore should I go ?
I am not bid for love; they flatter me:
But yet I'll go in hate, to feed upon
The prodigal Christian.—Jessica, my girl.
Look to my house:—am right loath to go;
There is some ill a brewing towards my rest.
For 1 did dream of money-bags to-night.
Laun. I beseech you, sir, go on; my young master doth expect
your reproach.
Shy. So do I his.
Laun. And they have conspired together,—will not say, you
ohall see a masque; but if you do, then it was not for nothing that
my nose fell a bleeding on Black-Monday last, at six o'clock i' the
morning, falling out that year on Ash-Wednesday, was four year in
the afternoon.
Shy. What: are there masques ? Hear you me, Jessica:
Lock up my doors; and when you hear the drum.
And the vile squeaking of the wry-neck'd fife.
Clamber not you up to the casements then,
Nor tlirust your head into the public street.
To gaze on Christian fools with vamish'd faces.
But stop my house's ears, I mean my casements;
Let not the sound of shallow foppery enter
My sober house.—^By Jacob's staff, I swear,
I nave no mind of feasting forth to-night:
But I will go.—Go you before me, sirrah;
Say, I will come.
Laun. I will go before, sir.—
Mistress, look out at window, for all this; \_Aside.
There will come a Christian by.
Will be worth a Jewess' eye. Laun.
Shy. What says that fool of Hagar's offspring, ha ?
Jes. His words were. Farewell, mistress ; nothing else.
Shy. The patch is kind enough; but a huge feeder.
Snail-slow in profit, and he sleeps by day
More than the wild cat; drones hive not with me;
Therefore I part with him; and part with him
To one that I would have him help to waste
His borrow'd purse.—Well, Jessica, go in;
246
SHAESPEARLMI READER.
Perhaps, I will return immediately;
Do, as I bid you,
Shut doors after you: Fast bind, fast find;
A proverb never stale in thrifty mind. [^Exit,
Jes. Farewell; and if my fortune be not crost,
I have a father, you a daughter lost. [Exit.
Jessica elopes with Lorenzo, carrying with her la^e snms of moneyi and valuable jew*
els belonging to her father.
ACT III.
Shylock is introduced in the following powerfully wrought scene smarting under hit
losses, and the want of duty in hb daughter. He has also learned that Antonio the Mer¬
chant, has suffered severe losses at sea, and instigated by revenge he determines to enforec
the " full penalty " of the Bond.
SCENE I.—A street in Venice.
Enter Salanio, and Salaeino.
Salar. Why man, I saw Bassanio under sail;
With him is Gratiano gone along;
And in their ship, I am sure, Lorenzo is not.
Salan. The villain Jew with outcries rais'd the duke;
Who went with him to search Bassanio's ship.
I never heard a passion so confus'd,
.So strange, outrageous, and so variable.
As the dog Jew did utter in the streets:
My daugiuer!—O my dvcats !—O my daughter!
Fled with a Christian ?—O my christian ducats'
Justice ! the law ! my ducats and my daughter
Let good Antonio look he keep his day,
Or he shall pay for this.
Now, what news on the Eialto ?
Salar. Why, yet it lives there uncheck'd, that Antonio hath a ship
of rich lading wreck'd on the nari-ow seas; the Goodwins, I think
they call the place; a very dangerous flat, and fatal, where the car¬
cases of many a tall ship he buried, ai they say, if my gossip report
be an honest woman of her word.
Salan. I would she were as lying a gossip in that, as ever knapp'd
ginger, or made her neighbors believe she wept for the death of a
third husband: But it is true,—^without any slips of prohxity, or
crossing the plain highway of talk,—that "the good Antonio, the
honest Antonio, O that I had a title good enough to keep his
name company!—
Salar. Come, the full stop.
Salan. Ha,—what say'st thou ?—^Why the end is he hath lost a
ship.
Salar. I would it might prove the end of his losses!
MEKCHANT OF VENICE.
247
Salan. Let me say amen betimes, lest the devil cross my prayer
for here he comes in the likeness of a Jew.—
Enter Shtlock.
How now, Shylock ? what news among the merchants ?
Shy. You knew, none so well, none so well as you, of my daugh¬
ter's flight.
Salar. That's certain; I, for my part, knew the tailor that made
the wings she flew withal.
Salan. And Shylock, for his own part, knew the bird was fledg'd;
and then it is the complexion of them all to leave the dam.
Shy. She is damn'd for it.
Salar. That's certain, if the devU may be her judge.
Shy. My own flesh and blood to rebel!
Salan. Out upon it, old carrion ! rebels it at these years 1 ,
Shy. I say, my daughter is my flesh and blood.
Salar. There is more diflference between thy flesh and hers, tnan
between jet and ivory; more between your bloods, than there is be¬
tween red wine and rhenish: But tell us, do you hear whether
Antonio have had any loss at sea or no ?
Shy. There I have another bad match: a bankrupt, a prodigal,
who dare scarce show his head on the Rialto;—a beggar, that used
to come so smug upon the mart; let him look to his bond : he was
wont to call me usurer;—^let him look to his bond ! he was wont to
lend money for a Christian courtesy!—^let him look to his bond.
Salar. Why, I am sure, if he forfeit, thou wilt not take his flesh;
What's that good for ?
Shy. To bait fish withal: if it wiU feed nothing else, it will feed
my revenge. He hath disgraced me, and hindered me of half a
million; laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my na¬
tion, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies;
and what's his reason ? I am a Jew: Hath not a Jew eyes ? hath
not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions 7
fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the
same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the
■ same winter and summer, as a Christian is 7 if you prick us, do we
not bleed 7 if you tickle us, do we not laugh 7 if you poison us, do
we not die 7 and if you wrong us, shall we not revenge 7 if we are
like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong
a Christian, what is his humility 7 revenge ; If a Christian wrong a
Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example 7 why, re¬
venge. The villany you teach me, I will execute; and it shall go
hard, but I wiU better the instruction.
Enter Tubal.
Salan. Here comes another of the tribe; a third cannot be matched,
unless the devil himself turn Jew. [Exeunt Salan. cf- Salae.
Shy. How now. Tubal, what news from Genoa 7 hast thou found
my daughter 7
248
shaespearian reader.
Tub. I often came where I did hear of her, but cannot find her.
Shy. Why there, there, there, there! a diamond gone, cost me
two thousand ducats in Frankfort! The curse never fell upon our
nation till now! I never felt it till now;—two thousand ducats in
that; and other precious, precious jewels.r^I would my daugbtei
were dead at my foot, and the jewels in her ear ! 'would she were
hears'd at my foot, and the ducats in her coffin ! No news of them ?
—Why, so:—and I know not what's spent in the search: Why,
thou loss upon loss! the thief gone with so much, and so much to
find the thief; and no satisfaction, no revenge : nor no ill luck stir¬
ring, but what hghts o' my shoulders; no sighs, but o' my breath¬
ing ; no tears, but o' my shedding.
Tub. Yes, other men have iU luck too; Antonio, as I heard in
Genoa,—
Shy. What, what, what 1 iU luck, ill luck ?
Tub. —hath an argosy cast away, coming from Tripolis.
Shy. I thank Heaven, I thank Heaven Is it true, is it true ?
Tub. I spoke with some of the sailors that escaped the wreck.
Shy. I thank thee, good Tubal;—Good news, good news: ha!
ha!—Where ? in Genoa ?
Tub. Your daughter spent in Genoa, as I heard, one night, four¬
score ducats!
Shy. Thou stick'st a dagger in me : 1 shall never see my gold
again: Fourscore ducats at a sitting! fourscore ducats!
Tub. There came divers of Antonio's creditors in my company to
Venice, that sweetf he cannot choose but break.
Shy. I am very glad of it: I'll plague him; I'll torture him; I am
glad of it.
Tub. One of tliem showed me a ring, that he had of your daughter
for a monkey.
Shy. Out upon her! Thou torturest me. Tubal: it was my tur¬
quoise ; I had it of Leah, when I was a bachelor: I would not have
given it for a wilderness of monkeys.
Tub. But Antonio is certainly undone.
Shy. Nay, that's true, that's very true: Go, Tubal, fee me an
officer, bespeak him a fortnight before: I wiU have the heart of him,
if he forfeit; for were he out of Venice, I can make what merchan¬
dise I will: Go, go. Tubal, and meet me at our synagogue; go, good
Tubal; at our synagogue. Tubal. [EarewTii.
SCENE n.—^Belmont. A Room in Portia's House.
Enter Bassanio, Portia, Gratiano, Nerissa, and Attendants
The caskets are set out.
Par. I pray you, tarry; pause a day or two.
Before you hazard; for, in choosing wrong,
I lose your company; therefore, forbear a while :
There's something tells me, (but it is not love,)
I would not lose you; and you know yourself.
MERCHANT OF VENICE.
240
Hate couusels not in such a quality;
I could teach you
How to choose right, but then I am forsworn;
So will I never be; so may you miss me;
But if you do, you'll make me wish a sin.
That I had been forsworn.
Bass. Let me choose;
Pec, as I am, I live upon the rack.
Pot. Upon the rack, Bassanio ? then confess
What treason there is mingled with your love.
Bass. None, but that ugly treason of mistrust.
Which makes me fear the enjoying of my love;
There may as well be amity and life
'Tween snow and fire, as treason and my love.
For. Ay, but I fear, you speak upon the rack.
Where men enforced do speak any thing.
Bass. Promise me life, and I'll confess the truth.
Par. Well then, confess, and live.
Bass. Confess, and love,
Had been the very sum of my confession;
O happy torment, when my torturer
Doth teach me answers for deliverance !
But let me to my fortune and the caskets.
For. Away then; I am lock'd in one of them;
If you do love me, you will find me out.—
Nerissa, and the rest, stand all aloof.—
Let music sound, while he doth make his choice;
Then, if he lose, he makes a swan-like end.
Fading in music.
Music, whilst Bassanio comments on the caskets to himself.
SONG. 1. Tell me where is fancy bred,
Or in the heart, or in the head ?
How begot, how nourished 1
Reply. 2. It is engender''d in the eyes.
With gating fed: and fancy dies
In the cradle where it lies:
Let us aU ring fancy's knell,
I'll begin it. Ding, dang, bell.
All. Ding, dong, bell.
Bass. Some good direct my judgment!—^Let me see.—
" Who chooseth me, shall gain what many men desire."
[Locks at the golden casket
That may be meant
Of the fool multitude, that choose by show:
The world is still deceiv'd with ornament.
In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt.
But, being season'd with a gracious voice.
Obscures the show of evil ? In religion,
250
SHAKSPEARIAN READER.
What dangerous error, but some sober brow
Will bless it, and approve it with a text, ^
Hiding the grossness with fair ornament 7
There is no vice so simple, but assumes
Some mark of virtue on his outward parts.
How many cowards, whose hearts are aU as false
As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chin
The beards of Hercules, and frowning Mars:
Who, inward search'd, have livers white as milk 7
And these assume but valor's countenance.
To render them redoubted. Look on beauty.
And you shall see 'tis purchased by the weight;
Which therein works a miracle in nature.
Making them lightest that wear most of it:
Thus ornament is but the guiled shore
To a most dangerous sea; the beauteous scarf
Veiling an Indian beauty; in a word.
The seeming truth which cunning times put on
To entrap the wisest. Therefore, thou gaudy gold.
Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee:
" Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves."
ILooks at the silver zaslteU
And well said, too; for who shall go about
To cozen fortune, and be honorable
Without the stamp of merit 7
Oh, that estates, degrees, and offices.
Were not derived corruptly! and that clear honor
Were purchased by the merit of the wearer!
How many then should cover, that stand bare 7
How many be commanded, that command 7
And how much honor.
Picked from the chaff and ruin of the times.
To be new varnished ?—" Much as he deserves."—
I'll not assume desert.—■
" Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath."
[Looks at the leaden caskei
I'll none of thee, thou pale and common drudge
'Tween man and man: but thou, thou meagre lead.
Which rather threat'nest, than doth promise aught.
Thy plainness moves me more than eloquence.
And here choose I; Joy be the consequence!
Por. How all the other passions fleet to air.
As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embrac'd despair,
And shudd'ring fear, and green-ey'd jealousy.
0 love, be moderate, allay thy ecstasy.
In measure rain tny joy, scant this excess;
1 feel too much thy blessing, make it less.
For fear I surfeit!
Bass. What find I here 7 [Opening the leaden casket
KERCHANT OF VENICE.
251
Fair Portia's counterfeit ? What demi-god
Hath come so near creation ? Here's the scroll,
The continent and summary of my fortune.
You that choose not by the view.
Chance as fair, and choose as true !
Since this fortune falls to you.
Be content, and seek no new.
If you be well pleased teiih this.
Arid hold your fortune for your bliss.
Turn you where your lady is.
And claim her with a loving kiss.
A gentle scroll;—Fair lady, by your leave:
I come by note, to give and to receive. [Kissing hei
As doubtful whether what I see be true.
Until confirm'd, sign'd, ratified by you.
Por. You see me, lord Bassanio, where I stand,
Such as I am: though, for myself alone,
I would not be ambitious in my wish.
To wish myself much better; yet, for you,
I would be trebled twenty times myself;
A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times
More rich;
That only to stand high on your account,
I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends.
Exceed account: but the full sum of me
Is sum of something; which, to term in gross.
Is an unlesson'd giri, unschool'd, unpractis'd:
Happy in this, she is not yet so old
But she may learn; and Appier than this.
She is not bred so dull but she can leam;
Happiest of all, is, that her gentle spirit -
Commits itself to yours to be directed.
As from her lord, her governor, her king.
Myself, and what is mine, to you, and yours
Is now converted: but now I was the lord
Of this fair mansion, master of my servants.
Queen o'er myself; and even now, but now.
This house, these servants, and this same myself,
Are yours, my lord.
Bass. Madam, you have bereft me of all words
Only my blood speaks to you in my veins.
Ner. My lord and lady, it is now our time.
That have stood by, and seen our wishes prosper,
To cry, good joy; Good joy, my lord and lady !
Gra. My lord Bassanio, and my gentle lady,
I wish you all the joy that you can wish;
For I am sure, you can wish none from me:
And, when vour honors mean to solemnize
262
SHAKSFEAEIAN READEK.
The bargain of your faith, I do beseech you,
Even at that time I may be married too.
Bass. With all my heart, so thou canst get a wife.
Gra. I thank your lordship; you have got me one,
My eyes, my lord, can look as swift as yours:
You saw the mistress, I beheld the maid;
You lov'd, I lov'd; for intermission
No more pertains to me, my lord, than you.
Your fortune stood upon the caskets there;
And so did mine too, as the matter falls:
For wooing here, until I sweat again;
And swearing, till my very roof was dry
With oaths of love; at last,—if promise last,—
I got a promise of this fair one here.
To have her love, provided that vour fortune
Achiev'd her mistress.
Por. Is this true, Nerissa ?
Ner. Madam, it is, so you stand pleas'd withal.
Bass. And do you, Gratiano, mean good faith ?
Gra. Yes, faith, my lord.
Bass. Our feast shall be much honor'd in your marritge.
Lorenzo, Jessica and Salanio, bring a Letter from Antonio to Bassanio. accnaiot-
ing bim with his losses, and tliat the Bond to the Jew is forfeited. Bassanio is strnck
with horror at the tidiisgs, and determines to leave Portia and proceed immediateiy to hit
friend ; Portia insists that the marriage ceremony between them, shall be first solemnized,
and famishes him with money more than safiScient to discharge the Bond.
AAer the departure of Bassanio and his friends, Portia determines to follow them, and
assist in saving Antonio from the Jew*s malignity. She writes to her cousin Bellario,
who is a Doctor of Law, and requests his advice on the nature of the Bond given by An¬
tonio ; fortified with Bellario's opinion, she goes to Venice, where assuming the disguise
of a Doctor of Law, or Counsellor, with Nerissa as her clerk, she attends the Trial of the
Merchant.
ACT IV.
We are now introduced to the catastrophe of this magnificent Drama—the Trial
Scene;—and taken as an isolated Scene, it stands perhaps the most perfect piece of cona-
position to be found in the whole range of Dramatic writing.
SCENE I.—Venice. A Court of Justice.
Enter the Duke, the Magnificoes; Antonio, Bassanio, Gratia kc,
Saxarino, Salanio, and others.
Duke. What, is Antonio here ?
Ant. Ready, so please your grace.
Duke. I am sony for thee : thou art come to answer
A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch
Uncapable of pity, void and empty
From an/ dram of mercy.
MESCHANT OF VENICE.
263
Ant. I have heard
lour grace has ta'en great pains to qualify
His rigorous course; but since he stands obdurate,
And that no lawful means can carry me
Out of his envy's reach, I do oppose
My patience to his fury; and am arm'd
To suffer, with a quietness of spirit,
The very tyranny and rage of his.
Dvke. Go one, and call the Jew into the court.
Salon. He's ready at the door: he comes, my lord.
Enter Shtlock,
Duhe. Make room, and let him stand before our face.—
Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too.
That thou but lead'st this fashion of thy malice
To the last hour of act; and then, 'tis thought,
Thou'lt show thy mercy and remorse, more strange
Than is thy strange apparent cruelty:
And where thou now exact'st the penalty,
(Which is a pound of this poor merchant's flesh,)
Thou wilt not only lose the forfeiture.
But touch'd with human gentleness and love,
Forgive a moiety of the principal;
Glancing an eye of pity on his losses
That have of late so huddled on his back, >
Enough to press a royal merchant down.
And pluck commiseration of his state
From brassy bosoms, and rough hearts of flint.
From stubborn Turks, and Tartars, never train'd
To oflSces of tender courtesy.
We all expect a gentle answer, Jew.
Shy. I have possess'd your grace of what I purpose;
And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn.
To have the due and forfeit of my bond:
If you deny it, let the danger light
Upon your charter, and your city's freedom.
You'll ask me, why I rather choose to have
A weight of carrion flesh, than to receive
Three thousand ducats: I'll not answer that:
But, say, it is my humor; Is it answer'd ?
What if my house be troubled with a rat.
And I be pleas'd to give ten thousand ducats
To have it ban'd ? What, are you answer'd yet t
Some men there are, love not a gaping pig;
Some, that are mad, if they behold a cat;
As there is no firm reason to be render'd,
Why he cannot abide a gaping pig;
Why he, a harmless necessary cat;
So can 1 give no reason, nor I will not,
251
SHAKSPEAEIAN READER.
More than a lodg'd hate, and a certain loathing
I bear Antonio, that I follow tlius
A losing suit against him. Are you answer'd ?
Bass. This is no answer, thou unfeeling man,
To excuse the current of thy cruelty.
Shy. I am not bound to please tliee with my answer.
Bass. Do all men kill the things they do not love f
Shy. Hates any man the thing he would not kill ?
Bass. Every offence is not a hate at first.
Shy. What, would'st thou have a serpent sting thee twice j
• ■ ' " " 'i the Jew:
And bid the main flood bate his usual height;
You may as well use question with the wolf.
Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb;
You may as well forbid the mountain pines
To wag their high tops, and to make no noise.
When they are fretted with the gusts of heaven ;
You may as well do any thing most hard.
As seek to soften that (than which what's harder ?)
His Jewish heart:—Therefore, I do beseech you.
Make no more offers, use no further means,
But, with all brief and plain conveniency.
Let me have judgment, and the Jew his will.
Bass. For thy three thousand ducats here is six.
Shy. If every ducat in six thousand ducats.
Were in six parts, and every part a ducat,
I would not draw them, T would have my bond.
Duke. How shalt thou hope for mercy, rend'ring none T
Shy. What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong ?
You nave among you many a purchas'd slave.
Which, like your asses, and your dogs, and mules.
You use in abject and in slavish parts.
Because you bought them :—Shall I say to you.
Let them be free, marry them to your heirs ?
Why sweat they under burdens ? let their beds
Be made as soft as yours, and let their palates
Be season'd with such viands ? You will answer,
The slaves are ours:—So do I answer you;
The pound of flesh, which I demand of him,
' "11 have it:
There is no force in the decrees of Venice:
I stand for judgment: answer; shall I have it ?
Duke. Upon my power, I mav dismiss this court,-
Unless Bellario, a learned doctor.
Whom I have sent for to determine this,
Come here to-day.
Solar.
My lord, here stays -mthout
MERCHANT OF VENICE.
255
A messenger with letters from the doctor,
New come from Padua.
Duke. Bring us the letters; call the messenger.
Bass. Good cheer, Antonio! What, man ? courage yet 1
The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones, and aU,
Ere thou shall lose for me one drop of blo^.
ArU. I am a tainted wether of the flock,
Meetest for death; the weakest kind of fruit
Drops earliest to the ground, and so let me :
You cannot better be employ'd, Bassanio,
Than to live still, and write mine epitaph.
Enter Nerissa, dressed like a lawyer's clerk.
Duke. Came you from Padua, from Bellario t
Ner. From both, my lord: Bellario greets your grace.
[Presents a kUer
Bass. Why dost thou whet thy knife so earnestly 1
Shy. To cut the forfeiture from that bankrupt there.
Cha. Not on thy sole, but on thy soul, harsh Jew,
Thou mak'st thy knife keen: but no metal can.
No, not the hangman's axe, bear half the keenness
Of thy sharp envy. Can no prayers pierce thee ?
Shy. No, none that thou hast wit enough to make.
Gi-a. O, be thou curs'd, inexorable dog!
And for thy life let justice be accus'd.
Thou almost mak'st me waver in my faith.
To hold opinion with Pythagoras,
That souls of animals infuse themselves
Into the trunks of men: thy currish spirit
Govern'd a wolf, for thy desires
Are wolfish, bloody, starv'd, and ravenous.
Shy. Till thou canst rail the seal from off my bond.
Thou but offend'st thy lungs to speak so loud;
Repair thy wit, good youth; or it will fall
To cureless ruin. I stand here for law.
Duke. This letter from Bellario doth commend
A young and learned doctor to our court;—
Where is he ?
Ner. He attendeth here hard by.
To know your answer, whether you'll admit him.
Duke. With all my heart:—some three or four of you.
Go give him courteous conduct to this place.—
Meantime, the court shall hear Bellario's letter.
[Clerk reads.']—Your grace shall understand, that, at the receipt
of your letter, I am very swk: but in the instant that your messenger
came, in loving visitation was with me a young doctor of Rome, his
name is Balthasar: I acquainted him with the cause in controversy
between the Jew and Antonio the merchant: we turn'd o'er many hocks
together: he is furnish'd with my opinion; which, better'd with his
256
SHAKSPEARUN READER.
mtm learning, (the greatness whereof I cannot enough commend,)
comes with htm, at my importunity, to Jill up your grace's^ request in
my stead. I beseech you, let his lack of years be no impediment to lei
him lack a reverend estimation; for I never knew so young a body
with so old a head. I leave him to your gracious acceptance, whose
trial sluill better publish his commendation.
Duke. You hear the learned Bellario, what he writes:
And here, I take it, is the doctor come.—
Enter Portia, dressed like a doctor of laws.
Give me your hand: Came you from old Bellario ?
Por. I did, my lord.
Duke. You are welcome: take your place.
Are you acquainted with the difference
That holds this present question in the court ?
Por. I am informed thoroughly of the cause.
Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew ?
Duke. Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth!
Por. Is your name Shylock ?
Shy. Shylock is my name.
Por. Of a strange nature is the suit you follow;
Yet in such a rule, that the Venetian law
Cannot impugn you, as you do proceed.— •
You stand within his danger, do you not ? [Tc ANTomo
ArU. Ay, so he says.
Por. Do you confess the bond ? \
AtU. I do.
Por. Then mu-st the Jew be merciful.
Shy. On what compulsion must I ? tell me that.
Por. The quality of mercy is not strain'd;
It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice bless'd ;
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes:
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown;
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power.
The attribute to awe and majesty.
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this scepter'd sway.
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings.
It is an attribute to God himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God's
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this—
That in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy;
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much.
MERCHANT OF VENICE.
To mitigate the justice of thy plea;
■ Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice
Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there.
Shy. My deeds upon my head ! I crave the law,
The penalty and forfeit of my bond.
For. Is he not able to discharge the money ?
Bass. Yes, here I tender it for him in the court;
Yea, thrice the sum: if that will not suffice,
I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er.
On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart:
If this will not suffice, it must appear
That malice bears down truth. And I beseech you,
Wrest once the law to your authority:
To do a great right do a little wrong;
And curb this cruel devil of his will.
For. It must not be; there is no power in Venice
Can alter a decree established:
'Twill be recorded for a precedent;
And many an error, by the same example.
Will rush into the state: it cannot be.
Shy. A Daniel come to judgment! yea, a Daniel!
0 wise young judge, how do 1 honor uiee!
For. I pray you, let me look upon the bond.
Shy. "Mere it is, most reverend doctor, here it is.
For. Sbylock, there's thrice thy money offer'd thee.
Shy. An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven:
Shall I lay peijury upon my soul ?
No, not for Venice.
For. Why, this bond is forfeit;
And lawfully by this the Jew may claim
A pound of flesh, to be by him cut oflt
Nearest the merchant's heart:—Be merciful;
Take thrice thy money; bid me tear the bond.
Shy. When it is paid according to the tenor.—
It doth appear, you are a worthy judge ;
You know the law, your exposition
Hath been most sound; I charge you by the law.
Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar.
Proceed to judgment: by my soul I swear.
There is no power in the tongue of man
To alter me : I stay here on my bond.
Ant. Most heartily I do beseech the court
To give the judgment.
For. Why then, thus it is.
You must prepare your bosom for his knife.
Shy. O noble judge! O excellent young man 1
For. For the intent and purpose of the law
Hath full relation to the penalty.
Which here appeareth due upon the bond.
258
SHAESPEARIAN READER.
Shy. 'Tis verj' true: O wise and upright judge!
How much more elder art thou than thy looks!
Par. Therefore, lay bare your bosom.
Shy. Ay, his breast:
So says the bond;—Doth it not, noble judge ?—
Nearest his heart, those are the very words.
Par. It is so. Are there balance here, to weigh
The flesh ?
Shy. I have them ready.
Par. Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge,
To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death.
Shy. Is it so nominated in the bond ?
Par. It is not so express'd; But what of that ?
'Twere good you do so much for charity.
Shy. I cannot flnd it; 'tis not in the bond.
Par. Come, merchant, have>you any thing to say t
Ant. But little; I am arm'd, and well prepar'd.—
Give me your hand, Bassanio; fare you well!
Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you;
For herein fortune shows nerself more kind
Than is her custom: it is still her use.
To let the wretched man out-live his wealth.
To view with hollow eye, and wrinkled brow.
An age of poverty; from which hngering penance
Of such a misery doth she cut me off".
Commend me to your honorable wife:
Tell her the process of Antonio's end.
Say, how I loved you, speak me fair in death;
And, when the tale is told, bid her be judge.
Whether Bassanio had not once a love.
Repent not you that you shall lose your friend.
And he repents not that he pays your debt;
For, if the Jew do cut but deep enough,
I'll pay it instantly with aU my heart.
Bass. Antonio, I am married to a wife.
Which is as dear to me as life itself;
But hfe itself, my wife, and aU the world.
Are not with me esteem'd above thy life;
I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all
Here to this devil, to deliver you.
Par. Your wife would give you little thanks for that
If she were by, to hear you make the oflTer.
Gra. I have a wife, whom, I protest I love;
I would she were in heaven, so she could
Entreat some power to change this currish Jew.
Ner. 'Tis well you offer it behind her back;
The wish would make else an unquiet house.
Shy. These be the Christian husbands.; I have a daughter;
k
MERCHANT OF VENICE.
259
Would, any of the stock of Barrabas
Had been her husband, rather than a Christian! [Aside,
We trifle time; I pray thee, pursue sentence.
Por. A pound of that same merchant's flesh ;e thine.
The court awards it, and the law doth give it.
Shy. Most rightful judge ! '
Por. And you must cut this flesh from ofi" his breast;
The law allows it, and the court awards it.
Shy. Most learned judge !—A sentence; come, prepare.
Por. Tarry a little ;—^there is something else.—
This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood;
The words expressly are a pound of flesh;
Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh;
But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed
One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods
Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate
Unto the state of Venice.
Gra. O upright judge !—Mark, Jew;—O learned judge!
Shy. Is that the law ?
Por. Thyself shall see the act;
For, as thou urgest justice, be assur'd.
Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desir'st.
Gra. O learned judge!—Mark, Jew;—a learned judge!
Shy. I take this ofier then,—pay the bond thrice.
And let the Christian go.
Bass. Here is the money.
Por. Soft;
The Jew shall have all justice;—soft;—no haste;—
He shall have nothing but the penalty.
Gra. O Jew! an upright judge, a learned judge!
Por. Therefore, prepare thee to cut off the flesh.
Shed thou no blood; nor cut thou less, nor more.
But just a pound of flesh: if thou tak'st more.
Or less, than a just pound,—be it but so much
As makes it light, or heavy, in the substance.
Or the division of the twentieth part
Of one poor scruple: nay, if the scale do turn
But in the estimation of a hair,—
Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate.
Gra. A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew!
Now, infidel, I have thee on the hip.
Por. Why doth the Jew pause ? take thy forfeiture.
Shy. Give me my principal, and let me go.
Bass. I have it ready for thee; here it is.
Por. He hath refus'd it in the open court;
He shall have merely justice, and his bond.
Gra. A Daniel, still say I; a second Daniel!—
I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word.
Shy. Shall I not have barely my principal ?
260
SHAKSPEAEIAN READER.
jPor. Thou shall have notliing but the forfeiture,
To be so taken at thy peril, Jew.
Shy. Why then the devil give him good of it;
I'll stay no longer question.
For. Tarry, Jew,
The law hath yet another hold on you.
It is enacted in the laws of Venice,—
If it be prov'd against an alien,
That by direct, or indirect attempts,
He seek the Ufe of any citizen,
The party, 'gainst the which he doth contrive.
Shall seize one half his goods; the other half
Comes to the privy coffer of the state;
And the offender's life hes in the mercy
Of the duke only, 'gainst all other voice.
In which predicament, I say, thou stand'st:
For it appears by manifest proceeding.
That, indirectly, and directly too.
Thou hast contriv'd a^nst the very life
Of the defendant; and thou hast incnrr'd
The danger formerly by me rehears'd.
Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the duke.
Gra. Beg that thou may'st have leave to hang thyed'S
And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the state.
Thou hast not left the value of a cord;
Therefore, thou must be hang'd at the state's charge.
Z>itke. That thou shall see the difference of our spirit,
I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it:
For half thy wealth, it is Antonio's ;
The other half comes to the general state.
Which humbleness may drive unto a fine.
For. Ay, for the state; not for Antonio.
Shy. Nay, take my life and all, pardon not that:
You take my house, when you do take the prop
That doth sustain my house; you take my hfe.
When you do take the means whereby I five.
For. What mercy can you render him, Antonio ?
Gra. A halter gratis; nothing else; for Heaven's sake.
Ant. So please my lord the duke, and all the court,
To quit the fine for one half of his goods;
I am content, so he will let me have
The other half in use,—^to render it,
Upon his death, unto the gentleman
That lately stole his daughter;
Two things provided more,—That for this favor.
He presently become a Christian;
The other, that he do record a gift,
Here in the court, of all he dies possess'd
Unto his son Lorenzo, and his daughter.
MERCHANT OF VENICE.
261
Dyke. He shall do this; or else I do recant
The pardon, that I late pronounced here.
Par. Art thou contented, Jew, what dost thou say ?
Shy. I am content.
Por. Clerk, draw a deed of gift.
Shy. I pray you give me leave to go from hence:
I am not well; send the deed after me.
And I will sign it.
Duke. Get thee gone, but do it.
Gra. In christening, thou shalt have two godfathers;
Had I been judge, thou should'st have had ten more, «
To bring thee to the gallows, not the font. [ExU Shtlock.
Duke. Sir, I entreat you home with me to dinner.
Por. 1 humbly do desire your grace of pardon;
I must away this night toward PtSua,
And it is meet, I presently set forth.
Dvke. I am sorry, that your leisure serves not.
Antonio, gratify this gentleman;
Foi, in my mind, you are much bound to him.
[Exeunt Duke, Magnificoes, and Train.
The interest of the Play ends with the delivery of Antonio, and the pnnishmeBt of
Shylock; tlte fifth Act is occupied in explanations which naturally follow between tbo
lending cha«ncteis, growing out of the disguises assnmed by Pmtia and Neiissa.
a
KING LEAK
** llie story of King Lear and his three daughters, is fonnd a Holinsbed's Chronic] e;
and was originally told by GeofTry of Monmonth, who says that Lear was the eldest son
of Bladnd, and * nobly governed his country for sixty years.* According to that bis
torian,he died about ^0 years before Christ. Shakspeare has taken the hint for the
behavior of the steward, and the reply of Cordelia to her father concerning her future mar¬
riage, from Mirror of Magistrates^ 1587. According- to Steevens, the episode of
Glosterand his sons b borrowed from Sidney's Arcadia**
Macbeth, Othello, Hamlet, and Lear, are placed by general consent as first in the Ibt
of Shakspeare's inspired creations, but to the character of Lear, b yielded the pre-eminence.
It b perhaps the most wonderfu. dramatic conception on record. We have en¬
deavored to incorporate into our selections, the entire development of thb extraordinarf.
aieation.
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
Leak, King of Britain.
King of France.
Doke of Burgtjndt.
Duke of Cornwauo.
Duke of Albany.
Earl of ICent.
Earl of Gloster.
Edgar, son to Gloster.
Edmund, illegitimate son te Gloster
CuRAN, a.courtier.
Old Man, tenant tb Gloster.
Physician. Fool.
Oswald, steward to Goneril.
An Officer employed by Edmund.
Gentleman, attendant on Cordelia.
A Herald. Servants to Cornwall.
Goneril, Regan, Cordelia, daughters to Lear.
Knights attending on the King, Officers, Messengers, Soldiers and
Attendants.
SCENE,—Britain.
king lear.
263
ACT I.
SCENE I.—A Room of Slate in King Lear's Palace.
Enter Lear, Cornwall, Albany, Goneril, Regan, Cordelia,
and Attendants.
Lear. Attend the lords of France and Burgundy, Glostcr.
Glo. I shall, my liege. \_Eicit Gloster & Edmund
Lear. Mean-time we shall express our darker purpose.
Give me the map there.—Kjiow, that we have divided.
In three, our kingdom: and 'tis our fast intent
To shake all cares and business from our age;
Conferring them on younger strengths, whSe we
Unburden d crawl toward death.—Our son of Cornwall,
And you, our no less loving son of Albany,
We nave this hour a constant will to publish
Our daughters' several dowers, that future strife
May be prevented now. The princes, France and Burgundy,
Great rivals in our youngest daughter's love.
Long in our court nave made their amorous sojourn.
And here are to be answer'd.—^Tell me, my daughters,
(Since now we will divest us, both of rule.
Interest of territory, cares of state,)
Which of you, shall we say, doth love us most ?
That we our largest bounty may extend
Where merit doth most challenge it.—Goneril,
Our eldest-bom, speak first.
Gm. Sir, I
Do love you more than words can wield the matter
Dearer than eye-sight, space and liberty;
Beyond what can fe valued, rich or rare;
No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honor:
As much as child e'er lov'd, or father found.
A love that makes breath poor, and speech unable;
Beyond all manner of so much I love you.
Cor. What shall Cordelia do ? Love, and be silent. [Asiifc
Lear. Of all these bounds, even from this line to this.
With shadowy forests and with champains rich'd.
With plenteous rivers and wide-skirted meads.
We make thee lady: To thine and Albany's issue
Be this perpetual.—^What says our second daughter.
Our dearest Regan, wife to Cornwall ? Speak.
Reg. I am made of that self metal as my sister.
And prize me at her worth. In my true heart
I find, she names my very deed of love;
Only she comes too short,—that I profess
Myself an enemy to all other joys.
Which the most precious square of sense possesses;
264
SHAESFEABIAN EEADER.
And find, 1 am alone felicitate
In your dear highness' love.
Cor. Then poor Cordelia! [Aside,
And yet not so; since, I am sure, my love's
More richer than my tongue.
Lear. To thee, and thine, hereditary ever.
Remains this ample third of our fair kingdom;
No less in space, validity, and pleasure.
Than that confirm'd on GonerU.—Now, our joy.
Although the last, not least; to whose young love
The vines of France, and milk of Burgundy,
Strive to be interess'd; what can you say, to draw
A third more opulent than your sisters ? Speak.
Cor. Nothing, my lord.
Lear. Nothing?
Cor. Nothing.
Lear. Nothing can come of nothing: speak again.
Cor. Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave
My heart into my mouth: I love your majesty
According to my bond; nor more, nor less.
Lear. How, how, Cordelia ? mend your speech a little -
Lest it may mar your fortunes.
Cor. Good my lord.
You have begot me, bred me, lov'd me: I
Return those duties back as are right fit.
Obey you, love you, and most honor you.
Why nave my sisters husbands, if they say
They love you, aU ? Haply, when I shall wed.
That lord, whose hand must take my ph'ght, shall carry
Half my love with him, half my care, and duty!
Sure, I shall never marry hke my sisters.
To love my father all.
Lear. But goes this with thy heart ?
Cor. Ay, good my lord.
■ Lear. So young, and so untender ?
Cor. So young, my lord, and true.
Lear. Let it be so,—Thy truth then be thy dower:
For, by the sacred radiance of the sun;
The mysteries of Hecate, and the night;
By all the operations of the orbs.
From whom we do exist, and cease to be;
Here I disclaim all my paternal care.
Propinquity and property of blood.
Ana as a stranger to my heart and me
Hold thee, from this, for ever.
Kent. Good my liege,—
Lear. Peace, Kent 1
Come not between the dragon and his wrath;
I lov'd her most, and thought to set my rest
king leah.
265
On her kind, nursery.—Hence, and avoid my sight!
So be my grave my peace, as here I give [ To Coedelia.
Her father's heart from her!—Call France;—^Who stirs 1
Call Burgundy.—Cornwall, and Albany,
With my two daughters' dowers digest this third,
Let pride, which she calls plainness, marry her.
I do invest you jointly with my power.
Pre-eminence, and all the large effects
That troop with majesty.—Ourself, by monthly course,
With reservation of an hundred knights,
By you to be sustain'd, shall our ab^e
Idike with you by due turns. Only we still retain
The name, and all the additions to a king;
The sway, revenue, execution of the rest,
Beloved sons, be yours: which to confirm,
Phis coronet part between you. [Cftrir^ the eroum,
Kent. Royal Lear,
Whom I have ever honor'd as my king,
Lov'd as my father, as my master follow'd.
As my great patron thought on in my prayers,—
Lear. The bow is bent and drawn, make from the shaft.
Kent. Let it fall rather, though the fork invade
The remon of my heart; be Kent unmannerly.
When Lear is mad. What would'st thou do, old man ?
Think'st thou, that duty shall have dared to speak.
When power to flattery bows 1 To plainness honor's bound.
When majesty stoops to folly. Reverse thy doom;
And, in thy best consideration, check
This hideous rashness: answer my life my judgment.
Thy youngest daughter does not love thee least;
Nor are those empty-hearted, whose low sound
Reverbs no hollowness.
Lear. Kent, on thy Kfe, no more.
Kent. My life I never held but as a pawn
To wage a^inst thine enemies; nor fear to lose it.
Thy safety being the motive.
Lear. Out of my sight!
Kent. -See better, Lear; and let me still remain
Phe true blank of thine eye.
Lear. Now, by Apollo,—
Kent. Now, by Apollo, king,
Phou^wear'st thy gods in vain
Lear. O, vassal! miscreant!
[Laying his hand on his sword.
Alb. Com. Dear sir, forbear.
Kent. Do;
Kill thy physician, and the fee bestow
Upon the foul disease. Revoke thy gift;
13
266
SHAKSFEAKIAN BEADEB.
Or, whilst I can vent clamor from my throat,
I'll tell thee thou dost evil.
Lear. Hear me, recreant
On thine allegiance hear me !—
Since thou hast sought to make us break our vow,
(Which we durst never yet,) and, with strain'd pride,
To come betwixt our sentence and our power;
(Which nor our nature nor our place can bear,)
Our potency made good, take thy reward.
Five days do we allot thee, for provision
To shield thee from diseases of the world;
And, on the sixth, to turn thy hated back
Upon our kingdom: if, on the tenth day following.
Thy banish'd trunk be found in our dominions.
The moment is thy death: Away ! by Jupiter,
This shall not be revok'd.
Kent. Fare thee well, king; since thus thou wUt appear,
Freedom lives hence, and banishment is here.—
The gods to their dear shelter take thee, maid, [To Coedeua.
That justly think'st, and hast most rightly said!—
And your large speeches may your (feeds approve,
[To Re(}AN and Gonekil.
That good effects may spring from words of love.—
Thus Kent, O princes, bids you all adieu:
He'll shape his old course in a country new. [Exit,
Re-enter Glostee : with Feance, BtntouNDT, and Attendants.
Glo. Here's France and Burgundy, my noble lord.
Lear. My lord of Burgundy,
We first address towards you, who with this king
Hath rivall'd for our daughter; What, in the least.
Will you require in present dower with her.
Or cease your quest of love ?
Bur. Most royal majesty,
I crave no more than hath your highness offer'd.
Nor ^1 you tender less.
Lear. Right noble Burgundy,
When she was dear to us, we fid hold her so;
But now her price is fall'n: Sir, there she stands;
If aught within that little, seeming substance.
Or all of it, with our displeasure piec'd.
And nothing more may fitly like your grace.
She's" there, and she is yours.
Bur. I know no answer.
Lear. Sir,
Will you, with those infirmities she owes.
Unfriended, new-adopted to our hate,.
Dower'd with our curse, and strangef'd with our oath.
Take her. or leave her ?
KINS LEAK.
267
Bur. Pardon me, royal sir;
Election makes not up on such conditions.
Lear. Then leave her, sir; for, by the power that made me,
I tell you all her wealth.—For you, great king, [To Frano.
I womd not from your love make such a stray.
To match you where I hate; therefore beseech you
To avert your liking a more worthier way.
Than on a wretch whom nature is asham'd
Almost to acknowledge hers.
France. This is most strange!
That she, that even but now was your best object,
The argument of your praise, balm of your age.
Most best, most dearest should in this trice of time
Commit a thing so monstrous, to dismantle
So many folds of favor! Sure, her offence
Must be of such unnatural degree.
That monsters it, or your fore-vouch'd affection
Fall into taint: which to believe of her.
Must be a faith, that reason vrithout miracle
Could never plant in me.
Cor. I yet beseech your majesty,
(If for I want that glib and oily art.
To speak, and purpose not; since what I well intend,
rn do't before 1 speak,) that you make known
It is no vicious blot, murder, or foulness.
No unchaste action, or dishonor'd step.
That hath deprived me of your grace and favor:
But even for want of that, for which I am richer;
A still soliciting eye, and such a tongue
That I am glad I have not, though not to have it.
Hath lost me in your liking.
Lear. _ Better thou
Hadst not been'born, than not to have pleas'd me better.
France. Is it but this ? a tardiness in nature.
Which often leaves the history unspoke.
That it intends to do ?—My lord of Burgundy,
What say you to the lady ? Love is not love
When it is mingled with respects, that stand
Aloof from the entire point. Will you have her ?
She is herself a dowry.
Bur. Royal Lear,
Give but that portion which yourself propos'd.
And here I take Cordelia by the hand.
Duchess of Burgundy.
' Lear. Nothing: I have sworn; I am firm.
Bur. I am sorry then, you have so lost a father.
That you must lose a husband.
Cor. Peace be with Burgundy J
268
SHAKSPEARIAN READER.
Since that respects of fortune are his love,
I shall not be his wife.
France. Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich, being poor;
Most choice, forsaken; and most lov'd, despis'd!
Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon:
Be it lawful, I take up what's cast away.
Gods, gods! 'tis strange, that from their cold'st neglect
My love should kindle to inflam'd respect.—
Thy dowerless daughter, king, thrown to my chance.
Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair France:
Not all the dukes of waterish Burgundy
Shall buy this unpriz'd precious maid of me.—
Bid them farewell, Cordelia, though unkind;
Thou losest here, a better where to find.
Lear. Thou hast her, France: let her be thine; for we
Have no such daughter, nor shall ever see
That face of hers again:—Therefore be gone,
Without our grace, our love, our benison.
Come, noble Burgundy.
{Flmirish. Exeunt Leak, Burgundy, Cornwadl, Albany
Glosxer, and Attendants.
France. Bid farewell to your sisters.
Cor. The jewels of our father, with wash'd eyes
Cordelia leaves you: I know you what you are;
And, like a sister, am most loath to call
Your faults as they are nam'd. Use well our father:
To your professed bosoms I commit him:
But yet, alas! stood I within his grace,
I would prefer him to a better place.
So farewell to you both.
Gon. Prescribe not us our duties.
Reg. Let your study
Be, to content your lord; who hath receiv'd you
At fortune's alms. You have obedience scanted.
And Afell are worth the want that you have wanted.
C"r. Time shall unfcid what plaited cunning hides;
Who covers faults, at last shame them derides.
Wen may you prosper!
France. Come, my fair Cordelia.
[^Exeunt France and Cordelia.
Con6iiins onrselves to the main incidents connected with the story of Lear,—bia
wrongs and snfferings,—we are necessarily compelled to omit mnch of the nnder plot
of this Play, in which Shakspeare introduces, as a counterpart to Lear suffering under the
ingratitnde of his children, Edgar, the son of Gloster, as a pattern of filial piety an<^
love, unjustly persecuted by his father. Gloster is persuaded by the machinations of
Eidfflund, to believe that Edgar seeks his life.
The next scene we extract, introduces Kent in the disguise of a Feasant, nnder the
name of Catus, seeking to engage himself in the service of the King, whom he fears will
be improperly treated by R^an and Goncril.
SING LEAR.
269
SCENE rV.—A HcUl in the Duke of Albany'^ Palace.
Enter Kent, disguised.
Kent. If but as well I other accents borrow,
That can my speech difiuse, my good intent
May carry through itself to that full issue
For which I raz'd my likeness.—Now, banish'd Kent,
If thou canst serve where thou dost stand condemn'd,
(So may it come!) thy master, whom thou lov'st.
Shall find thee full of labors.
Hems unlhin. Enter Lear, Knights, and Attendants.
Lear, Let me not stay a jot for dinner; go, get it ready.—\_Exii
an Attendant.]—How now, what art thou ?
Kent. A man, sir.
Lear. What dost thou profess ? What would'st thou with us ?
Kent. I do profess to be no less than I seem; to serve him truly,
that will put me in trust; to love him that is honest; to converse
with him that is wise, and says little; to fear judgment; to fight,
when I cannot choose; and to eat no fish.
Lear. What art thou ?
Kent.. A very honest-hearted fellow, and as poor as the king.
Lear. If thou be as poor for a subject, as he is for a king, thou art
poor enough. What would'st thou ?
Kent. Service,
Lear. Who would'st thou serve ?
Kent. You.
Lear. Dost thou know me, fellow ?
Kent. No, sir; but you have that in your countenance, which I
would fain call master.
Lear. What's that ?
Kent. Authority.
Lear. What services canst thou do ?
Kent. I can keep honest counsel, ride, run, mar a curious tale in
telling it, and deliver a plain message bluntly; that which ordinary
men are fit for, I am qualuied in: and the best of me is diligence.
Lear. How old art thou ?
Kent. Not so young, sir, to love a woman for singing; nor so old
to dote on her for any thing: I have years on my back forty-eight.
Lear. Follow me; thou shalt serve me; If I like thee no worse
after dinner, I will not part from thee yet.—Dinner, ho, dinner.—
Where's my knave ? my fool ? Go you, and call my fool hither;
Enter Steward.
You, you, sirrah, where's my daughter ?
Slew. So please you,— {Exit.
Lear. What says the fellow there ? Call the clodpoll back.—•
Where's my fool, ho ?—^I think the world's asleep.—^How now ?
Where's that mongrel ?
Knight. He says, my lord, your daughter is not well.
270
^iHAKSPEARIAN READER.
Lear. Why came not the slave back to me when I called him t
Knight. Sir, he answer'd me in the roundest manner, he would
not.
Jjear. He would not!
Knight. My lord, I know not what the matter is; but, to my
judgment, your highness is not entertain'd with that ceremonious
affection as you were wont; there's a great abatement of kindness
appears, as '.rell in the general dependants, as in the duke himself
also, and your daughter.
Lear. Ha! say'st thou so ?
Knight. I beseech you, pardon me, my lord, if I be mistaken: for
my duty cannot be silent, when I think your highness is wrong'd.
Lear. Thou but remember'st me of mine own conception; I have
perceived a most faint neglect of late; which I have rather blamed as
mine own jealous curiosity, than as a very pretence and purpose of
unkindness: I wiU further into't.—But where's my fool ? I have
not seen him this two days.
Knight. Since my young lady's going into France, sir, the fool
hath much pined away.
Lear. No more of that; I have noted it well.—Go you, and tell
my daughter I would speak with her.—Go you, call hither my
fool.—
Re-enter Steward.
O, you sir, you sir, come you hither: Who am I, sir ?
Stew. My lady's father.
• Lear. My lady's father ! my lord's knave : you dog! you slave!
you cur!
Stew. I am none of this, my lord; I beseech you, pardon me.
Lear. Do you bandy looks with me, you rascm ? [Striking him.
Stew. I'll not be struck, my lord.
Kent. Nor tripped neither; you base foot-ball player.
[Tripping up his heels
Lear. I thank thee, fellow; thou servest me, and I'll love thee.
Kent. Come, sir, arise, away; I'll teach you differences; away,
away: If you will measure your lubber's length again, tarry; but
away: go to; Have you wisdom ? so. [Pushes the Steward mit.
I^ar. Now, my friendly knave, I thank thee: there's earnest of
thy service. [Giving Kent money.
Enter Fool.
Fool. Let me hire him too;—Here's my coxcomb.
[Giving Kent hts cap.
Lear. How now, my pretty knave ? how dost thou ?
Fool. Sirrah, you were best take my coxcomb.
Kent. Why, fool ?
Fool. Why ? For taking one's part that is out of favor: Nay, an
thou canst not smile as tlie wind sits, thou'lt catch cold shortly;
There, take my coxcomb: Why, this fellow has banish'd two of his
daughters, and did the third a blessing against his will; if thou fol-
KING LEAR.
271
k»w him, thou must needs wear my coxcomb.—How now, nuncle I
'Would I had two coxcombs, and two daughters!
Lear. Why, my boy ?
Fool. If I gave them all my living, I'd keep my coxcombs myself:
There's mine; beg another of thy daughters.
Lear. Take heed, sirrah; the whip.
Fool. Truth's a dog that must to kennel; he must be whipp'd out,
when Lady, the brach, may stand by the fire.
Lear. A pestilent gall to me!
Fool. Sirrah, I'll teach thee a speech.
Lear. Do.
Fod. Mark it, nuncle:—
Have more than thou showest,
Speak less than thou knowest.
Lend less than thou owest,
Ride more than thou goest.
Learn more than thou trowest,
Set less than thou throwest;
And thou shalt have more
Than two tens to a score.
Lear. This is nothing, fool.
Fool. Then 'tis like the breath of an unfee'd lawyer; you gave
me nothing for't: Can you make no use of nothing, nuncle 1
Lear. Why, no, boy; nothing can be made out of nothing.
Fool. Pr'ythee, tell him, so much the rent of his land comes to;
he wiU not believe thee. [To Kent.
Lear. A bitter fool!
Fool. Dost thou know the diiSerence, my boy, between a bitter
fool and a sweet one?
' Lear. No, lad; teach me.
Fool. That lord, that counsell'd thee
To give away thy land,
Come place him here by me,—
Or do thou for him stand:
The sweet and bitter fool
Will presently appear;
The one in motley here.
The other found oiV; there.
Lear. Dost thou call me a fool, boy ?
Fool. All thy other titles thou hast given away; that thou wast
bom with.
Ke^a. This is not altogether fool, my lord.
Fool. Thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown, when thou gavest
" '"I speak like myself in this, let mm bo
Fools had ne'er less grace in a year ; [ Singing,
9
For raise hren are grown foppish ;
And know not how their roils to wear.
Their manners are so apish.
272
SHAESFEARIAN ERASER.
Lear. When were you wont to be so full of songs, sirrah ?
Fool. I have used it, nuncle, ever since thou madest thy daughter!
thv mother.
Then they for svAdenjoy did weep, [Singing.
And Ifor sorrow sung,
That stick a king should play bo-peep.
And go thefools among.
Pr'ythee, nuncle, keep a schoolmaster that can teach thy fool to lie;
I would fain learn to lie.
Lear. If you lie, sirrah, we'll have you whipp'd.
Fool. I marvel, what kin thou and thy daughters are: they'll have
me whipp'd for speaking true, thou'lt have me whipp'd for lying;
and, sometimes, I am whipp'd for holding my peace. I had rather be
any kind of tiling than a fool: and yet I would not be thee, nuncle;
thou hast pared thy wit o' both sides, and left nothing in the middle *
Here comes one o' the parings.
Enter Gonekil.
Lear. How now, daughter 7 what makes that frontlet on 7 Mo
thinks, you are too much of late i' the frown.
Gon. Not only, sir, this your all-hcens'd fool.
But other of your insolent retinue
Do hourly carp and quarrel; breaking forth
In rank and not-to-be-endured riots. Sir,
I had thought, by making this well known unto you.
To have found a safe remress: but now grow fearful,
By what yourself too late have spoke and done.
That you protect this course, and put it on
By your allowance; which, if you should, the fault
Would not 'scape censure, nor the redresses sleep;
Which, in the tender of a wholesome weal.
Might in their working do you that ofience,
Which else were shame, that then necessity
Will call discreet proceeding.
Jjear. Are you our daughter 7
Gon. Come, sir, I would you would make use of that good wis
dom whereof I know you are fraught; and put away these disposi¬
tions, which of late transform you from what you rightly are.
Lmr. Does any here know me 7—Why this is not Lear: does
Lear walk thus 7 speak thus 7 Where are his eyes 7 Either his
notion weakens, or his discemings are lethargied.—Sleeping or
waking 7—Ha! sure 'tis not so.—Who is it that can tell me who I
am 7—Lear's shadow 7 I would learn that; for by the marks of
sovereignty, knowledge, and reason, I should be false persuaded I
had daughters.—^Your name, fair gentlewoman 7
Gon. Come, sir:
This admiration is much o' the favor
Of other your new pranks. I do beseech you
To understand my purposes aright:
KING LEAR.
27.1
As you are old and reverend, you should be wise:
Here do you keep a hundred knights and squires;
Men so disorder'd, so debauch'd and hold,
That this our court, infected with their manners.
Shows like a riotous inn more
Than a grac'd palace: The shame itself doth speak
For instant remedy: Be then desir'd
By her, that else will take the thing she begs,
A little to disquantity your train;
And the remainder, that shall still depend.
To be such men as may besort your age.
And know themselves and you.
Lear. Darkness and devils!—
Saddle my horses; call my train together.—
Degenerate viper! I'll not trouble Uiee;
Yet have I left a daughter.
Gon. You strike my people; and your disorder'd ralible
Make servants of their betters.
Enter Albany.
Lear. Woe, that too late repents,—O, sir, are you come 7
Is it your will 1—[To Alb.]—Speak, sir.—Prepare my horses f
Ingratitude! thou marble-hearted fiend.
More hideous, when thou show'st thee in a child.
Than the sea-monster!
Alb. Pray, sir, be patient.
Lear. Detested kite! thouliest: [To GIonebil
My train are men of choice and rarest parts.
That all particulars of duty know;
And in the most exact regard support
The worships of their name.—O most small fault.
How ugly didst hou in Cordelia show !
Which, like an engine, wrench'd my frame of nature
From the fix'd place; drew from my heart all love.
And added to the gall. O Lear, Lear, Lear!
Beat at this gate, that let thy folly in, [Striking his head.
And thy dear judgment out!—Go, go, my people.
Alb. My lord, I am guiltless, as I am ignorant
Of what hath mov!d you.
Lear. What! fifty of my followers, at a clap.
Within a fortnight 7
Alb. What's the matter, sir 7
Lear. I'll tell thee;—Life and death! I am asham'd
That thou hast power to shake my manhood thus: [To Gonebil.
That these hot tears, which break from me perforce.
Should make thee worth them.—Blasts and fogs upon thee!
The untented woundings of a father's curse
Pierce every sense about thee !—Old fond eyes,
Boweep this cause again, I'll pluck you out •
274
SHAKSPEARIAN READER.
And cast you, with the waters that you lose,
To temper clay:—! is it come to this ?
Let it be so:—Yet have I left a daughter.
Who, I am sure, is kind and comfortable;
When she shall hear this of thee, with her nails
She'll flay thy wolfish visage. Thou shalt find.
That I'll resume the shape which thou dost think
I have cast ofi" for ever; thou shalt, I warrant thee.
{Exeunt Lear, Kent, ani Attendants,
ACT II.
Lear dispatches Kent to the conit of the Dnke of Cornwall, to annonnce bis intention
of taking np bis residence with his daughter R^an. The Duke and bis wife are at the
Castle of Gloster, where thej are found bj Kent. The sturdy old man chastises the
insolence of a servitor of Goneril's, and is placed in the stocks, by the order d' R^an<
Lear, not finding R^an at her own castle, seeks her at the Duke of Gloster's.
SCENE—Brfore Gloster's Castle.
Enter Lear, Fool, and Gentleman.
Lear. 'Tis strange, that they should so depart from home.
And not send back my messenger.
Gent. As I leam'd,
The night before there was no purpose in them
Of this remove.
Kent. Hail to thee, noble master!
Lear. How!
Mak'st thou this shame thy pastime ?
Kent. No, my lord.
Fool. Ha, ha ; look! he wears cruel garters! Horses are tied oy
the heads ; dogs, and bears, by the neck; monkeys by the loins, ana
men by the legs.
Lear. What's he, that hath so much thy place mistook
To set thee here ? •
Kent. It is both he and she,
Your son and daughter.
Lear. No.
Kent. Yes.
Lear. No, I say.
Kent. I say, yea.
Lear. No, no; they would not.
Kent. Yes they have.
Lear. By Jupiter, I swear, no.
Kent. By Juno, I swear, ay.
Lear. They durst not do't;
They could not, would not do't; 'tis worse than murder.
To do upon respect such violent outrage:
Kesolve me, with all modest haste, which way
KING LEAR.
275
Tliou might'st deserve, or they impose, this usage,
Coming from us.
Kent. My lord, when at their home
I did commend your highness' letters to them.
Ere I was risen from the place that show'd
My duty kneeling, came there a reeking post,
Stew'd in his haste, half breathless, panting forth
From Goneril his mistress, salutations;
Deliver d letters, spite of intermission.
Which presently they read: on whose contents
They summon'd up their meiny, straight took horse;
Commanded me to foUow, and attend
The leisure of their answer; gave me cold looks:
And meeting here the other messenger.
Whose welcome, I perceiv'd, had poison'd mine,
(Being the very fellow that of late
Display'd so saucily against your highness,)
Having more man than wit about me, drew;
He rais'd the house with loud and coward cries:
Your son and daughter found this trespass worth
The shame which here it suffers.
Fool. Winter's not gone yet, if the vdld geese fly dtat way.
Fathers, that wear rags.
Do make their children blind ;
But fathers, that bear bags.
Shall see ^eir children kind.
But, for all this, thou shalt have as many dolors for thy daughters
as thou canst tell in a year.
Lear. O, how this mother swells up toward my heart!
Down, t^ou climbing sorrow, thy element's below!
Where is this daughter ?
Kent. With the earl, sir, here within.
Lear. Follow me pot;
^ Stay here. [Exit.
Gent. Made you no more offence than what you speak of?
Kent. None.
How chance the king comes with so small a train ?
Fool. An thou hadst been set i' the stocks for that question, thou
hadst well deserved it.
Kent. Why, fool ?
Fool. We'll set thee to schoM to an ant, to teach thee there's no
laboring in the winter. All that follow their noses are led by their
eyes, but blind men. Let go thy hold, when a great wheel runs
down a hill, lest it break thy neck with following it; but the great
one that goes up the hill, let him draw thee after. When a wise
man ^ves thee better counsel, give me mine again: I would have
none but knaves follow it, since a fool gives it.
That, sir, which serves and seeks for gain.
And follows but for form.
876
shakspearun reader.
Will pack, when it begins to rain.
And leave thee in the storm.
But I will tarry; the fool will stay,
And let the wise man fly:
The knave turns fool, that runs away;
The fool no knave, perdy.
KerU. Where learn'd you this, fool 1
Fool. Not i' the stocks, fool.
Re-enter Lear, with Glostee.
Lear. Deny to speak with me 1 They are sick ? they are weary I
They have travell'd hard to-night ? Mere fetches
The images of revolt and flying oflT!
Fetch me a better answer.
Glo. My dear lord,
You know the fiery quality of the duke;
How unremovable and fix'd he is
In his own course.
Lear. Vengeance! plague! death! confusion!—
Fiery 1 what quality ? why, Gloster, Gloster,
I'd speak with the duke of Cornwall, and his wife.
G/o. Well, my good lord, I have inform'd them so.
Lear. Inform'd them! Dost thou understand me, man 7
Glo. Ay, my good lord.
Lear. The king would speak with Cornwall; the dear father
Would with his.<daughter speak, commands her service :
Are they inform'd of this ? My breath and blood !—
Fiery 7 the fiery duke 7—Tell the hot duke, that—
No, but not yet:—may be, he is not well:
Infirmity doth still neglect all office.
Whereto our health is bound; we are not ourselves.
When nature, being oppress'd, commands the mind
To suffer with the body : I'll forbear;
And am fallen out with my more headier will.
To take the indispos'd and sickly fit
For the sound man.—^Death on my state! wherefore
[ Looking on Keht
Should he sit here 7 This act persuades me.
That this remotion of the duke and her
Is practice only. Give me my servant forth:
Go, tell the duke and his wife, I'd speak with them.
Now, presently: bid them come forth and hear me.
Or at their chamber door I'll beat the drum.
Till it C.TV—Sleep to death.
Glo. I'd have aU well betwixt you. [Exti
Lear. O me, my heart, my rising heart!—but, down.
Enter Cornwall, Regan, Gloster, and Servants.
Good morrow to you both.
KING LEAR.
277
Com. Hail to your grace!
[Kent is set at liberty
Reg. I am glad to see your highness.
Lear. Regan, I think you are; I know what reason
I have to think so: if thou should'st not be glad,
I would divorce me from thy mother's tomb.
Beloved Regan,
Thy sister's naught: O Regan, she hath tied
Sharp-tooth'd unkindness, like a vulture, here,—
[PoirUs te his heart
' can scarce speak to ihee; thou'lt not believe,
Of how deprav'd a quality—O Regan!
Reg. I pray you, sir, take patience; I have hope.
You less know how to value her desert,
Than she to scant her duty.
Lear. Say, how is that ?
Reg. I cannot think, my sister in the least
Would fail her obligation: if, sir, perchance,
She have restrain'd the riots of your followers,
'Tis on such ground, and to such wholesome end.
As clears her from all blame.
Lear. My curses on her!
Reg. O, sir, you are old;
Nature in you stands on the very verge
Of her confine: you should be rul'd, and led
By some discretion, that discerns your state
Better than you yourself: Therefore, I pray you,
That to our sister you do make return:
Say, you have wrong'd her, sir.
l^ar. Ask her forgiveness ?
Do you but mark how this becomes the house ?
Dear daughter, I confess that I am old ;
^e is unnecessary; on my knees I beg, ^ [Kneeling
That you'll vouchsafe me raiment, bed, and food.
Reg. Good sir, no more; these are unsightly tricks;
Return you to my sister.
Lear. Never, Regan:
She hath abated me of half my train;
Look'd black upon me; struck me with her tongue.
Most serpent-like, upon the very heart:—
All the stor'd vengeances of heaven fall
On her ungrateful top! Strike her young bones.
You taking airs, with lameness!
Com. Fye, fye, fye!
Lear. Tou nimble lightnings, dart your blinding flames
Into her scornful eyes ! Infect her beauty.
You fen-suck'd fogs, drawn by the powerful snn,
To fall and blast her pride !
Reg. O the blest gods!
278
shaksfearian reader.
So will you wish on me, when the rash mood's on.
Lear. No, Regan, thou shall never have my curse;
Thy tender-hefted nature shall not give
Thee o'er to harshness; her eyes are fierce, but thine
Do comfort, and not bum: 'Tis not in thee
To grudge my pleasures, to cut off my train,
To bandy hasty words, to scant my sizes,
And, in conclusion, to oppose the bolt
Against my coming in : thou better know'st
The offices of nature, bond of childhood,
Effects of courtesy, dues of gratitude;
Thy half o' the kingdom hast thou not forgot.
Wherein I thee endow'd.
Reg. Good sir, to the purpose.
f Trumpets iviikin
Lear. Who put my man i' the stocks t
Com. What trumpet's that ?
Enier Steward.
Reg. I know't, my sister's: this approves her letter.
That she would soon be here.—Is your lady come ?
Lear. This is a slave, whose easy-borrow'd pride
Dwells in the fickle grace of her he follows:—
Out, varlet, from my sight!
Com. What means your grace ?
Lear. Who stock'd my servant ? Regan, I have good hope
Thou didst not know oft.—Who comes here ? O, heavens,
Enier Goneeil.
If you do love old men, if your sweet sway
Allow obedience, if yourselves are old.
Make it your cause; send down, and take my part!—
Art not asham'd to look upon this beard ?— [To Gonebo.
O, Regan, wUt thou take her by the hand ?
Gon. Why not by the hand, sir ? How liave I offended ?
All's not offence, that indiscretion finds,
And dotage terms so.
Lear. 3, sides, you are too tough!
Will you yet hold ?—^How came my man i' the stocks 7
Com. I set him there, sir: but his own disorders
Deserv'd much less advancement.
Lear. You ! did you 7
Reg. I pray you, father, being weak, seem so.
If, till the expiration of your month.
You will return and sojourn with my sister.
Dismissing half your train, come then to me;
I am now from home, and out of that provision
Which shall be needful for your entertainment.
Lear. Return to her, and fif^ men dismiss'd 7
KINC LEAR.
270
No, rather 1 abjure all roofs, and choose
To wage against the enmity o' the air;
To be a comrade with the wolf and owl,—
Necessity's sharp pinch!—Return with her ?
Why, the hot-blooded France, that dowerless took
Our youngest born, I could as well be brought
To knee his throne, and, squire-like, pension beg
To keep base life afoot:—Return with her ?
Persuade me rather to 1)6 slave and sumpter
To this detested groom. [Looking on the Steward
Gon. At your choice, sir.
Lear. I pr'ythee, daughter, do not make me mad;
I will not trouble thee, my child; farewell:
We'll no more meet, no more see one another:—
But yet thou art my flesh, my blood, my daughter;
Or, rather a disease that's in my flesh.
Which I must needs call mine; thou art a boil,
A plague-sore, an embossed carbuncle.
In my corrupted blood. But I'll not chide thee;
Let shame come when it will, I do not call it:
I do not bid the thunder-bearer shoot.
Nor tell tales of thee to high-judging Jove:
Mend, when thou canst; be better, at thy leisure:
I can be patient; I can stay with Regan,
I, and my hundred knights.
Reg. Not altogether so, sir;
I look'd not for you yet, nor am provided
For your fit welcome: Give ear, sir, to my sister;
For those that mingle reason with your passion
Must be content to think you old, and so—
But she knows what she does.
Lear. Is this well spoken now ?
Reg. I dare avouch it, sir: What, fifty followers ?
Is it not well 1 What should you need of more 1
Yea, or so many ? sith that both charge and danger
Speak 'gainst so great a number ? How, in one house,
Should many people, under two commands,'
Hold amity ? 'Tis hard; almost impossible.
Gon. Why might not you, my lord, receive attendance.
From those that she calls servants, or from mine ?
Reg. Why not, my lord ? If then they chanc'd to slack ycu
We could control them: If you will come to me,
(For now I spy a danger,) I entreat you
To bring but five and twenty; to no more
WiU I give place, or notice.
Lear. I gave you all—
Reg. And in good time you gave it
Lear. Made you my guardians, my depositaries.;
But kept a reservation to be follovv'd
280
SHAKSFEARIAN READER.
With such a number: What, must I come to you
With live and twenty, Regan ? said you so 1
Reg. And speak it again, my lord; no more with me.
Lear. Those wicked creatures yet do look well favor'd,
When others are more wicked ; not being the worst.
Stands in some rank of praise:—^I'll go with thee; [To Goneril,
Thy fifty yet doth double five and twenty.
And thou art twice her love.
Gon. Hear me, my lord ;
What need you five and twenty, ten, or five.
To follow in a house, where twice so many
Have a command to tend you ?
Reg. What need one 1
Lear. O, reason not the need: our basest beggars
Are in the poorest thing superfiuous:
Allow not nature more than nature needs,
Man's life is cheap as beast's : thou art a lady;
If only to go warm were gorgeous.
Why, nature needs not w&it thou gorgeous wear'st.
Which scarcely keeps thee warm.—But, for true need,
You heavens, give me that patience, patience I need!
You see me here, you gods, a poor old man.
As full of grief as age ; wretched in both!
If it be you that stir these daughters' hearts
Against their father, fool me not so much
To bear it tamely; touch me with noble anger!
O, let not woman's weapons, water.drops.
Stain my man's cheeks!—^No, you unnatural hags,
I will have such revenges on you both.
That all the world shall—I will do such things,—
What they are, yet I know not; but they shall be
The terrors of the earth. You think, I'll weep.
No, I'll not weep:
I have full cause of weeping; but this heart
Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws.
Or ere I'll weep:—O, foo' ^ "
Is ; 'the old man and his people cannot
Be well bestow'd.
Gon. 'Tis his own blame; he hath put
Himself from rest, and must needs taste his folly.
Reg, For his particular, I'll receive him gladly.
But not one follower.
Gon. So am I purpos'd.
Wliere is my lord of Gloster 1
Corn. Let us withdraw, 'twill be a storm.
[Slorm heard at a distemce.
This house .
AING LEAR.
281
Re-enter Glcster.
Com. Follow'd the old man forth:—^he is retum'd.
Glo. The king is in high rage.
Com. Whither is he going 1
Glo. He calls to horse; but will I know not whither.
Com. 'Tis best to give him way; he leads himself.
Gon. My lord, entreat him by no means to stay.
Glo. Alack, the night comes on, and the bleak winds
Do sorely ruffle; for many miles about
There's scarce a bush.
Reg. O, sir, to wilful men.
The injuries, that they themselves procure.
Must be their schoolmasters: Shut up your doors ■,
He is attended with a desperate train;
And what they may incense him to, being apt
,To have his ear abus'd, wisdom bids fear.
Com. Shut up your doors, my lord ; 'tis a wild night:
My Regan counsels well: come out o' the storm. [Exeunt.
ACT III.
Lear» cast off by his pitU^ dao^hterSj wanders distracted through tho country, accom
panied by his faithful Fool. Kent is released, and immediately proceeds in search of hu
royal master.
SCENE.—A Heath. A storm is heard, with thunder and lightning.
Enter Lear, and Fool.
Lear. Blow, wind, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!
You cataracts, and hurricanoes, spout
Till you have drench'd our steeples !
You sulphurous and thought-executing fires.
Vaunt couriers to oak-cleaving thunder-bolts.
Singe my white head! And thou, all shaking thunder.
Strike flat the thick rotundity o' the world!
Crack nature's moulds, all germins* spill at once,
That make ingrateful man!
Fool. Good nuncle, in, and ask thy daughters' blessing; here's a
night pities neither wise men nor fools.
Lear. Rumble thy bellyfull! Spit, fire! spout, rain !
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters:
I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness,
I never gave you kingdom, call'd you children.
You owe me no subscription; why then let fall
Your horrible pleasure; here I stand, your slave,
A poor, infirm, weak, and despis'd old man:— ~
* Seeds began to spront.
282
SHAKSFEARIAN READER.
But yet I call you servile mimsters,
That have with two pernicious daughters join'd
Your high engender'd battles, 'gainst a head
So old and-white as this. O! O! 'tis foul!—
No, I will be the pattern of all patience, I will say ncthing
Kent. Alas, sir, are you here ? things that love night,
Love not such nights as these; the wrathful skies
Gallow the very wanderers of the dark.
And make them keep their caves; Since I was man.
Such sheets of fire, such bursts of horrid thunder.
Such groans of roaring wind and rain, I never
Remember to have heard: man's nature cannot carry
The affliction, nor the fear.
That keep this dreadful pothe
Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch,
That hast within thee undivulged crimes,
Unwhipp'd of justice: Hide thee, thou bloody hand;
Thou peijur'd, and thou simular man of virtue •
Caitiff, to pieces shake.
That under covert and convenient seeming
Hast praotis'd on man's life !—Close pent-up guilts,
Rive your concealing continents, and cry
These dreadful summoners grace.—am a man.
More sinn'd against, than sinning.
Kent. Alack, bare-headed!
Gracious my lord, hard by here is a hovel;
Some friendship will it lend you 'gainst the tempest;
Repose you there: while I to this hard house,
(More hard than is the stone whereof 'tis rais'd;
Which even but now, demanding after you.
Denied me to come in,) return, and force
Their scanted courtesy.
. Lear. My wits begin to turn.—
Come on, my boy: How dost, my boy ? Art cold ?
I am cold myself.—^Where is this straw, my fellow ?
The art of our necessities is strange.
That can make vile things precious. Come, your hove"
Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart
That's sorry yet for thee.
Fool. He that has a little tiny wit,— .
With heigh, ho, the wind and the rain,—
Must make content with his fortune fit;
For the rain it raineth every day.
Lear, True, my good boy.—Come, bring us to this hovel.
Enter Kent.
Lear.
[Exeunt Lear, Kent, and F<x>l
KINJ LEAB.
283
Edgar escapes from the poisnU of his Father, and assnmes tne disguise of a " Tom
of Bedlam,or madman. He finds shelter on the deserted Heath, to which Lear has
wandered. He enconnters the King. The assumption of madness by Edgar contrasts
very strikingly with the real insanity of Lear, in the two following scenes.
SCENE.—A Part of the Heath, with a Hovel.
Enter Lear, Kent, and Fool.
Kent. Here is the place, my lord; good ry lord, en'.er:
The tyranny of the open night's too rough
For nature to endure. [Siorwi stUl
Lear. Let me alone.
Kent. Good my lord, enter here.
Lear. Wilt break my heart ?
Kent. I'd rather break mine own; Good my lord, enter.
Lear. Thou think'st 'tis much, that this contentious storm
Invades us to the skin: so 'tis to thee;
But where the greater malady is fix'd.
The lesser is scarce felt. Thou'dst shun a bear;
But if thy flight lay toward the raging sea,
Thou'dst meet the bear i' the mouth. When the mind's free.
The body's delicate: the tempest in my mind
Doth from my senses take all feeling else.
Save what beats there.—^Filial ingratitude!
Is it not as this mouth should tear this hand.
For lifting food to't ?—But I will punish home:—
No, I will weep no more.—In such a night
To shut me out!—^Pour on; I will endure:—
In such a night as this ! O Regan, Goneril!—
Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all,—
O, that way madness lies; let me shun that;
No more of that,—
Kent. Good my lord, enter here.
Lear. Pr'ythee, go in thyself; seek thine own case;
This tempest will not give me leave to ponder
On things would hurt me more.—But I'll go in:
In, boy; go first.—[To the Fool.]:—^You houseless poverty,—
Nay, get 9iee in. I'll pray, and then I'll sleep.— [Fool goes m
Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are.
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm.
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides.
Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these ? O, I have ta'en
Too little care of this! Take physic, pomp;
Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel;
That thou may'st shake the superflux to them.
And show the heavens more just. [Tom!
Edgar.—[Within."]—^Fathom and half, fathom and half! Poor
[The Fool runs out of the hovel
284
SHAKSPEARIAN READER
Fool. Come not in here, uncle, here's a spirit. Help me, help
me!
Kent. Give me thy hand.—^Who's there ?
Fool. A spirit, a spirit; he says his name's poor Tom.
Kent. What art thou that dost grumble there 1' the straw ?
Come forth.
Enter Edgar, disguised as a madman. -
Edg. Away ! the foul fiend follows me I—
Through the sharp hawthorn blows the cold wind..—
Humph ! go to thy cold bed and warm thee.
Lear. Hast thou given all to thy two daughters ?
And art thou come to this ?
Edg. Who gives any thing to poor Tom ? whom the foul fiend
hath led through fire and Ihrough flame, through ford and whirlpoc.,
Tver bog and quagmire; that hath laid knives under his pillow, and
halters in his pew; set ratsbane by his porridge; made him proud
of heart, to ride on a bay trotting horse over four-inch bridges, to
course his own shadow for a traitor:—^Bless thy five wits! Tom's
a-cold.—Bless thee from whirlwinds, star-blasting, and taking! Do
poor Tom some charity, whom the foul fiend vexes: There could 1
have him now,—and there,—and there,—and there again, and there.
[Storm continues.
Lear. What, have his daughters brought him to this pass ?—
Could'st thou save nothing 1 Didst thou give them all ?
Fool. Nay, he reserved a blanket, else we had aU, been ashamed.
Lear. Now, all the plagues that in the pendulous air
Hang fated o'er men's faults, light on thy daughters!
Kent. He hath no daughters, sir.
Lear. Death, traitor! nothing could have subdu'd nature
To such a lowness, but his unkind daughters.—
It is the fashion, that discarded fathers
Should have this little mercy on their flesh!
Judicious punishment! 'twas this flesh begot
Those pelican daughters.
Fool. This cold night will turn us all to fools and madmen.
Edg. Take heed o' the foul fiend: Obey thy parents; keep thy
word justly; swear not; set not thy sweet heart on proud array:
Tom's a-cold.
Lear. What hast thou been ?
Edg. A serving-man, proud in heart and mind; that curled my
hair; wore gloves in my cap; swore as many oaths as I spake
words, and broke them in the sweet face of heaven.
\^Slorm still continues.
Lear. Why, thou wert better in thy grave, than to answer with
.hy uncover'd body this extremity of the skies.—Is man no more
than this ? Consider him well: Thou owest the worm no silk, the
beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume :—Ha! here's
three of us are sophisticated!—Thou art the thing itself* unaccom'
KING LEAS.
285
modated man Is no more but such a poor, bare, forked animal s thou
art.—Off, off, you lendings:—Come; unbutton here.—
[Tearing off nis clothes.
Fool. Pr'ythee, nuncle, be contented; this is a naughty night to
swim in.—Look, here comes a walking &e.
Gloster is moved to pity the wrongs inflicted on his royal master. He inenrs the dis>
jdeasure of Cornwall and Regan, is dispossessed of hb Castle, and follows in pursuit of
Lear.
Enter Glostee, with a torch.
Lear. What's he ?
Kent. Who's there ? What is't you seek ?
Glo. What are you there ? Your names ?
Eilg. Poor Tom; that eats the swimming frog, the toad, the tad¬
pole, the wall-newt, and the water; who is whipped from tything to
tything, and stocked, punished, and imprisoned; who hath had three
suits to his back, six shirts- to his body, horse to ride, and weapon to
wear.
But mice, and rats, and such small deer.
Have been Tom's food for seven long year.
Beware my follower;—^Peace, Smolkin; peace, thou fiecd!
Glo. What, hath your grace no better company ?
Edg. The prince of darkness is a gentleman;
Mcdo he's call'd, and Mahu.
Glo. Our flesh and blood, my lord, is grown so vile^ ,
That it doth hate what gets it.
Edg. Poor Tom's a-cold.
Glo. Go in with me; my duty cannot sufier
To obey aU your daughters' hard commands:
Though their injunction be to bar my doors,
And let this tyrannous night take hold upon you;
Yet have I ventur'd to come seek you out.
And bring you where both fire and wood is ready,
Lear. First let me talk with this philosopher:—
What is the cause of thunder ?
Kent. Good my lord, take his ofier;
Go into the house.
Lear. Pll talk a word with this same learned Theban
What is your study ?
Edg. How to prevent the fiend, and to kill vermin.
Lear. Let me ask you one word in private.
Kent. Importune him once more to go, my lord.
His wits begin to unsettle.
Glo. Canst thou blame him ?
His daughters seek his death:—Ah, that good Kent!—
He said it would be thus;—Poor banish'd man!—
Thou say'st the king grows mad: I'll tell thee, friend,
I am almost mad myself: I had a son.
286
SHAKSPEARIAN READER.
Now outlaw'd from my blood: he sought my life,
But lately, veiy late; I lov'd him, friend,—
No father his son dearer: true to tell thee, m cottitnuei
The grief hath craz'd my wits. What a night's this 1
I do beseech your grace.
Lear. O, cry you mercy,
Noble philosopher, your company.
Edg. Tom s a-cold.
Glo. In, fellow, there to the hovel: keep thee warm.
Lear. Come, let's in all.
Kent. This way, my lord.
iear. With him;
I will keep still with my philosopher.
Kent. Good my lord, soothe him; let him take the fellow.
Glo. Take you him on.
Kent. Sirrah, come on; go along with us.
Lear. Come, good Athenian.
Glo. No words, no words:
Hush.
Edg. Child Rowland to the dark tower came,
His word was still,—Fie, foh, and fum,
I smell the blood Of a British man. \_Exeunt.
SCENE VI.
A Chamber in a Farm-House, adjoining the Castle.
Enter Gloster, Lear, Kent, Fool, and Edgar.
Glo. Here is better than the open air; take it thankfully; I will
piece out the comfort with what addition I can: I will not be long
from you.
Kent. All the power of his wits has given way to his impatience:
—The gods reward your kindness! ' \_Exit Gloster.
Edg. Frateretto calls me; and tells me, Nero is an angler in the
lake of darkness. Pray, innocent, and beware the foul fiend.
Fool. Pr'ythee, nuncle, tell me, whether a madman be a gentle¬
man, or a yeoman ?
Lear. A king, a king!
Fool. No: he's a yeoman, that has a gentleman to his son; for
he's a mad yeoman, tliat sees his son a gentleman before him.
Lear-. To have a thousand with red burning spits
Come hizzing in upon them:—
Edg. The foul fiend bites my back.
Lear. It shall be done, I will arraign them straight:—
Come, sit thou here, most learned justicer[ To Edgar.
Thou, sapient sir, sit here.—[To the Fool.]—Novy, you she foxes!—
Edg. Look, where he stands and glares !—
Wantest thou eyes at trial, madam 1
KING LEAR.
287
Come o'er the boum, Bessy, to me:—
FooL Her boat hath a leak.
And she must not speak
Why she dares not come over to thee.
Kent. How do you, sir ? Stand you not so amaz'd:
Will you lie dawn and rest upon the cushions ?
Lear. I'll see their trial first:—Bring in the evidence.—
Thou robed man of justice, take thy place;— [ To Edgar.
And thou, his yoke-fellow of equity, [To the Fool.
Bench by his side:—^You are of the commission, [To Kent.
Sit you too.
Edg. Let us deal justly.
Slee^st or wdkest thou.,jolly shepherd?
Thy sheep be in the com ;
And for one blast of thy minikin mouth,
TTiy sheep shall take no harm.
Pur! the cat is gray.
Lear. Arraign her first: 'tis Goneril. I here take my oath before
this honorable assembly, she kicked the pbor king her father.
Fool. Come hither, mistress; Is your name Goneril t
Lear. She cannot deny it.
Fool. Cry you mercy, I took you for a joint stool.
Lear. And here's another, whose warp'd looks proclaim
What store her heart is made of.—Stop her there!
Arms, arms, sword, fire !—Corruption in the place!
False justicer, why hast thou let her 'scape ?
Edg. Bless thy five wits !
Kent. O pity!—Sir, where is the patience now,
That you so oft have boasted to retain ?
Edg. My tears begin to take his part so much,
They"l mar my counterfeiting. [Aside,
Lear. The little dogs and all.
Tray, Blanch, and Sweet-heart, see, they bark at me.
Edg. Tom will throw his head at them:—Avaunt, you curs!
Be thy mouth or black or white,
Tooth that poisons if it bite;
Mastiff, greyhound, mongrel grim.
Hound, or sp>aniel, brach, or lym;
Or bobtail tike, or trundle-tail;
Tom will make them weep and wail:
For, with throwing thus my head:
Dogs leap the hatch, and aU are fled.
Do de, de de. Sessa. Come, march to wakes and fairs, and market
towns:—Poor Tom, thy horn is dry.
Lear. Then let them anatomize Regan, see what breeds about her
heart: Is there any cause in nature, that makes these hard hearts ?
—You, sir, I entertain you for one of my hundred ; only, I do not
288
SHAKSPEAKIAN HEADER.
like the fashion of your garments: you will say, they are Persian
attire; but let them be changed. [To Edgar.
£jmi. Now, good my lord, lie here, and rest awhile.
Lear. Make no noise, make no noise; draw the Curtains: So, so,
60: We'll go to supper i' the morning: So, so, so.
Fool. And I'll go to bed at noon.
Re-enter Gloster.
Glo. Come hither, friend: Where is the king my master ?
Kent. Here, sir; but trouble him not, his wits are gone.
Glo. Good friend, I pr'ythee take him in thy arms;
I have o'erheard a plot of death upon him:
There is a htter ready; lay him in't.
And drive towards Dover, friend, where thou shalt meet
Both welcome and protection. Take up thy master;
If thou should'st dally half an hour, his life,
With thine, and all that offer to defend him,
Stand in assured loss: Take up, take up;
And follow me, that will to some provision
Give thee quick conduct.
Kent. Oppress'd nature sleeps:—
This rest might yet have balm'd thy broken senses.
Which, if convenience will not allow.
Stand in hard cure.—Come, help to bear thy master;
Thou must not stay behind. [To the Fool.
Glo. Come, come, away.
[Exeunt Kent, Gloster, and the Fool, bearing" qjf the Kins.
Edg. When we our betters see bearing our woes.
We scarcely think our miseries our foes.
Who alone suffers, suffers most i' the mind;
Leaving free things, and happy shows, behind:
But then the mind much sufferance doth o'erskip.
When grief hath mates, and bearing fellowship.
How light and portable my pain seems now.
When that, which makes me bend, makes the king bow;
He childed, as I father'd!—Tom, away;
Mark the high noises: and thyself bewray.
When false opinion, whose wrong thought defiles thee.
In thy just^proof, repeals, and reconciles thee.
What will nap more to-night, save 'scape the king!
Lurk, lurk. [Exit.
ACT IV.
Kegan and Cornwall issoe orders to Edmnnd to seek out his Father, and bring him
back to the Castle. Gloster is overtaken, and is punished for hU commiseration towards
the King, by the loss of his eyes. In this state he is curried back to the Heath, and is there
eaconntered by his Son Edgar.
KINS LEAR.
289
SCENE \.—The Heath.
Enter Edgae.
Edg. Yet better thus, and known to be contemn'd,
Than still contemn'd and flatter'd. To be wOTst,
The lowest, and most dejected thing of fortune
Stands still in esperance, lives not in fear:
The lamentable change is from the best;
The worst returns to laughte^ Welcome then,
Thou unsubstantial air, mat I embrace!
Tlie wretch, that thou hast blown unto the worst.
Owes nothing to thy blasts.—^But who comes here ?—
Enter Glostee, led hy an Old Man.
My father, poorly led ? World, world, O world!
But that thy strange mutations make us hate thee,
life would not yield to age.
Old Man, O my good lord, I have been your tenant, and yotn
father's tenant, these fourscore years.
Glo. Away, get thee away; good friend, be gone:
Thy comforts can do me no gocd at all,.
Thee they may hurt.
Old Man. Alack, sir, you cannot see your way.
Glo. I have no way, and therefore want no eyes;
I stumbled when I saw; Full oft 'tis seen.
Our mean secures us; and our mere defects
Prove our commodities.—Ah, dear sou Edgar,
The food of thy abused father's wrath!
Might I but live to see thee in my touch,
I'd say, I had eyes again!
Old Man. How now ? Who's there ?
Edg. [Aside. J O gods! who is't can say, I am at the viorHi
I am worse than e'er I was.
Old Man. 'Tis poor mad Tom.
Edg. [Aside.] And worse I may be yet: The worst is not.
So long as we can say. This is the worst.
Old Man. Fellow, where goest 1
Glo. Is it a beggar man ?
Old Man. Madman and beggar too.
Glo. He has some reason, else he could not beg.
I' the last night's storm I suoh a fellow saw;
Which made me think a man a worm: My son
Came then into my mind; and yet my mind
Was then scarce friends with him.
Edg. How should this be ?
Bad is the trade must play the fool to sorrow,
Ang'ring itself and others.—[^Aside.'\—Bless thee, master!
Glo. Is that the naked ffeUow ?
Old Man. Ay, my lord.
890
SHAESPEARIAN READER.
Olo. Then, pr'ythee, get thee gone; If, for my sake,
Thou wilt o'ertake us, hence a mile or twain,
r the way to Dover, do it for ancient love;
And bring some covering for this naked soul,
Whom I'll entreat to lead me.
Old Man. Alack, sir, he's mad.
Glo. 'Tis the times' plague when madmen lead the blind.
Do as I bid thee, or rather do thy pleasure;
Above the rest, be gone.
Old Man. I'll bring him the best 'parel that I have,
Come on't what will. [Exit.
Glo. Sirrah, naked fellow.
Edg. Poor Tom's a-cold.—^I cannot daub it further. [Aside.
Glo. Come hither, fellow.
Ea^. [Aside.] And yet I must.—Bless thy swivt eyes, they
bleed.
Glo. Know'st thou the way to Dover ?
Edg. Both stile and gate, horse-way, and foot-paih. Poor Tom
hath been scared out of his good wits: Bless the good man from the
foul fiend!
Glo. Here, take this purse, thou whom the heaven's plagues
Have humbled to all strokes: that I am wretched.
Makes thee the happier:—Heavens, deal so still I
Let the superfluous, that will not sec
Because he doth not feel, feel your pov/or quickly;
So distribution should undo excess.
And each man have enough.—^Dost thou know Dover ?
Edg. Ay, master.
Gb. There is a clifi", whose high and bending head
Looks fearfully in the confined deep:
Bring me but to the very brim of it.
And I'll repair the misery thou dost bear.
With something rich about me: from that place
I shall no leading need.
E(fc. Give me thy arm;
Pjor Tom shall lead thee. [Exeunt,
Edgai, atill unknown to his father, leads him to a spot which hoarKToUy describes as
being Dove? CUiTs.
The whole scene is ezqnisitelj wrought up.
SCENE VI.—The Country near Dover.
Re-enter Gloster, and Edgar dressed like a peasant,
Glo. When shall we come to the top of that same hill ?
Edg. You do climb up it now r look how we labor.
Glo. Methinks, the ground is even.
Edg. Horrible steep;
Hark, do you hear the sea ?
Gb. No, trulv.
KING I£AH.
29]
IMg. Why, fjen your other senses grow imperfect
By your eyes' anguish.
Gh, So may it be, indeed:
Methinks, thy voice is alter'd: and thou speak'st
In better phrase, and matter, tlian thou didst.
Edg. You are much deceiv'd: in nothing am I chang'd.
But in my garments.
Gh. Methinks, you are better spoken.
Ed^. Come on, sir: here's the place;—stand still—^How fearful
And dizzy 'tis, to cast one's eyes so low •!
The crows, and choughs, that wing the midway air.
Show scarce so gross as beetles: Half way down
Hangs one that gathers samphire; dreadful trade!
MetMnks, he seems no bigger than his head:
The fishermen, that walk upon the beach.
Appear like mice; and yon tall anchoring bark
Diminish'd to her boat; her boat a buoy
Almost too small for sight: The murmuring surge.
That on the unnumber'd idle pebbles chafes.
Cannot be heard so high:—^I'll look no more.
Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight
Topple down headlong.
Glo. Set me where you stand.
Edg. Give me your hand: You are now within a foot
Of the extreme verge: for all beneath the moon
Would I not leap upright
Glo. Let go my hand.
Here, friend, is another purse; in it, a jewel
Well worth a poor man's taking: Go tiiiou further off;
Bid me farewell, and let me hear thee going.
Edg. Now fare you well, good sir. [Seems to go.
Gh. With all my heart.
Edg. Why I do trifle thus with his despair.
Is done to cure it.
Gh. O you mighty gods!
This world I do renounce; and, in your sights
Shake patiently my great affliction off:
If I could bear it longer, and not fall
To quarrel with your great opposeless wills.
My snuff, and loathed part of nature, should
Bum itself out. If Edgar lives, O, bless him !—
Now, fellow, fare thee well. [He haps, and falls along,
Edg. Gone, sir ? farewell.—
And yet I know not how conceit may rob
The treasury of life, when life itself
Yields to the theft: Had he been where he thought.
By this, had th )ught been past.—Alive, or dead 1
Ho, you sir! friend!—^Hear you, sir ?—speak !
292
SHAKSPEARIAN READER.
Thus might he pass indeedYet he revives:
What are you, sir ?
Gh. Away, and let me die.
Edg. Hadst thou been aught but gossamer, feathers, air
So many fathom down precipitating.
Thou hadst shiver'd like an egg: but thou dost breathe;
Hast heavy substance; bleedst not; speak'st; art sound.
Ten masts at each make not the altitude.
Which thou hast perpendicularly fell;
Thy life's a miracle: Speak yet again.
Glo. But have I fallen, or no ?
Edg. From the dread summit of this chalky bourn:
Look up a-height;—the shriU-gorg'd lark so far
Cannot be seen or heard: do but Irok up.
Gh. Alack, I have no eyes.— '
Is wretchedness depriv'd that benefit,
Tc end itself by death t 'Twas yet some comfort,
Wlien misery could beguile the tyrant's rage.
And frustrate his proud will.
Edg. Give me your arm:
Up:—So;—^Howis't? Feel you your legs? You stai;d.
Glo. Too well, too well.
Edg. This is above all strangeness.
Upon the crown o' the cliff, what thing was that
Which parted from you ?
Glo. A poor unfortunate beggar.
Edg. As I stood here below, methought, his eyes
Were two full moons; he had a thousand noses.
Horns whelk'd, and wav'd like the enridged sea;
It was some fiend: Therefore, thou happy father.
Think that the clearest gods, who make them honors
Of men's impossibilities, have preserv'd thee.
Gh. I do remember now: henceforth I'll bear
Affliction, till it do cry out itself,
Erunigh, enovgh, and die. That thing you speak of,
I took it for a man; oftem'twould say.
The fiend, the fiend; he led me to that place.
Edg. Bear free and patient thoughts. But who comes here t
Enter Ijear, fantastically dressed up tciih flowers.
The safer sense will ne'er accommodate
His master thus.
Lear. No, they cannot touch me for coining:
I am the king himself.
Edg. O thou side-piercing sight!
Lear. Nature's above art in that respect.—Give the word.
Edg. Sweet maijoram.
Lear. Pass.
Gh. I know that voice.
Lea> Ha! Goneril!—^with a white beard!—^They flatter'd mo
KING LEAS.
293
like a dog; and told me, I had white hairs in my beard, ere the black
ones were there. To say ay and no, to every thing I said '—Ay and
no too was no good divi^ty. When the rain came to wet me once,,
and the wind to make (ne chatter; when the thunder would not*
peace at my bidding; there I found them, there I smelt them out.
Go to, they afe not men o' their words: they told me I was every
thing; 'tis a lie; I am not ague-proof.
Glo. The trick of that voice I do well remember:
Is't not the king ?
Lear. Ay, every inch a king:
When I do stare, see now the subject quakes.
I pardon that man's life.
Glo. O, let me kiss that hand!
Lear. Let me wipe it first; it smells of mortality.
Glo. O ruin'd piece of nature! This great world
Shall so wear out to nought.—^Dost thou know me ?
Lear. I remember thine eyes well enough.—^Read thou this chal¬
lenge ; mark but the penning of it.
Gh. Were all the letters suns, I could not see one.
Edg. I would not take this from report;—^it is,
And my heart breaks at it.
Lear. Read.
Glo. What, with the case of eyes ?
Lear. O, ho, are you there with me ? No eyes in your nead, nor
no money in your purse? Your eyes are in a heavy case, your
purse in a light. Yet you see how this world goes.
Glo. I see it feelingly.
Lear. What, art mad ? A man may see how this world goes,
with no eyes. Look with thine ears: see how yon' justice rails upon
yon' simple thief. Hark, in thine ear: Change places; and, handy-
dandy, which is the justice, which is the thief ?—^Thou hast seen a
farmer's dog bark at a beggar ?
Glo. Ay, sir ?
Lear. And the creature run from the cur ?
There thou might'st behold the great image of authority; a dog's
obeyed in office.—
Through tatter'd clothes small vices do appear;
Robes, and furr'd gowns, hide all. Plate sin with gold.
And the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks:
Arm it in rags, a pigmy's straw doth pierce it.
None does onend, none. I say, none; I'll able 'em;
Take that of me, my friend, who have the power
To seal the accuser's lips. Get thee glass eyes;
And, like a scurvy politician, seem
To see the things thou dost not.—Now, now, now, now;
Pull off my boots:—harder, harder; so.
Edg. O, matter and impertinency mix'd !
Reason in madness!
Lear. If thou wilt weep my fortunes, take my eyes.
294
SHAKSFEARIAN READER.
I know thee well enough; thy name is Gloster:
Thou must be patient; we came crying hither.
Thou know'st, the first time that we smell the air,
We wawl, and cry:—I will preach to thee; mark me.
Glo. Alack, alack, the day!
Lear. When we are bom, we cry, that we are come
To this great stage of fools; ^This a good block ?—
It were a delicate stratagem, to shoe
A troop of horses with felt: I'll put it in proof;
Aud when I have stolen upon these sons-in-law.
Then, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill.
ErUer a Gentleman, vAlh Attendants.
Gent. O, here he is; lay hand upon him.—Sir,
Your most dear daughter
Lear. No rescue ? What, a prisoner ? I am even
The natural fool of fortune Use me well;
You shall have ransom. Let me have a surgeon,
I am cut to the brains.
Gent. You shall have any thing.
Lear. No seconds ? all myself?
Why, this would make a man, a man of salt.
To use his eyes for garden water-pots.
Ay, and for laying autumn's dust.
Gent. Good sir,—
Lear. T will die bravely, like a bridegroom; What ?
I will be jovial; come, come; I am a king.
My masters, know, you that ?
Gent. You are a royal one, and we obey you.
Lear. Thea there's life in it. Nay, an you get it, yon shall get
it by running. Sa, sa, sa, sa. [Exit running; Attendants/oZZotc.
Cordelia leams the unnatural treatment her Father has received from Regan and Gon'
enl, and proceeds with her husband, the King of France, and a nnmerons army, to rescue
Lear, and punish her sisters. She finds the wretched old King, in great misery, and
entirely bereft of reason. lie is conveyed to the French camp.
SCENE.—A Tent in the French Camp.—^Lear on a Bed, asleep i
Physicians, Gentlemen, and others attending.
Enter Cordelia, and Kent.
Cor. O thou good Kent, how shall I live, and work.
To match thy goodness ? My lite will be too short.
And every measure fail me.
Kent. To be acknowledg'd, madam, is o'eipaid.
All my reports go tvith the modest truth;
Nor more, nor clipp'd, but so.
Cor. Be better suited:
These weeds are memories of those worser hours;
I pr'ythee, put them off
Kent. Pardon me, dear madam;
KING LEAH.
295
Yet to be known, shortens my made intent:
My boon I make it, that you know me not,
Till time and I think meet.
Cor. Then be it so, my good lord.—How does the king t
ITo the Physician
Phys. Madam, sleeps still.
Cor. O you kind gods.
Cure this great breach in his abused nature!
The untun'd and jarring senses, O, wind up,
Of this child-changed father!
Phys. So please your majesty.
That we may wake the king ? he hath slept long.
Cor. Be govern'd by your knowledge, and proceed
F the sway of your own will. Is he array'd ?
Gent. Ay, madam ; in the heaviness of his sleep.
We put fresh garments on him.
Phys. Be by, good madam, when we do awake him;
I doubt not of his temperance.
Cor. Very well.
Phys. Please you, draw near.
Cor. 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!
Cor. Had you not been their father, these white flakes
Had challeng d pity of them. Was this a face
To be expos d 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 stoM that nigh
Against my fire; And wast thou fain, poor father.
To hovel thee with swine, and rogues forlorn.
In shorty and musty straw ? Alack, alack!
"Tis wonder, that thy life and wits at once
Had not concluded all.—He wakes; speak to him.
Phys. Madam, do you ; 'tis fittest. ~
Cor. How does my royal lord ? How fares your majesty *
Lear. You do me wong, to take me out o'the grave:—
Thou art a soul in bliss ; but I am bound
Upon a wheel of fire, tlmt mine own tears
Do scald like molten lead.
Cor. Sir, do you know me ?
Lear. You are a spirit, I know; When did you die ?
Cor. Still, still, far wide!
Phys. He's scarce awake; let him alone awhile.
Lear. Where have I been 1 Where am I ?—^Fair daylight
i dm mightily abns'd.—should even die with pity.
296
SHAESPEASIAN READER.
To see another thus.—know not what to say.—
I will not swear, these are my hands:—^let's see
I feel this pin prick. 'Would I were assur'd
Of my condition.
Cor. O, look upon me, sir.
And hold your hands in benediction o'er me
No, sir, you must not kneel.
Lear. Pray, do not mock me:
I am a very foolish fond old man.
Fourscore and upward; 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 imorant
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.
Cor. And so I am, I am.
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.
Cor. No cause, no causes
Lear. Am I in France !
Kent. In your own kingdom, sir.
Lear. Do not abuse me.
Phys. Be comforted, good madam; the great rage.
You see, is cur'd in him: and yet it is danger
To make him even o'er the time he has lost.
Desire him to go in; trouble him no more.
Till further settling.
Cor. Will't please your highness walk ?
Lear. You must bear with me
Pray now, forget and forgive : I am old, and foolish.
[^ExeurU Lear, Cordelia, Physician, and Attend
ACT V.
Lear is restored to reason, and aided by the forces of France, makes war against the
Dnkes of Cornwall and Albany, whose armies are led on by Edmund, created by then
Earl of Gloster. The King, and Cordelia are defeated, and made prisoners.
SCENE.—The British Camp near Dover.
Enter, in conquest, with drum and colors, EDsnjND; Lear, and Cps^
DELIA, as prisoners; Officers, Soldiers, <!jrc.
Edm. Some officers take them away : good guard ;
Until their greater pleasures first be known
That are to censure them.
KING LEAR.
297
Cor. _ We are not the first,
Who, with best meaning, have incurr'd the worst.
For thee, oppressed king, ani I cast down;
Myself could else out-frown false fortune's frown.—
Shall we not see these daughters, and these sisters ?
Lear. No, no, no, no! Come, let's away to prison:
We two alone will sing like birds i' the cage;
When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down.
And ask of thee forgiveness: So we'll live.
And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh
At mlded butterflies, and hear poor rogues
Talk of court news; and we'll talk with them too,—
Who loses, and who wins ; who's in, who's out:—
And take upon us the my.stery of things.
As if we were Heaven's spies : And we'll wear out.
In a wall'd prison, packs and sects of great ones.
That ebb and flow by the moon.
Edm. Take them away.
L^r. Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia,
The gods themselves throw incense. Have I caught thee ?
He that parts us, shall bring a brand from heaven.
And fire us hence, like foxes. Wipe thine eyes;
They shall not make us weep; we'll see them starve first.
Come. [Exeunt Lear, and Cordelia, guarded.
Lear and his daughter are conveyed to Prison, and orders are given by Albany tc
hang Cordelia. "
Punishment now overtakes the guilty Regan and Goneril. In pursuing thei* unlaw
fnl love towards Edmund, Regan, through jealousy, poisons her sister, and then dies by
her own band.
Edmund reives the reward of his crim^ from Edgar, who challenges him to single
eombat and slays him. Gloster is reconciled to his son, and the Play ends with the death
of Lear.
SCENE.—A Prison.
Enter Lear, with Cordelia dead in his arms; Edgar, Oflicec,
and others.
Lear. Howl, howl, howl, howl!—O, you are men of stones;
Had I your tongues and eyes, I'd use them so
That heaven's vault should crack:—O, she is gone for € rer!—
I know when one is dead, and when one lives;
She's dead as earth:—Lend me a looking-glass;
If that her breath wiU mist or stain the stone.
Why, then she lives.
Kent. Is this the promis'd end ?
Edg. Or image of that horror ?
Lear. This feather stirs; she lives! if it be so.
It is a chance that does redeem all sorrows
That ever I have felt.
Kent. O my good master! [Knee'dng
298
SHAKSPKARIAN READER.
«
Lear, Pr'ythee, away.
Edg. ' 'Tis noble Kent, your friend
Lear. A plague upon you, murderers, traitors all!
I might have sav'd her; now she's gone for ever!—
Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little. Ha!
What is't thou say'st ?—^Her voice was ever soft.
Gentle, and low: an excellent thing in woman:—
I kill'd the slave that was a hanging thee.
Off. 'Tis true, my lords, he did.
Jaar. Did I not, fellow 1
I have seen the day, with my good biting falchion
I would have made them skip: I am old now.
And these same crosses spoil me.—Who are you 1
Mine eyes are none o' the best:—^I'll tell you straight.
Kera. If fortune brag of two she lov'd and hated.
One of them we behold.
Lear. This is a dull sight; Are you not Kent ?
Kent. The same.
Your servant Kent: Where is your servant Caius ?
. Lear. He's a good fellow, I can tell you that;
He'll strike, and quickly too; He's dead and rotten.
Kent. No, my good lord; I am the very man;—
Lear. I'll see that straight.
Kent. That, from your first of difference and decay.
Have follow'd your sad steps.
Lear. You are welcome hither.
Kent. Nor no man else; all's cheerless, dark, and deaiLy.—-
Your eldest daughters have fore-doom'd themselves.
And desperately are dead.
Lear. And my poor fool is hang'd! No, no, no life: '
Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life.
And thou no breath at all ? O, thou wilt come no more.
Never, never, never, never, never!—
Pray you, undo this button: Thank you, sir.—
Do you see this ? Look on her,—^look,—^her lips,—
Look there, look there!— [He dies.
MIDSUMMEE-NIGHrS DREAM.
This Play is considered by the critics to have "all the merit of enUre originality oC
f .ot and incident.'' The traditions of all Europe and the East, famished the leading
dea of fairy character, whUe classical and mythological hbtory has been drawn apon foi
he heioical personages.
Onr selections from this brilliant poetical composition, are confined to the action of
the Drama, as connected with the " princely loves " of Theseos and Hippolyta, and the ^
Athenian Lovers. The hnmorons nnder-plots we are nnwUlingly compeUed to omit from
want of space.
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
Theseus, Duke of Athens.
Egeus,/af^er to Hennia.
DI^Zs, \ Hennia.
PHmosTRATE, moster of the revels to Theseos.
Quince, the carpenter.
Snug, the joiner.
Bottom, the weaver.
Flute, the hellows-mender.
Snout, the tinker.
Starveling, the taihn.
Hiteolyta, Queen of the Amazons, betrothed to Theseos.
Hermia, daughter to Egeus, in love with Ljrsander.
Helena, tn love with Demetrius.
Oberon, king of the fairies.
Titania, queen of the fairies.
Puce, or Robin-goodfellow, a fairy.
Peas-blossom, Cobweb, Moth, Mustard-seeu,/atries.
Pyramus, Thisbe, Wall, Moonshine, Lion, characters in the In¬
terlude performed by the Clowns.
Other Fairies attending their King and Queen.
Attendants on Theseus and Hippolyta.
SCENE,—Athens, and a Wood not far from it.
300
shaespeakian eeadeb.
ACT 1.
SCENE I.—Athens. A Room in the Palace, of TUesexia.
Enter Theseus, Hippoltta, Philostrate, and Attendants.
The. Now, fair Hippol)rta, our nuptial hour
Draws on apace; four happy days bring in
Another moon; but, oh, methinks, how slow
This old moon wanes! she lingers my desires,
Like to a step-dame, or a dowager.
Long withering out a young man's revenue.
Hip. Four days will quickly steep themselves in nights;
Four nights will quickly dream away the time j
And then the moon, like to a silver bow
Now bent in heaven, shall behold the night
Of our solemnities. —•
The. Go, Philostrate,
Stir up the Athenian youth to merriments j
Awake the pert and nimble spirit of mirth;
Turn melancholy forth to funerals.
The pale companion is not for our pomp.— ] Exit PhUjOstrate
Hippolyta, I woo'd thee with my sword.
And won thy love, doing thee injuries;
But I will wed thee in another key.
With pomp, with triumph, and with revelling.
Enter Eseus, Hermia, Ltsander, and Demetrius.
Ege. Happy be Theseus, our renowned duke !
The. Thanks, good Egeus : What's the news with thee ?
Ege. Full of vexation come I, with complaint
Against my child, my daughter Hermia.—
Stand forth, Demetrius;—My noble lord.
This man hath my consent to marry her:—
Stand forth, Lysander;—and, my gracious duke.
This hath bewitch'd the bosom of my child:
Thou, thou, Lysander, thou hast given her rhymes.
And interchang'd love-tokens with my child :
Thou hast by moonlight at her window sung.
With feigning voice, verses of feigning love;
And stol'n the impression of her fantasy
With bracelets of thy hair, rings, gawds, conceits.
Knacks, trifles, nosegays, sweetmeats; messengers
Of strong prevailment in unharden'd youth:
With cunning hast thou filch'd my daughter's heart,
Turn'd her obedience, which is due to me.
To stubborn harshness:—And, my gracious duke.
Be it so she will not here before your grace
midsummer-might's dream.
Consent to mairy with Demetrius,
I beff the ancient privilege of Athens;
As ^e is mine, I may dispose of her:
Which shall be either to this gentleman,
Or to her death; according to our law.
Immediately provided in that case.
The. What say you, Hermia ? be advis'd, fair maid:
To .you your father should be as a god;
One that compos'd your beauties; yea, and one
To whom you are but as a form in wax.
By him imprinted, and within his power
To leave the figure, or disfigure it.
Demetrius is a worthy gentleman.
Her. So is Lysander.
The. In himself he is:
But, in this kind, wanting your father's voice.
The other inust be held the worthier.
Her. I would, my father look'd but with my eyes.
The. Rather your eyes must with his judgpnent look.
Her. I do entreat your grace to pardon me.
I know not by what power I am made bold;
Nor how it may concern my modesty,
In such a presence here to plead my thoughts:
But I beseech your grace that I may know
The worst that may befal me in this case.
If I refuse to wed Demetrius.
The. Either to die the death, or to abjure
For ever the society of men.
Therefore, fair Hermia, question your desires.
Know of your youth, examine well your blood.
Whether, if you yield not to your father's choice,
You can endure the livery of a nun;
For aye to be in shady cloister mew'd, .
Chanting taint hymns to the cold fruitless moon.
Thrice blessed they, that master so their blood,
To undergo such maiden pilgrimage;
But earthlier happy is the rose distill'd.
Than that, which, withering on the virgin thorn.
Grows, lives, and dies, in single blessedness.
Her. So will I grow, so live, so die, my lord.
The. Take time to pause; and, by the next new moon,
■(The sealing-^lay betwixt my love and me.
For everlasting bond of fellowship,)
Upon that day either prepare to die.
For disobedience to your father's will;
Or else, to wed Demetrius, as he would;
Or on Diana's altar to protest,
For aye, austerity and single life. ;
802 ' shaesfeaaian reader.
Dem. Relent, sweet Hermia;—And, Lyaander, yiekl
Thy crazed title to my certain right.
Lys. You have her father's love, Demetrius;
Let me have Hermia's: do you marry him.
Ege. Scornful Lysander! true he hath my love;
And what is mine my love shall render him;
And she is mine; and all my right of her
I do estate unto Demetrius.
I/ys. I am, my lord, as well deriv'd as he.
As well possess'd; my love is more than his;
My fortunes every way as fairly rank'd,
If not with vantage, as Demetrius;
Ana, which is more than all these boasts can be,
I am belov'd of beauteous Hermia:
Why should not I then prosecute my right t
Demetrius, I'll avouch it to his head,
Made love to Neda's daughter, Helena,
And won her soul; and she, sweet lady, dotes,
Devoutly dotes, dotes in idolatry.
Upon this spotted and inconstant man.
The. I must confess, that I have heard so much.
And with Demetrius thought to have spoke thereof'
But, being over-full with self-afiairs.
My mind did lose it.—^But, Demetrius, come;
And come, Egeus; you shall go with me,
I have some private schooling for you both.—
For you, fair Hermia, look you arm yourself
To fit your fancies to your father's will;
Or else the law of Athens yields you up
(Which by no means we may extenuate,)
To death, or to a vow of single life.—
Come, my Hippolyta; What cheer, my love ?
Demetrius, and Egeus, go along:
I must employ you in some business
Against our nuptial; and confer with you
Of something nearly that concerns yourselves.
Ege. Wim duty, and desire, we follow you.
[Exeunt Thes. Iuf. Ege. Dem. and tram
Lys. How now, my love ? Why is your cheek so pale J
How chance the roses there do fade so fast ?
Her. Belike for want of rain; which I could well
Beteem them from the tempest of mine eyes.
Lys. Ah me! for aught that ever I could read.
Could ever hear by tale or history.
The course of true love never did run smooth:
But either it was different in blood,
Or else misgrafted, in respect of years:
Or else rt stood upon the choice of fnends;
MIDSVMMEB-NIGHT S DREAM.
Or, if there were a sympathy in choice,
War, death, or sickness, did lay siege to it;
Making it momentary as a sound.
Swift as a shadow, short as any dream;
Brief as the lightning in the collied* night.
That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth,
And ere a man hath power to say,—^Behold!
The jaws of darkness do devour it up:
So quick bright things come to confusion.
Her. If then true lovers have been ever cross'd,
It stands as an edict in destiny :
Then let us teach our trial patience.
Because it is a customary cross;
As due to love, as thoughts and dreams, and sighs.
Wishes, and tears, poor fancy's followers.
Lys. A good persuasion; therefore, hear me, Hermia.
I have a widow aunt, a dowager
Of great revenue, and she hath no child;
From Athens is her house remote seven leagues;
And she respects me as her only son.
There, gentle Hermia, may I marry thee;
And to that place the sharp Athenian law
Cannot pursue us: If thou lov'st me then.
Steal forth thy father's house to-morrow night,
And in the wood, a league without the town.
Where I did meet thee once with Helena,
To do observance to a morn of May,
There will I stay for thee.
Her. ' My good Lysander!
I swear to thee by Cupid's strongest how;
By his best arrow with the golden head;
By the simplicity of Venus' doves;
By that which Imitteth souls, and prospers loves;
By all the vows that ever men have broke.
In number more than ever woman spoke;—
In that same place thou hast appointed me.
To-morrow tmy will I meet with thee.
hys. Keep promise, love: Look, here comes Helena
Enter Helena.
. Her. God speed fair Helena! Whither away ?
Hel. Call you me fair 1 that fair again unsay.
Demetrius loves you fair: 0 happy fair!
Four eyes are load-stars; and your tongue's sweet air.
More tunable than lark in shepherd's ear.
When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear.
Sickness is catching; O, were favor so!
• Black.
804
SUAKSPEARUM READER.
Yours would I catch, fair Hermia,'ere I go;
My ear should catch your voice, my eye your eye.
My tongue should catch your tongue's sweet melody.
Were the world mine, Demetrius being bated.
The rest I'll give to be to you translated.
O, teach me how you look; and with what art
You sway the motion of Demetrius' heart.
Her. I frown upon him, yet he loves me still.
Hel. O, that your frowns would teach my smiles such skill i
Her. I give him curses, yet he gives me love.
Hel. O, that my prayers could such affection move!
Her. The more I hate, the more he follows me.
Hel. The more I love, the more he hateth me.
Her. His folly, Helena, is no fault of mine.
Hel. None, but your beauty; 'Would that fault were mine!
Her. Take comfort; he no more shall see my face;
Lysander and myself will fly this place.—
Before the time I did Lysander see,
Seem'd Athens like a paradise to me:
O then, what graces in my love do dwell.
That he hath tum'd a heaven unto hell!
hys. Helen, to you our minds we will unfold:
To-morrow night when Phtebe doth behold
Her silver visage in the wat'ry glass.
Decking with liquid pearl the bladed grass,
(A time that lovers' mghts doth still conceal.)
Through Athens' gates have we devis'd to steal.
Her. And in the wood, where often you and I
Upon faint primrose beds were wont to lie.
Emptying our bosoms of their counsel sweet;
There my Lysander and myself shall meet:
And thence, from Athens, turn away our eyes.
To seek new friends and stranger companies.
Farewell, sweet playfellow; pray thou for us,
And good luck grant thee thy Demetrius!—
Keep word, Lysander: we must starve our sight
From lovers' food, till morrow deep midnight. [Exit Herii.
Lys. I will, my Hermia.—Helena, adieu:
As you on him, Demetrius dote on you! [Exit Lva
Hel. How hap]w some, o'er other some can be
Through Athens I am thought as fair as she.
But what of that ? Demetrius thinks not so;
He will not know what all but he do know.
And as he errs, doting on Herraia's eyes.
So I, admiring of his qualities.
Things base and vile, holding no quantity.
Love can transpose to form and dignity.
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind;
And therefore is wing'd Cupid painted blind.
midsttmmer-night's dream.
309
*
Nor hath love's mind of any judgment taste;
Wings, and no eyes, figure unheedy haste:
And therefore is love said to be a child.
Because in choice he is so oft beguil'd.
As waggish boys in games themselves forswear,
So the toy Love is peijur'd every where;
For ere Demetrius look'd on Hermia's eyne,*
He hail'd down oaths that he was only mine;
And when this hail some heat from Hermia felt.
So he dissolv'd, and showers of oaths did melt.
I will go tell him of fair Hermia's fiight:
Then to the wood will he, to-morrow night.
Pursue her; and for this intelligence
If I have thanks, it is a dear expense:
But herein mean I to enrich my pain.
To have his sight thither, and back again. [Exit,
ACT II.
SCENE I.—A Wood near Athens.
Enter a Fairy ai one door, and Puck at another.
Puck. How now, spirit! whither wander you ?
Fai. Over hill, over dale.
Thorough bush, thorough brier.
Over park, over pale.
Thorough flood, thorough fire,
I do wander every where.
Swifter than the moones sphere;
And I serve the fairy queen.
To dew her orbs upon the green:
The cowslips tall her pensioners be;
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favors.
In those freckles live their savors:
I must go seek some dew-drops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.
Farewell, thou lobf of spirits, I'll be gone:
Our queen and all her elves come here anon.
Puck. The king doth keep his revels here to-night;
Take heed, the queen come not within his sight.
For Oberon is passing fell and wrath.
Because that she, as her attendant, hath
A lovely toy stol'n from an Indian king;
She never had so weet a changeling:
And jealous Oberoirwould have the child
Knight of his train, to trace the forests wild:
• Eye».
t A term of oontempt.
306
SHAESPEARIAN READER.
But she, perforce, withholds the loved boy,
Crowns him with flowers, and make? him all her joy;
And now they never meet in grove, or green.
By fountain clear or spangled star-light sheen,*
But they do souare; that all their elves, for fear,
Creep into acwf IT tUps, and hide them there.
Fai. Either I mistake your shape and making quite
Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite,
Call'd Robin Good-fellow; are you not he,
That fright the maidens of the villagery;
Skim milk; and sometimes labor in the qnem.
And bootless make the breathless housemle^um;
And sometime make the drink to bear no ba™>
Mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm 1
Those that Hobgoblin call you, and sweet Puck,
You do their work, and they shall have good luck
Are not you he ?
Ptwk. Thou speak'st aright;
I am that merry wanderer of the night.
I jest to Oberon, and make him smile.
When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile.
Neighing in likeness of a silly foal:
And sometime lurk I in a gossip's bowl,
In very likeness of a roasted»crab ;f
And, when she drinks, against her lips I bob.
And on her wither'd dew-lap pour the ale.
The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale.
Sometime for three-foot stool mistaketh me;
Then slip I under her, down topples" she.
And tailor cries, and falls into a cough;
And then the whole quire hold .their hips, and lofie;
And waxen in their mirth, and neeze and swear
A merrier hour was never wasted there.—
But room. Fairy, here comes Oberon.
Fai. And here my mistress:—Would that he were gone!
Enter Oberon, at one door with his train, and Titania, at another
toilh hers.
Ohe. Ill met by moon-light, proud Titania.
Tita. What, jealous Oteron ? Fairy, skip hence.
Ohe. Tarry, rash wanton.
Tita. These are the forgeries of jealousy:
And never, since the middle summer's spring.
Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead,
By paved fountain, or by rushy brook.
Or on the beached margent of the sea,-
To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind.
But with thy brawls thou hast disturb'd our sport.
Chiiijig,
t Wild applw.
MIDSVMME K-NIGHT'S -SREAM.
Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain,
As in revenge, have suck'aup from the sea
Contagious fogs; which falling in the land.
Have every pelting river made so proud.
That they have overborne their continents;
The ox hath therefore stretch'd his yoke in vain.
The ploughman lost his sweat; and the »een com
Hath rotted, ere his youth attain'd a beard:
The fold stands empty in the drowned field.
And crows are fatted with the murrain flock;
The nine men's morri?* is fiU'd up with mud;
And the quaint mazes iii the wanton green.
For lack of tread, are undistinguishable;
The human mortals want their winter here;
No night is now with hymn or carol blest:—
Therefore the moon, the governess of floods.
Pale in her anger, washes all the air.
That rheumatic diseases do abound:
And thorough this distemperature, we see
The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts^
Fall in the fresh lap of ue crimson rose;
And on old Hyems' chin, and icy crown.
An odoroustsnaplgt of sweet summer buds
Is, as in mockery, set: The spring, the summer.
The childing autumn, angry winter, change
Their wonted liveries; and the mazed world.
By their increase, now knows not which is which:
And this same progeny of evils comes
From our debate, from our dissension;
We are their parents and original.
Obe. Do you amend it then: it lies in you:
Why should Titania cross her Oberon ?
I do but beg a httle changeling boy.
To be my henchman.
Tita. Set your heart at rest,
The faiiy land buys not the child of me.
His mother was a vot'ress of my order:
And, in the spiced llrifetB air, by night,
Full often hath she gossip'd by my side;
And sat with me on Neptune's yellow sands.
Marking the embarkeduiders on the flood;
But she, being mortal, of that boy did die.
And, for her sake, I do rear up her boy:
And, for her sake, I will not part with him.
Obe. How long within this wood intend you stay ?
Tita. Perchance, till after Theseus' wedding-day.
If you will patiently dance in our round.
* Holes made for a game played by boys.
308
shaesfearian reader.
And see our moon-light revels, go with us;
If not, shun me, and I will spare your haunts.
Obe. Give me that boy, and I will go with thee.
Tila. Not for thy fairy kingdom. Fairies, away;
We shall chide down-right if 1 longer stay.
[Exeunt Titakia, oni her train,
Obe. Well, go thy way: thou shalt not from this grove,
Till I torment thee for this injury.—
My gentle Puck, come hither: Thou remember'st
Since once I sat upon a promontory.
And heard a mermaid, on a dolphin's hack.
Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath,
That the rude sea grew civil at her song;
And certain stars shot madly from their spheres
To hear the sea-maid's music.
Puck. I remember.
Obe. That very time I saw, (but thou could'st not,)
Flying between the cold moon and the earth,
Cupid all arm'd: a certain aim he took
At a fair vestal, throned by the west;
And loos'ffTi® love-shaft smartly from his bow.
As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts:
But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft
Quench'd in the chaste beams of the wat'fy moon;
And the imperial vot'ress passed on.
In maiden meditation, fancy-free.
Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell:
It fell upon a little western flower,—
Before, milk-white; now purple with love's wound,—
And maidens call it love-in-idleness.
Fetch me that flower; the herb I show'd thee once;
The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid.
Will make or man or woman sadly dote
Upon the next live creature that it sees.
Fetch me this herb: and be thou here again.
Ere the teviathag) can swim a league.
Pitcfc. rH put a girdle round about the earth
In forty minutes. ,_^Exit.
Obe. Having once this juicd,
I'll watch Titania when she is asleep.
And drop the liquor of it in her eyes:
The next thing then she waking looks upon,
(Be it on lion, bear, or wolf, or bull.
On meddling monkey, or on busy ape,/
She shall pursue it with the soul of love.
And ere I take tliis charm off" from her sight,
(As I can take it, with another herb,)
I'll make her render up her page to me.
MIDStrMMER-NIGHT's SBEAH.
309
But who comes here ? I am invisible;
And I will overhear their conference.
Demetrius is pursued by Helena^ who persists in proffers of her lovOi which Demetrius
itiU rejects. Oberon listens to their conversation.
Fare thee well, nymph; ere he do leave this grove,
Thou shalt fly him, and he shall seek thy love.—
Re-enter Puck.
Ilast thou the flower there ? Welcome, wanderer.
Puck.' Ay, there it is.
Ohe. I pray thee, give it me.
I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows,
Where ox-lips and the nodding violet grows;
Quite over-canopied with lush woodbine.
With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine;
There sleeps Titania, some time of the night,
Lull'd in these flowers with dances and delight;
And there the snake throws her enamell'd skin.
Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in;
TChd with the juice of this I'll streak her eyes.
And make her full of hateful fantasies.
Take thou some of it, and seek through this grove:
A sweet Athenian lady is in love
With a disdainful youth: anoint his eyes:
But do it, when the next thing he espies
May be the lady: Thou sbalt know the man
By the Athenian garments he hath on.
Effect it with some care; that he may prove
More fond on her, than she upon her Jove.
Puck mistakes Lysander for the lover, on whom he is commissioned by Oberon to exer
ctse his fairy spells.
SCENE.—Another part of the Wood.
Enter Ltsander, and Hermia.
Lys. Fair love, you faint with wandering in the wood;
And to speak troth, I have forgot our ways
We'll rest us, Hermia, if you tnink it good.
And tarry for the comfort of the day.
Her. Be it so, Lysander, find you out a bed.
For I upon this bank will rest my head.
Such separation, as, may well be said.
Becomes a virtuous bachelor and a maid:
So far be distant.; and good night, sweet friend :
Thy love ne'er alter, till thy sweet life end !
Lys. Amen, Amen, to that fair prayer, say I;
And then end life, when I end loyalty !
Here is my bed: Sleep give thee all his rest!
Her. With -alf that wish the wisher's eyes be press'd.
[They sleep
910
SHAKSPEARIAN READEE.
Enter Puck.
Puck. Through the forest have I gone,
But Athenian found I none,
On whose eyes I might approve
This flower's force in stirring love.
Night and silence! who is here 1
Weeds of Athens he doth wear;
This is he, my master said.
Despised ^e Athenian maid;
And here the maiden, sleeping sound,
On the dank and dirty ground.
Pretty soul! she durst not lie
Near this lack-love, kill-courtesy.
Churl, upon thy eyes I throw
All the power this charm doth owe:
When thou wak'st, let love forbid
Sleep his seat on thy eye-lid.
So awake, when I am gone;
For I must now to Oberon.
Enter Demetrius, and Helena, running.
Hel. Stay, though thou kill me, sweet Demetrius.
Dem. I charge thee, hence, and do not haunt me thus.
Hel. O, wilt thou darkling leave me ? do not so.
Dem. Stay, on thy peril; I alone will go. [Exit Demetrius.
Hel. O, I am out of breath in this fond chase!
The more my prayer, the lesser is my grace.
Happy is Hermia, wheresoe'er she lies;
For she hath blessed and attractive eyes.
How came her eyes so bright ? Not with salt tears;
If so, my eyes are oftener wash'd than hers
No, no, I am as ugly as a bear;
For beasts that meet me, run away for fear
Therefore, no marvel, though Demetrius
Do, as a monster, fly my presence thus.
What wicked and dissembling glass of mine
Made me compare with Hermia's sphery eyne ?—
But who is here ?—^Lysander! on the ground!
Dead ? or asleep 1 I see no blood, no wound !—
Lysander, if you live, good sir, awake.
Lys. And run through fire I will, for thy sweet sake. [Waking.
Transparent Helena! Nature here shows art.
That through thy bosom makes me see thy heart.
Where is Demetrius ? O, how fit a word
Is that vile name, to perish on my sword ?
Hel. Do not say so, Lysander; say not so:
What though he love your Hermia ? O, what though ?
Vet Hermia still loves you: then be content.
midsummer-night's dream.
311
I/ys. Content with Hermia? No: I do repent
The tedious minutes I with her have spent. • ,
Not Hermia, but Helena I love:
Who will not change a raven for a dove ?
The will of man is by his reason sway'd:
And reason says you are the worthier maid.
Things growing are not ripe until their season;
So I, being young, till now ripe not to reason; '
And toucmng now the point of human skill,
Reason becomes the marshal to my will,
And leads me to your eyes; where I o'erlook
Love's stories, written in love's richest book.
Hel. Wherefore was I to this keen mockery bom ?
When, at your hands, did I deserve this scom ?
Is't not enough, is't not enough, young man,
That I did never, no, nor never can.
Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius' eye,
But you must flout my insufficiency ?
Good troth, you do me wrong, good sooth, you do.
In such disdainful manner me to woo.
But fare you well: perforce I must confess,
I thought you lord of more true gentleness.
O, that a lady, of one man refus'd.
Should, of another, therefore be abus'd! \Ilxil,
Lys. She sees not Hermia:—^Hermia, sleep thou there;
And never may'st thou come Lysander near!
For, as a surfeit of the sweetest things
The deepek lathing to the stomach brings;
Or, as the heresies that men do leave.
Are hated most of those they did deceive;
So thou,^my surfeit, and my heresy.
Of all be hated; but the most of me !
And all my powers, address your love and might.
To honor Helen, and to be her knight! [Fxii.
Her. \_Stariing.'\ Help me, Lysander, help me! do t'ly best,
To pluck this crawling serpent from my breast!
Ah me, for pity!—what a dream was here ?
Lysander, look, how I do quake with fear!
Methought a serpent eat my heart away.
And you sat smiling at his cruel prey:—
Lysander! what, remov'd ? Lysander! lord!
What, out of hearing ? gone ? no sound, no word ?
Alack, where are you ? speak, an if you hear;
Speak, of all loves ; I swoon almost with fear.
No ?—^then I well perceive you are not nigh;
Either death, or ysu, I'll find immediately. [Exn
312
SHAKSPEABUN HEADER.
ACT III.
» *
Oberon discovers that Pock has mistaken Lysander for Demetrius^ and 1^ his masia
•harms corrects the error.
SCENE.—A Wood.
Demeteius [^Sleepwg], Lysander, and Helena.
Lys. Why should you think, that I should woo in scorn ?
Scorn and derision never come in tears.
Look, when 1 vow, I weep; and vows so born.
In their nativity all truth appears.
How can these things in me seem scorn to you,
Bearing the badge of faith, to prove them true ?
Hel. You do advance your cunning more and more.
When truth kills truth, O, matchless holy fray!
These vows are Hermia's; Will you give her o er ?
Weigh oath with oath, and you will nothing weigh:
Your vows, to her and me, put in two scales,
Will even weigh; and both as light as tales.
Lys. I had no judgment, when to her I swore.
J^el. Nor none, in my mind, now you give her o'er.
Lys. Demetrius loves her, and he loves not you.
Dem. [^Awaking.'\ O Helen, goddess, nymph, perfect, divinDt
To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne ?
Crystal is muddy. O, how ripe in show
Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow!
That pure congealed white, high Taurus' snow,
Fann'd with the eastern wind, turns to a crow.
When thou hold'st up thy hand: O let me kiss
This princess of pure white, this seal of bliss!
Hel. O cruel spite! I see you all are bent
To set against me for your merriment.
If you were civil, and knew courtesy.
You would not do me thus much injury.
Can you not hate me, as I know you do.
But you must join, in souls, to mock me too ? '
If you were men, as men you are in show.
You would not use a gentle lady so;
To vow, and swear, and superpraise my parts.
When, I am sure, you hate me with your hearts.
You both are rivals, and love Hermia;
And now both rivals, to mock Helena;
A trim exploit, a manly enterprise.
To conjure tears up in a poor maid's eyes,.
With your derision! none, of noble sort,
Would so offend a virgin; and extort
A ]^r soul's patience, all to make )''ou sport.
1/ys. You are unkind, Demetrius ; be not so;
midsummer-night's dream.
For you love Hermia; this, you know, I know:
And here, with all good will, with all my heart,
In Hermia's love I yield you up my part;
And yours of Helena to me bequeath.
Whom I do love, and will do till my death.
Hel. Never did mockers waste more idle breath.
Dem. Lysander, keep thy Hermia; I will none:
If e'er I lov'd her, all that love is gone.
My heart with her but, as guest-wise, sojoum'd;
And now to Helen is it home return'd,
There to remsun.
Lys. Helen, it is not so.
Dem. Disparage not the faith thou dost not know,
Lest, to thy peril, thou aby* it dear.—
Look, where thy love comes; yonder is tliy dear.
Enter Herbiia.
Her. Dark night, that from the eye his function takes,
The ear mwe quick of apprehension makes:
Wherein it doto impair tiie seeing sense.
It pays the hearing double recompense:—
Thou art not by mine eye, Lysander, found;
Mine ear, I think, it brought me to thy sound.
But why unkindly didst thou leave me so 7
Lys. Why should he stay, whom love doth press to go T
Her. What love could press Lysander from my side f
Lys. Lysander's love, uat would not let him bide.
Fair Helena; who more engilds the night
Than all yon fiery -hesf and eyes of light.
Why seek'st thou me 7 could not this make thee know.
The hate I bear thee made me leave thee so 7
Her. You speak not as you think; it cannot be.
Hel. Lo, she is one of this confederacy!
Now I perceive they have conjoin'd, all three.
To fashion this false sport in spite of me.
Injurious Hermia! most ungrateful maid!
Have you conspir'd, have you with these contriv'd -
To bait me with this foul derision 7
Is all the counsel that we two have shar'd,
The sisters' vows, the hours that we have spent.
When we have chid the hasty-footed time
For parting us,—O, and is all forgot 7
All schooldays' friendship, childhood innocence?
We, Hermia, like two artificial gods,
Have with our neeldsf created foth one flower.
Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion,
Both warbling of one song, both in one key;
&s if our hands, our sides, voices, and minds.
* Fay dearly for it.
t Circles.
15
t Koedloa.
314
SBAKSPEABUM BEABEB.
Had been incorporate. So we grew together,
like to a double cherry, seeming parted;
But yet a union in partition,
Two lovely berries moulded on one stem:
So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart;
• Two of the first, like coats in heraldry.
Due but to one, and crowned with one crest.
And wiU you rend our ancient love asunder,
To join with men in scorning your poor friend ?
It is not friendly, 'tis not maidenly:
Our sex, as well as I, may chide you for it;
Though I alone do feel the injury.
ACT IV.
Oberon directs Pack to cast the lovers into a " death connterfeicing sleep," and then
to disenchant Lysander, so that when they wake, all the mistakes shall seem a drtan.
SCENE.—A Wood. Ltsander, Demeteius, Heemia, and He«
lena, discovered sleeping.
Enter Theseus, Hippoltta, Egeus, and train.
The. Go, one of you, find out the forester;—
For now our observation is perform'd;
And since we have the vaward of the day.
My love shall hear the music of my hounds.—
Uncouple in the western valley; go:—
Despatch, I say, and find the forester.—
We will, fair queen, up to the mountain's top.
And mark the musical confusion
Of hounds and echo in conjunction.
Hip. I was with Hercules, and Cadmus, once.
When in a wood of Crete they bay'd the bear
With hounds of Sparta; never did I hear
Such gallant chiding; for, besides the groves.
The sides, the fountains, every region near
Seem'd all one mutual cry: I never heard
So musical a discord, such sweet thunder.
The. My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind,
So flew'd, so sanded; and their heads are hung
With ears that sweep away the morning dew;
Crook-knee'd and dew-lap'd like Thessalian bulls;
Slow in pursuit, but match'd In mouth-like bells.
Each under each. A cry more tunable
Was never holla'd to, nor cheer'd with horn,
In Crete, in Sparta, nor in Thessaly:
Judge, when you hear. But soft; what nymphs are tliese 7
Ege. My lord, this is my daughter here asleep;
And this, Lysander; this Demetrius is;
midsummer-might's dream.
315
This Helena, old Neda's Helena:
I wonder of their being here together.
The. No doubt, they rose up early, to observe
The rite of May; and, hearing our intent.
Come here in grace of our solemnity.—
But, speak, Egeus; is not this the day
That Hermia should give answer of her choice ?
^e. It is, my lord.
The. Go, bid the huntsmen wake them with their horns.
Homs and shout vnthin. Demetrius, Ltsander, Hermia, and
Helena, wake and start up.
The. Good-morrow, friends. Saint Valentine is past;
Begin these wood-birds but to couple now ?
Lys. Pardon, my lord. [He and the rest kneel to Theseus.
The. I pray you all stand up.
I know, you are two rival enemies;
How comes this gentle concord in the world.
That hatred is so far from jealousy.
To sleep by hate, and fear no enmity ?
Lys. My lord, I shall reply amazedly.
Half 'sleep, half waking: But as yet, I swear,
I cannot truly say how I came here:
But, as I think, (for truly would I speak,—
And now I do bethink me, so it is;)
I came with Hermia hither: our intent
Was, to he gone from Athens, where we might be
Without the peril of the Athenian law.
Ege. Enough, enough, my lord; you have enough.
I beg the law, the law upon his head.—
They would have stol'n away, they would, Demetrius,
Thereby to have defeated you and me:
You, of your wife; and me, of my consent;
Of my consent that she should be your wife.
Dem. My lord, fdr Helen told me of their stealtli.
Of this their purpose hither, to this wood;
And I in fury hither follow'd them;
Fair Helena in fancy following me.
But, my good lord, I wot not by what power,
(But, by some power it is,) my love to Hermia,
Melted as doth the snow, seems to me now
As the remembrance of an idle gawd.
Which in my childhood I did dote upon:
And all the faith, the virtue of my heart.
The object, and the pleasure of mine eye.
Is only Helena. To her, my lord.
Was I betroth'd ere I saw Hermia;
But, like in sickness, did I loathe this food:
But, as in health, come to my natural taste.
316
SBAESPEASIAN BEADES.
Now do I wish it, love it, long for it.
And will for evermore be true to it.
TTie. Fair flowers, you are fortunately met:
Of this discourse we more will hear anon.—
Egeus, I will overbear your will;
For in the temple, by and by with us, •
These couples shall eternally be knit.
And, for the morning now is something worn.
Our purpos'd hunting shall be set aside.—
Away, with us, to Athens: Three and three.
We'll hold a feast in great solemnity.
Come, Hippolyta.
[jExeunt Theseus, Hotoetta, Egeus, aitd train,
Dem. These things seem small and undistinguishable,
like far-off mountains turned into clouds.
Her. Methinks I see these things with parted eye.
When every thing seems double.
Hel. So, metbinks:
And I have found Demetrius hke a jewel.
Mine own, and not mine own.
Dem. It seems to me,
That yet we sleep, we dream.—Do not you think.
The duke was here, and bid us follow him ?
Her. Yea; and my father.
Hel. ' And Hippolyta.
Lys. And he did bid us follow to the temple.
Dem. Why then, we are awake: let's follow him;
And, by the way, let us recount our dreams. [Exeunt.
ACT V.
SCENE I.—The same. An Apartment in the Palace of Thesens-
Enier Theseus, Hippoltta, Philostrate, Lords, and Attendants,
Hip. 'Tis strange, my Theseus, that these lovers speak of.
The. More strange than true. I never may believe
These antique fables, nor these fairy toys.
Lovers and madmen have such seeming brains.
Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend
More than cool reason ever comprehends
The lunatic, the lover, and the p^t.
Are of imagination all compact:
One sees more devils than vast hell can hold;
That is, the madman : the lover, all as frantic.
Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt:
The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling.
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven.
And, as imagination bodies forth
midsummer-night's dream.
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation, and a name.
Such tricks hath strong imagination ;
That, if it would but apprehend some joy.
It comprehends some bringer of that joy;
Qr, in the night, imagining some fear.
How ea^ is a bush suppos'd a bear ?
flip. But all the story of the night told over.
And all their minds transfigured so together.
More witnesseth than fancy's imag^.
And grows to something of OTeat constancy;
But, howsoever, strange, and admirable.
Enter Lysandes, Demetrius, Hermia, and Hhleka.
The, Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth.—
Joy, gentle friends! joy, and fresh days of love,
Accompany your hearts.
Tbe Pla/endt with a maaqoeby thaoomiopenonasaacftfaaDmiiVU
JULIUS C^SAR.
Id tkis noble composition, Sbakspeare has sbown himself equally great, in dramatizing
B celebrated porUon of Classic History, as be is in adapting incidents gathered from ro¬
mantic story, or the wonders of l^endary fiction.
In Jnlins Cssar, he has been chiefiy indebted to Plntarch for his materials, and it is no
mean praise awarded to him by his commentators, that he has cangbt the spirit of his
great original.
The principal characters are veritable Pintarchian embodimmits. Caesar, Bmtns, Cas-
sins, and Antony, arc clothed with even more individnality of character, than they are
depicted by the celebrated Greek Biographer.
The real length of time in Jnlins Caesar is as follows: About the middle of February,
B. C. 709, a frantic festival, sacred to Pan, and called Lnpercalia, was held in honor
of Caesar, when the i^al crown was offered to him by Antony. On the 15th of March in
the same year, he was slain. Kovember 27, B. C. 710, the trinmvirs met at a small
island, formed by the river Rhenns, near Bonoma, and there adjusted their cmel proserip-
rion.'—B. C. 711, Bratns and Cassins were defeated near Philippi."
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
Julius cibsar.
OcTATIUS C.SSAR, i
Marcus Antontos, > triumvirs after the death of Julias Cxsar.
M. Lepidus, j
Cicero, Publius, Popilius Lena ; senators.
Marcus Brutus, Casca, ,
CaSSIUS, TrEBONIUS, I . ' • ^ t i- /-i
, Decius Brutus, Liuarius, \ '=onsptrators against JuUos Csesar.
Metellus Cimber, Cinna, t
Flavius and Marullus, tribunes.
Artemidorus, a sophist of Cnidos.
A Soothsayer. Cinna, a poet. Another Poet.
Lucaius, Titinius, Messala, young Cato, and Volumnius ;
friends to Brutus and Cassins.
Varro, Clitus, Claudius, Strato, Lucius, Dardahius ; servants
to Brutus,
pindarus, servant to Cassius.
Calphurnia, wife to Caesar.
Portia, wife to Brutus.
Senators, Citizens, Guards, Attendants, ^c.
SCENE,—during a great part of the Play, at Rome ; afterwards at
Sardis ; and near Philippi.
JTTUVS CJESAE.
319
ACT I.
• SCENE I.—^Rome. ' A Street.
Enter Flavitjs, Maktoltts, and a rabble cf Citizens.
FUtv. Hence; homo, you idle creatures, get you home;
Is this a holiday ? What! know you not,
Being mechanical, you ought not walk.
Upon a laboring day, without the sign
Of your profession 1—Speak, what trade art thou ?
1st Cit. Why, sir, a carpenter.
Mar. Where is thy leather apron, and thy rule ?
What dost thou with thy best apparel on 1—
You,' sir; what trade are you ?
2nd Cit. Truly, sir, in respecfof a fine workman, I am but, as you
would say, a cobbler.
Mar. But what trade art thou ? Answer me directly.
2nd Cit. A trade, sir, that, I hope, I may use with a safe con¬
science ; which is, indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles.
Mar. What trade, thou knave, thou naughty knave, what trade ?
2nd Cit. Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out widi me: yet, if you
be out, sir, I can mend you.
Mar. '^at meanest thou by that ? Mend mfl^ thou saucy fellow T
2nd Cit. Why, sir, cobble you.
Flav. Thou art a cobbler, art thou ?
27td Cit. Truly, sir, all that I live by is, -with the awl: I meddle
with no tradesman's matters. I am, indeed, sir, a surgeon to old
shoes; when they are in great danger, I recover them. As proper
men as ever trod up n neats-leather, have gone upon my handy-work.
Flav. But wherefore art not in thy shop to-day t
Why dost thou lead these men about the streets ?
2nd Cit. Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself into
more work. But, indeed, sir, we make holiday, to see Caesar, and
to rejoice in his triumph.
Mar. Wherefore rejoice ? What conquest brings he homo 1
What tributaries follow him to Rome,
To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels ?
You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!
O, you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome,
■ Knew you not Pompoy 1 Many a time and oft
Have you climb'd up to walls and battlements.
To towers amd windows, yea, to chimney-tops.
Your infants in your arms, and there have sat
The live-long day, with patient expectation,
To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome:
And when you saw his chariot but appear.
Have you not made an universal shout.
320
shakspeaeian reader.
That Tiber trembled underneath her banks,
To hear the replication of your sounds,
Made in her concave shores ?
And do you now put on your best attire ?
And do you now cull out a holiday ? *
And do you now strew flowers in his way,
That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood ?
Be gone!
Run to your houses, fall upon your knees.
Pray to the gods to intermit the plague
That needs must light on this ingratitude.
Flav. Go, go, gw)d countrymen, and, for this fault.
Assemble all the poor men of your sort;
Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears
Into the channel, till the lowest stream
Do kiss the most exalted shores of all. [Exii Citizena
See, whe'r their basest metal be not mov'd;
They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness.
Go you down that way towards the Capitol;
This way will I: Disrobe the images.
If you do find them deck'd with ceremonies.
Mar. May we do so ?
You know, it is the feast of Lupercal.
Flav. It is no matter; let no images
Be hung with Caesar's trophies. I'll about.
And drive away the vulgar from the streets:
So do you too, where you perceive them thick.
These growing feathers pluck'd from Caesar's wing.
Will make him fly an ordinaiy pitch;
Who else would soar above the view of men.
And keep us all in servile fearfulness. [Exeunt.
SCENE n.—The same. A public Place.
Enter, in procession, toUk music, C.i:sar ; Antont, for the cmirse ;
Calphurnia, Portia, Decius, Cicero, Brutus, Cassius, and
Casca, a great crowd following; among them a Soothsayer.
Sooth. Caesar.
Cws. Who is it in the press, that calls on me ?
I hear a tongue, shriller than all the music.
Cry, Caesar: speak; Caesar is tum'd to hear.
Sooth. Beware the ides of March.
C(BS. What man is that t
Bru. A soothsayer, bids you beware the ides of March.
C(cs. Set him before me, let me see his face.
Cos, Fellow, come from the throng: Look upon Caesau-.
Cces. What say'st thou to me now ? Speak once again.
Sooth. Beware the ides of March.
julius ojesar.
321
C<es, He is a dreamer; let us leave him;—^pass.
Cos. Will you go see the order of the course ?
Bru. Notl.
"Cas. I pray you, do.
Bru. I am not gamesome: I do lack some part
Of that qtuck spirit that is in Antony.
Let me not Mnuer, Cassius, your desires;
PU leave you.
Cas. Brutus, I do observe you now of late:
I have not from your ^es that gentleness.
And show of love, as I was wont to have:
You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand
Over your friend that loves you.
Bru. Cassius,
Be not deceiv'd: If I have veiPd my look,
" ■ " ' ce
Of late, with passions of some difference,
Conceptions only proper to myself.
Which ^ve some soil, perhaps, to my behaviors:
But let not therefore my good friends be griev'd;
(Among which number, Cassius, be you one;)
Nor construe any further my neglect.
Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war.
Forgets the shows of love to other men.
Cas. Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your passion:
By means whereof, this breast of mine hath buried
Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations.
Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face ?
Bru. No, Cassius; for ue eye sees not itself.
But by reflection, by some other things.
Cas. 'Tis just:
And it is very much lamented, Brutus,
That you have no such mirrors, as wiU turn
Your hidden worthiness into your eye.
That you might see your shadow. I have heard.
Where many of the best respect in Rome,
(Except immortal Caesar,) s]»aking of Brutus,
And groaning underneath this age's yoke.
Have wish'd that noble Brutus had ms eyes.
Bru. Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius,
That you would have me seek into myself
For that which is not in me ?
Cas. Therefore, good Brutus, be prepar'd to hear:
And, since you know you cannot see yourself
So well as by reflection, I, your glass.
Will modestly discover to yoursdf
. That of yourself which you yet know not of.
[Exeunt all but Brutus emd CassIVR
322
SHAKSPEAKIAN HEADER.
And be not jealous of me, gentle Brutus:
Were I a common laugher, or did use
To stale with ordinary oaths my love
To every new protester; if you know
That I do fawn on men, and hug them hard.
And after scandal them; or if you know
That I profess myself in banqueting
To all the rout, then hold me dangerous. [Flourish and shorn
Bru. What means this shouting ? I do fear, the people
Choose CsBsar for their king.
Cas. Ay, do you fear it ?
Then must I think you would not have it so.
Bru. I would not, Cassius; yet I love him well:—
But wherefore do you hold me here so long ?
What is it that you would impart to me ?
If it be aught toward the general good.
Set honor in one eye, and death i' the other.
And I will look on both indifferently:
For, let the gods so speed me, as I love
The name of honor more than I fear death.
Cas. I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus,
As well as I do know your outward favor.
Well, honor is the subject of my story.—
I cannot tell, what you and other men
Think of this life ; W, for my single self,
I had as lief not be, as live to be
In awe of such a thing as I myself.
I was born free as Caesar; so were you:
We both have fed as well; and we can both
Endure the winter's cold, as well as he.
For once, upon a raw and gusty day.
The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores,
Caesar said to me, Dar'st thou, Cassius, now
Leap in with tne into thi^ angry flood.
And swim to yonder j)ointi—Upon the word,
Accouter'd as I was, I plunged in.
And bade him follow: so, indeed, he did.
The torrent roar'd; and we did buffet it
With lusty sinews; throwing it aside
And stemming it with hearts of controversy.
But ere we could arrive the point propos'd,
Caesar cry'd, Help me, Cassius, or I sirik.
I, as ./Eneas, our great ancestor.
Did from the fames of Troy upon his shoulder
The old Anchises bear, so, from the waves of Tiber
Did I the tir'd Caesar: And this man
,s now become a god; and Cassius is
A wretched creature, and must bend his body,
[f Caesar carelessly but ncd on him.
JT7LIDS CJESAR.
323
He liad a fever when he was in Srain,
And, when the fit was on him, I did mark
How he did shake; 'tis true, this god did shake.
His coward lips did from their color fly;
And that same eye, whose bend doth awe the world.
Did lose his lustre: I did hear him groan:
h.y, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans
limk him, and write his speeches in their books,
Alas! it cried. Give me some drink, Titinius,
As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me, '
A man of such a feeble temper should
So get the start of the majestic world.
And bear the palm alone. f Shout. Flmirish
Bru. Another general shout!
I do believe, that fliese applauses are
For some new honors that are heap'd on Cssar.
Cas. Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world,
Like a Colossus; and we petty men
Walk under his huge legs, and peep about
To find ourselves dishonorable ^aves.
Men at some time are masters of their fates:
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars.
But in ourselves, that we are underlings.
Brutus, and Cssar: What should be in that Csesar ?
Why should that name be sounded more than yours ?
Write them together, yours is as fair a name;
Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well;
Weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with them,
Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Cssar. 'Shout
Now in the names of all the gods at once.
Upon what meat doth this our Cssar feed.
That he is grown so great 2 Age, thou art sham'd;
Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods!
When went there by an age, since the great flood.
But it was fam'd with more than with one man 2
When could they say, till now, that talk'd of Rome,
That her wide walks encompass'd but one man 2
0! you and I have heard our fathers say.
There was a Brutus once, that would have brook'd
The eternal devil to keep his state in Rome,
As easily as a king.
Bru. That you do love me, I am nothing jealous;
What you would work me to, I have some aim;
How I have thought of this, and of these times,
I shall recount hereafter; for this present,
I would not, so with love I might entreat you.
Be any further mov'd. What you have said,
I will consider; what you have to say,
I will with patience heaf: and find a time
824
shakspeaeian reader.
Both meet to hear, and answer, such high things.
Till then, my noble friend, chew upon this;
Brutus had rather be a villager.
Than to repute himself a son of Rome
Under these hard conditions as this time
Is like to lay upon us.
Cos. I am glad, that my weak words
Have struck but thus much show of fire from Brutus.
• Re-enter C^esab, and hts Train.
Bru. The games are done, and Caesar is returning.
Cas. As they pass by, pluck Casca by the sleeve;
And he will, a^r his sour fashion, tell you
What hath proceeded, worthy note, to-day.
Bru. I will do so:—^But, look you, Cassius,
The angry spot doth glow on Caesar's brow,
And all the rest look hke a chidden train:
Calphumia's cheek is pale; and Cicero
Looks with such ferret and such fiery eyes,
As we have seen him in the Capitol,
Being cross'd in conference by some senators.
Cas. Casca will tell us what the matter is.
Cms. Antonius.
Ant. Caesar.
Cms. Let me have men about me that are fat;
Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o' nights:
Yond' Cassius has a lean and hungry look;
He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.
ArU. Fear him not, Caesar, he's not dangerous;
He is a noble Roman, and well given.
Cms. 'Would he were fatter:—But I fear him not;
Yet if my name were liable to fear,
I do not know the man I should avoid
So soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much.
He is a great observer; and he looks
Quite through the deeds of men; he loves no plays.
As thou dost, Antony; he hears no music:
Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort.
As if he mock'd himself, amd scom'd his spirit
That could be mov'd to smile at any thing.
Such men as he be never at heart's ease.
Whiles they behold a greater than themselves;
And therefore are they very dangerous.
I rather tell thee what is to be fear'd,
Than what I fear, for always I am Caesar.
Come on my right hand, for this ear is deaf.
And tell me truly what thou think'st of him.
[Exeunt Ce:sar and his Train. Casca stays behina
Casca, You pull'd me by the cloak; Would ou speak with me 1
JULIUS CiESAR.
325
Bru. Ay, Casca; tell us what hath chanc'd to-day,
That Caesar looks so sad 7
Casca. Why you were with him, were you not 7
Bru. I should not then ask Casca what hath chanc'd.
Casca. Why, there was a crown offered him; and being offered
him, he put it by with the back of his hand, thus; and then the
people fell a' shouting.
Bru. What was the second noise for 7
Casca. Why, for that too.
Cas. They shouted thrice; What was the last cry for 7
Casca. Why, for that too.
Bru. Was the crown offer'd him thrice 7
Casca. Ay, marry, was't, and he put it by thrice, every time
gentler than other; and at every putting by, mine honest neighbon
shouted.
Cas. Who offer'd him the crown 7
Casca. Why, Antony.
Bru. Tell us the manner of it, gentle Casca.
Casca. I can as well be hang^, as tell the manner of it r it was
mere foolery. I did not mark it. I saw Mark Antony ofier him a
crown;—vet 'twas not a crown neither, 'twas one of these coronets,
—and, as 1 told you, he put it by once; but, for all that, to my think¬
ing, he would fain have had it. Then he offered it to him again;
then he put it by again; but, to my thinking, he was very loath to
lay his fingers off it. And then he offered it a third time; he put it
the third time by : and still as he refused it, the rabblement hooted,
and clapped their chapped hands, and threw up their sweaty night¬
caps, ana uttered such a deal of stinking breath, because Cssai re¬
fused the crown, that it had almost choked Csesar ; for he swooned,
and fell down at it.
Cas. But, soft, I pray you: What 7 Did Cssar swoon 7
Casca. He fell down in the market-place, and foamed at mouth,
and was speechles*"
Bru. 'Tis very lilbs: he hath the falling-sickness.
Cas. No, Cssar hath it not; but you, and I,
And honest Casca, we have the falling-sickness.
Casca. I know not what you mean by that; but, I am sure, Caesar
fell down. If the tag-rag people did not clap him, and hiss him,
according as he pleased and displeased them, as they use to do the
players in the theatre, I am no true man.
Bru. What said he, when he came unto himself 7
Casca. Many, before he fell down, when he perceived the com¬
mon herd was glad he refused the crown, he pluck'd me ope his
doublet, and offered them his throat to cut—an I had been a man
of any occupation, I would have taken him at a word—and so he
fell. Whpn he came to himself again, he said, If he had done, or
said, any thing amiss, he desired their worships to think it was his
infirmity.
Bru. And after that, he came, thus sad, away '
826
SHAKSPEAEIAN READER.
Casca. Ay.
Cas. Did CiceiD say any thing ?
Casca, Ay, he spoke Greek.
Cas. To what effect ?
Casca. Nay, an I tell you that, I'll ne'er look you i' the face
again: But those, that understood him, smiled at one another, and
shook their heads: but, for mine own part, it was Greek to me. 1
could tell you more news too: Marullus and Flavins, for pulling
scarfs off Cssar's images, are put to silence. Fare you well. There
was more foolery yet, if I could remember it.
Cas. Will you sup with me to-night, Casca ?
Casca. No, I am promised forth.
Cas. Will you dine with me to-morrow ?
Casca. Ay, if I be alive, and your mind hold, and your dinner
worth the eating.
Cas. Good; I will expect you.
Casca. Do so: Farewell, both. [Exil Casca.
Bru. What a blunt fellow is this ^own to be ?
He was quick mettle, when he went to school.
Cas. So is he now, in execution
Of any bold or noble enterprise.
However he puts on this tardy form.
This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit,
Which gives men stomach to digest his words
With better appetite.
Bru. And so it is. For this time I will leave you:
To-morrow, if you please to speak with me, -
I will come home to you ; or, if you will.
Come home to me, and I will wait for you.
Cas. I will do so:—till then, think of the world. [Exit Bruttjs.
Well, Brutus, thou art noble; yet, I see.
Thy honorable metal may be wrought
From that it is dispos'd: Therefore, 'tis meet
That noble minds keep ever with their likes:
For who so firm, that cannot be seduc'd ?
Caesar doth bear me hard: But he loves Brutus:
If I were Brutus now, and he were Cassius,
He should not humor me. I will this night.
In several hands, in at his windows throw.
As if they came from several citizens.
Writings, all tending to the great opinion
That Rome holds of his name ; wherein obscurely,
Caesar's ambition shall be glanc'd at:
And, after this, let Caesar seat him sure;
For we will shake him, or worse days endure. [£a:tt
JULIUS CiESAR.
321
ACT II.
Cassius writes certain anonymons papers to Brntns, instigatiDg him to join with th«
aonspirators; these are secretly conveyed by Cinna, and are foond by Bmtus.
In the morning, the whole of the conspirators, headed by Cassins, repair to Bmtns, tu
orge their solicitations personally.
SCENE.—The same. Brutus's Orchard.
Enter Bktjtus.
Brtu What, Lucius! ho!—
I cannot, by the progress of the stars.
Give guess how near to day.—Lucius, I say!—
I woidd it were my fault to sleep so soundly.—
When, Lucius, when ? awake, I say: What, Lucius!
Enter Lucius.
Luc. Call'd you, my lord ?
Bru. Get me a taper in mv study, Lucius:
When it is lighted, come and call me here.
Luc. I will, my lord. \ExiL
Bru. It must be by his death: and, for my part,
I know no personal cause to spurn at him.
But for the general. He would be crowij'd:—
How that might change his nature, there's the question.
,It is the bright day, that brings forth the adder; *
And that craves wary walking. Crown him ?—^That;—
And then, I grant, we put a sting in him.
That at his will he may do danger with.
The abuse of greatness is, when it disjoins
Remorse from power; And to speak truth of C2esar,
I have not known when his affections sway'd
More than his reason. But 'tis a common proof.
That lowliness is young ambition's ladder.
Whereto the climber-upward turns his face:
But when he once attains the utmost round.
He then unto the ladder turns his back.
Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees
By which he did ascend; So Caesar may;
Then, lest he may, prevent. And, since the quarrel
Will bear no color for the thing he is.
Fashion it thus; that what he is, augnaented.
Would run to these and these extremities:
And therefore think him as a serpent's egg, _
Which, hatch'd, would, as his kind, grow mischievous;
And kill him in the shell.
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SHAKSPEARUN READER.
Re-enter Ldcids.
Luc. The taper bumeth in your closet, sir.
Searching the window for a flint, I found
This paper, thus seal'd up *, and, 1 am sure,
It did not lie there, when I went to bed.
Bru. Get you to bed again, it is not day.
Is not to-morrow, boy, the ides of March ?
- Imc. I know not, sir.
Bru. Look in the calendar, and bring me word.
Luc. I wUI, sir. [Exit,
Bru. The exhalations, whizzing in the air.
Give so much light, that I may read by them.
[OpeTis the lettc, and reads.
Brutus, thou sleep'st; awake, and see thyself.
Shall Rome, ^c. Speak, strike, redress !
Brutus, thou sleep'st; awake,
Such instigations have been often dropp'd
Where I have took them up.
Shall Rome, Thus must I piece it out;
Shall Rome stand under one man's awe ? What! Rome 1
My ancestors did from the streets of Rome
The Tarquin drive, when he was call'd a king.
Speak, strike, redress!—^Am I entreated then
To speak, and strike ? O Rome! I make thee promise.
If the redress will follow, thou receiv'st
Thy full petition at the hand of Brutus!
Re-enter Lrcius.
Luc. Sir, March is wasted fourteen days. [Enoch within
Bru. 'Tis good. Go to the gate: somebody knocks.
[Exit Lucids.
Since Cassius first did whet me against Cssar,
I have not slept.
Between the acting of a dreadful thing,
And the first motion, all the interim is
Like a phahtasma, or a hideous dream:
The genius, and the mortal instruments
Are then in council; and the state of man.
Like to a little kingdom, sufiers then
The nature of an insurrection.
Re-enter Ltjcrus.
Luc. Sir, 'tis your brother Cassius at the door.
Who doth desire to see you.
Bru. Is he alone ?
Luc. No, sir, there are more with him."
Bru. Do you know them ?
Luc. No, sir; their hats are nluck'd about their ears,
jttlius c^ab.
329
And half their faces buried in their cloaks,
That by no means I may discover them
By any mark of favor.
Bru. Let them enter. \_Exit Lucius
They are the faction! O conspiracy!
Sham'st thou to show thy daimerous brow by night,
When evils are most free ? O, then, by day.
Where wilt thou find a cavern dark enough
To mask thy monsttous visage ? Seek none, con-spiracy!
Hide it in smiles and afiability:
For if thou put thy native semblance on.
Not Erebus itself were dim enough
To hide thee from prevention.
Enter Cassius, Casca, Decius, CnwA, Metellus Cimbeb, and
Teebonius.
' Cas. I think we are too hold upon your rest:
(lood morrow, Brutus. Do we trouble you ?
Bru. I have been up this hour; awake, all night.
Enow 1 these men, that come along with you ?
Cas. Yes, every man of them; and no man here.
But honors you: and every one doth wish.
You had but that opinion of yourself
Which every noble Roman liears of you.
This is Trebonius.
Bru. He is welcome hither.
Cas. This, Decius Brutus.
Bru. He is welcome too.
Cas. This, Casca; this, Cinna;
And this, Metellus Cimber.
Bru. They are all welcome.
What watchful cares do interpose themselves
Betwixt your eyes and night ?
Give me your hands all over, one by one.
Cas. And let us swear our resolution.
Bru. No, not an oath: If not the face of men.
The sufiferance of our souls, the time's abuse,—
If these be motives weak, break off betimes.
And every man hence to his idle bed;
So let high-sighted tyranny range on,
Till each man drop by lottery. But if these.
As I am sure they do, bear fire enough
To kindle cowards, and to steel with valor
The melting spirits of women; then, countrymen,
What^ieed we any spur but our own cause.
To urge us to redress ?
Cas. But what of Cicero ? Shall we sound him ?
I think, he will stand very strong with us.
Casca. Let us not leave him out.
330
SHAKSPEARIAN READER.
Cirtk No, by no means.
Met. O let us have him; for his silver hairs
Will purchase us a good opinion,
And buy men's voices to commend our deeds.
Bru. O, name him not; let us not break with him:
For he will never foUow any thing
That other men begin.
Cas. Then leave him out.
Casca. Indeed, he is not fit. *
Deo. Shall no man else be touch'd but only C»sar ?
Cas. Decius, well urg'd:—think it is not meet,
Mark Antony, so well belov'd of Cssar,
Should outlive Caesar: We shall find of him
A shrewd contriver; and, you know his means,
If he improve them, may well stretch so far
As to armoy us all: which to prevent,
Let Antony, and Caesar, fall together.
Bru. Our course will seem too bloody, Cains Cassius,
To cut the head off, and then hack the limbs;
Like wrath in death, and envy afterwards:
For Antony is but a limb of Caesar.
Let us be sacrificers, but no butchers, Cains.
We all stand up against the spirit of Caesar ,
And hi the spirit of men there is no blood:
O, that we then could come by Caesar's spirit,
And not dismember Caesar! But, alas,
Caesar must bleed for it! And, gentle friends.
Let's kill him boldly, but not wrathfuUy;
Let's carve him as a dish fit for the gods.
Not hew him as a carcass fit for hounds:
And let our hearts, as subtle masters do.
Stir up their servants to an act of rage.
And after seem to chide them. This shall make
Our purpose necessary, and not envious:
Which so appearing to the common eyes.
We shall be caU'd purgers, not murderers.
And for Mark Antony, think not of him;
For he can do no more than Cssar's arm.
When Caesar's head is oflF.
Cas. Yet I do fear him;
For in the ingrafted love he bears to Caesar,
Bru. Alas, good Cassius, do not think of him:
If he love Caesar, aU that he can do
Is to himself; take thought* and die for Caesar:
And that were much he should; for he is given
To sports, to wildness, and much company.
Trei. "Thertf is no fear in him; let him not die;
For he will live, and laugh at this hereafter. . \^CIo(Jc strikes.
Bru. Peace, count the clock.
JULIUS CiSSAK.
331
Cas. ~ The clock hath stricken three.
Treb. 'Tis time to part.
Cas. But it is doubtful yet.
Whether Cassar will come forth to-day, or no;
For he is superstitious grown of kte;
Quite from the main opinion he held once
Of fantasy, of dreams, and ceremonies:
It may be, these apparent prodigies.
The unaccustom'd terror of this night,
And the persuasion of his auguries.
May hold him from the Capitol to-day.
Dec. Never fear that: If he be so resolv'd,
I can o'ersway him: for he loves to hear.
That unicorns may be betray'd with trees,
And bears with glasses, elephants with holes.
Lions with toils, and men with flatterers:
But, when I tell him, he hates flatterers,
He says, he does; being then most flattered.
Let me work:
For I can give his humor the true bent;
And I will bring him to the Capitol.
Cas. Nay, we will all of us be there to fetch him.
Bru. By the eighth hour: Is that the uttermost ?
Cin. Be that the uttermost, and fail not then.
Cas. The morning comes upon us: We'll leave you, Brutus.—
And, friends, disperse yourselves: but all remember
What you have said, and show yourselves true Romans.
Bru. Good gentlemen, look fresh and merrily;
Let not our looks put on our purposes:
But bear it as our Roman actors do.
With imtir'd spirits, and formal constancy:
And so, good-morrow to you every one. [Exeunt all but BRUXua
Boy! Lucius!—Fast asleep ? It is no matter;
Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber:
Thou hast no figures, nor no fantasies.
Which busy care draws in the brains of men :
Therefore thou sleep'st so sound.
Enter Portia.
Par. Brutus, my lord!
Bru. Portia, what mean you ? Wherefore rise you now 1
It is not for your health, thus to commit
Your weak condition to the raw-cold morning.
For. Nor for yours neither. You have ungently, Biutus,
Stole from my room: And yesternight, at supper.
You suddemy arose, and walked about.
Musing and sighing, with your arms across:
And vraen I ask'd you what the matter was.
You star'd unon me with ungentle looks;
832
SHAKSPEARIAN RE/^DER.
1 nrg'd you further; then you scratch'd your head,
And too impatiently stamp d with your foot *
Yet I insisted, yet you answer'd not;
But, with an angry wafture of your hand,
Gave sign for me to leave you: So I did;
Fearing to strengthen that impatience.
Which seem'd too much enkindled; and, withal.
Hoping it was but an effect of humor
Wliich sometimes hath his hour with every man.
It will not let you eat, nor talk, nor sleep;
And, could it work so much upon your shape.
As it hath much prevail'd on your condition,
I should not know you, Brutus. Dear, my lord,
Make me acquainted with your cause of grief.
Bru. I am not well in health, and that is all.
Por. Brutus is wise, and, were he not in health,
He would embrace the means to come by it.
Bru. Why, so I do: Good Portia, leave me.
Por. Is Brutus sick ? and is it physical
To walk unbraced, and suck up the humors
Of the dank morning ? What, is Brutus sick;
And will he steal out of his wholesome bed.
To dare the vile contagion of the night ?
And tempt the rheumy and unpurged air
To add unto his sickness 1 No, my Brutus;
You have some sick offence within your mind.
Which, by the right and virtue of my place,
I ought to know of: And, upon my knees,
I charm you, by my once commended beauty.
By all your vows of love, and that great vow
Yi^ich did incorporate and make us one.
That you unfold to me, yourself, your half,
Tit
Some six or seven, who did hide their faces
Even from darkness.
Bru. Kneel not, gentle Portia.
Por. I should not need, if you were gentle Brutus.
Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus,
Is it excepted, I should know no secrets
That appertain to you ? Am I yourself.
But, as it were, in sort or limitation ?
Bru. You are my true and honorable wife:
As dear to me as are the ruddy drops
That visit my sad heart.
Por. If this were true, then should I know this secrot.
I grant, I am a woman; but, withal,
A woman that lord Brutus took to wife:
^ grant, I am a woman; but, withal.
JVLIVS CiESAB.
333
A woman well reputed; Cato's daughter.
Think you, I am no stronorer than my sex,
Being so fathei'd, and so husbanded ?
Tell me your counsels, I will not disclose them:
I have made strong proof of my constancy,
Givinff myself a voluntary wound.—
Can I bear that with patience.
And not my husband's secrets 1
Bru. ~ O ye gods
Render me worthy of this noble wife!
Portia, go in a while;
And, by and by thy bosom shall partake
The secrets of my heart.
All my engagements I wiU construe to thee.
All the charactery of my sad brows:—
Leave me with haste.
ACT III.
On the day arraoged by the conspiraton, for the assassination of Cs$ar» he is persuaded
by Calphumia and the Augurers, not to go forth to the Capitol. He resists all their warn¬
ings, and departs with Antony, Brutus, &c., to keep his appointment.
SCENE I.—The Capitol; the Senate silling.
A arowd of people in the street leading to the Capitol; among them,
Aetemidorus, and the Soothsayer. Flourish. Enter CjESAR,
Beuttjs, Casstos, Casca, Dectos, Meteelus, Teebonius, Ciena,
Antony, Lepidus, Popilius, Publius, and others.
Cces. The ides of March are come.
Sooth. Ay, Casar; but not gone.
Art. Hail, Casar! Read this schedule.
Dec. Trebonius doth desire you to o'er-read.
At your best leisure this his humble suit.
Art. O, Casar, read mine first; for mine's a suit
That touches Casar nearer: Read it, great Casar.
Cter. What touches us ourself, shall be last scrv'd.
Art. Delay not, Casar; read it instantly.
C(cs. What, is the fellow mad ?
Pub. Sirrah, give place.
Cas. What, urge you your petitions in the street 1
Come to the Capitol.
C.ESAE enters the Capitol, the rest following. All the Senators rise.
Pop. I wish, your enterprise to-day may thrive.
das. What enterprise, Popilius ?
Pop. Pare you well. [^Advances to Ca^ae.
Brv. What said Popilius Lena ' ,
834
SHAKSPEARIAN READER.
Cas. He wish'd, to-day our enterprise might thrive.
I fear, our purpose is discovered.
Bru. Look, how he makes to Caesar: Mark him.
Cas. Casca, be sudden, for we fear prevention.—
Brutus, what shall be done 1 If this be known.
Cassias or Caesar never shall turn back.
For I will slay myself.
Bru. . Cassius be constant;
Popilius Lena" speaks not of our purposes;
For, look, he smiles, and Caesar doth not change.
Cas. Trebonius knows his time; for, look you.
He draws Mark Antony out of the way.
[Exeunt Antony and Trebonius. Cassae and the Senators take
their seats,
Dec. Where is Metellus Cimber ? Let him go.
And presently prefer his suit to Caesar.
Bru. He is address'd : press near, and second him.
Cin. Casca, you are the first that rears your hand.
C<es. Are we all ready ? what is now amiss.
That Caesar, and his senate, must redress ?
Met. Most high, most mighty, and most puissant Caesar,
Metellus Cimber throws before thy seat
'An humble heart:— [Kneehnff,
C<es. I must prevent thee, Cimber.
These couchings, and these lowly courtesies.
Might fire the blood of ordinary men;
And turn pre-ordinamce, and first decree.
Into the law of children. Be not fond.
To think that Caesar bears such rebel blood.
That will be thaw'd from the true quality
With that which melteth fools; I mean sweet words.
Low crooked curt'sies, and base spaniel fawning.
Thy brother by decree is banished;
If thou dost bend, and pray, and fawn, for him,
I spurn thee like a cur out of my way.
Know, Caesar doth not wrong: nor without cause
Will he be satisfied.
Met. Is there no voice more worthy than my own.
To sound more sweetly in great Caesar's ear.
For the repealing of my banish'd brother ?
Bru. I kiss thy hand, but not in flattery, Caesar;
Desiring thee, that Publius Cimber may
Have an immediate freedom of repeal.
Cccs. What, Brutus!
Cas. Pardon, Caesar: Cysar, pardon;
As low as to thy foot doth Cassius fall.
To beg enfranchisement for Publius Cimber.
• C(ES. I could be well mov'd, if I were as you,
.f I could pray to move, prayers would move me:
TVUUS CiBSAR.
335
Bat I am constant as the northern star,
Of whose true-nx'd, and resting quality,
There is no fellow in the firmament.
The skies are painted with unnumber'd sparks,
They are all fire, and every one doth shine;
But there's but one in all doth hold his place:
So, in the world; 'Tis fumish'd well with men.
And men are flesh and blood, and apprehensive;
Yet, in the number, I do know but one
That unassailable holds on his rank,
Unshak'd of motion: and, that I am he.
Let me a little show it, even in this;
That I was constant, Cimber should be banish'd.
And constant do remain to keep him so.
Cin. O Caesar.
Qbs. Hence! Wilt thou lift up Olympus ?
Dec. Great Caesar,
Cais. Doth not Brutus bootless kneel ?
Casca. Speak, hands, for me.
[Casca stabs Caesar in the neck. C.esar catches hold of his
arm. He is then stabbed by several other Conspirators,
and at last by Marcus Brutus.
C<cs. Et tu Brute ?—Then fall, Caesar.
[Dies. The senators and people retire in confusion.
Cin. Liberty! Freedom! Tyranny is dead!—
Run hence, proclaim, cry it about the streets.
Cas. Some to the common pulpits, and cry out.
Liberty, freedom, and enfranchisement!
Em. People, and senators! be not aflrighted;
Fly not; stand still:—ambition's debt is paid.
Casca. Go to the pulpit, Brutus.
Dec. And Cassius too
Bru. Where's Publius?
Cin. Here, quite confounded with this mutiny.
Met. Stand rast together, lest some fiiend of Caesar':;
Should chance
Bru. Talk not of standing;—^Publius, good cheer;
There is no harm intended to your person.
Nor to no Roman else: so tell them, Publius.
Cas. And leave us, Publius; lest that the people.
Rushing on us, should do your age some mischief.
Bru. Do so;—and let no man abide this deed.
But we the doers.
Re-enter Trebonius.
Cos. Where is Antony ?
!ZVe. Fled to his house amaz'd:
Men, wives, and children, stare, cry out, and run.
As it were doomsday.
896
SHAESFEASIAN READER.
Bru. Fates! we will know your pleasures
That we shall die, we know; 'tis but the time,
And drawing days out, that men stand upon.
Cos. Why, he that cuts off twenty years of life.
Cuts off so many years of fearing death.
Bru. Grant that, and then is death a benefit:
So are we Cssar's friends, that have abridg'd
His time of fearing death.—Stoop, Romans, stoop.
And let us bathe our hands in Cesar's blood
Up to the elbows, and besmear our swords:
Then walk we forth, even to the market-place;
And, waving our red weapons o'er our heads,
J^t's all cry. Peace! Freedom! and Liberty!
Cas. Stoop then, and wash.—^How many ages hence,
Shall this our lofty scene be acted over.
In states unborn, wd accents yet unknown 1
Bru. How many times shall Caesar bleed in sport,
That now on Pompey's basis lies along,
No worthier than me dust ?
Cas. So oft as that shall be.
So often shall the knot of us be call'd
The men that gave our country liberty.
Dec. What, shall we forth ?
Cas. Ay, every man away;
Brutus shall lead; and we will grace his heels'
With the most boldest and best Hearts of Rome.
Enter a Servant.
Bru. Soft, who comes here ? A friend of Antony's.
Serv. Thus, Brutus, did my master bid me kneel;
Thus did Mark Antony bid me fall down:
And, being prostrate, thus he bade me say.
Brutus is noble, wise, valiant, and honest:
Cssar was mighty, bold, roral, and loving:
Say, I loved Brutus, and I honor him:
Say, I fear'd Cssar, honor'd him, and lov'd him.
If Brutus will vouchsafe, that Antony
May safely come to him, and be resolv'd
How Cssar hath deserv'd to lie in death,
Mark Antony shall not love Cmsar dead
So well as Brutus living; but will follow
The fortunes and affairs of noble Brutus,
Thorough the hazards of this untrod state.
With all true faith. So says my master Antony.
Bru. Thy master is a wise and valiant Roman;
I never thought him worse.
Tell him, so please Wm come unto this place.
He shall be satisfied; and, by my honor,
Depart untouch'd.
JVLHTS CJSSAR.
387
Serv. ril fetch him presently. lExit Servant
Bru. I know that we shall have him well to friend.
Cas. I wish, We may: but yet have I a mind,
That fears him much; and my misgiving still
Falls shrewdly to the purpose.
Re-erUer Antony.
Bru. But here comes Antony.—^Welcome, Mark Antony.
ArU. O mighty Csesar! dost thou lie so low t
Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils.
Shrunk to this little measure 1—^Fare thee well.—
I know not, gentlemen, what you intend.
Who else must be let blood, who else is rank
If I myself, there is no hour so fit
As Caesar's death's hour; nor no instrument
Of half that worth, as those your swords, made rich
With the most noble blood of all this world.
I do beseech ye, if yoa bear me hard.
Now, whilst your purpled hands do reek and smoke.
Fulfil your pleasure. Live a thousand years,
I shall not find myself so apt to die:
No place will please me so, no mean of death.
As here by Caesar, and by you cut ofij
The choice and master spirits of this age.
Bru. O Antony ! beg not your death of us.
Though now we must appear bloody and cruel,
As, by our hands, and this our present act.
You see we do; yet see you but our hands.
And this the bleeding business they have done:
Our hearts you see not, they are pitiful;
And pity to the general wrong of Rome
(As fire drives out fire, so pity, pity,)
Hath done this deed on Caesar. IVer your part.
To you our swords have leaden points, Mark Antony
Our arms, in strength of malice, and our hearts.
Of brothers' temper, do receive you in
With all kind love, good thoughts, and reverence.
Cas. Your voice shadl be as strong as any man'^
In the disposing of new dignities.
Bru. Only be patient, tffl we have appeas'd
The multitude, beside themselves with fear.
And then we will deliver you the cause.
Why I, that did love Caesar when I struck him.
Have thus proceeded.
Ant. I doubt not of your wisdom,
Let each man render me his bloody hand;
First, Marcus Brutus, will I shake with you:
Next, Caius Cassius, do I take your hand ;
Now, Decius Brutus, yours;—now yours Metellus •,
338
SHAKSP£ARIA1« READER.
Yours, Cirma;—and, my valiant Casca, yours;—
Though last, not least in love, yours, goM Treborfus.
Gentlemen dl,—alas! what shall I say ?
My credit now stands on such slippery ground.
That one of two bad ways you must conceit me.
Either a coward or a flatterer.—
That I did love thee, Caesar, O, 'tis true;
If then thy spirit look upon us now.
Shall it not grieve thee, dearer than thy death,
To see thy Antony making his peace.
Shaking the bloody fingers of thy foes.
Most noble! in the presence of thy corse ?
Had I as many eyes as thou hast wounds.
Weeping as fast as they streaun forth thy blood.
It would become me better, than to close
In terms of friendship with thine enemies.
Pardon me, Julius !—
Cas. Mark Antony,
Ant. Pardon me. Gains Cassius:
Friends am I with you all, and love you all;
Upon this hope, that you shall give me reasons.
Why, and wherein Caesar was dangerous.
Bru. Or else were this a savage spectacle:
Our reasons are so full of good regard.
That were you, Antony, the son of Caesar,
You should be satisfied.
Ara. That's all I seek:
And am moreover suitor, that I may
Produce his body to the market-place;
And in the pulpit, as becomes a friend.
Speak in the order of his funeral.
Bru. You shall, Mark Antony.
Cas. Brutus, a word wr.h you,—
You know not what you do; Do not consent, [Aside
That Antony speak in his funeral:
Know you how much the people may be mov'd
By that which he will utter ?
Bru. By your pardon;—
I will myself into the pulpit first.
And show the reason of our Caesar's death :
What Antony shall speak, I will protest.
He speaks by leave and by permission;
And that we are contented, Caesar shall
Have all true rites, and lawful ceremonies.
It shall advantage more, than do us wrong.
Cas. I know not what may fall; I like it not.
Bru. Mark Antony, here, take your Caesar's body.
You shall not in your funeral speech blame us,
But speak all good you can devise of Caesar;
julius ciesar.
339
And say, you do't by our permission;
Else shall you not have any hand at all
About his funeral: And you shall speak
In the same pulpit whereto I am going,
After my speech is ended.
Ant. Be it so;
I do desire no more.
, Bru. Prepare the body then, and follow us.
[^Exeunt aU but Antosv
Ant. O, pardon me, thou piece of bleeding earth, .
That I am meek and gentle with these butchers!
Thou art the ruins of the noblest man.
That ever lived in the tide of times.
Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood!
Over thy wounds now do I prophesy,—
Which, like dumb mouths, do ope their ruby lips,
To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue;—
A curse shall light upon the limbs of men;
Domestic fury, and fierce civil strife.
Shad cumber £ill the parts of Italy:
Blood and destruction shall be so in use.
And dreadful objects so familiar.
That mothers shall but smile, when they behold
Their infants quarter'd with the hands of war;
All pity chok'd with custom of fell deeds:
And Csesar's spirit, ranging for revenge.
With Atfe by his side, come hot from hell.
Shall in these confines, with a monarch's voice.
Cry Havoc, and let slip the dogs of war.
Enter a Servant.
You serve Octavius Caesar, do you not ?
Serv. I do, Mark Antony.
Ani. Caesar did write for him, to come to Rome.
Serv. He did receive his letters, and is coming:
And bid me say to you by word of mouth,—
O Caesar! tke lcd$
Ant. Thy heart is big, get thee apart and weep.
Passion, I see is catching; for mine eyes,
Seeing those beads of sorrow stand in thine.
Began to water. Is thy master comin? ?
Serv. He lies to-night within seven leagues of Rome.
Ant. Post back with speed, and tell him what hath chanc'd:
Here is a mourning Rome, a dangerous Rome,
No Rome of safety for Octavius yet;
Hie hence, and tell him so. Yet, stay a while;
Thou shalt not back, till I have borne this corse _
Into the market-place; there shall I try.
In my oration, how the people take —
840
SHAKSFEABUH EEASEK.
The cruel issue of these bloody men;
According to the which, thou shalt discourse
To young Octavius of the state of things.
Lend me your hand. \Exeuvl vAlTi C.fiSAE's iody
SCENE U.—The same. The Forum.
Enter Brtjtus and Cassius, and a throng of Citizens.
Cit. We will be satisfied; let us be satisfied.
Bru. Then follow me, and give me audience, friends.—
Cassius, go you into the other street,
And part the numbers.;—
Those that will hear me speak, let them stay here;
Those that will follow Cassius, go with him;
And public reasons shall be rendered
Of Cffisar's death.
1st Cit. I will hear Brutus speak.
27uf Cit. I will hear Cassius; and compare their reasons.
When severally we hear them rendered.
[Exit Cassius, with some of the Citizens. Brutus goes
into the Rostrum.
3rd Cit. The noble Brutus is ascended: Silence!
Bru. Be patient till the last.
Romans, countrymen, and lovers! hear me for my cause; and be
silent, that you may hear: believe me for mine honor; and have
respect to mine honor, that you may believe: censure me in your
wisdom; and awake your senses, that you may the better judge. If
there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of Cmsar's, to him I
say, that Brutus' love to Caesar was no less than his. If then that
friend demand, why Brutus rose against Caesar, this is my answer,—
Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more. Had you
rather Caesar were living, and die all slaves; than that Caesar were
dead, to live all free men ? As Caesar loved me, I weep for him; as
he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honor him:
but, as he was ambitious, I slew him; There are tears, for his love;
joy, for his fortune; honor, for his valor; and death, for his ambition.
Who is here so base, that would he a bondman ? If any, speak; for
him have I ofiended. Who is here so rude, that would not be a
Roman ? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so
vile, that will not love his country ? If any, speak; for him have I
offended. I pause for a reply.
Cit. None, Brutus, none. [Several speaking at once.
Bru. Then none have I offended. I have done no more to Csesar,
than you should do to Brutus. The question of his death is enrolled
in the Capitol; his gloiy not extenuated, wherein he was worthy;
nor his offences enforced, for which he suffered death.
Enter Ahtont and others, with Cjesar's iody.
Here comes his body, moum'd by Mark Antony; who, though he
had no hand in his death, shall receive the benefit of his dying, a
JULIUS CJBSAR.
341
flace in the conunonwealth; As which of you shall not ? With Uiis
depart; That, as I slew my best lover for the good of Rome, I have
the same dagger for myself, when it shall please my country to need
my death.
Cil. Live, Brutus, live! live!
Ist Cit. Bring him with triumph home onto his house.
2nd CU. Give him a statue with his ancestors.
3rd Cit. Let him be Cmsar.
4th Cit. Cmsar's better parts
Shall now be crown'd in Brutus.
\st Cit. We'll bring him to his house with shouts and clamors.
Bru. My countrymen,
2nd Cit. Peace; silence! Brutus speaks.
1st Cit. Peace, ho!
Bru. Good countrymen, let me depart alone.
And, for my sake, stay here with Antony:
Do grace to Caesar's corpse, and grace his speech
Tending to Caesar's glories; which Mark Antony,
By our permission, is allow'd to make.
' I do entreat you, not a man depart.
Save I alone, till Antony have spoke. [Exit.
Isl Cit. Stay, ho! amd let us hear Mark Antony.
3rd Cit. Let him go up into the public chair;
We'll hear him : Noble Antony, go up.
Ant. For Brutus' sake, I am beholden to you.
4th Cit. What does he say of Brutus ?
3rd Cit. He says, for Brutus' sake.
He finds himself beholden to us all.
4th Cit, 'Twere best he speak no harm of Brutus here.
Isl Cit. Tlis Cssar was a t3rrant.
3rd Cit. Nay, that's certain:
We are bless'd, that Rome is rid of him.
2nd Cit. Peace; let us hear what Antony can say.
Ant. You gentle Romans,
Cit. Peace, ho! let us hear him.
Ant. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury Cxsar, 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 am honorable man;
So are they all, all honorable men ;)
Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me:
But Brutus says, he was ambitious;
342
SHAESPEARIAM EEASEB.
And Brutus is an honorable 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 honorable man.
You all did see, that on the Lupercal,
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition 1
Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious;
And, sure, he is an honorable man.
[ 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 ?
0 judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason!—Bear with me;
My heart is in the coffin there with Csesar,
And I must pause till it come back to me.
1st Ci(. Methinks, there is much reason in his sayings.
2nd Cit. If thou consider rightly of the matter,
Caesar has had great wrong.
Zrd Cit. Has he, masters ?
1 fear, there will a worse come in his place.
4ih CiU Mark'd ye his words ? He would not take the croivn;
Therefore, 'tis certain, he was not ambitious.
1st Cit. If it be found so, some will dear abide it.
2nd Cit. Poor soul! his eyes are red as fire with weeping.
Srd Cit. There's not a nobler man in Rome, than Antony.
4th Cit. Now mark him, he begins again to speak.
Ant. But yesterday, the word of Caesar might
Have stood aigainst the world: now lies he there,
And none so poor to do him reverence.
0 masters! if I were dispos'd to stir
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,
1 should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong,
Who, you all know, are honorable men:
I will not do them wrong; I rather choose
To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and you,
Than I will wrong such honorable men.
But here's a parchment, with the seal of Caesar,
I found it in his closet, 'tis his will:
Let but the commons hear this testament,
(Which pardon me I do not mean to read,)
And they would go and kiss dead Caesar's wounds.
And dip their napkins in his sacred blood;
Yea, beg a hair of him for memory.
J17LIUS CiESAK.
348
And, dying, mention it within their wills.
Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy.
Unto their issue.
4th Cit. We'll hear the will: Read it, Mark Antony.
Cit. The will, the will; we will hear Casar's will.
Anl. Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it;
It is not meet you know how Casar lov'd yon.
You are not wood, you are not stones, but men;
And, being men, hearing the will of Casar,
It will inflame you, it will make you mad:
"Tis good you know not that you are his heirs;
For if you should, O, what would come of it!
4dh Cit. Read the will; we will hear it, Antony;
You shall read us the will; Casar's will.
Ant. Will you be patient ? Will you stay a while 1
I have o'ershot myself, to tell you of it.
I fear I wrong the honorable men.
Whose daggers have stabb'd Casar: I do fear it.
Atk Cit. They were traitors: Honorable men!
Cit. The will! the testament!
2nd Cit. They were vfllains, murderers; The will, read the will I
Ant. You will compel me then to read the will ?
Then make a ring about the corpse of Casar,
And let me show you him that made the will.
Shall I descend ? And will you give me leave ?
Cit. Come down.
2nd Cit. Descend. [He comes down from the jndpiL
Zrd Cit. You shall have leave.
4th Cit. A ring; stand round.
ls< Cit. Stand from the hearse, stand from the body.
2nd Cit. Room for Antony;—^most noble Antony.
Ant. Nay, press not so upon me; stand far oflf.
Cit. Stand back! room! bear back!
Ant. If you have tears, prepare to shed them now
You all do know this mantle: I remember
The first time ever Casar put it on;
'Twas on a sununer's evening, in his tent;
That day he overcame the Nervii:—
Look! in this place, ran Cassius' dagger through
See, what a rent the envious Casca mide:
Through this, the well-beloved Brutus stabb'd;
And, as he pluck'd his cursed steel away,
Mark how toe blood of Casar foUow'd it;
As rushing out of doors, to be resolv'd
If Brutus so unkindly knock'd, or no;
For Brutus, as you know, was Casar's angel :
Judge, O you gods, how dearly Casar lov'd him!
Tliis was the most unkindest cut of all:
For when the noble Casar saw him stab.
844
SHAKSPEARIAN HEADER.
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,
Q,uite vanqiiish'd him: then burst his mighty heart;
And, in his mantle mufQing up his face,
Even at the base of Pompey's statue.
Which all the while ran Mood, great C»sar fell.
O, what a fall was there my countrymen!
Then I, and you, and all of us fell down.
Whilst bloody treason flourish'd over us.
O, now you weep; and, I perceive, you feel
The dint of pity: these are gracious drops.
Kind souls, what weep you, when you but behold
Our Caesar's vesture wounded ? Look you here.
Here is himself, marr'd, as you see, with traitors.
ls< Cit. O piteous spectacle! *
2nd Cit. O noble Caesar !
3rd Cit. O woful day !
4tk Cit. O traitors, villains !
ls< Cit. O most bloody sightr!
2nd Cit. We will be revenged: revenge; about,—seek,—^bum
fire,—kill,—slay!—let not a traitor live.
Ant. Stay, countrymen.
Isr Cit. Peace there:—^Hear the noble Antony.
2nd Cit. We'll hear him, we'll follow him, we'll die witl him.
Ant. Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up
To such a sudden flood of mutiny.
They, that have done this deed, are honorable :
What private griefs they have, alas, I know not,
That made them do't; they are wise and honorable,
And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you.
I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts;
I am no orator, as Brutus is ;
But as you know me all, a plain blunt man.
That love my friend, and that they know full well
That gave me public leave to speak of him.
For I have neiflier wit, nor words, nor worth.
Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech,
To stir men's blood; I only speak right on;
I tell you that which you yourselves dp know;
Show you sweet Cssar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths^
And bid them speak for me: But were I Brutus
And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony
Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue
In every wound of Caesar, that should move
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.
Cit. We'll mutiny.
Is,' Cit. We'll burn the house of Brutus.
3rd Cit. Away then, come, seek the conspirators.
AnL Yet hear me, countrymen; yet hear me speak.
Cit. Peace, ho! Hear .^tony, most noble Antony.
JULIUS C^SAB.
345
Ant. Why, friends, you go to do yon know not what:
Wherein hath Caesar thus deserv'd your loves!
Alas, you know not—1 must tell you then:— ■
You have forgot the will I told you of.
Cit. Most true; the will:—diet's stay and hear the will.
Ant. Here is the will, and under Caesar's seal.
To every Roman citizen he gives.
To every several man, seventy-five drachmas.
2ni Cit. Most noble Caesar!—we'll revenge his death.
Zrd Cit. O royal Caesar!
Ant. Hear me with patience.
Cit. Peace, ho!
Ant. Moreover, he hath left you all his walks,
His private arbors, and new-planted orchards,
On this side Tiber; he hath left them you,
And to your heirs for ever ; common pleasures.
To walk abroad, and recreate yourselves.
Here was a Caesar: When comes such another 1
Isl Cit. Never, never: Come, away, away;
We'll burn his body in the holy place.
And with the brands fire the traitors' houses.
Take up the body. [Exeunt Citizens with (he body.
Ant. Now let it work; Mischief; thou art afoot.
Take thou what course liou wilt!—How now, fellow t
Enter a Servant.
Serv. Sir, Octavius is already come to Rome.
Ant. Where is he ?
Serv. He and Lepidus are at Caesar's house.
Ant. And thither will I straight to visit him:
He comes upon a wish. Fortune is merry,
And in this mood will g^ve us any thing.
Serv. I heard him say, Brutus and Cassius
Are rid like madmen through the gates of Rome.
Ant. Belike, they had some notice of the people,
How I had moved them. Bring me to Octavius. [Exeunt,
ACT IV.
Antony, Octavins, and Lepidus, assume the government of Rome. They are opposed
by Bratns and Cassias, who levy powers to make war on the trinmvirate.
SCENE.—Before Brutus' Tent, in the Camp near Sardis.
Drum.—Enter Brutus, Lucilius, Lucius, and Soldiers: Titihius
ajwi^PiNDARUS meeting them.
~ Bru. Stand here.
hue. Give the word, ho! and stand.
846
shaksfearian beasbr.
Bru. What now, Lncilius ? is Cassius near 1
hue. He is at hand; and Pindarus is come
To do you salutation from his master.
[PDroARTTS^ves a letter to BRums.
Bru. He greets me well.—Your master, Pindarus,
In his own (mange, or by ill oflScers,
Hath given me some worthy cause to wish
Things done, undone: but, if he be at hand,
I shml be satisfied.
Pin. I do not doubt.
But that my noble master wiU appear
Such as he is, full of regard, and honor.
Bru. He is not doubted.—word, Lucilius ;
How he receiv'd you, let me be resolv'd.
Luc. With courtesy, and with respect enough;
But not with such familiar instances.
Nor with such free and friendly conference.
As he hath used of old.
Bru. Thou hast describ'd
A hot friend cooling: Ever note, Lucilius,
When love begins to sicken and decay.
It useth an enforced ceremony.
There are no tricks in plain and simple futh:
But hollow men, like horses hot at hand.
Make gallant show and promise of their mettle;
But when they should endure the bloody spur.
They fall their crests, and, like deceitful jades.
Sink in the trial. Comes his army on ?
Luc. They mean this night in Sardis to be quarter'd;
The greater part, the horse in general.
Are come with Cassius. [March wiihtn
Bru. Hark, he is arriv'd :—
March gently on to meet him.
Enter Cassius, and Soldiers:
Cas. Stand, ho!
Bru. Stand, ho! Speak the word along.
Within. Stand.
Within. Stand.
Within. Stand.
Cas. Most noble brother, you have done me wrong.
Bru. Judge me, you gods ! Wrong I mine enemies 1
And, if not so, how should I wrong a brother ?
Cas. Brutus, this sober form of yours hides wrongs;
And when you do them
Bru. Cassius, be content,
Bpeak your griefs softly,—^I do know you well:—
Before the eyes of both our armies here.
Which should perceive nothing but love from us.
julius CJESAS..
m
Let us not wrangle: Bid them move away,
Then in my tent, Cassius, enlarge your griefsi
And I will give you audience.
Cas. Pindarus,
Bid our commanders lead their charges off
A little from this ground.
Bru. Lucilius, do you the like; and let no man
Come to our tent, till we have done our conference.
Let Lucius and Titinius guard our door. [Exeunt,
SCENE in.—Within the Tent of Brutus.
Lucius and Titinius at some distance from it.
Enter Beutus and Cassius.
Cos. That you have wrong'd me doth appear in this:
You have condemn'd and noted Lucius Fella,
For taking bribes here of the Sardians;
Wherein, my letters, praying on his side.
Because I knew the man, were slighted oflf.
Bru. You wrong'd yourself, to write in such a case.
Cas. In such a time as this, it is not meet.
That every nice offence should bear his comment.
Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself
Are much condemn'd to have an itching palm;
To sell and mart your offices for gold.
To undeservers.
Cas. I an itching palm 7
You know, that you are Brutus that speak this.
Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last.
Bru. The name of Cassius honors tms corruption.
And chastisement doth therefore hide his head.
Cas. Chastisement!
Bru. Remember March, the ides of March remember.
Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake ?
What villain touch'd his body, that did stab.
And not for justice 7 What, shall one of us.
That struck the foremost man of all this world.
But for supporting robbers; shall we now
Contaminate our fingers with base bribes 7
And sell the mighty space of our large honors.
For so much trash, as may be grasped thus ?—
I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon.
Than such a Roman.
Cas. Brutus, bay not me,
m not endure it: you forget yourself.
To hedge me in; I am a soldier, I,
Older in practice, abler than yourself
To make conditions.
S48
SHAESPEARtAN READER.
Bru. Go to; you're not, Cassiua.
Cos. I am.
Bru. I say, you are not.
Cas. Urge me no more, I shall forget myself;
Have mind upon your health, tempt me no further.
Bru. Away, slight man!
Cas. Is't possible ?
Bru. Hear me, for I will speak.
Must I give way and room to your rash choler ?
Shall I be frighted, when a madman stares ?
Cas. O gods! ye gods! must I endure all this 1
Bru. All this ? ay, and more: Fret till your proud heart break,
Go, show your slaves how choleric you are.
And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge 7
Must I observe you 7 Must I stand and crouch
Under your testy humor 7 By the gods.
You slrall digest the venom of your spleen.
Though it do split you; for, from this day forth,
I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter.
When you are waspish.
Cas. Is it come to this 7
Bru. You say, you are a better soldier:
Let it appear so; make your vaunting true.
And it shall please me well: For mine own part,
I shall be glad to leam of noble men.
Cas. You wrong me every way; you wrong me, Brutus ;
I said, an elder soldier, not a better:
Did I say, better 7
Bru. If you did, I care not
Cas. When Caesar liv'd, he durst not thus have moved b».
Bru. Peace, peace; you durst not so have tempted him
Cas. I durst not 7
Bru. No.
Cas. What 7 durst not tempt him 7
Bru. For your life, you durst not
Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love,
I may do that I shall be sorry for.
Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for.
There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats;
For I am arm'd so strong in honesty.
That they pass by me as the idle wind,
Which I respect not. I did send to you
For certain sums of gold, which you deny'd me•
For I can raise no money by vile means:
By heaven, I had rather coin my heart.
And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring
From the hard hands of peasants their vile tra^
By any indirection. I did send
To you for gold to pay my legions.
rouos C^SAR.
349
Which you denied me: Was that done like Caseins T
Should I have answer'd Cains Cassius so ?
When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous,
To lock such rascal counters from his friends,
Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts,
Dash him to pieces!
Cas. I denied you not.
Bru. You did.
Cos. I did not:—^he was but a fool.
That brought my answer back.—^Brutus hath riv'd my heart;
A friend should bear his friend's infirmities;
But Brutus makes mine greater than they are.
Bru. I do not, till you practise them on me.
Cas. You love me not.
Bru. I do not like your faults.
Cos. A friendly eye could never see such faults.
Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they do appear
\s huge as high Olympus.
Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come,
Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius,
For Cassius is aweary of the world:
Hated by one he loves; brav'd by his brother;
Check'd like a bondman; all his faults observ'd.
Set in a note-book, leam'd and conn'd by rote.
To cast into my teeth. O, I could weep
My spirit from mine eyes!—There is my dagger.
And here my naked breast; within, a heart
Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold:
If that thou be'st a Roman, take it form;
I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart:
Strike, as thou didst at C»sar; for, I know.
When thou didst hate him worst, ^ou lov'dst him better
Than ever thou lov'dst Cassius.
Bru. Sheathe your dagger:
Be angry when you will, it shall have scope;
Do w&t you will, dishonor shall be humor.
O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb
That carries anger, as the flint bears fire;
Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark,
And straight is cold again.
Cas. Hath Cassius liv'd
To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus,
When grief, and blood ill-temper'd vexeth Mm ?
Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-temper'd too.
Cas. Do vou confess so much ? Give me your hand.
Bru. An3 my heart too.
Cas. O Brutus!—
Bru. What's the matter ?
Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me.
350
shaksfeariaw reader.
When that rash humor, which my mother gave me,
Makes me forgetful ?
Bru. Yes, Cassius; and, henceforth,
When you are over^.earnest with your Brutus,
He'll tmnk your motlier chides, and leave you so.
Cas. I did not think, you could have been so angry.
Bru. O Cassius, I am sick of many griefs.
Cas. Of your philosophy you make no use.
If you give place to accidental evils,
Bru. No man bears sorrow better:—Portia is dead.
Cas. Ha ! Portia!
Bru. She is dead.
Cas. How scap'd I killing, when I cross'd you so T
0 insupportable and touching loss!—
Upon what sickness ?
Bru. Impatient of my absence;
And grief, that young Octavius with Mark Antony
Have made themselves so strong;—for with her death
That tidings came;—With this she fell distract.
And, her attendants absent, swallow'd fire.
Cas. And died so ?
Bru. Even so.
Cas. O ye immortal gods !
Enter Lucius, loith wine and tapers.
Bru. Speak no more of her. Give me a bowl of wine.
In this I bury all unkindness, Cassius. [^Driiiks.
Cas. My heart is thirsty for that noble pledge:—■
Fill, Lucius, till tlie wine o'erswell the cup;
1 cannot drink to<> much of Brutus' love. [ZJnnis,
Re-enler Titinius, wiih Messala.
Bru. Come in, Titinius: Welcome, good Messala.
Now sit we close about this taper here.
And call in question our necessities.
Cas. Portia, art thou gone ?
Bru. No more, I pray you.—
Messala, I have here received letters.
That young Octavius, and Mark Antony,
Come down upon us with a mighty power.
Bending their expedition toward Philippi.
Mes. Myself have letters of the self-same tenor.
Bru. With what addition ?
Mes. That by proscription, and bills of outlawry,
Octavius, Antony, and Lepidus,
Have put to death an hundred senators.
Bru. Therein our letters do not well agree;
Mine speak of seventy senators that died.
By their proscriptions, Cicero being one.
JVLIUS C^SAR.
351
Cas. Cicero one ?
Mes. Ay, Cicero is dead,
And by that order of proscription
Had you your letters from your wife, my lord ?
Bru. No, Messala.
Mes, Nor nothing in your letters writ of her 1
Bru. Nothing, Messala.
Mes. That, methinks, is strange.
Bru. Why ask you ? Hear you aught of her in yours ?
Mes. No, my lord.
Bru. Now, as you are a Roman, tell me tnie.
Mes. Then like a Roman hear the truth I tell:
For certain she is dead, and hy strange manner.
Bru. Why, farewell, Portia.—We must die, Messala:
With meditating that she must die once,
I have the patience to endure it now.
Mes. Even so great men great losses should endure.
Cas. I have as much of this in art as you.
Bo" ' ' " '' r it so.
"Rs better, that the enemy seek us:
So shall he waste his means, weary his soldiers.
Doing himself offence; whilst we, lying still.
Are full of rest, defence, and nimhleness.
Bru. Good reasons must, of force, give place to better.
The people, 'twixt Philippi and this grouna.
Do stand hut in a forc'd affection;
For they have grudg'd us contribution;
The enemy, marching along hy them.
By them shall make a fuller number up.
Come on refresh'd, new-added, and encour^ed;
From which advantage shall we cut him off
If at Philippi we do face him there.
These people at our hack.
Cos. ' Hear me, good brother.
Bru. Under your pardon.—^You must note beside,
That we have tried the utmost of our friends.
Our legions are brim-full, our cause is ripe:
The enemy increaseth every day.
We, at the height, are ready to decline.
There is a tide in the affairs of men.
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune:
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows, and in miseries.
On such a full sea are we now afloat,
What do you think
Of marching to Philippi presently ?
Cas. I do not think it good.
Bru. Yo
Cas.
Your reason.
This it is'
862
shaksfeaeian beadeb.
And we must take the current when it serves,
Or lose our ventures.
Cos. Then, with your will, go on S
We'll along ourselves, and meet them at Philippi.
Bru. The deep of night is crept upon our tsuk.
And nature must obey necessity;
Which we will niggard with a little rest.
There is no more to say ?
Cas. No more. Good night;
Early to-morrow will we rise, and hence.
Bru. Lucius, my gown.—[Exit Lucius.]—^Farewell, good Mes>
sala;—
Good night, Titinius.—Noble, noble Cassius,
Good night, and good repose.
Cas. O my dear brother!
This was an ill beginning of the night:
Never come such division 'tween our souls!
Let it not, Brutus.
Bni. Every thing is well.
Cas. Good night, my lord.
Bru. Good night, good brother.
Tit. Mes. Good night, lord Brutus.
Bru. Farewell, every one.
[Exeunt Cassius, Titinius, and Messaia.
Re-enter Lucius, toith the goum.
Give me the gown. Where is thy instrument ?
Luc. Here in the tent.
Bru. What, thou speak'st drowsily ?
Poor knave, I hlame thee not; thou art o'er-watch'd.
Call Claudius, and some other of my men;
I'll have them sleep on cushions in my tent.
Lvc. Varro, and Claudius !
Enter Vaero, and Claudius.
Var. Calls my lord ?
Bru. I pray you, sirs, lie in my tent, and sleep;
It may be, I shall raise you by and by
On business to my brother Cassius.
Var. So please you, we will stand, and watch your pleasure.
Bru. I will not have it so: lie down, good sirs;
It may be, I shall otherwise bethink me.
Look, Lucius, here's the book I sought for so;
I put it in the pocket of my gown. [Servants lie down.
Jjuc. I was sure, your lordship did not give it me.
Bru. Bear with me, good boy, I am much forgetful.
Canst thou hold up thy heavy eyes awhile.
And touch thy instrument a strain or two ?
Luc. Ay, my lord, an it please you.
• JTLIXTS CiSAH.
358
Bru. It does, my boy:
I troable tliee too much, but thou art willing.
Luc. It is my duty, sir.
Bru. I should not urge thy duty past thy might;
I know, young bloods look for a time of rest.
Luc. I have slept, my lord, already.
Bru. It is well done; and thou shalt sleep again;
I will not hold thee long: if I do live,
I will be good to thee. {Music, and a song
This is a sleepy tune:—O murd'rous slumber!
Lay'st thou thy leaden mace upon my boy.
That plays thee music ?—Gentle knave, good night;
I will not do thee so much wrong to wake thee.
If thou dost nod, thou break'st thy instrument;
I'll take it from thee: and, good toy, good night.
Let me see, let me see:—^Is not the leaf turird down.
Where I left reading ? Here it is, I think. {He sits down.
Enter the Ghost of Cjesar.
How ill this taper bums!—Ha! who comes here ?
I think, it is the weakness of mine eyes.
That shapes this monstrous apparition.
It comes upon me:—Art thou any thing ?
Art thou some god, some angel, or some devil.
That mak'st my blood cold, and my hair to stare ?
Speak to me, what thou art.
Ghost. Thy evU spirit, Brutus.
Bru. Why com'st thou 1
Ghost. To tell thee, thou shalt see me at Philippi.
Bru. Well;
Then I shall see thee again ?
Ghost. Ay, at Philippi. [Ghost vanishes,
Bru. Why, I shall see thee at Philippi then.—
Now I have taken heart, thou vanishest:
III spirit, I would hold more talk with thee.—
Boy! Lucius I-rVarro! Claudius ! Sirs, awake!
Claudius!
Luc. The strings, my lord, are false.
Bru. He thinks, he still is at his instrument.—
Lucius, awake.
Luc. My lord!
Bru. Didst thou dream, Lucius, that thou so cry'dst out t
Luc. My lord, I do not know that I did cry.
Bru. Yes, that thou didst: Didst thou see any thing 7
Luc. Nothing, my lord.
Bru. Sleep again, Lucius.—Sirrah, Claudius!
Fellow thou! awake.
Var. My lord.
Clau. My lord.
354
SHAESPEA.BIAN READER.
Bru. Why did you so cry out, sirs, in your sle^ ?
Var. Clau. Did we, my lord ?
Bru. Ay, saw you any tlung ?
Var. No, my lord, I saw nothing.
Clan. Nor I, my lord.
Bru. Go, and commend me to my brother Cassius;
Bid him set on his powers betimes before.
And we will follow.
Var. Clau. It shall be done, my lord. [Exeunt.
ACT V.
The fifth Act is occnpied with the battle of Phillppi, the defeat and death of Bnitai
and Cassias. They perish by their own hands. The Drama en& wiUi the following
enlogiom on Brotos, by Antony and Octavins.
Ant. This was the noblest Roman of them all:
All the conspirators, save only he.
Did that they did in envy of great Caesar;
He, only, in a general honest thought.
And common good to all, made one of them.
His life was gentle; and the elements •
So mix'd in him, that Nature might stand up,
And say to all the worldj This was a man !
Oct. According to his virtue let us use him,
With all respect, and rites of burial.
Within my tent his bones to-night shall lie.
Most like a soldier, order'd honorably.—
So, call the field to rest: and let's away,
To part the glories of this happy day. [Exeunt
TWELFTH-NIGHT:
or,
WHAT YOU WILL.
Shaks'peare appears to have invariably songht for the originals of bis plots fiom
Bonrces within his reach.—The Italian novelists of his period fomished ample inateria.8 for
his purpose, bat although there are traces to be found in the present Comedy, of incidents,
which are evidently borrowed from these sources, yet even the industrious and acute re¬
searches of the critics cannot distinctly trace out the precise authorities, to which the Poet is
indebted for the groundwork of thb delightful Comedy.
There is in this Drama, an under plot,-skilfully interwoven into the main subject, yet,
in no d^ree necessary to the chief action of the Play. The ifature of our design, has in¬
duced the rejection of the comic incidents, which form the minor plot, so that we might
incorporate into our selections, the entire main story, with all its charming beauties of
graceful and towtring Poetry.
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
Orsino, Duke of Illyria.
Sebastian, a young gentleman, brother to Viola.
Antonio, a sea captain, friend to Sebastian.
A sea captain, friend to Viola.
Valentine, Curio, gentlemen attending on the Duke.
Sir Toby Belch, uncle of Olivia.
Sir Andrew Ague-cheek.
Maltolio, steward to Olivia.
Fabian, Clown, servants to Olivia.
Olivia, a rich Conntess.
Viola, in love with the Duke.
Maria, Olivia's woman.
Lords, Priests, Sailors, Officers, Musicians, and other Attendants.
SCENE.—A City in Illyria ; and the Sea-coast near it.
856
shaksfeariam reader.
ACT 1.
SCENE I.—An Apartmenl in the Duke's Palace
Enter Duke, Curio, Lords; Musicians attending.
Duke. If music be the food of love, play on.
Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting.
The appetite may sicken, and so die.
That strain again;—it had a dying fall:
O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south,
"That breathes upon a hank of violets.
Stealing, and giving odor.—Enough ; no more;
'Tis not so sweet now, as it was tefore.
O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou!
That, notwithstanding thy capacity
Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there.
Of what validity and pitch soever.
But falls into abatement and low price.
Even in a minute ! so full of shapes is fancy.
That it alone is high-fantastical.
Cur. Will you go hunt, my lord ?
Duke. What, Curio 7
Cur. The hart
Duke. Why, so I do, the noblest that I have:
O when mine eyes did see Olivia first,
Methought, she purg'd the air of pestilence;
That instant was I tum'd into a hart;
And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds.
E'er since pursue me.—How now ? what news from her 7
Enter Valentine.
Val. So please my lord, I might not be admitted.
But from her handmaid do return this answer:
The element itself, till seven years' heat,
Shall not behold her face at ample view;
But, like a cloistress, she will veiled walk.
And water once a day her chamber round
With eye-ofiending brine: all this, to season
A brother's dead love, which she would keep fresh.
And lasting, in her sad remembrance.
Duke. O, she, that hath a heart of that fine frame.
To pay this debt of love but to a brother.
How will she love, when the rich, golden shaft.
Hath kill'd the flock of all afiections else
That live in her! when liver, brain, and heart.
These sovereign thrones, are all supplied, and fill'd,
(Her sweet perfections,) with one self king!—
twelfth-night.
357
Away before me to sweet beds of flowers;
Love-thoughts lie rich, when canopied with bowen. [£xeutift
SCENE n.—The Sea-coast.
Enter Viola, Captain, and Sailors.
Vio. What country, friends, is this ?
Cap. Ulyria, lady.
Vic. And what should I do in Ulyria ?
Hy brother he is in Elysium.
Perchance, he is not drown'd.—^What think you, sailors ?
Cap. It is perchance, that you yourself were saved.
Vio. O my poor brother! and so, perchance, may he be.
Cap. True, madam: and, to comfort you with chance.
Assure yourself, after our ship did split,
When you, and that poor number saved with you.
Hung on our driving boat, I saw your brother.
Most provident in peril, bind himself
(Courage and hope both teaching him the practice)
To a strong mast, that lived upon the sea;
Where, Uke Arion on the dolphin's back,
I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves,
So long as I could see. _
Vio. For saying so, there's gold;
Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope.
Whereto thy speech serves for authority.
The like of him. Know'st thou this country ?
Cap. Ay, madam, well; for I was bred and bom.
Not three hours' travel from this very place.
Vio. Who governs here 7
Cap. A noble duke, in nature,
As in his name.
Vio. What is his name ?
Cap. Orsino.
Vio. Orsino! I have heard my father name him:
He was a bachelor then.
Cap. And so is now.
Or was so very late: for but a month
Ago I went from hence; and then 'twas fresh
In murmur, (as, you know, what great ones do.
The less will prattle of,) that he did seek
The love of fair Olivia.
Vio. What's she ?
Cap. A virtuous maid, the daughter of a count
That died some twelvemonth since; then leaving hor
In the protection of his son, her brother.
Who shortly also died: for whose dear love.
They say, she hath abjured the company
And sight of men. ••
358
SHAKSPEARIAN READER.
Fio. O, that I served that lady:
And might not be delivered to the world,
TiU I had made mine own occasion mellow,
What my estate is.
Cap. That were hard to compass;
Because she will admit no kind of suit,
No, not the duke's.
Vio. There is a fair behavior in tlice, captain;
And though that nature with a beauteous wall
Doth oft close in pollution, yet of thee
I will believe, thou hast a mind that suits
With this thy fair and outward character.
I pray thee, and I'll pay thee bounteously.
Conceal me what I am; and be my aid
For such disguise as, haply, shall become
The form of my intent. I'll serve this duke;
Thou shalt present me as a page to him.
It may be worth thy pains; for I can sing.
And speak to him in many sorts of music.
That will allow me very worth his service.
What else may hap, to time I will commit;
Only shape thou thy silence to my wit.
Cap. Be thou his page, and I your mute wiU be;
When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see!
Vio. I thank thee: Lead me on. [Exeunt
Viola, having disguised heiself in male attiie, obtains the situation of Page, in the
Duke's household, under the nanse of Cesatio.
A Room in the Duke's Palace.
Enter Valenxine, and Viola in man's attire.
Val. If the Duke continue these favors towards you, Cesario, you
are hke to be much advanced; he hath known you but three days,
and already you are no stranger.
Vio. You either fear his humor, or my negligence, that you call in
question the continuance of his love: Is he inconstant, sir, in his
favors ?
Val. No, believe me.
Enter Duke, Curio, and Attendants.
Vio. I thank you. Here comes the count.
Duke. Who saw Cesario, ho 1
Vio. On your attendimce, my lord; here.
Duke. Stand you awhile aloof.—Cesario,
Thou know'st no less but all; I have unclasp'd
To tliee the book even of my secret soul:
Therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her;
Be not deny'd access, stand at her doors.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
■ 359
And tell them, there thy fixed foot shall grow,
Till thou have audience.
Vio. Sure, my noble lord.
If she be so abandoned to her sorrwv
As it is spoke, she never will admit me.
Duke. Be clamorous, and leap all civil bounds.
Rather than make unprofited return.
Vio. S^, I do speak with her, my lord: What then ? *
Duke. O, then unfold the passion of my love;
Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith.
It shall become thee well to act my woes;
She will attend it better in thy youth.
Than in a nuncio of more grave aspect.
Vio. 1 think not so, my lord.
Duke. Dear lad, believe it;
For they shall yet belie thy happy years.
That say, thou art a man: Diana's Hp
Is not more smooth, and rubious; thy small pipe
Is as the maiden's organ, shrill, and sound.
And all is semblative a woman's part.
I know, thy constellation is right apt
For this afiair:—Some four, or five, attend him;
All, if you will; for I myself am best.
When least in company;—^Prosper well in this.
And thou shalt live as freely as thy lord.
To call his fortunes thine.
Vio. I'll do my best.
To woo your lady: yet,—[Aswfe.l—a barful strife:
Whoe'er I woo, myself would be his wife. [ExeurU
The Lady Olivia, attended by her wiuting woman Maria, and Malvolio her steward,
b informed that a messenger from the Dnke seeks her presence.
SCENE V.
Enter Olivia, Maria, and Malvolio.
Mar. Madam, there is at the gate a young gentleman, much
desires to speak with you.
OK. From the count Orsino, is it ?
Mar. I know not, madam; 'tis a fair young man, and well attended. -
OH. Who of my people hold him in delay ?
Mar. Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman.
Oli. Fetch him off, I pray you; he speaks nothing but madman:
Fye on him!—[Exit M.aria.]—Go you, Malvolio: if it be a suit
from the count, 1 am sick or not at home; what you will, to dismiss
it.—[Exit Malvolio.]—Now you. see, sir, how your fooling grows
old, and people dislike it.
Re-enter Malvolio.
M(d. Madam, yond, young fellow swears he will speak with you.
860
SHAKSPEABUN BEAEER.
I told him you were sick; he takes on him to understand so much,
and therefore comes to speak with you: I told him you were asleep;
he seems to have a fore-knowledge of that too, and therefore comes
to speak with you. What is to he said to him, lady 1 he's fortified
against any deniaL
OK. Tell him, he shall not speak with me.
MaJ. He has been told so; and he says, he'll stand at your door
like a sheriff's post, and be the supporter of a bench, but he'll speak
with you.
OH. What kind of man is he t
Mai. Why, of mankind.
OK. What manner of man t
Mai. Of veiy Ql manner; he'll speak with you, will you, or no.
OK. Of what personage, and years, is he ?
Mai. Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy
He is very well-favored, and he speaks very shrewishly.
OK. Let him approach: Call in my gentlewoman.
Mai. Gentlewoman, my lady calls. [Exit
Re-enter Maria.
OK. Give me my veil: come throw it o'er my face:
We'll once more hear Orsino's embassy.
Enter Viola.
Via. The honorable lady of the house, which is«he ?
OK. Speak to me, I shdl answer for W: Your will l
Vio. Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable beauty, I pray you,
tell me, if this be the lady of the house, for I never saw her: I would be
loath to cast away my speech; for, besides that it is excellently well
penn'd, I have taken great pains to con it. Good beauties, let me sus¬
tain no scorn; I am very comptible,* even to the least sinister usage.
OK. Whence came you, sir ?
Vio. I can say little more than I have studied, and that question's
out of my part. Good gentle one, give me modest assurance, if you
be the lady of the house, that I may proceed in my speech.
OK. Are you a comedian ?
Vio. No, my profound heart: and yet, by the very fangs of malice,
I swear I am not that I play. Are you the lady of the house ?
OK. If I do not usurp myself, I am.
Vio. Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp yourself; for what
is yours to bestow, is not yours to reserve. But this is from my
commission: I will on with my speech in your praise, and then show
you the heart of my mes.sage.
OK. Come to what is important in't: I forgive you the praise.
Vio. Alas, I took great pains to study it, and 'tis poetical.
OK. It is the more like to be feigned ; I pray you keep it in. I
heard you were saucy at my gates; and allowed your approach,
rather to wonder at you than to hear you. If you be not mad, be
* Accountable.
twelfth-night.
361
gone; if you have reason be brief: 'tis not that time of moon ^rith
me, to make one in so skipping a dialogue. Tell me your mind.
Vio. I am a messenger.
OH. Sure, you have some hideous matter to deliver, when the
courtesy of it is so fearful. Speak your office.
Vio. It alone concerns your ear. I bring no overture of wai-, no
taxation of homage; I hold the olive in my hand: my words are as
full of peace as matter.
on. Yet you began rudely. What are you ? what would you ?
Vio. The rudeness that hath appeared in me, have I leam'd from
my entertainment. What I am, and what I would, are to your ears,
divinity; to any other's, profanation.
OH. Give us the place alone: we will hear this divinity.—[Exit
Mabia.]—Now, sir, what is your text ?
Vio. Most sweet lady,
OH. A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it. Where
lies your text ?
Vio. In Orsino's bosom.
OH. In his bosom ? In what chapter of his bosom ? >-
Vio. To answer by the method, in the first of his heart.
OH. O, I have read it; it is heresy. Have you no more to say ?
Vio. Good madam, let me see your face.
OH. Have you any commission from your lord to negotiate With
my face ? you are now out of your text: but we will draw the cur¬
tain, and show you the picture. Look you, sir, such a one as I was
this present: Is't not well done ? [Unveiling.
Vio. Excellently done, if nature did all.
OIL 'Tis in grain, sir; 'twill endure wind and weather.
Vio. 'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white
Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on:
Lady, you are the cruel'st she alive,
If you will lead these graces to the grave.
And leave the world no copy.
OH. O, sir, I will not be so hard-hearted; I will give out divers
schedules of my beauty: It shall be inventoried; and every particle,
and utensil, labelled to my will. Were you sent hither to praise
me ?
Vio. I see you what you are: you are too proud;
But, if you were the devil, you are fair.
My lord and master loves you; O, such love
Could be but recompens'd, though you were crown'd
The nonpareil of beauty!
OH. How does he love me ?
Vio. With adorations, with fertile tears.
With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire.
OIL Your lord does know my mind, I cannot love him ;
Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble.
Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth ;
In wices well divulg'd, free, leam'd, and va'iant.
362
SHAKSFEARIAN READER.
And, in dimension, and the shape of nature,
A gracious person: but yet I Qannot love him;
He might have took his answer long ago.
Vio. If 1 did love you in my master's flame,
With such a suflTering, such a deadly life,
In your denial I would find no sense,
I would not understand it.
Oli. Why, what would yon J
Vio. Make me a willow cabin at your gate,
And call upon my soul within the house;
Write loyal cantons of contemned love.
And sing them loud even in the dead of night;
Holla your name to the reverberate hills.
And make the babbling gossip of the air
Cry out, Olivia! O, you should not rest
Between the elements of air and earth.
But you should pity me.
OK. You might do much: What is your parentage f
Vio. Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:
I am a gentleman.
Oli. Get you to your lord;
I cannot love him; let him send no more;
Unless, perchance, you come to me again.
To tell me how he takes it. Fare you well:
I thank you for your pains; spend this for me.
Vio. I am no fee'd post, lady: keep your purse;
My master, not myself, lacks recompense.
Love makes his heart of flint, that you shall love;
And let your fervor, like my master's, be
Plac'd in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty.
Oli. What is your parentage 7
Above my fortunes, yet my state is well;
lama gentleman.-—--IW. be sworn thou art;
Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions, and spirit.
Do give thee five-fold blazon:—^Not too fast:—soft! soft
Unless the master were the man.—^How now 7
Even so quickly may one catch the plague 7
Methinks, I feel this youth's perfections.
With an invisible and subtle stealth,
To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be.—.
What, ho, Malvolio!—
Re-enter Malvolio.
Mai. Here, madam, at your service.
Oli. Run after that same peevish messenger.
The county's man: he left this ring behind him.
Would I, or not; tell him, I'll none of it.
Desire him not to flatter with his lord.
Nor hold him up with hopes; I am not for him:
TWELFTH-NIGBT.
363
If that the youth wiD come this way to-morrow,
I'll give him reasons for't. Hie thee, Malvolio.
Mai. Madam, I will.
OH. I do I know not what: and fear to find
Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind.
Fate, show thy force: Ourselves we do not owe;
What is decreed, must be; and be this so!
ACT 11.
SCENE .■'—A Street.
Enter Yiola.', MAhwouo following.
Mai. Were not you even now with the countess Olivia ?
Vio. Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have since arrired but
hither.
Mai. She returns this ring to you, sir; you might have saved me
my pains, to have taken it away yourself. She amis, moreover, that
you should put your lord into a desperate assurance she will none of
him: And one tiling more; that you he never so hardy to come
again in his afiairs, unless it be to report your lord's taking of this,
^ceive it so.
Vio. She took the ring of me; I'll none of it.
Mai. Come, sir, you peevishly threw it to hei; and her will is, it
should be so returned: if it be worth stooping for, there it lies in
your eye; if not, be it his that finds it. [Exit.
Vio. I left no ring with her: What means this lady ?
Fortune forbid, my outside have not charm'd her!
She made good view of me; indeed, so much.
That, sure, methought, her eyes had lost her tongue
For she did speak in starts distractedly.
She loves me, sure; the cunning of her passion
Invites me in this churlish messenger.
None of my lord's ring! why, he sent her none.
I am the man;—If it be so, (as 'tis,)
Poor lady, she were better love a dream.
Disguise, I see, thou art a wickedness.
Wherein the pregnant enemy does much.
How easy is it, for the proper-false
In women's waxen hearts to set their forms!
Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we;
For, such as we are made of, such we be.
My master loves her dearly;
And I, poor monster, fond as much on him;
And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me:
What will become of this ! As I am man.
My state is desperate for my master's love;
As I am woman, now alas the day!
[Exit.
[Exit.
364
SHAESPEARIAN READER.
• What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe ?
O time, thou must entangle this, not I *,
It is too hard a kn.^ for me to untie. [Exit
VioU becomes enamored of the Dake,-and with exqalsite delicacy describes her own
ieelingSy while professing^ to narrate her sisters story.
SCENE.—A* Rocm in the Duke's Palace.
Enter Duke, Viola, Cdeio, and others.
Duke. Give me some music.—Now, good morrow, friends:
Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song.
That old and antique song we heard last night:
Methought, it did relieve my passion much;
More tl^ light airs and recollected terms.
Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times:
Come, but one verse.
Cur. He is not here, so please your kfdship, that should sing it.
Duke. Who was jt ?
Cur. Feste, the jester, my lord; a fool, that the lady Olivia's father
took much delight in; he is about the house.
Duke. Seek him out, and play the tune the while.
[Exit Curio.—JUitfia
Come hither, boy; if ever thou shalt love.
In the sweet pangs of it, remember me:
For, such as I am, all true lovers are;
Unstaid and skittish in all motions else.
Save, in the constant image of the creature
That is belov'd.—How dost thou like this tune ?
Vio. It gives a very echo to the seat
Where Love is thron'd.
Duke. Thou dost speak masterly;
My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye
Hath stay'd upon some favor that it loves;
Hath it not, boy ?
Vio. A little, by your favor.
Duke. What kind of woman is't 1
Vio. Of your complexion.
Duke. She is not worth thee then. What years, i' faith 1
Vio. About your years, my lord.
Duke. Too old, by heaven. Let still the woman take
^n elder than herself; so wears she to him.
So sways she level in her husband's heart.
For, boy, however we do praise ourselves.
Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm.
More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn.
Than women's are.
Vio. I think it well, my lord.
Duke. Then let thy love be younger than thyself,
Or thy affection cannot hold the bent:
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
3(i5
For women are as roses; whose fair flower,
Being once display'd, doth fall that very hour.
Via. And so they are; alas, that they are so;
To die, even when th(W to perfection grow!
Duke. Once more, Cesario,
Get thee to yond' same sovereign cruelty:
Tell her, my love, more noble than the world.
Prizes not quantity of dirty lands;
The parts that fortune hath bestow'd upon her,
Tell her, I hold as giddily as fortune;
But 'tis that miracle, and queen of gems.
That nature pranks her in, attracts my soul.
Vio. But if she cannot love you, sir ?
Duke. I cannot be so answer'd.
Vio. 'Sooth, but you must.
Say, that some lady, as, perhaps, there is.
Hath for your love as great a pang of heart
As you have for Olivia: you cannot love her;
You tell hei; so; Must she not then be answer'd ?
Duke. There is no woman's sides.
Can bide the beating of so strong a passion
As love doth give my heart: no woman's heart
So big, to hold so much; they lack retention.
But mine is all as hungry as the sea.
And can digest as much: make no compare
Between tlwt love a woman can bear me.
And that I owe Olivia.
Via. Ay, but I know,—
Duke. What dost thou know ?
Vie. Too well what love women to men may:
In faith, they are as true of heart as we.
My father had a daughter lov'd a man.
As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman,
I should your lordship.
Duke. And what's her history ?
Vio. A blank, my lord: She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud.
Feed on her damask cheek: she pin'd in thought;
And, with a green and yellow melancholy.
She sat like patience on a monument.
Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed ?
We men may say more, swear more: but, indeed.
Our shows are more than will; for still we prove
Much in our vows, but little in our love.
Duke. But died thy sister of her love, my boy ?
Vio. I am all the daughters of my father's house^
And all the brothers too;—and yet I know not.—
Sir, shall I to this lady ?
Duke. Ay, that's the theme.
866
SHAESPEARIAN READER
To her in haste; give her this jewel; say,
My love can give no place, bide no denay.*
ACT III.
Olivia, and Viola.
According to the Duke's instructions, Viola again presents herself to Olivia, bat Cadi
the lady unwilling to listen to Oisino's suite The cause is expldned in the foUowiB|
scene.
on. Give me your hand, sir.
Vio. My duty, madam, and most humble service.
on. What is your name 1
Vio. Cesario is your servant's name, fair princess.
Oli. My servant, sir! 'Twas never merry world
Since lowly feigning was call'd compliment:
You are servant to 9ie count Orsino, youth.
Vio. And he is yours, and his must needs be yours:
Your servant's servant is your servant, madam.
Oli. For him, I think not on him: for his thoughts.
Would they were blanks, rather than filled with me!
Vio. Madam, I come to whet your gentle thoughts
On his behalf:— *
Oli. O, by your leave, I pray you;
I bade you never speak agjin of him:
But, would you undertake another suit,
I had rather hear you to solicit that,
Than music from the spheres. ,
Vio. Dear lady,
Oli. Give me leave, I beseech you: I did send
After the last mchantment you did here,
A ring in chase of you; so did I abuse
Myself, my servant, and, I fear me, you;
Under your hard construction must I sit,
To force that on you, in a shameful cunning.
Which you knew none of yours: What might you think 1
Have you not set mine honor at the stake.
And baited it with all the* unmuzzled thoughts
That tyrannous heart can think ? To one of your receiving
Enough is shown; a cjrprus, not a bosom,
Hides my poor heart: So let me hear you speak.
Vio. I pity you.
Oli. That's a degree to love.
Vio. No, not a step; for 'tis a vulgar prooJi
That very oft we pity enemies.
Oli. Why, then, methinks, 'tis time to smile again.
O world, how apt the poor are to be proud!
♦ Denial.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
367
If one should be a prey, how much the better
To fall before the lion, than the wolf? fClock striket
The clock upbraids me with the waste of time.—
Be not afraid, good youth, T will not have you:
And yet, when wit and youth is come to harvest.
Your wife is like to reap a proper man:
There lies your way, due west.
Vio. Then westward-lio:
Grace, and good disposition 'tend your ladyship!
You'll nothing, madam, to my lord by me ?
OK. Stay:
I pr'ythee, tell me, what thou think'st of me.
Vio. That you do think, you are not what you are.
Oil. If I think so, I think the same of you.
Vio. Then think you right; I am not what I am.
OH. I would you were as I would have you be!
Vio. Would it be better, madam, than I am,
I wish it might; for now I am your fool.
OH. O, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful
In the contempt and anger of his lip!
A murd'rous guilt shows not itself more soon
Than love that would seem hid: love's night is noon.
Cesario, by the roses of the spring.
By maidhood, honor, truth, and every thing,
I love thee so, that, maugre all thy pride.
Nor wit, nor reason, can my passion hide.
Do not extort thy reasons from this clause.
For, that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause:
But, rather, reason thus with reason fetter:
Love sought is good, but given unsought, is better
Vio. By innocence I swear, and by my youth,
I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth.
And that no woman has; nor never none
Shall mistress be of it, save I alone.
And so adieu, good madam; never more
Will I my master's tears to you deplore.
OH. Yet come again: for thou, perhaps, may'st move
That heart, which now abhors, to like his love. [Exeunt.
ACT V.
fiebasUan, the twin-brother of Viola, is saved from the wreck in which he believes his
lister was lost. Having business at Orsino's court, he arrives there accompanied by his
friend Antonio. He is supposed to be the exact counterpart of his sister, as she appears,
when disguised as the Page. In passing near Olivia's house, he is encountered by a
servant of the lady's, who has been sent to request Viola wiU come and speak with
Olivia. He denies all knowledge of the lady, hot Olivia enters, and believing him to be
Viola, entreats him to enter the house: he consents,—and the lady so charms him, that
368
SHAKSPEARIAN READER.
he yields & willing assent to her proposals of immedi^ marriage. The Duke still iiersisl
Jog in his passion for 01ivia» determines to seek the lady in person, accompanied by
Viola. On reaching OliviaU house, he is met by Antonio, Sebastian*s friend, whe
accosts Viola, supposing her to be Sebastian. The Duke, supposing the man to be in-
eane, indignantly rebukes him,—Olivia enters from the house, and seeing Viola, addressee
her as her lately married husband.
Dvke. Here comes the countess; now heaven walks on earth.—
But for thee, fellow, fellow, thy words are madness:
Three months this youth hath tended upon me;
But more of that anon. Take him aside.
OIL What would my lord, but that he may not have.
Wherein Olivia may seem serviceable ?—
Cesario, you do not keep promise with me.
Vio. Madam ?
Dvke. Gracious Olivia,
OIL What do you say, Cesario ? Good my lord,
Vio. My lord would speak, my duty hushes me.
OIL If it be aught to the old tune, my lord.
It is as fat and fulsome to mine ear,
As howling after music.
Duke. Still so cruel 1
OIL Still so constant, lord.
Duke. What! to perverseness ? you uncivil lady.
To whose ingrate and unauspicious altars
My soul the faithfull'st offerings hath breath'd out.
That e'er devotion tender'd! What shall I do ?
OIL Even what it please my lord, that shall become him.
Duke. Why should I not, had I the heart to do it.
Like to the Egyptian thief, at point of death.
Kill what I love ; a savage jealousy.
That sometime savors nobly ?—But hear me this:
Since you to non-regardance cast my faith,
And that I partly know the instrument
That screws me from my true place in your favor.
Live you, the marble-breasted tyrant, still;
But this your minion, whom, I know, you love,
And whom, by heaven I swear, I tender dearly,
Him will I tear out of that cruel eye.
Where he sits crowned in his master's spite.—
Come, boy, with me; my thoughts are ripe in mischief;
rU sacrifice the lamb that I do love,
To spite a raven's heart within a dove. \_Goms
Vio. And I, most jocund, apt, and willingly.
To do you rest, a thousand deaths would die. [FoUotoing
OIL Where goes Cesario ?
Vio, After him I love.
More than I love these eyes, more than my life.
More, by all mores, than e'er I shall love wife:
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
360
If I do feign, you witnesses above,
Punish my life, for tainting of my love!
Oli. Ah me, detested! now am I beguil'd!
Vio. Who .does beguile you ? who does do you wrong ?
Oli. Hast thou forgot thyself ? Is it so long 1—
Call forth the holy.faUier. \^Exii an Attendai?'
Duke. Come away. [To Viou
Oli. Whither, my lord ? Cesario, husband, stay.
Dtike. Husband?
Oli. Ay, husband, can he that deny ?
Duke. Her husband, sirrah ?
Vio. No, my lord, not I.
Oli. Alas, it is the baseness of thy fear.
That makes thee strangle thy propriety:
Fear not, Cesario, take thy fortunes up;
Be that thou know'st thou art, and then thou art
As great as that thou fear'st.—O, welcome, father!
Re-etUer Attendant and Priest,
Father, I charge thee, by thy reverence.
Here to unfold (though lately we intended
To keep in darkness, what occasion now
Reveals before 'tis ripe,) what thou dost know.
Hath newly past between this youth and me.
Priest. A contract of eternal bond of love,
Confirm'd by mutual joinder of your hands.
Attested by the holy close of Ijps,
Strengthen'd by interchangement of your rings;
And all the ceremony of this compact
Seal'd in my function, by my testimony:
Since when, my watch hath told me, toward my grave,
I have travelled but two hours.
Duke. O, thou dissembling cub! what wilt thou bo
When time hath sow'd a grizzle on thy case ?
Or will not else thy craft so quickly grow.
That thine own trip shall be thine overthrow ?
Farewell, and take her; but direct thy feet.
Where thou and I henceforth may never meet.
Vio. My lord, I do protest,—
Oli. O, do not swear;
Hold little faith, though thou hast too much fear.
ErUer Sebastian.
Duke. One face, one habit, and two persons;
A natural perspective, that is, and is not
Seb. Antonio, O my dear Antonio!
How have the hours rack'd and tortur'd me.
Since I have lost thee.
370
shaesfearian reader.
Ant. Sebastian are you ?
Seh. Fear'st thou that, Antonio S
Ant. How have you made division of yourself?—
An apple, cleft in two, is not more twin
Than these two creatures. Which is Sebastian ?
on. Most wonderful!
Seh. Do I stand there 1 I never had a brother:
Nor can there be that deity in my nature.
Of here and every where. I had a sister.
Whom the blind waves and surges have devour'd:—
Of charity, what kin are you to me ? [ To Viola.
What countryman ? what name ? what parentage ?
Via. Of Messaline: Sebastian was my father,
Such a Sebastian was my brother too, *
So went he suited to his watery tomb:
If spirits can assume both form and suit
You come to fright us.
Seft. Were you a woman, as the rest goes even,
I should my tears let fall upon yout cheek.
And say—Thrice welcome, drowned Viola!
Vio. My father had a mole upon his brow.
Seh. And so had mine.
Via. And died that day when Viola from her birth
Had number'd thirteen years.
Seh. O, that record is lively in my soul!
He finished, indeed, in his mortal act.
That day that made my sister thirteen years.
Via. If nothing lets to make us happy both
But this my masculine usurp'd attire,
Do not embrace me, till each circumstance
Of place, time, fortune, do cohere, and jump.
That I am Viola: which to confirm,
I'll bring you to a captain in this town.
Where lie my maiden weeds; by whose gentle help
I was preserv'd, to serve this noble count;
All the occurrence of my fortune since
Hath been between this lady and this lord.
Seh. So comes it, lady, you have been mistook: [ To Olivia
But nature to her bias drew in that.
You would have been contracted to a maid;
Nor are you therein, by my life, deceiv'd.
You are betroth'd both to a maid and man.
^Duke. Be not amaz'd; right noble is his blood.—
If this be so, as yet the glass seems true,
I shall have share in this most happy wreck:
Boy, thou hast said te me a thousand times, [To Vio.
Tbou never should'st love woman like to me.
Vio. And all those sayings will I over-swear;
And all those swearings keep as true in soul.
twelfth-night.
371
As doth that orbed continent the Gre
That severs day from night.
Duke. >Give me thy hand;
And let me see thee in thy woman's weeds.
Vto. The captain, that did bring me first on shores
Hath my maid's garments: he upon some action,
Is now in durance: at Malvolio's suit,
A gentleman, and follower of my lady's.
OH. He shall enlarge him.
My lord, so please you, these things further thought on,
To thmk me as well a sister as a wife, '
One day shall crown the alliance on't, so please you.
Here at my house, and at my proper cost.
Duke. Madam, I am most apt to embrace your ofEsr.—
Your master quits you;—[To Viola.]—and, for your service done
him.
So much against the mettle of your sex.
So far beneath your soft and tender breeding.
And since you call'd me master for so long.
Here is my hand; you shall from this time be
Your master's mistress.
OH. A sister ?—^you are she.
Duke. A solemn combination shall be made
Of our dear souls—Meantime, sweet sister.
We will not part from hence.—Cesario, come;
For so you shall be, while you are a man;
But, when in other habits you are seen,
Orsino's mistress, and his fimcy's queen, f Exeunt,
MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
The OQtline of this Play Is taken from a novel of Cinthio, the Italian novelist and
tragic author, to whom Shakspeare was likewise indebted for the story of Othello.
Measnre for Measore, presents ns with one of the most perfect of our aathor*s female
ebaracters in the person of Isabella. Dr. Blake says, of this beantifnl oreation, that
Piety, spotless parity, tenderness combined with firmness, and an eloquence the most per-
tnasive, unite to render her singularly interesting and attractive.** Of the general excellence
of this Drama, Mr. Verplanck justly remarks, that there is no compositimi, of the
same length, in the language, which has left more of its expressive phmses, its moral aphor
isms, its brief sentences, crowded with meaning, fixed on the general memory, and em¬
bodied by daily use in every form of popular eloquence, argument, and literatnie.**
Oar extracts, though necessarily brief, will be found to embody the principal striking
beauties of this truly impressive composition.
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
UiCENTio, Duhe of Vienna.
- Anselo, lord deputy in the Dnke's absence.
Escalus, an ancient lord, joined with Angelo in the deputation.
3LAunio, a young gentleman.
Lucio, a fantastic.
Two other like gentlemen.
Varrivs, a gentleman, servant to the Duke
Provost.
Thomas, Peter, two friars.
A Justice.
Elbow, a simple constable.
Froth, a foolish gentleman.
Clown, servant to Mrs. Over-done.
Abhorson, an executioner.
Barnardine, a dissolute prisoner.
Isabella, sister to Claudio.
Mariana, betrothed to Angelo.
Juliet, beloved by Claudio.
Francisra, a nun.
Mistress Over-done,
Lords, Gentlemen, Guards, Officers, and other Attendants.
SCENE—Vienna.
MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
373
The Doke of Vienna, determines to examine in person, the condition of Iiis people.
To do this effectnally he purposes to resign, for a period, his government into the keeping
of Lord Angelo, and Escalos, and in disguise to mix with his subjects and learn theii
actual condition, and ascertain whether the laws are faithfully administered.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—An Apartment in the Duke's Palace.
Enter Duke, Escalus, Lords, and Attendants.
Dtike. Escalus,—
Escal. My lord.
Duke. Of government the properties to unfold.
Would seem in me to affect speech and discourse;
Since I am put to know, that your own science
Exceeds, in that, the lists of all advice
My strength can give you: Then no more remains
But that to your sufficiency, as your worth is able.
And let them work. The nature of our people.
Our city's institutions, and the terms '
For common justice, you are as pregnant in.
As art and practice hath enriched any
That we remember: There is our commission.
From which we would not have you warp.—Ca.. hither,
I say, bid come before us Angelo.— [Exit an Attendant
What figure of us think you he will bear ?
For you must know, we have with special soul ^
Elected him our absence to supply;
Lent him our terror, drest him with our love;
And given his deputation all the organs
Of our own power: Whatthink you of it 7
Escal. If any in Vienna be of worth
To undergo sudr ample grace and honor.
It is lord Angelo.
Enter Angelo.
Duke. Look, where he comes.
Ang. Always obedient to your grace's will,
I come to know your pleasure.
Duke. Angelo,
There is a kind of character in thy life.
That, to the observer, doth thy history
Fully unfold: Thyself and thy belongings
Are not thine own so proper, as to waste
Thyself upon thy virtues, them on thee.
Heaven doth with us, as we with torches do ;
Not light them for themselves ; for if our virtues •
Did not go forth of us, 'twere all alike
As if we had them not. Spirits are not finely tonch'd.
374
SHAESl'EARIAN EEADER.
But to fine issues: nor nature never lends
The smallest scruple of her excellence,
But, like a thrifty goddess, she determines
Herself the glory of a creditor.
Both thanks and use. But I do bend my speech
To one that can my part in him advertise; '
Hold Aerefore, Angelo;
In our remove, be thou at full ourself:—
Mortality and mercy in Vienna
Live in thy tongue and heart: Escalus,
Though first in question, is the secondary:
Take thy commission.
Ang. Now, good my lord.
Let there be some more test made of my metal.
Before so noble and so great a figure
Be stamp'd upon it.
Dvke. No more evasion:
We have with a leaven'd and prepared choice
Proceeded to you; therefore take your honors.
Our liaste from hence is of so quick condition.
That it prefers itself, and leaves unquestion'd
Matters of needful value. We shall write to you,
As time and our concemings shall importune.
How it goes with us; and do look to know
What doth befall you here. So, fare you well:
To the hopeful execution do I leave you
Of your commissions.
Ang. Yet, give leave, my lord,
That we may bring you something on the way.
Duke. My haste may not admit it;
Nor need you, on mine honor, have to do *
With any scruple: your scope is as mine own:
So to enforce, or qualify the laws
As to your soul seems good. Give me your hand;
I'll privily away: I love the people.
But do not like to stage me to their eyes:
Though it do well, I do not relish well
Their loud applause, and aves vehement:
Nor do I think the man of safe discretion.
That does afiect it. Once more, fare you well.
Ang. The heavens give safety to your purposes J
Escal. Lead forth, and bring you back in happiness.
Duke. I thank you: Fare you well.
Escal. I shall desire you, sir, to give me leave
To have free speech with you; and it concerns mo
To look into the bottom of my place:
A power I have; but of what strength and nature
I am not yet instructed.
Ang. 'Tis so with me:—Let us withdraw together
MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
876
And we may soon our satisfaction have
Touching that point.
Escal. I'll wait upon your honor. [Exeunt
The Duke proceeds to a Monastery in the city, and assnmes the disguise of a Fiia
SCENE.—A Monastery..
Enter DxncE, and Friar Thomas.
Dulce. No; holy father; throw away that thought;
Believe not that the dribbling dart of love
Can pierce a complete bosom: why I desire thee
To give me secret harbor, hath a purpose
More grave and wrinkled than the aims and ends
Of burning youth.
Fri. May your grace speak of it 1
Dvke. My holy sir, none better knows than you
How I have ever lov'd the life removed;
And held in idle price to haunt assemblies.
Where youth, and costs, and witless bravery keeps.
I have deliver'd to lord Angelo
(A man of stricture, and firm abstinence,)
My absolute power and place here in Vienna,
And he supposes me travell'd to Poland;
For so I have strew'd it in the common ear,
And so it is receiv'd: Now, pious sir,
Vou will demand of me, why I do this ? , «
Fri. Gladly, my lord.
Duhe. We have strict statutes, and most biting laws,
(The needful bits and curbs for headstrong steeds,)
Which for these fourteen years we have let sleep
Even like an o'ergrown lion in a cave.
That goes not out to prey: Now, as fond fathers
Having bound up the threat'ning twigs of birch,
Only to stick it in their children's sight.
For terror, not to use; in time the rod
Becomes more mock'd, than fear'd, so our decrees,
Dead to infliction, to themselves are dead;
And liberty plucks justice by the nose.
The baby beats the nurse, and quite athwart
Goes all decorum.
Fri. It rested on your grace
To unloose this tied-up justice, when you pleas'd:
And it in you more dreadful would have seem'd,
Than in Lord Angelo.
DuTte. I do fear, too dreadful;
Sith 'twas my fault to give the peqsle scope,
'Twould be my tyranny to strike and gall them
For what I bid them do: For we bid this be done,
376
SHAESFEARIAN READER.
When evil deeds have their permissive pass,
And not the punishment. Therefore, indeed, my father,
I have on Angelo impos'd the oflSce; ,
Who may, in the ambush of my name, strike home,
And yet my nature never in the sight.
To do it slander: And to behold his sway,
I will, as 'twere a brother of your order.
Visit both prince and people: therefore, I pr'ythee
Supply me with the habit, and instruct me
How I may formally in person bear me
Like a true friar. More reasons for this action.
At our more leisure shall I render you ;
Only, this one;—Lord Angelo is precise;
Stands at a guard with envy; scarce confesses
That his blood flows, or that his appetite
Is more to bread tlian stone : Hence shall we see,
If power change purpose, what our seemers be, '^Exeunt
ACT II.
Angelo assumes the goverament, with rigid severity; ha jads intu eDactment^ old
laws, long disused, and makes ofienders pay the ntmost penalty for their 'uansgressions.
Claudio, a profligate yonng gentleman, is condemnod to death, nndcr one of these re¬
vived laws. He prevails on his sister Isabella, a yonng novice, to leave the cloUtei, and
go in person to Angelo, and endeavor to obtain a pardon from the Lord Deputy.
SCENE.—A hall in Angelo's House.
Enter Angelo, and Escaltjs.
Ang. We must not make a scure-crow of the law.
Setting it up to fear the birds of prey.
And let it keep one shape, till custom make it
Their perch, and not their terror.
Escal. Ay, but yet
Let us be keen, and rather cut a little.
Than fall, and bruise to death: Alas! this gentleman.
Whom I would save, had a most noble father.
Let but your honor know,
(Whom I believe to be most strait in virtue,)
That, in the working of your own afiections.
Had time coher'd with place, or place with wishing
Or that the resolute acting of your blood
Could have attain'd the effect of your own purpose,
Whether you had not sometime in your life
Err'd in this point which now you censure him.
And pull'd the law upon you.
Ang. 'Tis one thing to be tempted, Escalus,
Another thing to fall. I not deny,
MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
The juiy, passing on the prisoner's life,
May, in the sworn twelve, have a thief or two
Guiltier than him they try: What's open made to justice,
That justice seizes. What know the laws.
That thieves do pass on thieves ? 'Tis very pregnant,
The jewel that we find, we stoop and take it.
Because we see it; but what we do not see.
We tread upon, and never think of it.
You may not so extenuate his offence.
For I have had such faults : but rather tell me.
When I, that censure him, do so offend.
Let mine own judgment pattern out my death.
And nothing come in partial. Sir, he must die.
Escal. Be it as your wisdom will.
Ang. Where is the provost ?
Prov. Here, if it like your honor.
Ang. See that Claudio
Be executed by nine to-morrow morning:
Bring him his confessor, let him be prepar'd;
For that's the utmost of his pilgrimage. [flafii
Escal. Well, heaven forgive him! and forgive us all!
Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall;
Some run from brakes of vice, and answer none;
And some condemned for a fault alone.
SCENE.—Another Room in the same.
Enter Provost and a Servant.
Serv. He's hearing of a cause; he will come straight.
I'll tell him of you.
Prov. Pray you do.—[Exit Servant.]—I'll know
His pleasure; may be, he will relent.
Enter Angelo.
Ang. Now, what's the matter, provost ?
Prov. Is it your will Claudio shall die to-morrow ?
Ang. Did I not tell thee, yea ? hadst thou not order ?
Why dost thou ask again ?
Prov. Lest I might be too rash:
Under your good correction, I have seen.
When, after execution, judgment hath
Repented o'er his doom.
Ang. Go to; let that be mine:
Do you your office, or give up your place.
And you shall well be spar'd.
1 Re-enter Servant.
/'i Serv. Here is tlie sister of the man condemn'd,
' Desires access to you. ^
378
shaksfearian beaseh.
Ang. Hath he a sister?
Prov. Ay, my good lord; a very virtuous maid,
And to be shortly of a sisterhood,
-4f not already.
Ang. Well, let her be admitted. [Exit Servant
Enter Isabella.
Prov. ^ve.j[our lymtSr!
Ang. Stay'3>l{file~^wMe.—[To isab.]—You are welcome'
What s yourwl ?
Isah. I am a woful suitor to your honor.
Please but your honor hear me.
Ang. Well, what's your suit ?
Ism. There is a vice, that most I do abhor,
And most desire should meet the blow of justice;
For which I would not plead, but that I must;
For which I must not plead, but that I am
At war, 'twixt will, and will not.
Ang. Well; the matter ?
Isab. I have a brother is condemn'd to die:
I do beseech you, let it be his fault,
And not my brother.
Ang. Condemn the fault, and not the actor of it!
Why, every fault's condemn'd, ere it be done:
Mine was the very cipher of a function.
To find the faults, whose fine stands in record.
And let go by the actor.
Isab. O just, but severe law!
I had a brother then.—^Must he needs die ?
Ang. Maiden, no remedy.
Isab. Yes; I do.think that you might pardon him.
And neither heaven, nor man, grieve at the mercy.
Ang. I win not do't.
Isab. But -can you, if you would ?
Ang. Look, what I will not, that I cannot do.
Isab. But might you do't, and do the world no wrong,
If so your heart were touch'd with that remorse
As mine is to him ?
Ang. He's sentenc'd; 'tis too late.
Isab. Too late ? why, no; I, that do speak a word,
May call it back again: Well, believe this.
No ceremony that to great ones 'longs.
Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword.
The marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe.
Become them with one half so good a grace.
As mercy does. If he had been as you.
And you as he, you would have slipt like him;
But he, like you, would not have been so stem.
Ang. Pray you, begone.
MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
379
Isah. I would to heaven I had your potency,
And you were Isabel: should it then be thus ?
No; I would tell what 'twere to be a judge,
And what a prisoner.
Ang. Your brother is a forfeit of the law,
And you but waste your words.
Isab. Alas ! alas !
Why, all the souls that were, were forfeit once;
And He that might the vantage best have took,
. Found out the remedy: How would vou be,
If he, which is the top of judgment, sftould
But judge you as you are 1 O, think on that; •
And mercy then will breathe within your lips.
Like man new made.
Ang. Be you content, fair maid;
It is me law, not I, condemns your brother:
Were he my kinsman, brother, or my son.
It should be thus with him;—he must die to-morrow.
Isabi To-morrow 1 O, that's sudden! Spare him, spare him;
He's not prepar'd for death! Even for our kitchens
We kill the fowl of season; shall we serve heaven
With less respect than we do minister
To our gross selves ? Goodj good my lord, bethink you:
Who is it that hath died for this oflfence ?
There's many have committed it.
Ang. The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept:
Those many had not dar'd to do that evil.
If the first man flmt did the edict infringe.
Had answer'd for his deed :Xn«|W, 'tis 'aw^e;
Takes note of what is dose; and, like a propjj^t,
Looks in a glas^tjiat shows what future e^,
(Either now, or byYenussnpss neV-coneeird,
And so in progress to be haitch'd apd bo®^
Are now to have no auccesslye degtee^ \
But, where ^hey live, to end. I y \
/Isab. \ \ \Yet sh^w somb pity.
/ Ang. I show it most\)f all, yhen I^how juiyice
For then I pity those I da not fcpow, \ \
Which a dismiss'd offenceWould after ^11; \
And do him right, that, ansW^g one foRl wron^
Lives not to act another.^ Be satisfied;
Your brother dies to-morrow; hn finntrnt.
Isab. So you must be the first that gives this sentence;
And he, that suffers: O, it is excellent
To have a giant's strength; but it is tyrannous
To use it like a giant.
Could great men thunder
As Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet.
For every pelting, petty officer
880
SHAKSPEARIAN READER.
Would use his heaven for thunder: nothing but thunder.
Merciful heaven!
Thou rather, with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt
Split'st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak,
Than the soft myrtle;—But man, proud man!
Brest in a little brief authority ;
Most ignorant of what he's most assur'd,
His glassy essence,—like an angry ape
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven.
As make the angels weep; who, with our spleens.
Would all themselves laugh mortal.
We cannot weigh our brother with ourself:
Great men may jest with saints: 'tis wit in them;
But, in the less, foul profanation.
• That in the captain's but a choleric word.
Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy.
Av^. Why do you put these sayings upon me ?
Ism. Because authority, though it err ike others,
Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself.
That skins the vice o' the top: Go to your bosom;
Knock there ; and ask your heart, what it doth know
That's like my brother's fault: if it confess
A natural guiltiness, such as K his.
Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue
Against my brother's life.
Ang. [Aside.] She speaks, and 'tis
Such sense, that my sense breeds with it. Fare you well.
Isah, Gentle my lord, turn back.
Ang. I will bethink me :—Come again to-morrow.
Ism. Hark, how I'll bribe you: Good my lord, turn back.
Ang. How! bribe me 1
Ism. Ay, with such gifts, that heaven shall share with you.
Not with fond shekels of the tested gold.
Or stones, whose rates are either rich, or poor.
As fancy values them: but with true prayers.
That shall be up at heaven, and enter there.
Ere sunrise: prayers from preserved souls.
From fasting maids, whose minds are dedicate
To nothing temporal.
Ang. Well: come to me
To-morrow.
IsM. Heaven keep your honor safe !
At what hour to-morrow
Shall I attend your lordshi 3 ?
Ang. At any time 'fore noon.
■> IsM. Save your honor! [Exewnz
KEAStrUE FOR MEASTTRE.
381
ACT III.
Isabella visiU Angelo» at the lime appointed, and renews her suit. The apparently
Item dispenser of Justice, makes dishonorable proposals to her, as the price of hor
brother's life; she indignantly repels him; and hastens to the prison where Claudio ii
eondned, to tell him that he must prepare for death.
The Dake is made acqnmnted with Claudio's situation, and visits him in his ditguiss
u n Friar.
SCENE.—A Room in the Prison.
Enter Dxtke, Clatoio, and Provost.
ntike. So, then you hope of pardon from lord Angelo 1
Claud. The miserable nave no other medicine,
But only hope:
I have hoM to live, and am prepar'd to die.
Duke. Be absolute for death; either death, or life,
Shall thereby be the sweeter. Reason thus with life,—
If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing
That none but fools would keep: a breath thou art,
(Servile to all the skiey influences,)
That dost this habitation, where thou keep'st,
Hourly afflict: merely, thou art death's fool;
For him thou labor'st by thy flight to shun.
And yet run'st toward him still: Thou art not noble,
For ml the accommodations that thou bear'st, ■
Are nurs'd by baseness: Thou art by no means valiant
For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork
Of a poor worm: Thy best of rest is sleep.
And that thou oft provok'st; yet grossly fear'st
Thy death, which is no more. Thou art not thyself;
For thou exist'st on many a thousand grains
That issue out of dust: Happy thou art not
For what thou hast not, still thou striv'st to get;
And what thou hast, forget'st: Thou art not certain;
For thy complexion shifts to strange effects,
After the moon: If thou art rich, fliou art poor;
For, like an ass, whose back with ingots bows,
Thou bear'st thy heavy riches but a journey.
And death unloads thee:
Thou hast nor youth, nor age;
But, as it were, an after-dinner's sleep.
Dreaming on both: for all thy blessed youth
Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms
Of palsied eld; and when thou art old, and rich,
Thou hast neither heat, affection, Hmb, nor beauty.
To make thy riches pleasant What's yet in this,
That bears the name of life ' Yet in this life
362
shakspearian reader.
lie hid more thousand deaths: yet death we fear,
That makes these odds all even.
Claud. I humbly thank yott
To sue to live, I find, I seek to die;
And, seeking death, find Ufe: Let it come on.
EnLer Isabella.
Jsdb. What, ho ! Peace here; grace and good company!
Prov. Who's there ? come in: the wish deserves a welcome.
Duke. Dear sir, ere long I'll visit you again.
Claud. Most holy sir, I thank you.
Isdb. My business is a word or two with Claudio.
Prov. And very welcome. Look, signior, here's your sister.
Duke. Provost, a word with you.
» Prov. As many as you please.
Duke. Bring them to speak, where I may he conceal'o,
Yet hear them. [Exeunt Duke and Provost
Claud. Now sister, what's the comfort 7
Isah. Why, as all comforts are; most good indeed.
Lord Angelo, having affairs to heaven.
Intends you for his swift embassador.
Where you shall be an everlasting lieger;
Therefore your best appointment make with speed y
To-morrow you set on.
Claud. Is there no remedy^
Isah. None, but such remedy, as, to save a head,
To cleave a heart in twain.
Claud. But is there any 7
Isah. Yes, brother, you may live;
There is a devilish mercy in the judge,'
If you'll implore it, that wiU free your life.
But fetter you till death.
Claud. Perpetual durance 7
Isah. Ay, just perpetual durance ; a restraint,
Though all the world's vastidity you had.
To a determin'd scope.
Claud. But in what nature 7
Isah. In such a one as (you consenting to't)
Would bark your honor from that trunk you bear
And leave you naked.
Claud. Let me know the point.
Isah. O, I do fear thee, Claudio; and I quake.
Lest thou a feverish life should'st entertain.
And six or seven winters more respect
Than a perpetual honor. Dar'st thou die 7
The sense of death is most in appehension;
And the poor beetle that we treaa upon.
In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great.
As when a giant dies.
MEASTTBE FOB MEAS0EE.
Claud. Why give you me this shame t
Think you I can a resolution fetch
From flowery tenderness ? If I must die,
I will encounter darkness as a bride,
And hug it in mine arms.
Isab, There spake my brother; there my father's grave
Did utter forth a voice! Yes, thou must die:
Thou art too noble to conserve a life
In base appliances. This outward-sainted deputy,—
Whose settled visage and deliberate word
Nips youth i' the head, and follies doth enmew.
As falcon doith the fowl,—^is yet a devil.
Clam: The princely Angelo ?
0 heavens! it cannot be.
Isab. O, were it but my life,
I'd throw it down for your deliverance
As frankly as a pin.
Claud. Thanks, dear Isabella.
Isab. Be ready, Claudio, for your death to-morrow.
Claud. O Isabel!
Isab. What says my brother ?
Claud. Death is a fearful thing.
Isao. And shamed life a hateful.
Claud. Ay, but to die, and go we know not where;
To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot;
This sensible warm motion to become
A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit
To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside
In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice;
To be imprison'd in the viewless winds.
And blown with restless violence round about
The pendent world; or to be worse than worst
Of those, that lawless and incertain thoughts
Imagine howling!—'tis too horrible !
The weariest and most loathed worldly life,
Tliat age, ache, penury, and imprisonment
Can lay on nature, is a paradise
To what we fear of death.
Isab. Alas ! alas !
Claud. Sweet sister, let me live:
What sin you do to save a brother's life.
Nature dispenses with the deed so far.
That it becomes a virtue.
Isab. O, faithless coward ! O, dishonest wretch
Take my defiance:
Die; perish! might but my bending down
Reprieve thee from thy fate, it should proceed:
I'll pray a thousand prayers for thy death,
No word to save thee.
384
SHAKSPEARIAN SEADE|t.
Claud. Nay, hear me, Isabel.
Isah. O, fye, fye, fye!
'Tis best that thou diest quickly. [Gfoij^.
The Doke overbears the conversation between Claodio and his sister, and touched
with the virtue and dignity of Isabel's character, he plans a mode by which Clandio
may escape the penalty of the Law, and Angelo shall receive a well-merited ponishment
fisr his abnse of power.
KING JOHN.
Kisg John, is the first of that series of Dramas, written by oor Poet to illastrate some
of the most important events in English history. The old chroniclers furnished him
with abundant material for his labors; bat in this Play he has taken a chronicle
hi^rical Drama, entitled ** The Troublesome Raigne of John, King of England,*
and by his incomparable powers of transmutation, he has presented us with a vivid
life-stirring picture of the eventful reign of this, one of the weakest monarcbs that ever
swayed the sceptre of England.
The chief Interest in this Drama, is centred in the events connected with the Lady
Constance and her son Arthur; we have therefore confined our selections to the scenes in
which their monrnfnl history is portrayed.
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
JKiks- John.
Prince Henrt, his son ; aftertnards King Henry III.
Arthur, Duke of Bretagne, son of Geffrey, late Duke of Bre-
tagne, the elder brother of King John.
William Mareshall, Earl of Pembroke.
Geffrey Fitz-Peter, Earl of Essex, chief justiciary of England.
William Longsword, Earl of Salisbury.
Robert Bigot, Earl of Norfolk.
Hubert de Burgh, chamberlain to the King.
Robert Faulconbridge, son of Sir Robert Faulconbridge.
Philip Faulconbridge, his half-brother, illegitimate son to King
Richard the First.
James Gurnet, servant to Lady Faulconbridge.
Peter, of Pomfret, a prophet.
Philip, King 0/France.
Lewis, the Dauphin.
Archduke of Austria.
Cardinal Pandulph, the Pope's legate.
386
SHAKSPEARIAN HEADER.
Melun, a French lori.
Chatillon, ambassador from France to King John.
Elinor, the widow of King Henry II., and mother of King John.
Constance, mother to Arthur.
Blanch, daughter to Alphonso, King of Castile, and niece to
King John.
Lady FAOLcoNBRiceE.
Lords, Ladies, Citizens of Angiers, Sheriff, Heralds, Officers,
Soldiers, Messengers, and other Attendants,
SCENE.—Sometimes in Englano, and sometim s in France.
ACT III.
We commence our extracts at the period whCn King John invades France with a
nnmerons army, to chastise Philip for espousing the cause of Prince Arthur, the rightful
heir to the English throne.
The contending armies of England and France, meet before the city of Angiers; and
after a battle, in which each party claims the victory, a peace is declared between the
Sovereigns, to be cemented by the marriage of the French King's son, to Blanch, the
niece of John. Philip farther engages to break his league with the Lady Constance, and
her son. The indignation and grief of the widowed mother, is beautifully depicted in the
following scene.
SCENE.^—Angiers. The French King's Tent.
Hfiier Constance, Arthur, and Salisbury.
Const. Gone to be married! gone to swear a peace!
False blood to false blood join'd! Gone to be friends!
Shall Lewis have Blanch ? and Blanch those provinces ?
It is not so; thou hast mis-spoke, misheard;
Be well advis'd, tell o'er thy tale again:
It cannot be; thou dost but say, 'tis so:
I trust, I may not trust thee; for thy word
Is but the vain breath of a common man:
Believe me, I do not believe tiiee, man;
I have a king's oath to the contrary.
Thou shalt punish'd for thus frighting me,
For I am sick, and capable of fears;
Oppress'd with vn-ongs, and therefore full of fears-
A widow, husbandless, subject to fears;
A woman, naturally born to fears; -
And though thou now confess, thou didst but jest.
With my vex'd spirits I cannot take a truce.
But they will quake and tremble all this day.
What dost thou mean by shaking of thy head 7
XING JOHN.
387
WTiy dost thou look so sadly on my son ?
What means that hand upon that breast of thine!
Why holds thine eye that lamentable rheum,
Like a proud river peering o'er his bounds 1
Be these sad signs confirmers of thy words ?
Then speak again; not all thy former tale,
But this one word, whether thy tale be true.
Sal. As true, as, I believe, you think them false,
That give you cause to prove my saying true.
Const. O, if thou teach me to believe this sorrow,
Teach thou this sorrow how to make me die;
And let belief and life encounter so.
As doth the fury of two desperate men.
Which, in the very meeting, fall, and die.—
Lewis marry Blanch! O, boy, then where art thou 7
France friend with England! what becomes of me ?—
Fellow, begone! I cannot brook thy sight;
This news hath made thee a most ugly man.
Sal. What other harm have I, good lady, done,
But spoke the harm that is by others done ?
Const. Which harm within itself so heinous is.
As it makes harmful all tliat speak of it.
Arth. I do beseech you, madam, be content.
Const. If thou, that bid'st me be content, were grim,
Full of unpleasing blots, and sightless stains.
Lame, foolish, crook'd, swart, prodigious,
Patch'd with foul moles, and eye-o&nding marks,
I would not care, I then would he content;
For then I should not love thee; no, nor thou
Become thy great birth, nor deserve a crown.
But thou art fair; and at thy birth, dear boy!
Nature and fortune join'd to make thee great:
Of nature's gifts thou may'st with lilies boast.
And with the half-blown rose: but fortune, O!
She is corrupted, chang'd, and won from thee;
She adulterates hourly with thine uncle John;
And with her golden hand bath pluck'd on France
To tread down fair respect of sovereignty.
Tell me, thou fellow, is not France forsworn ?
Envenom him with words; or get thee gone,
And leave these woes alone, which I alone, ■
Am bound to imder-bear.
Sal. Pardon me, madam,
I may not go without you to the kings.
Const. Thou may'st, thou shalt, I will not go with theo i
I will instruct my sorrows to be proud:
For grief is proud, and makes his owner stout.
To me, and to the state of my great grief.
Let kings assemble, for my grief's so great..
888
SHAKSsPIiARUN READER.
That no supporter but the huge firm earth
Can hold it up: here I and sorrow sit;
Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.
[She throws herself on the ground.
Enter King John, King Philip, Lewis, Blanch, Elinor, Faul-
conbridge. austria, and Attendants.
K. Phi. 'Tis true, fair daughter; and this blessed day.
Ever in France shall be kept festival:
To solemnize this day, the glorious sun
Stays in his course, and plays the alchemist;
Turning, with splendor of his precious eye.
The meagre cloddy earth to glittering gold;
The yearly course, that brings this day about.
Shall never see it but a holyday.
Const. A wicked day, and not a holyday!— [Rising.
What hath this day deserv'd ? what hath it done:
That it in golden letters should be set.
Among the high tides, in the calendar ?
Nay, neither, turn this day out of the week;
This day of shame, oppression, perjury:
This day, all things begun come to ill end;
Yet, faith itself to hollow falsehood change!
K. Phi. By heaven, lady, you shall have no cause
To curse the "fair proceedings of this day:
Have I not pawn'd to you my majesty 1
Const. You have beguil'd me with a counterfeit I
Resembling majesty ; which, being touch'd, and tried.
Proves valueless: You are forsworn, forsworn;
You came in arms to spill mine enemies' blood.
But now in arms, you strengthen it with yours:
The grappling vigor and rough frown of war.
Is cold in amity and painted peace.
And our oppression hath made up this league:—
Arm, arm, you heavens, against these perjured kings!
A widow cries; be husband to me, heavens !
Let not the hours of this ungodly day
Wear out the day in peace; but, ere sunset,
Set armed discord 'twixt these perjur'd kings!
^Hear me, O, hear me!
Aust. . Lady Constance, peace.
Const. War! war! no peace ! peace is to me a war.
O Ijymoges! O Austria! thou dost shame
That bloody spoil: Thou slave, thou wretch, thou coward;
Thou little valiant, great in villany!
Thou ever strong upon the stronger side!
Thou fortune's champion, that dost never fight
But when her humorous ladyship is by
To teach thee safety! Thou cold-blooded slave,
king john.
Hast tnou not spoke like thunder on my side ?
Been sworn my soldier ? bidding me depend
Upon thy stars, thy fortune, and thy strength ?
And dost thou now fall over to my foes ?
Thou wear a lion's hide! doff it for shame,
And hang a calf's-skin on those recreant limbs.
Aust. O, that a man should speak those words to me!
Faul. And hang a calf s-skin on those recreant limbs,
Aust. Thou dar'st not say so, villain, for thy life.
Faul. And hang a calfs-skin on those recreant limbs.
K. John. We like not this; thou dost forget thyself.
Enter Pandulph.
K. Phi. Here comes the holy legate of the pope.
Pand. Hail, you anointed deputies of heaven!
To thee, king John, my holy errand is.
I, Pandulph, of fair Milan cardinal,
And from pone Innocent the legate here,
Do, in his name, religiously demand,
Why thou against the church, our holy mother,
80 wilfully dost spurn; and, force perforce,
Keep Stephen Langton, chosen archbishop
Of Canterbury, from that holy see ? ^
This, in our 'foresaid holy father's name,
Pope Innocent, I do demand of thee.
K. John. What earthly name to interrogatories.
Can task the free breath of a sacred king ?
Thou canst not, cardinal, devise a name
So slight, unworthy, and ridiculous.
To charge me to an answer, as the pope.
Tell him this tale; and from the mouth of Englai'.d,
Add thus much more,—^That no Italian priest
Shall tithe or toll in our dominions;
But as we under heaven are supreme head.
So, under him, that great supremacy.
Where we do reign, we will alone uphold.
Without the assistance of a mortal hand :
So tell the pope; all reverence set apart,
To him, and his usurp'd authority.
K. Phi. Brother of England, you blaspheme in this.
K. John. Though you, and all the kings of Christendom
Are led so grossly by thi^ meddling priest.
Dreading the cur.se that money may buy out;
And, by the merit of vile gold, dross, dust.
Purchase corrupted pardon of a man.
Who, in that sale, sells pardon from himself;
Though you, and all the rest, so grossly led.
This juggling witchcraft with revenue cherish;
880
SHAESPEARIAN READER.
Yet I, alone, alone do me oppose
Against the pope, and count his friends my foes.
Pand. Then by the lawful power that I have,
Thou shalt stand curs'd, and excommunicate:
And blessed shall he be, that doth revolt
From his allej^nce to an heretic;
And meritorious shall that hand be call'd,
' Canoniz'd, and worship'd as a saint.
That takes away by any secret course
Thy hateful life.
Const. O, lawful let it be.
That I have room with Rome to curse awhile!
Good father cardinal, cry thou, amen.
To my keen curses: for, without my wrong.
There is no tongue hath power to curse him right.
Pand. There's law and warrant, lady, for my curse.
Const. And for mine too; when law can do no right.
Let it be lawful, that law bar no wrong:
Law cannot give my child his kingdom here;
For he, that holds his kingdom, holds the law :
Therefore, since law itself is perfect wrong.
How can the law forbid my tongue to curse 1
Pand. Philip of France, on peril of a curse,
[jet go the hand of that arch-heretic;
^nd raise the power of France upon his head,
Jnless he do submit himself to Rome.
Eli. Look'st thou pale, France ? do not let go thy hand.
Aust. King Philip, listen to the cardinal.
K. John. Philip, what say'st thou to the cardinal ?
Const. What should he say, but as the cardinal ?
K. Phi. Good reverend father, make my person youre,
And tell me, how you would bestow yourself.
T'his royal hand and mine are newly knit:
And shall these hands, so lately purg'd of blood.
So newly joined in love, so strong in both.
Unyoke this seizure, and this kind regreet ?
Play fast and loose with faith ? so jest with heaven,
Make such unconstant children of ourselves.
As now a^in to snatch our palm from palm;
Unswear faith sworn ; and on the marriage bed
Of smiling peace to march a bloody host.
And make a riot on the gentle brow
Of true sincerity ? O holy sir.
My reverend father, let it not be so:
Out of your grace, devise, ordain, impose
Some gentle order; and then we sh^ be bless'd
To do your pleasure, and continue friends.
Pand. All form is formless, order orderless.
Save what is opposite to England's love.
KING JOHN.
Therefore, to arms, be champion of our church!
Or let the church, our mother, breathe her curse,
A mother's curse, on her revolting son.
France, thou may'st hold a serpent by the tonghe,
A cased lion by the mortal paw,
A fasting tiger safer by the tooth.
Than keep in peace that hand which thou dost hold.
K. Phi. I may disjoin my hand, but not my faith.
Pand. So makest thou faith an enemy to faith;
And, like a civil war, set'st oath to oath.
Thy tongue against thy tongfue. O let thy vow
First made to heaven, first be to heaven perform'd ;
That is, to be the champion of our church!
But, if not, then know.
The peril of our curses light on thee;
So heavy, as thou shalt not shake them off.
But, in despair, die under their black weight.
Aust. Rebellion, flat rebellion!
Fa^d. Will't not he ?
Will not a calf's-skin stop that mouth of thine ?
Lew. Father, to arms !
Blanch. Upon thy wedding day ?
Against the blood that thou hast married ?
0 husband, hear me!—even for that name.
Which till this time my tongue did ne'er pronounce.
Upon my knee I beg, go not to arms
Against mine uncle.
Const. O, upon my knee,
Made hard with kneeling, I do pray to thee.
Thou virtuous Dauphin, alter not the doom
Fore-thought by heaven.
Blanch. Now shall I see thy love; What motive may
Be stronger with thee than the name of wife ?
Const. That which upholdeth him that thee upholds.
His honor: O, thine honor, Lewis, thine honor!
Lew. I muse, your majesty doth seem so cold.
When such profound respects do puU you on.
Pand. I will denounce a curse upon his head.
K. Phi. Thou shalt not need: England, I'll fall from thee.
Const. O fair return of banish'd majesty !
Eli. O foul revolt of French inconstancy !
K. John. France, thou shalt rue this hour within this hour.
Blanch. The sun's o'ercast with blood : Fair day, adieu ?
Which is the side that I must go withal 1
1 am with both : each army hath a hand;
And, in their rage, I having hold of both,
They whirl asunder, and dismember me.
Husband, I cannot pray that thou may'st win;
Uncle, I needs must pray that thou may'st lo.sfl
392
SHAKSPEARtAN READER.
Father, I may not wish the fortune thine;
Grandam, I will not wish thy wishes thrive.
Whoever wins, on that side shall I lose;
Assured loss, before the match be play'd
Lew. Lady, with me; with me thy fortune lies.
Blanch. There where my fortune lives, there my life dies.
K. John. Cousin, go draw our puissance together.—
[Exit Faux.
France, I am bum'd up with inflaming wrath;
A rage, whose heat hath this condition,
I'hat nothing can allay, nothing but blood.
The blood, and dearest valu'd blood, of France.
K. Phi. Thy rage shall burn thee up, and thou shalt turn
, To ashes, ere our blood shall quench that fire:
Look to thyself, thou art in jeopardy.
K. John. No more than he mat threats.—To arms let's hie^
[Exeunt.
A battle ensues between the Fiencb and English forces, and Arthur is taken prisonef
by King John.
SCENE.—Plains near Anglers.
Alarums; Excursions; Retreat. Enter King John, Elinor, Ar¬
thur, Faulconbridge, Hubert, and Lords.
K. John. So shall it be; your grace shall stay behind,
[To Elinob,
So strongly guarded.—Cousin, look not sad: [To Arthur.
Thy grandam loves mee; and thy uncle will
As dear be to thee as thy father was.
Arth. O, this will make my momer die with grief.
K. John. Cousin,—[to Faulconbridge.]—away for England
haste before:
And, ere our coming, see mou shake the bags
Of hoarding abbots; imprison'd angels
Set thou at liberty: the fat ribs of 'peace
Must by the hungry now be fed upon:
Use our commission in its utmost force.
Paul. Bell, book, and candle shall not drive me back.
When gold and silver becks me to come on.
I leave your highness:—Grandam, I will pray
(If ever I remember to be holy,)
For your fair safety; so I kiss your hand.
Eli. Farewell, my gentle cousin.
K. John. Coz, farewell. [Exit Faulconbridgr,
Eli. Come hither, little kinsman; hark, a word.
[She takes Arthur aside,
K. John. Come hither, Hubert. O my gentle Hubert,
We owe mee much; within this wall of flesh
There is a soul, counts mee her creditor.
KING JOHN.
303
And with advantage means to pay thy love:
And, my good friend, thy voluntary oath
Lives in this bosom, dearly cherished.
Give me thy hand. I had a thing to say,-,-
But I will fit it with some better time.
By heaven, Hubert, I am almost asham'd
To say what good respect I have of thee.
Huh. I am much bounden to your majesty.
K. John. Good friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet:
But thou shalt have: and creep time ne'er so slow.
Yet it shall come, for me to do thee good.
I had a thing to say,—But let it go:
The sun is in the heaven, and the proud day.
Attended with the pleasures of the world.
Is all too wanton, and too full of gawds.
To give me audience:—If the midnight bell
Did with his iron tongue and brazen mouth,
Sound one unto the drowsy race of night;
If this same were a church-yard where we stand,
And thou possessed with a ^ousand wrongs;
Or if that surly spirit, melancholy,
Had bak'd thy blood, and made it heavy, thick;
(Which, else, runs tickling up and .down the veins,
Making that idiot, laughter, keep men's eyes.
And strain their cheeks to idle merriment,
A passion hateful to my purposes;)
Or if that thou could'st see me without eyes.
Hear me without thine ears, and make reply
Without a tongue, using conceit alone.
Without eyes, ears, and harmful sound of words,
Then, in despite of brooded, watchful day,
I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts:
But ah, I will not:—Yet I love thee well;
And, by my troth, I think, thou lov'st me well.
Hub. So well, that what you bid me undertake,
Though that my death were adjunct to my act.
By heaven, I'd do't.
K. John. Do not I know, thou would'sti *
Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye
On yon young boy; I'll tell thee what, my friend,
He is a very serpent in my way:
And, wheresoe'er this foot of mine doth tread.
He lies before me: Dost thou understand me 1
Thou art his keeper.
Hub. And I will keep him so,
That he shall not oflTend your majesty.
K. John. Death.
Huh. My lord 1
K. John. A grave.
894
shakspearian reader.
Hub. He shall not live.
K. John. Enough.
I could be merry now: Hubert, I love thee.
WeU, I'll not say what I intend for thee:
Remember. Madam, fare you well:
I'll send those powers o'er to your majesty.
Fdi. My blessing go with tiiee!
K. John. For England, cousin, go:
Hubert sball be your man, attend on you
With all true duty.—On toward Calais, ho! [Exeunt
SCENE.—The French King's Tent.
Enter King Philip, Lewis, Pandulph, and Attendants.
K. Phi. So, by a roaring tempest on the flood,
A whole armado of convicted sail
Is scatter'd and disjoin'd from fellowship.
Pand. Courage and comfort! all shall yet go well.
K. Phi. What can go well, when we have run so ill ?
Are we not beaten ? Is not Anglers lest 7
Arthur ta'en prisoner 7 divers dear friends slain;
And bloody England into England gone,
O'erbearing interruption, spite of France 7
Lew. What he hath won, that hath he fortified:
So hot a speed with such advice dispos'd.
Such temperate order in so fierce a cause.
Doth want example: Who hath read, or heard.
Of any kindred action like to this 7 ■*'
K. Phi. Well could I bear that England had this praise,
So we could find some pattern of our shame.
Enter Constance. -
Look, who comes here! a grave unto a soul;
Holding the eternal spirit, against her will.
In the vile prison of afflicted breath:—
I pr'ythee, lady, go away with me.
Const. Lo, now! now see the, issue of your peace!
K. Phi. Patience, good lady! comfort, gentle Constance i
Const. No, I defy all counsel, all redress.
But that which ends all counsel, true redress.
Death, death:—O amiable, lovely death!
Arise forth from the couch of lasting night.
Thou hate and terror to prosperity.
And I will kiss thy detestable bones;
Come, grin on me; and I will think thou smil'st.
And buss thee as thy wife! Misery's love,
O, come to me!
K. Phi. O fair affliction, peace.
Const. No, no, will not, having breath to cry
KING JOHN.
O, that my tongue were in the. thunder's mouth!
Then with a passion would I shake the world;
And rouse from sleep that fell anatomy,
Which cannot hear a lady's feeble voice,
Which scorns a modern invocation.
Pand. Lady, you utter madness, and not scnow.
Const. Thou art not holy to belie me so;
I am not mad: this hair I tear is mine;
My name is Constance; I was Geffrey's wife-,
Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost:
I am not mad;—I would to heaven I were!
For then, 'tis like I should forget myself:
O, if I could, what grief should I forget!—
Preach some philosophy to make me mad.
And thou shalt be canoniz'd, cardinal;
For, being not mad, but sensible of grief,
My reasonable part produces reason
How I may be deliver'd of these woes.
And teaches me to kill or hang myself:
If I were mad, I should forget my son;
I am not mad; too well, too well I feel
The different plague of each calamity.
K. Phi. Bind up those tresses:
Sticking together in calamity.
Const. To England, if you will.
K. Phi. Bind up your haira.
Const. Yes, that I will; And wherefore will I da it 9
I tore them from their bonds; and cried aloud,
0 that these hands could so redeem son.
As they have given these hairs their liberty!
But now I envy at their liberty.
And will again commit them to their bonds,
Because my poor child is a prisoner.
And, father cardinal, I have heard you say
That we shall see and know our friends in neaven;
If that be true, I shall see my boy again;
For, since the birth of Cain, the first male child.
To him that did but yesterday suspire.
There was not such a gracious creature bom
But now wiU canker sorrow eat my bud.
And chase the native beauty from his cheek.
And he will look as hollow as a ghost;
As dim and meagre as an ague's fit;
And so he'll die; and, rising so again.
When I shall meet him in &e court of heaven
1 shall not know him: therefore never, never
Must I behold my pretty Arthur more.
Pand. You hold too heinous a respect of grief.
Const. He talks to me, that never had a son.
%
396
SHAKSPEARUN READER.
K. Phi. You are as fond of grief, as of your child.
Const. Grief fills the room up of my absent child,
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me;
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words.
Remembers me of all his gracious parts. .
StufiTs out his vacant garments with his form;
Then, have 1 reason to be fond of grief.
Fare you well: had you such a loss as I, ^ ,
I could give better comfort than you do.——
I will not keep this form upon my head,
^Tearinfr off her headdress
When there is such disorder in my wit.
O lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son!
My life, my joy, my food, my all the world!
My widow-comfort, and my sorrows' cure! \Extl.
K. Phi. I fear some outrage, and I'll follow her. [ExiL
ACT IV.
Arthur is conveyed to England, where he is imprisoned in Northampton Castle
Hnberi is appointed his keeper, with instrnctions from King John to find some meant
secretly, to deprive the young Prince of his life.
SCENE I.—Northampton. A Room in the Castle.
Enter Hubert, and Two Attendants.
Huh. Heat me these irons hot; and, look thou stand
Within the arras : When I strike my foot
Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth:
And bind the boy, which you shall find with me.
Fast to the chair: be heedful: hence, and watch.
1st Attend. I hope your warrant will bear out the deed.
Hub. Uncleanly scruples! Fear not you: Look to't.
[Exeunt Attendauta
Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you..
Enter Arthur.
Arth. Good morrow, Hubert.
Hub. Good morrow, litdo prince.
Arth. As little prince (having so great a title
To be more prince) as may be. You are sad.
Hub. Indeed, I have been merrier.
Arth. Mercy on me!
Methinks, nobody should be sad but I:
Yet, I remember, when I was in France,
Young gentlemen would be as sad as night.
Only for-wantonness. By my Christendom,
So I were out of prison, and kept sheep.
KING JOHN.
397
I should be as merry as the day is long;
And so I would be here, but that I doubt
My uncle practises more harm to me:
He is afraid of me, and I of him:
Is it mv fault that I was Geffrey's son ?
No, indeed, is't not; And, I would to heaven,
I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert.
Hub. If I talk to him, with his innocent prate
He will awake my mercy, which lies dead;
Therefore I will be sudden and dispatch. [Aside
Arth. Are you sick, Hubert ? you look pale to-day:
In sooth, I would you were a little sick;
That I might sit all night, and watch with you:
I warrant, I love you more than you do me.
Hub. His words do take possession of my bosom.—Read here,
young Arthur.—[Showing a paper.]—How now, foolish rheum!
[Aside.
Turning dispiteous torture out of door!
I must brief; lest resolution drop
Out at mine eyes, in tender womanish tears.
Can you not read it ? is it not fair writ ?
Arth. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect:
Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes ?
Hub. Yoimg boy, I must.
Arth. And will you ?
Hid). And I wiU.
Arth. Have you the heart ? When your head did but ache,
I knit my handkerchief about your brows,
(The best I had, a princess wrought it for me,)
And I did never ask it you again:
And with my hand at midnight held your head;
And, like the watchful minutes to the hour,
, Still and anon cheer'd up the heavy time;
Saying, What lack you ? and. Where lies your grief 1
Or, wW good love may I perform for you ?
Many a poor man's son would have lain still.
And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you;
But you at your sick service had a prince.
Nay, you may think, my love was crafty love.
And call it cunning; Do, an if you will:
If heaven be pleased that you must use me ill.
Why, then you must.—Will you put out mine eyes ?
These eyes, that never did, nor never shall,
So much as frown on you ?
Hub. I have sworn to do it;
And with hot irons must I burn them out.
Arth. Ah, none, but in this iron age, would do it!
The iron of itself, though heat red-hot.
Approaching pear these eyes, would drink my tears.
S98
SHAKSPEAEIAN READEfi.
And quench his fiery indignation,
Even in the matter of mine innocence:
Nay, after that, consume away in rust.
But for containing fire to harm mine eye.
Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer'd iron 1
An if an angel should have come to me.
And told me, Hubert should put Qut mine eyes,
I would not have believ'd no tongue, but Hubert's.
Hub. Come forth. ' [Stamps
Re-enter Attendants, loith cords, irons,
Do as I bid you do.
Arth. O, save me, Hubert, save me! my eyes are out.
Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men.
Hub. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here.
Arth. Alas, what need you be so boisterous-rough ?
I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still.
For heaven's sake, Hubert, let me not be bound!
Nay, hear me, Hubert! drive these men away,
And I will sit as quiet as a lamb;
1 will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word.
Nor look upon the iron angerly:
Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you.
Whatever torment you do put me to.
Hub. Go, stand within; let me alone with him.
1st Attend. I am best pleas'd to be from such a deed.
[Exeunt Attendants.
Arth. Alas! I then have chid away my friend;
He hath a stem look, but a gentle heart:—
Let him come back, that his compassion may
Give life to yours.
Hub. Come, boy, prepare yourself.
Arth. Is there no remedy ?
Hub. None, but to lose your eyes.
Arth. O heaven!—^that there were but a mote in yours,
A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wand'ring hair.
Any annoyance in that precious sense!
Then, feeling what small things are boist'rous there.
Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.
Hub. Is this your promise ? go to, hold your tongue.
Arth. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues
Must needs want pleading for a pair -of eyes:
Let me not hold my tongue; let me not, Hubert!
Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue,
So I may keep mine eyes; O, spare mine eyes;
Though to no use, but still to look on you!
Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold.
And would not harm me.
Hub. I can heat it, boy.
KING JOHN.
399
Arih. No, in good sooth; the fire is dead with grief,
Being create for comfort, to be us'd
In undeserv'd extremes: See else yourself;
There is no malice in this burning coal;
The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out,
And strew'd repentant ashes on his head.
Hub, But with my breath I can revive it, boy.
Arth. And if you do, you will but make it blush,
And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert:
Nay, it, perchance, will sparkle in your eyes;
And, like a dog that is compell'd to fight.
Snatch at his master that doth tarre him on.
All things, that you should use to do me wrong, '
Deny their office: only you do lack
That mercy, which fierce fire, and iron extends.
Creatures of note, for mercy-lacking uses.
Hub. Well, see to live, I will not touch thine eyes,
Per all the treasure that thine uncle owes:
Yet I am sworn, and I did purpose, boy.
With this same very iron to burn them out.
Arih. O, now you look like Hubert!
You were disguised.
Hub. Peace: no more. Adieu.
Your uncle must not know but you are dead:
I'll fill these dogged spies with false reports.
And, pretty child, sleep doubtless, and secure.
That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world.
Will not offend thee.
Arth. O heaven!—I thank you, Hubert.
Hub. Silence; no more: Go closely in with me.
Much danger do I undergo for thee. [Sxeuni.
Eing John is crowned the second time, in hopes to give assnrance, by thb double
soronation, of bis title to the English crown. The Nobles and People are disaffected,
and Philip breaks the league, and prepares to invade England. John, alarmed at hii
position, repents of his conduct towards young Arthur, and accuses his confidant, Hubert,
with tempting him to accede to the murder.
SCENE II.—A Room of State in the Palace.
Enter King John, crowned; Pembroke, Salisbury, and oiker Lorda
The King takes his State.
K. John. Here once again we sit, once again crown'd.
And look'd upon, I hope, with cheerful eyes.
Pern. This oiice again, but that your highness plcas'd.
Was once superfluous: you were crown'd before.
And that high royalty was ne'er pluck'd off;
The faiths of men ne'er stained with revolt;
Fresh expectation troubled not the land.
400
SHAKSPEARIAN READER.
With any long'd-for ch^ge, or better state.
Sal. Therefore, to be possess'd with double pomp,
To guard a title that was rich before,
To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,
To throw a perfume on the violet,
To smooth the ice, or add another hue
Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light
To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish.
Is wasteful, and ridiculous excess.
Pern. But that your royal pleasure must be done
This act is as an ancient tale new told;
And, in the last repeating, troublesome.
Being urged at a time unseasonable.
Sal. In this, the antique and well-noted face
Of plain old form is much disfigured;
And, like a shifted wind unto a sail.
It makes the course of thoughts to fetch about;
Startles and frights consideration;
Makes sound opinion sick, and truth suspected.
For putting on so new a fashion'd robe.
Pem. When workmen strive to do better than woU,
They do confound their skill in covetousness:
And, oftentimes, excusing of a fault.
Doth make the fault the worse by the excuse;
As patches, set upon a little breach.
Discredit more in hiding of the fault.
Than did the fault before it was so patch'd.
Sal. To this effect, before you were new-crown'd.
We breath'd our counsel: but it pleas'd your highnese
To overbear it; and we are all well pleas'd;
Since all and every part of what we would.
Doth make a stand at what your highness will.
K.John. Some reasons of this double coronation
I have possess'd you with, and think them strong;
And more, more strong, (when lesser is my fear,)
I shall indue you with: Meantime, but ask
What you would have reform'd, that is not well;
And well shall you perceive, how willingly
I will both hear and grant you your requests.
Pent. Then J, (as one that am the tongue of these
To sound the purposes of all their hearts,)
Both for myself and them, (but, chief of dl.
Your safety, for the which myself and them
Bend their best studies,) heartily request
The enfranchisement of Arthur: whose restraint
Doth move the murmuring lips of discontent.
To break into this dangerous argument,—
If, what in rest you have, in right you hold.
Why then your fears, (which, as they say, attend
king john.
401
The steps of wrong,) should move you to mew up
Your tender kinsman, and to choke his days
With barbarous ignorance, and deny his youth
The rich advantage of "good exercise 1
That the time's enemies may not have this
To grace occasions, let it be our suit.
That you have bid us ask his liberty;
Which for our goods we do no further ask.
That whereupon our weaf, on you depending.
Counts it your weal, he have his liberty.
K.John. Let it be so; I do commit this youth
Enter Hubert.
To your direction.—^Hubert, what news with you ?
Pern. This is the man should do the bloody deed.
He show'd his warrant to a'friend of mine:
The image of a wicked heinous fault
Lives in his eye; that close aspect of his
Does show the mood of a much-troubled breast;
And I do fearfully believe, 'tis done.
What we so fear'd he had a charge to do.
Sal. The color of the king doth come and go,
Between his purpose and his conscience.
Like heralds 'twixt two dreadful battles set:
His passion is so ripe, it needs must break.
Pern. And, when it breaks, I fear, will issue thence
The foul corruption of a sweet child's death.
K. John. We cannot hold mortality's,strong hand:—
Great lords, although my will to give is living.
The suit which you demand is gone and dead:
He tells us, Arthur is deceas'd to-night.
Sal. Indeed, we fear'd his sickness was past cure.
Pern. Indeed, we heard how near his death he was,
Before the child himself felt he was sick:
This must be answer'd, either here, or hence.
K. John. Why do you bend such solemn brows on me 7
Think you, I bear the shears of destiny ?
Have I commandment on the pulse of life 7
Sal. It is apparent foul-play; and 'tis shame,
That greatness should so ^ossly offer it:
So thrive it in your game ! and so farewell.
Pern. Stay yet, lord Salisbury; I'll go with thee.
And find the inheritance of this poor child.
His little kingdom of a forced grave.
That blood, which ow'd the breadth of all this isle.
Three foot of it doth hold: Bad world the while !
This must not be thus borne: this will break out
To all our sorrows, and ere long I doubt. [Exeunt Lorda
K. John. They burn in indignation ; I repent;
402
SHAESPEARIAN READER.
There is no sure foundation set on blood;
No certain life achiev'd by others' death.
Enter a Messenger. .
A fearful eye thou hast; Where is that blood,
That I have seen inhabit in those cheeks 1
So foul a sky clears not without a storm:
Pour down my weather:—How goes all in France 1
Mess. IVom France to England.—Never such a power
For any foreign preparation,
Was levied in the Imy of a land!
The copy of your speed is learned by them;
For, when you should be told they do prepare.
The tidings come, that they are all arriv'ci.
K. John. O, where hath our intelligence been drunk ?
Where hath it slept! Where is my mother's care ?
That such an army could be drawn in France,
And she not hear of it ?
Mess. My liege, her ear
Is stopp'd with dust; the first of April, died
Yotir noble mother: And, as I hear, my lord.
The lady Constance in a frenzy died
Three days before: but this from rumor's tongue
I idly heard; If true, or false, I know not.
K. John. Withhold thy speed, dreadful occasion!
O, make a league with me, till I have pleas'd ■
My discontented peers!—my mother dead ?
Hub. My lord, they say, five moons were seen to-night:
Four fixed; and the fifth did whirl about
The other four, in wondrous motion.
K. John. Five moons ?
Hub. Old men, and beldams, in the streets.
Do prophesy upon it dangerously;
Young Arthur's death is common in their mouths:
And when they talk of him, they shake their heads,
And whisper one another in the ear;
And he, that speaks, doth gripe the hearer's wrist;
Whilst he, that hears, makes fearful action.
With wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling eyes.
I saw a smith stand with his hammer, thus.
The whilst his iron did on the anvil cool, .
With open mouth swallowing a tailor's news;
Who, with his shears and measure in his hand,
Standing on slippers, (which his nimble haste
Had falsely thrust upon contrary feet,)
Told of a many thousand warlike French,
That were embattailled and rank'd in Kent:
Another lean unwash'd artificer
Cuts ofl' his tale, and talks of Arthur's death.
KING JOHN.
K. John. Why seek'st thou to possess me with these fears'
Why urgdst thou so oft young Arthur's death ?
Thy hand hath murder'd him : I had mighty cause
To wish him dead, but thou hadst none to Mil him.
Hub. Had none, my lord! why, did you not provoke me ?
K. John. It is the curse of kings, to be attended
By slaves, that take their humors for a warrant
To break w^jhin the bloody house of life;
And, on the winking of authority.
To understand a law; to know the meaning
Of dangerous majesty, when, perchance, it frowns
More upon humor than advis'd respect.
Hub. Here is your hand and seal for what I did.
K. John. O, when the last account 'twixt heaven and earth
Is to be made, then shall this hand and seal
Witness against us to damnation !
How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds.
Makes deeds ill done! Hadst not thou been by,
A fellow by the hand of nature mark'd.
Quoted, and sign'd to do a deed of shame.
This murder had not come into my mind:
But, taking note of thy abhorr'd aspect.
Finding thee fit for bloody villany.
Apt, liable, to be employ'd in danger,
I faintly broke with thee of Arthur's death;
And thou, to be endeared to a king.
Made it no conscience to destroy a prince.
Hub. My lord,
K. John. Hadst thou but shook thy head, or made a pause
When I spake darkly what I purposed;
Or turned an eye of doubt upon my face.
And bid me tell my tale in express words:
Deep shame had struck me dumb, made me break off.
And those thy fears might have wrought fears in me:
But thou didst understand me by my signs.
And didst in signs again parley with sin;
Yea, without stop, didst let thy heart consent.
And consequently, thy rude hand to act
The deed, which both our tongues held vile-to name.—
Out of my sight, and never see me more!
My nobles leave me; and my state is brav'd.
Even at my gates, with ranks of foreign powers;
Nay, in the body of this fleshly land.
This kingdom, this confine of blood and breath.
Hostility and civic tumult reigns
Between my conscience, and my cousin's death.
Hub. Arm you against your other enemies,
I'll make a peace betwixt your soul and you.
Young Arthur is alive: This hand of mine,
404
SHAKSPEABIAN BEADEB.
Is yet a maiden and an innocent hand,
Not painted with the crimson spots of blood
Within this bosom never enter'd yet
The dreadful notion of a murd'rous thought,
And you have slander'd nature in my form:
Which howsoever rude exteriorly, ^
Is yet the cover of a fairer mind
Than to be butcher of an innocent child. .
K. John. Doth Arthur live ? O, haste thee to the peers,
Throw this report on their incensed rage,
And make them tame to their obedience t
Forgive the comment that my passion made
Upon thy feature ; for my rage was blind.
And foul imaginary eyes of blood
Presented thee more hideous than thou art.
O, answer not; but to my closet bring
The angry lords, with all expedient haste:
I c6njure thee but slowly; run more fast. [Exeunt,
SCENE III.—The same. Brfore the Castle.
Enter Akthtjr on the walls.
Arih. The wall is high; and yet will I leap down:—
Good ground, be pitiful, and hurt me not!—
There's few, or none, do know me; if they did.
This ship-boy's semblance hath disguis'd me quite.
I am afraid; and yet I'U venture it.
If I get down, and do not break my limbs,
I'll find a thousand shifts to get away:
As good to die, and go, as die, and stay. [Leaps doum,
O me! my uncle's spirit is in these stones:—
Heaven take my soul, and England keep my bones! [D\e»,
Enter Pembroke, Salisbury and Bigot.
■ Sal. Lords, I will meet him at Saint Edmund's Bury:
It is our safety, and we must embrace
This gentle oflTer of the perilous time.
Pern. Who brought that letter from the cardinal ?
Sal. The count Melun, a noble lord of France;
Whose private with me, of the dauphin's love,
Is much more general than these lines import.
Big. To-morrow morning let us meet him then.
Sal. Or rather then set forward; for 'twill be
Two long days' journey, lords, or e'er we meet.
Enter Faulcosbridge.
Faul. Once more to-day well met, distemper'd lords!
The king by me, requests your presence straight.
KING JOHN.
405
Sal. The king hath dispossess'd himself of us;
We will not line his thin bestained cloak
With our pure honors, nor attend the foot
That leaves the print of blood where'er it walks:
Return, and tell him so; we know the worst
Faul. JiVhate'er you think, good words, I think, were best.
Sal. Our griefs, and not our manners, reason now.
Faul. But there is little reason in your grief;
Therefore, 'twere reason, you had manners now.
Pern. Sir, sir, impatience hath his privilege.
Faul. 'Tis true; to hurt his master, no man else.
Sal. This is the prison: What is he lies here 1
[Seeing AKTirtTB.
Pern. O death, made proud with pure and princely beauty !
The earth had not a hole to hide this deed.
Sal. Murder, as hating what himself hath done,
Doth lay it open, to urge on revenge.
Big. Or, when he doom'd this beauty to a grave,
Found it too precious-princely for a grave.
Sal. Sir Richard, what think you? Have you beheld,
Or have you read, or heard ? or could you think.
Or do you almost think, although you see.
That you do see ? could thought, without this object.
Form such another ? this is the very top.
The height, the crest, or crest unto the crest.
Of murder's arms : this is the "bloodiest shame,
The wildest savag'ry, the vilest stroke.
That ever wall-eye'd wrath, ot staring rage.
Presented to the tears of soft remorse.
Pern. All murders past do stand excus'd in this i
And this so sole, and so unmatchable.
Shall give a holiness, a purity.
To the yet-unbegotten sin of times;
And prove a deadly bloodshed but a jest,
Exampled by this heinous spectacle.
Faul. It is a cursed and a bloody work;
The graceless action of a heavy hand.
If that it be the work of any hand.
Sal. If that it be the work of any hand ?—
We had a kind of light, what would ensue:
It is the shameful work of Hubert's hand:
The practice, and the purpose, of the king
From whose obedience I forbid my soul.
Kneeling before this ruin of sweet life.
And breathing to his breathless excellence
The incense of a vow, a holy vow.
Never to taste the pleasures of the world,
Never to be infected with delight.
Nor conversant with ease and idleness.
406 shakspearian reader.
Till I have set a glory to this hand,
By giving it the worship of revenge.
Pern. Big. Our souls religiously confirm thy words.
Enter Hubert.
Huh, Lords, I am hot with haste in seeking you «
Artnur doth live ; the king hath sent for you.
Sal. O, he is bold, and blushes not at death:—
Avaunt, thou hateful villain, get thee gone !
Hub. I am no villain.
Sal. Must I rob the law 1 [^Drawing his suord,
Paul, Your sword is bright, sir; put it up again.
Hub. Stand back, lord Salisbury, stand back, I say;
By heaven, I think, my sword's as sharp as yours :
I would not have you, lord, forget yourself.
Nor tempt the danger of my true defence;
Lest I, by marking of your rage, forget
Your worth, your greatness, and nobility.
Big. Out, dungniU! dar'st thou brave a nobleman ?
Hub. Not for my life; but yet I dare defend
My innocent life against an emperor.
Sal. Thou art a murderer.
Hub. Do not prove me so ;
Yet, I am none: Whose tongue soe'er speaks false.
Not truly speaks; who speaks not truly, lies.
Pern. Cut him to pieces.
Paul. Keep the peace, I say.
Sal. Stand by, or I shall gall you, Faulconbridge.
Paul. Thou wert better gall the devil, Salisbury;
If thou but frown on me, or stir thy foot.
Or teach thy hasty spleen to do me shame,
I'll strike thee dead. Put up thy sword betime.
Big. What wilt thou do, renowned Faulconbridge 1
Second a villain and a murderer ?
Huh. Lord Bigot, I am none.
Big. Who kill'd this prince 7
Hub. 'Tis not an hour since I left him weU:
I honor'd him, I lov'd him; and will weep
My date of life out, for his sweet life's loss.
Sal. Trust not those cunning waters of his eyes,
For villany is not without such rheum;
And he long traded in it, makes it seem
lake rivers of remorse and innocency.
Away, with me, all you whose souls abhor
The uncleanly savors of a slaughter-house;
For I am stifled with the smell of sin.
Big. Away, toward Bury, to the dauphin there!
Pern. There, tell the king, he may inquire us out
[Exeunt Lords.
KING JOHN.
407
Paid. Here's a good world!—^Elnew you of this fair work I
Beyond the infinite and boundless reach _ *
Of mercy, if thou didst this deed of death,
Art thou ^mn'd, Hubert.
Hub. Do but hear me, sir.
Paul. Ha! I'll tell thee what;
Thou art stained as black—nay, nothing is so black
^3 thou shalt be, if thou didst kill this child.
Hub. Upon my soul,
Paul. If thou didst but consent
To this most cruel act, do but despair,
And, if thou want'st a cord, the smallest thread
That ever spider twisted.
Will serve to strangle thee ; a rush will be
A beam to hang thee on; or would'st thou drown thyself
Put but a little water in a spoon,
And it shall be as all the ocean,
Enough to stifle such a villain up.
I do suspect thee very grievously.
Huh. I left him well.
■ Paul. Go, bear him in thine arms.—
I am amaz'd, methinks; and lose my way
Among the thorns and dangers of this world.—
How easy dost thou take all England up!
From forth this morsel of dead royalty,
The life, the right, and truth of all this realm
Is fled to heaven: and England now is left
To tug and scramble, and to part by the teeth
The unowed interest of proud-swelling state.
Now, for the bare-pick'd bone of majesty.
Doth dogged war bristle his angry crest.
And snarleth in the gentle eves of peace:
Now powers from home, and discontents at home,
Meet in one line; and vast confusion waits
(As doth a raven on a sick-fallen beast)
The eminent decay of wrested pomp.
Now happy he, whose cloak and cincture can
Hold out this tempest.—Bear away that child.
And follow me with speed; I'll to the king:
A thousand businesses are brief in hand.
And heaven itself doth frown upon the land. [ExetirU.
ACT V.
SCENE I.—The same. A Room in the Palace.
Enter King John, Pandulfh with the crown, and Attendants.
K. John. Thus have I yielded up into your hand
The circle of my glory.
408
SHAKSPEAEIAN READER.
Pand. Take again [Giving John the rrvwn.
Prom this my hand, as holding of the pope,
Your sovereign greatness and authority.
K. John. Now keep your holy word: go meet the French;
And from his holiness use all your power
To stop their marches, 'fore we are inflam'd.
Our discontented counties do revolt;
Our people quarrel with obedience;
Swearing allegiance, and the love of soul,
To stranger blood, to foreign royalty.
This inundation of mistemper'd humor
Rests by you only to be qualified.
Then pause not; for the present time's so sick,
That present medicine must be minister'd, "
Or overthrow incurable ensues.
Pand. It was my breath that blew this tempest up,
Upon your stubborn usage of the pope;
But, since you are a gentle convertite.
My tongue shall hush again this storm of war,
And make fair weather in your blustering land.
On this Ascension.day, remember well,
Upon your oath of service to the pope.
Go I to make the French lay down their arms. Ex%L
K. John. Is this Ascension-day ? Did not the prophet
Say, that, before Ascension-day at noon,
My crown I should give off? Even so I have:
I did suppose, it shomd be on constraint;
But, heaven te thank'd, it is but voluntary.
Enter Faulconbridge.
Paul. All Kent hath yielded; nothing there holds out,
But Dover castle: London hath receiv'5
Like a kind host, the dauphin and his powers:
Your nobles will not hear you, but are gone
To offer service to your enemy;
And wild amazement hurries up and down
The little number of your doubtful friends.
K. John. Would not my lords return to me again,
After they heard young Arthur was alive ?
Favl. They found him dead, and cast into the streets;
An empty casket, where the jewel of life
By some vile hand was robb'd and ta'en away.
K. John. That villain Hubert told me he did live.
Paul. So, on my soul, he did, for aught he knew.
But wherefore do you droop ? why look you sad ?
Be great in act, as you have been in thought;
Let not the world see fear, and sad distrust.
Govern the motion of a kingly eye :
Be stirring as the time; be fire with fire;
KINO JOHN.
409
Threaten the threat'ner, and outface the brow
Of bragging horror: so shall inferior eyes,
That borrow their behaviors from the great,
Grow great by your example, and put on
The dauntless spirit of resolution..
Away; and glister like the god of war.
When he intendeth to become the field:
Show boldness and aspiring confidence.
What, shall they seek the lion in his den.
And fright him there ? and make him tremble there ?
O, let it not be said!—Forage, and run
To meet displeasure further from the doors ;
And grapple with him, ere he comes so nigh.
K. John. The legate of the pope hath been with me,
And I have made a happy peace with him;
And he hath promis'd to dismiss the powers
Led by the dauphin.
Faul. ' O inglorious league!
Shall we, upon the footing of our land.
Send fair-play orders, and make compromise,
Insinuation, parley, and base truce.
To arms invasive 1 shall a beardless boy,
A silken wanton brave our fields.
And flesh his spirit in a warlike soil.
Mocking the air with colors idly spread,
And find no check ? Let us, my liege, to arms;
Perchance, the cardinal cannot make your peace;
Or if he do, let it at least be said.
They saw we had a purpose of defence.
K. John. Have thou the ordering of this present time.
Faul. Away then, with good courage ; yet, I know.
Our party may well meet a prouder foe. [Exeunt.
The Daaphin, aided by the disailected Nobles of Hogland, gives battle to John H
St. £dmand*s Bary; the King's troops are repulsed, and John is conveyed to Swinstead
Abbey, sick of a fever.
SCENE.—An open Place in the neighborhood of Swinstead-Abbey.
Enter FAULCOirBRrDGE and Hubert, meeting.
Hub. Who's there ? speak, ho ! speak quickly, or I shoot.
Faul. A friend.—What art thou 1
Hub. Of the part of Englaud
Faul. Whither dost thou go ?
Hub. What's that to thee ? Why may I not de.mand
If thine affairs, as well as thou of mine ?
Faul. Hubert, I think.
Hub. Thou hast a perfect thought:
410
SHAKSFEARIAN READER.
will, upon all hazards, well believe
Thou art my friend, that know'st my tongue so well •
Who art thou ?
Faul. Who thou wilt: an if thou please,
Thou may'st befriend me so much, as to think'
I come one way of the Plantagenets.
Hub. Unkind remembrance! tbou, and eyeless night,
Have done me shame:—Brave soldier, pardon me,
That any accent, breaking from thy tongue,
Sliould 'scape the true acquaintance of mine ear.
Favl, Come, come; sans compliment, what news abroad
Hub. Why, here walk I, in the black brow of night.
To find you out.
Faul. Brief, then ; and what's the news ?
Hub. O, my sweet sir, news fitting to the night.
Black, feaiful, comfortless, and horrible.
Faul. Show, me the very wound of this fll news;
I am no woman, I'll not swoon at it.
Huh. The king, I fear, is poison'd by a monk:
I left him almost speechless, and broke out
To acquaint you with this evil; that you might
The better arm you to the sudden time.
Than if you had at leisure known of this.
Faul. How did he take it ? who did taste to him ?
Hub. A monk, I tell you; a resolved villain.
The king yet speaks, and* peradventure may recover.
Faul. Who didst thou leave to tend his majesty ?
Huh. Why, know you not ? the lords are all come back.
And brought prince Henry in their company;
At whose request the king hath pardon'd them,
And they are all about his majesty.
Faul. Withhold thine indignation, mighty heaven.
And temptjUs not to bear above , our power!
I'll tell thee, Hubert, half my power this night
Passing these flats, are taken by the tide.
These Dncoln washes have devoured them;
Myself, well-mounted, hardly have escap'd.
Away, before! conduct me to the king;
I doubt, he will be dead, or ere I come.
SCENE.—Tlhe Orchard of Swinstead-Abbey.
Enter Prince Henry, Saxisbury, and Bigot.
P. Hen. It is too late; the life of all his blood
Is touch'd corruptibly; and his pure brain
(Which some suppose the soul's frail dwelling-house,)
Doth, by the idle comments that it makes,
Foretell the ending of mortality.
king john.
411
Enter Pembroke.
Pern, His highness yet doth speak; and holds belief.
That, being brought into the open air,
It would allay the burning quality
Of that fell poison which assaileth him.
P. Hen. Let him be brought into the orchard here.—
Doth he still rage ? [JExil Bigot.
Pern. He is more patient
Than when you left him ; even now he sung.
P. Hen. O vanity of sickness! fierce extremes,
In their continuance, will not feel themselves.
Death, having prey'd upon the outward parts,
Leaves them insensible; and his siege is now
Against the mind, the which he goads and wounds
With many legions of strange fantasies;
Which, in their throng and press to that last hold.
Confound themselves. 'Tis strange, that death should sing.
I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan.
Who chants a doleful h3rmn to his own death;
And, from the organ-pipe of frailty, sings
His soul and body to their lasting rest.
Sal. Be of good comfort, prince; for you are born
To set a form upon that indigest, ,
Which he )iath left so shapeless and so rude.
Re-enter Bigot and Attendants, who bring in King John, in
a chair.
K. John. Ay, marry, now my soul hath elbow-room;
It would not out at windows, nor at doors.
There is so hot a summer in my bosom.
That all my bowels crumble up to dust:
I am a scribbled form, drawn with a pen
Upon a parchment; and against this fire
Do i shrink up.
P. Hen. How fares your majesty ?
K. John. Poison'd,—ill fare;—dead, forsook, cast off;
And none of you will bid the winter coine.
To thrust his icy fingers in my maw;
Nor let my kingdom's rivers take their course
Through my burn'd bosom; nor entreat the north
To make his bleak winds kiss my parched lips.
And comfort me with cold:—do not ask you. much,
I beg cold comfort; and you are so strait, '
And so ingrateful, you deny me that.
P. Hen. O, that there were some virtue in my tears.
That might relieve you!
K. John. The salt in them is hot—
WitW me is a hell; and there the poison
412 , SBAKSFEARUN READER.
Is, as a fiend, confin'd to tjrrannize
On unreprievable condemned blood.
EtUer FAin-coNBEiDfrE.
Paul. O, I am scalded with my violent motion,
And spleen of speed to see your majesty.
K. John. O cousin, thou art come to set mine eye:
The tackle of my heart is crack'd and bum'd;
And all the shrouds, wherewith my life should sail.
Are turned to one thread, one little hair:
My heart hath one poor string to stay it jy,
Which holds but till thy news be utter'd;
And then all this thou seest is but a clod.
And module of confounded royalty.
Paul. The dauphin is preparing hitherward;
Where, heaven he knows^ how we shall answer him:
For, in a night, the best part of my power,
As I upon advantage did remove.
Were in the washes, all unwarily
Devour'd by the unexpected fiood. [The Kino
Sal. You breathe these dead news in as dead an ear.
My liege! my lord!—But now a king,—^now thus.
P. Hen. Even so must I run on, and even so stop.
What surety of the world, what hope, what stay.
When this was now a king, and now is clay !
Paul. Art thou gone so ? I do but stay behind,
To do the oflBce for thee of revenge;
And then my soul shall wait on thee to heaven.
As it on earth hath been thy servant still.
Now, now, you stars, that move in your right spheres.
Where be your powers ? Show now your mended faiths ;
And instantly return with me again.
To push destruction, and perpetual shame.
Out of the weak door of our fainting land;
Straight let us seek, or straight we shall be sought; '
The dauphin rages at our very heels.
Sal. It seems, you know not then so much as we;
The cardinal Pandulph is within at rest.
Who half an hour since came from the dauphin;
And brings from him such offers of our peace
As we with honor and respect may take.
With purpose presently to leave this war.
Paul. He will the rather do it, when he sees
Ourselves well sinewed to our defence.
Sal. Nay, it is in a manner done already;
For many carriages he hath despatch'd
To the seaside, and put his cause and quarrel
To the disposing of the cardinal.
With whom yourself, myself, and other lords,
KING JOHN.
413
If you think meet, this afternoon will post
To ctfnsummate this business happily.
Faul. Let it be so;—And you, my noble prince.
With other princes that may best be spar'd.
Shall wait upon your fathers funeral.
P. Hen. At Worcester must his body be interr'd;
For so he will'd it.
Fmd. Thither shall it then.
And happily may your sweet self put on
The lineal state and glory of the land!
To whom, with aU submission, on my knee,
I do bequeath my faithful services
And true subjection everlastingly.
Sal. And the hke tender of our love we make,
To rest without a spot for evermore.
P. Hen. I have a kind soul, that would give you thanks.
And knows not how to. do it, but with tearS.
Fatd. O, let us pay the time but needful woe,
Since it hath been beforehand with our CTiefs.—
This England never did, (nor never shall,)
Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror.
But when it first did help to wound itself.
Now these her princes are come home again,
Come the three corners of the world in arms.
And we shall shock them: Nought sha'd make us rue,
If England to itself do rest but true. [Exeiait.
*
KING HENRY IV.
.The cbniDicles of Hollingshed and Stowe, appear to have been the sonroes from
which Shakspeare drew the materials for constrocting his series of English Historica.
Plays, adding, however, characters and incidents from his own teeming imagination, and
heightening the real'personages he introduces, with all the vivid tonches of hb excelling
skill.
In the first and second parts of Henry IV, appears that marvel of hb creative genius,
Falstaff,—who b aptly made the leader of the dissolate set of profligates which snrronnded
the young Prince, afterwards Henry V. An bolated extract could not do justice to thb
inimitable creation; we have, therefore, preferred to confine our selections to the hbtorical
incidents of the Play. " The transactions contained in it are comprised within the period
of about ten months. The action commences with the news brought of Hotspur having
defeated the Scots under Arcliibald earl of Douglas, at Holmedon (or Halidown-^bill),
which battle was fought on Holyrood day (the 14th of September), 1403; and it closet
with the defeat and death of Hotspur at Shrewsbury; which engagement happened on
Saturday the 31st of July (the eve of Saint Mary Magdalen), in the year 1403.''
f
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
Kin® Henry the Fourth. "
Henry, Prince of Wales, ) . w
Prince John o/Lancaster, 3
\ Earl op Westmorland, > ^ • j ^ v
\ Sir Walter BLuiiT, j King.
Thomas Percy, Earl of Worcester. "
Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland.
* Henry Percy, sumamed Hotspur, his son.
Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March.
Scroop, Archbishop of York.
Sir Michael, a friend of the Archbishop.
Archibald, Earl of Douglas.
Owen Glendower. y
Sir Richard Vernon. ^ ' A -e...
Sir John Falstaff.
PoiNS.
Gadshill.
Peto.
Bardolph.
KING HENEy IT.
415
Lady Perot, wife to Hotspur, and sietet to Mortimer.
Lady Mortimer, daughter to Glendowr. and wife to Mortimer
Mrs. Qotcklt, hostess of a tavern in HtSRdleep. ~
Lotds, Officers, Sheriff, Vintner, Chamberlain, Drawers, Two Carriers,
Travellers, and Attendants. -
SCENE,—Englamb , / */■ «
• ^ "
ACT I.
Kiog Henry sends for Hotspnr, to give an aeronnt of his condncl at the Battle oi
Holmedon.'
SCENE.—^London, a Room in the Palace.
Enter King Henry, Northumbebland, Worcester, Hotsfur, Sir
• Walter Blunt, and others.
K. Hen. My blood hath been too cold and temperate.
Unapt to stir at these indignities.
And you have found me; for, accordingly.
You tread upon my patience ; but, be sure,
I will from henceforth rather be myself.
Mighty, and to be fear'd, than my condition;
Which hath been smooth as oil, soft as young down.
And therefore lost that title of respect.
Which the proud soul ne'er pays, but to the proud.
War. Our house, my sovereign liege, little deserves
The scourge of greatness to be used on it;
And that same greatness too which our own hands
Have holp to make so portly.
North. My lord,—
K. Hen. Worcester, get thee gone, for I see danger
And disobedience in thine eye: O, sir,
^our presence is too bold and peremptory.
And majesty might never yet endure
The moody frontier of a servant brow.
You have good leave to leave us; when we need
Your use and counsel, we shall send for you.—
[Exit Worcester.
You were about to speak. [To North
North. Yea, my good lord.
Those prisoners in your highness' name demanded.
Which Harry Percy here at Holmedon took,
■ Were, as he says, not with such strength denied.
As is deliver'd to your majesty:
Either envy, therefore, or misprision
Is guilty of this fault, and not my son.
Hot. My liege, I did deny no prisoners.
416
SHAKSPEARIAN READER*
But, I remember, when the fight was done,
When I was dry with rage, and extreme toil.
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword.
Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dress'd.
Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin, new reap'd,
Show'd like a stubble-land at harvest-home;
He was perfumed like a milliner;
And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held
A pouncet-box, which ever and anon
He gave his nose, and took't away again;
Who, therewith angry, when it next came there.
Took it in snuff:—and still he smil'd and talk'd 5 "
And, as the soldiers bore dead bodies by.
He call'd them—untaught knaves, unmannerly,
To bring a slovenly, unhandsome corse
Betwixt the wind and his nobility.
With many holiday and lady terms .
He question'd me; among the rest, demanded
My prisoners, in your majesty's behalf.
I then, all smarting with my wounds being cold,
To be so pester'd with a popinjay,
Out of my grief and my impatience,
Answer'd neglectingly, I know not what;
He should, or be should not;—for he made me mad.
To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet.
And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman,
Of guns, and drums, and wounds, (God save the mark!)
And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earth
Was parmaceti, for an inward bruise ;
And that it was great pity, so it was,
That villanous saltpetre should be digg'd
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth.
Which many a good tall fellow had destroy'd
So cowardly; and, but for these vile guns.
He would himself have been a soldier.
This bald unjointed chat of his, my lord,
I answer'd indirectly, as I said;
And, I beseech you, let not his report
Come current for an accusation,
Betwixt my love and your high majesty.
Blunt. The circumstance consider'd, good my lord,
^Whatever Harry Percy then had said,
^To such a -person, and in such a place.
At such a time, with all the rest re-told,
May reasonably die, and never rise
To do him wrong, or any way impeach
What then he said, so he unsay it now.
K. Hen. Why, yet he doth deny his prisoners;
But with proviso, and exception,—
KING HENET IV.
/
417
That we, at our own cliarge, shall ransom straight
His brother-in-law, the foolish Mortimer;
Who, on ray soul, hath wilfully betray'd • ^ .
The lives of those that he did lead to fight
A^inst the great magician, curs'd Glendower;
Whose daughter, as we hear, the earl of March
Hath lately married. Shall our coffers then
Be emptied, to redeem a traitor home ?
Shall we buy treason ? and indent with fears.
When they have lost and forfeited themselves ?
No, on the barren mountains let him starve;
For I shall never hold that man my friend.
Whose tongue shall ask me for one penny cost
To ransom home revolted Mortimer.
Hoi. Revolted Mortimer!
He never did fall off, my sovereign liege,
But by the chance of war;—^To prove that true.
Needs no more but one tongue for all those wounds.
Those mouthed wounds, which valiantly he took.
When on the gentle Severn's sedgy bank.
In single opposition, hand to hand.
He did confound the best part of an hour
In changing hardiment with great Glendower:
Three times they breath'd, and three times did they diink,
Upon agreement, of swift Severn's flood;
Who then, affrighted with their bloody looks.
Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds.
And hid his crisp head in the hollow bank
Blood-stained with these valiant combatants.
Never did bare and rotten policy
Color her working with such deadly wounds;
Nor never could me noble Mortimer
Receive so many, and all willingly:
Then let him not be slander'd wifli revolt.
K. Hen. Thou dost belie him, Percy, thou dost belie him.
He never did encounter with Glendower;
I tell thee.
He durst as well have met the devil alone, '
As Owen Glendower for an enemy.
Art not asham'd ? But, sirrah, henceforth
Let me not hear you speak of Mortimer; ,
Send me your prisoners with the speediest means.
Or you shall hear in such a kind from me
As will displease you.—^My lord Northumberland,
We license your departure with your son.—
Send us your prisoners, or you'll hear of it.
[Exeunt King Henrt, Blunt, and Train,
Hot. And if the devil come and roar for them,
I will not send them:—I will after straight.
118
shaespearian reader.
And tell him so; for I will ease my heart,
Although it be with hazard of my head.
AortA. What, drunk with choler ? stay, and pause awhilo;
' Here comes your uncle.
Re-enter Worcester.
Hot. Speak of Mortimer ?
'Zounds, I will speak of him; and let my soul
Want mercy, if J do not join with him:
Yea, on his part, I'll empty all these veins.
And shed my blood drop by drop i' the dust.
But I will lift the down-trod Mortimer
As high i' the air as this unthankful king.
As this ingrate and canker'd Bolingbroke.
North. Brother, the king hath made your nephew mad.
[To Worcester
Wor. Who struck this heat up, after I was gone 1
Hot. He will, forsooth, have all my prisoners;
And when I urg'd the ransom once again
Of my wife's brother, then his cheek look'd pale;
And on my face he turn'd an eye of death.
Trembling even at the name of Mortimer.
Wor. I cannot blame him: Was he not proclaim'd.
By Richard that dead is, the next of blood ?
North, He was; I heard the proclamation:
And then it was, when the unhappy king
(Whose wrongs in us God pardon!) did set forth
Upon his Irish expedition;
Prom whence he, intercepted, did return
To be depos'd, and, shortly, murdered.
Wor. And for whose death, we in the world's wide month
Live scandaliz'd, and foully spoken of.
Hot. But, soft, I pray you; Did kipgRichard then
Proclaim my brother Edmund Mortimer
Heir to the crown ?
North. He did; myself did hear it.
Hot. Nay, then I cannot blame his cousin king^/i/ / ^
That wish'd him on the barren mountains stsOyo^
But shall it be, that you,—that set the crown
Upon the head of this forgetful man;
And, for his sake, wear the detested blot
Of murd'rous subornation,—shall it be.
That you a world of curses undergo;
Being the agents, or base second means.
The cords, Sie ladder, or the hangman rather ?-
O, pardon me, that I descend so low.
To show the line, and the predicament.
Wherein you range under this subtle king.—
Shall it, for shame, be spoken in these days,
KING HENRY IV.
410
Or fill up chronicles in time to come,
That men of your nobility and power,
Did 'gage them both in an unjust behalf,—
As both of you, God pardon it! have done,—
To put down Richara, that sweet lovely rose.
And plant this thorn, this canker, Bolingbroke ?
And shall it, in more shame, be further spoken.
That you are fool'd, discarded, and shook off
By him, for whom these shames ye underwent ?
No; yet lime serves, wherein you may redeem
Your banish'd honors, and restore yourselves
Into the good thoughts of the world again:
Revenge the jeering, and disdain'd contempt.
Of this proud king; who studies, day and night,
TlTanswer ail the Jebt he owes to you.
Even with the bloody payment of your deaths.
Therefore, I say,
War. Peace, cousin, say no more:
And now I will unclasp a secret book.
And to your quick-conceiving discontents
I'll read you matter deep and dangerous;
As full of peril, and advent'rous spirit.
As to o'er-walk a current, roaring loud.
On the imsteadfast footing of a spear. .
HoL If he fall in, good night;—or sink or swim j-
Send danger from the east unto the west.
So honor cross it from the north to south.
And let them grapple;—O! the blood more stirs.
To I'ouse a lion than to start a hare.
N<yrth. Imagination of some great exploit
Drives him beyond the bounds of patience.
Hot. By heaven, methinks, it were an easy leap,
To pluck bright honor from the pale-fac'd moon;
Or dive into me bottom of the deep.
Where fathom-line could never touch the ground.
And pluck up drowned honor by the locks;
So he, that doth redeem her thence, might wear
Without corrival, all her dignities:
But out upon this half-fac'd fellowship!
War. He apprehends a world of figures here,
But not the form of what he should attend.—
Good cousin, gpve me audience for a while.
Hot. I cry you mercy.
War. Those same noble Scots,
That are your prisoners,
Hot. I'M keep them all;
By heaven, he shall not have a Scot of them:
I'll keep them, by this hand.
War. You start away.
420
SHAKSFEABUN KEADEU.
And lend no ear unto my purposes.—
Those prisoners you shall keep.
Hot. Nay, I will; that
He said, he would not ransom Mortimer;
Forbade my tongue to speak of Mortimer
But I will find him when he lies asleep,
And in his ear I'll hofia—^Mortimer 1
I'U have a starling shall be taught to speak
Nothing but Mortimer, and give it him.
To keep his anger still in motion.
War. Hear you.
Cousin; a word.
Hot. All studies here I solemnly defy.
Save how to gall and pinch this Bolingbroke;
And that same sword-and-buckler prince of Wi
ith some nfiscKance
I'd have him poison'd with a pot of ale.
War. Farewell, kinsman! I will talk to you.
When you are better temper'd to attend.
North. Why, what a wasp-stung and impatient focd
Art thou, to break into this woman's mood;
Tying thine ear to no tongue but thine own ?
Hot. Why, look you, I am whipp'd and scourg'd with roda^
Nettled, and stung with pismires, when I hear
Of this vile politician, Bolingbroke.
In Richard's time,—^What do you call the place ?—
A plague upon't!—it is in Gloucestershire;—
'Twas where the mad-cap duke his uncle kept;
His uncle York;—where I first bow'd.^pjt knee
Unto this king of smiles^this BoBngbrnk^
When you and he came bacTc from Ravenspurg.
North. At Berkley castle.
Hot. You say true:
Why, what a candy deal of courtesy
This fawning greyhound then did profier me !
Look,—when his infard fortune came to age.
And, gentle Harry Percy,—and, hind cousin,—~
O, the devil take such cozeners!—Heaven forgive me I—
Good uncle, tell your tale, for I have done.
Wor. Nay, if you have not, to't again;
We'll stay your leisure.
Hot. I have done, i'faith.
W(yr. Then once more to your Scottish prisoners.
Deliver them up without their ransom straight,
And make the Douglas' son your only mean
For powers in Scotland; which,—for divers reasons,
Which I shall send you written,—be assur'd,
Nay,
ler loves him n^.
KING HENRY IV.
421
Will easily be gjiiited.—You, my lord,— [To Northumberland
Your son in Scotlandteing thus employ'd,—
Shall secretly into the bosom creep
Of that same noble prelate, well belov'd,
The archbishop.
/Zbl. Of Yortjis'tnot? ^
Wor. True,; who bears hard
Hie brother's death at Bristol, the lord Scroop
I speak not this in estimation.
As what I think might be, but what I know
Is ruminated, plotted and set down;
And only stays hut to behold the face
Of that occasion that shall bring it on. ^
Hot. I smell it; upon my life, it will do well. *■'
North. Before the game's afoot, thou still let'st slip. v Q*
Hot. Why, it cannot choose but be a noble plot:— ,
And then the power of Scotland, and of York,— ^ -
.To join with Mortimer, ha ? . -
Wor. And so they shall.
Hot. In faith, it is exceedingly well aim d.
Wor. And 'tis no little reason bids us speed,
To save our heads by raising of a head:
For, bear ourselves as even as we can.
The king will always think him in our debt;
And think we think ourselves unsatisfied,'
Till he hath found a time to pay us home.
And see already how he doth begin
To make us strangers to his looks of love.
Hot. He does, he does; we'll be reveng'd on him.
Wor. Cousin, farewell;—^No further go in this .
Than I by letters shall direct your course.
When time is ripe, (which will be suddenly,)
I'll steal to Glendower, and lord. Mortimer; « ■
Where you and Douglas, and our powers at once,
(As I will fashion it,) shall happily meet.
To bear our fortunes in our own strong arms.
Which now we hold with much uncertainty.
North. Farewell, good brother, we shall thrive, I trust.
Hot. Uncle, adieu:—O, let the hours be short.
Till fields, and blows, and groans applaud our sport. [Exeum
Hotspur and his confederates meet in consultation, prepaintory to the battle o
Shrewsbory.
ACT III.
SCENE I.—Bangor. A Room in the Archdaa<u>n'g Hmi'f
Enter Hotspur, Worcester, Mortimer, and Glehdowee.
Mort. These promises are fair, the parties sure,
And our induction full of prosperous hope.
422
SHAKSPEARIAN BEADEK.
Hot. Lord Mortimer,—and cousin Glendower,—
Will you sit down ? *
And, uncle Worcester:—A plague upon't!
I have forgot the map.
Glend. No, here it is.
Sit, cousin Percy; sit, good cousin Hotspur:
For by that name as oft as Lancaster
Doth speak of you, his cheek looks pale, and, with
A rising sigh, he wisheth you in heaven.
Hot. And you in hell, as often as he hears
Owen Glendower spoke of.
Glend. I cannot blame him: at my nativity,
The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes.
Of burning cressets; and, at my birth.
The frame and huge foundation of the earth
Shak'd like a coward.
Hot. Why, so it would have done
At the same season, if your mother's cat had
But kitten'd, though yourself had ne'er been bom.
Glend. I say, the earth did shake when I was born.
Hot. And I say, the earth was not of my mind.
If you suppose, as fearing you it shook.
Glend. The heavens were all on fire, the earth did tremble.
Hot. O then the earth shook to see the heavens on fire,
And not in fear of your nativity.
Diseased nature oftentimes breaks forth
In strange eruptions.
Which shake old beldame earth, and topple down
Steeples, and moss-grown towers. At your birth,
Our grandam earth, having this distemperature.
In passion shook.
Glend. Cousin, of many men
I do not bear these crossings. Give me leave
To tell you once again,—^that at my birth.
The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes;
The goats ran from the mountains, and the herds
Were strangely clamorous to the frighted fields.
These signs have mark'd me extraordinary;
And all the courses of my life do show,
I am not in the roll of common men.
Where is he living,—clipp'd in with the sea
That chides the banks of England, Scotland, Wales,—
Which calls me pupil, or hath read to me ?
And bring him out, that is but woman's son,
Can trace me in the tedious ways of art,
And hold me pace in deep experiments.
Hot. I think there is no man speaks better Welsh.—
Glend. I can speak English, lord, as well as you;
For I was train'd up in the English court:
KING HENRT IV.
423
Where, being but young, I framed to the harp
Many an English ditty, lovely well.
And gave the tongue a helpful ornament;
A virtue that was never seen in you.
Hot. Marry, and I'm glad oft with all my heart:
I had rather be a kitt?ii and cry—mew.
Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers:
I had rather hear a brazen canstick tum'd.
Or a dry wheel grate on an axle-tree;
And that would set my teeth nothing on edge.
Nothing so much as mincing poetry;
'Tis like the forc'd gait of a shuffling nag.
Mart. Peace, cousin Percy; you will make him mad.
Glend. I can call spirits from the vasty deep.
Hot. Why, so can I; or so can any man:
But will they come, when you do call for them ?
Glend. Why, I can teach you, cousin, to command
The de\-S.
Hot. And I can teach thee, coz, to shame the devil.
By telling truth; Tell truth, and shame the devil.—
If thou have power to raise him, bring him hither.
And I'll be sworn, I have power to shame him hence.
Qt.W.hile you live, tell truth, and shame the devil.--
MortTuomeT come.
No more of this unprofitable chat.
Glend. Three times hath Kenry Bolingbroke made head
Against my power: thrice from the banks of Wyne,
And sandy-bottom'd Severn, have I sent him
Bootless home, and weather-beaten back.
Hot. Home without boots,'and in foul weather too!
How 'scapes he agues ?
The following scene is admirably descriptive of the character! of Henry IV. and tho
yonog Prince of Wales.
SCENE II.—London. A Room in the Palace.
Enter King Henrt, Prince of Wales, and Lords.
K. Hen. Lords, give us leave; the Prince of Wales and I
Must have some conference: But be near at hand.
For we shall presently have need of you.— ^Ex. Lords.
I know not whether God will have it so.
For some displeasing service I have done.
That, in his secret doom, out of my blood
He'll breed revengement and a scourge for me;
But thou dost, in thy passages of life.
Make me believe,—that thou art only mark'd ^
For the hot vengeance and the rod of heaven, *
To punish my mis-treadings. Tell me else.
424
SBAKSPEARTAM READER.
Could such inordinate, and low desires.
Such poor, such bare, such lewd, such mean attempts.
Such barren pleasures, rude society.
As thou art match'd withal, and grafted to.
Accompany the greatness of thy blood.
And hold their level with thy princely heart ?
P. Hen. So please your majesty, 1 would, I could
Quit all offences with as clear excuse.
As well as, I am doubtless, I can purge
Myself of many I am charg'd withal; '
Yet such extenuation let me beg.
As, in reproof of many tales devis'd,—
Which oft the ear of greatness needs must hear,—
By smiling pick-thanks and base newsmongers,
I may, for some things true, wherein my youth
Hath faulty wander'd and irregular.
Find pardon on my true submission.
K. Hen. Heaven pardon thee!—yet let me wonder, Harry,
At thy affections, which do hold a wing
Quite from the ffight of all thy ancestors.
Thy place in council thou hast rudely lost^
yniingpr hTfithCr is Supplied ',
And art mmost an alien tolhe"hearts
Of all the court and princes of my blood;
The hope and expectation of thy time
Is ruin'd; and the soul of every man
Prophetically does forethink thy fall.
Had I so lavish of my presence been.
So common-hackney'd in the eyes of men.
So stale and cheap to vulgar company ;•
Opinion, that did help me to the crown.
Had still kept loyal to possession ;
And Idft me in reputeless banishment,
A fellow of no mark, nor likelihood.
By being seldom seen, I could not stir,
But, like a comet, I was wonder'd at:
That men would tell their children, This isiie;
Others would say,— Where! which is BolingWdkel -V
And then I stole all coxfflesy frdnnTeaven,~
And dress'd myself in such humility.
That I did pluck allegiance from men's hearts,
Loud shouts and salutations from their mouths.
Even in the presence of the crowned Idng.
Thus did I keep my person fresh, and new;
My presence, like a robe pontifical,
Ne'er seen, but wonder'd at: and so my state.
Seldom, but sumptuous, showed like a feast;
And won, by rareness, such solemnity.
The skipping king, he ambled up and down
KING HENRY IV.
With shallow jesters, and rash bavin wits,
Soon kindled, and soon bum'd: carded his state;
Mingled his royalty with capering fools;
Had his great name profaned with their scorns:
And gave his countenance, against his name,
To laugh at gibing boys, and stand the push
Of everv beardless vain comparative:
Grew a companion to the common streets,
Enfeoff'd himself to popularity:
That being daily swmlow'd by men's eyes,
They surfeited with honey; and began
To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof a little
More than a little is by much too much.
So, when he had occasion to be seen.
He was but as the cuckoo is in June,
Heard, not regarded ; seen, but with such eyes,
As, sick and blunted with community.
Afford no extraordinary gaze.
Such as is bent on sun-like majesty
When it shines seldom in admiring eyes:
But rather drowz'd and hung their eyelids down.
Slept in his face, and render'd such aspect
As cloudy men use to their adversaries;
Being with his presence glutted, gorg'd, and full.
And in that very line, Iforry, staim'st.thouj
For thou hast lost thy princely privilege, "A v
WillTYiIe parficipafiohTnotuneye
But is a-weary of thy common sight.
Save mine, which hath desir'd to see thee more;
Which now doth that I would not have it do,
Make blind itself with foolish tenderness.
P. Hen. I shall hereafter, my thrice-gracious lord.
Be more myself.
K. Hen. For all the world.
As thou art to this hour, was Richard then
When I from France set foot at Ravenspurg;
And even as I was then, is Percy now.
Now by my sceptre, and my soul to boot.
He hath more worthy interest to the state.
Than thou, the shadow of succession:
For, of no right, nor colpr like to right.
He doth fill fields with harness in the realm:
Turns head against the lion's armed jaws;
And, being no more in debt to years than thou.
Leads ancient lords and reverend bishops on.
To bloody battles, and to bruising arms.
What never-dying nonor hath he got
Against renowned Douglas; whose high deeds.
426
SHAKSPEARIAN EEADEB.
Whose hot incursions, and great name in arms,
Holds from all soldiers chief majority.
And military title capital.
Through all the kingdoms that acknowledge Christ 1
Thrice hath this Hotspur Mars in swathing clothes,
This infant warrior in his enterprises
Discomfited great Douglas: ta'en him once,
Enlarg'd him, and made a friend of him.
To fill the mouth of deep defiance up.
And shake the peace and safety of our throne.
And what say you to this ? T^orthiimherl^pd^
The archbishop's grace of Y(^. POTglas. Mortimer.
Capihilatgjgainst lis, and are up.
But wherefore do I tell these news to thee ?
Why, Harry, do I tell thee of my foes.
Which art my near'st and dearest enemy ?
Thou that art like enough,—through vassal fear.
Base inclination, and the start of spleen,—
To fight against me under Percy's pay.
To dog his heels, and court'sy at his frowns.
To show how much degenerate thou art ?
P. Hen. Do not think so, you shall not find it so;
And Heaven forgive them, that have so much sway'd
Your majesty's good thoughts away from me!
I will redeem all this on Percy's head.
And, in the closing of some glorious day.
Be bold to tell you, that I am your son;
When I will wear a garment all of blood.
And stain my favors in a bloody mask.
Which, wash'd away, shall scour my shame with It
And that shall be the day, whene'er it lights.
That this same child of honor and renown.
This gallant Hotspur, this all-praised knight.
And your unthought-of Harry, chance to meet.
For every honor sitting on his helm.
Would they were multitudes; and on my head
My shames redoubled! for the time will come.
That I shall make this northern youth exchange
His glorious deeds for my indignities.
Percy is but my factor, good my lord.
To engross up glorious deeds on my behalf;
And I will call him to so strict account.
That he shall render every glory up.
Yea, even the slightest worship of his time.
Or I will tear the reckoning from his heart.
This, in the name of Heaven, I promise here:
The which if it be pleas'd I shall perform,
I do beseech your majesty, may salve
KING HENRY IV.
427
The long-grown wounds of my intemperance:
If not, the end of life cancels all bands';
And I will die a hundred thousand deaths,
F.rp hrpflif the smallest parcel of this vow. ^
K. Hen. A hundred tnousanJrehels die in tliis:—
Thou shall have charge, and sovereign trust, heroin.
KING HENRY VIIJ. '
Many of the incidents of this Piay, and moch of the dialo^e, were taken by Shaks-
peare from chronicles of HolHn^shed and Stowe, who were themselves indebted to " Car
endisb's Life of Wolsey ** for most of the particulars they gave of the Cardinal's bUtory
Shakspeare has depicted the character of the gentle and noble-hearted Katharine of
Arragon, with snch felicitons skill, that the scenes in which she is introdnced are con¬
sidered among the finest efforts of the Poet's genins.
The hanghty Wolsey, is also a powerfully drawn picture. Our selections are devo*^
the display of these two master-pieces of historical dramatic composition.
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
King Henrt the Eighth.
Cardinal Wolsey.
Cardinal' Campeids.
Capdoius, Ambassador from the Emperor, Charlea V.
Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury.
Duke of Norfolk.
Duke of Buckingham.
Duke of Suffolk.
Earl of Surrey.
Lord Chamberlain.
Lord Chancellor.
Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester.
Bishop of Lincoln.
Lord Abergavenny.
Lord Sands.
Sir Henry Guilford.
Sir Thomas Lovell.
Sir Anthony Denny.
Sir Nicholas Vaux.
Secretaries to Wolsey.
Cromivell, servant to Wolsey.
Griffith, Gentleman- Usher to Queen Katharine.
Three other Gentlemen.
KING HENRY VIU.
429
Doctor Bdtts, physician to the King.
Garter King at Arms.
Surveyor to the Duke of Buckingham.
Brandon, and a Sergeant at Arms.
Doorkeeper of the Council-Chamber.
Porter, and his man.
Page to Gardiner.
A Crier. ^
Queen Katharine, wife to King Henry, afterwards divorced.
Anne Buelen, her Maid of Honor, afterwards Queen.
An old Lady, friend to Anne Bullen.
Patience, woman to Queen Katharine.
Several Lords and Ladies in the Dumb Shows; Women attending upon
the Queen; Spirits which appear to her ; Scribes, Officers, Guards,
and other Attendants.
SCENE,—chiefly in London and Westminster, once at Kimboeton.
ACT I.
Queen Katharine incurred the jealousy and hatred of Woleey, by her oppositioB to
his overbearing arrogance, and the exactions he was continually enforcing on the people.
Shakspeare introduces the Queen, as a suitor to the King, on the subject of these
oppressions of the people.
SCENE II.—The Council-Chamber.
Comets. Enter King Henry, Cardinae Woesey, the Lords of the
Council, Sir Thomas Loveee, Officers, and Attendants. The
Ejng enters, leaning on the Cardinal's shoulder.
K. Hen. My life itself, and the best heart of it.
Thanks you for this great care: I stood i' the level
Of a full-charged confederacy, and give thanks
To you that chok'd it.
The King takes his State. The Lords of the Council take their several
places. The Cardinal places himself under the King's feet, on his
right side.
A noise within, crying. Room for the Queen! Enter the Queen,
ushered by the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk : she kneels. The
King rises from his State, takes her up, kisses, and places her by
him.
Q. Kath. Nay, we must longer kneel; I am a suitor.
K. Hen. Arise, and take place by us :—Half your suit
Never name to us; you have half our power;
The other moiety, ere you ask, is given;
Repeat your will, and take it.
430
SHAESPEARIAN READER.
Q. Kath.
Thank your majesty.
That you would love yourself; and, in that love,
Not unconsider'd leave your honor, nor
The dignity of your office, is the point
Of my petition.
K. Hen. Lady mine, proceed.
Q. Kaih, I am solicited, not by a few.
And those of true condition, that your subjects
Are in great grievance: there have been commissions
Sent down among them, which have flawed the heart
Of all their loyalties:—wherein, although.
My good lord cardinal, they vent reproaches
Most bitterly on you, as putter-on
Of these exactions, yet the king our master,
(Whose honor heaven shield from soil!) even he escapes not
Language unmannerly, yea, such which breaks
The sides of loyalty, and almost appears
In loud rebellion.
Nor. Not almost appears.
It doth appear: for upon these taxations.
The clothiers all, not able to maintain
The many to them 'longing, have put off
The spinsters, carders, fullers, weavers, who.
Unfit for other life, compell'd by hunger.
And lack of other means, in desperate manner
Daring the event to the teeth, are all in uproar.
And Danger serves among them.
Wherein ? and what taxation ?—My lord cardinal,
Yoa that are blam'd for it alike with us.
Know you of this taxation ?
Wol. Please you, sir,
I know but of a single part, in aught
Pertains to the state; and front but in that file
Where others tell steps with me.
Q. Kath. No, my lord.
You know no more than others : but you frame
Things, that are known alike; which are not wholesome
To those which would not know them, and yet must
Perforce be their acquaintance. These exactions
Whereof my sovereign would have note, they are
Most pestilent to the hearing; and to bear them,
The back is sacrifice to the load. They say,
•They are devis'd by you; or else you sufier
Too hard an exclamation.
K. Hen. Still exaction!
The nature of it ? In what kind, let's know.
Is this exaction ?
Q. Kath. I am much too venturous
K. Hen.
Taxation!
KING HENRY VIII.
In tempting of your patience; but am bolden'd
Under your promis'd pardon. The subject's grief
Comes through commissions, which compel from each
The sixth part of his substance, to be levied
Without delay; and the pretence for this
Is nam'd, your wars in France: This makes bold mo»Jths •.
Tongues spit their duties out, and cold hearts freeze
Allegiance in them; their curses now.
Live where their prayers did; and it's come to pass.
That tractable obedience is a slave
To each incensed will. I would, your highness
Would give it quick consideration, for
There is no primer business.
K. Hen. By my life,
This is against our pleasure.
Wol. And for me,
I have no further gone in this, than by
A single voice; and that not pass'd me, but
By learned approbation of the judges.
If I am traduc'd by tongues, which neither know
My faculties, nor person, yet will be
The chronicles of my doing,—let me say,
'Tis but the fate of place, and the rough brake
That virtue must go through. We must not stint
Our necessary actions, in the fear
To cope malicious censurers; which ever,
As ravenous fishes, do a vessel follow
That is new trimm'd; but benefit no further
Than vainly longing. What we oft do best,
By sick interpreters, once weak ones, is
Not ours, or not allow'd; what worst, as oft,
Hitting a grosser quality, is cried up
For our best act. If we shall stand still.
In fear our motion will be mock'd or carp'd at,
We should take root here where we sit, or sit
State statues only.
K. Hen. ' Things done well,
And with a care, exempt themselves from fear;
Things done without example, in their issue
Are to be fear'd. Have you a precedent
Of this commission 1 I believe, not any.
We must not rend our subjects from our laws.
And stick them in our will. Sixth part of each 1
A trembling contribution ! Why, we take.
From every tree, lop, bark, and part o' the timber;
And, though we leave it with a root, thus hack'd.
The air will drink the sap. To every county.
Where this is question'd, send our letters, with
Free pardon to each man that has denied
482
. SHAKSPEARIAN READER.
The force of this commission: Pray, look to't;
I put it to your care.
Wol. A word with you. [To the Secretary
Let there he letters writ to every shire,
Of the king's grace and pardon. The griev'd commons
Hardly conceive of me; let it be nois'd.
That, through our intercession, this revokement
And pardon comes: I shall anon advise yon
Further iifthe proceeding.
ACT II.
King Henry VIII. having determined to divorce Katharine, obtains a commission from
Rome, to try the causes which have indnced him to dissolve his marriage. The Pope
sends Cardinal Caropeias, who in conjunction with Wolsey are appointed to act as jud^
at the Qoeen^s trial.
SCENE IV.—A Hall in Black-Friars.
Court assembled for the Trial.
Wol. Whilst our commission from Rome is read.
Let silence be commanded.
K. Hen. What's the need ?
It hath already publicly been read.
And on all sides the authority allow'd;
You may then spare that time.
Wol. Be't so:—^Proceed.
Scribe. Say, Henry king of England, come into the court.
Crier. Henry king of England, come into court.
K. Hen. Here.
Scribe. Say, Katharine queen of England, come into court.
Crier. Katharine queen of England, come into court.
[ The Queen makes no answer, rises out of her chair, goes about the
court, comes to the King, and kneels at his feet; then speaks.
Q. Kath. Sir, I desire you, do me right and justice;
And to bestow your pity on me : lor
I am a most poor woman, and a stranger.
Born out of your dominions; having here
No judge inmfferent, nor no more assurance
Of equal friendship and proceecfing. Alas, sir.
In what have I offended you ? what cause
Hath my behavior given to your displeasure,
That thus you should proceed to put me off.
And take your good grace from me ? Heaven witness,
I have been to you a true and humble wife.
At all times to your will conformable :
Ever in fear to kindle your dislike,
KING HENRY VIII.
Yea, subject to your countenance; glad, or soiry,
As I saw it inclin'd. When was the hour,
I ever contradicted your desire,
Or made it not mine too 1 Or which of your friends
Have I not strove to love, although I knew
He were mine enemy ? what friend of mine
That had to him deriv'd your anger, did I
Continue in my liking ? nay, gave notice
He was from thence discharg'd 1 Sir, call to mind
That I have been your wife, in this obedience, ^
Upwards of twenty years. If, in the course
And process of this time, you can report,
And prove it too, against mine honor aught.
My bond to wedlock, or my love and duty,
Against your sacred person, in God's name.
Turn me away; and let the foul'st contempt
Shut door upon me, and so give me up
To the sharpest kind of justice. Please you, sir
The king, your father, was reputed for
A prince most prudent, of an excellent
And unmatch'd wit and judgment; Ferdinand,
My father, king of Spain, was reckon'd one
The wisest prince, that there had reign'd by many
A year before : It is not to be question'd
That they had gather'd a wise council to them
Of every realm, that did debate this business.
Who deem'd our marriage lawful: Wherefore I hnmW*
Beseech you, sir, to spare me, till I may
Be by my friends in Spain advis'd; whose counsel
I will implore; if not, i' the name of God,
Your pleasure be fulfiU'd !
Wol. You have here, lady,
(And of your choice,) these reverend fathers ; men
Of singular integrity and learning.
Yea, the elect of the land, who are assembled
To plead your cause; It shall be therefore bootless.
That longer you desire the court; as well
For your own quiet, as to rectify
What is unsettled in the king.
Cam. His grace
Hath spoken well, and justly: Therefore, madam.
It's fit this royal session do proceed ; •
And that, without delay, thei*- arguments
Be now produc'd, and heard.
Q. Kaih. Lord cardinal.—
To you I speak.
Wol. Your pleasure, madam ?
Q. Kath. Sir,
I am about to weep; but, thinking that
20
434
SHAESFEARIAM READER.
We are a queen, (or long have dream'd so,) certain,
The daughter of a king, my drops of tears
I'll turn to sparks of fire.
Wol. Be patient yet.
Q. Kalh. I will, when you are humble; nay, before,
Or Heaven will punish me. I do believe,
Induc'd by potent circumstances, that
You are mine enemy; and make my challenge; -
You shall not be my judge : for it is you
Have blown this coal betwixt my lord and me.—
Therefore, I say again,
I utterly abhor, yea, from my soul.
Refuse you for my judge: whom, yet once more,
I hold my most malicious foe, and think not
At all a friend to truth.
Wol. I do profess.
You speak not like yourself; who ever yet
Have stood to charity, and display'd the effects
Of disposition gentle, and of wisdom
O'ertopping woman's power. Madam, you do me wrong;
I have no spleen against you; nor injustice
For you, or any: how far I have proceeded.
Or how far further shall, is warranted
By a commission from the consistory.
Yea, the whole consistory of Rome. You charge me,
That I have blown this coal: I do deny it.
The king is present: if it be known to him.
That I gainsay my deed, how may he wound.
And worthily, my falsehood ? yea, as much
As you have done my truth. But if he know
That I am free of your report, he knows,
I am not of your wrong. Therefore in him
It lies, to cure me; and the cure is, to
Remove these thoughts from you; the which before
His highness shall speak in, I do beseech
You, gracious madam, to unthink your speaking.
And to say no more.
Q. Kath. My lord, my lord,
I am a simple woman, much too weak
To oppose your cunning. You are meek, and huinble-moutli'd |
You sign your place and calling, in full seeming
With meekness and humility: but your heart
Is cramm'd with arrogancy, spleen, and pride.
You have, by fortune, and his highness' favors.
Gone slightly o'er low steps; and now are mounted
Wliere powers are your retainers: and your words.
Domestics to you, serve your will, as't please
Yourself pronounce their office. I must tell you,
Vou tender more your person's honor, than
KING HENRY VIII.
435
5four high profession spiritual: That again
I do refuse you for my judge; and here,
Before you all, appeal unto the pope.
To bring my whole cause 'fore his holiness.
And to be judg'd by bim.
[SAe curtesies to the King, and offers to depart.
Cam. The qp,een is obstinate.
Stubborn to justice, apt to accuse it, and
Disdainful to be try'd by it; 'tis not well.
She's going away.
K. Hen. Call her again.
Crier. Katharine queen of England, come into the court.
Grif. Madam, you are call'd back.
Q. Kath. What need you note it ? pray you, keep your way
When you are call'd, return.—Now the Lord help.
They vex me past my patience !—pray you, pass on:
I will not tarry: no, nor ever more,
Upon this business, my appearance make
In any of their courts. [Exeunt Qxteen, Griffith,
and her other Attendants.
K. Hen. Go thy ways, Kate:
That man i'tbe world, who shall report be has
A better wife, let him in nought be trusted.
For speaking false-in that: "Thou art alone,
(If thy rare qualities, sweet gentleness.
Thy meekness saint-like, wife-like government,—
Obeying in commanding,—and thy parts
Sovereign and pious else, could speak thee out,)
The queen of earthly queens:—She is noble bom;
And, like her true nobility, she has
Carried herself towards me.
ACT III.
Qoeen Katharine is divorced, and Benry marries Anne Bnllen. The power of Wolsey
over the King gradually declines, and the nobles of the Court plot against him. The lords
of Suflblk and Norfolk are particularly his enemies; and learning that Wolsey has by
accident given several documents to the King, containing private memorandums of his
intrigues, and statements of his vast wealth, they are waiting to learn the effect of this
disclosnre.
WoLSET and Cromwell, Suffolk and Norfolk.
Nor. Observe, observe, he's moody.
Wol. The packet, Cromwell, gave it you the king ?
Crom. To bis own band, in his bedchamber.
Wol. Look'd he o' the inside of the paper 1
Crom. Presently
He did unseal them: and the first he view'd.
He did it with a serious mind; a heed
486
SHAKSPEA.SIAN SEADBB.
Was in his countenance! You, he bado
Attend him here this morning.
Wol. Is he ready ,
To come abroad ?
Crom. I think, by this he is.
Wol. Tieave me a while,—
It shall be to the duchess of Alen9on,
The French king's sister; he shall marry her.—
Anne Bullen! No; I'll no Anne Bullens for him,
There is more in it tlian fair visage.—Bullen!
No, we'll no Bullens.—Speedily I wish
To hear from Rome.—The marchioness of Pembroke S
Nor. He's discontented.
Suf. May be, he hears the king
Does whet his anger to him.
Sur. Sharp enough.
Lord, for thy justice !
Wot. The late queen's gentlewoman: a knight's dauglitor.
To be her mistress' mistress ! the queen's queen!—
This candle burns not clear; 'tis I must snuff it;
Then, out it goes.—What though I know her virtuous,
And well deserving ? yet I know her for
A spleeny Lutheran, and not wholesome to
Our cause. Again, there is sprung up
An heretic, an arch one, Cranmer; one
Hath crawi'd into the favor of the king.
And is his oracle.
Nor. He is vex'd at something.
Siuf. I would, 'twere something that would fret the string,
The master-cord of his heart!
Enter the Kino, reading a schedule; and Lovell.
Suf. I The king, the king.
K. Hen. What piles of wealth hath he accumulated
To his own portion! and what expense by the hour
Seems to flow from him! How, i' the name of thrift.
Does he rake this together!—^Now, my lords;
Saw you the cardinal I
Nor. My lord, we have
Stood here observing him: Some strange commotion
Is in his brain: he bites his lip, and starts;
Stops on a sudden, looks upon the ground,
Then, lays his flnger on his temple; straight,
Springs out into fast gait; then, stops again.
Strikes his breast hard; and anon, he casts
His eye against the moon: in most strange postures
We have seen him set himself.
K. Hen. It may well be;
There is a mutiny in his mind. This morning
KING HENRY VIII.
437
Papers of state he sent me to peruse,
As I requir'd; And, wot you, what I found
There ; on my conscience, put unwittingly ?
Forsooth, an inventory, thus importing,—
The several parcels of his plate, his treasure.
Rich stuffs, and ornaments of household; which
I find at such proud rate, that it out-speaks
Posession of a subject.
Nor. It's Heaven's will;
Some spirit put this paper in the packet
To bless your eye withal.
K. Hen. If we did think
His contemplation were above the earth,
And fix'd on spiritual object, he should still
Dwell in his musings ; but, I am afraid.
His thinkings are below the moon, not worth
His serious considering.
\He takes his seat, and whispers Lovell, who goes to Wolsey.
Wol. Heaven forgive me!
Ever Heaven bless your highness!
K. Hen. Good my lord,
You are full of heavenly stuff, and bear the inventory
Of your best graces in your mind ; the which
You were now running o'er; you have scarce time
To steal from spiritual leisure a brief span
To keep your earthly audit: Sure, in that
I deem you an ill husband : and am glad
To have you therein my companion.
Wol. Sir,
For holy offices I have a time; a time
To think upon the part of business, which
I bear i' the stale; and nature does require
Her times of preservation, which, perforce,
I her frail son, amongst my brethren mortal.
Must give my tendance to.
K. Hen. You have said well.
Wol. And ever may your highness yoke togethoi
As I will lend you cause, my doing well
With my well-saying.
K, Hen. 'Tis well said again;
And 'tis a kind of good deed, to say well:
And yet words are no deeds. My father lov'd you;
He said, he did; and with his deed did crown
His word upon you. Since I had my office, •
I have kept you next my heart; have not alone
Employ'd you where high profits might come home,
But par'd my present havings, to bestow
My bounties upon you.
What should this mean 7
433
SHASSIEABIAN 3EADER.
K. lien. Have I not made yon
The prime man of the state 1 I pray you, tell me.
If what I now pronounce, you have found true:
And, if you may confess it, say withal.
If you are bound to us, or no. What say you ?
Wol. My sovereign, I confess, your royal graces,
, Shower'd on me daily, have been more, than could
My studied purposes requite; which went
Beyond all man's endeavors:—my endeavors
Have ever come too short of my desires.
Yet, fill'd with my abilities: Mine own ends
Have been mine so, that evermore they pointed
To the good of your most sacred person, and
The profit of the state. For your great graces
Heap'd upon me, poor undeserver, I
Can nothing render but allegiant thanks;
My prayers to heaven for you; my loyalty,
Which ever has, and ever shall be growing.
Till death,- that winter, kiU it.
K. Hen. Fairly answeFd;
A loyal and obedient subject is
Therein illustrated; the honor of it
Does pay tlie act of it; as i' the contrary.
The foulness is the punishment. I presume
That, as my hand has open'd bounty to you.
My heart dropp'd love, my power rain'd honor more
On you, than any; so your hand, and heart.
Your brain, and every function of your power.
Should, notwithstanding that your bond of duty.
As 'twere in love's particular, be more
To me, your friend, than any.
Wol. I do profess.
That for your highness' good I ever labor'd
More than mine own; that am, have, and will be.
Though all the world should crack their duty tc yon.
And throw it from their soul; though perils did
Abound, as thick as thought could make them, and
Appear ui forms more horrid ; yet my duty.
As doth a rock against the chiding flood.
Should the approach of this wild river break.
And stand unshaken yours,
K. Hen, 'Tis nobly spoken:
Take notice, lords, he has a loyal breast.
For you have seen him open't.—Read o'er this;
[Giving lim papers.
And, after, this; and then to breakfast, with
What appetite you have.
[Exit Else, frouming upon CARDHtAi. Wolset ; the
Nobles throng after him^ smiling, and whispering.
king henry till.
489
Wol. What should this mean ?
What sudden anger's this; how have I reap'd it ?
He parted frowning from me, as if ruin
Leap'd from his eyes: so looks the chafed lion
Upon the daring huntsman that has gall'd him;
Then makes him nothing. I must read this paper;
I fear, the story of his anger.—'Tis so;
This paper has undone me:—^"Tis the account
Of all that world of wealth I have drawn together
For mine own ends; indeed, to gain the popedom,
And fee my friends in Rome. O negligence.
Fit for a fool to fall by! What cross devil
Made me put this main secret in the packet
I sent the king ? Is there no way to cure this ?
No new device to beat this from his brains ?
I know, 'twill stir him strongly; yet I know
A way, if it take right, in spite of fortune
Will bring me off again. What's this—To the Pope?
The letter, as I live, with all the business
I writ to his holiness. Nay then, farewell!
I have touch'd the highest point of all my greatness:
And, from that full meridian of my glory,
I haste now to my setting. I shall fall
Like a bright exhalation in the evening.
And no man see me more.
Re-enter the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, the Earl of SuerbY;
and the Lord Chamberlain.
Nor. Hear the king's pleasure, cardinal: who commands you
To render up the great seal presently
Into our handsand to confine yourself
To Asher-house, my lord of Winchester's,
Till you hear further from his highness.
Wol.
Where's your commission, lords ? words cannot carry
Authority so weighty.
Suf. Who dare cross them.
Bearing the king's will from his mouth expressly ?
Wol. Till I find more than will, or words, to do it,
(I mean, your malice,) know, officious lords,
I dare, and must deny it. Now I feel
Of what coarse metal ye are moulded,—envy.
How eagerly ye follow my disgraces.
As if it fed ye! and how sleek and wanton
Ye appear in every thing may bring my ruin !
Follow your envious courses, men of malice;
You have Christian warrant for them, and, no doubt,
In time will find their fit rewards. That seal.
You ask with such a violence, the king,
440
SHAKSPEARIAN READER.
(Mine, and your master,) with his own hand gave me.
Bade me enjoy it, with the place and honors.
During my life, and, to confirm his goodness.
Tied it by letters patent: Now, who'll take it ?
Sur. The king that gave it.
Wol. It must be himself then.
Sur. Thou art a proud traitor, priest.
Wol. Proud lord, thou liest;
Within these forty hours Surrey durst better
Have burnt that tongue, than said so.
Sur. My lords.
Can ye endure to hear this arrogance ?
And from this fellow ? If we live thus tamely
To be thus jaded by a piece of scarlet.
Farewell nobility: let his grace go forward.
And dare us with his cap, like larks.
Wol. All goodness
Is poison to thy stomach.
Sur. Yes, that goodness
Of gleaning all the land's wealth into one.
Into your own hands, cardinal, by extortion.
Wol. How much, methinks, I could despise this man,
But that I'm bound in charity against it!
Suf. Lord cardinal, the king's further pleasure is,—
Because all those things, you have done of late
By your power legatine within this kingdom.
Fall into the compass of a prccmunire,—
That therefore such a writ be sued against you;
To forfeit all your goods, lands, tenements.
Chattels, and whatsoever, and to be
Out of the king's protection :—This is my charge.
Nor. And so we'll leave you to your meditations
How to live better. For your stubborn answer
About the giving back the great seal to us.
The king shall fenow it, and, no doubt, shall thank you.
So fare you well, my little good lord cardinal.
[Exeunt all bxit Wti.sEi
Wol. So farewell to the little good you bear me.
Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness!
This is the state of man; To-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms.
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him :
The third day, comes a I'rost, a killing frost;
And,—when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a ripening,—nips his root.
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders.
This many summers in a sea of glory;
But far beyond my depth: my high-blown nride
KING HENRY VIXI.
441
At length broke under me; and now has left me,
Weary, and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.
Vain pomp, and glory of this world, I hate ye;
I feel my heart new opened: O, how wretched
Is that poor man, that hangs on princes' favors!
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to.
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin.
More pangs and fears than wars or women have;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.—
Enter Ckomweli., amafiedly.
Why, how now, Cromwell ?
Crom. I have no power to speak, sir.
Wol. What, amaz'd
At my misfortunes 1 can thy s])irit wonder,
A great man should decline 1 Nay, an you weep,
I am fallen indeed.
Crom. How does your grace ?
Wol. Why weU:
Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell.
[ know myself now; and 1 feel within me
A peace above all earthly dignities,
A still and quiet conscience. The king has cur'd me,
[ humbly thank his grace; and from these shoulders.
These ruin'd pillars, out of pity, taken
A load would sink a navy,—^too much honor:
0, 'tis a burden, Cromwell, 'tis a burden.
Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven.
Crom. I am glad, your grace has made that right use of it
Wol. I hope, [ have: I am able now, methinks,
(Out of a fortitude of soul I feel,)
To endure more miseries, and greater far.
Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer.
What news abroad ?
Crom. The heaviest and the worst.
Is your displeasure with the king.
Wol. God bless him'
Crom. The next is that Sir Thomas More is chosen
Lord chancellor in your place.
Wol. That's somewhat sudden:
But he's a learned man. May he continue
Long in his highness' favor, and do justice
For truth's sake, and his conscience; that his bones,
When he has run his course, and sleeps in blessings.
May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on 'em !
What more ? .
442
SHAESFEAEIAN fvEADER.
Crom. Tliat Cranmer is return'd with welcome,
Install'd lord archbishop of Canterbury.
Wol. That's news, indeed.
Crom. Last, that the lady Anne,
Whom the king hath in secrecy long married.
This day was view'd in open, as his queen.
Going to chapel; and the voice is now
Only about her coronation.
Wol. There was the weight that pull'd me down. O Cromwell
The king has gone beyond me: all my glories
In that one woman I nave lost for ever.
No sun shall ever usher forth mine honors.
Or gUd again the noble troops that waited
Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Crotaiwell;
I am a poor fallen man, unworthy now
To be thy lord and master: Seek the king;
That sun, I pray, may never set! I have told him
What, and how true thou art: ne will advance thee j
Some little memory of me will stir him,
(I know his noble nature,) not to let
Thy hopeful service perish too: Good Cromwell,
Neglect him not; make use now, and provide
For thine own future safety. .
Crom. O my lord.
Must I then leave you ? must I needs forego
So good, so noble, and so true a master ?
Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron.
With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord.—
The king shall have my service; but my prayers
For ever, and for ever, shall be yours.
Wol. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries; but thou hast forc'd me
Out of thy honest truth to play the woman.
Let's dry our eyes : and thus far hear me, Cromwell;
And,—when I am forgotten, as I shall be;
And sleep in duU cold marble, where no mention
Of me more must be heard of,—say, I taught thee;
Say, Wolsey,—that once trod the ways of glory.
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor,—
Found thee a way, out of his wreck to rise in;
A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it.
Mark but my fall, and that that ruin'd me.
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition;
By that sin fell the angels; how can man then.
The image of his Maker, hope to win by't ?
Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee:
Corruption wins not more than honesty.
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace.
To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not:
KING HENRY VIII.
443
Let all the ends, thou aim'st at, be thy countiy's,
Thy God's, and truth's; then, if thou fall'st, O CromwelL
Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve die king;
And,—Pr'ythee, lead me in:
There take an inventory of all I have.
To the last penny; 'tis the king's: my robe.
And my integrity to heaven, is all
I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell,
Had I but serv'd my God with half the zeal
I serv'd my king, he would not in mine age
Have left me nsdied to mine enemies.
Crom. Good sir, have patience.
Wol. So I have. Farewell
The hopes of court! my hopes in heaven do well. \_Exeun..
The following Scene ve^ beantifnlly details the last incidents of Wolsey life—and
exhibits the divorced Qneen, in her closing moments, a pattern of virtnoos resignation
ACT IV.
SCENE II.—Kimbolton.
Enter Katharine, Dowager, sick; led between Griffith and Pa¬
tience.
Grif. How does your grace ?
Kath. O, Griffith, sick to death:
My limbs, like loaden branches, bow to the earth.
Willing to leave their burden: Reach a chair;
So,—now, methinks, I feel a little ease.
Di^t thou not tell me, Griffith, as thou led'st me.
That the great child of honor, cardinal Wolsey,
Was dead ?
Grif. Yes, madam; but, I think, your grace.
Out of the pain you suffer'd, gave no ear to't.
Kath,. Pr'ythee, good Griffith, tell me how he died
If well, he stepp'd fefore me, happily.
For my example.
Grif. Well, the voice goes, madam:
For after the stout earl Northumberland
Arrested him at York, and brought him forward
(As a man sorely tainted,) to his answer,
He fell sick suddenly, and grew so ill.
He could not sit his mule.
Kath. Alas, poor man !
Grif. At last, with easy roads, he came to Leicester,
Iiodg'd in the abbey j- where the reverend abbot.
With all his convent, honorably receiv'd him;
To whom he gave these words,—O father Mat,
An old man. broken with the storms of state.
-144
SHAKSPliARIAN REAOBK.
Is come to lay.his weary hones among ye;
Oive him a little earth for charity I
So went to bed ; where eagerly his sickness
Pursu'd him still; and, three nights after this,
About the hour of eight, (which Jie himself
Foretold, should he his last,) full of repentance,
Continual meditations, tears, and sorrows.
He gave his honors to the world again.
His blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace.
Kath. So may he rest; his faults lie gently on him,
And thus far, Griffith, give me leave to speak of him,
And yet with charity,—He was a man
Of an unbounded stomach, ever ranking
Himself with princes; one, that by suggestion
Ty'd all the kingdom: simony was fair play;
His own opinion was his law. I' the presence
He would say untruths ; and he ever double.
Both in his words and meaning: He was never,
But where he meant to tuin, pitiful;
His promises were, as he then was, mighty; . •
But his performance, as he is now, nothing.
Of his own body he was ill, and gave
The clergy ill example.
Grif. Noble madam.
Men's evil manners live in brass; their virtues
We write in water. May it please your highness
To hear me speak his good now ?
Kath. Yes, good Griffith:
I were malicious else.
Grif. This cardinal.
Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly
Was fashion'd to much honor. From his cradle,
He was a scholar, and a ripe, and good one;
Exceeding wise, fair spoken, and persuading: *
Lofty, and sour, to them that lov'd him not;
But, to those men that sought him, sweet as summer.
And though he were unsatisfied in getting,
(Which was a sin,) yet, in bestowing, madam.
He was most princely: Ever witness for him
Those twins of learning, that he rais'd in you,
Ipswich, and Oxford ! one of which fell with him.
Unwilling to outlive the good that did it;
The other, though unfinish'd, yet so famous,
So excellent in art, and still so rising.
That Christendom shall ever speak his virtue.
His overthrow heap'd happiness upon him
For then, and not till then, he felt himself.
And found the blessedness of being little:
KING HENRT VIll.
445
And, to add greater honors to his age
Than man could give him, he died fearing God.
Kalh. After my death I wish no other herald.
No other speaker of my living actions.
To keep mine honor from corruption,
But such an honest chronicler as GriflSth.
Whom I most hated living, thou hast made me^
With thy religious trutli, and modesty.
Now in his a^es honor: Peace be with him!—
Patience, be near me still; and set me lower:
I have not long to trouble thee.—Good Griffith,
Cause the musicians play me that sad note
I nam'd my knell, whilst I sit meditating
On that celestial harmony I go to.
Sad and solemn music.
Grif. She is asleep: Good wench, let's sit down quiet,
For fear we wake her;—Softly, gentle Patience.
Kath. (Wafces.) Spirits of peace, where are ye? Are ye aU
gone?
And leave me here in wretchedness behind ye ?
Grif. Madam, we are here.
Kath. It is not you I call for:
Saw ye none enter, since I slept?
Grif. None, madam.
Kath. No ? Saw you not, even now, a blessed troop
Invite me to a banquet; whose bright faces
Cast thousand beams upon me, like the sun ?
They promis'd me eternal happiness;
And brought me garlands, Griffith, which I feel
1 am not worthy yet to wear: I shall.
Assuredly.
Grif. I am most joyful, madam, such good dreams
Possess your fancy.
Kath. Bid the music leave.
They are harsh and heavy to me. [Music ceases
Pat. Do you note.
How much her grace is alter'd on a sudden,
How long her face is drawn ? How pale she looks.
And of an earthly cold ? Mark you, her eyes ?
Grif. She is going; pray, pray.
Pat. Heaven comfort her!
a Messenger.
Mess. An't like your grace,—
Kath. You are a saucy fellow.
Deserve we no more reverence ?
GVtjf. You are to blame
446
shakspearian reader.
Knowing, she will not lose her wonted greatness
To use so rude behavior: go to, kneel.
Mess. I humbly do entreat your highness' pardon;
My haste made me unmannerly: There is staying
A gentleman, sent from the kmg, to see you.
Rath. Admit him entrance, G^th: But this fellow
Let me ne'er see again. [Exeunt Griffith <$• Messenger,
Re-enter Griffith, loith Cafucius.
You should be lord ambassador from the emperor.
My royal nephew, and your name Capucius.
Cap. Madam, the same, your servant.
Kath. O, my lord.
The times, and titles, now are altered strangely
With me, since first you knew me. But, I pray you,
What is your pleasure with me ?
Cap. Noble lady.
First mine own service to your grace; the next.
The king's request that I would visit you;
Who grieves much for your weakness, and by me
Sends you his princely commendations.
And heartily entreats you take good comfort.
KcUh. O my good lord, that comfort comes too lats ;
'Tis like a pardon after execution:
That gentle physic, given in time, had cur'd me •,
But now I am past all comforts here, but prayers.
How does his highness ?
Cap. Madam, in good health.
Kath. So may he ever do! and ever nourish.
When I shall dwell with worms, and my poor name
Banish'd the kingdom!—^Patience, is that letter,
I caus'd you write, yet sent away ?
Pat. No, madam. [Giving it to Katharine,
Kath. Sir, I most humbly pray you to deliver
This to my lord the king.
Cap. Most willingly, madam.
Kath. In which I have commended to his goodness
The model of our chaste loves, his young daughter•
The dews of heaven fall thick in blessings on her!—
Beseeching him, to give her virtuous breeding;
(She is young, and of a noble modest nature;
I hope, she vnll deserve well;) and a little
To love her for her mother's sake, that lov'd him.
Heaven knows how dearly. My next poor petition
Is, that his noble grace would have some pity
Upon my wretched women, that so long.
Have foUow'd both my fortunes faithfully:
Of which there is not one, I dare avow,
(And now I should not lie,) but will deserve,
KING HENKY VIII.
447
For virtue, and true beauty of the soul,
For honesty, and decent carriage,
A right goM husband, let him be a noble;
And, sure, those men are happy that shall have tlieui.
The last is, for my men;—they are the poorest,
But poverty could never draw them from me;—
That they may have their wages duly paid them,
And something over to remember me by;
If heaven had pleas'd to have given me longer life.
And able means, we had not parted thus.
These are the whole contents: And, good my lord,
By that you love the dearest in this world.
As you wish Christian peace to souls departed.
Stand these poor people's friend, and urge the king
To do me this last right.
Cap. By heaven, I will;
Or let me lose the fashion of a man!
Kath. I thank you, honest lord. Remember me <
In all humility unto his highness :
Say, his long trouble now is passing
Out of this world: tell him, in deaUi I hloss'd him.
For so I will.—Mine eyes grow dim.—^Farewell,
My lord.—Griffith, farewell.—Nay, Patience,
You must not leave me yet. I must to bed;
Call in more women.—When I am dead, good wench.
Let me be us'd with honor; strew me over
With maiden flowers, that all the world may know
I was a chaste wife to my grave: embalm me,
' Then lay me forth: although unqueen'd, yet like
A queen, and daughter to a king, inter me.
I can no more. [Exeunt, leading (Lathaeikb
THE EHD.
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