Class. Book. PUKSENTKI) liY >^\ «« "'^^u^l^lrAi ^ffrAi THE COMPLETE DRAMATIC AND POETICAL WORKS OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEAEE. WITH A SUMMAKT OTTTLUTE OF The Lite of the Poet, And a Description of His Most Authentic Portraits; COLLECTED FROM THE LATEST AND MOST RELIABLE SOURCES, BY JOHN S. HART, LL.D., LATE PROFESSOR OF RHETORIC AND THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE IN THE COLLEGE OF NEW JERSEr, ETC.. ETC TO WHICH IS APPENDED A ffljsm^^ iKalgsi^ of ihi moi of Jaclt fila^; TOGETHER WITH AN ALPHABETICAL INDEX TO THE CHAEACTERS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS» AN INDEX TO FAMILIAR PASSAGES, AND A COMPLETE GLOSSARY OF THE WORDS USED IN THE TEXT THAT VARY FROM THEIR MODERN SIGNIFICATION. THE TEXT EDITED BY W. G. CLARK AND W. A. WRIGHT. ;ttnjtrtg-^w ^ttn-|}ajji^ fflltt^Jtatij^tt* THE MOST EMINENT ENGLISH AND GERMAN SHAKESPEARIAN ARTISTS. PHILADELPHIA: DAVID McKAY, PUBLISHER, 6io South Washington Square. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1878, by CLAXTON, REMSEN & HAFFELFINGER, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. PUBLISHERS' ANNOUNCEMEIT. rpHE Publishers of " The Avon Shakespeaee " are well aware of the many -*- editions of Shakespeare that have already issued from the press of both England and America, but they have, nevertheless, been induced to undertake the publication of the present volume by the generally expressed desire for a book in large, clear type, the text of which should embody the latest revisions of the best Shakespearian scholars. As the readings of Messrs. Clark and Wright have been carefully followed, it is believed this result has been most fully achieved. The graphically descriptive Life, by Dr. John S. Hart, is rich with new and varied information, gleaned by the accomplished hand of the author from the late discoveries made by Shakespearian antiquaries, who have been stimulated in their untiring researches after all relating to the great poet's life by the ever increasing, never flagging, public interest in one of whom his personal friend "Rare Ben Jonson " said, " Neither man nor muse can praise too much." In the typographical arrangement of this work new features have been intro- duced, — each page being indexed at the page-head with the Scene and Act, while through the printed text, by means of the dark displayed type, the eye catches, without an effort, the main points or characters that appear on that page; an advantage the student cannot fail to heartily appreciate. A Descriptive Analysis of the Plots of the Plays, prepared with great care by Mr. Julius Frankel, is presented as peculiar to this edition. By it the reader is enabled to gain, if so desired, a clear understanding of the story of the plot before reading the text of the play. The Alphabetical Index to the Characters in Shakespeare^ s Plays, The Index to Familiar Passages, and the very complete Glossarial Index, are valuable features, important or essential to the fullest understanding of Shakespeare's works by either the student or the general reader. The Illustrations are from drawings by the most celebrated artists who have made the study of Shakespeare's plays a specialty. The publishers desire here to express their thanks to Mr. J. Parker Norris fot much valuable information and assistance given during the progress of the work. CONTENTS. PAGE The Life of Shakespeaee xi Analysis of the Plots of the Plays . xli Chronological Ordee, of the Plays . Ixx The Tempest 1 The Two Gentlemen of Verona ... 18 The Merry Wives of Windsor ... 35 Measure for Measure 56 The Comedy of Errors 78 Much Ado about Nothing 92 Love's Labour's Lost 112 A Midsummer-Night's Dream .... 133 The Merchant of Venice 150 As You Like It 170 The Taming of the Shrew 190 All 's Well that Ends Well . . . 210 Twelfth Night; or, What You Will. 232 The Winter's Tale 251 The Life and Death op King John . 275 The Tragedy of King Richard II. . . 295 The First Part of King Henry IV. . 316 The Second Part of King Henry IV.. 339 The Life of King Henry V 364 The First Part of King Henry VL . 389 The Second Part of King Henry VI.. 410 The Third Part of King Henry VI. . 434 The Tragedy of King Richard III. , 458 iv PAQB The History of King Henry VIII. . 486 Troilus and Cressida 510 coriolanus 536 Titus Andronicus 564 Romeo and Juliet 584 TiMON OF Athens 608 Julius C^sar 627 Macbeth 647 Hamlet, Prince of Denmark .... 666 King Lear . 696 Othello, The Moor of Venice . . . 722 Antony and Cleopatra 748 Cymbeline 775 Pericles 803 POEMS. Venus and Adonis 822 The Rape of Lucrece 832 Sonnets 847 A Lover's Complaint ....... 863 The Passionate Pilgrim 866 Sonnets to Sundry Notes of Music . 868 The Phcenix and The Turtle . . . .870 Glossarial Index 871 Index to Familiar Passages .... 884 Index to the Characters in the Plays 891 Stratford. Church, -where Shakespeare is Buried. A SUMMARY OUTLINE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE; WITH A Description of His Most Authentic Portraits. CHAPTER I. MARVELLOUS IGNORANCE OF THE ENGLISH NATION IN REGARD TO THE PERSONAL HISTORY OF THEIR GREAT- EST AUTHOR — DICTUM OF STEEVEN8 ON THE SUBJECT, 1773 — RECENT AWAE:ENIN& TO THE IMPORTANCE OF THE INQUIRY ORGANIZED EFFORTS IN THE LAST FIFTY YEARS TO RESCUE FROM OBLIVION WHATEVER IN THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE HAS NOT ABSOLUTELY PERISHED — SUCCESS OF THESE LABORS. iO the observer of our literary history, who stands at the head of King James's reign, and looks down the current to- wards the present time, the very first object in the foreground is one proudly eminent, — an object not unlike the pyramid of Cheops, as seen by the traveller, which, whether you go up or down the Nile, whether you penetrate its rich valley from the east over the sand-hills of Arabia, or from the west across the trackless desert of Sahara, — from whatever quarter of the horizon you approach, — is the first object to strike, the last to fade from, the vision. So is it here. Whether we approach the year 1600 travelUng backwards from the names of Longfellow, Tennyson, "Wordsworth, Coleridge, Byron, and Scott; or descend towards the same point from the author of Fiers the Plowman, Chaucer, "Wyatt, Surrey, Sidney, and Spenser, whether we cross the current of our literature by a transition from that of Germany, France, Spain, Italy, or the Orient, — from whatever quarter of the literary horizon we direct our gaze towards the point indicated, one object stands proudly eminent, one name rises spontaneously on every tongue — the greatest name in all English, in ail modern, perhaps, absolutely, in all literature. Shake- speare possibly may not be read as much, he certainly is not acted as much, as he once was. But he is studied more ; he is better known ; his fame is steadily in the ascendant. His star is confessedly higher and brighter now than it was at the beginning of the present century; it has risen perceptibly within the last twenty-five years ; it is even yet far from having reached its meridian. Steevens, one of the most famous of the Shake- spearian editors,said,over one hundred years ago (1773): "All that is known with any degree of certainty of Shakespeare is, that he was born at Stratford-upon- Avon, married and had children there, went to Lon- don, where he commenced actor; wrote poems and plays ; returned to Stratford, made his will, died, and was buried." This statement, at the time it was made, was sub- stantially true. It is hardly an exaggeration to say that the English nation, at the end of a century and a half from the death of their greatest author, knew less of his life, if less were possible, than we now know of Homer's, after the lapse of nearly thirty centuries. It is, in fact, in comparatively recent times only that the lives of men of letters have been counted as forming any important element in the history of a race. If a man fought a battle, or negotiated a treaty, or held a place at court, or was prominently connected in any way with the civil or military administration THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. of the government, if he was even toady to some titled dowager, his life was thought to be of some public importance ; he formed a noticeable integer in the sum total of the national history. But to write a play, or to make a discovery in science, was thought to concern mainly the obscure dwellers of the Grub Street of the day, even though the discoveries of the one might revolutionize the whole fabric of human affairs, and the creations of the other might help to mould the thoughts and manners of the race until the ending doom. But a change has come over the thoughts of men in this matter. We have at last opened our eyes to the fact that the literature of a race contains in it that which has made the race what it is. Those great thoughts which, in the course of centuries, have been developed by its master minds, are the moving springs that have set the race onward in its career of civilization. The man of thought is father to the man of action. Great ideas precede and cause great achievements. The ideal Achilles made the real heroes of Marathon and the Granicus. In the Anglo-Saxon race, from the days of Alfred until now, men of genius, the great original thinkers in successive generations, have given birth to ennobling thoughts, which continue to endure, and which are perpetuated, not only in the language, but in the race itself. We are what these great thinkers have made us. Englishmen and Americans of to-day are living exponents of thoughts and truths elaborated by the illustrious dead. In the literal sense, indeed, no lineal descendant of Shakespeare remains. His blood de- scendants all died out within the generation that fol- lowed his own death. But in a higher and better sense, his true spiritual life-blood, "those thoughts that breathe and words that burn," pulsates at this day in the veins of more than a hundred millions of men, his blood-kin of the English-speaking race, whose diction and whose thoughts, whose impulses and whose actions, consciously or unconsciously, have perceptibly taken tone and color from the man who was born at Stratford-upon-Avon, a little more than three hundred years ago. No wonder, then, that, under the quickening in- fluence of this new method of estimating values in human history, the steadily growing fame of the great dramatist has awakened at length the most intense curiosity to learn something more of his personal story, to gather from the "ruins of time" some pre- cious relics of that once noble edifice. The zeal and critical acumen displayed in this investigation have probably never been surpassed in any new literary undertaking. These labors, though late, have not been entirely without success. Many important facts relative to Shakespeare's life have been ascertained since the death of Steevens, some even within the last few years. The principal facts which have been thus exhumed, have been gathered from legal documents, from registers of births, deaths, marriages, baptisms; from corporation records, wills, title-deeds, tax-lists, and the like. From such sources, vague statements, which before rested on mere tradition, have, in some cases, been disproved, in others, have been defined and established, while many facts entirely new have been rescued from oblivion. In this way a somewhat connected and consistent series of facts has been made out, constituting a skeleton for a biography. The filling out — the flesh and fulness — has been on this wise : wherever, in the whole range of contemporary literature, a passage has been found, describing the private life and manners of any one similarly situated, it has been eagerly seized as showing one of the pos- sible ways in which Shakespeare may have spent his time. Shakespeare thus has ceased, on the one hand. to be a collection of absurd and contradictory tradi« tions ; and, on the other, has become something more than a mere tissue of dates and legal entries. He has become, indeed, to some reasonable extent, personally known. OHAPTEE II. PAEENTAGE OF SHAKESPEARE, WHY IMPORTANT — JOHN SHAKESPEARE, THE FATHER, WHAT IS KNOWN OF HIM NAME AND GENEALO&T OF THE SHAKESPEARE3, REPUTABLE OHAEAOTER OF THEIR HISTORY MART ARDEN, THE MOTHER, A YOUTHFUL HEIRESS, BELONG- ING TO THE LANDED GENTRY NAME AND GENEALOGY OF THE ARDENS, THEIR HONORABLE HISTORY HAPPY MARRIAGE OF JOHN SHAKESPEARE AND MARY ARDEN, THEIR SETTLEMENT IN STRATFORD, AND SOCIAL POSI- TION THERE PECUNIARY AFFAIRS AND OFFICIAL DISTINCTIONS OF JOHN SHAKESPEARE, THE date of Shakespeare's birth is not exactly known. The nearest approach to it that we have is the day of his baptism, which is found in the parish register of Stratford. He was baptized April 26, 1564. As bap- tism in those days followed close upon birth, the prob- abilities are that Shakespeare was born within three or four days of the date of his baptism ; and as the 23d of April is the day consecrated to St. George, the tutelary saint of England, Englishmen have been not unwilling to assume that Shakespeare was born on that day. Moreover, unvarying tradition — which must be allowed its weight of authority where historic evidence is wanting — has uniformly assigned the 23d of April as the day on which the Great Poet was born; and accordingly that day is now, as it ever has been, celebrated as his natal day all over the world. Of Shakespeare's parentage we now know several important particulars, — important, because they con- tradict and set aside some of the absurd traditions respecting the poet himself. To the intelligent com- prehension of the problem of Shakespeare's author- ship, it is necessary to know something of his original condition in life — whether he was of gentle blood or of base, whether, in the technical sense of the word, he was educated or was merely self-taught, can make his writings neither worse nor better. But the cir- cumstances of his birth and education, his manner of living and his means of knowledge, do affect materially the inferences which may be drawn from his writings. They are essential conditions in the problem of his authorship. John Shakespeare, the father of the poet, was orig- inally, according to the best information thus far obtained, what would be called a "gentleman farmer." The description given by Harrison, in his introduction to Holinshed's Chronicle^ published somewhere about 1580,* of a certain class of Englishmen in the days of Ehzabeth, might, it is believed, fit very well the character and worldly circumstances of John Shake- speare. "This sort of people," says Harrison, "have a certain preeminence and more estimation than labor- ers and the common sort of artificers; and these commonly live wealthily, keep good houses, and travel to get i-iches. They are also, for the most part, farmers to gentlemen, or at the leastwise artificers; and with grazing, frequenting of markets, and keep- ing of servants (not idle servants as the gentlemen do, but such as get both their own and part of their master's living), do come to great wealth, insomuch * HoUnshed d. bet. 1578 and 1582, Harrison d. 1592 (?). THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. that many of them are able and do buy the lands of unthrifty gentlemen, and often settling their sons to the schools, to the universities, and to the Inns of the Court, or otherwise leaving them sufficient lands whereupon they may live without labor, do make them by those means to become gentlemen." John Shakespeare seems to have been, during a considerable portion of his Ufe, an incipient gentleman, somewhat after the same sort. It further appears that he resided originally in a small village (Snitterfield) three miles from Stratford, that he went to Stratford about the year 1551, and engaged there in trade of some kind, made purchases of property, and continued to reside there during all the minority, at least, of his son William. The name Shakespeaee was a familiar one in the county of "Warwick, being found on record in that county in six different places in the fifteenth century, twenty-two places in the sixteenth century, and thirty- two places in the seventeenth century. The name has in itself evidence of the occupation of its original holders. Verstegan,* the antiquarian, in a work pub- lished in 1605, says: "Breakspear, Shakespear, and -the like, have been surnames imposed upon the first bearers of them for valor and feats of arms." Cam- den, under the same date, 1605, says that many an- cient families are named "from that which they com- monly carried; as. Palmer, that is. Pilgrim, for that they [the pilgrims] carried palms when they returned from Hierusalem; Long-sword, Broad-speare, For- tescue (that is. Strong-shield), and in some such re- spect, Break-speare, Shake-speare, Shot-bolt, Wag- staff." Fuller, in his Worthies of England, 1662, refers to the "warlike sound of his (the poet's) surname, whence," says he, "some may conjecture him of a military extraction, — Masti-vibrans, or Shahe- gpearey Hall further records, in his Chronicle, already quoted, that after the battle of Bosworth Field, 1485, which secured the kingdom to Henry VII., "the king began to remember his especial friends and factors, of whom some he advanced to honor and dignity, and some he enriched with possessions and goods, every man according to his desert and merit." This Bos- worth field is only thirty miles from Stratford, and one of the Warwickshire Shakespeares, apparently an ancestor of William, seems to have been among those who fought in this battle, and who was thus enriched with possessions and goods. It is furthermore a mat- ter of record that a grant of arms was made to "John Shakespeare, now of Stratford-upon-Avon, county of Warwick, gentleman," a grant first drafted in 1596, and afterwards confirmed in 1599, in which it is re- cited that "his great-grandfather, and late antecessor, for his faithful and approved service to the late most prudent Prince, Henry YII., of famous memory, was advanced and rewarded with lands and tenements, given to him in those parts of Warwickshire, where they have continued by some descents in good reputa- tion and credit." The coat-of-arms thus granted to the family contains a gold spear, headed with silver on a bend sable, on a field of gold, and also for its crest a falcon brandishing a spear. Spenser, in a passage generally believed to refer to Shakespeare, calls him Aetion, a name formed apparently from the Greek aerdc, an eagle, and says, his muse doth, like him- self, "heroically sound;" the poet's name, too, it is to be observed, was in that day sometimes printed as two words, connected by a hyphen, Shake-speare. The poet's mother was of an ancient and somewhat wealthy family, of the name of Abden. Arden is * Restitution of Decayed Intelligence in Antiquities, concern- ing the Most Noble and Renowned English Nation. Antwerp, said, by Dugdale, the antiquarian, to be an old British word, and to signify "woodiness" or "woodland," and the famUy has been traced back to the time of Edward, the Confessor. "In this place," says Dug- dale, "I have made choice to speak historically of that most ancient and worthy family, whose surname was first assumed from their residence in this part of the country, then and yet called Arden, by reason of its woodiness, the old Britons and Gauls using the word in that sense." Dugdale further says that Tur- chill de Warwick, "a man of especial note and power," and of "great possessions" in the time of the Conqueror, " was one of the first here in England that, in imitation of the Normans, assumed a surname, . . . and wrote himself Turchillus de Eardene [Turkill of Arden], in the days of King William Eufus." Sir John Arden, of this ancient famUy, was squire of the body to Henry VII. The office was in those days one of considerable importance. The squire only could array the royal person ; no one else could set hand on the king. The squire carried the king's cloak when the latter walked out, and presented the potage when the king would drink, and slept at night in the pres- ence-chamber, for the protection of his majesty's person. Robert Arden, nephew of this Sir John, was groom of the chamber to the same Henry VII. This office also, though inferior to that of squire, was yet one of some mark. While the squire slept in the same apartment with the king, the groom slept in the ffifclSBS?^"^^!^^ ante-room outside, to guard the sJli^^PW^'v door. He also presented the robes with which the squire arrayed the royal person, and performed various other offices Kp'^flHiy of a like nature. Besides this i^Tr-TsskmI office, the younger Arden re- ceived from Henry VII. a lease of the royal manor of YoxaU, in Staffordshire, and was like- wise keeper of the royal park of Aldecar. This Robert Ar- den, the younger. Groom of the The Arms of John Chamber to Henry VII., was Shakespeare, grandfather of Mary Arden. Thus it appears that both the Shakespeares and the Ardens were persons of consideration in Warwick- shire, in the reign of Henry VII., and for the genera- tion or two immediately succeeding. Robert Arden, son of the Robert just named, at his death, in 1556, divided his estate, by wiE, among several children ; but Mary, his youngest, appears for some reason, to have been prominent in his thoughts. She was one of the executors of his will, and received therein a special legacy in these words : " I give and bequeath to my youngest daughter, Mary, all my land in Wilmecote, called Asbies, and the crop upon the ground, sown and tilled as it is, and £6 13s. 4:d. of money, to be paid over ere my goods be divided." This Wilmecote estate consisted of about sixty acres of land and a house, and is situated about three mUes from Stratford, in the parish of Aston Cantlow. I have said the skeleton of Shakespeare's history has been clothed with flesh and blood, by transferring to a few naked facts materials drawn from contein- poraneous literature. Let me give a specimen of this mode of giving "to airy nothing a local habitation and a name." Suppose, in the first place, the extracts from the will just quoted. ISText, suppose a line extracted from the parish register, being the official record of an interesting domestic occurrence a year xiii THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. or two later. From these two facts a fertile imagina- tion has woven a narrative somewhat after this wise:* Mary Arden ! The very name breathes of poetry. But Mary is a mourner. Her father is dead, and she is now left without guidance, an heiress and an orphan. Mary lives, indeed, in a peaceful hamlet. But there are strange things around her, — things incomprehensible to a very young woman. When she goes to the parish church on Sunday, there are many things which she did not see there in her father's time. She hears the mass sUng and sees the beads bidden. Once, certainly, within those walls she had heard a very different form of worship. She recollects that in her childhood the rich religious houses of the vicinity had been suppressed, their property confis- cated, and their buildings torn down or defaced. Now there is apparently a new power trying to re- by his wisdom her doubts and perplexities about pubHc affairs are kindly resolved. But ecclesiastical and agricultural affairs are not the only topics dis- cussed under this lonely roof -tree; and so, in due season, and not far from the time when Mary, the Queen, was. expiring, and with her the Catholic wor- ship was again disappearing, as the established religion of England, Mary Arden and John Shakespeare were standing before the altar of the parish church of Aston Cantlow, and the house and lands of Asbies became thenceforth administered by one who took possession of the same by the right of the said Mary. One thing at least is certain. The parents of Shake- speare were neither the ill-bred nor the ill-conditioned people they are generally reputed to have been. On the contrary, they were persons of substance, of rep- utable descent, and in comfortable circumstancas, The Shakespeare Homestead in Henley Street, Where William Shakespeare was born. store these institutions. There are around her mutual persecutions and heart-burnings, — neighbor warring against neighbor, friend against friend, parents against children, husband against wife. Mary muses on many things with an anxious heart. The wealthier Ardens of Kingsbury and Hampton, of Rotley and Rodburne and Park Hall, are her very good cousins: but bad roads and bad times keep them separate ; and so she leads a somewhat lonely life. But village gossip tells of a young man, a yeoman of the neighboring town, an acquaintance of her fathe;-'s, who often comes to sit upon those wooden benches in the old hall. He is a substantial and towardly young man, already a burgess in the village. From him she gathers useful suggestions as to the management of her little estate ; and their son had, without the shadow of a doubt, all the advantages of breeding and education usually de- rived from growing up in such a family and attending the village school. What the latter was we shall presently inquire. John Shakespeare and Mary Arden were married probably in 1557, some time, at all events, between No- vember 24, 1556, the date of Robert Arden's will, and September 15, 1558, the date of the baptism of their first child. This first child died in infancy. Their second died before it was a year old. Their third, William, as before stated, was baptized April 26, and is commonly reputed to have been born April 23, 1564. He was therefore the oldest of the family, ex- cepting those that died in infancy. ■ Altered from Knight, p. 11. THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. CHAPTER III. THE SHAKESPEARE HOTTSE, ITS IDENTIFIOATION AND HIS- TOEY — EVIDENCE IT AFFORDS IN REGARD TO THE OIECUMSTANOES OF SHAKESPEARE's BOYHOOD BAP- TISMAL REGISTER OF THE SHAKESPEARE FAMILY EVIDENCE IT GIVES IN REGARD TO THE COMPANIONSHIP OF THE BOY WILL SHAKESPEARE. THE house in which Shakespeare was born has been identified with sufficient certainty. It was situ- ated in Henley Street, and was bought by John Shake- speare in 1556. He hved in this street, and most of the time in this house, from 1551, the time of his coming to Stratford, till 1601, the time of his death. The property passed, by inheritance or will, first to 'William Shakespeare, then to his eldest daughter, Susannah Hiill, then to his granddaughter, Elizabeth Hall (after- wards Lady Barnard), and then to Thomas and George Hart, grandsons of Shakespeare's sister, Joan, who was married to William Hart, of Stratford. It remained in possession of the Hjirt family tDl about the year 1830, the last of that name who occupied it being the seventh in descent in a direct line from Joan Shakespeare, the sister of William. By special contributions, in 1849 this house was made the property of the nation. It has been restored as nearly as possible to its original con- dition three hundred years ago, has been filled with Shakespeare mementoes of every kind, and a fund has been set apart for the purpose of keep- ing it permanently in repair, and open to the in- spection of visitors from all nations. Enough remains of the original structure to show that Shakespeare was born, and that he spent his boyhood and youth, in a home fully equal, in re- gard to the comforts and proprieties of life, to those common among the well-to-do burgher class of England in the sixteenth century. Fo one who wishes to trace the circumstances which have influenced, for good or evil, the growth of a great intellect, will overlook the companionship of childhood. Who were the youthful companions of William Shakespeare? The parish register of Stratford, after the date of William's baptism, contains among others the following entries of the Shakespeare family : Gilbert, baptized October 13, 1566 ; Joan, bap- tized April 15, 1569; Richard, baptized March 11, 1574 ; Edmund, baptized May 3, 1580. Putting these dates together, and calling im- agination once more to our aid, we find that when Wil- liam was two and a half years old, Gilbert came to be his playmate ; when William was five years old, that most precious gift to a loving boy, a sister, was granted, to grow up with him, and to find in him at once a play- mate and a protector ; at ten, he had another brother to lead out into the green fields ; and at sixteen, the youngest was born, "the baby," whom William prob- ably never regarded in any other light than as a play- thing. These things may be accounted mere fancies. I think they contain a doctrine. Selfishness and gloom are apt to be engendered by a solitary childhood. The baptismal register shows, in the childhood of Shake- speare, no cause at least for the existence of such mor- bid affections, as his writings give no evidence that such feelings ever did exist in his healthy and cheerful mind. Stratford-upon-Avon is a small town in Warwick- shire, ninety-six miles north-west from London. Its population in the time of Shakespeare was about fifteen hundred. The municipal government consisted of a bailiff, aldermen, and burgesses. The bailiff, or chief alderman, once a fortnight held a court. There was also a court-leet, which appointed " ale-tasters," a class of officers to prevent fraud in the quality of that im- portant element in an Englishman's comfort. The court-leet appointed also affeerors, whose duty it was to punish citizens for various minor offences for which there was no express provision in the statutes. Last, there was the constable, an officer of no little considera- tion in such a town. John Shakespeare, the father of WiUiam, held successively all these offices. He was on the jury of the court-leet in 1556, an ale-taster in 1557, a burgess in 1558, a constable in 1559, an affeeror in 1559 and again in 1561, an alderman in 1565, and high- bailiff or chief magistrate in 1568. William was in his fifth year when his father was at the height of his municipal distinction. One thing is noticeable in regard to this gradual ele- vation of John Shakespeare in the social scale. In all the registers where his name occurs prior to 1571, he is recorded simply as John Shakespeare, in one place The Room -whepe Shakespeare -was Born House in Henley Street. John Shakespeare, glover. But in a record on Sep- tember 28, 1571, William being then in his eighth year, the father's name is entered as Magister Shakespeare; and ever after among his neighbors he is known, not as goodman Shakespeare, or plain John Shakespeare, but as Master Shakespeare. This title of Master or Mr. was then never used, as now that of M. D. is never used, except by virtue of some specific legal right. This change of title in the history of John Shake- speare, it can hardly be doubted, was in consequence of his increasing wealth and his position in the village. It shows incontestably that he was about this time a leading man in the town, and consequently that his son, the poet, could not have been the iUiterate butch- er's boy that the early biographers represented him to be. We are left free to admire his transcendent genius without being called upon to believe the absurd fables of his clownish ignorance. As further bearing upon the circumstances of the poet's childhood, the following ascertained facts may be cited, showing the probable occupation and the worldly condition of John Shakespeare. In 1556 he THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. acquired a tenement and garden adjacent, in Henley- Street, and also a tenement with a garden and croft [small enclosed field] in Greneliyll Street, both in Strat- ford. In 1557 or 1558, he acquired by marriage the estate of Asbies, sixty acres of land and house, three miles from Stratford ; also, by inheritance, some landed property at Snitterfield, three and a half miles from Stratford. In 1570, he held, as tenant under Sir Wil- liam Clopton, a meadow of fourteen acres, at an annual rent of £8 (= $200 then). The inference from these facts is unmistakable. John Shakespeare was at one period living upon his own land, and renting the land of others, and actively engaged in the business of cultiva- tion, in an age when tillage was profitable. When, a little later in life, he came to the village and settled in Henley Street, he probably kept up his agricultural operations, and also kept a shop in his house, where he sold the products of his farm, — butcher's meat, wool, hides, and other articles, such as gloves made from the skins of the animals slaughtered. Harrison says : " Men of great port and countenance are so far from suffering their farmers [tenants] to have any gain at all, that they become graziers, butchers, tanners, ters, woodmen, and denique quid non.'''' probably on this account, William was thrown upon his own resources somewhat earlier than he might otherwise have been. The boy evidently knew little either of a father's care or of a father's control after the age of fifteen. Grammar School Attended by Shakespeare, Stratford. This explains the mystery of the apparently contra- dictory traditions in regard to the occupation of John Shakespeare. We see how he was a " butcher," also a "wool-merchant," also a "glover," also a "farmer," also a " yeoman ; " how finally John Shakespeare, the woodman of Arden, sold timber to the corporation of Stratford. The evidence is tolerably complete that John Shake- speare, in his later years, for some cause not ascer- tained, fell into pecuniary difficulties and embarrass- ments. He was evidently in straitened circumstances in 1579 ; was turned out of the aldermanship in 1586 ; was arrested for debt in 1587; and finally, in 1592, was reported by the authorities as absenting himself from church for fear of being arrested for debt. But as these things occurred chiefly after the formative period in the life of his son William, and as these diffi- culties, even when greatest, did not seem to aSect the social status of the family, it is hardly necessary to pursue the subject further, except to remark that, CHAPTER IV. Shakespeare's school and schoolmasters — what IS KNOWN of his COURSE OF STUDY — HIS KNOWLEDGE OF LATIN AND GREEK EVIDENCE IN HIS WRITINGS OP HIS BEING A CLASSICAL SCHOLAR. STRATFORD-UPON-AVOK was, as it still is, a quiet place, comparatively free from disturbance and excitement. Its ecclesiastical foundations were numerous and ample. With one of these, the Guild of the Holy Cross, was connected an endowed gram- mar school. It was founded in 1482, in the reign of Edward IV., by gift of Thomas Jolyfife, on condition that the authorities of the town and guild " should find priest, fit and able in knowledge, to teach gram- mar freely to all scholars coming to the school, . . . taking nothing of the scholars for their teaching." The school was afterwards enriched by Sir Hugh Clopton, the great benefactor of Strat- ford, and finally was reorganized by Edward VI., in his royal charter to the town, which requires, among other things, " that the free grammar school for the instruction and education of boys and youth there, should be hereafter kept up and maintained as theretofore it used to be." There is no register, or document of any kind, to show that Shakespeare actually attended this school. That he did so attend, however,'is morally certain, from the fact of its existence, and from his father's position and standing in the village. We have no record that the showers fell or the sun shone upon the little garden and croft in Henley Street, yet we make no question of the fact. We have an almost equal certainty that the boy Shake- speare, "with his satchel and shining morning face," found his way regularly to the grammar school in Chapel Street. A grammar school in England in those days meant a school for teaching mainly Latin and Greek, corre- sponding in some respects to the old-fashioned acad- emy once so common in this country. It was always taught by men of the clerical profession, graduates of the universities. The teacher of this particular school from 1572, when Shakespeare was eight years old, to 1580, when he was sixteen, was a graduate of Cambridge, the Rev. Thomas Hunt, who was at the same time curate of the adjoining parish of Ludding- ton. In this school, and under this teacher, without a shadow of doubt, Shakespeare was instructed in the knowledge of the ancient tongues. As to the extent of this knowledge, an unfair presumption has been cre- ated by the oft-quoted expression of Ben Jonson on the subject. Jonson, who knew Shakespeare intimately, speaks of his having "small Latin and less Greek." This was said in Ben's usual style, more to point an antithesis than to state exact truth. Jonson, himself the pupil of the great Camden, was eminent for classical scholarship, and gloried in the fact. Statements by him on this subject, therefore, are to be received with some degree of allowance. What seemed to him a small modicum of Latin and Greek may have been after all a very fair possession. But taking his expression literally, it shows that Shakespeare had certainly some THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. considerable knowledge of the classics, and with equal certainty that he had in his youth attended the public grammar school, where only in Stratford this knowl- edge could have been acquired by him. Now the course of studies in these old endowed grammar schools is a matter of public record. It included instruction always in Latin and Greek, often in French, and some- times in Italian. The classics usually read were C^sar, Sallust, Cicero, Terence, Virgil, Horace, and Ovid, in Latin; Lucian, Xenophon, Homer, and Aristophanes, in Greek.* The pupil, furthermore, was obliged to read a goodly portion of this Latin before beginning Greek. It is doubtful whether, in any public grammar school then existing in England, a boy could begin Greek withoiit a familiar acquaintance with at least Cfflsar, Cicero, Virgil, and Ovid; and after beginning Greek, the Latin, be it remembered, would be still continued ; be it remembered too that the Greek itself was studied through the medium of the Latin, the only grammar and the only dictionary of the Greek at the pupil's command being written in Latin, as indeed it was done in my own school days. So far as the dic- tionary was concerned, Shakespeare then could not have had even the little Greek that the critical Ben was willing to allow him, without having known a good deal of Latin. In all probability he knew as much of both as would be learned by a bright boy who attended the grammar school until he was fifteen or sixteen, but who did not go thence to the university. There is nothing in his history, and still less in his writings, to make it necessary to suppose, as has been very generally done, that for his knowledge of Roman affairs he was dependent entirely upon the very imper- fect translations then extant of the Roman writers. The signs, too, are unmistakable that in the use of words he was thoroughly at home in the classic ele- ment of the language, to an extent utterly unattainable by one who had never studied Latin and Greek. There is perhaps no more decisive test of scholar- ship, — meaning by that term acquaintance with lan- guages, — than the extent of a man's vocabulary. The number of different words that common uneducated people use is surprisingly small. A thousand or two, sometimes only a few hundred, are all the words at their command. Uneducated men of genius, hke Bunyan, have of course a larger stock at command. But even in their case the number of different words used by them is comparatively small. The words they do use are forcible and are used with great vigor, but the range is lunited. Men acquire a wide range of words in two ways, namely, 1st, by becoming acquaint- ed with numerous and varying subjects through study and observation, and, 2d, by the study of languages, and by the latter chiefly. Hence it is noticeable that writers who have studied foreign languages, ancient or modern, excel others in the range of their vocabu- lary. Milton, for instance, who was eminent as a scholar, uses in his poetical works no less than eight thousand different words. But Shakespeare, in his poetry, nearly doubles the amount, using more than fifteen thousand — a vocabulary larger, so far as known, than that of any other Enghsh writer. A more con- vincing proof of scholarship could not well be con- ceived. It may not be amiss to dwell a moment longer upon this point, as it is an essential fact in any theory that undertakes to explain intelligibly the problem of Shakespeare's authorship. "A young author's first work," as Coleridge well observes, "almost always bespeaks his recent pursuits." The earliest produc- tions of Shakespeare, accordingly, those written soon * See British Quarterly for July, 1865. after he had left school, betray unmistakably the classi- cal scholar. Compare them with those of any un- taught genius, say Bunyan, and see the difference. Venus and Adonis, "the first heir of his invention," and the Rape of Lucrece, published only one year later, are both on classical subjects ; and whUe treated with originality of conception, the author using freely old materials to construct an edifice of his own contriv- ance, are yet thoroughly and consistently classical in all their ideas and devices. They show a mind steeped and saturated with a knowledge of Greek and Latin fable. "Would an unlettered village youth have ven- tured on such subjects, in addressing a nobleman like Southampton, distinguished alike for his own scholar- ship and for his patronage of scholars ? All of Shake- speare's earlier plays, such as Love's Labour's Lost, The Comedy of Errors, and the three parts of Henry VI., abound in classical allusions, classical quotations, and Latinisms both of diction and construction, almost to the verge of pedantry ; — not indeed the direct ped- antry of his contemporaries, Mai'lowe, Greene, and Peele, who made open show of their learning, and who stole bodUy from the ancients ; Shakespeare, even in these earlier days of his authorship, when still fresh from his school studies, and infected to some extent with the spirit of his times, yet used his classical knowledge as a master, not as a servile copyist. As he pi-oceeded in his work, and acquired maturity of power and of art, his mastery appears both in his less frequent use of classical allusions and in the wonderful nicety with which the allusions actually used are wrought into the substance of his own thought. In the Latin constructions sometimes used in these later plays, and in the Latin-English words which he some- times coins, he shows not only singular faciUty of in- vention, but unerring correctness. Milton himself does not walk with more assured tread than does Shakespeare, whenever he has occasion to resort to classic lore. And then how wonderfully steeped with beauty are these classical words and ideas, after having passed through his subtile brain ! How purely classi- cal, yet with a grace how entirely his own, is that ex- quisite image in Hamlet : "A station like the herald Mercury, New -lighted on a heaven-kissing hill." Observe, too, the new use to which this master of language here puts the word "station" — a mode of standing — a use of the word how purely Latin, and yet how thoroughly Shakespearian. Perhaps, how- ever, there is not in all his works a finer instance of his absolute dominion in the world of words than in that singular expression in Macbeth : Not only by words and phrases, however, does he show knowledge of classical lore, but by the com- pleteness with which he enters into the life of the ancients, as in the Roman plays, where he seems to be actually co-existent with Ctesar and Pompey, with Brutus and Cassius, with Antony and Cleopatra. It is not possible to believe that this intimate knowledge of the "very form and pressure of the time" in those old Roman days, came from copying extracts from school grammars and lexicons, and reading the wretched translations of Thomas Phaer and Arthur Golding. The foundation of this classical knowledge, assuredly, was laid in that public grammar school at Stratford, where, during all his boyhood, to the age beyond that at which youth then went to the univer- sities, he had the continued instruction of a learned clergyman, himself a graduate of Cambridge. There THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. and then, beyond question, Shakespeare quainted with the classical tongues, and with some of the masterpieces of classical composition ; and this familiarity with the ancients, thus began in youth, was, there can be as little doubt, continued in later life, while seeking materials for his own great works. No other theory seems possible. No other satisfies the conditions of the problem of his authorship. Assuredly, he was an intelligent, educated artist, not an inspired idiot. CHAPTER V. OTHER EDUCATIONAL INFLUENCES ACTING UPON HIS YOUTHFUL MIND («) EELIGIOUS TRAINING AND ASSO- CIATIONS, THE QUESTION WHETHER JOHN SHAKESPEARE, THE FATHER, WAS A CATHOLIC, STRONGLY PROTESTANT CHARACTER OF THE STRATFORD PARISH CHURCH, LIST OF THE SERVICE BOOKS USED IN THAT CHURCH, CATE- CHISMS AND MANUALS OF EELIGIOUS INSTRUCTION IN WHICH SHAKESPEARE IN HIS BOYHOOD WAS DRILLED ; (5) CHRONICLES AND LEGENDS WHICH FORMED A PART OF HIS YOUTHFUL READING, A LIST OF THESE BOOKS GIVEN ; (c) LOCAL ASSOCIATIONS TO WHICH HIS YOUTH- FUL MIND WAS SUBJECTED, REMARKABLE SERIES OF FACTS ON THIS POINT. BUT education is more than learning. Education is growth, and whatever contributes to the growth of a great intellect, whether it be the religious associa- tions of church and home, the story books devoured, the local usages and traditions by which one is sur- rounded and inspired, whatever thus acts upon the growth of a great intellect, is a part of its means of education. Let us glance at some of these outside " schools and schoolmasters " of the boy Shakespeare. And first of religious associations. On this point I propose to dwell a little, as the subject is one not so generally understood as it should be, and the facts that bear upon it are not matters of conjecture, but of record — clear, positive, and well defined; and they throw a strong light upon one of the most marked features of the author's works. More than a century and a half after his death, the theory was broached that John Shakespeare, the father of "William, was a Catholic. The facts in regard to this matter are, briefly, as follows: The Hart who, in 1770, occupied the Shakespeare tenement in Henley Street, had the roof new tiled. The bricklayer employed for this purpose professed to have found between the rafters and the old tiling a manuscript, which on examination purported to be the confession of faith of John Shakespeare, and which contained ample avowals of his being a Roman Catholic. The authenticity of this document, like the notorious Ireland forgeries, is now entirely discarded by Shakespearian experts and critics. John Shakespeare was of course born a Catholic, as were the great body of other Englishmen born prior to the breach between Henry VIH. and the Pope, in 1531. But the fact that he held various civil offices in Stratford, and especially that of chief buj'gess or mayor, shows incontestably that John Shakespeare was, outwardly at least, a Protestant during all the time of "William's boyhood, for by the statute of Elizabeth, 1558-9, known as the oath of supremacy, every civil magistrate in the realm was bound under penalties of forfeiture and imprisonment to conform to the established reformed religion. John Shakespeare in his old age is indeed oflicially reported, among others of his neighbors, for "not coming monthly to the church," as required by statute, but at the same time it is significantly added that he was thought "to forbear church for debt or fear of pro- cess ; " in other words, he stayed away from church to escape arrest for debt, not out of disaffection for the reformed religion. Then we have the fact, from which there is no escaping, that "William and all his brothers and sisters were regularly baptized in the Stratford parish church, which was not only Protestant but Puritan, the vicar, Richard Bifield, being one of the most zealous of the Puritan divines.* Shakespeare himself, his wife, his daughter, his son-in-law, all lie buried in the most conspicuous position in the chancel, — the strongest pos- sible attestation that this Protestant church was the religious home of the Shakespeare family. The services of that church, then, were, beyond question, among the educational influences under which the intellect of Shakespeare grew. Let us see for a moment what these services were, and how far they were of a kind likely to influence such a mind. The Psalter in use there, the only one in fact then known to the English church, was the hard, bald Doric of old Sternhold and Hopkins ; these were the Psalms to which without doubt his boyish ears were accustomed. The Book of Common Prayer, adopted in the reign of Edward VL, 1549, and reaflSrmed by Elizabeth, 1559, was then in use in all the churches, and was, with all its wealth of purest English, perfectly familiar to the youthful Shakespeare. The portions of Scripture which he heard from the Prayer-Book on the Sabbath were, as they still are, from Cranmer's version, 1540, known as The Great Bible, a huge folio for the use of the churches. But the household Bible of that day, the only one printed in small volume, was the Geneva version, executed by the Presbyterian refugees at Geneva, Switzerland, in 1560. This Geneva Bible, it can hardly be doubted, was the one used in the household of John Shakespeare and of his son "William. It was indeed for half a century, that is, until the appearance of our present version, in 1611, the common household Bible of the great majority of the English people. That Shakespeare was famihar with this Geneva Bible is further proved by a critical examination of the Scripture words and phrases which he uses in such abundance, and which are clearly those of the Geneva version. In this connection it is proper to notice certain manuals of religious instruction in which all young persons were then drilled. Shakespeare, in King John (I. i.), mentions one of these, the Absey Book. This Absey Book, so called from A B C, is the name of a little manual for the instruction of young chil- dren, put forth in the first year of the reign of Ed- ward VI. It contains "the ABC, the Pater Noster, Ave, Creed, and Ten Commandments." It contained also, in some of the subsequent editions, a few short lessons for reading and spelling, and a brief catechism of religious instruction. Besides this Absey Book, Edward, before the close of his reign, put forth a new edition of the old English Primer, being "a short catechism of plain instruction, containing the sum of Christian learning." These two manuals, the Absey Book and the Primer, covering substantially the same ground as that occupied half a century later by the New England Primer put forth by the "great John Cotton" of Boston, were made obUgatory. Every schoolmaster of the realm was required, by royal command, and under severe penalties, to teach these * Various little incidents show the Puritan character of the village. In 1564, 2s. are paid by the corporation for defacing the image in the chapel. In 1630, a man is fined by the authorities for travelling on the Sabbath. The inscriptions on the tombstones of the Shakespeare family in the church all speak deep religious feeling of the John Banyan order. THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. manuals to his pupils. It is morally certain then that Shakespeare conned them and committed them to memory. To recapitulate: From the plain old Psalter of Sternhold and Hopkins, in use in the parish church, from the weekly services of the Book of Common Prayer, from the daily use at his mother's knee of that most familiar household book, the Geneva Bible, from the careful training which good Master Hunt gave him in the Absey Book and the Primer, it is easy to understand how a mind so susceptible to external influences as was that of Shakespeare became so imbued and saturated, as we find it, with Scripture language and doctrine. Another educational influence needs to be men- tioned. Shakespeare's plays show him to have been early familiar with the old English chronicles and other legendary lore which formed a part of the popular reading of that day. A mind such as his would naturally revel in this kind of reading, as did "Walter Scott's in the old border ballads of Scotland. Some of the books of this kind at the command of the youthful Shakespeare, which he has used so largely in -his works, and which evidently helped to mould and fashion his thoughts, it is worth while to mention. They were "the books, the academes," {Love's Lab. Lost, IV. iii.) from which his soid drank nourish- ment, just as truly as it did from Master Hunt and Lily's grammar and the volume of Greek and Latin lore over which he pored in the famous Chapel Street grammar school. Among the books thus devoured by the imaginative boy we may reckon, with scarcely a possibility of mistake, the following : 1. The Palace ofPleamre, by William Painter, 1566. This was a collection of stories and novels, from various languages, translated into English. In this collection we find among others the pitiful Italian story of Romeo and Juliet, as translated from the Prench of Boisteau. 2. Fahy ail's Chronicle of the old British history, 1516. This contains among its many wild legends the "story of Leir and his three daughters" — a story peculiarly interesting to a Warwickshire man, as " Leir " is reputed to have founded the neighboring town of "Caerlier," now called Leicester. 3. HalVs Chronicle, 1548. This was devoted to a narrative of the wars of the houses of York and Lancaster, a large part of the battle-fields of which ■were within a day's walk of Stratford-upon-Avon. That this book had been well thumbed by the youthful bard may be inferred from the fact that three-fourths of all his great historical plays were founded on materials gathered from this field. 4. HolinsheWs Chronicle of England, Scotland, and Ireland, 1577. This is another fascinating book of the same sort. Shakespeare follows it in aU his plays on English history. He doubtless devoured it when a boy, just as Walter Scott devoured the old Scotch ballads and legends. 5. Gesta Romanorum, translated into English by Eobinson, 1595. This was a famous story-book of those days. It was a vast storehouse of monkish and mediaeval legends, full of fascination for an imaginative mind, and containing among other things the two stories which form the groundwork of the Merchant of Venice, also the story of the Emperor Theodosius and his three daughters, which is another form of the old fable of King Lear. 6. Reginald Scofs Discovery of Witchcraft, 1584. This work, with its infinite details and wild stories of witches, fairies, hobgoblins, and other uncanny folk, must have had a strange fascination for the mind that has given us the weird sisters of Macbeth, Ariel and Caliban of The Tempest, and all the long list of Puck, Peaseblossom, Titania, Queen Mab, and their fellows. Many other books might be mentioned as forming very probably a part of the library of the boy Shake- speare. But of these six which have been named, Palace of Pleasure, Fabyan's Chronicle, Hall's Chron- icle, Holinshed's Chronicle, Gesta Eomanorum, and Eeginald Scot's Discovery of Witchcraft, we can no more doubt than we could if we saw the very books themselves with his autograph upon them, the very dog's-ears telling us where to turn for the well- thumbed passages which have formed the staple of so many of his most glorious creations. We are considering, remember, the educational in- fluences that gave shape and color to the character of this wonderful man. I have spoken thus far, first, of his school and the studies which he pursued there ; secondly, of his church and his religious instruction and associations; thirdly, of the story books and legends which were within his reach, and with which his works show him to have been entirely familiar. All these things are strictly educational ; by grouping them together thus in one view, we are able to realize to some extent the kind of atmosphere in which the mind of Shakespeare was immersed, and in which it received such a healthy development. But there was still one other educational influence, not inferior to any of these. I refer to the powerful influence of the local associations that were around him on every side, and on this point I shall make no apology for entering a Httle into particulars. The subject, you will find, is in the highest degree suggestive. The childhood of Shakespeare, it can hardly be doubted, was one of great physical activity. The Stratford bust, which, with all its faults as a work of art, is perhaps the best authenticated likeness of him, tells unmistakably the same story. In his writings, too, he displays a minute familiarity with out-door sports of every kind, an acquaintance with external nature and country scenes, such as is never gained except by those whose childhood and youth are spent largely in the open air, among the green fields and by the hedge-rows and lanes of the country. The free, harum-scarum country boy speaks out from his page in places innumerable. In this, as in many other points, there is a striking resemblance between Shake- speare and Sir Walter Scott, — the same healthy robust- ness of thought, the same joyousness of temperament, the same fondness for out-door life and out-door sports, the same close observation of nature, the same love for legendary lore, written or unwritten. The story of Scott's early fife fortunately is on record ; and, by analogy, it tells us plainly how, in corresponding cir- cumstances, the Stratford boy with his great exuberance of life deported himself among the stirring associa- tions by which he was surrounded. Let us look for a moment at some of these local transactions and asso- ciations, which were likely to act upon the imagination of a thoughtful boy in that spring-time of life when the thick-coming fancies of the brain are just begin- ning to take root. We have all read Walter Scott's description of Kenilworth Castle, and of the gorgeous pageants ex- hibited there by the Earl of Leicester to Queen Elizabeth. All mid-England was there by thousands, three hundred and twenty hogsheads of ale drank on the occasion testifying to the extent of the gathering. Is it likely, can we conceive it possible, that a boy of active habits and ardent imagination, then in the twelfth year of his age, and living only thirteen miles away, would be absent from such an exhibition? The dramatic cast of many parts of that superb entertain- ment must have been especially suggestive to the xix THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. mind of the young villager. When, on that occasion, the great Earl welcomed his sovereign with a more than regal magnificence, it is not hard to believe that his ambition looked higher than the part of favorite counsellor and minister. The Stratford boy would not be slow to take up the pleasing surmise, as it passed from mouth to mouth among the gaping mul- titude, nor would he soon forget the pageant itself, or the gay throngs surging in and out through the lordly portals. The only passage in the plays in which Shakespeare appears distinctly to allude to Queen Ehzabeth is one the hint of which seems to have been caught on this occasion. Bear in mind that in these shows at Kenilworth, the mythology of lakes and seas abounds. " Arion appears sitting on a dolphin's back," "Triston, in hkeness of a mermaid, comes towards her Let us look at some of the other local associations: Only ten miles from Stratford was Warwick Castle, the seat of the great Earl, the king-maker, with its huge piles of masonry and its rich historical associa- tions. Many an old servitor of the house would be there, only too glad to pour into the ear of the curious boy the tales of tragic interest which had been enacted within and around its walls. A mile from Warwick, at Blacklow-hill, was the scene of another startling tragedy. There, in 1312, the favorite of Edward II., Piers Gaveston, was be- headed by the barons. Conspicuous among the objects that would here rivet the attention was the ancient statue of Guy at Guy's Cliff, the famous " Black Dog of Arden," by whose hand the butchery was perpetrated. Only twelve miles away was the scene of the great Ruins of Kenilworth Castle. majesty." With these things in mind, let us see if we do not get some new light on the origin of that exquisite passage in the speech of Oberon, in A Mid- summer- NigMs Dream, already referred to (II. i.). Obe. My gentle Puck, come hither. Thou rememberest Since once I sat upon a promontory. And heard a mermaid on a dolphin's back 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 couldst 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 loosed his 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 watery moon, And the imperial votaress passed on, In maiden meditation, fancy-free. - XX battle of Evesham, where, in 1265, Edward I. defeated the barons under Simon de Montfort. The tomb of King John was at Worcester, only twenty miles away. Coventry, eighteen miles away, was the seat of the famous Black Prince. There were the famous lists where, according to Shakespeare's own description {Richard II., I. iii), the quarrel first began between the houses of York and Lancaster. There, too, was something still more attractive to a young poet. The Coventry Mysteries, the most famous of their kind in England, were then in full activity, and the people of the rural counties were hardly less attracted to them than are the people of Germany now to the Passion Plays of the Oberammergau. All mid-England thronged to see these remarkable open air theatricals, — the germ from which in less than twenty years Shake- speare's own theatre was to spring. A two days' walk would bring one from Stratford THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. to Shrewsbury, where the Hotspur Percy was slain, and the Scotch Earl Douglas taken, and minute touches in Shakespeare's description of the fight show that his eye was thoroughly familiar with the scenery of this great battle-field. One day's walk down the Avon brings you to the scene of the great battle of Tewksbury, — the crown- ing struggle of a terrible sixteen years' war. In that battle, as Margaret so piteously says to Eichard, "Thou slewest Edward, my poor son, at Tewksbury." [Richard III.^ I. iii.). The battle of Bosworth Field was fought within thirty miles of Stratford. Burton, writing in 1624, says the inhabitants then living around the plains of Bosworth Field "have many occurrences and passages [of the battle] yet fresh in memory, by reason that some persons thereabout, which saw the battle fought, were living within less than foi'ty years." Forty years from Burton's date takes us back to the six- teenth year of William Shakespeare. Why should not he, the boy-dramatist, like Scott, the boy-novelist, have gathered knowledge and caught inspiration from the lips of these old narrators? The battle of Bos- worth Field was, in Shakespeare's day, the Waterloo of English history. Burton again, in another place, speaking of this battle, identifies the spot " by a little mount cast up, where the common report is, that at the first beginning of the battle Henry Earl of Eich- mond made his parjenetical oration to his army [Rich- ard III.^ V. iii.); [also] by divers pieces of armor, weapons, and other warlike accoutrements, and by many arrow-heads new found, whereof about twenty years since [1604] great store were digged up, of which some I have now in my custody, being of a long, large, and big proportion, far greater than any now in use; as also by relation of the inhabitants, who have many occurrences and passages yet fresh in memory." Let it be remembered in this connection that of the ten historical plays, no less than eight are associated in many of their battle-fields with the locaUties which have been named, and with which Shakespeare was from boyhood perfectly familiar. Of these plays, four, namely, Richard 11.^ Henry IV., Part I., Henry IV., Part II., and Henry V., consti- tute a connected tetralogy, showing the rise of the House of Lancaster. The remaining four, namely, Henry VI., Pa/rt /., Henry VI, Part II., Henry VI., Part III., and Richard III, constitute a second tetralogy, showing the rise of the House of York. The wars described in these eight plays agitated the English nation for full a century. The memory of them was still fresh in the minds of the EngUsh people at the time when Shakespeare's boyhood began, being about as far removed from him as the events of the American Eevolution are from us. The battle-fields of these fierce wars and the monuments of them on every side of him were a part of the educational forces to which his young mind was subjected. No one who has read Romeo and Juliet is hkely to forget the amiable Friar Lawrence. The picture of this kind-hearted old man has all the mai-ks of a por- trait, the original of which may be traced with no great violence and probability. Twelve miles from Stratford, at Evesham, were the ruins of the famous Abbey of the Benedictines, which had been robbed and dismantled by Henry VIIL, in 1539. More than one hundred and fifty inmates of this monastery were turned loose upon the world. Many of these men doubtless were still living, sheltered in the cottages of old servants and retainers of the monastery, and nothing is more likely than that young Shakespeare came in contact with more than one of these meek and peaceful old men. "The Infirmarist of a monastic house, who had charge of the sick brethren, was often in the early days of medical science their only physician. The book knowledge and the experience of such a valuable member of the conventual body would still allow him to exercise [these] useful functions when thrust out into the world ; and the young poet may have known some such kindly old man, full of axio- matic wisdom," who unconsciously sat for his portrait of Friar Lawrence. It is observable of aU Shake- speare's pictures of monks, that they are drawn in the spirit of charity, and show the benevolent and kindly side of their character. The expelled Benedictines of Evesham, living in a serene and peaceful old age before his eyes, would naturally prompt to such a view. Shakespeare's knowledge of archery and other field sports often comes out in his writings. In the Venus and Adonis, for instance, the practised huntsman appears as unmistakably as in Scott's Lady of the LaJce. The painting of the hare-hunt, in the Venus and Adonis, is for minute accuracy unequalled in all English literature. So in the Merchant of Venice, he shows his familiarity with archery. (I. i.) In my school-days, when I had lost one shaft, I shot his fellow of the self-same flight The self-same way with more advised watch. To find the other forth, and by adventuring both I oft found both. The ancient sport of archery was revived in Eng- land with much ceremony in 1580, Shakespeare being then sixteen years old. A short distance from Strat- ford, about a mile from the little village of Bidford, was still standing twenty-five years ago an old crab- tree, known as Shakespeare's Grab-Tree, and cele- brated partly by the tradition that he was one of a party who accepted a challenge from some Bidford topers to try which party could drink the most ale, but more certainly by the tradition that under this tree were many games of archery, in which Shake- speare and other Stratford boys took part. CHAPTER YL THB STOET OF HIS DEEE-STEALING, HOW FAE IT IS TO BE OEEDITED. THEEE is another somewhat circumstantial tradition of Shakespeare's youth, which may be exaggerated in many of its details, and yet must have had some foun- dation in truth, — enough at least to add to the convic- tion that when a boy he was addicted to boyish sports and boon companions. " He had," says Eowe, one of the earhest of the biographers, 1709, "by a misfortune common enough to young feUows, fallen into ill com- pany, and amongst them, some that made a frequent practice of deer-stealing engaged him more than once in robbing a park that belonged to Sir Thomas Lucy of Charlecote near Stratford. For this he was pros- ecuted by that gentleman, as he thought, somewhat too severely; and, in order to avenge that ill usage, he made a ballad upon him ; and though this, prob- ably the first essay of his poetry, be lost, yet it is said to have been so very bitter that it redoubled the prosecution against him to that degree that he was obhged to leave his business and his family in War- wickshire for some time, and shelter in London." Eowe speaks of the ballad as being lost, but some later antiquarians succeeded in gathering fragments of it from the lips of two or three extremely aged per- sons who had portions of it in memory. The first stanza, at least, has been clearly mada out from two THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. Independent sources. The ballad may possibly not have been Shakespeare's, but there is no doubt of its having come down to us by direct oral tradition, reach- ing back very nearly to Shakespeare's day. To understand the malicious poem upon Sir Thomas's name, it should be remembered that in the language of heraldry the word luce (Lat. lucius, O. Fr. Im) meant a pike, a kind of fish, and that three white luces or pike, interlaced, were in the quarterings of the coat- of-arms of the Lucy family. The baUadist, whoever he was, quibbles upon the rustic pronunciation of the word "1-o-u-s-e," which was also sounded "luce," and thus brings out the provoking idea which so nettled the provincial dignitary. The stanza is as follows : A Parliament member, a justice of peace, At home a poor scare-crow, at London an ass; If lowsie is Lucy, as some volk miscall it, Then Lucy is lowsie, whatever befall it. He thinks himself great, Yet an ass in his state We allow by his ears but with asses to mate. If Lucy is lowsie, as some volks miscall it, Sing lowsie Lucy, whatever befall it. Shakespeare certainly at no period of his life was above this sort of quibble, and in his Merry Wives of Windsor (I. i.) he uses almost exactly the same ex- pression, so that readers have very generally believed that Sir Thomas sat for the picture when the dramatist gave us his inimitable portrait of Justice Shallow : Slen. All his ancestors that come after him . . . May give the dozen white luces in their coat. Shal. It is an old coat. Evans. The dozen white louses do become an old coat well ; it agrees well, passant ; it is a familiar beast to man. Charlecote, with its ample parks and its noble man- sion and its worthy surroundings of every kind, was in the immediate vicinity of Stratford, and doubtless was one of the objects that helped to fill the mind of the young bard with images of beauty, whether the stoi-y of his youthful escapade there be true or not. CHAPTER VII. HIS MAEEIAGE PAINFUL SUEMISE8 EAISED IN EEGAED TO IT BY EEOENT DISOOVEEIES — QUESTIONABLE OHAE- AOTEE OF THE TEAN8 ACTION HAPPINESS OB UNHAP- PINE8S OF HIS MAEEIED LIFE, THE AEGUMENT8 PEO AND CON — THE EO MANGE CONNECTED WITH THE NAME AND MEMOET OF ANNE HATHAWAY. WHAT I have given thus far in regard to the per- sonal history of Shakespeare is, I am constrained to say, though extremely probable, yet, with one sin- gle exception, devoid of absolute certainty. Truth to say, from the register of his baptism to his nineteenth year, we have not one fact strictly personal to himself which we can affirm on direct and positive evidence. The second fact of his hfe for which we have authentic documentary evidence is his marriage. The date of Ms marriage is involved in the same difficulty as the date of his birth. The reason of the uncertainty as to the exact date is that the marriage register has not been found. But not many years ago a legal docu- ment was brought to light which fixes the date within a day or two. In the year 1836, there was discov- ered in the Consistorial Court of Worcester, the county adjoining to Warwickshire, a document relat- ing to Shakespeare, which on examination proved to be his marriage license. In this document, bonds are given by two of his neighbors to indemnify the Bishop for licensing the marriage with only once pub- xxii lishing the ianns. This feature of the hcense to imply haste, and, taken in connection with some other circumstances, makes it certain that the marriage itself took place very soon thereafter, in all probability the same day. The marriage license is dated Novem- ber 28, 1582, Shakespeare being then a little over eighteen years and seven months old. _ Under head of May 26, 1583, two days less than six months, the parish register of Stratford contains this entry: Baptized, Susannah, daughter to William Shakespeare. Connected with this marriage is another circum- stance, also accredited by public documents, from which countless conjectures have been drawn, accord- ing to the teeming fancies of readers. The Stratford register says that Shakespeare's wife was buried August 8, and her tombstone says that she died August 6, 1623, aged sixty-seven years. Now, had Shakespeare hved till August, 1623, he would have been aged but fifty-nine years, or nearly eight years younger than his wife. In other words, the passionate and imaginative boy of eighteen was married to one in the full and matured womanhood of twenty-six. In connection with this we are reminded also that in Shakespeare's will, which is very minute, mention- ing and providing for all the other members of his family, and even some of his neighbors and of his dramatic associates, his wife's name, in the original draft of the will, did not once occur, the one item in which it does occur being an interlineation, showing it to have been an afterthought, and bequeathing her merely his '■'■second-best bed with the furniture." Nor is there in all his writings a line or a word which can be certainly affirmed to have been inspired by her, unless it be that significant thought in Twelfth J^ight(lI.iY.): Let still the woman take An elder than herself; so wears she to him, So sways she level in her husband's heart,— — words of warning which some critics have been wicked enough to hint might have been suggested by his own bitter experience. It is but just to say, before dropping this disagree- able part of the subject, that there are many plausible theories for mitigating and even reversing the ordinary judgment upon this transaction. The evidence is com- plete that the ceremony of Hand-fasting, or Troth- pUght, duly made before competent witnesses, was then popularly considered as nearly, if not quite, equivalent to formal marriage; and parties thus be- trothed lived together openly, and without scandal, as man and wife, before the formal marriage ceremony in church took place. Shakespeare himself, in Winter's Tale, speaks of illicit intercourse before " Troth-plight " in the same manner as of illicit intercourse before marriage, putting the two on an equahty. The chari- table presumption, say those who admit this view, is that Shakespeare and Anne Hathaway were thus troth- plighted, and considered man and wife, months before their formal marriage. Certain it is that no breath of scandal on this account has reached us from the gos- sips of his own time. The marriage license that has been referred to, it is further to be noticed, is attested by the seal of Eichard Hathaway, the father, showing his presence and assent to the transaction. There is, moreover, documentary evidence to show that this Eichard Hathaway and John Shakespeare, the father of William, were personal friends, doing neighborly acts for each other in the way of business; that Eichard Hathaway, Jr., the dramatist, two years the senior of Shakespeare, and his associate in Uterary and dramatic work, was in all probability Shakespeare's THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. brother-in-law ; furthermore, Jack Sandells and John Richardson, Shakespeare's bondsmen, on the marriage license, were neighbors and friends of the Hathaways; and finally, the Shakespeares and the Hathaways seem from various circumstances to have lived on the most neighborly terms. As to the omissions of the will, it is to be remarked that the " lest bed " in such a family was usually an heir-loom, and went, according to English custom, to the heir-at-law; that the '■'■second-hast bed" was doubtless the one connected with the bridal ceremony and the married life of the parties ; and finally, that by English law the wife had her widow's portion, and was thus amply provided for without any special legacy in the will. Still, the one awkward fact re- mains, and the union, it is feared by many, was an ill- assorted one, and as such was a misfortune, even though not a crime. In this connection, too, it must be added that a por- tion of the sonnets seem to reveal to us some dark passages in Shakespeare's London life, and from this the inference has been made that he was driven to been on the part of the injured wife that strong desire, which we know her to have expressed, to be buried in the same grave with him. Anne Hathaway, the name of the young woman who so early gained such an ascendancy over the youthful poet, was, according to a very general tradi- tion, possessed of great personal beauty. There is indeed no direct contemporary record to this effect. But the tradition is at least an innocent one, and is not contradicted by any adverse testimony. Of the sonnets, there are two or three at least that are redolent of this spring-time of life, and which I for one can hardly help believing were written by him before leaving Stratford, and were inspired by this Stratford beauty. One of these, in a half playful, half passionate vein, is a continued parody or pun on his own name of " Will." Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy ' Will," And ' Will ' to boot, and ' Will ' in overplus ; More than enough am I that vex thee still, To thy sweet will making addition thus. Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious, Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine? Anne Hathaway's Cottage. Beek in forbidden ways the companionship and solace that he did not find by his own hearth-stone. That he did not, however, by the fascinations of the capital, become seriously alienated from his Stratford home is as clear as day, and is among the important facts bear- ing upon this vexed question. He never became a Londoner, as did Jonson and the other dramatists of the day. All the pet names given him by his contem- poraries connect him with his country home. He is ever "the sweet swan of Avon," "the bard of Avon," not of the Thames. Every year, during his long sojourn in London, he made his annual visit to Strat- ford. His children are baptized, married, and buried there. His earnings, year by year, are invested there. It has even come to light that among his investments was a purchase of land at Shottery, the seat of the Hathaway Cottage, which certainly does not look as though the place had become distasteful to him. Everything in fact that we certainly know of the history of the man shows that Stratford and its sur- roundings, the residence of his wife and the scene of his youthful love, continued to the last to be the home of his affections. Had there been any such alienation as has been imputed, there would not have Shall will in others seem right gracious. And in my will no fair acceptance shine ? The sea, all water, yet receives rain still And in abundance addeth to his store ; So thou, being rich in ' Will,' add to thy ' Will ' One will of mine, to make thy large ' Will' more. Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill ; Think all but one, and me in that one ' Will.' Sonnet cxxxv. Another sonnet, in like youthful vein, differing so widely from the deep tragedy that pervades others of his sonnets, is addressed to some one playing on the virginal, an instrument of music then in use, the keys, called "Jacks," being of wood. How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st, Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st The wiry concord that mine ear confounds, Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap To kiss the tender inward of thy hand, Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap, At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand ! To be so tickled, they would change their state And situation with those dancing chips. O'er whom [which] thy fingers walk with gentle gait, Making dead wood more blest than living lips. Since saucy jacks so happy are in this. Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss. Sonnet cxxviil. xxiii THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. This sonnet, whether addressed to Anne Hathaway or not, is at least a refutation of the theory that all the sonnets were inspired by a male friend. The sen- timents here expressed are surely not those of man to- wards man, but of a man towards a woman. Anne Hathaway's cottage, at the little village of Shottery, a mile and a half across the green fields from Stratford, still remains, and in it the "second best bed with the furniture," bequeathed by her hus- band. Nothing more picturesque is to be seen in all the country round. The next entry in the Stratford register with which this story is concerned is the following: Baptized^ February 2, 1585, Hamnet and Judith, son and daugh- ter of "William Shakespeare. Shakespeare's wife bore him only these three children. Hamnet, the only son, died at the age of twelve. The daughters, Susannah and Judith, were both married. Judith was married to a Stratford man, Thomas Quiney, and had three sons, who however all died without issue. Susannah, the oldest daughter, and the chief inheritor, was mar- ried to Dr. Hall, an eminent physician of Stratford. She had one daughter, Elizabeth, who was twice mar- ried, the last time to Sir John Barnard, but she like- wise died without issue. No lineal descendant of Shakespeare, therefore, now exists. CHAPTER VIII. WHAT LED SHAKKSPEAEK TO THE PLATERS AND TO LONDON. MANY conjectures and surmises have been given as to the cause of Shakespeare's leaving Stratford for the metropolis. The real cause I take to be that stated briefly by Aubrey, the earliest of all the biographers (1670). "This William," says Aubrey, "being natu- rally inclined to poetry and acting, came to London." Let us see if some light cannot be thrown upon this brief paragraph. Among the fiscal accounts of Stratford have been several entries which may be serviceable in this matter. These entries are charges of public money expended by the authorities for certain theatrical performances at different times, from 1569 to 1580, that is, from the fifth to the seventeenth year of William Shakespeare. In 1569, when his father John Shakespeare was chief magistrate or Bailiff, there was a payment of £9 to the Queen's Players, and of \M. to the Earl of Worces- ter's Players. In 1573, the Earl of Leicester's Players received 5s. 8^. In 1576, my Lord of Warwick's Players had a gratuity of I7s., and the Earl of Wor- cester's Players one of 5s. Qd. In 1577, my Lord of Leicester's Players received 15s., and my Lord of Wor- cester's Players 3s. 4:d. In 1579, ray Lord Strange's men, at the commandment of the Bailiff, 5s., and the Countess of Essex's Players 14s. &d. In 1580, the Earl of Derby's Players, at the commandment of the Bailiff, 8s. U. These entries are explained by the following passage in a book by R. Wiltes, 1639, who gives his own age at that time as seventy-five, and who must therefore have been born in the same year with Shakespeare. Wiltes is describing what he had seen in a country town near Stratford when he was a boy. His descrip- tion, in connection with the foregoing entries, is almost as satisfactory as if it had been said in express terms that the same thing was seen by Will. Shakespeare, another boy, in another town of merry England, " all in the olden time." The title is : "Upon a Stage-Play which I Saw when I was a Child." " In the city of Gloucester, the manner is (as I think it is in other like corporations) that when Players of Interludes come to town, they first attend the Mayor, to inform him what nobleman's servants they are, and so to get license for their playing ; and if the Mayor like the actors, or would show respect to their lord and master, he appoints them to play their first play before himself and the aldermen and common council of the city ; and that is called the Mayor's Play, when every one that wiU comes in without money, the Mayor giving the players a reward as he thinks fit, to show respect unto them. At such a play my father took me with him, and made me stand between his legs, as he sat upon one of the benches, where we saw and beard very well. The play was called 'The Cradle of Security,' wherein was personated a king or some great prince, with his courtiers of several kinds, amongst which three ladies were in special grace with him ; and they, keeping him in delights and pleasures, drew hir^ from his graver counsellors, hearing of ser- mons, and listening to good counsel and admonitions, that in the end they got him to lie down in a cradle upon the stage, where these three ladies, joining in a sweet song, rocked him asleep, that he snorted again, and in the mean time closely conveyed under the clothes wherewithal he was covered a vizard like unto a swine's snout upon his face, with three wire chains fastened thereunto, the other end whereof being sever- ally holden by these three ladies, who fell to singing again, and then discovered his face, that the spectators might see that they had transformed him, going on with their singing. Whilst all this was acting, there came forth of another door, at the farthest end of the stage, two old men, the one in blue, with a sergeant of ai-ms, his mace upon his shoulder, the other in red, with a drawn sword in his hand, and leaning with the other hand upon the other's shoulder ; and so they two went along in a soft pace, round about by the skirt of the stage, till at last they came to the cradle, when all the Court was in the greatest joUity; and then the foremost old man with his mace struck a fearful blow upon the cradle, whereat all the courtiers, with the three ladies and the vizard, all vanished ; and the deso- late prince, starting up barefaced, and finding himself thus sent for to judgment, made a lamentable com- plaint of his miserable case, and so was carried away by wicked spirits. " This prince did personate in the gest the wicked of the world; the three ladies. Pride, Covetousness, and Luxury ; the two old men, the End of the World and the Last Judgment. This sight took such impres- sion in me that when I came towards man's estate, it was as fresh in my memory as if I had seen it newly acted." Now if R. Wiltes, born in 1564, saw when a child this exhibition in the town of Gloucester, I do not find it at aU difficult to beheve that when, in 1569, John Shakespeare, Baihff of Stratford-upon-Avon, ordered the payment of 9s. to the Queen's Players for the ex- hibition of a Merry Interlude, his son WiU, then five years old, stood in like manner between his father's legs, as he sat upon one of the benches, and there saw a like notable " gest ; " and that he continued to wit- ness the other exhibitions of a like kind which occurred from time to time in his native town during the whole period of his boyhood. The inference which these records suggest is strength- ened by others of a later date. The first direct evi- dence that we have of Shakespeare's being in London THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. is a list of certain persons in that city, engaged as players and as proprietors of the Play House. In this company, of which Shakespeare is one, occur the names of several other actors from the same county of Warwick, and one other at least from Stratford itself. Thus, then, it was. The great dramatist found, even in these rude exhibitions, something congenial. He found in these wandering and clumsy theatricals the elements of his own glorious day-dreams. His soul was touched, rudely it may be, but on that chord which yielded its deepest and sweetest music. To join his fellow-townsmen who had already embarked in this business, and to seek by it in the great metropolis the means of living and of fame, was certainly one of the most natural and probable of all possible results. It was instructive. His leaving Stratford for London at the time he did needs no further explanation. It re- quires no fable of deer-stealing and prosecution, no interposition of paternal misfortunes, no fiction of domestic disquietudes and treasons. Shakespeare found himself among the players for the same reason that the birds in spring-time find themselves among the branches. He became a dramatist under a law as generic as that which draws sweetness from the jEolian harp when kissed by Zephyrus, or that which opens the throats of the feathered tribes when vernal airs and genial skies warm them into melody. It was nature herself prompting her favorite son to his ap- propriate work. The strolling players and the merry interludes, at the little town of Stratford-upon-Avon, were to Shakespeare the mirror of Merlin, revealing to himself the secret of his own wonderful powers. The powers were there. They needed only an occa- sion to put them in motion. CHAPTER IX. UHCEETAINTT ABOTTT THE TIME OF SHAKESPEAEE's AD- TENT IN LONDON — FIEST FOUND THERE IN CONNECTION WITH THE LORD OHAMBERLAIN's PLAYERS SKETCH OF THE HISTORY OF THIS COMPANY — THE ELDER BUK- BAGE, HIS THEATRICAL ENTERPRISES — ATTITUDE OF THE CORPORATION OF LONDON TOWARDS THE PLAYERS, ITS EFFECT UPON THE LOCATION OF THE PLAY HOUSE — NOTICES OF THE THEATRE, THE CURTAIN, THE GLOBE, THE BLAOKFRIARS. OlSTE of the riddles of literature is that so little should be known of the man who is beyond ques- tion the greatest genius that literature has to boast of ; and the riddle is all the more perplexing from the fact that this man lived in the very focus of English civil- ization, at one of its most illustrious epochs, and that he has been dead only about two centuries and a half. The exact date of Shakespeare's going to London is not known. The probability is that he went about the year 1586, four years after his marriage, he being then twenty-two years old, and his youngest child not yet two years old. He died in 1616, and the last four or five years of his life are knewn to have been spent in his native village, after his retirement from the metropolis. This would make his London career cover a period of about a quarter of a century. The first notices we have of Shakespeare in London are in connection with the company of actors known, first as the Lord Chamberlain's men, and afterwards as the King's Players. Some account of this company therefore is the first thing in order. Strolling actors were at that time liable to be taken up as vagrants. To relieve them from this penalty the better class of actors attached themselves to the service of some nobleman, and, as his servants, they were by law free from arrest. One company, known as the Earl of Lei- cester's Players, early acquired special distinction, and in 1574, through his influence, obtained a special charter from the Queen. The leading proprietor in this com- pany was James Burbage, a Warwickshire man. This James Burbage was, in Shakespeare's boyhood, the man of greatest mark in the theatrical world. He was the pioneer in the building of play-houses, the first house ever built in England specially erected for theatrical purposes being that put up by him in 1577, in Shoreditcb, on ground formerly belonging to Holy- well Priory. It was in the open fields on the north side of London, and just outside the city limits. This building was known simply as the Theatre. After occupying it more than twenty years as a play-house, Burbage pulled it down, carried the materials to the Old Globe Theatre, 1S93. other side of London, on the south bank of the Thames, and there, in 1599, with these materials, built the play- house known as the Globe. He had also, some three or four years before, near the north bank of the Thames, opposite Southwark, erected still another play-house, known as the Blackfriars, being built upon a part of the foundation of the old monastery of the Black Friars, which had been demolished in the reign of Henry VIII. This James Burbage had a son Richard, who was confessedly the greatest actor of his day, and one of the greatest of all time. He was about the same age as Shakespeare, and was the leading man in the com- pany of players to which Shakespeare belonged. They played chiefiy in the buildings just described, put up by the elder Burbage, namely, the Theatre, the Black- friars, the Globe. The principal actors in this com- pany were Richard Burbage, William Shakespeare, Lawrence Fletcher, Augustine Phillipps, JohnHeminge, THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. Henry Condell, William Sly, Eobert Armin, and Richard Cowley. This company, varying a little from time to time as to its constituency, yet remaining sub- stantially the same, was at first under the protection of the Lord Chamberlain, and its members were known as his men or his servants. But on the acces- sion of James, 1603, he took them under his own special protection, and they were known thenceforth as the King's Players. All of Shakespeare's plays were brought out by this company. The Burbages, father and son, were in particular intimately associated with Shakespeare all through his theatrical career, and the younger of them is one of those affectionately remembered by Shakespeare in his will. Another man for a time of this company, though he appears afterward to have gone over to a rival company, was Thomas Greene, of great celebrity as a comic actor. He is generally believed to have been a Stratford man, and to have been directly in- strumental in introducing Shakespeare to the com- pany. Still another member of this company, John Heminge, is said to have been from Shottery, the residence of Anne Hathaway, near Stratford. He re- mained with the company to the last, and was one of the editors of the first Folio. Richard. Burbage. To understand the theatrical history of this period, it must be borne in mind that while both Elizabeth and James, and the court generally, looked with favor upon actors and acting, the city of London, under the influence of the Puritan element in the church, dis- countenanced stage playing, and did everything in their power to suppress it. Hence nearly all the early play-houses were built in places contiguous to the population, but outside the limits of the corporation and beyond its jurisdiction. There were three such play-houses on the north side of the city, in what was then open country, in the neighborhood of Shore- ditch. These three were: 1. The Theatre (Burbage's already named), 2. The Curtain, 3. The Fortune. Two others, already mentioned, and belonging to the Burbages, were The Blachfriars, on the north bank of the Thames, and within the corporation limits, and The Globe, on the south side of the Thames, in the suburb known as Southwark, and sometimes as the Bankside. The Blackfriars, according to docu- ments first brought to light by Mr. HalHwell, in 1874, wasbailtin 1596, and the Globe in 1599. Shakespeare's theatrical career began at the old theatre in Shore- ditch, outside of the city on the north, and continued there for the first ten or twelve years; it was then divided for a time between that theatre and the Black- friars ; and finally, for the last twelve or fifteen years, was divided between the Blackfriars and the Globe. CHAPTER X. BEGINNING OF SHAKESPEAEE's CAEEEE, HIS RANK AS AN ACTOE VEET EEOENT DOCUMENTS ON THIS SUBJECT — IN WHAT MANNEE HIS OAEEEE AS A DRAMATIST BEGAN SOCIAL HUMILIATIONS OF THE ACTORS AND THE DRAMATISTS AT THAT TIME — EVIDENCES THAT SHAKESPEAEE FELT THIS KEENLY HIS SOCIAL HABITS — " WIT-COMBATS " BETWEEN HIM AND BEN JONSON, AT THE MERMAID ONE REASON WHY SUCH OBSCU- RITY EXISTS IN REGARD TO THE DATE OF THE COM- POSITION OF THE DIFFERENT PLAYS — HIS INTEREST IN PREVENTING THE PUBLICATION OF THE PLAYS CHARACTER OF THE EARLY QUARTOS — THE TRUE EDITIO PEINOEPS. THE evidence is conclusive that Shakespeare began his theatrical career as an actor, and that he took parts both in his own plays and in others. Some of the parts taken by him, as that of the Ghost in his own Hamlet, and that of the old man Adam in As You Like It, are pretty well ascertained. It is also known that he played in Ben Jonson's Every Man in his Humor. The earliest authentic mention of Shakespeare as a player is in March, 1594, four years earlier than any authentic mention of him in this capacity heretofore supposed to exist. In the document just unearthed by Halliwell, and published in 1874, of the authenticity of which there has been thus far no question, Shake- speare is named as one of the Lord Chamberlain's ser- vants who had acted two comedies before her majesty Queen Elizabeth during the preceding Christmas sea- son, that is, in December, 1593. This document, then, shows Shakespeare, at the end of seven years from the time of his supposed advent in London, to have already risen to such consideration in the theatrical world as to be one of the three most eminent actors of the day, specially invited to play before her majesty on that occasion, Kempe and Burbage, the two others associated with him, being the acknowledged sover- eigns of the stage. The document is interesting also as showing the exact amount paid for their services, viz., £20 equal to £100, or $500 now. The whole entry is worth quoting. It is in these words: "To William Kempe, William Shakespeare, and Richard Burbage, servants to the Lord Chamberlain, upon the Council's warrant, dated at Whitehall, 15 March, 1594, for two severall comedies or interludes showed by them before her Majesty in Christmas time last past, namely, upon St. Stephen's day and Innocent's day, £13 6s. M., and by way of her majesty's reward £6 13s. 4:d., in all £20." In regard to his ability as an actor, Chettle, writing while Shakespeare was still on the boards, 1592, tes- tifies that " he is excellent in the quality which he professeth," and Aubrey, writing half a century after Shakespeare's death (1670), says "he did act exceed- ingly well." If in this respect he did not come up to the consummate ability of his friend, the younger Burbage, who was indeed the Garrick of his day, he THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. yet evidently was an actor of no mean ability, and his practical experience on the stage contributed largely, without doubt, to that masterly knowledge of stage- effect which is so conspicuous in his plays. There is a well-authenticated tradition that Taylor, one of the Blackfriars' company, who acted Hamlet, was instructed in the part by Shakespeare himself; also, that Lowine, who acted Henry VIH., was like- wise instructed in it by Shakespeare ; and, finally, that Betterton, who, half a century later, became famous as a personator of these two parts, was aided therein by the stage traditions in regard to the manner of presenting them introduced by Shakespeare himself. The evidence, furthermore, is conclusive that for many years Shakespeare was engaged both as a writer for the stage and as an actor. All his predecessors and most of his contemporaries were at once players and writers. Such was the case with Marlowe, Greene, Lodge, Peele, Nash, Munday, Wilson, Field, Heywood, Webster, and Ben Jonson. It was not until some time later in the history of the drama that the business of author and actor became distinct. All the early dramatists were actors, and took part in acting their own plays. It is further probable that Shakespeare began the business of dramatist in the same manner as his pre- decessors, namely, as a "playwright." That is, he began, not by composing original plays, but by tinker- ing up and improving plays already extant. The drama, about the time that he began authorship, seems hardly to have been considered a part of literature. The person who prepared a play for the stage was not looked upon as an author. It was all one to the audience whether that which pleased them was orig- inal or borrowed. The actor sometimes came in for a share of personal regard, but no one ever thought of the writer. It can hardly be doubted that Shake- speare, while enjoying his theatrical success, felt keenly the humiliating social position to which his profession at this time subjected him. It is absurd to suppose that such a genius as Shakespeare's, did not know its own value. Eead the fifty-fifth sonnet : Not marble, nor the gilded monuments Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme ; But you shall shine more bright in these contents Than unswept stone besmear'd with sluttish time. When wasteful war shall statues overturn, And broils root out the work of masonry, Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn The living record of your memory. 'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity Shall you pace forth ; your praise shall still find room Even in the eyes of all posterity That wear this world out to the ending doom. _ Bearing in mind this his sublime consciousness of his own greatness and of the assured eternity of his lines, how infinitely touching is the pathos with which, in another sonnet (111th), he refers to the social humiliations to which his profession subjected him. O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide. The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds, That did not better for my life provide Than public means which public manners breeds. Thence comes it that my name receives a brand, And almost thence my nature is subdued To what it works in, like the dyer's hand. The feeling thus experienced, as he looked upon the great and noble who came to his play-house merely to be amused, is not at all in conflict with the fact that he enjoyed heartily his life, such as it was, though it did not give him social intercourse with the titled ones about him. We can well believe the traditions of the merry-makings at the Falcon and the Mermaid, and of the wit-combats of which Fuller speaks, 1662, between Shakespeare and Ben Jonson. "Many," says Fuller, " were the wit-combats betwixt him and Ben Jonson; which two I beheld like a Spanish great galleon and an English man-of-war." Master Jonson, like the former, was built far higher in learning; solid, but slow in his performances. Shakespeare, with the early dramatists, prepared a piece for the stage purely as a matter of business. They took, or they made, whatever was likely to gain the end — to draw an audience. Shakespeare doubtless soon found that the less he took and the more he made, the more accept- able the preparation became to the public. Hence he passed by a natural transition from what has been technically called a "playwright," to a writer of orig- inal plays. Another thing also is probable, and indeed is evident from recorded facts, that his plays be- came gradually so important to the company to which he belonged, that he dropped entirely the office of actor, and confined his attention exclusively to writ- ing. At what time precisely this change took place has not been ascertained. All that we know certainly is that during the early part of his theatrical career he was an actor, afterwards he was both actor and writer, while for many years before his death he was connected with the stage only as a writer. The story of his having began by holding the horses of those at- tending the theatre is now generally discredited. If the thing did occur, it must have been at the theatre, in Shoreditch, to which Shakespeare was first attached. As this theatre was out in the open fields, many of the play-goers coming from the city would reach the place on horse-back, and so the holding of the horses would become a considerable business. The date of the composition of the several plays is involved in great obscurity. A discussion of the sub- ject would involve many dry details quite unsuited to a sketch hke this. One general remark, however, may be made, bearing upon this point. It is doubtful whether any one of the plays was pubhshed under the author's own inspection and authority. It was to the interest of Shakespeare and his company to keep the plays in manuscript in the theatre, as the main part of their stock in trade. The printing of them for persons to read lessened their value as a means ot attracting people to the play-house. The fact, there- fore, of the plays not coming out during the author's life, and under his own direction, is proof rather of his thrift, than of the neglect and reckless indifference to which it has been generally ascribed. In 1623, seven years after his death, two of his friends and fellow, actors published his plays in a large folio volume, from the original copies then in the theatre. This publica- tion is regarded as the true Editio Princeps, and as the chief authority in determining the text. A consider- able number of the plays were published separately during his life. These were printed in small 4to pam- phlets, and are known as the Early Quartos. Their publication, however, is generally believed to have been surreptitious, without the supervision or consent of the author. The fact that the plays were kept in the theatre as a part of the theatrical property has had the additional effect of making it next to impossible to fix a definite time for the composition of each. We know from a comparison of styles, as well as from contemporary rec- ords, that certain of the plays were written earlier, and others were written later. But even when a play had been once produced in the theatre, there is no proof that Shakespeare did not continue to alter and amend it from year to year. The proof indeed is just the other way, and the general conclusion now is, that all the plays were touched up from time to time, and that many of them, particularly those first written, were rewritten again and again. THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. Swan of Avon," '■'■my Shakespeare," '■'■ my gentle Shake- speare." Spenser, in the passage first quoted, speaks of '■'■ our pleasant Willy," and "that B&va& gentle spirit." So here, when in speaking of Aetion he says, a '■'•gentler shepheard may no where be found, " it seems but natural to infer that he means the same genial, love-inspiring spirit. Another expression deserves notice. The Muse of Aetion, it is said, does "like himself heroically sound." This seems to carry a plain reference to Shakespeare's name, which in that day was often printed as two words joined by a hyphen, Shake-speare, and as such considered significant, and played upon according to the fancy of his friends. Thus Ben Jonson translates the name into " Shake-a-Lance " and "Shake-a-Stage; " Greene calls him a "Shake-scene;" Fuller refers to the " wariike sound of his surname, whence some may conjecture him of a military extraction, — Hasti-vibrans, or Shahe-speare ; " and finally the coat-of-arms devised for him by the Herald's office bears the crest of a fal- con Irandishing a spear. These things look certainly as if Spenser was aiming at the same mark when he speaks of a poet whose Muse does like himself heroic- ally sound. Notice further the difference between the kind of praise now bestowed and that given three years before. Then the qualities spoken of were the "honey" and the "nectar," the "joy" and the "jolly merriment." Now, his Muse is "fuU of high thoughts' invention." This too is supposed to be explained by a comparison of dates. In 1591, Shakespeare had written little, if any thing, but comedy, with possibly the Venm and Adonis, and some of "his sugred sonnets among his friends." But now, in 1594, three at least of his great tragedies had been put upon the stage, namely, Eicha/rd II., Richard III., and Romeo and Juliet. Well then might Spenser speak of the heroic sound of his name and of his high thoughts' inven- tion. Shakespeare's own admiration for the poet-lau- reate, found expression in a remarkable sonnet, pub- lished in the Passionate Pilgrim, and addressed to a friend who was equally an admirer of Dowland, a famous English musician of that day : If music and sweet poetry agree, As they must needs, the sister and the brother, Then must the love he great 'twixt thee and me, Because thou lovest the one, and I the other. Dowland to thee is dear, whose heavenly touch Upon the lute doth ravish human sense ; Spenser to me, whose deep conceit is such As, passing all conceit, needs no defence. Thou lovest to hear the sweet melodious sound That Phoebus' lute, the queen of music, makes; And I in deep delight am chiefly drowned Whenas ftimself to singing he betakes. One god is god of both, as poets feign ; One knight loves both, and both in thee remain. After Spenser, the next writer, chronologically, who refers to Shakespeare is Eobert Greene. This occurs in a tract published in 1592. Greene was quite noto- rious in his day. He wrote chiefly for the stage, and was charged with various excesses in private life. In a fit of repentance, near the close of life, he wrote a tract called A OroaVs Worth of Wit ; Bought with a Million of Repentance. It was addressed to "those gentlemen his quondam acquaintance who spend their wits in writing plays, and more particularly to Mar- lowe, Lodge, and Peele." He urges these writers to cease writing for the stage; to take warning from his experience ; and, if nothing else would move them, to be assured that the actors and the public were very unstable in their likes and their dislikes, and would Boon abandon them for some new favorite. His words ai-e: "Base-minded men, all three of you, if by XXX my misery ye be not warned ; for unto none of you, like [unto] me, sought those burrs to cleave; those puppets [the actors] I mean, that speak from our mouths, those antics garnished in our colors. Is it not strange that 1, to whom they all have been be- holding; is it not like that you, to whom they all have been beholding, shall (were ye in that case that I am now) be both at once of them forsaken? Yes, trust them not; for there is an upstart crow, beautified with our feathers, that with his Tyger's heart wrapt in a Player's hide, supposes he is as well able to bombast out a blank verse as the best of you; and being an absolute Johannes Factotum, is in his own conceit the only Shake-scene in a country." Here Greene is in ill temper with some young up- start, who, at first only a player, has presumed to write also for the stage, and who is obviously supplant- ing Marlowe, Lodge, and Peele. From the date, 1592, and from what we know of the other dramatic writers then living, the new "upstart" could have been none other than Shakespeare, and this inference derives additional strength from the epithet which Greene gives him, "the only ShaTce-scene in a country." Thus the great dramatist, now only twenty-eight year3 old, and only six years in London, is already be- ginning to supersede his predecessors and contempo- raries, and to excite in consequence their jealousy and hatred. One of the epithets applied to him is es- pecially instructive — Johannes Factotum, literally, a John-do-everything, or, in good English idiom, a Jack- at-all-trades. Now the whole tenor of Shakespeare's writings, as well as all the traditions concerning his life, go to establish the conclusion that he was remark- able for his common sense and his practical talents. His transcendent genius did not prevent his attending to ordinary business in an ordinary way — did not hinder him from being shrewd at a bargain and thrifty in the management of affairs. It is easy to see .that these qualities, in connection with his genius as a writer, would naturally give him in a short time the chief control of the theatre to which he was attached. The disparaging epithets of Greene mark the precise time (a critical point in the history of any rising man) when, from superior business talents as well as from superior genius, the actual management of affairs had gone into his hands, but his superiority had not yet been fully recognized. He was stiU one who could be taunted by his declining rivals as an " upstart," — one who imagined himself able to write as good blank verse as any of his contemporaries — one who waa " in his own conceit the only Shake-scene in a coun- try" — one who thought he could be writer, player, manager, and what not — in fact, a very and " absolute Johannes Factotum." Greene's Groat's Worth of Wit led incidentally this same year to a notice of Shakespeare by Henry Chet- tle, another dramatic writer of the period. Chettle had been instrumental in the publication of Greene's pam- phlet, and finding that injustice had been done therein to some of the pai'ties attacked, he published a tract of his own, called Kind-Ha/rfs Dream, intended to make reparation. In it occurs the following passage, refer- ring to Shakespeare : "Myself have seen his demeanor no less civil than he excellent in the quality [which] he professes; besides, divers of worship have reported his uprightness of dealing, which argues his honesty, and his facetious grace in writing, that approves his art." The character which Chettle here gives of Shake- speare is precisely that already suggested, namely, that he was a man of genius, possessed of good temper, thrift, and common sense. I have dwelt a little upon these four passages, Spen- ser 1591, Greene and Chettle 1592, and Spenser again THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 1594, because they are the first of all, and because, ob- scui"e as they are in some respects, they yet show how early Shakespeare became a man of mark. The other instances will be quoted more briefly. This same Henry Chettle a few years later refers to Shakespeare again, under the name of Melicert, taking him to task for not sounding the praises of Elizabeth, at the time of her death. Nor doth the silver-tonged Melicert Drop from his honied muse one sable teare, To mourn her death that graced his desert, And to his laies open'd her royall eare : Shepheard, remember our Elizabeth, And sing her rape, done by that Tarquin, Death. Henry Willobie, an Oxford man, in a volume called WilloMe, Mis Avisa, published in 1594, the very year that the Lucrece was pubhshed, thus mentions the new poem: Though CoUoiiTie have dearly bought To high renowne, a lasting life, And found— that most in vaine have sought To have — a fair and constant wife, Yet Tarquyne pluckt his glistering grape. And Shake-speare paints poore Lucrece rape. -Gabriel Harvey, who figured largely in those days as a literary critic, and who was much mixed up with the affairs of Spenser and Sidney, published in 1592 four letters " especially touching Eobert Greene and other parties by him abused." In the third letter is a para- graph addressed to one of the parties thus abused by Greene. The circumstances of the publication make it wellnigh certain that the person thus addressed was Shakespeare. The passage is so accepted by Dr. In- gleby, one of the most careful and exact of Shake- spearian scholars. Harvey's words are : " Good sweete Oratour, be a devine poet indeede ; and use heavenly eloquence indeede ; and employ thy golden talent with amounting usance indeede ; and with heroicall cantoes honour right vertue, and have brave valour indeede ; as noble Sir Philip Sidney, and gentle Maister Spencer have done, with immortall Fame; and I will bestow more complements of rare ampUfications upon thee then ever any bestowed uppon them ; or this Tounge ever affoorded." Six years later, 1598, Harvey wrote : "The younger sort take much delight in Shakespeare's FewMS arid Adonis; but his Lucrece, and his tragedy of Hamlet, Prince o/DenmarJce, have it in them to please the wiser sort." Drayton, in his Matilda, also of 1594, gives the fol- lowing allusion to the new poem : Lucrece, of whom proud Rome hath boasted long, Lately reviv'd to live another age. And here arriv'd to tell of Tarquin's wrong. Her chaste denial, and the tyrant's rage. Acting her passions on our stately stage, She IS remember'd, all forgetting me. Yet I as fair and chaste as ere was she. In a work called Polimanteia, 1595, the following expression occurs: "All praise the Lucrece of swset The Return from Parnassus, a play acted by the stu- dents of Cambridge, 1606, contains remarks on sev- eral contemporary poets — Spenser, Constable, Lodge, Daniel, Watson, Drayton, Davis, Marston, Marlowe, SJiaTcespeare, and Churchyard. Of Shakespeare the fol- lowing is said : Who loves Adonii' love or iMcrece' rape. His sweeter verse contains heart-robbing life ; Could but a graver subject him content, Without love's foolish, lazy languishment. In the prose part of the play, the following dialogue occurs between the actors, Kemp and Burbage. '■^Kemp. Why, here 's our fellow STiaTcespeare puts them all downe — aye, and Ben Jonson, too. O! that Ben Jonson is a pestilent feUow ; he brought up Hor- ace, giving the poets a pill; but our fellow Shake- speare hath given him a purge that made him beray his credit. " Burgage. Its a shrewd fellow, indeed." John Weever, in his Booh of Epigrams, composed in 1595, has a sonnet addressed Ad Ovlielmum SItakespeare. Honie-tong'd Shakespeare, when I saw thine issue, I swore Apollo got them, and none other, Their rosie-tainted features cloth'd in tissue, Some heaven-born goddesse said to be their mother. Kose-checkt Adonis with his amber tresses, Faire fire-hot Venus charming him to love her ; Chaste Lueretia, virgine-like her dresses, Prowd lust-stung Tarquine, seeking still to prove her; Eomea, Richard, more whose names I know not, Their sugred tongues and power-attractive beauty Say they are saints, althogh that Sts they shew not, For thousands vowe to them subjective dutie : They burn in love, thy childre, Shakespear hat the. Go, wo thy Muse ! more Nymphish brood beget them. These various extracts, I may remark in passing, are quoted, not for their value as poetry, but for their value as evidence, and in this respect there seems no possibil- ity of gainsaying thek force. In 1598, Richard Barnefield writes : " And Shakespeare, thou whose hony-flowing Vaine (Pleasing the world) thy praises doth obtame. Whose Venus and whose Lucrece (sweete and chaste) Thy name in fame's immortall Booke have plac't. Live ever you, at least in Fame live ever ; Well may the Bodye dye ; but Fame dies never." In this same year are other incidental notices, either of Shakespeare himself, or of some of his writings. But I must omit these notices in order to dwell more at length upon the most important of all, the testi- mony of Francis Meres. Meres was a clergyman, " Master of Arts in both universities," "an approved good scholar," and a compiler of school-books. His testimony is the more valuable both because of its ful- ness and explicitness, and because, from his very occu- pation as a compiler, he would be more Ukely than almost any other kind of writer to be a reflector and representative of public opinion. Meres's book, called Palladis Tamia, or Wifs Treasury, was published in 1598. It was a text-book for schools, giving a brief account of the chief English poets, comparing them with the corresponding Greek, Latin, and Italian poets. In this work, after enumerating the great tragic poets of Greece and Rome, Meres says we have in English Marlowe, Peele, Watson, Kyd, 8halcespea/re, Drayton, Decker, Ben Jonson (the names are given in chrono- logical order). Again, in like manner, our writers of comedy are given — Lily, Lodge, Gascoyne, Greene, Shalcespea/re, Nash, Heywood, etc. After quoting the Greek and Latin poets who had excelled in lyric po- etry, he says, the best among our lyric poets are Spen- ser, Daniel, Drayton, Shakespeare, etc. In Hke manner, those famous for elegy are Surrey, Wyatt, Sidney, Raleigh, Dyer, Spenser, Daniel, Drayton, Shakespeare, and so on. Referring to the exegi monumentum of Horace, he says, we have in English like enduring monuments in the works of Sidney, Daniel, Drayton, Shakespeare. He even quotes Shakespeare as one of those by whom the language had been improved: "The English tongue is mightily enriched and gor- geouslie invested in rare ornaments and resplendent (h)abiliments by sir Philip Sidney, Spencer, Daniel, Drayton, Warner, Shakespea/re, Marlow, and Chap- man." Some of Meres's particular expressions are re- markable. "As the soule of Euphorbus was thought to live in Pythagoras, so the sweete, wittie soule of xxxi THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. Ovid lives in mellifluous and hony-tongued ShaJce- 6peare ; witnes his Venus and Adonis^ his Lucrece^ his Bugred Sonnets among his private friends, &c." "As Epius Stolo said, that the Muses would speak with Plautus' tongue, if they would speak Latin ; so I say, that the Muses would speak with ShaTcespeare^s fine-filed phrase, if they would speake English." "As Plautus and Seneca are accounted the best for Comedy and Trap;edy among the Latines, so Shake- speare among y° English is the most excellent in both kinds for the stage : for Comedy, witness his Getleme of Verona, his Errors, his Love's labor^s lost, his Lovers labour'' s wonne, his Midsummers-night dreame, and his Merchant of Venice ; for Tragedy, his Richard the 2, Richard the 3, Henry the 4, King John, Titus Andron- icus, and his Romeo and Juliet.''' Here, then, in 1598, we have Shakespeare, after a career of only twelve years in the metropolis, quoted publicly in a text-book as among the great English authors whose works alone are a monument " cere pe- rennius ; " his name placed conspicuously in four suc- cessive lists of writers who have distinguished them- selves severally in Comic, Tragic, Lyric, and Elegiac poetry, and in still another list of those who by the Ben Jonson. (From an old and rare print.) elegance of their writings have enriched and beautified the language, his name, too, occurring in these various eulogies more frequently than that of any other English writer, even Spenser and Drayton, who, in this respect come next, standing at considerable distance away; and, lastly, we find quoted by name, besides the Venus and Adonis, the Lucrece, the Sonnets, no less than twelve of his great dramas, the whole coupled with the significant judgment of the critic (after naming all the great lights of English literature down to that day, except Chaucer) "that the sweet witty soul of Ovid seemed to live in mellifluous honey-tongued Shakespeare, and that if the Muses should ever deign to speak English, they would speak with Shakespeare's fine-filed phrase." To say, after this, that Shakespeare was not known or recognized in his own day, is as absurd as it would be to say the same of Spenser, Sydney, Ealeigh, and Ben Jonson. What admirer of Shakespeare even now ©ould well speak of him in higher terms of praise than xxxii did this Francis Meres in 1598? All this, too, be it remembered, when he was, as it were, only at the be- ginning of his career, and with eighteen years of the most productive and most conspicuous part of his life still before him. "Was either Longfellow or Tennyson, with all the prestige of university honors and influence, and with all the machinery of modern book-making and advertising, better known or more fully recognized at the age of thirty-eight than was Shakespeare at that age ? Could either of them at that age have been ranked as best of English writers, in each of the four classes of Lyric, Elegiac, Comic, and Tragic verse ? — or, in each of these styles, have been safely placed in com- parison with the greatest of Grecian and Roman wri- ters ? Ben Jonson, who was as competent to speak of Shakespeare as would be Longfellow to speak of Ten- nyson, — even more competent, for Jonson and Shake- speare were intimately acquainted personally, wrote for the same stage, lived in the same city, dined at the same tavern, where they had those famous "wit-com- bats" of which Fuller speaks — Jonson, in the lines prefixed to the first Folio, speaks of Shakespeare in terms, not only of the greatest affection, but of the most exalted eulogy, — speaks not only of his unpar- alleled genius, but of his consummate art ; and extols him as surpassing, not only Chaucer, Spenser, Marlowe, and all other English writers, but even the ancients whom Ben worshipped, — surpassing even Aristoph- anes, Terence, and Plautus in comedy, .^schylus, Eu- ripides, and Sophocles in tragedy ! The strange hallucination that Shakespeare was un- known among his contemporaries may have come in this way. Soon after his death, all stage-plays were at a discount under the sway of the Puritans. On the overthrow of the Commonwealth and the incoming of the Stuarts, French notions of taste were in the as- cendant. The stage was indeed revived, but it was that of France, not the good old English drama. Then again with William of Orange and Queen Anne came the reign of Classicism. And so, for one cause and another, for a full century after the close of the great Elizabethan period, Shakespeare, it is admitted, was under a cloud. No more thorough evidence of this can be given than that, even so late as 1793, Steevens, one of the great Shakespearian editors of the last century, could write of the Sugared Sonnets, whose praises the men of Shakespeare's own day could never tire of sound- ing, that it was not within the omnipotence of an Act of Parliament to compel people to read them, and he actually refused to print them in his extended edition of Shakespeare's works, regarding those wonderful lyrics as so much worthless rubbish, and alludes to them in the following quaint language : " We have not reprinted the SonneU, etc., because the strongest Act of Parliament that could be framed would fail to com- pel readers into their service." In his own day, however, Shakespeare was the ae- kifbwledged sun of the literary firmament. We of the present century have but revived and raised some- what the estimate in which the English people held him two hundred and fifty years ago. Before dismissing this topic, it is worth while to no- tice, in these many references to Shakespeare by his contemporaries, how uniformly he is mentioned in terms of affection. This would seem, as before ob- served, to indicate the possession on his part of an amiable and obliging disposition, and gives plausibihty to the tradition handed down by Aubrey, showing the origin of the friendship between Shakespeare and Ben Jonson. "His acquaintance with Ben Jonson," says Aubrey, "began with a remarkable piece of humanity and good nature. Mr. Jonson, who was at that time THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. altogether unknown to the world, had offer'd one of his plays to the players, in order to have it acted; and the persons into whose hands it was put, after having tum'd it carelessly and superciliously over, were just upon returning it to him with an ill-natur'd answer, that it would be of no service to their com- pany, when Shakespear luckily cast his eye upon it, and found something so well in it, as to engage him first to read it through, and afterwards to recommend Mr. Jonson and his writings to the publick." We no longer "damn him with faint praise." after the fashion of the time of Alex. Pope, nor give him half-hearted, patronizing commendations, after the fashion of the time of Dr. Sam. Johnson, but rather, like the renowned scholar and dramatist of Shake- speare's own day, look up to him with admiiing, almost adoring wonder, as the most exalted of the Dii Majores of the dramatic art, the very Jupiter Olympus of the poetic pantheon, in whose presence the greatest even of the great Greek and Roman masters are content to stand at a respectful distance ! Such was the trumpet- note of praise sounded by Rare Ben Jonson, in Shake- speare's own day, two centuries and a half ago. Have we even at this day gone much beyond it ? I have not thus far referred to the Shakespeare-Ba- con theory. The whole question seems to me to be contained in a nutshell. Stripped of verbiage, it is simply this: could the Creator who gave the world Dante and Homer have made a man of equal or even greater genius in Stratford-upon-Avon? Granted the genius, and all the other conditions of the problem are easy enough. Whoever had the genius to conceive these plays, would, in Shakespeare's surroundings, have had all the needed opportunities for educa- tion and acquired knowledge exhibited in the plays. The advocates of the Bacon theory quietly assume, in the face of all the lately accumulated evidence to the contrary, that Shakespeare was without edu- cation and without the means of acquiring knowledge. They go back to the old exploded notion of Queen Anne's day, that Shakespeare was a man of clown- ish ignorance, and that the plays, if by him, were the product of an inspired idiot. I could understand the argument, if applied to a man in the condition of John Bunyan. But Shakespeare was a man of letters. He had ample means of being such, and he was ac- cepted as such by the men of letters with whom he lived in familiar, daily intercourse. Besides, it is little less than monstrous to suppose that the greatest poetry of all time, and such an immense body of it, was the product of one whose acknowledged writings, enor- mous hkewise in quantity, show no evidence of spe- cial poetic gifts. Bacon's genius lay in the domain of science and philosophy, not of song, the few poor spec- imens of verse he has given only showing how much he was out of his element in that species of composi- tion. We might as well suppose Aristotle capable of writing the Iliad, Wickcliffe the Canterbury Tales, John Hampden the Paradise Lost, or John Stuart Mill the Idylls of the King, as suspect the author of the Novum Organum capable of the Midsummer- Mghfs Dream, Lear, Hamlet, Romeo and Juliet, and Macbeth. If these wondrous creations were not by the Bard of Avon, assuredly they were not by the author of In- stauratio Magna and De Augmentis Scientiarum. /f^v^euln^ ^fj^-r^^ Shakespeare's Signature. CHAPTER XIII. RELATIONS OF SHAKESPEAEE AND HIS COMPANY TO QUEEN ELIZABETH AND KING JAMES. THE company to which Shakespeare belonged was under the patronage of Hunsdon, the Lord Cham- berlain, a kinsman and favorite of Queen Elizabeth, who had given the Lord Chamberlain use of the splen- did palace of Somerset House, in which palace, it can hardly be doubted, the Chamberlain's company often played for the amusement of the Queen and Court. Shakespeare's plays, and Shakespeare himself, were well known to Queen Elizabeth. Indeed, one of the best authenticated traditions in regard to him is that the comedy of the Merry Wives of Windsor was writ- ten at her express suggestion. The refraining of Shakespeare from adulation, considering how grateful it was to the ears of the royal maids, speaks also trumpet-tongued for his manly independence. Blue eyes, blonde complexion, and golden hair, all pre- dicable of Elizabeth herself, had become, by a sort of legal presumption, the only types of female love- liness. Yet in the face of this, the dramatist has the courage, perhaps, considering the imperious tem- per of the Queen, we might call it the audacity, to admire a regular brunette: He thus writes to some sweetheart : Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me. Knowing thy heart torments me with disdain, Have put on black, and loving mourners be, Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain. And truly not the morning sun of heaven Better becomes the grey cheeks of the East, Nor that full star that ushers in the even Doth half that glory to the sober West, As those two mourning eyes become thy face : O, let it then as well beseem thy heart To mourn for me, since mourning doth thee grace, Spenser, or Sidney, or Raleigh, would as soon have cut off his right hand as to express admu-ation for such a woman. Shakespeare, in this as in many other matters, was wiser than his time; he well knew that in the age to come his one delicate allusion to the Maiden Queen, in the passage in Midsummer' s-NighVs Dream, already quoted, would be counted of greater worth than all the open flatteries poured out by his contemporaries with such lavish profusion. Elizabeth was fond of theatrical exhibitions, and it was probably in consequence of this inclination of hers that the play-houses, which at different times, under the influence of the Puritan party, were ordered to be closed by the authorities of the city of London, were yet enabled to continue their performances, with little interruption, to the close of her reign. On the accession of James, the Puritan party re- newed their efforts to suppress the play-houses, and at first met with some success ; but soon after reaching London, the new monarch changed his mind and took the Lord Chamberlain's Players (Shakespeare's com- pany) under his own protection, allowing them hence- forth to be called the King's Players, and giving them a royal license with special privileges. The date of this license is 1603, and the name of the players, as given in it, are Fletcher, Shakespeare, Burbage, Phil- lipps, Heminge, CondeU, Sly, Armin, Cowley, — nine, Shakespeare being second on the list. We note also, that in a list of the comedians who represented the dramatis personm at the performance of Ben Jonson's Every Man in His Humor, at the Blackfriars, in 1598, Shakespeare's name heads the list. THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. The first occasion, apparently, on which this com- pany played before King James was when the Earl of Pembroke, Dec. 2d, 1603, gave, at his seat at Wilton, a great entertainment to the King. An entry of the fiscal accounts of that date show that £30 (^£150) was paid on that occasion to John Heminge "on behalf of his Majesty's Players of the Globe," to perform at the festival before the King; and we know from another source that both Pembroke, who gave the entertainment, and his brother, the Eai'l of Montgom- ery, were great admirers and favorers of Shakespeare. Ben Jonson speaks expressly of the favor with which both Elizabeth and James regarded Shake- speare: " Those flights upon the banks of Thames, That so did take Eliza and our James." There are two traditions on this subject which it may be well to notice here. The first is that on one occasion, during the progress of the play,* her Majesty purposely dropped her glove in such a way as to oblige the poet to stop his acting and pick it up, — which he did, saying (as a king, in character), " And though now bent on this high embassy, Yet stoop we to take up our cousin's glove." The other tradition, pretty well authenticated, is that "King James I. was pleased with his own hand to write an amicable letter to Mr. Shakespeare." John Davies, of Hereford, a contemporary poet, seems to have thought the dramatist not unwoi-thy of such royal companionship. In a poem, The Scourge of Folly, 1607, Davies says: To our English Terence, Mr. Will. Shakespeare. Some say, good Will, which I, in sport, do sing, Hadst thou not plaid some kingly parts in sportf Thou hadst bin a companion for a king, And beene a king among the meaner sort : Some others raile ; but, raile as they thinke fit. Thou hast no rayling, but a raigning wit : And honesty thou sow'st, which they do reape. So, to increase their stocke, which they do keep. CHAPTER XIV. Shakespeare's peotjniaet affaies — his exteaoedi- naey business thrift acottmulation of peop- eety at stratford — ambition to be a retired country gentleman — evidences of his tact in business management — evidences of his kindly disposition and conciliatory manners. THERE are other evidences of Shakespeare's pros- perity besides those drawn from the annals of the Blackfriars and the Globe. In 1596, John Shakespeare and wife recovered by law, evidently by the aid of mo- ney received from London, the estate of Asbies, the marriage portion of William's mother, which had been alienated during the period of the father's pecuniary misfortunes. In 1596, again, the grant of arms to John Shakespeare by the herald's office was consum- mated evidently through influence put forth in London. In 1597, the poet bought the principal dweUing- house in Stratford, an old mansion formerly belonging to the Clopton family, and called the Great House. Shakespeare, on acquiring this property, fitted it up for his own residence, and changed its name to the New Place. *The royal party in those days sat upon the stage, near where ourproseenium boxes now are. t Had you not been an actor. From a document dated 24 Jan., 1597-8, we learn that Shakespeare's influence with Lord Treasurer Bur- leigh is invoked by the Stratford burghers, to aid them in getting from the government some abatement of taxes, as well as a portion of the government grant for the relief of certain cities and towns that had suffered by the plague or by fire. From the same document we learn that "he is willing to disburse some money on some odd yard land or other at Shot- tery," the birthplace and early home of his youthful sweetheart, Anne Hathaway. In Feb., 1598, in an inventory of corn and malt in Stratford, taken in apprehension of scarcity, William Shakespeare is entered as possessing ten quarters, being the third largest holder in his ward. In this year also we find him selling a load of stone to the corporation of Stratford. In October of the same year he is assessed in the parish of St. Helen's, Bishopsgate, showing him to be a property holder in London, his rates being 13s. id. In this same month, too, Richard Quiney of Stratford, [father of the Quiney who afterwards mar- ried Shakespeare's youngest daughter,] writes to his "loving good friend and countryman, Mr. WiUiam Shakespeare," asking the loan of £30, — showing that the poet was not only a property holder but a money- lender. Four years later, 1602, Shakespeare, for and in consideration of the sum of £320 of current Eng- lish money, purchased 107 acres of arable land in the parish of old Stratford, the negotiation being con- ducted by his brother Gilbert. Later in the same year he bought a house in Walker Street, near New Place, Stratford; and later still, for the sum of £60 ($1500), "one messuage, two orchards, two gardens, and two barns, with their appurtenances." Three years later, 1605, he made his largest purchase, buy- ing the unexpired lease of a portion of the tithes of Stratford, Old Stratford, Bishopton, and Welcombe, for the sum of £440. Shakespeare's annual income from these tithes, as we learn from another document, was £120 (i. e. $3000 now). Later still, 1612, he bought a house, with ground attached, near the Blackfriars Theatre, London, for the sum of £140. We find him also, 1604, bringing an action against Philip Rogers, in the Court of Stratford, for £1 15s. lOd being the price of malt sold to him at different times ; and, again, 1609, instituting process for £6 debt and 24s. damages and costs, against John Addenbrock of Stratford, — all these things showing clearly that " poetry and act- ing" did not make the man of genius negligent in matters of business. Now, putting together these various facts, we find that the dramatist was steadily advancing in fortune as well as in fame, and that, at the end of twenty years from the time of his going to London, he had, by a steady pursuit of his profession, risen to be a man of mark in the theatrical world. Every step in his history, so far as .we are able to trace it, shows that he gained his success, not by sudden and capricious flights of genius, but by hard work and persevering industry. As his writmgs show him to have been one of the greatest of geniuses, so his life shows him to have been one of the most industrious and methodical of workers. He chose one profession ; he pursued it without intermission for a period of thirty years ; he pursued it in connection with the same company ; he pursued it in the same place. He rose, not by a bound, in consequence of some particular performance dashed off in a heat and a hurry, which is the vulgar idea of genius, but step by step, year by year, slowly, steadily, surely, triumphantly. He produced, in the twenty- five years devoted mainly to authorship, no less than thirty-seven great plays, or an average of one and a half plays a year, the latest plays ever the best, each THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. Bucceeding year showing a higher style of workman- ship, an ever-growing productiveness and power. He is another proof, if any were needed, that one would not go far astray in defining genius to be an enormous capacity for labor, or, as Longfellow puts it, "the in- finite capacity of taking trouble." CHAPTER XY. PROBABLE PERIOD OF HIS WITHDRAWAL FROM THE STAGE AND FROM LONDON STATE OF HIS AFFAIRS AND OF HIS FAMILY AT THE TIME OF HIS RETIREMENT. IT is not certainly known at what time Shakespeare ceased to appear on the stage as an actor. The year 1604, however, is generally regarded as the prob- able time. The growing importance and popularity of his plays and his continued increase in wealth make it improbable that he continued to act later than the date named. The last record of his name in the com- pany of the King's Players is on April 9, 1604, when he stands second on the list, the only one above him being Burbage, who had for a long time stood at the head of his profession as an actor. The general belief is that Shakespeare ceased to appear as a player soon after this, in other words, when he was forty years old, and had been eighteen years in London. This may be considered as the culminating point in his personal history. I have already expressed the opinion that Shake- speare possessed an unusual degree of common sense, that he was amiable, conciliatory, and prudent; in short, that he had that class of qualities which fit a man for business, while they are vulgarly thought to be incompatible with genius. This is a class of quali- ties which it is difiBcult to show. Of indiscretion the proofs are generally positive and tangible. But pru- dence and discretion in the management of affairs must be established by negative evidence. It is cer- tainly, however, no unmeaning circumstance that dur- ing the whole period that Shakespeare exercised a controlling influence in the theatrical company, its affairs were managed, not only with thrift, but with- out those quarrels and jars for which the profession in all ages has been notorious, and also without those causes of offence which the other theatres were per- petually giving to particular individuals or classes, civil, political, or religious. It is noticeable also that almost immediately after Shakespeare's withdrawal from the management, the company were beset with difficulties, and numerous complaints were lodged against them for offences against morals, manners, or taste. Thus, December, 1604, John Chamberlain writes of a certain tragedy by the King's Players, in which kings and princes are brought upon the stage, " I hear that some great councillors are much displeased with it, and so it is thought it shall be forbidden." Again, 1605, the Mayor of London complains that "Kempe, Armyn, and others, at the Blackfriars, have not for- borne to bring upon their stage one or more of the worshipful Aldermen of the City of London, to their great scandal, and the lessening of their authority." Again, in 1606, it is complained that they brought upon the stage the Queen of France in a manner very offensive to the French ambassador; also, "They brought forward their own king [James] and aU his favorites in a very strange fashion; they made him curse and swear, because he had been robbed of a ' bird, and beat a gentleman because he had called off" the hounds from the scent. They represent him as drunk every day." In consequence of these irregu- larities, three of the players were arrested, and the performances were prohibited. These indiscretions and difficulties among the King's Players, occurring in quick succession after Shakespeare had ceased to be of the company, speak trumpet-tongued of those which did not occur during the eighteen years that he was in the management. James I. of England and. "VI. of Scotland After ceasing to be an actor, Shakespeare's connec- tion with the stage was that only of a writer of plays, and this connection he continued to the end of his life. This, however, did not necessarily require his residence in London. Even while living in London, he was wont, according to Aubrey, "to go to his native county once a year." Various documents show that he early con- templated the project, which he finally executed, of retiring from London, to spend the close of life in his native village. We have already seen how regularly, from year to year, he invested in and around Strat- ford the money accumulated from his professional labors. At least seven years before he ceased being an actor, and fifteen years before retiring from London, he had become a property-bolder in his native town. The village tradition, in the generation after his death, was that Shakespeare, "in his elder days, lived at Stratford, and supplied the stage with two plays every year, and for it had an allowance so large that he spent at the rate of £1,000 a year." This, doubtless, is an exaggeration, certainly as to the amount of money spent. At the same time, the tradition obvi- ously had some foundation in truth. He had already, some years before, bought the largest and finest resi- dence in Stratford, that built by Sir Hugh Clopton in the reign of Henry VII., and known as "The Great House," and afterwards as "The New Place;" and there is good reason for believing that his style of living there was that of a " fine old English gentleman, all of the olden time." The time when Shakespeare retired entirely from London is not known. The most probable conjecture is that which places it in 1612, when he was forty- eight years old, and after a city life of twenty-six years. His father, mother, and two younger brothers XXXV THE LIFE OF 8HAKESPEARE. were now dead. Gilbert, however, the brother nest younger than "William, was still living. His sister Joan had been married [to a Mr. Hart, of Stratford] and was ^Iso still living, as were also her husband and several children. His wife also, now fifty-six years old, was still hving. His oldest daughtei-, Susanna, had been married some five years before to an eminent physician of Stratford, Dr. John Hall, and had one child four years old. His youngest daughter, not long after to be married to Thomas Quiney, vintner and wine merchant of Stratford, was still at home. It is not at all unlikely that both daughters, with the son- in-law and the grandchild, all lived together in the Great House, and that the other house belonging to him in the village was occupied by his brother Gilbert, who had looked after the poet's property during his absence in London. "When, therefore, the great dramatist retired from the metropolis, crowned with honor and laden with wealth, he was not in the condition of most even suc- cessful adventurers, who after a life of distant toil and struggle seek to spend its close among the green fields which had gladdened their eyes in childhood. They return ordinarily too late, when their own faculties Chancel of Stratford Church, With Shakespeare's Tomb and Bust. of enjoyment are exhausted, and most of the friends of childhood are gone. Shakespeare, in 1612, was still in the prime of life and in the full vigor of his facul- ties. He had about him a large family circle, and children and children's children were around his hearth-stone. The popular tradition, minute docu- mentary evidence, his whole recorded career, his whole character, go to show that his last days were eminently peaceful and serene. The thought con- tained in the 146th Sonnet, the nearest approach we have in any of his writings to an expression of his own personal feelings on the subject of religion, might well befit this period of his life, though written some years earher: Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, Leagued with these powers that thee aray, Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth, PaintinR thy outward walls so costly gay? Why so large cost, having so short a lease, Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend ? Shall worms, inheritors of this excess. Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end? CHAPTEK XVI. A SERENE SUNSET THE POETRAITS OF SHAKESPEARE. SHAKESPEARE died, after a short illness, April 23, 1616, aged exactly fifty-two. During the quarter of a century that he had been embarked upon the great ocean of metropolitan life, he had no doubt often been vexed and agitated. His profession was one peculiarly fitted to produce disquiet and perturbation. But agi- tation, while it upturns and dislodges the feeble plant, makes the hardy to send its roots more deeply and firmly into the soil. The soul that is well balanced acquires only additional composure and self-possession from confiict. The conflict of life in which Shake- speare had been engaged had not only been eminently successful as to all external circumstances and rela- tions, but had left him calm, contented, and peaceful within. From a meridian of intense activity and splendor, he went, like Chaucer before him, gracefully and composedly to his long repose : So fades a summer's cloud away, So sinks the gale when storms are o'er, So gently shuts the eye of day, So dies a wave along the shore. Of the portraits of Shakespeare there are three at least which have good evidence of being taken from life. These are the Stratford bust, the Droeshout engraving, and the oil painting known as the Ghandos portrait. The bust was made apparently from a cast of the features taken after death, and was executed soon after that event ; how soon we do not know, but certainly before 1623, for it is referred to in the First Folio, published in that year. Shake- speare is buried in the church of Stratford-upon- Avon, near the north end of the chancel, and there is a slab over his tomb, with, the quaint inscription so often quoted, and said to have been written by Shakespeare himself: Good frend, for Jesus sake forbeare To digg the dust encloased heare : Blese be ye man yt spares thesr stones, And curst be he yt moves my bones. To the right and left of him in the chancel, are the tombs of several other members of his family : his wife, his oldest daughter Susanna, his son-in- law. Dr. HaU, and Thomas Nash, who married his grand-daughter Elizabeth. On the north wall of the chancel, and facing these tombs, and at an elevation of a little more than five feet, is an ornamental niche or frame-work of stone, con- taining the bust already mentioned, nearly life- size and extending down to the middle of the per- son. The poet is represented sitting, as if in the act of composition, his hands resting on a cushion; one holding a pen, the other a sheet of paper, while his eyes are looking, not at his work, but straight forward towards the spectator. The hands and face are of flesh color, the eyes a light hazel, the hair and beard auburn ; the doublet or cloak was scarlet, and covered with a loose black gown without sleeves ; the upper part of the cushion was green, the under part crimson, and the tassels gilt. This Stratford bust is of great value, as having been made so early, and as having in all probability been cut from some authentic like- ness. As a work of art, however, it is open to obvi- ous criticisms. The skull has the smoothness and roundness of a boy's marble, and about as much in- dividuality of expression. The eyes and eyebrows are unduly contracted, the nose has evidently been short- ened by aa accident of the chisel, the cheeks are puffy and spiritless, the moustaches are curled up in a manner never found except in some city exquisite, the coUai THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. The Stratford. Bust. looks like two pieces of block-tin bent over, and finally the expression of the eyes, so far as they have any ex- pression, is simply that of easy, well-conditioned good nature, not overburdened with sense or intellect. In conjunction with this bust should be taken the picture lately discovered, and known as the Stratford portrait. It is the property of the town, and is ex- hibited among the other curiosities at the Shake- speare House. No one who has seen the bust can look upon the pic- ture without be- ing satisfied at the first glance that the two are con- nected. But was the picture made from the bust, or the bust from the picture? Strat- ford people strongly insist on the latter, believ- ing firmly that the picture was taken from life, and was the orig- inal of the bust. Critics and scholars outside of Stratford take, for the most part, the opposite view. "Whichever theory is true, the picture without doubt is of great value, and is worthily placed for perpetual keeping in the same town with the bust to which it is 80 closely connected. Next to the Stratford bust, in the matter of authen- ticity as a portrait of Shakespeare, is the engraving by Martin Droeshout prefixed to the first folio edition of the plays, that of 1623, and generally known as the Droeshout portrait. What portrait was used by him in making this engraving of Shakespeare is entirely a matter of conjecture. The probability is that it was some coarse daub by the actor Burbage, who had some pretensions as a painter, and who would be very likely to make a picture of his distinguished fellow-actor. If such a picture were hanging somewhere about the theatre, nothing would be more natural than for the actors, Heminge and Oondell, in bringing out an edi- tion of their friend's plays, to use for the engraving this picture with which they were familiar. All this, however, is pure conjecture. What more concerns us is to know that Ben Jonson has testified in the strong- est manner to the correctness of the likeness. His words, printed on the page facing the engraving, are as follows : This Figure, that thou here seest put, It was for gentle Shakespeare cut; Wherein the Grauer had a strife with Nature, to out-doo the life ; O, could he but haue drawne his wit As well in brasse, as he hath hit His face ; the Print would then surpasse All, that was ever writ in brasse. But, since he cannot, Reader, looke Not on his Picture, but his Booke. That the original from which the engraving was made must have been poor and bald as a work of art is mani- fest on the slightest inspection. This, however, is by no means incompatible with its having been a faithful likeness. The work of the engraver corresponds in this respect to the work of the painter. The engrav- ing is to the last degree hard and stiff ; it evidently is the work of one whose aim was to make a likeness rather than a work of art. In comparing the face and head thus presented with those of the bust, we observe that whUe there are great differences, both in detail and in the general im- pression, it is easy to see the same man underlying both. There is the great distance between the eyes and the amplitude of forehead, so noticeable in all the likenesses. The fiesh of the face is not so full and pufi'y as in the bust. The nose, not chopped off as in the bust, is however as straight as a stick, instead of having that delicate aquiline formation observable in one portrait which I shall show you. The beard is shaven from the chin, but a few hairs are sprouting on the under lip, and there is a very light moustache. The forehead is high and bold, as in all the portraits, and the hair hangs in long, smooth locks over the ears and the back of the head. The costume is evidently some theatrical display put on for the occasion and smacking very much of the stage-tailor. There is a doublet buttoned up to the chin, and a plaited lawn ruff standing out all round in a most uncomfortable and ungraceful position, and apparently stiffened in the edges and elsewhere with wire. One feature, the most noticeable of all, is the projection of the fore- head. In all the other likenesses, without exception, the forehead, with its noble expanse, recedes gradually and evenly. But in the Droeshout engraving, the fore- head is like some jutting cliff, projecting over, almost overhanging, the brow, in a way that is hardly less than monstrous. This misshapen character of the forehead may without difficulty be accepted, not as a part of the likeness of the poet, but as part of the unskilful etch- ing of the engraver. It certainly looks not unlike a huge goitre transferred from the throat to the brow. Of the painted likenesses of Shakespeare none ranks so high as that known as the Chandos portrait. The his- tory of the picture is tolerably complete. It belonged originally to John Taylor, painter, brother of Joseph Taylor, a player in Shakespeare's company. It was left by will by Taylor to Sir William Davenant. From Davenant it passed in 1668 to John Otway, from him to Betterton the actor, from Betterton to Mrs. Barry, from Mrs. Barry, through two other hands, to the Duke of Chandos, from whom it takes its name. It was finally bought in 1848, at public sale, by the Earl of Ellesmere, and by him presented in 1856 to the Na- The Chandos Portrait. tional Portrait Gallery, where it now is. Its authen- ticity is undoubted, though it bears evident signs of having been touched up and tampered with. The pic- ture is of life size, in oil, on canvas. The nose is straight and long, as in the Droeshout engraving, but is thinner, and more delicately formed. There is not the same distance between the eyes, nor the same THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. breadth of forehead, that is to be seen in the Droes- hout, though the forehead is still ample and strikingly noble. There is more general softness than in any of the other portraits. The picture is decidedly artistic, and the artist apparently, to some extent, sacrificed literal likeness to artistic efl:ect. The complexion is dark ; there is a pinkishness of color about the eyelids ; the lips are inclined to be full and sensuous ; the ear that is visible is tricked out with a ring ; the hair, a dark auburn, that in the Droeshout is plaited and smoothed down, hangs here in easy, unstudied profu- sion on the sides and back of the head, while most of the lower part of the face is covered with a soft beard of the same color. No lines of deep thought are in the face, no furrows on the brow. There is an equal show of softness, almost of effeminacy, in the cos- tume. The dress, so far as it can be made out, is of black satin, and the collar is of fine plain lawn, folding over easily but simply. The Droeshout Portrait. At the first glance, on looking at the Chandos por- trait and then at the Droeshout, one can hardly believe them to be representations of the same person. Yet, on placing them side by side, and deliberately tracing the lines of each, one after the other, the substantial identity of the two is clearly established. In addition to the three portraits which I have named, to wit, the Stratford bust, the Droeshout en- graving, and the Chandos painting, there are many others of varying authority and celebrity. Of these I shall mention but two, the Terra-Cotta bust, and the German Death-Mask. In 1845, in tearing down an old tea-warehouse in London, the foundations were laid bare of the famous Duke's theatre, built by Sir Wilham Davenant, in 1662, in Lincoln's Inn Fields. Among the curious articles thus brought to Hght was a beautiful terra-cotta bust, which on examination proved to be beyond question a likeness of Shakespeare, yet having a character of its own quite independent of all the other acknowledged likenesses, and carrying us back to within at least forty-six years from the time of his death. This bust, after having been for some years in possession of its finders, Mr. Clift and his distinguished son-in-law, Prof. Owen, of the British Museum, was finally bought by the Duke of Devonshire, and by him presented to the Garrick Club of London, in whose possession it now is. The work is highly artistic in its style, in the position of the head and person, and in the character and arrangement of the costume. It has the refine- ment of the Chandos painting without its effeminacy, is more intellectual than the Stratford bust, but not so massive or robust as the Droeshout engraving. It remains to say a few words of the German Death- Mask. The history of its discovery, which is some- what curious, win be given as briefly as possible. Count Francis von Kesselstadt, who died at Mayence, in 1843, the last of his line, had a valuable collection of curiosities and works of art, which had been for several generations in possession of the family, and which at his death were sold at auction in Mayence. Among the articles then sold was a small oil painting, which is known to have been in the possession of the family for more than a century, and which in the family traditions was invariably regarded and spoken of as a portrait of Shakespeare. It bore indeed an inscription to that effect. Den Traditionen nach, Shake- speare. The picture came^ in 1847, into the possession of Ludwig Becker, court painter of Darmstadt, and after his death into the hands of his brother, the pres- ent possessor, Dr. Ernest Becker, private secretary of the Princess Alice of Darmstadt. It represents its subject as lying in state after death, on a bier, with a wreath round the head, covering in part the baldness of the crown, and with a candlestick, and the date 163T, dimly seen in the background. From certain peculiarities in its appearance, Mr. Becker and other artists and antiquarians who were consulted, came to the conclusion that it had been painted from a death- mask, and he accordingly set about making inquiries on the subject. He first found that a plaster of Paris cast of some kind had been in the possession of the Kesselstadt family, but that on account of its melan- choly appearance, it had received little consideration, and what had become of it no one seemed to know. After two years of fruitless search, he at length, in 1849, found the lost rehc in a broker's shop in Mayence, among rags and articles of the meanest description. A comparison of this cast with the picture convinced Mr. Becker, on artistic grounds, that the two were related to each other, and were representations of the same })erson. On the back of the cast is an inscription, the etters and figures being in the style common two cen- turies and a half ago, and the inscription having in all respects the appearance of being cotemporary with the cast. An examination of the cast, while in England, by experts at the British Museum, showed that the in- scription had been cut at the time the cast was made. A microscopic examination by Prof. Owen showed also that the hairs still adhering in the plaster were human hairs. The inscription on the back of the cast, in deeply cut letters, is as follows : t A° Dm 1616 The cross is the usual mark in such inscriptions to sig- nify "died." The letters A° Dm are the famihar ab- breviations for Anno Domini. It is then clearly a cast of some one who died in 1616, the year of Shake- speare's death ; it is also, in the opinion of the Beckers, clearly connected with the Kesselstadt picture. This cast, then, of 1616, it is claimed, is the original from which was painted the picture of 1637, which picture is, according to the Kesselstadt tradition, a portrait of Shakespeare, and has in fact a very strong likeness to him. Further, it is known that the Stratford bust, which THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. gives Tinmistakable evidence of liaving been pi'oduced from a cast, was made in London, by a "tomb-maker," as he is called, by the name of Gerard Johnson, and that this Johnson was a Hollander, a native of Am- Thus far we have terra Jir ma \mA.QV our feet. "What follows takes us into the region of conjecture. The conjecture is that the tomb-maker, Johnson, having completed the bust, laid aside the cast upon his shelf among piles of similar disused materials, and that some acquaintance of his from the father-land, poking about among the rubbish, saw this striking eiBgy, and learning its origin begged or bought it, and carried it away with him into Germany, where, in course of time, it found a lodgment in the Kesselstadt family. Such was the theory put forth by Ludwig Becker on bringing the mask and the picture to England, in 1849. Mr. Becker, in 1850, sailed for Melbourne to join an Australian exploring expedition, and left the mask and picture, with the documents relating to them, in charge of Prof. Owen of the British Museum, where, in consequence of Mr. Becker's death in Australia, they remained for several years, and were then returned to the brother. Dr. Ernest Becker, of Darmstadt, in whose possession they now are. Of the opinions expressed in regard to this mat- ter by the many eminent men who investigated the question while the mask was in England, I quote only two, as given me by Prof. Owen. The late Baron Pollock, after examining the mask, and weighing carefully, as a man of his professional habits would do, the evidence by which its claims were supported, said: "If I were called upon to charge a jury in regard to this point, I would in- struct them to bring in a verdict for the claimant." Lord Brougham did not seem disposed to go quite so far. He would neither acquit nor condemn, but, like a canny Scot, gave as his verdict, "now liqueV The Kesselstadt picture, though its chief value lies in its connection with the mask, is yet not without some curious interest on general grounds. Artists and critics all agree in referring it to the age named in the inscription, 1637. It is in the style of the Vandyke school of art, then prevalent in England, and was, in aU probability, the work of some pupil of Vandyke's. Besides the evidence of its age from the style and the date, there are equal testimonies in the costume, — the open work at the seam of the pillow-case, the folds of the white linen sheets, the cut and collar of the shirt, — all pointing to the age of Shakespeare, — nearly all to be seen of almost exactly the same fashion and pattern, at this very day, at Ann Hathaway's cottage, where the old-fashioned bedstead and its furniture are still preserved, just as they were two centuries and a half ago. The mask or cast creates immediately in the mind of the beholder, even when nothing has been said to him in regard to its claims, the impression that it rep- resents some remarkable man. The experiment has been frequently made, and uniformly with this result. It was exhibited, without a word of explanation, to Herman Grimm, the celebrated art critic of Berlin. "At the very first glance," says Grimm, "I thought to myself that I had never seen a nobler countenance." " What a noble, clean-cut, aquiline nose ; what a won- derfully shaped brow ! I felt that this must have been a man in whose brain dwelt noble thoughts. I in- quired. I was told to look at the reverse of the mask. There, on the edge, cut in figures of the 17th century, BtoodA. D. 1616. I could think of no one else who had died in this year except one who was born in the year Michael Angelo died, — Shakespeare.'''' c Another impression, that one can hardly fail to re- ceive from the mask, is the absence of any marked nationality in the features. The same thing is true of the well-known mask of Dante, in Florence ; there is nothing Italian about it. So there is nothing distinc- tively English in this cast which claims to be the death- mask of Shakespeare. It gives us, as do his writings, the idea of a generic man, — a representative of the human race rather than of any distinct nationality. Another characteristic of the mask, equally marked, is the exceeding fineness and dehcacy of the lines which make up the countenance. Grimm notices this pecu- Uarity. No one, in fact, can fail to observe it who looks upon the mask. While the mask differs, in one respect or another, Monument at Stratford. from every recognized likeness of Shakespeare, there is no marked feature in any one of them which cannot be found in the mask. The variation in each case being easily explainable by the personal peculiarity caprice, or unskilfulness of the particular artist. Thus the bust represents a round, full-faced man, decidedly puffy in the cheeks, while in the mask the face is thin and spare, and wears a thoughtful and rather melan- choly look. Wow it is well known that the fiesh after death always falls away, giving this character to the face. So universal is this result that artists, in mould- ing a bust, or painting a picture, from a death-mask, always make allowance for the falling away of tlie flesh, and fill it out to the supposed fulness of life, either from conjecture, or from some photogi'aph, or other evidence of the ordinary condition of the face in health. Gerai'd Johnson, in undertaking to supply THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. this supposed falling off in the flesh, simply overdid the matter, and gave us a portly, jovial Englishman, instead of the thoughtful author of Hamlet and Lear. Undei'lying the superabundant fulness of flesh, how- ever, the eye can easily trace in the bust all the essen- tial lines of grace and thought to be seen in the mask. The bust, as compared with the mask, is noticeable for the shortness of the nose, and for the extraordinary distance (one and a quarter inches) between the nose and the mouth. John Bell, the sculptor, asserted on anatomical grounds, that the maker of the bust had met with an accident at the point of the nose, and then, instead of doing his work over again, he had cut away enough of the lower part of the nose to give the feature the requisite amount of nostril. The bust cer- tainly has the appearance of having undergone some such manipulation. Another point, in which the mask and the bust differ, is the distance between the eyes, and also be- tween the eyebrows. The unoccupied space in the centre of the forehead, between the beginning of the ridge of hair on one side and the beginning on the other, is larger than I recollect to have seen in any human being. A corresponding width exists between the two eyes, the distance from the centre of one eye to the centre of the other being two and three-quai-- ter inches. This feature gives to the face, as seen in the mask, an amplitude of forehead that is truly majes- tic, and one, when looking at it, cannot help feeling, that he understands better than he did before, where those great creations of genius came from, that have so long filled him with amazement. The bust-maker, on the contrary, through inadvertence, or possibly mistaking certain accidental irregularities of the plaster for a continuation of the hair, has run the brows more closely together, and then, to maintain consistency, has in like manner brought the eyes more closely together, to make them correspond with the brows. The effect of the narrowing of the forehead is further heightened by the fulness and pufiiness of the cheeks already described ; and the result of the whole is to give us the impression of a merry, good-natured farm- er, instead of the majestic thinker that looks at us from the mask. And yet we can see how, through inadvertence, misconception, and unskilf ulness, the one might have grown out of the other. The mask has met with a slight accident, the tip of the nose on one side having crumbled, or having been broken, marring a little the nostril on that side. The features as revealed by the mask have a manly beauty, of the intellectual type, that is very noticeable, and that has called forth spontaneous admiration from all who have looked upon it. There is also an inde- scribable expression of sadness that no one fails to notice. Mrs. Kemble, on seeing it, burst into tears. Grimm suggests in this connection another idea, namely, that in the first moments after death the dis- guises of life disappear, and the real character comes out in the countenance. "Though life," he says, "may prove deceptive on this point, not so death. It is as if, in the first moments after death had laid his sovereign and soothing hand upon man, the features reassumed before our eyes, as final imprint, that which they enclosed as the actual gift of creative nature, namely, the very sum and substance of life. Strange resemblances, wonderful confirmations of character, reappear in these first moments after the last moments." Some of the hairs of the moustache, eye-lashes, and beard are seen in the mask, having adhered to the original concave shell and been thence transferred to the convex mask. These hairs, on examination with a glass, are found to be of a reddish brown, or auburn, corresponding in this respect with what we know historically to have been the actual color of Shake- speare's hair. If the mask be what is claimed for it, we have here literally a bit of Shakespeare himself. The eyes are closed, and the left eye shows a slight defect firom some cause. The moustache is rather fuU, and in the shape now frequently worn, the ends hanging down diagonally to the right and left, so as to cover the corners of the mouth. The "tomb-maker," in the Stratford bust, has curled them up in a way which alters the whole expression of the face, giving it a gay and jaunty air. The rest of the beard is shaven, except a smaU tuft under the chin, of the cut now called an "imperial." The nose is thin, delicate, slightly aquiline, and the profile altogether is extraor- dinarily beautiful. The boldness of the outline, as one looks at the mask in profile, raises the expectation of a narrow face and head, instead of the broad, com- manding face and forehead which meet the eye on turning the mask, and looking at it full in front. The impression which these various likenesses make upon the mind of the observer, especially the impres- sion made by the mask, is that of majesty and force : what a noble face this man had ! how worthy of the noble thoughts to which he has given utterance ! "We feel instinctively like applying to him the words which he has himself put into the mouth of Hamlet, when addressing his father's portrait : 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 MU ; A combination and a form indeed, Where every god did seem to set his seal. To give the world assurance of a man 1 Shakespeare's House Restored.. (As it appeared, 1878.), Xl ^N" A.]SJ"A.LYSIS PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS. THE TEMPEST. See Pago 1. IT this comedy, Shakespeare is thought by able critics to have given us his most finished literary composition, and one in which the great poet has expressed his highest and serenest vievt^ of life. One of his latest productions, first pub- lished in 1623, no source of the story of the play can with any certainty be pointed out. Malone supposes it to have been written in the year 1611, and probably produced in the latter part of 1612 for the first time. Shakespeare, who was fond of music, makes admirable use of this art in The Tempest. Indeed, the serious parts of the drama are well suited for an opera. SCENE. —The sea with a ship, afterwards an uninhabited isle. In a cave hewn out of the solid rock lived the aged Prospero and his good and beautiful daughter, Miran- da. This home was on an island, and thither Miranda had come with her father when she was hardly three years old. The cave in which they resided was diyided into several cells, one of which, serving as Prospero's study, was provided with a number of books on astrology and magic, the knowledge of which Prospero had made exceedingly useful since his ar- rival on this island, which had been enchanted by the witch Sycorax,who died there shortlybef ore his coming. Prospero by his art released many good spirits which the sorceress had imprisoned in the trunks of giant trees, because the spirits had refused to obey the wicked behests of the old enchantress. These liber- ated spirits were, after his coming, the instruments of the obedient will of Prospero. Ariel was the most prominent, who, gentle as he otherwise was, bore a deep-seated grudge towards the monster Caliban, the son of Sycorax. Caliban was found by Prospero dur- ing one of his excursions through the island, and was brought by him to the cave, where Caliban was taught to speak, but, owing to his perverted nature, httle good and useful could he learn, and therefore was employed to do the more menial work, such as carrying wood and water. Ariel's duty was to compel the monster to perform these services. Ariel, invisible to all other eyes but those of Prospero, would often torment and harass Cahban. By the aid of these powerful spirits, Prospero ruled the winds and the waves of the sea. Thus he raised a violent storm, in the midst of which he showed his daughter a large ship, which he told her was full of human beings hke themselves. Mi- randa begs her father to have mercy on their lives. The father soothes her agitation, and informs her that no person of the ship's company shall be hurt, that all transpiring would be done on behalf of his dear child. He now relates to her the cause of their inhabiting this island. "I was Prince of Milan," said he, " and you a Princess and only heir. My younger brother, whose name was Antonio, I intrusted with all my affairs of state, and devoted myself in retirement to profound study. My brother, deeming himself the duke, with the aid of the King of Naples, a powerful prince and deadly foe of mine, effected my downfall. Knowing that they durst not destroy us because of the strong love of my people, they carried us on board a ship, and when some leagues out at sea Antonio forced both of us into a small boat without sail or mast. But a faithful lord of my court, named Gonzalo, had secretly hidden water and provisions on board, and also some invaluable books. Our food lasted until we landed on this island, and ever since my pleasure has been to in- struct my darling child. This tempest I have raised so that by this accident the King of Naples and your treacherous uncle might be brought to this shore." Prospero having concluded his narrative touched Miranda with his magic wand, and she fell fast asleep. At this instant Ariel appears and gives a vivid ac- count of the tempest to his master. Of the ship's crew not one soul has perished, and the vessel, invisible to them, is safely moored in the harbor. Meantime Fer- dinand, the duke's son, reaching the island, meets Miranda. They mutually express surprise, and fall in love. Ariel, bidden by his master, now brings the king, Antonio, and the noble Gonzalo before Pros- pero, who embraces his brother and forgives him his past treachery. Prospero then dismisses Ariel from his service, buries his wand and books in the earth, vowing never henceforth to make use of the magic art. He then returns with the king, his brother, Gonzalo, Ferdinand, and Miranda to his native land, where, soon after their arrival, the nuptials of the hero and heroine, Ferdinand and Miranda, are celebrated, and " honor, riches, marriage-blessing " await them. The characters in this play, while real and living, are conceived in a more abstract way, more as types, than in any other work of Shakespeare. Prospero is the embodiment of the highest wisdom and moral at- tainment; he is the great enchanter, and altogether the opposite of the vulgar magician. With the com- mand over the elemental powers which study has brought to him, he possesses moral grandeur and command over himself. He sees through life, but does not refuse to take part in it. Gonzalo is human common sense incarnated. AU that is meanest and most despicable appears in the wretched conspirators. Miranda is framed in the purest and simplest type of womanhood, while Ariel is a being of life and joy knowing no human aif ection ; in Caliban is his oppo- site, a creature of the passions and appetites. There is a beautiful spirit of reconciliation and forgiveness presiding over all, like a providence, xli THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF YERONA. See Page 18. THEEE was no edition of this comedy until 1623, but according to Malone as well as Chalmers, it was written in 1595. Though this play furnishes fewer occasions for music than some others, yet musicians are employed in the plot as well as musical allusions. Shakespeare in this play introduces all the musical terms in use in his time ; as, a tune, a note, sing out, too sharp, too flat, harsh descant, the mean base, etc. SCENE. — At times in the cities of Verona and Milan, or on the frontiers of Mantua. Valentine and Proteus were two young gentlemen, who lived in the city of Verona, between whom a firm friendship subsisted. They pursued their studies together, and passed their leisure hours in each other's company, except when Proteus visited a lady whom he loved ; and these visits to Julia and his passion for her, were the only points on which the two gentlemen differed. Valentine, who was not in love, often wearied to hear his friend so incessantly talking of his Julia, and occasionally would taunt Proteus for his passion- ate and idle fancies. One morning, Valentine came to Proteus and informed him that they must separate for a time, as he was going to Milan. Proteus, how- ever, tried to induce his friend not to leave him ; but without avail. The two friends parted with vows of unalterable friendship. After his companion had left, Proteus wrote a letter to Julia, which he intrusted her maid Lucetta to deliver to her mistress. Julia, though loving Proteus as much as he did her, acts coquettishly, refuses to accept the letter, and orders her maid to leave the room; but being curious to know the contents of the missive, calls Lucetta in again, and asks her what o'clock it is. Lucetta, who knew that her mistress rather desired to see the letter, without heeding the question, again presents the re- jected epistle. Julia, incensed at this presumption on the part of her servant, tore the missive in pieces and threw them on the floor, ordering Lucetta out of the room. When Julia found herself alone, she gathered the fragments up and began to piece them together, and made out the words, "love-wounded Proteus," but she could not make out the whole, and mortiiied at her own perversity in destroying such sweet and lov- ing words, she pens a much kinder letter to Proteus than she had ever done before. While Proteus was in raptures over his letter, he was interrupted by the appearance of Antonio his father, who asks him what letter he was reading, and is told that it is one he re- ceived from his friend Valentine, at Milan. His father desires to read the news, but the son, greatly alarmed, assures him that there is nothing new, further than Valentine is well beloved by the Duke of Milan, who greatly benefits him with favors, and desires his friend Proteus to be the partner of his fortune. Antonio, deeming the advice of Valentine very worthy of at- tention, resolves to send the son at once to Milan, to spend some time there in the Duke of Milan's court. Proteus, knowing how peremptory was the will of his father, bid JuHa a mournful farewell. They ex- changed rings, and mutually promised to keep each other forever in remembrance. Proteus set out on his journey, and, arriving at Milan, found his friend Valentine really in favor with the duke ; and more- over Valentine had become as ardent a lover as Pro- teus ever was. The lady of his love was Silvia, daughter of the duke, and his love was returned, thougli they concealed their affections from the duke, xlii who intended his daughter should marry the courtier Thurio, whom Silvia despised. While these two rivals were, one day, on a visit to Silvia, the duke himself entered the room, and informed them of the arrival of Proteus, who soon thereafter made his entrance, and was introduced by his friend to the fair Silvia. Val- entine imparted to him in confidence the whole history of his love, how carefully they had concealed it from the duke, and that, despairing of ever obtaining the father's consent, he had urged Silvia to leave the palace that very night and go with him to Mantua. Then he showed Proteus a ladder of ropes, by help of which he intended to aid Silvia to get out of one of the win- dows at dark. Upon hearing this confidential recital, strange to say, Proteus resolved to go and disclose the plan to the duke. The duke, after hearing the intelli- gence, resolved to frustrate Valentine's intentions, and by artifice makes Valentine betray the secret himself, and after upbraiding him for his ingratitude, banished him from the court and city of Milan. While Pro- teus was thus treacherously betraying his friend, JuUa, who is inconsolable over the absence of her lover, resolved to di-ess herself and her maid Lucetta in men's clothes, and thus set out for Milan. Here she was hired by Proteus as a page, who, not knowing that she was Julia, sent her with letters and presents to Silvia — even sending her the very ring she gave him as a parting gift at Verona. Silvia, utterly amazed at this, rejects the suit of Proteus and refuses the ring, and Julia (disguised as the page Sebastian) praises Silvia and confides to her that Proteus had a love in Verona, who, as she knew, fondly loved him; Valen- tine, who hardly knew which course to pursue after his banishment, was set upon by robbers, who prevail on him to become their captain, threatening, if he re- fuses their offer, they would kill him. Valentine ex- acted of them a promise never to outrage women or to rob the poor. Silvia, to avoid a marriage to Thurio, at last resolved to follow Valentine to Mantua, whence she presumed him to have fled, and in company with Eglamour, an old courtier, sets out on her journey, but on reaching the forest where Valentine and the banditti dwelt, was seized by one of the robbers, who intended to take her before their captain. Proteus, who had heard of Silvia's flight, pursued her to the forest, and still accompanied by Julia, his page in dis- guise, appears at this moment. While Proteus was rudely pressing Silvia to mari-y him, all were amazed by the sudden appearance of Valentine. JuUa, having thus proved, by her disguise of the page, the insincerity of her lover Proteus, produces in an affected mistake the rings he has made presents of to herself and Silvia, and at the same time dis- covering her sex, exposes his duplicity to his second mistress. Proteus, who now realizes that the page Sebastian is no other than Julia, and thrilled with this proof of her constancy and true love for him, took again his own dear mistress and joyfully resigns all pretensions to Silvia to Valentine, who so well deserved her. Proteus and Valentine while enjoying their happy reconciliation, were surprised by the appearance of the Duke of Milan and Thurio, who came there in pursuit of Silvia. Thurio, when sternly rejected by Silvia, drew back in trepidation, leaving Valentine, his rival, in full possession of lady Sylvia. The lovers and the duke return to Milan, where the nuptials are con- ducted with all due pomp and ceremony. I has in this play settled down in the field of Italian story, which is to be hereafter the scene of his greatest triumphs. The Two Gentlemen of Vero- na and its incidents were great favorites with Shake- THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS speare, as is evident by his use of them in after plays. Ttis heroine of the drama is without doubt Julia ; she suffers most, she loves most, and she says the best things. The hero Valentine is a most generous, frank fellow, with a touch of dulness withal, as he cannot understand, for instance, Silvia's love messages when she gives him back his own love-letter; Speed has to explain it to him. There seems a contradiction in Silvia's character in her giving Proteus her picture; it looks like yielding to coquetry, but as Julia does not seem to feel it so, perhaps we cannot complain. Notice the quick Italian turn for intrigue in Proteus, and in the duke's instantly forming the plan to entrap Val- entine. THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. See Page 35. THIS is the only Shakespearian comedy which is en- tirely without serious characters and situations; nevertheless, it shows an earnest intention and demon- stration — although jocosely carried out — to prove the sacredness of wedlock. Queen Elizabeth, whose ear was perpetually assailed by fulsome panegyric, and who encouraged all sorts of silly shows. May games, and buffooneries, was not insensible to Shakespeare's talent; and having been much delighted with the character of Falstaff, as delineated in the first and second parts of Henry the Fourth^ advised, or, per- haps we may rather say, commanded, the bard to por- tray the fat knight in love. Such is the tradition of the origin of the play, some incidents of which may have pleased the daughter of Henry VIII., although they are somewhat repulsive to modern taste and delicacy. According to Chalmers, this comedy was written in 1596, while Malone asserts 1601 as the proper date. SCENE. — At "Windsor, or near to it. Falstaff, the droU hero of the trilogy of Henry IV. and v., is unable, on account of his Umited income, to defray the costs of his extravagant tastes. He hits upon the odd idea, which is doubly amusing from his age and physical defects, of trying his luck in love, and thus replenish his empty purse. He writes love-letters to Mrs. Page and to Mrs. Ford simultaneously. His followers, Nym and Pistol, angry at him, resolve to in- form the husbands of this shameful conduct. Both ladies having received letters of the same import, show them to each other, and mutually agree to retaliate upon Falstaff. As a mediator, they choose their tal- ented friend Mrs. Quickly, who informs Falstaff that both ladies accept his suit, and expect to see him. Page has implicit confidence in his wife's fidelity, but Ford does not trust his wife, and disguising himself, as- sumes the name of Brook, asking Falstaff's assistance in his designs upon Mrs. Ford. He learns from Fal- staff that this lady had promised to meet him. Just as the knight is about to enjoy the company of Mrs. Ford, Mrs. Page informs him that the injured husband is on his way hither, having half the inhabitants of "Windsor at his back. The unlucky lover is hastily thrown into a clothes-basket and covered with a quan- tity of dirty hnen. He is carried to a bleachery and there thrown into a shallow ditch. But, despite this involuntai-y bath, Falstaff is not yet the wiser, and runs again into the trap set for him. In Ford's house he is found again by the jealous husband. The ladies this time dress him up in the garb of an old woman, who is known as the disreputable sorceress, or old witch of Brentford. Ford, who had forbidden this hag to enter his threshold, drives Falstaff, after giving him a severe thrashing, from his abode. Mrs. Ford now imparts to her husband the whole affair, cures him of his jealousy, and, in company with Mr. and Mrs. Page, prepares the third practical joke at Falstaff's ex- pense. A rendezvous at night is planned, under the oak of the fabulous hunter. Heme, where, according to a popular superstition, fairies and elves carry on their revels at midnight. Mrs. Ford and Mrs. Page, in pur- suance of their plan to revenge on Falstaff his attempt on their chastity, decoy him, under pretence of an am- orous meeting, into "Windsor Park at midnight, where he is attacked by Evans and all the kin and kindred of the family. Ford and Page, who are dressed as gob- lins, torment him with torches, and pinch and plague him in various other ways. Falstaff is represented ludicrously disguised, having a buck's head forced on his head, and seated beneath the oak with his mis- tresses, who affect surprise at their being discovered. In juxtaposition, and yet distant from the story of seditction and deception, a case of elopement is enacted in the play, as a counterpart of the former in its sub- stance, particulars, and final result. Mr. and Mrs. Page have a marriageable daughter, Anne Page, for whose hand and heart three lovers woo — Squire Fen- ton, whose love is good and true, is responded to by Anne ; and Slender, the cousin of the country Justice Shallow, a dunce with an annual rent of £300, who is the favorite of Anne's father, and last, the dandified French Doctor, Caius, who is favored by Mrs. Page. Under Heme's oak, where Anne is enacting the queen of the fairies, Slender, according to the father's plan, is to elope with the daughter ; but the mother, having planned a like affair, wants her to elope with Dr. Caius. The shrewd Anne apparently accedes to each plan, but on her part plots and prepares with her lover a different understanding, in consequence of which Slender indeed elopes, according to the plan of the father, with a fairy dressed in white ; Dr. Caius, after the plan of the mother, with one in a green garb ; but neither of the two have Anne Page, nor even another girl, but only disguised boys. Fenton and Anne, how- ever, gain their purpose, and reach the church, from which they return husband and wife. The parents yield, with great resignation and heartiness, to the ineptable, and after a general reconciliation, from which even the fat and guilty Falstaff is not excluded, the comedy In Falstaff, bubbling over with humor combined with that consummate conceit which makes his character so ineffably droll, we have a picture that only Shake- speare could draw. Falstaff is the representative, in his idleness and self-indulgence, of the debauched pro- fessional soldier of the day. But this lewd court hanger-on, whose wit always mastered men, is out- witted and routed by the "Windsor "Wives: ""Wives may be merry, and yet honest too," is the healthy moral. The play has no pathos about it: it is only merry ; but, nevertheless, it is admirably constructed. The double plot works through it without a hitch; and the situations are comically first-rate, though we confess the tone is lower than in both Shakespeare's earlier and later works. There are no grandees in the play ; it seems a play of contemporary manners and a direct sketch of English middle-class life. The sweet- ness of "sweet Annie Page" runs all through it. She is the young English girl of Shakespeare's admiration — not seventeen, pretty, brown-haired, small-voiced, whose words are few, but whose presence is every- where felt. True to her love, she is ready-witted, and dutiful to her parents, only disobeying them for the higher law of love. Her real value is shown by the efforts of those three lovers to get her. Fenton is a THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS gay, wild young fellow ; he meant to marry for money, but is won from it by love. He is frank and resolute. Slender is a well worked-up character ; and those are inimitable scenes with Annie Page. The admixture of the German, the Frenchman, and the Welshman, points to considerable freedom of intercourse in Queen Elizabeth's day. MEASURE FOR MEASURE. See Page 56. A DRAMA deriving its name from an old adage, for the argument of the play is to show the triumph of grace and mercy over the punishment of justice, since no man is so secure against transgression as to set himself up as judge over his fellow-creatures. This comedy is founded upon George Whetstone's The Eis- torie of Promos and Cassandra, which appeared in print in 1578. Malone thinks it was written in 1603, while Chalmers thinks the date of its writing is 1604, when Shakespeare was in his fortieth year. Though this play has less music in it than some of Shake- speare's productions, yet at the beginning of Act IV. a song from the poet's own Passionate Pilgrim is sung. SCENE.— City of Vienna. Under the mild government of the Duke of Vienna, the laws had lost all their wonted vigor ; intrigue and immorality became general among the young people of the metropolis because these vices could be prac- tised with impunity : especially was the marriage vow no longer kept sacred. At this juncture the duke re- solves suddenly on a governmental change in the ad- ministration of the land from mildness to great severity, and, for the purpose of more thoroughly carrying out this plan, he determines to absent himself for awhile from his dukedom, meantime leaving the government in the hands of Angelo, Lord Deputy, during his absence. Angelo is instructed to watch over the exe- cution of the laws with strictness. The duke, disguised as a monk, meanwhile secretly observes Angelo and his conduct from the neighborhood of the city. A young nobleman, named Claudio, is taken in custody on the charge of seducing a lady named Juliet, and sentenced to be beheaded under the severe laws of the new regime. Claudio's sister, the beautiful and vir- tuous Isabella, a novice under probation, appears before the Lord Deputy and beseeches him to spare the life of her beloved brother ; but in vain : the law must have its course; her suit is rejected. But it so happens, that the charming interceder, by her dazzling beauty as well as by her innocence and virtue, inflames the passions of Lord Angelo, and he demands, as the price of the forfeited life of her brother, the virtue of the sister, who of course with utter scorn rejects his advances. Isabella then visits her brother in prison, in- forms him of the ill success she has met with and of the baseness of Angelo. She admonishes him to fortify himself with courage and resignation to endure his ap- proaching fate. But the terror of death overpowers the hitherto courageous Claudio, and he entreats his sister to yield to Angelo's desire, to save her brother's life. This cowardly request Isabella refuses with horror, and vehemently upbraids Claudio. Neverthe- less, Isabella is induced, by the urgent entreaties of the duke (who, in the disguise of a friar, is present), to seemiagly promise Angelo, but in her place, and at midnight, to send the former mistress of the Lord Deputy to him. This lady is Mariana, the betrothed of Angelo, and one who had been deserted by him on account of the loss of her marriage dower (but who xliv retained her old love for her truant lover). According to the customs in vogue at the time, those betrothed were considered very much as if wedded. Mariana takes no offence at this proposed midnight meeting, and when she departs from Angelo, who has mistaken her for Isabella, she reminds him of his promise hj saying, " Remember now my brother ! " Meanwhile, however. Lord Angelo, fearing an exposure hereafter from Claudio, had already given new orders for his execution. The unfortunate man is only saved from his doom by the intercession of the disguised duke himself, who persuaded the provost to put off the exe- cution, and to deceive Angelo by sending him the head of a man who had died that morning in prison. Fi- nally, the duke appears in his true character, forgiving, rewarding, and punishing. Angelo, who sincerely re- pents of his intended misdeeds, but which wickedness, without merit on his part, had been frustrated, receives forgiveness ; but has to make atonement for his wrongs towards Mariana by marrjdng her. Claudio is induced to marry Juliet, the lady whom he had seduced. Isa- bella, the heroine, the true and good, does not re-enter the convent, but, the duke falling in love with her, is made the Duchess of Vienna; and bestowing happi- ness and blessing all around, henceforth shines by the duke's side as his noble wife. In the character of Isabella we have a beautiful por- traiture of a noble Christian woman, steadfast and true, firm in strength and energy, and among the highest type of women Shakespeare has drawn — equal or superior to Portia, the wife of Brutus, Corde- lia, or Volumnia. The scene in court, and the trial, as it were, before the duke, and the exposure of Angelo, are graphically portrayed. There is a tone of deep and serious feeling running all through theplay — its dealing with death and the future world, the weight of reflection, the analysis of Angelo's character, the workings of conscience, the lovely saintliness of Isa- bella, although we must look on her as no hard re- cluse, but as "Isabel, sweet Isabel! with cheeks of roses, gentle and fair." She believed that the son of her heroic father was noble, like herself ; and when she found he was willing to sacrifice her honor for his life, her indignant " take my defiance, die, perish," was the fit answer to her brother's base proposals, which brings the blood tingling in sympathy to the reader's cheek. In Angelo we have a terrible analysis of character, a self-revelation to any man who has striven for purity, has fancied himself safe, and in the hour of trial has failed. Claudio is the type of the self-indul- gent, life-enjoying man of the world, to whom death has the greatest terrors. His words on " after death " are among the most poetical in Shakespeare. THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. See Page 78. THE Menaechmi of Plautus have furnished our poet the matter for this lively, entertaining, and ingeniously executed play, which is so full of a witty spirit. It is one of his earliest dramatic efforts, and perhaps was written before the year 1591, though Malone fixes the date at 1593. In the Comedy of Errors music has no mention. SCENE . — Ephesus. Various and proUx disputes and contentions between the cities of Syracuse and Ephesus caused, in retalia- THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS tion for the precedent set by the former city, the enactment of a cruel law, according to which all intercourse between these two places was aboHshed, and any inhabitant of Syracuse seen in Ephesus was punished with death and confiscation of his estate if he were not able to pay a ransom of one thousand marks. Ignorant of this law, ^geon, an aged mer- chant of Syracuse, is found in the streets of Ephesus, arrested, and by the duke condemned to be executed. Upon the question, what has induced him to visit Ephesus, he relates that his wife had borne him twins, who had so extraordinary a resemblance to each other that he had purchased of their poor parents two twin brothers, whom he had brought up to attend upon his own sons. Suffering shipwreck ^geon had been separated from his wife, with their older son and his comrade. The younger son, who, after he had grown to manhood, had been afflicted with an irrepressible longing to go in search of his lost mother and brother, was still engaged in this search; both sons he now deemed lost to him, since for seven years he had sought for them on all seas, but in vain, and it was thus he had come to Ephesus. The duke, influenced by a feeling of pity, grants iEgeon one day to procure the thousand marks for his ransom, ^geon's sons, of exact form and size and bearing the same name — that of Antipho- lus — were at this time in Ephesus with their servants the Dromios, who were also countei-parts of each other. The younger Antipholus had just arrived with Tiis Dromio ; the older brother, however, had already lived twenty years in the city, having, as a coura- geous soldier, once saved the duke's life, and had in the course of time become a rich and highly respected merchant. He married a rich heiress of Ephesus named Adriana, whose beautiful and wise sister Luciana resided with them. The twins and their followers, who bear such striking resemblance to each other, cause many vexatious and entangling mistakes, and thus, quite naturally, many very comically amusing scenes are enacted, and errors upon errors follow. One bewitching mistake confounds the other. The errors which are occasioned by confounding the two gentle- men and their servants with each other, cause the Antipholus of Syracuse to believe that he is under the influence of magicians, and therefore seeks refuge in a cloister, whose abbess, Emilia, charitably grants to him a place of refuge. Adriana, who presumed the fugitive to be her husband, complains to the duke of the conduct of the abbess, who refuses to give up the fugitive, who is deemed insane, before his cure is effected. One word draws another, until it becomes finally apparent that the jealous Adriana is the wife of the Ephesian Antipholus, whom she had often tor- tured with her silly suspicions. After confessing her behaviour to the abbess, the latter seriously expostu- lates with her. Meanwhile, evening comes and ^geon is to be executed, when opportunely at this juncture the twin pairs, and those with whom they have been confounded, all meet in the vicinity of the convent. The penetration of the duke at once solves this mys- tery of errors. The excellent abbess is none other than JEmilia, the long lost wife of ^geon and the loving mother of the two Antipholus. The noble duke now pardons JEgeon, without the payment of ransom; Adriana is permanently cured of her jealous- ies, while Antipholus of Syracuse marries her sister the good and fair Luciana. In the Comedy of Errors, which commentators be- lieve to be either the first or the second written of the dramas of Shakespeare, he has exquisitely brought in the pathetic element in Jigeon's story and threatened death, the mother's love and suffering, and the re- uniting of the family at the end of the play. He has also presented the beautiful element of the affection of Antipholus of Syracuse for Luciana — the first intro- duction of that serious and tender love which is never after absent in Shakespeare's plays. The sweetness of Luciana in dissuading her sister from jealousy, in her advice to Antipholus of Syi-acuse, her sister's supposed husband, in Scene 2 of Act III., before she consents to her suitor's love, is very beautiful in its tender thought- fulness. Adriana, though jealous and shrewish, really does not mean to be, and truly urges that her love is the cause. The contrast between the two brothers of Syracuse and of Ephesus is finely marked. The An- tipholus of Ephesus was a man without a father's or a mother's training, and with no purpose in life like his brother. He is a brave soldier, but has no true view of love and marriage; he has taken a wife, yet con- sorts with a courtesan. Antipholus of Syracuse, brought up under a father's watchful care, is a far better type of a man. The search for his lost twin brother has given him a purpose in life ; and although his temper is somewhat too unrestrained and he beats his servant too often, yet he reverences women, and declines the opportunity to avail himself of the mistake of his unknown brother's wife. Of the two Dromios, the Syracusan seems to have been the better. He is more humorous and cool and takes his troubles better than his master, 'fhe noble and pathetic figure of ^Egeon forms a fine background to the play, his long search for his wife appealing to all hearts. This drama forms a fine acting play, the humor being brought out most comically. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. See Page 93. THE more serious parts of the material on which this comedy is founded, were known to the reading pub- lic of England, at the time of our poet, through various works, such as the episode of Ariodant and Genevra, in Ariosto's Orlando Furioso, which already then ex- isted in two English translations. The nearest resem- blance to this play is a novel' of Bandello, entitled, "Timbreo di Cardonia, and Felicia Leonata." The other comical parts of the play, and the persons rep- resented therein, seem to be altogether Shakespeare's own creation. According to Malone, the play was written in 1600; while Chalmers reports it a year earlier, that it was printed in quarto, and was entered at Stationers' Hall, August 23, 1600, under the name of Benedick and Beatrice. There is much music in the play, especially in the masquerade. Act II., Scene 2, and several songs are introduced. In the last Act, Scene 8, the epitaph and song are beautiful, and well calculated for music. SCENE. — Messina. Leonato, the Governor of Messina, has an only daughter, named Hero, who lives with his niece, Bea- trice, in her father's palace. Beatrice is a lively, mirth- ful, and witty girl, the veiy counterpart of the sedate Hero. Returning from a happily ended war, appear as the guests of Leonato, Don Pedro, Prince of Arra- gon, with his favorites, Claudio and Benedick, all old friends and acquaintances of the governor and his family. Claudio sues for the quiet Hero, wins her love, and, through the mediation of the Prince, obtains the consent of her father. Benedick and Beatrice, both animated by a spirit of thoroughly inexhaustible xlv THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS humor, begin a real contest of wits, incessantly teas- ing each other, and both to all appearances utterly- forswearing love and matrimony. By an amusing plot, however, both, while deeming themselves unob- served, are made witnesses to pre-arranged conversa- tions, from the purport of which it is intended to con- vince them that Beatrice is inspired with love for Benedick, and Benedick is madly in love with Beatrice. Both are deceived by the trap set for them ; but nothing novel is produced thereby; they only obtaining the knowledge how their affairs are situated. The Prince of Arragon had also brought with him to Messina his bastard brother, Don John, a man discontented with himself and all the world, full of venom and rancor, who seeks pleasure in making mischief. He slanders the pure, innocent, and chaste Hero, as being a com- mon strumpet, and proposes to convince the Prince and Claudio of the truth of his assertion by ocular proof. In the course of the night preceding the nup- tials, Margaret, Hero's attending gentlewoman, clad in her mistress's garments, is induced to hold an inter- view with her lover, Borachio, one of Don John's followers, which might have been proof of Hero's guilt, had it really been she who had conversed with him. Claudio, whom the cunning rascal has induced to be a witness to this midnight meeting, becomes natui'ally enraged, and with youthful impetuosity, with- out further investigation of the charges, resolves on a terrible revenge. The marriage of Claudio with Hero is about to be solemnized, but is prevented by the artifices of Don John. In the church, in the pres- ence of aU witnesses, Claudio denounces the innocent Hero as an imi^ure woman, and charges her with un- chastity. Hero faints at the terrible accusation, her father is distracted, and the bridal company breaks up in confusion. But virtue finally is vindicated. Borachio, that fol- lower of Don John who so vilely has aspersed the character of the noble Hero to Claudio, relates the circumstance to his companion Conrade ; his story is overheard by the watch, who rush forward and take them both, tlie rogues, into custody. They are taken by the watchman to prison, are examined by the inimitable Dogberry, and the Sexton, who is constable of the night. The testimony of the watchman proves their connivance in the plot with Don John against Hero. The miscreant, Don John, who has attempted to escape, is retaken, and cast into prison, as a well deserved punishment. Hero, being supposed by Claudio to be dead (in consequence of the shock given at her intended wedding), had now her character fully cleared. Claudio, as an atonement for his error, agrees to marry Leonato's niece, Beatrice. The lady is ac- cordingly introduced, veiled, but proves to be Hero herself. The marriage of the two lovers, with that also of Benedick and Beatrice, who continues her mirth to the very end, happily concludes the drama. This play is radiant with the most brilliant wit and the richest humor, and sparkles throughout with the poet's keen fun and raillery, reflected through Dogberry, and Verges' belief in him, with the merry passages be- tween Beatrice and Benedick. We cannot help feeling acutely, though, the needless pain caused to Hero, which might have been so easily avoided or lessened, but " when the fun is fastest the sorrow must be sad- dest." Claudio is a fine manly fellow, but a trifle too suspicious and too easily misled, without sifting charges against his afiianced wife more thoroughly. Beatrice is the sauciest, most piquant, sparkling, madcap girl that Shakespeare ever drew, and yet she is a loving, deep- natured, true woman, too. Sharp sayings flow from her xlvi with the humorous ones. Of course she says she don't want a husband: what girl of her type ever acknowl- edges she does? What does she want with a husband ? In this mood she meets Benedick, and, sharp as he is among men, he cannot stand up to her. She over- whelms him with her quick repartees. But when she really finds she loves, how changed she is. When sweet Hero sinks under the cruel blow, unable to de- fend herself, how grandly flashes out the true and no- ble nature of Beatrice, worthy daughter of the gallant old Antonio. She knows Hero's pure heart. Evi- dence, so called ! suspicion ! what are they to her. " 0, on my soul, my cousin is belied ! " When she gives herself to her lover — witty as she is to the last — we know what a jewel the man has gained. The brightest and sunniest married life we see stretching before them, comfort in sorrow, doubling of joy. LOYE'S LABOUR'S LOST. See Page IIS. A ROMANCE or a drama from which our poet might have gleaned the material for this play, is thus far not known. The argument on which this comedy rests is the important contrast between the fresh and youthful, ever new blooming reality of life and the abstract, dry, and dead study of the strictly pedantic life. Shakespeare wrote the play, according to Malone, In 1594; according to Chalmers, in 1592. SCENE. —Laid in Navarre, The young and kind-hearted Ferdinand of Navarre conceived the somewhat fantastic idea of spending, in company with three knightly followers, Biron, Longa- ville, and Dumain, three years in strict seclusion from the outer world. In pursuance of this aim, they have sworn a sacred oath, especially binding themselves to abstain from all social intercourse with women, and to devote themselves to the study of wisdom and learn- ing. Their plan, however, is forthwith defeated by the arrival of the fair Princess of France, with her attend- ing ladies — Rosaline, Maria, and Katharine. This party, on account of pressing aQ"airs of state, request an immediate audience, which cannot be denied. All these knights of wisdom and abstinence fall in love with these ladies, who are just as amiable as they are good and subtle. A quick encounter of contending wits ensues, during which the gentlemen tease and de- ride each other for breaking their vow, each at the same time trying to justify himself, but all aiming to win the hearts of the fair French ladies. The latter, on their part, try to cleverly defend themselves by vieing with one another in witty retorts, and by clev- erly ridiculing the courtiers for their foolishly conceived but quickly violated plan of affected struggle after wis- dom. Intermingled in the play, as the most amusing and diverting contrasts, are the comical episodes be- tween two bombastic and learned pedants, Holofernea and Nathaniel, as well as the pranks of the arrant knight and braggadocio, Armado, a youthful and haughty page, who acts the part of a privileged fool. The entire plot of the story and of the actors is sud- denly interrupted by the announcement of the death of the sick and aged father of the Princess of France ; and the drama closes with a very earnest lesson, and that, though expressed by the king in a jesting mood, is exacted by the ladies (though in another shape) as an expiation and for repentance. A duetto between Spring and Winter (Cuckoo and Owl) makes a charm- ing epilogue, which in a poetic form sheds a fight o\%r THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS the sense and meaning of the whole. The finale of the comedy thus reverts back to the beginning. The London wits of the day, with their assumed consequence and abounding conceit, naturally amused the Stratford-bred Shakespeare, and parts of this, his first written play, were designed to give them a covert reproof, and to show them they could be beaten at their own weapons, by a country lad, too, and that all their city cleverness, on which they so much piided themselves, was as nothing beside good heart and work. The best speech in the play is, of course, Biron's, on the effect of love in opening men's eyes and making the world new to them. How true this is every lover since can bear witness. But still there is a "chafBness" about it very different from the humility and earnestness of the lovers who figure in most of Shakespeare's other plays, except, perhaps, that of the worthy Benedick. The fair Eosaline, too, in her witty passages, reminds us of Beatrice. A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. See Page 133. THE comedy of Midsummer-Nighfs Dream is the most extravagant, yet the most artistic, the most amusing, and withal the most thoughtful, the most poetical, and nevertheless the liveliest, which the phantasy of a poet ever created for the glorification of phantasy itself. The greatness of the author's genius revels nowhere so much as here, where he gives his imagination fuU play, and raises his fancy to a fiight above mankind, and beyond the limits of the visible world. Two songs alluded to in the last scene of this play are lost. Malone asserts that this drama was written in 1592, while Chalmers has reasons for stat- ing 1598 as the date. SCENE. — Athens, and a wood not far from it. Oberon, king of the fairies, beseeches his wife, Ti- tania, to grant to him her beautiful adopted boy as a page ; and upon Titania refusing this request, he seeks to revenge himself by wetting her eyes with the sap of a flower while she is sleeping. This lotion has the magical power of causing her to become exceedingly enamored with the first being she beholds on awaken- ing. The person whom her eyes first observe is a weaver of Athens, named Bottom, a rough and en- tirely illiterate man, and who has, at this time, come, with several other mechanics, to the grove, where Oberon and Titania were holding their fairy court. These artisans had entered the wood to have a re- hearsal for the play of Pyramin and Tliisbe, which they design to act at the nuptial festivities of Duke Theseus of Athens, who was soon to be married to Hippolyta. But before Titania's awakening, Puck, a serving spirit to Oberon, who was ever ready for fun or frolic, had, by magic, adorned the weaver. Bottom, with the head of an ass. At the time this is taking place, a young pair, Lysander and Hermia, in love with each other, had hkewise hied themselves to this enchanted grove, having fled from Athens on account of the cruelty of the father of Hermia, and the strict- ness of the laws of Athens, which forbade their union. They are overtaken at night by Demetrius, a lover, whose suit for Hermia the father of this lady favors, and by Helena, a youthful friend of Hermia, who loves Demetrius, but finds her love rejected. Oberon, the fairy king, feels pity for fond Helena, and commands Puck to wet the eyes of the flint-hearted Demetrius with the same magic fluid which had already proved so eflncacious on his queen, Titania. Puck, by some mis- take, enchants instead Lysander, but finding out his error, also enchants Demetrius. The consequence is, that both Lysander and Demetrius, on awakening, fall in love with Helena, whom they both perceive at the sauie moment. As a result, Helena now thinks the declarations of both these suitors rnalicious mockery, while Hermia, who, meantime, had' arrived upon the scene, is inconsolable to discover herself thus so sud- denly deserted by the hitherto faithful Lysander. Meantime Titania has yielded to the wish of Oberon, and the latter, joyful over the reconciliation with his wife, removes the magic spells from Lysander and Bottom ; only Demetrius' spell will not leave him, or rather the spell she supplied by the magic which the devoted fidelity of Helena imparts to him, whose love he now rewards in turn with his love. The Duke Theseus, of Athens, whose marriage is also about to be celebrated, obtains the consent of Hermia's father to her union with Lysander, and thus it happens that three marriage ceremonies take place, on which occa- sion the artisans enact their very jovial and grotesque play of Pyramus and Thisbe, which they have so faithfully and amusingly rehearsed. Congratulations and fairy dances conclude the nuptial feasts and the drama. The finest character in the play is undoubtedly The- seus, and in his noble words about the artisans' play, the true gentleman is shown. Theseus is Shake- speare's early ideal of a heroic warrior and man of action. His life is one of splendid achievement and joy ; his love is a kind of happy victory ; his marriage a triumph. But his wife's character is poor beside his. There is not much marked difference of character be- tween the lovers Demetrius and Lysander, nor is there much distinction between Helena and Hermia, except that in person Helena is the taller of the two and the gentler in disposition. Though the story is Greek, yet the play is full of English life. It is Stratford that has given Shakespeare his out -door woodland life, his clowns' play, and the clowns themselves — Bottom, with his inimitable conceit, and his fellows. Snug, Quince, etc. It is Stratford that has given him all Puck's fairy lore — the pictures of the sweet country school-girls, seemingly parted and yet with a union in partition. There is exquisite imagery running through the play — a wonderful admixture, though it be, of deli- cate and aerial fancy beside the broadest and coarsest comedy. THE MERCHANT OF TENICE. See Page 150. IN this play our bard celebrates the idea of a univer- sal philanthropy, in the first place, as a Christian charity, but more especially in its tenderest and most gentle emanations, as friendship, connubial love, as well as grace and mercy, in opposition to the strict tenet of the law. George Chalmers fixes 1597 as the date of this comedy, while Malone reports 1598 as the exact time of its appearance. The musical elements of this interesting drama are beautiful, numerous, and celebrated. In it is found the initial of a well-known and now proverbial eulogiura on modulated sounds: " The man who has no music in his soul," etc. SCENE.— Partly in Venice and at Belmont. A rich and fair heiress named Portia, who lives at Belmont, near Venice, is, according to the last will of xlvii THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS her father, prohibited from marrying, except the suitor who comes to woo should correctly choose one of three caskets — one of them gold, one of silver, and one of lead. The latter contains the portrait of the fair lady; and the suitor fortunate enough to choose the casket containing Portia's picture, is to be Portia's husband. Bassanio, a young nobleman of Venice, is so fortunate, and carries otf the prize. But he is scarcely betrothed to his love, when he receives news from Venice telling him that his noble-hearted fi-iend Antonio, whose generous means furnished him for his successful journey to Belmont, is completely ruined by the wreck of ships at sea, and that the bond which Antonio, in over confidence, had given to the Jew Shy- lock on Bassanio's account for a sum of money, could not be met when due. Shylock now insists literally on the cruel penalty provided as a forfeit — a pound of Antonio's flesh to be cut from any part the Jew pleased to take it. Bassanio, supphed by his bride with ample means, and presented with a ring which he vowed to her he never would part with, hastens towards Venice to the rescue of his friend. Portia, his spirited lady love, meanwhile, procures for herself, by the aid of a renowned lawyer, who is a friend of her family, letters of introduction, and thus fortified, and in the disguise of a Doctor of Laws, is introduced to the Duke of Venice as a lawyer who would be able, even in such a difiicult case as that now pending between the merchant of Venice and the Jew Shylock, to decide in strict accord with the laws of Venice, and yet, withal, in the interest of human equity. By virtue of Portia's ingenious sagacity, Antonio, the un- fortunate merchant who had become security for her husband Bassanio, is rescued from his cruel persecutor. In her disguise as an advocate of law, Portia refuses every offer of reward, but requests and finally obtains from the unwilling Bassanio that ring which she had given to him on his departure from her, under the most solemn vows never to part with it. The same scene is likewise enacted by her waiting-maid Nerissa, who is in the disguise of an attending clerk, and who is betrothed to Bassanio's friend and companion Gra- tiano. Portia and her waiting-maid now hasten to their home. They arrived at Belmont before their husbands, whose embarrassment on account of their having parted with their rings, the pledges of their love, causes great railing and merriment, until finally tiie entire intrigue is explained. Through the play is interspersed the suit, elopement, and marriage of Jessica, the daughter of Shylock, who, converted to Christianity, becomes the wife of Lorenzo, a young Venetian for whom Portia, in her role as counsellor of law, obtains the legal right to inherit the fortune of his unwilling father-in-law, Shylock. Cruel and re- pulsive as the character of the latter appears in the story, the thoughtful reader cannot help but some- times pity him as one of the persecuted Jewish race, a race often embittered and driven to desperation by the remorseless cruelty practised towards them by the peoples and laws of the Middle Ages. To understand the plot of this play, which is com- plicated, by three points, we have, first the main point in the history of the forfeited bond ; then a secondary plot, the affair of the three caskets, and, as a final epi- sode, the elopement of Jessica and Lorenzo. A true and noble woman the poet portrays in Portia. In the language of Jessica, " the rude world has not her fellow," and to this all who have studied the play will agree, echoing the words of Mrs. Fanny Kemble, when she says, " Shakespeare's Portia, then, as now, is my ideal of a perfect woman." She is one of those xlviii women that the poet shows us first in gloom and then brings into the sunshine of love. She is gloomy, natu- rally, at the momentous chance that her fate hangs on, until it gives her the man she loves. She has wit and humor, and good judgment, too. She is unselfish, for she allows her husband to leave fier so soon to save his friend. Note her quick insight and wit ; on the call for action, her self-reliance ; the admirable hand- ling of her case in court ; the reserving of her power to the last, hoping to raise Shylock to the nobleness she would have him reach. See how the essence of all the virtues of woman is in her speech for mercy, which will echo through all time. In the trial scene she keeps her happy, roguish humor, chaffing her hus- band about giving her up, and insisting on his ring (this latter scene is remarkably effective on the stage). No words can praise Portia too highly. Jessica, " the most beautiful pagan and most sweet Jew," is ro- mantic and impulsive. Love is her ruling passion, as greed is that of her father's. Antonio is a noble gentleman. There is a beautiful and touching unselfishness about him, as note his message to Bassanio, who was a fine enough fellow, but far inferior as a character to the woman whose love he won. In Shylock, we have the embittered hate of ages of cruelty and oppression flaming up to strike when chance allowed it. AS TOIJ LIKE IT. See Page 170. THE material of this play the poet gleaned from the story entitled " Rosalinde, Euphues Golden Legacie, etc.," which its author, Thomas Lodge, wrote at sea, on a voyage to the Canary Islands. The drama was written in 1600, when Shakespeare was thirty-six years old. There are various remarks on music and several songs embodied in this comedy. SCENE. — Is laid first near Oliver's house; after-wards in the usurper's court, and in the forest of Arden. A French duke, who had been deposed and banished by his younger brother Frederick, withdrew with a few faithful followers to the forest of Arden, leaving his only daughter Rosalind at the court of the usurper as a companion of the latter's only daughter Celia : these ladies love each other like sisters. This affection which subsisted between them was not in the least interrupted by the disagreement between the fathers, and becomes not the less tender when Rosalind falls in love with the brave Orlando, who, in a wresthng match with a hitherto unexcelled athlete, wins the victory in the presence of the assembled court ; but Orlando having learned from Adam, his father's aged steward, of the deadly enmity of his older brothc: Oliver, seeks safety in flight. Adam affectionately accompanies him, and proffers Orlando the money he has saved. But the faithful servant, through infirmity and fatigue, is un- able to proceed far on the journey. Orlando cheers his drooping spirits and urges him to go forward. The older brother, Oliver, was charged by the usurping duke with having aided the flight of Orlando, and the duke orders him to arrest and bring back the fugitives. Rosalind, having been banished from her uncle's court, left it clad in the disguise of a page, and chance led her towards the forest of Arden. Celia, the usurping duke's daughter, loving Rosalind tenderly, accompa- nied her in her flight in the garb of a shepherdess. More for the purpose of pastime and sport than for THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS protection, the two ladies entreat the clown Touch- stone to flee with them. Arrived at the forest of Arden, they purchase fi'om a shepherd his estate with house and herd, and still disguised live there for a time as brother and sister, when they are agreeably surprised by the arrival of Orlando, who has joined the followers of the banished duke. Rosalind then hears from Orlando's brother Oliver an account of Orlando being wounded, and, seeing the bloody hand- kerchief which he has sent her as a proof of his at- tachment, faints in the arms of Celia. Rosalind, after having assured herself of the love and constancy of the knightly Orlando, fully bestows her affections on him, and with the consent of her father, to whom she has made herself known, is wedded to him. The contrite Oliver, who owes his hfe to the valor and courage of his brother Orlando (who rescued him twice, while travelling through the country, from the fangs of a serpent, and again from a lion while asleep in the forest of Arden), marries the fair Celia, with whom he has fallen in love at first sight. Meantime, Duke Frederick, becoming alarmed at the large number of hie subjects who are leaving for his brother's support, marches at the head of an army to the Arden forest to annihilate the followers of the deposed duke. At the outskirts of the forest, however, the usurper is met by a pious hermit, who beseeches him to desist from his cruel undertaking. Stung by his conscience, he voluntarily restores the dukedom to his brother, and resolves to spend the remainder of his life in a religious house. A messenger proclaiming this re- solve is sent by the now penitent duke to his brother, who again ascends his throne, while all the banished courtiers return to the city and are restored to their former dignities — all but the melancholy Jaques, who, disgusted with worldly show, goes into retire- ment. This story goes back to the old Robin Hood spirit of England, to the love of country, of forest, and of adven- ture. Rosalind's rippling laughter comes to us from the far-off woodland glades, and the wedded couple's sweet content reaches us as a strain of distant melody. Miss Baillie says of Rosalind : " The way in which she de- lights in teasing Orlando is essentially womanly. There are many women who take unaccountable pleasure in causing pain to those they love, for the sake of heal- ing it afterwards." RosaUnd is fair, pink-cheeked, and impulsive ; what she thinks she must speak out, true woman as she is. There is a great want in her life ; but she meets Orlando, and the want is filled by love. It was she who planned this country expedition, and, though she could find it in her heart to cry like a woman, she feels she must comfort poor Ceha as the weaker vessel. But sad as she is, she needs only the news of Orlando's nearness to throw off her melan- choly instantly, and to jump into the liveliest of gay humors; and the deliciously sprightly fun of her chaff of Orlando is unsurpassable. Orlando is a fine young fellow with whom we all must sympathize; there is such a charm in his manliness, and there is, too, a fresh- ness about him and the energy of a healthy, active life. Oliver is a poor creature ; but whitewashed, and re- formed, we believe he made a good husband to Celia "the tender and true." The melancholy Jaques gets off some immortally excellent things of the philoso- phizing kind, as note his exquisite words on the " Seven Ages of Man." Touchstone's fun with Corin the shepherd and Wilham is most amusing ; to quote Miss Baillie again : "He is undoubtedly slightly cracked; but then the very cracks in his brain are chinks which let in the hght." THE TAMING OF THE SHRETV. See Page 190. THIS comedy is founded on an old play, the author of which is unknown, although even the dialogue is partly kept intact in our poet's production. But the change Shakespeare wrought is so complete that the play must be acknowledged as only his. It origi- nated in 1596, or possibly a few years earlier. In The Taming of the Shrew no other use is made of music than to introduce minstrels at the - SCENE. — At times in Padua and in Petru- chio's country-house. The plot of the drama is as follows : A lord on his return from the chase finds a drunken tinker, named Sly, asleep on a bench before an ale-house. For the sake of sport, the lord orders him carried to his own rooms, where Sly is dressed in costly garments and placed in one of his finest beds. When the drunkard wakes he finds himself surrounded by the attending servants, who succeed in making him believe that he is a nobleman who had for many years suffered from insanity. Upon the introduction of a train of players, Sly becomes convinced that he is really a lord, and they are ordered to entertain him with the enactment of a comedy, the purport of which is about the follow- ing:— A rich gentleman of Padua, named Baptista, has two daughters, Katharina (Kate) and Bianca ; but the father refuses to listen to the suitors of the younger daughter until Katharina, the older sister, is married. Katharina's fiery temper has caused her to be known as the Shrew, and her loud-tongued scolding frightened every suitor away. The wooers of Bianca, although, as rivals, much inclined to look at each other with un- favorable eyes, yet agree to make common cause, and that each endeavor to procure a husband for Katha- rina. In this they are fortunate in finding a gentleman named Petruchio, himself heir to rich estates, and who has come especially to Padua for the purpose of form- ing a suitable marriage. By virtue of his burlesquely- tender actions, he determined to break Kate's haughty temper, and by an affectation of continued violence frighten her into submission to his will. Grumio, Petruchio's servant, comically assists him in this ef- fort. Katharina, finding at last opposition vain, be- comes the dutiful wife, and Petruchio, finding her obedient to his most absurdly assumed whims, pro- fesses his affection and drops the part of the tyrant. Meanwhile Lucentio, a nobleman of Pisa, has suc- ceeded, under the guise of a teacher, in gaining access to Bianca, and has used the hours ostensibly devoted to instruction for the purpose of exchanging declara- tions of love, while his servant, Tranio, assuming his master's name and address, attends to all further affairs which are necessary to forward the intentions of Lu- centio. To make this certain, the presence of Lucen- tio's father, by the scheme of Tranio, is to be repre- sented by a travelling schoolmaster; but at this critical moment the real father of Lucentio arrives quite unex- pectedly at Padua, and meets on the street the servant of his son in the latter's dress. Tranio has the temer- ity not to recognize the father of his master as such, and is about to be taken to prison by an officer of the law, when Lucentio, who meanwhile had been se- cretly married to Bianca, opportunely appears with his bride by his side, and effects a general reconciliation. Gremio, the oldest of Bianca's rejected suitors, is satis- fied with receiving an invitation to be the guest at the festivities in honor of the wedding; Hortensio, the younger lover, seeks consolation by marrying a young xlix THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS widow, and takes formal lessons from Petruchio in the art of Taming the Shrew. Petruchio's young wife, the fiery Katharina, cai'ries finally the prize away as the most submissive wife of the three, and, because of her amiability and goodness, receives from her father a largely increased dowry. The fair Kate, the shrew, stands boldly out in marked individuality. She has been brought up a spoiled child, strong-willed, and overindulged by her father's /(^eakness and her sister's gentleness. Then she may be said to have a grievance, for she is not to be mar- ried, while her mild sister is. She is soured by neg- lect, and bullies her sister from envy. Petruchio comes; he admires her, and she likes him, too, as the first man who has had the nerve to overrule and attempt to con- trol her. She is bewildered by his assurance and cool- ness, while conscious that she has forfeited, by her childish bad temper, a woman's right to chivalrous courtesy, and she feels she has no right to complain of her lover's roughness. As a woman, too, she hkes the promise of finery, and decides to marry him ; even has learned, by this time, to love him, as note how she cries when he comes late. Having got him, she is baulked of the wedding feast (cruellest of all blows for a bride). Under the influence of the wedding, she is so tender, at first, that we almost regret that Pe- truchio had not taken advantage of this tenderness, and tried taming by love; but then, if he had, we should have lost some of the very best scenes of the play. However, Kate decides to stand up for her rights, and how she is defeated and humbled, and finally gives up the effort, becoming the model wife, the story relates. Petruchio really makes himself, for effect, worse than he is. He is one of those determined men that like the spice of temper in a woman, knowing the power in him to subdue. He teases and tantalizes Kate in such a pleasant, madcap fashion, that we like him, although, probably, he tries her too far and too severely. No doubt they proved a happy couple. Kate could obey Petruchio with a will, for he had fairly beaten her at her own game, and won her respect. Grumio is an excellent comic character, one of the best of the kind from Shakespeare's pen. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. See Page 810. M ALONE supposes this drama was composed in the year 1606. The story was originally taken from Boccacio, but came more immediately to Shake- speare from Painter's " Giletta of Narbon," in the first volume of the " Palace of Pleasure." Of this comedy there is no edition earlier than the first folio. The music of this play consists of flourish of cornets, marches, and sound of trumpets. SCENE.— Partly in France and Tuscany. Helena, a gentlewoman, the daughter of an eminent deceased physician, lives with the widowed Countess Eousillon, whose son she passionately loves. The young Cpunt Bertram of Eousillon has to obey the command of his liege lord, and moves to his court. The king suffers from a disease which baffles the skill and the medicines of the physicians, so that they, as well as the king himself, despair of a cure. Helena, however, has with the inheritance from her father of an almost infallible remedy. 1 Encouraged by the countess, to whom she had confided her love, she journeys to Paris, and succeeds in indu«»» ing the king to confide in her method of curing him. She agrees to suffer condign punishment in case she shall not succeed in restoring the king's health; on the other hand, should she cure the monarch, he promises that she shall be married to the man of her choice, and besides receive a rich dowry. Under her ministering care the king recovers entirely, and chooses the young Count of Eousillon for her spouse, who, de- spite all unwillingness and resistance at first, finally yields to the behests of his sovereign, and is married to Helena. Bertram has no affinity for his young wife, and moreover considers their marriage a mesalliance, flees from Helena soon after the marriage ceremony is over, and hies himself to Florence, where he enters the service as a soldier — meanwhile informing Helena by letter that she should never again see him in France, nor greet him as her husband, until she could wear on her finger the ring which he claims to have inherited from his ancestors as a family relic, and could nurture a child of his paternity on her breast. Despite these two seemingly impossible conditions, Hel- ena does not despair in her hope and love. Without his knowledge, she follows her truant lord, reaching Florence in disguise, where, with the assistance of the chaste daughter of an honest widow named Diana, she is soon in a condition to demand the fulfilment of her husband's strange conditions, and returns to France simultaneously with Bertram, where she has been announced as dead. As soon as the count is con- vinced of the truth of her assertions, he is thrilled with manly emotion at such enduring love, and, in raptui-e over her high-spirited devotion, clasps Helena in his arms, henceforth bestowing all his affection on her. The unmasking and punishment of a villain named Parolles, a follower of Bertram, forms a diverting en- tertainment and an embellishment to the scenes, an epi- sode^ of which calls to mind some of the parts of Fal- experience. In this play the object of Shakespeare was no doubt, covertly, to teach a lesson to the English people on -the pride of birth, in the poor, lowly-born Helena, richest and highest in the noblest qualities, and proving also how much true love could take a woman through unspotted and unsmirched. Coleridge calls Helena "Shakespeare's lovehest character;" and Mrs. Jameson says : " There never was, perhaps, a more beautiful picture of a woman's love, cherished in secret, not self-consuming in silent languishment, not desponding over its idol, but patient and hopeful, strong in its own intensity, and sustained by its own fond faith. Her love is Hke a religion — pure, holy, deep. The faith of her affection combining with the natural energy of her character, believing all things possible makes them so." Quick as she is to see through Parolles, she cannot see through Bertram, for love blinds her eyes. How beau- tiful is the confession of her love to Bertram's mother ; and what a fool Bertram appears in leaving his sweet, unselfish young wife, and how his brutal letter only brings out by contrast her truth and nobleness. How earnestly she wants to save him. She knows the ur- gence of his "important blood," and takes advantage of it to work a lawful meaning in a lawful act, and so, without disgrace, fulfils the condition her husband's baseness has made precedent to her reunion with him. Shakespeare has, indeed, proved in the character of Bertram (one who prides himself on his noble birth) its worthlessness, unless beneath a noble name rested a noble soul. Bertram, to speak mildly, is a snob, a liar, and a sneak, and it requires all the love of th# THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS lower-born lady, of God's own make, to lift him to a level that obtains any of our regard. He has physical com-age, but of moral courage he has none, and is un- able to judge men. TWELFTH NIOHT ; or, WHAT YOU WILL. See Page Z3Z. THE sources which our poet made use of for this comedy are found in the novel entitled "Apollo- nius and SiUa." According to some, he is said to have probably used two Italian comedies of similar name, namely, "Gringanni" and "Ghngannate." Twelfth Night was written in 1599 ; but there is no edition of an earlier date than the first folio, in 1623. This com- edy opens with a beautiful eulogium on music, which prevails throughout. The use of Evirati, in the same manner as at present, seems to have been well known at this time, as appears in Act I. SCENE. — Laid in a city in Illyria, and the sea-coast near it. Sebastian and his sister Viola were twins of the most remarkable resemblance to one another. Having both escaped the danger of perishing by shipwreck, Viola is rescued by the captain and taken to the coast of Illyria. Through the aid of her benefactor, the maiden, dressed in male attire, enters into the service of Duke Orsino. Intimate acquaintance with this handsome and excel- lent man inflames the susceptible heart of Viola with the fire of a first love. But the duke loves Olivia, a rich and fair young countess. Viola, in her disguise as a page, introduces herself to Olivia, on behalf of her master, Orsino, who passionately loves Olivia, who is, however, in mourning for her brother ; and, unable to return the duke's afiection, refuses at first even to listen to Viola's message, but no sooner sees her than, igno- rant of her sex, she falls in love with the page ; for- getful of the vow of entire seclusion from the world, Olivia unveils herself before Viola (Cesario), confess- ing her feelings, which, of course, are not returned. Viola, now perceiving the danger of her disguise, has- tens from the presence of Olivia, with the emphatic declaration that she would never love a woman. Meantime her brother, who too had been saved by the captain of a vessel, arrives likemse in Illyria. His benefactor, who had at a former time during a naval engagement inflicted great damage on the Illyrians (had even caused the death of their duke), is of course ia imminent peril among these people. His liberty, his property, yes, even his life, are in jeopardy, and notJiing but the love for his protege could have caused him to land. A ruffian who courts Olivia, and is jealous of the supposed rival Oesario, whom he deems the fa- vorite of the countess, attacks Viola, and Antonio, con- founding her with Sebastian, hastens to her relief. Of- ficers of the law appear upon the scene of the tumult, and, recognizing Antonio from his taking part in the naval combat, take him off to prison. After Viola's de- parture from the scene of the trouble, Sebastian, who is in search of Antonio, appears, and is himself attacked by Viola's adversary. The countess, who having now interceded with the duke, mistakes Sebastian for Or- sino's page, and as such loads him with caresses. Se- bastian, astonished at his good fortune and struck with her beauty, falls in love at first sight. A priest at hand solemnizes the marriage ceremony without de- iay. Viola, who makes herself known as Sebastian's sister, by her womanly charm, spirit, and faithful love. wins the heart of the duke, and on the same day she is made the " mistress of her lord " and lUyria's duchess. Viola is the true heroine of the play. She is sad for her brother's supposed death ; but she is thankful for her own escape, and looks disaster fuU in the face, taking practical steps for her future life. Tlie duke wants sympathy, and she gives it to him ; she knows the duke loves music, and she gives it to him to cheer him in his love-lorn state. Note the real love that Viola describes, and the fancied love the duke feels for Olivia. That is a touching scene between Viola and the duke, where the music makes her speak in so masterly a way of love ; and where Viola, in answer to the duke's fancied greatness of his love, gives him such hints of her own far greater affection for him, that no man not blinded by phantasm could have failed to catch the meaning of her words. Then comes that scene when the man she adores threatens her with death, and she will take it joyfully from him whom she declares then she loves more than life, and finally the reciprocation of her love by the duke. The duke has a fanciful nature; he is a dreamy, musi- cal man. Still, he is not to be despised. His is a rich, beautiful, artistic nature, fond of music and flowers, and his love once obtained makes him a husband ten- der and true. The comic characters of the play are Shakespeare's own. The self-conceit of MalvoHo is THE WINTER'S TALE. See Page 351. THE plot is taken from the " History of Dorastus and Fawnia," by Thomas Green, and was written, according to Chalmers, in 1601, and according to Ma- lone in 1604; and first appeared in the folio of 1623. Schlegel, the great German translator and Shake- spearian scholar, says that tlie title of this comedy answers admirably to its subject. It is one of those histories which appear framed to delight the idleness of a long evening. There are two somewhat absurd songs, some other musical illusions, and a pedler's song woven into this drama. SCENE. — Sometimes in Sicilia and at times in Bohemia. Polixenes, King of Bohemia (a country we must imagine in this play to extend to the sea-coast), is on a visit to the court of his lifelong friend Leontes, King of Sicilia, and after a sojourn of nine months at last resolves to depart. The urgency of Leontes to induce his friend to continue his visit somewhat longer being without avail, he requests his queen Hermione to try her fortune in accomplishing that end ; and the queen really succeeds in persuading the guest to defer the return to his own country for another week. But suddenly in the king's heart a suspicion now arose by reason of this success wrought by the persuasive elo- quence of his wife, and he became at once inflamed by such a violent fit of jealousy that he even seeks to take his noble friend's life. By an honorable confidential friend, whom he sought to employ as a tool to carry out his revenge, Polixenes is prevented from further designs upon the King of Bohemia. But Leontes is still jealous of his wife, and with Polixenes enters her apartment and demands the delivery of his only son, MamiUius. Hermione remonstrates, and is ordered to prison; while there she is delivered of a daughter, Perdita. The infant is brought by Paulina, wife of Antigonus, a lord of his court, to its father, but is li THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS. ordered out of his sight. The oracle to whose de- cision the case is submitted, declares the queen inno- cent, and prophesies that Sicilia's crown will remain without an heir until the abandoned child is found again. At the same time the death of the crown prince is announced, upon which news the queen faints and is taken away for dead. Thus ends the first three acts in the drama. The fourth act is ushered in by a prologue, and is laid sixteen years later in Bohemia. The ship in which Antigonus, the Sicilian lord, carried the infant princess out to sea, had been driven by a storm upon the coast of Bohemia, where the child was left by him, dressed in rich clothes and jewels, with a paper pinned to its mantle with the name Perdita written thereon. An- tigonus never returned to Sicily, for he was torn to pieces by a bear as he was going back to the vessel. The deserted baby was found by an old shepherd, who took it home to his wife, who nursed it carefully. Per- dita, the banished infant of Leontes, brought up to womanhood as the shepherd's daughter, gains the af- fections of Florizel, the son of the King of Bohemia. The king Polixenes attends the sheep-shearing (a rustic festival) in disguise, at which the loving pair are both present, discovers himself, and forbids their intimacy. Camillo, a courtier of Sicily, who had been sojourning at Polixenes's court, proposes to Florizel and Perdita that they shall go with him to the Sicihan court. To this proposal they joyfully agreed, taking with them the old shepherd, the reputed father of Perdita, who has still preserved Perdita's jewels, baby-clothes, and the paper which he had found pinned to her garments. They all arrive at the court of Leontes in safety, who receives them with great cordiality. The king had bitterly repented of his former jealous frenzy, and is now entirely satisfied at having found his long-lost child. Polixenes, King of Bohemia, in pursuit of his son, arrives also in Sicily, and now everything that was obscure is cleared up, and Queen Hermione, be- lieved to be dead, retm-ns from her place of seclusion, and the play ends in transports of joy and happiness. In the TTmier's Tale, we see the contrast between town and country. The play is fragrant with Perdita, with her primroses and violets, so happy in the recon- ciliation of her father and mother, so bright with the sunshine of her and Florizel's young love. So long as men can think, Perdita shall brighten and sweeten their minds and lives. There is something so ineffably touch- ing in the lost and injured daughter meeting the injuring father and forgiving him. Above all rises the figure of the noble, long-suffering wife, Hermione, forgiving the cruel and unjust, though now deeply repentant, husband who has so cruelly injured her. She is among the noblest and most magnanimous of Shakespeare's women; without a fault, she suifers, and for sixteen years, as though guilty of the greatest fault. If we contrast her noble defence of herself against the shame- less imputation on her honor with that of other hero- ines in like case — the swooning of Hero, the ill-starred sentences of Desdemona, the pathetic appeal, and yet submission of Imogen — we will see how splendidly Shakespeare developed this one of his finest crea- tions. When Oamillo's happy suggestion that Florizel should take Perdita to Sicily and Leontes has borne fruit, and Shakespeare brings the father and daughter together, and then brings both into unison before us with the mother, though so long dead, the climax of pathos and dehght is reached ; art can no further go. Paulina is a true lover of her mistress, and a lovely character in her earnestness and courage. Although lii the story is told of Sicily, we see all through that the great poet has Enghsh scenes in his mind's eye. The lovely country ai-ound Stratford is always before him as ' THE LIFE AND DEATH OF KINO JOHN. See Page 375. IN more than one respect this tragedy is not only the prologue, but the basis of the entire dramas of Shakespeare which treat upon the history of England. It appears to have been written in 1596, but not pub- Mshed tin 1623. It was founded on the old play en- titled The Troublesome Reign of King John. The action of this present tragedy occupies a space of about seventeen years, beginning at the thirty-fourth year of King John's life. There is no music in this play but trumpets and the din of war. SCENE.— Sometimes in England and France. After the demise of Richard, surnamed Cfewr de Lion, John wrung the English crown from the weak hands of his nephew Arthur, whose claims were supported by King Philip of France. But in the hope of incor- porating England with his kingdom by the plan, the French monarch is prevailed to sanction a marriage between the dauphin and a niece of King John, and is about to withdraw his aid from Arthur, when the arrival of the Cardinal Pandulph, the pope's legate, prevents him consummating the agreement, and the dogs of war are again unloosed. Constance, mother of Arthur, having in vain endeavored to interest the French king and the legate in behalf of her son's claim to the crown, appeals in paroxysms of despair to heaven, and denounces Arthur's uncle, John, the usurper of the throne and her son's rights. . Philip of France in a decisive engagement is de- feated, and the captured Arthur is handed over by his uncle to the keeping of a certain Hubert, chamberlain to the king. John, feeling insecure from the superior claim of Arthur, orders Hubert to put out his eyes in prison. Hubert, moved to pity by the youth and inno- cence of the victim, spares him. But on quitting him, the prince, in dread of another attempt, leaps from the ramparts, and is found dead by Pembroke. A number of discontented barons resolve to free themselves from the yoke of the tyrant, and to this end invite the Dauphin of France to assume the English crown, with the sanction of the pope. On the arrival of the dauphin, John is compelled to yield an ignominious abdication by abjectly placing his royalty at the dis- posal of the cardinal, who then endeavors to stay the advance of the dauphin. His intercession proves, however, unsuccessful ; and hostilities are about to be resumed, when the news of the loss of a French trans- port having a large number of troops on board, together with the news of the desertion of an English reserve force, causes the ardor of the French prince to cool, and inclines him to make peace. Meantime, King John is poisoned by a monk, and his son Prince Henry succeeds to the throne. The departures from history which Shakespeare in this play introduces, are all de- signed in the interest of dramatic art, and not with the pretext of adhering to strict historic truth. The character which stands foremost in King John is Constance, with that most touching expression of grief for the son she has lost. Deserted and betrayed, she stands alone in her despair, amid false friends and ruthless enemies — an eagle wounded, but defiant. THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS Considered as a dramatic picture, the grouping is wonderfully fine. On one hand, the vulture-like am- bition of the mean-souled and cowardly tyrant John ; on the other, the selfish, calculating poUcy of Philip ; between them, balancing their passions in his hand, is Cardinal Pandulph, the cold, subtle, heartless le- gate; the fiery, reckless Faulconbridge ; the princely Lewis; the still unconquered spii-it of old Queen Elinor ; the bridal loveliness and modesty of Blanch ; the boyish grace and innocence of young Arthur ; the noble Constance, helpless and yet desperate — form an assemblage of figures that, taken altogether, cannot be surpassed in variety, force, and splendor of dramatic and picturesque efiect. THE TRAGEDY OF KING RICHARD II. See Page 295. THE principal source from which Shakespeare drew the argument of this play was Holinshed's His- tory of England, and he has here adhered to this in- formation. Without detriment to this its practical source, he has followed history literally, with an al- most perfect fidelity. Inasmuch as the first edition of this tragedy appeared in 1597, there is good reason to believe that it was written in 1596. Here we have music in abundance. Military instruments are admi- rably described. All instruments played with the bow, in Shakespeare's time, were fretted except violins, and this is made obvious in this historical drama. SCENE. — Dispersedly in England and Wales. Henry Bolingbroke, Duke of Hereford, eldest son to John of Gaunt, the Duke of Lancaster, denounces Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, as a traitor, and, among other accusations, charges him with abetting the murder of the Duke of Gloucester, the king's uncle. Norfolk, the accused duke, denies the charge, and offers to prove his innocence by single combat. The king consents to this, and orders the adversaries to ap- pear on a certain day at Coventry. They arrive there punctually, ready for the encounter; but just at the moment when the signal for commencement is to be given. King Richard protests. Knowing that his own skirts are not clear of the taint of his uncle's death, hence afraid of the consequences of the duel, whatever the result of the latter may be, and also se- cretly dreading the adversaries, he banishes both no- bles, having first assembled the lords of his realm and received their assent. Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, is sentenced to perpetual banishment, while the Duke of Hereford is exiled for ten years, which term the king reduces, out of regard for the aged John of Gaunt, to six years. The king also commands them while abroad never to have verbal intercourse with each other, as he is afraid of their mutual explanations. Soon after Bolingbroke's departure, his father, the Duke of Gaunt, dies, and the king perpetrates the injustice of confiscating the estate of the deceased duke, thus cheating the banished Henry Bolingbroke out of his inheritance. Enraged over this undeserved robbery, Bolingbroke awaits a good opportunity to re- turn to England for the purpose of dethroning King Richard. He knew how to ingratiate himself with the army and the English people, being either related by blood with all the great families, or connected by the bonds of friendship with them. Richard meanwhile is living in great luxury, surrounded by worthless favor- ties, and influenced by them to tyrannize over his people, who grow bitterly discontented. Richard having gone to Ireland to avenge the death of the viceroy, Count Le Marche, who had been slain by the Irish during an in- surrection, Bolingbroke makes good use of his ab- sence, having heard of it previously ; and, taking the name of Duke of Lancaster, returns to England, land- ing near Ravenspurgh, in Yorkshire. The Duke of Northumberland and his valiant son Henry Percy (Hotspur), having been insulted by Richard, at once join Bolingbroke's forces. Discontented men pour in from all quarters, and soon swell the forces of Lan- caster to an army of 60,000 soldiers. Even Langley, Duke of York, who had been left by Richard as regent in London, offers no resistance, being himself too weak, and, moreover, having been deceived by Bolingbroke, who represents that he had merely returned to have his banishment and the wrongful sequestration of his estates annulled. Bolingbroke, emboldened by con- tinued additions to his army, now enters London at the head of his troops, where he is hailed by the peo- ple as their deliverer from a justly hated tyranny. Other cities follow the example of the metropolis. Richard, having heard of Bolingbroke's return from banishment and his attempt to usurp the crown, lands on the coast of Wales, from his Irish expedition, and receives the news of his rival's progress and the danger to which himself and his followers are now exposed. But he can learn nothing but misfortune; for his fa- vorites. Bushy, Green, and Earl of Wiltshire, had al- ready been executed, the Earl of Salisbury's army is scattered, his own troops are weak and inclined to desert, the people embittered, and the regent, York, though thus far a neutral, "neither as friend nor foe," had gone over to Bolingbroke. In this despe- rate dilemma, Richard appeals to the victor, and invites him, through the agency of the Duke of Northumber- land and the Archbishop of Canterbury, to visit him at Flint, near Chester. The duke receives Richard, who with humbled face appears. Seated upon two misera- ble horses, Richard and Salisbury accompany Boling- broke to London. Richard is dethroned and con- demned to perpetual imprisonment. Bolingbroke as- cends the throne under the name of King Henry IV. The old Duke of York becomes a firm friend to the king; the Duke of Aumerle, son of the Duke of York, continuing the firm friend of Richard, notwithstanding his deposition, comes to visit the old duke, his father, with a paper so carelessly concealed on his person, that York, doubting his loyalty to Bohngbroke, seizes it, and finds a treasonable plot to restore Richard to the throne. The father vows to immediately inform the king, but the son himself and his mother intercede and obtain the king's pardon. Richard dies in the fortress of Pomfret by the hands of assassins, whose leader, Sir Pierce of Exton, without equivocation, asserts that he had been induced by Henry IV. to commit the murder. This charge is afterwards denied by the king. Nevertheless, King Henry resolves, in atonement of the bloody deed, to take a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, and with this vow, uttered at the coffin of his predecessor, ends the tragedy. No doubt one of the motives which induced the great poet — a sincere patriot, a lover of his country, and a keen observer of the times — to take up the role of the historical plays, of which Richard II. is one, was to point out the great dangers to the state, and to the sovereign, of unworthy favorites. The degen- erate son of the Black Prince, the flower of warriors, is pictured by Shakespeare as a mere royal sham — a Mng in words only — for act effectively he cannot. His nobles quarrel in his very presence ; and the con- temptible meanness of his nature is shown in his ina- bility to take the reproof of the noble, dying Gaunt, liii THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS It is not until his death that we feel any pity for the weak and dethroned king. In Bolingbroke, the poet has drawn the wily and astute leader, prompt to seize and turn to his own advantage the errors of his rivals. THE FIRST PART OF KING HENRY IT. See Page 316. THE author that Shakespeare follows in this histor- ical drama is again the chronologist HoUnshed. So far as the comical scenes with Falstaff and his follow- ers go, the play was perhaps already known in 1588 as a favorite, though weak and rude popular play, under the title of The Famous Victories of Henry the Fifth. The tragedy, however, was written in 1597, entered in Stationers' Hall in February 25, 1597, and printed in quarto form in the following year. Falstaff furnishes the funniest music in this play. SCENE.— Entirely in England. The first part of the play covers a period of but ten months, viz., from the battle of Holmedon, on Septem- ber 14, 1402, until that near Shrewsbury, which was fought July 21, 1403. After the deposition and death of the unfortunate Richard, we find HenrylV.'s atten- tion drawn to the invasion of the Scots, who, under their heroic leader, Archibald, Earl of Douglas, threaten the borders of England, but are defeated and beat- en back by the celebrated Henry Percy, surnamed Hotspur. The report of this victory has scarcely reached the ears of the king, when he, despite all the customs and usages of the times, insists upon the de- livery of some of the prisoners made by his victorious general, Percy, and especially insisted on having the body of the gallant Douglas. Enraged at this claim, Hotspur liberates all his captured prisoners without a ransom, and, in conjunction with his relations and followers, plans an insurrection against his new lord, whose ascent to the throne they had so recently effected. After a treaty with the Scotch and "Welsh leaders, the insurgents march on Shrewsbury, where the king, leading his men in person, advances on them. A de- cisive battle ensues, in which Hotspur is slain by the hands of Prince Henry, and the insurgents suffer a total defeat, all their leaders being taken captive. "Worcester and Vernon suffer execution, but Douglas is set free without ransom and permitted to return to Scotland. The earnest and tragical scenes of the play are in bright contrast with the comical parts, and these latter are interspersed on the following basis. Henry IV. is apprehensive of his son Henry, Prince of Wales, because the latter is a young man of remarkable talents ; but the suspicion is entirely ill-founded, since the prince has never acted in conflict with the duties and love due from child to parent. The prince does not feel alto- gether at ease at court, and, perhaps for prudential rea- sons, seeks to avoid meeting his cold-hearted father. Desirous of becoming acquainted with the life and do- ings of the people, even of the lowest orders, he sur- rounds himself with a band of jovial, careless characters, who under the lead of their prhicely leader perpetrate the wildest tricks and follies, even going so far as to commit criminal acts. The principal scapegrace, both as to physical appearance and intellectual calibre in this company, is Sir John Falstaff, the most amusingly entertaining' character that author has ever described. Among the fanny scenes, Falstaff, having joined the royal army, in a skirmish with Douglas pretends to be slain. Prince Henry, recognizing his joUy old com- panion seemingly among the dead, ludicrously avows liv his intention to have him embowelled, but is no sooner gone than the knight jumps to his feet, and, congratu- lating himself on his narrow escape, insures his safety by immediate flight. In this drama we have the headlong valor of Hot- spur, the wonderful wit of Falstaff, the noble rivalry of Henry Percy and Henry, Prince of "Wales. King- doms are striven for; rebels are subdued. Through every scene beats the fuU strong pulse of vigorous man- hood and life. The whole play is instinct with action. Every character lives, and what magnificent creations they are. Hotspur, Glendower, Henry and his son Prince Hal, Douglas, Poins, Lady Percy, and Mrs. Quickly. In comic power, though, Shakespeare culmi- nates in Falstaff, and who can say enough of him ? He is the very incarnation of humor and lies, of wit and self-indulgence, of shrewdness and immorality, of self- possession and vice, without a spark of conscience or of reverence, without self-respect — an adventurer preying on the weaknesses of other men! Yet we all enjoy him, and so did Shakespeare hiinself. Fal- staff's most striking power is seen when that doughty knight is cornered. Look at the cases of Poms; of Prince Hal's exposure of his robbery ; of his false ac- cusation of Mrs. Quickly; his behavior in the fight with Douglas, and his claiming to have kiUed Hotspur. His affrontery is inimitable. He is neither a coward nor courageous. Like a true soldier of fortune, he only asks which will pay best — fighting or running away — and acts accordingly. He evidently had a sort of reputation as a soldier, and was a professed one, ob- taining a commission at the outbreak of the war. The power of the barons was at that time too great, and turbulence consequently followed. But a strong king is now on the throne — no fine sentiments fol- lowed by nothingness, no piously weak moraUzing with him. What Henry has won he will keep, let who will say nay. Henry acts generously, for he offers peace even to the arch-rebel Worcester, his bitterest foe. It is refused, and then having doffed his easy robes of peace, and crushed his old limbs in ungentle steel, he orders only Worcester and Vernon to execu- tion. "Other offenders he will pause upon." His real character, his astuteness and foresight, are shown in his talk with Harry, when he contrasts himself with Eichard the Second. No wonder such a king regretted the heir he feared to leave behind him, little then knowing the stuff his son was made of. This son. Prince Hal, Henry of Agincourt, is Shakespeare's hero in English history. See how he draws him by the mouth of his enemy Vernon ; how modestly he makes him challenge Hotspur ; how generously treat that rival when he dies ; gives Douglas his freedom, and gives to Falstaff the credit of Hotspur's death. And Hotspur we cannot help liking, with all his hot- headedness and petulance. But he believes too much in himself, and all must give way to his purposes. He is too aggressive. THE SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IT. See Page 339. HOLINSHED'S Chronicles has also been the source from which the poet delineated this second part of Henry IV. The time covered by this histor- ical drama extends over the last nine years of this king's reign. This part was probably written imme- diately after the first part of the play had been finished, that is in 1598. It was entered at Stationers' HaU, August 23, 1600. THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS SCENE.— "Wholly in England. After the death of the ardent and heroic Percy (Hotspur), the insurgents lose all energy ; and although Scroop, Archbishop of York, uses his clerical influence for the success of their cause and thus effect an in- crease of their numerical strength, yet all the leaders of the insurgents, with the exception of Mowbray, are more inclined to seek redress for their wrongs by a capitulation, than to hazard further their fortunes in battle. On the other hand, the leaders of the king's army, Prince John of Lancaster and the Earl of "West- moreland, do not incline to risk a decisive battle, and hence they invite the ringleaders of the insurgents, when both armies are confronting each other near Gaultree forest, to hold a conference. This leads to a compromise, according to which the insurgent vassals, by authority of the king, receive the assurance that their troubles shall be redressed, and at the same time a disbandment of the troops is stipulated for both sides. The royal troops, however, receive secret orders of a treacherous import, not only to keep to- gether, but to pursue the disbanded insurgent army, and to annihilate it. This they do, and Archbishop Scroop and his feUow-conspirators are without delay led off to execution. Meantime the king's strength is failing him, and even the news of the destruction of his enemies does not tend to restore him. Feeling the approach of death, Henry orders the crown to be placed on his pillow. Prince Henry, during one of the king's fainting spells, supposing him dead, takes the crown to try it on ; but the king recovers, and commands the diadem to be re- stored to its place, upbraiding the son for his precipi- tancy ; although the dying king is so well satisfied with the innocence of his motives for the action, that he folly excuses the prince. The king soon after this in- cident died, and the son having succeeded to the throne, on his return from his coronation was rudely saluted by Falstaff, who presumed on the former vi- cious intimacy. Falstaff, however, was sternly reproved by the new monarch and discarded. There is a quieter tone pervading this second part : it hardly has the freshness and vigor of the first. Indeed, it would be difiicult to keep up the first im- pressions of Falstaff and the impetuous valor of Hot- spur. Even Shallow cannot make up for them. The king leads, not at the head of his army, but in his quiet progress to the grave. The most striking speech in the play is that of Henry the Fourth's on sleep. The lower rank of the people come more to the front in this play ; and we have more prominence given than before to the low tavern hfe and the country squire and his servants. Though the hand of sickness is on the king, yet "Ready, aye ready," is still his word; and as soon as Hotspur is beaten, another army marches against Northumberland and the archbishop, whose two separate rebellions Shakespeare has put into one. How strong is the wish of the old king for the re- demption of his son. Prince Hal, from the slough in which he is wallowing. And in the king's last speech to his gallant heir we see the man's whole nature — wily to win, strong to hold, a purpose in all he did. For Prince Hal we have one unworthy scene, two credit- able ones. The shadow of his father's death-sickness is on him, and he goes in half self-disgust to his old, loose companions ; but there is not much enjoyment in his forced mirth ; he feels ashamed of himself, and soon leaves Falstaff and his old life forever. He now deeply feels the degradation of being Falstaff's friend. On hearing of the war again, the prince changes at a D touch and is himself. The next time we see him in his true self is at his father's sick bed, where again he wins to him his father's heart. "When Prince Hal be- comes king, his treatment of his brothers, the Chief Justice, and Falstaff, is surely wise and right in all three cases. One does feel, though, for Falstaff ; but certainly what he ought to have had, he got — tlio chance of reformation. What other reception could Henry, in the midst of his new state, give in public to the slovenly and debauched old rascal who thrust him- self upon him, than the rebuke he so well administered. In the second part, Falstaff has his old wit and humor, and his slipperiness when caught; but we have him now as more of the sharper, the cheat, and the preyer on others. The scenes with Shallow and Silence, and the choice of soldiers, are beyond all praise. "We can- not help noting the use the old rascal intended to make of his power over the young king. Justice now overtakes the rogues. Falstaff dies in obscurity and poverty; Nym and Bardolph are hung in France; Pistol is stripped of his braggart honor. Poins alone, the best of the set, vanishes silently, so that the whole wild set breaks up and disappears, leaving the world to laugh over them and their leader forever. THE LIFE OF KING HEKRY V. See Page 364. ON" the writings of the chronologist Hohnshed this drama is also founded. Shakespeare truthfully celebrates this, his favorite hero, as the ideal king and warrior ; and history itself grants to the master of dra- matic art that in this opinion he is entirely justified. The year of the composition of this history is alluded to in the prologue to Act "V". of the play, viz., 1599. One cannot mention the year without the thought of that great contemporary of Shakespeare, Edmund Spenser, burnt out of the Irish house he has lovingly described, losing there one of his children, and dying miserably in a tavern in King Street, "Westminster, on January 13, 1598, leaving behind him these last lines of his unfin- ished Faerie Queene as the subject of his last thoughts, as his last prayer on earth : — " For all that moveth doth in Change delight : But thenceforth, all shall rest eternally With Him that is the God of Sabaoth hight, O ! that great Sabaoth God, grant me that Sabaoth's sight ! " Book VII., Canto VIII., stanza ii. One likes to think of the two poets knowing, hon- oring, and loving one another, of Shakespeare's follow- ing Spenser to his grave in the Abbey, near Chaucer. There is manifest allusion to the different parts of mu- sic in the first act. SCENE. — In England and Prance. The incidents represented in this drama reach from the first year of Henry V.'s ascension to the throne to his marriage with Katharine, and are spread over a pe- riod of six years. ' Henry had scarcely come into pos- session of the English crown, when he prepared ways and means to carry out and fulfil his dying father's in- junctions, and by conquests abroad seeks to obliterate the stain which tarnishes his title to the crown on ac- count of his father's usurpation. In pursuance of this plan, he renews an old and outlawed claim to the crown of France, and, for the pm-pose of enforcing his right, makes preparation by gathering and equipping a large army. The French court, intimidated by such a claim and warlike demonstration, basely attempted the capture and assassination of the English monarch THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS through bribing three powerful noblemen who are in- timately connected with Henry. This plot is discov- ered, and the conspirators are executed. Hem-y, hav- ing invaded France on her breach of treaty, marches with his troops to Harfleur, summoning that city by herald to surrender, but being answered with contempt and defiance, he determines to take the town by storm, in which he succeeds. Afterwards, at the great battle of Agincourt, King Henry encounters the French army, which outnumbered him six to one, and gains a splen- did victory, which breaks the power of the French, al- though the culmination was not really reached until the capture of Rouen, Jan. 16, 1419. The King of France is now compelled to yield to the severe condi- tions which the victor imposes, namely, to acknowl- edge Henry as heir to the French crown, and to give him his daughter, the Princess Katharine, for his wife. In this play Sir John Falstaff does not appear in action, but, according to Mrs. Quickly's description, meets a quiet and gentle death, after a prolonged illness. There is but brief play of the tender passion in this drama, which is fairly resonant with the clash of con- tending armies, of fierce alarums, wounds, and death. There are some exceedingly fine scenes, as, mark the touching picture of the dying York and Suffolk, and the humility with which King Henry after the battle of Agincourt, on bended knees, ascribes the credit of the victory alone to God. Henry is the true warrior ; Shakespeare's ideal king, evidently. See the good humor and self control with which the king receives the dauphin's insolent mes- sage (sting him though it does), and his strong resolve to win or die ; and see the devotion of all his thoughts and energies to carry out this resolve. See how he convicts traitors out of their own mouths, and sends them to death, not for his personal wrong, but for seeking England's ruin. Note Henry as the soldier ; the splendid patriotism and rhetoric of his speeches drives the warm blood to our cheeks as we read. How humble he is when victory is his, and how well he merits it by his foresight, skill, and valor. As a lover, the character of the king comes out well — no grand words, no pretence, but just a plain, blunt soldier, with a good heart. We can hardly realize that such a man was the father of that miserably weak creature, Henry the Sixth. THE FIRST PART OF KING HENRY VI. SHAKESPEARE, in producing this work, was per- haps indebted only to the Holinshed Chronicles, which, however, was handled with poetical freedom, without binding himself to dates regarding the histori- cal facts. It was written in 1597, as Malone informs us, but according to Chalmers in 1593. The play is ushered in with solemn music. SCENE. — Partly in England and Prance. The drama opens with the scene of Henry V.'s body lying in state previous to being solemnly buried at Westminster. The crown of England has scarcely been transferred from the head of the conqueror of France to that of his son, yet a tender child, when the French, animated by the spirited courage and valor of the maid Joan of Arc, seize the favorable opportunity to reconquer their old possessions and to take the oath of allegiance to Charles, their hereditary prince. Ivi Meantime, the quarrels of the dukes of York and Somerset, disputing the claims of the rival houses of York and Lancaster, appeal to Warwick, Suffolk, and their followers, then present, in confirmation of their respective claims. The lords thus appealed to de- chning to answer, Plantagenet, Duke of York, bids those who agree with him to approve it by plucking a white rose. Beaufort, Earl of Somerset, adopts for the same purpose, as his emblem, the red rose, that the partisans of each might be known. These troubles form the embryo of that interminable series of fierce internecine wars which shortly thereafter drenched the kingdom in blood. The heroic Talbot, Earl of Slirews- bury, and his son, John Talbot, near Bordeaux, with their little army of soldiers, were by the united armies of the enemy overpowered and sacrificed to the per- sonal jealousies of the English nobihty, who failed to send reinforcements. The extraordinary success which attended the French armies imder Joan of Arc, sur- named the Pucelle, in raising the siege of Orleans and everywhere repulsing the English, made the latter attribute her victories to magic. On being captured by the English under the Duke of York, she was, with a cruelty that marked the ferocity of the age, burned as a witch. Meantime, King Henry VI. is induced, by the artful suggestions of the Earl of Suffolk, to ask for the hand of Margaret, daughter of Reignier, Duke of Anjou. An alliance is formed quickly with her father, and the duke is sent to France to accompany the princess to England. With the consummation of this fatal marriage for England concludes the drama. In the play of Henry the Sixth, Shakespeare deals in three parts with a weak king, Hem-y the Sixth ; in one part with a strong king, Richard the Third. The sub- ject is a, splendid one for the dramatist. On the one side is the narrative of individual love ; on the other, the overthrow of a kingdom and a throne. The love of Guinevere and Lancelot of old is reproduced in the guilty love of Margaret and Suffolk, leading to the bloody wars of York and Lancaster, which filled Eng- land with civil war and lost her the realm of France. The fair Margaret was turned by ambition into " the she-wolf of France." Her pride was so overweening, that it caused her to level the noble Humphrey, the sole support of her husband's throne, and thus makes room for aU the angry turmoils of the nobles and the de- signs of the bad and crafty Gloucester to work their way. And then the ruined queen, bereft of husband, love, child, throne, has nothing left to console her, but waits grimly for the overthrow of her enemies, chuck- ling over the villanies of Richard and the storm that is gathering to overwhelm him at Bosworth Field. The characters of the far-seeing Exeter, the noble Talbot, that splendid soldier, the gallant Salisbury and the generous Bedford, stand out among a host of trai- tors, or worse, that figure on the scene. The cruelty of the English and the indifference of the French to that splendid woman, Joan of Arc, appear in bold and sad relief. There is noble material for tragic po- etry here. On the side of Lancaster the chief personal force lies in Queen Margaret. The great Duke of York dies, but his place is filled by the portentous fig- ure of Gloucester, so terrible by his energy, his disre- gard of moral restraint, and his remorseless hatred to all who are opposed to him. Henry VI. is the feeblest of Shakespeare's English kings. Possessed of that negative kind of saintliness which shuns evil, but shunning courageous effort also, he becomes the cause or occasion of almost as much evil as if he were ac- tively criminal. THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS THE SECOND PART OF KING HENRY YI. See Page 410. SCENE. — In various parts of England. THE second part of this tragedy, considered by itself, comprises the period intervening between the marriage of the king to Margaret and the first battle of the St. Alban's, covering a period of ten years. Scarcely have the nuptial ceremonies between King Henry and Margaret of Anjou been celebrated, when the new queen develops a plan to obtain un- limited control over her husband, and by the aid of several powerful nobles, especially by that of her lover Suffolk and of Cardinal Beaufort, Bishop of Winches- ter, to force the Duke of Gloucester from his position of Regent. Their first attack is aimed at the wife of Gloucester, the ambitious Eleanor Cobham, who is accused of witchcraft, sentenced to recant in public and to endure an imprisonment for life. Immediately upon this, the virtuous Duke of Gloucester himself is taken in custody, and charged with high treason. All this is done against the will and desire of the king, who entertains no suspicion against the Regent, whose accusers, becoming aware that their evidence of guilt is insufficient, cause the Regent's assassination, and on the day set for his trial he is found dead in his bed. The Duke of Suffolk is accused by the popular voice of having murdered the Regent, which obliges the king to send Suffolk into banishment. He was after- wards taken at sea by pirates, and in a little cockboat beheaded. Meantime, Salisbury and Warwick, who, from the first dispute in the Temple-garden, became convinced of Plantagenet's claim to the crown, having had first removed from him the "attaint of blood," and reinstated in the dukedom of York, now salute him as king. The scene of the terrible end of Cardinal Beaufort, uncle to Henry VI., is graphically delineated in the third act. A prey to the keenest remorse, the wretched prelate is represented on his death-bed. The king, with his nobles, pay him a visit ; but the cardinal, disregarding all, raves incoherently about his crimes. At the moment of his death, the king de- mands a sign of his hope ; but instead of giving it, he grins, gnashes his teeth, and expires, leaving Henry horror-struck. Meantime, the government of Ireland is intrusted to the Duke of York, who, before his departure, in order to test the feelings of the popu- lace, induces an Irishman, a bold commoner, named Cade, to announce himself as a descendant of Edmund Mortimer, and to aspire to the latter's pretensions to the crown. THE THIRD PART OF KING HENRY YI. See Page 434. SCENE.— During part of the Third Act in France ; during the rest of the play in Eng- land. THE play begins with the Duke of York's trium- phant entrance into the city of London, where he wrests from the weak Henry an acknowledgment of his inherited right to the throne, and between them the agreement is consummated that the duke, as Re- gent, shall rule over England with the fullest sway, while Henry VI. shall, during his lifetime, remain in undisturbed possession of the throne and royal digni- ties. The opposing factions, however, soon cause a breach of this contract. The Duke of York, defeated in a battle near Wakefield, in Yorkshire, and captured, is cruelly treated by the revengeful Queen Margaret, who places a paper crown upon his head and taunts him, and while offering a handkerchief dipped in the blood of his recently murdered son, asks the duke to dry his tears with it. Soon after this scene the Duke of York is murdered. The powerful assistance ren- dered by the Earl of Warwick, surnamed the "King- Maker," now gives the vanquished hosts of York strength to turn the tide of war and to defeat their adversaries near Towton, in Yorkshire, and Duke Edward is raised to the throne. King Henry flees to Scotland, but is afterwards captured and placed in the Tower. Queen Margaret and her son go to Paris to obtain possible aid fi-om the King of France, whose willingness to aid them is much weakened by the presence of Warwick. The latter had received from his liege lord orders to sue for the hand of the Princess Bona, King Lewis's sister. Suddenly a mes- senger arrives from England, bearing the news of Edward's marriage to the beautiful widow, Lady Eliza- beth Grey. Enraged at this insult, Warwick concludes a treaty with Margaret and Lewis, and dethrones Ed- ward, who escapes to Burgundy. Here he obtains troops, which enable him soon to eflPect a landing at Ravenspurgh. The people of England flock to the standard of King Edward, — who, from his social and kindly manners, has always been a favorite with the populace, — and look upon Warwick and his alHes as favoring the cause of the nobles. The city of London, too, espouses the side of Edward, and furnishes men to swell his constantly increasing army. Finally, in the decisive battle of Barnet, Warwick suffers com- plete defeat, and dies on the field. Prince Edward and his mother. Queen Margaret, being taken prisoners in the still more conclusive battle of Tewksbury, where the remnant of the Lancasterian power is really anni- hilated, are brought before the victorious Edward, who roughly charges the prince with rebellion, but is so forcibly answered by the royal youth, that Glouces- ter, Clarence, and their followers assassinate the prince almost in the king's presence. The imprisoned king, Henry VI., is afterwards murdered in the Tower by the duke, Richard of Gloucester (afterwards Richard III.). With an expression of Gloucester's intended villany upon the ofiFspring of Edward, and the banish- ment of Queen Margaret by Edward IV., the tragedy is concluded. THE TRAGEDY OF KING RICHARD III. See Page 458. THOSE deep mines of historical wealth, the Chron- icles of Hall and Holinshed, furnished Shake- speare with the data for this play, which was entered at Stationers' Hall, by Andrew Wise, October 20, 1597, and published in a quarto volume the same year, though it was probably written in 1593. The length of time comprised in this drama is about fourteen years, covering the last eight years of King Richard's life — beginning with Clarence's imprisonment, 1477, and ending with Richard's death at Bosworth Field, 1485. SCENE. — England. The threatened extinction of the house of Lancas- ter, as weU as the failing health of King Edwaj'd, impel the ambitious Richard, Duke of Gloucester, to begin his struggle for the throne by thrusting aside the Duke of Clarence, his older brother, whom he causes to be murdered in the Tower. King Edward died soon after this event, after having seemingly Ivii THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS reconciled his blood-relations and followers with the brothers and cousins of his wife, the Queen Elizabeth, and having appointed his only living brother, Richard, Duke of York, as guardian over his minor children, first conferring on him, during the minority of the Pi-ince of Wales, the ofSce of Protector and Regent. Richard, however, upon the death of his royal brother, immediately takes the two young sons of Edward — the Prince of Wales and the Duke of York — away from the control of the relations on their mother's side. Rivers, Grey, and Vaughan, and has these un- happy noblemen, under the charge of high treason, executed. A like fate meets Lord Hastings, whom, having proved himself utterly averse to Gloucester's plans of usurpation, he denounces as guilty of trea- son and sorcery at the Council table, and procures an immediate condemnation and execution. Through the powerful assistance and connivance of the Duke of Buckingham, who insidiously spreads a report of the illegitimate birth of the late King Edward, as well as of his two sons, Richard succeeds in having the crown formally offered to him, which offer he accepts, and with hypocritical reluctance. The sons of Edward, having been placed in the Tower, are, soon after the coronation of Richard, and by his order, murdered by his creatures, Deighton and Forrest, who execute their cruel task at midnight by suffocating the royal boys. The king's next crime was the poisoning of his wife, so that he might be free to marry the oldest daughter of his brother Edward, Princess Elizabeth. Bucking- ham having opposed the murder of the sons of Ed- ward, soon becomes a thorn in Richard's side, and he punishes that nobleman by a refusal to fulfil the promises that had been made him prior to Richard's ascending to the English throne. This duplicity on the part of the king causes Buckingham's defection, for which he is arrested and at last executed. Richard III. is interrupted in his schemes of vio- lence and murder. Henry, Duke of Richmond, lands with a large army near Milford-haven, and is march- ing towards London, when on the way thither he meets the army of Richard, who meets the death of a warrior in the battle of Bosworth Field. The crown now comes to the victor, who rules under the name of Henry VII., and by his marriage to Eliza- beth, daughter of Edward IV., unites in firm and enduring amity the houses of York and Lancaster, and thus forever settles the fierce quarrels and bloody con- flicts between the rival races of the White and of the Red Rose. It may be here stated that the ancestors of Shake- speare are said to have fought at the battle of Bos- worth Field, and derived their warlike name from military services rendered to the cause of Richmond in that famous action. Shakespeare has most powerfully depicted the con- tending motives and feelings in the character of Rich- ard III. His depressing and insulting his victims with the zest of grim humor, and his delight in gulling fools and in his own villany, are admirably and frequently brought out. Villain as he is, he has the villain's coolness, too. He never loses temper, except when he strikes the third messenger. Richard is a skilful gen- eral, looking to things himself, and prompt to take proper measures. He dies a soldier's death, and in the last and effective battle-scene, where, unhorsed, he 60 gallantly fights on, we almost admire him. The action of the play covers fourteen years — from Henry VI.'s murder, May 21, 1471, to Richard III.'s death, August 22, 1485. Iviii THE LITE OF KING HENRY VIII. See Page 486. NOT published until 1643, when it appeared in folio form. It is the Epilogue to the historical cycle of the bard's dramas, and was probably written in 1601. SCENE. — Chiefly in London and "Westmin- ster; once at Kimbolton. This historical drama comprises a period of twelve years, commencing in the twelfth year of King Henry's reign (1521), and ending with the christening of Eliza- beth in 1533. The Duke of Buckingham (son of the same duke who had been executed by order of the tyrant, Richard III.) becomes unfortunately entangled in personal disputes with Cardinal Wolsey, who, under the reign of Henry VII., had obtained great influence and power, and now finds means and ways to bribe several intimate attendants of his rival, and thus to convict the duke of treason. Soon after this, Henry meets, at a grand masquerade given by Wolsey, Lady Anne BuUen, and, struck with her beauty, imme- diately singled her out from all the ladies present, and falls violently in love with her. Anne Bull en's charms enhance the scruples he had long pretended to feel as to the legality of his marriage to Queen Katharine, his deceased brother's widow. Cardinal Wolsey fears the connection of his monarch with an Englishwoman, who is suspected, moreover, to favor the doctrines of the Reformation; considering this affair also as prejudicial to his own dignity and that of the Pope, he sends a message to the Pope, to whom Queen Katharine had appealed, to delay the decree of divorce. This letter, and a statement of the immense possessions and wealth of the Cardinal, by a singular mistake, fall into the hands of the king, who, enraged at this treachery, immediately divests Wolsey of all his worldly pomp and oflices, and the fallen favorite is only saved from being found guilty of treason by his sudden death. The new queen, Anne Bullen, is now crowned with great state and ceremony, while Queen Katharine dies heart-broken at her divorce from the king. Meantime, a conspiracy is planned against Archbishop Cranmer, to whom the king is indebted for the ecclesiastical consent to the divorce. Cran- mer meets his royal master, to whom he had been ac- cused by enemies who had been eagerly plotting his destruction for favoring the doctrines of the Reforma- tion. The prelate, glad of the opportunity, kneels, pleads his cause, and so well satisfies the king of his innocence, that he raises him, and restores him to more than his former share of favor. The play closes with the ceremony of christening Princess Elizabeth, the afterwards famed Queen Elizabeth of England. Written, as this play was, at a period treading close upon Shakespeare's life, — in the reign of the great, but at times irascible daughter of Henry VIII., Queen Elizabeth, — we can well understand how Shakespeare was obliged to temporize and sacrifice the opinions and unities largely to policy. The strongest sympa- thies which have been awakened in us by the play run opposite to the course of its action. Our sym- pathy is for the grief and goodness of Queen Katha- rine, while the course of the actor requires us to enter- tain, as a theme of joy and compensatory satisfaction, the coronation of Anne Bullen, and the birth of her daughter, which are in fact a part of Katharine's in- jury, and would seem to amount to little less than the THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS triumph of the wrong. This defect mars the effect of the phxy as a whole. The scenes in the gallery and council-chamber are full of life and vigor, and are, besides, picturesque and historical. Note that scene between Gardiner and Cranmer. Cardinal Wolsey is drawn with superb power. Ambition, fraud, and vin- dictiveness have made him their own, yet cannot quite ruin a nature possessed of noble qualities. In the fate of Cardinal Wolsey our second interest cen- tres ; and his soliloquy upon his downfall from power is among the finest the poet ever wrote. The open- ing of the play — the conversation between Bucking- ham, Norfolk, and Abergavenny — has the full stamp of Shakespeare's genius upon it, and is full of life, reahty, and freshness. TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. See Page 510. A TRAGIC comedy, founded on Chaucer's "Epos Troilus and Creseide." The play was written in 1602, and entered in Stationers' Hall, February 3, 1603, hut not printed till 1609. SCENE.— Troy, and the camp of the Greeks in front of that city. Calchas, a Trojan priest, treacherously leaving the cause of his country, is taking part with the Greeks, to whom he becomes of great service. As a rewai-d for these services, he demands the exchange of an eminent Trojan, named Antenor, for his daughter Cressida, who lives under the protection of her uncle Pandarus, in Troy, where her beauty and charms have made a deep impression on the heart of Prince Troilus, a son of Priam the king, Cressida has already accepted the suit of her lover, and was betrothed to him, when her happiness is interrupted by the arrival of Diomedes, who is ordered by her father to have her exchanged, and brought back to him. The lovers, on parting, swear eternal fidehty, and Troilus soon finds an oppor- tunity to reach the camp of the Greeks. Here he learns the sad news of the unfaithfulness of his be- trothed, who had already transferred her love to Dio- medes, and convinces himself, by obvious proof, of her defection. Meantime, Andromache and Cassandra, the wife and sister of Hector, alarmed at the prognos- tics they have had of his fate, write, entreating him not to go to battle, Andromache making his infant join in their prayers to dissuade him. But affirming his vow to the gods, his honor, and his fame, he resists, rushes to combat, and is slain by Achilles. Troilus now vows to avenge the death of his brother Hector on the Greeks, and by such vengeance to stifle his grief. With a terrible curse against the pandering Pandarus, the drama is concluded. This is the most paradoxical and variously inter- preted of aU the dramas of Shakespeare. This heroic comedy, tragic-comedy, or parody, as some have termed it, is not merely written as a pleasant satire on ancient knighthood and heroism, but is perchance wrought out to serve a counterpart to FalstafBanism, with the intent of quieting or soothing the noble he- roes of the 16th century with the dubious consolation that knighthood among the ancients was of no finer quality. The principal idea is rather intended to show the deeply founded and effective contrast existing be- tween the spiritual and intellectual formation of the ancient Greeks, as compared with the modern aim of Christianity. The play points to the fact that the Trojan war — as extolled by Homer — in so far as its real issue was concerned, turned simply upon the recapturing of an adulterous woman who had eloped with her para- mour, and whose immoral conduct can by no means be excused on account of Paris's ideal beauty. In this play the moral is rendered prominent, that the kidnapping of Helen did not deserve the great Greek war of re- taliation, since the honor of the people had not been more impugned by the action of Paris than by that of Helen. Thus the play causes the moral conviction of the reader to revolt against such an aim, and this effect of the drama becomes the lasting impression. The love-story of the faithful Troilus, and the false and lustful Cressida, which gives its name to the play (albeit it is not its real turning-point), serves only as a modified repetition of the history of Menelaus and his faithless spouse, Helen, and hence presents as all the more conspicuously glaring the crime that led to the famed Trojan war. CORIOLANUS. See Page 536. SHAKESPE AEE derived his material from Plutarch's "Life of Coriolanus," which he read in North's translation. This tragedy was neither entered at Sta- tioners' Hall nor printed till 1623, but probably writ- ten in 1609 or 1610. SCENE. — In the city of Rome and the ter- ritories of the Volscians. Caius Marcius, a scion of one of the oldest and noblest families of Rome, who, after his father's early death, is educated by his mother, Volumnia, had already while a youth shown his valor as a warrior in the hattles against banished Tarquin. Every war brought him fresh pubhc acknowledgments of his merit and honor. Thus he had attained great dignity and renown, when a dispute between the senate and the people occurred, caused by the severe oppressions of the patricians and wealthy citizens, which the senate sustained. Owing to the humorous eloquence of Menenius Agrippa, however, the people were quieted, after granting them five tribunes and representatives in the senate-chamber. The people are now willing to serve as soldiers, a duty they had hitherto refused. But the patricians are at first discontented with the innovation, which is especially very violently opposed by Marcius. A war with the Volscians gives him occasion to renew his valorous deeds. The general, Cominius, who praises the greatness of his military exploits before the soldiers, gives him the name Corio- lanus, for the victories he attained near Caroli. Soon after this occurrence, he is a candidate for the Consu- late, but, against all precedent, he imprudently, in a speech, derides the people, and they vi^ithdraw their votes from him. Highly incensed at this defection, he assails the populace in an oration before the senate, demanding the abolishment of the tribunal. The people, embittered and enraged at this, threaten to throw him from the Tarpein rock, but he is rescued by the patricians. Failing to conciliate the plebeian faction, he is banished from Rome, and, burning with rage, vows the destruction of the city. He joins the Volscian forces, and by their prince, Aufidius, is made commander-in-chief of their army, then about to be led against his own countrymen. His mother, urged by the imperilled Romans, is prevailed upon to go with her kinsmen to the camp of the Volscians, to pacify, lix THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS \t possible, her son. Listening to her entreaties, Co- riolanus resolves to retreat, and thus Eome is spared. But the Volscians, fired by TuUus, are now displeased with Ooriolanus, and call him to account for his action. He is about to defend himself in public, when Tullus, fearing the impression of his eloquence, under the tumult of his followers, assassinates him. His corpse Is buried by the Volscians with all the honors due his aoble memory. Ooriolanus is among the finest of the group of Shakespeare's Roman plays. The hero hved in the early days of Rome, in those pure, old, austere times when the great city had driven Tarquin from his lust- ful throne ; for it was against that monarch that Oo- riolanus had won his first garland of oak by over- whelmingly defeating him. How nobly the pure white figure of Volumnia rises, clad in all the virtues that made the noble Roman lady. See how she over- comes her mother's righteous indignation against her townsmen's injustice to her gallant son; and how with happy victory won she returns to Rome to give the proud city its hfe! Ooriolanus is in many respects a noble character and among the " fiower of warriors ; " but his pride is overweening, and that flaws and ruins the jewel of his renown. Treated with ingratitude, base and outra- geous though in his case it was, he cannot put his country above himself. His grip is on her throat, when his wife, Virgilia, stirs his mother to appeal to him, and in that scene in the Volscian camp, Ooriolanus, who has thought himself above nature, cannot resist their appeals. His wife, mother, and boy prevail. Oorio- lanus is himself again, and takes death, as he should, at the hands of his country's foes. TITUS ANDEONICUS. ••T^HIS play is the tragedy represented by human J- depravity in its most vindictive form — a thirst for revenge. Whence the poet gleaned the material for this play has not been accurately ascertained. It was one of his first attempts at a drama, and was written as early as 1587, though some say 1589, when Shakespeare was scarcely twenty-five years of age. A great many editors and critics have supposed the play spurious, for the color of style is wholly diflferent from that of Shakespeare's other plays, but nevertheless the evidence is now strong in favor of its genuineness. SCENE. — Rome and the adjoining country. Titus Andronicus, a noble Roman general, victorious in the war against the Goths, returns, crowned with honors, to Rome, bringing back with him, as captives, Tamora, the queen of the Goths, with her sons, Alar- bus, Ohiron, and Demetrius. Of his own twenty-four eons, but four were left to him ; the rest suiFered death for their country on the battle-field. Through An- dronicus's valor, Saturninus is raised to the vacant throne of the Empire. The emperor marries the cap- tured queen of the Goths, and is by her goaded to bloody deeds of revenge against Titus, who had ordered the slaying of her son Alarbus as a sacrifice for the fallen sons of Rome. Tamora now instigates her wicked sons, Demetrius and Ohiron, to murder Bassianus, brother to the emperor and husband of Lavinia, daughter of Titus Andronicus, whose dead body they remove ; and still further urged on to dia- bolical deeds by Aaron, a Moor (who is beloved by Tamora), they deprive Lavinia of her chastity, cut off her tongue and both her hands. Thus mangled, the widowed Lavinia alarms her young nephew by follow- ing him and being unable to speak. The miscreants themselves report the cruel deed to the emperor, and charge two sons of Titus with the crime of having murdered Lavinia's husband. Titus, in the anxiety to save his sons, is insidiously advised by Aaron to cub off his own hand, which he sends as an expiatory sac- rifice to the emperor. The latter returns his hand, accompanied by the heads of his already executed sons. The great afiiictions sufi'ered by Titus weaken his reason. By means of a staff held in the stump of her arm, Lavinia writes the names of the murderers of her husband in the sand, and causes thus the form- ing of a plan of revenge between her father, her uncle Marcus, and her now only brother, Lucius. Meantime, the empress bears a child. This illegal issue of the Moor, Aaron, by the empress, is, to avoid detection by her husband, the emperor, sent by its mother to be murdered. Demetrius and Ohiron, the ready instruments of her crime, profess immediate compliance, and draw their weapons to dispatch it, but Aaron snatches his infant from its nurse, and vows vengeance to any one that touches it. To further conceal the foul deed, the Moor kills the nurse, and hastens with his child to the Goths. This same course is taken by Lucius, who now, like a second Ooriolanus, advances against Rome at the head of a Gothic army. Dire punishment overtakes Saturninus and Tamora, who are slain; the latter had, however, before her execution, a thyesteio meal set before her — that is, the flesh of her own slain sons were served up for the repast. Aaron is buried alive ; Titus (a second Virginius) stabs his own outraged daughter, and is himself slain by the hands of Saturninus. Lucius, the son, and Marcus, the brother of Titus Andronicus, press a kiss of love upon the pale lips of the mur- dered hero. Lucius, the favorite of the people, is proclaimed Emperor of Rome, and rules wisely and well the lately terribly disturbed empire. ROMEO AND JULIET. See Page 584. ONE of the earlier productions of our poet, and one of the most celebrated of his dramas, this play appeared first in print in 1597, and had, up to the year 1609, been published in four editions, each issue with improvements and additions. It was written, without doubt, in 1592. SCENE. — For the greater portion of the play, in Verona; in the Fifth Act, once at Mantua. Between two patrician houses of Verona, the Oapu- lets and Montagues, existed from time immemorial a deadly feud. The family of Montague had an only son, named Romeo ; that of Oapulet but one daughter, named Juliet. Romeo's outward demeanor and edu- cation were the model of noble manhood, while JuUet's form and features were in unison with the purity of her mind, the ideal of noble womanhood. They did not know each other, when it happened that the old Oapulet prepared a festival for his friends, and Romeo, the young heir of the Montagues, introduces himself, disguised, with some gay friends, his cousins Benvolio and Mercutio, who are also in disguise, to this grand entertainment of their enemies. Here obtaining a sight of Juliet, Romeo falls at once in love with her. THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS An interesting dialogue takes place between the lovers, which is interrupted by Juliet's nurse. Tybalt, a fiery kinsman of Juliet's, having discovered Romeo, vows revenge on the intruder. The interview, however, has succeeded in producing the most ai'dent passion between Romeo and Juliet, and the latter endeavors to secure the interest of her nurse, of whom she makes eager inquiries about her lover, but is tantalized by the nurse with the most provoking garrulity. The mutual impression the lovers have, is so ardent that already, on the following day, a secret marriage is the consequence, at which Friar Laurence, confessor of the two, is induced to officiate, because he hopes that by this marriage, sooner or later, a reconciliation between the two rival houses may be effected. Immediately after this ceremony, a duel is provoked by Tybalt^ the fierce cousin of Juliet, with Mercutio, the gallant kins- man of Romeo. Mercutio is slain ; and Romeo, who had endeavored to prevent this duel, allows himself, by his momentary passion, to be drawn into a conflict with Tybalt, in which he kills the latter. A tumult ensues, the heads of the Capulets and Montagues, with the. prince, arrive at the scene, and the latter, not fully aware of the provocation, orders the banishment of Romeo. Romeo having ascended to Juliet's chamber window, holds a stolen interview, and swearing eternal constancy, prepares to depart by the way he came. During this scene between the lovers, the nurse calls Juliet, who alternately answers her, and tenderly takes leave of her lover. Romeo, by the advice of the good Friar Laurence, hies to Mantua. Juliet, inconsolable over this separation, weeps bitterly. Her parents think that the death of her cousin Tybalt is the cause of her tears, and resolve to marry her to the kinsman of the prince. Count Paris, who now sues for her hand. Juliet, to avoid marrying Count Paris, and to preserve her faithfulness to Romeo, swallows an opiate fur- nished her by Friar Laurence, the effect of which is to produce the temporary semblance of death, and is found by her nurse and others in this trance on the morning of the intended nuptials. Universal grief follows, and Friar Laurence, with a view to moderate it, and to prove his friendship for Romeo, recommends the immediate interment of Juliet's body. Meantime, the messenger sent by Friar Laurence is not admitted, because he had tarried in a pest-house, and returns home without seeing Romeo, while Balthasar, Romeo's servant, although enabled to communicate with his master, only informs him of Juhet's death and burial, not being aware of the rest. Romeo, in his despair, procures a deadly poison, returns to Verona, where he visits Juliet's tomb at midnight, unacquainted, from the miscarriage of the friar's note, with her reported death being but a trance. Count Paris, the intended husband selected by Juliet's parents, meets Romeo; they quarrel, fight, and Paris falls. Romeo takes a final leave of his seemingly dead mistress, and swal- lows the poison. At this moment, Friar Laurence arrives, to await Juhet's awakening. She, on learning the melancholy catastrophe, kills herself, and dies in the arms of Romeo. The friar previously requests her to follow him into a convent, but is frightened off by approaching footsteps. Juliet, imprinting an affec- tionate farewell kiss on the lips of the dead Romeo, takes his dagger and stabs herself. Meanwhile, Paris's page has summoned the guards, who, on seeing what had taken place, call the prince, the Capulets and the Montague families to the scene, while other attend- ants bring Laurence and Romeo's servant thither. The prince investigates the tragedy, and Friar Laurence rehearses the details of the melancholy story. His statement is corroborated by the page and Balthasar, and also by a letter from Romeo to his father. Over the bodies of their unhappy children, the deadly enmity of the Capulet and Montague families ceases, and they are finally and effectively reconciled by the great grief that has overwhelmed them. This drama is among the most powerful of the great poet in strong delineation of passion and richness of fancy. In Juliet we have the first striking figure of Shakespeare's youthful conception of womanhood. The glorious figure of girlhood, clad in the beauty of the southern spring, stepping out for scarce two days from the winter of her grand but loveless home into the sunshine and warmth of love, and then sinking back into the horrors of the charnel-house and the grave, is one that ever haunts the student of Shake- speare. The deeper and richer note of love which the great bard has struck becomes deeper and richer still in Romeo and Juliet. Fierce Tybalt; gay, fiery Mercutio ; gallant Benvolio ; tender, chivalrous Ro- meo — we see them all in fancy as they move under the intense blue of the Italian sky. The day is hot ; the Capulets are abroad ; Mercutio's laugh rings down the street ; his jewelled cap flames in the sunlight. Such sights and sounds as these crowd on the mind's eye as we read and think. "Passion lends the lovers power," as the old song says. It is the time of the affections and warm youthful blood. But these vio- lent delights have violent ends, and Juliet, "ill-divining soul," prepares us for the end that awaits the delicious, passionate love of the garden scene. Far above any- thing Shakespeare had yet written stands this and the lovers' subsequent meeting and parting. The charac- ter of Juliet, too, is the guiding star of the play — far above Romeo, whose sentimental weeping for Rosa- line, and grief when he hears of the order for his banishment, call forth a well-deserved reproach from Friar Laurence. The Kurse, so thoroughly a charac- ter, is the first and only figure of the kind in Shake- speare (except, perhaps, Mrs. Quickly). The fussy, bustling, hot-tempered old Capulet is a capital figure, too. The play is "young" all through, not only in its passions, but in its conceits and its excess of fancy. The time of the action of the play is five and a half days. The ball is on Sunday night; the lovers are married on Monday, and pass the night together. Juliet drinks the sleeping draught on Tuesday night, and on Wednesday, instead of marrying Paris, is found seemingly dead and entombed. She sleeps more than forty-two hours. On Thursday Romeo returns, and poisons himself before Juliet wakes before the dawn of Friday. She stabs herself, and the families are roused from their sleep to come to the tomb, as pre- viously TIHON OF ATHENS. See Page 608. IT has not yet been decided as conclusive whether Shakespeare obtained his basis for this tragedy from North's English translation of Plutarch, or from Paynter's older work, entitled "Palace of Pleasure," nor is the date of its composition stated as certain. It was probably written in 1605. SCENE. — Athens and the contiguous -woods. Timon, a noble citizen of Athens, equally renowned for his patriotic love for the cause of his fatherland, as on account of his immense wealth, is charitable beyond prudence, without aim or measure. Sur- rounded by a crowd of parasites, he is distributing to Ixi THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS one of them a rich jewel, nearly the last remains of his wealth. His friend, Apemantus, the cynical philoso- pher, warns him of the consequences of such prodi- gality, but his advice is not listened to. When reduced in fortune, he knocks at the door of his friends, who formerly had been his daily guests, but finds, as might be expected, closed doors and deaf ears. Filled with bitter rage, he once more invites these false friends for the last time, but places before them, in covered dishes, nothing but lukewarm water, a fitting symbol of their friendship, and, with terrible curses, throws the vessels at their heads. Abandoned and treated with the blackest ingratitude by those he had enriched and benefited, Timon spurns the hated city of his resi- dence, and, renouncing human society, seeks the shelter of the forest, where he becomes an inveterate misan- thrope. All invitations for a return to Athens he re- jects ; neither Flavius, his honest steward, who offers to divide his savings with him; nor Alcibiades, his general, who offers to revenge him ; nor the senators of Athens, who offer him the highest office of honor, were able to change him. In this seclusion from the busy world, he draws from his bitter experience the motives of the people who come thus to meet him — not moved by pity or even cm-iosity, not for the pur- pose of consolation or atonement, but for the selfish and covetous reasons of thirst for gold, for it was rumored in Athens that, while digging roots, he had found a treasure which a miserly fellow had once bur- ied. Still a prodigal with his gold, not for charitable purposes, but animated by evil intentions, Timon meets all who visit his retreat only to bribe and excite, and so to lead to the destruction of the hated human race. A warrior under Alcibiades at last finds Timon's grave, and reports the inscription, written by himself, wit- to the loathing he felt for mankind until death. JULIUS CiESAR. See Page 637. AMONG- the materials used by Shakespeare in this play were North's translation of the biographies of Julius Csesar, Marcus Antonius, and Brutus, by Plu- tarch ; perhaps Appian and Dio Cassius were not un- known to him. It was probably written in 1602, soon after the completion of Hamlet. The political moral of the tragedy is, that the most unstatesmanlike and politically immoral pohcy is that which is not in keeping with the strictest requirements of the laws of right and equity. A treacherous or cruel deed, even carried out from noble or patriotic motives, cannot escape the Nemesis of retribution. SCENE. — In the city of Rome; after-wards at Sardis, and near Philippi. Julius CsBsar, renowned for many gallant deeds, and for his brilliant victories loved by the Roman no- bility as well as by the people, after vanquishing the younger Pompey in Spain, thought that the time had now come to carry out the ambitious desire, so long entertained, of making himself the absolute ruler of the Eoman Empire. On his return to Rome, conten- tion was caused by the display made of the vanquished prisoners — an ostentation which had not been previ- ously attempted — and the magnificence of this tri- umphal march could not altogether drown the dis- pleasure ; nevertheless, the Romans vied in showing Caesar honors, which almost amounted to adoration. In fact, Caasar was already a monarch, and his ad- mirers urged him now to assume the name and the Ixii crown of an emperor. As Ciesar was now on the eve of his departure for the war against the Parthians, his partisans endeavored to spread the rumor that, accord- ing to a prophecy contained in the book of Sibyl, only a king or emperor could be victorious over that people. At the Lupercalian festival, Antonius, approaching Cassar, offers him the crown, which is three times re- jected by CiBsar, and, amid deafening applause of the people, the crown is returned to the capitol. Casar, however, in opposition to this act, displaces the two tribunes who had, in different parts of the city, de- prived the columns erected in his honor of their royal mantle, and imprisoned several citizens who had called him king. This strange conduct at last awakened the anger and suspicion of some of the prominent Romans against Caesar's seeming ambition. At the instigation of Cassius, a conspiracy was formed. All was soon ready for execution, and it was resolved that Brutus should be the leader, because his mere presence would, so to say, sanctify and strengthen the justice of any action. Brutus was a true Roman in that luxurious and corrupt epoch of Roman history. Even the love and honor which Csesar had once bestowed on him he forgot, in his patriotic hope to redeem Rome, and by his leadership gained to the conspiracy many of the noblest Romans. Without any offering of sacrifice or vow, the sacred league was formed, that Casar at the festival of the Ides of March (the 15th) should be slain. Of the Roman ladies, Portia, the wife of Brutus and Cato's spirited daughter, was the only one who had knowledge of the conspiracy. On the fatal day, the assassination of Caesar is enacted in the senate- chamber, Casca giving the first thrust. After having received twenty-three wounds, the last of which Brutus inflicted, Casar falls. Cassius had urged that Mark Antony should also be slain, but the humane policy of Brutus saves him. Mark Antony weeps over Caesar's fall ; and having obtained permission to make a funeral oration over the dead body, seizes the oppor- tunity to so artfully work on the passions of his audi- tors, the turbv'ent Roman populace, as to cause a riot, leading at length to a civil war, in which he gains supreme power. His further attempts, however, to follow the example of Julius Caesar are frustrated, and he is compelled, against his will, to acknowledge Oc- tavius Caesar and the influential Lepidus as triumvirs in the government, whose first act was that bloody proscrip- tion, from which even Cicero the great orator is not ex- empted, but falls a victim. After being present at the execution of those of their enemies who had lingered in Rome, Octavius and Antonius embark for Macedonia to pursue Brutus and Cassius, who, after the news had been imparted to them that Portia had committed suicide by swallowing burning coals, venture, on the day of Cassius's birthday, the decisive battle of Philippi. Mark Antony seems on the point of gaining the last great battle against the conspirators, and dismay seizes them ; Brutus, their great leader, to avoid falling into the victors' hands, and impressed with the fate de- nounced against him by Caesar's ghost, which had appeared to him the preceding night in his tent, com- mands his page Strato to let him fall on his sword, and thus dies. His corpse receives an honorable burial at the hands of his victorious ( Julius Cfflsar is not the real hero of this play, but Brutus is; yet Caesar's spirit rules, as Cassius and Brutus before their deaths acknowledge. Caesar's murder is the centre and hinge of the play. The death of the great soldier overcomes his conquerors ; for though his bodily presence is weak, his spirit rises, arms his avengers, and his assassins proclaim his might. THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS Shakespeare has made the Ctesar of 'lis play not the brave and vigorous subduer of Britain and the Goths, but Caesar old, decaying, failing both in mind and body; his long success had ruined his character and turned his head. The character of Brutus is that of one of the noblest of men the poet has drawn — if not the noblest. Brutus believes himself the man to set the times right ; but as honor calls him he must act. He is no judge of men; he cannot see that Cassius is playing on him as on a pipe; he misjudges Antony, and allows him to make that most effective appeal at Caesar's funeral to the passions of the fierce Roman mob ; he always takes the wrong steps in action ; he has his faults, too, as see his ungenerous upbraiding of Cassius about getting gold wrongfully, when he, Brutus, had previously asked for some of it ; and how his vanity gives way to Cassius's appeal to him in the scene after Caesar's death. That is a glorious scene between Brutus and his wife — pure soul to soul ; no thought of earthly dallying between them. MACBETH. See Page 647. HOLINSHED'S Chronicles, formed on the " History of Scotland" by the Scotch chronologist, Hector Boethius, forms the basis to the plot of this tragedy, which was written in 1606. SCENE. — Principally in Scotland. At the end of the Fourth Act, in England. The throne of Duncan, king of Scotland, is threat- ened by one of his vassals, who is aided by the Nor- wegians. But this danger is averted by the lustrous valor of his cousins, Macbeth and Banquo, generals of the army. On their return from the last decisive victory, these officers meet, upon a lonesome heath, three witches ; the first greets Macbeth as Thane of Glamis, the second as Thane of Cawdor, while the third hails him with the prophetical announcement: "All hail, king that shall be hereafter!" Nor does Banquo go away without a prophecy, for the witches say that his sons after him shall be kings in Scotland. The early fulfilment of the first two prophecies excite in Macbeth's breast the hope that the other will be fulfilled, and that he will ascend the throne of Scot- land. Macbeth, without delay, had informed his wife of all that had happened, who is not only an ambitious woman, but withal an unfeeling and unscrupulous one, and consequently a person ever ready to do anything, however wrong, to accomplish her designs. Lady Macbeth is told by her husband that King Duncan is about to visit the castle, and she at once resolves to murder the king. Duncan, who on his journey is accompanied by Malcolm and Donalbain, his sons, and a numerous train of nobles and attendants, comes to honor, by his presence, the heroic Thane, is met en route by Macbeth, who has hastened to welcome him. The king's arrival causes great rejoicing; he makes valuable presents to the attendants and also to Lady Macbeth, his kind hostess, whom he presents with a valuable diamond. Being tired with his day's travels, Duncan retires early to sleep. At midnight the mur- derers hie to their terrible work. Macbeth wavers ; but his wife knows how to banish all his scruples, and taunts him bitterly until he nerves himself for the bloody deed, and kiUs the sleeping king with the dagger of one of the king's officers on guard, in order to draw the suspicion on them. At morning dawn the bloody deed of the previous night is discovered. Although Macbeth and his lady are pretending the deepest sorrow and distress, and the former, in feigned rage, rushes to King Duncan's room and stabs the two officers on whom he endeavored to cast suspicion, all doubt who the real perpetrators are. Malcolm and Donalbain flee; Macbeth is crowned king, and thus the prediction of the weird sisters is literally fulfilled. Macbeth, after usurping the crown, to secure himself in the possession of it, caused Banquo to be assassi- nated by the hands of hired murderers, and celebrates his success by a grand banquet. He is alarmed in the midst of it by the appearance of Banquo's ghost ! The queen and nobles, to whom the spectre is invisible, express amazement, and vainly strive to soothe him. Macdufi", the Thane of Fife, hastens away and seeks refuge in England with Malcolm ; but Macbeth storms his castle and murders pitilessly Lady Macduff and her children. Remorse and the dangers that menace her husband's throne having thrown Lady Macbeth into a dangerous condition, rest becomes a stranger to her harrowed mind; she walks in her sleep, and in that state discloses the secret of the king's murder to her physician and her attendant, and at last kills herself. The entire country is in revolution ; one after another desert Macbeth's failing cause, and the weird sisters drive him finally, by their mischievous oracles, into a state bordering on insanity. They tell him he need not fear any harm to his person until Birnam wood should come to Dunsinane ; nor could any one born of a woman cause danger to him. But in the attack upon Macbeth's stronghold the wood really advances to- wards Macbeth's castle. The English soldiers, while on their march, passed through these woods of Bir- nam, and, in order to conceal their numbers, carried green boughs and twigs in leaf before them. This is the significance of the prediction of the weird sisters ; and a foe not born of woman arises indeed against him — in Macduff, who was not born of woman, in the ordinary manner of man, but was prematurely taken from his mother. The finale is reached when Macbeth falls in a struggle with the avenging Mac- duff; and Duncan's oldest son, Malcolm, ascends the throne as legal heir and king of Scotland, Macbeth is a play of conscience, though the work- ings of that conscience are seen far more in Lady Mac- beth than in her husband. The play is designed to show, too, the separation from man as well as God, the miserable, trustless isolation that sin brings in its train. Before the play opens, there must have been consultations between the guilty pair on Duncan's murder, and when the play opens, the paU of fiendish witchcraft is over us from the first. The faU of the tempted is terribly sudden. Lady Macbeth has a finer and more delicate nature than Macbeth, but having fixed her eyes on the attainment by her hus- band of Duncan's throne, she accepts the inevitable means ; yet she cannot strike the sleeping king, who resembles her father. She sustains her husband un- til her thread of life suddenly snaps under its load of remorse. The real cUmax of the play is in the second act rather than the fifth, and no repentance is mixed with the vengeance at its close. The only relief is the gallantry of Macbeth, the gratitude of Duncan, and the picture of Macbeth's castle, so pleasantly put into Duncan's and Banquo's mouths. Macbeth had the wrong nature for a murderer — he was too imagina- tive. The more blood he shed, which he thought would make him safe and hardened, did but increase his terrors. But he resolves to know the worst, and after his second visit to the witches, the courage of desperation takes the place of the feebleness of the guilty soul, and finally he faces and meets his own death with a coolness almost admirable. Ixiii THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. See Page 666. MANT books and essays have been written concern- ing this tragedy of all the tragedies of Shake- speare; some of the critics, in their analysis of the play, vary materially, especially in the understanding of the principal character. According to the general acceptation of modern critics, Shakespeare designed to delineate his religious, moral, artistic, and dra- matic acknowledgment of faith, and wrote this drama for the exaltation of the dramatic art upon the stage, as an educator as much entitled to serve the highest interests and aims of humanity as any other educa- tional influence. The source from which Shakespeare gathered his material, was probably the novel entitled the " Hys- torie of Hamlet," by the Danish author, Saxo Gram- maticus. This drama was written, according to Dr. Drake and Chalmers, in 1597, while Malone fixes the date in 1600, and it appeared first in print, in a quarto edition, in 1604. SCENE. — Blsinore, Denmark. Prince Hamlet, the son of King Hamlet, of Den- mark, after receiving the news of the sudden death of his father, leaves Wittenberg, where he had been in pursuit of learning, and returns to the residence at Elsinore. In addition to the deep mourning caused by the gi-eat loss he had sustained in his father's death, he is, moreover, exceedingly affected by his mother's speedy remarriage. The queen, who had been loved with tenderness by King Hamlet during the thirty years of their married life, and who simulated, at the funeral of her husband, the most frantic grief, had, nevertheless, but a few brief weeks thereafter, celebrated her nuptials with Claudius, the brother of the late lamented king. Prince Hamlet's uncle, Claudius, was a prod^al and a hypocrite, who had also contrived to accomplish his election as king of Denmark. Hamlet, from this hasty and unseemly marriage, and other scandalous incidents which had transpired at the court, had long suspected a secret crime, and over this he brooded in a melancholy which alarmed his friends. Hamlet, moreover, from Horatio, and some officers who were devoted to him, learned that the ghost of the departed king had ap- peared to them on the portico, before the palace, at midnight. Prince Hamlet, on hearing this report, ac- companies the guard on the following night, and he, indeed, discerns in the apparition, which also appears to him at midnight, the spirit of his father, who informs him that his sire had not died a natural death, but had been stealthily poisoned by his brother Clau- dius, the now reigning king. The ghost asks Hamlet to revenge the murder, but to spare his mother, who had been induced to commit adultery by the ignoble usurper. Hamlet vows revenge, and at once resolves on a plan to carry out this intent. But his righteous revenge is delayed by difficulties, since he does not design to commit murder or any other crime, and, moreover, respects the injunction concerning his mother, whom he did not wish to harm. Hamlet, closeted with his royal mother, upbraids her with her incestuous marriage to his uncle, and his father's murder. His father's ghost, at this moment, appears to him. The queen, to whom the spirit is invisible, seeing Hamlet gaze on and converse with empty air, thinks his mind is disordered, and dis- plays the greatest consternation. During this inter- view Hamlet hears a noise behind the arras, and Ixiv thinking it to bs the king, thrusts his sword through the hangings, only to find he has killed Polonius, who was eavesdropping. Hamlet now resolves to act like one whose mental faculties had become clouded, and in this completely succeeds, to all othei-s but his friend Horatio. In this affected aberration of mind, Hamlet leads the entire court at his will to carry out his purpose of judge and avenger ; and he also finds in this affectation of insanity the means of advising his beloved Ophelia to remain single. By a theatrical performance before the court, he succeeds in convict- ing the king of his crime. Ophelia's mind, distracted with the slights of Hamlet and the death of her father, gives way, and in pursuit of her insane amusements she is drowned. Laertes, Ophelia's brother, is instigated by the usurping uncle to fight with Hamlet, and how this act of revenge not only causes the death of the criminal king, but also the poisoning of the queen, of Laertes, and Hamlet, the drama fuUy unfolds. In judging of the character of Hamlet, we must get rid of the absurdity of supposing him a man of de- cision and action, whose hesitation was due only to want of conviction of his duty. While we all admire his brilliant intellectual gifts of wit, sarcasm, reflection, his courage and his vir- tues, we must stiU find him infirm of piTrpose in his diseased view of God's earth and its inhabitants, and of life, with his shirkings of duty. But in his uncer- tainties about the mysteries of death and of the future world Hamlet but typifies each one of us at some time or other in our lives. And this is the secret of the at- traction of Hamlet over us. How powerfully drawn is the scene where Hamlet, rising to nobleness and strength, upbraids his mother for her disgraceful adul- tery and treason to his noble father's memory, which Hamlet has felt to his inmost soul. And against his mother and her sin aU the magnificent indignation of his purity and virtue speak. We forget his blood- stained hands in the white-heat intensity of his words. In his second interview with Ophelia, he turns to her at first with gentle words and affection, which are curdled into bitterness and brutality by her offer to return his gifts and by seeing her father behind the arras. Horatio, with his fortitude, his self-possession, Ms strong equanimity, is a strong contrast to Hamlet ; and Laertes, who takes violent measures at the shortest notice to revenge his father's murder, is another con- trast in a different way ; but then Laertes is the young gallant of the period, and his capacity for action arises in part from the absence of those moral checks of which Hamlet is sensible. Polonius is owner of the low wisdom of this world, and exhibits this gro- while now, on the brink of dotage, he sees, but cannot see through, Hamlet's ironical mockery of him. Ophelia is sensitive and affectionate, but the reverse of heroic. She fails Hamlet in his need, and then in her turn becoming the sufferer, gives way un- der her aflBictions. We do not honor, we commiserate her. But whatever vacillation shows in the character of Hamlet, his grand, over-mastering purpose of revenge for his murdered father never leaves him. Polonius, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, Ophelia, all whom he thinks plotted against him, are by his means dead ; and then comes the end — the erring queen dying by her guilty husband's means, and he shortly following her; La- ertes reaping the due reward of treachery, though forgiven by Hamlet before dying, and — then the death of "that man in Shakespeare we feel most pity for." THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS KING LEAR. See Page 696. THE legend of King Lear and his three daughters existed in the medieval ages, in the Latin and French versions, and is also found in Hohnshed's Chronicles of England, whence Shakespeare obtained the material for this drama, written in 1605. SCENE.— The Kingdom of Britain. Lear, King of Britain, having reached his eightieth year, concluded to resign his crown, and to divide his dominion between his three daughters — Goneril, wife of the Duke of Albany ; Regan, the wife of the Duke of Cornwall ; and Cordelia, for whose hand and heart the King of France and the Duke of Burgundy are wooing. The old king questions his daughters as to which of them has the greatest love for him, and while Goneril and Eegan, in the most exaggerated terms ex- press their affection, Cordelia, scorning the fulsome meanness and hypocrisy of her sisters, declares in clear and simple words her childish love for her father. Lear, who had always been a fiercely passionate man, feels so embittered at the seeming calmness of her re- ply, that he rejects and disinherits his formerly favorite daughter, and divides his realm between the two elder daughters equally. He reserves for himself merely the maintenance of his title as king, and a hundred knights as attendants. "With each of his daughters he is to alternately live one month at a time with his knightly guard. The Earl of Kent, who naturally raises objections against this precipitate action of the king, is banished from the kingdom. Cordelia, although disinherited and spurned by her father, and now rejected by the Duke of Burgundy, is neverthe- less chosen as the wife of the King of France, solely on account of her virtue, merits, and charms. But the real characters of GonerU and Regan soon mani- fest themselves. They begin to treat their aged father with coldness, and they not only suffer, but order, more- over, that the servants fail to show the respect due to the old king. These unnatural daughters furthermore demand the entire dismissal of his guard of one hun- dred faithful warriors. Lear flies from Goneril and Regan, but only as it were from one trouble to a greater, for each sister endeavors to vie with the other in mockery and derision. This is too hard for the weak old man to bear. In his despair he becomes in- sane, and leaves the court at night during a violent rainstorm, his daughters closing the door on him. But the faithful Kent, in the disguise of an attendant, and his fool, accompany Lear through the dismal darkness, until the Eai"l of Gloucester meets them, who had dis- carded his son Edgar on account of the slanderous accusations by Edmund, his bastard son. In a hovel upon the field the earl found his son Edgar, in a disguise as poor Tom, and here the poor old king with his two faithful friends at last found refuge. Through the aid of Gloucester and Kent, King Lear is securely brought to the town of Dover, where Cor- delia lands with an army from France, for the purpose of reinstating her father upon the throne. Goneril and Regan, meantime, fall in love with Gloucester's bastard son Edmund, and Regan is poisoned in a fit of jealousy by her sister, while her husband, the viUan- ous Cornwall (who had deprived the Earl of Glouces- ter of his eyes, for the latter's intercession for the aged king), dies by the hand of one of his own servants. Goneril ends her accursed career by committing sui- cide. Cordelia's army is outnumbered and defeated by Edmund's soldiers, and Cordelia and her father are ',aptured. After Cordeha had been strangled by an assassin hired by Edmund, the latter meets his well- deserved fate in a duel with Edgar. Lear dies while tenderly clasping in his arms the corpse of Cordelia, but Edgar, Kent, and the Duke of Albany remain to again firmly estabhsh the much harassed kingdom of Britain. Lear is especially the play of the breach of family ties — the play of horrors, the unnatural cruelty to fathers, brothers, and sisters of those who should have loved them dearest. Lear, as he is first presented to us, is so self-indulgent and unrestrained, so fooled to the top of his bent, so terribly unjust, not only to Cordelia, but to Kent, that we feel that hardly any punishment is too bad for him. Stripped of power by his own rash folly, his own fool teaches him what a fool he has been. When he has come to him- self, cut off the flatterers who surrounded him, and realizes the consequences of his own folly, our sympa- thy for him melts into tender pity. The pathos of his recognition of Cordelia, his submission to her, and seeking her blessing, his lamentation over her corpse, are exceeded by nothing in Shakespeare. Note the wonderful power of this last scene — the poor old king, bending with piteous lamentations over the dead body of his murdered daughter, trying to raise her to life, and, failing, relapsing into the dread torpor of de- spairing insanity. Cordelia is the sun above the depths shown in the natures of her sisters Gonerfl and Regan. The noble and long-suffering Kent is a flne character. Edgar and Edmund are a contrasted pair; both are men of penetration, energy, and skill — Edgar on the side of good, Edmund on the side of evil. OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF YENICE. See Page 722. BASED upon a romance contained in the Italian collec- tion of " Hecatomithi," by Giraldi Cinthio, this trag- edy was written in 1612 and first entered at Stationers' Hall, Oct. 6th, 1621, being printed in the following year. SCENE. — Diiring the First Act in Venice ; during the rest of the drama at a seaport town in Gsvras. Othello, a courageous Moor, and able commander-in- chief in the service of the republic of Venice, wins the love of Desdemona, a noble Venetian lady, and only daughter of the Senator Brabantio. The marriage secretly concluded between them is not acknowl- edged by the father, who deems the afiinity of his daughter for a Moor, celebrated though he might be, as inexplicable and unnatural, and that only by spells and witchcraft could the fair Desdemona have been seduced to marry Othello, without the consent of her parent. At this juncture the services of the gallant Moor are needed by the republic of Venice to repel the invasion by the Turks of the island of Cj'prus. Othello, accompanied by Desdemona, his wife, Cassio, his lieutenant, and lago, his ensign, with lago's wife, Emiha (the latter acting as attendant to Desdemona), accompanies the party. A storm scattered the Turkish fleet; but another tempest is rising against the peace of Othello, stirred up by a devil in the form of a hu- man being. lago entertains a deadly hatred against Othello, partly because he accuses him of having had in the past an illicit connection with his wife Emilia, and partly because Othello had preferred Cassio and had appointed him to a vacancy of a higher rank; whereas lago believes he, from his bravery and knowl- edge, was fairly entitled to that place. lago therefore Ixv THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS plans a terrible revenge whereby he wishes to destroy the Moor, Desdemona, and several others. During a festival he induces Cassio, who happened to be officer of the guard, to partake of wine. A quarrel is thus cun- ningly contrived, Cassio giving great offence, and even using his drawn sword. The alarm-bell is sounded, which brings the general to the scene, and Cassio loses his lieutenancy. The unfortunate ofiicer, brought to despair by the loss of his position, his unhappiness still further enhanced by the displeasure of his gen- eral, applies to Desdemona, who, through her womanly sympathy, becomes his warm defender and intercessor, the more because he during her courtship had acted as the bearer of the missives between herself and Othello. Cassio, while beseeching his high-spirited patroness to intercede for his reinstatement, at the approach of the Moor quickly withdraws from her presence ; lago cun- ningly uses the fatal movement by ingeniously devised hints, which awaken the jealous feelings of Othello ; and in fuither explanation of this conduct beguiles Othello, by telling him that a woman who had de- ceived her old father in such a clever way, could also be easily induced to betray her husband. Desdemona having received from Othello a handkerchief, the gift of the Moor's mother to her son, is asked for it by Othello. This handkerchief had been stolen from her for the purpose of exciting her husband's jealousy. Innocent how she had lost it, Desdemona apologizes, but Othello, beheving this to be but a confirmation of lago's charges against his wife's chastity, becomes en- raged, and quits her with fierce injunctions to seek the handkerchief immediately and bring it to him. "Wild with jealous frenzy, and resolved on her death for her supposed infidelity, Othello enters his wife's chamber at midnight, awakens her, charges her with having loved Cassio, and, notwithstanding Desdemona's protestations of innocence, smothers her while entreating for mercy. Immediately upon this tragedy Desdemona's inno- cence is brought to light, by the explanations of lago's wife Emilia, for which her husband fatally stabs her. Othello's anguish on realizing that he was the murderer of his innocent and trusting wife, who had ever been tenderly faithful to him, was so great liiat he fell upon his sword, and died pressing a last parting kiss on the lips of his dead wife. The magnificent third act of this play is thought by many commentators to be Shakespeare's masterpiece. OtheUo has a free and noble nature, naturally trust- ful, with a kind of grand innocence, retaining some of his simpleness of soul amid the subtle and astute Ve- netian politicians. All that he tells of himself wins our hearts, like Desdemona's, to him. Of regal de- scent, no boaster, but a doer, he has no self-distrust when dealing with men. He commands like a full soldier. Although he teUs a "round unvarnished tale," yet we see in it proof of that imaginative power which, imposed on by the satanic lago, was the cause of all his sorrow. There is no character in Shakespeare's plays so full of serpentine power and serpentine poison as lago — "honest lago." OtheUo has every manly virtue, and his love is so devoted that he can give up war for it. The first note of coming discord is struck by lago's " I like not that," and the first real suspicion is in Othello's "By heaven, he echoes me." But when, owing to lago's insinuations, jealousy has once taken hold of Othello's mind — he only knowing till then woman's nature through the followers of the camp — imagination works with terrible rapidity. The fight of love which lit his face when he before met Desdemona, when he yielded to her first en- treaties for Cassio, leaves him never to return. Des- demona's ill-starred answers, coupled with lago's cun- ning promptings, hurry on poor Desdemona's death. Then comes the disclosure of the dupe he has been : and the kiss with which he dies, shows where his love still was, and pleads for him. A noble nature "per- plext in the extreme." Cassio, notwithstanding his moral weaknesses, has a chivalrous nature, and has an enthusiastic admiration for his great general and the beautiful lady, his wife. Emiha may be compared to Paulina, in the Winter'' s Tale. ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. See Page 748. PLUTARCH'S life of Antony was the source from which Shakespeare gleaned the historical data for this tragedy, which was entered in the Stationers' book May 2, 1606, and was, according to the conjec- ture of Malone, composed in the same year. It was not, however, printed till the folio of 1623. SCENE. — In different parts of the Roman Empire. After the pitched battle of Philippi, where the last remaining force of the repubhc under Brutus and Cassius met with utter defeat, upon the division of the Roman territories ensuing, Asia fell to the possession of Mark Antony, who ruled that country as an auto- crat with unlimited power, and became a slave to his love for pomp and display. In this condition he is mastered by an Irresistible love for Cleopatra, the widowed Queen of Egypt. At Tarsus he met her for the first time, and, spellbound by the power of her charms, was induced by her to follow her to Alexan- dria, where he idled away his time amid pleasures and festivities. Bad news from Rome awakens him from the intoxication of his amorous pleasures, and he, with heavy heart, tears himself away from Cleopatra, and hastens back to Italy. Here a reconciliation takes place, not only between himself and Octavius, but also between the triumvirs and Sextus Pompeius (Pompey). To strengthen this renewed friendship, Antony married Octavia, the beautiful sister of Octavius Csesar, who accompanied her husband to the seat of his govern- ment in the eastern provinces of Rome. Meantime, Pompeius had, despite all agreement, again renewed hostilities, and as Lepidus (who had sujjported Oc- tavius in this engagement) now demanded an increase of power, he deprives him also, without raising a sword, of his army and dignity. These successes of Octavius alarmed Mark Antony, who sends his wife from Athens to Rome as a mediator, while he himself goes to Egypt, and at Alexandria commences the former life of luxurious pleasure in company with Cleopatra. A breach between Mark Antony and Octa- vius Caesar now becomes unavoidable, and the fortunes of war must decide between them. Antony, with Diomed, his general, takes a last farewell of Cleo- patra preparatory to a battle with Caesar, who is now encamped before the walls of Alexandria. An- tony recommends Diomed to the queen's special favor, who promises to reward him. An attendant brings Antony's helmet, and a slave puts on his sandals, while the Queen of Egypt, presaging his fate, is loth to part. Antony for the last time tries the fortunes of war, at first with some show of success, but is soon deserted by the fleet, which consists chiefly of Egyptian vessels, and, being also defeated on land, flies in despair to Alexandria, under the delusion that Cleopatra had betrayed him. The latter, to escape his ill-humor, goes herself to a temple, and is announced as having THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS died. Antony, on hearing the sad news, falls on his sword, but not being killed, and learning that Cleo- patra was still alive, causes himself to be carried to her, so that he may die in her arms. Octavius extends to Cleopatra his protection and sympathy, but sends his friend, Proculeius, to keep strict guard over her, hoping to take the young queen to Rome to grace his triumph; but Cleopatra, acquainted with the defeat and death of Antony, and anticipating her own treat- ment from the conqueror, applies asps to her bosom and dies. Charmian, her faithful maid, follows her mistress's example, but before dying has time to relate to Cfflsar's guards, who are breaking in, the tragic death of Egypt's queen. Nowhere else does Shakespeare appear a greater master of a great dramatic theme. In Julius Gcesar we are prepared for any outbreak on the part of Mark Antony — by the wildness of his blood and want of a noble purpose in his ordinary pursuits, by his selfish- ness and unscrupulousness, too; by his proposal to sacrifice Lepidus. And though the redeeming quali- ties of his nature might be thought to be shown in his love for Csesar, his appeal to the people for revenge, and his skill in managing them ; yet in his develop- ment lust and self-indulgence prevail, and under their influence he loses judgment, soldiership, and even the qualities of a man. His seeming impulse towards good in his marriage with Octavia lasts but for a time — all her nobleness and virtue cannot save him. He turns from this gem among women to the luxurious Egyptian, and abides by his infatuation even when he knows he is deceived. How powerful is the story wrought out of the great soldier sinking to his ruin Tinder the gorgeous colorings of the Eastern skies and the varying splendors of the lustful queen! "She makes hungry, where most she satisfies." To Cleo- patra it is hardly possible to do justice here. The wonderful way in which Shakespeare has brought out the characteristics of this sumptuous, queenly harlot, goes far beyond all his previous studies of women. The contrast between her and the noble Eoman lady Octavia, to whom her wavering husband bears such favorable witness, is most marked and most interest- ing. Enobarbus, who sees through every wile and guile of the queen, is, as it were, the chorus of the play. CYMBELINE. See Page 775. CYMBELIKE, the king from whom the play takes its title, began his reign, according to Holinshed, in the nineteenth year of the reign of Augustus Osesar, and the scene of the tragedy commences about the twenty-fourth year of Cymbeline's reign in Britain, i. e., in the sixteenth year of the Christian era. This play was written, according to Malone, in 1605, and, according to Chalmers, in 1606. SCENE.— In Britain and in Italy. Cymbeline's first wife died when his three children (two sons and a daughter) were very young. Imogen, the eldest of these children, was brought up in her father's court, but the two sons were stolen out of their nursery during their infancy, and no trace of what had become of them, nor by whom they had been abducted, could be discovered. Cymbeline was again married. His second spouse was a wicked, plot- ting woman, and extremely cruel to her stepchild Imo- gen, and yet, despite this hatred, desired her to marry Cloten, a son of her own by a former husband ; since by this means she hoped, at the death of her husband, to place the crown of Britain upon the head of Cloten, her own offspring. She was aware that if the lost children were not found, the princess Imogen would be the sole heir of the king. But this design was spoiled by Imogen herself, who married, without the consent or even knowledge of her father or the queen, an accomplished gentleman named Posthumus, whose father had died a soldier's death in the wars for Cym- beline, and his mother, soon after his birth, died also for grief at the loss of her husband. Imogen and Posthumus grew up at court, and were playfellows from their infancy. "When Cymbeline heard of this marriage, he banished Posthumus from his native land forever. The queen, who pretended to pity Imogen for the grief she suffered at losing her husband, offered to procure them a private meeting before Posthumus set out on his journey to Rome, whence he intended to go. The young couple took a most affectionate leave of each other. Imogen gave her husband a dia- mond ring, which had been her mother's, and Posthu- mus promised never to part with this ring; he also fastened a bracelet on the arm of his wife, which he prayed she would preserve carefully as a token of his love, and both vowed eternal love and fidelity. Imogen remained a solitary and sad lady in her father's palace, and Posthumus reached Rome, where he fell into company with some gay young men of dif- ferent nations, each one of them praising the ladies of his own country, and his own. love. Posthumus, who praised his own dear Imogen as the most virtuous and constant woman in the world, offended by this speech a gentleman named lachimo, who felt aggrieved that a lady of Britain should be so praised above the re- fined Roman ladies, his countrywomen. Posthumus, having wagered with lachimo his ring against a sum of gold, that the chastity of his wife Imogen was invulnerable, the artful Italian, who had journeyed to Cymbeline's palace in Britain, contrives to hide himself in her bed-chamber, and thus furnishes himself with particulars in describing her person and her apartment, and, as a further evidence, by stealing her bracelet, in order to induce Posthumus to give him the ring. Returning from Britain with the tokens he has stolen, lachimo claims from Posthumus the forfeit of his wife's infidelity. Posthumus at first doubts, as does his friend Philario, but lachimo's proofs are so strong, that he at length yields to their force, gives him indignantly the ring, and vows ven- geance on Imogen. Posthumus, now convinced of his wife's inconstancy, employs his servant Pisanio to re- pair to Britain for the purpose of murdering her ; but Pisanio, in the full belief of Imogen's innocence, ad- vises her to disguise and absent herself for a time from her father's court, and wait tiU her truth can be made apparent. Wandering in pursuit of this advice, she became very tired, and a kind Providence strangely directed her steps to the dwelling of her long-lost brothers, stolen in infancy by Belarius, a former lord in the court of Cymbeline. Belarius, banished for alleged treason, had brought the princes up in a forest, where he lived concealed in a cave. At this cave it was Imogen's fortune to arrive, and she entered at once. On lookmg about, she discovered some meat, which she began to eat. Her two brothers, who had been hunting with their reputed father, Belarius, by this time had returned home, and discovering the fair wanderer, imagined there was an angel in the cave, so beautiful did Imogen look in her boy's apparel. Imo- gen now addressed them, and begged pardon for her in- trusion, offering money for what she had eaten, which Ixvii THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS they refused to accept. They invited her (or rather him, as she is introduced by the name Fidele,) to re- main until rested suificiently to pursue the journey. When the brothers again were going out to hunt, Fi- dele could not accompany them, because she felt indis- posed. No sooner was Imogen left alone than she recollected the cordial which Pisanio had given her, drank it, and instantly fell into a death-like sleep. The phial containing this drug had been given to Pisanio by the queen, who hated him, she having ordered her physician to give her some poison, but knowing her malicious disposition, the physician gave her a drug which would cause a person to sleep with every ap- pearance of death. When Belarius and Imogen's two brothers returned to the cave, they discovered that Fidele could not be awakened by any noise ; deeming her dead, they carried her to a shady covert, and de- parted very sorrowful. Imogen had not been long left alone, when she awoke. Shaking off the leaves and flowers thrown on her, she arose, and began to re- sume her weary pilgrimage, still in her masculine attire, to seek her husband. Meantime a war had broken out between the Eoman emperor and Oymbeline ; and a Eoman army, having landed to invade Britain, had advanced into the forest where Imogen was journey- ing. She was captured, and made page to Lucius, the Roman general. Posthumus came with this army, not to fight on their side, but in the cause of the king who had banished him. A great battle ensued, which, owing to the extraordinary valor of Posthumus and the two long-lost sons of Oymbeline, proved a great victory to the Britons. When the battle was over, Posthumus surrendered himself to the otiicers of Oym- beline. Belarius, Imogen, and her master, Lucius, being taken prisoners, were brought before the king. Belarius, with Polydore and Oadwal, were also brought before Oymbeline, to receive the rewards for the great services they had rendered. Belarius chose the occasion to make his confession, and is forgiven. Oymbeline, overjoyed in having recovered his two sons, is reconciled with Posthumus and Imogen, and grants the life of the Eoman general Lucius at his daughter's request. Even the treacherous lachimo, who was among the captives, was dismissed without punishment, after acknowledging his viUany, and con- fessing how he had obtained the diamond ring found glittering on his finger. Imogen is a character it is almost impertinence to praise. She has aU Juliet's unpetuous affection ; but she is wiser far, and stands far above Posthumus. Compare her receiving lachimo's assertions of Post- humus' s infidelity with Posthumus receiving those against her. Note her noble indignation against lachimo's base proposals to her, in which the prin- cess, as well as the wife, speaks ; and then how clev- erly the villain pacifies her by praising her husband. Great is the pathos of her words over the lost brace- let. Then comes the meeting with her unknown brothers after she has heard her husband's slander ; and then her seeming death. But she rises again, unlike the unhappy Juliet, to relive her fife more truly than before — the queen, the life, the wife, of the husband she has lifted to herself, the sister of those gallant brothers, the daughter of the father, of whose comfort she was a great part. Posthumus's faith in Imogen is of the half-romantic kind; he does not understand the value of the woman he has won, and hence the sudden overthrow of that faith. Oloten is the aristocratic fool, thick-witted and vio- lent, and with all the coarse conceit of a high-born boor. Ixviii PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE. See Page 803. THE story on wh;ch this play is formed is of great antiquity. Shakespeare probably gleaned it from Lawrence Twine's novel, entitled "The Pattern of Painfull Adventures," published in 1567. That he also knew the treatise based on the same matter, viz., " Oonfessio Amantus," by Grower, appears already from the role of the chorus, which Shakespeare conveys to this ancient English poet for the elucidation of the plot and the connection of the various scenes. The English poet Dryden, in the prologue to his tragedy, "Oirce" (1677), calls "Pericles the first work born to Shakespeare's muse." This tragedy was entered at Stationers' Hall, May 2, 1608, by Edward Blount, one of the printers of the first folio edition of Shake- speare's works ; but it did not appear in print until the following year, and then it was published not by Blount, but by Henry Gosson. SCENE. — In various countries. Antiochus, king of Antioch, desirous of having his daughter remain unmarried, and thus in his own keep- ing at the palace of his court, causes her suitors to be slain if they are unable to solve a riddle which he submits to them. In this way the great beauty of the young princess, who is presumed to be a virgin, be- comes a fatal snare to the lives of numerous wooers, who, while burning with ardent love for her, rashly undertake the great task of trying to untangle the puzzle. At last the enigma is solved by Pericles, Prince of Tyre, who at once resigns all his claims on the fair girl, since he has learned with horror, from the solution of the riddle, that king and princess — father and daughter — lived together in incest. Not- withstanding this refusal to marry the princess, Peri- cles is invited by Antioch to remain as a visitor at his court for some time. But the Prince of Tyre con- cluded not to stay, since it had been intimated to him that this invitation was merely extended to consum- mate his murder, Antiochus fearing the circulation, of the report of his nefarious conduct and that of his unchaste daughter. Pericles hastened away to Tyre, but even in that city he does not feel secure against the persecution of Antioch, and, fearing that his pres- ence at home might embroil the people of his country in war, resolves to go abroad for pleasure, meantime intrusting his government to the care of Helicanus, a lord of his court and one of his most faithful advisers. Pericles goes to Tarsus, where he soon becomes be- loved, and moreover ingratiates himself with the people by rendering them aid in a terrible famine, by supplying them with stores of provisions for their relief. Oleon, the governor of Tarsus, prevails on Pericles to settle in his country, but Pericles declines, and on resuming his travels he is driven by a storm at sea to the coast of Pentapolis, where he, as victor in a tournament, wins the hand of the fair Princess Thaisa, daughter of King Simonides. After staying a year at the court of his father-in-law, Pericles starts on his return home, having previously heard the news of Antiochus's demise. The sea, never a friend to Pericles, treated him badly, for scarcely had the vessel set sail when another gale nearly wrecked the ship. The young wife of Pericles, who accompanied him, was terribly frightened by the fierceness of the tempest, and during its prevalence was confined and delivered of a daugh- ter, who, being born at sea, received the name Marina — that is, "the sea-born." Thaisa while in childbed is afiiicted with spasms and convulsions, and in this state, taken for dead, is placed in a well-sealed casket THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS and ttirown m the sea, because the storm, which was still raging with unabated violence, worked on the superstitious sailors, who did not think the sea would become calm again so long as a dead body was on board. The waves drifted the casket towards the shores of Ephesus, where Cerimon, a noble physician of great renown, soon succeeded, by means of his science and art, in reviving the apparently dead Thaisa, and restoring her again to life and vigor. Thaisa now enters the temnle of Diana as a priestess to serve that goddess. Meantime, her husband, Pericles, filled with a consuming melancholy, had intrusted his daughter to the care of Oleon and his wife Dionyza, and left Tarsus for his home in Tyre. Marina grew up at the palace of her foster-parents, and when she had reached her fourteenth year, by her matchless beauty and unequalled mental gifts, provokes the jealousy and envy of her foster-mother, whose daughter, Philoten, was entirely obscured by the brilliant charms of Marina. Dionyza, determined to rid herseK of such a rival, hires an assassin, who is just in the act of mur- dering the fair Marina when he is deprived of his victim by the sudden interference of some pirates, who wrest Marina from his clutches and escape with their fair prize to Mitylene, where they sell her to the keeper of a brothel. But the virtuous Marina knows not only how to keep herself pure and undefiled in the house of lust and sm, but also how to so impress her vicious tempters that they desist from their immoral practices. Through the intercession of the governor of Mitylene, Marina obtains her liberty, and by virtue of her many talents is enabled to maintain herself until she is found by her father, who, driven by melan- choly and despair, had again set out on his travels, and by a strange chance reached Mitylene, whence father and daughter embark for Ephesus. Here, visiting the temple of Diana, father and daughter have the inex- pressible joy of finding in the high-priestess the long- lost wife and mother. The drama concludes with Pericles and Thaisa bless- ing the nuptials of their daughter and Lysimachus, the governor of Mitylene, and giving the crown of Tyrus as a wedding-gift to the happy couple. Oleon and Dionyza, the wicked foster-mother of Thaisa, met with a sad but deserved fate at the hands of their own outraged people, who, enraged at their ingratitude towards Pericles — the friend of the citizens in their great extremity — set fire to the palace, which was burned with all its occupants in one general funeral pyre. SHAKESPEARE'S POEMS. See Page 822. BESIDES the thirty-seven plays contained in this edi- tion, Shakespeare wrote the following poems, which were at first published separately. In Venus and Adonis, entered in the Stationers' register, and printed in 1593, we have the same luxuriance of fancy, the same inten- sity of passion as in Eomeo and Juliet, unlawful as the indulgence in that passion is. From whatever source came the impulse to take from Ovid the heated story of the fierce lust of the heathen goddess, we cannot forbear noticing how, through this stifling atmosphere, the great poet has blown the fresh breezes of English meadows and woodlands. No play has fuller evidence of Shakespeare's intimate knowledge and intense de- hght in country scenes and sights. This poem was printed six times during Shakespeare's life, and was dedicated by Shakespeare, when twenty-nine years of age, to the young Earl of Southampton. TTie Rape of Lucrece followed, 1594, and was also dedicated to Southampton, as "the first heir of my invention," who, according to Sir William d'Avenant's statement, pre- sented the poet with the sum of £1000, so he might make some purchase. If the incident is accepted as a fact, it is honorable to the liberality as well as the culti- vated taste of the Earl of Southampton, and shows that the "poor Warwickshu-e lad " met with a munificent patron at an early stage of his Hterary career. The Passionate Pilgrim was printed in 1599; A Lover's Complaint, not dated; and a collection of Sonnets appeared in 1609. That some of these sonnets existed in 1598 we now know. They are so evidently intensely autobiographic and self-revealing, so one with the spirit and inner meaning of Shakespeare's growth and life, that we cannot take them in any other way than as the records of his loves and fears. Shakespeare admirers are so anxious to remove any seeming stain from the character of their ideal, that they deny that these sonnets are life pictures, forgetting how great is the difi'erence between our times and those of Queen Ehzabeth, and that an intimacy now thought crim- inal was then, in certain circles, nearly as common as hand-shaking is with us. "There are some men who love for 'love's sake,' and loving once love always; and of these was Shakespeare," says a distinguished author. "They do not lightly give their love, but once given, their faith is incorporate with their being." CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER In which the Plays of Shakespeare are supposed to have been written, ac- cording to the arrangements of CHALMERS, MALONE, AND DR. DRAKE. Chalmers and Malone reject Titus Andronicus and Pericles as spurious. Dr. Drake does not notice the former play, but, on the authority of Dryden, admits the latter as genuine, and supposes it to have been produced in 1S90. The dates -which they severally ascribe to the remaining plays are as follows : The Comedy of Errors Love's Labour's Lost EoMEO AND Juliet Henry VI., First Part .... Heney VI., Second Part .... Henry VI., Third Part .... The Two Gentlemen of Verona . Eiohard III Richard II The Merry Wives of Windsor . . Henry IV., First Part Henry IV., Second Part .... Henry V The Merchant of Venice .... Hamlet King John A Midsummer-Night's Dream . . The Taming of the Shrew . . . All's Well that Ends Well . . Much Ado about Nothing . . . As You Like It Teoilus and Ceessida Timon of Athens The Winter's Tale Measure for Measure King Lear Cymbeline Macbeth Julius O^sae Antony and Cleopatra . . . . coeiolanus The Tempest Twelfth Night; or, What You Will Henry VIII Othello Chalmers. Malone. 1591 1592 1592 1594 1592 1596 1593 1589 1595 1591 1595 1591 1595 1591 1595 1593 1596 1593 1596 1601 1596 1597 1597 1599 1597 1599 1597 1594 1597 1600 1598 1596 1598 1594 1598 1596 1599 1606 1599 1600 1599 1599 1600 1602 1601 1610 1601 1611 1604 1603 1605 1605 1606 1609 1606 1606 1607 1607 1608 1608 1609 1610 1613 1611 1613 1607 1613 1603 1614 1604 1591 1591 1593 1592 1592 1595 1595 1596 1601 1596 1596 1599 1597 1597 1598 1593 1594 1598 1599 1600 1601 1602 1610 1603 1604 1605 1606 1607 1608 1609 1611 1613 1602 1612 Ixx THE TEMPEST. BBAMATIS PEBSON^. ■^^Alonso, King af Naples. Sebastian, his brother. '^ Prospero, the right Duke of Milan. Antonio, his brother, the usurping Duke of ^ Ferdinand, son to the King of Naples. Gonzalo, an honest old Counsellor. Adrian, ] ^ , Francisco, j ^'''^^- ^ Caliban, a savage and deformed Slave. -• Trinculo, a Jester. *" Stephano, a drunken Butler. Master of a Ship. [ For an Analys «^ Boatswain. Mariners. y Miranda, daughter to Prospero. X Aiiel, an airy Spirit. Iris, Ceres, Juno, y presented by Spirits. Nymphs. Eeapers, Other Spirits attending on Prospero. SCENE— ^ ship at Sea : an island. of the Plot of this Pla ^CT I. Page XLI.] SCENE I. — On a ship at sea : a tempestioous noise of thunder and lightning heard. Enter a Ship-Master and a Boatswain. Mast, Boatswain! Boats. Here, master : what cheer ? Mast. Good, speak to the mariners: fall to 't, yarely, or we run ourselves aground : bestir, bestir. [Exit. Miter Mariners. Boats. Heigh, my hearts! cheerly, cheerly, my hearts ! yare, yare ! Take in the topsail. Tend to the master's whistle. Blow, till thou burst thy wind. If room enough ! Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Ferdinand, Gonzalo, and others. Alon. Good boatswain, have care. "Where 's the master ? Play the men. Boats. I pray now, keep below. Ant. Where is the master, boatswain ? Boats. Do you not hear him? You mar our labour : keep your cabins : you do assist the storm. 6on. Nay, good, be patient. Boats. When the sea is. Hence! What cares these roarers for the name of king ? To cabin : silence ! trouble us not. Gon. Good, yet remember whom thou hast aboard. Boats. None that I more love than myself. You are a counsellor; if you can command these ele- ments to silence, and work the peace of the present, we will not hand a rope more ; use your authority : if you cannot, give thanks you have lived so long, and make yourself ready in your cabin for the mis- chance of the hour, if it so hap. Cheerly, good hearts ! Out of our way, I say. [Exit. Gon. I have great comfoii; from this fellow : me- thinks he hath no drowning mark upon him ; his complexion is perfect gallows. Stand fast, good Fate, to his hanging : make the rope of his destiny our cable, for our owai doth little advantage. If he be not born to be hanged, our case is miserable. [Exeunt. He-enter Boatswain. Boats. Down with the topmast! yare! lower, lower ! Bring her to try with main-course. [A cry within.] A plague upon this howling! they are louder than the weather or our office. Be-enter Sebastian, Antonio, and Gonzalo. Yet again ! what do you here ? Shall we give o'er and drown ? Have you a mind to sink ? Seh. A pox o' your throat, you bawling, blas- phemous, incharitable dog ! Boats. Work you then. Ant. Hang, cur! hang, you whoreson, insolent noisemaker! We are less afraid to be drowned than thou art. Gon. I '11 warrant him for drowning; though the ship were no stronger than a nutshell and as leaky as an unstanched wench. Boats. Lay her a-hold, a-hold ! set her two courses off to sea again ; lay her off. Miter Mariners wet. Mariners. All lost ! to prayers, to prayers ! all lost ! -Boats. What, must our mouths be cold ? Gon. The king and prince at prayers ! let 's assist For our case is as theirs. [them, Seh. I 'm out of patience. Ant. We are merely cheated of our lives by drunk- ards : This wide-chapp'd rascal — would thou mightst lie drowning The washing of ten tides ! Gon. He '11 be hang'd yet, Though every drop of water swear against it And gape at vddest to glut him. [A confused noise within : ' Mercy on us ! ' — ' We split, we split ! ' — ' Farewell my wife and chil- dren ! '— [split ! '] 'Farewell, brother !' — ' We split, we split, we Ant. Let 's all sink with the king. Seb. Let 's take leave of him. [Exeunt Ant. and Seb. Gon. Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground, long heath, brovm furze, any thing. The wills above be done ! but I would fain die a dry death. [Exeunt. 1 ACT I, THE TEMPEST. SCENE II. SCENE II. — The island. Before Prosperous cell. Enter Prospero and Miranda. Mir. If by your art, my clearest father, you have Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them. The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch. But that the sea, mounting to the welkin's cheek, Dashes the fire out. O, I have suffered With those that I saw suffer : a brave vessel, Who had, no doubt, some noble creature 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 ere It should the good ship so have swallow'd and The fraughting souls within her. Pros. Be collected : No more amazement : tell your piteous heart There 's no harm done. Mir. O, woe the day ! Pros. i^sTo 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. Mir. More to know Did never meddle with my thoughts. Pros. 'T is time I should inform thee farther. Lend thy hand. And pluck my magic garment from me. So : [Lays down his 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 ordered that there is no soul — No, not so much perdition as an hair Betid to any creature in the vessel ^hich thou heard'st cry, which thou saw'st sink. Sit down ; For thou must now know farther. Mir. You have often JBegun to tell me what I am, but stopp'd And left me to a bootless inquisition, ■Concluding ' Stay: not yet.' Pros. The hour 's now come ; The very minute bids thee ope thine ear; Obey and be attentive. Canst thou remember A time before we came unto this cell ? I do not think thou canst, for then thou wast not Out three years old. Mir. Certainly, sir, I can. Pros. By what ? by any other house or person ? Of any thing the image tell me that Hath kept with thy remembrance. Mir. 'T is 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 ? [is it Pros. Thou hadst, and more, Miranda. But how That this lives in thy mind ? What seest thou else In the dark backward and abysm of time ? If thou remember'st aught ere thou camest here, How thou camest here thou mayst. Mir. But that I do not. Pros. Twelve year since, Miranda, twelve year Thy father was the Duke of Milan and [since, A prince of power. Mir. Sir, are not you my father ? Pros. Thy mother was a piece of virtue, and She said thou wast my daughter ; and thy father Was Duke of Milan ; and thou his only heir And princess no worse issued. Mir. O the heavens ! 2 What foul play had we, that we came from thence ? Or blessed was 't we did ? Pros. Both, both, my girl : By foul play, as thou say'st, were we heaved thence, But blessedly holp hither. Mir. O, my heart bleeds To think o' the teen that I have turn'd you to, Which is from my remembrance ! Please you, farther, Pr. My brother and thy uncle, call'd Antonio — I pray thee, mark me— that a brotlier should Be so perfidious ! — he whom next thyself Of all the world I loved and to him put The manage of my state ; as at that time Through all the signories it was the first And Prospero the prime duke, being so reputed In dignity, and for the liberal arts Without a parallel ; those being all my study, The government I cast upon my brother And to my state grew stranger, being transported And rapt in secret studies. Thy false uncle — Dost thou attend me ? Mir. Sir, most heedfuUy. Pros. Being once perfected how to grant suits. How to deny them, who to advance and who To trash for over-topping, new created The creatures that were mine, I say, or changed 'em, Or else new form'd 'em ; having both the key Of officer and office, set all hearts i' the state To what tune pleased his ear ; that now he was The ivy which had hid my princely trunk, [not. And suck'd my verdure out on 't. Thou attend'st Mir. O, good sir, I do. P7-0S. I pray thee, mark me. I, thus neglecting worldly ends," all dedicated To closeness and the bettering of my mind With that which, but by being so retired, O'er-prized all popular rate, in my false brother Awaked 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 into 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 o' the substitution, And executing the outward face of royalty. With all prerogative : hence his ambition growing — Dost thou hear ? Mir. Your tale, sir, would cure deafness. Pros. To have no screen between this part he And him he play'd it for, he needs will be [play'd Absolute Milan. Me, poor man, my library Was dukedom large enough : of temporal royalties He thinks me now incapable ; confederates — So dry he was for sway — wi' 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. Mir. O the heavens ! Pros. Mark his condition and the event ; then tell If this might be a brother. [me Mir. I should shi To think but nobly of my grandmother : Good wombs have borne bad sons. Pros. Now the condition. 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 mucli tribute, Should presently extirpate me and mine Out of the dukedom and confer fair Milan With all the honours on my brother : whereon, A treacherous army levied, one midnight ACT I. THE TEMPEST. SCENE II. Fated to the purpose did Antonio open The gates of Milan, and, i' the dead of darkness, The ministers for the purpose hurried tlience Me and thy crying self. Mir. Alack, for pity ! I, not remembering how I cried out then, Will cry it o'er again : it is a hint That wrings mine eyes to 't. Pros. Hear a little further And then I '11 bring thee to the present business Which now 's upon 's ; without the which this story Were most impertinent. Mir. Wlierefore did they not That hour destroy us ? Pros. Well demanded, wench : 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 colours fairer painted their foul ends. In few, they hurried us aboard a bark. Bore us some leagues to sea ; where they prepared A rotten carcass 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, sighing back again. Did us but loving wrong. Mir. Alack, what trouble Was I then to you ! Pros. O, a cherubin Thou wast that did preserve me. Thou didst smile, Infused with a fortitude from heaven, When I have deck'd the sea with drops full salt, Under my burthen groan 'd ; which raised in me An undergoing stomach, to bear up Against what should ensue. Mir. How came we ashore ? Pros. By providence divine. Some food we had and some fresh water that A noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo, Out of his charity, being then appointed Master of this design, did give us, with Rich garments, linens, stuffs and necessaries, [ness. Which since have steaded much ; so, of his gentle- Knowing I loved my books, he furnish 'd me From mine own library with volumes that I prize above my dukedom. Mir. Would I might But ever see that man ! Pros, Now I arise : [Besumes his mantle. Sit still, and hear the last of our sea-sorrow. Here in this island we arrived ; and here Have I, thy schoolmaster, made thee more profit Than other princesses can that have more time For vainer hours and tutors not so careful, [you, sir, Mir. Heavens thank you for 't ! And now, I pray For still 'tis beating in my mind, your reason Tor raising this sea-storm ? Pros. Know thus far forth. By accident most strange, bountiful Fortune, Now my 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 inclined to sleep ; 't is a good dulness. And give it way ; I know thou canst not choose. [Miranda sleeps. Come away, servant, come. I am ready now. Approach, my Ariel, come. Enter Ariel. Ari. All hail, great master! grave 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. Pros. Hast thou, spirit, Perform 'd to point the tempest that I bade thee ? Ari. To every article. I boarded the king's ship ; now on the beak, Now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin, I flamed amazement : sometime I 'Id divide, And burn in many places ; on the topmast, The yards and bowsprit, would I flame distinctly. Then meet and join. Jove's lightnings, the precursors 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 to besiege and make his bold waves tremble. Yea, his dread trident shake. Pros. My brave spirit I 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 Plunged in the foaming brine and quit the vessel, Then all afire with me : the king's son, Ferdinand, With hair up-staring, — then like reeds, not hair, — Was the first man that leap'd ; cried, ' Hell is empty, And all the devils are here.' Pros. Why, that 's my spirit ! But was not this nigh shore ? Ari. Close by, my master. Pros. But are they, Ariel, safe ? Ari. Not a hair perish 'd ; On their sustaining garments not a blemish, But fresher than before : and, as thou badest me, In troops I have dispersed 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. Pros. Of the king's ship The mariners say how thou hast disposed And all the rest o' the fleet. Ari. Safely in harbour 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'd Bermoothes, there she 's hid: The mariners all under hatches stow'd ; Who, with a charm join'd to their suffer'd labour, I have left asleep : and for the rest o' the fleet Which I dispersed, they all have met again And are upon the Mediterranean flote, Bound sadly home for Naples, Supposing that they saw the king's ship wreck 'd And his great person perish. Pros. Ariel, thy charge Exactly is perform 'd : but there 's more work. What is the time o' the day ? Ari. Past the mid season. Pros. At least two glasses. The time 'twixt six Must by us both be spent most preciously, [and now Ari. Is there more toil ? Since thou dost give me pains, Let me remember thee what thou hast promised, Which is not yet perform 'd me. Pros. How now ? moody ? What is 't thou canst demand ? Ari. My liberty. Pros. Before the time be out ? no more ! Ari. I prithee, Remember I have done thee worthy service ; Told thee no lies, made thee no mistakings, served Without or grudge or grumblings: thou didst To bate me a full year. [promise Pros. Dost thou forget From what a torment I did free thee ? Ari. No. Pros. Thou dost, and thiuk'st it much to tread Of the salt deep, [the ooze 3 ACT I. THE TEMPEST. SCENE II. To run upon the sliarp wind of the north, To do me business in the veins o' the earth When it is baked with frost. Ari. I do not, sir. [forgot Pros. Thou liest, malignant thing! Hast thou The foul witch Sycorax, who with age and envy Was grown into a hoop ? hast thou forgot her ? J.n. No, sir. [speak ; tell me. Pros. Thou hast. Where was she born? Ari. Sir, in Argier. Pros. O, was she so ? I must Once in a month recount what thou hast been, Which thou forget 'st. This damn'd witch Sycorax, For mischiefs manifold and sorceries terrible To enter human hearing, from Argier, Thou know'st, was banish 'd: for one thing she did They Avould not take her life. Is not this true ? Ari. Ay, sir. [with child Pros, 'this blue-eyed hag was hither brought And here was left by the sailors. Thou, my slave, As thou report 'st thyself, wast then her servant ; And, for thou wast a spirit too delicate To act her earthy and abhorr'd commands. Refusing her grand bests, 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 didst painfully remain A dozen years : within which space she died And left thee there; where thou didst vent thy groans As fast as mill-wheels strike. Then was this island — Save for the son that she did litter here, A freckled whelp hag-born — not honour'd with A human shape. Ari. Yes, Caliban her son. Pros. 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 : it was a torment To lay upon the damn'd, which Sycorax Could not again undo : it was mine art. When I arrived and heard thee, that made gape The pine and let thee out. Ari. I thank thee, master. Pr. 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. Pros. Do so, and after two days I will discharge thee. Ari. That 's my noble master ! What shall I do ? say what ; what shall I do ? Pros. Go make thyself like a nymph o' the sea : be To no sight but thine and mine, invisible [subject To every eyeball else. Go take this shape And hither come in 't : go, hence with diligence ! [Exit Ariel. Awake, dear heart, awake ! thou hast slept well ; Awake ! Mir. The strangeness of your story put Heaviness in me. Pros. Shake it oif . Come on ; We '11 visit Caliban my slave, who never Yields us kind answer. Mir. 'T is a villain, sir, I do not love to look on. Pros. 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. [ Withiyi] There 's wood enough within. Pros. Come forth, I say ! there 's other business Come, thou tortoise ! when ? [for thee : Re-enter Ariel like a loater-nymph. Fine apparition ! My quaint Ariel, Hark in thine ear. Ari. My lord, it shall be done. [Exit. Pros. Thou poisonous slave, got by the devil him- Upon thy wicked dam, come forth ! [self Enter Caliban. Cal. 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 ! [cramps, Pros. For this, be sure, to-night thou shalt have 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 honeycomb, each pinch more stinging Than bees that made 'em. Cal. I must eat my dinner. This island 's mine, by Sycorax my mother. Which thou takest from me. When thou camest first, Thou strokedst me and madest much of me, wouldst Water with berries in 't, and teach me how [give me To name the bigger light, and how the less. That burn by day and night : and then I loved thee And show'd thee all the qualities o' the isle. The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place and fer- Cursed be I that did so ! All the charms [tile : Of Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on you I For I am all the subjects that you have, Which first was mine own king : and here you sty me In this hard rock, whiles you do keep from me The rest o' the island. Pros. Thou most lying slave, [thee. Whom stripes may move, not kindness ! I have used Filth as thou art, with human care, and lodged thee In mine own cell, till thou didst seek to violate The honour of my child. Cal. O ho, O ho ! would 't had been done ! Thou didst prevent me ; I had peopled else This isle with Calibans. Pros. Abhorred slave. Which any print of goodness wilt 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 didst not, savage. Know thine own meaning, but wouldst gabble like A thing most brutish, I endow 'd thy purposes With words that made them known. But thy vile race, [natures Though thou didst learn, had that in 't which good Could not abide to be with ; therefore wast thou Deservedly confined into this rock. Who hadst deserved 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 ! Pros. Hag-seed, hence ! Fetch us in fuel ; and be quick, thou 'rt best, To answer other business. Shrug'st thou, malice ? If thou neglect 'st or dost unwillingly What I command, I '11 rack thee with old cramps. Fill all thy bones with aches, make thee roar That beasts shall tremble at thy din. Cal. N"o, pray thee. [Asicle'\ I must obey : his art is of such power, It would control my dam's god, Setebos, And make a vassal of him. Pros. So, slave ; hence ! [Exit Caliban. Pe-enter Ariel, invisible, playing and singing; Fer- dinand folloioing. Ariel's song. Come unto these yellow sands. And tlien take hands : Courtsied when you have and kiss'd The wild waves whist, ACT I. THE TEMPEST. SCENE II. Foot it featly here and there ; And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear. Burtliea [dispersedly]. Hark, hark ! Bow-wow. The watch-dogs bark : Bow-wow. Art. Hark, hark ! I hear The strain of strutting chanticleer Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow. lir. Wliere should this music be? i' the air or the It sounds no more; and, sure, it waits upon [earth? Some god o' 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. 2^0, it begins again. Ariel sings. Full fathom five thy father lies ; Of his bones are coral made ; Those are pearls that were his eyes : Nothing of him that doth fade But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange. Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell : Burthen. Ding-dong. Ari. Hark! now I hear them, — Ding-dong, bell. Fer. The ditty does remember my drown'd father. This is no mortal business, nor no sound That the earth owes. I hear it now above me. Pros. The fringed curtains of thine eye advance And say what thou seest yond. Mir. What is 't ? a spirit ? Lord, how it looks about ! Believe me, sir. It carries a brave form. But 't is a spirit, [senses Pros. jSTo, wench ; it eats and sleeps and hath such 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 mightst A goodly person : he hath lost his fellows [call him And strays about to find 'em. Mir. I might call him A thing divine, for nothing natural I ever saw so noble. Pros. [Aside] It goes on, I see, [free thee As my soul prompts it. Spirit, tine spirit! I'll Within two days for this. 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, O you wonder ! If you be maid or no ? Mir. No wonder, sir ; But certainly a maid. Fer. My language ! heavens I I am the best of them that speak this speech. Were I but where 'tis spoken. Pros. How ? the best ? What wert thou, if the King of Naples heard thee ? 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, never since at ebb, beheld The king my father wreck'd. Mir. Alack, for mercy ! Fer. Yes, faith, and all his lords ; the Duke of And his brave son being twain. . [Milan Pros. [Aside] The Duke of Milan And his more braver daughter could control thee. If now 't were fit to do 't. At the first sight They have changed eyes. Delicate Ariel, [sir ; I '11 set thee free for this. [To Fer.] A word, good I fear you have done yourself some wrong : a word. Mir. Why speaks my father so ungently ? 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 inclined my way ! Fer. O, if a virgin. And your affection not gone forth, 1 '11 make you The queen of Naples. Pros. Soft, sir ! one word more. [Aside] They are both in either's powers ; but this swift business I must uneasy make, lest too light Avinning Make the prize light. [To Fer.] One word more; I charge thee That thou attend me : thou dost here usurp The name thou owest 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. Mir. There's nothing ill can dwell in such a If the ill spirit have so fair a house, [temple : Good things will strive to dwell with 't. Pros. Follow me. Speak not you for him ; he 's a traitor. Come ; I '11 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. [Draws, and is charmed from moving. Mir. O dear father. Make not too rash a trial of him, for He 's gentle and not fearful. Pros. What ? I say. My foot my tutor ? Put thy sword up, traitor ; Who makest a show but darest not strike, thy con- science Is so possess 'd with guilt : come from thy ward, For I can here disarm thee with this stick And make thy weapon drop. Mir. Beseech you, father. Pros. Hence ! hang not on my garments. Mir. Sir, have pity ; I '11 be his surety. Pros. Silence ! one word more Shall make me chide thee, if not hate thee. What ! An advocate for an impostor ! hush ! Thou think'st there is 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. Mir. My affections Are then most humble ; I have no ambition To see a goodlier man. Pros. Come on ; obey : Thy nerves are in their infancy again And have no vigour in them. Fer. So they are ; My spirits, as in a dream, are all bound up. My father's loss, the weakness Avhich I feel. The wreck of all my friends, nor this man's threats, To whom I am subdued, ai-e but light to me. Might I but through my prison once a day Behold this maid : all corners else o' the earth Let liberty make use of ; space enough Have I in such a prison. Pros. [Aside] It works. [To Fer.] Come on. Thou hast done well, fine Ariel! [To Fer.] Follow [Tb Ari.] Hark what thou else shalt do me. [me. Mir. Be of comfort ; My father 's of a better nature, sir. Than he appears by speech : this is unwonted Which now came from him. Pros. Thou shalt be as free As mountain winds : but then exactly do All points of my command. Ari. To the syllable. Pros. Come, follow. Speak not for him. [Exeunt. 5 THE TEMPEST. SCENE I. ^OT II. SCENE I. — Another part of the island. Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Gonzalo, Adrian, Francisco, and others. Gon. Beseech you, sir, be merry ; you have cause, So have we all, of joy ; for our escape Is much beyond our loss. Our hint of woe Is common ; every day some sailor's wife, The masters of some merchant and the merchant Have just our theme of woe ; but for the miracle, I mean our preservation, few in millions Can speak like us : then wisely, good sir, weigh Our sorrow with our comfort. Alon. Prithee, peace. Seb. He receives comfort like cold porridge. Ant. The visitor will not give him o'er so. Seb. Look, he 's winding up the watch of his wit ; Gon. Sir, — [by and by it will strike. Seb. One: tell. [offer'd, Gon. When every grief is entertain 'd that's Comes to the entertainer — Seb. A dollar, [spoken truer than you purposed. Gon. Dolour comes to him, indeed: you have Seb. You have taken it wiselier than I meant Gon. Therefore, my lord, — [you should. Ant. Fie, what a spendthrift is he of his tongue ! Alon. I prithee, spare. Gon. Well, I have done : but yet, — Seb. He will be talking. [first begins to crow ? Ant. Which, of he or Adrian, for a good wager, Seb. The old cock. Ant. The cockerel. Seb. Done. The wager ? Ant. A laughter. Seb. A match ! Adr. Though this island seem to be desert, — Seb. Ha, ha, ha! So, you 're paid. Adr. Uninhabitable and almost inaccessible,— Seb. Yet,— Adr. Yet,— Ant. He could not miss 't. [cate temperance. Adr. It must needs be of subtle, tender and deli- Ant. Temperance was a delicate wench, [livered. Seb. Ay, and a subtle ; as he most learnedly de- Adr. The air breathes upon us here most sweetly. Seb. As if it had lungs and rotten ones. Ant. Or as 't were perfumed by a fen. Gon. Here is everything advantageous to life. Ant. True ; save means to live. Seb. Of that there 's none, or little. [green ! Gon. How lush and lusty the grass looks ! how Ant. The ground indeed is tawny. Seb. With an eye of green in 't. Ant. He misses not much. Seb. No ; he doth but mistake the truth totally. Gon. But the rarity of it is, — which is indeed al- most beyond credit, — Seb. As many vouched rarities are. Gon. That our garments, being, as they were, drenched in the sea, hold notwithstanding their freshness and glosses, being rather new-dyed than stained with salt water. [it not say he lies V Ant. If but one of his pockets could speak,would Seb. Ay, or very falsely pocket up his report. Gon. Methinks our garments are now as fresh as when we put them on first in Afric, at the marriage of the king's fair daughter Claribel to the King of Tunis. [well in our return. Seb. 'Twas a sweet marriage, and we prosper Adr. Tunis was never graced before with such a paragon to their queen. Gon. Not since widow Dido's time. Ant. Widow! a pox o' that! How came that widow in Y widow Dido ! Seb. What if he had said ' widower >i3Eneas ' too? Good Lord, how you take it ! Adr. 'Widow Dido' said you? you make me study of that : she was of Carthage, not of Tunis. Gon. This Tunis, sir, was Carthage. Adr. Carthage? Gon. I assure you, Carthage. Seb. His word is more than the miraculous harp; he hath raised the wall and houses too. Ant. What impossible matter will he make easy next ? Seb. I think he will carry this island home in his pocket and give it his son for an apple. Ant. And, sowing the kernels of it in the sea, Gon. Ay. [bring forth more islands. Ant. Why, in good time. Gon. Sir, we were talking that our garments seem now as fresh as when we were at Tunis at the marriage of your daughter, who is now queen. Ant. And the rarest that e'er came there. Seb. Bate, I beseech you, widow Dido. Ant. O, widow Dido! ay, widow Dido. Gon. Is not, sir, my doublet as fresli as the first day I wore it ? I mean, in a sort. Ant. That sort was well fished for. [riage ? Gon. When I wore it at your daughter's mar- Alon. You cram these words into mine ears against The stomach of my sense. Would I had never Married my daughter there ! for, coming thence, My son is lost and, in my rate, she too, Who is so far from Italy removed I ne'er again shall see her. O thou mine heir Of Naples and of Milan, what strange fish Hath made his meal on thee ? Fran. Sir, he may live : I saw him beat the surges under him. And ride upon their backs ; he trod the water. Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted The surge most swoln that met him ; his bold head 'Bove the contentious waves he kept, and oar'd Himself with his good arms in lusty stroke To the shore, that o'er his wave-worn basis bow'd, As stooping to relieve him : I not doubt He came alive to land. Alon. No, no, he 's gone. [loss, Seb. Sir, you may thank yourself for this great That would not bless our Europe with your daugh- But rather lose her to an African ; [ter, Where she at least is banish 'd from yom' eye. Who hath cause to wet the grief on 't. Alon. Prithee, peace. Seb. You were kneel 'd to and importuned other- By all of us, and the fair soul herself [wise Weigh 'd between loathness and obedience, at Which end o' the beam should bow. We have lost I fear, for ever: Milan and Naples have [your son, More widows in them of this business' making Than we bring men to comfort them : The fault 's your own. Alon. So is the dear'st o' the loss. Gon. My lord Sebastian, The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness And time to speak it in : you rub the sore, When you should bring the plaster. Seb. Very well. Ant. And most chirurgeonly. Gon. It is foul weather in us all, good sir, When you are cloudy. Seb. Foul weather ? Ant. Very foul. Gon. Had I plantation of this isle, my lord,— Ant. He 'Id sow 't with nettle-seed. Seb. Or docks, or mallows. Gon. And were the khig on 't, what would I do ? ACT IT. THE TEMPEST. SCENE I. Seb. 'Scape being drunk foi- want of wine. Gon. V the commonwealth I would by contraries Execute all things ; for no kind of traffic Would I admit ; no name of magistrate ; Letters should not be known ; riches, poverty, And use of service, none; contract, succession, Bourn, bound of land, tilth, vineyard, none; No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil ; No occupation ; all men idle, all ; And women too, but innocent and pure ; No sovereignty; — Seh. Yet he would be king on't. Ant. The latter end of his commonwealth forgets the beginning. Gon . All things in common nature should produce Without sweat or endeavour : treason, felony, Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine. Would I not have ; but nature should bring forth, Of its own kind, all foison, all abundance. To feed my innocent people. Seh. No marrying 'mong his subjects ? Ant. None, man ; all idle : whores and knaves. Gon. I would with such perfection govern, sir, To excel the golden age. Seh. God save his majesty I Ant. Long live Gonzalo ! Gon. And, — do you mark me, sir ? Alon. Prithee, no more : thou dost talk nothing to me. Gon. I do well believe your highness ; and did it to minister occasion to these gentlemen, who are of such sensible and nimble lungs that they always use to laugh at nothing. Ant. 'T was you we laughed at. Gon. Who in this kind of merry fooling am nothing to you : so you may continue and laugh at nothing Ant. What a blow was there given ! [still. Seb. An it had not fallen flat-long. Gon. You are gentlemen of brave mettle; you would lift the moon out of her sphere, if she would continue in it five weeks without changing. Enter Ariel, invisihle, playing solemn music. Seh. We would so, and then go a bat-fowling. Ant. Nay, good my lord, be not angry. Gon. No, I warrant you; I will not adventure my discretion so weakly. Will you laugh me asleep, for Ant. Go sleepj and hear us. [I am very heavy ? [All sleep except Alon., Seb., and Ant. Alon. What, all so soon asleep ! I wish mine eyes Would , with themselves, shut up my thoughts : I find They are inclined to do so. Seh. Please you, sir. Do not omit the heavy olf er of it : It seldom visits sorrow; when it doth, It is a comforter. Ant. We two, my lord. Will guard your person while you take your rest. And watch your safety. Alon. Thank you. Wondrous heavy. [Alonso sleeps. Exit Ariel. Seh. What a strange drowsiness possesses them! Ant. It is the quality o' the climate. Seh. Why Doth it not then our eyelids sink ? I find not Myself disposed to sleep. Ant. Nor I ; my spirits are nimble. They fell together all, as by consent ; They dropp'd, as by a thunder-stroke. What might. Worthy Sebastian ? O , what might ? — No more : — And yet me thinks I see it in thy face. What thou shouldst be : the occasion speaks thee, and My strong imagination sees a crovioi Dropping upon thy head. Seb. AVhat, art thou waking ? Ant. Do you not hear me speak ? Seb. I do ; and surely It is a sleepy language and thou speak 'st Out of thy sleep. What is it thou didst say ? This is a strange repose, to be asleep With eyes wide open ; standing, speaking, moving, And yet so fast asleep. Ant. Noble Sebastian, Thou let'st thy fortune sleep— die, rather; wink'st Whiles thou art waking. Seb. Thou dost snore distinctly; There 's meaning in thy snores. Ant. I am more serious than my custom : you Must be so too, if heed me ; which to do Trebles thee o'er. Seb. Well, I am standing water. Ant. I'll teach you how to flow. Seb. Do so : to ebb Hereditary sloth instructs me. Ant. O, If you but knew how you the purpose cherish Whiles thus you mock it ! how, in stripping it, You more invest it ! Ebbing men, indeed, Most often do so near the bottom run By their own fear or sloth. Seb. Prithee, say on : The setting of thine eye and cheek proclaim A matter from thee, and a birth indeed Which throes thee much to yield. Ant. Thus, sir : Although this lord of weak remembrance, this, Who shall be of as little memory When he is earth 'd, hath here almost persuaded,— For he 's a spirit of persuasion, only Professes to persuade, — the king his son 's alive, 'T is as impossible that he 's undrown'd As he that sleeps here swims. Seh. I have no hope That he 's undrown'd. Ant. O, out of that ' no hope ' What great hope have you ! no hope that way is Another way so high a hope that even Ambition cannot pierce a wink beyond. But doubt discovery there. Will you grant with me That Ferdinand is drown 'd ? Seh. He 's gone. Ant. Then, tell me. Who 's the next heir of Naples ? Seh. Claribel. Ant. She that is queen of Tunis ; she that dwells Ten leagues beyond man's life; she that from Naples Can have no note, unless the sun were post — The man i' the moon 's too slow — till new-born chins Be rough and razorable ; she that — from whom ? J^e all were sea-swallow 'd, though some cast again, '^nd by that destiny to perform an act Whereof what 's past is prologue, what to come jIn yours and my discharge. ^^^Seb. What stuff is this ! how say you ? 'T is true, my brother's daughter 's queen of Timis ; So is she heir of Naples ; 'twixt which regions There is some space. Ant. A space whose every cubit Seems to cry out, ' How sliall that Claribel Measure us back to Naples Y Keep in Tunis, And let Sebastian wake.' Say, this were death That now liath seized them; why, they were no worse Than now they are. There be that can rule Naples As well as he that sleeps ; lords that can prate As amply and unnecessarily As this Gonzalo ; I myself could make A chough of as deep chat. O, that you bore The mind that I do ! what a sleep were this For your advancement ! Do you understand me ? Seb. Methinks I do. Ant. And how does your content Tender your own good fortune ? Seh. I remember You did supplant your brother Prospero. 7 ACT II. THE TEMPEST. SCENE II. Ant. True : And look how well my garments sit upon me ; Much feater than before : my brother's servants Were then my fellows ; now they are my men. Seb. But, for j^our conscience ? Ant. Ay, sir; where lies that ? if 'twere a kibe, 'T would put me to my slipper : but I feel not This deity in my bosom : twenty consciences. That stand 'twi'xt me and Milan, candied be they And melt ere they molest ! Here lies your brother, ISTo better than the earth he lies upon. If he were that which now he 's like, that 's dead; "Whom I, with this obedient steel, three inches of it. Can lay to bed for ever ; whiles you, doing thus, To the perpetual wink for aye might put This ancient morsel, this Sir Prudence, who Should not upbraid our course. For all the rest, They '11 take suggestion as a cat laps milk ; They '11 tell the clock to any business that We say befits the hour. Seb. Thy case, dear friend, Shall be my precedent; as thou got'st Milan, I '11 come by jSTaples. Draw thy sword : one stroke Shall free thee from the tribute which thou payest ; And I the king shall love thee. Ant. Draw together ; And when I rear my hand, do you the like. To fall it on Gonzalo. Seb. O, but one word. {They talk apart. Re-enter Ariel Ari. My master through his art foresees the danger That you, his friend, are in ; and sends me forth — For else his project dies — to keep them living. [Sings in GonzaWs ear. While you here do snoring lie, Open-eyed conspiracy His time doth take. If of life you keep a care, Shake off slumber, and beware : Awake, awake ! Ant. Then let us both be sudden. Gon. Now, good angels Preserve the king. VThetj ivake. Alon. Why, how now? ho, awake! Why are Wherefore this ghastly looking ? [you drawn ? Gon. What 's the matter ? Seb. Whiles we stood here securing your repose. Even now, we heard a hollow burst of bellowing Like bulls, or rather lions : did 't not wake you V It struck mine ear most terribly. Alon. I heard nothing. Ant. O, 't was a din to fright a monster's ear. To make an earthquake ! sure, it was the roar Of a whole herd of lions. Alon. Heard you this, Gonzalo ? Gon. Upon mine honour, sir, I heard a humming. And that a strange one too, which did awake me : I shaked you, sir, and cried : as mine eyes open'd, I saw their weapons drawn: there was a noise. That 's verily. 'T is best we stand upon our guard. Or that we quit this place: let 's draw our weapons. Alon. Lead off this ground ; and let 's make f ur- For my poor son. [ther search Gron. Heavens keep him from these beasts ! For he is, sure, i' the island. Alon. Lead away. [done : Ari. Prospero my lord shall know Avhat I have So, king, go safely on to seek thy son. [Exeunt. SCENE II. — Another part of the island. Enter Caliban ivith a burden of wood. A noise of thunder heard. Cal. All the infections that the sun sucks up From bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall and make him By inch-meal a disease ! His spirits hear me And yet I needs must curse. But they '11 nor pinch, 8 Fright me with urchin-shows, pitch me i' the mire, Nor lead me, like a firebrand, in the dark Out of my way, unless he bid 'em ; but For every trifle are they set upon me ; Sometime like apes that mow and chatter at me And after bite me, then like hedgehogs which Lie tumbling in my barefoot way and mount Their pricks at my footfall ; sometime am I All wound with adders who with cloven tongues Do hiss me into madness. Enter Trinculo. Lo, now, lo ! Here comes a spirit of his, and to torment me For bringing wood in slowly. I '11 fall flat ; Perchance lie will not mind me. Trin. Here 's neither bush nor shrub, to bear off any weather at all, and another storm brewing; I hear it sing i' the wind: yond same black cloud, yond huge one, looks like a foul bombard that would shed his liquor. If it should thunder as it did be- fore, I know not where to hide my head : j^ond same cloud cannot choose but fall by pailfuls. What have we here ? a man or a fish ? dead or alive ? A fish : he smells like a fish ; a very ancient and fish- like smell ; a kind of not of the newest Poor-John. A strange fish ! Were I in England now, as once I was, and had but this fish painted, not a holiday fool there but would give a piece of silver : there would this monster make a man ; any strange beast there makes a man : when they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see a dead Indian. Legged like a man! and his fins like arms ! Warm o' my troth ! I do now let loose my opinion; hold it no longer: this is no fish, but an islander, that hath lately suffered by a thunder- bolt. [Thunder.] Alas, the storm is come again! my best way is to creep under his gaberdine ; there is no other shelter hereabout : misery acquaints a man with strange bed-fellows. I will here shroud till the dregs of the storm be past. Enter Stephano, singing : a bottle in his hand. Ste. I shall no more to sea, to sea, Here shall I die ashore — This is a very scurvy tune to sing at a man's funeral : well, here 's my comfort. [Brinks. [Sings. The master, the swabber, the boatswain and I, The gunner and his mate Loved Mall, Meg and Marian and Margery, But none of us cared for Kate ; For she had a tongue with a tang. Would cry to a sailor. Go hang ! She loved not the savour of tar nor of pitch, Yet a tailor might scratch her where'er she did Then to sea, boys, and let her go hang ! [itch : This is a scurvy tune too : but here 's my comfort. [Brinks. Cal. Do not torment me : Oh ! Ste. What 's the matter ? Have we devils here ? Do you put tricks upon 's with savages and men of Ind, ha ? I have not scaped drowning to be afeard now of your four legs; for it hath been said. As proper a man as ever went on four legs cannot make him give ground ; and it shall be said so again while Stephano breathes at 's nostrils. Cal. The spirit torments me ; Oh ! Ste. This is some monster of the isle with four legs, who hath got, as I take it, an ague. Where the devil should he learn our language ? I will give him some relief, if it be but for that. If I can re- cover him and keep him tame and get to Naples with him, he 's a present for any emperor that ever trod on neat's-leather. Cal. Do not torment me, prithee ; I '11 bring my wood home faster. ACT II] THE TEMPEST. SCENE Sit. He 's in his fit now and does not talk after the wisest. He shall taste of my bottle : if he have never drunk wine afore, it will go near to remove his fit. If I can recover him and keep him tame, I will not take too much for him ; he shall pay for him that hath him, and that soundly. Gal. Thou dost me yet but little hurt; thou wilt anon, I know it by thy trembling; now Prosper works upon thee. Su. Come on your ways ; open your mouth ; here is that which will give language to you, cat : open your mouth; this will shake your shaking, I can tell you, and that soundly : you cannot tell who 's your friend : open your chaps again. Trin. I should know that voice : it should be — but he is drowTied ; and these are devils : O defend me! SU. Four legs and two voices: a most delicate monster ! His forward voice now is to speak well of his friend ; his backward voice is to utter foul speeches and to detract. If all the wine in my bottle will recover him, I will help his ague. Come. Amen ! I will pour some in thy other mouth. Trin. Stephano! Ste. Doth thy other mouth call me? Mercy, mercy! This is a devil, and no monster: I will leave him; I have no long spoon. Trin. Stephano ! If thou beest Stephano, touch me and speak to me; for I am Trinculo — be not afeard — thy good friend Trinculo. SU. If thou beest Trinculo, come forth: I '11 pull thee by the lesser legs : if any be Trinculo's legs^ these are they. Thou art very Trinculo indeed! How camest thou to be the siege of this moon-calf ? can he vent TrinciUos ? Trin. I took him to be killed with a thunder- stroke. But art thou not drowned, Stephano ? I hope now thou art not drowned. Is the storm over- blown ? I hid me under the dead moon-calf's gaber- dine for fear of the storm. And art thou living^ Stephano? O Stephano, two Neapolitans 'scaped! /Sfe. Prithee, do not turn me about ; my stomach is not constant. Gal. \As%d,i\ These be fine things, an if they be not sprites. That 's a brave god and bears celestial liquor. I will kneel to him. Ste. How didst thou 'scape ? How camest thou hither ? swear by this bottle how thou camest hither. I escaped upon a butt of sack Avhich the sailors heaved o'erboard, by this bottle ! which I made of the bark of a tree with mine own hands since I was cast ashore. Gal. I '11 swear upon that bottle to be thy true subject ; for the liquor is not earthly. 8U. Here ; swear then how thou escapedst. Trin. Swum ashore, man, like a duck : I can swim like a duck, I '11 be sworn. Ste. Here, kiss the book. Tliough thou canst swim like a duck, thou art made like a goose. Trin. O Stephano, hast any more of this ? 8U. The whole butt, man: my cellar is in a rock by the sea-side where my wine is hid. How now, moon-calf ! how does thine ague ? Gal. Hast thou not dropp'd from heaven ? SU. Out o' the moon, I do assure thee : I was the man i' the moon when time was. Gal. I have seen thee in her and I do adore thee : My mistress show'd me thee and thy dog and thy bush. StQ. Come, swear to that ; kiss the book : I will furnish it anon with new contents : swear. Trin. By this good light, this is a very shallow monster ! I afeard of him ! A very weak monster ! The man i' the moon ! A most poor credulous mon- ster ! Well drawn, monster, in good sooth ! Gal. I '11 show thee every fertile inch o' th' island ; And I will kiss thy foot : I prithee, be my god. Trin. By this light, a most perfidious and drunken monster ! when 's god 's asleep, he '11 rob his bottle. Gal. I '11 kiss thy foot ; I '11 swear myself thy sub- SU. Come on then ; down, and swear. [ject. Trin. I shall laugh myself to death at this puppy- headed monster. A most scurvy monster ! I could SU. Come, kiss, [find in my heart to beat him,— Trin. But that the poor monster 's in drink : an abominable monster ! [thee berries ; Gal. I '11 show thee the best springs ; I '11 pluck I '11 fish for thee and get thee wood enough. A plague upon the tyrant that I serve ! I '11 bear him no more sticks, but follow thee, Thou wondrous man. Trin. A most ridiculous monster, to make a won- der of a poor drunkard ! Gal. I prithee, let me bring thee where crabs grow ; And I with my long nails will dig thee pig-nuts ; Show thee a jay's nest and instruct thee how To snare the nimble marmoset ; I '11 bring thee To clustering filberts and sometimes I '11 get thee Young scamels from the rock. Wilt thou go with me? 8te,. I prithee now, lead the way without any more talking. Trinculo, the king and all our company else being drowned, we will inherit here : here ; bear my bottle : fellow Trinculo, we '11 fill him by and by Gal. [Sings drunkenly] [again. Farewell, master; farewell, farewell! Trin. A howling monster ; a drunken monster ! Gal. No more dams I '11 make for fish ; Nor fetch in firing At requiring ; Nor scrape trencher, nor wash dish : 'Ban, 'Ban, Cacaliban Has a new master: get a new man. Freedom, hey-day ! hey-day, freedom ! freedom, hey- day, freedom ! Ste. O brave monster ! Lead the way. {Exeunt. ^OT III. SCENE 1.— Before Prosperous cell. Enter Ferdinand, bearing a log. Fer. There be some sports are painful, and their labour Delight in them sets off : some kinds of baseness Are nobly midergoue and most poor matters Point to rich ends. This my mean task Would be as heavy to me as odious, but The mistress which I serve quickens what 's dead And makes my labours pleasures : O, she is Ten times more gentle than her father's crabbed. And he 's composed of harshness. I must remove Some thousands of these logs and pile them up. Upon a sore injunction : my sweet mistress [ness Weeps when she sees me work, and says, such base- Had never like executor. I forget : But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my labours, Most busy lest, when I do it. Enter Miranda ; and Prospero at a distance., unseen. Mir. Alas, now, pray you, Work not so hard : I would the lightning had Burnt up those logs that you are eujoin'd to pile ! Pray, set it down and rest you : when this burns, 'T will weep for havmg wearied you. My father ACT III. THE TEMPEST. SCENE 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. Mir. If you '11 sit down, I '11 bear your logs the while : pray, give me that ; I '11 carry it to the pile. Fer. 3^0, precious creature; I had rather crack my sinews, break my back, Than you should such dishonour undergo, "While I sit lazy by. Mir. 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. Pros. Poor worm, thou art infected ! This visitation shows it. Mir. You look wearily. [me Fer. No, noble mistress ; 't is fresh morning with When you are by at night. I do beseech you — Chiefly that I might set it in my prayers — What is your name V Mir. Miranda. — O my father, I have broke your hest to say so ! Fer. Admired Miranda ! Indeed the top of admiration ! worth What 's dearest to the world ! Full many a lady I have eyed 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 liked several women ; never any With so full soul, but some defect in her Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed And put it to the foil : but you, O you, So perfect and so peerless, are created Of every creature's best ! Mir. 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 : liow 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. Besides yourself, to like of. But I prattle Something too wildly and my father's precepts I therein do forget. Fer. I am in my condition A prince, Miranda; I do think, a king; I would, not so ! — and would no more endure This wooden slavery than to suifer 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. Mir. Do you love me ? Fer. O heaven, O earth, bear witness to this sound And crown what I profess with kind event If I speak true ! if hollowly, invert What best is boded me to mischief ! I Beyond all limit of what else i' the world Do love, prize, honour you. Mir. I am a fool To weep at what I am glad of. Pros. Fair encounter Of two most rare affections ! Heavens rain grace On that which breeds between 'em ! Fer. Wherefore weep you ? Mir. 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! 10 I am your wife, if you will marry me ; If not, I '11 die your maid : to be your fellow You may deny me ; but I '11 be your servant, Whether you will or no. Fer. My mistress, dearest ; And I thus humble ever. Mir. My husband, then ? Fer. Ay, with a heart as willing As bondage e'er of freedom : here 's my hand. Mir. And mine, witli my heart in 't : and now Till half an hour hence. [farewell Fer. A thousand thousand ! [^Exeunt Fer. and Mir. severally. Pros. So glad of this as they I cannot be. Who are surprised withal ; but my rejoicing At nothing can be more. I '11 to mv "book. For yet ere supper-time must I perform Much business appertaining. [Exit. SCENE II.— Another part of the island. Enter Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo. Ste. Tell not me ; when the butt is out, we will drink water; not a drop before: therefore bear up, and board 'em. Servant-monster, drink to me. Trin. Servant-monster! the folly of this island! They say there 's but five upon this isle : we are three of them ; if th' other two be brained like us, the state totters. Ste. Drink, servant-monster, when I bid thee: thy eyes are almost set in thy head. Trin. Where should they be set else ? he were a brave monster indeed, if they were set in his tail. Ste. My man-monster hath drown'd his tongue in sack : for my part, the sea cannot drown me ; I swam, ere I could recover the shore, five and thirty leagues off and on. By this light, thou shalt be my lieutenant, monster, or my standard. [ard. Trin. Your lieutenant, if you list ; he'snostand- Ste. We '11 not run. Monsieur Monster. Trin. Nor go neither; but you'll lie like dogs and yet say nothing neither. Ste. Moon-calf, speak once in thy life, if thou beest a good moon-calf. [shoe. Cal. How does thy honour? Let me lick thy I '11 not serve him ; he 's not valiant. Trin. Thou liest, most ignorant monster: I am in case to justle a constable. Why, thou deboshed fish, thou, was there ever man a coward that hath drunk so much sack as I to-day ? Wilt thou tell a monstrous lie, being but half a fish and half a mon- ster? [my lord? Cal. Lo, how he mocks me! wilt thou let him, Trin. 'Lord' quoth he! That a monster should be such a natural ! Cal. Lo, lo, again ! bite him to death, I prithee. Ste. Trinculo, keep a good tongue in your head: if you prove a mutineer, — the next tree! The poor monster 's my subject and he shall not suffer indignity. Cal. I thank my noble lord. Wilt thou be pleased to hearken once again to the suit I made to thee ? Ste. Marry, will I: kneel and repeat it; I will stand, and so shall Trinculo. Enter Ariel, invisible. Cal. As I told thee before, I am subject to a ty- rant, a sorcerer, that by his cunning hath cheated Ari. Thou liest. [me of the island. Cal. Thou liest, thou jesting monkey, thou : I would my valiant master would destroy thee ! I do not lie. Ste. Trinculo, if you trouble him any more in 's tale, by this hand, I will supplant some of your Trin. Why, I said nothing. [teeth. Ste. Mum', then, and no more. Proceed. Cal. I say, by sorcery he got this isle ; ■^ 1 ■8B ACT III. THE TEMPEST. SCENE III, From me he got it. If thy greatness will Revenge it on him, — for I know thou darest, But this thing dare not, — Ste. That 's most certain. Cal. Thou Shalt be lord of it andJ '11 serve thee. Ste. How now shall this be compassed? Canst thou bring me to the party ? Cal. Yea, yea, my lord : I '11 yield him thee asleep, Where thou mayst knock a nail into his head. Ari. Thou liest ; thou canst not. [patch ! Cal. What a pied ninny 's this ! Thou scurvy I do beseech thy greatness, give him blows And take his bottle from him : when that 's gone He shall drink nought but brine ; for I '11 not show Where the quick freshes, are. [him Ste. Trinculo, run into no further danger : inter- rupt the monster one word further, and, by this hand, I '11 turn my mercy out o' doors and make a stock-flsh of thee. Trin. Why, what did I ? I did nothing, I '11 go farther off. Ste. Didst thou not say he lied ? Ari. Thou liest. Ste. Do I so ? take thou that. [Beats Trin.] As you like this, give me the lie another time. Trin. I did not give the lie. Out o' your wits and hearing too ? A pox o' your bottle ! this can sack and drinking do. A murrain on your monster, and the devil take your fingers ! Cal. Ha, ha, ha ! [farther off. Ste. Now, forward with your tale. Prithee, stand Cal. Beat him enough : after a little time I '11 beat him too. Ste. Stand farther. Come, proceed. Cal. Why, as I told thee, 'tis a custom with him, I' th' afternoon to sleep : there thou mayst brain him, Having first seized his books, or with a log Batter his skull, or paunch him with a stake, Or cut his wezand with thy knife. Remember * First to possess his books ; for without them He 's but a sot, as I am, nor hath not _One spirit to command : they all do hate him "As rootedly as I. Burn but his books. He has brave utensils, — for so he calls them, — Which, when he has a house, he '11 deck withal. And that most deeply to consider is The beauty of his daughter; he himself Calls her a nonpareil : I never saw a woman, But only Sycorax my dam and she ; But she as far surpasseth Sycorax As great 'st does least. Ste. Is it so brave a lass ? Cal. Ay, lord ; she will become thy bed, I warrant. And bring thee forth brave brood. Ste. Monster, I will kill this man : his daughter and I will be king and queen, — save our graces! — and Trinculo and thyself shall be viceroys. Dost thou like the plot, Trinculo V Trin. Excellent. Ste. Give me thy hand : I am sorry I beat thee ; but, while thou livest, keep a good tongue in thy head. Cal. Within this half hour will he be asleep : Wilt thou destroy him then ? Ste. Ay, on mine honour. Ari. This will I tell my master. [ure : Cal. Thou makest me merry ; I am full of pleas- Let us be jocund : will you troll the catch You taught me but while-ere ? Ste. At thy request, monster, I will do reason, any reason. Come on, Trinculo, let us sing. [Sings. Flout 'em and scout 'em And scout 'em and flout 'em ; Thought is free. Cal. That 's not the tune. [Ariel plaifs the tune on a tabor and pipe. Ste. What is this same ? Trin. This is the tune of our catch, played by the picture of Nobody. Ste. If thou beest a man, show thyself in thy like- ness : if thou beest a devil, take 't as thou list. Trin. O, forgive me my sins ! Ste. He that dies pays all debts: I defy thee. Mercy upon us ! Cal. Art thou afeard ? Ste. No, monster, not I. Cal. Be not afeard ; the isle is full of noises, [not. Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices That, if I then had waked after long sleep, Will make me sleep again : and then, in dreaming, The clouds methought would open and show riches Ready to drop upon me, that, when I waked, I cried to dream again. Ste. This will prove a brave kingdom to me, where I shall have my music for nothing. Cal. When Prospero is destroyed. [story. Ste. That shall be by and by: I remember the Trin. The sound is going away ; let 's follow it, and after do our work. Ste. Lead, monster ; we '11 follow. I would I could see this taborer ; he lays it on. Trin. Wilt come ? I '11 follow, Stephano. [Exeunt. SCENE TO.. — Another part of the island. Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Gonzalo, Adrian, Francisco, and others. Gon. By 'r lakin, I can go no further, sir; My old bones ache : here 's a maze trod indeed Through forth-rights and meanders ! By your pa- I needs must rest me. [tience, Alon. Old lord, I cannot blame thee, Who am myself attach 'd with weariness. To the dulling of my spirits: sit down, and rest. Even here I will put off my hope and keep it No 1 nger 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. Ant. [Aside to Seh.] I am right glad that he 's so out of hope. Do not, for one repulse, forego the purpose That you resolved to effect. Seb. [Aside to Ant.] The next advantage Will we take throughly. Ant. [Aside to Seb.] Let it be to-night; For, now they are oppress'd with travel, they Will not, nor cannot, use such vigilance As when they are fresh. Seb. [Aside to Ant.] I say, to-night : no more. [Solemn and strange music. Alon. What harmony is this ? My good friends. Gon. Marvellous sweet music ! [hark ! Enter Prospero above, invisible. Enter several strange Shapes, bringing in a banquet ; they dance about it with gentle actions of salutation; and, in- viting the King, &c. to eat, they depart. Alon. 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 phoenix' throne, one phoenix At this hour reigning there. Ant. I '11 believe both ; And what does else want credit, come to me, And I '11 be sworn 't is true : travellers ne'er did lie, Though fools at home condemn 'em. 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, 11 ACT THE TEMPEST SCENE I. Tlieir manners are more gentle-kind than of Our human generation you shall find Many, nay, almost any. Pros. {Aside] Honest lord. Thou hast said well ; for some of you there present Are worse than devils. Alon. I cannot too much muse Such shapes, such gesture and such sound, express- ing. Although they want the use of tongue, a kind Of excellent dumb discourse. Fros. [Aside] Praise in departing. 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. Qon. Faith, sir, you need not fear. When we were boys. Who would believe that there were mountaineers Dew-lapp'd like bulls, whose throats had hanging at 'em Wallets of fiesh ? or that there were such men Whose heads stood in their breasts V which now we Each putter-out of five for one will bring us [find Good warrant of. Alo-n. 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 Ariel, like a harpy; daps his wings upon the table ; and, with a quaint device, the banquet vanishes. Ari. 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 you ; and on this island Where man doth not inhabit ; you 'mongst men Being most unfit to live. I have made you mad ; And even with such-like valour men hang and Their proper selves. [drown [Alon., Seb., &c. draw their swords. 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, Yom- 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 ; Exposed unto the sea, which hath requit it. Him and his innocent child : for whicJi foul deed The powers, delaying, not forgetting, have Incensed the seas and shores, yea, all the creatures, Against your peace. Thee of thy son, Alonso, They have bereft ; and do pronounce by me : Lingering perdition, worse than any death Can be at once, shall step by step attend [from — You and your ways; whose wraths to guard you Which here, in this most desolate isle, else falls Upon your heads — is nothing but heart-sorrow And a clear life ensuing. He vanishes in thunder; then, to soft music, enter the Sha2?es again, and dance, with mocks and mows, and carrying out the table. Fros. 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 what thou hadst to say : so, with good life And observation strange, my meaner ministers Their several kinds have done. My high charms And these mine enemies are all knit up [work In their distractions ; they now are in my power ; And in these fits I leave them, while I visit Young Ferdinand, whom they suppose is drown 'd, And his and mine loved darling. [Exit above. Gon. I' the name of something holy, sir, why stand In this strange stare ? [you Alon. O, it is monstrous, monstrous ! Methought the billows spoke and told me of it ; The winds did sing it to me, and the thunder. That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounced The name of Prosper: it did bass my trespass.. Therefore my son i' the ooze is bedded, and I '11 seek him deeper than e'er plummet sounded And with him there lie mudded. [Exit. Seb. But one fiend at a time, I '11 fight their legions o'er. Ant. I '11 be thy second. [Exeunt Seb. and Ant. 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 this ecstasy May now provoke them to. Adr. Follow, I pray you. [Exeunt. ^CT IV^. SCENE 1. — Before Prospero's cell Enter Prospero, Ferdinand, and Miranda. Pros. If I have too austerely punish 'd you. Your compensation makes amends, for I Have given you here a thrid of mine own life. Or that for which I live ; who once again I tender to thy hand : all thy vexations Were but my trials of thy love, and thou Hast strangely stood the test : here, afore Heaven, I ratify this my rich gift. O Ferdinand, Do not smile at me that I boast her off, For thou Shalt find she will outstrip all praise And make it halt behind her. Fer. I do believe it Against an oracle. Pros. Then, as my gift and thine own acquisition Worthily purchased, take my daughter: but 12 If thou dost break her virgin-knot before All sanctimonious ceremonies may With full and holy rite be minister'd. No sweet aspersion shall the heavens let fall To make this contract grow; but barren hate, Sour-eyed disdain and discord shall bestrew The union of your bed with weeds so loathly Tliat you shall hate it both : therefore take heed, As 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 murkiest den. The most opportune place, the strong'st suggestion Our worser genius can, shall never melt Mine honour into lust, to take away The edge of that day's celebration When I shall think, or Phoebus' steeds are founder'd, Or Night kept chain'd below. Pros. Fairly spoke. THE TEMPEST. SCENE I. Sit then and talk with her ; she is thine own. What, Ariel ! my industrious servant, Ariel ! Enter Ariel. Ari. Wliat would my potent master? here I am. Pros. Thou and thy meaner fellows your last ser- Did worthily perform ; and I must use you [vice In such another trick. Go bring the rabble. O'er whom I give thee power, here to this place : 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 ? Pros. Ay, 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 mow. Do you love me, master ? no ? Pros. Dearly, my delicate Ariel. Do not approach Till thou dost hear me call. Ari. Well, I conceive. {Exit. Pros. Look thou be true ; do not give dalliance Too much the rein : the strongest oaths are straw To the fire i' the blood : be more abstemious. Or else, good-night your vow! Fer. I warrant you, sir; The white cold virgin snow upon my heart Abates the ardour of my liver. Pros. Well. Xow come, my Ariel ! bring a corollary. Rather than want a spirit : appear, and pertly ! ^0 tongue ! all eyes ! be silent. [Soft music. Enter Iris. Iris. Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy rich leas Of wheat, rye, barley, vetches, oats and pease; Thy turfy mountains, where live nibbling sheep. And flat meads thatch'd with stover, them to keep ; Thy banks with pioned and twilled brims. Which spongy April at thy hest betrims, [groves. To make cold nymphs chaste crowns ; and thy broom- Whose shadow the dismissed bachelor loves, Being lass-lorn ; thy pole-clipt vineyard ; And thy sea-marge, sterile and rocky-hard. Where thou thyself dost air ;— the queen o' the sky. Whose watery arch and messenger am I, Bids thee 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. Enter Ceres. Cer. Hail, many-colour 'd messenger, that ne'er Dost disobey the wife of Jupiter ; Who with thy saffron wings upon my flowers Diffusest 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 blest lovers. Cer. Tell me, heavenly bow, If Venus or her son, as thou dost know. Do now attend the queeen ? 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 Cuttmg the clouds towards Paphos and her son Dove-drawn with her. Here thought they to have Some Avanton charm upon this man and maid, [done Whose vows are, that no bed-right sliall be paid Till Hymen's torch be lighted : but in vain ; Mars's hot minion is returned again ; Her waspish-headed son has broke his arrows. Swears he will shoot no more but play with sparrows And be a boy right out. Cer. High'st queen of state. Great Juno, comes ; I know her by her gait. Enter Juno. Juno. How does my bounteous sister ? Go with me To bless this twain, that they may prosperous be And honour 'd in their issue. [They sing: Juno. Honour, riches, marriage-blessing. Long continuance, and increasing, Hourly joys be still upon you ! Juno sings her blessings on you. Cer. Earth's increase, foison plenty, Barns and garners never empty, Vines witli clustering bunches growing, Plants with goodly burthen 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 I be bold To think these spirits ? Pros. Spirits, which by mine art I have from their confines call'd to enact My present fancies. Fer. Let me live here ever ; So rare a wonder'd father and a wife Makes this place Paradise. [Juno and Ceres whisper^ and send Iris on employment. Pros. Sweet, now, silence! Juno and Ceres whisper seriously ; There 's something else to do : hush, and be mute. Or else our spell is marr'd. [brooks. Iris. You nymphs, call'd Naiads, of the windring With your sedged croAvns and 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 ; be not too late. JEnter certain Nymphs. You sunburnt sicklemen, of August weary, Come hither from the furrow and be merry : Make holiday ; your rye-straw hats put on And these fresh nymphs encounter every one In country footing. Enter certain Reapers, properly habited : they join with the Nsnnphs in a graceful dance ; towards the end whereof Prospero starts suddenly, and speaks ; after which., to a strange, holloio, and confuted noise, they heavily vanish. Pros. [Aside] I had forgot that foul conspiracy Of the beast Caliban and his confederates Against my life : the minute of their plot [no more ! Is almost come. [To the Spirits.] Well done ! avoid ; Fer. This is strange : your father 's in some passion That works him strongly. Mir. Never till this day Saw I him touch 'd with anger so distemper'd. Pros. You do look, my son, in a moved 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 ^ 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. AVe are such stuff 13 ACT V, THE TEMPEST. SCENE I. As dreams are made on, and om- 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 pleased, retire into my cell And there repose : a tvu'n or two I '11 waUc, To still my beating mind. Fer. Mir. "We wish you peace. [Exeunt. Pros. Come with a thought. I thank thee, Ariel : come. Enter Ariel. Ari. Thy thoughts I cleave to. What 's thy pleas- Pros. Spirit, [ure ? We must prepare to meet with Caliban. Ari. Ay, my commander: when I presented Ceres, I thought to have told thee of it, but I fear'd Lest I might anger thee. [lets ? Pros. Say again, where didst thou leave these var- Ari. I told you, sir, they were red-hot vrith drink- So full of valour that they smote the air [ing ; For breathing in their faces ; beat the ground For kissing of their feet ; yet always bending Towards their project. Then I beat my tabor ; At which , like unback 'd colts, they prick'd their ears, Advanced their eyelids, lifted up their noses As they smelt music : so I charm 'd their ears That calf -like they my lowing follow 'd through Tooth'dbriers,sharpfurzes,pricking goss and thorns, Which entered their frail shins : at last I left them I' the filthy-mantled pool beyond your cell, There dancing up to the chins, that the foul lake O'erstunk their feet. Pros. This was well done, my bird. Thy shape invisible retain thou still : The trumpery in my house, go bring it hither. For stale to catch these thieves. Ari. I go, I go. [Exit. Pros. A devil, a born devil, on whose nature Nurture can never stick ; on whom my pains, Humanely taken, all, all lost, quite lost ; And as with age his body uglier grows, So his mind cankers. I will plague them all. Even to roaring. Be-enter Ariel, loaden with glistering apparel, &c. Come, hang them on this line. Prospero and Ariel remain, invisible. Enter Cal- iban, Stephano, and Trinculo, all wet. Cal. Pray you, tread softly, that the blind mole may not Hear a foot fall : we now are near his cell. Ste. Monster, your fairy, which you say is a harm- less fairy, has done little better than played the Jack with us. Trin. Monster, I do smell all horse-piss ; at which my nose is in great indignation. Ste. So is mine. Do you hear, monster ? If I should take a displeasure against you, look you, — Trin. Thou wert but a lost monster. Cal. Good my lord, give me thy favour still. Be patient, for the prize I '11 bring thee to [softly. Shall hoodwink this mischance: therefore speak All 's hush'd as midnight yet. Trin. Ay, but to lose our bottles in the pool, — Ste. There is not only disgrace and dishonour in that, monster, but an infinite loss. Trin. That 's more to me than my wetting : yet this is your harmless fairy, monster. Ste. I will fetch off my bottle, though I be o'er ears for my labour. Cal. Prithee , my king, be quiet. See'st thou here, This is the mouth o' the cell : no noise, and enter. Do that good mischief which may make this island Thine own for ever, and I, thy Caliban, For aye thy foot-licker. [thoughts. Ste. Give me thy hand. I do begin to have bloody Trin. O king Stephano ! O peer ! O worthy Ste- phano ! look what a wardrobe here is for thee 1 Cal. Let it alone, thou fool ! it is but trash. Trin. O, ho, monster ! we know what belongs to a frippery. O king Stephano ! Ste. Put off that gowir, Trinculo ; by this hand, I '11 have that gown. Trin. Thy grace shall have it. Cal. The dropsy drown this fool ! what do you mean To dote thus on such luggage ? Let 's alone And do the murder first : if he awake. From toe to crown he '11 fill our skins with pinches, Make us strange stuflC . Ste. Be you quiet, monster. Mistress line, is not this my jerkin ? Now is the jerkin under the line : now, jerkin, you are like to lose your hair and prove a bald jerkin. [your grace. Trin. Do, do : we steal by line and level, an't like Ste. I thank thee for that jest ; here 's a garment for 't : wit shall not go unrewarded while I am king of this country. ' Steal by line and level ' is an excel- lent pass of pate ; there 's another garment for t. Trin. Monster, come, put some lime upon your fingers, and away with the rest. Cal. I will have none on 't : we shall lose our time, And all be turn'd to barnacles, or to apes With foreheads villanous low. Ste. Monster, lay-to your fingers i help to bear this away where my hogshead of wine is, or I '11 turn you out of my kingdom : go to, carry this. Trin. And this. Ste. Ay, and this. A noise of hunters heard. Enter divers Spirits, in shape of dogs and hounds, and hunt them about, Prospero and Ariel setting them on. Pros. Hey, Mountain, hey ! Ari. Silver! there it goes. Silver ! Pros. Fury, Fury! there. Tyrant, there! hark! hark ! [Cal., Ste., and Trin. are driven out. Go charge my goblins that they grind their joints With dry convulsions, shorten up their sinews With aged cramps, and more pinch-spotted make Than pard or cat o' moimtain. [them Ari. Hark, they roar ! Pros. Let them be hunted soundly. At this hour Lie at my mercy all mine enemies : Shortly shall all my labours end, and thou Shalt have the air at freedom: for a little Follow, and do me service. [Exeunt. A.OT V. SCENE I. — Before Prosperous cell. Enter Prospero in his magic robes, and Ariel. Pros. lS[ow does my project gather to a head : My charms crack not ; my spirits obey ; and time Goes uprigjit with his carriage. How 's the day ? Ari, On the sixth hour; at which time, my lord, 14 You said our work should cease. Pros. I did say so, When first I raised the tempest. Say, my spirit, How fares the kiag and 's followers ? Ari. Confined together In the same fashion as you gave in charge. Just as you left them ; all prisoners, sir. ACT V. THE TEMPEST. SCENE I. In the line-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, Brimful of sorrow and dismay ; but chiefly [zalo ;' Him that you term'd, sir, ' The good old lord, Gon- His tears run down his beard, like winter's drops From eaves of reeds. Your charm so strongly works That if you now beheld them, your affections ['em Would become tender. Pros. Dost thou think so, spirit ? Ari. Mine would, sir, were I human. Pros. 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 sharply. Passion as they, be kindlier moved than thou art ? Though with their high wrongs I am struck to the Yet with' my nobler reason 'gainst my fury [quick, Do I 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 '11 break, their senses I '11 restore, And they shall be themselves. Ari. I '11 fetch them, sir. [Exit. Pros. Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves, And ye that on the sands with printless foot 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 you whose pastime Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice To hear the solemn curfew ; by whose aid. Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm'd The noontide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds. And 'twixt the green sea and the azured 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-based 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 'em forth By my so potent art. But this rough magic I here abjure, and, when I have required Some heavenly music, which even now I do, To work mine end upon their senses that This airy charm is for, I '11 break my staff, Bury it certain fathoms in the earth. And deeper than did ever plummet sound I '11 drown my book. [Solemn music. Be-enter Ariel before : then Alonso, with a frantic gesture, attended by. Gonzalo; Sebastian and Antonio in like manner, attended hy Adrian and Francisco: they all enter the circle which Prospero had made, and there stand charmed; which Prospero observing, speaks : A solemn air and the best comforter To an unsettled fancy cure thy brains, Kow useless, boil'd within thy skull ! There stand, For you are spell-stopp'd. Holy Gonzalo, honourable 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 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, Alonso, use me and my daughter: Thy brother was a furtherer in the act. [blood, Thou art pinch'd for 't now, Sebastian. Flesh and You, brother mine, that entertain'd ambition. Expell'd remorse and nature ; who, with Sebastian, Whose inward pinches therefore are most strong, Would here have kill'd your kin^ ; I do forgive thee, Unnatural though thou art. Their understanding Begins to swell, and the approaching tide Will shortly fill the reasonable shore That now lies 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 : I will disease me, and myself present As I was sometime Milan : quickly, spirit ; Thou Shalt ere long be free. • Ariel sings and helps to attire him. 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 fly After summer merrily. Merrily, merrily shall I live now Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. Pros. Why, that 's my dainty Ariel ! I shall miss But yet thou shalt have freedom: so, so, so. [thee; 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 this place, And presently, I prithee. Ari. I drink the air before me, and return Or ere your pulse twice beat. [Exit. Gon. All torment, trouble, wonder and amaze- Inhabits here : some heavenly power guide us [ment Out of this fearful country ! Pros. Behold, sir king, The wronged Duke 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. Alon. Whether thou be'st 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, An if this be at all, a most strange story. Thy dukedom I resign and do entreat [pero Thou pardon me my wrongs. But how should Pros- Be living and be here ? Pros. First, noble friend, Let me embrace thine age, whose honour cannot Be measured or confined. Gon. Whether this be Or be not, I '11 not swear. Pros. You do yet taste Some subtilties o' the isle, that will not let you Believe things certain. Welcome, my friends alll [Aside to Seb. and Ant.] But you, my brace of lords, were I so minded, I here could pluck his highness' fro^\ii upon you And justify you traitors : at this time I will tell no tales. Seb. [Aside] The devil speaks in him. Pros. No. For you, most wicked sir, whom to call brother Would even infect my mouth, I do forgive Thy rankest fault ; all of them ; and require My dukedom of thee, which perforce, I know. Thou must restore. Alon. If thou be'st 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. Pros. I am woe for 't, sir. 15 ACT V. THE TEMPEST. SCENE 1. Alon. Irreparable is the loss, and patience Says it is past her cure. Pros. 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. Alon . You the like loss ! Fros. 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. Alon. A daughter ? heavens, that they were living both in Naples, The king and queen there ! that they were, I wish Myself were mudded in that oozy bed [ter ? Where my son lies. When did you lose your daugh- Pros. In this last tempest. I perceive, these 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'er you have Been justled from your senses, know for certain That I am Prospero and that very duke Which was thrust forth of Milan, who most strangely Upon this shore, where you were wreck 'd, was landed, To be the lord on 't. No more yet of this ; For 't is 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. Here Prospero discovers Ferdinand, and Miranda playing at chess. Mir. Sweet lord, you play me false. Fer. No, my dear'st love, I would not for the world. [wrangle, Mir. Yes, for a score of kingdons you should And I would call it fair play. Alon. If this prove A vision of the Island, one dear son Shall I twice lose. Seb. A most high miracle ! Fer. Though the seas threaten, they are merciful; I have cursed them without cause. [Kneels. Alon. Now all the blessings Of a glad father compass thee about ! Arise, and say how thou camest here. Mir. O, wonder ! How many goodly creatures are there here ! How beauteous mankind is ! O brave new world, That has such people in 't ! Pros. 'T is new to thee. Alon. What is this maid with whom thou wast at play ? Your eld'st acquaintance cannot be three hours : Is she the goddess that hath sever 'd us. And brought us thus together ? Fer. Sir, she is mortal ; But by immortal Providence 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 liave 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 ! Pros. There, sir, stop : Let us not burthen our remembrance with A heaviness that 's gone, 16 Gon. I have inly wept, [gods, Or should have spoke ere this. Look down, you And on this couple drop a blessed crown ! For it is you that have chalk 'd forth the way Which brought us hither. Alon. 1 say. Amen, Gonzalo i Gon. Was Milan thrust from Milan, that his issue Should become kings of Naples ? O. rejoice Beyond a common joy, and set it down With gold on lasting pillars : In one voyage Did Claribel her husband find at Tunis, And Ferdinand, her brother, found a wife Where he himself was lost, Prospero his dukedom In a poor isle and all of us om'selves When no man was his own. Alon. [To Fer. and Mir.] Give me your hands: Let grief and sorrow still embrace his heart That doth not wish you joy ! Gon. Be it so! Amen! Be-enter Ariel, with the Master and Boatswain amazedly following. O, look, sir, look, sir I here is more of us : I prophesied, if a gallows were on land. This fellow could not drown. Now, blasphemy. That swear 'st grace o'erboard, not an oath on shore ? Hast thou no mouth by land ? What is the news ? Boats. The best news is, that we have safely f ormd 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. [Aside to Pros.] Sir, all this service Have I done since I went. Pros. [Aside to Ari.] My tricksy spirit I [strengthen Alon. These are not natural events; they From strange to stranger. Say , how came you hither ? Boats. If I did think, sir, I were well awake, I 'Id strive to tell you. We were dead of sleep, And — how we knownot — all clapp'd under hatches ; Where but even now with strange and several noises Of roaring, shrieking, howling, jingling chains. And more diversity of sounds, all horrible. We were awaked ; 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, were we divided from them And were brought moping hither. Ari. [Aside to Pros.] Was 't well done ? Pros. [Aside to Ari.] Bravely, my diligence. Thou Shalt be free. Alon. This is as strange a maze as e'er men trod ; And there is in this business more than nature Was ever conduct of : some oracle Must rectify our knowledge. Pros. 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 '11 resolve you, Which to you shall seem probable, of every These happen 'd accidents; till when, be cheerful And think of each thing well. [Aside to Ari.] Come hither, spirit : Set Caliban and his companions free ; [sir ? Untie the spell. [Exit Ariel.] How fares my gracious There are yet missing of your company Some few odd lads that you remember not. Be-enter Ariel, driving in Caliban, Stephano and Trinculo, in their stolen apparel. Ste. Every man shift for all the rest, and let no man take care for himself ; for all is but fortune. Coragio, bully-monster, coragio ! Trin. If these be true spies which I wear in my head, here 's a goodly sight. Cal. O Setebos, these be brave spirits indeed! ACT V. THE TEMPEST. SCENE I. How fine my master is ! I am afraid He will chastise me. Seh. Ha, ha! What things are these, my lord Antonio ? Will money buy 'em y Ant. Very like ; one of them Is a plain fish, and, no doubt, marketable. Pros. Mark but the badges of these men, my lords. Then say if they be true. This mis-shapen knave. His mother was a witch, and one so strong That could control the moon, make flows and ebbs. And deal in her command without her power. These three have robb'd me; and this demi-devil— For he 's a bastard one— had plotted with them To take my life. Two of these fellows you Must know and own ; this thing of darkness I Acknowledge mine. Cal. I shall be pinch 'd to death. Alon. Is not this Stephano, my drunken butler ? Seh. He is drunk now : where had he wine ? Alon. And Trinculo is reeling ripe : where should Find this grand liquor that hath gilded 'em ? [they How camest thou in this pickle ? Trin. I have been in such a pickle since I saw you last that, I fear me, will never out of my bones : I shall not fear fly-blowing. Seh. Why, how now, Stephano ! [cramp. Ste. O, touch me not ; I am not Stephano, but a Pros. You 'Id be king o' the isle, sirrah ? Ste. I should have been a sore one then. Alon. This is a strange thing as e'er I look'd on. [Fointing to Caliban. Pros. He is as disproportion'd in his manners As in his shape. Go, sirrah, to my cell; Take with you your companions ; as you look To have my pardon, trim it handsomely. Cal. Ay, that I will ; and I '11 be wise hereafter And seek for grace. What a thrice-double ass Was I, to take this drunkard for a god And worship this dull fool ! Pros. Go to ; away ! Alon. Hence, and bestow your luggage where you Seh. Or stole it, rather. [found it. [Exeunt Cal., Ste., and Trin. Pros. 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 '11 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 '11 bring you to your ship and so to Naples, Where I have hope to see the nuptial Of these our dear-beloved solemnized ; 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. Pros. 1 '11 deliver all ; And promise you calm seas, auspicious gales And sail so expeditious that shall catch [chick, Your royal fleet far ofL'. [Aside to Ari.] My Ariel, That is thy charge : then to the elements Be free, and fare thou well! Please you, draw near. [Exeunt^ EPILOGUE. Spoken hy Prospero. Now my charms are all o'erthrown. And what strength I have 's mine own. Which is most faint : now, 't is true, I must be here confined by you. Or sent to Naples. Let me not, Since I have my dukedom got And pardon'd the. deceiver, dwell In this bare island by your spell ; But release me from my bands With the help of your good hands : Gentle breath of yours my sails Must fill, or else my project fails, Which was to please. Now I want Spirits to enforce, art to enchant, And my ending is despair. Unless I be relieved by prayer. Which pierces so that it assaults Mercy itself and frees all faults. As you from crimes would pardon'd be, Let your indulgence set me free. Caliban, Stephano, and Tkinculo Hunted with Hounds.— Act IV., Stt»e i. 17 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VEEONA. DRAMATIS PEBSON^. the two Gentlemen. Duke of Milan, Father to Silvia. Valentine, Proteus, Antonio, Father to Proteus. Thurio, a foolish rival to Valentine. Eglamour, Agent for Silvia in her escape. Speed, a clownish servant to Valentine. La\ince, the like to Proteus. Panthino, Servant to Antonio. Julia, beloved of Proteus. Silvia, beloved of Valentine. Lucetta, waiting-woman to Julia. Host, where Julia lodges. Outlaws, with Valentine. Servants, Musicians. ' SCENE— Fer al. How now, sirrah V Speed. She is not within hearing, sir. Val. Why, sir, who bade you call her ? Speed. Your worship, sir; or else I mistook. Val. Well, you'll still be too forward. [slow. Speed. And yet I was last chidden for beuig too Val. Go to, sir: tell me, do you know Madam Speed. She that your worship loves ? [Silvia r* Val. Why, how know you that I am in love ? Speed. Marry, by these special marks : first, you have learned, like Sir Proteus, to wreathe your arms, like a malecontent ; to relish a love-song, like a robin-redbreast; to walk alone, like one that had the pestilence- to sigh, like a school-boy that had lost his A B C ; to weep, like a young wench that had buried her grandam; to fast, like one that takes diet; to watch, like one that fears robbing; to speak puling, like a beggar at Hallowmas. You were wont, when you laughed, to crow like a cock ; wlien you walked, to walk like one of the lions ; when you fasted, it was presently after dinner; when you looked sadly, it was for want of money : and now you are metamorphosed with a mistress, that, when I look on you, I can hardly think you my master. Val. Are all these things perceived in me ? Speed. They are all perceived without ye. Val. Without me ? they cannot. Speed. Without you V nay, that 's certain, for, without you were so simple, none else would : but you are so without these follies, that these follies are within you and shine through you like the water in an urinal, that not an eye that sees you but is a physician to comment on your malady. Val. But tell me, dost thou know my lady Silvia? Speed. She that you gaze on so as she sits at supper ? Val. Hast thou observed that ? even she, I mean. Speed. Why, sir, I know her not. Val. Dost tliou know her by my gazing on her, and yet knowest her not ? Speed. Is she not hard-favoured, sir ? Val. Not so fair, boy, as well-favoured. Speed. Sir, I know that well enough. Val. What dost thou know Y [favoured. Speed. That she is not so fair as, of you, well- Val. I mean that her beauty is exquisite, but her favour infinite. Speed. That 's because the one is painted and the other out of all count. Val. How painted ? and how out of count ? Speed. Marry, sir, so painted, to make her fair, that no man counts of her beauty. [beauty. Val. How esteemest thou me ? I account of her Speed. You never saw her since she was deformed. Val. How long hath she been deformed ? Speed. Ever since you loved her. Val. I have loved her ever since I saw her ; and still I see her beautiful. Speed. If you love her, you cannot see her. Val. Why? Speed. Because Love is blind. O, that you had mine eyes; or your own eyes had the lights they were wont to have when you chid at Su- Proteus for going ungartered ! Val. What should I see then ? Speed. Your own present foUy and her passing deformity : for he, being in love, could not see to garter his hose, and you, being in love, cannot see to put on your hose. Val. Belike, boy, then, you are in love : for last morning you could not see to wipe my shoes. Speed. True, sir ; I was in love, with my bed : I thank you, you swnged me for my love, which makes me the bolder to chide you for yours. Val. In conclusion, I stand affected to her. Speed. I would you were set, so your affection would cease. Val. Last night she enjoined me to write some lines to one she loves. Speed. And have you ? Val. I have. Speed. Are they not lamely writ ? Val. JSTo, boy, but as well as I can do them. Peace ! here she comes. Speed. lAside] O excellent motion ! O exceeding puppet ! Now wiU he interpret to her. Enter Silvia. Val. Madam and mistress, a thousand good-mor- rows, [lion of manners. Speed. [Aside] O, give ye good even ! here's a mil- Sil. Sir Valentine and servant, to you two thou- sand, [she gives it him. Speed. [Aside] He should give her interest, and Val. As you enjoin'd me, I have writ yom- letter Unto the secret nameless friend of yours ; Which I was much unwilling to proceed in But for my duty to your ladyship. [done. Sil. I thank you, gentle servant : 'tis very clerkly Val. Now trust me, madam, it came hardly off; For being ignorant to whom it goes I writ at random, very doubtfully. [pains ? Sil. Perchance you think too much of so mucli Val. No, madam ; so it stead you, I will write. Please you command, a thousand times as much ; And yet — Sil. A pretty period ! Well, I guess the sequel ; And yet I will not name it ; and yet I care not ; And yet take this again ; and yet I thank you. Meaning henceforth to trouble you no more. Speed. [Aside] And yet you will ; and yet anothei 'yet.' [it! Val. What means your ladyship ? do you not lika Sil. Yes, yes : the lines are very quaintly writ ; But since unwillingly, take them again. Nay, take them. Val. Madam, they are for you. Sil. Ay, ay : you writ them, sir, at my request ; 21 ACT II. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA, scene iv. But I will none of them ; they are for you ; I would have had them wiit more movingly. Vol. Please you, I '11 write your ladyship another. Sit. And when it 's writ, for my sake read it over, And if it please you, so ; if not, why, so. Vol. If it please me, madam, what then ? Sil. Why, if it please you, take it for your labour : And so, good-morrow, servant. [Exit. Speed. O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible. As a nose on a man's face, or a weathercock on a steeple ! [suitor. My master sues to her, and she hath taught her He being her pupil, to become her tutor. O excellent device ! was there ever heard a better. That my master, being scribe, to himself should write the letter ? Vol. How now, sir ? what are you reasoning with yourself ? Speed. ISTay, I was rhyming : 't is you that have the reason. Vol. To do what ? Speed. To be a spokesman for Madam Silvia. Vol. To whom ? (Speed. To yourself: why, she wooes you by a Val. What figure ? [figure. Speed. By a letter, I should say. Vol. Why, she hath not writ to me ? Speed. What need she, when she hath made you write to yourself ? Why, do you not perceive the Val. No, believe me. [jest ? Speed. No believing you, indeed, sir. But did you perceive her earnest ? Val. She gave me none, except an angry word. Speed. Why, she hath given you a letter. Val. That 's the letter I writ to her friend. Speed. And that letter hath she delivered, and there an end. Val. I would it were no worse. Speed. I '11 warrant you, 't is as well : For often have you writ to her, and she, in modesty. Or else for want of idle time, could not again reply ; Or fearing else some messenger that might her mind discover, [her lover. Herself hath taught her love himself to write unto All this I speak in print, for in print I found it. Why muse you, sir ? 't is dinner-time. Val. I have dined. Speed. Ay, but hearken, sir; though the cha- meleon Love can feed on the air, I am one that am nourished by my victuals and would fain have meat. O, be not like your mistress ; be moved, be moved. [Eooeunt. SCENE II. — Verona. Julia''s house. Enter Proteus and Julia. Pro. Have patience, gentle Julia. Jul. I must, where is no remedy. Pro. When possibly I can, I will return. Jul. If you turn not, you will return the sooner. Keep this remembrance for thy Julia's sake. [Giving a ring. Pro. Why, then, we '11 make exchange ; here, take you this. Jul. And seal the bargain with a holy kiss. Pro. Here is my hand for my true constancy ; And when that hour o'erslips me in the day Wherein I sigh not, Julia, for thy sake, The next ensuing hour some foul mischance Torment me for my love's forgetfulness ! My father stays my coming ; answer not ; The tide is now : nay, not thy tide of tears ; That tide will stay me longer than I should. Julia, farewell ! [Exit Julia. What, gone without a word ? Ay, so true love should do : it cannot speak ; F<» truth hath better deeds than words to grace it. 22 Enter Panthino. Pan. Sir Proteus, you are stay'd for. Pro. Go ; I come, I come. Alas ! this parting strikes poor lovers dumb. [Exeunt. SCENE III. — The same. A street. Enter Launoe, leading a dog. Launce. Nay, 'twill be this hour ere I have done weeping ; all the kind of the Launces have this very fault. I have received my proportion, like the pro- digious son, and am going with Sir Proteus to the Imperial's court. I think Crab my dog be the sour- est-natured dog that lives : my mother weeping, my father wailing, my sister crying, our maid howling, our cat wringing her hands, and all our house in a great perplexity, yet did not this cruel-hearted cur shed one tear : he is a stone, a very pebble-stone, and has no more pity in him than a dog: a Jew would have wept to have seen our parting ; why, my grandam, having no eyes, look you, wept hersehf blind at my parting. Nay, I '11 show you the man- ner of it. This shoe is my father : no, this left shoe is my father: no, no, this left shoe is my mother: nay, that cannot be so neither : yes, it is so, it is so, it hath the worser sole. This shoe, with the hole in it, is my mother, and this my father ; a vengeance on 't ! there 't is : now, sir, this staff is my sister, for, look you, she is as white as a lily and as small as a wand : this hat is Nan, our maid : I am the dog : no, the dog is himself, and I am the dog — Oh! the dog is me, and I am myself ; ay, so, so. Now come I to my father ; Father, your blessing : now should not the shoe speak a word for weeping : now should I kiss my father ; well, he weeps on. Now come I to my mother : O, that she could speak now like a wood woman ! Well, I kiss her ; why, there 't is ; here 's my mother's breath up and down. . Now come I to my sister ; mark the moan she makes. Now the dog all this while sheds not a tear nor speaks a word ; but see how I lay the dust with my tears. Enter Panthino. Pan. Launce, away, away, aboard! thy master is shipped and thou art to post after with oars. What's the matter? why weepest thou, man? Away, ass ! you '11 lose the tide, if you tarry any longer. Launce. It is no matter if the tied were lost ; for it is the unkindest tied that ever any man tied. Pan. What 's the unkindest tide ? Launce. Why, he that 's tied here. Crab, my dog. Pan. Tut, man, I mean thou 'It lose the flood, and, in losing the flood, lose thy voyage, and, in losing thy voyage, lose thy master, and, in losing thy master, lose thy service, and, in losing thy ser- vice, — Why dost thou stop my mouth ? Launce. For fear thou shouldst lose thy tongue. Pan. Where should I lose my tongue ? Launce. In thy tale. Pan. In thy tail ! Launce. Lose the tide, and the voyage, and the master, and the service, and the tied! Why, man, if the river were dry, I am able to fill it with my tears ; if the wind were down, I could drive the boat with my sighs. [thee. Pan. Come, come away, man ; I was sent to call Launce. Sir, call me what thou darest. Pan. Wilt thou go ? Launce. Well, I will go. [Exeunt, SCENE IV.— Milan. The Duke''s palace. Enter Silvia, Valentine, Thurio, and Speed. Sil. Servant! Val. Mistress? A.CT II. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA, scene iv. Speed. Master, Sir Thurio frowns on you. Vol. Ay, boy, it 's for love. Speed. jSTot of you. Vol. Of my mistress, then. Speed. 'T \vere good you knocked him, [Exit. Sil. Servant, you are sad. Val. Indeed, madam, I seem so. Thu. Seem you that you are not ? Val. Haply I do. Tlvu. So do counterfeits. Val. So do you. Thu. What seem I that I am not ? Val. Wise. Tim. What instance of the contrary ? Val. Your folly. Thii. And how quote you my folly ? Val. I quote it in your jerkin. Thu. My jerkin is a doublet. Val. Well, then, I 'U double your foUy. Thu. How? [colour? Sil. What, angry. Sir Thurio! do you change Val. Give him leave, madam; he is a kind of chameleon. I'hu. That hath more mind to feed on your blood than live in your air. Val. You have said, sir. Thu. Ay, sir, and done too, for this time, [begin. Val. I know it well, sir ; you always end ere you Sil. A fine volley of words, gentlemen, and quickly shot off. Val. 'T is indeed, madam ; we thank the giver. Sil. Who is that, servant ? Val. Yourself, sweet lady ; for you gave the fire. Sir Thurio borrows his wit from your ladyship's looks, and spends what he borrows kindly in your company. Thu. Sir, if you spend word for word with me, I shall make your wit bankrupt. Val. I know it well, sir ; you have an exchequer of words, and, I think, no other treasure to give your followers, for it appears, by their bare liveries, that they live by your bare words. [father. Sil. No more, gentlemen, no more : here comes my Enter Duke. Buke. Now, daughter Silvia, you are hard beset. Sir Valentine, your father 's in good health : What say you to a letter from your friends Of much good news ? Val. My lord, I will be thankful To any happy messenger from thence. Duke. Know ye Don Antonio, your countryman ? Val. Ay, my good lord, I know the gentleman To be of worth and worthy estimation And not without desert so well reputed. Buke. Hath he not a son ? Val. Ay, my good lord ; a son that well deserves The honour and regard of such a father. Buke. You know him well ? Val. I know him as myself; for from our infancy We have conversed and spent our hours together : And though myself have been an idle truant. Omitting the sweet benefit of time To clothe mine age with angel-like perfection, Yet hath Sir Proteus, for that 's his name, Made use and fair advantage of his days ; His years but young, but his experience old ; His head unmellow'd, but his judgment ripe; And, in a word, for far behind his worth Comes all the praises that I now bestow, He is complete in feature and in mind With all good grace to grace a gentleman. Buke. Beshrew me, sir, but if he make this good, He is as worthy for an empress' love As meet to be an emperor's counsellor. Well, sir, this gentleman is come to me, With commendation from great potentates ; And here he means to spend his time awhile : I think 't is no unwelcome news to you. Val. Should I have wish'd a thing, it had been he. Buke. Welcome liim then according to his worth. Silvia, I speak to you, and you. Sir Thurio ; For Valentine, I need not cite him to it : I will send him hither to you presently. [Exit. Val. This is the gentleman I told your ladyship Had come along with me, but that his mistress Did hold his eyes lock'd in her crystal looks. Sil. Belike tliat now she hath enfranchised them Upon some other pawn for fealty. [still. Val. Nay, sure, I think she holds them prisoners Sil. Nay, then he should be blind ; and, being blind, How could he see his way to seek out you ? Val. Why, lady, Love hath twenty pair of eyes. Thu. They say that Love hath not an eye at all. Val. To see such lovers, Thurio, as yourself: Upon a homely object Love can wink. [tleman. Sil. Have done, have done ; here comes the gen- Enter Proteus. [Exit Thurio. Val. Welcome, dear Proteus ! Mistress, I beseech Confirm his welcome with some special favour, [you, Sil. His worth is warrant for his welcome hither, If this be he you oft have wish'd to hear from. Val. Mistress, it is : sweet lady, entertain him To be my fellow-servant to your ladyship. Sil. Too low a mistress for so high a servant. Pro. Not so, sweet lady: but too mean a servant To have a look of such a worthy mistress. Val. Leave off discourse of disability : Sweet lady, entertain him for your servant. Pro. My duty will I boast of : nothing else. Sil. And duty never yet did want his meed : Servant, you are welcome to a worthless mistress. Pro. I '11 die on him that says so but yourself. Sil. That you are welcome ? Pro. That you are worthless. Be-enter Thurio. Thu. Madam, my lord your father would speak with you. Sil. I wait upon his pleasure. Come, Sir Thurio, Go with me. Once more, new servant, welcome : I '11 leave you to confer of home affairs ; When you have done, we look to hear from you. Pro. We '11 both attend upon your ladyship. [Exeunt Silvia and Thurio. Val. Now, tell me, how do all from whence you came ? [commended. Pro. Your friends are well and have them much Val. And how do yours ? Pro. I left them all in health. Val. How does your lady ? and how thrives your love ? Pro. My tales of love were wont to weary you ; I know you joy not in a love-discourse. Val. Ay, Proteus, but that life is alter'd now: I have done penance for contemning Love, Whose high imperious thoughts have punish'd me With bitter fasts, with penitential groans. With nightly tears and daily heart-sore sighs ; For in revenge of my contempt of love, Love hath chased sleep from my enthralled eyes And made them watchers of mine own heart's sor- O gentle Proteus, Love 's a mighty lord [row. And hath so humbled me as I confess There is no woe to his correction Nor to his service no such joy on earth. Now no discourse, except it be of love ; Now can I break my fast, dine, sup and sleep, Upon the very naked name of love. Pro. Enough ; I read your fortune in your eye. Was this the idol that you worship so ? Val. Even she ; and is she not a heavenly saint ? Pro. No ; but she is an earthly paragon. 23 ACT II. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA, scene vi. Vol. Call her divine. Pro. I will not flatter her. Vol. O, flatter me ; for love delights in praises. Pro. When I was sick, you gave me bitter pills, And I must minister the like to you. Vol. Then speak the truth by her; if not divine, Yet let her be a principality, Sovereign to all the creatures on the earth. Pro. Except my mistress. Vol. Sweet, except not any; Except thou wilt except against my love. Pro. Have I not reason to prefer mine own ? Vol. And I will help thee to prefer her too : She shall be dignified with this high honour — To bear my lady's train, lest the base earth Should from her vesture chance to steal a kiss And, of so great a favour growing proud, Disdain to root the summer-swelling flower And make rough winter everlastingly. Pro. Why, Valentine, what braggardism is this? Vol. Pardon me, Proteus : all I can is nothing To her whose worth makes other worthies nothing; She is alone. Pro. Then let her alone, [own. Vol. Not for the world : why, man, she is mine And I as rich in having such a jewel As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl, The water nectar and the rocks pure gold. Forgive me that I do not dream on thee, Because thou see'st me dote upon my love. My foolish rival, that her father likes Only for his possessions are so huge. Is gone with her along, and I must after. For love, thou know'st, is full of jealousy. Pro. But she loves you ? [marriage-hour, Vol. Ay, and we are betroth'd: nay, more, our With all the cunning manner of our flight. Determined of; how I must climb her window, The ladder made of cords, and all the means Plotted and 'greed on for my happiness. Good Proteus, go with me to my chamber. In these affairs to aid me with thy counsel. Pro. Go on before ; I shall inquire you forth : I must unto the road, to disembark Some necessaries that I needs must use, And then I '11 presently attend you. Vol. Will you make haste ? Pro. I will. [Exit Valentine. Even as one heat another heat expels. Or as one nail by strength drives out another. So the remembrance of my former love Is by a newer object quite forgotten. Is it mine, or Valentine's praise, Her true perfection, or my false transgression, That makes me reasonless to reason thus ? She is fair; and so is Julia that I love — That I did love, for now my love is thaw'd ; Which, like a waxen image 'gainst a fire, Bears no impression of the thing it was. Methinks my zeal to Valentine is cold, And that I love him not as I was wont. O, but I love his lady too too much. And that 's the reason I love him so little. How shall I dote on her with more advice, That thus without advice begin to love her! 'T is but her picture I have yet beheld, And that hath dazzled my reason's light ; But when I look on her perfections. There is no reason but I shall be blind. If I can check my erring love, I will ; If not, to compass her I '11 tise my skill. [Exit. SCENE v.— T7ie same. A street. Enter Speed and Launce severally. Speed. Launce! by mine honesty, welcome to Milan ! Launce. Forswear not thyself, sweet youth, for I am not welcome. I reckon this always, that a man is never undone till he be hanged, nor never welcome to a place till some certain shot be paid and the hostess say ' Welcome ! ' Speed. Come on, you madcap, I '11 to the alehouse with you presently ; where, for one shot of five pence, thou Shalt have five thousand welcomes. But, sirrah, how did thy master part with Madam Julia ? Launce. Marry, after they closed in earnest, they parted very fairly in jest. Speed. But shall she marry him ? Launce. No. Speed. How then ? shall he marry her ? Launce. No, neither. Speed. What, are they broken ? Launce. No, they are both aswholeasafish. [them? Speed. Why, then, how stands the matter with Launce. Marry, thus ; when it stands well with him, it stands well with her. [not. Speed. What an ass art thou ! I understand thee Launce. What a block art thou, that thou canst not ! My staff understands me. Speed. What thou sayest ? Launce. Ay, and what I do too : look thee, I '11 but lean, and my staff understands me. Speed. It stands under thee, indeed. [one. Launce. Why, stand-under and under-stand is all Speed. But tell me true, will 't be a match ? Launce. Ask my dog : if he say ay, it will ; if he say no, it will; if he shake his tail and say nothing, it will. Speed. The conclusion is then that it will. Launce. Thou shalt never get such a secret from me but by a parable. Speed. 'T is well that I get it so. But, Launce, how sayest thou, that my master is become a notable Launce. I never knew him otherwise. [lover ? Speed. Than how ? [to be. Launce. A notable lubber, as thou reportest him Speed. Why, thou whoreson ass, thou mistakest me. [thy master. Launce. Why, fool, I meant not thee ; I meant Speed. I tell thee, my master is become a hot lover. Launce. Why, I tell thee, I care not though he burn himself in love. If thou wilt, go with me to the alehouse; if not, thou art an Hebrew, a Jew, and not worth the name of a Christian. Speed. Why? Launce. Because thou hast not so much charity in thee as to go to the ale with a Christian. Wilt thou go? Speed. At thy service. [Exeunt. SCENE VI.— The same. The Duke^s pcdace. Enter Proteus. Pro. To leave my Julia, shall I be forsworn; To love fair Silvia, shall I be forsworn ; To wrong my friend, I shall be much forsworn; And even that power which gave me first my oath Provokes me to this threefold perjury ; Love bade me swear and Love bids me forswear. sweet-suggesting Love, if thou hast sinn'd. Teach me, thy tempted subject, to excuse it ! At first I did adore a twinkling star, But now I worship a celestial sun. Unheedful vows may heedfully be broken, And he wants wit that wants resolved will To learn his wit to exchange the bad for better. Fie, fie, unreverend tongue ! to call her bad, Whose sovereignty so oft thou hast preferr'd With twenty thousand soul-confirming oaths. 1 cannot leave to love, and yet I do ; But there I leave to love where I should love. Julia I lose and Valentine I lose : If I keep them, I needs must lose myself; If I lose them, thus find I by their loss ACT III. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. scene i. For Valentine myself, for Julia Silvia. I to myself am dearer than a friend, For love is still most precious in itself ; And Silvia — witness Heaven, that made her fair ! — Shows Julia but a swarthy Ethiope. I will forget that Julia is alive, Eemembering that my love to her is dead ; And Valentine I '11 hold an enemy. Aiming at Silvia as a sweeter friend. I cannot now prove constant to myself. Without some treachery used to Valentine. This night he meaneth witli a corded ladder To climb celestial Silvia's chamber-window, Myself in counsel, his competitor. iSTow presently I '11 give her father notice Of their disguising and pretended flight ; Who, all enraged, will banish Valentine; For Thurio, he intends, shall wed his daughter; But, Valentine being gone, I '11 quickly cross By some sly trick blunt Thurio 's dull proceeding. Love, lend me wings to make my purpose swift. As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift ! [Exit. SCENE VII.— Verona. Julians house. Enter Julia and Lucetta. Jul. Counsel, Lucetta; gentle girl, assist me; And even in kind love I do conjure thee. Who art the table wherein all my thoughts Are visibly character 'd and engraved. To lesson me and tell me some good mean How, with my honour, I may undertake A journey to my loving Proteus. Luc. Alas, the way is wearisome and long ! Jul. A true-devoted pilgrim is not weary To measure kingdoms with his feeble steps ; Much less shall she that hath Love's wings to fly, And when the flight is made to one so dear, Of such divine perfection, as Sir Proteus. Luc. Better forbear till Proteus make return. Jul. O, know'st thou not his looks are my soul's Pity the dearth that I have pined in, [food ? By longing for that food so long a time. Didst thou but know the inly touch of love, Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow As seek to quench the fire of love with words. Luc. I do not seek to quench your love's hot fire, But qualify the fire's extreme rage. Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason. Jul. The more thou damm'st it up, the more it The current that with gentle murmur glides, [burns. Thou know 'st , being stopp 'd , impatiently doth rage ; But when his fair course is not hindered. He makes sweet music with the enamell'd stones. Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge He overtaketh in his pilgrimage. And so by many winding nooks he strays With willing sport to the wild ocean. Then let me go and hinder not my course : I '11 be as patient as a gentle stream And make a pastime of each weary step. Till the last step have brought me to my love ; And there I '11 rest, as after much turmoil A blessed soul doth in Elysium. Liic. But in what habit will you go along ? Jul. Not like a woman ; for I would prevent The loose encounters of lascivious men : Gentle Lucetta, fit me with such weeds As may beseem some well-reputed page. Luc. Why, then, your ladyship must cut your hair. Jul. No, girl; I'll knit it up in silken strings With twenty odd-conceited true-love knots. To be fantastic may become a youth Of greater time than I shall show to be. [breeches ? Luc. What fashion, madam, shall I make your Jul. That fits as well as ' Tell me, good my lord, What compass will you wear your farthingale ? ' Why even what fashion thou best likest, Lucetta. Luc. You must needs have them with a codpiece, madam. Jul. Out, out, Lucetta ! that will be ill-favour'd. Luc. A round hose, madam, now 's not worth a Unless you have a codpiece to stick pins on. [pin, J^il. Lucetta, as thou lovest me, let me have What thou thinkest meet and is most mannerly. But tell me, wench, how will the world repute me For undertaking so unstaid a journey ? I fear me, it will make me scandalized. Imc. If you think so, then stay at home and go not. Jul. Nay, that I will not. Luc. Then never dream on infamy, but go. If Proteus like your journey when you come. No matter who 's displeased when you are gone : I fear me, he will scarce be pleased withal. Jul. That is the least, Lucetta, of my fear: A thousand oaths, an ocean of his tears And instances of infinite of love Warrant me welcome to my Proteus. Luc. All these are servants to deceitful men. Jul. Base men, that use them to so base effect ! But truer stars did govern Proteus' birth ; His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles. His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate. His tears pure messengers sent from his heart, His heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth. Luc. Pray heaven he prove so, when you come to him ! [wrong Jul. Now, as thou lovest me, do him not that To bear a hard opinion of his truth : Only deserve my love by loving him ; And presently go with me to my chamber, To take a note of what I stand in need of, To furnish me upon my longing journey. All that is mine I leave at thy dispose. My goods, my landSj my reputation; Only, in lieu thereof, dispatch me hence. ComCj answer not, but to it presently! I am impatient of my tarriance. [Exeunt. A.CT III. SCENE I.— Milan. The Duke's palace. Enter Duke, Thurio, and Proteus. Duke. Sir Thurio, give us leave, I pray, awhile; We have some secrets to confer about. [Exit Thu. Now, tell me, Proteus, what 's your will with me. Pro. My gracious lord, that which I would dis- The law of friendship bids me to conceal : [cover But when I call to mind your gracious favours Done to me, undeserving as I am. My duty pricks me on to utter that Which else no worldly good should draw from me. Know, worthy prince. Sir Valentine, my friend, This night intends to steal away your daughter : Myself am one made privy to the plot. I know you have determined to bestow her On Thurio, whom your gentle daughter hates ; And should she thus be stol'n away from you, It would be much vexation to your age. Thus, for my duty's sake, I rather chose To cross my friend in his intended drift Than, by concealing it, heap on your head A pack of sorrows which would press you down, Being unprevented, to your timeless grave. 25 ACT III. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. scene Buke. Proteus, I thank thee for thine honest care ; Which to requite, command me while I live, This love of theirs myself have often seen, Haply when they have judged me fast asleep, And oftentimes have purposed to forbid Sir Valentine her company and my court : But fearing lest my jealous aim might err And so unworthily disgrace the man, A rashness that I ever yet have shunn'd, I gave him gentle looks, thereby to find That which thyself hast now disclosed to me. And, that thou mayst perceive my fear of this, Knowing that tender youth is soon suggested, t nightly lodge her in "an upper tower. The key whereof myself have ever kept ; And thence she cannot be convey'd away. Pro. Know, noble lord, they have devised a mean How he her chamber-window will ascend And with a corded ladder fetch her down ; For which the youthful lover now is gone And this way comes he with it presently ; Where, if it please you, you may intercept him. But, good my Lord, do it so cunningly That my discovery be not aimed at ; For love of you, not hate unto my friend. Hath made me publisher of this pretence. Duke. Upon mine honour, he shall never know That I had any light from thee of this. Pro. Adieu, my Lord ; Sir Valentine is coming. ^ ^^ . {Exit. Enter Valentine. Duke. Sir Valentine, whither away so fast ? Vol. Please it your grace, there is a messenger That stays to bear my letters to my friends, And I am going to deliver them. Duke. Be they of much import ? Vol. The tenour of them doth but signify My health and happy being at your court. Duke. Nay then, no matter ; stay with me awhile ; I am to break with thee of some affairs That touch me near, wherein thou must be secret. 'T is not unknown to thee that I have sought To match my friend Sir Thurio to my daughter. Vol. I know it well, my Lord; and, sure, the match Were rich and honourable ; besides, the gentleman Is full of virtue, bounty, worth and qualities Beseeming such a wife as your fair daughter : Cannot your Grace win her to fancy him ? [ward, Duke. No, trust me; she is peevish, sullen, fro- Proud, disobedient, stubborn, lacking duty, Neither regarding that she is my child Nor fearing me as if I were her father ; And, may I say to thee, this pride of hers. Upon advice, hath drawn my love from her ; And, where I thought the remnant of mine age Should have been cherish 'd by her child-like duty, I now am full resolved to take a wife And turn her out to who will take her in : Then let her beauty be her wedding-dower; For me and my possessions she esteems not. [this ? Vol. What would your Grace have me to do in Duke. There is a lady in Verona here Whom I affect ; but she is nice and coy And nought esteems my aged eloquence : Now therefore would I have thee to my tutor — For long agone I have forgot to court ; Besides, the fashion of the time is changed — How and which way I may bestow myself To be regarded in her sun-bright eye. Vol. Win her with gifts, if she respect not words : Dumb jewels often in their silent kind More than quick words do move a woman's mind. Duke. But she did scorn a present that I sent her. Vol. A woman sometimes scorns what best con- Send her another; never give her o'er; [tents her. For scorn at first makes after-love the more. If she do frown, 't is not in hate of you. But rather to beget more love in you : If she do chide, 't is not to have you gone ; For why, the fools are mad, if left alone. Take no repulse, whatever she doth say ; For ' get you gone,' she doth not mean ' away ! ' Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces ; Though ne'er so black, say they have angels' faces. That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man. If with his tongue he cannot win a woman. Duke. But she I mean is promised by her friends Unto a youthful gentleman of worth. And kept severely from resort of men. That no man hath access by day to her. Vol. Why, then, I would resort to her by night. Duke. Ay, but the doors be lock'd and keys kept That no man hath recourse to her by night, [safe. Vol. What lets but one may enter at her window r Duke. Her chamber is aloft, far from the ground, And built so shelving that one cannot climb it Without apparent hazard of his life. Vol. Why then, a ladder quaintly made of cords, To cast up, with a pair of anchoring hooks. Would serve to scale another Hero's tower. So bold Leander would adventure it. Duke. Now, as thou art a gentleman of blood. Advise me where I may have such a ladder, [that. Vol. When would you use it ? pray, sir, tell me Duke. This very night ; for Love is like a child, That longs for everything that he can come by. Vol. By seven o'clock I '11 get you such a ladder. Duke. But, hark thee ; I will go to her alone : How shall I best convey the ladder thither ? Vol. It will be light, my lord, that you may bear it Under a cloak that is of any length. Duke. A cloak as long as thine will serve the turn ? Val. Ay, my good lord. Duke. Then let me see thy cloak : I '11 get me one of such another length. Val. Why, any cloak will serve the turn, my lord. Duke. How shall I fashion me to wear a cloak V I pray thee, let me feel thy cloak upon me. What letter is this same'r" What's here? 'To Silvia ' ! And here an engine fit for my proceeding. I '11 be so bold to break the seal for once. [Beads. ' My thoughts do harbour with my Silvia nightly, And slaves they are to me that send them flying : O, could their master come and go as lightly, Himself would lodge where senseless they are lying ! My herald thoughts in thy pure bosom rest them ; While I, their king, that hither them importune. Do curse the grace that with such grace hath bless'd them, Because myself do want my servants' fortune : I curse myself, for they are sent by me. That they should harbour where their lord would What's here? [be.' ' Silvia, this night I will enfranchise thee.' 'T is so ; and here 's the ladder for the purpose. Why, Phaethon, — for thou art Merops' son, — Wilt thou aspire to guide the heavenly car And with thy daring folly burn the world ? Wilt thou reach stars, because they shine on thee ? Go, base intruder! overweening slave! Bestow thy fawning smiles on equal mates. And think my patience, more than thy desert. Is privilege for thy departure hence : Thank me for this more than for all the favours Which all too much I have bestow'd on thee. But if thou linger in my territories Longer than swiftest expedition Will give thee time to leave our royal court. By heaven ! my wrath shall far exceed the love I ever bore my daughter or thyself. Be gone ! I will not hear thy vain excuse ; ACT III. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. SCENE I. But, as thou lovest thy life, make speed from hence. [Exit. Vol. And why not death rather than living tor- To die is to be banish 'd from myself ; [ment ? And Silvia is myself : banish 'd from her Is self from self : a deadly banishment ! What light is light, if Silvia be not seen? What joy is joy, if Silvia be not by ? Unless it be to think that she is by And feed upon the shadow of perfection. Except I be by Silvia in the night, There is no music in the nightingale ; Unless I look on Silvia in the day, There is no day for me to look upon ; She is my essence, and I leave to be. If I be not by her fair influence Foster'd, illumined, cherish'd, kept alive. I fly not death, to fly his deadly doom: Tarry I here, I but attend on death : But, fly I hence, I fly away from life. Enter Proteus and Launce. Pro. Run, boy, run^ run, and seek him out. Launce. Soho, soho i - Fro. What seest thou ? Launce. Him we go to find : there 's not a hair on 's head but 't is a Valentine. Pro. Valentine? Vol. No. Pro. Who then ? his spirit ? Yal. Neither. Pro. What then? Vol. Nothing. [strike? Launce. Can nothing speak? Master, shall I Pro. Who wouldst thou strike ? Launce. Nothing. Pro. Villain, forbear. Launce. Why, sir, I'll strike nothing: I pray you,— [a word. Pro. Sirrah, I say, forbear. Friend Valentine, Vol. My ears are stopt and cannot hear goodnews, So much of bad already hath possess'd them. Pro. Then in dumb silence will I bury mine, For they are harsh, untuneable and bad. Val. Is Silvia dead ? Pro. No, Valentine. Val. No Valentine, indeed, for sacred Silvia. Hath she forsworn me ? Pro. No, Valentine. Val. No Valentine, if Silvia have forsworn me. What is your news ? Launce. Sir, there is a proclamation that you are vanished. [news ! — Pro. That thou art banished — O, that's the From hence, from Silvia and from me thy friend. Val. O, I have fed upon this woe already. And now excess of it will make me surfeit. Doth Silvia know that I am banished ? Pro. Ay, ay ; and she hath offer 'd to the doom— Which, unreversed, stands in effectual force — A sea of melting pearl, which some call tears: Those at her father's churlish feet she tender'd; With them, upon her knees, her humble self; Wringing her hands, whose whiteness so became As if but now they waxed pale for woe : [them But neither bended knees, pure hands held up. Sad sighs, deep groans, nor silver-shedding tears, Could penetrate her uncompassionate sire ; But Valentine, if he be ta'en, must die. Besides, her intercession chafed him so. When she for thy repeal was suppliant. That to close prison he commanded her, With many bitter threats of biding there, [speak'st Val. No more ; unless the next word that thou Have some malignant power upon my life : If so, I pray thee, breathe it in mine ear. As ending anthem of my endless dolour. Pro. Cease to lament for that thou canst not help, And study help for that which thou lament 'st. Time is the nurse and breeder of all good. Here if thou stay, thou canst not see thy love ; Besides, thy staying will abridge thy life. Hope is a lover's staff ; walk hence with that And manage it against despairing thoughts. Thy letters may be here, though thou art hence ; Which, being writ to me, shall be deliver'd Even in the milk-white bosom of thy love. The time now serves not to expostulate : Come, I '11 convey thee through the city-gate; And, ere I part with thee, confer at large Of all that may concern thy love-affairs. As thou lovest Silvia, though not for thyself, Eegard thy danger, and along with me ! [boy, Val. I pray thee, Launce, an if thou seest my Bid him make haste and meet me at the North-gate. Pro. Go, sirrah, find him out. Come,Valentine. Val. O my dear Silvia ! Hapless Valentine ! [Exeunt Val. and Pro. Launce. I am but a fool, look you; and yet I have the wit to think my master is a kind of a knave : but that 's all one, if he be but one knave. He lives not now that knows me to be in love ; yet I am in love ; but a team of horse shall not pluck that from me ; nor who 't is I love ; and yet 't is a woman; but what woman, I will not tell myself; and yet 't is a milkmaid ; yet 't is not a maid, for she hath had gossips; yet 'tis a maid, for she is her master's maid, and serves for wages. She hath more qualities than a water-spaniel ; which is much in a bare Christian. [Pulling out a 'paper.] Here is the cate-log of her condition. ' Imprimis : She can fetch and carry.' Why, a horse can do no more: nay, a horse cannot fetch, but only carry; therefore is she better than a jade. 'Item: She can milk ; ' look you, a sweet virtue in a maid with clean hands. Enter Speed. Smed. How now, Signior Launce! what news with your mastership ? [sea. Launce. With my master's ship? why, it is at Speed. Well, your old vice still; mistake the word. What news, then, in your paper ? Launce. The blackest news that ever thou heardest. Speed. Why, man, how black ? Launce. Why, as black as ink. Speed. Let me read them. [read. Launce. Fie on thee, jolt-head! thou canst not Speed. Thou liest ; I can. [thee ? Launce. I will try thee. Tell me this : who begot Speed. Marry, the son of my grandfather. Launce. O illiterate loiterer ! it was the son of thy grandmother : this proves that thou canst not read. Speed. Come, fool, come; try me in thy paper. Launce. There ; and Saint Nicholas be thy speed ! Speed. [J?eads] ' Imprimis : She can milk.' Launce. Ay, that she can. Speed. ' Item : She brews good ale.' Launce. And thereof comes the proverb : ' Bless- ing of your heart, you brew good ale.' Speed. 'Item: She can sew.' Launce. That 's as much as to say. Can she so ? Speed. 'Item: She can knit.' Launce. What need a man care for a stock with a wench, when she can knit him a stock ? Speed. ' Item : She can wash and scour. ' Launce. A special virtue ; for then she need not be washed and scoured. Speed. 'Item: She can spin.' Launce . Then may I set the world on wheels , when she can spin for her living. Speed. ' Item : She hath many nameless virtues.' Launce. That 's as much as to say, bastard vir- ACT III. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA, scene ii. tues ; that, indeed, know not their fathers and there- fore have no names. Speed. ' Here follow her vices.' Launce. Close at the heels of her virtues. Speed. ' Item : She is not to be kissed fasting, in respect of her breath.' Launce. Well, that fault may be mended with a breakfast. Read on. Speed. ' Item: She hath a sweet mouth.' Launce. That makes amends for her souV breath. Speed. ' Item : She doth talk in her sleep.' Launce. It 's no matter for, that, so she sleep not in her talk. Spjeed. ' Item : She is slow in words.' Launce. O villain, that set this down among her vices ! To be slow in words is a woman's only virtue : I pray thee, out with 't, and place it for her chief Speed. 'Item: She is proud.' [virtue. Launce. Out with that too ; it was Eve's legacy, and cannot be ta'en from her. foeed. 'Item: She hath no teeth.' [crusts. aunce. I care not for that neither, because I love Speed. 'Item: She is curst.' Launce. Well , the best is, she hath no teeth to bite. Speed. 'Item: She will often praise her liquor.' Launce. If her liquor be good, she shall : if she will not, I will ; for good things should be praised. Speed. ' Item : She is too liberal. ' Launce. Of her tongue she cannot, for that 's writ down she is slow of; of her purse she shall not, for that I '11 keep shut : now, of another thing she may, and that cannot I help. Well, proceed. Speed. ' Item : She hath more hair than wit, and more faults than hairs, and more wealth than faults.' Launce. Stop there; I '11 have her: she was mine, and not mine, twice or thrice in that last article. Rehearse that once more. Speed. ' Item : She hath more hair than wit,' — Launce. More hair than wit ? It may be ; I '11 prove it. The cover of the salt hides the salt, and therefore it is more than the salt; the hair that covers the wit is more than the wit, for the greater hides the less. What 's next ? Speed. 'And more faults than hairs,' — Launce. That 's monstrous : O, that that were out ! Speed. 'And more wealth than faults.' Launce. Why, that word makes the faults gra- cious. Well, I'll have her: and if it be a match, as nothing is impossible, — Speed. What then ? Launce. Why, then will I tell thee — that thy master stays for thee at the Korth-gate. Speed. For me ? Launce. For thee! ay, who art thou? he hath stayed for a better man than thee. Speed. And must I go to him ? Launce. Thou must run to him, for thou hast stayed so long that going will scarce serve the turn. Speed. Why didst not tell me sooner ? pox of your love-letters ! [JExit. Launce. ISTow will he be swinged for reading my letter; an unmannerly slave, that will thrust him- self into secrets ! I '11 after, to rejoice in the boy's correction. {Exit. SCENE II.— The same. The BuWs palace. Enter Duke and Thurio. Duke. Sir Thurio, fear not but that she will love Now Valentine is banish 'd from her sight, [you, Thu. Since his exile she hath despised me most. Forsworn my company and rail'd at me, That I am desperate of obtaining her. Duke. This weak impress of love is as a figure Trenched in ice, which with an hour's heat Dissolves to water and doth lose his form. A little time will melt her frozen thoughts, And worthless Valentine shall be forgot. Enter Proteus. How now. Sir Proteus ! Is your countryman According to our proclamation gone ? Pro. Gone, my good lord. Duke. My daughter takes his going grievously. Fro. A little time, my lord, will kill that grief. Duke. So I believe; but Thurio thinks not so. Proteus, the good conceit I hold of thee — For thou hast shown some sign of good desert — Makes me the better to confer with thee. Pro. Longer than I prove loyal to your grace Let me not live to look upon your grace. Duke. Thou know'st how willingly I would effect The match between Sir Thurio and my daughter. Pro. I do, my lord. Duke. And also, I think, thou art not ignorant How she opposes her against my will. Pro. She did, my lord, when Valentine was here. Duke. Ay, and perversely she persevers so. What might we do to make the girl forget The love of Valentine and love Sir Thurio ? Pro. The best way is to slander Valentine With falsehood, cowardice and poor descent. Three things that women highly hold in hate. Duke. Ay, but she '11 think that it is spoke in hate. Pro. Ay, if his enemy deliver it : Therefore it must with circumstance be spoken By one whom she esteemeth as his friend. Duke. Then you must undertake to slander him. Pro. And that, my lord, I shall be loath to do : 'T is an ill office for a gentleman. Especially against his very friend. [him, Duke. Where your good word cannot advantage Your slander never can endamage him ; Therefore the office is indifferent. Being entreated to it by your friend. Pro. You have prevail'd, my lord: if I can do it By ought that I can speak in his dispraise, She shall not long continue love to him. But say this weed her love from Valentine, It follows not that she wiU love Sir Thurio. Tim. Therefore, as you unwind her love from him, Lest it should ravel and be good to none, You must provide to bottom it on me ; Which must be done by praising me as much As you in worth dispraise Sir Valentine. [kind, Duke. And, Proteus, we dare trust you in this Because we know^ on Valentine's report. You are already Love's firm votary And cannot soon revolt and change your mind. Upon this warrant shall you have access Where you with Silvia may confer at large ; For she is lumpish, heavy, melancholy. And, for your friend's sake, will be glad of you;. Where you may temper her by your persuasion To hate young Valentine and love my friend. Pro. As much as I can do, I will effect : But you. Sir Thurio, are not sharp enough; You must lay lime to tangle her desires By wailful sonnets, whose composed rhymes Should be full-fraught with serviceable vows. Duke. Ay, Much is the force of heaven-bred poesy. Pro. Say that upon the altar of her beauty You sacrifice your tears, your sighs, your heart : Write till your ink be dry, and with your tears Moist it again, and frame some feeling line That may discover such integrity : For Orpheus' lute was strung with poets' sinews, Whose golden touch could soften steel and stones. Make tigers tame and huge leviathans Forsake unsounded deeps to dance on sands. After your dire-lamenting elegies. Visit by night your lady's chamber-window ACT IV. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA, scene n. "With some sweet concert ; to their instruments Time a deploring dump: the night's dead silence Will well become such sweet-complaining grievance . This, or else nothing, will inherit her. [love. Duke. This discipline shows thou hast been in T/iM. And thy advice this night I '11 put in practice. Therefore, sweet Proteus, my direction-giver, Let us into the city presently To sort some gentlemen well skill'd in music. I have a sonnet that will serve the turn To give the onset to thy good advice. Duke. About it, gentlemen! Pro. We '11 wait upon your grace till after supper, And afterward determine our proceedings. Duke. Even now about it I I will pardon you. [Exeunt. .ACT Tsr. SCENE I, — The frontiers of Mantua. A forest. Enter certain Outlaws. First Out. Fellows, stand fast ; I see a passenger. Sec. Out. If there be ten, shrink not, but down with 'em. Enter Valentine and Speed. Third Out. Stand, sir, and throw us that you have about ye : If not, we '11 make you sit and rifle you. Speed. Sir, we are undone ; these are the villains That all the travellers do fear so much. Val. My friends, — First Out. That 'snot so, sir: we are your enemies. Sec. Out. Peace ! we '11 hear him. Third Out. Ay, by my beard, will we, for he 's a proper man. Val. Then know that I have little wealth to lose : A man I am cross 'd with adversity ; My riches are these poor habiliments, Of which if you should here disfurnish me. You take the sum and substance that I have. Sec. Out. Whither travel you ? Val. To Verona. First Out. Whence came you ? Val. Prom Milan. Third Out. Have you long sojourned there ? Val. Some sixteen months, and longer might have If crooked fortune had not thwarted me. [stay'd, First Out. What, were you banish'd thence? Val. I was. Sec. Out. For what ofEence ? [hearse : Val. For that which now torments me to re- I kiU'd a man, whose death I much repent ; But yet I slew him manfuUy in fight, Without false vantage or base treachery. First Out. Why, ne'er repent it, if it were done so. But were you banish'd for so small a fault ? Val. 1 was, and held me glad of such a doom. Sec. Out. Have you the tongues ? Val. My youthful travel therein made me happy. Or else I often had been miserable. [friar, Third Out. By the bare scalp of Robin Hood's fat This fellow were a king for our wild faction ! First Out. We '11 have him. Sirs, a word. Speed. Master, be one of them ; it 's an honour- able kind of thievery. FaL Peace, villain! [to? Sec. Out. Tell us this : have you any thing to take Val. IsTothing but my fortune. [tlemen. Third Out. Know, then, that some of us are gen- Such as the fury of ungovem'd youth Thrust from the company of awful men : Myself was from Verona banished For practising to steal away a lady. An heir, and near allied unto the duke. Sec. Out. And I from Mantua, for a gentleman. Who, in my mood, I stabb'd unto the heart, [these. First Out. And I for such like petty crimes as But to the purpose — for we cite our faults, That they may hold excus'd our lawless lives ; And partly, seeing you are beautified With goodly shape and by your own report A linguist and a man of such perfection As we do in our quality much want — Sec. Out. Indeed, because you are a banish'd man, Therefore, above the rest, we parley to you : Are you content to be our general ? To make a virtue of necessity And live, as we do, in this wilderness ? [consort ? Third Out. What say 'st thou? wilt thou be of our Say ay, and be the captain of us all : We '11 do thee homage and be ruled by thee, Love thee as our commander and our king, [diest. First Out. But if thou scorn our courtesy, thou Sec. Out. Thou shalt not live to brag what we have offer'd. Val. I take your offer and will live with you, Provided that you do no outrages On silly women or poor passengers. Third Out. No,we detest such vile base practices. Come, go with us, we '11 bring thee to our crews. And show thee all the treasure we have got ; Which, with ourselves, all rest at thy dispose. [Exeunt. SCENE n. — Milan. Outside the Duke''s palace., under Silvia''s chamber. Enter Proteus. Pro. Already have I been false to Valentine And now I must be as unjust to Thurio. Under the colour of commending him, I have access my own love to prefer : But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy. To be corrupted with my worthless gifts. When I protest true loyalty to her, She twits me with my falsehood to my friend ; When to her beauty I commend my vows. She bids me think how I have been forsworn In breaking faith with Julia whom I loved : And notwithstanding all her sudden quips, The least whereof would quell a lover's hope. Yet, spaniel-like, the more she spurns my love, The more it grows and fawneth on her still. But here comes Thurio : now must we to her win- And give some evening music to her ear. [dow, Enter Thurio and Musicians. Thu. How now. Sir Proteus, are you crept be- fore us ? Pro. Ay, gentle Thurio : for you know that love Will creep in service where it cannot go. Thu. Ay, but I hope, sir, that you love not here. Pro. Sir, but I do ; or else I would be hence. Thu. Who? Silvia? Pro. Ay, Silvia ; for your sake. Thu. I thank you for your own. Now, gentlemen, Let 's tune, and to it lustily awhile. Enter, at a distance, Host, and Julia in hoy''s clothes. Host. Now, my young guest, methinks you 're allycholly: I pray you, why is it ? Jul. Marry , mine host , because I cannot be merry. Host. Come, we '11 have you merry : I '11 bring you ACT IV. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA, scene in. where you shall hear music and see the gentleman that you asked for. Jul. But shall I hear him speak ? Host. Ay, that you shall. Jul. That will be music. [Music Host. Hark, hark ! Jul. Is he among these ? Host. Ay : but, peace ! let 's hear 'em. "Who is Silvia ? what is she, That all our swains commend her ? Holy, fair and wise is she ; The heaven such grace did lend her, That she might admired be. Is she kind as she is fair ? For beauty lives with kindness. Love doth to her eyes repair. To help him of his blindness. And, being help'd, inhabits there. Then to Silvia let us sing, That Silvia is excelling ; She excels each mortal thing Upon the dull earth dwelling : To her let us garlands bring. Host. How now ! are you sadder than you were before ? How do you, man ? the music likes you not. Jul. You mistake; the musician likes me not. Host. Why, my pretty youth 1* Jul. He plays false, father. Host. How I* out of tune on the strings ? Jul. Not so ; but yet so false that he grieves my very heart-strings. Host. You have a quick ear. Jul. Ay, I would I were deaf ; it makes me have a slow heart. Host. I perceive you delight not in music. Jul. Not a whit, when it jars so. Host. Hark, what fine change is in the music! Jul. Ay, that change is the spite. [thing ? Host. You would have them always play but one Jul. I would always have one play but one thing. But, host, doth this Sir Proteus that we talk on Often resort unto this gentlewoman ? Host. I tell you what Launce, his man, told me : he loved her out of all nick. Jul. Where is Launce ? Host. Gone to seek his dog; which to-morrow, by his master's command, he must carry for a pres- ent to his lady. Jul. Peace ! stand aside : the company parts. Pro. Sir Thurio, fear not you : I will so plead That you shall say my cunning drift excels. Thu. Where meet we ? Pro. At Saint Gregory's well. Thu. Farewell. [Exeunt Thu. and Musicians. Enter Silvia above. Pro. Madam, good even to your ladyship. Sil. I thank you for your music, gentlemen. Who is that that spake ? [truth. Pro. One, lady, if you knew his pure heart's You would quickly learn to know him by his voice. Sil. Sir Proteus, as I take it. Pro. Sir Proteus, gentle lady, and your servant. Sil. What 's your will ? Pro. That I may compass yours. Sil. You have your wish ; my will is even this : That presently you hie you home to bed. Thou subtle, perjured, false, disloyal man! Think'st thou I am so shallow, so conceitless. To be seduced by thy flattery, That hast deceived so many with thy vows ? Return, return, and make thy love amends. For me, by this pale queen of night I swear, I am so far from granting thy request That I despise thee for thy wrongful suit. And by and by intend to chide myself Even for this time I spend in talking to thee. Pro. I grant, sweet love, that I did love a lady; But she is dead. Jul. [Aside] 'T were false, if I should speak it ; For I am sure she is not buried. Sil. Say that she be ; yet Valentine thy friend Survives; to whom, thyself art witness, I am betroth'd : and art thou not ashamed To wrong him with thy importunacy ? Pro. I likewise hear that Valentine is dead. Sil. And so suppose am I ; for in his grave Assure thyself my love is buried. Pro. Sweet lady, let me rake it from the earth. Sil. Go to thy lady's grave and call hers thence, Or, at the least, in hers sepulchre thine. Jul. [Aside] He heard not that. Pro. Madam, if your heart be so obdurate, Vouchsafe me yet your picture for my love. The picture that is hanging in your chamber ; To that I '11 speak, to that I '11 sigh and weep: For since the substance of your perfect self Is else devoted, I am but a shadow ; And to your shadow will I make true love. Jul. [Aside] If 'twere a substance, you would, sure, deceive it, And make it but a shadow, as I am. Sil. I am very loath to be your idol, sir; But since your falsehood shall become you well To worship shadows and adore false shapes, Send to me in the morning and I '11 send it : And so, good rest. Pro. As wretches have o'ernight That wait for execution in the mom. [Exeunt Pro. and Sil. severally. Jul. Host, will you go ? Host. By my halidom, I was fast asleep. Jul. Pray you, where lies Sir Proteus? Host. Marry, at my house. Trust me, I think 't is almost day. Jul. Not so ; but it hath been the longest night That e'er I watch'd and the most heaviest. [Exeunt. SCENE in. — The same. Enter Eglamour. Egl. This is the hour that Madam Silvia Entreated me to call and know her mind : There 's some great matter she 'Id employ me in. Madam, madam! Enter Silvia above. Sil. Who calls ? Egl. Your servant and your friend ; One that attends your ladyship's command, [row. Sil. Sir Eglamour, a thousand times good-mor< Egl. As many, worthy lady, to yourself: According to your ladyship's impose, I am thus early come to know what service It is your pleasure to command me in. Sil. O Eglamour, thou art a gentleman — Think not I flatter, for I swear I do not — Valiant, wise, remorseful, well accomplish'd: Thou art not ignorant what dear good will I bear unto the banish'd Valentine, Nor how my father would enforce me marry Vain Thurio, whom my very soul abhors. Thyself hast loved ; and I have heard thee say No grief did ever come so near thy heart As when thy lady and thy true love died. Upon whose grave thou vow'dst pure chastity. Sir Eglamour, I would to Valentine, To Mantua, where I hear he makes abode ; ACT IV. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA, scene iv. And, for the ways are dangerous to pass, I do desire thy worthy company, Upon whose faith and honour I repose. Urge not my father's anger, Eglamour, But think upon my grief, a lady's grief. And on the justice of my flying hence. To keep me from a most unholy match, [plagues. "Which heaven and fortune still rewards with I do desire thee, even from a heart As full of sorrows as the sea of sands, To bear me company and go with me : If not, to hide what I have said to thee, That I may venture to depart alone. Eql. Madam, I pity much your grievances; Which since I know they virtuously are placed, I give consent to go along with you, Recking as little what betideth me As much I wish all good befortune you. "When will you go ? Sil. This evening coming. Egl. "Where shall I meet you ? Sil. At Friar Patrick's cell, Where I intend holy confession. Egl. I will not fail your ladyship. Good-mor- row, gentle lady. Sil. Good-morrow, kind Sir Eglamour. [Exeunt severally. SCENE IV.— The same. Enter Launce, with his Dog. Launce. When a man's servant shall play the cur with him, look you, it goes hard : one that I brought up of a puppy; one that I saved from drowning, when three or four of his blind brothers and sisters went to it. I have taught him, even as one would say precisely, ' thus I would teach a dog.' I was sent to deliver him as a present to Mistress Silvia from my master; and I came no sooner into the dining-chamber but he steps me to her trencher and steals her capon's leg: O, 't is a foul thing when a cur cannot keep himself in all companies! I would have, as one should say, one that takes upon him to be a dog indeed, to be, as it were, a dog at all things. If I had not had more wit than he, to take a fault upon me that he did, I think verily he had been hanged for't; sure as I live, he had suffered for't: you shall judge. He thrusts me himself into the com- pany of three or four gentlemanlike dogs, under the duke's table: he had not been there — bless the mark! — a pissing while, but all the chamber smelt him. ' Out with the dog ! ' says one : ' What cur is that ? ' says another : ' Whip him out ' says the third: 'Hang him up' says the duke. I, having been acquainted with the smell before, knew it was Crab, and goes me to the fellow that whips the dogs : ' Friend,' quoth I, ' you mean to whip the dog?' 'Ay, marry, do I,' quoth he. 'You do him the more wrong,' quoth I; ' 'twas I did the thing you wot of.' He makes me no more ado, but whips me out of the chamber. How many masters would do this for his servant ? ]S'ay, I '11 be sworn, I have sat in the stocks for puddings he hath stolen, otherwise he had been executed; I have stood on the pillory for geese he hath killed, otherwise he had suffered for 't. Thou thinkest not of this now. Nay, I remember the trick you served me when I took my leave of Madam Silvia : did not I bid thee still mark me and do as I do ? when didst thou see me heave up my leg and make water against a gentlewoman's far- thingale ? didst thou ever see me do such a trick ? Enter Proteus and Julia. Pro. Sebastian is thy name ? I like thee well And will employ thee in some service presently. Jul. In what you please: I '11 do what I can. Pro. I hope thou wilt. [To Launce] How now, you whoreson peasant ! Where have you been these two days loitering ? Launce. Marry, sir, I carried Mistress Silvia the dog you bade me. Pro. And what says she to my little jewel ? Launce. Marry, she says your dog was a cur, and tells you currish thanks is good enough for such a Pro. But she received my dog ? [present. Launce. No, indeed, did she not: here have I brought him back again. Pro. What, didst thou offer her this from me ? Launce. Ay, sir; the other squirrel was stolen from me by the hangman boys in the market-place: and then I offered her mine own, who is a dog as big as ten of yours, and therefore the gift the greater. Pro. Go get thee hence, and find my dog again. Or ne'er return again into my sight. Away, I say ! stay'st thou to vex me here ? [Exit Launce. A slave, that still an end turns me to shame ! Sebastian, I have entertained thee. Partly that I have need of such a youth That can with some discretion do my business, For 't is no trusting to yond foolish lout. But chiefly for thy face and thy behaviour. Which, if my augury deceive me not. Witness good bringing up, fortune and truth : Therefore know thou, for this I entertain thee. Go presently and take this ring with thee, Deliver it to Madam Silvia : She loved me well deliver'd it to me. Jul. It seems you loved not her, to leave her token. She is dead, belike ? Pro. Not so ; I think she lives. Jul. Alas! Pro. Why dost thou cry ' alas ' ? Jul. I cannot choose But pity her. Pro. Wherefore shouldst thou pity her ? Jul. Because methinks that she loved you as well As you do love your lady Silvia. She dreams on him that has forget her love ; You dote on her that cares not for your love. 'T is pity love should be so contrary ; And thinking on it makes me cry ' alas ! ' Pro. Well, give her that ring and therewithal This letter. That 's her chamber. Tell my lady I claim the promise for her heavenly picture. Your message done, hie home unto my chamber, Where thou shalt find me, sad and solitary. [Exit. Jul. How many women would do such a message? Alas, poor Proteus ! thou hast entertain 'd A fox to be the shepherd of thy lambs. Alas, poor fool ! why do I pity him That with his very heart despiseth me ? Because he loves her, he despiseth me ; Because I love him, I must pity him. This ring I gave him when he parted from me, To bind him to remember my good will ; And now am I, unhappy messenger, To plead for that which I would not obtain, To carry that which I would have refused. To praise his faith which I would have dispraised. I am my master's true-confirmed love ; But cannot be true servant to my master. Unless I prove false traitor to myself. Yet will I woo for him, but yet so coldly As, heaven it knows, I would not have him speed. Enter Silvia, attended. Gentlewoman, good day ! I pray you, be my mean To bring me where to speak with Madam Silvia. Sil. What would you with her, if that I be she ? Jul. If you be she, I do entreat your patience To hear me speak the message I am sent on. 31 A.CT Y. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA, scene n Sil. From whom ? Jul. From my master, Sir Proteus, madam. Sil. O, he sends you for a picture. Jid. Ay, madam. Sil. Ursula, bring my picture there. Go give your master this : tell him from me, One Julia, that his changing thoughts forget, Would better fit his chamber than this shadow. Jul. Madam, please you peruse this letter. — Pardon me, madam; I have unadvised Deliver 'd you a paper that I should not : This is the letter to your ladyship. Sil. I pray thee, let me look on that again. Jul. It may not be ; good madam, pardon me. Sil. There, hold! I will not look upon your master's lines : I know they are stuff 'd with protestations And full of new-found oaths ; which he will break As easily as I do tear his paper. Jul. Madam, he sends your ladyship this ring. Sil. The more shame for him that he sends it me ; For I have heard him say a thousand times His Julia gave it him at his departure. Though his false finger have profaned the ring, Mine shall not do his Julia so much wrong. Jul. She thanks you. Sil. What say'st thou ? Jul. I thank you, madam, that you tender her. Poor gentlewoman ! my master wrongs her much. Sil. Dost thou know her ? Jul. Almost as well as I do know myself : To think upon her woes I do protest That I have wept a hundred several times. [her. Sil. Belike she thinks that Proteus hath forsook Jul. I think she doth ; and that 's her cause of sorrow. Sil. Is she not passing fair ? Jul. She hath been fairer, madam, than she is: When she did think my master loved her well, She, in my judgment, was as fair as you ; But since she did neglect her looking-glass And threw her sun-expelling mask away. The air hath starved the roses in her cheeks And pinch'd the lily-tincture of her face. That now she is become as black as I. Sil. How tall was she ? Jul. About my stature; for at Pentecost, When all our pageants of delight were play'd, Our youth got me to play the woman's part. And I was trimm'd in Madam Julia's gown. Which served me as fit, by all men's judgments, As if the garment had been made for me : Therefore I know she is about my height. And at that time I made her weep agood, For I did play a lamentable part : Madam, 'twas Ariadne passioning For Theseus' perjury and unjust flight ; Which I so lively acted with my tears That my poor mistress, moved therewithal, Wept bitterly ; and would I might be dead If I in thought felt not her very sorrow ! Sil. She is beholding to thee, gentle youth. Alas, poor lady, desolate and left ! I weep myself to think upon thy words. Here, youth, there is my purse ; I give thee this For thy sweet mistress' sake,because thou lovest her. Farewell. [Exit Silvia, ivith attendants., Jul. And she shall thank you f or 't, if e'er you know A virtuous gentlewoman, mild and beautiful 1 [her. I hope my master's suit will be but cold, Since she respects my mistress' love so much. Alas, how love can trifle with itself! Here is her picture : let me see ; I think. If I had such a tire, this face of mine Were fi;ll as lovely as is this of hers : And yet the painter flatter'd her a little, Unless I flatter with myself too much. Her hair is auburn, mine is perfect yellow: If that be all the difference in his love, I '11 get me such a colour'd periwig. Her eyes are grey as glass, and so are mine ; Ay, but her forehead 's low, and mine 's as high. What should it be that he respects in her But I can make respective in myself, If this fond Love were not a blinded god ? Come, shadow, come, and take this shadow up, For 'tis thy rival. O.thou senseless form. Thou Shalt be worshipp'd, kiss'd, loved and adorsdl And, were there sense in his idolatry. My substance should be statue in thy stead. I '11 use thee kindly for thy mistress' sake, That used me so ; or else, by Jove I vow, I should have scratch 'd out your unseeing eyes. To make my master out of love with thee I [ExiU ^OT V. SCENE I.— Milan. An abiey. Enter Eglanaour. Egl. The sun begins to gild the western sky ; And now it is about the very hour That Silvia, at Friar Patrick's cell, should meet me. She will not fail, for lovers break not hours. Unless it be to come before their time ; So much they spur their expedition. See where she comes. Enter Silvia. Lady, a happy evening! Sil. Amen, amen! Go on, good Eglamour, Out at the postern by the abbey-wall : I fear I am attended by some spies. Egl. Fear not : the forest is not three leagues off ; If we recover that, we are sure enough. [Exeunt. SCENE II.— Tlie same. The JDuke^s palace. Enter Thurio, Proteus, and Julia. Thu. Sir Proteus, what says Silvia to my suit ? Pro. O, sir. I find her milder than she was; 32 And yet she takes exceptions at your person. Thu. What, that my leg is too long ? Pro. No ; that it is too little. [rounder. 27m. I '11 wear a boot, to make it somewhat Jul. [Aside] But love will not be spurr'd to what Thu. What says she to my face ? [it loathes. Pro. She says it is a fair one. Thu. jSTay then, the wanton lies ; my face is black. Pro. But pearls are fair ; and the old saying is. Black men are pearls in beauteous ladies' eyes. Jul. [Aside] 'T is true ; such pearls as put out ladies' For I had rather wink than look on them, [eyes ; Thu. How likes she my discom-se? Pro. Ill, when you talk of war. [peace ? Thu. But well, when I discourse of love and Jul. [Aside] But better, indeed, when you hold your peace. Thu. What says she to my valour ? Pro. O, sir, she makes no doubt of that. Jtd. [Aside] She needs not, when she knows it Thu. What says she to my birth ? [cowardice. Pro. That you are well derived. Jid. [Aside] True ; from a gentleman to a fool. Thu. Considers she my possessions ? ACT V. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA, scene iv. Fro. O, ay ; and pities them. Thu. Wherefore? Jul. {Aside\ That such an ass should owe them. Pro. That they are out by lease. Jul. Here comes the duke. Enter Duke. Buke. How now, Sir Proteus ! how now, Thurio ! Which of you saw Sir Eglamour of late ? Thu. Not I. Pro. Nor I. Duke. Saw you my daughter ? Pro. Neither. Duke. Why then. She 's fled unto that peasant Valentine ; And Eglamour is in her company. 'T is true ; for Friar Laurence met them both,. As he in penance wander'd through the forest ; Him he knew well, and guess 'd that it was she, But, being mask'd, he was not sure of it ; Besides, she did intend confession At Patrick's cell this even ; and there she was not ; These likelihoods confirm her flight from hence. Therefore, I pray you, stand not to discourse, But mount you presently and meet with me Upon the rising of the mountain-foot That leads toward Mantua, whither they are fled : Dispatch, sweet gentlemen, and follow me. \_Exit. Thu. Why, this it is to be a peevish girl. That flies her fortune when it follows her. I '11 after, more to be revenged on Eglamour Than for the love of reckless Silvia. [Exit. Pro. And I will follow, more for Silvia's love Than hate of Eglamour that goes with her. [Exit. Jul. And I will follow, more to cross that love Than hate for Silvia that is gone for love. [Exit. SCENE III.- -Tlie frontiers of Mantua, forest. The Enter Outla-ws with Silvia. First Out. Come, come. Be patient ; we must bring you to our captain. Sil. A thousand more mischances than this one Have learn 'd me how to brook this patiently. Sec. Out. Come, bring her away. [her ? First Out. Where is the gentleman that was wjth Third Out. Being nimble-footed, he hath outrun But Moyses and Valerius follow him. [us, Go thou with her to the west end of the wood ; There is our captain : we '11 follow him that 's fled ; The thicket is beset ; he cannot 'scape. First Out. Come, I must bring you to our cap- tain's cave : Fear not ; he bears an honourable mind, And will not use a woman lawlessly. Sil. O Valentine, this I endure for thee ! [Exeunt. SCENE IV.— Another part of the forest. Enter Valentine. Val. How use doth breed a habit in a man ! This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods, I better brook than flourishing peopled towns : Here can I sit alone, unseen of any, And to the nightingale's complaining notes Tune my distresses and record my woes. O thou that dost inhabit in my breast, Leave not the mansion so long tenantless, Lest, growing ruinous, the building fall And leave no memory of what it was ! Kepair me with thy presence, Silvia ; Thou gentle nymph, cherish thy forlorn swain! What halloing and what stir is this to-day ? [law. These are my mates, that make their wills their Have some unhappy passenger in chase. They love me well ; yet I have much to do To keep them from uncivil outrages. Withdraw thee, Valentine : who 's this comes here ? Enter Proteus, Silvia, and Julia. Pro. Madam, this service I have done for you. Though you respect not aught your servant doth, To hazard life and rescue you from him That would have forced your honour and your love ; Vouchsafe me, for my meed, but one fair look ; A smaller boon than this I cannot beg And less than this, I am sure, you cannot give. Val. [Aside'\ How like a dream is this I see and Love, lend me patience to forbear awhile. [hear! Sil. O miserable, unhappy that I am ! Pro. Unhappy were you, madam, ere I came ; But by my coming I have made you happy. Sil. By thy approach thou makest me most un- happy, [your presence. Jul. [Aside] And me, when he approacheth to Sil. Had I been seized by a hungry lion, I would have been a breakfast to the beast. Bather than have false Proteus rescue me. O, Heaven be judge how I love Valentine, Whose life 's as tender to me as my soul ! And full as much, for more there cannot be, I do detest false perjured Proteus. Therefore be gone ; solicit me no more. [death, Pro. What dangerous action, stood it next to Would I not undergo for one calm look ! O, 't is the curse in love, and still approved, When women cannot love where they 're beloved ! Sil. When Proteus cannot love where he 's be- Kead over Julia's heart, thy first best love, [loved. For whose dear sake thou didst then rend thy faith Into a thousand oaths ; and all those oaths Descended into perjury, to love me. Thou hast no faith left now, unless thou 'dst two ; And that 's far worse than none ; better have none Than plural faith which is too much by one : Thou counterfeit to thy true friend ! Pro. In love Who respects friend ? Sil. All men but Proteus. Pro. Nay, if the gentle spirit of moving words Can no way change you to a milder form, I '11 woo you like a soldier, at arms' end. And love you 'gainst the nature of love,— force ye. Sil. O heaven ! Pro. I '11 force thee yield to my desire. Val. Ruffian, let go that rude uncivil touch, Thou friend of an ill fashion I Pro. Valentine ! Val. Thou common friend, that 's without faith or love. For such is a friend now ; treacherous man ! Thou hast beguiled my hopes ; nought but mine eye Could have persuaded me : now I dare not say I have one friend alive ; thou wouldst disprove me. Who should be trusted, when one's own right hand Is perjured to the bosom ? Proteus, I am sorry I must never trust thee more, But count the world a stranger for thy sake. The private wound is deepest : O time most accurst. 'Mongst all foes that a friend should be the worst ! Pro. My shame and guilt confounds me. Forgive me, Valentine : if hearty sorrow Be a sufficient ransom for offence, I tender 't here ; I do as truly suffer As e'er I did commit. Val. Then I am paid ; And once again I do receive thee honest. Who by repentance is not satisfied Is nor of heaven nor earth, for these are pleased. By penitence the Eternal's wrath 's appeased : And, that my love may appear plain and free, All that was mine in Silvia I give thee. ACT V, THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA, scene iv. Jul. O me unhappy ! \_Swoons. Pro. Look to the boy. Vol. Why, boy ! why, wag ! how now ! what 's the matter ? Look up ; speak. Jul. O good sir, my master charged me to deliver a ring to Madam Silvia, which, out of my neglect, was never done. Pro. Where is that ring, boy ? Jul. Here 't is ; this is it. Pro. How ! let me see : Why, this is the ring I gave to Julia. Jul. O, cry you mercy, sir, I have mistook : This is the ring you sent to Silvia. [depart Pro. But how earnest thou by this ring ? At my I gave this unto Julia. Jul. And Julia herself did give it me ; And Julia herself hath brought it hither. Pro. How! Julia! Jul. Behold her that gave aim to all thy oaths. And entertain 'd 'em deeply in her heart. How oft hast thou with perjury cleft the root ! O Proteus, let this habit make thee blush ! Be thou ashamed that I have took upon me Such an immodest raiment, if shame live In a disguise of love : It is the lesser blot, modesty finds, [minds. Women to change their shapes than men their Pro. Than men their minds ! 't is true. O heaven ! were man But constant, he were perfect. That one error Fills him with faults ; makes him run through all Inconstancy falls off ere it begins. [the sins : What is in Silvia's face, but I may spy More fresh in Julia's with a constant eye ? Vol. Come, come, a hand from either : Let me be blest to make this happy close ; 'T were pity two such friends should be long foes. Pro. Bear witness. Heaven, I have my wish for Jul. And I mine. [ever. Enter Outla-ws, with Duke and Thurio. Outlaws. A prize, a prize, a prize ! [duke. Val. Forbear, forbear, I say! it is my lord the Tour grace is welcome to a man disgraced, Banished Valentine. Duke. Sir Valentine ! Thu. Yonder is Silvia ; and Silvia 's mine. Val. Thurio, give back, or else embrace thy death ; Come not within the measure of my wrath ; Do not name Silvia thine; if once again, Verona shall not hold thee. Here she stands: Take but possession of her with a touch : I dare thee but to breathe upon my love. Tliu. Sir Valentine, I care not for her, I : I hold him but a fool that will endanger His body for a girl that loves him not : I claim her not, and therefore she is thine. Duke. The more degenerate and base art thou, To make such means for her as thou hast done And leave her on such slight conditions. Now, by the honour of my ancestry, I do applaud thy spirit, Valentine, And think thee worthy of an empress' love : Know then, I here forget all former griefs, Cancel all grudge, repeal thee home again, Plead a new state in thy unrival'd merit. To which I thus subscribe : Sir Valentine, Thou art a gentleman and well derived ; Take thou thy Silvia, for thou hast deserved her. Val. I thank your grace ; the gift hath made me 1 now beseech you, for your daughter's sake, [happy. To grant one boon that I shall ask of you. Duke. I grant it, for thine own, whate'er it be. Val. These banish 'd men that I have kept withal Are men endued with worthy qualities : Forgive them what they have committed here And let them be recall 'd from their exile : They are reformed, civil, full of good And fit for great employment , worthy lord . [thee : Duke. Thou hast prevail 'd ; I pardon them and Dispose of them as thou know'st their deserts. Come, let us go : we will include all jars With triumphs, mirth and rare solemnity. Val. And, as we walk along, I dare be bold With our discourse to make your grace to smile. What think you of this page, my lord ? [blushes. Duke. I think the boy hath grace in him; he Val. I warrant you, my lord, more graCe than boy. Duke. What mean you by that saying ? Val. Please you, I '11 tell you as we pass along. That you will wonder what hath fortuned. Come, Proteus ; 't is your penance but to hear The story of your loves discovered : That done, our day of marriage shall be yours ; One feast, one house, one mutual happiness. \_Exeunt. S4 FatenZme.— Welcome, dear Proteus ! Mistress, I beseech you, Confirm his welcome with some special favour. Silma.—'B.is worth is warrant for his welcome hither, If this be he you oft have wish'd to hear from.— Act II.,lScewe iv. THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. DBAMATIS PEBSON^. Sir John Falstaflf. Fenton, a gentleman. Shallow, a country justice. Slender, cousin to Shallow. Paee' I ^^^^ gentlemen dwelling at Windsor, William Page, a boy, son to Page. Sir Hugh Evans, a Welsh parson. Doctor Caius, a French physician. Bardolph, | Pistol, |- sharpers attending on Falstaff. Nym, J Bobin, page to Falstaff. Simple, servant to Slender. Rugby, servant to Doctor Caius. Host of the Garter Inn, Mistress Ford. Mistress Page. Anne Page, her daughter. Mistress Quickly, servant to Doctor Caius. Servants to Page, Ford, &c. SCENE — Windsor, and the neighborhood. [For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page XLlll.] ^CT I. SCENE I.— Windsor. Before Page''s home. JEnter Justice Sliallo-w, Slender, and Sir Hugh Shal. Sir Hugh, persuade me not ; I will make a Star-chamber matter of it : if he were twenty Sir John Falstaffs, he shall not abuse Kobert Shallow, esquire. Slen. In the county of Gloucester, justice of peace and 'Coram.' Shal. Ay, cousin Slender, and 'Custalorum.' Slen. Ay, and ' Kato-lorum' too ; and a gentleman born, master parson; who writeshimself'Armigero,' in any bill, warrant, quittance, or obligation, 'Ar- migero.' Shal. Ay, that I do; and have done any time these three hundred years. Slen. All his successors gone before him hath done 't ; and all his ancestors that come after him may : they may give the dozen white luces in their >S7iaL It is an old coat. [coat. Evans. The dozen white louses do become an old coat well; it agrees well, passant; it is a familiar beast to man, and signifies love. Shal. The luce is the fresh fish ; the salt fish is an Slen. I may quarter, coz. [old coat. Shal. You may, by marrying. Evans. It is marring indeed, if he quarter it. Shal. Not a whit. Evans. Yes, py 'r lady ; if he has a quarter of your coat, there is bilt three skirts for yourself, in my simple conjectures : but that is all one. If Sir John Falstaff; have committed disparagements unto you, I am of the church, and will be glad to do my be- nevolence to make atonement and compremises be- tween you. Shal. The council shall hear it ; it is a riot. Evans. It is not meet the council hear a riot; there is no fear of Got in a riot : the council, look you, shall desire to hear the fear of Got, and not to hear a riot ; take your vizaments in that. Shal. Ha! o' my life, if I were young again, the sword should end it. Evans. It is petter that friends is the sword, and end it : and there is also another device in my prain, which peradventure prings goot discretions with it : there is Anne Page, which is daughter to Master Thomas Page, which is pretty virginity. Slen. Mistress Anne Page ? She has brown hair, and speaks small like a woman. Evans. It is that fery person for all the orld, as just as you wiU desire; and seven hundred pounds of moneys, and gold and silver, is her grandsire upon his death 's-bed — Got deliver to a joyful resurrec- tions ! — give, when she is able to overtake seventeen years old: it were a goot motion if we leave our pribbles and prabbles, and desire a marriage between Master Abraham and Mistress Anne Page, [poimd ? Slen. Did her grandsire leave her seven hundred Evans. Ay, and her father is make her a petter penny. Slen. 1 know the young gentlewoman ; she has good gifts. Evans. Seven hundred pounds and possibilities is goot gifts. Shal. Well, let us see honest Master Page. Is Falstaff there ? Evans. Shall I tell you a lie ? I do despise a liar as I do despise one that is false, or as I despise one that is not true. The knight. Sir John, is there; and, I beseech you, be ruled by your well-willers. I will peat the door for Master Page. [Knocks] What, hoa ! Got pless your house here ! Page. [ Within] Who 's there ? Enter Page. Evans. Here is Got's plessing, and your friend, and Justice Shallow ; and here young Master Slender, that peradventures shall tell you another tale, if matters grow to your likings. Page. I am glad to see your worships well. I thank you for my venison. Master Shallow. Shal. Master Page, I am glad to see you : much good do it your good heart ! I wished your veni- son better; it was ill killed. Hoav doth good Mis- tress Page? — and I thank you always with my heart, la ! with my heart. Page. Sir, I thank you. Shal. Sir, I thank you ; by yea and no, I do. Page. I am glad to see you, good Master Slender. 35 ACT I. THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. SCENE I. Slen. How does j^our fallow greyhound, sir ? I heard say he was outrun on Cotsall. Page. It could not be judged, sir. Slen. You '11 not confess, you '11 not confess. Shal. That he will not. 'Tis your fault, 'tis your fault ; 't is a good dog. Page. A cur, sir. Shal. Sir, he 's a good dog, and a fair dog : can there be more saidr* he is good and fair. Is Sir John TalstaflE here ? Page. Sir, he is within ; and I would I could do a good office between you. Evans. It is spoke as a Christians ought to speak. Shal. He Irath wronged me. Master Page. Page. Sir, he doth in some sort confess it. Shal. If it be confessed, it is not redressed : is not that so. Master Page ? He hath wronged me ; indeed he hath ; at a word, he hath, believe me : Robert Shallow, esquire, saith, he is wronged. Page. Here comes Sir John. Enter Sir John FalstafF, Bardolpb, Nym, and Pistol. Fal. Now, Master Shallow, you'll complain of me to the king ? Shal. Knight, you have beaten my men, killed my deer, and broke open my lodge. Fal. But not kissed your keeper's daughter ? Shal. Tut, a pin ! this shall be answered. Fal. 1 will answer it straight; I have done all That is now answered. [this. Shal. The council shall know this. Fal. 'T were better for you if it were known in counsel : you '11 be laughed at. Evans. Pauca verba, Sir John; goot worts. Fal. Good worts ! good cabbage. Slender, I broke your head : what matter have you against me ? Slen. Marry, sir, I have matter in my head against you; and against your cony-catching ras- cals, Bardolph, ISTym, and Pistol. Bard. You Banbury cheese ! Slen. Ay, it is no matter. Pist. How now, Mephostophilus ! Slen. Ay, it is no matter. Nym. Slice, I say ! pauca, pauca : slice ! that 's my humour. [cousin ? Slen. Where 's Simple, my man ? Can you tell, Evans. Peace, I pray you. Now let us understand. There is three umpires in this matter, as I under- stand; that is. Master Page, fidelicet Master Page ; and there is myself, fidelicet myself; and the three party is, lastly and finally, mine host of the Garter. Page. We three, to hear it and end it between them. Evans. Fery goot: I will make a prief of it in my note-book; and we will afterwards ork upon the cause with as great discreetly as we can. Fal. Pistol! Pist. He hears with ears. Evans. The tevil and his tarn! what phrase is this, ' He hears with ear ' ? why, it is affecta- tions. Fal. Pistol, did you pick Master Slender's purse ? Slen. Ay, by these gloves, did he, or I would I might never come in mine own great chamber again else, of seven groats in mill-sixpences, and two Edward shovel-boards, that cost me two shil- ling and two pence a-piece of Yead Miller, by these gloves. Fal. Is this true, Pistol ? Evans. No ; it is false, if it is a pick-purse. Pist. Ha, thou mountain-foreigner! Sir John and master mine, I combat challenge of this latten bilbo. Word of denial in thy labras here ! Word of denial: froth and scum, thou liestl Slen. By these gloves, then, 'twas he. Nym. Be advised, sir, and pass good humours: I will say ' marry trap ' with you, if you run the nuthook's humour on me; that is the very note of it. Slen. By this hat, then, he in the red face had it ; for though I cannot remember what I did when you made me drunk, yet I am not altogether an ass. Fal. What say you. Scarlet and John ? Bard. Why, sir, for my part, I say the gentleman had drunk himself out of his five sentences. Evans. It is his five senses: fie, what the igno- rance is ! Bard. And being fap, sir, was, as they say, cash- iered ; and so conclusions passed the careires. Slen. Ay, you spake in Latin then too; but 'tis no matter: I '11 ne'er be drunk whilst I live again, but in honest, civil, godly company, for this trick: if I be drunk, I '11 be drunk with those that have the fear of God, and not with drunken knaves. Evans. So Got udge me, that is a virtuous mind. Fal. You hear all these matters denied, gentle- men ; you hear it. Enter Anne Page, with wine; Mistress Ford and Mistress Fage, following. Page. Nay, daughter, carry the wine in ; we '11 drink within. [Exit Anne Page. Slen. O heaven ! this is Mistress Anne Page. Page. How now. Mistress Ford ! Fat. Mistress Ford, by my troth, you are very well met : by your leave, good mistress. [-Kisses her. Page. Wife, bid these gentlemen welcome. Come, we have a hot venison pasty to dinner : come, gen- tlemen, I hope we shall drink down all unkindness. [Exeunt all except Shal., Slen., and Evans. Slen. I had rather than forty shillings I had my Book of Songs and Sonnets here. Enter Simple, How now. Simple ! where have you been ? I must wait on myself, must I ? You have not the Book of Eiddles about you, have you ? Sim. Book of Riddles ! why, did you not lend it to Alice Shortcake upon All-hallo wmas last, a fort- night afore Michaelmas ? Shal. Come, coz; c6me,coz; we stay for you. A word with you, coz; marry, this, coz: there is, as 't were, a tender, a kind of tender, made afar off by Sir Hugh here. Do you understand me ? Slen. Ay, sir, you shall find me reasonable; if it be so, I shall do that that is reason. Shal. Nay, but understand me. Slen. So I do, sir. Evans. Give ear to his motions. Master Slender: I will description the matter to you, if you be ca- pacity of it. Slen. Nay, I will do as my cousin Shallow says : I pray you, pardon me ; he 's a justice of peace in his^ country, simple though I stand here. Evans. But that is not the question : the question is concerning your marriage. Shal. Ay, there 's the point, sir. Evans. Marry, is it ; the very point of it ; to Mis- tress Anne Page. Slen. Why, if it be so, I will marry her upon any reasonable demands. Evans. But can you affection the 'oman ? Let us command to know that of your mouth or of your lips ; for divers philosophers hold that the lips is parcel of the mouth. Therefore, precisely, can you carry your good will to the maid ^ Shal. Cousin Abraham Slender, can you love her ? Slen. I hope, sir, I will do as it shall become one that would do reason. Evans. Nay, Got's lords and his ladies ! you must speak possitable, if you can carry her your desires towards her. ACT I. THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. scene in. Shal. That you must. Will you, upon good dowry, marry her ? Slen. I will do a greater thing than that, upon your request, cousin, in any reason. Shal. Nay, conceive me, conceive me, sweet coz : what I do is to pleasure you, coz. Can you love the maid? Slen. I will marry her, sir, at your request : but if there be no great love in the beginning, yet heaven may decrease it upon better acquaintance, when we are married and have more occasion to know one another ; I hope, upon familiarity will grow more contempt : but if you say, ' Marry lier,' I will marry her ; that I am freely dissolved, and dissolutely. Evans. It is a f ery discretion answer ; save the fall is in the ort 'dissolutely:' the ort is, according to our meaning, 'resolutely :' his meaning is good. Shal. Ay, I think my cousin meant well. Slen. Ay, or else I would I might be hanged, la ! Shal. Here comes fair Mistress Anne. Be-enter Anne Page. Would I were young for your sake, Mistress Anne ! Anne. The dinner is on the table ; my father de- sires your worship's company. Shal. I will wait on him, fair Mistress Anne. Evans. Od's plessed will ! I will not be absence at the grace. [Exeunt Shallow and Evans. Anne. Will 't please your worship to come in, sir ? Slen. No, I thank you, forsooth, heartily; I am very well. Anne. The dinner attends you, sir. Slen. I am not a-hungry, I thank you, forsooth. Go, sirrah, for all you are my man, go wait upon my cousin Shallow. [Exit Simple.] A justice of peace sometimes may loe beholding to his friend for a man. I keep but tliree men and a boy yet, till my mother be dead : but what though ? yet I live like a poor gentleman born. Anne. I may not go in without your worship : they will not sit till you come. Slen. I ' faith, I '11 ea,t nothing ; I thank you as much as though I did. Anne. I pray you, sir, walk in. Slen. I had rather walk here, I thank you. I bruised my shin th' other day with playing at sword and dagger with a master of fence ; three veneys for a dish of stewed prunes ; and, by my troth, I cannot abide the smell of hot meat since. Wliy do your dogs bark so ? be there bears i' the town ? [of. Anne. I think there are, sir ; I heard them talked Slen. I love the sport well ; but I shall as soon quarrel at it as any man in England. You are afraid, if you see the bear loose, are you not ? Anne. Ay, indeed, sir. Slen. That 's meat and drink to me, now. I have seen Sackerson loose twenty times, and have taken him by the chain ; but, I warrant you, the women have so cried and shrieked at it, that it passed : but women, indeed, cannot abide 'em; they are very ill-favoured rough things. Be-enter Page. Page. Come, gentle Master Slender, come; we stay for you. Slen. I '11 eat nothing, I thank you, sir. Page. By cock and pie, you shall not choose, sir ! come, come. Slen. Nay, pray you, lead the way. Page. Come on, sir. Slen. Mistress Anne, yourself shall go first. Anne. Not I, sir ; pray you, keep on. Slen. Truly, I will not go first; truly, la! I will not do you that wrong. Anne. I pray you, sir. Slen. I '11 rather be unmannerly than troublesome. You do yourself WTong, indeed, la ! [Exeunt. SCENE II.— The same. Enter Sir Hugh Evans and Simple. Evans. Go your ways, and ask of Doctor Caius' house which is the way : and tliere dwells one Mis- tress Quickly, which is in the manner of his nurse, or his dry nurse, or his cook, or his laundry, his washer, and his wringer. Sim. Well, sir. Evans. Nay, it is petter yet. Give her this let- ter ; for it is a 'oman that altogether 's acquaintance with Mistress Anne Page : and the letter is, to' de- sire and require her to solicit your master's desires to Mistress Anne Page. I pray you, be gone: I will make an end of my dinner ; there 's pippins and cheese to come. [Exeunt. SCENE III.— A room in the Garter Inn. Enter Falstaff, Host, Bardolph, Nym, Pistol, and Robin. Fal. Mine host of the Garter ! [and wisely. Host. What says my bully-rook ? speak scholarly Fal. Truly, mine host, I must turn away some of my followers. Host. Discard, bully Hercules ; cashier : let them wag; trot, trot. Fal. I sit at ten pounds a week. Host. Thou 'rt an emperor, Caesar, Keisar, and Pheezar. I will entertain Bardolph ; he shall draw, he shall tap : said I well, bully Hector ? Fal. Do so, good mine host. Host. I have spoke; let him follow. [To Bard.] Let me see thee froth and lime : I am at a word ; follow. [Exit. Fal. Bardolph, follow him. A tapster is a good trade ; an old cloak makes a new jerkin ; a withered serving-man a fresh tapster. Go ; adieu. Bard. It is a life that I have desired : I will thrive. Pist. O base Hungarian wight! wilt thou the spigot wield ? [Exit Bardolph. Nym. He was gotten in drink: is not the hu- mour conceited ? Fal. I am glad I am so acquit of this tinder-box : his thefts were too open ; his filching was like an unskilful singer ; he kept not time. [rest. Mjm. The good humour is to steal at a minute's Pist. 'Convey,' the wise it call. 'Steal!' foh! a fico for the phrase ! Fal. Well, sirs, I am almost out at heels. Pist. Why, then, let kibes ensue. Fal. There is no remedy ; I must cony-catch ; I must shift. Pist. Young ravens must have food. Fal. Which of you know Ford of this town ? Pist. I ken the wight : he is of substance good. Fal. My honest lads, I will tell you what I am Pist. Two yards, and more. [about. Fal. No quips now. Pistol 1 Indeed, I am in the waist two yards about; but I am now about no waste; I am about thrift. Briefly, I do mean to make love to Ford's wife: I spy entertainment in her ; she discourses, she carves, she gives the leer of invitation : I can construe the action of her familiar style ; and the hardest voice of her behaviour, to be Englished rightly, is, 'I am Sir John Falstaff 's.' Pist. He hath studied her will, and translated her will, out of honesty into English. Nym. The anchor is deep : will that humour pass ? Fal. Now, the report goes she has all the rule of her husband's purse : he hath a legion of angels. Pist. As many devils entertain ; and ' To her, boy,' say I. [the angels. JSFym. The humour rises ; it is good : humour me Fal. I have writ me here a letter to her : and here another to Page's wife, who even now gave me good eyes too, examined my parts with most judicious 37 ACT I. THE 3IERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. scene iv. ceillades ; sometimes the beam of her view gilded my foot, sometimes my portly belly. Pist. Then did the sun on dunghill shine. Nym. I thank thee for that humour. Fal. O, she did so course o'er my exteriors with such a greedy intention, that the appetite of her eye did seem to scorch me up like a burning-glass ! Here 's another letter to her : she bears the purse too ; she is a region in Guiana, all gold and bounty. I will be cheater to them both, and they shall be exchequers to me ; they shall be my East and West Indies, and I will trade to them both. Go bear thou this letter to Mistress Page ; and thou this to Mistress Ford : we will thrive, lads, we will thrive. Pist. Shall I Sir Pandarus of Troy become, And by my side wear steel ? then, Lucifer take all ! Nym. I will run no base humour: here, take the humour-letter : I will keep the haviour of reputation. Fal. [^To Bobin] Hold, sirrah, bear you these let- ters tightly ; Sail like my pinnace to these golden shores. Rogues, hence, avaunt ! vanish like hailstones, go : Trudge, plod away o' the hoof; seek shelter, pack ! Falstaff will learn the humour of the age, French thrift, you rogues ; myself and skirted page. [Fxeunt FalstaJ)' and Bobin. Pist. Let vultures gripe thy guts ! for gourd and fuUam holds. And high and low beguiles the rich and poor : Tester I '11 have in pouch when thou shalt lack, Base Phrygian Turk ! JSfym. I have operations which be humours of Pist. "Wilt thou revenge ? [revenge, JVj/m. By welkin and her star ! Pist. With wit or steel ? JVwm. With both the humours, I : I will discuss the humour of this love to Page. Pist. And I to Ford shall eke unfold How Falstaff , varlet vile. His dove will prove, his gold will hold, And his soft couch defile. JVi/m. My humour shall not cool : I will incense Page to deal with poison ; I will possess him with yellowness, for the revolt of mine is dangerous: that is my true humour. Pist. Thou art the Mars of malecontents : I second thee ; troop on. [JExeunt. SCENE IV. — A room in Doctor Cains'' s house. Miter Mistress Quickly, Simple, and Rugby. Quick. What, John Eugby ! I pray thee, go to the casement, and see if you can see my master. Master Doctor Cains, coming. If he do, i' faith, and find any body in the house, here will be an old abusing of God's patience and the king's English, Bug. I '11 go watch. Quick. Go ; and we '11 have a posset for 't soon at night, in faith, at the latter end of a sea-coal fire. [Fxit Bugby.] An honest, willing, kind fellow, as ever servant shall come in house withal, and, I war- rant you, no tell-tale nor no breed-bate : his worst fault is, that he is given to prayer ; he is something peevish that way : but nobody but has his fault ; but let that pass. Peter Simple, you say your name is '? Sim. Ay, for fault of a better. Quick. And Master Slender 's your master ? Sim. Ay, forsooth. Quick. Does he not wear a great round beard, like a glover's paring-knife ? Sim. No, forsooth : he hath but a little wee face, with a little yellow beard, a Cain-coloured beard. Quick. A softly-sprighted man, is he not ? Sim. Ay, forsooth : but he is as tall a man of his hands as any is between this and his head ; he hath fought with a warrener. Quick. How say you? O, I should remember him : does he not hold up his head, as it were, and strut in his gait ? Sim. Yes, indeed, does he. Quick. Well, heaven send Anne Page no worse fortune ! Tell Master Parson Evans I will do what I can for your master : Anne is a good girl, and I wish — ^ „ , ^ Be-enter Rugby. Bug. Out, alas ! here comes my master. Quick. We shall all be shent. Run in here, good young man; go into this closet: he will not stay long. [Shuts Simple in the closet.] What, John Rugby! John! what, John, I say! Go, John, go inquire for my master ; I doubt he be not well, that he comes not home. [Singing] And down, down, adown-a, &c. Fnter Doctor Caius. Caius. Yat is you sing ? I do not like des toys. Pray you, go and vetch me in my closet un boitier vert, a box, a green-a box: do intend vat I speak? a green-a box. Quick. Ay, forsooth ; I '11 fetch it you. [Aside] I am glad he went not in himself : if he had found the young man, he would have been horn-mad. Caius. Fe, fe, fe, fe ! ma foi, il fait fort chaud. Je m'en vais a la cour — la grande affaire. Quick. Is it this, sk ? Caius. Oui; mette le au mon pocket: depeche, quickly. Yere is dat knave Rugby ? Quick. What, John Rugby ! John I Bug. Here, sir! Caius. You are John Rugby, and you are Jack Rugby. Come, take-a your rapier, and come after my heel to the court. Bug. 'T is ready, sir, here in the porch, Caius. By my trot, I tarry too long, Od 's me! Qu'ai-j'oublie! dere is some simples in my closet, dat t vill not for the varld I shall leave behind. Quick. Ay me, he 'U find the young man there, and be mad ! Caius. O diable, diable! vat is in my closet? Yillain ! larron ! [Pulling Simple out.] Rugby, my rapier ! Quick. Good master, be content. Caius. Wherefore shall I be content-a ? Quick. The yoimg man is an honest man. Caius. What shall de honest man do in my closet ? dere is no honest man dat shall come in my closet. Quick. I beseech you, be not so phlegmatic. Hear the truth of it : he came of an errand to me from Parson Hugh. Caius. Yell. Sim. Ay, forsooth; to desire her to — Quick. Peace, I pray you. Caius. Peace-a your tongue. Speak-a your tale. Sim. To desire this honest gentlewoman, your maid, to speak a good word to Mistress Anne Page for my master in the way of marriage. Quick. This is all, indeed, la! but I '11 my finger in the fire, and need not. Caius. Sir Hugh send-a you ? Rugby, bailie me some paper. Tarry you a little-a while. [ Writes. Quick. [Aside to Simple] I am glad he is so quiet : if he had been throughly moved, you should have heard him so loud and so melancholy. But notwith- standing, man, I '11 do you your master what good I can : and the very yea and the no is, the French doctor, my master, — I may call him my master, look you, for I keep his house; and I wash, wring, brew, bake, scour, dress meat and drink, make the beds, and do all myself, — Sim. [Aside to Quickly] 'T is a great charge to come under one body's hand. Quick. [Aside to Simple] Are you avised o' that ? you shall find it a great charge : and to be up early ne'er put ACT II. THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. SCENE I. and down late ; but notwithstanding, — to tell you in your ear; I would have no words of it, — my master himself is in love with Mistress Anne Page : but notwithstanding that, I know Anne's mind, — that 's neither here nor there. Cuius. You jack'nape, give-a this letter to Sir Hugh ; by gar, it is a shallenge : I will cut his troat in de park ; and I will teach a scurvy jack-a-nape priest to meddle or make. You may be gone ; it is not good you tarry here. By gar, I will cut all his two stones; by gar, he shall not have a stone to throw at his dog. [Exit Simple. Quick. Alas, he speaks but for his friend. Caius. It is no matter-a ver dat : do not you tell-a me dat I shall have Anne Page for myself? By gar, I vill kill de Jack priest ; and I have appointed mine host of de Jarteer to measure our weapon. By gar, I will myself have Anne Page. Quick. Sir, the maid loves you, and all shall be well. We must give folks leave to prate : what, the good-jer ! Cuius. Eugby, come to the court with me. By gar, if I have not Anne Page, I shall turn your head out of my door. Follow my heels, Rugby. [Exeunt Cuius unci Eugby. Quick. You shall have An fool's-head of your own. ISTo, I know Anne's mind for that: never a woman in Windsor knows more of Anne's mind than I do ; nor can do more than I do with her, I thank heaven. Fent. [ Within] Who 's within there ? ho ! Quick. Who 's there, I trow ! Come near the house, I pray you. Enter Fenton. Fent. How now, good woman ! how dost thou ? (^uick. The better that it pleases your good wor- ship to ask. Fent. What news ? how does pretty Mistress Anne? Quick. In truth, sir, and she is pretty, and honest, and gentle; and one that is your friend, I can tell you that by the way ; I praise heaven for it. Fent. Shall I do any good, thinkest thou ? shall I not lose my suit ? Quick. Troth, sir, all is in his hands above: but notwithstanding. Master Fenton, I '11 be sworn on a book, she loves you. Have not your worship a wart above your eye ? Fent. Yes, marry, have I ; what of that ? Quick. Well, thereby hangs a tale : good faith, it is such another Nan; but, I detest, an honest maid as ever broke bread : we had an hour's talk of that wart. I shall never laugh but in that maid's com- pany ! But indeed she is given too much to allicholy and musing: but for you — well, go to. Fent. Well, I shall see her to-day. Hold, there 's money for thee ; let me have thy voice in my behalf : if thou seest her before me, commend me. Quick. Will I? i' faith, that we will; and I will tell your worship more of the wart the next time we have confidence ; and of other wooers. Fent. Well, farewell ; I am in great haste now. Quick. Farewell to your worship. [Exit Fenton.] Truly, an honest gentleman : but Anne loves him not ; for I know Anne's mind as well as another does. Out upon 't ! what have I forgot ? [Exit. A.OT II, SCENE I.— J5e/ore Page's /lOMse, Enter Mistress Page, with u letter. Mrs. Puge. What, have I scaped love-letters in the holiday-time of my beauty, and am I now a subject for them ? Let me see. [Eeuds. 'Ask me no reason why I love you ; for though Love use Reason for his physician, he admits him not for his counsellor. You are not young, no more am I ; go to then, there 's sympathy : you are merry, so am I ; ha, ha ! then there 's more sympathy : you love sack, and so do I; would you desire better sympathy ? Let it suffice thee. Mistress Page, — at the least, if the love of soldier can suffice,— that I love thee. I will not say, pity me ; 't is not a soldier- like phrase; but I say, love me. By me, Thine own true knight, By day or night, Or any kind of light, With all his might For thee to fight, John Falstaff.' What a Herod of Jewry is this ! O wicked, wicked world ! One that is well-nigh worn to pieces with age to show himself a young gallant ! What an un- weighed behaviour hath this Flemish drunkard picked — with the devil's name! — out of my con- versation, that he dares in this manner assay me? AVhy, he hath not been thrice in my company ! What should I say to him ? I was then frugal of my mirth : Heaven forgive me ! Why, I '11 exhibit a bill in the parliament for the putting dovra of men. How shall I be revenged on him ? for revenged I will be, as sure as his guts are made of puddings. Enter Mistress Ford. 3frs. Ford. Mistress Page ! trust me, I was going to your house. Mrs. Puge. And, trust me, I was coming to you. You look very ill. Mrs. Ford. Nay, I '11 ne'er believe that ; I have to show to the contrary. Mrs. Puge. Faith, but you do, in my mind. Mrs. Ford. Well, I do then ; yet I say I could show you to the contrary. O Mistress Page, give me some counsel ! Mrs. Puge. What 's the matter, woman ? Mrs. Ford. O woman, if it were not for one trifling respect, I could come to such honour! Mrs. Puge. Hang the trifle, woman ! take the honour. What is it? dispense with trifles; what is it ? Mrs. Ford. If I would but go to hell for an eternal moment or so, I could be knighted. Mrs. Puge. What ? thou liest ! Sir Alice Ford ! These knights will hack ; and so thou shouldst not alter the article of thy gentry. Mrs. Ford. We burn daylight; here, read, read ; perceive how I might be knighted. I shall think the worse of fat men, as long as I have an eye to make difference of men's liking : and yet he would not swear ; praised women's modesty ; and gave such orderly and well-behaved reproof to all uncomeli- ness, that I would have sworn his disposition would have gone to the truth of his words ; but they do no more adhere and keep place together than the Hun- dredth Psalm to the tune of ' Green Sleeves.' What tempest, I trow, threw this whale, with so many tuns of oil in his belly, ashore at Windsor? How shall I be revenged on him ? I think the best way were to entertain him with hope, till the wicked fire of lust have melted him in his own grease. Did you ever hear the like ? 3[rs. Puge. Letter for letter, but that the name of Page and Ford differs ! To thy great comfort in this mystery of ill opinions, here 's the twin-brother 39 ACT II. THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. SCENE I. of thy letter: but let thine inherit first; for, I protest, mine never shall. I warrant he hath a thousand of these letters, writ with blank space for different names, — sure, more, — and these are of the second edition : he will print them, out of doubt ; for he cares not what he puts into the press, when he would put us two. I had rather be a giantess, and lie under Mount Pelion. Well, I will find you twenty lascivious turtles ere one chaste man. Mrs. Ford. Why, this is the very same ; the very hand, the very words. What doth he think of us y Mrs. Page. Nay, I know not : it makes me almost ready to wrangle with mine own honesty. I '11 en- tertain myself like one that I am not acquainted withal; for, sure, unless he know some strain in iiie, that I know not myself, he would never have boarded me in this fury. Mrs. Ford. ' Boarding,' call you it ? I '11 be sure to keep him above deck. Mrs. Page. So wUl I: if he come under my hatches, I '11 never to sea again. Let 's be revenged on him : let 's appoint him a meeting ; give him a show of comfort in his suit and lead him on with a fine- baited delay, till he hath pawned his horses to mine host of the Garter. Mrs. Ford. Nay, I will consent to act any villany against him, that may not sully the chariness of our honesty. O, that my husband saw this letter! it would give eternal food to his jealousy. Mrs. Page. Why, look where he comes ; and my good man too: he's as far from jealousy as I am from giving him cause ; and that I hope is an un- measurable distance. Mrs. Ford. You are the happier woman. Mrs. Page. Let 's consult together against this greasy knight. Come hither. [They retire. Enter Ford with Pistol, and Page with Nym. Ford. Well, I hope it be not so. Pist. Hope is a curtal dog in some affairs : Sir John affects thy wife. Ford. Why, sir, my wife is not young. [poor, Pist. He wooes both high and low, both rich and Both young and old, one with another, Ford; He loves the gallimaufry : Ford, perpend. Ford. Love my wife ! Pist. With liver burning hot. Prevent, or go thou. Like Sir Actseon he, with Ringwood at thy heels : O, odious is the name ! Ford. What name, sir ? Pist. The horn, I say. Farewell. [night : Take heed, have open eye, for thieves do foot by Take heed, ere summer comes or cuckoo-birds do Away, Sir Corporal IsTym ! [sing. Believe it. Page ; he speaks sense. [Exit. Ford. [Aside] I will be patient ; I will find out this. Nym. [To Page] And this is true; I like not the huniour of lying. He hath wronged me in some humours : I should have borne the humoured letter to her ; but I have a sword and it shall bite upon my necessity. He loves your wife ; there 's the short and the long. My name is Corporal Nym ; I speak and I avouch; 'tis true: my name is"^]Srym and Falstaff loves your wife. Adieu. I love not the humour of bread and cheese, and there 's the humour of it. Adieu. [Exit. Page. ' The humour of it,' quoth a' ! here 's a fel- low frights English out of his wits. Ford. I will seek out Falstaff. [rogue. Page. I never heard sucli a drawling, affecting Ford. It I do find it : well. Page. I will not believe such a Catalan, though the priest o' the town commended him for a true man. Ford. 'T was a good sensible fellow : well. Page. How now, Meg ! [Mrs. Page and Mrs. Ford come forward. Mrs. Page. Whither go you, George ? Hark you. 40 Mrs. Ford. How now, sweet Frank! why art thou melancholy ? Ford. I melancholy ! I am not melancholy. Get you home, go. Mrs. Ford. Faith, thou hast some crotchets in thy head. Now, will you go, Mistress Page ? Mrs. Page. Have with you. You '11 come to din- ner, George. [Aside to Mrs. Ford] Look who comes yonder: she shall be our messenger to this paltry knight. Mrs. Ford. [Aside to Mrs. Page] Trust me, I thought on her: she '11 fit it. Enter Mistress Quickly. Mrs. Page. You are come to see my daughter Anne? Quick. Ay, forsooth; and, I pray, how does good Mistress Anne ? Mrs. Page. Go in with us and see: we have an hour's talk with you. [Exeunt Mrs. Page, Mrs. Ford, and Mrs. Quickly. ' Page. How now, Master Ford ! Ford. You heard what this knave told me, did you not ? [me ? Page. Yes: and you heard what the other told Foi-d. Do you think there is truth in them ? Page. Hang 'em, slaves! I do not think the knight would offer it : but these that accuse him in his in- tent towards our wives are a yoke of his discarded men; very rogues, now they be out of service. Ford. Were they his men ? Page. Marry, were they. Ford. I like it never the better for that. Does he lie at the Garter ? Page. Ay, marry, does he. If he should intend this Voyage towards my wife, I would turn her loose to him ; and what he gets more of her than sharp words, let it lie on my head. Ford. I do not misdoubt my wife ; but I would be loath to turn them together. A man "may be too confident: I would have nothing lie on my head : I cannot be thus satisfied. Page. Look where my ranting host of the Garter comes : there is either liquor in his pate or money in his purse when he looks so merrily. Enter Host. How now, mine host ! Host. How now, bully-rook! thou'rt a gentle- man. Cavaleiro-justice, I say! Enter Shallow. Shal. I follow, mine host, I follow. Good even and twenty, good Master Page ! Master Page, will you go with us ? we have sport in hand. Host. Tell him, cavaleiro-justice; tell him, bully- rook. Shal. Sir, there is a fray to be fought between Sir Hugh the Welsh priest and Cains the French doctor. Ford. Good mine host o' the Garter, a word with you. [Drawing him aside. Host. What sayest thou, my bully-rook? Shal. [To Page] Will you go with us to behold it ? My merry host hath had the measuring of their weapons ; and, I think, hath appointed them con- trary places; i^or, believe me, I hear the parson is no jester. Hark, I vifill tell you what our sport shall be. [They converse apart. Host. Hast thou no suit against my knight, my guest-cavaleire ? Ford. None, I protest : but I '11 give you a pottle of burnt sack to give me recourse to him and tell him my name is Brook ; only for a jest. Host. My hand, bully; thou shalt have egress and regress ; — said I well V — and thy name shall be Brook. It is a merry knight. Will you go, An- heires ? ACT II, THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. SCENE II Shal. Have with you, mine liost. Page. I liave heard the Frenchman hath good skill in his rapier. Shal. Tut, sir, I could have told you more. In these times you stand on distance, your passes, stoc- cadoes, and I know not what : 't is the heart. Master Page; 'tis here, 'tis here. I have seen the time, with my long sword I would have made you four tall fellows skip like rats. Host. Here, boys, here, here! shall we wag? Page. Have with you. I had rather hear them scold than fight. [Exeunt Host, Shal., and Page. Ford. Though Page be a secure fool, and stands so firmly on his wife's frailty, yet I cannot put off my opinion so easily : she was in his company at Page's house ; and what they made there, I know not. Well, I will look further into 't: and I have a disguise to sound Falstaff. If I find her honest, I lose not my labour ; if she be otherwise, 't is labour weU bestowed. [Exit. SCENE II. — A room in the Garter Inn. Enter Falstaff and Pistol. . Fal. 1 will not lend thee a penny. Pist. Why, then the world 's mine oyster. Which I with sword will open. Fal. iSTot a penny. I have been content, sir, you should lay my countenance to pawn : I have grated upon my good friends for three reprieves for you and your coach-fellow jSTym ; or else you had looked through the grate, like a geminy of baboons. I am damned in hell for swearing to gentlemen my friends, you were good soldiers and tall fellows; and when Mistress Bridget lost the handle of her fan, I took 't upon mine honour thou hadst it not. Pist. Didst not thou share ? hadst thou not fifteen pence ? Fal. Reason, you rogue, reason : thinkest thou I '11 endanger my soul gratis ? At a word, hang no more about me, I am no gibbet for you. Go. A short knife and a throng ! To your manor of Pickt- hatch! Go. You '11 not bear a letter for me, you rogue! you stand upon your honour! Why, thou uuconfinable baseness, it is as much as I can do to keep the terms of my honour precise : I, I, I myself sometimes, leaving the fear of God on the left hand and hiding mine honour in my necessity, am fain to shuftle, to hedge and to lurch ; and yet you, rogue, will ensconce your rags, your cat-a-mountain looks, your red-lattice phrases, and your bold-beating oaths, under the shelter of your honour ! You will not do it, you ! Pist. I do relent : what would thou more of man ? Enter Robin. Bob. Sir, here 's a woman would speak with you. Fal. Let her approach. Enter Mistress Quickly. Quick. Give your worship good morrow. Fal. Good morrow, good wife. Quick. I^ot so, an 't please your worship. Fal. Good maid, then. Quick. I '11 be sworn, As my mother was, the first hour I was bom. Fal. I do believe the swearer. What with me ? Quick. Shall I vouchsafe your worship a word or two ? Fal. Two thousand, fair woman : and I 'U vouch- safe thee the hearing. Quick. There is one Mistress Ford, sir : — I pray, come a little nearer this ways: — I myself dwell with Master Doctor Caius, — Fal. Well, on: Mistress Ford, jou say, — Quick. Your worship says very true : I pray your worship, come a little nearer this ways. Fal. 1 warrant thee, nobody hears; mine own people, mine own people. Quick. Are they so ? God bless them and make them his servants ! Fal. Well, Mistress Ford ; what of her ? Quick. Why, sir, she 's a good creature. Lord, Lord ! your worship 's a wanton ! Well, heaven for- give you and all of us, I pray ! Fal. Mistress Ford ; come. Mistress Ford, — Quick. Marry, this is the short and the long of it ; you have brought her into such a canaries as 't is wonderful . The best courtier of them all , when the court lay at Windsor, could never have brought her to such a canary. Yet there has been knights, and lords, and gentlemen, with their coaches, 1 warrant you, coach after coach, letter after letter, gift after gift ; smelling so sweetly, all musk, and so rushling, I warrant you, in silk and gold ; and in such alli- gant terms ; and in such wine and sugar of the best and the fairest, that would have won any woman's heart ; and, I warrant you, they could never get an eye-wink of her : I had myseK twenty angels given me this morning ; but I defy all angels, in any such sort, as they say, but in the way of honesty : and, I warrant you, they could never get her so much as sip on a cup witli the proudest of them all : and yet there has been earls, nay, which is more, pension- ers; but, I warrant you, all is one with her. Fal. But what says she to me ? be brief, my good she-Mercury. Quick. Marry, she hath received your letter, for the which she thanks you a thousand times ; and she gives you to notify that her husband will be absence from his house between ten and eleven. Fal. Ten and eleven ? Quick. Ay, forsooth ; and then you may come and see the picture, she says, that you wot of: Master Ford, her husband, will be from home. Alas ! the sweet woman leads an ill life with him : he 's a very jealousy man : she leads a very frampold life with him, good heart. Fal. Ten and eleven. Woman, commend me to her ; I will not fail her. Quick. Why, you say well. But I have another messenger to your worship. Mistress Page hath her hearty commendations to you too : and let me tell you in your ear, she 's as fartuous a civil modest wife, and one, I tell you, that will not miss you morning nor evening prayer, as any is in Windsor, whoe'er be the other: and she bade me tell your worship that her husband is seldom from home; but she hopes there will come a time. I never knew a woman so dote upon a man : surely I think j^ou have charms, la ; yes, in truth. Fal. Not I, I assure thee: setting the attraction of my good parts aside I have no other charms. Quick. Blessing on your heart for 't ! Fal. But, I pray thee, tell me this: has Ford's wife and Page's wife acquainted each other how they love me ? Quick. That were a jest indeed! they have not so little grace, I hope: that were a trick indeed! But Mistress Page would desire you to send her your little page, of all loves: her husband has a marvellous infection to the little page ; and truly Master Page is an honest man. Never a wife in Windsor leads a better life than she does : do what she will, say what she will, take all, pay all, go to bed when she list, rise when she list, all is as she will: and truly she deserves it; for if there be a kind woman in Windsor, she is one. You must send her your page ; no remedy. Fal. Why, I will. Quick. Nay, but do so, then: and, look you, he may come and go between you both; and in any case have a nay-word, that you may know one another's mind, and the boy never need to under- 41 ACT II. THE 3IERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. scene ii. stand any thing ; for 't is not good that children should laiow any wickedness : old folks, you know, have discretion, as they say, and know the world. Fal. Fare thee well : commend me to them both : there 's my purse ; I am yet thy debtor. Boy, go along with this woman. [Exeunt Mistress Quickly and JRobin.] This news distracts me ! Pist. This punk is one of Cupid's carriers : Clap on more sails ; pursue ; up with your fights : Give fire : she is my prize, or ocean whelm them all ! [Exit. Fal. Sayest thou so, old Jack ? go thy ways ; I '11 make more of thy old body than I have done. Will they yet look after thee ? Wilt thou, after the ex- pense of so much money, be now a gainer ? Good body, I thank thee. Let them say 't is grossly done ; so it be fairly done, no matter. Enter Bardolph. Bard. Sir John, there 's one Master Brook below would fain speak with you, and be acquainted with you ; and hath sent your worship a morning's draught of sack. Fal. Brook is his name ? Bard. Ay, sir. Fal. Call him in. [Exit Bardolph.] Such Brooks are welcome to me, that o'erflow such liquor. Ah, ha ! Mistress Ford and Mistress Page have I encom- passed you ? go to ; via ! Be-enter Bardolph, with Ford disguised. Ford. Bless you, sir ! Fal. And you, sir ! Would you speak with me ? Ford. I make bold to press with so little prepara- tion upon you. Fal. You 're welcome. What 's your will ? Give us leave, drawer. [Exit Bardolph. Ford. Sir, I am a gentleman that have spent much ; my name is Brook. Fal. Good Master Brook, I desire more acquaint- ance of you. Ford. Good Sir John, I sue for yours : not to charge you ; for I must let you understand I think myself in better plight for a lender than you are: the which hath something emboldened me to this un- seasoned intrusion ; for they say, if money go before, all ways do lie open. Fal. Money is a good soldier, sir, and will on. Ford. Troth, and I have a bag of money here troubles me : if you will help to bear it. Sir John, take all, or half, for easing me of the carriage. Fal. Sir, I know not how I may deserve to be your porter. [liearing. Ford. I will tell you, sir, if you will give me the Fal. Speak, good Master Brook : I shall be glad to be your servant. Ford. Sir, I hear you are a scholar,— I will be brief with you, — and you have been a man long known to me, though I had never so good means, as desire, to make myself acquainted with you. I shall discover a thing to you, wherein I must very much lay open mine own imperfection : but, good Sir John, as you have one eye upon my follies, as you hear them unfolded, turn another into the reg- ister of your own ; that I may pass with a reproof the easier, sith you yourself know how easy it is to be such an offender. Fal. Yery well, sir; proceed. Ford. There is a gentlewoman in this town ; her husband's name is Ford. Fal. Well, sir. Ford. I have long loved her, and, I protest to you, bestowed much on her; followed her with a doting observance ; engrossed opportunities to meet her ; fee'd every slight occasion that could but nig- gardly give me sight of her ; not only bought many presents to give her, but have given largely to many 42 to know what she would have given ; briefly, I have pursued her as love hath pm-sued me ; which hath been on the wing of all occasions. But whatsoever I have merited, either in my mind or in my means, meed, I am sure, I. have received none; imless ex- perience be a jewel that I have purchased at an in- finite rate, and that hath taught me to say this : 'Love like a shadow flies when substance love pursues ; Pursuing that that flies, and flying what pursues.' Fal. Have you received no promise of satisfaction at her hands ? Ford. jSTever. Fal. Have you importuned her to such a purpose ? Ford. Never. Fal. Of what quality was your love, then ? Ford. Like a fair house built on another man's ground ; so that I have lost my edifice by mistaking the place where I erected it. [me? Fal. To what purpose have you unfolded this to Ford. When I have told you that, I have told you all. Some say, that though she appear honest to me, yet in other places she enlargeth her mirth so far that there is shrewd construction made of her. Now, Sir John, here is the heart of my purpose : you are a gen- tleman of excellent breedmg, admirable discourse, of great admittance, authentic in your place and person, generally allowed for your many war-like, court-like, and learned preparations. Fal. O.sir! Ford. Believe it, for you know it. There is money ; spend it, spend it; spend more; spend all I have; only give me so much of your time in exchange of it, as to lay an amiable siege to the honesty of this Ford's wife: use your art or wooing ; win her to con- sent to you : if any man may, you may as soon as any. Fal. Would it apply well to the vehemency of yom- affection, that I should win what you would enjoy ? Methinks you prescribe to yourself very preposterously. Ford. O, understand my drift. She dwells so se- curely on the excellency of her honour, that the folly of my soul dares not present itself : she is too bright to be looked against. jSTow, could I come to her with any detection in my hand, my desires had instance and argument to commen-d themselves : I could drive her then from the ward of her purity, her reputation, her marriage-vow, and a thousand other her de- fences, which now are too too strongly embattled against me. What say you to 't. Sir John ? Fal. Master Brook , I will first make bold with your money ; next, give me your hand ; and last, as I am a gentleman, you shall, if you will, enjoy Ford's wife. Ford. O good sir ! Fal. I say you shall. [none. Ford. Want no money. Sir John ; you shall want Fal. Want no Mistress Ford, Master Brook ; you shall want none. I shall be with her, I may tell you, by her own appointment ; even as you came in to me. her assistant or go-between parted from me : I say I shall be with her between ten and eleven ; for at that time the jealous rascally knave her husband will be forth. Come you to me at night ; you shall know how I speed. Ford. I am blest in your acquaintance. Do you know Ford, sir Y Fal. Hang him, poor cuckoldly knave ! I know him not: yet I WTong him to call him poor ; they say the jealous wittolly knave hath masses of money ; for the which his wife seems to me well-favoured. I will use her as the key of the cuckoldly rogue's coffer ; and there 's my harvest-home. Ford. I would you knew Ford, sir, that you might avoid him if you saw him. Fal. Hang him, mechanical salt-butter rogue! I will stare him out of his wits ; I will awe him with my cudgel: it shall hang like a meteor o'er the ACT III. THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. iCENE cuckold's horns. Master Brook, thou shalt know I will predominate over the peasant, and thou shalt lie with his wife. Come to me soon at night. Ford 's a knave, and I will aggravate his style ; thou, Mas- ter Brook, shalt know him for knave and cuckold. Come to me soon at night. [JExit. Ford. What a damned Epicurean rascal is this ! My heart is ready to crack with impatience. "Who says this is improvident jealousy ? my wife hath sent to him; thehour is fixed; the match is made. "Would any man have thought this ? See the hell of having a false woman ! My bed shall be abused, my coffers ransacked, my reputation gnawn at ; and I shall not only receive this villanous wrong, but stand under the adoption of abominable terms, and by him that does me this wi-ong. Terms ! names ! Amaimon somids well; Lucifer, well; Barbason, well; yet they are devils' additions, the names of fiends : but Cuckold ! "Wittol I — Cuckold ! the devil himself hath not such a name. Page is an ass, a secure ass : he will trust his wife ; he will not be jealous. I will rather trust a Fleming with my butter. Parson Hugh the "Welshman with my cheese, an Irishman with my aqua-vitae bottle, or a thief to walk my ambling geld- ing, than my wife with herself : then she plots, then slie ruminates, then she devises ; and what they think in their hearts they may effect, they will break their hearts but they will effect. God be praised for my jealousy ! Eleven o'clock the hour. I will prevent this, detect my wife, be revenged on Falstaff, and laugh at Page. I will about it ; better three hours too soon than a minute too late. Fie, fie, fie ! cuck- old! cuckold! cuckold! [Exit. SCENE III.— ^JieZcZ near Windsor. Enter Oaius and Rugby. Caius. Jack Eugby ! Bug. Sir? Caius. Vat is de clock, Jack ? Bug. 'T is past the hour, sir, that Sir Hugh prom- ised to meet. Caius. By gar, he has save his soul, dat he is no come ; he has pray his Pible well, dat he is no come : by gar. Jack Rugby, he is dead already, if he be come. Bug. He is wise, sir ; he knew your worship would kill him, if he came. Caius. By gar, de herring is no dead so as I vill kill him. Take your rapier, Jack; I vill tell you how I vill kill him. Bug. Alas, sir, I cannot fence. Caius. Villany, take your rapier. Bug. Forbear ; here 's company. Enter Host, Shallo"w, Slender, and Page. Host. Bless thee, bully doctor ! Shal. Save you. Master Doctor Caius ! Page. Now, good master doctor ! Slen. Give you good morrow, sir. [for ? Caius. Vat be all you, one, two, tree, four, come Host. To see thee fight, to see thee foin, to see thee traverse ; to see thee here, to see thee there ; to see thee pass thy punto, thy stock, thy reverse, thy distance, thy montant. Is he dead, my Ethiopian ? is he dead, my Francisco? ha, bully! "What says my ^Esculapius ? my Galen ? my heart of elder ? ha ! is he dead, bully stale ? is he dead ? Caius. By gar, he is de coward Jack priest of de vorld ; he is not show his face. Host. Thou art a Castalion-King-Urinal. Hector of Greece, my boy ! Caius. I pray you, bear vitness that me have stay six or seven, two, tree hours for him, and he is no come. Shal. He is the wiser man, master doctor: he is a curer of souls, and you a curer of bodies ; if you should fight, you go against the hair of your profes- sions. Is it not true. Master Page ? Page. Master Shallow, you have yourself been a great fighter, though now a man of peace. Shal. Bodykins, Master Page, though I now be old and of the peace, if I see a sword out, my finger itches to make one. Though we are justices and doctors and churchmen. Master Page, we have some salt of our youth in us ; we are the sons of women,. Master Page. Page. 'T is true. Master Shallow. Shal. It will be found so, Master Page. Master Doctor Caius, I am come to fetch you home. I am sworn of the peace: you have showed yourself a wise physician, and Sir Hugh hath shown himself a wise and patient churchman. You must go with me, master doctor. [Mockwater. Host. Pardon, guest-justice. A word, Momiseur Caius. Mock-vater ! vat is dat ? Host. Mock-water, in our English tongue, is valour, bully. Caius. By gar, den, I have as much mock-vater as de Englishman. Scurvy jack-dog priest ! by gar, me vill cut his ears. Host. He will clapper-claw thee tightly, bully. Caius. Clapper-de-claw ! vat is dat ? Host. That is, he will make thee amends. Caius. By gar, me do look he shall clapper-de-claw me ; for, by gar, me vill have it. Host. And I will provoke him to 't, or let him wag. Caius. Me tank you for dat. Host. And, moreover, bully,— but first, master guest, and Master Page, and eke Cavaleiro Slender, go you through the town to Frogmore. [Aside to them. Page. Sir Hugh is there, is he ? Host. He is there : see what humour he is in ; and I will bring the doctor about by the fields. "Will it do well ? Shal. ^ye will do it. Page, Shal. , and Slen. Adieu, good master doctor. [Exeunt Page, Shal., and Slen. Caius. By gar, me vill kill de priest ; for he speak for a jack-an-ape to Anne Page. Host. Let him die : sheathe thy impatience, throw cold water on thy choler : go about the fields with . me through Frogmore: I will bring thee where Mistress Anne Page is, at a farm-house a-f easting ; and thou shalt woo her. Cried I aim ? said I well ? Caius. By gar, me dank you for dat : by gar, I love you ; and I shall procure-a you de good guest, de earl, de knight, de lords, de gentlemen, my pa- tients. Host. For the which I will be thy adversary toward Anne Page. Said I well ? Cams. By gar, 't is good ; veil said. Host. Let us wag, then. Caius. Come at my heels, Jack Eugby. [Exeunt. A.CT III. SCENE I.— A field near Frogmore. Enter Sir Hugh Evans and Simple. Evans. I pray you now, good Master Slender's serving-man, and friend Simple by your name, which way have you looked for Master Caius, that calls himself doctor of physic ? Sim. Marry, sir, the pittie-ward, the park-ward, every way ; old "Windsor way, and every way but the town way. 43 THE 3IERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. scene ii. Evans. I most fehemently desire you you will also look that way. Sim. I will, sir. [Exit. Evans. 'Pless my soul, how full of choUors I am, and trempling of mind ! I shall be glad if he have deceived me. How melancholies I am ! I will knog his urinals about his knave's costard when I have good opportunities for the ork. 'Pless my soul ! [Sings. To shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals ; There will me make our peds of roses, And a thousand fragrant posies. To shallow — Mercy on me ! I have a great dispositions to cry. [Sings. Melodious birds sing madrigals — When as I sat in Pabylon — And a thousand vagram posies. To shallow, &c. Be-enter Simple. Sim. Yonder he is coming, this way, Sir Hugh. Evans. He 's welcome. [(Sing's. To shallow rivers, to whose falls — Heaven prosper the right ! What weapons is he ? Sim. No weapons, sir. There comes my master. Master Shallow, and another gentleman, from Frog- more, over the stile, this way. Evans. Pray you, give me my gown ; or else keep it in your arms. Enter Page, Shallow, and Slender. Shal. How now, master Parson ! Good morrow, good Sir Hugh. Keep a gamester from the dice, and a good student from his book, and it is wonderful. Slen. [Aside] Ah, sweet Anne Page ! Page. 'Save you, good Sir Hugh ! Evans. 'Pless you from his mercy sake, all of you ! Shal. What, the sword and the word ! do you study them both, master parson ? Page. And youthful still! in your doublet and hose this raw rheumatic day ! Evans. There is reasons and causes for it. Page. We are come to you to do a good office, master parson. Evans. Fery well : what is it ? Page. Yonder is a most reverend gentleman, who, belike having received wrong by some person, is at most odds with his own gravity and patience that ever you saw. Shal. I have lived fourscore years and upward ; I never heard a man of his place, gravity and learning, so wide of his own respect. Evans. What is he ? Page. I think you know him; Master Doctor Caius, the renowned French physician. Evans. Got's will, and his passion of my heart ! I had as lief you would tell me of a mess of porridge. Page. Why? Evans. He has no more knowledge in Hibocrates and Galen, — and he is a knave besides ; a cowardly knave as you would desires to be acquainted withal. Page. I warrant you, he 's the man should fight with him. Slen. [Aside] O sweet Anne Page ! Shal. It appears so by his weapons. Keep them asunder : here comes Doctor Caius. Enter Host, Caius, and Rugby. Page. Nay, good master parson, keep in your weapon. Shal. So do you, good master doctor. Host. Disarm them, and let them question: let them keep their limbs whole and hack our English. Caius. I pray you, let-a me speak a word with your ear. Vherefore vill you not meet-a me ? 44 Evans. [Aside to Caius] Pray you, use your pa- tience : in good time. Caim. By gar, you are de coward, de Jack dog, John ape. Evans. [Aside to Caius] Pray you, let us not be laughing-stocks to other men's humours; I desire you in friendship, and I will one way or other make you amends. [Aloud] I will knog your urinals about your knave's cogscomb for missing your meetings and appointments. Caius. Diable ! Jack Eugby, — mine host de Jar- teer, — have I not stay for him to kill himV have I not, at de place I did appoint ? Evans. As I am a Christians soul now, look you, this is the place appointed : I '11 be judgment by mine host of the Garter. Host. Peace, I say, Gallia and Gaul, French and Welsh, sole-curer and body-curer ! Caius. Ay, dat is very good ; excellent. Host. Peace, I say ! hear mine host of the Garter. Am I politick am I subtle? am I a Machiavel? Shall I lose my doctor? no; he gives me the po- tions and the motions. Shall I lose my parson, my priest, my Sir Hugh ? no ; he gives me the proverbs and the no-verbs. Give me tliy hand, terrestrial ; so. Give me thy hand, celestial; so. Boys of art, I have deceived you both ; I have directed you to wrong places : your hearts are mighty, your skins are whole, and let burnt sack be the issue. Come, lay their swords to pawn. Follow me, lads of peace; follow, follow, follow. [follow. Shal. Trust me, a mad host. Follow, gentlemen, Slen. [Aside] O sweet Anne Page ! [Exeunt Shal., Slen., Page, and Host. Caius. Ha, do I perceive dat ? have you make-a de sot of us, ha, ha ? Evans. This is well ; he has made us his vlout- ing-stog. I desire you that we may be friends ; and let us knog our prains together to be revenge on this same scall, scurvy, cogging companion, the host of the Garter. Caius. By gar, with all my heart. He promise ,to bring me where is Anne Page ; by gar, he de- ceive me too. Evans. Well, I will smite his noddles. Pray you, follow. [Exeunt. SCENE II.— J. street. Enter Mistress Page and Robin. Mrs. Page. Nay, keep your way, little gallant ; you were wont to be a follower, but now you are a leader. Whether had you rather lead mine eyes, or eye your master's heels ? Bob. I had rather, forsooth, go before you like a man than follow him like a dwarf. Mrs. Page. O, you are a flattering boy: now I see you '11 be a courtier. Enter Ford. Ford. Well met, Mistress Page. Whither go you? Mrs. Page. Truly, sir, to see your wife. Is she at home ? Ford. Ay ; and as idle as she may hang together, for want of company. I think, if your husbands were dead, you two would marry. Mrs. Paqe. Be sure of that,— two other husbands. Ford. Where had you this pretty weathercock ? Mrs. Page. I cannot teU what the dickens his name is my husband had him of. What do you call your knight's name, sirrah ? Boh. Sir John Falstafe. Ford. Sir John Falstalf! Mrs. Page. He, he ; I can never hit on 's name. Til ere is such a league between my good man and he ! Is your wife at home indeed ? Ford. Indeed she is. ACT III. THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. scene in. Mrs. Page. By yom- leave, sir : I am sick till I see her. [Exeunt Mrs. Page and Robin. Ford. Has Page any brains ? hath he any eyes ? hath he any thinking ? Sure, they sleep ; he hath no use of them. Why, this boy will carry a letter twenty mile, as easy as a cannon will shoot point- blank twelve score. He pieces out his wife's in- clination ; he gives her folly motion and advantage: and now she 's going to my wife, and Falstaff 's boy with her. A man may hear this shower sing in the wind. And Falstaff 's boy with her! Good plots, they are laid : and our revolted wives share damna- tion together. Well ; I will take him, then torture my wife, pluck the borrowed veil of modesty from the so seeming Mistress Page, divulge Page himself for a secure and wilful Actseon ; and to these vio- lent proceedings all my neighbours shall cry aim. [Clock heard.] The clock gives me my cue, and my assurance bids me search: there I shall find Fal- staff : I shall be rather praised for this than mocked; for it is as positive as the earth is firm that Falstaff is there : I will go. Enter Page, Shallow, Slender, Host, Sir Hugh Evans, Caius, and Rugby. Shal., Page, &c. Well met. Master Ford. Ford. Trust me, a good knot : I have good cheer at home ; and I pray you all go with me. Shal. I must excuse myself. Master Ford. Slen. And so must I, sir: we have appointed to dme with Mistress Anne, and I would not break with her for more money than I '11 speak of. Skal. We have lingered about a match between Anne Page and my cousin Slender, and this day we shall have our answer. Slen. I hope I have your good will, father Page. Page. You have. Master Slender; I stand wholly for you : but my wife, master doctor, is for you al- together. Caius. Ay, be-gar ; and de maid is love-a me : my nursh-a Quickly tell me so mush. Host. What say you to yomig Master Fenton ? he capers, he dances, he has eyes of youth, he writes verses, he speaks holiday, he smells April and May : he will carry 't, he will carry 't ; 't is in his buttons ; he will carry 't. Page. Not by my consent, I promise you. The gentleman is of no having : he kept company with the wild prince and Poms ; he is of too high a region ; he knows too much. ^"0, he shall not knit a knot in his fortunes with the finger of my substance : if he take her, let him take her simply ; the wealth I have waits on my consent, and my consent goes not that way. Ford. I beseech you heartily, some of you go home with me to dinner : besides your cheer, you shall have sport; I will show you a monster. Master doctor, you shall go ; so shall you. Master Page ; and you, Sir Hugh. ;S/iaL Well, fare you well : we shall have the freer wooing at Master Page's. [Exeunt Shal. and Slen. Caius. Go home, John Eugby ; I come anon. [Exit Pughy. Host. Farewell, my hearts : I will to my honest knight Falstaff, and drink canary with him. [Exit. Ford. [Aside] I think I shall drink in pipe-wine first with him ; I '11 make him dance. Will you go, gentles ? All. Have with you to see this monster. [Exeunt. SCENE III. — A room in Ford\^ house. Enter Mistress Ford and Mistress Page. 3rrs. Ford. What, John ! What, Eobert ! Mrs. Page. Quickly, quickly! Is the buck- basket— Mrs. Ford. I warrant. What, Kobin, I say I Unter Servants with, a basket. Mrs. Page. Come, come, come. Mrs. Ford. Here, set it down. Mrs. Page. Give your men the charge ; we must be brief. Mrs. Ford. Marry, as I told you before, John and Eobert, be ready here hard by in the brew-house : and when I suddenly call.you, come forth, and with- out any pause or staggering take this basket on your shoulders : that done, trudge with it in all haste, and carry it among the whitsters in Datchet-mead, and there empty it in the muddy ditch close by the Thames side. Mrs. Page. You will do it ? Mrs. Ford. I ha' told them over and over ; they lack no direction. Be gone, and come when you are called. [Exeunt Servants. Mrs. Page. Here comes little Eobin. Enter Robin. Mrs. Ford. How now, my eyas-musket! what news with you ? Bob. My master. Sir John, is come in at your back- door. Mistress Ford, and requests your company. Mrs. Page. You little Jack-a-Lent, have you been true to us r Bob. Ay, I 'U be sworn. My master knows not of your being here and hath threatened to put me uito everlasting liberty if I tell you of it; for he swears he '11 turn me away. Mrs. Page. Thou 'rt a good boy : this secrecy of thine shall be a tailor to thee and shall make thee a new doublet and hose. I 'U go hide me. Mrs. Ford. Do so. Go tell thy master I am alone. [Exit Bobin.] Mistress Page, remember you your cue. Mrs. Page. I warrant thee; if I do not act it, hiss me. [Exit. Mrs. Ford. Go to, then : we '11 use this unwhole- some humidity, this gross watery pumpion ; we '11 teach him to know turtles from jays. Enter Falstaff. Fal. Have I caught thee, my heavenly jewel? Why, now let me die, for I have lived long enough : this is the period of my ambition : O this blessed Mrs. Ford. O sweet Sir John ! [hour! Fal. Mistress Ford, I cannot cog, I cannot prate, Mistress Ford. Now shall I sin in my wish : I would thy husband were dead : I '11 speak it before the best lord ; I would make thee my lady. Mrs. Ford. I your lady, Sir John ! alas, I should be a pitiful lady ! • Fal. Let the court of France show me such an- other. I see how thine eye would emulate the diamond : thou hast the right arched beauty of the brow that becomes the ship-tire, the tire-valiant, or any tire of Venetian admittance. Mrs. Ford. A plain kerchief. Sir John : my brows become nothing else ; nor that weU neither. Fal. By the Lord, thou art a traitor to say so: thou wouldst make an absolute courtier ; and the firm fixture of thy foot would give an excellent motion to thy gait in a semi-circled farthingale. I see what thou wert, if Fortune thy foe were not, Nature thy friend. Come, thou canst not hide it. 3Irs. Ford. Believe me, there's no such thing in me. Fal. What made me love thee ? let that persuade thee there 's something extraordinary in thee. Come, I cannot cog and say thou art this and that, like a many of these lisping hawthorn-buds, that come like women in men's apparel, and smell like Bucklers- bury in simple time; I cannot: but I love thee; none but thee ; and thou deservest it. Mrs. Ford. Do not betray me, sir. I fear you love Mistress Page. 45 ACT III, THE 3IERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. scene iii, Fal. Thou mightst as well say I love to walk by the Counter-gate, which is as hateful to me as the reek of a lime-kiln. Mrs. Ford. Well, heaven knows how I love you ; and you shall one day find it. Fal. Keep in that mind ; I '11 deserve it. Mrs. Ford. Nay, I must tell you, so you do ; or else I could not be in that mind. Bob. [Within] Mistress Ford, Mistress Ford! here 's Mistress Page at the door, sweating and blow- ing and looking wUdly, and would needs speak with you presently. Fal. She shall not see me : I will ensconce me be- hind the arras. Mrs. Ford. Pray you, do so : she 's a very tattling woman. [Falstaff hides himself. Be-enter Mistress Page and Robin. "What 's the matter ? how now ! Mrs. Page. O Mistress Ford, what have you done ? You 're shamed, you 're overthrown, you 're undone for ever ! ' [Page ? Mrs. Ford. "What 's the matter, good Mistress Mrs. Page. O well-a-day. Mistress Ford ! having an honest man to your husband, to give him such cause of suspicion ! Mrs. Ford. What cause of suspicion ? Mrs. Page. What cause of suspicion ! Out upon you ! how am I mistook m you ! Mrs. Ford. Why, alas, what 's the matter ? Mrs. Page. Your husband's coming hither, woman, with all the officers in Windsor, to search for a gentleman that he says is here now in the house by your consent, to take an ill advantage of his ab- sence : you are undone. Mrs. Ford. 'T is not so, I hope. Mrs. Page. Pray heaven it be not so, that you have such a man here ! but 't is most certain your hus- band 's coming, with half Windsor at his heels, to search for such a one. I come before to tell you. If you know yourself clear, why, I am glad of it ; but if you have a friend here, convey, convey him out. Be not amazed ; call all your senses to you ; defend your reputation, or bid farewell to your good life for ever. Mrs. Ford. What shall I do ? There is a gentle- man, my dear friend; and I fear not mine own shame so much as his peril: I had rather than a thousand pound he were out of the house. Mrs. Page. For shame ! never stand ' you had rather ' and ' you had rather : ' your husband 's here at hand ; bethink you of some conveyance : in the house you cannot hide him. O, how have you de- ceived me ! Look, here is a basket : if he be of any reasonable stature, he may creep in here ; and throw foul linen upon him, as if it were going to bucking : or — it is whitiug-time — send him by your two men to Datchet-mead. Mrs. Ford. He 's too big to go in there. What shall I do V Fal. [Coming forward] Let me see 't, let me see 't, O , let me see 't ! I '11 in , I '11 in . Follow your friend 's counsel. I '11 in. Mrs. Page. What, Sir John Falstaff! Are these your letters, knight ? Fal. I love thee. Help me away. Let me creep inhere. I '11 never— [Gets into the basket; they cover him with fold linen. Mrs. Page. Help to cover your master, boy. Call your men. Mistress Ford. You dissembling knight ! Mrs. Ford. What, John ! Robert ! John ! [Exit Bobin. Re-enter Servants. Go take up these clothes here quickly. Where 's the cowl-staff ? look, how you drumble ! Carry them to the laundress in Datchet-mead ; quickly, come. F})xter Ford, Page, Caius, and Sir Hugh Evans. Ford. Pray you, come near ; if I suspect without cause, why then make sport at me ; then let me be your jest ; I deserve it. How now ! whither bear you Serv. To the laundress, forsooth. [this ? Mrs. Ford. Why, what have you to do whither they bear it? You were best meddle with buck- washing. Ford. Buck ! I would I could wash myself of the buck ! Buck, buck, buck ! Ay, buck ; I warrant you, buck; and of the season too, it shall appear. [Exeunt Servants with the basket.] Gentlemen, I have dreamed to-night ; I '11 tell you my dream. Here, here, here be my keys : ascend my chambers ; search, seek, find out : I '11 warrant we '11 unkennel the fox. Let me stop this way first. [Locking the door.] So, now uncape. Page. Good Master Ford, be contented : you \^Tong yourself too much. Ford. True, Master Page. Up, gentlemen ; you shall see sport anon; follow me, gentlemen. [Exit. Evans. This is fery fantastical humours and jealousies. Caius. By gar, 't is no the fashion of France ; it is not jealous in France. Page. Nay, follow him, gentlemen ; see the issue of his search. [Exeunt Page, Caius, and Evans. Mrs. Page. Is there not a double excellency in this? Mrs. Ford. 1 know not which pleases me better, that my husband is deceived, or Sir John. Mrs. Page. What a taking was he in when yoiir husband asked who was in the basket ! Mrs. Ford. I am half afraid he will have need of washing ; so throwing him into the water will do him a benefit. Mrs. Page. Hang him, dishonest rascal ! I would all of the same strain were in the same distress. Mrs. Ford. 1 think my husband hath some "special suspicion of FalstafE's being here ; for I never saw him so gross in his jealousy till now. Mrs. Page. I will lay a plot to try that ; and we will yet have more tricks with Falstaff : his disso- lute disease will scarce obey this medicine. Mrs. Ford. Shall we send that foolish carrion, Mistress Quickly, to him, and excuse his throwing into the water; and give htm another hope, to be- tray him to another punishment ? Mrs. Page. We will do it : let him be sent for to- morrow, eight o'clock, to have amends. Be-enter Ford, Page, Caius, and Sir Hugh Evans. Ford. 1 cannot find him : may be the knave brag- ged of that he could not compass. Mrs. Page. [Aside to Mrs. Ford] Heard you that ? Mrs. Ford. You use me well. Master Ford, do Ford. Ay, I do so. [you ? Mrs. Ford. Heaven make you better than your Ford. Amen! [thoughts! Mrs. Page. You do yourself mighty wrong, Mas- Ford. Ay, ay ; I must bear it. [ter Ford. Evans. If there be any pody in the house, and in the chambers, and in the coffers, and in the presses, heaven forgive my sins at the day of judgment ! Caius. By gar, nor I too : there is no bodies. Page. Fie, fie. Master Ford ! are you not ashamed? What spu'it, what devil suggests this imagination ? I would not ha' your distemper in this kind for the wealth of Windsor Castle. [it. Ford. 'Tis my fault, Master Page: I suffer for Evans. You suffer for a pad conscience: your wife is as honest a 'omans as I wiU desires among five thousand, and five hundred too. Caius. By gar, I see 't is an honest woman. Ford. Wdl, I promised you a dimier. Come, come, walk in the Park: I pray you, pardon me; I ACT III. THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. SCENE V. will hereafter make known to you why I have done this. Come, wife; come, Mistress Page. I pray you, pardon me; pray heartily, pardon me. Page. Let's go in, gentlemen; but, trust me, we '11 mock him. I do invite you to-morrow morn- ing to my house to breakfast : after we '11 a-birding together; I have a fine hawk for the bush. Shall it be so y Ford. Anything. [company. Evans. If there is one, I shall make two in the Caius. If dere be one or two, I shall make-a the Ford. Pray you, go. Master Page. [turd. Evans. I pray you now, remembrance to-morrow on the lousy knave, mine host. Caius. Dat is good ; by gar, with all my heart ! Evans. A lousy knave, to have his gibes and. his mockeries ! [Exeunt. SCENE IV. — A room in Page''s house. Enter Fenton and Anne Page. Fent. I see I cannot get thy father's love ; Therefore no more turn me to him, sweet Nan. Anne. Alas, how then ? Fent. Why, thou must be thyself. He doth object I am too great of birth ; ' And that, my state being gall'd with my expense, I seek to heal it only by his wealth : Besides these, other bars he lays before me, My riots past, my wild societies; And tells me 't is a thing impossible I should love thee but as a property. Anne. May be he tells you true. Fent. No, heaven so speed me in my time to come ! Albeit I will confess thy father's wealth Was the first motive that I woo'd thee, Anne : Yet, wooing thee, I found thee of more value Than stam^.s in gold or sums in sealed bags ; And 't is the very riches of thyself That now I aim at. Anne. Gentle Master Fenton, Yet seek my father's love; still seek it, sir: If opportunity and humblest suit Cannot attain it, why, then, — hark you hither! [They converse apart. Enter Shallow, Slender, and Mistress Quickly. Shal. Break their talk, Mistress Quickly: my kinsman shall speak for himself. Slen. I '11 make a shaft or a bolt on 't : 'slid, 't is but venturing. Shal. Be not dismayed. Slen. No, she shall not dismay me: I care not for that, but that I am afeard. Quick. Hark ye; Master Slender would speak a word with you. [choice. Anne. I come to him. [Aside] This is my father's O, what a world of vile ill-favour 'd faults Looks handsome in three hundred pounds a-year ! Quick. And how does good Master Penton V Pray you, a word with you. Shal. She's coming; to her, coz. O boy, thou hadst a father ! Slen. I had a father. Mistress Anne; my uncle can tell you good jests of him. Pray you, uncle, tell Mistress Anne the jest, how my father stole two geese out of a pen, good uncle. Shal. Mistress Anne, my cousin loves you. Slen. Ay, that I do ; as well as I love any woman in Gloucestershire. Shal. He will maintain you like a gentlewoman. Slen. Ay, that I will, come cut and long-tail, under the degree of a squire. Shal. He will make you a hundred and fifty pounds jointure. [himself. Anne. Good Master Shallow, let him woo for Slial. Marry, I thank you for it ; I thank you for that good comfort. She calls you, coz : I '11 leave Anne. Now, Master Slender, — [you. Slen. Now, good Mistress Anne, — Anne. What is your will ? Slen. My will! 'od's heartlings, that 's a pretty jest indeed ! I ne'er made my will yet, I thank heaven ; I am not such a sickly creature, I give heaven praise. Anne. I mean. Master Slender, what would you with me. Slen. Truly, for mine own part, I would little or nothing with you. Your father and my uncle hath made motions : if it be my luck, so ; if not, happy man be his dole ! They can tell you how things go better than I can : you may ask your father ; here he comes. Enter Page and Mistress Page. Page. Now, Master Slender: love him, daugh- ter Anne. Why, how now ! what does Master Fenton here ? You wrong me, sir, thus still to haunt my house: I told you, sir, my daughter is disposed of. Fent. Nay, Master Page, be not impatient. Mrs. Page. Good Master Fenton, come not to my Page. She is no match for you. [child. Fent. Sir, will you hear me ? Page. No, good Master Fenton. Come, Master Shallow; come, son Slender, in. Knowing my mind, you wrong me. Master Fenton. [Exeunt Page, Shal., and Slen. Quick. Speak to Mistress Page. Fent. Good Mistress Page, for that I love your In such a righteous fashion as I do, [daughter Perforce, against all checks, rebukes and manners, I must advance the colours of my love And not retire : let me have your good will. Anne. Good mother, do not marry me to yond fool. Mrs. Page. I mean it not ; I seek you a better bus- Quick. That 's my master, master doctor, [band. Anne. Alas, I had rather be set quick i' the earth And bowl 'd to death with turnips ! [ter Fenton , Mrs. Page. Come, trouble not yourself. Good Mas- I will not be your friend nor enemy : My daughter will I question how she loves you. And as I find her, so am I affected. Till then farewell, sir : she must needs go in ; Her father will be angry. Fent. Farewell, gentle mistress : farewell. Nan. [Exeunt Mrs. Page and Anne. Quick. This is my doing, now : ' Nay,' said I, ' will you cast away your child on a fool, and a physician ? Look on Master Fenton : ' this is my doing. Fent. I thank thee ; and I pray thee, once to-night Give my sweet Nan this ring : there 's for thy pains. Quick. Now heaven send thee good fortune ! [Exit Fenton.] A kind heart he hath : a woman would run through fire and water for such a kind heart. But yet I would my master had Mistress Anne ; or I would Master Slender had her; or, in sooth, I would Mas- ter Fenton had her : I will do what I can for them all three ; for so I have promised, and I '11 be as good as my word ; but speciously for Master Fen- ton. Well, I must of another errand to Sir John Falstaffi from my two mistresses : what a beast am I to slack it ! [Exit. SCENE v.— A room in the Garter Inn. Enter Falstaff and Bardolph. Fal. Bardolph, I say,— Bard. Here, sir. Fal. Go fetch me a quart of sack ; put a toast in 't. [Exit Bard.] Have I lived to be carried in a basket, like a barrow of butcher's offal, and to be thrown in the Thames ? Well, if I be served such another trick, I '11 have my brains ta'en out and buttered, and giA-e them to a dog for a new-year's gift. The rogues slighted me into the river with as little remorse a» 47 ACT III. THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. scene v. they would have drowned a blind bitch's puppies, fifteen i' the litter : and you may know by my size that I have a kind of alacrity in sinking ; if the bot- tom were as deep as hell, I should down. I had been drowned, but that the shore was shelvy and shal- low, — a death that I abhor; for the water swells a man; and what a thing should I have been when I had been swelled ! I should have been a moun- tain of mummy. Be-enter Bardolph with sack. Bard. Here's Mistress Quickly, sir, to speak with you. Fal. Come, let me pour in some sack to the Thames water ; for my belly 's as cold as if I had swallowed snowballs for pills to cool the reins. Call her in. Bard. Come in, woman ! Enter Mistress Quickly. Quick. By your leave ; I cry you mercy : give your worship good morrow. Fal. Take away these chalices. Go brew me a pottle of sack finely. Bard. With eggs, sir ? Fal. Simple of itself ; I '11 no pullet-sperm in my brewage. [Exit Bardolph.'] How now ! ^uick. Marry, sir, I come to your worship from Mistress Ford. Fal. Mistress Ford ! I have had ford enough ; I was thrown into the ford ; I have my belly full of ford. Quick. Alas the day ! good heart, that was not her fault : she does so take on with her men ; they mis- took their erection. [promise. Fal. So did I mine, to build upon a foolish woman's Quick. Well, she laments, sir, for it, that it would yearn your heart to see it. Her husband goes this morning a-birding; she desires you once more to come to her between eight and nine : I must carry her word quickly : she '11 make you amends, 1 warrant you. Fal. Well, I will visit her : tell her so ; and bid her think what a man is : let her consider his frail- ty, and then judge of my merit. Quick. I will tell her. Fal. Do so. Between nine and ten, sayest thou ? Quick. Eight and nine, sir. Fal. Well, be gone: I will not miss her. Quick. Peace be with you, sir. [Exit. Fal. I marvel I hear not of Master Brook; he sent me word to stay within : I like his money well. O, here he comes. Enter Ford. Ford. Bless you, sir ! Fal. Now, Master Brook, you come to know what hath passed between me and Ford's wife ? Ford. That, indeed. Sir John, is my business. Fal. Master Brook, I will not lie to you : I was at her house the hour she appointed me. Ford. And sped you, sir ^ Fal. Very ill-favouredly. Master Brook. Ford. How so, sir ? Did she change her determi- nation ? Fal. No, Master Brook ; but the peaking Cornuto her husband, Master Brook, dwelling in a continual 'larum of jealousy, comes me in the instant of our encounter, after we had embraced, kissed, protested, and, as it were, spoke the prologue of our comedy ; and at his heels a rabble of his companions, thither provoked and instigated by his distemper, and, for- sooth, to search his house for his wife's love. 48 Ford. What, while you were there ? Fal. While I was there. Ford. And did he search for you, and could not find you ? Fal. You shall hear. As good luck would have it, comes in one Mistress Page ; gives intelligence of Ford's approach ; and, in her invention and Ford's wife's distraction, they conveyed me into a buck- i^or(^. A buck-basket ! [basket. Fal. By the Lord, a buck-basket ! rammed me in with foul shirts and smocks, socks, foul stockings, greasy napkins ; that, Master Brook, there was the rankest compound of villanous smell that ever of- fended nostril. Ford. And how long lay you there ? Fal. Nay, you shall hear. Master Brook, what I have suffered to bring this woman to evil for your good. Being thus crammed in the basket, a couple of Ford's knaves, his hinds, were called forth by their mistress to carry me in the name of foul clothes to Datchet-lane : they took me on their shoulders ; met the jealous knave their master in the door, who asked them once or twice what they had in their basket : I quaked for fear, lest the lunatic knave would have searched it ; but fate, ordaining he should be a cuckold, held his hand. Well : on went he for a search, and away went I for foul clothes. But mark the sequel, Master Brook: I suifered the pangs of three several deaths ; first, an intolerable fright, to be detected with a jealous rotten bell- wether ; next, to be compassed, like a good bilbo, in the circumference of a peck, hilt to point, heel to head ; and then, to be stopped in, like a strong dis- tillation, with stinking clothes that fretted in their own grease : think of that, — a man of my kidney, — think of that,— that am as subject to heat as butter ; a man of continual dissolution and thaw : it was a miracle to 'scape suffocation. And in the height of this bath ,when Iwas more than half stewed in grease, like a Dutch dish, to be thrown into the Thames, and cooled, glowing hot, in that surge, like a horse- shoe; think of that,— hissing hot,— think of that, Master Brook. Ford. In good sadness, sir, I am sorry that for my sake you have suffered all this. My suit then is desperate ; you '11 undertake her no more ? Fal. Master Brook, I will be thrown into Etna, as I have been into Thames, ere I will leave her thus. Her husband is this morning gone a-birding ; I have received from her another embassy of meeting; 'twixt eight and nine is the hour. Master Brook. Ford. 'T is past eight already, sir. Fal. Is it ? I will then address me to my appoint- ment. Come to me at your convenient leism-e, and you shall know how I speed ; and the conclusion shall be crowned with your enjoying her. Adieu. You shall have her. Master Brook; Master Brook, you shall cuckold Ford. [Exit. Ford. Hum ! ha ! is this a vision ? is this a dream ? do I sleep? Master Ford, awake! awake, Master Ford ! there 's a hole made in your best coat. Master Ford. This 't is to be married ! this 't is to have linen and buck-baskets ! Well, I will proclaim my- self what I am : I will now take the lecher ; he is at my house; he cannot 'scape me; 'tis impossible he should; he cannot creep into a halfpenny purse, nor into a pepper box : but, lest the devil that guides him should aid him, I will search impossible places. Though what I am I cannot avoid, yet to be what I would not shall not make me tame : if I have horns to make one mad, let the proverb go with me : I '11 be horn-mad. [Exit. ACT IV. THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. scene i: A^OT IV^. SCENE I.— A street. Enter Mistress Page, Mistress Quickly, and William. Mrs. Page. Is heatMaster Ford's already, think'st thou? Quick. Sure he is by this, or will be presently : but, truly, he is very courageous mad about his throwing into tlie water. Mistress Ford desires you to come suddenly. Mrs. Page. I '11 be with her by and by : I '11 but bring my young man here to school. Look, where his master comes ; 't is a playing-day, I see. Enter Sir Hugh Evans. How now. Sir Hugh ! no school to-day ? [to play. Evans. No ; Master Slender is let the boys leave Quick. Blessing of his heart ! Mrs. Page. Sir Hugh, my husband says my son profits nothing in the world at his book. I pray you, ask him some questions in his accidence, [come. - Evans. Come hither, William ; hold up your head ; Mrs. Page. Come on, sirrah; holdup your head; answer your master, be not afraid. Evans. William, how many numbers is in nouns ? Will. Two. Quick. Truly, I thought there had been one nimi- ber more, because they say,' 'Od 's nouns.' Evans. Peace your tattlings! What is 'fair,' Will. Pulcher. [William? Qidck. Polecats ! there are fairer things than pole- cats, sure. Evans. You are a very simplicity 'oman : I pray you, peace. What is ' lapis,' William ? Will. A stone. Evans. And what is ' a stone,' William ? WUl. A pebble. Evans. No, it is ' lapis : ' I pray you, remember in your prain. Will. Lapis. Evans. That is a good William. What is he, William, that does lend articles ? Will. Articles are borrowed of the pronoun, and be thus declined, Singulariter, nominativo, hie, hsec, hoc. Evans. Nominativo, hig, hag, hog; pray you, mark : genitivo, hujus. Well, what is your accusa- tive case ? Will. Accusativo, hinc. Evans. I pray you, have your remembrance, child ; accusativo, hung, hang, hog. [you. Quick. ' Hang-hog ' is Latin for bacon, I warrant Evans. Leave your prabbles, 'oman. What is the focative case, William ? Will. O, — vocative, O. Evans. Kemember, William ; focative is caret. Quick. And that 's a good root. Evans. 'Oman, forbear. Mrs. Page. Peace ! Evans. What is your genitive case plural, Wil- Will. Genitive case ! [liam ? Evans. Ay. Will. Genitive,— horum, harum, horum. Quick. Vengeance of Jenny's case! fie on her! never name her, child, if she be a whore. Evans. For shame, 'oman. Quick. You do ill to teach the child such words : he teaches him to hick and to hack, which they '11 do fast enough of themselves, and to call ' horum : ' fie upon you! Evans. 'Oman, art thou lunatics? hast thou no understandings for thy cases and the numbers of the genders ? Thou art as foolish Christian crea- tures as I would desires. Mrs. Page. Prithee, hold thy peace. Evans. Show me now, William, some declensions of your pronouns. Will. Forsooth, I have forgot. Evans. It is qui, qu£e, quod : if you forget your ' quies,' your ' quaes,' and your ' quods,' you must be preeches. Go your ways, and play ; go. Mrs. Page. He is a better scholar than I thought he was. Evans. He is a good sprag memory. Farewell, Mistress Page. Mrs. Page. Adieu, good Sir Hugh. [Exit Sir Hugh.] Get you home, boy. Come, we stay too long. [Exeunt. SCENE II. — A room in Ford''s house. Enter Falstaff and Mistress Ford. Fal. Mistress Ford, your sorrow hath eaten up my sufferance. I see you are obsequious in your love, and I profess requital to a hair's breadth ; not only, Mistress Ford, in the simple office of love, but in all the accoutrement, complement and cere- mony of it. But are you sure of your husband now? Mrs. Ford. He 's a-birding, sweet Sir John. Mrs. Page. [Within] What, ho, gossip Ford! what, ho ! Mrs. Ford. Step into the chamber. Sir John. [Exit Falstaff. Enter Mistress Page. Mrs. Page. How now, sweetheart ! who 's at home besides yourself ? Mrs. Ford. Why, none but mine own people. Mrs. Page. Indeed ! Mrs. Ford. No, certainly. [Aside to her.] Speak louder. Mrs. Page. Truly, I am so glad you have nobody here. Mrs. Ford. Why ? Mrs. Page. Why, woman, your husband is in his old lunes again : he so takes on yonder with my hus- band; so rails against all married mankind; so curses all Eve's daughters, of what complexion soever; and so buffets himself on the forehead, cry- ing, ' Peer out, peer out ! ' that any madness I ever yet beheld seemed but tameness, civility and pa- tience, to this his distemper he is in now: I am glad the fat knight is not here. Mrs. Ford. Why, does he talk of him ? Mrs. Page. Of none but him ; and swears he was carried out, the last time he searched for him, in a basket ; protests to my husband he is now here, and hath drawn him and the rest of their company from their sport, to make another experiment of his sus- picion ; but I am glad the knight is not here ; now he shall see his own foolery. Mrs. Ford. How near is he. Mistress Page ? Mrs. Page. Hard by; at street end; he will be here anon. Mrs. Ford. I am undone ! The knight is here. Mrs. Page. Why then you are utterly shamed, and he 's but a dead man. What a woman are you ! — Away with him, away with him! better shame than murder. Mrs. Ford. Which way should he go ? how should I bestow him ? Shall I put him into the basket again ? Be-enter Falstaff. Fal. No, I 'U come no more i' the basket. May I not go oiit ere he come ? Mrs. Page. Alas, three of Master Ford's brothers watch the door with pistols, that none shall issue 49 ACT IV. THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. scene ii. out ; otherwise you might slip away ere he came. But what make you here ? Fal. What shall I do? I'U creep up into the chimney. Mrs. Ford. There they always use to discharge their birding-pieces. Creep into the kiln-hole. Fal. Where is it ? Mrs. Ford. He will seek there, on my word. Neither press, coffer, chest, trunk, well, vault, but he hath an abstract for the remembrance of such places, and goes to them by his note : there is no hiding you in the house. Fal. I '11 go out then. Mrs. Page. If you go out in your own semblance, you die, Sir John. Unless you go out disguised — Mrs. Ford. How might we disguise him ? Mrs. Page. Alas the day, I know not ! There is no woman's gown big enough for him; otherwise he might put on a hat, a muffler and a kerchief, and so escape. Fal. Good hearts, devise something: any ex- tremity rather than a mischief. Mrs. Ford. My maid's aunt, the fat woman of Brentford, has a gown above. Mrs. Page. On my word, it will serve him ; she 's as big as he is : and there 's her thrummed hat and her muffler too. Run up, Sir John. Mrs. Ford. Go, go, sweet Sir John : Mistress Page and I will look some linen for your head. Mrs. Page. Quick, quick ! we '11 come dress you straight : put on the gown the while. [Exit Falstaff. Mrs. Ford. I would my husband would meet him in this shape: he cannot abide the old woman of Brentford ; he swears she 's a witch ; forbade her my house and hath threatened to beat her. Mrs. Page. Heaven guide him to thy husband's cudgel, and the devil guide his cudgel afterwards ! Mrs. Ford. But is my husband coming ? Mrs. Page. Ay, in good sadness, is he; and talks of the basket too, howsoever he hath had intelligence. Mrs. Ford. We '11 try that ; for I '11 appoint my men to carry the basket again, to meet him at the door with it, as they did last time. Jfrs. Page. Nay, but he '11 be here presently: let 's go dress him like the witch of Brentford. Jfrs. Ford. I '11 first direct my men what they shall do with the basket. Go up ; I 'U bring linen for him straight. [Exit. Mrs. Page. Hang him, dishonest varlet! we can- not misuse him enough. We '11 leave a proof, by that which we will do, Wives may be merry, and yet honest too : We do not act that often jest and laugh; 'T is old, but true, Still swine eat all the draff. [Exit. Re-enter Mistress Ford with two Servants. JIfrs. Ford. Go, sirs, take the basket again on your shoulders : your master is hard at door ; if he bid you set it down, obey him : quickly, dispatch. [Exit. First Serv. Come, come, take it up. Sec. Serv. Pray heaven it be not full of knight again. [lead. First Serv. I hope not ; I had as lief bear so much Enter Ford, Page, Shallow, Caius, and Sir Hugh Evans. Ford. Ay, but if it prove true. Master Page, have you any way then to unf ool me again ? Set down the basket, villain ! Somebody call my wife. Youth in a basket! O you panderly rascals! there's a knot, a ging, a pack, a conspiracy against me: now shall the devil be shamed. What, wife, I say ! Come, come forth! Behold what honest clothes you send forth to bleaching I 50 Page. Why, this passes. Master Ford; you are not to go loose any longer ; you must be pinioned. Evans. Why, this is lunatics! this is mad as a mad dog ! Shal. Indeed, Master rord,this is not well, indeed. Ford. So say I too, sir. Be-enter Mistress Ford. Come hither, Mistress Ford; Mistress Ford, the honest woman, the modest wife, the virtuous crea- ture, that hath the jealous fool to her husband ! I suspect without cause, mistress, do I ? Mrs. Ford. Heaven be my witness you do, if you suspect me in any dishonesty. Ford. Well said, brazen-face ! hold it out. Come forth, sirrah. [Pulling clothes out of the hasket. Page. This passes 1 [alone. Mrs. Ford. Are you not ashamed? let the clothes Ford. I shall find you anon. Evans. 'Tis unreasonable! Will you take up your v/ife's clothes ? Come away. Ford. Empty the basket, I say ! Mrs. Ford. Why, man, why ? Ford. Master Page, as I am a man, there was one conveyed out of my house yesterday in this basket : why may not he be there again ? In my house I am sure he is : my intelligence is true ; my jealousy is reasonable. Pluck me out all the linen. Mrs. Ford. If you find a man there, he shall die a flea's death. Page. Here 's no man. Shal. By my fidelity, this is not well. Master Ford ; this wrongs you. Evans. Master Ford, you must pray, and not fol- low the imaginations of your own heart: this is Ford. Well, he 's not here I seek for. [jealousies. Page. No, nor nowhere else but in your brain. Ford. Help to search my house this one time. If I find not what I seek, show no colour for my ex- tremity; let me for ever be your table-sport; let them say of me, ' As jealous as Ford, that searched a hollow walnut for his wife's leman.' Satisfy me once more ; once more search with me. Jfrs. Ford. What, ho, Mistress Page! come you and the old woman down ; my husband will come into the chamber. Ford. Old woman ! what old woman 's that ? Jfrs. Ford. Why, it is my maid's aunt of Brentford. Ford. A witch, a quean, an old cozening quean! Have I not forbid her my house? She comes of errands, does she ? We are simple men ; we do not know what 's brought to pass under the profession of fortune-telling. She works by charms, by spells, by the figure, and such daubery as this is, beyond our element : we know nothing. Come down, you witch, yoij hag, you ; come down, I say ! Jfrs. Ford. Nay, good, sweet husband! Good gentlemen, let him not strike the old woman. Re-enter Falstaff in woman's clothes, and Mistress Page. Jfrs. Page. Come, Mother Prat; come, give me your hand. Ford. I '11 prat her. [Beating him] Out of my door, you witch,.you hag, you baggage, you polecat, you ronyon ! out, out ! I '11 conjure you, I '11 fortune- tell you. [Exit Falstaff. Mrs. Page. Are you not ashamed ? I think you have killed the poor woman. Jfrs. Ford. Nay, he will do it. 'T is a goodly credit for you. Ford. Hang her, witch ! Evans. By yea and no , I think the 'oman is a witch indeed : I like not when a 'oman has a great peard ; I spy a great peard under his muffler. Ford. Will you follow, gentlemen? I beseech you, follow; see but the issue of my jealousy: if I ACT IV. THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. scene iv. cry out thus upon no trail, never trust me when I open again. Page. Let's obey his humour a little further: come, gentlemen. [Exeunt Ford, Page, Shal., Caius, and Evans. Mrs. Page. Trust me, he beat him most pitifully. Mrs. Ford. Nay,by the mass, that he did not; he beat him most unpitifully, methought. Mrs.Page. I '11 have the cudgel hallowed and hung o'er the altar; it hath done meritorious service. Mrs. Ford. What think you V may we, with the warrant of womanhood and the witness of a good conscience, pursue him with any further revenge ? Mrs. Page. The spirit of wantonness is, sure, scared out of him : if the devil have him not in fee- simple, with fine and recovery, he will never, I think, in the way of waste, attempt us again. Mrs. Ford. Shall we tell our husbands how we have served him ? Mrs. Page. Yes, by all means ; if it be but to scrape the figures out of your husband's brains. If they can find in their hearts the poor unvirtuous fat knight shall be any further afflicted, we two will still be the ministers. Mrs. Ford. I '11 warrant they '11 have him publicly shamed : and methinks there would be no period to the jest, should he not be publicly shamed. Mrs. Page. Come, to the forge with it then ; shape it : I would not have things cool. [Exeunt. SCENE III.— A room in the Garter Inn. Enter Host and Bardolph. Bard. Sir, the Germans desire to have three of your horses : the duke himself will be to-morrow at court, and they are going to meet him. Host. What duke should that be comes so secretly ? I hear not of him in the court. Let me speak with the gentlemen : they speak English ? Bard. Ay, sir ; I '11 call them to you. Host. They shall have my horses ; but I '11 make them pay ; I '11 sauce them : they have had my house a week at command ; I have turned away my other guests : they must come off ; I '11 sauce them. Come. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. — A room in Ford''s house. Enter Page, Ford, Mistress Page, Mistress Ford, and Sir Hugh Evans. Evans. 'T is one of the best discretions of a 'oman as ever I did look upon. Page. And did he send you both these letters at an instant ? Mrs. Page. Within a quarter of an hour, [wilt ; Ford. Pardon me, wife. Henceforth do what thou I rather will suspect the sun with cold [stand. Than thee with wantonness : now doth thy honour In him that was of late an heretic. As firm as faith. Page. 'T is well, 't is well ; no more : Be not as extreme ia submission As in offence. But let our plot go forward : let our wives Yet once again, to make us public sport, • Appoint a meeting with this old fat fellow. Where we may take him and disgrace him for it. Ford. There is no better way than that they spoke of. Page. How ? to send him word they '11 meet him in the park at midnight ? Fie, fie ! he '11 never come. Evans. You say he has been thrown in the rivers and has been grievously peaten as an old 'oman : me- thinks there should be terrors in him that he should not come ; methinks his flesh is pimished, he shall have no desires. Page. So think I too. Mrs. Ford. Devise but how you '11 use him when he comes, And let us two devise to bring him thither. Mrs. Page. There is an old tale goes that Heme the hunter, Sometime a keeper here in Windsor forest, Doth all the winter-time, at still midnight. Walk round about an oak, with great ragg'd horns; And there he blasts the tree and takes the cattle And makes milch-kiue yield blood and shakes a chain In a most hideous and dreadful manner : You have heard of such a spirit, and well you know The superstitious idle-headed eld Received and did deliver to our age This tale of Heme the hunter for a truth. Page. Why, yet there want not many that do feai In deep of night to walk by this Heme's oak : But what of this ? Mrs. Ford. Marry, this is our device; That Falstaff at that oak shall meet with us. Page. Well, let it not be doubted but he '11 come ; And in this shape when you have brought him thither. What shall be done with him ? what is yom- plot ? Mrs. Page. That likewise have we thought upon, and thus : Nan Page my daughter and my little son And three or four more of their growth we '11 dress Like urchins, ouphes and fairies, green and white, With rounds of waxen tapers on their heads. And rattles in their hands : upon a sudden. As Falstaff, she and I, are newly met, Let them from forth a sawpit rush at once With some diffused song : upon their sight, We two in great amazedness will fly : Then let them all encircle him about And, fairy-like, to-pinch the unclean knight, And ask him why, that hour of fairy revel. In their so sacred paths he dares to tread In shape profane. Mrs. Ford. And till he tell the truth. Let the supposed fairies pinch him soimd And burn him with their tapers. Mrs. Page. The truth being known. We '11 all present ourselves, dis-horn the spirit. And mock him home to Windsor. Ford. The children must Be practised well to this, or they '11 ne'er do 't. Evans. I will teach the children their behaviours ; and I will be like a jack-an-apes also, to burn the knight with my taber. [vizards. Ford. That will be excellent. I '11 go and buy them Mrs. Page. My IsTan shaU be the queen of all the fairies. Finely attired in a robe of white. Page. That silk will I go buy. [Aside] And in that Shall' Master Slender steal my Nan away [time And marry her at Eton. Go send to Falstaff straight. Ford. Nay, I '11 to him again in name of Brook : He '11 tell me all his purpose : sure, he '11 come. Mrs. Page. Fear not you that. Go get us proper- ties And tricking for our fairies. Evans. Let us about it : it is admirable pleasures and fery honest knaveries. [Exeunt Page, Ford, and Evans. Mrs.Page. Go, Mistress Ford, Send quickly to Sir Jolm, to know his mind. [Exit Mrs. Ford. I '11 to the doctor : he hath my good will, And none but he, to marry with Nan Page. That Slender, though well landed, is an idiot; And he my husband best of all affects. The doctor is well money 'd, and his friends Potent at court: he, none but he, shall have her. Though twenty thousand worthier come to crave her. [Exit. 51 THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. scene vi. SCENE V. — A room in the Garter Inn. Enter Host and Simple. Host. What wouldst tliou have, boor ? what, thick- skin ? speak, breathe, discuss ; brief, short, quick, snap. Sim. Marry, sir, I come to speak with Sir John Falstaff from Master Slender. Host. There 's his chamber, his house, his castle, his standing bed and truckle-bed ; 't is painted about with the story of the Prodigal, fresh and new. Go knock and call ; he '11 speak like an Anthropophagin- ian mito thee : knock, I say. Sim. There 's an old woman, a fat woman, gone up into his chamber : I '11 be so bold as stay, sir, till she come do wn ; I come to speak with her, indeed. Host. Ha ! a fat woman ! the knight may be rob- bed : I '11 call. Bully loiight ! bully Sir John ! speak from thy lungs military : art thou there ? it is thine host, thine Ephesian, calls. Fal. [Above] How now, mine host ! Host. Here 's a Bohemian-Tartar tarries the com- ing down of thy fat woman. Let her descend, buUyj let her descend ; my chambers are honourable : fie ! privacy? fie! „ „ , ^ ^ Enter Falstaflf. Fal. There was, mine host, an old fat woman even now with me ; but she 's gone. [Brentford ? Sim. Pray you, sir, was 't not the wise woman of Fal. Ay, marry, was it, mussel-shell : what would you with her? Sim. My master, sir. Master Slender, sent to her, seeing her go through the streets, to know, sir, whether one ISTym, sir, that beguiled him of a chain, had the chain or no. Fal. I spake with the old woman about it. Sim. And what says she, I pray, sir ? Fal. Marry, she says that the very same man that beguiled Master Slender of his chain cozened him of it. Sim. I would I could have spoken with the woman herself; I had other things to have spoken with her too from him. Fal. What are they ? let us know. . Host. Ay, come ; quick. Sim. I may not conceal them, sir. Host. Conceal them, or thou diest. Sim. Why, sir, they'were nothing but about Mis- tress Anne Page; to know if it were my master's fortune to have her or no. Fal. 'T is, 't is his fortune. Sim. What, sir ? Fal. To have her, or no. Go ; say the woman told me so. Sim. May I be bold to say so, sir ? Fal. Ay, sir ; like who more bold. Sim. I thank your worship : I shall make my master glad with these tidings. [Exit. Host. Thou art clerkly, thou art clerkly. Sir John. Was there a wise woman with thee ? Fal. Ay, that there was, mine host ; one that hath taught me more wit than ever I learned before in my life ; and I paid nothing for it neither, but was paid for my learning. Enter Bardolph. Bard. Out, alas, sir ! cozenage, mere cozenage I Host. Where be my horses ? speak well of them, varletto. Bard. Ptun away with the cozeners ; for so soon as I came beyond Eton, they threw me off from behind one of them, in a slough of mire ; and set spurs and away, like three German devils, three Doctor Faustuses. Host. They are gone but to meet the duke, vil- lain : do not say they be fled ; Germans are honest men. 52 Fhfiter Sir Hugh Evans. Evans. Where is mine host ? Host. What is the matter, sir ? Evans. Have a care of your entertainments: there is a friend of mine come to town, tells me there is three cozen-germans that has cozened all the hosts of Keadins, of Maidenhead, of Colebrook, of horses and money. I tell you for good will, look you : you are wise and full of gibes and vlouting- stocks, and 't is not convenient you should be coz- ened. Pare you well. [Exit. Enter Doctor Caius. Caius. Vere is mine host de Jarteer ? Host. Here, master doctor, in perplexity and doubtful dilemma. Cains. I cannot tell vat is dat : but it is tell-a me dat you make grand preparation for a duke de Jamany : by my trot, dere is no duke dat the court is know to come. I tell you for good vill : adieu. [Exit. Host. Hue and cry, villain, go ! Assist me, knight. I am undone! Fly, run, hue and cry, villain! I am undone ! [Exeu7it Host and Bard. Fal. I would all the world might be cozened ; for I have been cozened and beaten too. If it should come to the ear of the court, how I have been trans- formed and how my transformation hath been washed and cudgelled, they would melt me out of my fat drop by drop and liquor fishermen's boots with me : I warrant they would whip me with their fine wits till I were as crest-fallen as a dried pear. I never prospered since I forswore myself at prime- ro. Well, if my wind were but long enough to say my prayers, I would repent. Filter Mistress Quickly. ISTow, whence come you ? Quick. From the two parties, forsooth'. Fal. The devil take one party and his dam the other ! and so they shall be both bestowed. I have suffered more for their sakes, more than the villan- ous inconstancy of man's disposition is able to bear. Quick. And have not they suffered ? Yes, I war- rant ; speciously one of them ; Mistress Ford, good heart, is beaten black and blue, that you cannot see a white spot about her. Fal. What tellest thou me of black and blue ? I was beaten myself into all the colours of the rain- bow; and I was like to be apprehended for the witch of Brentford: but that my admirable dex- terity of wit, my counterfeiting the action of an old woman, delivered me, the knave constable had set me i' the stocks, i' the common stocks, for a witch. Quick. Sir, let me speak with you in your cham- ber : you shall hear how things go ; and, I warrant, to your content. Here is a letter will say some- what. Good hearts, what ado here is to bring you together! Sure, one of you does not serve heaven well, that you are so crossed. Fal. Come up into my chamber. [Exeunt. SCENE VI. — Another room in the Garter Inn. • Enter Fenton and Host. Host. Master Fenton, talk not to me; my mind is heavy: I will give over all. [pose, Fent. Yet hear me speak. Assist me in my pur- And, as I am a gentleman, I '11 give thee A hundred pound in gold more than your loss. Host. 1 will hear you. Master Fenton ; and I will at the least keep your counsel. Fent. From time to time I have acquainted you With the dear love I bear to fair Anne Page ; Who mutually hath answer'd my affection. So far forth as herself might be her chooser, ACT V. THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. SCENE V. Even to my wish : I have a letter from her Of such contents as you will wonder at ; The mirth whereof so larded with my matter, That neither singly can be manifested, Without the siiow of both ; fat Falstaff Hath a great scene : the image of the jest I '11 show you here at large. Hark, good mine host. To-night at Heme's oak, just 'twixt twelve and one, Must my sweet Nan present the Fairy Queen ; The purpose why, is here : in which disguise. While other jests are something rank on foot, Her father hath commanded her to slip Away with Slender and with him at Eton Immediately to marry : she hath consented : jSTow, sir, Her mother, ever strong against that match And firm for Doctor Caius, hath appointed That he shall likewise shuffle her away, While other sports are tasking of their minds. And at the deanery, where a priest attends. Straight marry her : to this her mother's plot She seemingly obedient likewise hath Made promise to the doctor. uSTow, thus it rests : Her father means she shall be all in white. And in that habit, when Slender sees his time To take her by the hand and bid her go. She shall go with him : her mother hath intended, The better to denote her to the doctor, For they must all be mask'd and vizarded. That quaint in green she shall be loose enrobed, With ribands pendent, flaring 'bout her head; And when the doctor spies his vantage ripe. To pinch her by the hand, and, on that token, The maid hath given consent to go with him. JBTost. Which means she to deceive, father or mother? Fent. Both, my good host, to go along with me: And here it rests, that you '11 procure the vicar To stay for me at church 'twixt twelve and one, And, in the lawful name of marrying. To give our hearts united ceremony. Host. Well, husband your device ; I '11 to the vicar: Bring you the maid, you shall not lack a priest. Fent. So shall I evermore be bound to thee ; Besides, I '11 make a present recompense. \_Exeunt. ^OT V. SCENE I. — A room in the Garter Inn. Enter Falstaff and Mistress Quickly. Fal. Prithee, no more prattling; go. I'll hold. This is the third time ; I hope good luck lies in odd numbers. Away ! go. They say there is divinity in odd numbers, either in nativity, chance, or death. Away! Quick. I '11 provide you a chain ; and I '11 do what I can to get you a pair of horns. Fal. Away, I say; time wears: hold up your head, and mince. [Exit Mrs. Quickly. Enter Ford. How now. Master Brook ! Master Brook, the matter will be known to-night, or never. Be you in the Park about midnight, at Heme's oak, and you shall see wonders. Ford. Went you not to her yesterday, sir, as you told me you had appointed ? Fal. I went to her. Master Brook, as you see, like a poor old man : but I came from her, Master Brook, like a poor old woman. That same knave Ford, her husband, hath the finest mad devil of jealousy in him. Master Brook, that ever governed frenzy. I will tell you : he beat me grievously, in the shape of a woman ; for in the shape of man, Master Brook, I fear not Goliath with a weaver's beam; because I know also life is a shuttle. I am in haste ; go along with me : I '11 tell you all, Master Brook. Since I plucked geese, played truant and whipped top, I knew not what 't was to be beaten till lately. Fol- low me : I '11 tell you strange things of this knave Ford, on whom to-night I will be revenged, and I will deliver his wife into yom- hand. Follow. Strange things in hand. Master Brook ! Follow. [Exeunt. SCENE II.— Windsor Park. Enter Page, Shallow, and Slender. Page. Come, come ; we '11 couch i' the castle-ditch till we see the light of our fairies. Eemember, son Slender, my daughter. Slen. Ay, forsooth ; I have spoke with her and we have a nay-word how to know one another : I come to her in white, and cry ' mum ;' she cries ' budget ;' and by that we know one another. Shal. That's good too : but what needs either your ' mum ' or her ' budget '? the white will decipher her well enough. It hath struck ten o'clock. Page. The night is dark ; light and spirits will be- come it well. Heaven prosper our sport ! No man means evil but the devil, and we shall know him by his horns. Let 's away ; follow me. [Exeunt. SCENE III. — A street leading to the Park. Enter Mistress Page, Mistress Ford, and Doctor Caius. Mrs. Page. Master doctor, my daughter is in green : when you see your time, take her by the hand, away with her to the deanery, and dispatch it quickly. Go before into the Park : we two must go together. Caius. I know vat I have to do. Adieu. Mrs. Page. Fare you well, sir. [Exit Caius.] My husband will not rejoice so much at the abuse of Falstaff as he will chafe at the doctor's marrying my daughter: but 'tis no matter: better a little chiding than a great deal of heart-break. Mrs. Ford. Where is Nan now and her troop of fairies, and the Welsh devil Hugh ? Mrs. Page. They are all couched in a pit hard by Heme's oak, with obscured lights; which, at the very instant of FalstafE's and our meeting, they will at once display to the night. Mrs. Ford. That cannot choose but amaze him. Mrs. Page. If he be not amazed, he will be mocked; if he be amazed, he will every way be mocked. Mrs. Ford. We '11 betray him finely. [ery Mrs. Page. Against such lewdsters and their lech- Those that betray them do no treachery. Mrs. Ford. The hour draws on. To the oak, to the oak ! [Exeunt. SCENE IV.— Windsor Park. Enter Sir Hugh Evans disguised, with others as Fairies. Evans. Trib, trib, fairies ; come ; and remember yoirr parts : be pold, I pray you ; follow me into the pit ; and when I give the watch-'ords, do as I pid you: come, come; trib, trib. [Exeunt. SCENE v.— Another part of the Park. Enter Falstaff disguised as Heme. Fal. The Windsor bell hath struck twelve ; the minute draws on. Now, the hot-blooded gc 53 ACT V. THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. SCENE V. me ! Remember, Jove, thou wast a bull for tliy Eu- ropa ; love set on thy horns. O powerful love ! that, in some respects, makes a beast a man, in some other, a man a beast. You were also, Jupiter, a swan for the love of Leda. O omnipotent Love ! how near the god drew to the complexion of a goose ! A fault done first in the form of a beast. O Jove, a beastly fault ! And then another fault in the semblance of a fowl ; think on 't, Jove ; a foul fault ! When gods have hot backs, what shall poor men do ? For me, I am here a Windsor stag ; and the fattest, I think, i' the forest. Send me a cool rut-time, .Jove, or who can blame me to piss my tallow ? Who comes here ? my doe ? Enter Mistress Ford, and Mistress Page. Mrs. Ford. Sir John ! art thou there, my deer ? my male deer ? Fal. My doe with the black scut ! Let the sky rain potatoes ; let it thunder to the tune of Green Sleeves, hail kissing-comfits and snow eringoes; let there come a tempest of provocation, I will shelter me here. Qieart. Mrs. Ford. Mistress Page is come with me, sweet- Fal. Divide me like a bribe buck, each a haunch : I will keep my sides to myself, my shoulders for the fellow of this walk, and my horns I bequeath your husbands. Am I a woodman, ha? Speak I like Heme the hunter ? Why, now is Cupid a child of conscience ; he makes restitution. As I am a true spirit, welcome ! \_Noise within. Mrs. Page. Alas, what noise ? Mrs. Ford. Heaven forgive our sins ! Fal. What should this be ? Mrs. Ford. Mrs. Page. Away, away ! [Tkey run oj[ Fal. I think the devil will not have me damned, lest the oil that 's in me should set hell on fire ; he would never else cross me thus. Unter Sir Hugh Evans, disguised as before ; Pistol, as hob- goblin ; Mistress Quickly, Anne Page, and others, as Fairies, with tapers. Quick. Fairies, black, grey, green, and white, You moonshine revellers, and shades of night, You orphan heirs of fixed destiny, Attend your office and your quality. Crier Hobgoblin, make the fairy oyes. Pist. Elves, list your names ; silence, you airy toys. Cricket, to Windsor chimneys shalt thou leap : Where fires thou find'st unraked and hearths un- There pinch the maids as blue as bilberry : [swept. Our radiant queen hates sluts and sluttery. [die : Fal. They are fairies ; he that speaks to them shall I '11 wink and couch : no man their works must eye. [Lies down upon his face. Evans. Where 's Bede ? Go you, and where you find a maid That, ere she sleep, has thrice her prayers said, Raise up the organs of her fantasy ; Sleep she as sound as careless infancy : But those as sleep and think not on their sins, Pinch them, arms, legs, backs, shoulders, sides and Quick. About, about ; [shins. Search Windsor Castle, elves, within and out : Strew good luck, ouphes, on every sacred room: That it may stand till the perpetual doom. In state as wholesome as in state 't is fit. Worthy the owner, and the owner it. The several chairs of order look you scour With juice of balm and every precious fiower : Each fair instalment, coat, and several crest, With loyal blazon, evermore be blest ! And nightly, meadow-fairies, look you sing. Like to the Garter's compass, in a ring : The expressure that it bears, green let it be, More fertile-fresh than all the field to see ; 54 And ' Honi soit qui mal y pense ' wTite In emerald tufts, flowers purple, blue, and white; Like sapphire, pearl and rich embroidery, Buckled below fair knighthood's bending knee: Fairies use flowers for their charactery. Away ; disperse : but till 't is one o'clock. Our dance of custom round about the oak Of Heme the hunter, let us not forget. Evans. Pray you, lock hand in hand ; yourselves in order set ; And twenty glow-worms shall our lanterns be, To guide our measure round about the tree. But, stay ; I smell a man of middle-earth. Fal. Heavens defend me from that Welsh fairy, lest he transform me to a piece of cheese ! [birth. Pist. Vile worm, thou wast o'erlook'd even in thy Quick. With trial-fire touch me his finger-end : If he be chaste, the flame will back descend And turn him to no pain ; but if he start. It is the flesh of a corrupted heart. Pist. A trial, come. Evans. Come, will this wood take fire ?- [Theu hum him with their tapers. Fal. Oh 0\\,0\v\ Quick. Corrupt, corrupt, and tainted in desire ! About him, fairies ; sing a scornful rhyme : And, as you trip, still pinch him to your time. SONG. Fie on sinful fantasy ! Fie on lust and luxury ! Lust is but a bloody fire. Kindled with unchaste desire. Fed in heart, whose flames aspire As thoughts do blow them, higher and higher. Pinch him, fairies, mutually. Pinch him for his villany ; Pinch him, and burn him, and turn him about. Till candles and starlight and moonshine be out. During this song they pinch Falstaff. Doctor Caius comes one way, and steals away a boy in green ; Slender another way, and takes off a boy in white ; and Fenton comes, and steals away Mrt. Anne Page. A noise of hunting is heard within. All the Fairies run away. FaXstaS pulls off his buck's head, and rises. Enter Page, Ford, Mistress Page and Mistress Ford. Page. Nay, do not fly ; I think we have watch 'd you now : Will none but Heme the hunter serve your turn ? Mrs. Page. I pray you, come, hold up the jest no higher. Now, good Sir John, how like you Windsor wives ? See you these, husband ? do not these fair yokes Become the forest better than the town ? Ford. Now, sir, who 's a cuckold now? Master Brook, Falstaff 's a knave, a cuckoldly knave ; here are his horns, Master Brook : and. Master Brook, he hath enjoyed nothing of Ford's but his buck-basket, his cudgel, and twenty pounds of money, which must be paid to Master Brook ; his horses are arrested for it, Master Brook. Mrs. Ford. Sir John, we have had ill luck ; we could never meet. I will never take you for my love again ; but I will always comit you my deer. Fal. I do begin to perceive that I am made an ass. Ford. Ay, and an ox too: both the proofs are extant. Fal. And these are not fairies ? I was three or four times in the thought they were not fairies : and yet the guiltiness of my mind, the sudden surprise of my powers, drove the grossness of the foppery into a received belief, in despite of the teeth of all rhyme and reason, that they were fairies. See now how wit may be made a Jack-a-Lent, when 'tis upon ill em- ployment ! ACT V. THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. scene v. Evans. Sir John Falstaff, serve Got, and leave your desires, and fairies will not pinse you. Ford. Well said, fairy Hugh. Evans. And leave your jealousies too, I pray you. Ford. I will never mistrust my wife again, till thou art able to woo her in good English. Fal. Have I laid my brain in the sun and dried it, that it wants matter to prevent so gross o'erreaching as this ? Am I ridden with a Welsh goat too ? shall I have a coxcomb of frize ? 'T is time I were choked with a piece of toasted cheese. Evans. Seese is not good to give putter ; your belly is all putter. Fal. ' Seese ' and ' putter ' ! have I lived to stand at the taunt of one that makes fritters of English ? This is enough to be the decay of lust and late-walk- ing through the realm. Mrs. Page. Why, Sir John, do you think, though we would have thrust virtue out of our hearts by the head and shoulders and have given ourselves without scruple to hell, that ever the devil could have made you our delight ? Ford. What, a hodge-pudding ? a bag of flax? Mrs. Page. A puifed man ? - Page. Old, cold, withered and of intolerable en- trails ? Ford. And one that is as slanderous as Satan ? Page. And as poor as Job ? Ford. And as wicked as his wife ? Evans. And given to fornications, and to taverns and sack and wine and metheglins, and to drink- ings and swearings and starings, pribbles and prab- bles? Fal. Well, I am your theme : you have the start of me ; I am dejected ; I am not able to answer the Welsh flannel ; ignorance itself is a plummet o'er toe : use me as you will. Ford. Marry, sir, we '11 bring you to Windsor, to one Master Brook, that you have cozened of money, to whom you should have been a pander : over and above that you have suffered, I think to repay that money will be a biting affliction. Page. Yet be cheerful, knight : thou shalt eat a posset to-night at my house; where I will desire thee to laugh at my wife, that now laughs at thee : tell her Master Slender hath married her daughter. Mrs. Page. [Aside] Doctors doubt that : if Anne Page be my daughter, she is, by this, Doctor Caius' wife. Enter Slender. Slen. Whoa, ho ! ho, father Page ! Page. Son, how now! how now, son! have you dispatched ? Slen. Dispatched ! I '11 make the best in Glouces- tershire know on 't ; would I were hanged, la, else ! Page. Of what, son ? Slen. I came yonder at Eton to marry Mistress Anne Page, and she 's a great lubberly boy. If it had not been i' the church, I would have swinged him, or he should have swinged me. If I did not think it had been Anne Page, would I might never stir ! — and 't is a postmaster's boy. Page. Upon my life, then, you took the wrong. Slen. What need you tell me that ? I think so, when I took a boy for a girl. If I had been married to him, for all he was in woman's apparel, I would not have had him. Page. Why, this is your own folly. Did not I tell you how you should know my daughter by her garments ? Slen. I went to her in white, and cried ' mum,' and she cried ' budget,' as Anne and I had ap- pointed; and yet it was not Anne, but a post- master's boy. Mrs. Page. Good George, be not angry : I knew of your purpose ; turned my daughter into green ; and, indeed, ^he is now with the doctor at the deanery, and there married. Enter Caius. Caius. Vere is Mistress Page? By gar, I am cozened : I ha' married un garfon, a boy ; un paysan, by gar, a boy ; it is not Anne Page : by gar, I am cozened. Mrs. Page. Why, did you take her in green ? Caius. Ay, by gar, and 'tis a boy: by gar, I'U raise all Windsor. [Exit. Ford. This is strange. Who hath got the right Anne ? Page. My heart misgives me : here comes Master Penton. Enter Fenton and Anne Page. How now. Master Fenton ! [pardon ! Anne. Pardon, good father! good my mother. Page. Now, mistress, how chance you went not with Master Slender ? Mrs. Page. Why went you not with master doc- tor, maid ? Fent. You do amaze her: hear the truth of it. You would have married her most shamefully^ Where there was no proportion held in love. The truth is, she and I, long since contracted, Are now so sure that nothing can dissolve us. The offence is holy that she hath committed ; And this deceit loses the name of craft, Of disobedience, or unduteous title, Since therein she doth evitate and shun A thousand irreligious cursed hours, [her. Which forced marriage would have brought upon Ford. Stand not amazed; here is no remedy: In love the heavens themselves do guide the state ; Money buys lands, and wives are sold by fate. Fal. 1 am glad, though you have ta'en a special stand to strike at me, that your arrow hath glanced. Page. Well, what remedy ? Fenton, heaven give thee joy ! What cannot be eschew'd must be embraced. Fal. When night-dogs run, all sorts of deer are chased. [Fenton, Mrs. Page. Well, I will muse no further. Master Heaven give you many, many merry days ! Good husband, let us every one go home. And laugh this sport o'er by a country fire ; Sir John and all. Ford. Let it be so. Sir John, To Master Brook you yet shall hold your word ; For he to-night shall lie with Mistress Ford. [Exeunt. 55 -^^•*^M<^^ MEASURE FOR MEASURE. BBAMATIS PEBSONM. Vincentio, the Duke. Angelo, Deputy. Escalus, an ancient Lord. Claudio, a young gentleman. Luclo, a fantastic. Two other gentlemen. Provost. Thomas, 'I Peter, J A Justice. Varrius. ■ Elbow, a simple constable. two friars. Froth, a foolish gentleman. Pompey, servant to Mistress Overdone. Abhorson, an executioner. Barnardine, a dissolute prisoner. Isabella, sister to Claudio. Mariana, betrothed to Angelo. Juliet, beloved of Claudio. Francisca, a nun. Mistress Overdone, a bawd. Lords, Officers, Citizens, Boy, and Attendants. SCENE— Ftewwa. [For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page ^CT I. SCENE I. — An apartment in the Buke''s palace. Enter Duke, Escalus, Lords and Attendants. Duke. Escalus. Escal. My lord. Duke. Of government the properties to unfold, Would seem in me to affect speech and discourse ; Siiice 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 're 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. Call I say, bid come before us Angelo. [hither, [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, dress'd him with our love, And given his deputation all the organs Of our own power : what think you of it ? Escal. If any in Vienna be of worth To undergo such ample grace and honour, It is Lord Angelo. Duke. Look where he comes. Enter Angelo. Ang. Always obedient to your grace's wUl, 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, they 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 touch'd But to fine issues, nor nature never lends 56 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 therefore, Angelo: — In our remove be thou at full ourself ; Mortality and mercy in Vienna Live in thy tongue and heart : old Escalus, Though first in question, is thy 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. Duke. No more evasion : We have with a leaven 'd and prepared choice Proceeded to you ; therefore take your honours. Our haste from hence is of so quick condition That it prefers itself and leaves unquestion'd Matters of needful value. We shall write to yoTi, As time and our concernings shall importmie, HoM' 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 honour, 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 '11 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 affect it. Once more, fare you well. Ang. The heavens give safety to your purposes! Escal. Lead forth and bring you back in happiness! Duke. 1 thank you. Fare you well. [Exit. Escal. I shall desire you, sir, to give me leave To have free speech with you ; and it concerns me To look into the bottom of my place : ACT I. MEASURE FOR MEASURE. SCENE II. A power I have, but of what strength and nature I am not yet instructed. Ang. "T is so with me. Let us witlidraw togetlier, And we may soon our satisfaction have Toucliing that point. ^scaL I '11 wait upon your honour. [Exeunt. SCENE II.— J. sireef. Enter Lucio and two Gentlemen. iMcio. If the duke with the other dukes come not to composition with the King of Hungary, why then all the dukes fall upon the king. First Gent. Heaven grant us its peace, but not the Kuig of Hungary's ! See. Gent. Amen. JJucio. Thou concludest like the sanctimonious pi- rate, that went to sea with the Ten Commandments, but scraped one out of the table. Sec. Gent. ' Thou shalt not steal ' ? Lucio. Ay, that he razed. First Gent. Why, 't was a commandment to com- mand the captain and all the rest from their func- tions : they put forth to steal. There 's not a soldier of us all, that, in the thanksgiving before meat, do relish the petition well that prays for peace. Sec. Gent. I never heard any soldier dislike it. Lucio. I believe thee ; for I think thou never wast where grace was said. Sec. Gent. No ? a dozen times at least. First Gent. What, in metre ? Lucio. In any proportion or in any language. First Gent. I think, or in any religion. Lucio. Ay, why not ? Grace is grace, despite of all controversy : as, for example, thou thyself art a Wicked villain, despite of all grace. First Gent. Well, there went but a pair of shears between us. Lucio. I grant ; as there may between the lists and the velvet. Thou art the list. First Gent. And thou the velvet : thou art good velvet ; thou 'rt a three-piled piece, I warrant thee : I had as lief be a list of an English kersey as be piled, as thou art piled, for a French velvet. Do I speak feelingly now ? Lucio. I think thou dost ; and, indeed, with most painful feeling of thy speech ; I will, out of thine own confession, learn to begin thy health ; but, whilst I live, forget to drink after thee. [I not ? First Gent. I think I have done myself wrong, have Sec. Gent. Yes, that thou hast, whether thou art tainted or free. Lucio. Behold, behold, where Madam Mitigation comes ! I have purchased as many diseases under her roof as come to — Sec. Gent. To what, I pray ? Lucio. Judge. Sec. Gent. To three thousand dolours a year. First Gent. Ay, and more. Lucio. A French crown more. First Gent. Thou art always figuring diseases in me ; but thou art full of error ; I am sound. Lucio. Nay, not as one would say, healthy ; but so sound as things that are hollow : thy bones are hollow ; impiety has made a feast of thee. Enter Mistress Overdone. First Gent. How now! whichof your hips has the most profound sciatica ? Mrs. Ov. Well, well ; there 's one yonder arrested and carried to prison was worth five thousand of you Sec. Gent. Who 's that, I pray thee ? [all. Mrs. Ov. Marry, sir, that 's Claudio, Signior Clau- First Gent. Claudio to prison ? 't is not so. [dio. Mrs. Ov. Nay, but I know 't is so : I saw him ar- rested, saw him carried away ; and, which is more, within these three days his head to be chopped off. Lucio. But, after all this fooling, I would not have it so. Art thou sure of this ? Mrs. Ov. I am too sure of it : and it is for getting Madam Julietta with child. Lucio. Believe, me, this may be : he promised to meet me two hours since, and he was ever precise in promise-keeping. Sec. Gent. Besides, you know, it draws something near to the speech we had to such a purpose. First Gent. But, most of all, agreeing with the proclamation. Lucio. Away ! let 's go learn the truth of it. [Exeicnt Lucio and Gentlemen. Mrs. Ov. Thus, what with the war, what with the sweat, what with the gallows and what with pov- erty, I am custom-shrunk. Enter Pompey. How now ! what 's the news with you ? Pom. Yonder man is carried to prison. Mrs. Ov. Well; what has he done ? Pom. A woman. Mrs. Ov. But what 's his offence ? Pom. Groping for trouts in a peculiar river. Mrs. Ov. What, is there a maid with child by him? Pom. No, but there 's a woman with maid by him. You have not heard of the proclamation, have you ? Mrs. Ov. What proclamation, man ? Pom. All houses in the suburbs of Vienna must be plucked down. [city ? Mrs. Ov. And what shall become of those in the Pom. They shall stand for seed : they had gone down too, but that a wise burgher put in for them. 3£rs. Ov. But shall all our houses of resort in the suburbs be pulled down ? Pom. To the ground, mistress. Mrs. Ov. Why, here 's a change indeed in the com- monwealth ! What shall become of me ? Pom. Come ; fear not you : good counsellors lack no clients : though you change your place, you need not change your trade ; I '11 be your tapster still. Courage ! there will be pity taken on you : you that have worn your eyes almost out in the service, you will be considered. Mrs. Ov. What 's to do here, Thomas tapster ? let 's withdraw. Porn. Here comes Signior Claudio, led by the provost to prison ; and there 's Madam Juliet. [Exeunt. Enter Provost, Claudio, Juliet, and Oflacers. Claud. Fellow, why dost thou show me thus to the world ? Bear me to prison, where I am committed. Prov. I do it not in evil disposition. But from Lord Angelo by special charge. Claud. Thus can the demigod Authority Make us pay down for our offence by weight The words of heaven; on whom it will, it will; On whom it will not, so; yet still 'tis just. Be-enter Lucio and two Gentlemen. Lucio. Why, how now, Claudio ! whence comes this restraint ? Claud. From too much liberty, my Lucio. liberty : As surfeit is the father of much fast. So every scope by the immoderate use Turns to restraint. Our natures do pursue. Like rats that ravin down their proper bane, A thirsty evil ; and when we drink we die. Lucio. If I could speak so wisely under an arrest, I would send for certain of my creditors : and yet, to say the truth, I had as lief have the foppery or freedom as the morality of imprisonment. What 's thy offence, Claudio ? Claud. What but to speak of would offend again. Lucio. What, is 't murder? 57 ACT I. MEASURE FOR MEASURE. SCENE IV. Claud. No. Lucio. Lechery? Claud. Call it so. Prov. Away, sir! you must go. [with you. Claud. One word, good friend. Lucio, a word Lucio. A hundred, if they '11 do you any good. Is lechery so look'd after ? [tract Claud. Thus stands it with me : upon a true con- I got possession of Julietta's bed : You know the lady ; she is fast my wife, Save that we do the denunciation lack Of outward order: this we came not to, Only for propagation of a dower Remaining in the coffer of her friends, From whom we thought it meet to hide our love Till time had made them for us. But it chances The stealth of our most mutual entertainment With character too gross is writ on Juliet. Lucio. With child, perhaps ? Claud. Unhappily, even so. And the new deputy now for the duke — Whether it be the fault and glimpse of newness. Or whether that the body public be A horse whereon the governor doth ride, Who, newly in the seat, that it may know He can command, lets it straight feel the spur ; Whether the tyranny be in his place, Or in his eminence that fills it up, I stagger in:— but this new governor Awakes me all the enrolled penalties [wall Which have, like unscour'd armour, hung by the So long that nineteen zodiacs have gone round And none of them been worn; and, for a name, Now puts the drowsy and neglected act Ereshly on me : 't is surely for a name. Lv£io. I warrant it is: and thy head stands so tickle on thy shoulders that a milkmaid, if she be in love, may sigh it ofE. Send after the duke and appeal to him. Claud. I have done so, but he 's not to be found. I prithee, Lucio, do me this kind service: This day my sister should the cloister enter And there receive her approbation : Acquaint her with the danger of my state : Implore her, in my voice, that she make friends To the strict deputy ; bid herself assay him : I have great hope in that ; for in her youth There is a prone and speechless dialect, Such as move men ; beside, she hath prosperous art When she will play with reason and discourse. And well she can persuade. Lucio. I pray she may ; as well for the encourage- ment of the like, which else would stand under grievous imposition, as for the enjoying of thy life, who I would be sorry should be thus foolishly lost at a game of tick-tack. I '11 to her. Claud. I thank you, good friend Lucio. Lucio. Within two hours. Claud. Come, officer, away ! [Exeunt. SCENE III. — A monastery. Enter Duke and Friar Thomas. DuTce. 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 harbour, hath a purpose More grave and wrinkled than the aims and ends Of burning youth. Fri. T. May your grace speak of it : Duhe. My holy sir, none better knows than you How I have ever loved the life removed And held in idle price to haunt assemblies Where youth, and cost, and witless bravery 1 have deliver 'd to Lord Angelo, A man of stricture and firm abstinence. My absolute power and place here in Yienna, 58 And he supposes me travell'd to Poland ; For so I have strew'd it in the common ear. And so it is received. Now, pious sir, You will demand of me why I do this ? Fri. T. Gladly, my lord. [laws, Buke. We have strict statutes and most biting The needful bits and curbs to headstrong weeds. Which for this nineteen years we have let slip ; Even like an o'ergrown lion in a cave, That goes not out to prey. Now, as fond fathers. Having bound up the threatening 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. T. It rested in your grace To unloose this tied-up justice when you pleased: And it in you more dreadful would have seem'd Than in Lord Angelo. Duke. I do fear, too dreadful : Sith 't was my fault to give the people scope, 'T would be my tyranny to strike and gall them For what I bid them do : for we bid this be done. When evil deeds have their permissive pass And not the punishment. Therefore indeed^ my I have on Angelo imposed the office ; [father, Who may, in the ambush of my name, strike home, And yet my nature never in the fight To do in slander. And to behold his sway, I will, as 't were a brother of your order. Visit both prince and people: therefore, I prithee, 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 than stone : hence shall we see, If power change purpose, what our seemers be, [Exeunt. SCENE IV. — A nunnery. Enter Isabella and Francisca. Lsah. And have you nuns no farther privileges ? Fran. Are not these large enough ? Isab. Yes, truly : I speak not as desiring more ; But rather wishing a more strict restraint Upon the sisterhood, the votarists of Saint Clare. LMcio. [Within] Ho ! Peace be in this place ! lsah. Who 's that which calls ? Fran. It is a man's voice. Gentle Isabella, Turn you the key, and know his business of him ; You may, I may not ; you are yet unsworn. When you have vow'd, you must not speak with men But in the presence of the prioress : Then, if you speak, you must not show your face, Or, if you show your face, you must not speak. He calls again ; I pray you, answer him. [Exit. Isab. Peace and prosperity ! Who is 't that calls ? Enter Lucio. Lucio. Hail, virgin, if you be, as those cheek-roses Proclaim you are no less ! Can you so stead me As bring me to the sight of Isabella, A novice of this place and the fair sister To her unhappy brother Claudio ? Isab. Why ' her unhappy brother ' ? let me ask, The rather for I now must make you know I am that Isabella and his sister. [you : Lucio. Gentle and fair, your brother kindly greets Not to be weary with you, he 's in prison. Isab. Woe me! for what? [judge, Lucio. For that which, if myself might be his ACT II. MEASURE FOB MEASURE. SCENE I, He should receive his punishment in thanks : He hath got his friend with cliild. Isab. Sir, make me not your story. Lucio. It is true. I would not— though 't is my familiar sin With maids to seem the lapwmg and to jest, Tongue far from heart — play with all virgins so : I hold you as a thing ensky'd and sainted. By your renouncement an immortal spirit, And to be talk'd with in sincerity, As with a saint. Isab. You do blaspheme the good in mocking me. Jjucio. Do not believe it. Fewness and truth, 't is Your brother and his lover have embraced : [thus : As those that feed grow full, as blossoming time That from the seedness the bare fallow brings To teeming foison, even so her plenteous womb Expresseth his full tilth and husbandry. [Juliet ? Isab. Some one with child by him ? My cousin Lucio. Is she your cousin ? [names Isab. Adoptedly; as school-maids change their By vain though apt affection. Lucio. She it is. Isab. O, let him marry her. Lucio. This is the point. The duke is very strangely gone from hence ; Bore many gentlemen, myself being one, In hand and hope of action : but we do learn By those that know the very nerves of state, His givings-out were of an mfinite distance From his true-meant design. Upon his place, Ajid with full line of his authority. Governs Lord Angelo ; a man whose blood Is very snow-broth ; one who never feels The wanton stings and motions of the sense. But doth rebate and blunt his natm:al edge With profits of the mind, study and fast. He — to give fear to use and liberty, Which have for long run by the hideous law, As mice by lions— hath pick'd out an act. Under whose heavy sense your brother's life Falls into forfeit : he arrests him on it : And follows close the rigour of the statute, To make him an example. All hope is gone. Unless you have the grace by your fair prayer To soften Angelo : and that 's my pith of business 'Twixt you and your poor brother. Isab. Doth he so seek his life ? Lucio. Has censured him Already ; and, as I hear, the provost hath A warrant for his execution. Isab. Alas ! what poor ability 's in me To do him good ? Lucio. Assay the power you have. Isab. My power ? Alas, I doubt — Lucio. Our doubts are traitors And make us lose the good we oft might win By fearing to attempt. Go to Lord Angelo, And let him learn to know, when maidens sue, Men give like gods ; but when they weep and kneel, All their petitions are as freely theirs As they themselves would owe them. Isab. I '11 see what I can do. Lucio. But speedily. Isab. I will about it straight ; No longer staying but to give the mother Notice of my affair. I humbly thank you : Commend me to my brother : soon at night I '11 send him certain word of my success. Lucio. I take my leave of you. Isab. Good sir^adieu. [Exeunt. A.CT II. SCENE I. — A hall in AngeMs house. Enter Angelo, Bscalus, and a Justice, Provost, Oflficers, and other Attendants, behind. Ang. We must not make a scarecrow 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 httle. Than faU, and bruise to death. Alas, this gentleman, Whom I would save, had a most noble father ! Let but your honour know, "Wliom I believe to be most strait in virtue, That, in the working of your own affections. Had time cohered 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. Ana. 'T is one thing to be tempted, Escalus, Another thing to fall. I not deny. The jury, 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 V 'T is very pregnant. The jewel that we find, we stoop and take 't Because we see it ; but what we do not see 'i^'e 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 honour. Ang. See that Claudio Be executed by nine to-morrow morning : Bring him his confessor, let him be prepared ; For that 's the utmost of his pilgrimage. [Exit Provost. Escal. [Aside] Well, heaven forgive him ! and for- give us all ! Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall : Some run from brakes of ice, and answer none : And some condemned for a fault alone. Enter Elbow, and Officers with Froth and Pompey. Elb. Come, bring them away: if these be good people in a commonweal that do nothing but use their abuses in common houses, I know no law: bring them away. Ang. How now, sir ! What 's your name ? and what 's the matter ? Elb. If it please your honour, I am the poor duke's constable, and my name is Elbow : I do lean upon justice, sir, and do bring in here before your good honour two notorious benefactors. Ang. Benefactors? Well; what benefactors are they y are they not malefactors ? Elb. If it please your honour, I know not well what they are : but precise villains they are, that I am sure of ; and void of all profanation in the world that good Christians ought to have. Escal. This comes off well ; here 's a wise ofl&cer. ACT II. MEASURE FOR MEASURE. SCENE I. Ang. Gro to : what quality are they of ? Elbow is your name ? why dost thou not speak, Elbow ? Pom. He cannot, sir; he 's out at elbow. Amj. What are you, sir ? Elb. He, sir! a tapster, sir ! parcel-bawd; one that serves a bad woman ; whose house, sir, was, as they say, plucked down in the suburbs ; and now she pro- fesses a hot-house, which, I think, is a very ill house JEscal. How know you that ? [too. Mb. My wife, sir, whom I detest before heaven and your honour, — Escal. How ? thy wife ? [woman, — Elb. Ay, sir; whom, I thank heaven, is an honest Escal. Dost thou detest her therefore ? Elb. I say, sir, I will detest myself also, as well as she, that this house, if it be not a bawd's house, it is pity of lier life, for it is a naughty house. Escal. How dost thou know that, constable ? Elb. Marry, sir, by my wife ; who, if she had been a woman cardinally given, might have been accused in fornication, adultery, and all uncleanliness there. Escal. By the woman's means ? Elb. Ay, sir, by Mistress Overdone's means : but as she spit in his face, so she defied him. Pom. Sir, if it please your honour, this is not so. Elb. Prove it before these varlets here, thou hon- ourable man ; prove it. Escal. Do you hear how he misplaces ? Pom. Sir, she came in great with child ; and long- ing, saving your honour's reverence, for stewed prunes ; sir, we had but two in the house, which at that very distant time stood, as it were, in a fruit- dish, a dish of some three-pence ; your honours have seen such dishes ; they are not China dishes, but very good dishes, — Escal. Go to, go to : no matter for the dish, sir. Pom. No, indeed, sir, not of a pin ; you are therein in the right : but to the point. As I say, this Mis- tress Elbow, being, as I say, with child, and being great-bellied, and longing, as I said, for prunes ; and having but two in the dish, as I said. Master Froth here, this very man, having eaten the rest, as I said, and, as I say, paying for them very honestly ; for, as you know, Master Eroth, I could not give you three-pence again. Froth. No, indeed. Pom. Very well ; you being then, if you be remem- bered, cracking the stones of the foresaid prunes, — Froth. Ay, so I did indeed. Pom. Why, very well ; I telling you then, if you be remembered, that such a one and such a one were past cure of the thing you wot of, unless they kept very good diet, as I told you, — Froth. All this is true. Pom. Why, very well, then, — Escal. Come, you are a tedious fool : to the purpose. What was done to Elbow's wife, that he hath cause to complain of ? Come me to what was done to her. Pom. Sir, your honour cannot come to that yet. Escal. No, sir, nor I mean it not. Pom. Sir , but you shall come to it , by your honour 's leave. And, I beseech you, look into Master Froth here, sir; a man of fourscore pound a year; whose father died at Hallowmas : was 't not at Hallowmas, Master Froth ? Froth. AU-hallond eve. Pom. Why, very well; I hope here be truths. He, sir, sitting, as I say, in a lower chair, sir ; 't was in the Bunch of Grapes, where indeed you have a delight to sit, have you not? Froth. I have so ; because it is an open room and good for winter. Pom. Why, very well, then; I hope here be truths. Ang. This will last out a night in Russia, When nights are longest there : I '11 take my leave. And leave you to the hearing of the cause ; Hoping you '11 find good cause to whip them all. 60 Escal. I think no less. Good morrow to your lordship. {Exit Angela. Now, sir, come on : what was done to Elbow's wife, once more ? [once. Pom. Once, sir ? there was nothing done to her Elb. I beseech you, sir, ask him what this man did to my wife. Pojji. I beseech your honour, ask me. Escal. Well, sir ; what did this gentleman to her ? Po7n. I beseech you, sir, look in this gentleman's face. Good Master Froth, look upon his honour ; 't is for a good purpose. Doth your honour mark his Escal. Ay, sir, very well. [face ? Pom. Nay, I beseech you, mark it well. Escal. Well, I do so. Pom. Doth your honour see any harm in his face ? Escal. Why, no. Pom. I '11 be supposed upon a book, his face is the worst thing about him. Good, then ; if his face be the worst thing about him, how could Master Froth do the constable's wife any harm ? I would know that of your honour. Escal. He 's in the right. Constable, what say you to it ? Elb. First, an it like you, the house is a respect- ed house ; next, this is a respected fellow ; and his mistress is a respected woman. Pom. By this hand, sir, his wife is a more re- spected person than any of us all. Elb. Varlet, thou liest ; thou liest, wicked varlet ! the time is yet to come that she was ever respected with man, woman, or child. Pom. Sir, she was respected with him before he married with her. Escal. Which is the wiser here ? Justice or In- iquity ? Is this true ? Elb. O thou caitiff! O thou varlet! O thou wicked Hannibal ! I respected with her before I was married to her ! If ever I was respected with her, or she with me, let not your worship think me the poor duke's officer. Prove this, thou wicked Hannibal, or I '11 have mine action of battery on thee. Escal. If he took you a box o' the ear, you might have your action of slander too. Elb. Marry, I thank your good worship for it. What is 't your worship's pleasure I shall do with this wicked caitiff ? Escal. Truly, officer, because he hath some of- fences in him that thou wouldst discover if thou couldst, let him continue in his courses till thou knowest what they are. Elb. Marry, I thank your worship for it. Thou seest, thou wicked varlet, now, what 's come upon thee : thou art to continue now, thou varlet ; thou art to continue. Escal. Where were you born, friend ? Froth. Here in Vienna, sir. Escal. Are you of fourscore pounds a year ? Forth. Yes, an 't please you, sir. Escal. So. What trade are you of, sir ? Pom. A tapster ; a poor widow's tapster. Escal. Your mistress' name ? Pom. Mistress Overdone. Escal. Hath she had any more than one husband ? Pom. Nine, sir; Overdone by the last. Escal. Nine ! Come hither to me. Master Froth. Master Froth, I would not have you acquainted with tapsters: they will draw you. Master Froth, and you will hang; them. Get you gone, and let me hear no more of you. Froth. I thank your worship. For mine own part, I never come into any room in a taphouse, but I am drawn in. Escal. Well, no more of it. Master Froth : fare- well. [Exit Froth.] Come you hither to me. Master tapster. What 's your name. Master tapster ? ACT II. MEASURE FOR MEASURE. SCENE II. Pom. Pompey. Escal. What else? Pom. Bum, sir. Escal. Troth, and your bum is the greatest thing about you ; so that in the beastliest sense you are Pompey the great. Pompey, you are partly a bawd, Pompey, howsoever you colour it in being a tap- ster, are you not ? come, tell me true : it shall be the better for you. Pom. Truly, sir, I am a poor fellow that would live. Escal. How would you live, Pompey ? by being a bawd ? What do you think of the trade, Pompey ? is it a lawful trade ? Pom. If the law would allow it, sir. Escal. But the law will not allow it, Pompey, nor it shall not be allowed in Vienna. Pom. Does your worship mean to geld and splay all the youth of the city V Escal. No, Pompey. Pom. Truly, sir, in my poor opinion, they will to 't then. If your worship will take order for the drabs and the knaves, you need not to fear the -bawds. Escal. There are pretty orders beginning, I can teU you : it is but heading and hanging. Pom. If you head and hang all that offend that way but for ten year together, you '11 be glad to give out a commission for more heads : if this law hold in Vienna ten year, I '11 rent the fairest house in it after three-pence a day : if you live to see this come to pass, say Pompey told you so. Escal. Thank you, good Pompey; and, in re- quital of your prophecy, hark you : I advise you, let me not find you before me again upon any com- plaint whatsoever ; iio, not for dwelling where you do : if I do, Pompey, I shall beat you to your tent, and prove a shrewd Csesar to you ; in plain dealing, Pompey, I shall have you whipt : so, for this time, Pompey, fare you well. Pom. I thank your worship for your good counsel : [Aside] but I shall follow it as the flesh and fortune shall better determine. Whip me ? No, no ; let carman whip his jade : The valiant heart is not whipt out of his trade. [Exit. Escal. Come hither to me. Master Elbow; come hither. Master constable. How long have you been in this place of constable ? Elh. Seven year and a half, sir. Escal. I thought, by your readiness in the office, you had continued in it some time. You say, seven years together ? Elh. And a half, sir. Escal. Alas, it hath been great pains to you. They do you wrong to put you so oft upon 't : are there not men in your ward sufficient to serve it V Elh. Faith, sir, few of any wit in such matters: as they are chosen, they are glad to choose me for them; I do it for some piece of money, and go through with all. Escal. Look you bring me in the names of some six or seven, the most sufficient of your parish. Elh. To your worship's house, sir r* Escal. To my house. Fare you well. [Exit Elhow. What 's o'clock, think you ? Just. Eleven, sir. Escal. I pray you home to dinner with me. Just. I humbly thank you. Escal. It grieves me for the death of Claudio ; But there 's no remedy. Just. Lord Angelo is severe. Escal. It is but needful : Mercy is not itself, that oft looks so : Pardon is stiU the nurse of second woe : But yet,— poor Claudio ! There is no remedy. Come, sir. [Exeunt. SCENE II. — Another room in the same. Enter Provost and a Servant. Serv. He's hearing of a cause; he will come I '11 tell him of you. [straiglit: Prov. Pray you, do. [Exit Servant. I '11 know His pleasure ; may be he will relent. Alas, He hath but as offended in a dream ! All sects, all ages smack of this vice; and he To die for 't ! „ Enter Angelo. Aug. Now, what 's the matter, provost ? Prov. Is it your will Claudio shall die to-morrow ? Any. Did not I 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 Eepented o'er his doom. Ang. Go to ; let that be mine : Do you your oflfice, or give up your place. And you shall well be spared. Prov. I crave your honour's pardon. What shall be done, sir, with the groaning Juliet ? She 's very near her hour. Ang. Dispose of her To some more fitter place, and that with speed. Re-enter Servant. Serv. Here is the sister of the man condemn'd Desires access to you. Ang. Hath he a sister ? Prov. Ay, my good lord ; a very virtuous maid^ And to be shortly of a sisterhood, If not already. Ang. Well, let her be admitted. [Exit Servant. See you the fornicatress be removed : Let her have needful, but not lavish, means ; There shall be order for 't. Enter Isabella and Lucio. Prov. God save your honour ! Ang. Stay a little while. [Tb Isab.] You 're wel- come : what 's your will ? Isah. I am a woeful suitor to your honour, Please but your honour hear me. Ang. Well ; what 's your suit ? Isab. 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 ? Isah. I have a brother is condemn'd to die : I do beseech you, let it be his fault, And not my brother. Prov. [Aside] Heaven give thee moving- graces ! Ang. Condemn the fault, and not the actor of it ? Why, every fault 's condemn'd ere it be done : Mine were the very cipher of a function. To fine the faults whose fine stands in record. And let go by the actor. Isab. c O just but severe law ! I had a brother, then. Heaven keep your honour! Lucio. [Aside to Isah.] Give 't not o'er so : to him again, entreat him ; Kneel down before him, hang upon his gown : You are too cold ; if you should need a pin. You could not with more tame a tongue desire it : To him, I say ! Isah. 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. 61 ACT I] MEASURE FOR MEASURE. SCENE II. Ana. I will not do 't. Isdh. But can you, if you would ? Ang. Look, what I will not, that I cannot do. Iscih. 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 ? Ancj. He 's sentenced ; 't is too late. Lucio. [Aside to Isah.'] You are too cold. Isah. 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 stern. Ang. Pray you, be gone. Isah. I would to heaven I had your potency. And you were Isabel ! should it then be thus j* No ; I would tell what 't were to be a judge, And what a prisoner. [the vein. Lucio. [Aside to Isah.'] Ay, touch him; there's Ang. Your brother is a forfeit of the law, And you but waste your words. Isah. Alas, alas ! Why, all the souls that were were forfeit once ; And He that might the vantage best have took round out the remedy. How would you be, If He, which is the top of judgment, should But judge you as you are ? O, think on that ; And mercy then will breathe within your lips. Like man new made. Ang. Be you content, fair maid; It is the law, not I condemn your brother : Were he my kinsman, brother, or my son, It should be thus with him : he must die to-morrow. Isah. To-morrow ! O, that 's sudden ! Spare him, spare him ! He 's not prepared for death. Even for our kitchens We kill the fowl of season : shall we serve heaven With less respect than we do minister [you ; To our gross selves ? Good, good my lord, bethink Who is it that hath died for this offence ? There 's many have committed it. Lucio. [Aside to Isah.] Ay, well said. Ang. The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept : Those many had not dared to do that evil, If the first that did the edict infringe Had answer'd for his deed : now 't is ; Takes note of what is done; and, like a prophet, Looks in a glass, that shows what future evils. Either new, or by remissness new-conceived, And so in progress to be hatch'd and born. Are now to have no successive degrees, But, ere they live, to end. Isah. Yet show some pity. Ang. I show it most of all when I show justice ; For then I pity those I do not know. Which a dismiss'd offence would after gall; And do him right that, answering one foul wrong. Lives not to act another. Be satisfied ; Your brother dies to-morrow; be content. Isah. 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. Lucio. [Aside to Isah.] That 's well said. Isah. Could great men thunder As Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet, For every pelting, petty officer Would use his heaven for thunder ; Nothing but thunder ! Merciful Heaven, 62 Thou rather with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt Split 'st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak Than the soft myrtle : but man, proud man, Drest in a little brief authority. Most ignorant of what he 's most assured. 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. Lucio. [Aside to Isah.] O, to him, to him, wench! He 's coming ; I perceive 't. [he will relent : Prov. [Aside] Pray heaven she win him ! Isah. We cannot weigh our brother with ourself : Great men may jest with saints ; 't is wit in them, But in the less foul profanation. Lucio. Thou 'rt i' the right, girl; more o' that. Isah. That in the captain 's but a choleric word, Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy. [on 't. Lucio. [Aside to Isah.] Art avised o' that ? more Ang. Why do you put these sayings upon me ? Isah. Because authority, though it err like 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 is his. Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue Against my brother's lite. Ang. [Aside] She speaks, and 't is Such sense, that my sense breeds with it. Fare you Isah. Gentle my lord, turn back. [well. Ang. I will bethink me : come again to-morrow. Isdh. Hark how I '11 bribe you : good my lord, Ang. How ! bribe me ? [turn back. Isab. Ay, with such gifts that heaven shall share with you. Lucio. [Aside to Isah.] You had marr'd all else. Isah. 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 sun-rise, prayers from preserved souls. From fasting maids whose minds are dedicate To nothing temporal. Ang. Well ; come to me to-morrow. Lucio. [Aside to Isah.] Go to ; 't is well ; away ! Isab. Heaven keep your honour safe ! Ang. [Aside] Amen : For I am that way going to temptation, Where prayers cross. Isab. At what hour to-morrow Shall I attend your lordship ? Ang. At any time 'fore noon. Isab. 'Save your honour ! [Exeunt Isabella, Lucio, and Provost. Ang. From thee, even from thy virtue ! What 's this, what 's this ? Is this her fault or The tempterorthe tempted, whosinsmost ? [mine ? Ha! Not she ; nor doth she tempt : but it is I That, lying by the violet in the sun. Do as the carrion does, not as the flower, Corrupt with virtuous season. Can it be That modesty may more betray our sense [enough , Than woman's lightness ? Having waste ground Shall we desire to raze the sanctuary And pitch our evils there ? O, fie, fie, fie ! What dost thou, or what art thou, Angelo ? Dost thou desire her foully for those things That make her good ? O, let her brother live : Thieves for their robbery have authority [her. When judges steal themselves. What, do I love That I desire to hear her speak again. And feast upon her eyes ? What is 't I dream on V O cunning enemy, that, to catch a saint, With saints dost bait thy hook ! Most dangerous Is that temptation that doth goad us on ACT II. 3IEASURE FOR MEASURE. SCENE IV. To sin in loving virtue : never could the strumpet, With all her double vigour, art and nature, Once stir my temper ; but this virtuous maid Subdues me quite. Ever till novvr, When men were fond, I smiled and wonder'd how. \Bxit. SOBNB III. — A room in a prison. Enter, severally, Duke disguised as a friar, and Provost. Buke. Hail to you, provost ! so I think you are. Prov. I am the provost. What 's your will, good friar ? Buke. Bound by my charity and my blest order, I come to visit the afflicted spirits Here in the prison. Do me the common right To let me see them and to make me know The nature of their crimes, that I may minister To them accordingly. [needful. Prov. I would do more than that, if more were Enter Juliet. Look, here comes one : a gentlewoman of mine, Who, falling in the flaws of her own youth. Hath blister'd her report : she is with child ; And he that got it, sentenced ; a young man More fit to do another such offence Than die for this. Buke. When must he die ? Prov. As I do think, to-morrow. I have provided for you : stay awhile, [To Juliet. And you shall be conducted. Buke. Repent you, fair one, of the sin you carry ? Jul. I do ; and bear the shame most patiently. Buke. I '11 teach you how you shall arraign your And try your penitence, if it be sound, [conscience, Or hollowly put on. Jul. I '11 gladly learn. Buke. Love you the man that wrong'd you ? Jul. Yes, as I love the woman that wrong'd him. Buke. So then it seems your most offenceful act Was mutually committed ? Jul. Mutually. Buke. Then was your sin of heavier kind than his. Jul. I do confess it, and repent it, father. Buke. 'Tis meet so, daughter: but lest you do repent. As that the sin hath brought you to this shame. Which sorrow is always towards ourselves, not heaven, Showing we would not spare heaven as we love it. But as we stand in fear, — Jul. I do repent me, as it is an evil. And take the shame with joy. Buke. There rest. Your partner, as I hear, must die to-morrow. And I am going with instruction to him. Grace go with you, Benedicite ! [Exit. Jul. Must die to-morrow ! O injurious love, That respites me a life, whose very comfort Is still a dying horror ! Prov. 'T is pity of him. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. — A room in Angela's house. Enter Angelo. Ang. When I would pray and think, I think and pray To several subjects. Heaven hath my empty words ; Whilst my invention, hearing not my tongue. Anchors on Isabel : Heaven in my mouth, As if I did but only chew his name ; And in my heart the strong and swelling evil Of my conception. The state, whereon I studied, Is like a good thing, being often read. Grown f ear'd and tedious ; yea, my gravity, Wherein — let no man hear me — I take pride , Could I with boot change for an idle plume, Which the air beats for vain. O place, O form. How often dost thou with thy case, thy habit. Wrench awe from fools and tie the wiser souls To thy false seeming ! Blood, thou art blood : Let 's write good angel on the devil's horn ; 'T is not the devil's crest. Enter a Servant. How now ! who 's there ? Serv. One Isabel, a sister, desires access to you. Ang. Teach her the way. [Exit Serv.'] O heavens I Why does my blood thus muster to my heart, Making both it unable for itself. And dispossessing all my other parts Of necessary fitness ? So play the foolish throngs with one that swoons ; Come all to help him, and so stop the air By which he should revive : and even so The general, subject to a well-wish 'd king, §uit their own part, and in obsequious fondness rowd to his presence, where their untaught love Must needs appear offence. Enter Isabella. How now, fair maid ? Isah. I am come to know your pleasure. Ang. That you might know it, would much better please me [live. Than to demand what 't is. Your brother cannot Isah. Even so. Heaven keep your honour ! Ang. Yet may he live awhile ; and, it may be, As long as you or I : yet he must die. Isah. Under your sentence ? Ang. Yea. Isah. When, I beseech you? that in his reprieve, Longer or shorter, he may be so fitted That his soul sicken not. Ang. Ha ! fie, these filthy vices ! It were as good To pardon him that hath from nature stolen A man already made, as to remit Their saucy sweetness that do coin heaven's image In stamps that are forbid : 't is all as easy Falsely to take away a life true made As to put metal in restrained means To make a false one. Isah. 'T is set down so in heaven, but not in earth. Ang. Say you so ? then I shall pose you quickly. Which had you rather, that the most just law Now took your brother's life ; or, to redeem him, Give up your body to such sweet uncleanness As she that he hath stain 'd ? Isah. Sir, believe this, I had rather give my body than my soul. Ang. I talk not of your soul : our compell'd sins Stand more for number than for accompt. Isah. How say you ? Ang. Nay, I '11 not warrant that ; for I can speak Against the thing I say. Answer to this : I, now the voice of the recorded law, Pronounce a sentence on your brother's life : Might there not be a charity in sin To save this brother's life ? Isah. Please you to do 't, I '11 take it as a peril to my soul, It is no sin at all, but charity. Ang. Pleased you to do 't at peril of your soul, Were equal poise of sin and charity. Isah. That I do beg his life, if it be sin. Heaven let me bear it ! you granting of my suit, If that be sin, I '11 make it my morn prayer To have it added to the faults of mine. And nothing of your answer. Ang. Nay, but hear me. Your sense pursues not mine : either you are igno- rant. Or seem so craftily ; and that 's not good. ACT III. MEASURE FOR MEASURE. SCENE I Isab. Let me be ignorant, and in nothing good, But graciously to know I am no better. Any. Thus wisdom wishes to appear most bright When it doth tax itself ; as these black masks Proclaim an enshield beauty ten times louder Than beauty could, display 'd. But mark me ; To be received plain, I '11 speak more gross : Your brother is to die. Isab. So. Ang. And his offence is so, as it appears, Accountant to the law upon that pain. Isab. True. Ancj. Admit no other way to save his life,— As I subscribe not that, nor any other. But in the loss of question, — that you, his sister, Finding yourself desired of such a person. Whose credit with the judge, or own great place, Could fetch your brother from the manacles Of the all-building law ; and that there were No earthly mean to save him, but that either You must lay down the treasures of your body To this supposed, or else to let him suffer ; What would you do ? Isab. As much for my poor brother as myself: That is, were I under the terms of death, The impression of keen whips I 'Id wear as rubies, And strip myself to death, as to a bed That longing have been sick for, ere I 'Id yield My body up to shame. Ang. Then must your brother die. Isab. And 't were the cheaper way : Better it were a brother died at once, Than that a sister, by redeeming him, Should die for ever. Ang. Were not you then as cruel as the sentence That you have slander 'd so ? Isab. Ignomy in ransom and free pardon Are of two houses : lawful mercy Is nothing kin to foul redemption. Ang. You seem'd of late to make the law a tyrant ; And rather proved the sliding of your brother A merriment than a vice. Isab. O, pardon me, my lord; it oft falls out. To have what we would have, we speak not what we I something do excuse the thing I hate, [mean : For his advantage that I dearly love. Ang. We are all frail. Isab. Else let my brother die. If not a feodary, but only he Owe and succeed thy weakness. Ang. Nay, women are frail too. [selves ; Isab. Ay, as the glasses where they view them- Which are as easy broke as they make forms. Women ! Help Heaven ! men their creation mar In profiting by them. Nay, call us ten times frail For we are soft as our complexions are, And credulous to false prints. Ang. I think it well : And from this testimony of your own sex,— Since I suppose we are made to be no stronger Than faults may shake our frames, — let me be boldv I do arrest your words. Be that you are. That is, a woman; if you be more, you 're none; If you be one, as you are well express 'd By all external warrants, show it now, By putting on the destined livery. Isab. I have no tongue but one : gentle my lord, Let me entreat you speak the former language. Ang. Plainly conceive, I love you. Isab. My brother did love Juliet, And you tell me that he shall die for it. Ang. He shall not, Isabel, if you give me love. Isab. I know your virtue hath a license in 't, Which seems a little fouler than it is, To pluck on others. Ang. Believe me, on mine honour, My words express my purpose. Isab. Ha ! little honour to be much believed. And most pernicious purpose ! Seeming, seeming ! I will proclaim thee, Angelo ; look for 't : Sign me a present pardon for my brother, [aloud Or with an outstretch 'd throat I '11 tell the world What man thou art. Ang. Who will believe thee, Isabel ? My unsoil'd name, the austereness of my life, My vouch against you, and my place 1' the state. Will so your accusation overweigh. That you shall stifle in your own report And smell of calumny. I have begun. And now I give my sensual race the rein : Fit thy consent to my sharp appetite ; Lay by all nicety and prolixious blushes. That banish what they sue for ; redeem thy brother By yielding up thy body to my will ; Or else he must not only die the death. But thy unkindness shall his death draw out To lingering sufferance. Answer me to-morrow, Or, by the affection that now guides me most, I '11 prove a tyrant to him. As for you, ■ Say what you can, my false o'erweighs your true. [Exit. Isab. To whom should I complain? Did I tell this, Who would believe me ? O perilous mouths. That bear in them one and the self -same tongue, Either of condemnation or approof ; Bidding the law make court 'sy to their will: Hooking both right and wrong to the appetite. To follow as it draws ! I '11 to my brother : Though he hath fall'n by prompture of the blood, Yet hath he in him such a mind of honour. That, had he twenty heads to tender dovra On twenty bloody blocks, he 'Id yield them up, Before his sister should her body stoop To such abhorr'd pollution. Then, Isabel, live chaste, and, brother, die: More than our brother is our chastity. I '11 tell him yet of Angelo 's request. And fit his mind to death, for his soul's rest. [Exit. ^CT III. SCENE I.— A room in the prison. Enter Duke, disguised as before, Claudio, and Provost. Duke. So then you hope of pardon from Lord Angelo ? Claud. The miserable have no other medicine But only hope : I 've hope to live, and am prepared to die. Duke. Be absolute for death ; either death or life Shall thereby be the sweeter. Reason thus with If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing Qife : 64 That none but fools would keep : a breath thou art, Servile to all the skyey influences. That dost this habitation, where thou keep'st, Hourly afflict : merely, thou art death's fool ; For him thou labour'st by thy flight to shun And yet runn'st toward him still. Thou art not noble ; For all the accommodations that thou bear'st Are nursed by baseness. Thou'rt by no means valiant ; For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork Of a poor worm. Thy best of rest is sleep, ACT III. MEASURE FOB MEASURE. SCENE I. And that thou oft provokest ; yet grossly fear'st Thy death, which is no more. Thou art not thy- For thou exist 'st on many a thousand grains [self; That issue out of dust. Happy thou art not ; For what thou hast not, still thou strivest to get, And what thou hast, forget 'st. Thou art not cer- For thy complexion shifts to strange effects, [tain : After the moon. If thou art rich, thou 'rt poor ; Eor, like an ass whose back with ingots bows. Thou bear'st thy heavy riches but a journey, And death unloads thee. Friend hast thou none ; For thine own bowels, which do call thee sire, The mere effusion of thy proper loins. Do curse the gout, serpigo, and the rheum, For ending thee no sooner. Thou hast nor youth But, as it were, an after-dinner's sleep, [nor age, 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, limb, nor beauty, To make thy riches pleasant. What 's yet in this That bears the name of life ? Yet in this life Lie hid moe thousand deaths : yet death we fear, That makes these odds all even. Claud. I humbly thank you. To sue to live, I find I seek to die ; And, seeking death, find life : let it come on. Isah. [Within] Wliat,ho! Peace here; grace and good company ! Prov. Who 's there ? come in : the wish deserves a welcome. Buke. Dear sir, ere long I '11 visit you again. Claud. Most holy sir, I thank you. Enter Isabella. Isab. My business is a word or two with Claudio. Frov. And very welcome. Look, signior, here 's your sister. Duke. Provost, a word with you. Prov. As many as you please. Duke. Bring me to hear them speak, where I may be concealed. [Exeiont Duke and Provost. Claud. Now, sister, what 's the comfort ? Isab. Why, As all comforts are ; most good, most good indeed. Lord Angelo, having affairs to heaven. Intends you for his swift ambassador. Where you shall be an everlasting lieger : Therefore your best appointment make with speed ; To-morrow you set on. Claud. Is there no remedy ? Isab. Isone, but such remedy as, to save a head. To cleave a heart in twain. Claud. But is there any ? Isab. Yes, brother, you may live : There is a devilish mercy in the judge. If you '11 implore it, that will free your life. But fetter you till death. Claud. Perpetual durance ? Isab. Ay, just ; perpetual durance, a restraint, Though all the world's vastidity you had. To a determined scope. Claud. But in what nature ? Isab. In such a one as, you consenting to 't. Would bark your honour from that trunk you bear, And leave you naked. Claud. Let me know the point. isab. O, I do fear thee, Claudio ; and I quake, Lest thou a feverous life shouldst entertain, And six or seven winters more respect Than a perpetual honour. Darest thou die ? The sense of death is most in apprehension ; And the poor beetle, that we tread upon, In corporal sufferance finds a p9,ng as great As when a giant dies. Claud. Why give you me this shame ? Think you I can a resolution fetch 5 From flowery tenderness ? If I must die, I will encounter darkness as a bride, And hug it in mine arms. [grave Isab. There spake my brother ; there my father's 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 emmew As falcon doth the fowl, is yet a devil ; His filth within being cast, he would appear A pond as deep as hell. Claud. The prenzie Angelo ! Isab. O, 't is the cunning livery of hell. The damned'st body to invest and cover In prenzie guards ! Dost thou think, Claudio ? If I would yield him my virginity. Thou mightst be freed. Claud. O heavens ! it cannot be. Isab. Yes, he would give 't thee, from this rank offence. So to offend him still. This night 's the time That I should do what I abhor to name, Or else thou diest to-morrow. Claud. Thou shalt not do 't. Isab. O, were it but my life, I 'Id throw it down for your deliverance As frankly as a pin. Claud. Thanks, dear Isabel. Isab. Be ready, Claudio, for your death to-morrow. Claud. Yes. Has he affections in him. That thus can make him bite the law by the nose. When he would force it ? Sure, it is no sin ; Or of the deadly seven it is the least. Isab. Which is the least ? Claud. If it were damnable, he being so wise, Why would he for the momentary trick Be perdurably fined ? O Isabel ! Isab. What says my brother ? Claud. Death is a fearful thing. Isab. 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 region 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 thought Imagine howling : 't is too horrible ! The weariest and most loathed worldly life That 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 you beast! faithless coward ! O dishonest wretch ! Wilt thou be made a man out of my vice ? Is 't not a kind of incest, to take life [think ? From thine own sister's shame ? What should I Heaven shield my mother play'd my father fair ! For such a warped slip of wilderness Ne'er issued from his blood. Take my defiance ! Die, perish ! Might but my bending down Reprieve thee from thy fate, it should proceed : 1 '11 pray a thousand prayers for thy death, No word to save thee. Claud. Nay, hear me, Isabel. Isab. O, fie, fie, fie! Thy sin 's not accidental, but a trade. Mercy to thee would prove itself a bawd : 65 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. SCENE II. 'T is best that thou diest quickly. Claud. O hear me, Isabella ! Be-enter Duke. Buke. Vouchsafe a word, young sister, but one Isab. What is your will ? [word. Buke. Might you dispense with your leisure, I would by and by have some speech with you : the satisfaction I would require is likewise your own benefit. Isab. I have no superfluous leisure ; my stay must be stolen out of other affairs ; but I will attend you awhile. [ Walks apart. Buke. Son, I have overheard what hath passed between you and your sister. Angelo had never the purpose to corrupt her; only he hath made an assay of her virtue to practice his judgment with the disposition of natures : she, having the truth of honour in her, hath made him that gracious denial which he is most glad to receive. I am confessor to Angelo, and I know this to be true; therefore prepare yourself to death : do not satisfy your reso- lution with hopes that are fallible : to-morrow you must die ; go to your knees and make ready. Claud. Let me ask my sister pardon. I am so out of love with life that I will sue to be rid of it. Buke. Hold you there : farewell. [_Exit Claudio.] Provost, a word with you ! Ee-enter Provost. Prov. What 's your will, father ? Buke. That now you are come, you will be gone. Leave me awhile with the maid : my mind promises with my habit no loss shall touch her by my com- pany. Prov. In good time. {Exit Provost. Isabella comes forward. Buke. The hand that hath made you fair hath made you good : the goodness that is cheap in beauty makes beauty brief in goodness; but grace, being the soul of your complexion, shall keep the body of it ever fair. The assault that Angelo hath made to you, fortune hath conveyed to my understanding ; and, but that frailty hath examples for his falling, I should wonder at Angelo. How will you do to content this substitute^ and to save your brother ? Isab. I am now gomg to resolve him: I had rather my brother die by the law than my son should be unlawfully born. But, O, how much is the good duke deceived in Angelo ! If ever he return and I can speak to him, I will open my lips in vain, or discover liis government. Buke. That shall not be much amiss : yet, as the matter now stands, he will avoid your accusation ; he made trial of you only. Therefore fasten your ear on my advisings : to the love I have in doing good a remedy presents itself. I do make myself believe that you may most uprighteously do a poor wronged lady a merited benefit; redeem your brother from the angry law ; do no stain to your own gracious person ; and much please the absent duke, if perad venture he shall ever return to have hearing of this business. Isab. Let me hear you speak, father. I have spirit to do any thing that appears not foul in the truth of my spirit. Buke. Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful. Have you not heard speak of Mariana, the sister of Frederick the great soldier who miscarried at sea? Isab. I have heard of the lady, and good words went with her name. Buke. She should this Angelo have married ; was affianced to her by oath, and the nuptial appointed : between which time of the contract and limit of the solemnity, her brother Frederick was wrecked at sea, having in that perished vessel the dowry of his sister. But mark how heavily this befell to the poor gentlewoman : there she lost a noble and re- nowned brother, in his love toward her ever most kind and natural ; with him, the portion and sinew of her fortune, her marriage-dowry; with both, her combinate husband, this well-seeming Angelo. Isab. Can this be so ? did Angelo so leave her ? Buke. Left her in her tears, and dried not one of them with his comfort ; swallowed his vows whole, pretending in her discoveries of dishonour : in few, bestowed her on her own lamentation, which she yet wears for his sake; and he, a marble to her tears, is washed with them, but relents not. Isab. What a merit were it in death to take this poor maid from the world! What corruption in this life, that it will let this man live ! But how out of this can she avail ? Buke. It is a rupture that you may easily heal : and the cure of it not only saves your brother, but keeps you from dishonour in doing it. Isab. Show me how, good father. Buke. This forenamed maid hath yet in her the continuance of her first affection: his unjust un- kindness, that in all reason should have quenched her love, hath, like an impediment in the current, made it more violent and unruly. Go you to Angelo ; answer his requiring with a plausible obedience; agree with his demands to the point ; only refer yourself to this advantage, first, that your stay with him may not be long ; that the time may have all shadow and silence in it ; and the place answer to convenience. This being granted in course,— and now follows all, — we shall advise this wronged maid to stead up your appointment, go in your place ; if the encounter acknowledge itself here- after, it may compel him to her recompense : and here, by this, is your brother saved, your honour untainted, the poor Mariana advantaged, and the corrupt deputy scaled. The maid will I frame and make fit for his attempt. If you think well to carry this as you may, the doubleness of the benefit defends the deceit from reproof. What think you of it V Isab. The image of it gives me content already; and I trust it will grow to a most prosperous per- fection. Buke. It lies much in your holding up. Haste you speedily to Angelo : if for this night he entreat you to his bed, give him promise of satisfaction. I will presently to Saint Luke's: there, at the moated grange, resides this dejected Mariana. At that place call upon me ; and dispatch with Angelo, that it may be quickly. Isab. I thank you for this comfort. Fare you well, good father. [Exeunt severally. SCENE 11.— The street before the prison. Enter, on one side, Duke disguised as before ; on the other, Elbo-w, and Officers with Pompey. Elb. Nay, if there be no remedy for it, but that you will needs buy and sell men and women like beasts, we shall have all the world drink brown and white bastard. Buke. O heavens ! what stuff is here ? Pom. 'Twas never merry world since, of two usuries, the merriest was put down, and the worser allowed by order of law a furred gown to keep him warm ; and furred with fox and lamb-skins too, to signify, that craft, being richer than innocency, stands for the facing. Elb. Come your way, sir. 'Bless you, good father friar. Buke. And you, good brother father. What of- fence hath this man made you, sir V Elb. Marry, sir, he hath offended the law: and, sir, we take him to be a thief too, sir; for we have ACT III. MEASURE FOR MEASURE. SCENE II. found upon him, sir, a strange picklock, which we have sent to the deputy. Bukc. Fie, sirrah ! a bawd, a wicked bawd ! The evil that thou causest to be done, That is thy means to live. Do thou but think What 't is to cram a maw or clothe a back From such a filthy vice : say to thyself. From their abominable and beastly touches I drink, I eat, array myself, and live. Canst thou believe thy living is a life, So stinkingly depending ? Go mend, go mend. Pom. Indeed, it does stink in some sort, sir; but yet, sir, I would prove — [for sin, Duke. Nay, if the devil have given thee proofs Thou wilt prove his. Take him to prison, officer : Correction and instruction must both work Ere this rude beast will profit. Mb. He must before the deputy, sir; he. has given him warning: the deputy cannot abide a whoremaster: if he be a whoremonger, and comes before him, he were as good go a mile on his errand. Duke. That we were all, as some would seem to be. From our faults, as faults from seeming, free ! Elh. His neck will come to your waist, — a cord, sir. Pom. I spy comfort : I cry bail. Here 's a gen- tleman and a friend of mine. Enter Lucio. Lucio. How now, noble Pompey ! What, at the wheels of Caesar ? art thou led in triumph ? What, is there none of Pygmalion's images, newly made woman, to be had now, for putting the hand in the pocket and extracting it clutched? What reply, ha? What sayest thou to this tune, matter and method? Is't not drowned i' the last rain, ha? What sayest thou. Trot ? Is the world as it was, man? Which is the way? Is it sad, and few words ? or how ? The trick of it ? Duke. Still thus, and thus ; still worse ! Lucio. How doth my dear morsel, thy mistress ? Procures she still, ha? Pom. Troth, sir, she hath eaten up all her beef, and she is herself in the tub. Lucio. Why, 'tis good; it is the right of it; it must be so : ever your fresh whore and your pow- dered bawd: an unshunned consequence; it must be so. Art going to prison, Pompey ? Pom. Yes, faith, sir. Lucio. Why, 'tis not amiss, Pompey. Farewell: go, say I sent thee thither. For debt, Pompey? or how ? Elb. For being a bawd, for being a bawd. Lucio. Well, then, imprison him: if imprison- ment be the due of a bawd, why, 't is his right : bawd is he doubtless, and of antiquity too ; bawd- born. Farewell, good Pompey. Commend me to the prison, Pompey : you will turn good husband now, Pompey ; you will keep the house. [bail. Pom. I hope, sir, your good worship will be my Lucio. No, indeed, will I not, Pompey; it is not the wear. I will pray, Pompey, to increase your bondage : if you take it not patiently, why, your mettle is the more. Adieu, trusty Pompey. 'Bless Duke. And you. [you, friar. Lucio. Does Bridget paint still, Pompey, ha ? Elb. Come your ways, sir; come. Pom. You will not bail me, then, sir ? Lucio. Then, Pompey, nor now. What news abroad, friar ? what news ? Elb. Come your ways, sir ; come. Lucio. Go to kennel, Pompey; go. [Exeunt El- bow, Pompey and Officers.] What news, friar, of the duke ? Duke. I know none. Can you tell me of any ? Lucio. Some say he is with the Emperor of Eus- sia; other some, he is in Rome: but where is he, think you ? Duke. I know not where; but wheresoever, I wish him well. Lucio. It was a mad fantastical trick of him to steal from the state, and usurp the beggary he was never born to. Lord Angelo dukes it well in his absence ; he puts transgression to 't. Duke. He does well in 't. Lucio. A little more lenity to lechery would do no harm in him: something too crabbed that way, friar. Duke. It is too general a vice, and severity must cure it. Lucio. Yes, in good sooth, the vice is of a great kindred ; it is well allied : but it is impossible to extirp it quite, friar, till eating and drinking be put down. They say this Angelo was not made by man and woman after this downright way of crea- tion : is it true, think you ? Duke. How should he be made, then ? Lucio. Some report a sea-maid spawned him; some, that he was begot between two stock-fishes. But it is certain that when he makes water his urine is congealed ice; that I know to be true: and he is a motion generative ; that 's infallible. Duke. You are pleasant, sir, and speak apace. Lucio. Why, what a ruthless thing is this in him, for the rebellion of a codpiece to take away the life of a man! Would the duke that is absent have done this ? Ere he would have hanged a man for the getting a hundred bastards, he would have paid for the nursing a thousand : he had some feel- ing of the sport ; he knew the service, and that in- structed him to mercy. Duke. I never heard the absent duke much de- tected for women : he was not inclined that way. Lucio. O, sir, you are deceived. Duke. 'T is not possible. Lucio. Who, not the duke? yes, your beggar of fifty ; and his use was to put a ducat in her clack- dish: the duke had crotchets in him. He would be drunk too ; that let me inform you. Duke. You do him wrong, surely. Lucio. Sir, I was an inward of his. A shy fellow was the duke : and I believe I know the cause of his withdrawing. Duke. What, I prithee, might be the cause ? Lucio. No, pardon; 'tis a secret must be locked within the teeth and the lips: but this I can let you understand, the greater file of the subject held the duke to be wise. Duke. Wise ! why, no question but he was. Ludo. A very superficial, ignorant, unweighing fellow. Duke. Either this is envy in you, folly, or mis- taking : the very stream of his life and the business he hath helmed must upon a warranted need give him a better proclamation. Let him be but testi- monied in his own bringings-forth, and he shall appear to the envious a scholar, a statesman and a soldier. Therefore you speak unskilfully; or if your knowledge be more it is much darkened in your malice. Lucio. Sir, I know him, and I love him. Duke. Love talks with better knowledge, and knowledge with dearer love. Lucio. Come, sir, I know what I know. Duke. 1 can hardly believe that, since you know not what you speak. But, if ever the duke return, as our prayers are he may, let me desire you to make your answer before him. If it be honest you have spoke, you have courage to maintain it : I am bound to call upon you ; and, I pray you, your name ? Lucio. Sir, my name is Lucio ; well known to the duke. Duke. He shall know you better, sir, if I may live to report you. Lucio. 1 fear you not. Duke. O, YOU hope the duke will return no more ; 67 ACT IV. 3IEASURE FOR MEASURE. 5CENE I. or you imagine me too unhurtful an opposite. But indeed I can do you little harm ; you '11 forswear this again. Lucio. I '11 be hanged first : thou art deceived in me, friar. But no more of this. Canst thou tell if Claudio die to-morrow or no ? Duke. Why should he die, sir? Lucio. Why? For filling a bottle with a tun- dish. I would the duke we talk of were returned again: this ungenitured agent will unpeople the province with continency ; sparrows must not build in his house-eaves, because they are lecherous. The duke yet would have dark deeds darkly answered ; he would never bring them to light : would he were returned! Marry, this Claudio is condemned for untrussing. Farewell, good friar: I prithee, pray for me. The duke, I say to thee again, would eat mutton on Fridays. He 's not past it yet, and I say to thee, he would mouth with a beggar, though she smelt brown bread and garlic : say that I said so. Farewell. {Exit. Duke. No might nor greatness in mortality Can censure 'scape ; back-wounding calumny The whitest virtue strikes. What king so strong Can tie the gall up in the slanderous tongue ? But who comes here ? Enter Bscalus, Provost, and Oflacers with Mistress Overdone. Escal. Go ; away with her to prison ! Mrs. Ov. Good my lord, be good to me; your honour is accounted a merciful man ; good my lord. Escal. Double and treble admonition, and still forfeit in the same kind ! This would make mercy swear and play the tyrant. Prov. A bawd of eleven years' continuance, may it please your honour. Mrs. Ov. My lord, this is one Lucio's informa- tion against me. Mistress Kate Keepdown was with child by him in the duke's time ; he promised her marriage : his child is a year and a quarter old, come Philip and Jacob : I have kept it myself ; and see how he goes about to abuse me ! Escal. That fellow is a fellow of much license : let him be called before us. Away with her to prison! Go to; no more words. [Exeunt Officers with Mistress Ov.] Provost, my brother Angelo will not be altered ; Claudio must die to-morrow : let him be furnished with divines, and have all charitable preparation. If my brother wrought by ioj pity, it should not be so with him. Prov. So please you, this friar hath been with him , and advised him for the entertainment of death. Escal. Good even, good father. Duke. Bliss and goodness on you ! Escal. Of whence are you ? Duke. Not of this country, though my chance is To use it for my time : I am a brother [now Of gracious order, late come from the See In special business from his holiness. Escal. What news abroad i' the world ? Duke. None, but that there is so great a fever on goodness, that the dissolution of it must cure it : novelty is only in request ; and it is as dangerous to be aged in any kind of course, as it is virtuous to be constant in any undertaking. There is scarce truth enough alive to make societies secure ; but security enough to make fellowships accurst : much upon this riddle runs the wisdom of the world. This news is old enough, yet it is every day's news. I pray you, sir, of what disposition was the duke? Escal. One that, above all other strifes, contended especially to know himself. Duke. What pleasure was he given to ? Escal. Bather rejoicing to see another merry, than merry at any thing which professed to make him rejoice: a gentleman of all temperance. But leave we him to his events, with a prayer they may prove prosperous ; and let me desire to know how you find Claudio prepared. I am made to under- stand that you have lent him visitation. Duke. He professes to have received no sinister measure from his judge, but most willingly hum- bles himself to the determination of justice: yet had he framed to himself, by the instruction of his frailty, many deceiving promises of life ; which I by my good leisure have discredited to him, and now is he resolved to die. Escal. You have paid the heavens your function, and the prisoner the very debt of your calling. I have laboured for the poor gentleman to the ex- tremest shore of my modesty : but my brother jus- tice have I found so severe, that he hath forced me to tell him he is indeed Justice. Duke. If his own life answer the straitness of his proceeding, it shall become him well ; wherein if he chance to fail, he hath sentenced himself. [well. Escal. I am going to visit the prisoner. Fare you Duke. Peace be with you I [Exeunt Escalus and Provost. He who the sword of heaven will bear . Should be as holy as severe ; Pattern in himself to know, Grace to stand, and vii-tue go ; More nor less to others paying Than by self-offences weighing. Shame to him whose cruel striking Kills for faults of his own liking! Twice treble shame on Angelo, To weed my vice and let his grow ! O, what may man within him hidOj Though angel on the outward side I How may likeness made in crimes, Making practice on the times, To draw with idle spiders' strings Most ponderous and substantial things I Craft against vice I must apply : With Angelo to-night shall lie His old betrothed but despised ; So disguise shall, by the disguised, Pay with falsehood false exacting, And perform an old contracting. [Exit. A^CT IV. SCENE I. — The moated grange at St. Luke''s. Enter Mariana and a Boy. Boy sings. Take, O, take those lips away, That so sweetly were forsworn ; And those eyes, the break of day. Lights that do mislead the morn : But my kisses bring again, bring again ; Seals of love, but sealed in vain, sealed in vain. 68 Mart. Break ofE thy song, and haste thee quick Here comes a man of comfort, whose advice [away : Hath often still'd my brawling discontent. [Exit Boy. Enter Duke disguised as before. I cry you mercy, sir ; and well could wish You had not found me here so musical : Let me excuse me, and believe me so, My mirth it much displeased, but pleased my woe. ACT IV. MEASURE FOR MEASURE. SCENE II. Duke. 'Tis good; though music oft hath such a charm To make bad good, and good provoke to harm. I pray you, tell me, hath any body inquired for me here to-day ? much upon this time have 1 promised here to meet. Mari. You have not been inquired after : I liave sat here all day. Enter Isabella. Dvke. I do constantly believe you. The time is come even now. I shall crave your forbearance a little : may be I will call upon you anon, for some advantage to yourself. Mari. I am always bound to you. {Exit. Duke. Very well met, and well come. What is the news from this good deputy ? Isab. He hath a garden circummured with brick, "Whose western side is with a vineyard back'd ; And to that vineyard is a plan died gate. That makes his opening with this bigger key : This other doth command a little door Which from the vineyard to the garden leads ; There have I made my promise Upon the heavy middle of the night To call upon him. [way ? Duke. But shall you on your knowledge find this Isdb. I have ta'en a due and wary note upon 't : With whispering and most guilty diligence, In action all of precept, he did show me The way twice o'er. Duke. Are there no other tokens Between you 'greed concerning her observance ? Isab. No, none, but only a repair i' the dark ; And that I have possess'd him my most stay Can be but brief ; for I have made him know I have a servant comes with me along, That stays upon me, whose persuasion is I come about my brother. Duke. 'T is well borne up. I have not yet made known to Mariana A word of this. What, ho ! within ! come forth ! Re-enter Mariana. I pray you, be acquainted with this maid ; She comes to do you good. Isab. I do desire the like. Duke. Do you persuade yourself that I respect you y [it. Mari. Good friar, I know you do, and have found Duke. Take, then, this your companion by the Who hath a story ready for your ear. [hand, I shall attend your leisure : but make haste ; The vaporous night approaches. Mari. Will 't please you walk aside ? [Exeunt Mariana and Isabella. Duke. O place and greatness ! millions of false eyes Are stuck upon thee : volumes of report Run with these false and most contrarious quests Upon thy doings : thousand escapes of wit Make thee the father of their idle dreams And rack thee in their fancies. Re-enter Mariana and Isabella. Welcome, how agreed ? Isab. She '11 take the enterprise upon her, father, If you advise it. Duke. It is not my consent, But my entreaty too. Isab. Little have you to say When you depart from him, but, soft and low, ' Remember now my brother.' Mari. Fear me not. Duke. Nor, gentle daughter, fear you not at all. He is your husband on a pre-contract : To bring you thus together, 'tis no sin, Sith that the justice of your title to him Doth flourish the deceit. Come, let us go : Our corn 's to reap, for yet our tithe 's to sow. [Mceunt. SCENE II.— A room in the prison. Enter Provost and Pompey. Prov. Come hither, sirrah. Can you cut off a man's head ? Pom. If the man be a bachelorj sir, I can ; but if he be a married man, he 's his wife's head, and I can never cut off a woman's head. Prov. Come, sir, leave me your snatches, and yield me a direct answer. To-morrow morning are to die Claudio and Barnardine. Here is in our prison a common executioner, who in his office lacks a helper : if you will take it on you to assist him, it shall redeem you from your gyves; if not, you shall have your full time of imprisonment and your deliverance with an unpitied whipping, for you have been a notorious bawd. Pom. Sir, I have been an unlawful bawd time out of mind ; but yet I will be content to be a law- ful hangman. I would be glad to receive some in- struction from my fellow partner. Prov. What, ho ! Abhorson ! Where 's Abhorson, there ? ^ Enter Abhorson. Abhor. Do you call, sir ? Prov. Sirrah, here 's a fellow will help you to- morrow in your execution. If you think it meet, compound with him by the year, and let him abide here with you ; if not, use him for the present and dismiss him. He cannot plead his estimation with you ; he hath been a bawd. Abhor. A bawd, sir ? fie upon him ! he will dis- credit our mystery. Prov. Go to, sir; you weigh equally; a feather will turn the scale. [Exit. Pom. Pray, sir, by your good favour, — for surely, sir, a good favour you have, but that you have a hanging look, — do you call, sir, your occupation a Abhor. Ay, sir; a mystery. [mystery? Pom. Painting, sir, I have heard say, is a mys- tery ; and your whores, sir, being members of my occupation, using painting, do prove my occupation a mystery: but what mystery there should be in hanging, if I should be hanged, I cannot imagine. Abhor. Sir, it is a mystery. Pom. Proof? Abhor. Every true man's apparel fits your thief: if it be too little for your thief, your true man thinks it big enough ; if it be too big for your thief, your thief thinks it little enough : so every true man's apparel fits your thief. He- enter Provost. Prov. Are you agreed ? Pom. Sir, I will serve him; for I do find your hangman is a more penitent trade than your bawd ; he doth oftener ask forgiveness. Prov. You, sirrah, provide your block and your axe to-morrow four o'clock. Abhor. Come on, bawd ; I will instruct thee in my trade ; follow. Pom. I do desire to learn, sir: and I hope, if you have occasion to use me for your own turn, you shall find me yare ; for truly, sir, for your kindness I owe you a good turn. Prov. Call hither Barnardine and Claudio : [Exeunt Pompey and Abhorson. The one has my pity ; not a jot the other. Being a murderer, though he were my brother. Enter Claudio. Look, here 's the warrant, Claudio, for thy death : 'T is now dead midnight, and by eight to-morrow ACT IV. MEASURE FOR MEASURE. SCENE II. Thou must be made immortal. Where 's Barnar- diue ? Claud. As fast lock'd up in sleep as guiltless labour When it lies starkly in the traveller's bones : He will not wake. Prov. Who can do good on him ? Well, go, prepare yourself. {Knocking within.'] But, hark, what noise ? Heaven give your spirits comfort ! [Exit Claudio.] By and by. I hope it is some pardon or reprieve For the most gentle Claudio. Enter Duke disguised as before. Welcome, father. Duke. The best and wholesomest spirits of the night Envelope you, good provost ! Who called here of late ? Prov. None, since the curfew rung. Duke. Not Isabel ? Prov. No. Duke. They will, then, ere 't be long. Prov. What comfort is for Claudio ? Duke. There 's some in hope. Prov. It is a bitter deputy. Duke. Not so, not so; his life is parallel'd Even with the stroke and line of his great justice : He doth with holy abstinence subdue That in himself which he spurs on his power To qualify in others : were he meal'd with that Which he corrects, then were he tyrannous ; But this being so, he 's just. [Knocking within. Now are they come. [Exit Provost. This is a gentle provost : seldom when The steeled gaoler is the friend of men. [Knocking within. How now ! what noise ? That spirit 's possessed with haste [strokes. That wounds the unsisting postern with these He-enter Provost. Prov. There he must stay until the officer Arise to let him in : he is call'd up. Duke. Have you no countermand for Claudio yet. But he must die to-morrow ? Prov. None, sir, none. Duke. As near the dawning, provost, as it is, You shall hear more ere morning. Prov. Happily You something know ; yet I believe there comes No countermand ; no such example have we : Besides, upon the very siege of justice Lord Angelo hath to the public ear Profess'd the contrary. Unter a Messenger. This is his lordship's man. Duke. And here comes Claudio 's pardon. Mes. [Giving a paper] My lord hath sent you this note; and by me this further charge, that you swerve not from the smallest article of it, neither in time, matter, or other circumstance. Good morrow ; for, as I take it, it is almost day. Prov. I shall obey him. [Exit Messenger. Duke. [Aside] This is his pardon, purchased by For which the pardoner himself is in. [such sin Hence hath offence his quick celerity, When it is borne in high authority: When vice makes mercy, mercy 's so extended. That for the fault's love is the offender friended. Now, sir, what news ? Prov. I told you. Lord Angelo, belike thinking me remiss in mine office, awakens me with this un- wonted putting-on ; methinks strangely, for he hath not used it before. 70 Duke. Pray you, let 's hear. Prov. [Reads] ' Whatsoever you may hear to the contrary, let Claudio be executed by four of the clock ; and in the afternoon Barnardine : for my better satisfac- tion, let me have Claudio's head sent me by five. Let this be duly performed ; with a thought that more depends on it than we must yet deliver. Thus fail not to do your office, as you will answer it at your peril.' What say you to this, sir ? Duke. What is that Barnardine who is to be exe- cuted in the afternoon ? Prov. A Bohemian born, but here nursed up and bred ; one that is a prisoner nine years old. Duke. How came it that the absent duke had not either delivered him to his liberty or executed him ? I have heard it was ever his manner to do so. Prov. His friends still wrought reprieves for him : and, indeed, his fact, till now in the government of Lord Angelo, came not to an undoubtful proof. Duke. It is now apparent ? Prov. Most manifest, and not denied by himself. Duke. Hath he borne himself penitently in prison? how seems he to be touched ? Prov. A man that apprehends death no more dreadfully but as a drunken sleep ; careless, reck- less, and fearless of what's past, present, or to come; insensible of mortality, and desperately mortal. Duke. He wants advice. Prov. He will hear none : he hath evermore had the liberty of the prison ; give him leave to escape hence, he would not : drunk many times a day, if not many days entirely drunk. We have very oft awaked him, as if to carry him to execution, and showed him a seeming warrant for it : it hath not moved him at all. Duke. More of him anon. There is written in your brow, provost, honesty and constancy: if I read it not truly, my ancient skill beguiles me ; but, in the boldness of my cunning, I will lay myself in hazard. Claudio, whom here you have warrant to execute, is no greater forfeit to the law than Angelo who hath sentenced him. To make you understand this in a manifested effect, I crave but four days' respite ; for the which you are to do me both a pres- ent and a dangerous courtesy. Prov. Pray, sir, in what ? Duke. In the delaying death. Prov. Alack, how may I do it, having the hour limited, and an express command, under penalty, to deliver his head in the view of Angelo ? I may make my case as Claudio's, to cross this in the smallest. Duke. By the vow of mine order I warrant you, if my instructions may be your guide. Let this Barnardine be this morning executed, and his head borne to Angelo. Prov. Angelo hath seen them both, and will dis- cover the favour. Duke. O, death 's a great disguiser; and you may add to it. Shave the head, and tie the beard ; and say it was the desire of the penitent to be so bared before his death : you know the course is common. If anything fall to you upon this, more than thanks and good fortune, by the saint whom I profess, I will plead against it with my life. Prov. Pardon me, good father; it is against my oath. Duke. Were you sworn to the duke, or to the deputy ? Prov. To him, and to his substitutes. Duke. You will think you have made no offence, if the duke avouch the justice of your dealing V P7-0V. But what likelihood is in that ? Duke. Not a resemblance, but a certainty. Yet ACT IV. 3IEASURE FOR MEASURE. SCENE III, since I see you fearful, that neither my coat, in- tegrity, nor persuasion can with ease attempt you, I will go further than I meant, to pluck all fears out of you. Look you, sir, here is the hand and seal of the duke : you know the character, I doubt not ; and the signet is not strange to you. Prov. I know them both. Duke. The contents of this is the return of the duke : you shall anon over-read it at your pleasure ; where you shall find, within these two days he will be here. This is a thing that Angelo knows not ; for he this very day receives letters of strange tenour; perchance of the duke's death ; perchance entering into some monastery; but, by chance, nothing of what is writ. Look, the unfolding star calls up the shepherd. Put not yourself into amaze- ment how these things should be: all difficulties are but easy when they are known. Call your exe- cutioner, and off with Barnardine's head: I will give him a present shrift and advise him for a better place. Yet you are amazed ; but this shall abso- lutely resolve you. Come away ; it is almost clear dawn. [Exeunt. SCENE III. — Another room in the same. Enter Pompey. Pom. I am as well acquainted here as I was in our house of profession : one would think it were Mistress Overdone's own house, for here be many of her old customers. First, here 's young Master Eash; he 's in for a commodity of brown paper and old ginger, nine-score and seventeen pounds; of which he made five marks, ready money : marry, then ginger was not much in request, for the old women were all dead. Then is there here one Master Caper, at the suit of Master Three-pile the mercer, for some four suits of peach-coloured satin, which now peaches him a beggar. Then have we here young Dizy, and young Master Deep-vow, and Master Copper-spur, and Master Starve-lackey the rapier and dagger man, and young Drop-heir that killed lusty Pudding, and Master Forthlight the tilter, and brave Master Shooty the great traveller, and wild Half-can that stabbed Pots, and, I think, forty more; all great doers in our trade, and are now ' for the Lord's sake.' Enter Abhorson. Abhor. Sirrah, bring Barnardine hither. Pom. Master Barnardine ! you must rise and be hanged. Master Barnardine ! Abhor. What, ho, Barnardine! Bar. [TFii/ii/i] A pox o' your throats! Who makes that noise there ? What are you ? Pom. Your friends, sir ; the hangman. You must be so good, sir, to rise and be put to death. Bar. [Within'l Away, you rogue, away! I am Tei Abhor. Tell him he must awake, and that quickly too. Pom. Pray, Master Barnardine, awake till you are executed, and sleep afterwards. Abhor. Go in to him, and fetch him out. Pom. He is coming, sir, he is coming ; I hear his straw rustle. Abhor. Is the axe upon the block, sirrah ? Pom. Very ready, sir. Enter Barnardine. Bar. How now, Abhorson ? what 's the news with you ? Abhor. Truly, sir, I would desire you to clap into your prayers ; for, look you, the warrant 's come. -Bar. You rogue, I have been drinking all night ; I am not fitted for 't. Pom. O, the better, sir; for he that drinks all night, and is hanged betimes in the morning, may sleep the sounder all the next day. Abhor. Look you, sir; here comes your ghostly father: do we jest now, think you Y Enter Duke disguised as before. Duke. Sir, induced by my charity, and hearing how hastily you are to depart, I am come to advise you, comfort you and pray with you. Bar. Friar, not I : I have been drinking hard all night, and I will have more time to prepare me, or they shall beat out my brains with billets : I will not consent to die this day, that 's certain. [you Duke. O, sir, you must : and therefore I beseech Look forward on the journey you shall go. Bar. I swear I will not die to-day for any man's persuasion. Duke. But hear you. Bar. Not a word : if you have any thing to say to me, come to my ward ; for thence will not I to-day. [Exit. Duke. Unfit to live or die: O gravel heart! After him, fellows ; bring him to the block. [Exeunt Abhorson and Pompey. Re-enter Provost. Prov. Now, sir, how do you find the prisoner? Duke. A creature unprepared , unmeet for death ; And to transport him in the mind he is Were damnable. Prov. Here in the prison, father. There died this morning of a cruel fever One Ragozine, a most notorious pirate, A man of Claudio's years ; his beard and head Just of his colour. What if we do omit This reprobate till he were well inclined ; And satisfy the deputy with the visage Of Ragozine, more like to Claudio ? Duke. O, 'tis an accident that heaven provides! Dispatch it presently ; the hour draws on Prefix'd by Angelo : see this be done. And sent according to command ; whiles I Persuade this rude wretch willingly to die. Prov. This shall be done, good father, presently. But Barnardine must die this afternoon : And how shall we continue Claudio, To save me from the danger that might come If he were known alive ? Duke. Let this be done. Put them in secret holds, both Barnardine and Claudio : Ere twice the sun hath made his journal greeting To the under generation, you shall find Your safety manifested. Prov. I am your free dependant. Duke. Quick, dispatch, and send the head to Angelo. [Exit Provost. Now will I write letters to Angelo, — The provost, he shall bear them,— whose contents Shall witness to him I am near at home. And that, by great injunctions, I am bound To enter publicly : him I '11 desire To meet me at the consecrated fount A league below the city; and from thence, By cold gradation and well-balanced form. We shall proceed with Angelo. Be-enter Provost. Prov. Here is the head ; I '11 carry it myself. Duke. Convenient is it. Make a swift return ; For I would commune with you of such things That want no ear but yours. Prov. I '11 make all speed. [Exit. Isab. [Within] Peace, ho, be here ! Duke. The tongue of Isabel. She 's come to know If yet her brother's pardon be come hither : But I will keep her ignorant of her good, 71 ACT IV. MEASURE FOR MEASURE. SCENE V] To make her heavenly comforts of despair, When it is least expected. Enter Isabella. Isdb. Ho, by your leave ! BuTce. Good morning to you, fair and gracious daughter. Isab. The better, given me by so holy a man. Hath yet the deputy sent my brother's pardon ? Duke. He hath released him, Isabel, from the His head is off and sent to Angelo. [world : Isab. Nay, but it is not so. Duke. It Is no other ; showyour wisdom, daughter, In your close patience. Isab. O, I will to him and pluck out his eyes ! Duke. You shall not be admitted to his sight. Isab. Unhappy Claudio ! wretched Isabel ! Injurious world ! most damned Angelo ! Duke. This nor hurts him nor profits you a jot ; Forbear it therefore ; give your cause to heaven. Mark what I say, which you shall find By every syllable a faithful verity : [eyes ; The duke comes home to-morrow; nay, dry your One of our convent, and his confessor. Gives me this instance : already he hath carried Notice to Escalus and Angelo, Who do prepare to meet him at the gates, There to give up their power. If you can, pace your wisdom In that good path that I would wish it go. And you shall have your bosom on this wretch, Grace of the duke, revenges to your heart, And general honour. Isab. I am directed by you. Duke. This letter, then, to Friar Peter give; 'T is that he sent me of the duke's return : Say, by this token, I desire his company At Mariana's house to-night. Her cause and yours I '11 perfect him withal, and he shall bring you Before the duke, and to the head of Angelo Accuse him home and home. For my poor self, I am combined by a sacred vow And shall be absent. Wend you with this letter : Command these fretting waters from your eyes With a light heart ; trust not my holy order. If I pervert your course. Who 's here V Enter Lucio. Lucio. Good even. Friar, where 's the provost ? Duke. Not within, sir. Lucio. O pretty Isabella, I am pale at mine heart to see thine eyes so red : thou must be patient. I am fain to dine and sup with water and bran ; I dare not for my head fill my belly; one fruitful meal would set me to 't. But they say the duke will be here to-morrow. By my troth, Isabel, I loved thy brother: if the old fantastical duke of dark corners had been at home, he had lived. [Exit Isabella. Duke. Sir, the duke is marvellous little behold- ing to your reports ; but the best is, he lives not in them. Lucio. Friar, thou knowest not tlie duke so well as I do: he's a better woodman than thou takest him for. Duke. Well, you'll answer this one day. Fare ye well. Lucio. Nay, tarry ; I '11 go along with thee : I can tell thee pretty tales of the duke. Duke. You have told me too many of him already, sir, if they be true ; if not true, none were enough. Lucio. I was once before him for getting a wench with child. Duke. Did you such a thing ? Lucio. Yes, marry, did I : but I was fain to for- swear it ; they would else have married me to the rotten medlar. 72 Duke. Sir, your company is fairer than honest. Best you well. Lucio. By my troth, I '11 go with thee to the lane's end: if bawdy talk offend you, we'll have very little of it. Nay, friar, I am a kind of burr : I shall stick. [Exeunt. SCENE TT.—A room in AngeWs house. Enter Angelo and Escalus. Escal. Every letter he hath writ hath disvouched other. Ang. In most uneven and distracted manner. His actions show much like to madness: pray heaven his wisdom be not tainted ! And why meet him at the gates, and redeliver our authorities Escal. I guess not. [there ? Ang. And why should we proclaim it in an hour before his entering, that if any crave redress of injustice, they should exhibit their petitions in the street ? Escal. He shows his reason for that : to have a dispatch of complaints, and to deliver us from de- vices hereafter, which shall then have no power to stand against us. Ang. Well, I beseech you, let it be proclaimed betimes i' the morn; I'll call you at your house: give notice to such men of sort and suit as are to meet him. Escal. I shall, sir. Fare you well. Ang. Good night. [Exit Escalus. This deed unshapes me quite, makes me unpreg- nant And dull to all proceedings. A deflower'd maid ! And by an eminent body that enforced The law against it ! But that her tender shame Will not proclaim against her maiden loss. How might she tongue me! Yet reason dares her no ; For my authority bears of a credent bulk,- That no particular scandal once can touch [lived. But it confounds the breaAlier. He should have Save that his riotous youth, with dangerous sense, Might in the times to come have ta'en revenge, By so receiving a dishonour'd life With ransom of such shame. Would yet he had lived ! Alack, when once our grace we have forgot, Nothing goes right : we would, and we would not. [Exit SCENE v.— Fields without the town. Enter Duke in his own habit, and Friar Peter. Duke. These letters at fit time deliver me : [Giviyig letters. The provost knows our purpose and our plot. The matter being afoot, keep your instruction, And hold you ever to our special drift ; Though sometimes you do blench from this to that, As cause doth minister. Go call at Flavins' house. And tell him where I stay : give the like notice To Valentinus, Rowland, and to Crassus, And bid them bring the trumpets to the gate ; But send me Flavins first. Fri. P. It shall be speeded well. [Exit. Enter Varrius. Duke. 1 thank thee, Varrius ; thou hast made good haste : Come, we will walk. There 's other of our frienda Will greet us here anon, my gentle Varrius. [Exeunt. SCENE VI.— Street near the city gate. Enter Isabella and Mariana. Isab. To speak so indirectly I am loath : I would say the truth ; but to accuse him so, ACT V, 3IEASURE FOR MEASURE. SCENE r. That is your part : yet I am advised to do it ; He says, to veil full purpose. Mari. Be ruled by him. Isah. Besides, he tells me that, if peradventure He speak against me on the adverse side, I should not think it strange; for 't is a physic That 's bitter to sweet end. Mari. I would Friar Peter— Isah. O, peace I the friar is come. Enter Friar Peter. Fri. P. Come, I have found you out a stand most Where you may have such vantage on the duke, [fit, He shall not pass you. Twice have the trumpets The generous and gravest citizens [sounded ; Have hent the gates, and very near upon The duke is entering: therefore, hence, awayl [Exeunt. ^OT V. SCENE I.— The city gate. Mariana veiled, Isabella, and Friar Peter, at their stand. Enter Duke, Varrius, Lords, Angelo, Escalus, Lucio, Provost, Officers, and Citizens, at several doors. DuTce. My very worthy cousin, fairly met I Our old and faithful friend, we are glad to see you. Escal i -^^PPy return be to your royal grace ! ' Duice. Many and hearty thankings to you both. We have made inquiry of you ; and we liear Such goodness of your justice, that our soul Cannot but yield you forth to public thanks, Forermming more requital. Ana. You make my bonds still greater. Duke. O, your desert speaks loud ; and I should wrong it, To lock it in the wards of covert bosom, When it deserves, with characters of brass, A f orted residence 'gainst the tooth of time And razure of oblivion. Give me your hand, And let the subject see, to make them know That outward courtesies would fain proclaim Favours that keep within. Come, Escalus, You must walk by us on our other hand ; And good supporters are you. Friar Peter and Isabella come forward. Fri. P. Now is your time ; speak loud and kneel before him. Isah. Justice, O royal duke ! Vail your regard Upon a wrong'd, I would fain have said, a maid ? O worthy prince, dishonour not your eye By throwing it on any other object Till you have heard me in my true complaint And given me justice, justice, justice, justice ! Duke. Eelate your wrongs : in what ? by whom ? be brief. Here is Lord Angelo shall give you justice: Reveal yourself to him. Isab. O worthy duke, You bid me seek redemption of the devil : Hear me yourself ; for that which I must speak Must either punish me, not being believed, [here I Or wring redress from you. Hear me, O hear me, Ang. My lord, her wits, I fear me, are not firm: She hath been a suitor to me for her brother Cut off by course of justice, — Isab. By course of justice ! Ang. And she will speakmost bitterly and strange. Isab. Most strange , but yet most truly , will I speak: That Angelo 's forsworn ; is it not strange ? That Angelo 's a murderer ; is 't not strange ? That Angelo is an adulterous thief. An hypocrite, a virgin-violator; Is it not strange and strange ? Duke. Nay, it is ten times strange. Isah. It is not truer he is Angelo Than this is all as true as it is strange : Nay, it is ten times true ; for truth is truth To the end of reckoning. Duke. Away with her I Poor soul, She speaks this in the infirmity of sense. Isab. O prince, I conjure thee, as thou believest There is another comfort than this world. That thou neglect me not, with that opinion That I am touch 'd with madness ! Make not im. That which but seems unlike : 't is not impossible But one, the wicked'st caitiff on the ground. May seem as shy, as grave, as just, as absolute As Angelo ; even so may Angelo, In all his dressings, characts, titles, forms, Be an arch-villain; believe it, royal prince: If he be less, he 's nothing ; but he 's more. Had I more name for badness. Duke. By mine honesty. If she be mad, — as I believe no other, — Her madness hath the oddest frame of sense. Such a dependency of thing on thing. As e'er I heard in madness. Isah. O gracious duke, Harp not on that, nor do not banish reason For inequality ; but let your reason serve To make the truth appear where it seems hid, And hide the false seems true. Duke. Many that are not mad Have, sure, more lack of reason. What would you Isah. 1 am the sister of one Claudio, [say ? Condemn 'd upon the act of fornication To lose his head ; condemn'd by Angelo : I, in probation of a sisterhood, Was sent to by my brother ; one Lucio As then the messenger, — Lucio. That 's I, an 't like your grace : I came to her from Claudio, and desired her To try her gracious fortune with Lord Angelo For her poor brother's pardon. Isah. That 's he indeed. Duke. You were not bid to speak. Lucio. No, my good lord ; Nor wish'd to hold my peace. Duke. I wish you now, then ; Pray you, take note of it : and when you have A business for yourself, pray heaven you then Be perfect. Lucio. I warrant your honour. Duke. The warrant's for yourself : take heed to 't. Isah. This gentleman told somewhat of my tale,— Lucio. Right. Duke. It may be right; but you are i'the wrong To speak before your time. Proceed. Isah. I went To this pernicious caitiff deputy,— Duke. That 's somewhat madly spoken. Isah. Pardon it : The phrase is to the matter. Duke. Mended again. The matter ; proceed. Isah. In brief, to set the needless process by, How I persuaded, how I pray'd, and kneel'd. How he refell'd me, and how I replied,— For this was of much length,— the vile conclusion I now begin with grief and shame to utter : 73 ACT V. 3IEASURE FOR MEASURE. SCENE He would uot, but by gift of my chaste body To his concupiscible intemperate lust, Release my brother; and, after much debatement, My sisterly remorse confutes mine honour. And I did yield to him : but the next morn betimes, His purpose surfeiting, he sends a warrant For my poor brother's head. Duke. This is most likely ! Iscib. O, that it were as like as it is true ! Duke. By heaven, fond wretch, thou know'st not what thou speak'st. Or else thou art suborn'd against his honour In hateful practice. First, his integrity Stands without blemish. Next, it imports no reason That with such vehemency he should pursue Faults proper to himself : if he had so offended. He would have weigh'd thy brother by himself And not have cut him off. Some one hath set you Confess the truth, and say by whose advice [on : Thou earnest here to complain. Isub. And is this all V Then, O you blessed ministers above. Keep me in patience, and with ripen 'd time Unfold the evil which is here wrapt up [woe, In countenance! Heaven shield your grace from As I, thus virrong'd, hence unbelieved go ! Duke. I know you 'Id fain be gone. An officer ! To prison with her ! Shall we thus permit A blasting and a scandalous breath to fall On him so near us ? This needs must be a practice. Who knew of your intent and coming hitlier ? Isab. One that I would were here. Friar Lodowick. Duke. A ghostly father, belike. Who knows that Lodowick ? Lucio. My lord, I know him ; 't is a meddling friar ; I do not like the man : had he been lay, my lord. For certain words he spake against your grace In. your retirement, I had swinged him soundly. Duke. Words against me ! this is a good friar, be- And to set on this wretched woman here [like ! Against our substitute ! Let this friar be found. Lucio. But yesternight, my lord, she and that friar, I saw them at the prison : a saucy friar, A very scurvy fellow. Fri. P. Blessed be your royal grace ! I have stood by, my lord, and I have heard Your royal ear abused. First, hath this woman Most wrongfully accused your substitute. Who is as free from touch or soil with her As she from one ungot. Duke. We did believe no less. Know you that Friar Lodowick that she speaks of ? Fri. P. I know him for a man divine and holy ; Not scurvy, nor a temporary meddler, As he 's reported by this gentleman ; And, on my trust, a man that never yet Did, as he vouches, misreport your grace. Lucio. My lord, most villanously ; believe it. Fri. P. Well, he in time may come to clear him- But at this instant he is sick, my lord, [self ; Of a strange fever. Upon his mere request, Being come to knowledge that there was complaint Intended 'gainst Lord Angelo, came I hither. To speak, as from his mouth, what he doth know Is true and false ; and what he with his oath And all probation will make up full clear. Whensoever he 's convented. First, for this woman, To justify this worthy nobleman, So vulgarly and personally accused, Her shall you hear disproved to her eyes, Till she herself confess it. Duke. Good friar, let 's hear it. {Isabella is carried off guarded; and Mariana comes for toard. Do you not smile at this. Lord Angelo ? O heaven, tlie vanity of wretched fools ! Give us some seats. Come, cousin Angelo; 74 In this I '11 be impartial ; be you judge Of your own cause. Is this the witness, friar ? First, let her show her face, and after speak. Mari. Pardon, my lord ; I will not show my face Until my husband bid me. Duke. What, are you married ? Mari. No, my lord. Duke. Are you a maid ? Mari. No, my lord. Duke. A widow, then ? Mari. Neither, my lord. Duke. Why, you are nothing then ; neither maid, widow, nor wife ? ' Lucio. My lord, she may be a punk; for many of them are neither maid, widow, nor wife. [cause Duke. Silence that fellow : I would he had some To prattle for himself. Lucio. Well, my lord. Mari. My lord, I do confess I ne'er was married ; And I confess besides I am no maid : I have known my husband ; yet my husband Knows not that ever he knew me. [better. Lucio. He was drunk then my lord : it can be no Duke. For the benefit of silence, would thou wert Lucio. Well, my lord. [so too! Duke. This is no witness for Lord Angelo. Mari. Now I come to 't, my lord : She that accuses him of fornication. In self-same manner doth accuse my husband, And charges him, my lord, with such a time When I '11 depose I had him in mine arms With all the effect of love. Ang. Charges she more than me ? Mari. Not that I know. Duke. No ? you say your husband. Mari. Why, just, my lord, and that is Angelo, Who thinks he knows that he ne'er knew my body, But knows he thinks that he knows Isabel's. A7ig. This is a strange abuse. Let 's see thy face. Mari. My husband bids me; now I .will un- mask. [Unveiling. This is that face, thou cruel Angelo, Which once thou sworest was worth the looking on ; This is the hand which, with a vow'd contract. Was fast belock'd in thine ; this is the body That took away the match from Isabel, And did supply thee at thy garden-house In her imagined person. Duke. Know you this woman ? Lucio. Carnally, she says. Duke. Sirrah, no more ! Lucio. Enough, my lord. Ang. My lord, I must confess I know this woman : And five years since there was some speech of mar- riage Betwixt myself and her ; which was broke off. Partly for that her promised proportions Came short of composition, but in chief For that her reputation was disvalued In levity : since which time of five years I never spake with her, saw her, nor heard from her, Upon my faith and honour. Mari. Noble prince, [breath, As there comes light from heaven and words from As there is sense in truth and truth in virtue, I am affianced this man's wife as strongly As words could make up vows : and, my good lord, But Tuesday night last gone in 's garden-house He knew me as a wife. As this is true, Let me in safety raise me from my knees ; Or else for ever be confixed here, A marble monument. Ang. I did but smile till now : Now, good my lord, give me the scope of justice ; My patience here is touch'd. I do perceive These poor informal women are no more But instruments of some more mightier member ACT V. 3IEASURE FOR 3IEASURE. SCENE I. That sets them on : let me have way, my lord, To find this practice out. Duke. Ay, with my heart ; And punish them to your height of pleasure. Thou foolish friar, and thou pernicious woman. Compact with her that 's gone, think'st thou thy oaths, [saint. Though they would swear down each particular Were testimonies against his worth and credit That 's seal'd in approbation ? You, Lord Escalus, Sit with my cousin ; lend him your kind pains To find out this abuse, whence 'tis derived. There is another friar that set them on ; Let him be sent for. [deed FtL p. Would he were here, my lord ! for he in- Hath set the women on to this complaint : Yowc provost knows the place where he abides And he may fetch him. Duke. Go do it instantly [Exit Provost. And you, my noble and well-warranted cousin, Whom it concerns to hear this matter forth, Do with your injuries as seems you best. In any chastisement : I for a while will leave you ; But stir not you till you have well determined Upon these slanderers. Escal. My lord, we '11 do it thoroughly. [Exit Duke. Signior Lucio, did not you say you knew that Friar Lodowick to be a dishonest person ? Lucio. ' Cucullus non facit monachum : ' honest in nothing but in his clothes; and one that hath spoke most villanous speeches of the duke. Escal. We shall entreat you to abide here till he come and enforce them against him : we shaU find this friar a notable fellow. Lucio. As any in Vienna, on my word. Escal. Call that same Isabel here once again : I would speak with her. [Exit an Attendant.] Pray you, my lord, give me leave to question; you shall see how I '11 handle her. Lucio. Not better than he, by her own report. Escal. Say you? Lucio. Marry, sir, I think, if you handled her privately, she would sooner confess : perchance, pub- licly, she '11 be ashamed. Escal. I will go darkly to work with her. Lucio. That 's the way ; for women are light at midnight. Be-enier Oflacers with Isabella ; and Provost with the Duke in his friar'' s habit. Escal. Come on, mistress : here 's a gentlewoman denies all that you have said. Lucio. My lord, here comes the rascal I spoke of; here with the provost. Escal. In very good time : speak not you to him till we call upon you. Lucio. Mum. Escal. Come, sir: did you set these women on to slander Lord Angelo ? they have confessed you did. Duke. 'T is false. Escal. How ! know you where you are ? [devil Duke. Respect to your great place! and let the Be sometime honor'd for his burning throne ! Where is the duke ? 't is he should hear me speak. Escal. The duke 's in us ; and we will hear you Look you speak justly. [speak : Duke. Boldly, at least. But, O, poor souls. Come you to seek the lamb here of the fox ? Good night to your redress ! Is the duke gone ? Then is your cause gone too. The duke 's unjust, Thus to retort your manifest appeal. And put your trial in the villain's mouth Which here you come to accuse. Lucio. This is the rascal ; this is he I spoke of. Escal. Why, thou unreverend and mihallow'd friar. Is 't not enough thou hast suborn 'd these women To accuse this worthy man, but, in foul mouth And in the v/itness of his proper ear, To call him villain ? and then to glance from him To the duke himself, to tax him with injustice ? Take him hence ; to the rack with him ! We '11 touse you Joint by joint, but we will know his purpose. What ' unjust ' ! Duke. Be not so hot ; the duke Dare no more stretch this finger of mine than he Dare rack his ovm : his subject am I not, Nor here provincial. My business in this state Made me a looker on here in Vienna, Where I have seen corruption boil and bubble Till it o'er-run the stew; ]aws for all faults, But faults so countenanced, that the strong statutes Stand like the forfeits in a barber's shop, As much in mock as mark. [prison ! Escal. Slander to the state ! Away with him to Ang. What can you vouch against him, Signior Is this the man that you did tell us of ? [Lucio Y Lucio. 'T is he, my lord. Come hither, goodman baldpate : do you know me ? Duke. I remember you, sir, by the soimd of your voice : I met you at the prison, in the absence of the duke. Lucio. O, did you so V And do you remember what you said of the duke ? Duke. Most notedly, sir. Lucio. Do you so, sir ? And was the duke a flesh- monger, a fool, and a coward, as you then reported him to be ? Duke. You' must, sir, change persons with me, ere you make that my report : you, indeed, spoke so of him ; and much more, much worse. Lucio. O thou damnable fellow ! Did not I pluck thee by the nose for thy speeches ? Duke. I protest I love the duke as I love myself. Ang. Hark, how the villain would close now, after his treasonable abuses ! Escal. Such a fellow is not to be talked withal. Away with him to prison ! Where is the provost i* Away with him to prison ! lay bolts enough upon him: let him speak no more. Away with those giglots too, and with the other confederate com- panion ! Duke. [To Pro wsi] Stay, sir; stay awhile. Ang. What, resists he V Help him, Lucio. Lucio. Come, sir; come, sir; come, sir; fob, sirl Why, you baldpated, lying rascal, you must be hooded, must you? Show your knave's visage, with a pox to you! show your sheep-biting face, and be hanged an hour ! Will 't not off ? [Pulls off the friar ^s hood, and discovers the Duke. Duke. Thou art the first knave that e'er madest a duke. First, provost, let me bail these gentle three. [To Lucio] Sneak not away, sir; for the friar and Must have a word anon. Lay hold on him. [you Lucio. This may prove worse than hanging. Duke. [To Escalus] What you have spoke I par- don : sit you down : [your leave. We '11 borrow place of him. [To Angelo] Sir, by Hast thou or word, or wit, or impudence. That yet can do thee office ? If thou hast, Rely upon it till my tale be heard. And hold no longer out. Ang. my dread lord, I should be guiltier than my guiltiness, To think I can be undiscernible, Wlien I perceive your grace, like power divine, Hath look'd upon my passes. Then, good prince, No longer session hold upon my shame. But let my trial be mine own confession : Immediate sentence then and sequent death Is all the grace I beg. 75 ACT V. MEASURE FOR MEASURE. SCENE I. Buke. Come hither, Mariana. • Say, wast thou e'er contracted to this woman ? Ana. I was, my lord. Duke. Go take her lience, and marry her instantly. Do you the office, friar ; which consummate, Keturn him here again. Go with him, provost. [Exeunt Angela, Mariana., Friar Peter and Provost. Escal. My lord, I am more amazed at his dishonour Than at the strangeness of it. Duke. Come hither, Isabel. Your friar is now your prince : as I was then Advertising and holy to your business, Not changing heart with habit, I am still Attorney 'd at your service. Isah. O, give me pardon, That I, your vassal, have employ'd and pain'd Your unknown sovereignty ! Duke. You are pardon'd, Isabel : And now, dear maid, be you as free to us. Your brother's death, I know, sits at your heart ; And you may marvel why I obscured myself, Labouring to save his life, and would not rather Make rash remonstrance of my hidden power Than let him so be lost. O most kind maid. It was the swift celerity of his death, "Which I did think with slower foot came on. That brain 'd my purpose . But , peace be with him ! That life is better life, past fearing death. Than that which lives to fear : make it your comfort, So happy is your brother. Isab. I do, my lord. He-enter Angelo, Mariana, Friar Peter, and Provost. Duke. For this new-married man approaching Whose salt imagination yet hath wrong'd [here, Your well defended honour, you must pardon For Mariana's sake: but as he adjudged your Being criminal, in double violation [brother,— Of sacred chastity and of promise-breach Thereon dependent, for your brother's life, — The very mercy of the law cries out Most audible, even from his proper tongue, ' An Angelo for Claudio, death for death !' Haste still pays haste, and leisure answers leisure ; Like doth quit like, and measure still for meas- Then, Angelo, thy fault 's thus manifested ; [tire. Which, though thou wouldst deny, denies thee van- We do condemn thee to the very block [tage. Where Claudio stoop 'd to death , and with like haste. Away with him ! Mari. O my most gracious lord, I hope you will not mock me with a husband, [band. Duke. It is your husband mock'd you with a bus- Consenting to the safeguard of your honour, I thought your marriage fit ; else imputation. For that he knew you, might reproach your life And choke your good to come: for his possessions. Although by confiscation they are ours. We do instate and widow you withal. To buy you a better husband. Jfari. O my dear lord, I crave no other, nor no better man. Duke. Never crave him ; we are definitive. Mari. Gentle my liege, — [Kneeling. Duke. You do but lose your labour. Away with him to death ! [ To Lucio] Now, sir, to you. Mari. O my good lord ! Sweet Isabel, take my part ; Lend me your knees, and all my life to come X '11 lend you all my life to do you service. Duke. Against all sense you do importune her : Should she kneel down in mercy of this fact, Her brother's ghost his paved bed would break, And take her hence in horror. Mari. Isabel, Sweet Isabel, do yet but kneel by me; Hold up your hands, say nothing ; I '11 speak all. They say, best men are moulded out of faults ; And, for the most, become much more the better For being a little bad : so may my husband. Isabel, will you not lend a knee ? Duke. He dies for Claudio's death. Isab. Most bounteous sir, [Kneeling. Look, if it please you, on this man condenm'd, As if my brother lived : I partly think A due sincerity govern'd his deeds. Till he did look on me : since it is so. Let him not die. My brother had but justice, In that he did the thing for which he died : For Angelo, His act did not o'ertake his bad intent, And must be buried but as an intent That perish'd by the way : thoughts are no subjects ; Intents but merely thoughts. Mari. Merely, my lord. Duke. Your suit 's unprofitable ; stand up, I say. 1 have bethought me of another fault. Provost, how came it Claudio was beheaded At an unusual hour ? Prov. It was commanded so. Duke. Had you a special warrant for the deed ? Prov. No, my good lord ; it was by private message. Duke. For which I do discharge you of your office : Give up your keys. Prov. Pardon me, noble lord : I thought it was a fault, but knew it not ; Yet did repent me, after more advice : For testimony whereof, one in the prison, That should by private order else have died, I have reserved alive. Duke. What 'she? Prov. His name is Barnardine. Duke. 1 would thou hadst done so by Claudio. Go fetch him hither ; let me look upon him. [Exit Provost. Escal. 1 am sorry, one so learned and so wise As you. Lord Angelo, have still appear'd, - Should slip so grossly, both in the heat of blood, And lack of temper'd judgment afterward. Ang. I am sorry that such sorrow I procure : And so deep sticks it in my penitent heart That I crave death more willingly than mercy ; 'T is my deserving, and I do entreat it. Be-enter Provost, with Barnardine, Claudio muffled, and Juliet. Duke. Which is that Barnardine ? Prov. This, my lord. Duke. There was a friar told me of this man. Sirrah, thou art said to have a stubborn soul, That apprehends no further than this world, And squarest thy life according. Thou'rt con- demn 'd: But, for those earthly faults, I quit them aU; And pray thee take this mercy to provide For better times to come. Friar, advise him; [that? I leave him to your hand. What muffled fellow 's Prov. This is another prisoner that I saved, Who should have died when Claudio lost his head ; As like almost to Claudio as himself. [Unmuffles Claudio. Duke. [To Isabella] If he be like your brother, for his sake Is he pardon'd ; and, for your lovely sake. Give me your hand and say you will be mine. He is my brother too : but fitter time for that. By this Lord Angelo perceives he 's safe ; Methinks I see a quickening in his eye. Well, Angelo, your evil quits you well : [yours. Look that you love your wife; her worth worth I find an apt remission in myself; And yet here 's one in place I cannot pardon. [To Lucio] You, sirrah, that knew me for a fool, a One all of luxury, an ass, a madman ; [coward, ACT V. MEASURE FOR 3IEASURE. SCENE I, ■Wherein have I so deserved of you, That you extol me thus ? Ludo. 'Faith^ my lord, I spoke it but according to the trick. II: you will hang me for it, you may ; but I had rather it would please you I might be whipt. Buke. Whipt first, sir, and hanged after. Proclaim it, provost, round about the city, Is any woman wrong'd by this lewd fellow. As I have heard him swear himself there 's one Whom he begot with child, let her appear. And he shall marry her : the nuptial finish'd. Let him be whipt and hang'd. Lucio. I beseech your highness, do not marry me to a whore. Your highness said even now, I made you a duke : good my lord, do not recompense me in making me a cuckold. Buke. Upon mine honour, thou shalt marry her. Thy slanders I forgive ; and therewithal Eemit thy other forfeits. Take him to prison ; And see our pleasure herein executed. Lucio. Marrying a punk, my lord, is pressing to death, whipping, and hanging. Buke. Slandering a prince deserves it. [Exeunt Officers with Lucio. She, Claudio, that you wrong'd, look you restore. Joy to you, Mariana ! Love her, Angelo : I have confess'd her and I know her virtue. Thanks, good friend Escalus, for thy much good- ness : There 's more behind that is more gratulate. Thanks, provost, for thy care and secrecy : We shall employ thee in a worthier place. Forgive him, Angelo, that brought you home The head of Ragozine for Claudio 's : The offence pardons itself. Dear Isabel, I have a motion much imports your good ; Whereto if you '11 a willing ear incline. What 's mine is yours and what is yours is mine. So, bring us to our palace ; where we '11 show What 's yet behind, that 's meet you all should know. [Exeunt. -I warrant, it is : and thy head stands so tickle on thy shoulders, that a milkmaid, if she be in love, may sigh it oS. Send after the duke, and appeal to him. Claudio.— 1 have done so, but he 's not to be found. I prithee, Lucio, do me this kind service. This day my sister should the cloister enter, And there receive her approbation : Acquaint her vrith the danger of my state ; Implore her, in my voice, that she make friends To the strict deputy ; bid herself assay him : I have great hope in that ; for in her youth There is a prone and speechless dialect. Such as move men ; beside, she hath prosperous art, When she will play with reason and discourse, And well she can persuade.— Act I., Scene ii. THE COMEDY OF EEEOES. DBAMATIS PEBSONM. Solinus, Duke of Ephesus. Mgeaa., a merchant of Syracuse. Antipholus of Ephesus, r twin brothers, and sons Antipholus of Syracuse, ( to ^geon and ^Emilia. Dromio of Ephesus, f*^^'^ brothers, and attend- Dromio of Syracuse, 1 ^'^^ ^^'^ *^« *^« Antipho- V. luses. Balthazar, a merchant. Angelo, a goldsmith. First Merchant, friend to Antipholus of Syracuse. Second Merchant, to whom Angelo is a debtoi Pinch, a schoolmaster. .^Emilia, wife to ^geon, an abbess at Ephesua Adriana, wife to Antipholus of Ephesus. Luciana, her sister. Luce, servant to Adriana. A Courtezan, Gaoler, Officers, and other Attendants. SCES&— Ephesus. [For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page ^OT I. SCENE I. — A hall in the Duke's palace. Enter Duke, ^geon, G-aoler, OfiScers, and other Attendants. ^ge. Proceed, Solinus, to procure my fall And "by the doom of death end woes and all. Duke. Merchant of Syracusa, plead no more; I am not partial to infringe our laws : The enmity and discord which of late Sprung from the rancorous outrage of your duke To merchants, our well-dealing countrymen, Who wanting guilders to redeem their lives Have seal'd his rigorous statutes with their bloods, Excludes all pity from our threatening looks. For, since the mortal and intestine jars 'Twixt thy seditious countrymen and us, It hath in solemn synods been decreed, Both by the Syracusians and ourselves. To admit no traffic to our adverse towns : Nay, more, If any born at Ephesus be seen At any Syracusian marts and fairs ; Again : if any Syracusian born Come to the bay of Ephesus, he dies, His goods confiscate to the duke's dispose, Unless a thousand marks be levied. To quit the penalty and to ransom him. Thy substance, valued at the highest rate, Cannot amount unto a hundred marks ; Therefore by law thou art condemn'd to die. ^ge. Yet this my comfort : when your words are My woes end likewise with the evening sun. [done, Duke. Well, Syracusian, say in brief the cause Why thou departed'st from thy native home And for what cause thou camest to Ephesus. /Ege. A heavier task could not have taeen imposed Than I to speak my griefs unspeakable : Yet, that the world may witness that my end Was wrought by nature, not by vile offence, I '11 utter what my sorrow gives me leave. In Syracusa was I born, and wed Unto a woman, happy but for me. And by me, had not our hap been bad. With her I lived in joy ; our wealth increased By prosperous voyages I often made To Epidamnum ; till my factor's death And the great care of goods at random left 78 Drew me from kind embracements of my spouse: From whom my absence was not six months old Before herself, almost at fainting under The pleasing punishment that women bear, Had made provision for her following me And soon and safe arrived where I was. There had she not been long but she became A joyful mother of two goodly sons ; And, which was strange, the one so like the other As could not be distinguish 'd but by names. That very hour and in the self-same inn A meaner woman was delivered Of such a burden, male twins, both alike : Those, for their parents were exceeding poor, I bought and brought up to attend my sons. My wife, not meanly proud of two such boys, Made daily motions for our home return : Unwilling I agreed ; alas I too soon We came aboard. A league from Epidamnum had we sail'd, Before the always wind-obeying deep Gave any tragic instance of our harm : But longer did we not retain much hope ; For what obscured light the heavens did grant Did but convey unto our fearful minds A doubtful warrant of immediate death ; Which though myself would gladly have embraced, Yet the incessant weepings of my wife. Weeping before for what she saw must come. And piteous plainings of the pretty babes. That mourn'd for fashion, ignorant what to fear, Forced me to seek delays for them and me. And this it was, for other means was none: The sailors sought for safety by our boat. And left the ship, then sinking-ripe, to us : My wife, more careful for the latter-born. Had fasten'd him unto a small spare mast, Such as seafaring men provide for storms; To him one of the other twins was bound. Whilst I had been like heedful of the other: The children thus disposed, my wife and I, Fixing our eyes on whom our care was fix'd, Fasten'd ourselves at either end the mast ; And floating straight, obedient to the stream, Were carried towards Corinth, as we thought. At length the sun, gazing upon the earth. Dispersed those vapours that offended us ; ACT THE C03IEDY OF ERRORS. SCENE II And, by the benefit of his wished light, The seas wax'd calm, and we discovered Two ships from far making amain to us, Of Corinth that, of Epidaurus this : But ere they came, — O, let me say no more ! Gather the sequel by that went before. [so ; Duke. Nay, forward, old man; do not break off For we may pity, though not pardon thee. uMge. O, had the gods done so, I had not now Worthily term'd them merciless to us ! Tor, ere the ships could meet by twice five leagues. We were encounter'd by a mighty rock; Which being violently borne upon. Our helpful ship was splitted in tlie midst ; So that, in this unjust divorce of us, Fortune had left to both of us alike What to delight in, what to sorrow for. Her part, poor soul ! seeming as burdened With lesser weight but not with lesser woe. Was carried with more speed before the wind ; And in our sight they three were taken up By fishermen of Corinth, as we thought. At length, another ship had seized on us ; And, knowing whom it was their hap to save, Gave healthful welcome to tlieir shipwreck'd guests; And would have reft the fishers of their prey. Had not their bark been very slow of sail ; And therefore homeward did they bend their course. Thus have you heard me sever'd from my bliss, That by misfortunes was my life prolong 'd, To tell sad stories of my own mishaps. [for, Buke. And for the sake of them thou sorrowest Do me the favour to dilate at full What hath befall 'n of them and thee till now. Mge. My yoimgest boy, and yet my eldest care, At eighteen years became inquisitive After his brother : and importuned me That his attendant — so his case was like. Reft of his brother, but retain 'd his name — Might bear him company in the quest of him : Whom whilst I labour'd of a love to see, I hazarded the loss of whom 1 loved. Five summers have I spent in furthest Greece, Roaming clean through the bounds of Asia, And, coasting homeward, came to Ephesus ; Hopeless to find, yet loath to leave unsought Or that or any place that harbours men. But here must end the story of my life ; And happy were I in my timely death. Could all my travels warrant me they live. Duke. Hapless MgQon, whom the fates have To bear the extremity of dire mishap ! [mark'd Now, trust me, were it not against our laws, Against my crown, my oath, my dignity. Which princes, would they, may not disannul. My soul should sue as advocate for thee. But, though thou art adjudged to the death And passed sentence may not be recall 'd But to our honour's great disparagement, Yet I will favour thee in what I can. Therefore, merchant, I '11 limit thee this day To seek thy life by beneficial help : Try all the friends thou hast in Ephesus ; Beg thou, or borrow, to make up the sum, And live ; if no, then thou art doom'd to die. Gaoler, take him to thy custody. Gaol. I will, my lord. j^ge. Hopeless and helpless doth ^geon wend, But to procrastinate his lifeless end. [Exeunt. SCENE 11.— The Mart. Enter Antipholus of Syracuse, Dromio of Syra- cuse, and First Merchant. First Mer. Therefore give out your are of Epidam- Lest that your goods too soon be confiscate, [num, This very day a Syracusian merchant Is apprehended for arrival here ; And not being able to buy out his life According to the statute of the town Dies ere the weary sun set in the west. There is your money that I had to keep. Ayit. S. Go bear it to the Centaur, where we host, And stay there, Dromio, till I come to thee. Within this hour it will be dinner-time : Till that, I '11 view the manners of the town, Peruse the traders, gaze upon the buildings. And then return and sleep within mine inn, For with long travel I am stiff and weary. Get thee away. Dro. S. Many a man would take you at your word, And go indeed, having so good a mean. [Exit. Ant. S. A trusty villain, sir, that very oft. When I am dull with care and melancholy. Lightens my humour with his merry jests. What, will you walk with me about the town, And then go to my inn and dine with me i* First Mer. I am invited, sir, to certain merchants, Of whom I hope to make much benefit ; I crave your pardon. Soon at five o'clock. Please you, I '11 meet with you upon the mart And afterward consort you till bed-time : My present business calls me from you now. Ant. S. Farewell till then : 1 will go lose myself And wander up and down to view the city. First Mer. Sir, I commend you to your own con- tent. [Exit. Ant. S. He that commends me to mine own con- Commends me to the thing I cannot get. [tent I to the world am like a drop of water That in the ocean seeks another drop. Who, falling there to find his fellow forth, Unseen, inquisitive, confounds himself: So I, to find a mother and a brother. In quest of them, unhappy, lose myself. Enter Dromio of Ephesus. Here comes the almanac of my true date. What now ? how chance thou art return 'd so soon ? Dro. E. Return'd so soon ! rather approach'd too The capon burns, the pig falls from the spit, [late : The clock hath strucken twelve upon the bell ; My mistress made it one upon my cheek : She is so hot because the meat is cold ; The meat is cold because you come not home ; You come not home because you have no stomach ; You have no stomach having broke your fast ; But we that know what 't is to fast and pray Are penitent for your default to-day. [pray : Ant. S. Stop in your wind, sir: tell me this, I Where have you left the money that I gave you ? Dro. E. O,— sixpence, that I had o' AVednesday To pay the saddler for my mistress' crupper ? [last The saddler had it, sir; I kept it not. Ant. S. I am not in a sportive humour now : Tell me, and dally not, where is the money ? We being strangers here, how darest thou trust So great a charge from thine own custody ? Dro. E. I pray you, jest, sir, as you sit at dinner: I from my mistress come to you in post ; If I return, I shall be post indeed, For she will score your fault upon my pate. Methinks your maw, like mine, should be your clock And strike you liome without a messenger. Ant. S. Come, Dromio, come, these jests are out of season ; Reserve them till a merrier hour than this. Where is the gold I gave in charge to thee ? Dro. E. To me, sir ? why, you gave no gold to me. Ant. S. Come on, sir knave, have done your fool- ishness And tell me how thou hast disposed thy charge. Dro. E. My charge was but to fetch you from the mart 79 ACT II. THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. SCENE I. Home to your house, the Phoenix, sir, to dinner: My mistress and lier sister stays for you. Ant. S. Now, as I am a Christian, answer me In what safe place you have bestow'd my money, Or I shall break that merry sconce of yours That stands on tricks when I am undisposed : AVhere is the thousand marks thou hadst of me ? Bro. E. I have some marks of yours upon my pate, Some of my mistress' marks upon my shoulders, But not a thousand marks between you both. If I should pay your worship those again, Perchance you will not bear them patiently. Ant. S. Thy mistress' marks? what mistress, slave, hast thou ? [Phoenix ; JDro. E. Your worship's wife, my mistress at the She that doth fast till you come home to dinner And prays that you will hie you home to dinner. Ant. S. What, wilt thou flout me thus unto my face. Being forbid ? There, take you that, sir knave. Dro. E. What mean you, sir V for God's sake, hold your hands ! Nay, an you will not, sir, I '11 take my heels. [Exit. Ant. S. Upon my life, by some device or other The villain is o'er-raught of all my money. They say this town is full of cozenage. As, nimble jugglers that deceive the eye. Dark-working sorcerers that change the mind, Soul-killing witches that deform the body. Disguised cheaters, prating mountebanks, And many such-like liberties of sin : . If it prove so, I will be gone the sooner. I '11 to the Centaur, to go seek this slave: I greatly fear my money is not safe. [Exit. j^CT II. SCENE I. — llie house of Antipholus of Ephesus. Enter Adriana and Luciana. Adr. Neither my husband nor the slave return 'd. That in such haste I sent to seek his master ! Sure, Luciana, it is two o'clock. Lice. Perhaps some merchant hath invited him And from the mart he 's somewhere gone to dinner. Good sister, let us dine and never fret : A man is master of his liberty : Time is their master, and when they see time They 'U go or come : if so, be patient, sister. Adr. AVhy should their liberty than ours be more ? Luc. Because their business still lies out o' door. Adr. Look, when I serve him so, he takes it ill. Luc. O, know he is the bridle of your will. Adr. There 's none but asses will be bridled so. Luc. AVhy, headstrong liberty is lash'd with woe. There 's nothing situate under heaven's eye But hath his bound, in earth, in sea, in sky: The beasts, the fishes and the winged fowls Are their males' subjects and at their controls: Men, more divine, the masters of all these. Lords of the wide world and wild watery seas, Indued with intellectual sense and souls, Of more pre-eminence than fish and fowls. Are masters to their females, and their lords: Then let your will attend on their accords. Adr. This servitude makes you to keep unwed. Luc. Not this, but troubles of the marriage-bed. Adr. But, were you wedded, you would bear some sway. Luc. Ere I learn love, I '11 practise to obey. Adr. How if your husband start some other where ? Luc. Till he come home again, I would forbear. Adr. Patience unmoved ! no marvel though she pause ; They can be meek that have no other cause. A wretched soul, bruised with adversity, We bid be quiet when we hear it cry ; But were we burden'd with like weight of pain, As much or more we should ourselves complain : So thou, that hast no unkind mate to grieve thee. With urging helpless patience wouldst relieve me ; But, if thou live to see like right bereft. This fool-begg'd patience in thee will be left. Lu£. Well, I will marry one day, but to try. Here comes your man ; now is your husband nigh. Enter Dromio of Ephesus. Adr. Say, is your tardy master now at hand ? Bro. E. Nay, he 's at two hands with me, and that my two ears can witness. Adr. Say, didst thou speak with him ? know'st thou his mind ? Bro. E. Ay, ay, he told his mind upon mine ear ; Beshrew his hand, I scarce could understand it. Luc. Spake he so doubtfully, thou couldst not feel his meaning ? Bro. E. Nay, he struck so plainly, I could too well feel his blows ; and withal so doubtfully that I could scarce understand them. Adr. But say, I prithee, is he coming home ? It seems he hath great care to please his wife. [mad. Bro. E. Why, mistress, sure my master is horn- Adr. Horn-mad, thou villain ! Bro. E. 1 mean not cuckold-mad ; But, sure, he is stark mad. When I desired him to come home to dinner. He ask'd me for a thousand marks in gold : ' 'T is dinner-time,' quoth I ; ' My gold ! ' quoth he : ' Your meat doth burn,' quoth I ; ' My gold ! ' quoth he : [lie, ' Will you come home ? ' quoth I ; ' My gold ! ' quoth ' Where is the thousand marks I gave thee, villain ? ' ' The pig,' quoth I, ' is burn'd ; ' ' My gold ! ' quoth he : ' My mistress, sir,' quoth I ; ' Hang up thy mistress ! I know not thy mistress ; out on thy mistress ! ' Luc. Quoth who ? Bro. E. Quoth my master : ' I know,' quoth he, ' no house, no wife, no mistress.' So that my errand, due unto my tongue, I thank him, I bare home upon my shoulders ; For, in conclusion, he did beat me there. [home. Adr. Go back again, thou slave, and fetch him Bro. E. Go back again, and be new beaten home ? Por God's sake, send some other messenger. Adr. Back, slave, or I will break thy pate across. Bro. E. And he will bless that cross with other Between you I shall have a holy head. [beating : Adr. Hence, prating peasant! fetch thy master home. Bro. E. Am I so round with you as you with me, That like a football you do spurn me thus ? You spurn me hence, and he will spurn me hither: If I last in this service, you must case me in leather. [Exit. Luc. Fie, how impatience loureth in your face ! Adr. His company must do his minions grace. Whilst I at home starve for a merry look. Hath homely age the alluring beauty took From my poor cheek ? then he hath wasted it : Are my discourses dull y barren my wit ? If voluble and sharp discourse be marr'd, Unkindness blunts it more than marble hard : Do their gay vestments his affections bait ? That 's not my fault ; he 's master of my state? ACT II. THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. SCENE II, What ruins are in me that can be found, By him not ruin'd ? then is he the ground Of my defeatures. My decayed fair A sunny look of liis would soon repair : But, too unruly deer, he breaks the pale And feeds from home ; poor I am but his stale. Luc. Self-harming jealousy ! fle, beat it hence ! Adr. Unfeeling fools can with such wrongs dis- I know his eye doth homage otherwhere ; [pense. Or else what lets it but he would be here ? Sister, you know he promised me a chain ; Would that alone, alone he would detain, So he would keep fair quarter with his bed ! I see the jewel best enamelled Will lose his beauty ; yet the gold bides still, That others touch, and often touching will Wear gold : and no man that hath a name, By falsehood and corruption doth it shame. . Since that my beauty cannot please his eye, I '11 weep what 's left away, and weeping die. Luc. How many fond fools serve mad jealousy ! {Exeunt. SCENE 11.— A public -place. Enter Antipholus of Syracuse. 'Ant. S. The gold I gave to Dromio is laid up Safe at the Centaur ; and the heedful slave Is wander 'd forth, in care to seek me out By computation and mine host's report. I could not speak with Dromio since at first I sent him from the mart. See, here he comes. Enter Dromio of Syracuse. How now, sir ! is your merry humour alter'd ? As you love strokes, so jest with me again. You know no Centaur ? you received no gold ? Your mistress sent to have me home to dinner ? My house was at the Phoenix ? Wast thou mad, That thus so madly thou didst answer me ? [word ? Dro. S. What answer, sir ? when spake I such a Ant. S. Even now, even here, not half an hour since. Dro. S. I did not see you since you sent me hence, Home to the Centaur, with the gold you gave me. Ant. S. Villain, thou didst deny the gold's receipt And told'st me of a mistress and a dinner; For which, I hope, thou felt'st I was displeased. Bro. S. I am glad to see you in this merry vein : What means this jest ? I pray you, master, tell me. Ant. S. Yea, dost thou jeer and flout me in the teeth ? Think'st thou I jest ? Hold, take thou that, and that. [Beating him. Bro. S. Hold, sir, for God's sake ! now your "jest is Upon what bargain do you give it me ? [earnest : Ant. S. Because that I familiarly sometimes Do use you for my fool and chat with you. Your sauciness will jest upon my love And make a common of my serious hours. When the sun shines let foolish gnats make sport. But creep in crannies when he hides his beams. If you will jest with me, know my aspect And fashion your demeanour to my looks. Or I will beat this method in your sconce. Bro. S. Sconce call you it ? so you would leave battering, I had rather have it a head: an you use these blows long, I must get a sconce for my head and insconce it too ; or else I shall seek my wit in my shoulders. But, I pray, sir^ why am I beaten ? Ant. S. Dost thou not know if Bro. S. Nothing, sir, but that I am beaten. Ant. S. Shall I tell you why ? Bro. S. Ay, sir, and wherefore : for they say every why hath a wherefore. Ant. S. Why, first, — for flouting me; and then, wherefore, — For urging it the second time to me. 6 Bro. S. Was there ever any man thus beaten out of season. When in the why and the wherefore is neither rhyme nor reason ? Well, sir, I thank you. Ant. S. Thank me, sir ! for what ? Bro. S. Marry, sir, for this something that you gave me for nothing. Ant. S. I '11 make you amends next, to give you nothing for something. But say, sir, is it dinner- time? Bro. S. No, sir: I think the meat wants that I Ant. S. In good time, sir; what 's that ? [have. Bro. S. Basting. Ant. S. Well, sir, then 't will be dry. Bro. S. If it be, sir, I pray you, eat none of it. Ant. S. Your reason ? Bro. S. Lest it make you choleric and purchase me another dry basting. Ant. S. Well, sir, learn to jest in good time: there 's a time for all things. Bro. S. I durst have denied that, before you were so choleric. Ant. S. By what rule, sir ? Bro. S. Marry, sir, by a rule as plain as the plain bald pate of father Time himself. Ant. S. Let 's hear it. Bro. S. There 's no time for a man to recover his hair that grows bald by nature. Ant. S. May he not do it by fine and recovery ? Bro. S. Yes, to pay a fine for a periwig and re- cover the lost hair of another man. Ant. S. Why is Time such a niggard of hair, being, as it is, so plentiful an excrement ? Bro. S. Because it is a blessing that he bestows on beasts ; and what he hath scanted men in hair he hath given them in wit. Ant. S. Why, but there 's many a man hath more hair than wit. Bro. S. Not a man of those but he hath the wit to lose his hair. Ant. S. Why, thou didst conclude hairy men plain dealers without wit. Bro. S. The plainer dealer, the sooner lost : yet he loseth it in a kind of jollity. Ant. S. For what reason ? Bro. S. For two ; and sound ones too. Ant. S. Nay, not sound, I pray you. Bro. S. Sure ones then. Ant. S. Nay, not sure, in a thing falsing. Bro. S. Certain ones then. Ant. S. Name them. Bro. S. The one, to save the money that he spends in trimming ; the other, that at dinner they should not drop in his porridge. Ant. S. You would all this time have proved there is no time for all things. Bro. S. Marry, and did, sir; namely, no time to recover hair lost by nature. Ant. S. But your reason was not substantial, why there is no time to recover. Bro. S. Thus I mend it: Time himself is bald and therefore to the world's end will have bald fol- lowers. Ant. S. I knew 'twould be a bald conclusion: But, soft ! who wafts us yonder ? Enter Adriana and Luciana. Adr. Ay, ay, Antipholus, look strange and frown : Some other mistress hath thy sweet aspects ; I am not Adriana nor thy wife. The time was once when thou unur^ed wouldst vow That never words were music to thine ear, That never object pleasing in thine eye, That never touch well welcome to thy hand, That never meat sweet-savour 'd in thy taste, [thee. Unless I spake, or look'd, or touched, or carved to 81 ACT III. THE C03IEDY OF ERRORS. SCENE I, How comes it now, my husband, O, how comes it, That thou art thus estranged from thyself ? Thyself I call it, being strange to me, That, undividable, incorporate, Am better than thy dear self's better part. Ah, do not tear away thyself from me! For know, my love, as easy mayst thou fall A drop of water in the breaking gulf And take unmingled thence that drop again, "Without addition or diminishing. As take from me thyself and not me too. How dearly would it touch thee to the quick, yhouldst thou but hear I were licentious And that this body, consecrate to thee. By ruffian lust should be contaminate ! Wouldst thou not spit at me and spurn at me And hurl the name of husband in my face And tear the stain'd skin off my harlot-brow And from my false hand cut the wedding-ring And break it with a deep-divorcing vow y I know thou canst ; and therefore see thou do it. I am possess 'd with an adulterate blot ; My blood is mingled with the crime of lust: For if we two be one and thou play false, I do digest the poison of thy flesh. Being strumpeted by thy contagion. Keep then fair league and truce with thy true bed ; I live unstain'd, thou undishonoured. [not : Ant. S. Plead you to me, fair dame ? I know you In Ephesus I am but two hours old, As strange unto your town as to your talk ; Who, every word by all my wit being scann'd, Want wit in all one word to understand. [you ! Luc. Fie, brother ! how the world is changed with When were you wont to use my sister thus ? She sent for you by Dromio home to dinner. Ant. S. By Dromio ? Dro. S. By me ? Aclr. By thee; and this thou didst return from That he did buffet thee and in his blows [him. Denied my house for his, me for his wife, [woman ? Ant. S. Did you converse, sir, with this gentle- What is the course and drift of your compact ? , -Dro. S. I, sir ? I never saw her till this time. Ant. S. Villain, thou liest ; for even her very words Didst thou deliver to me on the mart. Dro. S. I never spake with her in all my life. Ant. S. How can she thus then call us by our Unless it be by inspiration. [names, Adr. How ill agrees it with your gravity To counterfeit thus grossly with your slave, Abetting him to thwart me in my mood ! Be it my wrong you are from me exempt. But wrong not that wrong with a more contempt. Come, I will fasten on this sleeve of thine : Thou art an elm, my husband, I a vine. Whose weakness married to thy stronger state Makes me with thy strength to communicate : If aught possess thee from me, it is dross, Usurping ivy, brier, or idle moss ; Who, all for want of pruning, with intrusion Infect thy sap and live on thy confusion, [theme ■. Ant. S. To me she speaks ; she moves me for her What, was I married to her in my dream? Or sleep I now and think I hear all this ? What error drives our eyes and ears amiss ? Until I know this sure uncertainty, I '11 entertain the offer'd fallacy. Luc. Dromio, go bid the servants spread for dinner. Dro. S. O, for my beads! I cross me for a sinner. This is the fairy land : O spite of spites ! We talk with goblins, owls and sprites : If we obey them not, this will ensue, They '11 suck our breath or pinch us black and blue. Luc. Why pratest thou to thyself and an- swer's!, not? Dromio, thou drone, thou snail, thou slug, thou sot I Dro. S. 1 am transformed, master, am I not ? Ant. S. I think thou art in mind, and so am I. Dro. S. Nay, master, both in mind and in my shape. Ant. S. Thou hast thine own form. Dro. S. No, I am an ape. Luc. If thou art changed to aught, 't is to an ass. I Dro. S. 'T is true ; she rides me and I long for 'T is so, I am an ass ; else it could never be [grass. But I should know her as well as she knows me. Adr. Come, come, no longer will I be a fool, To put the finger in the eye and weep. Whilst man and master laugh my woes to scorn. Come, sir, to dinner. Dromio, keep the gate. Husband, I '11 dine above with you to-day And shrive you of a thousand idle pranks. Sirrah, if any ask you for your master, Say he dines forth and let no creature enter. Come, sister. Dromio, play the porter well. Ant. S. Am I in earth, in heaven, or in heU ? Sleeping or waking ? mad or well-advised ? Known unto these, and to myself disguised! I '11 say as they say, and perse ver so. And in this mist at all adventures go. Dro. S. Master, shall I be porter at the gate ? Adr. Ay ; and let none enter, lest I break your pate. Luc. Come, come, Antipholus, we dine too late. [Exeunt. j^CT III. SCENE I. — Before the house of Antipholus of E2)hesus. Enter Antipholus of Ephesus, Dromio of Ephesus, Angelo, and Balthazar. Ant. E. Good Signior Angelo, you must excuse us My wife is shrewish when I keep not hours : [all ; Say that I linger'd witli you at your shop To see the making of her carcanet And that to-morrow you will bring it home. But here 's a villain that would face me down He met me on the ihart and that I beat him And charged him with a thousand marks in gold And that I did deny my wife and house. Thou drunkard, thou, what didst thou mean by this ? Dro. E. Say what you will, sir, but I know what I know ; That you beat me at the mart, I have your hand to show : If the skin were parchment and the blows you gave were ink, Your own handwriting would tell you what I think. Ant. E. I think thou art an ass. Dro. E. Marry, so it doth appear By the wrongs I suffer and the blows I bear. I should kick, being kick'd ; and, being at that pass, You would keep from my heels and beware of an ass. Ant. E. You 're sad, Signior Balthazar : pray God our cheer [liere. May answer my good will and your good welcome Bal. I hold your dainties cheap, sir, and your welcome dear. Ant. E. O, Signior Balthazar, either at flesh or fish, A table full of welcome makes scarce one dainty dish. [affords. Bal. Good meat, sir, is common ; that every churl Ant. E. And welcome more common ; for that 's nothing but words. ACT III. THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. SCENE II. Bal. Small cheer and great welcome makes a merry feast. Ant. E. Ay to a niggardly host and more sparing guest : [part ; But though my cates be mean, take them in good Better cheer may you have, but not with better heart. But, soft ! my door is lock'd. Go bid them let us in. Dro. JE. Maud, Bridget, Marian, Cicely, Gillian, Ginn ! Dro. S. [Within] Mome, malt-horse, capon, cox- comb, idiot, patch! [hatch. Either get thee from the door or sit down at the Dost thou conjure for wenches, that thou call'st for such store, [door. "When one is one too many ? Go get thee from the Dro. E. What patch is made our porter ? My master stays in the street. Dro. S. [Within] Let him walk from whence he came, lest he catch cold on 's feet. [door ! Ant. E. Who talks within there? ho, open the Dro. S. [Within] Eight, sir; I 'U tell you when, an you '11 tell me wherefore. Ant. E. Wherefore ? for my dinner : I have not dined to-day. Dro. S. [ Within] Nor to-day here you must not ; come again when you may. Ant. E. What art thou that keepest me out from the house I owe V Dro. S. [Within] The porter for this time, sir, and my name is Dromio. Dro. E. O vUlain! thou hast stolen both mine office and my name. The one ne'er got me credit, the other mickle blame. If thou hadst been Dromio to-day in my place, Thou wouldst have changed thy face for a name or thy name for an ass. Luce. [Within] What a coil is there, Dromio? who are those at the gate ? Dro. E. Let my master in. Luce. Licce. [Within] Faith, no; he comes too late; And so tell your master. Dro. E. O Lord, I must laugh ! Have at you with a proverb — Shall I set in my staff ? Duce. [ Within] Have at you with another ; that 's — Wlien ? can you tell ? Dro. S. [Within] If thy name be call'd Luce, — Luce, thou hast answer'd him well. Ant. E. Do your hear, you minion ? you '11 let us in, I hope ? Luce. [Within] I thought to have ask'd you. Dro. S. [ Within] And you said no. Dro. E. So, come, help : well struck ! there was blow for blow. Ant. E. Thou baggage, let me in. Luce. [ Within] Can you tell for whose sake ? Dro. E. Master, knock the door hard. Luce. [ Within] Let him knock till it ache. Ant. E. You '11 cry for this, minion, if I beat the door down. Luce. [Within] What needs all that, and a pair of stocks in the town ? Adr. [ Within] Who is that at the door that keeps all this noise ? Dro. S. [Within] By my troth, your town is troubled with unruly boys. Ant. E. Are you there, wife ? you might have come before. Adr. [Within] Your wife, sir knave! go get you from the door. Dro. E. If you went in pain, master, this ' knave' would go sore. Ang. Here is neither cheer, sir, nor welcome: we would fain have either. Bal. In debating which was best, we shall part with neither. Dro. E. They stand at the door, master: bid them welcome hither. Ant. E. There is something in the wind, that we cannot get in. Dro. E. You would say so, master, if your gar- ments were thin. Yoiir cake there is warm within ; you stand here in the cold : It would make a man mad as a buck, to be so bought and sold. Ant. E. Go fetch me something : I '11 break ope the gate. Dro. S. [Within] Break any breaking here, and I '11 break your knave's pate. Dro. E. A man may break a word with you, sir, and words are but wind, [hind. Ay, and break it in your face, so he break it not be- Dro. S. [ITii/im] It seems thou want 'st breaking: out upon thee, hind ! Dro. E. Here 's too much ' out upon thee ! ' I pray thee, let me in. Dro. S. [ Within] Ay, when fowls have no feathers and fish have no fin. Ant. E. Well, I '11 break in : go borrow me a crow. Dro. E. A crow without feather ? Master, mean you so ? [feather : For a fish without a fin, there 's a fowl without a If a crow help us in, sii-rah, we 'U pluck a crow together. Ant. E. Go get thee gone ; fetch me an iron crow. Bal. Have patience, sir; O, let it not be so! Herein you war against your reputation And draw within the compass of suspect The un violated honour of your wife. Once this, — your long experience of her wisdom, Her sober virtue, years and modesty, Plead on her part some cause to you unknown ; And doubt not, sir, but she will well excuse Why at this time the doors are made against you. Be ruled by me : depart in patience. And let us to the Tiger all to dinner. And about evening come yourself alone To know the reason of this strange restraint. If by strong hand you offer to break in Now in the stirriag passage of the day, A vulgar comment will be made of it. And that supposed by the common rout Against your yet ungalled estimation That may with foul intrusion enter in And dwell upon your grave when you are dead ; For slander lives upon succession. For ever housed where it gets possession, [quiet, Ant. E. You have prevail'd: I wiU depart in And, ui despite of mirth, mean to be merry. I know a wench of excellent discourse, Pretty and witty, wild and yet, too, gentle : There will we dine. This woman that I mean, My wife — but, I protest, without desert — Hath oftentimes upbraided me withal : To her will we to dinner. [To Ang.] Get you home And fetch the chain ; by this I know 't is made : Bring it, I pray you, to the Porpentine ; For there 's the house : that chain will I bestow — Be it for nothing but to spite my wife — Upon mine hostess there : good sir, make haste. Since mine own doors refuse to entertain me, I '11 knock elsewhere, to see if they 'U disdain me. Ang. I '11 meet you at that place some hour hence. Ant. E. Do so. This jest shall cost me some ex- pense. [Exeu7it. SCENE 11.— The same. Enter Luciana and Antipholus of Syracuse. Luc. And may it be that you have quite forgot A husband's office ? shall, Antipholus, Even in the spring of love, thy love-springs rot ? Shall love, in building, grow so ruinous ? If you did wed my sister for her wealth, [ness . Then for her wealth's sake use her with more kind- ACT III. THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. SCENE II. Or if you like elsewhere, do it by stealth ; Muffle your false love with some show of blind- Let not my sister read it in your eye ; [ness : Be not thy tongue thy own shame's orator; Look sweet, speak fair, become disloyalty ; Apparel vice like virtue's harbinger; Bear a fair presence, though your heart be tainted ; Teach sin the carriage of a holy saint ; Be secret-false : what need she be acquainted ? What simple thief brags of his own attaint ? 'T is double wrong, to truant with your bed And let her read it in thy looks at board : Shame hath a bastard fame, well managed ; 111 deeds are doubled with an evil word. Alas, poor women ! make us but believe. Being compact of credit, that you love us ; Though others have the arm, show us the sleeve ; We in your motion turn and you may move us. Then, gentle brother, get you in again; Comfort my sister, cheer her, call her wife : 'T is holy sport to be a little vain, When the sweet breath of flattery conquers strife. Ant. S. Sweet mistress,— what your name is else, I know not, Nor by what wonder you do hit of mine, — [not Less m your knowledge and your grace you show Than our earth's wonder, more than earth divine. Teach me, dear creature, how to think and speak ; Lay open to my earthy-gross conceit, Smother'd in errors, feeble, shallow, weak. The folded meaning of your words' deceit. Against my soul's pure truth why labour you To make it wander in an unknown field ? Are you a god ? would you create me new ? Transform me then, and to your power I '11 yield. But if that I am I, then well I know Your weeping sister is no wife of mine, Kor to her bed no homage do I owe : Tar more, far more to you do I decline. O, train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note, To drown me in thy sister's flood of tears : Sing, siren, for thyself and I will dote : Spread o'er the silver waves thy golden hairs, And as a bed I '11 take them and there lie, And in that glorious supposition think He gains by death that hath such means to die : Let Love, being light, be drowned if she sink! Inic. What, are you mad, that you do reason so ? Ant. S. Not mad, but mated ; how, I do not know. Luc. It is a fault that springeth from your eye. Ant. S. For gazing onyour beams,fair sun,beingby. Luc. Gaze where you should, and that will clear your sight. [night. Ant. S. As good to wink, sweet love, as look on Luc. Why call you me love ? call my sister so. Ant. S. Thy sister's sister. Luc. That 's my sister. Ant. S. No; It is thyself, mine own self's better part. Mine eye's clear eye, my dear heart's dearer heart, My food, my fortune and my sweet hope's aim, My sole earth's heaven and my heaven's claim. Luc. All this my sister is, or else should be. Ayit. S. Call thyself sister, sweet, for I am thee. Thee will I love and with thee lead my life : Thou hast no husband yet nor I no wife. Give me thy hand. Luc. O, soft, sir ! hold you still : I '11 fetch my sister, to get her good will. [Exit. Enter Dromio of Syracuse. Ant. S. Why, how now, Dromio ! where rimn'st thou so fast I* Dro. S. Do you know me, sir? am I Dromio? am I your man ? am I myself ? Ant. S. Thou art Dromio, thou art my man, thou art thyself. 84 Lro. S. 1 am an ass, I am a woman's man and besides myself. Ant. S. What woman's man? and how besides thyself ? Lro. S. Marry, sir, besides myself, I am due to a woman ; one that claims me, one that haunts me, one that will have me. Ant. S. What claim lays she to thee ? Dro. S. Marry, sir, such claim as you would lay to your horse ; and she would have me as a beast : not that, I being a beast, she would have me; but that she, being a very beastly creature, lays claim to me. Ant. S. What is she ? Lro. S. A very reverent body; ay, such a one as a man may not speak of without he say ' Sir-rever- ence.' I have but lean luck in the match, and yet is she a wondrous fat marriage. Ant. S. How dost thou mean a fat marriage ? Dro. 8. Marry, sir, she 's the kitchen wench and all grease ; and I know not what use to put her to but to make a lamp of her and run from her by her own light. I warrant, her rags and the tallow in them will burn a Poland winter: if she lives tiU doomsday, she'll burn a week longer than the whole world. Ant. S. What complexion is she of ? Dro. S. Swart, like my shoe, but her face nothing like so clean kept : for why, she sweats ; a man may go over shoes in the grime of it. Ant. S. That 's a fault that water will mend. Dro. S. No, sir, 'tis in grain; Noah's flood could not do it. Ant. S. What 's her name ? Dro. S. Nell, sir; but her name and three quar- ters, that 's an ell and three quarters, wiU not meas- ure her from hip to hip. Ant. S. Then she bears some breadth ? Dro. S. No longer from head to foot than from hip to hip : she is spherical, like a globe ; I could find out countries in her. Ant. S. In what part of her body stands Ireland ? Dro. S. Marry, sir, in her buttocks: I found it out by the hogs. Ant. S. Where Scotland ? Dro. S. I found it by the barrenness ; hard in the palm of the hand. Ant. S. Where France ? Dro. S. In her forehead; armed and reverted, making war against her hair. Ant. S. Where England ? Dro. S. 1 looked for the chalky cliffs, but I could find no whiteness in them ; but I guess it stood in her chin, by the salt rheum that ran between France and it. Ant. S. Where Spain? Dro. S. Faith, I saw it not ; but I felt it hot in her breath. Ant. S. Where America, the Indies? Dro. S. Oh, sir, upon her nose, aU o'er embel- lished with rubies, carbuncles, sapphires, declining their rich aspect to the hot breath of Spain ; who sent whole armadoes of caracks to be ballast at her Ant. 8. Where stood Belgia, the Netherlands ? Dro. 8. Oh, sir, I did not look so low. To con- elude, this drudge, or diviner, laid claim to me: called me Dromio ; swore I was assured to her ; told me what privy marks I had about me, as, the marl^ of my shoulder, the mole in my neck, the great warl on my left arm, that I amazed ran from her as a witch : And, I think, if my breast had not been made of faith and my heart of steeL She had transform 'd me to a curtal dog and made me turn i' the wheel. Ant. 8. Go hie thee presently, post to the road : ACT IV. THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. SCENE I. An if the wind blow any way from shore, I will not harbour in this town to-night : If any bark put forth, come to the mart, Where I will walk till thou return to me. If every one knows us and we know none, 'T is time, I think, to trudge, pack and be gone. Bro. S. As from a bear a man would run for life. So fly I from her that would be my wife. [Exit. Ant. S. There 's none but witches do inhabit here ; And therefore 't is high time that I were hence. She that doth call me husband, even my soul Doth for a wife abhor. But her fair sister, Possess 'd with such a gentle sovereign grace, Of such enchanting presence and discourse. Hath almost made me traitor to myself : But, lest myself be guilty to self -wrong, I '11 stop mine ears against the mermaid's song. Unter Angelo with the chain. Ang. Master Antipholus,— Ant. S. Ay, that 's my name. Ang. I know it well, sir : lo, here is the chain. I thought to have ta'en you at the Porpentine : The chain unfinish'd made me stay thus long. Ant. (S. What is your will that I shall do with this ? Ang. What please yourself, sir : I have made it for you. Ant. S. Made it for me, sir ! I bespoke it not. Ang. Not once, nor twice, but twenty times you have. Go home with it and please your wife withal ; And soon at supper-time I '11 visit you And then receive my money for the cliain. Ant. S. I pray you, sir, receive the money now, Por fear you ne'er see chain nor money more. Ang. You are a merrv man, sir : fare you well. [Mcit. Ant. S. What I should think of this, I cannot tell : But this I think, there 's no man is so vain That would refuse so fair an offer'd chain. I see a man here needs not live by shifts. When in the streets he meets such golden gifts. I '11 to the mart and there for Dromio stay : If any ship put out, then straight away. [Mcit. j^.CT IV. I. — A public place. Enter Second Merchant, Angelo, and an Officer. Sec. Mer. You know since Pentecost the Sum is And since I have not much importuned you ; [due, Nor now I had not, but that I am bound To Persia and want guilders for my voyage : Therefore make present satisfaction, Or I 'U attach you by this officer. Ang. Even just the sum that I do owe to you Is growing to me by Antipholus, And in the instant that I met with you He had of me a chain : at five o'clock I shall receive the money for the same. Pleaseth you walk with me down to his house, I will discharge my bond and thank you too. Enter Antipholus of Ephesus and Dromio of Ephesus from the courtezan's. Off. That labour may you save: see where he comes. [thou Ant. E. While I go to the goldsmith's house, go And buy a rope's end : that will I bestow Among my wife and her confederates. For locking me out of my doors by day. But, soft ! I see the goldsmith. Get thee gone ; Buy thou a rope and bring it home to me. Dro. E. I buy a thousand pound a year : I buy a rope. [Exit. Ant. E. A man is well holp up that trusts to you : I promised your presence and the chain ; But neither chain nor goldsmith came to me. Belike you thought our love would last too long. If it were chain'd together, and therefore came not. Ang. Saving your merry humour, here 's the note How much your chain weighs to the utmost carat, The fineness of the gold and chargeful fashion, Which doth amount to three odd ducats more Than I stand debted to this gentleman : I pray you, see him presently discharged, Por he is bound to sea and stays but for it. Ant. E. I am not furnish'd with the present money ; Besides, I have some business in the town. Good signior, take the stranger to my house And with you take the chain and bid my wife Disburse the sum on the receipt thereof : Perchance I will be there as soon as you. Ang. Then you will bring the chain to her your- self? Ant. E. No; bear it with you, lest I come not time enough. [you ? Ang. Well, sir, I will. Have you the chain about Ant. E. An if I have not, sir, I hope you have ; Or else you may return without your money. Ang. Nay, come, I pray you, sir, give me the chain : Both wind and tide stays for this gentleman, Ajid I, to blame, have held him here too long. Ant. E. Good Lord ! you use this dalliance to ex- Your breach of promise to the Porpentine. [cuse I should have chid you for not bringing it, But, like a shrew, you first begin to brawl, [patch. Sec. Mer. The hour steals on ; I pray you, sir, dis- Ang. You hear how he importunes me; — the chain ! [money. Ant. E. Why, give it to my wife and fetch your Ang. Come, come, you know I gave it you even now. Either send the chain or send me by some token. Ant. E. Fie, now you run this humour out of breath. Come, where 's the chain ? I pray you, let me see it. Sec. Mer. My business cannot brook this dalliance. Good sir, say whether you '11 answer me or no : If not, I '11 leave him to the officer. Ant. E. I answer you ! what should I answer you ? Ang. The money that you owe me for the chain. Ant. E. I owe you none till I receive the chain. Ang. You know I gave it you half an hour since. Ant. E. You gave me none : you wrong me much to say so. Ang. You wrong me more, sir, in denying it : Consider how it stands upon my credit. Sec. Mer. Well, officer, arrest him at my suit. Off. 1 do ; and charge you in the duke's name to obey me. Ang. This touches me in reputation. Either consent to pay this sum for me Or I attach you by this officer. Ant. E. Consent to pay thee that I never had I Arrest me, foolish fellow, if thou darest. Ang. Here is thy fee ; arrest him, officer. I would not spare my brother in this case. If he should scorn me so apparently. Off. I do arrest you, sir : you hear the suit. Ant. E. I do obey thee till I give thee bail. 85 ACT IV, THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. ;CENE III. But, sirrah, you shall buy this sport as dear As all the metal in your shop will answer. Ang. Sir, sir, I shall have law in Ephesus, To your notorious shame ; I doubt it not. Unter Dromio of Syracuse, from the hay. Bro. S. Master, there is a bark of Epidamnum That stays but till her owner comes aboard And then, sir, she bears away. Our fraughtage, sir, I have convey 'd aboard and I have bought The oil, the balsamum and aqua-vitse. The ship is in her trim ; the merry wind Blows fair from land : they stay for nought at all But for their owner, master, and yourself. Ant. E. How now ; a madman I Why, thou peevish What ship of Epidamnum stays for me ? [sheep, Dro. S. A ship you sent me to, to hire wattage. Ant. E. Thou drunken slave, I sent thee for a rope And told thee to what purpose and what end. Dro. S. You sent me for a rope's end as soon : You sent me to the bay, sir, for a bark. Ant. E. I will debate this matter at more leisure And teach your ears to list me with more heed. To Adriana, villain, hie thee straight : Give her this key, and tell her, in the desk That 's cover'd o'er with Turkish tapestry There is a purse of ducats ; let her send it : Tell her I am arrested in the street And that shall bail me : hie thee, slave, be gone ! On, officer, to prison till it come. [Exeunt Sec. Merchant, Angelo, Officer, and Ant. E. Bro. S. To Adriana ! that is where we dined, Where Dowsabel did claim me for her husband : She is too big, I hope, for me to compass. Thither I must, although against my will, For servants must their masters' minds fulfil. [Exit. SCENE II. — 27ie house of Antiplvolus of Epliesus. Enter Adriana and Luciana. Adr. Ah, Luciana, did he tempt thee so ? Mightst thou perceive austerely in his eye That he did plead in earnest ? yea or no ? Look'd he or red or pale, or sad or merrily ? What observation madest thou in this case Of his heart's meteors tilting in his face ? • Luc. First he denied you had in him no right. Adr. He meant he did me none; the more my spite. Luc. Then swore he that he was a stranger here. Adr. And true he swore, though yet forsworn he Luc. Then pleaded I for you. [were. Adr. And what said he ? Luc. That love I begg'd for you he begg'd of me. Adr. With what persuasion did he tempt thy love '? Luc. With words that in an honest suit might move. First he did praise my beauty, then my speech. Adr. Didst speak him fair ? Lvxi. Have patience, I beseech. Adr. I cannot, nor I will not, hold me still ; My tongue, though not my heart, shall have his will. He is deformed, crooked, old and sere. Ill-faced, worse bodied, shapeless everywhere ; Vicious, ungentle, foolish, blunt, unkind, Stigmatical in making, worse in mind. Luc. Who would be jealous then of such a one ? ^^o evil lost is wail'd when it is gone. Adr. Ah, but I think him better than I say, And yet would herein others' eyes were worse. Far from her nest the lapwing cries away : My heart prays for him,though my tongue do curse. Enter Dromio of Syracuse. Bro. S. Here ! go ; tlie desk, the purse ! sweet, now, Luc. How hast thou lost thy breath ? Bro. S. By running fast. Adr. Where is thy master, Dromio V is he well ? Bro. S. No, he 's in Tartar limbo, worse than helL A devil in an everlasting garment hath him; One whose hard heart is button 'd up with steel ; A fiend, a fury, pitiless and rough ; A wolf, nay, worse, a fellow all in buif ; [mands A back-friend, a shoulder-clapper, one that counter- The passages of alleys, creeks and narrow lands; A hound that runs counter and yet draws dry-foot well; [liell. One that before the judgment carries poor souls to Adr. Why, man, what is the matter ? Bro. S. I do not know the matter : he is 'rested on the case. Adr. What, is he arrested ? Tell me at whose suit. Bro. S. I know not at whose suit he is arrested well; [I tell. But he 's in a suit of buff which 'rested him, that can Will you send him, mistress, redemption, the money in his desk ? Adr. Go fetch it, sister. [Exit Lv^iana.] This I wonder at, That he, unknown to me, should be in debt. Tell me, was he arrested on a band ? Bro. S. Not on a band, but on a stronger thing; A chain, a chain ! Do you not hear it ring ? Adr. What, the chain ? Bro. S. No, no, the bell; 'tis time that I were gone: It was two ere I left him, and now the clock strikes .one. Adr. The hours come back ! that did I never hear. Bro. S. O, yes; if any hour meet a sergeant, a' turns back for very fear. Adr. As if Time were in debt ! how fondly dost thou reason ! Bro. S. Time is a very bankrupt and owes more than he 's worth to season. Nay, he 's a thief too : have you not heard men say, That Time comes stealing on by night and day Y If Time be in debt and theft, and a sergeant in the way. Hath he not reason to turn back an hour in a day ? Be-enter Luciana with a purse. Adr. Go, Dromio; there's the money, bear it straight. And bring thy master home immediately. Come, sister: I am press'd down with conceit — Conceit, my comfort and my injury. [Exeunt. SCENE III.— J. public place. Enter Antipholus of Syracuse. Ant. S. There 's not a man I meet but doth salute As if I were their well-acquainted friend ; [me And every one doth call me by my name. Some tender money to me ; some invite me ; Some other give me thanks for kindnesses ; Some offer me commodities to buy : Even now a tailor call'd me in his shop And show'd me silks that he had bought for me And therewithal took measure of my body. Sure, these are but imaginary wiles And Lapland sorcerers inhabit here. Enter Dromio of Syracuse. Bro. S. Master, here 's the gold you sent me for. What, have you got the picture of old Adam new- apparelled ? [mean ? Ant. S. What gold is this? what Adam dost thou Bro. S. Not that Adam that kept the Paradise, but that Adam that keeps tlie prison : he that goes in the calf's skin that was killed for the Prodigal ; he that came behind you, sir, like an evil angel, and bid you forsake your "liberty. ACT IV. THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. SCENE IV. Ant. S. I understand thee not. Dro. S. No ? why, 't is a plain case : he that went, like a bass-viol, in a case of leather; the man, sir, that, when gentlemen are tired, gives them a sob and 'rests them ; he, sir, that takes pity on decayed men and gives them suits of durance ; he that sets up his rest to do more exploits with his mace than a morris- Ant. S. What, thou meanest an officer ? [pike. J)ro. S. Ay, sir, the sergeant of the band ; he that brings any man to answer it that breaks his band ; one that thinks a man always going to bed and says ' God give you good rest ! ' Ant. S. Well, sir, there rest in your foolery. Is there any ship puts forth to-night ? may -we be gone ? Dro. S. Why, sir, I brought you word an hour since that the bark Expedition put forth to-night ; and then were you hindered by the sergeant, to.tarry for the hoy Delay. Here are the angels that you sent for to deliver you. Ant. S. The fellow is distract, and so am I ; And here we wander in illusions : Some blessed power deliver us from hence ! Unter a Courtezan. ' Cour. Well met, well met, Master Antipholus. I see, sir, you have found the goldsmith now : Is that the chain you promised me to-day ? Ant. S. Satan, avoid ! I charge thee, ternpt me not. Dro. S. Master, is this Mistress Satan ? Ant. S. It is the devil. Dro. S. Nay, she is worse, she is the devil's dam ; and here she comes in the habit of a light wench : and thereof comes that the wenches say 'God damn me; ' that 's as much to say ' God make me a light wench.' It is written, they appear to men like angels of light : light is an effect of fire, and fire will burn ; ergo, light wenches will burn. Come not near her. Cour. Your man and you are marvellous merry, sir. [here ? Will you go with me ? We '11 mend our dinner Dro. S. Master, if you do, expect spoon-meat; or bespeak a long spoon. A7it. S. Why, Dromio ? Dro. S. Marry, he must have a long spoon that must eat with the devil. Ant. S. Avoid then, fiend ! what teU'st thou me of supping '? Thou art, as you are all, a sorceress : I conjure thee to leave me and be gone. (Jour. Give me the ring of mine you had at dinner. Or, for my diamond, the chain you promised, And I '11 be gone, sir, and not trouble you. [nail, Dro. S. Some devils ask but the parings of one's A rush, a hair, a drop of blood, a pin, A nut, a cherry-stone ; But she, more covetous, would have a chain. Master, be wise : an if you give it her. The devil will shake her chain and fright us with it. Cour. I pray you, sir, my ring, or else the chain : I hope you do not mean to cheat me so. [us go. Ant. S. Avaunt, thou witch! Come, Dromio, let Dro. S. ' riy pride,' says the peacock : mistress, that you know. [Exeunt Ant. S. and Dro S. Cour. Now, out of doubt Antipholus is mad, Else would he never so demean himself. A ring he hath of mine worth forty ducats. And for the same he promised me a chain : Both one and other he denies me now. The reason that I gather he is mad. Besides this present instance of his rage. Is a mad tale he told to-day at dinner. Of his own doors being shut against his entrance. Belike his wife, acquainted with his fits. On purpose shut the doors against his way. My way is now to hie home to his house, And tell his wife that, being kmatic, He rush'd into my house and took perforce My ring away. This course I fittest choose ; Eor forty ducats is too much to lose. [Exit, SCENE IV.— ^ street. Enter Antipholus of Ephesus and the Officer. Ant. E. Eear me not, man ; I will not break away : I '11 give thee, ere I leave thee, so much money, To warrant thee, as I am 'rested for. My wife is in a wayward mood to-day, And will not lightly trust the messenger. That I should be attach 'd in Ephesus, I tell you, 'twill sound harshly in her ears. Enter Dromio of Ephesus with a rope''s end. Here comes my man ; I think he brings the money. How now, sir ! have you that I sent you for ? [all. Dro. E. Here 's that, I warrant you, will pay them Ant. E. But where 's the money ? Dro. E. Why, sir, I gave the money for the rope ? Ant. E. Five hundred ducats, villain, for a rope ? Dro. E. 1 '11 serve you, sir, five hundred at the rate. Ant. E. To what end did I bid thee hie thee home? Dro. E. To a rope's end, sir; and to that end am I returned. Ant. E. And to that end, sir, I will welcome you. [Beating him. Of. Good sir, be patient. J^ro. E. Nay, 't is for me to be patient ; I am in adversity. Off. Good, now, hold thy tongue. Dro. E. Nay, rather persuade him to hold his hands. Ant. E. Thou whoreson, senseless villain ! Dro. E. I would I were senseless, sir, that I might not feel your blows. Ant. E. Thou art sensible in nothing but blows, and so is an ass. Dro. E. I am an ass, indeed ; you may prove it by my long ears. I have served him from the hour of my nativity to this instant, and have nothing at his hands for my service but blows. When I am cold, he heats me with beating; when I am warm, he cools me with beating: I am waked with it when I sleep ; raised with it when I sit ; driven out of doors Avith it when I go from home ; welcomed home with it when I return : nay, I bear it on my shoulders, as a beggar wont her brat ; and, I think, when he hath lamed me, I shall beg with it from door to door. [der. Ant. E. Come, go along ; my wife is coming yon- Enter Adriana, Luciana, the Courtezan, and Pinch. Dro. E. Mistress, 'respice finem,' respect your end ; or rather, the prophecy like the parrot, ' be- ware the rope's end.' Ant. E. Wilt thou still talk ? [Beating him. Cour. How say you now? is not your husband Adr. His incivility confirms no less. mad ? Good Doctor Pinch, you are a conjurer; Establish him in his true sense again, And I will please you what you will demand. Luc. Alas, how fiery and how sharp he looks ! Cour. Mark how he trembles in his ecstasy ! [pulse. Pinch. Give me your hand and let me feel your Ant. E. There is my hand, and let it feel your ear. [StriMng him. Pinch. 1 charge thee, Satan, housed within this To vield possession to ray holy prayers [man. And to thy state of darkness hie thee straight : I conjtu'e thee by all the saints in heaven ! [mad. Ant. E. Peace, doting wizard, peace ! I am not Adr. O, that thou wert not, poor distressed soul ! Ant. E. You minion, you, are these your custom- Did this companion with the saffron face [ers ? 87 ACT V. THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. SCENE I. Revel and feast it at my house to-day, Whilst upon me the guilty doors were shut And I denied to enter in my house ? piome ; Adr. O husband, God doth know you dined at Where would you had remain'd until this time^ Free from these slanders and this open shame ! Ant. U. Dined at home! Thou villain, what sayest thou ? Bro. E. Sir, sooth to say, you did not dine at home. Ant. E. Were not my doors lock'd up and I shut out ? [shut out. Bro. E. Perdie, your doors were lock'd and you Ant. E. And did not she herself revile me there ? Bro. E. Sans fable, she herself reviled you there. Ant. E. Did not her kitchen-maid rail, taunt and scorn me ? [you. Bro. E. Certes, she did ; the kitchen-vestal scorn'd Ant. E. And did not I in rage depart from thence ? Bro.E. In verity you did; my bones bear witness, That since have felt the vigour of his rage. Adr. Is 't good to soothe him in these contraries ? Pinch. It is no shame : the fellow finds his vein And yielding to him humours well his frenzy, [me. Ant. E. Thou hast suborn'd the goldsmith to arrest Adr. Alas, I sent you money to redeem you. By Dromio here, who came in haste for it. [might ; Bro. E. Money by me ! heart and good-will you But surely, master, not a rag of money. [cats ? Ant. E. Went'st not thou to her for a purse of du- Adr. He came to me and I deliver'd it. Em. And I am witness with her that she did. Bro. E. God and the rope-maker bear me witness That I was sent for nothing but a rope ! Pinch. Mistress, both man and master ispossess'd ; I know it by their pale and deadly looks : They must be bound and laid in some dark room. Ant. E. Say wherefore didst thou lock me forth to- And why dost thou deny the bag of gold ? [day ? Adr. I did not, gentle husband, lock thee forth. Bro. E. And, gentle master, I received no gold; But I confess, sir, that we were lock'd out. [both. Adr. Dissembling villain, thou speak'st false in Ant. E. Dissembling harlot, thou art false in all And art confederate with a damned pack To make a loathsome abject scorn of me : But with these nails I '11 pluck out these false eyes That would behold in me this shameful sport. Writer three or four, and offer to bind him. He strives. Adr. O, bind him, bind him! let him not come near me. [him. Pinch. More company! The fiend is strong within Buc. Ay me, poor man, how pale and wan he looks ! Ant. E. What, will you murder me ? Thou gaoler, I am thy prisoner : wilt thou suffer them [thou, To make a rescue ? Off. Masters, let him go : He is my prisoner, and you shall not have him. Pinch. Go bind this man, for he is frantic too. [Tliey offer to bind Bro. E. Adr. What wilt thou do, thou peevish oflicer ? Hast thou delight to see a wretched man Do outrage and displeasure to himself ? Off. He is my prisoner : if I let him go. The debt he owes wiU be requii-ed of me. Adr. I will discharge thee ere I go from thee : Bear me forthwith unto his creditor And, knowing how the debt grows, I will pay it. Good master doctor, see him safe convey'd Home to my house. O most unhappy day ! Ant. E. O most unhappy strumpet ! Bro. E. Master, I am here entered in bond for you. Ant. E. Out on thee, villain ! wherefore dost thou mad me ? Bro. E. Will you be bound for nothing ? be mad, good master : cry ' The devil ! ' Luc. God help, poor souls, how idly do they talk! Adr. Go bear him hence. Sister, go you with me. [Exeunt all but Adriana, Lucioma, Officer and Cov/rtezan.] Say now, whose suit is he arrested at ? Off. One Angelo, a goldsmith : do you know him ? Adr. I know the man. What is the sum he owes ? Off. Two hundred ducats. AMr. Say, how grows it due ? Off. Due for a chain your husband had of him. * A/ir. He did bespeak a chainfor me, but had it not. Cour. When as your husband all in rage to-day Came to my house and took away my ring — The ring I saw upon his finger now— Straight after did I meet him with a chain. Adr. It may be so, but I did never see it. Come, gaoler, bring me where the goldsmith is : I long to know the truth hereof at large. Enter Antipholus of Syracuse with his rapier drawn, and Dromio of Syracuse. Buc. God, for thy mercy ! they are loose-again. Adr. And come with naked swords. Let 's call more help to have them bound again. Off. Away ! they '11 kill us. [Exeunt all but Ant. S. and Bro. S. Ant. S. I see these witches are afraid of swords. Bro. S. She that would be your wife now ran from you. Ant. S. Come to the Centaur; fetch our stuff from thence : I long that we were safe and sound aboard. Bro. 8. Faith, stay here this night; they wiU surely do us no harm : you saw they speak us fair, give us gold : methinks they are such a gentle na- tion that, but for the mountain of mad flesh that claims marriage of me, I could find in my heart to stay here still and turn witch. Ant. S. I will not stay to-night for all the town'. Therefore away, to get our stuff aboard. [Exeunt. A.OT V. SCENE I. — A street before a Priory. Enter Second Merchant and Angelo. Ang. 1 am sorry, sir, that I have hinder'd you ; But, I protest, he had the chain of me. Though most dishonestly he doth deny it. Sec. Mer. How is the man esteem'd here in the Ang. Of very reverend reputation, sir, [city ? Of credit infinite, highly beloved. Second to none that lives here in the city : His word might bear my wealth at any time. Sec. Mer. Speak softly : yonder, as I think, he walks. 88 Enter Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromio of Syracuse. Ang. 'T is so ; and that self chain about his neck Which he forswore most monstrously to have. Good sirj draw near to me, I '11 speak to him. Signior Antipholus, I wonder much That you would put me to this shame and trouble ,• And, not without some scandal to yourself, With circumstance and oaths so to deny This chain which now you wear so openly : Beside the charge, the shame, imprisonment. You have done wrong to this my honest friend. ACT V. THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. SCENE 1, Who, but for staying on our controversy, Had hoisted sail and put to sea to-day : This chain you had of me ; can you deny it ? Ant. S. I think I had; I never did deny it. [too. Sec. Mer. Yes, that you did, sir, and forswore it Ant. S. Who heard me to deny it or forswear it ? Sec. Mer. These ears of mine, thou know'st, did hear thee. Fie on thee, wretch 1 't is pity that thou livest To walk where any honest men resort. Ant. S. Thou art a villain to impeach me thus : I '11 prove mine honour and mine honesty Against thee presently, if thou darest stand. Sec. Mer. I dare, and do defy thee for a villain. [They draw. Enter Adriana, Luciana, the Courtezan, and others. Adr. Hold, hurt him not, for God's sake! he is Some get within him, take his sword away : [mad. Bind Dromio too, and bear them to my house. Bro. S. Kun, master, run; for God's sake, take a house ! This is some priory. In, or we are spoil'd ! [Exeunt Ant. S. and Dro. 8. to the Priory. Enter the Lady Abbess. . Abh. Be quiet, people, "Wherefore throng you hither ? Adr. To fetch my poor distracted husband hence. Let us come in, that we may bind him fast And bear him home for his recovery. Ang. I knew he was not in his perfect wits. Sec. Mer. I am sorry now that I did draw on him. Abb. How long hath this possession held the man? Adr. This week he hath been heavy, sour, sad. And much different from the man he was ; But till this afternoon his passion Ne'er brake into extremity of rage. [sea ? Abb. Hath he not lost much wealth by wreck of Buried some dear friend ? Hath not else his eye Stray 'd his affection in unlawful love ? A sin prevailing much in youthful men. Who give their eyes the liberty of gazing. Which of these sorrows is he subject to ? Adr. To none of these, except it be the last ; Namely, some love that drew him oft from home. Abb. You should for that have reprehended him. Adr. Why, so I did. Abb. Ay, but not rough enough. Adr. As roughly as my modesty would let me. Abb. Haply, in private. Adr. And in assemblies too. Abb. Ay, but not enough. Adr. It was the copy of our conference : In bed he slept not for my urging it ; At board he fed not for my urging it ; Alone, it was the subject of my theme ; In company I often glanced it ; Still did I tell him it was vile and bad. Abb. And thereof came it that the man was mad : The venom clamours of a jealous woman Poisons more deadly than a mad dog's tooth. It seems his sleeps were hindered by thy railing, And thereof comes it that his head is light. Thou say'st his meat was sauced with thy upbraid- Unquiet meals make ill digestions ; [ings : Thereof the raging lire of fever bred ; And what 's a fever but a fit of madness ? Thou say'st his sports were hinder'd by thy brawls: Sweet recreation barr'd, what doth ensue But moody and dull melancholy. Kinsman to grim and comfortless despair. And at her heels a huge infectious troop Of pale distemperatures and foes to life ? In food, in sport and life-preserving rest To be disturb'd, would mad or man or beast : The consequence is then thy jealous fits Have scared thy husband from the use of mts, Luc. She never reprehended him but mildly. When he demeau'd himself rough, rude and wildly. Why bear you these rebukes and answer not ? Adr. She did betray me to my own reproof. Good people, enter and lay hold on him. Abb. No, not a creature enters in my house. Adr. Then let your servants bring my husband forth. Abb. Neither : he took this place for sanctuary, And it shall privilege him from your hands Till I have brought him to his wits again, Or lose my labour in assaying it. Adr. 1 will attend my husband, be his nurse. Diet his sickness, for it is my office. And will have no attorney but myself ; And therefore let me have him home with me. Abb. Be patient ; for I will not let him stir Till I have used the approved means I have, With wholesome syrups, drugs and holy prayers, To make of him a formal man again : It is a branch and parcel of mine oath, A charitable duty of my order. Therefore depart and leave him here with me. Adr. I will not hence and leave my husband here : And ill it doth beseem your holmess To separate the husband and the wife. Abb. Be quiet and depart: thou shalt not haVe him. [Exit. Imc. Complain unto the duke of this indignity. Adr. Come, go : I wiU fall prostrate at his feet And never rise until my tears and prayers Have won his grace to come in person hither And take perforce my husband from the abbess. Sec. Mer. By this, I thmk, the dial points at five; Anon, I 'm sure, the duke himself in person Comes this way to the melancholy vale. The place of death and sorry execution. Behind the ditches of the abbey here. Ang. Upon what cause ? Sec. Mer. To see a reverend Syracusian merchant, Who put unluckily into this bay Against the laws and statutes of this town. Beheaded publicly for his offence. [death. Ang. See where they come: we will behold his Luc. Kneel to the duke before he pass the abbey. Enter Duke, attended; -ffigeon bareheaded; with the Headsman and other Officers. Buke. Yet once again proclaim it publicly, If any friend wiU pay the sum for him. He shall not die ; so much we tender him. [bess ! Adr. Justice, most sacred duke, against the ab- Buke. She is a virtuous and a reverend lady: It cannot be that she hath done thee wrong. Adr. May it please your grace, Antipholus my Whom I made lord of me and all I had, [husband, At your important letters, — this ill day A most outrageous fit of madness took him ; That desperately he hurried through the street, — With him his bondman, all as mad as he,— Doing displeasure to the citizens By rushing in their houses, bearing thence Rings, jewels, any thing his rage did like. Once did I get him bound and sent him home. Whilst to take order for the wrongs I went That here and there his fury had committed. Anon, I wot not by what strong escape, He broke from those that had the guard of him; And with his mad attendant and liimself , Each one with ireful passion, with drawn swords, Met us again and madly bent on us Chased us away, till raising of more aid We came again to bind them. Then they fled Into this abbey, whither we pursued them: And here the abbess shuts the gates on us ACT V. THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. SCENE I. And will not suffer us to fetch him out, Nor send him forth that we may bear him hence. Therefore, most gracious duke, with thy command Let him be brought forth and borne hence for help. [wars, Dulce. Long since thy husband served me in my And I to thee engaged a prince's word, When thou didst make him master of thy bed, To do him all the grace and good I could. Go, some of you, knock at the abbey-gate And bid the lady abbess come to me. I will determine this before I stir. Enter a Servant. Serv. O mistress, mistress, shift and save yourself ! My master and his man are both broke loose, Beaten the maids a-row and bound the doctor. Whose beard they have singed off with brands of And ever, as it blazed, they threw on him [fire ; Great pails of puddled mire to quench the hair : My master preaches patience to him and the while His man with scissors nicks him like a fool, And sure, unless you send some present help, Between them they will kill the conjurer. Adr. Peace, fool! thy master and his man are And that is false thou dost report to us. [here, Serv. Mistress, upon my life, I tell you true; I have not breathed almost since I did see it. He cries for you and vows, if he can take you, To scorch your face and to disfigure you. {Cry icithin. Hark, hark ! I hear him, mistress : fly, be gone ! Duke. Come, stand by me; fear nothing. Guard with halberds! Adr. Ay me, it is my husband ! Witness you. That he is borne about invisible : Even now we housed him in the abbey here ; And now he 's there, past thought of human reason. Enter Antipholus of Ephesus and! Dromio of Ephesus. Ant. E. Justice, most gracious duke, O, grant me justice ! Even for the service that long since I did thee, When I bestrid thee in the wars and took Deep scars to save thy life ; even for the blood That then I lost for thee, now grant me justice. ^ge. Unless the fear of death doth make me dote, I see my son Antipholus and Dromio. [there ! Ant. E. .Justice, sweet prince, against that woman She whom thou gavest to me to be my wife, That hath abused and dishonour 'd me Even in the strength and height of injury ! Beyond imagination is the wrong That she this day hath shameless thrown on me. Duke. Discover how, and thou shalt find me just. Ant. E. This day, great duke, she shut the doors upon me. While she with harlots feasted in my house. [so ? Duke. A grievous fault ! Say, woman, didst thou Adr. No, my good lord : myself, he and my sister To-day did dine together. So befall my soul As this is false he burdens me withal ! iwc. jSTe'er may I look on day, nor sleep on night, But she tells to your highness simple truth ! Ang. O perjured woinan ! They are both forsworn : In this the madman justly chargeth them. Ant. E. My liege, I am advised what I say. Neither disturbed with the effect of wine. Nor heady-rash, provoked with raging ire. Albeit my wrongs might make one wiser mad. This woman lock'd me out this day from dinner : That goldsmith there, were he not pack'd with her. Could witness it, for he was with me then ; Who parted with me to go fetch a chain. Promising to bring it to the Porpeirtine, Where Balthazar and I did dine together. 90 Our dinner done, and he not coming thither, I went to seek him : in the street I met him And in his company that gentleman. There did this perjured goldsmith swear me down That I this day of him received the chain. Which, God he knows, I saw not : for the which He did arrest me with an officer. I did obey, and sent my peasant home For certain ducats : he with none retum'd. Then fairly I bespoke the officer To go in person with me to my house. By the way we met My wife, her sister, and a rabble more Of vile confederates. Along with them [lain. They brought one Pinch, a hungry lean-faced vil- A mere anatomy, a mountebank, A threadbare juggler and a fortune-teller, A needy, hollow-eyed, sharp-looking wretch, A living-dead man : this pernicious slave, Forsooth, took on him as a conjurer. And, gazing in mine eyes, feeling my pulse. And with no face, as 't were, outfacing me, Cries out, I was possess'd. Then all together They fell upon me, bound me, bore me thence And in a dark and dankish vault at home There left me and my man, both bound together: Till, gnawing with my teeth my bonds in sunder, I gain'd my freedom and immediately Kan hither to your grace ; whom I beseech To give me ample satisfaction For these deep shames and great indignities, [liim, Ang. My lord, in truth, thus far I witness with That he dined not at home, but was lock'd out. Dvke. But had he such a chain of thee or no ? Ang. He had, my lord : and when he ran in here, These people saw the chain about his neck, [mine Sec. Mer. Besides, I will be sworn these ears of Heard you confess you had the chain of him After you first forswore it on the mart : And thereupon I drew my sword on you ; ■ And then you fled into this abbey here, From whence, I think, you are come by miracle. Ant. E. I never came within these abbey-walls, Nor ever didst thou draw thy sword on me : I never saw the chain, so help me Heaven ! And this is false you burden me withal. Duke. Why, what an intricate impeach is this! I think you all have drunk of Circe's cup. If here you housed him, here he would have been ; If he were mad he would not plead so coldly : You say he dined at home ; the goldsmith here Denies that saying. Sirrah, what say you? [tine. Dro. E. Sir, he dined with her there, at the Porpen- Cour. He did, and from my finger snatch 'd that ring. Ant. E. 'T is true, my liege ; this ring I had of her. Duke. Saw'st thou him enter at the abbey here ? Cour. As sure, my liege, as I do see your grace. Duke. Why, this is strange. Go call the abbess I think you are all mated or stark mad. [liither. [Exit one to the Abbess. JEge. Most mighty duke, vouchsafe me speak a Haply I see a friend will save my life [word : And pay the sum that may deliver me. Duke. Speak freely, Syracusian, what thou wilt. ^ge. Is not your name, sir, call'd Antipholus':* And is not that your bondman, Dromio ? Dro. E. Within this hour I was his bondman, sir, But he, I thank him, gnaw'd in two my cords: Now am I Dromio and his man unbound. Mge. I am sure you both of you remember me. Dro. E. Ourselves we do remember, sir, by you; For lately we were bound, as you are now. You are not Pinch's patiexit, are you, sir ? ^ge. Why look you strange on me ? you know me well. Ant. E. I never saw you in my life till now. ACT V. THE C03IEDY OF ERRORS. SCENE I. ^ge. O, grief hath changed me since you saw me last, And careful hours with time's deformed hand Have written strange defeatures in my face : But tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice ? Ant. E. Neither. ^ge. Dromio, nor thou ? Bro. E. No, trust me, sir, nor I. uEge. I am sure thou dost. Bro. E. Ay, sir, but I am sure I do not ; and what- soever a man denies, you are now bound to believe him. ^ge. Not know my voice ! O time's extremity, Hast thou so crack 'd and splitted my poor tongue In seven short years, that here my only son Knows not my feeble key of untuned cares ? Though now this grained face of mine be hid In sap-consuming winter's drizzled snow And all the conduits of my blood froze up, Yet hath my night of life some memory. My wasting lamps some fading glimmer left, My dull deaf ears a little use to hear : All these old witnesses — I cannot err — Tell me thou art my son Antipholus. ' Ant. E. I never saw my father in my life. ^ge. But seven years since, in Syracusa, boy, Thou know'st we parted : but perhaps, my son, Thou shamest to acknowledge me in misery. Ant. E. The duke and all that know me in the Can witness with me that it is not so : [city I ne'er saw Syracusa in my life. Buke. I tefl thee, Syracusian, twenty years Have I been patron to Antipholus, During which time he ne'er saw Syracusa : I see thy age and dangers make thee dote. Be-enter Abbess, with Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromio of Syracuse. Abb. Most mighty duke, behold a man much wrong'd. [All gather to see them. Adr. I see two husbands, or mine eyes deceive me. Buke. One of these men is Genius to the other ; And so of these. Which is the natural man. And which the spirit ? who deciphers them ? Bro. S. I, sir, am Dromio: command him away. Bro. E. I, sir, am Dromio: pray, let me stay. Ant. S. ^geon art thou not ? or else his ghost ? Bro. S. O, my old master ! who hath bound him here ? Abb. Whoever bound him, I will loose his bonds And gain a husband by his liberty. Speak, old ^geon, if thou be'st the man That hadst a wife once call'd Emilia That bore thee at a burden two fair sons : O, if thou be'st the same ^geon, speak, And speak unto the same Emilia ! ^ge. If I dream not, thou art Emilia: If thou art she, tell me where is that son That floated with thee on the fatal raft ? Abb. By men of Epidamnum he and I And the twin Dromio all were taken up; But by and by rude fishermen of Corinth By force took Dromio and my son from them, And me they left with those of Epidamnum. What then became of them I cannot tell ; I to this fortune that you see me in. Buke. AVhy, here begins his morning story right: These two Antipholuses, these two so like. And these two Dromios, one in semblance, — Besides her urging of her wreck at sea, — These are the parents to these children, Which accidentally are met together. Antipholus, thou camest from Corinth first ? Ant. S. No, sir, not I ; I came from Syi-acuse. Bicke. Stay, stand apart; I know not which is which. Ant. E. 1 came from Corinth, my most gracious lord, — Bro. E. And I with him. Ant. E. Brought to this town by that most famous warrior, Duke Menaphon, your most renowned uncle. Adr. Which of you two did dine with me to-day ? Ant. S. I, gentle mistress. Adr. And are -not you my husband ? Ant. E. No ; I say nay to that. Ant. S. And so do I ; yet did she call me so : And this fair gentlewoman, her sister here, Did call me brother. [To Luc] What I told you I hope I shall have leisure to make good; [then, If this be not a dream I see and hear. Aug. That is the chain, sir, which you had of me. Ant. S. I think it be, sir ; I deny it not. Ant. E. And you, sir, for this chain arrested me. Ang. I think I did, sir ; I deny it not. Adr. I sent you money, sir, to be your bail. By Dromio ; but I think he brought it not. Bro. E. No, none by me. Ant. S. This purse of ducats I received from you And Dromio my man did bring them me. I see we still did meet each other's man, And I was ta'en for him, and he for me. And thereupon these errors are arose. Ant. E. These ducats pawn I for my father here. Buke. It shall not need ; thy father hath his life. Cour. Sir, I must have that diamond from you. Ant. E. There, take it ; and much thanks for my good cheer. Abb. Eenowned duke, vouchsafe to take the pains To go with us into the abbey here And hear at large discoursed all our fortunes : And all that are assembled in this place. That by this sympathized one day's error Have suffer'd wrong, go keep us company. And we shall make full satisfaction. Thirty-three years have I but gone in travail Of you, my sons ; and till this present hour My heavy burthen ne'er delivered. The duke, my husband and my children both, And you the calendars of their nativity. Go to a gossips' feast, and go with me ; After so long grief, such festivity ! Buke. With all my heart, I '11 gossip at this feast. [Exeunt all but A7it. 8., Ant. E., Bro. S.,and Bro. E. Bro. S. Master, shall I fetch your stulf from ship- board? Ant. E. Dromio, what stuff of mine hast thou embark 'd ? Bro. S. Your goods that lay at host, sir, in the Centaur. Ant. 8. He speaks to me. I am your master, Dromio : Come, go with us ; we '11 look to that anon : Embrace thy brother there ; rejoice with him. [Exeunt Ant. S. and Ant. E. Bro. S. There is a fat friend at your master's house. That kitchen 'd me for you to-day at dinner : She now shall be my sister, not my wife. Bro. E. Methuiks you are my glass, and not my brother : I see by you I am a sweet-faced youth. Will you walk in to see their gossiping ? Bro. S. Not I, sir; you are my elder. Bro. E. That 's a question : how shall we try it ? Bro. S. We '11 draw cuts for the senior : till then lead thou first. Bro. E. Nay, then, thus : We came into the world like brother and brother ; And now let's go hand in hand, not one before another. [Exeunt. 91 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. DBAMATIS PEBSON^. Don Pedro, Prince of Arragon. Don John, his bastard brother. Claudio, a young lord of Florence. Benedick, a young lord of Padua. Leonato, Governor of Messina. Antonio, his brother. Balthasar, attendant on Don Pedro, Conrade, | ^Howers of Don John, Borachio, i Friar Francis. Dogberry, a constable. Verges, a headborough. A Sexton. A Boy. Hero, daughter to Leonato, Beatrice, niece to Leonato Margaret Ursula, gentlewomen attending on Hero. Messengers, Watch, Attendants, &c. SCENE— ifmina. Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page XLV.] ^CT I. SCENE 1.— Before LeonaWs hovae. Enter Leonato, Hero, and Beatrice, with a Messenger. Leon. I learn in this letter that Don Pedro of Arragon comes this night to Messina. Mess. He is very near by this : he was not three leagues off when I left him. [action ? Leon. How many gentlemen have you lost in this 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 honour on a young Flor- entine called Claudio. Mess. Much deserved on his part and equally re- membered 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 i"oy could not show itself modest enough without a )adge of bitterness. Lean. 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 Mountanto returned from the wars or no ? Mess. I know none of that name, lady : there was none such in the army of any sort. Leon. What is he that you ask for, niece ? Hero. My cousin means Signior Benedick of Padua. [he was. Mess. O, he 's returned; and as pleasant as ever Beat. He set up his bills here in Messina and challenged Cupid at the flight ; and my uncle's fool, reading the challenge, subscribed for Cupid, and challenged him at the bird-bolt. 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. 92 Leon. Faith, niece, you tax Signior Benedick too much ; but he '11 be meet with you, I -doubt it not. Mess. He hath done good service, lady, in these wars. Beat. You had musty victual, and he hath holp to eat it: he is a very valiant trencher-man; he 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 honourable 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 merry war betwixt Signior Bene- dick and her : they never meet but there 's a skir- mish of wit between them. Beat. Alas! he gets nothing by that. In our last conflict four of his five wits went halting off, and now is the whole man governed with one : so that if he have wit enough to keep himself warm, let him bear it for a difference between himself and his horse ; for it is all the wealth that he hath left, to be known a reasonable creature. Who is his com- panion now ? He hath every month a new sworn Mess. Is 't possible ? [brother. Beat. Very easily possible : he wears his faith but as the fashion of his hat ; it ever changes with the next block. [books. Mess. I see, lady, the gentleman is not in your Beat. No ; an he were, I would burn my study. But, I pray you, who is his companion ? Is there no young squarer now that will make a voyage with him to the devil ? Mess. He is most in the company of the right noble Claudio. Beat. O Lord, he will hang upon him like a dis- ease : he is sooner caught than the pestilence, and the taker runs presently mad. God help the noble Claudio ! if he have caught the Benedick, it will cost him a thousand pound ere a' 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. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. SCENE I. -Enter Don Pedro, Don John, Olaudio, Benedick, and Balthasar. D. Pedro. Good Signior Leonato. you are come to meet your trouble : the fashion or the world is to avoid cost, and you encounter it. Leon. Never came trouble to my house in the like- ness of your grace : for trouble being gone, comfoi-t should remain ; but when you depart from me, sor- row abides and happiness takes his leave. D. Pedro. You embrace your charge too willingly. I think this is your daughter. Leon. Her mother hath many times told me so. Bene. Were you in doubt, sir, that you asked her ? Leon. Signior Benedick, no; for then were you a child. D. Pedro. You have it full, Benedick : we may guess by this what you are, being a man. Truly, the lady fathers herself. Be happy, lady ; for you are like an honourable 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 is. Beat. I wonder that you will still be talking^ Signior Benedick : nobody marks you. [living r Bene. What, my dear Lady Disdain! are you yet Beat. Is it possible disdain should die while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick ? Courtesy itself must convert to disdain, if you come in her presence. Bene. Then is courtesy a turncoat. But it is cer- tain 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 women: they would else have been troubled with a pernicious suitor. I thank God and my cold blood, I am of your humour for that : I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me. Bene. God keep your ladyship still in that mind ! so some gentleman or other shall 'scape a predesti- nate scratched face. Beat. Scratching could not make it worse, an 't were 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' God's name ; I have done. Beat. You always end with a jade's trick : I know you of old. D. Pedro. That is the sum of aU, Leonato. Signior Claudio and Signior Benedick, my dear friend Leonato hath invited you aU. I tell him we shall stay here at the least a month ; and he heartily prays some occasion may detain us longer. I dare swear he is no hypocrite, but prays from his heart. Leon. If you swear, my lord, you shall not be for- sworn. [To Don John] 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 to- gether. [Exeunt all except Benedick and Claudio. Claud. Benedick, didst thou note the daughter of Simior 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 custom, as being a pro- fessed tyrant to their sex ? Claud. No; I pray thee speak in sober judgment. Bene. Why, i' faith, methinks she 's 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 mihandsome ; 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. [lier ? Bene. Would you buy her, that you inquire after 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 flout- ing Jack, to tell us Cupid is a good harefinder 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, and she were not possessed with a fury, exceeds her as much in beauty as the first of May doth the last of Decem- ber. But I hope you have no intent to turn hus- band, have you ? Claud. 1 would scarce trust myself, though I had sworn the contrary, if Hero would be my wife. Bene. Is 't come to this ? In faith, hath not the world one man but he will wear his cap with sus- picion ? Shall I never see a bachelor of threescore again V Go to, i' faith ; and thou wilt needs thrust thy neck into a yoke, wear the print of it and sigh away Sundays. Look; Don Pedro is returned to seek you. -r, . -,.. -r^ , Be-enter Don Pedro. D. Pedro. What secret hath held you here, that you followed not to Leonato 's ? [tell. Bene. 1 woidd your grace would constrain me to D. Pedro. 1 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 this, on my allegiance. He is in love. With who V 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, God forbid it should be so.' Claud. If my passion change not shortly, God 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. jD. 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 cannot 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. That a woman conceived me, I thank her; that she brought me up, I likewise give her most humble thanks: but that I will have a recheat winded in my forehead, or hang my bugle in an invisible baldrick, all women shall pardon me. Because I will not do them the wrong to mistrust any, 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. L>. Pedro. I shall see thee, ere I die, look pale with love. Bene. With anger, with sickness, or with hunger, ACT I. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. SCENE III. my lord, not with love : prove that ever I lose more blood with love than I will get again with drink- ing, pick out mine eyes with a ballad-maker's pen and hang me up at the door of a brothel-house 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 he that hits me, let him be clap- ped on the shoulder, and called Adam. D. Pedro. Well, as time shall try: ' In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.' Bene. The savage bull may ; but if ever the sensi- ble Benedick bear it, pluck off the bull's horns and set them in my forehead: and let me be vilely painted, and in such great letters as they write ' Here is good horse to hire,' let them signify under my sign ' Here you may see Benedick the married man.' Claud. If this should ever happen, thou wouldst be horn-mad. B. 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. B. Pedro. Well, you will temporize with the hours. In the meantime, good Signior Benedick, repair to Leonato's: commend me to him and tell him I will not fail him at supper; for indeed he hath made great preparation. Bene. I have almost matter enough in me for such an embassage; and so I commit you — Claud. To the tuition of God: From my house, if I had it, — B. Pedro. The sixth of July: Your loving friend, Benedick. Beyie. jSTay, mock not, mock not. The body of your discourse is sometime guarded with frag- ments, and the guards are but slightly basted on neither : ere you flout old ends any further, exam- ine your conscience : and so I leave you. [Exit. Claud. My liege, your highness now may do me good. [how, B. Pedro. My love is thine to teach : teach it but And thou shalt see how apt it is to learn Any hard lesson that may do thee good. Claud. Hath Leonato any son, my lord ? B. 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 liked, but had a rougher task in hand Than to drive liking to the name of love : But now I am return'd and that war-thoughts Have left their places vacant, in their rooms Come thronging soft and delicate desires, All prompting me how fair young Hero is. Saying, I liked her ere I went to wars. B. 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 you do minister to love, That know love's grief by his complexion ! But lest my liking might too sudden seem, I would have salved it with a longer treatise. B. Pedro. What need the bridge much broader than the flood ? The fairiest grant is the necessity. Look, what will serve is fit : 't is once, thou lovest. And I will fit thee with the remedy. I know we shall have revelling to-night : I will assume thy part in some disguise And tell fair Hero I am Claudio, And in her bosom I '11 unclasp my heart 94 And take her hearing prisoner with the force And strong encounter of my amorous tale ; Then after to her father will I break ; And the conclusion is, she shall be thine. In practice let us put it presently. [Exeunt. SCENE II. — A room in Leonato^s house. Enter Leonato and Antonio, meeting, Leon. How now, brother ! Where is my cousin, your son ? hath he provided this music ? Ant. He is very busy about it. But, brother, I can tell you strange news that you yet dreamt not of. Leon. Are they good ? Ant. As the event stamps them : but they have a good cover ; they show well outward. The prince and Count Claudio, walking in a thick-pleached alley in mine orchard, were thus much overheard by a man of mine : the prince discovered to Clau- dio that he loved my niece your daughter and meant to acknowledge it this night in a dance ; and if he found her accordant, he meant to take the present time by the top and instantly break with you of it. Leon. Hath the fellow any wit that told you this ? Ant. A good sharp fellow : I will send for him ; and question him yourself. Leon. No, no; we will hold it as a dream till it appear itself: but I will acquaint my daughter withal, that she may be the better prepared for an answer, if perad venture this be true. Go you and tell her of it. [Enter attendants.] Cousins, you know what you have to do. O, I cry you mercy, friend ; go you with me, and I will use your skUl. Good cousin, have a care this busy time. [Exeunt. SCENE III.— The same. Enter Don John and Conrade. Con. What the good-year, my lord! why are you thus out of measure sad ? B. John. There is no measure in the occasion that breeds ; therefore the sadness is without limit. Con. You should hear reason. B. John. And when I have heard it, what bless- ing brings it ? [sufferance. Con. If not a present remedy, at least a patient D. John. I wonder that thou, being, as thou say- est thou art, born under Saturn, goest about to apply a moral medicine to a mortifying mischief. I cannot hide what I am : I must be sad when I have cause and smile at no man's jests, eat when I have stomach and wait for no man's leisure, sleep when I am drowsy and tend on no man's business, laugh when I am merry and claw no man in his humour. Con. Yea, but you must not make the full show of this till you may do it without controLment. You have of late stood out against your brother, and he hath ta'en you newly into his grace ; where it is impossible you should take true root but by the fair weather that you make yourself : it is need- ful that you frame the season for your own harvest. B. John. 1 had rather be a canker in a hedge than a rose in his grace, and it better fits my blood to be disdained of all than to fashion a carriage to rob love from any: in this, though I cannot be said to be a flattering honest man, it must not be denied but I am a plain-dealing villain. I am trusted with a muzzle and enfranchised with a clog ; therefore I have decreed not to sing in my cage. If I had my mouth, I would bite; if I had my liberty, I would do my liking : in the meantime let me be that I am and seek not to alter me. Con. Can you make no use of your discontent ? B. John. I make all use of it, for I use it only. Who comes here ? MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. SCENE I. Enter Borachio. What news, Borachio ? Bora. I came yonder from a great supper: the prince your brother is royally entertained by Leon- ato ; and I can give you intelligence of an intended marriage. D. John. Will it serve for any model to build mischief on ? What is he for a fool that betroths himself to uuquietness ? Bora. Marry, it is your brother's right hand. D. John. Who? the most exquisite Claudio.V Bora. Even he. D. John. A proper squire ! And who, and who V which way looks he ? [Leonato. Bora. Marry, on Hero, the daughter and heir of D. John. A very forward March-chick! How came you to this ? Bora. Being entertained for a perfumer, as I was smoking a musty room, comes me the prince and Claudio, hand in hand, in sad conference : I whipt me behind the arras; and there heard it agreed upon that the prince should woo Hero for himself, and having obtained her, give her to Count Clau- dio. B. John. Come, come, let us thither: this may prove food to my displeasure. That young start-up hath all the glory of my overthrow : if I can cross him any way, I bless myself every way. You are both sure, and will assist me ? Con. To the death, my lord. I). John. Let us to the great supper : their cheer is the greater that I am subdued. Would the cook were of my mind ! Shall we go prove what 's to be done? Bora. We '11 wait upon your lordship. [Exeunt. A.OT II. SCENE I. — A hall in Leonato''s 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. Beat. He were an excellent man that were made just in the midway 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 tat- tling. Leon. Then half Signior Benedick's tongue in Count John's mouth, and half Count John's melan- choly 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 a' could get her good- will. Leon. By my troth, niece, thou wilt never get thee a husband, if thou be so shrewd of thy tongue. Ant. In faith, she 's too curst. Beat. Too curst is more than curst : I shall lessen God's sending that way; for it is said, ' God sends a curst cow short horns ;' but to a cow too curst he sends none. Leon. So, by being too curst, God will send you no horns. Beat. Just, if he send me no husband; for the which blessing I am at him upon my knees every morning and evening. Lord, I could not endure a husband with a beard on his face : I had rather lie in the woollen. Leon. You may light on a husband that hath no beard. Beat. What should I do with him? dress him in my apparel and make him my waiting-gentlewoman ? He that hath a beard is more than a youth, and he that hath no beard is less than a man : and he that is more than a youth is not for me, and he that is less than a man, I am not for him : therefore I will even take sixpence in earnest of the bear-ward, and lead his apes into hell. Leon. Well, then, go you into hell ? Beat. No, but to the gate ; and there will the devil meet me, like an old cuckold, with horns on his head, and say, ' Get you to heaven, Beatrice, get you to heaven ; here 's no place for you maids : ' so deliver I up my apes, and away to Saint Peter for the heavens ; he shows me where the bachelors sit, and there live we as merry as the day is long. Ant. [To Hero] Well, niece, I trust you will be ruled by your father. Beat. Yes, faith ; it is my cousin's duty to make curtsy and say, ' Father, as it please you.' But yet for all that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else make another curtsy and say, ' Father, as it please me.' Leon. Well, niece, I hope to see you one day fitted with a husband. Beat. Not till God make men of some other metal than earth. Would it not grieve a woman to be overmastered with a piece of valiant dust ? to make an accomit of her life to a clod of wayward marl ? No, uncle, I '11 none : Adam's sons are my brethren ; and, truly, I hold it a sin to match in my kindred. Leon. Daughter, remember what I told you: if the prince do solicit you in that kind, you know your answer. Beat. The fault will be in the music, cousin, if you be not wooed in good time : if the prince be too important, tell him there is measure in every thiug, and so dance out the answer. For, hear me, Hero: wooing, wedding, and repenting, 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 fantas- tical ; the wedding, mannerly-modest, as a measure, full of state and ancientry ; and then comes repent- ance 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, tmcle ; I can see a church by daylight. Leon. The revellers are entering, brother ; make good room. [All put on their masks. Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedick, Balthasar, Don John, Borachio, Margaret, Ursula, and others, D. Pedro. Lady, will you walk about with your friend ? Hero. So you walk softly and look sweetly and say nothing, I am yom-s for the walk; and espe- cially when I walk away. D. Pedro. With me in your company ? Hero. I may say so, when I please. D. Pedro. And when please you to say so ? Hero. When I like your favour; for God defend the lute should be like the case ! D. Pedro. My visor is Philemon's roof; within the house is Jove. Hero. Why, then, your visor should be thatched. D. Pedro. Speak low, if you speak love. • [Drawing her aside. 95 ACT II. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. SCENE I. Balth. Well, I would you did like me. Marg. So would not I, for your own sake; for I have many ill qualities. Balth. Which is one ? Marg. I say my prayers aloud. Baltk. I love you the better: the hearers may cry, Amen. Marg. God match me with a good dancer ! Baltli. Amen. Marg. And God keep him out of my sight when the dance is done ! Answer, clerk. Balth. No more words : the clerk is answered. Urs. I know you well enough ; you are Signior Antonio. Ant. At a word, I am not. Urs. I know you by the waggling of your head. Ant. To tell you true, I counterfeit him. Urs. You could never do him so ill-well, unless you were the very man. Here 's his dry hand up and dowii : you are he, you are he. Ant. At a word, I am not. Urs. Come, come, do you think I do not know you by your excellent wit ? can virtue hide itself ? Go to, mum, you are he: graces will appear, and there 's an end. Beat. Will you not tell me who told you so ? Bene. No, you shall pardon me. Beat. Nor will you not tell me who you are ? Bene. Not now. Beat. That I was disdainful, and that I had my good wit out of the ' Hundred Merry Tales : ' — ^well, this was Signior Benedick that said so. Bene. What 's he ? Beat. I am sure you know him well enough. Bene. Not I, believe me. Beat. Did he never make you laugh ? Bene. I pray you, what is he ? Beat. Why, he is the prince's jester: a very dull fool ; only his gift is in devising impossible slan- ders : none but libertines delight in him ; and the commendation is not in his wit, but in his villany ; for he both pleases men and angers them, and then they laugh at him and beat him. I am sure he is in the fleet : I would he had boarded me. Bene. When I know the gentleman, I '11 tell him what you say. Beat. Do, do: he'll but break a comparison or two on me ; which, perad venture not marked or not laughed at, strikes him into melancholy; and then there 's a partridge wing saved, for the fool will eat no supper that night. [Music] We must follow the Bene. In every good thing. [leaders. Beat. Nay, if they lead to any ill, I will leave them at the next turning. [Dance. Then exeunt all except Don John, Borachio, and Claudio. D. John. Sure my brother is amorous on Hero and hath withdrawn her father to break with him about it. The ladies follow her and but one visor remains. Bora. And that is Claudio : I know him by his bearing. D. John. Are not you Signior Benedick ? Claud. You know me well ; I am he. D. John. Signior, you are very near my brother in his love : he is enamoured on Hero ; I pray you, dissuade him from her : she is no equal for his birth : you may do the part of an honest man in it. Claud. How know you he loves her ? D. John. I heard him swear his affection. Bora. So did I too ; and he swore he would marry her to-night. D. John. Come, let us to the banquet. [Exeunt Don John and Borachio. Claud. Thus answer I in name of Benedick, But hear these ill news with the ears of Claudio. 'T is certain so ; the prince wooes for himself. Friendship is constant in all other things Save in the oflice and affairs of love : Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues ; Let eveiy eye negotiate for itself And trust no agent ; for beauty is a witch Against whose charms faith melteth into blood. This is an accident of hourly proof. Which I mistrusted not. Farewell, therefore, Hero ! Re-enter Benedick. ^6716. Count Claudio ? Claud. Yea, the same. Bene. Come, will you go with me ? Claud. Whither? Bene. Even to the next willow, about your own business, county. What fashion will you wear the garland of ? about your neck, like an usurer's chain ? or under your arm, like a lieutenant's scarf? You must wear it one way, for the prince hath got your Hero. Claud. I wish him joy of her. Bene. Why, that 's spoken like an honest drovier : so they sell bullocks. But did you think the prince would have served you thus ? Claud. I pray you, leave me. Bene. Ho ! now you strike like the blind man : 't was the boy that stole your meat, and you '11 beat the post. Claud. If it wiU not be, I '11 leave you. [Exit. Bene. Alas, poor hurt fowl ! now will he creep into sedges. But that my Lady Beatrice should know me, and not know me! The prince's fool! Ha ? It may be I go under that title because I am merry. Yea, but so I am apt to do myself wrong; I am not so reputed : it is the base, though bitter, disposition of Beatrice that puts the world into her person, and so gives me out. Well, I '11 be revenged as I may. Re-enter Don Pedro. D. Pedro. Now, signior, where 's the count ? did you see him ? Bene. Troth, my lord, I have played the part of Lady Fame. I found him here as melancholy as a lodge in a warren : I told him, and I think I told him true, that your grace had got the good will of this young lady ; and I offered him my company to a willow-tree, either to make him a garland, as being forsaken, or to bind him up a rod, as being worthy to be whipped. D. Pedro. To be whipped ! What 's his fault ? Bene. The flat transgression of a school-boy, who, being overjoyed with finding a bird's nest, shows it his companion, and he steals it. D. Pedro. Wilt thou make a trust a transgres- sion ? The transgression is in the stealer. Bene. Yet it had not been amiss the rod had been made, and the garland too; for the garland he might have worn himself, and the rod he might have bestowed on you, who, as I take it, have stolen his bird's nest. D. Pedro. I will but teach them to sing, and re- store them to the owner. Bene. If their singing answer your saying, by my faith, you say honestly. D. Pedro. The Lady Beatrice hath a quarrel to you : the gentleman that danced with her told her she is much wronged by you. Bene. O, she misused me past the endurance of a block ! an oak but with one green leaf on it would have answered her ; my very visor began to assume life and scold with her. She told me, not thinking I had been myself, that I was the prince's jester, that I was duller than a great thaw ; huddling jest upon jest with such impossible conveyance upon me that I stood like a man at a mark, with a whole army shooting at me. She speaks poniards, and every word stabs : if her breath were as terrible as her terminations, there were no living near her; ACT II MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. SCENE II. she would infect to the north star. I would not marry her, though she were endowed with all that Adam had left'him before he transgressed: she would have made Hercules have turned spit, yea, and have cleft his club to make the fire too. Come, talk not of her : you shall find her the infernal Ate in good apparel. I would to God some scholar would conjure her; for certainly, while she is here, a man may live as quiet in hell as in a sanctuary ; and people sin upon purpose, because they would go thither; so, indeed, all disquiet, horror and per- turbation follows her. D. Pedro. Look, here she comes. Enter Claudio, Beatrice, Hero, and Leonato. Bene. "Will your grace command me any service to the world's endi' I will go on the slightest errand now to the Antipodes that you can devise to send me on ; I will fetch you a tooth-picker now from the furthest inch of Asia, bring you the length of Prester John's foot, fetch you a hair off the great Cham's beard, do you any embassage to the Pig- mies, rather than hold three words' conference with this harpy. You have no employment for me ? D. Pedro. jSTone, but to desire your good company. Bene. O God, sir, here 's a dish I love not: I can- not endure my Lady Tongue. [Exit. B. Pedro. Come, lady, come ; you have lost the heart of Signior Benedick. Beat. Indeed, my lord, he lent it me awhile; and I gave him use for it, a double heart for his single one : marry, once before he won it of me with false dice, therefore your grace may well say I have lost it. D. Pedro. You have put him down, lady, you have put him dowTi. Beat. So I would not he should do me, my lord, lest I should prove the mother of fools. I have brought Count Claudio, whom you sent me to seek. J>. Pedro. Why, how now, count ! wherefore are you sad ? Claud. Not sad, my lord. B. Pedro. How then ? sick ? Claud. Neither, my lord. Beat. The count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry, nor well ; but civil count, civil as an orange, and something of that jealous complexion. B. Pedro. V faith, lady, I think your blazon to be true ; though, I' 11 be sworn, if he be so, his con- ceit is false. Here, Claudio, I have wooed in thy name, and fair Hero is won: I have broke with her father, and his good will obtained : name the day of marriage, and God give thee joy! Leon. Count, take of me my daughter, and with her my f ortimes : his grace hath made the match, and ail grace say Amen to it. Beat. Speak, count, 't is your cue. Claud. Silence is the perfectest herald of joy : I were but little happy, if I could say how much. Lady, as you are mine, I am yours: I give away myself for you and dote upon the exchange. Beat. Speak, cousin; or, if you cannot, stop his mouth with a kiss, and let not him speak neither. B. Pedro. In faith, lady, you have a merry heart. Beat. Yea, my lord; I thank it, poor fool, it keeps on the windy side of care. My cousin tells him in his ear that he is in her heart. Claud. And so she doth, cousin. Beat. Good Lord, for alliance ! Thus goes every one to the world but I, and I am sunburnt ; I may sit in a corner and cry heigh-ho for a husband ! B. Pedro. Lady Beatrice, I will get you one. Beat. I would rather have one of your father's getting. Hath your grace ne'er a brother like you? Your father got excellent husbands, if a maid could come by them. B. Pedro. Will you have me, lady ? Beat. No, my lord, unless I might have another 7 for working-days : your grace is too costly to wear every day. But I beseech your grace, pardon me: I was born to speak all mirth and no matter. B. Pedro. Your silence most offends me, and to be merry best becomes you; for, out of question, you were born in a merry hour. Beat. No, sure, my lord, my mother cried ; but then there was a star danced, and under that was I born. Cousins, God give you joy ! Leon. Niece, will you look to those things I told you of ? Beat. I cry you mercy, uncle. By your grace's pardon. [Exit. B. Pedro. By my troth, a pleasant-spirited lady. Leon. There's little of the melancholy element in her, my lord: she is never sad but when she sleeps, and not even sad then; for I have heard my daughter say, she hath often dreamed of un- happiness and waked herself with laughing. B. Pedro. She cannot endure to hear tell of a. husband. Leon. O, by no means : she mocks all her wooers out of suit. [dick. B. Pedro. She were an excellent wife for Bene- Leon. O Lord, my lord, if they were but a week married, they would talk themselves mad. B. Pedro. County Claudio, when mean you to go to church ? Claud. To-morrow, my lord : time goes on crutches till love have all his rites. Leon. Not till Monday, my dear son, which is hence a just seven-night ; and a time too brief, toOj to have all things answer my mind. B. Pedro. Come, you shake the head at so long a breathing : but, I warrant thee, Claudio, the time shall not go dully by us. I will in the interim un- dertake one of Hercules' labours: which is, to bring Signior Benedick and the Lady Beatrice into a mountain of affection the one with the other. I would fain have it a match, and I doubt not but to fashion it, if you three will but minister such assist- ance as I shall give you direction. Leon. My lord, I am for you, though it cost me ten nights' watchings. Claud. And I, my lord. B. Pedro. And you too, gentle Hero? Hero. I will do any modest office, my lord, to help my cousin to a good husband. -D. Pedro. And Benedick is not the unhopef ullest husband that I knoAV. Thus far can I praise him; he is of a noble strain, of approved valour and confirmed honesty. I will teach you how to hu- mour your cousin, that she shall fall in love with Benedick ; and I, with your two helps, will so prac- tise on Benedick that, in despite of his quick wit and his queasy stomach, he shall fall in love with Beatrice. If we can do this, Cupid is no longer an archer: his glory shall be ours, for we are the only love-gods. Go in with me, and I will tell you my drift. SCENE II.— The same. [Exeunt. Enter Don John and Borachio. B. John. It is so ; the Count Claudio shall marry the daughter of Leonato. Bora. Yea, my lord ; but I can cross it. B. John. Any bar, any cross, any impediment will be medicinable to me : I am sick in displeasure to him, and whatsoever comes athwart his affec- tion ranges evenly with mine. How canst thou cross this marriage ? Bora. Not honestly, my lord; but so covertly that no dishonesty shall appear in me. B. John. Show me briefly how. Bora. I think I told your lordship a year since, how much I am in the favour of Margaret, the waiting-gentlewoman to Hero. 97 ACT II. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. SCENE III. D. John. I remember. Bora. I can, at any unseasonable instant of the night, appoint her to look out at her lady's cham- ber-window. D. John. What life is in that, to be the death of this marriage ? Bora. The poison of that lies in you to temper. Go you to the prince your brother ; spare not to tell him that he hath wronged his honour in marrying the renowned Claudio — whose estimation do you mightily hold up— to a contaminated stale, such a one as Hero. D. John. What proof shall I make of that ? Bora. Proof enough to misuse the prince, to vex Claudio, to undo Hero and kill Leonato. Look you for any other issue ? D. John. Only to despite them, I will endeavour anything. Bora. Go, then ; find me a meet hour to draw Don Pedro and the Count Claudio alone : tell them that you know that Hero loves me ; intend a kind of zeal both to the prince and Claudio, as, — in love of your brother's honour, who hath made this match, and his friend's reputation, who is thus like to be cozened with the semblance of a maid,— that you have dis- covered thus. They will scarcely believe this with- out trial: offer them instances; which shall bear no less likelihood than to see me at her chamber- window, hear me call Margaret Hero , hear Margaret term me Claudio ; and bring them to see this the very night before the intended wedding, — for in the meantime I will so fashion the matter that Hero shall be absent, — and there shall appear such seeming truth of Hero's disloyalty that jealousy shall be called assurance and all the preparation overthrown. D. John. Grow this to what adverse issue it can, I will put it in practice. Be cunning in the work- ing this, and thy fee is a thousand ducats. Bora. Be you constant in the accusation, and my cunning shall not shame me. D. John. I will presently go learn their day of marriage. [Exeunt. SCENE III. — Leonato's orchard. Enter Benedick. Bene. Boy! Enter Boy. Boy. Signior? Bene. In my chamber-window lies a book : bring it hither to me in the orchard. Boy. I am here already, sir. 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 behaviours 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 Claudio. I have known when there was no music with him but the drum and the fife ; and now had he father hear the tabor and the pipe : I have known when he would have walked ten mile a-foot to see a good armour ; and now will he lie ten nights awake, carving the fashion of a new doublet. He was wont to speak plain and to the purpose, like an honest man and a soldier; and now is he turned orthography; his words are a very fantastical banquet, just so many strange dishes. May I be so converted and see with these eyes ? 1 cannot tell ; I think not : I will not be sworn but love may transform me to an oyster ; but I '11 take my oath on it, till he have made an oyster of me, he 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 well ; but till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace. Eich she shall be, that 's certain ; wise, or I '11 none ; virtuous, or I '11 never cheapen her; fair, or I '11 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 colour it please God. Ha ! the prince and Monsieur Love ! I will hide me in the arbour. [Withdraws. Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, and Leonato. I). Pedro. Come, shall we hear this music ? Claiod. Yea, my good lord. How still the even- As hush'd on purpose to grace harmony ! [ing is, B. Pedro. See you where Benedick hath hid him- self? Claud. O, very well, my lord: the music ended, We '11 fit the kid-fox with a pennyworth. Enter Balthasar with Music. J). Pedro. Come, Balthasar, we '11 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 will he swear he loves. D. Pedro. Now, 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 Note, notes, forsooth, and nothing. [Air. Bene. Now, divine air ! now is his soul ravished ! Is it not strange that sheeps' guts should hale souls out of men's bodies ? Well, a horn for my money, when all 's done. THE SONG, Balth. Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever. One foot in sea and one on shore, To one thing constant never : Then sigh not so, but let them go, And be you blithe and bonny. Converting all your sounds of woe Into Hey nonny, nonny. Sing no more ditties, sing no moe, Of dumps so dull and heavy ; The fraud of men was ever so. Since summer first was leafy : Then sigh not so, &c. D. Pedro. By my troth, a good song. Balth. And an ill singer, my lord. D. Pedro. Ha, no, no, faith; thou singest well enough for a shift. Bene. An he had been a dog that should have howled thus, they would have hanged him : and I pray God 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, dost thou hear, Balthasar? 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. [Exit Balthasar. Come hither, Leonato. What was it you told me of to-day, that your niece Beatrice was in love with Signior Benedick ? ACT IT. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. SCENE III. Clavd. O, ay: stalk on, stalk on; the fowl sits. 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 behaviours seemed ever to abhor. Bene. Is 't possible ? Sits the wind in that corner ? Leon. By my troth, my lord, I cannot tell what to think of it but that she loves him with an en- raged affection ; it is past the infinite of thought. D. Pedro. May be she doth but counterfeit. Claud. Faith, like enough. Leon. O God, counterfeit! There was never counterfeit of passion came so near the life of pas- sion as she discovers it. D. Pedro. Why, what effects of passion shows she? Claud. Bait the hook well ; this fish will bite. Leon. What effects, my lord ? She will sit you, you heard my daughter tell you how. Claud. She did, indeed. D. Pedro. How, how, I pray you ? You amaze me : I would have thought her spirit had been in- vincible against all assaults of affection. Leon. I would have sworn it had, my lord ; espe- cially against Benedick. Bene. I should think this a gull, but that the white-bearded fellow speaks it: knavery cannot, sure, hide himself in such reverence. Clavd. He hath ta'en the infection : hold it up. J). Pedro. Hath she made her affection known to Benedick ? Leon. No ; and swears she never will : that 's her torment. Clavd. 'Tis true, indeed; so your daughter says : ' Shall I,' says she, ' that have so oft encountered him with scorn, write to him that I love him ? ' Leon. This says she now when she is beginning to write to him ; for she '11 be up twenty times a night, and there she will sit in her smock till she have writ a sheet of paper : my daughter tells us all. Claud. Now you talk of a sheet of paper, I re- member a pretty jest your daughter told us of. Leon. O, when she had writ it and was reading it over, she found Benedick and Beatrice between the sheet ? Clavd. That. Leon. O, she tore the letter into a thousand half- pence ; railed at herself, that she should be so im- modest to write to one that she knew would flout her ; ' I measure him,' says she, ' by my own spirit ; for I should flout him, if he writ to me; yea, though I love him, I should.' Clavd. Then down upon her knees she falls, weeps, sobs, beats her heart, tears her hair, prays, curses ; ' O sweet Benedick ! God give me patience ! ' ieo7i. She doth indeed; my daughter says so: and the ecstasy hath so much overborne her that my daughter is sometime afeard 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 make but 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 everything but in loving Benedick. Leon. O, my lord, wisdom and blood combating in so tender a body, we have ten proofs to one that blood hath the victory. I am sorry for her, as I have just cause, being her uncle and her guardian. D. Pedro. I would she had bestowed this dotage on me : I would have daffed all other respects and made her half myself. I pray you, tell Benedick of it, and hear what a' will say. Leon. Were it good, think you? Claud. Hero thinks surely she wUl die; for she says she will die, if he love her not, and she wiU die, ere she make her love known, and she will die, if he woo her, rather than she wiU bate one breath 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 contemptible Clavd. He is a very proper man. [spirit. D. Pedro. He hath indeed a good outward hap- piness. Clavd. Before God ! and, in my mind, very wise. B. Pedro. He doth indeed show some sparks that are like wit. Claud. And I take him to be valiant. B. 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 un- dertakes them with a most Christian-like fear. Leon. If he do fear God, a' must necessarily keep peace : if he break the peace, he ought to enter into a quarrel with fear and trembling. B. Pedro. And so will he do ; for the man doth fear God, howsoever it seems not in him by some large jests he will make. Well, I am sorry for your niece. Shall we go seek Benedick, and tell him of her love ? Claud. Never tell him, my lord : let her wear it out with good counsel. Leon. Nay, that 's impossible: she may wear her heart out first. B. Pedro. Well, we will hear further of it by your daughter : let it cool the while. I love Bene- dick well ; and I could wish he would modestly ex- amine himself, to see how much he is imworthy so good a lady. Leon. My lord, will you walk ? dinner is ready. Claud. If he do not dote on her upon this, I will never trust my expectation. B. Pedro. Let there be the same net spread for her ; and that must your daughter and her gentle- women carry. 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 in to dinner. [Exeunt Bon Pedro., Claudio, and Leonato. Bene. [Coming forward] 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 affec- tion. I 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 ; 't is a truth, I can bear them witness ; and virtuous ; 't is 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 I will be horribly in love with her. I 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 humour ? No, the world must be peopled. 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 lier. „ „ Enter Beatrice. Beat. Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner. ACT III. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. SCENE I. Bene. Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains. Beat. I took uo more pains for those thanks than you take pains 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 well. [Exit. Bene. Ha ! 'Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner ; ' there 's a double meaning in that. ' I 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 I do not take pity of her, I am a vil- lain ; if I do not love her, I am a Jew. I will go get her picture. [_Exit. ^CT III. SCENE I.— Leonato^s garden. Enter Hero, Margaret, and Ursula. Hero. Good Margaret, run thee to the parlour; There shalt thou 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 favourites, Made proud by princes, that advance their pride Against that power that bred it : there will she hide To listen our purpose. This is thy office ; [her. Bear thee well in it and leave us alone. Marg. I '11 make her come, I warrant you, pres- ently. [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 hearsay. Enter Beatrice, behind. Now begin ; 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 noth- Of the false sweet bait that we lay for it. [ing [Approaching the bower. No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful; I know her spirits are as coy and wild As haggerds of the rock. Urs. But are you sure That Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely ? Hero. So says the prince and my new-trothed lord. Urs. And did they bid you tell her of it, madam ? Hero. They did entreat me to acquaint her of it ; But I persuaded them, if they loved Benedick, To wish him wrestle with affection. And never to let Beatrice know of it. Urs. Why did you so ? Doth not the gentleman Deserve as full as fortunate a bed As ever Beatrice shall couch upon ? Hero. O god of love ! I know he doth deserve As much as may be yielded to a man : But 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 cannot love, 100 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 man, How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featured, But she would spell him backward : if fair-faced. She would swear the gentleman should be her sister ; If black, why, Nature, drawing of an antique. 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 virrong 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 fashions As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable : But who dare tell her so ? If I should speak, She would mock me into air ; O, she would laugh me Out of myself , press me to death with wit. Therefore let Benedick, like cover 'd fire, Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly.: It were a better death than die with mocks, Which is as bad as die with tickling. 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 '11 devise some honest slanders To stain my cousin with : one doth not know How much an ill word may empoison liking. Urs. O, do not do yom- cousin such a wrong. She cannot be so much without true judgment — Having so swift and excellent a wit As she is prized to have — as to refuse So rare a gentleman as Signior Benedick. Hero. He is the only man of Italy, Always excepted my dear Claudio. Urs. I pray you, be not angry with me, madam, Speaking my fancy : Signior Benedick, For shape, for bearing, argument and valour, 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 ? Hero. Why, every day, to-morrow. Come, go in : I '11 show thee some attires, and have thy coimsel Which is the best to furnish me to-morrow. Urs. She 's limed, I warrant you : we have caught her, madam. Hero. It it proves so, then loving goes by haps : Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps. [Exeunt Hero and Ursula. Beat. [Coming forward] What fire is in mine ears y Can this be true V Stand I condemn 'd for pride and scorn so much ? Contempt, farewell! and maiden pride, adieu! No glory lives behind the back of such. And, Benedick, love on ; I will requite thee, f Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand : ACT III. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. SCENE III. If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee To bind our loves up in a holy band ; Por others say thou dost deserve, and I Believe it better than reportingly. [Exit. SCENE II. — A room in LeonaWs house. Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedick, and Leonato. B. Pedro. I do but stay till your marriage be con- summate, and then go I toward Arragon. Claud. I '11 bring you thither, my lord, if you '11 vouchsafe me. I). Pedro. Nay, that would be as great a soil in the new gloss of your marriage as to show a child his new coat and forbid him to wear it. I will only be bold with Benedick for his company ; for, from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, he is all mirth : he hath twice or thrice cut Cupid's bow-string and the little hang-man dare not shoot at him ; he hath a heart as sound as a bell and his tongue is the clapper, for what his heart thinks his tongue speaks. Bene. Gallants, I am not as I have been. Leon. So say I : methinks you are sadder. Clawd. I hope he be in love. B.Pedro. Hang him, truant! there's no true drop of blood in him, to be truly touched with love : if he be sad, he wants money. Bene. I have the toothache. B. Pedro. Draw it. Bene. Hang it ! [wards. Claud. You must hang it first, and draw it after- B. Pedro. "What ! sigh for the toothache ? Leon. Where is but a humour or a worm. Bene. "Well, every one can master a grief but he that has it. Claud. Yet say I, he is in love. B. Pedro. There is no appearance of fancy in him, unless it be a fancy that he hath to strange disguises ; as, to be a Dutchman to-day, a Frenchman to-mor- row, or in the shape of two countries at once, as, a German from the waist downward, all slops, and a Spaniard from the hip upward, no doublet. Unless he have a fancy to this foolery, as it appears he hath, he is no fool for fancy, as you would have it appear he is. Claud. If he be not in love with some woman, there is no believing old signs : a' brushes his hat o' mornings; what should that bode ? B. Pedro. Hath any man seen him at the barber's ? Claud. No, but the barber's man hath been seen with him, and the old ornament of his cheek hath already stuifed tennis-balls. Leon. Indeed, he looks younger than he did, by the loss of a beard. B. Pedro. Nay, a' rubs himself with civet : can you smeU him out by that ? [in love. Claud. That 's as much as to say, the sweet youth' s B. Pedro. The greatest note of it is his melancholy. Claud. And when was he wont to wash his face ? B. Pedro. Yea, or to paint himself ? for the which, I hear what they say of him. Claud. Nay, but- his jesting spirit ; which is now crept into a lute-string and now governed by stops. B. Pedro. Indeed, that tells a heavy tale for him : conclude, conclude he is in love. Claud. Nay, but I know who loves him. B. Pedro. That would I know too : I warrant, one that knows him not. Claud. Yes, and his ill conditions ; and, in despite of all, dies for him. [wards. B. Pedro. She shall be buried with her face up- Bene. Yet is this no charm for the toothache. Old signior, walk aside with me : I have studied eight or nine wise words to speak to you, which these hobby- horses must not hear. [Exeunt Benedick and Leonato. B. Pedro. For my life, to break with him about Beatrice. Claud. 'T is even so. Hero and Margaret have by this played their parts with Beatrice ; and then the two bears will not bite one another when they meet. Enter Don John. B. John. My lord and brother, God save you ! B. Pedro. Good den, brother. B. John. If your leisure served, I would speak with you. B. Pedro. In private ? B. John. If it please you: yet Count Claudio may hear ; for what I would speak of concerns him. B. Pedro. "What 's the matter ? B. John. [To Claudio] Means your lordship to be married to-morrow ? B. Pedro. You know he does. [know. D. John. 1 know not that, when he knows what I Claud. If there be any impediment, I pray you discover it. B. John. You may think I love you not : let that appear hereafter, aiid aim better at me by that I now will manifest. For my brother, I think he holds you well, and in dearness of heart hath holp to effect your ensuing marriage; — surely suit ill spent and labour ill bestowed. B. Pedro. Why, what 's the matter ? B. John. I came hither to tell you; and, circum- stances shortened, for she has been too long a talk- ing of, the lady is disloyal. Claud. Who, Hero? B. John. Even she ; Leonato' s Hero, your Hero, every man's Hero. Claud. Disloyal? B. John. The word is too good to paint out her wickedness ; I could say she were worse : think you of a worse title, and I will fit her to it. Wonder not till further warrant : go but with me to-night, you shall see her chamber-window entered, even the night before her wedding-day : if you love her then, to-morrow wed her; but it would better fit your honour to change your mind. Claud. May this be so ? B. Pedro. I will not think it. B. John. If you dare not trust that you see, con- fess not that you know: if you Avill follow me, I will show you enough; and when you have seen more and heard more, proceed accordingly. Claud. If I see anything to-night why I should not marry her to-morrow, in the congregation, where I should wed , there will I shame her. B. Pedro. And, as I wooed for thee to obtain her, I will join with thee to disgrace her. B. John. I will disparage her no farther till you are my witnesses: bear it coldly but till midnight, and let the issue show itself. B. Pedro. O day untowardly turned ! Claud. O mischief strangely thwarting ! B. John. O plague right well prevented ! so will you say when you have seen the sequel. [Exeunt. SCENE III.— J. street. Enter Dogberry and Verges with the Watch. Bog. Are you good men and true ? Verge. Yea, or else it were pity but they should suffer salvation, body and soul. Bog. Nay, that were a punishment too good for them, if they should have any allegiance in them, being chosen for the prince's watch. Verge. Well, give them their charge, neighbour Dogberry. Bog. First, who think you the most desartless man to be constable ? First Watch. Hugh Otecake, sir, or George Sea- cole ; for they can write and read. 101 ACT III. 3IUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. SCENE III. Dog. Come hither, neighbour Seacole. God hath blessed you with a good name : to be a well-favoured man is the gift of fortune ; but to write and read comes by nature. Sec. Watch. Both which, master constable,— Bocj. You have : I knew it would be your answer. "Well, for your favour, sir, why, give God 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. /Sec. Watch. How if a' will not stand ? Dog. Why, then, take no note of him, but let him go ; and presently call the rest of the watch together and thank God you are rid of a knave. Verg. If he will not stand when he is bidden, he is none of the prince's subjects. Dog. 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 to talk is most tolerable and not to be endured. Watch. We will rather sleep than talk : we know what belongs to a watch. Dog. 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 drynk get them to bed. Watch. How if they will not ? Dog. 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. Watch. Well, sir. Dog. If you meet a thief, you may suspect him, by virtue of your 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. Watch. If we know him to be a thief, shall we not lay hands on him i' Dog. Truly, by your office, you may ; but I think they that touch pitch will be defiled : the most peace- able way for you, if you do take a thief, is to let him showhimself what he isandstealoutof yourcompany. Verg. You have been always called a merciful man, partner. Dog. 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. Watch. How if the nurse be asleep and will not hear us ? Dog. Why, then, 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. 'T is very true. Dog. This is tlie end of the charge: — you, con- stable, are to present the prince's own person: if you meet the prince in the night, you may stay him. Verg. Nay, by 'r lady, that I think a' cannot. Dog. rive 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 will. Verg. By 'r lady, I think it be so. Dog. Ha, ah, ha! Well, masters, good night : an there be any matter of weight chances, call up me : keep your fellows' counsels and your own ; and good night. Come, neighbour. Watch. Well, masters, we hear our charge: let us go sit here upon the church-bench till two, and then all to bed. Dog. One word more, honest neighbours. I pray 102 you, watch about Signior Leonato's door; for the wedding being there to-morrow, there is a great coil to-night. Adieu : be vigitant, I beseech you. {Exeunt Dogberry and Verges. Enter Borachio and Conrade. Bora. What, Conrade ! Watch. [Aside\ Peace ! stir not. iJora. Conrade, I say! Con. Here, man; I am at thy elbow. Bora. Mass, and my elbow itched; I thought there would a scab follow. Con. I will owe thee an answer for that : and now forward with thy tale. 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. [Asi(Ze] 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 ? Bora. Thou shouldst rather ask if it were pos- sible 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 the 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. Bora. Tush! I may as well say the fool's the fool. But seest thou not what a deformed thief this fashion is ? Watch. [Aside] I know that Deformed; a' has been a vile thief this seven year ; a' goes up and down like a gentleman : I remember his name. Bora. Didst thou not hear somebody ? Con. No ; 't was the vane on the house. Bora. Seest thou not, I say, what a deformed thief this fashion is ? how giddily a' turns about all the hot bloods between fourteen and five-and- thirty ? sometimes fashioning them like Pharaoh's soldiers in the reeky painting, sometime like god Bel's priests in the old church-window, sometime like the shaven Hercules in the smirched worm- eaten tapestry, where his codpiece seems as massy as his club V Con. All this I see ; and I 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 Margaret, the Lady Hero's gentle- woman, 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 mas- ter, planted and placed and possessed by my mas- ter Don John, saw afar off in the orchard this amiable encounter. Con. And thought they Margaret was Hero ? Bora. Two of them did, the prince and Claudio ; but the devil my master knew she was Margaret ; and partly by his oaths, which first possessed 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 Clau- dio 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 o'er night and send her home again without a husband. ACT III. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. SCENE V. First Watch. We charge you, in the prince's name, stand ! Sec. Watch. Call up the right master constable. We have here recovered the most dangerous piece of lechery that ever was known in the common- wealth. First Watch. And one Deformed is one of them : I know him ; a' wears a lock. Con. Masters, masters, — Sec. Watch. You'll be made bring Deformed forth, I warrant you. Con. Masters, — First Watch. IsTever speak : we charge you let us obey you to go with us. Bora. We are like to prove a goodly commodity, being taken up of these men's bills. Con. A commodity in question, I warrant you. Come, we '11 obey you. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. — Heroes apartment. Enter Hero, Margaret, and Ursula. Hero. Good Ursula, wake my cousin Beatrice, and desire her to rise. Urs. I will, lady. ■ Hero. And bid her come hither. Urs. Well. [ExU. Marg. Troth, I think your other rabato were better. Hero. No, pray thee, good Meg, I '11 wear this. Marg. By my troth, 's not so good; and I war- rant your cousin will say so. Hero. My cousin 's a fool, and thou art another: I '11 wear none but this. Marg. I like the new tire within excellently, if the hair were a thought browner ; and your gown 's a most rare fashion, i' faith. I saw the Duchess of Milan's gOAvn that they praise so. Hero. O, that exceeds, they say. Marg. By my troth, 's but a night-gown in re- spect of yours: cloth o' gold, and cuts, and laced with silver, set with pearls, doAvn sleeves, side sleeves, and skirts, round underborne with a bluish tinsel : but for a fine, quaint, graceful and excellent fashion, yours is worth ten on 't. Hero. God give me joy to wear it! for my heart is exceeding heavy. Marg. 'T will be heavier soon by the weight of a Hero. Fie upon thee ! art not ashamed ? [man. Marg. Of what, lady ? of speaking honourably ? Is not marriage honourable in a beggar? Is not your lord honourable without marriage ? I think you would have me say, ' saving your reverence, a husband : ' an bad thinking do not wrest true speaking, I '11 offend nobody : is there any harm in ' the heavier for a husband ' ? None, I think, an it be the right husband and the right wife; otherwise 't is light, and not heavy : ask my Lady Beatrice else ; here she comes. Enter Beatrice. Hero. Good morrow, coz. Beat. Good morrow, sweet Hero. Hero. Why, how now ? do you speak in the sick tune y Beat. I am out of all other tune, methinks. Marg. Clap 's into ' Light o' love ; ' that goes without a burden : do you sing it, and I '11 dance it. Beat. Ye light o' love, with your heels ! then, if your husband have stables enough, you '11 see he shall lack no barns. Marg. O illegitimate construction ! I scorn that with my heels. Beat. 'Tis almost five o'clock, cousin; 'tis time Sou were ready. By my troth, I am exceeding ill : eigh-ho ! Marg. For a hawk, a horse, or a husband ? Beat. For the letter that begins them all, H. Marg. Well, an you be not turned Turk, there 's no more sailing by the star. Beat. What means the fool, trow ? Marg. Nothing I ; but God send every one their heart's desire ! Hero. These gloves the count sent me ; they are an excellent perfume. Beat. I am stuffed, cousin ; I cannot smell. Marg. A maid, and stuffed ! there 's goodly catch- ing of cold. Beat. O, God help me! God help me! how long have you professed apprehension ? Marg. Even since you left it. Doth not my wit become me rarely ? Beat. It is not seen enough, you should wear it in your cap. By my troth, I am sick. Marg. Get you some of this distilled Carduus Benedictus, and lay it to your heart : it is the only thing for a qualm. Hero. There thou prickest her with a thistle. Beat. Benedictus ! why Benedictus ? you have some moral in this Benedictus. Marg. Moral! no, by my troth, I have no moral meaning; I meant, plain holy-thistle. You may think perchance that I think you are in love : nay, by 'r lady, I am not such a fool to think what I list, nor I list not to think what I can, nor indeed I cannot think, if I would think my heart out of thinking, that you are in love or that you will be in love or that you can be in love. Yet Benedick was such another, and now is he become a man : he swore he would never marry, and yet now, in despite of his heart, he eats his meat without grudg- ing : and how you may be converted I know not, but methinks you look with your eyes as other women do . Beat. What pace is this that thy tongue keeps ? Marg. Not a false gallop. Be-enter Ursula. Urs. Madam, withdraw: the prince, the count, Signior Benedick, Don John, and all the gallants of the town, are come to fetch you to church. Hero. Help to dress me, good coz, good Meg, good Ursula. [Exeunt. SCENE V. — Another room in Leonato''s house. Enter Leonato, with Dogberry and Verges. Leon. What would you with me, honest neighbour? Bog. Marry, sir, I would have some confidence with you that decerns you nearly. Leon. Brief, I pray you ; for you see it is a busy time with me. Dog. Marry J this it is, sir. Verg. Yes, m truth it is, sir. Leo7i. What is it, my good friends? Dog. Goodman Verges, sir, speaks a little off the matter: an old man, sir, and his wits are not so blunt as, God help, I Avould desire they were; but, in faith, honest as the skin between his brows. Verg. Yes, I thank God I am as honest as any man living that is an old man and no honester than I. Dog. Comparisons are odorous : palabras, neigh- bour Verges. Leon. Neighbours, you are tedious. Dog. It pleases your worship to say so, but we are the poor duke's officers; but truly, for mine own part, if I were as tedious as a king, I could find it in my heart to bestow it all of your worship. Leon. All thy tediousness on me, ah ? Dog. Yea, an 'twere a thousand pound more than 't is ; for I hear as good exclamation on your worship as of any man in the city ; and though I be but a poor man, I am glad to hear it. Verg. And so am I. 103 ACT IV. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. SCENE L Leon. I would fain know what you have to say. Verg. Marry, sir, our watch to-night, excepting your worship's presence, ha' ta'en a couple of as arrant knaves as any in Messina. Dog. A good old man, sir ; he will be talking : as they say. When the age is in, the wit is out : God help us! it is a world to see. Well said, i' faith, neighbour Verges: well, God's a good man; an two men ride ot a horse, one must ride behind. An honest soul, i' faith, sir; by my troth he is, as ever broke bread ; but God is to be worshipped ; all men are not alike ; alas, good neighbour ! [you. Leon. Indeed, neighbour, he comes too short of Dog. Gifts that God gives. Leon. I must leave you. Dog. One word, sir : our watch, sir, have indeed comprehended two aspicious persons, and we would have them this morning examined before your worship. Leon. Take their examination yourself and bring it me : I am now in great haste, as it may appear unto you. Dog. It shall be suffigance. Leon. Drink some wine ere you go : fare you well. Enter a Messenger. Mess. My lord, they stay for you to give your daughter to her husband. Leon. I 'U wait upon them : I am ready. [Exeunt Leonato and Messenger. Dog. Go, good partner, go, get you to Francis Seacole ; bid him bring his pen and inkhorn to the gaol : we are now to examination these men. Verg. And we must do it wisely. Dog. We will spare for no wit, I warrant you; here 's that shall drive some of them to a noncome : only get the learned writer to set down our excom- munication and meet me at the gaol. [Exeunt. A.CT IV. SCENE I.— A church. Enter Don Pedro, Don John, Leonato, Friar Fran- cis, Claudio, Benedick, Hero, Beatrice, and Atten- dants. Leon. Come, Friar Francis, be brief; only to the plain form of marriage, and you shall recount their particular duties afterwards. [lady. Friar. You come hither, my lord, to marry this Claud. No. Leon. To be married to her : friar, you come to marry her. [count. Friar. Lady, you come hither to be married to this Hero. 1 do. Friar. If either of you know any inward impedi- ment why you should not be conjoined, I charge you, on your souls, to utter it. Claud. Know you any. Hero ? Hero. None, my lord. Friar. Know you any, count ? Leon. I dare make his answer, none. Claud. O, what men dare do ! what men may do ! what men daily do, not knowing what they do ! Dene. How now! interjections? Why, then, some be of laughing, as, ah, ha, he ! [leave : Claud. Stand thee by, friar. Father, by your Will you with free and unconstrained soul Give me this maid, your daughter ? Leon. As freely, son, as God did give her me. Claud. And what have I to give you back, whose May counterpoise this rich and precious gift ? [worth D. Pedro. Nothing, unless you render her again. Claud. Sweet prince, you learn me noble thank- There, Leonato, take her back again : [fulness. Give not this rotten orange to your friend ; She 's but the sign and semblance of her honour. Behold how like a maid she blushes here ! O, what authority and show of truth Can cunning sin cover itself withal ! Comes not that blood as modest evidence To witness simple virtue ? Would you not swear. All you that see her, that she were a maid. By these exterior shows ? But she is none : She knows the heat of a luxurious bed ; Her blush is guiltiness, not modesty. Leon. What do you mean, my lord ? Claud. Not to be married. Not to knit my soul to an approved wanton. Leon. Dear my lord, if you, in your own proof. Have vanquish'd the resistance of her youth, And made defeat of her virginity, — [known her, Claud. I know what you would say : if I have 104 You will say she did embrace me as a husband, And so extenuate the 'forehand sin : No, Leonato, I never tempted her with word too large ; But, as a brother to his sister, show'd Bashful sincerity and comely love. Hero. And seem'd I ever otherwise to you ? [it : Claud. Out on thee I Seeming! I will write against You seem to me as Dian in her orb. As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown ; But you are more intemperate in your blood Than Venus, or those pamper'd animals That rage in savage sensuality. Hero. Is my lord well, that he doth speak so wide ? Leon. Sweet prince, why speak not you ?, D. Pedro. What should I speak ? I stand dishonour'd, that have gone about To link my dear friend to a common stale. Leon. Are these things spoken, or do I but dream ? D. John. Sir, they are spoken, and these things Bene. This looks not like a nuptial. [are true. Hero. True! O God! Claud. Leonato^ stand I here ? Is this the prince r is this the prince's brother ? Is this face Hero's ? are our eyes our own ? Leon. All this is so : but what of this, my lord? Claud. Let me but move one question to your And, by that fatherly and kindly power [daughter; That you have in her, bid her answer truly. Leon. I charge thee do so, as thou art my child. Hero. O, God defend me ! how am I beset ! What kind of catechising call you this ? Claud. To make you answer truly to your name. Hero. Is it not Hero ? Who can blot that name With any just reproach ? Claud. Marry, that can Hero ; Hero itself can blot out Hero's virtue. What man was he talk'd with you yesternight Out at your window betwixt twelve and one ? Now, if you are a maid, answer to this. Hero. I talk'd with no man at that hour, my lord. D. Pedro. Why, then are you no maiden. Leo- nato, I am sorry you must hear : upon mine honour, Myself, my brother and this grieved count Did see her, hear her, at that hour last night Talk with a ruffian at her chamber-window; Who hath indeed, most like a liberal villain, Confess'd the vile encounters they have had A thousand times in secret. [lord, D. John. Fie, fie ! they are not to be named, my Not to be spoke of; ACT IV. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. SCENE I. There is not chastity enougli in language Without offence to utter them. Thus, pretty lady, I am sorry for thy much misgovernment. Claud. O Hero, what a Hero hadst thou been, If half thy outward graces had been placed About thy thoughts and comisels of thy heart ! But fare thee well, most foul, most fair ! farewell, Thou pure impiety and impious purity ! For thee I '11 lock up all the gates of love. And on my eyelids shall conjecture hang. To turn all beauty into thoughts of harm. And never shall it more be gracious. Leon. Hath no man's dagger here a point for me ? [Hero swoons. Beat. "Why, how now, cousin ! wherefore sink you down? D. John. Come, let us go. These things, come thus to light, Smother her spirits up. [Uxeunt Bon Pedro, Bon John, and Claudio. Bene. How doth the lady ? Beat. Dead, I think. Help, uncle ! Hero ! why. Hero ! Uncle ! Signior Benedick ! Friar ! Leon. O Fate ! take not away thy heavy hand. Death is the fairest cover for her shame That may be wish'd for. Beat. How now, cousin Hero ! Friar. Have comfort, lady. Leon. Dost thou look up ? Friar. Yea, wherefore should she not ? [thing i Leon. Wherefore ! Why, doth not every earthly | Cry shame upon her ? Could she here deny The story that is printed in her blood ? Do not live. Hero ; do not ope thine eyes : For, did I think thou wouldst not quickly die. Thought I thy spirits were stronger than thy shames. Myself would, on the rearward of reproaches. Strike at thy life. Grieved I, I had but one ? Chid I for that at frugal nature's frame ? O, one too much by thee ! Why had I one ? Why ever wast thou lovely in my eyes ? Why had I not with charitable hand Took up a beggar's issue at my gates. Who smirch'd thus and mired with infamy, I might have said ' No part of it is mine ; This shame derives itself from unknown loins ' ? But mine and mine I loved and muie I praised And mine that I was proud on, mine so much That I myself was to myself not mine, "Valuing of her, — why, she, O, she is fallen Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea Hath drops too few to wash her clean again And salt too little which may season give To her foul-tainted flesh ! Bene. Sir, sir, be patient. For my part, I am so attired in wonder, I know not what to say. Beat. O, on my soul, my cousin is belied! Bene. Lady, were you her bedfellow last night ? Beat. No, truly not ; although, until last night, I have this twelvemonth been her bedfellow. Leon. Confirm'd, confirm'd ! O, that is stronger made Which was before barr'd up with ribs of iron ! Would the two princes lie, and Claudio lie. Who loved her so, that, speaking of her foulness, Wash'd it with tears ? Hence from her ! let her die. 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 tliousand blushing apparitions To start into her face, a thousand innocent shames In angel whiteness beat away those blushes ; And in her eye there hath appear'd a fire, To burn the errors that these princes hold Against her maiden truth. Call me a fool; Trust not my reading nor my observations. Which with experimental seal doth warrant The tenour 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 perjury ; 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 accused 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 ! O my father. Prove you that any man with me conversed At hours unmeet, or that I yesternight Maintain 'd the change of words with any creature, Kefuse me, hate me, torture me to death! Friar. There is some strange misprision in the princes. [our; Bene. Two of them have the very bent of hon- And if their wisdoms be misled in this. The practice of it lives in John the bastard, Whose spirits toil in frame of villanies. [her, Leon. I know not. If they speak but truth of These hands shall tear her ; if they wrong her hon- The proudest of them shall well hear of it. [our, Time hath not yet so dried this blood of mine, 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, awaked in such a kind, Both strength of limb and policy of mind. Ability in means and choice of friends. To quit me of them throughly. Friar. Pause awhile, 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. [do ? Leon. What shall become of this ? what wiU this Friar. Marry, this well carried shaU on her be- half Change slander to remorse ; that is some good : But not for that dream I on this strange course, But on this travail look for greater birth. She dyiug, as it must be so maintain 'd. Upon the instant that she was accused. Shall be lamented, pitied and excused 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, If ever love had interest in his liver. And wish he had not so accused her. No, though he thought his accusation true. Let this be so, and doubt not but success Will fashion the event in better shape 105 ACT IV. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. SCENE II. Than I can lay it down in likelihood. But if all 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 : And though you know my inwardness and love Is very much unto the prince and Claudio, Yet, by mine honour, 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. 'T is well consented : presently away ; For to strange sores strangely they strain the cure. Come, lady, die to live : this wedding-day Perhaps is but prolong'd: have patience and en- dure. {Exeunt all hut Benedick and Beatrice. Bene. Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while ? Beat. Yea, and I will weep a while longer. Bene. 1 will not desire that. Beat. You have no reason ; I do it freely. Bene. Surely I do believe your fair cousin is wronged. 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 weU 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 yet I lie not ; I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing. I am sorry for my cousin. Bene. By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me. Beat. Do not swear, 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, God forgive me ! Bene. What offence, sweet Beatrice ? Beat. You have stayed me in a happy hour: I was about to protest I loved you. Bene. And do it with all thy heart. Beat. I love you with so much of my heart that none is left 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, though I am here ; there is no love in you : nay, I pray you, let me go. Bene. Beatrice, — Beat. In faith, I will go. Bene. We '11 be friends first. Beat. You dare easier be friends with me than fight with mine enemy. Bene. Is Claudio thine enemy ? Beat. Is he not approved in the height a villain, that hath slandered, scorned, dishonored my kins- woman? O that I were a man! What, bear her in hand until they come to take hands; and then, with public accusation, uncovered slander, un- mitigated rancour,— O God, that I were a man ! I would eat his heart in the market-place. Bene. Hear me, Beatrice, — [saying ! Beat. Talk with a man out at a window ! A proper 106 Bene. Nay, but, Beatrice — Beat. Sweet Hero ! She is wronged, she is slan- dered, she is undone. Bene. Beat — Beat. Princes and counties! Surely, a princely testimony, a goodly count. Count Comfect ; 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, valour into compliment, and men are only turnetl 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. -Be?ie. 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 I leave you. By this hand, Claudio shall render me a dear accomit. As you hear of me, so think of me. Go, comfort your cousin : I must say she is dead : and so, fare- well. [Exeunt. SCENE II.— A prison. Enter Dogberry, Verges, and Sexton, in govms; and the Watcb., with Conrade and Borachio. Dog. Is our whole dissembly appeared ? Verg. O, a stool and a cushion for the sexton. Sex. Which be the malefactors ? Bog. Marry, that am I and my partner. Verg. Nay, that 's certain ; we have the exhi- bition to examine. Sex. But which are the offenders that are to be examined y let them come before master constable. Bog. Yea, marry, let them come before me. What is your name, friend ? Bora. Borachio. Bog. Pray, write down, Borachio. Yours, sirrah ? Con. I am a gentleman, sir, and my name is Con- rade. Bog. Write dovra, master gentleman Conrade. Masters, do you serve God? Bora I ^^^' ^^'^' ^^ hope. Bog. Write down, that they hope they serve God : and write God first ; for God defend but God should go before such villains ! Masters, it is proved al- ready 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. Bog. 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. Dog. Well, stand aside. 'Fore God, they are both in a tale. Have you writ down, that they are none ? Sex. Master constable, you go not the way to ex- amine : you must call forth the watch that are their accusers. Dog. Yea, marry, that 's the eftest way. Let the watch come forth. Masters, I charge you, in the prince's name, accuse these men. First Watch. This man said, sir, that Don John, the prince's brother, was a villain. Dog. Write down Prince John a villain. Why, this is flat perjury, to call a prince's brother villain. Bora. Master constable,— Dog. Pray thee, fellow, peace : I do not like thy look, I promise thee. ACT V. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. SCENE I. Sex. Wliat heard you him say else ? Sec. Watch. Marry, that he had received a thou- sand ducats of Don John for accusing the Lady Hero wrongfully. Dog. Flat burglary as ever w^as committed. Verg. Yea, by mass, that it is. Sex. "What else, fellow ? First Watch. And that Count Claudio did mean, upon his words, to disgrace Hero before the whole assembly, and not marry her. Dog. O villain! thou wilt be condemned into everlasting redemption for this. Sex. What else ? Watch. This is all. Sex. 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 sud- denly died. Master constable, let these men be bound, and brought to Leonato's : I will go before and show him their examination. [Exit. Dog. Come, let them be opinioned. Verg. Let them be in the hands — Con. OS, coxcomb ! Dog. God 's my life, where 's the sexton ? let him write down the prince's officer coxcomb. Come, bind them. Tliou naughty varlet ! Con. Away ! you are an ass, you are an ass. Dog. Dost thou not suspect my place ? dost thou not suspect my years ? O that he were here to write me down an ass! But, masters, remember that I am an ass; though it be not written down, yet for- get not that I am an ass. No, thou villain, thou art full of piety, as shall be proved upon thee by good witness. I am a wise fellow, and, which is more, an officer, and, whicli is more, a liouseholder, and, which is more, as pretty a piece of flesh as any is in Messina, and one that knows the law, go to ; and a rich fellow enough, go to ; and a fellow that hath had losses, and one that hath two gowns and every thing handsome about him. Bring him away. O that I had been writ down an ass ! [Exeunt. ^CT V. SCENE I. — Before Leonato's house. Enter Leonato and Antonio. Ant. If you go on thus, you will kill yourself; And 't is not wisdom thus to second grief Against yourself. Leon. I pray thee, cease thy coimsel, Which falls into mine ears as profitless As water in a sieve : give not me counsel ; Nor let no comforter delight mine ear But such a one whose wrongs do suit with mine. Bring me a father that so loved his child, Whose joy of her is overwhelm'd like mine, And bid him speak of patience ; Measure his woe the length and breadth of mine And let it answer every strain for strain, As thus for thus and such a grief for such. In every lineament, branch, shape, and form: If such a one will smile and stroke his beard. Bid sorrow wag, cry ' hem ! ' when he should groan. Patch grief with proverbs, make misfortune drunk With candle-wasters ; bring him yet to me, And I of him will gather patience. But there is no such man : for, brother, men Can counsel and speak comfort to that grief Which they themselves not feel; but, tasting it, Their counsel turns to passion, which before Would give preceptial medicine to rage, Fetter strong madness in a silken thread, Charm ache with air and agony with words : No, no ; 't is all men's office to speak patience To those that wring under the load of sorrow, But no man's virtue nor sufficiency To be so moral when lie shall endure The like himself. Therefore give me no counsel : My griefs cry louder than advertisement. Ant. Therein do men from children nothing differ. Leon. I pray thee, peace. I will be flesh and blood ; For there was never yet philosopher That could endure the toothache patiently. However they have writ the style of gods And made a push at chance and sufferance. Ant. Yet bend not all the harm upon yourself; Make those that do offend you suffer too. Leon. There thou speak 'st reason: nay, I will do so. My soul doth tell me Hero is belied ; And that shall Claudio know ; so shall the prince And all of them that thus dishonour her. Ant. Here comes the prince and Claudio hastily. Enter Don Pedro and! Claudio. D. Pedro. Good den, good den. Claud. Good day to both of you. Leon. Hear you, my lords, — D. Pedro. We have some haste, Leonato. Leon. Some haste, my lord ! well, fare you well, my Are you so hasty now Y well, all is one. [lord : D. Pedro. Nay, do not quarrel with us, good old man. Ant. If he could right himself with quarrelling. Some of us would lie low. Claud. Who wrongs him ? Leon. Marry, thou dost wrong me; thou dis- sembler, thou : — Nay, never lay thy hand upon thy sword ; I fear thee not. Claud. Marry, beshrew my hand. If it should give your age such cause of fear : In faith, my hand meant nothing to my sword. Leoyi. Tush , tush , man ; never fleer and jest at me : I speak not like a dotard nor a fool. As under privilege of age to brag What I have done being young, or what would do Were I not old. Know, Claudio, to thy head. Thou hast so wrong 'd mine innocent child and me That I am forced to lay my reverence by And, with grey hairs and bruise of many days. Do challenge thee to trial of a man. I say thou hast belied mine innocent child ; Thy slander hath gone through and through her heart. And she lies buried with her ancestors ; O, in a tomb where never scandal slept. Save this of hers, framed by thy villany ! Claud. My villany ? Leon. Thine, Claudio; thine, I say. D. Pedro. You say not right, old man. Leon. My lord, my lord, I '11 prove it on his body, if he dare. Despite his nice fence and his active practice. His May of youth and bloom of lustihood. Claud. Away ! I will not have to do with you. Leon. Canst thou so daff me ? Thou hast kill'd my child : If thou kill'st me, boy, thou shalt kill a man. Ant. He shall kill two of us, and men indeed : But that 's no matter ; let him kill one first ; Win me and wear me ; let him answer me. [me .• Come, follow me, boy ; come, sir boy, come, follow 107 ACT V. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. SCENE I. Sir boy, I '11 whip you from your foiiiing fence ; Nay, as I am a gentleman, I will. Leon. Brother, — [niece; Ant. Content yourself. God knows I loved my And she is dead, slander 'd to death by villains. That dare as well answer a man indeed As I dare take a serpent by the tongue : Boys, apes, braggarts. Jacks, milksops ! Leon. Brother Antony, — Ant. Hold you content. What, man! I know them, yea, And what they weigh, even to the utmost scruple, — Scambllng, out-facing, fashion-monging boys. That lie and cog and flout, deprave and slander. Go anticly, show outward hideousness. And speak ofE half a dozen dangerous words, How they might hurt their enemies, if they durst ; And this is all. Leon. But, brother Antony,— Ant. Come, 't is no matter : Do not you meddle ; let me deal in this. D. Pedro. Gentlemen both, we will not wake your patience. My heart is sorry for your daughter's death : But, on my honour, she was charged with nothing But what was true and very full of proof. Leon. My lordj my lord, — D. Pedro. I will not hear you. Leon. No? Come, brother ; away! I will be heard. Ant. And shall, or some of us will smart for it. [Exeunt Leonato and Antonio. L>. Pedro. See, see; here comes the man we went to seek. Enter Benedick. Claud. Now, signior, what news ? Bene. Good day, my lord. D. Pedro. Welcome, signior : you are almost come to part almost a fray. Claud. We had like to have had our two noses snapped off with two old men without teeth. D. Pedro. Leonato and his brother. What think- est thou ? Had we fought, I doubt we should have been too young for them. Bene. In a false quarrel there is no true valour. I came to seek you both. Claud. We have been up and down to seek thee ; for we are high-proof melancholy and would fain have it beaten away. Wilt thou use thy wit ? Bene. It is in my scabbard : shall I draw it ? D. Pedro. Dost thou wear thy wit by thy side ? Clavd. Never any did so, though very many have been beside their wit. I will bid thee draw, as we do the minstrels; draw, to pleasure us. D. Pedro. As I am an honest man, he looks pale. Art thou sick, or angry ? Claud. What, courage, man! What though care killed a cat, thou hast mettle enough in thee to kill care. Beyie. Sir, I shall meet your wit in the career, an you charge it against me. I pray you choose an- other subject. Claud. Nay, then, give him another staff: this last was broke cross. D. Pedro. By this light, he changes more and more : I think he be angry indeed. Claud. If he be, he knows how to turn his girdle. Bene. Shall I speak a word in your ear ? Claud. God bless me from a challenge ! Bene. [Amle to Claudia] You are a villain ; I jest not : I will make it good how you dare, with what you dare, and when you dare. Do me right, or I will protest your cowardice. You have killed a sweet lady, and her death shall fall heavy on you. Let me hear from you. Claud. Well, I will meet you, so I may have good cheer. 108 B. Pedro. What, a feast, a feast i* Claud, r faith, I thank him ; he hath bid me to a calf's head and a capon ; the which if I do not carve most curiously, say my knife 's naught. Shall I not find a woodcock too ? Bene. Sir, your wit ambles well ; it goes easily. L>. Pedro. I '11 tell thee how Beatrice praised thy wit the other day. I said, thou hadst a fine wit : ' True,' said she, ' a fine little one.' ' No,' said I, ' a great wit : ' 'Right,' says she, 'a great gross one.' 'Nay,' said I, 'a good wit:' 'Just,' said she, 'it hurts nobody.' 'Nay,' said I, 'the gentleman is wise:' 'Certain,' said she, 'a wise gentleman.' ' Nay,' said I, ' he hath the tongues : ' ' That I be- lieve,' said she, ' for he swore a thing to me on Mon- day night, which he forswore on Tuesday morn- ing ; there 's a double tongue ; there 's two tongues.' Thus did she, an hour together, trans-shape thy par- ticular virtues: yet at last she concluded with a sigh, thou wast the properest man in Italy. Claud. For the which she wept heartily and said she cared not. D. Pedro. Yea, that she did ; but yet, for all that, an if she did not hate him deadly, she would love him dearly : the old man's daughter told us all. Claud. All, all; and, moreover, God saw him when he was hid in the garden. D. Pedro. But when shall we set the savage bull's horns on the sensible Benedick's head? Claud. Yea, and text underneath, ' Here dwells Benedick the married man ! ' Bene. Fare you well, boy : you know my mind. I will leave you now to your gossip-like humour : you break jests as braggarts do their blades, which, God be thanked, hurt not. My lord, for your many courtesies I thank you: I must discontinue your company: your brother the bastard is fled from Mes- sina : you have among you killed a sweet and inno- cent lady. For my Lord Lackbeard there, he and I shall meet : and, till then, peace be with him. [Exit. D. Pedro. He is in earnest. Claud. In most profound earnest ; and, I '11 war- rant you, for the love of Beatrice. D. Pedro. And hath challenged thee. Claud. Most sincerely. D. Pedro. What a pretty thing man is when he goes in his doublet and hose and leaves off his wit ! Claud. He is then a giant to an ape ; but then is an ape a doctor to such a man. D. Pedro. But, soft you, let me be : pluck up, my heart, and be sad. Did he not say, my brother was fled? Enter Dogberry, Verges, and the "Watch, vnth Conrade and Borachio. Bog. Come you, sir: if justice cannot tame you, she shall ne'er weigh more reasons in her balance : nay, an you be a cursing hypocrite once, you must be looked to. D. Pedro. How now ? two of my brother's men bound ! Borachio one ! Claud. Hearken after their offence, my lord. D. Pedro. Officers, what offence have these men done ? Dog. Marry, sir, they have committed false re- port ; moreover, they have spoken untruths ; sec- ondarily, they are slanders; sixth and lastly, they have belied a lady; thirdly, they have verified unjust things ; and, to conclude, they are lying knaves. D. Pedro. First, I ask thee what they have done ; thirdly, I ask thee what 's their offence ; sixth and lastly, why they are committed; and, to conclude, what you lay to their charge. Claud. Rightly reasoned, and in his own division; and, by my troth, there 's one meaning well suited. D. Pedro. Who have you offended, masters, that you are thus bound to your answer ? this learned ACT V, 3IUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. SCENE II, constable is too cunning to be understood : what 's your offence ? Bora. Sweet prince, let me go no farther to mine answer : do you hear me, and let this count kill me. I have deceived even your very eyes: what your wisdoms could not discover, these shallow tools have brought to light ; who in the night overheard me confessing to this man how Don John your brother incensed me to slander the Lady Hero, how you were brought into the orchard and saw me court Margaret in Hero's garments, how you dis- graced her, when you should marry her : my villany they have upon record; which I had rather seal with my death than repeat over to my shame. The lady is dead upon mine and my master's false accu- sation ; and, briefly, I desire nothing but the reward of a villain. D. Pedro. Kuns not this speech like iron through your blood ? Claicd. I have drunk poison whiles he utter'd it. D. Pedro. But did my brother set thee on to this ? Bora. Yea, and paid me richly for the practice of it. D. Pedro. He is composed and framed of treach- . And fled he is upon this villany. [ery : Claud. Sweet Hero ! now thy image doth appear In the rare semblance that I loved it first. Bog. Come, bring away the plaintiffs: by this time our sexton hath reformed Siguier Leonato of the matter : and, masters, do not forget to specify, when time and place shall serve, that I am an ass. Verg. Here, here comes master Signior Leonato, and the sexton too. He-enter Leonato and Antonio, with the Sexton. Leon. Which is the villain ? let me see his eyes, That, when I note another man like him, I may avoid him : which of these is he ? [me. Bora. If you would know your wronger, look on Leon. Art thou the slave that with thy breath Mine innocent child ? [hast kill'd Bora. Yea, even I alone. Leon. ]^o, not so, villain; thou beliest thyself : Here stand a pair of honourable men ; A third is fled, that had a hand in it. I thank youj princes, for my daughter's death : Keeord it with your high and worthy deeds : 'T was bravely done, if you bethink you of it. Claud. I know not how to pray your patience ; Yet I must speak. Choose your revenge yourself ; Impose me to what penance your invention Can lay upon my sin : yet sinn'd I not But in mistaking. D. Pedro. By my soul, nor I : And yet, to satisfy this good old man, I would bend under any heavy weight That he '11 enjoin me to. Leon. I cannot bid you bid my daughter live; That were impossible : but, I pray you both, Possess the people in Messina here How innocent she died ; and if your love Can labour aught in sad invention. Hang her an epitaph upon her tomb And sing it to her bones, sing it to-night : To-morrow morning come you to my house. And since you could not be my son-in-law. Be yet my nephew : my brother hath a daughter, Almost the copy of my child that 's dead. And she alone is heir to both of us : Give her the right you should have given her cousin, And so dies my revenge. Claud. O noble sir. Your over-kindness doth wring tears from me ! I do embrace your offer • and dispose For henceforth of poor Claudio. Leon. To-morrow then I will expect your coming ; To-night I take my leave. This naughty man Shall face to face be brought to Margaret, Who I believe was packed in all this wrong, Hired to it by your brother. Bora. No, by my soul, she was not, Nor knew not what she did when she spoke to me, But always hath been just and virtuous In any thing that I do know by her. Bog. Moreover, sir, which indeed is not under white and black, this plaintiff here, the offender, did call me ass : I beseech you, let it be remembered in his punishment. And also, the watch heard them talk of one Deformed : they say he wears a key in his ear and a lock hanging by it, and borrows money in God's name, the which he hath used so long and never paid that now men grow hard-hearted and will lend nothing for God's sake : pray you, examine him upon that point. Leon. I thank thee for thy care and honest pains. Bog. Your worship speaks like a most thankful and reverend youth ; and I praise God for you. Leon. There 's for thy pains. Bog. God save the foundation ! Leon. Go, I discharge thee of thy prisoner, and I thank thee. Bog. 1 leave an arrant knave with your worship ; which I beseech your worship to correct yourself ^ for the example of others. God keep your worship ! I wish your worship well ; God restore you to health ! I humbly give you leave to depart ; and if a merry meeting may be wished, God prohibit it ! Come, neighbour. [Exeunt Bogberry and Verges. Leon. Until to-morrow morning, lords, farewell. Ant. Farewell, my lords: we look for you to- B. Pedro. We will not fail. [morrow. Claud. To-night I '11 mourn with Hero. Leon. [To the Watch] Bring you these fellows on. We '11 talk with Margaret, How her acquaintance grew with this lewd fellow. [Exeunt, severally. SCENE II.— Leonato'' s garden. Enter Benedick and Margaret, meeting. Bene. Pray thee, sweet Mistress Margaret, de, serve well at my hands by helping me to the speech of Beatrice. Mara. WiU you then write me a sonnet in praise of my beauty ? Bene. In so high a style, Margaret, that no man living shall come over it ; for, in most comely truth, thou deservest it. Marg. To have no man come over me ! why, shall I always keep below stairs ? Bene. Thy wit is as quick as the greyhound's mouth ; it catches. Marg. And yours as blunt as the fencer's foils, which hit, but hurt not. Bene. A most manly wit, Margaret ; it will not hurt a woman : and so, 1 pray thee, call Beatrice: I give thee the bucklers. Marg. Give us the swords ; we have bucklers of our own. Bene. If you use them, Margaret, you must put in the pikes with a vice ; and they are dangerous weapons for maids. Marg. Well, I will call Beatrice to you, who I think hath legs. Bene. And therefore will come. [Exit Margaret. The god of love, That sits above. And knows me, and knows me, How pitiful I deserve, — I mean in singing ; but in loving, Leander the good swimmer, Troilus the first employer of panders, and a whole bookful of these quondam carpet-mon- 109 ACT V. MVCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. SCENE IV. gers, whose names yet run smoothly in the even road of a blank verse, why, they were never so truly turned over and over as my poor self in love. Marry, I cannot show it in rhyme; I have tried: I can find out no rhyme to ' lady ' but ' baby,' an in- nocent rhyme; for 'scorn,' 'horn,' a hard rhyme; for, 'school,' 'fool,' a babbling rhyme; very omi- nous endings: no, I was not born under a rhyming planet, nor I cannot woo in festival terms. Enter Beatrice. Sweet Beatrice, wouldst thou come when I called thee V Beat. Yea, signior, and depart when you bid me. Bene. O, stay but till then 1 Beat. ' Then ' is spoken ; fare you well now : and yet, ere I go, let me go with that I came; which is, with knowing what hath passed between you and Claudio. Bene. Only foul words ; and thereupon I will kiss thee. Beat. Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is but foul breath, and foul breath is noisome; therefore I will depart unkissed. Bene. Thou hast frighted the word out of his right sense, so forcible is thy wit. But I must tell thee plainly, Claudio undergoes my challenge ; and either I must shortly hear trom him, or I will sub- scribe him a coward. And, I pray thee now, tell me for which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me ? Beat. For them all together ; which maintained so politic a state of evil that they will not admit any good part to intermingle with them. But for which of my good parts did you first suffer love for me ? Bene. Suffer love! a good epithet! I do suffer love indeed, for I love thee against my will. Beat. In spite of your heart, I think ; alas, poor heart ! If you spite it for my sake, I will spite it for yours; for I will never love that which my friend hates. Bene. Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably. Beat. It appears not in this confession : there 's not one wise man among twenty that will praise himself. Bene. An old, an old instance, Beatrice, that lived in the time of good neighbours. If a man do not erect in this age his own tomb ere he dies, he shall live no longer in monument than the bell rings and the widow weeps. Beat. And how long is that, think you ? Bene. Question: why, an hour in clamour and a quarter in rheum: therefore is it most expedient for the wise, if Don Worm, his conscience, find no impediment to the contrary, to be the trumpet of his own virtues, as I am to myself. So much for praising myself, who, I myself will bear witness, Is praiseworthy : and now tell me, how doth your cousin ? Beat. Very ill. Bene. And how do you ? Beat. Very ill too. Bene. Serve God, love me and mend. There will I leave you too, for here comes one in haste. Enter Ursula. TJrs. Madam, you must come to your uncle. Yonder 's old coil at home : it is proved my Lady Hero hath been falsely accused, the prince and Claudio mightily abused; and Don John is the author of all, who is fled and gone. "Will you come presently ? Beat. Will you go hear this news, signior ? Bene. I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap and be buried in thy eyes ; and moreover I will go with thee to thy uncle's. [Exeunt. 110 SCENE III.— ^ church. Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, and three or four with tapers. Claud. Is this the monument of Leonato ? A Lord. It is, my lord. Claud. [Beading out of a scroll] Done to death by slanderous tongues Was the Hero that here lies : Death, in guerdon of her vreongs, Gives her fame which never dies. So the life that died with shame Lives in death with glorious fame. Hang thou there upon the tomb, Praising her when I am dumb. Now, music, sound, and sing your soleum hymn. Pardon, goddess of the night, Those that slew thy virgin knight ; For the which, with songs of woe, Bound about her tomb they go. Midnight, assist our moan ; Help us to sigh and groan, Heavily, heavily : Graves, yawn and yield your dead, Till death be uttered, Heavily, heavily. Claud. Now, unto thy bones good night ! Yearly will I do this rite. [out : D. Pedro. Good morrow, masters ; put your torches The wolves have prey'd ; and look, the gentle day, Before the wheels of Phoebus, round about Dapples the drowsy east with spots of grey. Thanks to you all, and leave us : fare you well. Claud. Good morrow, masters : each his several way. D. Pedro. Come, let us hence, and put on other And then to Leonato 's we will go. [weeds ; Claud. And Hymen now with luckier issue speeds. Than this for whom we render'd up this woe. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. — A room in Leonato''s house. Enter Leonato, Antonio, Benedick, Beatrice, Margaret, Ursula, Friar Francis, and Hero. Friar. Did I not tell you she was innocent ? Leon. So are the prince and Claudio, who accused her Upon the error that you 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 1, being else by faith enforced 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. [Exeunt Ladies. The prince and Claudio promised by this hour To visit me. You know your office, brother : You must be father to your brother's daughter, And give her to young Claudio. Ant. Which I will do with confirm 'd countenance. Bene. Friar, I must entreat your pains, I think. Friar. To do what, signior? Bene. To bind me, or undo me ; one of them. Signior Leonato, truth it is, good signior. Your niece regards me with an eye of favour. Leon. That eye my daughter lent her : 'tis most true. Bene. And I do with an eye of love requite her. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. SCENE IV. Leon. The sight whereof I think you had from me. From Claudio and tlie prince : But what 's your will ? 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 state of honourable marriage : In which, good friar, I shall desire your help. Leon. My heart is with your liking. Friar. And my help. Here comes the prince and Claudio. Enter Don Pedro and Claudio, and two or three others. L>. Pedro. Good morrow to this fair assembly. Leon. Good morrow, prince; good morrow, Clau- dio: We here attend you. Are you yet determined To-day to marry with my brother's daughter ? Claud. I '11 hold my mind, were she an Ethiope. Leon. Call her forth, brother; here's the friar ready. [Exit Antonio. 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 buU. Tush, fear not, man ; we '11 tip thy horns vrith gold And all Europa shall rejoice at thee. As once Em'opa did at lusty Jove, When he would play the noble beast in love. Bene. Bull Jove, sir, had an amiable low ; And some such strange bull leap'd your father's cow, And got a calf in that same noble feat Much like to you, for you have just his bleat. Claud. For this I owe you : here comes other reckonings. Re-enter Antonio, with the Ladies masked. 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 friar 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 : [ Unmasking. And when you loved, you were my other husband. Claud. Another Hero ! Hero. Nothing certainer : One Hero died defiled, but I do live, And surely as I live, I am a maid. D. Pedro. The former Hero ! Hero that is dead ! Leon. She died, my lord, but whiles her slander lived. Friar. All this amazement can I qualify ; When after that the holy rites are ended, I '11 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. [Unmasfcing] I answer to that name. What is your will ? Bene. Do not you love me ? Beat. Why, no ; no more than reason. Bene. Why, then your uncle and the prince and Have been deceived ; they swore you did. [Claudio Beat. Do not you love me ? Bene. Troth, no ; no more than reason. Beat. Why, then my cousin, Margaret and Ursula Are much deceived ; for they did swear you did. Bene. They swore that you were almost sick for me. Beat. They swore that you were well-nigh dead for me. [me ? Bene. 'T is no such matter. Then you do not love Beat. No, truly, but in friendly recompense. Leon. Come, cousin, I am sure you love the gen- tleman. Claud. And I '11 be sworn upon 't that he loves For here 's a paper written in his hand, [her • 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 you were in a con- sumption. Bene. Peace ! I will stop your mouth. [Kissing her. D. Pedro. How dost thou. Benedick, the mar- ried man ? Bene. I '11 tell thee what, prince; a college of wit- crackers cannot flout me out of my humour. Dost thou think I care for a satire or an epigram ? No : if a man will be beaten with brains, a' shall wear nothing handsome about him. In brief, since I do purpose to marry, I will think nothing to any pur- pose that the world can say against it ; and there- fore never flout at me for what I have said against it ; for man is a giddy thin§, and this is my conclu- sion. For thy part, Claudio, I did think to have beaten thee, but in that thou art like to be my kins- man, live unbruised 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, out of question, thou wilt be, if my cousin do not look exceeding narrowly to thee. 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 '11 have dancing afterward. Bene. First, of my word ; therefore play, music. Prince, thou art sad ; get thee a wife, get thee a wife: there is no staff more reverend than one tipped with horn. Unter 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 '11 devise thee brave punishments for him. Strike up , pipers. [Dance. — Exeunt. Dotfieny.—Dost thou not suspect my place ? Dost thou not suspect my years ?— Aci iV., IScene iL 113 LOVE'S LABOUE'S LOST. DBAMATIS PERSONS. Ferdinand, King of Navarre. ^ Biron, „}, > Longaville, ^ lords attending on the King. Dumain, ■^ Boyet, 1 lords attending on the Princess of Mercade, j France. - Don Adriano de Armado, a fantastical Spaniard. <^ Sir Nathaniel, a curate. -^ Holofemes, a schoolmaster. - Dull, a constable. .. Costard, a clown. Motb, page to Armado. A Forester. The Princess of Prance. Rosaline, 1 Maria, V ladies attending on the Princess. Katharine, ] Jaquenetta, a country wench. Lords, Attendants, &c. SCENE —Navarre. [For Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page XLVI.] A.OT I, SCENE I. — The king of Navarre's park. Enter Ferdinand, King of Navarre, Biron, Longaville, and Dumain. King. Let fame, that all hunt after in their lives, Live register'd upon our brazen tombs And then grace us in the disgrace of death ; When, spite of cormorant devouring Time, The endeavour of this present breath may buy- That honour which shall bate his scythe's keen edge And make us heirs of all eternity. Therefore, brave conquerors, — for so you are, That war against your own affections And the huge army of the world's desires, — Our late edict shall strongly stand in force : Navarre shall be the wonder of the world ; Our court shall be a little Academe, Still and contemplative in living art. You three, Biron, Dumain, and Longaville, Have sworn for three years' term to live with me My fellow-scholars and to keep those statutes That are recorded in this schedule here : [names. Your oaths are pass'd; and now subscribe your That his own hand may strike his honour down That violates the smallest branch herein : If you are arm'd to do as sworn to do. Subscribe to your deep oaths, and keep it too. Long. I am resolved ; 't is but a three years' fast : The mind shall banquet, though the body pine : Fat paunches have lean pates, and dainty bits Make rich the ribs, but bankrupt quite the wits. Dum. My loving lord, Dumain is mortified : The grosser manner of these world's delights He throws upon the gross world's baser slaves : To love, to wealth, to pomp, I pine and die ! "With all these living in philosophy. Biron. I can but say their protestation over; So much, dear liege, 1 have already sworn, That is, to live and study here three years. But there are other strict observances ; As, not to see a woman in that term, Which I hope well is not enrolled there ; And one day in a week to touch no food And but one meal on every day beside. The which I hope is not enrolled there ; And then, to sleep but three hours in the night, ' 112 And not be seen to wink of all the day— When I was wont to think no harm all night And make a dark night too of half the day — Which I hope well is not enrolled there : O, these are barren tasks, too hard to keep, Not to see ladies, study, fast, not sleep! King. Your oath is pass'd to pass away from these. Biron. Let me say no, my liege, an if you please : I only swore to study with your grace Ajid stay here in your court for three years' space. Long. You swore to that, Biron, and to the rest. Biron. By yea and nay, sir, then I swore in jest. What is the end of study ? let me know. King. Why, that to know, which else we should not know. Biron. Things hid and barr'd, you mean, from common sense ? King. Ay, that is study's god-like recompense. Biron. Come on, then ; I will swear to study so. To know the thing I am forbid to know : As thus,— to study where I well may diae. When I to feast expressly am forbid ; Or study where to meet some mistress fine, When mistresses from common sense are hid ; Or, having sworn too hard a keeping oath. Study to break it and^not break my troth. If study's gain be thus and this be so. Study knows that which yet it doth not know : Swear me to this, and I will ne'er say no. King. These be the stops that hinder study quite And train om- mtellects to vain dehght. Biron. Why, all delights are vain ; but that most vain. Which with pain purchased doth inherit pain : As, painfully to pore upon a book To seek the light of truth. ; while truth the whUe Doth falsely blind the eyesight of his look : Light seeking light doth light of light beguile : So, ere you find where light in darkness lies. Your light grows dark by losing of your eyes. Study me how to please the eye indeed By fixing it upon a fairer eye, Who dazzling so, that eye shall be his heed And give him light that it was blinded by. Study is like the heaven's glorious sun That wiU not be deep-search 'd with saucy looks: ACT I. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. SCENE I. Small have continual plodders ever won — , Save base authority from others' books. These earthly godfathers of heaven's lights That give a name to every fixed star Have no more profit of their shining nights Than those that walk and wot not what they are. Too much to know is to know nought but fame ; And every godfather can give a name. [reading ! King. How well he 's read, to reason against Dum. Proceeded well, to stop all good proceeding ! Long. He weeds the corn and stUl lets grow the weeding. [a-breeding. Biron. The spring is near when green geese are Dum. How follows that ? Biron. Fit in his place and time. Bum. In reason nothing. Biron. Something then in rhyme. King. Biron is like an envious sneaping frost That bites the first-born infants of the spring. Biron. "Well, say I am ; why should proud sum- mer boast Before the birds have any cause to sing ? Why should I joy in any abortive birth ? At Christmas I no more desire a rose Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled mirth ; But like of each thing that in season grows. So you, to study now it is too late. Climb o'er the house to unlock the little gate. King. Well, sit you out : go home, Biron : adieu. Biron. No, my good lord ; I have sworn to stay with you : And though I have for barbarism spoke more Than for that angel knowledge you can say, Yet confident I '11 keep what I have swore And bide the penance of each three years' day. Give me the paper ; let me read the same ; And to the strict 'st decrees I '11 write my name. King. How well this yielding rescues thee from shame ! Biron [reads]. 'Item, That no woman shall come within a mile of my court : ' Hath this been pro- Long. Four days ago. [claimed y Biron. Let 's see tlie penalty. [Beads] ' On pain of losing her tongue.' Who devised this penalty ? Long. Marry, that did I. Biron. Sweet lord, and why ? [penalty. Long. To fright them hence with that dread Biron. A dangerous law against gentility! [Beads] 'Item, If any maji be seen to talk with a woman within the term of three years, he shall endure such public shame as the rest of the court can possibly devise.' This article, my liege, yourself must break; For well you know here comes in embassy The French king's daughter with yourself to speak— A maid of grace and complete majesty — About surrender up of Aquitaine To her decrepit, sick and bedrid father : Therefore this article is made in vain. Or vainly comes the admired princess hither. King. What say you, lords ? why, this was quite Biron. So study evermore is overshot : [forgot. While it doth study to have what it would It doth forget to do the thing it should. And when it hath the thing it hunteth most, 'Tis won as towns with fire, so won, so lost. King. We must of force dispense with this decree ; She must lie here on mere necessity. Biron. Necessity will make us all forsworn Three thousand times within this three years' For every man with his affects is born, [space ; Not by might master'd but by special grace : If I break faith, this word shall speak for me ; I am forsworn on ' mere necessity.' So to the laws at large I write my name : [Subscribes. And he that breaks them in the least degree Stands in attainder of eternal shame : Suggestions are to other as to me ; But I believe, although I seem so loath, I am the last that will last keep his oath. But is there no quick recreation granted ? King. Ay, that there is. Our court, you know, is haunted With a refined traveller of Spain ; A man in all the world's new fashion planted, That hath a mint of phrases in his brain ; One whom the music of his own vain tongue Doth ravish like enchanting harmony ; A man of complements, whom right and wrong Have chose as umpire of their mutiny : This child of fancy that Armado hight For interim to our studies shall relate In high-born words the worth of many a knight From tawny Spain lost in the world's debate. How you delight, my lords, I know not, I ; But, I protest, I love to hear him lie And I will use him for my minstrelsy. Biron. Armado is a most illustrious wight, A man of fire-new words, fashion's own knight. Long. Costard the swain and he shall be our sport", And so to study, three years is but short. Enter Dull with a letter, and Costard. Bull. Which is the Duke's own person? Biron. This, fellow: what wouldst ? Bull. I myself reprehend his own person, for I am his grace's tharborough : but I would see his ovra person in flesh and blood. Biron. This is he. Dull. Signior Arme — Arme — commends you. There 's villany abroad : this letter will tell you more. Cost. Sir, the contempts thereof are as touching me. King. A letter from the magnificent Armado. Biron. How low soever the matter, I hope in God for high words. Long. A high hope for a low heaven : God grant us patience! Biron. To hear? or forbear laughing ? Long. To hear meekly, sir, and to laugh moder- ately : or to forbear both. Biron. Well, sir, be it as the style shall give us cause to climb in the merriness. Cost. The matter is to me, sir, as concerning Jaquenetta. The manner of it is, I was taken with the manner. Biron. In what manner ? Cost. In manner and form following, sir ; aU those three : I was seen with her in the manor-house, sit- ting with her upon the form, and taken following her into the park; which, put together, is in man- ner and form following. Now, sir, for the manner, — it is the manner of a man to speak to a woman : for the form,— in some form. Biron. For the following, sir ? Cost. As it shall follow in my correction: and God defend the right ! King. Will you hear this letter with attention ? Biron. As we would hear an oracle. Cost. Such is the simplicity of man to hearken after the flesh. King [reads]. ' Great deputy, the welkin's vice- gerent and sole dominator of Navarre, my soul's earth's god, and body's fostering patron.' Cost. Not a word of Costard yet. King [reads]. ' So it is,' — Cost. It may be so : but if he say it is so, he is, m telling true, but so. King. Peace! Cost. Be to me and every man that dares not fight. King. No words ! Cost. Of other men's secrets, I beseech you. King [reads]. ' So it is, besieged with sable-coloured 113 ACT I. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. SCENE II. melancholy, I did commend the black-oppressing humour to the most wholesome physic of thy health- giving air: and, as I am a gentleman, betook my- self to walk. The time when. About the sixth hour; when beasts most graze, birds best peck, and men sit down to that nourishment which is called supper : so much for the time when. Now for the ground which; which, I mean, I walked upon: it IS ycleped thy park. Then for the place where; where, I mean, I did encounter that obscene and most preposterous event, that draweth from my snow-white pen the ebon-coloured ink, which here thou viewest, beholdest, surveyest, or seest : but to the place where ; it standeth north-north-east and by east from the west corner of thy curious-knotted garden: there did I see that low-spirited swain, that base minnow of thy mirth,'— Cost. Me? King [reads], 'that unlettered small-knowing Cost. Me? [soul,'— King [readsl. 'that shallow vassal,' — Cost. Still me ? King [reads]. ' which, as I remember, hight Cos- Cost. O, me! [tard,'— King [reads]. ' sorted and consorted, contrary to thy established proclaimed edict and continent canon, which with,— O with — but with this I pas- sion to say wherewith, — Cost. With a wench. King [reads]. ' with a child of our grandmother Eve, a female ; or, for thy more sweet understand- ing, a woman. Him I, as my ever-esteemed duty pricks me on, have sent to thee, to receive the meed of punishment, by thy sweet grace's officer, Anthony Dull; a man of good repute, carriage, bearing, and estimation.' [Dull. Dull. Me, an 't shall please you ; I am Anthony King [reads]. ' For Jaquenetta,— so is the weaker vessel called which I apprehended with the afore- said swain, — I keep her as a vessel of thy law's fury ; and shall, at the least of thy sweet notice, bring her to trial. Thine, in all compliments of devoted and heart-burning heat of duty. DoK Adriano de Arm ado.' Biron. This is not so well as I looked for, but the best that ever I heard. King. Ay, the best for the worst. But, sirrah, Tvhat say you to this ? Cost. Sir, I confess the wench. King. Did you hear the proclamation ? Cost. I do confess much of the hearing it, but little of the marking of it. King. It was proclaimed a year's imprisonment, to be taken with a wench. Cost. I was taken with none, sir: I was taken with a damsel. King. Well, it was proclaimed ' damsel.' Cost. This was no damsel neither, sir ; she was a virgin. ['virgin.' King. It is so varied too ; for it was proclaimed Cost. If it were, I deny her virginity; I was taken with a maid. King. This maid will not serve your turn, sir. Cost. This maid will serve my turn, sir. King. Sir, I will pronounce your sentence : you shall fast a week with bran and water. Cost. 1 had rather pray a month with mutton and porridge. King. And Don Armado shall be your keeper. My Lord Biron, see him deliver'd o'er: And go we, lords, to put in practice that Which each to other hath so strongly sworn. [Exeunt King., Longaville, and Dumain. Biron. I '11 lay my head to any good man's hat. These oaths and laws will prove an idle scorn. Sirrah, come on. Cost. I suffer for the truth, sir; for true it is, I 114 was taken with Jaquenetta, and Jaquenetta is a true girl ; and therefore welcome the sour cup of pros- perity! Affliction may one day smile again; and tiU then, sit thee down, sorrow ! [Exeunt. SCENE U.—The same. Enter Armado and Moth. Arm. Boy, what sign is it when a man of great spirit grows melancholy ? Moth. A great sign, sir, that he will look sad. Arm. Why, sadness is one and the self-same thing, dear imp. Moth. No, no ; O Lord, sir, no. Arm. How canst thou part sadness and melan- choly, my tender juvenal ? Moth. By a familiar demonstration of the work- ing, my tough senior. Arm. Why tough senior ? why tough senior ? Moth. Why tender juvenal ? why tender juvenal ? Arm. I spoke it, tender juvenal, as a congruent epitheton appertaining to thy young days, which we may nominate tender. Moth. And I, tough senior, as an appertinent title to your old time, which we may name tough. Arm. Pretty and apt. Moth. How mean you, sir? I pretty, and my saying apt ? or I apt, and my saying pretty ? Arm. Thou pretty, because little. [apt ? Moth. Little pretty, because little. Wherefore Arm. And therefore apt, because quick. Moth. Speak you this in my praise, master ? Arm. In thy condign praise. Moth. 1 will praise an eel with the same praise. Arm. What, that an eel is ingenious? Moth. That an eel is quick. Arm. 1 do say thou art quick in answers : thou heatest my blood. Moth. 1 am answered, sir. Arm. I love not to be crossed. Moth. [Aside] He speaks the mere contrary; crosses love not him. Arm. I have promised to study three years with the duke. Moth. You may do it in an hour, sir. Arm. Impossible. Moth. How many is one thrice told ? Arm. I am ill at reckoning ; it fitteth the spirit of a tapster. Moth. You are a gentleman and a gamester, sir. Arm. I confess both : they are both the varnish of a complete man. Moth. Then, I am sure, you know how much the gross sum of deuce-ace amounts to. Arm. It doth amount to one more than two. Moth. Which the base vulgar do call three. Arm. True. Moth. Why, sir, is this such a piece of study? Now here is three studied, ere ye '11 thrice wink : and how easy it is to put ' years ' to the word 'three,' and study three years in two words, the dancing horse will tell you. Arm. A most fine figure ! Moth. To prove you a cipher. Arm, I will hereupon confess I am in love : and as it is base for a soldier to love, so am I in love with a base wench. If drawing my sword against the humour of affection would deliver me from the reprobate thought of it, I would take Desire pris- oner, and ransom him to any French courtier for a new-devised courtesy. I think scorn to sigh : me- thinks I should outswear Cupid. Comfort me, boy : what great men have been in love ? Moth. Hercules, master. Arm. Most sweet Hercules! More authority, dear boy, name more; and, sweet my child, let them be men of good repute and carriage. ACT II. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. SCENE I. Moth. Samson, master: he was a man of good carriage, great carriage, for lie carried tlie town- gates on his back like a porter : and he was in love. Arm. O well-knit Samson ! strong-jointed Sam- son ! I do excel thee in my rapier as much as thou didst me in carrying gates. I am in love too. Who was Samson's love, my dear Moth ? Moth. A woman, master. Arm. Of what complexion ? Moth. Of all the four, or the three, or the two, or one of the four. Arm. Tell me precisely of what complexion. Moth. Of the sea-water green, sir. Arm. Is that one of the four complexions ? [too. Moth. As I have read, sir; and the best of them Arm. Green indeed is the colour of lovers ; but to have a love of that colour, methinks Samson had small reason for it. He surely affected her for her wit. Moth. It was so, sir; for she had a green wit. Arm. My love is most immaculate white and red. Moth. Most maculate thoughts, master, are mask- ed under such colours. Arm. Define, define, well-educated infant. Moth. My father's wit and my mother's tongue. Arm. Sweet invocation of a child; most pretty and pathetical ! Moth. If she be made of white and red, Her faults will ne'er be known. For blushing cheeks by faults are bred And fears by pale white shown : Then if she fear, or be to blame, By this you shall not know, For still her cheeks possess the same Which native she doth owe. A dangerous rhyme, master, against the reason of white and red. Arm. Is there not a ballad, boy, of the King and the Beggar y Moth. The world was very guilty of such a bal- lad some three ages since: but I think now 'tis not to be found; or, if it were, it would neither serve for the writing nor the tune. Arm. I will have that subject newly writ o'er, ' that I may example my digression by some mighty precedent. Boy, I do love that country girl that I took in the park with the rational hind Costard : she deserves well. Moth. [Aside] To be whipped; and yet a better love than my master. Arm. Sing, boy; my spirit grows heavy in love. Moth. And that 's great marvel, loving a light wench. Arm. I say, sing. Moth. Forbear till this company be past. Enter Dull, Costard, and Jaquenetta. Bull. Sir, the duke's pleasure is, that you keep Costard safe : and you must suffer him to take no delight nor no penance ; but a' must fast three days a week. For this damsel, I must keep her at the park : she is allowed for the day-woman. Fare you well. Arm. I do betray myself with blushing. Maid I Jaq. Man? Arm. I will visit thee at the lodge. Jaq. That 's hereby. Arm. I know where it is situate. Jaq. Lord, how wise you are ! Arm. I will tell thee wonders. Jaq. With that face ? Arm. I love thee. Jaq. So I heard you say. Arm. And so, farewell. Jaq. Fair weather after yon ! Dull. Come, Jaquenetta, away ! [Exeunt Dull and Jaquenetta. Arm. Villain, thou shalt fast for thy offences ere thou be pardoned. Cost. Well, sir, I hope, when I do it, I shall do it on a full stomach. Arm. Thou shalt be heavily punished. Cost. I am more bound to you than your fellows, for they are but lightly rewarded. Arm. Take away this villain ; shut him up. Moth. Come, you transgressing slave; away! Cost. Let me not be pent up, sir: I will fast, being loose. Moth. No, sir; that were fast and loose: thou shalt to prison. Cost. Well, if ever I do see the merry days of desolation that I have seen, some shall see. Moth. What shall some see "? Cost. Nay, nothing, Master Moth, but what they look upon. It is not for prisoners to be too silent in their words ; and therefore I will say nothing : I thank God I have as little patience as another man ; and therefore I can be quiet. [Exeunt Moth and Costard. Arm. I do affect the very ground, which is base, where her shoe, which is baser, guided by her foot, which is basest, doth tread. I shall be forsworn, which is a great argument of falsehood, if I love. And how can that be true love which is falsely at- tempted? Love is a familiar; Love is a devil: there is no evil angel but Love. Yet was Samson so tempted, and he had an excellent strength ; yet was Solomon so seduced, and he had a very good wit. Cupid's butt-shaft is too hard for Hercules' club ; and therefore too much odds for a Spaniard's rapier. The first and second cause will not serve my turn ; the passado he respects not, the duello he regards not : his disgrace is to be called boy ; but his glory is to subdue men. Adieu, valour ! rust, rapier ! be still, drum ! for your manager is in love ; yea, he loveth. Assist me, some extemporal god of rhyme, for I am sure I shall turn soimet. Devise, wit; vsTite, pen; for I am for whole volumes in folio. [Exit. A^CT II. SCENE I.— The same. Enter the Princess of Prance, Rosaline, Maria, Katharine, Boyet, Lords, and other Attendants. Boyet. Now, madam, summon up your dearest spirits : Consider who the king your father sends. To whom he sends, and what 's his embassy: Yourself, held precious in the world's esteem. To parley with the sole inheritor Of all perfections that a man may owe, Matchless Navarre ; the plea of no less weight Than Aquitaine, a dowry for a queen. Be now as prodigal of all dear grace As Nature was in making graces dear When she did starve the general world beside And prodigally gave them all to you. [mean, Prin. Good Lord Boyet, my beauty, though but Needs not the painted flourish of your praise : Beauty is bought by judgment of the eye. Not utter'd by base sale of chapmen's tongues : I am less proud to hear you tell my worth 115 ACT II. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. SCENE I. Than you much willing to be counted wise In spending your wit in the praise of mine. But now to task the tasker : good Boyet, You are not ignorant, all-telling fame Both noise abroad, Navarre hath made a vow, Till painful study shall outwear three years, No woman may approach his silent court : Therefore to 's seemeth it a needful course. Before we enter his forbidden gates, To know his pleasure ; and in that behalf. Bold of your worthiness, we single you As our best-moving fair solicitor. Tell him, the daughter of the King of France, On serious business, craving quick dispatch, Importunes personal conference with his grace : Haste, signify so much ; while we attend, Like humble-visaged suitors, his high will. Boyet. Proud of employment, willingly I go. Prin. All pride is willing pride, and yours is so. [Exit Boyet. "Who are the votaries, my loving lords. That are vow-fellows with this virtuous duke ? First Lord. Lord Longaville is one. Frin. Know you the man ? Mar. I know him, madam : at a marriage-feast, Between Lord Perigort and the beauteous heir Of Jaques Falconbridge, solemnized In Normandy, saw I this Longaville : A man of sovereign parts he is esteem'd ; Well fitted in arts, glorious in arms : Nothing becomes him ill that he would well. The only soil of his fair virtue's gloss, If virtue's gloss will stain with any soil, Is a sharp wit match'd with too blunt a will ; Whose edge hath power to cut, whose will still wills It should none spare that come within his power. Frin. Some merry mocking lord, belike ; is 't so ? Mar. They say so most that most his humours know. [grow. Frin. Such short-lived wits do wither as they Who are the rest ? Kath. The young Dumain, a well-accomplished youth, Of all that virtue love for virtue loved : Most power to do most harm, least knowing ill ; For he hath wit to make an ill shape good. And shape to win grace though he had no wit. I saw him at the Duke Alen^on's once ; And much too little of that good I saw Is my report to his great worthiness. Bos. Another of these students at that time Was there with him, if I have heard a truth. Biron they call him ; but a merrier man. Within the limit of becoming mirth, I never sjjent an hour's talk withal : His eye begets occasion for his wit ; For every object that the one doth catch The other turns to a mirth-moving jest. Which his fair tongue, conceit's expositor, Delivers in such apt and gracious words That aged ears play truant at his tales And younger hearings are quite ravished ; So sweet and voluble is his discourse. Frin. God bless my ladies ! are they all in love, That every one her own hath garnished With such bedecking ornaments of praise ? First Lord. Here comes Boyet. Be-enter Boyet. Frin. Now, what admittance, lord ? Boyet. Navarre had notice of your fair approach ; And he and his competitors in oath Were all address'd to meet you, gentle lady, Before I came. Marry, thus much I have learnt : He rather means to lodge you in the field. Like one that comes here to besiege his court, Than seek a dispensation for his oath, 116 To let you enter his unpeopled house. Here comes Navarre. Enter King, Longaville, Dumain, Biron, and Attendants. King. Fair princess, welcome to the court of Navarre. Frin. 'Fair' I give you back again; and 'wel- come ' I have not yet : the roof of this court is too high to be yours ; and welcome to the wide fields too base to be mine. King. You shall be welcome, madam, to my court. Frin. I will be welcome, then: conduct me thither. King. Hear me, dear lady ; I have sworn an oath. Frin. Our Lady help my lord ! he '11 be forsworn. King. Not for the world, fair madam, by my will. Frin. Why, will shall break it ; will and nothing else. King. Your ladyship is ignorant what it is. Frin. Were my lord so, his ignorance were wise. Where now his knowledge must prove ignorance. I hear your grace hath sworn out house-keeping : 'T is deadly sin to keep that oath, my lord, And sin to break it. But pardon me, I am too sudden-bold : To teach a teacher ill beseemeth me. Vouchsafe to read the purpose of my coming, And suddenly resolve me in my suit. King. Madam, I will, if suddenly I may. Prin. You will the sooner, that I were away; For you '11 prove perjured if you make me stay. Biron. Did not I dance with you in Brabant once? Bos. Did not I dance with you in Brabant once ? JBiEron. I know you did. [tion! Bos. How needless was it then to ask the ques- Biron. You must not be so quick. Bos. 'T is 'long of you that spur me with such questions. ['t will tire. Biron. Your wit's too hot, it speeds too fast, Bos. Not till it leave the rider in the mire. Biron. What time o' day ? Bos. The hour that fools should ask. Biron. Now fair befall your mask ! Bos. Fair fall the face it covers ! Biron. And send you many lovers! Bos. Amen, so you be none. Biron. Nay, then will I be gone. King. Madam, your father here doth intimate The payment of a hundred thousand crowns ; Being but the one-half of an entire sum Disbursed by my father in his wars. But say that he or we, as neither have. Received that sum, yet there remains unpaid A hundred thousand more ; in surety of the which, One part of Aquitaine is bound to us. Although not valued to the money's worth. If then the king your father will restore But that one-half which is unsatisfied. We will give up our right in Aquitaine, And hold fair friendship with his majesty. But that, it seems, he little purposeth. For here he doth demand to have repaid A hundred thousand crowns ; and not demands, On payment of a hundred thousand crowns. To have his title live in Aquitaine ; Which we much rather had depart withal And have the money by our father lent Than Aquitaine so gelded as it is. Dear princess, were not his requests so far From reason's yielding, your fair self should make A yielding 'gainst some reason in my breast And go well satisfied to France again. Frin. You do the king my father too much wrong And wrong the reputation of your name. In so unseeming to confess receipt Of that which hath so faithfully been paid. ACT III. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. 5CENE I. King. I do protest I never heard of it ; And if you prove it, I '11 repay it back Or yield up Aquitaine. Prin. We arrest your word. Boyet, you can produce acquittances For such a sum from special officers Of Charles his father. King. Satisfy me so. Boyet. So please your grace, the packet is not come Where that and other si)ecialties are bound : To-morrow you shall have a sight of them. King. It shall suffice me : at vv^hich interview All liberal reason I will yield unto. Meantime receive such welcome at my hand As honour without breach of honour may Make tender of to thy true worthiness : You may not come, fair princess, in my gates ; But here without you shall be so received As you shall deem yourself lodged in my heart, Though so denied fair harbour in my house. Your own good thoughts excuse me, and farewell : To-morrow shall we visit you again. [grace ! Prin. Sweet health and fair desires consort your King. Thy own wish wish I thee in every place ! [Exit. Biron. Lady, I will commend you to mine own heart. Bos. Pray you, do my commendations ; I would be glad to see it. Biron. I would you heard it groan. Bos. Is the fool sick ? Biron. Sick at the heart. Bos. Alack, let it blood. Biron. Would that do it good ? Bos. My physic says ' ay.' Biron. Will you prick 't with your eye ? Bos. No point, with my knife. Biron. Now, God save thy life ! Bos. And yours from long living ! Biron. I cannot stay thanksgiving. [Betiring. Bum. Sir, I pray you, a word : what lady is that same? Boyet. The heir of AlenQon, Katharine her name. Dur>* A gallant lady. Monsieur, fare you well. [Exit. Bong. I beseech you a word : what is she in the white ? Boyet. A woman sometimes, an you saw her in the light. Long. Perchance light in the light. I desire her name. Boyet. She hath but one for herself ; to desire that were a shame. Long. Pray you, sir, whose daughter? Boyet. Her mother's, I have heard. Long. God's blessing on your beard ! Boyet. Good sir, be not offended. She is an heir of Falconbridge. Long. Nay, my choler is ended. She is a most sweet lady. Boyet. Not unlike, sir, that may be. [Exit Long. Biron. What 's her name in the cap ? Boyet. Rosaline, by good hap. Biron. Is she wedded or no r* Boyet. To her will, sir, or so. Biron. You are welcome, sir: adieu. Boyet. Farewell to me, sir, and welcome to you. [Exit Biron. Mar. That last is Biron, the merry mad-cap lord : Not a word with him but a jest. Boyet. And every jest but a word. Prin. It was well done of you to take him at his word. [board. Boyet. I was as willing to grapple as he was to Mar. Two hot sheeps, marry. Boyet. And wherefore not ships ? No sheep, sweet lamb, unless we feed on your lips. Mar. You sheep, and I pasture : shall that finish Boyet. So you grant pasture for me. [the jest ? [Offering to kiss her. Mar. Not so, gentle beast : My lips are no common, though several they be. Boyet. Belonging to whom ? Mar. To my fortunes and me. Prin. Good wits wiU be jangling ; but, gentles, agree : This civil war of wits were much better used On Navarre and his book-men ; for here 't is abused. Boyet. If my observation, which very seldom lies, By the heart's still rhetoric disclosed with eyes. Deceive me not now, Navarre is infected. Prin. With what ? Boyet. With that which we lovers entitle affected. Prin. Your reason? [retire Boyet. Why, all his behaviours did make their To the court of his eye, peeping thorough desire : His heart, like an agate, with your print impress 'd, Proud with his form, in his eye pride express'd •. His tongue, all impatient to speak and not see, Did stumble with haste in his eyesight to be ; All senses to that sense did make their repair, To feel only looking on fairest of fair : Methought all his senses were lock'd in his eye, As jewels in crystal for some prince to buy ; Who, tendering their own worth from where they were glass 'd. Did point you to buy them, along as you pass'd: His face's own margent did quote such amazes That all eyes saw his eyes enchanted with gazes. I '11 give you Aquitaine and all that is his. An you give him for my sake but one loving kiss. Prin. Come to our pavilion : Boyet is disposed. Boyet. But to speak that in words which his eye hath disclosed. I only have made a mouth of his eye, By adding a tongue which I know will not lie. Bos. Thou art an old love-monger and speakest skilfully. Mar. He is Cupid's grandfather and learns news of him. Bos. Then was Yenus like her mother, for her . father is but grim. Boyet. Do you hear, my mad wenches ? Mar. No. Boyet. What then, do you see ? Bos. Ay, our way to be gone. Boyet. You are too hard for me. [Exeunt. _A.CT III. SCENE l.—The same. Enter Armado and Moth. Arm. Warble, child ; make passionate my sense of hearing. Moth. Concoiinel. [Singing. Arm. Sweet air! Go, tenderness of years; talce this key, give enlargement to the swain, bring him f estinately hither : I must employ him in a letter to my love. [brawl ? Moth. Master, will you win your love with a French Arm. How meanest thou Y brawling in French ? Moth. No, my complete master : but to jig off a tune at the tongue's end, canary to it with your feet, humour it with turning up your eyelids, sigh a note and sing a note, sometime through the throat, as if 117 ACT m. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. SCENE I. you swallowed love with singing love, sometime through the nose, as if you snuifed up love by smell- ing love ; with your hat penthouse-like o'er the sliop of your eyes ; with your arms crossed on your thin- belly doublet like a rabbit on a spit ; or your hands in your pocket like a man after the old painting ; and keep not too long in one tune, but a snip and away. These are complements , these are humours ; these betray nice wenches, that would be betrayed with- out these ; and make them men of note — do you note me? — that most are affected to these. Arm. How hast thou purchased this experience ? Moth. By my penny of observation. Arm. But O,— but O,— Moth. ' The hobby-horse is forgot.' Arm. Callest thou my love ' hobby-horse ' ? Moth. No, master ; the hobby-horse is but a colt, and your love perhaps a hackney. But have you forgot your love ? Arm. Almost I had. Moth. Negligent student ! learn her by heart. Arm. By heart and in heart, boy. Moth. And out of heart, master: all those three I will prove. Arm. What wilt thou prove ? Moth. A man, if I live ; and this, by, in, and with- out, upon the instant : by heart you love her, because your heart cannot come by her ; in heart you love her, because your heart is in love with her; and out of heart you love her, being out of heart that you cannot enjoy her. Arm. I am all these three. Moth. And three times as much more, and yet nothing at all. Arm. Fetch hither the swain : he must carry me a letter. Moth. A message well sympathized ; a horse to be ambassador for an ass. Arm. Ha, ha ! what sayest thou ? Moth. Marry, sir, you must send the ass upon the horse, for he is very slow-gaited. But I go. Arm. The way is but short : away ! Moth. As swift as lead, sir. Arm. The meaning, pretty ingenious ? Is not lead a metal heavy, dull, and slow ? [no. Moth. Minim6, honest master ; or rather, master. Arm. I say lead is slow. Moth. You are too swift, sir, to say so : Is that lead slow which is fired from a gun ? Arm. Sweet smoke of rhetoric ! He reputes me a cannon ; and the bullet, that 's he : I shoot thee at the swain. Moth. Thump then and I flee. [Exit. Arm. A most acute Juvenal; volable and free of grace ! [face : By thy favour, sweet welkin, I must sigh in thy Most rude melancholy, valour gives thee place. My herald is return'd. Re-enter Moth with Costard. Moth. A wonder, master ! here 's a costard broken in a shin. [voy ; begin. Arm. Some enigma, some riddle : come, thy Pen- Cost. No egma,no riddle, no I'envoy; no salve in the mail, sir: O, sir, plantain, a plain plantain! no I'envoy, no I'envoy ; no salve, sir, but a plantain ! Arm. By virtue, thou enforcest laughter; thy silly thought my spleen ; the heaving of my lungs pro- vokes me to ridiculous smiling. O, pardon me, my stars ! Doth the inconsiderate take salve for I'en- voy, and the word I'envoy for a salve ? Moth. Do the wise think them other ? is not I'en- voy a salve ? Arm. No, page; it is an epilogue or discourse, to make plain Some obscure precedence that hath tof ore been sain. I will example it : 118 The fox, the ape and the humble-bee. Were still at odds, being but three. There 's the moral. Now the I'envoy. Moth. I will add the I'envoy. Say the moral again. Arm. The fox, the ape, the humble-bee. Were still at odds, being but three. Moth. Until the goose came out of door. And stay'd the odds by adding four. Now will I begin your moral, and do you follow with my I'envoy. The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee, Were still at odds, being but three. Arm. Until the goose came out of door, Staying the odds by adding four. Moth. A good I'envoy, ending in the goose : would you desire more ? Cost. The boy hath sold him a bargain, a goose, that 's flat. Sir, your pennyworth is good, an your goose be fat. To sell a bargain well is as cunning as fast and loose ; Let me see ; a fat I'envoy ; ay, that 's a fat goose. Arm. Come hither, come hither. How did this argument begin ? Moth. By saying that a costard was broken in a Then call'd you for the I'envoy. [shin. Cost. True, and I for a plantain : thus came your argument in ; [bought; Then the boy's fat I'envoy, the goose that you And he ended the market. Arm. But tell me; how was there a costard broken in a shin ? Moth. I will tell you sensibly. Cost. Thou hast no feeling of it, Moth : I will speak that I'envoy : I Costard, running out, that was safely within, Fell over the threshold, and broke my shin. Arm. We will talk no more of this matter. Cost. Till there be more matter in the shin. Arm. Sirrah Costard, I will enfranchise thee. Cost. O, marry me to one Frances : I smell some I'envoy, some goose, in this. Arm. By my sweet soul, I mean setting thee at liberty, enfreedoming thy person: thou wert im- mured, restrained, captivated, bound. Cost. True, true; and now you will be my purga- tion and let me loose. Arm. I give thee thy liberty, set thee from dur- ance ; and, in lieu thereof, impose on thee nothing but this : bear this significant [giving a letter'] to the country maid Jaquenetta : there is remuneration ; for the best ward of mine honour is rewarding my dependents. Moth, follow. [Exit. Moth. Like the sequel, I. Signior Costard, adieu. Cost. My sweet ounce of man's flesh ! my incony Jew ! [Exit Moth. Now will I look to his remuneration. Remunera- tion ! O, that 's the Latin word for three farthings : three farthings— remuneration.— ' What 's the price of this inkle v '— ' One penny.'—' No, I '11 give you a remuneration : ' why, it carries it. Remunera- tion ! why, it is a fairer name than French crown. I will never buy and sell out of this word. Enter Biron. Biron. O, my good knave Costard! exceedingly well met. Cost. Pray you, sir, how much carnation ribbon may a man buy for a remuneration ? Biron. What is a remuneration ? Cost. Marry, sir, halfpenny farthing. Biron. Why, then, three-farthing worth of silk. Cost. I thank your worship : God be wi' you ! Biron. Stay, slave ; I must employ thee : As thou wilt win my favour, good my knave. Do one thing for me that I shall entreat. Cost. When would you have it done, sir ? Biron. This afternoon. ACT IV. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. SCENE I. Cost. Well, I wiU do it, sir : fare you well. Biron. Thou knowest not what it is. Cost. I shall know, sir, when I have done it. Biron. Why, villain, thou must know first. Cost. I will come to your worship to-morrow morn- ing. Biron. It must be done this afternoon. Hark, slave, it is but this : The princess comes to hunt here in the park, And in her train there is a gentle lady; [name. When tongues speak sweetly, then they name her And Rosaline they call her : ask for her ; And to her white hand see thou do command This seal'd-up counsel. There 's thy guerdon ; go. {Giving Mm a shilling. Cost. Garden, O sweet garden! better than re- muneration, a 'leven-pence farthing better: most sweet garden ! I will do it, sir, in print. Garden ! Remuneration ! - [I^xit. Biron. And I, forsooth, in love! I, that have been love's whip; A very beadle to a humorous sigh ; A critic, nay, a night-watch constable; A domineering pedant o'er the boy; Than whom no mortal so magnificent ! This whimpled, whining, purblind, wayivard boy ; This senior-junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid ; Regent of love-rhymes, lord of folded arms, The anointed sovereign of sighs and groans, Liege of all loiterers and malcontents, Dread prince of plackets, king of codpieces. Sole imperator and great general Of trotting 'paritors : — O my little heart ! — And I to be a corporal of his field. And wear his colours like a tumbler's hoop ! What, I ! I love ! I sue ! I seek a wife ! A woman, that is like a German clock, Still a-repairing, ever out of frame. And never going aright, being a watch. But being watch'd that it may still go right! Nay, to be perjured, which is worst of all ; And, among three, to love the worst of all ; A wightly wanton with a velvet brow. With two pitch-balls stuck in her face for eyes ; Ay, and, by heaven, one that will do the deed Though Argus were her eunuch and her guard : And I to sigh for her ! to watch for her ! To pray for her ! Go to ; it is a plague That Cupid will impose for my neglect Of his almighty dreadful little might. Well, I will love, write, sigh, pray, sue and groan: Some men must love my lady and some Joan. [Exit- A.OT IV. SCENE l.—The same. Enter the Princess, and her train, a Forester, Boyet, Rosaline, Maria, and Katharine. Prin. Was that the king, that spurred his horse Arainst the steep uprising of the hill ? [so hard Boyet. I know not ; but I think it was not he. Prin. Whoe'er a' was, a' show'd a mounting mind. Well, lords, to-day we shall have our dispatch: On Saturday we will return to France. Then, forester, my friend, where is the bush That we must stand and play the murderer in ? For. Hereby, upon the edge of yonder coppice ; A stand where you may make the fairest shoot. Prin. I thank my beauty, I am fair that shoot. And thereupon thou speak'st the fairest shoot. For. Pardon me, madam, for I meant not so. Prin. What, what ? first praise me and again say O short-lived pride ! ISTot fair ? alack for woe ! [no? For. Yes, madam, fair. Prin. Nay, never paint me now : Where fair is not, praise cannot mend the brow. Here, good my glass, take this for telling true : Fair payment for foul words is more than due. For. Nothing but fair is that which you inherit. Prin. See, see, my beauty will be saved by merit! O heresy in fail', fit for these days ! A giving hand, though foul, shall have fair praise. But come, the bow: now mercy goes to kill, And shooting well is then accounted ill. Thus will I save my credit in the shoot : Not wounding, pity would not let me do 't ; If wounding, then it was to show my skill. That more for praise than purpose meant to kill. And out of question so it is sometimes. Glory grows guilty of detested crimes. When, for fame's sake, for praise, an outward part. We bend to that the working of the heart ; As I for praise alone now seek to spill The poor deer's blood, that my heart means no ill. Boyet. Do not curst wives hold that self -sovereignty Only for praise sake, when they strive to be Lords o'er their lords ? Prin. Only for praise : and praise we may afford To any lady that subdues a lord. Boyet. Here comes a member of the common- wealth. T, . ^ ^ , Enter Costard. Cost. God dig-you-den aU! Pray you, which is the head lady ? Prin. Thou Shalt know her, fellow, by the rest that have no heads. Cost. Which is the greatest lady, the highest ? Prin. The thickest and the tallest. [is truth. Cost. The thickest and the tallest ! it is so ; truth An your waist, mistress, were as slender as my wit. One o' these maids' girdles for your waist should be fit. [here. Are not you the chief woman ? you are the thickest Prin. What 's your will, sir ? what 's your wiU ? Cost. 1 have a letter from Monsieur Biron to one Lady Rosaline. [of mine : Prin. O, thy letter, thy letter ! he 's a good friend Stand aside, good bearer. Boyet, you can carve; Break up this capon. Boyet. I am bound to serve. This letter is mistook, it importeth none here; It is vsrit to Jaquenetta. Prin. We will read it, I swear. Break the neck of the wax, and every one give ear. Boyet [reads]. ' By heaven, that thou art fair, is most infallible ; true, that thou art beauteous ; truth itself, that thou art lovely. More fairer than fair, beautiful than beauteous, truer than truth itself, have commiseration on thy heroical vassal ! The magnanimous and most illustrate king Cophetua set eye upon the pernicious and indubitate beggar Zenelophon ; and he it was that might rightly say, Veni, vidi, vici ; which to annothanize in the vul- gar,— O base and obscure vulgar ! —videlicet. He came, saw, and overcame : he came, one ; saw, two ; overcame, three. Who came ? the king : why did he come ? to see : why did he see ? to overcome : to whom came he ? to the beggar : what saw he ? the beggar : who overcame he ? the beggar. The con- clusion is victory : on whose side ? the king's. The captive is enriched : on whose side ? the beggar's. The catastrophe is a nuptial : on whose side ? the king's : no, on both in one, or one in both. I am the king ; for so stands the comparison : thou the 119 ACT IV. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. SCENE II. beggar ; for so witnesseth thy lowliness. Shall I command thy love ? I may : shall I enforce thy love ? I could: shall I entreat thy love? I will. What Shalt thou exchange for rags ? robes ; for tittles ? titles ; for thyself ? me. Thus, expecting thy reply, I profane my lips on thy foot, my eyes on thy pic- ture, and my heart on thy every part. Thine, in the dearest design of industry, Don Adriano de Armabo.' Thus dost thou hear the Nemean lion roar 'Gainst thee, thou lamb, that standest as his prey. Submissive fall his princely feet before. And he from forage will incline to play : But if thou strive, poor soul, what art thou then ? Food for his rage, repasture for his den. Prin. What plume of feathers is he that indited this letter ? [better ? What vane ? what weathercock ? did you ever hear Boyet. I am much deceived but I remember the style. [erewhile. Prin. Else your memory is bad, going o'er it Boyet. This Armado is a Spaniard, that keeps here in court ; A phantasime, a Monarcho, and one that makes sport To the prince and his bookmates. Prin. Thou fellow, a word : Who gave thee this letter ? Cost. I told you ; my lord. Prin. To whom shouldst thou give it ? Cost. From my lord to my lady. Prin. From which lord to which lady ? Cost. From my lord Biron, a good master of mine, To a lady of France that he call'd Eosaline. Prin. Thou hast mistaken his letter. Come, lords, away. [To Bos.'\ Here, sweet, put up this : 't will be thine another day. [Exeunt Princess and train. Boyet. Who is the suitor ? who is the suitor ? Bos. Shall I teach you to know ? Boyet. Ay, my continent of beauty. Bos. Why, she that bears the bow. Finely put off ! Boyet. My lady goes to kill horns ; but, if thou marry, Hang me by the neck, if horns that year miscarry. Finely put on ! Bos. Well, then, I am the shooter. Boyet. And who is your deer ? -Bos. If we choose by the horns, yourself come not near. Finely put on, indeed! Mar. You still wrangle with her, Boyet, and she strikes at the brow. Boyet. But she herself is hit lower : have I hit her now? Bos. Shall I come upon thee with an old saying, that was a man when King Pepin of France was a little boy, as touching the hit it ? Boyet. So I may answer thee with one as old, that was a woman when Queen Guinover of Britain was a little wench, as touching the hit it. Bos. Thou canst not hit it, hit it, hit it, Thou canst not hit it, my good man. .An I cannot, cannot, cannot, An I cannot, another can. [Exeunt Bos. and Kath. Cost. By my troth, most pleasant : how both did fit it! Mar. A mark marvellous well shot, for they both did hit it. Boyet. A mark ! O, mark but that mark ! A mark, says my lady ! [be. Let the mark have a prick in 't, to meet at, if it may Mar. Wide o' the bow hand ! i' faith, your hand is out. Cost. Indeed, a' must shoot nearer, or he '11 ne'er hit the clout. 120 Boyet. An if my hand be out, then belike your hand is in. Cost. Then wUl she get the upshoot by cleaving the pin. [grow foul. Mar. Come, come, you talk greasily ; your lips Cost. She 's too hard for you at pricks, sir: chal- lenge her to bowl. Boyet. I fear too much rubbing. Good-night, my good owl. [Exeunt Boyet and Maria. Cost. By my soul, a swain ! a most simple clown ! Lord, Lord, how the ladies and I have put him down ! O' my troth, most sweet jests ! most incony vulgar wit! When it comes so smoothly off, so obscenely, as it were, so fit. Armado o' th' one side,— O, a most dainty man ! To see him walk before a lady and to bear her fan ! To see him kiss his hand ! and how most sweetly a' will swear ! And his page o' t' other side, that handful of wit ! Ah, heavens, it is a most pathetical nit ! Sola, sola ! [Shout within. — Exit Costard, running. SCENE II.— The same. Enter Holofernes, Sir Nathaniel, and Dull. JSTath. Very reverend sport, truly; and done in the testimony of a good conscience. Hoi. The deer was, as you know, sanguis, in blood ; ripe as the pomewater, who now hangeth like a jewel in the ear of caelo, the sky, the welkin, the heaven ; and anon falleth like a crab on the face of terra, the soil, the land, the earth. Hath. Truly, Master Holofernes, the epithets are sweetly varied, like a scholar at the least : but, sir, I assure ye, it was a buck of the first head. Hoi. Sir ifathaniel, baud credo. Bull. 'T was not a hand credo ; 't was a pricket. Hoi. Most barbarous intimation! yet a kind of insinuation, as it were, in via, in way, of explica- tion; facere, as it were, replication, or rather, os- tentare, to show, as it were, his inclination, after his undressed, unpolished, uneducated, unpruned, untrained, or rather, unlettered, or ratherest, un- confirmed fashion, to insert again my hand credo for a deer. Bull. I said the deer was not a baud credo; 'twas a pricket. Hoi. Twice-sod simplicity, bis coctus ! [look ! O thou monster Ignorance, how deformed dost thou JSTath. Sir, he hath never fed of the dainties that are bred in a book ; he hath not eat paper, as it were ; he hath not drunk ink : his intellect is not replenished ; he is only an animal, only sensible in the duller parts : And such barren plants are set before us, that we thankful should be, Which we of taste and feeling are, for those parts that do fructify in us more than he. For as it would ill become me to be vain, indiscreet, or a fool. So were there a patch set on learning, to see him in a school : But omne bene, say I ; being of an old father's mind. Many can brook the weather that love not the wind. Dull. You two are book-men : can you tell me by your wit What was a month old at Cain's birth, that 's not five weeks old as yet ? [man Dull. Hoi. Dictynna, goodman Dull ; Dictynna, good- Bull. What is Dictynna ? Wath. A title to Phoebe, to Luna, to the moon. Hoi. The moon was a month old when Adam was no more, [score. And raught not to five weeks when he came to five- The allusion holds in the exchange. [exchange. Dull. 'T is true, indeed ; the collusion holds ui the I ACT IV. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. SCENE III. Hoi. God comfort thy capacity ! I say, the allu- sion holds in the exchange. Dull. And I say, the poUusion holds in the ex- change; for the moon is never but a month old: and I say beside that, 't was a pricket that the prin- cess killed. Hoi. Sir Nathaniel, will you hear an extemporal epitaph on the death of the deer ? And, to humour the ignorant, call I the deer the princess killed a pricket. Nath. Perge, good Master Holofernes, perge; so it shall please you to abrogate scurrility. Hoi. I will something aifect the letter, for it argues facility. The preyful princess pierced and prick'd a pretty pleasing pricket ; Some say a sore ; but not a sore, till now made sore with shooting. The dogs did yell ; put L to sore, then sorel jumps from thicket ; [hooting. Or pricket sore, or else sorel ; the people fall a- If sore be sore, then l to sore makes fifty sores one sorel. [more jo. Of one sore I an hundred make by adding but one Nath. A rare talent ! Dull. [^sicZe] If a talent be a claw, look how he claws him with a talent. Hoi. This is a gift that I have, simple, simple ; a foolish extravagant spirit, full of forms, figures, shapes, objects, ideas, apprehensions, motions, revo- lutions : these are begot in the ventricle of memory, nourished in the womb of pia mater, and delivered upon the mellowing of occasion. But the gift is good in those in whom it is acute, and I am thank- ful for it. Nath. Sir, I praise the Lord for you: and so may my parishioners ; for their sons are well tutored by you, and their daughters profit very greatly under you : you are a good member of the commonwealth. Hoi. Mehercle, if their sons be ingenuous, they shall want no instruction; if their daughters be capable, I will put it to them: but vir sapit qui pauca loquitur; a soul feminine saluteth us. 'Enter Jaquenetta and Costard. Jaq. God give you good morrow, master Parson. Hoi. Master Parson, quasi pers-on. An if one should be pierced, which is the one V Cost. Marry, master schoolmaster, he that is likest to a hogshead. Hoi. Piercing a hogshead ! a good lustre of con- ceit in a tuft of earth ; fire enough for a flint, pearl enough for a swine ; 't pretty ; it is well. Jaq. Good master Parson, be so good as read me this letter ; it was given me by Costard, and sent me from Don Armado : I beseech you, read it. Hoi. Fauste, precor gelida quando pecus omne sub umbra Ruminat, — and so forth. Ah, good old Mantuan! I may speak of thee as the traveller doth of Venice ; Venetia, Venetia, Chi non ti vede non ti pretia. Old Mantuan, old Mantuan! who understandeth thee not, loves thee not. Ut, re, sol, la, mi, fa. Under pardon, sir, what are the contents ? or rather, as Horace says in his — What, my soul, verses ? Nath. Ay, sir, and very learned. [domine. Hoi. Let me hear a staff, a stanze, a verse ; lege, Nath. {reads] If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love ? Ah, never faith could hold, if not to beauty vow'd ! Though to myself forsworn, to thee I 'U faithful prove ; [bow'd. Those thoughts to me were oaks, to theelike osiers Study his bias leaves and makes his book thine eyes. Where all those pleasures live that art would comprehend : If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suf- fice; Well learned is that tongue that well can thee commend, [der; All ignorant that soul that sees thee without won- Which is to me some praise that I thy parts admire : Thy eye Jove's lightning bears, thy voice his dread- ful thunder. Which, not to anger bent, is music and sweet fire. Celestial as thou art, O, pardon love this wrong. That sings heaven's praise with such an earthly tongue. Hoi. You find not the apostraphas, and so miss the accent : let me supervise the canzonet. Here are only numbers ratified; but, for the elegancy, facility, and golden cadence of poesy, caret. Ovid- ius Naso was the man : and why, indeed, Naso, but for smelling out the odoriferous flowers of fancy, the jerks of invention ? Imitari is nothing : so doth the hound his master, the ape his keeper, the tired horse his rider. But, damosella virgin, was this directed to you ? Jaq. Ay, sir, from one Monsieur Biron, one of the strange queen's lords. Hoi. I will overglance the superscript : ' To the snow-white hand of the most beauteous Lady Rosa- line.' I will look again on the intellect of the letter, for the nomination of the party writing to the per- son written unto : ' Your ladyship 's in all desired employment, Biron.' Sir Nathaniel, this Biron is one of the votaries with the king ; and here he hath framed a letter to a sequent of the stranger queen's, which accidentally, or by the way of progression, hath miscarried. Trip and go, my sweet; deliver this paper into the royal hand of the king : it may concern much. Stay not thy compliment ; I forgive thy duty : adieu. [your life ! Jaq. Good Costard, go with me. Sir, God save Cost. Have with thee, my girl. [Exeunt Cost, and Jaq. Nath. Sir, you have done this in the fear of God, very religiously; and, as a certain father saith, — Hoi. Sir, tell not me of the father; I do fear col- ourable colours. But to return to the verses : did they please you. Sir Nathaniel Y Nath. Marvellous well for the pen. Hoi. I do dine to-day at the father's of a certain pupil of mine; where, if, before repast, it shall please you to gratify the table with a grace, I will, on my privilege I have with the parents of the fore- said child or pupil, undertake your ben venuto; where I will prove those verses to be very unlearned, neither savouring of poetry, wit, nor invention; I beseech your society. Nath. And thank you too ; for society, saith the text, is the happiness of life. Hoi. And, certes, the text most infallibly con- cludes it. [To Dull] Sir, I do invite you too: you shall not say me nay: pauca verba. Away! the gentles are at their game, and we will to our recre- ation. [Exeunt. SCENE III.— The same. Enter Biron, with a paper. Biron. The king he is hunting the deer; I am coursing myself: they have pitched a toil- I am toiling in a pitch, — pitch that defiles : defile ! a foul word. Well, set thee down, sorrow ! for so they say the fool said, and so say I, and I the fool : well proved, wit ! By the Lord, this love is as mad as Ajax : it kills sheep ; it kills me, I a sheep : well proved again o' my side! I will not love: if I do, hang me; i' faith, I will not. O, but her eye,— by this light, but for her eye, I would not love her; yes, for her two eyes. Well, I do nothing in the world but lie, and lie in my throat. By heaven, I do love : and it I hath taught me to rhyme and to be melancholy ; and 121 ACT IV. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. SCENE III. here is part of mj' rhyme, and here my melancholy. Well, she hath one o' my sonnets already : the clown bore it, the fool sent it, and the lady hath it : sweet clown, sweeter fool, sweetest lady ! By the world, I would not care a pin, if the other three were in. Here comes one with a paper : God give him grace to groan ! [Stands aside. Enter the King, with a paper. King. Ay me! Biron. [Aside] Shot, by heaven! Proceed, sweet Cupid : thou hast thumped him with thy bird-bolt under the left pap. In faith, secrets ! King [reacts]. So sweet a kiss the golden sun gives not To those fresh morning drops upon the rose. As thy eye-beams, when their fresh rays have smote The night of dew that on my cheeks down flows : Nor shines the silver moon one half so bright Through the transparent bosom of the deep. As doth thy face through tears of mine give light : Thou shinest in every tear that I do weep : No drop but as a coach doth carry thee ; So ridest thou triumphing in my woe. Do but behold the tears that swell in me. And they thy glory through my grief will show : But do not love thyself ; then thou wilt keep My tears for glasses, and still make me weep. O queen of queens 1 how far dost thou excel. No thought can think, nor tongue of mortal tell. How shall she know my griefs ? I '11 drop the paper ! Sweet leaves, shade folly. Who is he comes here ? [Steps aside. What, Longaville! and reading! listen, ear. Biron. Now, in thy likeness, one more fool appear! Enter Longaville, with a paper. Long. Ay me, I am forsworn ! Biron. Why he comes in like a perjure, wearing papers. King. In love, I hope : sweet fellowship in shame ! Biron. One drunkard loves another of the name. Long. Am I the first that have been perjured so ? Biron. I could put thee in comfort. Not by two that I know : [ety, Thou makest the triumviry, the corner-cap of soci- The shape of Love's Tyburn that hangs up sim- plicity, [move. Long. I fear these stubborn lines lack power to O sweet Maria, empress of my love ! These numbers will I tear, and write in prose. Biron. O, rhymes are guards on wanton Cupid's Disfigure not his slop. [hose : Long. This same shall go. [Beads. Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye, 'Gainst whom the world cannot hold argument. Persuade my heart to this false perjury ? Yows for thee broke deserve not punishment. A woman I forswore ; but I will prove. Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee : My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love; Thy grace being gain'd cures all disgrace in me. Yows are but breath, and breath a vapour is : Then thou , fair sun, which on my earth dost shine, Exhalest this vapour vow ; in thee it is : If broken then, it is no fault of mine : If by me broke, what fool is not so wise To lose an oath to win a paradise ? [a deity. Biron. This is the liver-vein, which makes flesh A green goose a goddess : pure, pure idolatry, [way. God amend us, God amend ! we are much out 'o the Long. By whom shall I send this ?— Company ! stay. [/Sieps aside. Biron. All hid, all hid; an old infant play. Like a demigod here sit I in the sky. And vn.-etched fools' secrets heedfully o'er-eye. More sacks to the mill ! O heavens, I have my wish ! 122 Enter Dumain, with a paper. Dumain transform'd ! four woodcocks in a dish ! Bum. O most divine Kate ! Biron. O most profane coxcomb ! Bum. By heaven, the wonder in a mortal eye ! Biron . By earth , she is not , corporal , there you lie. Bum. Her amber hair for foul hath amber quoted. Biron. An amber-colour'd raven was well notedo Bum. As upright as the cedar. Biron. Stoop, I say ; Her shoulder is with child. Bum. As fair as day. [shine. Biron. Ay, as some days ; but then no sun must Bum. O that I had my wish ! Long. And I had mine ! King. And I mine, too, good Lord ! [word ? Biron. Amen, so I had mine : is not that a good Bum. I would forget her ; but a fever she Reigns in my blood and will remember'd be. Biron. A fever in your blood ! why, then incision Would let her out in saucers : sweet misprision ! Bum. Once more I '11 read the ode that I have writ. [wit. Biron. Once more I 'U mark how love can vary Bum. [reads.] On a day —alack the day ! — Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair Playing in the wanton air : Through the velvet leaves the wind, All unseen, can passage find ; That the lover, sick to death. Wish himself the heaven's breath. Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow ; Air, would I might triumph so ! But, alack, my hand is sworn Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn ; Yow, alack, for youth unmeet. Youth so apt to pluck a sweet ! " Do not call it sin in me. That I am forsworn for thee ; Thou for whom Jove would swear Juno but an Ethiope were ; And deny himself for Jove, Turning mortal for thy love. This will I send and something else more plain. That shall express my true love's fasting pain. O, would the king, Biron, and Longaville, Were lovers too ! Ill, to example ill. Would from my forehead wipe a perjured note : For none offend where all alike do dote. Long, [advancing] Dumain, thy love is far from charity. That in love's grief desirest society: You may look pale, but I should blush, I know. To be o'erheard and taken napping so. King, [advancing] Come, sir, you blush; as his your case is such ; You chide at him, offending twice as much : You do not love Maria ; Longaville Did never sonnet for her sake compile, Nor never lay his wreathed arms athwart His loving bosom to keep down his heart. I have been closely shrouded in this bush And mark'd you both and for you both did blush : I heard your guilty rhymes, observed your fashion, Saw sighs reek from you, noted well your passion: Ay me ! says one ; O Jove ! tlie other cries ; One, her hairs were gold, crystal the other's eyes : [To Long.] You would for paradise break faith and troth : [an oath. [To Bum.] And Jove, for your love, would infringe What will Biron say when that he shall hear Faith so infringed, which such zeal did swear ? How will he scorn ! how will he spend his wit ! How will he triumph, leap and laugh at it ! ACT IV. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. SCENE III. For all the wealth that ever I did see, I would not have him know so much by me. Biron. Now step I forth to whip hypocrisy. [Advancing. Ah, good my liege, I pray thee, pardon me ! Good heart, what grace hast thou, thus to reprove These worms for loving, that art most in love ? Your eyes do make no coaches ; in your tears There is no certain princess that appears ; You '11 not be perjured, 't is a hateful thing ; Tush, none but minstrels like of sonneting ! But are you not ashamed ? nay, are you not, All three of you, to be thus much o'ershot ? You found his mote ; the king your mote did see ; But I a beam do find in each of three. 0, what a scene of foolery have I seen, Of sighs, of groans, of sorrow and of teen ! me, with what strict patience have I sat, To see a king transformed to a gnat ! To see great Hercules whipping a gig. And profound Solomon to tune a jig. And jSTestor play at push-pin with the boys, And critic Timon laugh at idle toys ! Where lies thy grief, O, tell me, good Dumain? And, gentle Longaville, where lies thy pain V And where my liege's ? all about the breast : A caudle, ho ! King. Too bitter is thy jest. Are we betray'd thus to thy over-view ? Biron. Not you to me, but I betray'd by you : 1, that am honest ; I, that hold it sin To break the vow I am engaged in ; 1 am betray'd, by keeping company With men like inen of inconstancy. When shall you see me write a thing in rhyme ? Or groan for love ? or spend a minute's time In pruning me ? When shall you hear that I Will praise a hand, a foot, a face, an eye, A gait, a state, a brow, a breast, a waist, A leg, a limb •' King. Soft ! whither away so fast ? A true man or a thief that gallops so ? Biron. I post from love : good lover, let me go. Enter Jaquenetta and Costard. Jaq. God bless the king ! King. What present hast thou there ? Cost. Some certain treason. King. What makes treason here ? Cost. Nay, it makes nothing, sir. King. If it mar nothing neither. The treason and you go in peace away together. Jaq. I beseech your grace, let this letter be read : Our parson misdoubts it ; 't was treason, he said. King. Biron, read it over. [Giving Mm the paper. Where hadst thou it i* Jaq. Of Costard. King. Where hadst thou it ? Cost. Of Dun Adramadio, Dun Adramadio. [Biron tears the letter. King. How now ! what is in you ? why dost thou tear it ? Biron. A toy, my liege, a toy: your grace needs not fear it. Long. It did move him to passion, and therefore let 's hear it. Bum. It is Biron's writing, and here is his name. [Gathering up the pieces. Biron. [To Costard^ Ah, you whoreson logger- head ! you were born to do me shame. Guilty, my lord, guilty ! I confess, I confess. King. What? Biron. That you three fools lack'd me fool to make up the mess : He, he, and you, and you, my liege, and I, Are pick-purses in love, and we deserve to die. O, dismiss this audience, and I shall tell you more. Bum. Now the number is even. Biron. True, true ; we are four. Will these turtles be gone ? King. Hence, sirs ; away ! Cost. Walk aside the true folk, and let the traitors stay. [Exeunt Costard and Jaquenetta. Biron. Sweet lords, sweet lovers, O, let us embrace ! As true we are as flesh and blood can be : The sea will ebb and flow, heaven show his face ; Young blood doth not obey an old decree : We cannot cross the cause why we were born ; Therefore of all hands must we be forsworn. King. What^ did these rent lines show some love of thine i* [ly Rosaline, Biron. Did they, quoth you? Who sees the heaven- That, like a rude and savage man of Inde, At the first opening of the gorgeous east. Bows not his vassal head and strucken blind Kisses the base ground with obedient breast ? What peremptory eagle-sighted eye Dares look upon the heaven of her brow. That is not blinded by her majesty ? [now ? King. What zeal, what fury hath inspired thee My love, her mistress, is a gracious moon; She an attending star, scarce seen a light. Biron. My eyes are then no eyes, nor I Biron : O, but for my love, day would turn to night ! Of all complexions the cuU'd sovereignty Do meet, as at a fair, in her fair cheek. Where several worthies make one dignity, Where nothing wants that want itself doth seek. Lend me the flourish of all gentle tongues, — Tie, painted rhetoric ! O, she needs it not : To things of sale a seller's praise belongs. She passes praise ; then praise too short doth blot. A wither'd hermit, five-score winters worn. Might shake off fifty, looking in her eye : Beauty doth varnish age, as if new-born. And gives the crutch the cradle's infancy : O, 'tis the sun that maketh all things shine. King. By heaven, thy love is black as ebony. Biron. Is ebony like her ? O wood divine ! A wife of such wood were felicity. O, who can give an oath ? where is a book ? That I may swear beauty doth beauty lack, If that she learn not of her eye to look : No face is fair that is not full so black. King. O paradox ! Black is the badge of heU, The hue of dungeons and the suit of night ; And beauty's crest becomes the heavens well. Biron. Devils soonest tempt, resembling spirits of O, if in black my lady's brows be deck'd, [light. It mourns that painting and usurping hair Should ravish doters with a false aspect ; And therefore is she born to make black fair. Her favour turns the fashion of the days, For native blood is counted painting now; And therefore red, that would avoid dispraise. Paints itself black, to imitate her brow. Bum. To look like her are chimney-sweepers black. Long. And since her time are colliers counted bright. [crack. King. And Ethiopes of their sweet complexion Bum. Dark needs no candles now, for dark is light. Biron. Your mistresses dare never come in rain. For fear their colours should be wash'd away. King. 'T were good, yours did ; for, sir, to tell you I '11 find a fairer face not wash'd to-day. [plain, Biron. I '11 prove her fair, or talk till doomsday here. [she. King. No devil will fright thee then so much as Bum. 1 never knew man hold vile stuff so dear. Long. Look, here 's thy love : my foot and her face see. Biron. O, if the streets were paved with thine eyes, Her feet were much too dainty for such tread ! 123 ACT V. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. SCENE I. Dum. O vile ! then, as she goes, what upward lies The street should see as she walk'd overhead. King. But what of this ? are we not all in love ? Biron. Nothing so sure ; and thereby all forsworn. King. Then leave this chat ; and, good Biron, now prove Our loving lawful, and our faith not torn. Dum. Ay, marry, there ; some flattery for this evil. Long. O, some authority how to proceed; Some tricks, some quillets, how to cheat the devil. Dum. Some salve for perjury. Biron. 'T is more than need. Have at you, then, affections men at arms. Consider what you first did swear unto, To fast, to study, and to see no woman ; riat treason 'gainst the kingly state of youth. Say, can you fast ? your stomachs are too young ; And abstinence engenders maladies. And where that you have vow'd to study, lords. In that each of you have forsworn his book. Can you still dream and pore and thereon look ? For when would you, my lord, or you, or you, Have found the ground of study's excellence Without the beauty of a woman's face ? [From women's eyes this doctrine I derive ; They are the ground, the books, the academes From whence doth spring the true Promethean fire.] "Why, universal plodding poisons up The nimble spirits in the arteries, As motion and long-during action tires The sinewy vigour of the traveller. Now, for not looking on a woman's face, You have in that forsworn the use of eyes And study too, the causer of your vow ; For where is any author in the world Teaches such beauty as a woman's eye ? Learning is but an adjunct to ourself And where we are our learning likewise is : Then when ourselves we see in ladies' eyes. Do we not likewise see our learning there ? O, we have made a vow to study, lords, And in that vow we have forsworn our books. For when would you, my liege, or you, or you, In leaden contemplation have found out Such fiery numbers as the prompting eyes Of beauty's tutors have enrich 'd you with ? Other slow arts entirely keep the brain ; And therefore, finding barren practisers. Scarce show a harvest of their heavy toil : But love, first learned in a lady's eyes. Lives not alone immured in the brain ; But, with the motion of all elements. Courses as swift as thought in every power, And gives to every power a double power, Above their functions and their offices. It adds a precious seeing to the eye ; A lover's eyes will gaze an eagle blind ; A lover's ear will hear the lowest sound. When the suspicious head of theft is stopp'd : Love's feeling is more soft and sensible Than are the tender horns of cockled snails ; Love's tongue proves dainty Bacchus gross in taste : For valour, is not Love a Hercules, Still climbing trees in the Hesperides ? Subtle as Sphinx ; as sweet and musical As bright Apollo's lute, strung with his hair: And when Love speaks, the voice of all the gods Make heaven drowsy with the harmony. Never durst poet touch a pen to write Until his ink were temper'd with Love's sighs; O, then his lines would ravish savage ears And plant in tyrants mild humility. From women's eyes this doctrine I derive : They sparkle still the right Promethean fire ; They are the books, the arts, the academes. That show, contain and nourish all the world: Else none at all in ought proves excellent. Then fools you were these women to forswear. Or keeping what is sworn, you will prove fools. For wisdom's sake, a word that all men love. Or for love's sake, a word that loves all men. Or for men's sake, the authors of these women, Or women's sake, by whom we men are men. Let us once lose our oaths to find ourselves, Or else we lose ourselves to keep our oaths. It is religion to be thus forsworn. For charity itself fulfils the law. And who can sever love from charity ? King. Saint Cupid, then ! and, soldiers, to the field ! Biron. Advance your standards, and upon them, lords ; Pell-mell, down with them ! but be first advised, In conflict that you get the sun of them. Long. Now to plain-dealing ; lay these glozes by : Shall we resolve to woo these girls of France.? King. And win them too : therefore let us devise Some entertainment for them in their tents. Biron. First, from the park let us conduct them thither ; Then homeward every man attach the hand Of his fair mistress : in the afternoon We will with some strange pastime solace them, Such as the shortness of the time can shape ; For revels, dances, masks and merry hours Forerun fair Love, strewing her way with flowers. King. Away, away ! no time shall be omitted That will betime, and may by us be fitted. Biron. Aliens ! allons! Sow'd cockle reap 'd no corn; And justice always whirls in equal measure : Light wenches may prove plagues to men forsworn ; If so, our copper buys no better treasure. [Exeunt. J^CT ^. SCENE I.— The same. Enter Holofernes, Sir Nathaniel, and Dull. Hoi. Satis quod sufficit. Nath. I praise God for you, sir : your reasons at dinner have been sharp and sententious ; pleasant without scurrility, witty without affection, auda- cious without impudency, learned without opinion, and strange without heresy. I did converse this quondam day with a companion of the king's, who is intituled, nominated, or called, Don Adriano de Armado. Hoi. Novi hominem tanquam te : his humour is lofty, his discourse peremptory, his tongue filed, his 124 eye ambitious, his gait majestical, and his general behaviour vain, ridiculous, and thrasonical. He is too picked, too spruce, too affected, too odd, as it were, too peregrinate, as I may call it. Nath. A most singular and choice epithet. [Draios out his tahle-hook. Hoi. He draweth out the thread of his verbosity finer than the staple of his argument. I abhor such fanatical phantasimes, such insociable and point- devise companions; such rackers of orthography, as to speak dout, fine, when he should say doubt ; det, when he should pronounce debt, — d, e, b, t, not d,e,t: he clepeth a calf , cauf ; half,hauf ; neighbour vocatur nebour ; neigh abbreviated ne. This is ab- hominable,— which he would call abbominable: it ACT V. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. SCENE II. insinuateth me of insanie : anne intelligis, domine ? to make frantic, lunatic. Nath. Laus Deo, bene intelligo. Hoi. Bon, bon, fort bon, Priscian! a little scratched, 't will serve. Nath. Videsne quis venit i* Hoi. Video, et gaudeo. Enter Armado, Moth, and Costard. ^rm. Chirrah! {To Moth. Hoi. Quare chirrah, not sirrah ? Arm. Men of peace, well encountered. Hoi. Most military sir, salutation. Moth. [Aside to Costard] They have been at a great feast of languages, and stolen the scraps. Cost. O, they have lived long on the alms-basket of words. I marvel thy master hath not eaten thee for a word ; for thou art not so long by the head as honorificabilitudinitatibus ; thou art easier swal- lowed than a flap-dragon. Moth. Peace ! the peal begins. Arm. [To Hoi.] Monsieur, are you not lettered ? Moth. Yes, yes ; he teaches boys the horn-book. TVhat is a, b, spelt backward, with the horn on his Hoi. Ba, pueritia, with a horn added. [head ? Moth. Ba, most silly sheep with a horn. You hear his learning. Hoi. Quis, quis, thou consonant ? Moth. The third of the five vowels, if you repeat them; or the fifth, if I. Hoi. I will repeat them, — a, e, i, — [o, u. Moth. The sheep: the other two concludes it,— Arm. Now, by the salt wave of the Mediterra- neum, a sweet touch, a quick venue of wit ! snip, snap, quick and home ! it rejoiceth my intellect : true wit ! [wit-old. Moth. Offered by a child to an old man ; which is Hoi. "What is the figure ? what is the figure ? Moth. Horns. [gig. Hoi. Thou disputest like an infant : go, whip thy Moth. Lend me your horn to make one, and I will whip about your infamy circum circa,— a gig of a cuckold's horn. Cost. An I had but one penny in the world, thou shouldst have it to buy gingerbread : hold, there is the very remuneration I had of thy master, thou half- penny purse of wit, thou pigeon-egg of discretion. O, an the heavens were so pleased that thou wert but my bastard, what a joyful father wouldst thou make me ! Go to ; thou hast it ad dunghill, at the fingers' ends, as they say. Hoi. 0,1 smell false Latin; dunghill for unguem. Arm. Arts-man, preambulate, we will be singuled from the barbarous. Do you not educate youth at the charge-house on the top of the mountain i* Hoi. Or mons, the hill. Arm. At your sweet pleasure, for the mountain. Hoi. I do, sans question. Arm. Sir, it is the king's most sweet pleasure and affection to congratulate the princess at her pavilion in the posteriors of this day, which the rude multi- tude call the afternoon. Hoi. The posterior of the day, most generous sir, is liable, congruent and measurable for the after- noon : the word is well culled, chose, sweet and apt, I do assure you, sir, I do assure. Arm. Sir, the king is a noble gentleman, and my familiar, I do assure ye, very good friend : for what is inward between us, let it pass. I do beseech thee, remember thy courtesy ; I beseech thee, apparel thy head : and among other important and most serious designs, and of great import indeed, too, but let that pass : for I must tell thee, it will please his grace, by the world, sometime to lean upon my poor shoulder, and with his royal finger, thus, dally with my excrement, with my mustachio; but, sweet heart, let that pass. By the world, I recount no fable : some certain special honours it pleaseth his greatness to impart to Armado, a soldier, a man of travel, that hath seen the world ; but let that pass. The very all of all is,— but, sweet heart, I do im- plore secrecy, — that the king would have me present the princess, sweet chuck, with some delightful ostentation, or show, or pageant, or antique, or fire- work. JSTow, understanding that the curate and your sweet self are good at such eruptions and sud- den breaking out of mirth, as it were, I have ac^ quainted you withal, to the end to crave your assistance. Hoi. Sir, you shall present before her the Nine Worthies. Sir, as concerning some entertainment of time, some show in the posterior of this day, to be rendered by our assistants, at the king's com- mand, and this most gallant, illustrate, and learned gentleman, before the princess ; I say none so fit as to present the Nine Worthies. Nath. Where will you find men worthy enough to present them ? Hoi. Joshua, yourself; myself and this gallant gentleman, Judas Maccabseus; this swain, because of his great limb or joint, shall pass Pompey the Great ; the page, Hercules,— Arm. Pardon, sir; error: he is not quantity enough for that Worthy's thumb : he is not so big as the end of his club. Hoi. Shall I have audience ? he shall present Her- cules in minority : his enter and exit shall be stran- gling a snake : and I will have an apology for that purpose. Moth. An excellent device! so, if any of the au- dience hiss, you may cry 'Well done, Hercules! now thou crushest the snake ! ' that is the way to make an offence gracious, though few have the grace to do it. Arm. For the rest of the Worthies ? — Hoi. I will play three myself. Moth. Thrice-worthy gentleman I Arm. Shall I tell you a thing ? Hoi. We attend. Arm. We will have, if this fadge not, an antique. I beseech you, follow. Hoi. Via, goodman Dull! thou hast spoken no word all this while. Bull. Nor understood none neither, sir. Hoi. Allons ! we will employ thee. [play Dull. I '11 make one in a dance, or so ; or I will On the tabor to the Worthies, and let them dance the hay. Hoi. Most dull, honest Dull! To our sport, away ! [Exeunt. SCENE II.— 27ie same. Enter the Princess, Katharine, Rosaline, and Maria. Prin. Sweet hearts, we shall be rich ere we depart, If fairings come thus plentifully in : A lady wall'd about with diamonds ! Look you what I have from the loving king. Bos. Madame, came nothing else along with that ? Prin. Nothing but this! yes, as much love in rhyme As would be cramm'd up in a sheet of paper, Writ o' both sides the leaf, margent and all, That he was fain to seal on Cupid's name. Bos. That was the way to make his godhead wax, For he hath been five thousand years a boy. Kath. Ay, and a shrewd unhappy gallows too. Bos. You'll ne'er be friends with him; a' kill'd your sister. Kath. He made her melancholy, sad, and heavy; And so she died : had she been light, like you. Of such a merry, nimble, stirring spirit. She might ha' been a grandam ere she died : And so may you ; for a light heart lives long. 125 ACT V. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. SCENE II. Bos. What 's your dark meaning, mouse, of this light word ? Kath. A light condition in a beauty dark. Bos. "We need more light to find your meaning out. Kath. You '11 mar the light by taking it in snuff: ; Therefore I '11 darkly end the argument. Bos. Look, what you do, you do it still i' the dark. Kath. So do not you, for you are a light wench. Bos. Indeed I weigh not you, and therefore light. Kath. You weigh me not ? O, that 's you care not for me. Bos. Great reason ; for ' past cure is still past care.' Prin. Well bandied both : a set of wit well play'd. But, Rosaline, you have a favour too : Who sent it ? and what is it ? Bos. I would you knew : An if my face were but as fair as yours, My favour were as great ; be witness this. Nay, I have verses too, I thank Biron : The numbers true ; and, were the numbering too, I were the fairest goddess on the ground : I am compared to twenty thousand fairs. O, he hath drawn my picture in his letter ! Prin. Any thing like ? Bos. Much in the letters ; nothing in the praise. Prin. Beauteous as ink ; a good conclusion. Kath. Fair as a text B in a copy-book. Bos. 'Ware pencils, ho! let me not die your debtor, My red dominical, my golden letter : O that your face were not so full of O's ! Kath. A pox of that jest! and I beshrew all shrows. Prin. But, Katharine, what was sent to you from fair Dumain ? Kath. Madam, this glove. Prin. Did he not send you twain ? Kath. Yes, madam, and moreover Some thousand verses of a faithful lover, A huge translation of hypocrisy. Vilely compiled, profound simplicity. [ville : Mar. This and these pearls to me sent Longa- The letter is too long by half a mile. Prin. I think no less. Dost thou not wish in heart The chain were longer and the letter short l* Mar. Ay, or I would these hands might never part. Prin. We are wise girls to mock our lovers so. Bos. They are worse fools to purchase mocking so. That same Biron I '11 torture ere I go : O that I knew he were but in by the week ! How I would make him fawn and beg and seek And wait the season and observe the times And spend his prodigal wits in bootless rhymes And shape his service wholly to my bests And make him proud to make me proud that jests ! So perttaunt-like would I o'ersway his state That he should be my fool and I his fate. Prin. None are so surely caught, when they are catch 'd. As wit turn'd fool : folly, in wisdom hatch'd, Hath wisdom's warrant and the help of school And wit's own grace to grace a learned fool. Bos. The blood of youth burns not with such ex- As gravity's revolt to wantonness. [cess Mar. Folly in fools bears not so strong a note As foolery in the wise, when wit doth dote; Since all the power thereof it doth apply To prove, by wit, worth in simplicity. Prin. Here comes Boyet, and mirth is in his face. Enter Boyet. Boyet. O, I am stabb'd with laughter! Where 's her grace ? Prin. Thy news, Boyet ? Boyet. Prepare, madam, prepare! Arm, wenches, arm! encounters mounted are Against your peace : Love doth approach disguised, Armed in arguments ; you '11 be surprised : 126 Muster your wits ; stand in your own defence ; Or hide your heads like cowards, and fly hence. Prin. Saint Denis to Saint Cupid ! What are they That charge their breath against us ? say, scout, say. Boyet. Under the cool shade of a sycamore I thought to close mine eyes some half an hour ; When, lo ! to interrupt my purposed rest. Toward that shade I might behold addrest The king and his companions : warily I stole into a neighbour thicket by, And overheard what you shall overhear ; That, by and by, disguised they will be here. Their herald is a pretty knavish page, That well by heart hath conn'd his embassage : Action and accent did they teach him there ; ' Thus must thou speak,' and ' thus thy body bear :' And ever and anon they made a doubt Presence majestical would put him out ; ' For,' quoth the king, ' an angel shalt thou see ; Yet fear not thou, but speak audaciously.' The boy replied, 'An angel is not evil; I should have fear'd her had she been a devil.' With that, all laugh'd and clapp'd him on the shoulder. Making the bold wag by their praises bolder : One rubb'd his elbow thus, and fleer 'd and swore A better speech was never spoke before ; Another, with his finger and his thumb. Cried ' Via ! we will do 't, come what will come ;' The third he caper'd, and cried, 'AH goes well; ' The fourth turn'd on the toe, and down he fell. With that, they all did tumble on the ground. With such a zealous laughter, so profound. That in this spleen ridiculous appears. To check their folly, passion's solemn tears. Prin. But what, but what, come they to visit us ? Boyet. They do, they do ; and are appareU'd thus, Like Muscovites or Russians, as I guess. Their purpose is to parle, to court and dance: And every one his love-feat will advance Unto his several mistress, which they '11 know By favours several which they did bestow. Prin. And will they so ? The gallants shall be For, ladies, we will every one be mask'd ; [task'd ; And not a man of them shall have the grace. Despite of suit, to see a lady's face. Hold, Rosaline, this favour thou shalt wear. And then the king will court thee for his dear : Hold, take thou this, my sweet, and give me thine, So shall Biron take me for Rosaline. And change you favours too ; so shall your loves Woo contrary, deceived by these removes, [sight. Bos. Come on, then; wear the favours most in Kath. But in this changing what is your intent ? Prin. The effect of my intent is to cross theirs : They do it but in mocking merriment ; And mock for mock is only my intent. Their several counsels they unbosom shall To loves mistook, and so be mock'd withal Upon the next occasion that we meet, With visages display 'd, to talk and greet. Bos. But shall we dance, if they desire us to 't ? Prin. No, to the death, we will not move a foot; Nor to their penn'd speech render we no grace, But while 't is spoke each turn away her face. Boyet. Why, that contempt will kiU the speak- er's heart, And quite divorce his memory from his part. Prin. Therefore I do it ; and I make no doubt The rest will ne'er come in, if he be out. There 's no such sport as sport by sport o'erthrown, To make theirs ours and ours none but our own : So shall we stay, mocking intended game. And they, well mock'd, depart away with shame. [Trumpets sound within. Boyet. The trumpet sounds: be mask'd; the maskers come. [The Ladies mask. ACT V. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. SCENE II. Enter Blackamoors with music ; Moth ; the King', Biron, Longavllle, and DTimain, in Russian habits, and masked. Moth. All hail, the richest beauties on the earth ! — Boyet. Beauties no richer than rich taffeta. Moth. A holy parcel of the fairest dames. [The Ladies turn their backs to him. That ever turn'd their — backs— to mortal views! Biron. \_Aside to Moth] Their eyes, villain, their eyes. [views ! — Moth. That ever turned their eyes to mortal Out — Boyet. True ; out indeed. [safe Moth. Out of your favours, heavenly spirits, vouch- Not to behold — Biron. [Aside to Moth] Once to behold, rogue. Moth. Once to behold with your sun-beamed eyes, with your sun-beamed eyes — Boyet. They will not answer to that epithet ; You were best call it ' daughter-beamed eyes.' Moth. They do not mark me, and that brings me out. Biron. Is this your perfectness ? be gone, you rogue ! [JExit Moth. Bos. What would these strangers ? know their minds, Boyet : If they do speak our language, 't is our wiU That some plain man recount their purposes : Kjiow what they would. Boyet. What would you with the princess ? Biron. Nothing but peace and gentle visitation. Bos. What would they, say they ? Boyet. Nothing but peace and gentle visitation. Bos. Why, that they have ; and bid them so be gone. Boyet. She says, you have it, and you may be gone. King. Say to her, we have measured many miles To tread a measure with her on this grass, [a mile Boyet. They say, that they have measured many To tread a measure with you on this grass. Bos. It is not so. Ask them how many inches Is in one mile : if they have measured many, The measure then of one is easily told. [miles, Boyet. If to come hither you have measured And many miles, the princess bids you tell How many inches doth fill up one mile. Biron. Tell her, we measure them by weary steps. Boyet. She hears herself. Bos. How many weary steps, Of many weary miles you have o'ergone, Are number 'd in the travel of one mile ? [you : Biron. We number nothing that we spend for Our duty is so rich, so infinite. That we may do it still without accompt. Vouchsafe to show the sunshine of your face. That we, like savages, may worship it. Bos. My face is but a moon, and clouded too. King. Blessed are clouds, to do as such clouds do ! [shine. Vouchsafe, bright moon, and these thy stars, to Those clouds removed, upon our watery eyne. Bos. O vain petitioner ! beg a greater matter ; Thou now request 'st but moonshine in the water. King. Then, in our measure do but vouchsafe one change. Thou bid'st me beg: this begging is not strange. Bos. Play, music, then! Kay, you must do it soon. [Music plays. Not yet I no dance ! Thus change I like the moon. King. Will you not dance ? How come you thus estranged ? [changed. Bos. You took the moon at full, but now she 's King. Yet still she is the moon, and I the man. The music plays; vouchsafe some motion to it. Bos. Our ears vouchsafe it. King. But your legs should do it. Bos. Since you are strangers and come here by chance, We '11 not be nice : take hands. We will not dance. King. Why take we hands, then ? Bos. Only to part friends : Curtsy, sweet hearts ; and so the measure ends. King. More measure of this measure ; be not nice. Bos. We can afford no more at such a price. King. Prize you yourselves : what buys your com- Bos. Your absence only. [pany ? King. That can never be. Bos. Then cannot we be bought: and so, adieu! Twice to your visor, and half once to you. King. If you deny to dance, let 's hold more chat. Bos. In private, then. King. 1 am best pleased with that. [They converse apart. Biron. White-handed mistress, one sweet word with thee. Br in. Honey, and milk, and sugar ; there is three. Biron. Nay then, two treys, and if you grow so nice, Metheglin, wort, and malmsey: weU run, dice! There 's half-a-dozen sweets. Brin. Seventh sweet, adieu: Since you can cog, I '11 play no more with you. Biron. One word in secret. Prin. Let it not be sweet. Biron. Thou grievest my gall. Brin. Gall! bitter. Biron. Therefore meet. [They converse apart. Bum. Will you vouchsafe with me to change a Mar. Name it. [word ? Bum. Fair lady, — Mar. Say you so ? Pair lord,— Take that for your fair lady. Bum. Please it you. As much in private, and I '11 bid adieu. [They converse apart. Kath. What, was your vizard made without a tongue ? Long. I know the reason, lady, why you ask. Kath. O for your reason! quickly, sir; I long. Long. You have a double tongue within your mask, And would afford my speechless vizard half. Kath. Veal, quoth the Dutchman. Is not ' veal ' Long. A calf, fair lady ! [a calf ? Kath. No, a fair lord calf. Long. Let 's part the word. Kath. No, I '11 not be your half : Take all, and wean it ; it may prove an ox. [mocks ! Long. Look, how you butt yourself in these sharp Will you give horns, chaste lady ? do not so. Kath. Then die a calf, before your horns do grow. Long. One word la private with you, ere I die. Kath. Bleat softly then; the butcher hears you cry. [Tliey converse apart. Boyet. The tongues of mocking wenches are as As is the razor's edge invisible, [keen Cutting a smaller hair than may be seen, Above the sense of sense ; so sensible Seemeth their conference ; their conceits have wings Fleeter than arrows, bullets, wind, thought, swifter things. [break off. Bos. Not one word more, my maids; break off. Biron. By heaven, all dry-beaten with pure scoff ! King. Farewell, mad wenches ; you have simple P7-in. Twenty adieus,my frozen Muscovits. [wits. [Exeunt King, Lords, and Blackamoors. Are these the breed of wits so wonder'd at ? Boyet. Tapers they are, with your sweet breaths puff'd out. [fat. Bos. Well-liking wits they have ; gross, gross ; fat, Prin. O poverty in wit, kingly-poor flout ! Will they not, think you, hang themselves to-night ? 127 ACT V. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. SCENE II. Or ever, but in vizards, siiow their faces ? Tliis pert Biron was out of countenance quite. Bos. O, they were all in lamentable cases ! The king was weeping-ripe for a good word. Prin. Biron did swear himself out of all suit. Mar. Dumain was at my service, and his sword : No point, quoth I ; my servant straight was mute. Kath. Lord Longaville said, I came o'er his heart ; And trow you what he called me ? Prin. Qualm, perhaps. Kath. Yes, in good faith. Prin. Go, sickness as thou art ! Bos. "Well, better wits have worn plain statute- caps. But will you hear ? the king is my love sworn. Prin. And quick Biron hath plighted faith to me. Kath. And Longaville was for my service born. Mar. Dumain is mine, as sure as bark on tree. Boyet. Madam, and pretty mistresses, give ear: Immediately they will again be here In their own shapes ; for it can never be They will digest this harsh indignity. Prin. "Will they return ? Boyet. They will, they will, God knows. And leap for joy, though they are lame with blows : Therefore change favours ; and, when they repair. Blow like sweet roses in this summer air. [stood. Prin. How blow ? how blow ? speak to be under- Boyet. Fair ladies mask'd are roses in their bud ; Dismask'd, their damask sweet commixture shown, Are angels vailing clouds, or roses blown. Prin. Avauut, perplexity! "What shall we do. If they return in their own shapes to woo ? Bos. Good madam, if by me you '11 be advised. Let 's mock them still, as well known as disguised : Let us complain to them what fools were here, Disguised like Muscovites, in shapeless gear ; And wonder what they were and to what end Their shallow shows and prologue vilely penn'd And their rough carriage so ridiculous. Should be presented at our tent to us. Boyet. Ladies,withdraw : the gallants are at hand. Prin. "Whip to our tents, as roes run o'er land. [Exeunt Princess, Bosaline, Katharine, and Maria. Be-enter the King, Biron, Longaville, and Du- main, in their proper habits. King. Fair sir, God save you! Where's the princess ? Boyet. Gone to her tent. Please it your majesty Command me any service to her thither ? [word. King. That she vouchsafe me audience for one Boyet. I will ; and so will she, I know, my lord. [Exit. Biron. This fellow pecks up wit as pigeons pease. And utters it again when God doth please : He is wit's pedler, and retails his wares At wakes and wassails, meetings, markets, fairs; And we that sell by gross, the Lord doth know. Have not the grace to grace it with such show. This gallant pins the wenches on his sleeve ; Had he been Adam, he had tempted Eve ; A' can carve too, and lisp : why, this is he That kiss'd his hand away in courtesy; This is the ape of form, monsieur the nice. That, when he plays at tables, chides the dice In honourable terms : nay, he can sing A mean most meanly ; and in ushering Mend him who can : the ladies call him sweet ; The stairs, as he treads on them, kiss his feet : This is the flower that smiles on every one. To show his teeth as white as whale's bone ; And consciences, that will not die in debt, Pay him the due of honey-tongued Boyet. King. A blister on his sweet tongue,with my heart, That put Armado's page out of his part ! [thou Biron. See where it comes ! Behaviour, what wert 128 Till this madman show'd thee ? and what art thou now? Be-enter the Princess, ushered by Boyet ; Bosaline, Maria, and Katharine. King. All hail, sweet madam, and fair time of day ! Prin. ' Fair ' in ' all hail ' is foul, as I conceive. King. Construe my speeches better, if you may. Prin. Then wish me better ; I will give you leave. King. We came to visit you, and purpose now To lead you to our court ; vouchsafe it then. Prin. This field shall hold me ; and so hold your vow : Nor God, nor I, delights in perjured men. King. Rebuke me not for that which you provoke : The virtue of your eye must break my oath. Prin. You nickname virtue ; vice you should have spoke ; For virtue's office never breaks men's troth. Now by my maiden honour, yet as pure As the unsullied lily, I protest, A world of torments though I should endure, I would not yield to be your house's guest; So much I hate a breaking cause to be Of heavenly oaths, vow'd with integrity. King. O, you have lived in desolation here, Unseen, unvisited, much to our shame. Prin. Not so, my lord ; it is not so, I swear ; We have had pastimes here and pleasant game : A mess of Russians left us but of late. King. How, madam ! Russians ! Prin. Ay, in truth, my lord; Trim gallants, full of courtship and of state. Bos. Madam, speak true. It is not so, my lord: My lady, to the manner of the days. In courtesy gives undeserving praise. We four indeed confronted were with four In Russian habit : here they stay'd an hour, And talk'd apace ; and in that hour, my lord, They did not bless us with one happy word. I dare not call them fools ; but this I think. When they are thirsty, fools would fain have drink. Biron. This jest is dry to me. Fair gentle sweet, Your wit makes wise things foolish : when we greet, With eyes best seeing, heaven's fiery eye, By light we lose light : your capacity Is of that nature that to your huge store Wise things seem foolish and rich things but poor. Bos. This proves you wise and rich , for in my eye , — Biron. 1 am a fool, and full of poverty. Bos. But that you take what doth to you belong, It were a fault to snatch words from my tongue. Biron. O, I am yours, and all that I possess I Bos. All the fool mine ? Biron. I cannot give you less. Bos. Which of the vizards was it that you wore ? Biron. Where? when? what vizard? why de- mand you this ? [case Bos. There, then, that vizard ; that superfluous That hid the worse and show'd the better face. King. We are descried; they'll mock us now dovniright. Bum. Let us confess and turn it to a jest, [sad ? Prin. Amazed, my lord ? why looks your highness Bos. Help, hold his brows ! he '11 swoon ! Why look you pale ? Sea-sick, I think, coming from Muscovy. Biroyi. Thus pour the stars down plagues for per- jury. Can any face of brass hold longer out ? Here stand I : lady, dart thy skill at me ; Bruise me with scorn, confound me with a flout; Thrust thy sharp wit quite through my ignorance ; Cut me to pieces with thy keen conceit ; And I will wish thee never more to dance, ^ Nor never more in Russian habit wait. O, never will I trust to speeches penn'd, Nor to the motion of a schoolboy's tongue, ACT V. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. SCENE II. j^or never come in vizard to my friend, ]!ior woo in rhyme, lilie a blind harper's song ! Taffeta phrases, silken terms precise, Three-piled hyperboles, spruce affectation. Figures pedantical ; these summer-flies Have blown me full of maggot ostentation : I do forswear them ; and I here protest, [knows ! — By this white glove,— how white the hand, God Henceforth my wooing mind shall be express 'd In russet yeas and honest kersey noes : And, to begin, wench, — so God help me, la ! — My love to thee is sound, sans crack or flaw. Bos. Sans sans, I pray you. Biron. Yet I have a trick Of the old rage : bear with me, I am sick ; I '11 leave it by degrees. Soft, let us see : Write, ' Lord have mercy on us ' on those three; They are infected ; in their hearts it lies ; They have the plague, and caught it of your eyes ; These lords are visited ; you are not free, For the Lord's tokens on you do I see. [us. Prin. JSTo, they are free that gave these tokens to Biron. Our states are forfeit : seek not to undo us. Bos. It is not so ; for how can this be true. That you stand forfeit, being those that sue .'* Biron. Peace ! for I will not have to do with you. Bos. Nor shall not, if I do as I intend. Biron. Speak for yourselves ; my wit is at an end. King. Teach us, sweet madam, for our rude trans- Some fair excuse. [gression Prin. The fairest is confession. "Were not you here but even now disguised ? King. Madam, I was. Prin. And were you well advised ? King. I was, fair madam. Prin. "When you then were here, "What did you whisper in your lady's ear ? [her. King. That more than all the world I did respect Prin. "When she shall challenge this, you will ve- King. Upon mine honour, no. [ject her. Prin. Peace, peace ! forbear : Your oath once broke, you force not to forswear. King. Despise me, when I break this oath of mine. Prin. I will : and therefore keep it. Rosaline, "What did the Russian whisper in your ear ? Bos. Madam, he swore that he did hold me dear As precious eyesight, and did value me Above this world ; adding thereto moreover That he would wed me^ or else die my lover. Prin. God give thee joy of him! the noble lord Most honourably doth uphold his word. King. "What mean you, madam ? by my life, my I never swore this lady such an oath. [troth, Bos. By heaven, you did ; and to confirm it plain, You gave me this : but take it, sir, again. King. My faith and this the princess I did give : I knew her by this jewel on her sleeve. Prin. Pardon me, sir, this jewel did she wear; And Lord Biron, I thank him, is my dear. What, will you have me, or your pearl again ? Biron. Neither of either ; I remit both twain. I see the trick on 't : here was a consent, Knowing aforehand of our merriment. To dash it like a Christmas comedy : Some carry-tale, some please-man, some slight zany. Some mumble-news, some trencher-knight, some Dick, That smiles his cheek in years and knows the trick To make my lady laugh when she 's disposed, Told our intents before ; which once disclosed, The ladies did change favours : and then we. Following the signs, woo'd but the sign of she. Now, to our perjury to add more terror. We are again forsworn, in will and error. Much upon this it is : and might not you [To Boyet. Forestall our sport, to make us thus untrue ? Do not you know my lady's foot by the squier. And laugh upon the apple of her eye ? And stand between her back, sir, and the fire. Holding a trencher, jesting merrily? You put our page out : go, you are allow'd ; Die when you will, a smock shall be your shroud. You leer upon me, do you ? there 's an eye Wounds like a leaden sword. Boyet. Full merrily Hath this brave manage, this career, been run. Biron. Lo, he is tilting straight ! Peace ! I have done. „ Mnter Costard. Welcome, pure wit ! thou partest a fair fray. Cost. O Lord, sir, they would know Whether the three Worthies shall come in or no. Biron. What, are there but three ? Cost. No, sir ; but it is vara fine, For every one pursents three. Biron. And three times thrice is nine. Cost. Not so, sir; under correction, sir; I hope it is not so. You cannot beg us, sir, I can assure you, sir; we know what we know : I hope, sir, three times thrice, sir, — Biron. Is not nine. Cost. Under correction, sir, we know whereunti] it doth amount. Biron. By Jove, I always took three threes for nine. Cost. O Lord, sir, it were pity you should get your living by reckoning, sir. Biron. How much is it ? Cost. O Lord, sir, the parties themselves, the actors, sir, will show whereuntil it doth amount : for mine own part, I am, as they say, but to parfect one man in one poor man, Pompion the Great, sir. Biron. Art thou one of the "Worthies ? Cost. It pleased them to think me worthy of Pom- pion the Great : for mine own part, I know not the degree of the Worthy, but I am to stand for him. Biron. Go, bid them prepare. Cost. We will turn it finely off, sir ; we will take some care. [Exit. King. Biron, they will shame us: let them not approach. Biron. We are shame-proof, my lord: and 'tis some policy [pany. To have one show worse than the king's and his com- King. I say they shall not come. Prin. Nay, my good lord, let me o'errule you now : That sport best pleases that doth least know how : "Where zeal strives to content, and the contents Dies in the zeal of that which it presents : Their form confounded makes most form in mirth, When great things labouring perish in their birth. Biron. A right description of our sport, my lord. Enter Armado. Arm. Anointed, I implore so much expense of thy royal sweet breath as will utter a brace of words. [Converses apart with the King, and delivers him a paper. Prin. Doth this man serve God ? Biron. Why ask you ? Prin. He speaks not like a man of God's making. Arm. That is all one, my fair, sweet, honey mon- arch ; for, I protest, the schoolmaster is exceeding fantastical ; too too vain, too too vain : but we will put it, as they say, to fortuna de la guerra. I wish you the peace of mind, most royal couplement ! [Exit. King. Here is like to be a good presence of Wor- thies. He presents Hector of Troy; the swain, Pompey the Great ; the parish curate, Alexander ; Armado 's page, Hercules; the pedant, Judas Mac- ACT V. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. SCENE II. And if these four "Worthies in tlieir first show thrive, These four will change habits, and present the other Biron. There is five in the first show. [five. King. You are deceived ; 't is not so. Biron. The pedant, the braggart, the hedge- priest, the fool and the boy : — Abate throw at novum, and the whole world again Cannot pick out five such, take each one in his vein. King. The ship is under sail, and here she comes amain. Enter Costard, /or Pompey. Cost. I Pompey am,— Boyet. You lie, you are not he. Cost. I Pompey am,— Boyet. With libbard's head on knee. Biron. "Well said, old mocker : I must needs be friends with thee. Cost. I Pompey am, Pompey surnamed the Big,— Bum. The Great. Cost. It is, 'Great,' sir:— Pompey surnamed the Great ; That oft in field, with targe and shield, did make my foe to sweat : [by chance, And travelling along this coast, I here am come And lay my arms before the legs of this sweet lass of France. Piad done. If your ladyship would say, ' Thanks, Pompey,' I Prin. Great thanks, great Pompey. Cost. 'T is not so much worth ; but I hope I was perfect : I made a little fault in ' Great.' Biron. My hat to a halfpenny, Pompey proves the best "Worthy. Enter Sir, Nathaniel, /or Alexander. Nath. "When in the world I lived, I was the world's commander ; By east, west, north, and south, I spread my con- quering might : My scutcheon plain declares that I am Alisander, — Boyet. Your nose says, no, you are not; for it stands too right. Piron. Your nose smells ' no ' in this, most ten- der-smelling knight. [Alexander. Prin. The conqueror is dismay'd. Proceed, good Math. "When in the world I lived, I was the world's commander, — [sander. Boyet. Most true, 't is right ; you were so, Ali- Biron. Pompey the Great, — Cost. Your servant, and Costard. [sander. Biron. Take away the conqueror, take away Ali- Cost. [To Sir Nath.] O, sir, you have overthrown Alisander the conqueror ! You will be scraped out of the painted cloth for this : your lion, that holds his poll-axe sitting on a close-stool, will be given to Ajax : he will be the ninth "Worthy. A conqueror, and afeard to speak! run away for shame, Alisan- der. [Nath. retires] There, an 't shall please you ; a foolish mild man; an l^onest man, look you, and soon dashed. He is a marvellous good neighbour, faith, and a very good bowler : but, for Alisander, — alas, you see how 'tis, — a little o'erparted. But there are "Worthies a-coming will speak their mind in some other sort. Prin. Stand aside, good Pompey. Enter Holofernes, for Judas ; and Moth, for Hercules. Hoi. Great Hercules is presented by this imp, "Whose club kill'd Cerberus, that three-headed And when he was a babe, a child, a shrimp, [canis ; Thus did he strangle serpents in his manus. Quoniam he seemeth in minority, Ergo I come with this apology. Keep some state in thy exit, and vanish. [Moth retires. Judas I am,— 130 Bum. A Judas ! Hoi. Not Iscariot, sir. Judas I am, ycliped Maccabseus. Bum. Judas Maccabseus dipt is plain Judas. Biron. A kissing traitor. How art thou proved Hoi. Judas I am, — [Judas ? Bum. The more shame for you, Judas. Hoi. What mean you, sir ? Boyet. To make Judas hang himself. Hoi. Begin, sir; you are my elder. [elder. Biron. Well followed : Judas was hanged on an Hoi. I will not be put out of countenance. Biron. Because thou hast no face. Hoi. What is this ? Boyet. A cittern-head. Bum. The head of a bodkin. Biron. A Death's face in a ring. Long. The face of an old Roman coin, scarce seen. Boyet. The pommel of Caesar's falchion. Bum. The carved-bone face on a flask. Biron. Saint George's half-cheek in a brooch. Bum. Ay, and in a brooch of lead. Biron. Ay, and worn in the cap of a tooth-drawer. And now forward ; for we have put thee in counte- nance. Hoi. You have put me out of countenance. Biron. False ; we have given thee faces. Hoi. But you have out-faced them all. Biron. An thou wert a lion, we would do so. Boyet. Therefore, as he is an ass, let him go. And so adieu, sweet Jude ! nay, why dost thou stay ? Bum. For the latter end of his name. Biron. For the ass to the Jude ; give it him : — Jud-as, away ! Hoi. This is not generous, not gentle, not humble. Boyet. A light for Monsieur Judas ! it grows dark, he may stumble. [Hoi. retires. Prin. Alas, poor Maccabseus, how hath he been baited ! Enter Armado, for Hector. Biron. Hide thy head, Achilles : here comes Hec- tor in arms. Bum. Though my mocks come home by me, I will now be merry. King. Hector was but a Troyan in respect of this. Boyet. But is this Hector ? King. I think Hector was not so clean-timbered. Long. His leg is too big for Hector's. Bum. More calf, certain. Boyet. No ; he is best indued in the small. Biron. This cannot be Hector. Bum. He 's a god or a painter ; for he makes faces. Arm. The armipotent Mars, of lances the al- Gave Hector a gift,— [mighty, Bum. A gilt nutmeg. Biron. A lemon. Long. Stuck with cloves. Bum. No, cloven. Arm. Peace! — The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty, Gave Hector a gift, the heir of Ilion ; A man so breathed, that certain he would fight ; yea From morn till night, out of his pavilion. I am that flower, — Bum. That mint. Long. That columbine. Arm. Sweet Lord Longaville, rein thy tongue. Long. 1 must rather give it the rein, for it runs against Hector. Bum. Ay, and Hector 's a greyhound. Arm. The sweet war-man is dead and rotten; sweet chucks, beat not the bones of the buried: when he breathed, he was a man. But I will for- ward with my device. [To the Princess] Sweet royalty, bestow on me the sense of hearing. [lighted. Prin. Speak, brave Hector: we are much de- ACT V, LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. SCENE II. Arm. I do adore thy sweet grace's slipper. Boyet. [Aside to Bum.'] Loves her by the foot. Bum. [Aside to Boyet.] He may not by the yard. Arm. This Hector far surmounted Hannibal, — Cost. The party is gone, fellow Hector, she is gone ; she is two months on her way. Arm. "What meanest thou ? Cost. Faith, unless you play the honest Troyan, the poor wench is cast away : she 's quick : the child brags in her belly already : 't is yours. Arm. Dost thou infamonize me among poten- tates ? thou shalt die. Cost. Then shall Hector be whipped for Jaque- netta that is quick by him and hanged for Pompey that is dead by him. Bum. Most rare Pompey ! Boyet. Renowned Pompey ! Biron. Greater than great, great, great, great Pompey ! Pompey the Huge ! Bum. Hector trembles. Biron. Pompey is moved. More Ates, more Ates ! stir them on ! stir them on ! Bum. Hector will challenge him. Biron. Ay, if a' have no more man's blood in 's belly than will sup a flea. Arm. By the north pole, I do challenge thee. Cost. I will not fight with a pole, like a northern man : I '11 slash ; I '11 do it by the sword. I bepray you, let me borrow my arms again. Bum. Room for the incensed "Worthies ! Cost. I '11 do it in my shirt. Bum. Most resolute Pompey ! Moth. Master, let me take you a button-hole lower. Do you not see Pompey is uncasing for the combat? "What mean you? You will lose your reputation. Arm. Gentlemen and soldiers, pardon me ; I will not combat in my shirt. Bum. You may not deny it : Pompey hath made the challenge. Arm. Sweet bloods, I both may and will. Biron. "What reason have you for 't ? Arm. The naked truth of it is, I have no shirt ; I go woolward for penance. Boyet. True, and it was enjoined him in Rome for want of linen : since when, I '11 be sworn, he wore none but a dishclout of Jaquenetta's, and that a' wears next his heart for a favour. Enter Mercade. Mer. God save you, madam ! Prin. "Welcome, Mercade ; But that thou interrupt 'st our merriment. Mer. I am sorry, madam ; for the news I bring Is heavy in my tongue. The king your father — Prin. Dead, for my life ! Mer. Even so; my tale is told. Biron. "Worthies, away ! the scene begins to cloud. Arm. Por mine own part, I breathe free breath. I have seen the day of wrong through the little hole of discretion, and I will right myself like a soldier. [Exeunt Worthies. King. How fares your majesty ? Prin. Boyet, prepare ; I will away to-night. King. Madam, not so ; I do beseech you, stay. Prin. Prepare, I say. I thank you, gracious lords, Por all your fair endeavours ; and entreat. Out of a new-sad soul, that you vouchsafe In your rich wisdom to excuse or hide The liberal opposition of our spirits. If over-boldly we have borne ourselves In the converse of breath : your gentleness "Was guilty of it. Farewell, worthy lord ! A heavy heart bears not a nimble tongue : Excuse me so, coming too short of thanks For my great suit so easily obtain'd. King. The extreme parts of time extremely forms All causes to the purpose of his speed, And often at his very loose decides That which long process could not arbitrate : And though the mourning brow of progeny Forbid the smiling courtesy of love The holy suit which fain it would convince, Yet, since love's argument was first on foot, Let not the cloud of sorrow justle it From what it purposed ; smce, to wail friends lost Is not by much so wholesome-profitable As to rejoice at friends but newly found. Prin. I understand you not : my griefs are double. Biron. Honest plain words best pierce the ear of grief ; And by these badges understand the king. For your fair sakes have we neglected time, Play'd foul play with our oaths : your beauty, ladies, Hath much deform'd us, fashioning our humours Even to the opposed end of our intents : And what in us hath seem'd ridiculous,— As love is full of unbefitting strains. All wanton as a child, skipping and vain, Form'd by the eye and therefore, like the eye, Full of strange shapes, of habits and of forms. Varying in subjects as the eye doth roll To every varied object in his glance : "Which parti-coated presence of loose love Put on by us, if, in your heavenly eyes, Have misbecomed our oaths and gravities. Those heavenly eyes, that look into these faults, Suggested us to make. Therefore, ladies. Our love being yours, the error that love makes Is likewise yours : we to ourselves prove false, By being once false for ever to be true To those that make us both, — fair ladies, you: And even that falsehood, in itself a sin, Thus purifies itself and turns to grace. Prin. "We have received your letters full of love Your favours, the ambassadors of love; And, in our maiden council, rated them At courtship, pleasant jest and courtesy, As bombast and as lining to the time : But more devout than this in our respects Have we not been ; and therefore met your loves In their own fashion, like a merriment. [jest. Bum. Our letters, madam, show'd much more than Long. So did our looks. Bos. "We did not quote them so. King. Now, at the latest minute of the hour. Grant us your loves. Prin. A time, methinks, too short To make a world-without-end bargain in. No, no, my lord, your grace is perjured much. Full of dear guiltiness ; and therefore this : If for my love, as there is no such cause, You will do aught, this shall you do for me: Your oath I will not trust ; but go with To some forlorn and naked hermitage, Remote from all the pleasures of the world ; There stay until the twelve celestial signs Have brought about the annual reckoning. If this austere insociable life Change not your offer made in heat of blood ; If frosts and fasts, hard lodging and thin weeds Nip not the gaudy blossoms of your love. But that it bear this trial and last love ; Then, at the expiration of the year. Come challenge me, challenge me by these deserts, And, by this virgin palm now kissing thine, I will be thine ; and till that instant shut My woeful self up in a mourning house, Raining the tears of lamentation For the remembrance of my father's death. If this thou do deny, let our hands part, Neither intitled in the other's heart. King. If this, or more than this, I would deny, To flatter up these powers of mine with rest, 131 ACT V. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. SCENE II. The sudden hand of death close up mine eye ! Hence ever then my heart is in thy breast. [Biron. And what to me, my love? and what to me? Bos. You must be purged too, your sins are rack'd, You are attaint with faults and perjury : Therefore if you my favour mean to get, A twelvemonth shall you spend, and never rest, But seek the weary beds of people sick.] Dum. But what to me, my love ? but what to me ? A wife ? Kath. A beard, fair health, and honesty; With three-fold love I wish you all these three. Dum. O, shall I say, I thank you, gentle wife? Kath. Not so, my lord ; a twelvemonth and a day I '11 mark no words that smooth-faced wooers say : Come when the king doth to my lady come ; Then, if I have much love, I '11 give you some. Bum. I '11 serve thee true and faithfully till then. Kath. Yet swear not, lest ye be forsworn again. Long. What says Maria ? Mar. At the twelvemonth's end I '11 change my black gown for a faithful friend. Lonn. I'll stay with patience; but the time is long. Mar. The liker you ; few taller are so young. Biron. Studies my lady ? mistress, look on me ; Behold the window of my heart, mine eye. What humble suit attends thy answer there : Impose some service on me for thy love. Bos. Oft have I heard of you, my Lord Biron, Before I saw you; and the world's large tongue Proclaims you for a man replete with mocks, Full of comparisons and wounding flouts, Which you on all estates will execute That lie within the mercy of your wit. To weed this wormwood from your fruitful brain, And therewithal to win me, if you please, Without the which I am not to be w^on. You shall this twelvemonth term from day to day Visit the speechless sick and still converse With groaning wretches ; and your task shall be, With all the fierce endeavour of your wit To enforce the pained impotent to smile. Biron. To move wild laughter in the throat of death ? It cannot be ; it is impossible : Mirth cannot move a soul in agony. Bos. Why, that 's the way to choke a gibing spirit, Whose influence is begot of that loose grace Which shallow laughing hearers give to fools : A jest's prosperity lies in the ear Of him that hears it, never in the tongue Of him that makes it : then, if sickly ears, Deaf 'd with the clamours of their own dear groans, Will hear your idle scorns, continue then. And I will have you and that fault withal ; But if they will not, throw away that spirit. And I shall find you empty of that fault. Eight joyful of your reformation. Biron. A twelvemonth! well; befall what will befall, I '11 jest a twelvemonth in an hospital. Prin. [To the King] Ay, sweet my lord; and so I take my leave. King. No, madam; we will bring you on your way. Biron. Our wooing doth not end like an old play ; Jack hath not Jill: these ladies' courtesy Might well have made our sport a comedy. 132 King. Come, sir, it wants a twelvemonth and a day, And then 't will end. Biron. That 's too long for a play. Ee-enter Armado. Arm. Sweet majesty, vouchsafe me, — Prin. Was not that Hector ? Dum. The worthy knight of Troy. Arm. 1 will kiss thy royal finger, and take leave. I am a votary ; I have vowed to Jaquenetta to hold the plough for her sweet love three years. But, most esteemed greatness, will you hear the dialogue that the two learned men have compiled in praise of the owl and the cuckoo ? it should have followed in the end of our show. King. Call them forth quickly ; we will do so. Arm. Holla! approach. Be-enter Holofernes, Nathaniel, Moth, Costard, and others. This side Is Hiems, Winter, this Ver, the Spring; the one maintained by the owl, the other by the cuckoo. Ver, begin. THE SONG. Spring. When daisies pied and violets blue And lady-smocks all silver-white And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight, The cuckoo then, on every tree. Mocks married men ; for thus sings he, Cuckoo ; Cuckoo, cuckoo : O word of fear, TJnpleasing to a married ear ! When shepherds pipe on oaten straws And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks, When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws. And maidens bleach their summer amocks, The cuckoo then, on every tree, Mocks married men ; for thus sings he, Cuckoo ; Cuckoo, cuckoo : O word of fear, TJnpleasing to a married ear ! Winter. When icicles hang by the wall And Dick the shepherd blows his nail And Tom bears logs into the hall . And milk comes frozen home in pail. When blood is nipp'd and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl. Tu-whit ; Tu-who, a merry note. While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. When all aloud the wind doth blow And coughing drowns the parson's saw And birds sit brooding in the snow And Marian's nose looks red and raw. When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl. Then nightly sings the staring owl, Tu-whit ; Tu-who, a merry note. While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. Arm. The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo. You that way : we this way. [Mceunt. A MIDSUMMEE-NIGHT'S DEEAM. DBAMATIS PEBSONM. Theseus, Duke of Athens. Egeus, father to Hermia. Lysander, | Demetrius, j '"^ ^"^^ ^^^^ Hermia. Philostrate, master of the revels to Theseus. Quince, a carpenter. Snug', a joiner. Bottom, a weaver. Flute, a bellows-mender. Snout, a tinker. Starveling, a tailor. Hippolyta, queen of the Amazons, betrothed to Theseus. Hermia, daughter to Egeus, in love with Lysander. Helena, in love with Demetrius. Oberon, king of the fairies. Titania, queen of the fairies. Puck, or Robin Goodfellow. fairies. Cobweb, Moth, Mustardseed, ) Other fairies attending their King and Queen. tendants on Theseus and Hippolyta. SCENE — Athens, and a wood near it. [For an Analysis of the Plot of this Pla.y, see Page A.OT I. SCENE 1.— Alliens. The palace of Theseus. Enter Theseus, Hippolsrta, Philostrate, and Attendants. The. Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour Draws on apace ; four happy days bring in Another moon : but, O, 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, [night ; Hip. Four days will quickly steep themselves in Four nights will quickly dream away the time ; And then the moon, like to a silver bow ]!few-bent in heaven, shall behold the night Of our solemnities. The. Go, Philostrate, Stir up the Athenian youth to merriments ; Awake the pert and nimble spirit of mirth : Turn melancholy forth to funerals ; The pale companion is not for our pomp. [Exit Philostrate. 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 Egeus, Hermia, Lysander, and De- metrius. Ege. Happy be Theseus, our renovmed 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 man hath bewitch 'd the bosom of my child : Thou, thou, Lysander, thou hast given her rhymes And interchanged love-tokens with my child : Thou hast by moonlight at her window sung With feigning voice verses of feigning love. And stolen 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 Consent to marry with Demetrius, I beg the ancient privilege of Athens, As she 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 advised, fair maid: To you your father should be as a god ; One that composed 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 must be held the worthier. Her. I would my father look'd but with my eyes. The. Eather your eyes must with his judgment Her. I do entreat your grace to pardon me. [look. 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 befall 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, AVhether, 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. To live a barren sister all your life. Chanting faint 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, 133 ACT I. A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. SCENE I. Ere I will yield my virgin patent up Unto his lordship, whose unwished yoke My soul consents not to give sovereignty. T7ie. Take time to pause ; and, by the next new The sealing-day betwixt my love and me, [moon — 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. De7n. Relent, sweet Hermia: and, Lysander, yield Tlyr 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. Lys. I am, my lord, as well derived as he, As well possess 'd ; my love is more than his ; My fortunes every way as fairly rauk'd, If not with vantage, as Demetrius' ; And, which is more than all these boasts can be, I am beloved of beauteous Hermia : "Why should not I then prosecute my right ? Demetrius, I '11 avouch it to his head. Made love to Nedar'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 of self-affairs, My mind did lose it. But, Demetrius, come ; And come, Egeus ; you shall go with me, 1 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. With duty and desire we follow you. [Exeunt all hut Lysander and Hermia. Lys. How now, my love ! why'is your cheek so pale ? 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 my eyes. Lys. Ay me ! for aught that I could ever read. Could ever hear by tale or history. The course of true love never did run smooth ; But, either it was different in blood,— Her. O cross ! too high to be enthrall 'd to low. Lys. Or else misgraffed in respect of years, — Her. O spite ! too old to be engaged to young. Lys. Or else it stood upon the choice of friends, — Her. O hell! to choose love by another's eyes. Lys. Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it, Making it momentany 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. 134 Lys. A good persuasion: therefore, hear me, I have a widow aunt, a dowager [Hermia. Of great revenue, and she liath 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 lovest 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 I swear to thee, by Cupid's strongest bow, By his best arrow with the golden head. By the simplicity of Venus' doves, By that which knitteth souls and prospers loves, And by that fire which burn'd the Carthage queen, When the false Troyan under sail was seen, By all the vows that ever men have broke, In number more than ever women spoke. In that same place thou hast appointed me, To-morrow truly will I meet with thee. [ena. Lys. Keep promise, love. Look, here comes Hel- Enter Helena. Her. God speed fair Helena ! whither away ? Hel. Call you me fair ? that fair again unsay. Demetrius loves your fair : O happy fair ! [air Your eyes are lode-stars ; and your tongue's sweet More tuneable than lark to shepherd's ear. When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear. Sickness is catching : O, were favour so. 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 'Id 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 ! 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. Hisfolly,Helena, isnofaultof mine, [mine! Hel. ]N one, but your beauty: would that fault were 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 as a paradise to me : O, then, what graces in my love do dwell. That he hath turn'd a heaven unto a hell! Lys. Helen, to you our minds we will unfold : To-inorrow night, when Phoebe doth behold Her silver visage in the watery glass. Decking with liquid pearl the bladed grass, A time that lovers' flights doth still conceal. Through Athens' gates have we devised to steal. Her. And in the wood, where often you and I Upon faint primrose-beds were wont to lie, Emptymg 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. Lys. 1 will, my Hermia. [Exit Herm. Helena, adieu : As you on him, Demetrius dote on you ! [Exit. Hel. How happy some o'er other some can be ! Through Athens I am thought as fair as she. ACT A 3IIDSU3I3IER-NIGHT'S DREAM. SCENE II, But what of that ? Demetrius thinks not so ; He will not know wliat all but he do know : And as he errs, doting on Hermia'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 : 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 beguiled. As waggish boys in game themselves forswear, So the boy Love is perjured 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 dissolved, and showers of oaths did melt. I will go tell him of fair Hermia's flight : Then to the wood will he to-morrow night Pursue her ; and for this intelligence If I have thanks, it is a dear expense: Biat herein mean I to enrich my pain. To have his sight thither and back again. [Exit. SCENE II.— Athens. Quince's house. Miter Quince, Snug, Bottom, Flute, Snout, and Starveling. Qiiin. Is all our company here ? Bot. You were best to call them generally, man by man, according to the scrip. Quin. Here is the scroll of every man's name, which is thought fit, through all Athens, to play in our interlude before the duke and the duchess, on his wedding-day at night. Bot. First, good Peter Quince, say what the play treats on, then read the names of the actors, and so grow to a point. Quin. Marry, our play is. The most lamentable comedy, and most cruel death of Py ramus and Thisby. Bot. A very good piece of work, I assure you, and a merry. Now, good Peter Quince, call forth your actors by the scroll. Masters, spread your- selves. Quin. Answer as I call you. Nick Bottom, the weaver. Bot. Eeady. Name what part I am for, and pro- ceed. Quin. You, Nick Bottom, are set down for Pyr- amus. Bot. What is Pyramus ? a lover, or a tyrant ? Quin. A lover, that kills himself most gallant for love. Bot. That will ask some tears in the true perform- ing of it : if I do it^ let the audience look to their eyes; I will move storms, I will condole in some measure. To the rest : yet my chief humour is for a tyrant : I could play Ercles rarely, or a part to tear a cat in, to make all split. The raging rocks And shivering shocks Shall break the locks Of prison gates ; And Phibbus' car Shall shine from far And make and mar The foolish Fates. This was lofty ! Now name the rest of the players. This is Ercles' vein, a tyrant's vein ; a lover is more condoling. Quin. Francis Flute, the bellows-mender. Flu. Here, Peter Quince. Quin. Flute, you must take Thisby on you. Flu. What is Thisby ? a wandering knight ? Quin. It is the lady that Pyramus must love. Flu. Nay, faith, let not me play a woman ; I have a beard coming. Quin. That 's all one : you shall play it in a mask, and you may speak as small as you will. Bot. An I may hide my face, let me play Thisby too, I '11 speak in a monstrous little voice, ' Thisne, Thisne ; ' ' Ah Pyramus, my lover dear ! thy Thisby dear, and lady dear ! ' Quin. No, no; you must play Pyramus: and, Flute, you Thisby. Bot. Well, proceed. Quin. Eobin Starveling, the tailor. (Star. Here, Peter Quince. Quin. Eobin Starveling, you must play Thisby's mother. Tom Snout, the tinker. Snout. Here, Peter Quince. Quin. You, Pyramus' father: myself, Thisby's father. Snug, the joiner ; you, the lion's part : and, I hope, here is a play fitted. Snug. Have you the lion's part written? pray you, if it be, give it me, for I am slow of study. Quin. You may do it extempore, for it is nothing but roaring. Bot. Let me play the lion too : I will roar, that I will do any man's heart good to hear me ; I will roar, that I will make the duke say ' Let him roar again, let him roar again.' Quin. An you should do it too terribly, you would fright the duchess and the ladies, that they would shriek ; and that were enough to hang us all. All. That would hang us, every mother's son. Bot. I grant you, friends, if that you should fright the ladies out of their wits, they would have no more discretion but to hang us : but I will aggra- vate my voice so that I will roar you as gently as any sucking dove; I will roar you an 'twere any nightingale. Quin. You can play no part but Pyramus; for Pyramus is a sweet-faced man; a proper man, as one shall see in a summer's day; a most lovely gentleman-like man : therefore you must needs play Pyramus. Bot. Well, I will undertake it. AVhat beard were I best to play it in ? Quin. Why, what you will. Bot. I will discharge it in either your straw-colour beard, your orange-tawny beard, your purple-in- grain beard, or your French-crown-colour beard, your perfect yellow. Quin. Some of your French crowns have no hair at all, and then you will play barefaced. But, mas- ters, here are your parts: and I am to entreat you, request you and desire you, to con them by to-mor- row night ; and meet me in the palace wood, a mile without the town, by moonlight ; there will we re- hearse, for if we meet in the city, we shall be dogged with company, and our devices known. In the meantime I will draw a bill of properties, such as our play wants. I pray you, fail me not. Bot. We will meet ; and there we may rehearse most obscenely and courageously. Take pains ; be perfect: adieu. Quin. At the duke's oak we meet. Bot. Enough ; hold or cut bow-strings. [Exeunt. 135 A.CT II. A MIDSUMMER-NIGHTS DREAM. SCENE I. A.OT II. SCENE I. — A wood near Athens. Enter, from opposite sides, a Fairy, and Puck. Puck. How now, spirit ! wliither 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 moon's 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 favours, In those freckles live their savours : I must go seek some dewdrops here And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. Farewell, thou lob of spirits ; I '11 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 boy, stolen from an Indian king ; She never had so sweet a changeling ; And jealous Oberon would have the child Knight of his train, to trace the forests wild; But she perforce withholds the loved boy. Crowns him with flowers and makes him all her joy : And now they never meet in grove or green, By fountain clear, or spangled starlight sheen. But they do square, that all their elves for fear Creep into acorn-cups 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 Goodfellow : are not you he That frights the maidens of the villagery; Skim milk, and sometimes labour in the quern And bootless make the breathless housewife churn ; And sometime make the drink to bear no barm ; Mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm ? Those that Hobgoblin call you and sweet Puck, You do their work, and they shall have good luck : Are not you he ? Puck. 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 flUy foal : And sometime lurk I in a gossip's bowl, In very likeness of a roasted crab. And when she drinks, against her lips I bob And on her wither'd dewlap pour the ale. The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale. Sometime for three-foot stool mistaketh me ; Then slip I from her bum, down topples she, And ' tailor ' cries, and falls into a cough ; And then the whole quire hold their hips and laugh. And waxen in their mirth and neeze and swear A merrier hour was never wasted there. But, room, fairy! here comes Oberon. [gone! Fai. And here my mistress. Would that he were Enter, from one side, Oberon, with his train; from the other, Titania, with hers. Obe. Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania. Tita. What, jealous Oberon! Fairies, skip hence: I have forsworn his bed and company. Obe. Tarry, rash wanton : am not I thy lord ? Tita. Then I must be thy lady : but I know When thou hast stolen away from fairy land, And in the shape of Corin sat all day, 136 Playing on pipes of corn and versing love To amorous Phillida. Why art thou here, Come from the farthest steppe of India ? But that, forsooth, the bouncing Amazon, Your buskin'd mistress and your warrior love, To Theseus must be wedded, and you come To give their bed joy and prosperity. Obe. How canst thou thus for shame, Titania, Glance at my credit with Hippolyta, Knowing I know thy love to Theseus ? [night Didst thou not lead him through the glimmering Prom Perigenia, whom he ravished ? And make him with fair ^gle break his faith, With Ariadne and Antiopa ? 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 in the beached margent of the sea. To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturb'd our sport. Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain, As in revenge, have suck'd up 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 green com Hath rotted ere his youth attain'd a beard; The fold stands empty in the drowned field, And crows are fatted with the murrion flock,; The nine men's morris is fiU'd up with mud, And the quaint mazes in 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 the crimson rose. And on old Hiems' thin and icy crown An odorous chaplet 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 little changeling boy. To be my henchman. Tita. Set your heart at rest : The fairy land buys not the child of me. His mother was a votaress of my order : And, in the spiced Indian air, by night. Full often hath she gossip'd by my side. And sat with me on Neptune's yellow sands. Marking the embarked traders on the flood. When we have laugh'd to see the sails conceive And grow big-bellied with the wanton wind ; Which she, with pretty and with swimming gait Following,— her womb then rich with my young Would imitate, and sail upon the land, [squire,— To fetch me trifles, and return again. As from a voyage, rich with merchandise. But she, being mortal, of that boy did die ; And for her sake do I 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. A.CT II. A MIDSUMMER-NIGHTS DREAM. SCENE II. If you will patiently dance in our round And see our moonlight revels, go with us ; If not, shun me, and I will spare your haunts. Ohe. Give me that boy, and I will go with thee. Tita. Not for thy fairy kingdom. Fairies, away I We shall chide dowiu-ig-ht, if I longer stay. {Exit Titania with her train. Obe. Well, go thy way : thou shalt not from this Till I torment thee for this injury. [grove My gentle Puck, come hither. Thou rememberest Since once I sat upon a promontory. And heard a mermaid on a dolphin's back 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 couldst 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 loosed his 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 watery moon, And the imperial votaress 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 shew'd thee once: The juice of it on sleeping eye-lids laid Will make or man or woman madly dote Upon the next live creature that it sees. Fetch me this herb ; and be thou here again Ere the leviathan can swim a league. Puck. I '11 put a girdle round about the earth In forty minutes. [JExit. Obe. Having once this juice, I '11 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 pm'sue it with the soul of love . And ere I take this charm from off her sight. As I can take it with another herb, I '11 make her render up her page to me. But who comes here ? I am invisible ; And I win overhear their conference. Enter Demetrius, Helena following him. . Dem. I love thee not, therefore pursue me not. Where is Lysander and fair Hermia ? The one I '11 slay, the other slayeth me. Thou told'st me they were stolen unto this wood ; And here am I, and wode within this wood. Because I cannot meet my Hermia. Hence, get thee gone, and follow me no more. Hel. You draw me, you hard-hearted adamant ; But yet you draw not iron, for my heart Is true as steel : leave you your power to draw, And I shall have no power to follow you. Dem. Do I entice you ? do I speak you fair ? Or, rather, do I not in plainest truth Tell you, I do not, nor I cannot love you? Hel. And even for that do I love you the more. I am your spaniel; and, Demetrius, The more you beat me, I will fawn on you : Use me but as your spaniel, spurn me, strike me, Neglect me, lose me ; only give me leave, Unworthy as I am, to follow you. What worser place can I beg in your love, — And yet a place of high respect with me, — Than to be used as you use your dog V Dem. Tempt not too much the hatred of my spirit. For I am sick when I do look on thee. Hel. And I am sick when I look not on you. Dem. You do impeach your modesty too much. To leave the city and commit yourself Into the hands of one that loves you not ; To trust the opportunity of night And the ill counsel of a desert place With the rich worth of your virginity. Hel. Your virtue is my privilege : for that It is not night when I do see your face. Therefore I thiuk I am not in the night ; Nor doth this wood lack worlds of company. For you in my respect are all the world : Then how can it be said I am alone. When all the world is here to look on me ? Dem. I'll run from thee and hide me in the brakes. And leave thee to the mercy of wild beasts. Hel. The wildest hath not such a heart as you. Bun when you will, the story shall be changed : Apollo flies, and Daphne holds the chase ; The dove pursues the grifiin ; the mild hind Makes speed to catch the tiger ; bootless speed, When cowardice pursues and valour flies. Dem. I will not stay thy questions ; let me go : Or, if thou follow me, do not believe But I shall do thee mischief in the wood. Hel. Ay, in the temple, in the town, the field, You do me mischief. Fie, Demetrius ! Your wrongs do set a scandal on my sex : We cannot fight for love, as men may do ; We should be woo'd and were not made to woo. [Exit Dem. I '11 follow thee and make a heaven of hell, To die upon the hand I love so well. [Exit. Obe. Fare thee well, nymph : ere he do leave this Thou Shalt fly him and he shall seek thy love, [grove, Be-enter Puck. Hast thou the flower there ? Welcome, wanderer. Puck. Ay, there it is. Obe. I pray thee, give it me. I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine : There sleeps Titania sometime 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 : And with the juice of this I '11 streak her eyes. And make her full of hateful fantasies. Take thou some of it, and seek tlirough 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 shalt know the man By the Athenian garments he hath on. Eifect it with some care that he may prove More fond on her than she upon her love : And look thou meet me ere the first cock crow. Puck. Fear not, my lord, your servant shall do so. [Exeunt. SCENE II. — Another part of the wood. Enter Titania, with her train. Tita. Come, now a roundel and a fairy song ; Then, for the third part of a minute, hence ; Some to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds. Some war with rere-mice for their leathern wings. To make my small elves coats, and some keep back The clamorous owl that nightly hoots and wonders At our quaint spirits. Sing me now asleep ; Then to your oflices and let me rest. 137 ACT II. A IIIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. SCENE II. The Fairies sing. You spotted snakes with double tongue, Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen ; Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong, Come not near our fairy queen. Philomel, with melody Sing in our sweet lullaby ; LuUa, luUa, lullaby, luUa, luUa, lullaby : Never harm, Nor spell nor charm. Come our lovely lady nigh , So, good night, with lullaby. Weaving spiders, come not here; Hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence! Beetles black, approach not near; Worm nor snail, do no offence. Philomel, with melody, &c. A Fairy. Hence, away I now all is well: One aloof stand sentinel. [Exeunt Fairies. Titania sleeps. Miter Oberon, and squeezes the flower on Titania's eyelids. Obe. What thou seest when thou dost wake, Do it for thy true-love take. Love and languish for his sake : Be it omice, or cat, or bear, Pard, or boar with bristled hair. In thy eye that shall appear When thou wakest, it is thy dear : Wake when some vile thing is near. [Exit. Enter Lysander and Hermia. Lys. Fair love, you faint with wandering in the And to speak troth, I have forgot our way : [wood; We '11 rest us, Hermia, if you think 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. Lys. One turf shall serve as pillow for us both ; One heart, one bed, two bosoms and one troth. Her. Nay, good Lysander ; for my sake, my dear. Lie further off yet, do not lie so near. Lys. O, take the sense, sweet, of my innocence! Love takes the meaning in love's conference. I mean, that my heart unto yours is knit So that but one heart we can make of it ; Two bosoms interchained with an oath ; So then two bosoms and a single troth. Then by your side no bed-room me deny ; For lying so, Hermia, I do not lie. Her. Lysander riddles very prettily : Now much beshrew my manners and my pride, If Hermia meant to say Lysander lied. But, gentle friend, for love and courtesy Lie further off; in human modesty, 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 half that wish the wisher's eyes be press 'd! [They sleep. 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 r* Weeds of Athens he doth wear : This is he, my master said, 138 Despised the Athenian maid ; And here the maiden, sleeping sound, On the dank and dirty ground. Pretty soul ! she durst not lie Near this lack-love, this kill-courtesy. Churl, upon thy eyes I throw All the power this charm doth owe. When thou wakest, let love forbid Sleep his seat on thy eyelid : So awake when I am gone ; For I must now to Oberon. [Exit. 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. 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 Y Lysander ! on the ground ! Dead ? or asleep ? I see no blood, no wound. Lysander, if you live, good sir, awake. Lys. [Awahing] And run through fire I will for thy sweet sake. Transparent Helena ! Nature shows art. That through thy bosom makes me see thy heart. Where is Demetrius V 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 ? Lord, what though ? Yet Hermia still loves you : then be content. Lys. 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 oy 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 touching now the point of human skill, Eeason 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 born ? When at your hands did I deserve this scorn ? 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 refused. Should of another therefore be abused ! [Exit. Lys. She sees not Hermia. Hermia, sleep thou there : And never mayst thou come Lysander near ! For as a surfeit of the sweetest things The deepest loathing 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 ! ACT III. A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. SCENE i. And, all my powers, address your love and mig-lit To honour Helen and to be her knight ! lExit. Her. [Awaking] Help me, Lysander, help me! do thy best To pluck this crawling serpent from my breast ! Ay 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, removed? 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 you I '11 find immediately. iExit. .ACT III. SCENE I.— The wood. Titania lying asleep. ^ter Quince, Snug, Bottom, Flute, Snout, and Starveling. Bat. Are we all met ? Quin. Pat, pat; and here 's a marvellous conven- ient place for our rehearsal. This green plot shall be our stage, this hawthorn-brake our tiring-house ; and we will do it in action as we will do it before the JBot. Peter Quince, — [duke. - Quin. What sayest thou, bully Bottom ? JBot. There are things in this comedy of Pyramus and Thisby that will never please. First, Pyramus must draw a sword to kill himself ; which the ladies cannot abide. How answer you that ? Snout. By 'r lakin, a parlous fear. Star. I believe we must leave the killing out, when all is done. Bot. Not a whit : I have a device to make all well. Write me a prologue ; and let the prologue seem to say, we will do no harm with our swords and that Pyramus is not killed indeed; and, for the more better assurance, tell them that I Pyramus am not Pyramus, but Bottom the weaver: this will put them out of fear. Quin. Well, we will have such a prologue; and it shall be written in eight and six. Bot. No, make it two more ; let it be written in eight and eight. Snout. Will not the ladies be afeard of the lion ? Star. I fear it, I promise you. Bot. Masters, you ought to consider with your- selves : to bring in — God shield us ! — a lion among ladies, is a most dreadful thing; for there is not a more fearful wild-fowl than your lion living ; and we ought to look to 't. Snout. Therefore another prologue must tell he is not a lion. Bot. Nay, you must name his name, and half his face must be seen through the lion's neck : and he liimself must speak through, saying thus, or to the same defect,—' Ladies,'— or ' Fair ladies,— I would wish you,' — or ' I would request you,' — or ' I would entreat you, — not to fear, not to tremble: my life for yours. If you think I come hither as a lion, it were pity of my life: no, I am no such thing; I am a man as other men are ; ' and there indeed let him name his name, and tell them plainly he is Snug the joiner. (^uin. Well, it shall be so. But there is two hard things ; that is, to bring the moonlight into a cham- ber ; for, you know, Pyramus and Thisby meet by moonlight. [our play ? Snout. Doth the moon shine that night we play Bot. A calendar, a calendar ! look in the almanac ; find out moonshine, find out moonshine. Quin. Yes, it doth shine that night. Bot. Why, then may you leave a casement of the great chamber-window, wliere we play, open, and the moon may shine in at the casement. Quin. Ay ; or else one must come in with a bush of thorns and a lanthorn, and say he comes to dis- figure, or to presentjthe person of Moonshine. Then, there is another thing : we must have a wall in the great chamber ; for Pyramus and Thisby, says the story, did talk through the chink of a wall. Snout. You can never bring in a wall. What say you. Bottom ? Bot. Some man or other must present Wall : and let him have some plaster, or some loam, or some rough-cast about him, to signify wall; and let him hold his fingers thus, and through that cranny shall Pyramus and Thisby whisper. Quin. If that may be, then all is well. Come, sit down, every mother's son, and rehearse your parts. Pyramus, you begin : when you have spoken your speech, enter into that brake: and so every one according to his cue. Enter Puck behind. Puck. What hempen home-spuns have Ave swagger- So near the cradle of the fairy queen ? [ing here, What, a play toward ! I '11 be an auditor ; An actor too perhaps, if I see cause. Quin. Speak, Pyramus. Thisby, stand forth. Bot. Thisby, the flowers of odious savours sweet, — Quin. Odours, odours. Bot. odours savours sweet : So hath thy breath, my dearest Thisby dear. But hark, a voice ! stay thou but here awhile. And by and by I will to thee appear. [Exit. Puck. A stranger Pyramus than e'er played here. [Exit. Flu. Must I speak now ? Quin. Ay, marry, must you ; for you must under- stand he goes but to see a noise that he heard, and is to come again. Flu. Most radiant Pyramus, most lily-white of hue, Of colour like the red rose on triumphant brier, Most brisky juvenal and eke most lovely Jew, As true as truest horse that yet would never tire, I '11 meet thee, Pyramus, at Ninny's tomb. Quin. 'Ninus' tomb,' man: why, you must not speak that yet ; that you answer to Pyramus : you speak all your part at once, cues and all. Pyramus enter : your cue is past ; it is, ' never tire.' Flu. O,— As true as truest horse, that yet would never tire. Re-enter Puck, and Bottom with an ass's head. Bot. If I were fair, Thisby, I were only thine. Quin. O monstrous! O strange! we are haunted. Pray, masters ! fly, masters ! Help ! [Exeunt Quince, Snug, Flute, Snout, and Starveling. Puck. I '11 follow you, I '11 lead you about a round. Through bog, through bush, through brake, through brier: Sometime a horse I '11 be, sometime a hound, A hog, a headless bear, sometime a fire ; And neigh, and bark, and grunt, and roar, and burn. Like horse, hound, hog, bear, fire, at every turn. [Exit. Bot. Why do they run away ? this is a knavery of them to make me afeard. Re-enter Snout. Snout. O Bottom, thou art changed! what do I see on thee ? 139 A MIDSUM3IER-NIGHT'S DREAM. SCENE II. Bot. What do you see? you your own, do you ? an ass-liead of [^Exit Snout. Re-enter Quince. Quin. Bless thee, Bottom! bless thee! thou art translated. [Exit. Bot. I see their knavery : this is to make an ass of me ; to fright me, if they could. But I will not stir from this place, do what they can : I will walk up and down here, and I will sing, that they shall hear I am not afraid. [Sings. The ousel cock so black of hue. With orange-tawny bill. The throstle with his note so true, The wren with little quill, — Tita. [Awaking] What angel wakes me from my flowery bed ? Bot. [Sings] The finch, the sparrow and the lark. The plaiu-song cuckoo gray, Whose note full many a man doth mark, And dares not answer nay ; — for, indeed, who would set his wit to so foolish a bird ? who would give a bird the lie, though he cry ' cuckoo ' never so ? Tita. I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again : Mine ear is much enamour'd of thy note ; So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape ; And thy fair virtue's force perforce doth move me On the first view to say, to swear, I love thee. Bot. Methinks, mistress, you should have little reason for that: and yet, to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together now-a-days ; the more the pity that some honest neighbours will not make them friends. ^Nay, I can gleek upon occasion. Tita. Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful. Bot. Not so, neither: but if I had wit enough to get out of this wood, I have enough to serve mine own turn. Tita. Out of this wood do not desire to go : Thou Shalt remain here, whether thou wilt or no. I am a spirit of no common rate : The summer still doth tend upon my state ; And I do love thee : therefore, go with me ; I '11 give thee fairies to attend on thee, And they shall fetch thee jewels from the deep. And sing while thou on pressed flowers dost sleep : And I will purge thy mortal grossness so That thou shalt like an airy spirit go. Peaseblossom ! Cobweb ! Moth ! and Mustardseed ! Enter Peaseblossom, Cob-web, Moth, and Mustardseed. Peas. Eeady. Cob. And I. Moth. And I. Mus. And I. All. Where shall we go ? Tita. Be kind and courteous to this gentleman ; Hop in his walks and gambol in his eyes ; Feed him with apricocks and dewberries, With purple grapes, gi-een figs, and mulberries; The honey-bags steal from the humble-bees, And for night-tapers crop their waxen thighs And light them at the fiery glow-worm's eyes. To have my love to bed and to arise ; And pluck the wings from painted butterflies To fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes : Nod to him, elves, and do him courtesies. Peas. Hail, mortal ! Cob. Hail! 3foth. Hail! Mus. Hail! Bot. I cry your worship's mercy, heartily : I be- seech your worship's name. Cob. Cobweb. 140 Bot. I shall desire you of more acquaintance, good Master Cobweb: if I cut my finger, I shall make bold with you. Your name, honest gentle- Peas. Peaseblossom. [man? Bot. I pray you, commend me to Mistress Squasli, your mother, and to Master Peascod, your father. Good Master Peaseblossom, I shall desire you of more acquaintance too. Your name, I beseech you, sir ? Mus. Mustardseed. Bot. Good Master Mustardseed, I know your patience well: that same cowardly, giant-like ox- beef hath devoured many a gentleman of your house : I promise you your kindred hath made my eyes water ere now. I desire your more acquaint- ance, good Master Mustardseed. Tita. Come, wait upon him ; lead him to my bower. The moon methinks looks with a watery eye ; And when she weeps, weeps every little flower. Lamenting some enforced chastity. Tie up my love's tongue, bring him silently. [Exeunt. SCENE II.— Another part of the wood. Enter Oberon. Obe. I wonder if Titania be awaked ; Then, what it was that next came in her eye, Which she must dote on in extremity. Enter Puck. Here comes my messenger. How now, mad spirit ! What night-rule now about this haunted grove ? Puck. My mistress with a monster is in love. Near to her close and consecrated bower. While she was in her dull and sleeping hour, A crew of patches, rude mechanicals, That work for bread upon Athenian stalls, Were met together to rehearse a play Intended for great Theseus' nuptial-day. The shallowest thick-skin of that barren sort. Who Pyramus presented, in their sport Forsook his scene and enter'd in a brake : When I did him at this advantage take, An ass's nole I fixed on his head : Anon his Thisbe must be answered. And forth my mimic comes. When they him spy. As wild geese that the creeping fowler eye. Or russet-pated choughs, many in sort, Rising and cawing at the gun's report. Sever themselves and madly sweep the sky. So, at his sight, away his fellows fiy ; And, at our stamp, here o'er and o'er one falls; He murder cries and help from Athens calls, [strong. Their sense thus weak, lost with their fears thus Made senseless things begin to do them wrong ; For briers and thorns at their apparel snatch ; Some sleeves, some hats, from yielders all things I led them on in this distracted fear, [catch. And left sweet Pyramus translated there : When in that moment, so it came to pass, Titania waked and straightway loved an ass. Obe. This falls out better than I could devise. But hast thou yet latch 'd the Athenian's eyes With the love-juice, as I did bid thee do ? Puck. I took him sleeping,— that is finish 'd too,— And the Athenian woman by his side ; That, when he waked, of force she must be eyed. Enter Hermia and Demetrius. Obe. Stand close : this is the same Athenian. Puck. This is the woman, but not this the man. Bern. O, why rebuke you him that loves you so ? Lay breath so bitter on your bitter foe. Her. Now I but chide ; but I should use thee worse, For thou, I fear, hast given me cause to curse. ACT III. A IIIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. SCENE II. If thou hast slain Lysander in his sleep, Being o'er shoes in blood, plunge in the deep. And kill me too. The sun was not so true unto the day As he to me : would he have stolen away From sleeping Hermia ? I '11 believe as soon This whole earth may be bored and that the moon May through the centre creep and so displease Her brother's noontide with the Antipodes. It cannot be but thou hast murder'd him; So should a murderer look, so dead, so grim. Dem. So should the murder'd look, and so should I, Pierced through the heart with your stern cruelty : Yet you, the murderer, look as bright, as clear, As yonder Venus in her glimmering sphere. Her. What 's this to my Lysander ? where is he ? Ah, good Demetrius, wilt thou give him me ? Dem. I had rather give his carcass to my hounds. Her. Out, dog! out, cur! thou drivest me past the bounds Of maiden's patience. Hast thou slain him, then ? Henceforth be never number'd among men ! O, once tell true, tell true, even for my sake ! Durst thou have look'd upon him being awake, And hast thou kill'd him sleeping ? O brave touch ! Could not a worm, an adder, do so much ? An adder did it ; for with doubler tongue Than thine, thou serpent, never adder stung. Bern. You spend your passion on a misprised mood : I am not guilty of Lysander 's blood; Nor is he dead, for aught that I can tell. Her. I pray thee, tell me then that he is well. Dem. An if I could, what should I get therefore? Her. A privilege never to see me more. And from thy hated presence part I so : See me no more, whether he be dead or no. {Exit. Dem. There is no following her in this fierce vein : Here therefore for a while I will remain. So sorrow's heaviness doth heavier grow For debt that bankrupt sleep doth sorrow owe ; Which now in some slight measure it will pay, If for his tender here I make some stay. [Lies down and sleeps. Obe. What hast thou done ? thou hast mistaken quite And laid the love-j uice on some true-love's sight : Of thy misprision must perforce ensue Some true love turn'd and not a false turn'd true. Puck. Then fate o'er-rules, that, one man holding troth, A million fail, confounding oath on oath. Obe. About the wood go swifter than the wind, And Helena of Athens look thou find : All fancy-sick she is and pale of cheer. With sighs of love, that costs the fresn blood dear : By some illusion see thou bring her here : I '11 charm his eyes against she do appear. Puck. I go, I go ; look how I go, Swifter than arrow from the Tartar's bow. [Exit. Obe. Flower of this purple dye, Hit with Cupid's archery, Sink in apple of his eye. When his love he doth espy, Let her shine as gloriously As the Venus of the sky. When thou wakest, if she be by, Beg of her for remedy. Be-enter Puck. Pucfc. Captain of our fairy band, Helena is here at hand ; And the youth, mistook by me. Pleading for a lover's fee. Shall we their fond pageant see ? Lord, what fools these mortals be! Obe. Stand aside : the noise they make Will cause Demetrius to awake. Puck. Then will two at once woo one ; That must needs be sport alone ; And those things do best please me That befal preposterously. Enter Lysander and Helena. Lys. Why should you think that I should woo in Scorn and derision never come in tears : [scorn ? Look, when I 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 devilish-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. Hel. 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, per- fect, divine 1 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, Pann'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 spite ! O hell ! 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 ofEend a virgin and extort A poor soul's patience, all to make you sport. Lys. You are unkind, Demetrius ; be not so ; 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 loved her, all that love is gone. My heart to her but as guest-wise sojourn'd, And now to Helen is it home return 'd, There to remain. Lys. Helen, it is not so. I)em. Disparage not the faith thou dost not know, Lest, to thy peril, thou aby it dear. Look, where thy love comes ; yonder is thy dear. Re-enter Hermia. Her. Dark night, that from the his function The ear more quick of apprehension makes ; Wherein it doth impair the seeing sense, It pays the hearing double recompense. Thou art not by mine eye, Lysander, found ; Mine ear, I thank it, brought me to thy sound. But why unkindly didst thou leave me so ? [to go ? Lys. Why should he stay, whom love doth press Iter. What love could press Lysander from my side? Lys. Lysander's love, that would not let him bide, 141 ACT III. A MIDSUMMER-NIGHrS DREAM. SCENE II. Fair Helena, who more engilds the night Than all yon fiery oes and eyes of light. Why seek'st thou me ? could not this make thee know, The hate I bear thee made me leave thee so ? 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 conspired, have you with these contrived To bait me with this foul derision ? Is all the counsel that we two have shared. The sisters' vows, the hours that we have spent, When we have chid the hasty-footed time For parting us,— O, is it all forgot ? All school-days' friendship, childhood innocence ? We, Hermia, like two artificial gods. Have with our needles created both one flower, Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion, Both warbling of one song, both in one key, As if our hands, our sides, voices and minds, Had been incorporate. So we grew together, Like to a double cherry, seeming parted, But yet an 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 will you rent our ancient love asunder, To join with men in scorning your poor friend ? It is not friendly, 't is not maidenly : Our sex, as well as I, may chide you for it. Though I alone do feel the injury. Her. I am amazed at your passionate words. I scorn you not : it seems that you scorn me. Hel. Have you not set Lysander, as in scorn, To follow me and praise my eyes and face ? And made your other love, Demetrius, Who even but now did spurn me with his foot. To call me goddess, nymph, divine and rare. Precious, celestial ? Wherefore speaks he this To her he hates V and wherefore doth Lysander Deny your love, so rich within his soul. And tender me, forsooth, affection. But by your setting on, by your consent ? What though I be not so in grace as you, So hung upon with love, so fortunate. But miserable most, to love unloved ? This you should pity rather than despise. Her. I understand not what you mean by this. Hel. Ay, do, persever, counterfeit sad looks, Make mouths upon me when I turn my back ; Wink each at other; hold the sweet jest up: This sport, well carried, shall be chronicled. If you have any pity, grace, or manners. You would not make me such an argument. But fare ye well : 't is partly my own fault ; Which death or absence soon shall remedy. Lys. Stay, gentle Helena ; hear my excuse : My love, my life, my soul, fair Helena ! Hel. excellent ! Her. Sweet, do not scorn her so. Dem. If she cannot entreat, I can compel. Lys. Thou canst compel no more than she entreat : Thy threats have no more strength than her weak Helen, I love thee ; by my life, I do : [prayers. I swear by that which I will lose for thee, To prove liim false that says I love thee not. Dem. I say I love thee more than he can do. Lys. If thou say so, withdraw, and prove it too. Bern. Quick, come ! Her. Lysander, whereto tends all this ? Lys. Away, you Ethiope ! Dem. No, no; he'll . . . Seem to break loose ; take on as you would follow, But yet come not : you are a tame man, go ! 142 Lys. Hang ofE, thou cat, thou burr! vile thing, let loose. Or I will shake thee from me like a serpent ! Her. Why are you grown so rude ? what change Sweet love, — [is this ? Lys. Thy love ! out, tawny Tartar^ out ! Out, loathed medicine ! hated potion, hence ! Her. Do you not jest ? Hel. Yes, sooth ; and so do you. Lys. Demetrius, I will keep my word with thee. Dem. I would I had your bond, for I perceive A weak bond holds you : I '11 not trust your word. Lys. What, should I hurt her, strike her, kill her dead ? Although I hate her, I '11 not harm her so. Her. What , can you do me greater harm than hate ? Hate me ! wherefore ? O me ! what news, my love ! Am not I Hermia ? are not you Lysander ? I am as fair now as I was erewhile. [me : Since night you loved me ; yet since night you left Why, then you left me — O, the gods forbid ! — In earnest, shall I say ? Lys. Ay, by my life ; And never did desire to see thee more. Therefore be out of hope, of question, of doubt ; Be certain, nothing truer ; 't is no jest That I do hate thee and love Helena. Her. O me ! you juggler ! you canker-blossom ! You thief of love ! what, have you come by night And stolen my love's heart from him V Hel. Fine, i' faith 1 Have you no modesty, no maiden shame, No touch of bashfulness ? What, will you tear Impatient answers from my gentle tongue ? , Fie, fie ! you counterfeit, you puppet, you ! Her. Puppet ? why so V ay, that way goes the game. Now I perceive that she hath made compare Between our statures ; she hath urged her height ; And with her personage, her tall personage. Her height, forsooth, she hath prevail'd witii him. And are you grown so high in his esteem. Because I am so dwarfish and so low ? How low am I, thou painted maypole? speak; How low am I ? I am not yet so low But that my nails can reach unto thine eyes. Hel. I pray you, though you mock me, gentlemen, Let her not hurt me : I was never curst ; I have no gift at all in shrewishness ; I am a right maid for my cowardice : Let her not strike me. You perhaps may think, Because she is something lower than myself. That I can match her. Her. Lower ! hark, again. Hel. Good Hermia, do not be so bitter with me. I evermore did love you, Hermia, Did ever keep your counsels, never wrong 'd you; Save that, in love unto Demetrius, I told him of your stealth unto this wood. He foUow'd you; for love I foUow'd him; But he hath chid me hence and threaten 'd me To strike me, spurn me, nay, to kill me too : And now, so you will let me quiet go. To Athens will I bear my folly back And follow you no further : let me go : You see how simple and how fond I am. [you ? Her. Why, get you gone : who is 't that hinders Hel. A foolish heart, that I leave here behind. Her. What, with Lysander ':" Hel. With Demetrius. Lys. Be not afraid; she shall not harm thee, Helena. [part. Dem. No, sir, she shaU not, though you take her Hel. O, when she 's angry, she is keen and shrewd ! She was a vixen when she went to school ; And though she be but little, she is fierce. Her. ' Little ' again ! nothing but ' low ' and ' lit- tle'! ACT III. A MIDSU3IMER-NIGHT'S DREA3L SCENE II. Why will you suffer her to flout me thus ? Let me come to her. Lys. Get you gone, you dwarf ; You minimus, of hindering knot-grass made ; You bead, you acorn. Dem. You are too officious In her behalf that scorns your services. Let her alone : speak not of Helena ; Take not her part ; for, if thou dost intend Never so little show of love to her, Thou Shalt aby it. Lys. Now she holds me not ; Now follow, if thou darest, to try whose right. Of thine or mine, is most in Helena. Bern. Follow! nay, I'll go with thee, cheek by jole. [Exeunt Lysander and Demetrius. Her. You, mistress, all this coil is 'long of you: Nay, go not back. Hel. I will not trust you, I, Nor longer stay in your curst company. Your hands than mine are quicker for a fray. My legs are longer though, to run away. [Exit. Her. I am amazed, and know not what to say. [Exit. Obe. This is thy negligence : still thou mistakest, Or else committ'st thy knaveries wilfully. Puck. Believe me, king of shadows, I mistook. Did not you tell me I should know the man By the Athenian garments he had on ? And so far blameless proves my enterprise, That I have 'nointed an Athenian's eyes ; And so far am I glad it so did sort As this their jangling I esteem a sport. Obe. Thou see'st these lovers seek a place to fight : Hie therefore, Kobin, overcast the night ; The starry welkin cover thou anon "With drooping fog as black as Acheron, And lead these testy rivals so astray As one come not within another's way. Like to Lysander sometime frame thy tongue, Then stir Demetrius up with bitter wrong ; And sometime rail thou like Demetrius ; And from each other look thou lead them thus. Till o'er their brows death-counterfeiting sleep With leaden legs and batty wings doth creep : Then crush this herb into Lysander's eye ; Whose liquor hath this virtuous property, To take from thence all error with his might. And make his eyeballs roll with wonted sight. When they next wake, all this derision Shall seem a dream and fruitless vision. And back to Athens shall the lovers wend, With league whose date till death shall never end. Whiles I in this affair do thee employ, I '11 to my queen and beg her Indian boy ; And then I will her charmed eye release From monster's view, and all things shall be peace. Picck. My fairy lord, this must be done with haste. For night's swift dragons cut the clouds full fast. And yonder shines Aurora's harbinger ; [there. At whose approach, ghosts, wandering here and Troop home to churchyards : damned spirits all. That in crossways and floods have burial, Already to then- wormy beds are gone ; For fear lest day should look their shames upon. They wilfully themselves exile from light And must for aye consort with black-brow'd night. Obe. But we are spirits of another sort : I with the morning's love have oft made sport. And, like a forester, the groves may tread. Even till the eastern gate, all flery-red, Opening on Neptune with fair blessed beams, Turns into yellow gold his salt green streams. But, notwithstanding, haste ; make no delay : We may effect this business yet ere day. [Exit. Puck. Up and down, up and down, I will lead them up and down : I am fear'd in field and town : Goblin, lead them up and down. Here comes one. Be-enter Lysander. Lys. Where art thou, proud Demetrius? speak thou now. Puck. Here, villain; drawn and ready. Where art thou ? Lys. I will be with thee straight. Pv£k. Follow me, then. To plainer ground. [Exit Lysander, as following the voice. Be-enter Demetrius. Bern. Lysander I speak again : Thou runaway, thou coward, art thou fled ? Speak ! In some bush ? Where dost thou hide thy head? Puck. Thou coward, art thou bragging to the stars. Telling the bushes that thou look'st for wars. And wilt not come ? Come, recreant ; come, thou I '11 whip thee with a rod : he is defiled [child ; That draws a sword on thee. Bern. Yea, art thou there ? Puck. Follow my voice : we '11 try no manhood here. ^ [Exeunt. Be-enter Lysander. Lys. He goes before me and still dares me on : When I come where he calls, then he is gone. The villain is much lighter-heel'd than I : I foUow'd fast, but faster he did fiy; That fallen am I in dark uneven way, And here will rest me. [Liesdown.] Come,thougen- tle day ! For if but once thou show me thy grey light, I 'U find Demetrius and revenge this spite. [Sleeps. Be-enter Puck and Demetrius. Puck. Ho, ho, ho! Coward, why comest thou not? Bern. Abide me, if thou darest ; for well I wot Thou runn'st before me, shifting every place. And darest not stand, nor look me in the face. Where art thou now ? Puck. Come hither : I am here. Bern. Nay, then, thou mock'st me. Thoushaltbuy this dear. If ever I thy face by daylight see : Now, go thy way. Faintness constraineth me To measure out my length on this cold bed. By day's approach look to be visited. [Lies down and sleeps. Be-enter Helena. Hel. O weary night, O long and tedious night, Abate thy hours ! Shine comforts from the east, That I may back to Athens by daylight. From these that my poor company detest : And sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow's eye, Steal me awhile from mine own company. [Lies down and . Puck. Yet but three ? Come one more ; Two of both kinds makes up four. Here she comes, curst and sad : Cupid is a knavish lad. Thus to make poor females mad. Be-enter Hermia. Her. Never so weary, never so in woe. Bedabbled with the dew and torn with briers, I can no further crawl, no further go ; My legs can keep no pace with my desires. Here will I rest me till the break of day. Heavens shield Lysander, if they mean a fray ! Puck. On the groun Sleep sound 143 [Lies down and sleeps. d A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. SCENE I. I '11 apply Of thy former lady's eye : To your eye, And the country proverb known, Gentle lover, remedy. That every man should take his ovs^n, [Squeezing the juice on Lysander^s eyes. In your waking shall be shown : When thou wakest, Jack shall have Jill; Thou takest Nought shall go ill ; True delight The man shall have his mare again, and all shall In the sight be well. [Exit. J^CT IV. SCENE I.— The same. Lysander, Demetrius, Hel- ena, and Hermia lying asleep. Enter Titania arid Bottom; Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Moth, Mustardseed, and other Fairies attending; Oberon behind unseen. Tita. Come, sit thee down upon this flowery bed. While I thy amiable cheeks do coy, And stick musk-roses in thy sleek smooth head. And kiss thy fair large ears, my gentle joy. Bot. Where 's Peaseblossom ? Peas. Ready. Bot. Scratch my head, Peaseblossom. Where's Mounsieur Cobweb ? Goh. Ready. Bot. Mounsieur Cobweb, good mounsieur, get you your weapons in your hand, and kill me a red- hipped humble-bee on the top of a thistle; and, good mounsieur, bring me the honey-bag. Do not tret yourself too much in the action, mounsieur; and, good mounsieur, have a care the honey-bag break not ; I would be loath to have you overflown with a honey-bag, signior. Where's Mounsieur Mustardseed ? , Mus. Ready. Bot. Give me your neaf , Mounsieur Mustardseed. Pray you, leave your courtesy, good mounsieur. Mus. What 's your will ? Bot. Nothing, good mounsieur, but to help Caval- ery Cobweb to scratch. I must to the barber's, mounsieur; for methinks I am marvellous hairy about the face ; and I am such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me, I must scratch. Tita. What, wilt thou hear some music, my sweet love ? Bot. I have a reasonable good ear in music. Let 's have the tongs and the bones. Tita. Or say, sweet love, what thou desirest to eat. Bot. Truly, a peck of provender : I could munch your good dry oats. Methinks I have a great de- sire to a bottle of hay : good hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow. Tita. I have a venturous fairy that shall seek The squirrel's hoard, and fetch thee new nuts. Bot. I had rather have a handful or two of dried peas. But, I pray you, let none of your people stir me : I have an exposition of sleep come upon me. Tita. Sleep thou, and I will wind thee in my arms. Fairies, be gone, and be all ways away. [Exeunt fairies. So doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle Gently entwist ; the female ivy so Enrings the barky fingers of the elm. O, how I love thee! how I dote on thee ! [They sleep. Enter Puck. Obe. [Advancing] Welcome, good Robin. See'st thou this sweet sight ? Her dotage now I do begin to pity : For, meeting her of late behind the wood. Seeking sweet favours for this hateful fool, I did upbraid her and fall out with her ; 144 For she his hairy temples then had rounded With coronet of fresh and fragrant flowers ; And that same dew, which sometime on the buds Was wont to swell like round and orient pearls. Stood now within the pretty flowerets' eyes Like tears that did their own disgrace bewail. When I had at my pleasure taunted her And she in mild terms begg'd my patience, I then did ask of her her changeling child ; Which straight she gave me, and her fairy sent To bear him to my bower in fairy land. And now I have the boy, I will undo This hateful imperfection of her eyes : And, gentle Puck, take this transformed scalp From off the head of this Athenian swain; That, he awaking when the other do. May all to Athens back again repair And think no more of this night's accidents But as the fierce vexation of a dream. But first I will release the fairy queen. Be as thou wast wont to be ; See as thou wast wont to see : Dian's bud o'er Cupid's flower , Hath such force and blessed power. Now, my Titania ; wake you, my sweet queen. Tita. My Oberon ! what visions have I seen I Methought I was enamour'd of an ass. Obe. There lies your love. Tita. How came these things to pass ? O, how mine eyes do loathe his visage now ! Obe. Silence awhile. Robin, take off this head. Titania, music call ; and strike more dead Than common sleep of all these five the sense. Tita. Music, ho! music, such as charmeth sleep! [Music, still. Puck. Now, when thou wakest, with thine own fool's eyes peep. [with me, Obe. Sound , music ! Come , my queen , take hands And rock the ground whereon these sleepers be. Now thou and I are new in amity And will to-morrow midnight solemnly Dance in Duke Theseus' house triumphantly And bless it to all fair prosperity : There shall the pairs of faithful lovers be Wedded, with Theseus, all in jollity. Puck. Fairy king, attend, and mark: I do hear tlie morning lark. Then, my queen, in silence sad, Trip we after the night's shade: We the globe can compass soon. Swifter than the wandering moon. Tita. Come, my lord, and in our flight Tell me how it came this night That I sleeping here was found With these mortals on the ground. Obe. [Horns winded within. Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Bgeus, and train. Tlie. 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. ACT IV. A 3IIDSUMMER-NIGHT'8 DREAM. SCENE II. Uncouple in the -western valley ; let them go : Dispatch, I say, and find the forester. {Exit an Attendant. 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 "\Vith hounds of Sparta : never did I hear Such gallant chiding ; for, besides the groves, The skies, the fountains, every region near Seem'd all one mutual cry : I never heard So musical a discord, such sweet thunder. llie. 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-lapp'd like Thessalian bulls ; Slow in pursuit, but match'd in mouth like bells. Each mider each. A cry more tuneable Was never holla'd to, nor cheer'd with horn. In Crete, in Sparta, nor in Thessaly : [these ? Judge when you hear. But, soft ! what nymphs are Eae. My lord, this is my daughter here asleep ; And this, Lysander ; this Demetrius is; This Helena, old Nedar'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, Came here in grace of our solemnity. But speak, Egeus ; is not this the day That Hermia should give answer of her choice ? Ege. It is, my lord. The. Go, bid the huntsman wake them with their horns. [Horns and shout within. Lys.,Dem., Hel., and Her., wake and start up. Good morrow, friends. Saint Valentme is past : Begin these wood-birds but to couple now ? Lys. Pardon, my lord. The. I pray you all, stand up. I know you two are 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 be gone from Athens, where we might, Without the peril of the Athenian law. Ege. Enough, enough, my lord ; you have enough : I beg the law, the law, upon his head. [trius, They would have stolen away ; they would, Deme- 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. Bern. My lord, fair Helen told me of their stealth. Of this their purpose hither to this wood ; And I in fury hither foUow'd them. Pair 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 the snow, seems to me now As the remembrance of an idle gaud 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, Now I do wish it, love it, long for it, And will for evermore be true to it. The. Fair lovers, you are fortimately met : Of this discorurse we more will hear anon. Egeus, I will overbear your will ; 10 For in the temple, by and by, with us These couples shall eternally be knit : And, for the morning now is something worn, Our pm-posed hunting shall be set aside. Away with us to Athens ; three and three. We '11 hold a feast in great solemnity. Come, Hippolyta. [Exeunt The., Hip., Ege., and train. Dem. These tilings seem small and undistinguish- Like far-off momitains turned into clouds. [able, Her. Methinks I see these things with parted eye, When every thing seems double. Hel. So methinks : And I have found Demetrius like a jewel. Mine owti, and not mine own. Dem. Are you sure That we are awake ? 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. Bern. Why, then, we are awake : let's follow him ; And by the way let us recount our dreams. [Exeunt. Bot. [AwaTcing'] When my cue comes, call me, and I will answer: my next is, 'Most fair Pyra- mus.' Heigh-ho! Peter Quince! Flute, the bellows- mender! Snout, the tinker ! Starveling! God 's my life, stolen hence, and left me asleep ! I have had a most rare vision. I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was : man is but an ass, if he go about to expound this dream. Me thought I was — there is no man can tell what. Methought I was,— and methought I had,— but man is but a patched fool, if he will oifer to say what methought I had. The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to rQ)ort, what my dream was. I will get Peter Quince to write a ballad of this dream : it shall be called Bottom's Dream, because it hath no bottom : and I will sing it in the latter end of a play, before the duke : perad- venture, to make it the more gracious, I shall sing it at her death. [Exit. SCENE II. — Athens. Quince's hovjse. Enter Quince, Flute, Snout, and Starveling. Qidn. Have vou sent to Bottom's house ? is he come home yet ^ [transported. Star. He cannot be heard of. Out of doubt he is Flu. If he come not, then the play is marred : it goes not forward, doth it ? Quin. It is not possible : you have not a man in all Athens able to discharge Pyramus but he. Flu. No, he hath simply the best wit of any hand- icraft man ia. Athens. Q,uin. Yea, and the best person too ; and he is a very paramour for a sweet voice. Flu. You must say ' paragon : ' a paramour is, God bless us, a thing of naught. Enter Snug. Snu^. Masters, the duke is coming from the temple, and there is two or three lords and ladies more married : if our sport had gone forward, we had all been made men. Flu. O sweet bully Bottom I Thus hath he lost sixpence a day during his life ; he could not have 'scaped sixpence a day : an the duke had not given him sixpence a day for playing Pyramus, I 'U be hanged ; he would have deserved it : sixpence a day in Pyramus, or nothing. Enter Bottom. Bot. Where are these lads? where are these hearts ? 145 ACT V. A 3IIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. Quill. Bottom ! O most courageous clay ! O most happy hour ! Bot. Masters, I am to discourse wonders : but ask me not what ; for if I tell you, I am no true Athe- nian. I will tell you every thing, right as it fell out. Q,uiyx. Let us hear, sweet Bottom. Bot. Not a word of me. All that I will tell you is, that the duke hath dined. Get your apparel together, good strings to your beards, new ribbons to your pumps ; meet presently at the palace ; every man look o'er his part ; for the short and the long is, our play is preferred. In any case, let Thisby have clean linen; and let not him that plays the lion pare his nails, for they shall hang out for the lion's claws. And, most dear actors, eat no onions nor garlic, for we are to utter sweet breath; and I do not doubt but to hear them say, it is a sweet com- edy, No more words : away ! go, away ! [Exeunt. JLCT V. SCENE I.— ^«/iens. The palace of Theseus. Enter Theseus, Hippoljrta, Philostrate, Lords, and Attendants. Hip. 'T is 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 seething brains, Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend More than cool reason ever comprehends. The lunatic, the lover and the poet 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 And as imagination bodies forth [heaven ; 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 ; >Or in the night, imagining some fear, Bow easy is a bush supposed a bear ! Hip. But all the story of the night told over. And all their minds transfigured so together, More witnesseth yian fancy's images And grows to something of great constancy ; But, howsoever, strange and admirable. The. Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth. Enter Lysander, Demetrius, Hermia, and Helena. Joy, gentle friends ! joy and fresh days of love Accompany your hearts ! Lys. More than to us Wait in your royal walks, your board, your bed ! The. Come now; what masques, what dances shall we have, To wear away this long age of three hours Between our after-supper and bed-time ? Where is our usual manager of mirth ? What revels are in hand ? Is there no play, To ease the anguish of a torturing hour ? Call Philostrate. Phil. Here, mighty Theseus. The. Say, what abridgment have you for this evening ? What masque ? what music ? How shall we beguile The lazy time, if not with some delight '? Phil. There is a brief how many sports are ripe : Make choice of which your highness will see first. [Giving a paper. The. [Beads] ' The battle with the Centaurs, to be sung By an Athenian eunuch to the harp.' We '11 none of that : that have I told my love. In glory of my kinsman Hercules. IReads] ' The riot of the tipsy Bacchanals, 146 Tearing the Thracian singer in their rage.' That is an old device; and it was play'd When I from Thebes came last a conqueror. [Beads] ' The thrice three Muses mourning for the Of Learning, late deceased in beggary.' [death That is some satire, keen and critical, Not sorting with a nuptial ceremony. [Beads] ' A tedious brief scene of young Pyramus And his love Tliisbe; very tragical mirth.' Merry and tragical ! tedious and brief ! That is, hot ice and wondrous strange snow. How shall we find the concord of this discord ? Phil. A play there is, my lord, some ten words long, Which is as brief as 1 have known a play ; But by ten words, my lord, it is too long, Which makes it tedious ; for in all the play There is not one word apt, one player fitted : And tragical, my noble lord, it is ; For Pyramus therein doth kill himself. Which, when I saw rehearsed, I must confess, Made mine eyes water ; but more merry tears The passion of loud laughter never shed. The. What are they that do play it ? Phil. Hard-handed men that work in Athens here, Which never labour 'd in their minds till now. And now have toil'd their unbreathed memories With this same play, against your nuptial. The. And we will hear it. Phil. No, my noble lord ; It is not for you : I have heard it over, And it is nothing, nothing in the world ; Unless you can find sport in their intents, Extremely stretch'd and conn'd with cruel pain, To do you service. TJie. I will hear that play ; For never anything can be amiss, When simpleness and duty tender it. Go, bring them in: and take your places, ladies. [Exit Philostrate. Hip. I love not to see wretchedness o'ercharged And duty in his service perishing. The. Why, gentle sweet, you shall see no suclj thing. Hip. He says they can do nothing in this kind. The. The kinder we, to give them thanks for nothmg. Our sport shall be to take what they mistake : And what poor duty cannot do, noble respect Takes it in might, not merit. Where I have come, great clerks have purposed To greet me with premeditated welcomes ; Where I have seen them shiver and look pale, Make periods in the midst of sentences. Throttle their practised accent in their fears And in conclusion dumbly have broke off. Not paying me a welcome. Trust me, sweet, Out of this silence yet I pick'd a welcome; And in the modesty of fearful duty I read as much as from the rattling tongue Of saucy and audacious eloquence. Love, therefore, and tongue-tied simplicity. In least speak most, to my capacity. A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. scene i. Re-enter Philostrate. PWLSopleaseyourgrace,thePrologueisaddress'd. The. Let him approach. [Flourish of truvipets. Enter Quince for the Prologue. Pro. If we oiTend, it is with our good will. That you should think, we come not to offend, But with good will. To show our simple skill, That is the true beginning of our end. Consider then we come but in despite. We do not come as minding to content you, Our true intent is. All for your delight We are not here. That you should here repent you. The actors are at hand and by their show You shall know all that you are like to know. The. This fellow doth not stand upon points. Lys. He hath rid his prologue like a rough colt ; he Imows not the stop. A good moral, my lord: it is not enough to speak, but to speak true. Hip. Indeed he hath played on his prologue like a child on a recorder ; a sound, but not in government. The. His speech was like a tangled chain ; nothing impaired, but all disordered. Who is next ? Enter Pyramus and Thisbe, "Wall, Moonshine, and Lion. Pro. Gentles, perchance you wonder at this show ; But wonder on, till truth make all things plain. This man is Pyramus, if you would know ; This beauteous lady Thisby is certain. This man, with lime and rough-cast, doth present Wall, that vile Wall which did these lovers sun- der ; [content And through Wall's chink, poor souls, they are To whisper. At the which let no man wonder. This man, with lanthorn, dog, and bush of thorn, Presenteth Moonshine ; for, if you will know, By moonshine did these lovers think no scorn To meet at Ninus' tomb, there, there to woo. This grisly beast, which Lion hight by name. The trusty Thisby, coming first by night, Did scare away, or rather did affright ; And, as she fled, her mantle she did fall, Which Lion vile with bloody mouth did stain. Anon comes Pyramus, sweet youth and tall. And finds his trusty Thisby 's mantle slain : Whereat, with blade, with bloody blameful blade. He bravely broach 'd his boiling bloody breast ; And Thisby, tarrying in mulberry shade, His dagger drew, and died. For all the rest, Let Lion, Moonshine, Wall, and lovers twain At large discourse, while here they do remain. [Exeunt Prologue, Thisbe, Lion, and Moonshine. The. I wonder if the lion be to speak. Dem. No wonder, my lord : one lion may, when many asses do. Wall. In this same interlude it doth befall That I, one Snout by name, present a wall ; And such a wall, as I would have you think. That had in it a crannied hole or chink. Through which the lovers, Pyramus and Thisby, Did whisper often very secretly. This loam, this rough-cast and this stone doth show That I am that same wall ; the truth is so : And this the cranny is, right and sinister. Through which the fearful lovers are to whisper. The. Would you desire lime and hair to speak better? -Dero. It is the wittiest partition that ever I heard discourse, my lord. Enter Pjrramus. The. Pyramus draws near the wall : silence ! Pyr. O grim-look'd night ! O night with hue so O night, which ever art when day is not ! [black ! O night, night I alack, alack, alack, I fear my Thisby's promise is forgot ! And thou, O wall, O sweet, O lovely wall, [mine ! That stand'st between her father's ground and Thou wall, O wall, O sweet and lovely wall, Show me thy chink, to blink through with mine eyne ! [ Wall holds up his fingers. Thanks, courteous wall: Jove shield thee well for But what see I V No Thisby do I see. [this! O wicked wall, through whom I see no bliss! Cursed be thy stones for thus deceiving me ! The. The wall, methinks, being sensible, should curse again. Pyr. No, in truth, sir, he should not. ' Deceiving me ' is Thisby's cue : she is to enter now, and I am to spy her through the wall. You shall see, it will faU pat as I told you. Yonder she comes. Enter Thisbe. This. O wall, full often hast thou heard my For parting my fair Pyramus and me ! [moans, My cherry lips have often kiss'd thy stones. Thy stones with lime and hair knit up in thee. Pyr. 1 see a voice : now v/ill I to the chink, To spy an I can hear my Thisby's face. Thisby ! This. My love thou art, my love I think. Pyr. Think what thou wilt, I am thy lover's And, like Limander, am I trusty still. [grace; This. And I like Helen, till the Fates me kill. Pyr. Not Shafalus to Procrus was so true. This. As Shafalus to Procrus, I to you. [wall ! Pyr. O, kiss me through the hole of this vile This. I kiss the wall's hole, not your lips at all. Pyr. Wilt thou at Ninny's tomb meet me straight- way? This. 'Tide life, 'tide death, I come without delay. [Exeunt Pyramus and Thisbe. Wall. Thus have I, Wall, my part discharged so; And, being done, thus WaU away doth go. [Exit. The. Now is the mural down between the two neighbours. Dem. No remedy, my lord, when walls are so wilful to hear without warning. Hip. This is the silliest stuff that ever I heard. The. The best in this kind are but shadows; and the worst are no worse, if imagination amend them. Hip. It must be your imagination then, and not theirs. The. If we imagine no worse of them than they of themselves, they may pass for excellent men. Here come two noble beasts in, a man and a lion. Enter Lion and Moonshine. Lion. You, ladies, you, whose gentle hearts do fear [floor. The smallest monstrous mouse that creeps on May now perchance both quake and tremble here, When lion rough in wildest rage doth roar. Then know that I, one Snug the joiner, am A lion-fell, nor else no lion's dam ; For, if I should as lion come in strife Into this place, 't were pity on my life. [science. The. A very gentle beast, and of a good con- L>em. The very best at a beast, my lord, that e'er I saw. Lys. This lion is a very fox for his valour. The. True ; and a goose for his discretion. Bern. Not so, my lord; for his valour cannot carry his discretion ; and the fox carries the goose. The. His discretion, I am sure, camiot carry his valour; for the goose carries not the fox. It is well: leave it to his discretion, and let us listen to the moon. [sent ; — Moon. This lanthorn doth the horned moon pre- Bem. He should have worn the horns on his 147 ACT V. A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. SCENE I. The. He is no crescent, and his liorns are invisi- ble witliin the circumference. [sent ; Moon. This lanthorn doth the horned moon pre- Myself the man i' the moon do seem to be. TJie. This is the greatest error of all the rest : the man should be put into the lanthorn. How is it else the man i' the moon ? Dem. He dares not come there for the candle; foij you see, it is already in snuff. [change ! IliXJ. I am aweary of this moon : would he would The. It appears, by his small light of discretion, that he is in the wane ; but yet, in courtesy, in all reason, we must stay the time. Lys. Proceed, Moon. Moon. All that I have to say, is, to tell you that the lanthorn is the moon ; I, the man in the moon ; this thorn-bush, my thorn-bush ; and this dog, my dog. Dem. Why, all these should be in the lanthorn ; for all these are in the moon. But, silence ! here comes Thisbe. „ JEkiter Thisbe. This. This is old Ninny's tomb. Where is my love ? Lion. iRoaring] Oh. [Thisbe runs off. Dem. Well roared. Lion. The. Well run, Thisbe. Hip. Well shone. Moon. Truly, the moon shines with a good grace. [The Lion shakes Thisbe^s mantle, and exit. The. Well moused. Lion. Lys. And so the lion vanished. Dem. And then came Pyramus. Enter Pyramus. Pyr. Sweet Moon, I thank thee for thy sunny beams ; I thank thee, Moon, for shining now so bright ; Por, by thy gracious, golden, glittering gleams, I trust to take of truest Thisby sight. But stay, O spite ! But mark, poor knight. What dreadful dole is here ! Eyes, do you see ? How can it be ? O dainty duck ! O dear ! Thy mantle good, What, stain 'd with blood! Approach, ye Furies fell! O Fates, come, come. Cut thread and thrum ; Quail, crush, conclude, and quell ! The. This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a man look sad. Hip. Beshrew my heart, but I pity the man. Pyr. O wherefore, Nature, didst thou lions frame ? Since lion vile hath here deflower'd my dear : Which is — no, no— which was the fairest dame That lived, that loved, that liked, that look'd with cheer. Come, tears, confound ; Out, sword, and wound The pap of Pyramus ; Ay, that left pap. Where heart doth hop : [Stabs himself. Thus die I, thus, thus, thus. Now am I dead. Now am I fled ; My soul is in the sky : Tongue, lose thy light; Moon, take thy flight : [Exit Moonshine. Now die, die, die, die, die. [Dies. Dem. No die, but an ace, for him; for he is but one. Lys. Less than an ace, man ; for he is dead ; he is nothing. 148 The. With the help of a surgeon he might yet re- cover, and prove an ass. Hip. How chance Moonshine is gone before Thisbe comes back and finds her lover ? The. She will find him by starlight. Here she comes ; and her passion ends the play. Be-enter Thisbe. Hip. Methinks she should not use a long one for such a Pyramus : I hope she will be brief. Dem.. A mote will turn the balance, which Pyra- mus, which Thisbe, is the better ; he for a man, God warrant us ; she for a woman, God bless us. [eyes. Lys. She hath spied him already with those sweet Dem. And thus she means, videlicet :— This. Asleep, my love r* What, dead, my dove ? O Pyramus, arise ! Speak, speak. Quite dumb ? Dead, dead y A tomb Must cover thy sweet eyes. These lily lips, This cherry nose. These yellow cowslip cheeks, Are gone, are gone : Lovers, make moan : His eyes were green as leeks. O Sisters Three, Come, come to me. With hands as pale as milk; Lay them in gore. Since you have shore With shears his thread of silk. Tongue, not a word : Come, trusty sword ; Come, blade, my breast imbrue : [Stabs herself. And farewell, friends; Thus Thisby ends : Adieu, adieu, adieu. . [Dies. The. Moonshine and Lion are left to bury the dead. Dem. Ay, and Wall too. Bot. [Starting up] No, I assure you; the wall is down that parted their fathers. Will it please you to see the epilogue, or to hear a Bergomask dance between two of our company ? The. No epilogue, I pray you ; for your play needs no excuse. Never excuse ; for when the players are all dead, there need none to be blamed. Marry, if he that writ it had played Pyramus and handed himself in Thisbe 's garter, it would have been a fane tragedy; and so it is, truly; and very notably dis- charged. But, come, your Bergomask: let your epilogue alone. [A dance. The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve : Lovers, to bed ; 'tis almost fairy time. I fear we shall out-sleep the coming morn As much as we this night have o ver watch 'd. This palpable-gross play hath well beguiled The heavy gait of night. Sweet friends, to bed. A fortnight hold we this solemnity. In nightly revels and new jollity. [Exeunt. Enter Puck. Puck. Now the hungry lion roars. And the wolf behowls the moon ; Whilst the heavy ploughman snores. All with weary task fordone. Now the wasted brands do glow. Whilst the screech-owl, screeching loud, Puts the wretch that lies in woe In remembrance of a shroud. Now it is the time of night That the graves all gaping wide, Every one lets forth his sprite, In the church-way paths to glide : And we fairies, that do run By the triple Hecate's team, ACT V. A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. From the presence of the sun, Never mole, hare lip, nor scar. Following darkness like a dream, Nor mark prodigious, such as are Now are frolic : not a mouse Despised in nativity. Shall disturb this hallow'd house : Shall upon their children be. I am sent with broom before. With this field-dew consecrate, To sweep the dust behind the door. Every fairy take his gait ; And each several chamber bless. Enter Oberon and Titania with their train. Through this palace, with sweet peace ; Obe. Through the house give glimmering light, And the owner of it blest By the dead and drowsy tire : Ever shall in safety rest. Every elf and fairy sprite Trip away ; make no stay ; Hop as light as bird from brier; And this ditty, after me. Meet me all by break of day. [Exeunt Oberon, Titania, and train. Sing, and dance it trippingly. Tita. First, rehearse your song by rote, Puck. If we shadows have offended. Think but this, and all is mended, To each word a warbling note : That you have but slumber 'd here Hand in hand, with fairy grace, While these visions did appear. "Will we sing, and bless this place. And this weak and idle theme. [Song and dance. No more yielding but a dream, Oie. Now, imtil the break of day, Gentles, do not reprehend : Through this house each fairy stray. If you pardon, we will mend: To the best bride-bed will we. And, as I am an honest Puck, Which by us shall blessed be ; If we have unearned luck And the issue there create Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue, Ever shall be fortunate. We will make amends ere long ; So shall all the couples three Else the Puck a liar call : Ever true in loving be ; And the blots of Nature's hand So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, ShaU not in their issue stand ; And Kobin shall restore amends. [Exit. Bermia.— Out, dog ! out, cur ! thou driv'st me past the bounds Of maiden's patience. Hast thou slain him then ? Henceforth he never numbered among men I O ! once tell true, tell true, e'en for my sake; Durst thou have look'd upon him, being awake, And hast thou kill'd him sleeping ? O brave touch I Could not a worm, an adder, do so much ? An adder did it ; for with doubler tongue Than thine, thou serpent, never adder stung. Demetrius— You spend your passion on a mispris'd mood: I am not guilty of Lysander's blood. Nor is he dead, for aught that I can tell.— Act III., Scene iL 149 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. BBAMATIS PERSONS. suitors to Portia. The Duke of Venice. The Prince of Morocco, The Prince of Arragon, Antonio, a merchant of Venice. Bassanio, his friend, suitor likewise to Portia. Salanio, "1 Salarino, I „ . , . . , „ Gratiano ' "*^°"^ ^ Antonio and Bassanio. Salerio, J Lorenzo, iu love with Jessica. Shylock, a rich Jew. Tubal, a Jew, his friend. Launcelot Gobbo, the clown, servant to Shylock. servants to Portia. Old Gobbo, father to Launcelot. Leonardo, servant to Bassanio, Balthasar, Stephano, Portia, a rich Nerissa, her waiting-maid. Jessica, daughter to Shylock. Magnificoes of Venice, Officers of the Court of Jus- tice, Gaoler, Servants to Portia, and other At- tendants. SCENE — Partly at Venice, and partly at Belmont, tht seat of Portia, on the Continent. [For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page XLVll, ^OT I. SCENE I.— A street. Enter Antonio, Salarino, and Salanio. Ant. In sooth, 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 't is made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn ; And such a want-wit sadness makes of me. That I have much ado to know myself. Solar. Your miad is tossing on the ocean ; There, where your argosies with portly sail, Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood, Or, as it were, the pageants of the sea, Do overpeer the petty traffickers, That curtsy to them, do them reverence. As they fly by them with their woven wings. Salan. Believe me, sir, liad I such venture forth. The better part of my affections would Be with my hopes abroad. I 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 Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt Would make me sad. Salar. My wind cooling my broth "Would blow me to an ague, when I thought What harm a wind too great at sea might do. I 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 see the holy edifice of stone, And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks. Which touching but my gentle vessel's side. Would scatter all her spices on the 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 bechanced 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, 150 My ventures are not in one bottom trusted, Nor to one place ; nor is my whole estate Upon the fortune of this present year : Therefore my merchandise makes me not sad. Salar. Why, then you are in love. Ant. Fie, fie ! Salar. Not in love neither? Then let us say you are sad. Because you are not merry : and 't were as easy For you to laugh and leap and say you are merry. Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed Janus, Nature hath framed 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 '11 not show their teeth in way of smile. Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable. Enter Bassanio, Lorenzo, and Gratiano. Salan. Here comes Bassanio, your most noble G-ratiano and Lorenzo. Fare ye well : [kinsman. We leave you now with better company. [merry, Salar. I would have stay'd till I had made you 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 ? You grow exceeding strange : must it be so ? Salar. We' 11 make our leisures to attend on yours. [Exeunt Salarino and Salanio. Lor. My Lord Bassanio, since you 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 changed. Ant. I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano ; A stage where every man must play a part, And mine a sad one. ACT I. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. SCENE II. Gra. Let me play the fool : With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come, And let my liver rather heat with wine Thau my heart cool with mortifying groans. 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 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 ! ' my Antonio, I do know of these That therefore only are reputed wise For saying nothing, when, I am very sure. If they should speak, would almost damn those ears Which, hearing them, would call their brothers 1 '11 tell thee more of this another time : [fools. But fish not, with this melancholy bait, For this fool gudgeon, this opinion. Come, good Lorenzo. Fare ye well awhUe : I '11 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. Gra. Well, keep me company but two years moe. Thou Shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue. Ant. Farewell : I '11 grow a talker for this gear. Gra. Thanks, i' faith, for silence is only com- mendable In a neat's tongue dried and a maid not vendible. [Exeunt Gratiano and 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 chaff : 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 the same To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage. That you to-day promised to tell me of ? Bass. 'T is 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 abridged From such a noble rate ; but my chief care Is to come fairly off from the great debts Wherein my time something too prodigal Hath left me gaged. To you, Antonio, I 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 of all the debts I owe. Ant. I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it; And if it stand, as you yourself still do, Within the eye of honour, be assured. My purse, my person, my extremest means. Lie all unlock'd to your occasions. Bass. In my school-days, when I had lost one I shot his fellow of the self -same flight [shaft, The self -same way with more advised watch. To find the other forth, and by adventuring both I oft found both : I urge this childhood proof. Because what follows is pure innocence. I owe you much, and, like a wilful youth That which I owe is lost ; but if you \ " To shoot another arrow that self way Which you did shoot the first, I do not doubt. As I win watch the aim, or to find both Or bring your latter hazard back again And thankfully rest debtor for the first. [time Ant. You know me well, and herein spend but 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 unto it : therefore, speak. Bass. In Belmont is a lady richly left ; And she is fair and, fairer than that word. Of wondrous virtues : sometimes from her eyes I did receive fair speechless messages : Her name is Portia, nothing undervalued To Cato's daughter, Brutus' Portia: Kor 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. 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 ! Ant. Thou know'st that all my fortunes are at sea ; JSTeither 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. [Exeunt. SCENE II. — Belmont. A room in Portia'' s house. Enter Portia and Nerissa. For. By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary of this great world. Ner. You 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. For. Good sentences and well pronounced. Ner. They would be better, if well followed. For. 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 o'er 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 curbed 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 : there- fore 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 shall rightly love. But what warmth is there in your affection towards any of these princely suitors that are already come ? For. I pray thee, over-name them ; and as thou namest them, I will describe them ; and, according to my description, level at my affection. Ner. First, there is the Neapolitan prince. For. Ay, that 's a colt indeed, for he doth nothing but talk of his horse ; and he makes it a great ap- propriation to his own good parts, that he can shoe 151 CT I. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. SCENE III. him himself. I am much af eard my lady his mother played false with a smith. JVer. Then there is the County Palatine. For. He doth nothing but frown, as who should say ' If you 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. God defend me from these two ! Ner. How say you by the French lord, Monsieur Le Bon V For. God made him, and therefore let him pass for a man. In truth, I know it is a sin to be a mocker : but, he ! why, he hath a horse better than the Neapolitan's, a better bad habit of frowning than the Count Palatine; he is every man in no man ; if a throstle sing, he falls straight a capering : he will fence with his own shadow : if I should marry him, I should marry twenty husbands. If he would despise me, I would forgive him, for if he love me to madness, I shall never requite him. Ner. What say you, then, to Falconbridge, the young baron of England ? For. You know I say nothing to him, for he un- derstands not me, nor I him : he hath neither Latin, French, nor Italian, and you will come into the court and swear that I have a poor pennyworth in the English. He is a proper man's picture, but, alas, who can converse with a dumb-show ? How oddly he is suited ! I think he bought his doublet in Italy, his round hose in France, his bonnet in Germany and his behaviour every where. Ner. What think you of the Scottish lord, his neighbour ? For. That he hath a neighbourly charity in him, for he borrowed a box of the ear of the Englishman and swore he would pay him again when he was able : I think the Frenchman became his surety and sealed under for another. Ner. How like you the young German, the Duke of Saxony's nephew? For. Very vilely in the morning, when he is sober, and most vilely in the afternoon, when he is drunk : when he is best, he is a little worse than a man, and when he is worst, he is little better than a beast: an the worst fall that ever fell, I hope I shall make shift to go without him. Ner. If he should offer to choose, and choose the right casket, you should refuse to perform your father's will, if you should refuse to accept him. For. Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee, set a deep glass of rhenish wine on the contrary casket, for if the devil be within and that tempta- tion without, I know he will choose it. I will do any thing, Nerissa, ere I '11 be married to a sponge. Ner. You need not fear, lady, the having any of these lords; they 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. For. If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I will 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 God grant them a fair departure. Ner. Do you not remember, lady, in your father's time, a Venetian, a scholar and a soldier, that came hither in company of the Marquis of Montferrat ? For. Yes, yes, it was Bassanio ; as I think, he was 80 called. Ner. True, madam : he, of all the men that ever my foolish eyes looked upon, was the best deserving a fair lady. 152 For. I remember him well, and I remember him worthy of thy praise. Enter a Serving -man. How now ! what news V Serv. The four strangers seek for you, madam, to take their leave: and there is a forerunner come from a fifth, the Prince of Morocco, who brings word the prince his master will be here to-night. For. If I could bid the fifth welcome with so good a heart as I can bid the other four farewell, I should be glad of his approach : if he have the condition of a saint and the complexion of a devil, I had rather he should shrive me than wive me. Come, Nerissa. Sirrah, go before. Whiles we shut the gates upon one wooer, another knocks at the door. [Exeunt. SCENE III. — Venice. A public place. Enter Bassanio and Shylock. Shy. Three thousand ducats ; well. Bass. Ay, sir, for three months. Shy. For three months; well. [be bound. Bass. For the which, as I told you, Antonio shall Shy. Antonio shall become bound ; well. Bass. May you stead me ? will you pleasure me ? shall I know your answer ? Shy. Three thousand ducats for three months and Antonio bound. Bass. Your answer to that. Shy. Antonio is a good man. [trary ? Bass. Have you heard any imputation to the con- Shy. Oh, 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 supposi- tion : he hath an argosy bound to Tripolis, another to the Indies; I understand, moreover, upon the Rialto, he hath a third at Mexico, a fourth for England, and other ventures he hath, squandered abroad. But ships are but boards, sailors but men: there be land-rats and water-rats, water- thieves and land-thieves, I mean pirates, and then there is the peril of waters, winds and rocks. The man is, notwithstanding, sufficient. Three thou- sand ducats ; I think I may take his bond. Bass. Be assured you may. Shy. I will be assured I may; and, that I may be assured, I will bethink me. May I speak with An- Bass. If it please you to dine with us. [tonio ? Shy. Yes, to smell pork ; to eat of the habitation which your prophet the Nazarite conjured the devil into. I will buy with you, sell with you, talk with you, walk with you, and so following, but 1 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. [looks! Shy. [Aside] How like a fawning publican he 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 tliousand ducats. What of that ? Tubal, a wealthy Hebrew of my tribe, ACT II. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. SCENE I. Will furnish me. But soft ! how many months Do you desire? [To Ant.'] Rest you fair, good signior; Your worsliip was the last man in our mouths. Ant. Shylock, altliough I neither lend nor borrow By taking nor by giving of i Yet, to supply the ripe wants of my friend, 1 'U break a custom. Is he yet possess 'd How much ye 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. When Jacob grazed his uncle Laban's sheep— This Jacob from our holy Abram was, As his wise mother wrought in his behalf. The third possessor ; ay, he was the third— Ant. And what of him ? did he take interest ? Shy. No, not take interest, not, as you would say, Directly interest : mark what Jacob did. When Laban and himself were compromised That all the eanlings which were streak 'd and pied Should fall as Jacob's hire, the ewes, being rank, In the end of autumn turned to the rams, And, when the work of generation was Between these woolly breeders in the act, The skilful shepherd peel'd me certain wands And, in the doing of the deed of kind, He stuck them up before the fulsome ewes. Who then conceiving did in eaning time Fall parti-colour 'd lambs, and those were Jacob's. This was a way to thrive, and he was blest : And thrift is blessing, if men steal it not. [for ; Ant. This was a venture, sir, that Jacob served A thing not in his power to bring to pass, But sway'd and fashion'd by the hand of heaven. Was this inserted to make interest good ? Or is your gold and silver ewes and rams ? Shy. I cannot tell ; I make it breed as fast : But note me, signior. Ant. Mark you this, Bassanio, The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose. An evil soul producing holy witness Is like a villain with a smiling cheek, A goodly apple rotten at the heart : O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath ! [sum. Shy. Three thousand ducats ; 't is a good rormd Three months from twelve ; then, let me see ; the rate — Ant. Well, Shylock, shall we be beholding to you ? Shy. Signior Antonio, many a time and oft In the Rialto you have rated me About my moneys 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 moneys : ' you say so ; You, that did void your rheum upon my beard And foot me as you spurn a stranger cur Over your threshold: moneys is your suit. What should I say to you ? 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 bondman'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 '11 lend you thus much moneys ' ? Ant. I 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 ? But lend it rather to thine enemy. Who, if he break, thou mayst 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 moneys, and you 'U not hear me: This is kind I offer. Bass. 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. Ant. Content, i' faith : I '11 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 '11 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 Abram, 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 favour, 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, Shylock, 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 with you. Ant. Hie thee, gentle Jew. [Exit Shylock. The Hebrew will turn Christian : he grows kind. Bass. I like not 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, -A.CT II. SCENE I. — Belmont. A room in Portia^s house. Flourish of cornets. Enter the Prince of Morocco and his train; Portia, Nerissa, and others attending. Mor. Mislike me not for my complexion. The shadow 'd livery of the burnish 'd sun, To whom I am a neighbour and near bred. Bring me the fairest creature northward born, Where Phoebus' fire scarce thaws the icicles. And let us make incision for your love. To prove whose blood is reddest, his or mine. I tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine 153 ACT II. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. SCENE II. Hath fear'd the valiant : by my love, I swear The best-regarded virgins of onr clime Have loved it too : I would not change this hue, Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen. For. In terms of choice I am not solely led By nice direction of a maiden's eyes ; Besides, the lottery of my destiny Bars me the right of voluntary choosing : But if my father had not scanted me And hedged me by his wit, to yield myself His wife who wins me by that means I told you, Yourself, renowned prince, then stood as fair As any comer I have look'd on yet For my affection. Mot. Even for that I thank you : Therefore, I pray you, lead me to the caskets To try my fortune. By this scimitar That slew the Sophy and a Persian prince That won three fields of Sultan Solyman, 1 would outstare the sternest eyes that look. Outbrave the heart most daring on the earth, iPluck the young sucking cubs from the she-bear, Yea, mock the lion when he roars for prey, To win thee, lady. But, alas the while ! If Hercules and Lichas play at dice Which is the better man, the greater throw May turn by fortune from the weaker hand : So is Alcides beaten by his page ; And so may I, blind fortune leading me, Miss that which one unworthier may attain, And die with grieving. For. You must take your chance. And either not attempt to choose at all Or swear before you choose, if you choose wrong Never to speak to lady afterward In way of marriage : therefore be advised. Mor. Nor will not. Come, bring me unto my chance. For. First, forward to the temple : after dinner Your hazard shall be made. Mor. Good fortune then ! To make me blest or cursed'st among men. [Cornets, and exeunt. SCENE II. — Venice. A street. Enter Launcelot. Laun. Certainly my conscience will serve me to run from this Jew my master. The fiend is at mine elbow and tempts me saying to me ' Gobbo, Launcelot Gobbo, good Launcelot,' or ' good Gob- bo,' or 'good Launcelot Gobbo, use your legs, take the start, run away.' My conscience says 'No; take heed, honest Launcelot; take heed, honest Gobbo,' or, as aforesaid, ' honest Launcelot Gobbo ; do not run; scorn running with thy heels.' Well, the most courageous fiend bids me pack : ' Via ! ' says the fiend ; ' away ! ' says the fiend ; ' for the heavens, rouse up a brave mind,' says the fiend, 'and run.' Well, my conscience, hanging about the neck of my heart, says very wisely to me ' My honest friend Launcelot, being an honest man's son,' or rather an honest woman's son; for, indeed, my father did something smack, something grow to, he had a kind of taste; well, my conscience says, 'Launcelot, budge not.' 'Budge,' says the fiend. ' Budge not,' says my conscience. ' Con- science,' say I, ' you counsel well; ' ' Fiend,' say I, ' you counsel well : ' to be ruled by my conscience, I should stay with the Jew my master, who, God bless the mark, is a kind of devil; and, to run away from the Jew, I should be ruled by the fiend, who, saving yom- reverence, is the devil himself. Cer- tainly the Jew is the very devil incarnal ; and, in my conscience, my conscience is but a kind of hard conscience, to offer to counsel me to stay with the Jew. The fiend gives the more friendly counsel : I 154 will run, fiend; my heels are at your command; I will run. ^ Enter old Gobbo, with a i Goi. Master young man, you, I pray you, which is the way to master Jew's ? Laun. [Aside] O heavens, this is my true-begotten father! who, being more than sand-blind, high- gravel blind, knows me not : I will try confusions with him. Gob. Master young gentleman, I pray you, which is the way to master Jew's ? Laun. Turn up on your right hand at the next turning, but, at the next turning of all, on your left ; marry, at the very next turning, turn of no , hand, but turn down indirectly to the Jew's house. Gob. By God's sonties, 'twill be a hard way to hit. Can you tell me whether one Launcelot, that dwells with him, dwell with him or no ? Laun. Talk you of young Master Launcelot? [Aside] Mark me now; now will I raise the waters. Talk you of young Master Launcelot ? Gob. No master, sir, but a poor man's son : his father, though I say it, is an honest exceeding poor man and, God be thanked, well to live. Laun. Well, let his father be what a' will, we talk of young Master Launcelot. Gob. Your worship's friend and Launcelot, sir. Laun. But I pray you, ergo, old man, ergo, I be- seech you, talk you of young Master Launcelot ? Gob. Of Launcelot, an 't please your mastership. Laun. Ergo, Master Launcelot. Talk not of Mas- ter Launcelot, father; for the young gentleman, according to Fates and Destinies and such odd sayings, the Sisters Three and such branches of learning, is indeed deceased, or, as you would say in plain terms, gone to heaven. Gob. Marry, Good forbid ! the boy was the very- staff of my age, my very prop. Laun. Do I look like a cudgel or a hovel-post, a staff or a prop ? Do you know me, father ? Gob. Alack the day, I know you not, young gen- tleman : but, I pray you, tell me, is my boy, God rest his soul, alive or dead ? Laun. Do you not know me, father ? Gob. Alack, sir, I am sand-blind; I know you not. Laun. Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you might fail of the knowing me : it is a wise father that knows his own child. Well, old man, I will tell you news of your son : give me your blessing : truth will come to light; murder cannot be hid long ; a man's son may, but at the length truth will out. Gob. Pray you, sir, stand up : I am sure you are not Launcelot, my boy. Laun. Pray you, let's have no more fooling about it, but give me your blessing: I am Launcelot, your boy that was, yoirr son that is, your child that shall be. Gob. I cannot think you are my son. Laun. I know not what I shall think of that : but I am Launcelot, the Jew's man, and I am sure Margery your wife is my mother. 6ro6. Her name is Margery, indeed: I'll be sworn, if thou be Launcelot, thou art mine own flesh and blood. Lord worshipped miglit he be ! what a beard hast thou got ! thou hast got more hair on thy chin than Dobbin my fill-horse has on his tail. Laun. It should seem, then, that Dobbin's tail grows backward : I am sure he had more hair of his tail than I have of my face when I last saw him. Gob. Lord, how art thou changed! How dost thou and thy master agree ? I have brought him a present. How 'gree you now ? Laun. Well, well : but, for mine own part, as I have set up my rest to rim away, so I will not rest ACT II. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. iCENE IV, till I have ruii some ground. My master 's a very Jew : give him a present ! give him a halter : I am famished in his service ; you may tell every finger I have with my ribs. Father, I am glad you are come : give me your present to one Master Bassa- nio, who, indeed, gives rare new liveries : if I serve not him, I will run as far as God has any ground. O rare fortune ! here comes the man : to him, father ; for I am a Jew, if I serve the Jew any longer. Enter Bassanio, with Leonardo and other fol- lowers. Bass. You may do so ; but let it be so hasted that supper be ready at the farthest by five of the clock. See these letters delivered; put the liveries to making, and desire Gratiano to come anon to my loclging. [Exit a Servant. Laun. To him, father. Gob. God bless your worship ! Bass. Gramerey ! wouldst thou aught with me ? Oob. Here 's my son, sir, a poor boy, — Laun. Not a poor boy, sir, but the rich Jew's man; that would, sir, as my father shall specify — Gob. He hath a great infection, sir, as one would •say, to serve,— Laun. Indeed, the short and the long is, I serve the Jew, and have a desire, as my father shall specify — Gob. His master and he, saving your worship's reverence, are scarce cater-cousins — Laun. To be brief, the very truth is that the Jew, having done me wrong, doth cause me, as my father, being, I hope, an old man, shall frutify unto you — Gob. I have here a dish of doves that I would be- stow upon your worship, and my suit is — Laun. In very brief, the suit is impertinent to my- self, as your worship shall know by this honest old man ; and, though I say it, though old man, yet poor man, my father. Bass. One speak for both. What would you ? Laun. Serve you, sir. Gob. That is the very defect of the matter, sir. Bass. I know thee well ; thou hast obtain 'd thy Shylock thy master spoke with me this day, [suit : And hath preferr'd thee, if it be preferment To leave a rich Jew's service, to become The follower of so poor a gentleman. Laun. The old proverb is very well parted between my master Shylock and you, sir : you have the grace of God, sir, and he hath enough. [son. Bass. Thou speak'st it well. Go, father, with thy Take leave of thy old master and inquire My lodging out. Give him a livery More guarded than his fellows' : see it done. Laun. Father, m. I cannot get a service, no ; I have ne'er a tongue in my head. Well, if any man in Italy have a fairer table which doth offer to swear upon a book, I shall have good fortune. Go to, here 's a simple line of life : here 's a small trifle of wives : alas, fifteen wives is nothing ! eleven widows and nine maids is a simple coming-in for one man : and then to 'scape drowning thrice, and to be in peril of my life with the edge of a feather-bed ; here are simple scapes. Well, if Fortune be a woman, she 's a good wench for this gear. Father, come ; I '11 take my leave of the Jew in the twinkling of an eye. {Exeunt Launcelot and old Gobbo. Bass. I pray thee, good Leonardo, think on this : These things being bought and orderly bestow'd, Return in haste, for I do feast to-night My best-esteem 'd acquaintance : hie thee, go. Leon. My best endeavours shall be done herein. Enter Gratiano. Gra. Where is your master ? Leon. Yonder, sir, he walks. Gra. Signior Bass. Gratiano! [Exit. Gra. 1 have a suit to you. Bass. You have obtain'd it. Gra. You must not deny me : I must go with you to Belmont. [tiano ; Bass. Why, then you must. But hear thee, Gra- Thou art too wild, too rude and bold of voice ; Parts that become thee happily enough And in such eyes as ours appear not faults ; [show But where thou art not known, why, where they Something too liberal. Pray thee, take pain To allay with some cold drops of modesty Thy skipping spirit, lest through thy wild behaviour I be misconstrued in the place I go to And lose my hopes. Gra. Signior Bassanio, hear me ; If I do not put on a sober habit, Talk with respect and swear but now and then, Wear prayer-books in my pocket, look demurely, Nay more, while grace is saying, hood mine eyes Thus with my hat, and sigh and say ' amen,' Use all the observance of civility, Like one well studied in a sad ostent To please his grandam, never trust me more. Bass. Well, we shall see your bearing. [me Gra. Nay, but I bar to-night: you shall not gauge By what we do to-night. Bass. No , that were pity : I would entreat you rather to put on Your boldest suit of mirth, for we have friends That purpose merriment. But fare you well : I have some business. Gra. And I must to Lorenzo and the rest : But we will visit you at supper-time. [Exeunt. SCENE III. — The same. A room in Shylock^s house. Enter Jessica and Launcelot. Jes. I am sorry thou wilt leave my father so : Our house is hell, and thou, a merry devil. Didst rob it of some taste of tediousness. But fare thee well, there is a ducat for thee : And, Launcelot, soon at supper shalt thou see Lorenzo, who is thy new master's guest : Give him this letter ; do it secretly ; And so farewell : I would not have my father See me in talk with thee. Laun. Adieu ! tears exhibit my tongue. Most beau- tiful pagan, most sweet Jew ! if a Christian did not play the knave and get thee, I am much deceived. But, adieu : these foolish drops do something drown my manly spirit : adieu. Jes. Farewell, good Launcelot. [Exit Launcelot. Alack, what heinous sin is it in me To be ashamed to be my father's child ! But though I am a daughter to his blood, I am not to his manners. O Lorenzo, If thou keep promise, I shall end this strife, Become a Christian and thy loving wife. [Exit. SCENE IV.— Tlie same. A street. Enter Gratiano, Lorenzo, Salarino, and Salanio. Lor. Nay, we will slink away in supper-time, Disguise us at my lodging and return. All in an hour. Gra. We have not made good preparation. Salar. We have not spoke us yet of torch-bearers. Salan. 'T is vile, unless it may be quaintly order'd. And better in my mind not undertook. [hours Lor. 'Tis now but four o'clock: we have two To furnish us. Enter Launcelot, with a letter. Friend Launcelot, what 's the news ? Laun. An it shall please you to break up this, it shall seem to signify. 155 ACT II. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. scene vi. Lor. I know the hand : in faith 't is a fair hand ; And whiter than the paper it writ on Is the fair hand that writ. Gra. Love-news, in faith. Laun. By your leave, sir. Lor. Whither goest tliou ? Laun. Marry, sir, to bid my old master the Jew to sup to-night with my new master the Christian. Lor. Hold here, take this : tell gentle Jessica I will not fail her ; speak it privately. Go, gentlemen, [Mcit Launcelot. Will you prepare you for this masque to-night ? I am provided of a torch-bearer. Salar. Ay, marry, I '11 be gone about it straight. Salayi. And so will 1. Lor. Meet me and Gratiano At Gratiano's lodging some hour hence. Salar. 'T is good we do so. [Exeunt Salar. and Salan. Gra. Was not that letter from fair Jessica ? Lor. I must needs tell thee all. She hath directed How I shall take her from her father's house, What gold and jewels she is furnish 'd with, What page's suit she hath in readiness. If ere the Jew her father come to heaven, It will be for his gentle daughter's sake : And never dare misfortune cross her foot. Unless she do it under this excuse. That she is issue to a faithless Jew. Come, go with me ; peruse this as thou goest : Fair Jessica shall be my torch-bearer. [Exeunt. SCENE V. — The same. Before Shylock's house. Enter Shylock and Launcelot. Shy. Well, thou shalt see, thy eyes shall be thy judge, The difference of old Shylock and Bassanio : — What, Jessica!— thou shalt not gormandize. As thou hast done with me : — What, Jessica ! — And sleep and snore, and rend apparel out ; — Why, Jessica, I say ! Laun. Why, Jessica ! Shy. Who bids thee call ? I do not bid thee call. Laun. Your worship was wont to tell me that I could do nothing without bidding. Enter Jessica. Jes. Call you ? what is your will ? 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 '11 go in hate, to feed upon The prodigal Christian. Jessica, my girl. Look to my house. I am right loath to go : There is some ill a-brewing towards my rest, For I did dream of money-bags to-night. Laun. I beseech you, sir, go : my young master doth expect your reproach. Shy. So do I his. Laun. An they have conspired together, I will not say you shall 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 squealing of the wry-neck'd fife. Clamber not you up to the casements then, Nor thrust your head into the public street To gaze on Christian fools with varnish'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 have no mind of feasting forth to-night : 156 But I will go. Go you before me, sirrah ; Say I will come. Laun. 1 will go before, sir. Mistress, look out at window, for all this ; There will come a Christian by. Will be worth a Jewess' eye. [Exit. Shy. What says that fool of Hagar's offspring, ha ';* [else. Jes. His words were ' Farewell mistress ; ' nothing 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: 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. SCENE VI. — The same. Enter Gratiano and Salarino, masqued. Gra. This is the pent-house under which Lorenzo Desired us to make stand. Salar. His hour is almost past. Gra. And it is marvel he out-dwells his hour. For lovers ever run before the clock. Salar. O, ten times faster Venus' pigeons fly To seal love's bonds new-made, than they are wont To keep obliged faith unf orf eited ! Gra. That ever holds : who riseth from a feast With that keen appetite that he sits down ? Where is the horse that doth untread again His tedious measures with the unbated fire That he did pace them first ? All things that are, Are with more spirit chased than enjoy'd. How like a younker or a prodigal The scarfed bark puts from her native bay, Hugg'd and embraced by the strumpet wind I How like the prodigal doth she return. With over-weather'd ribs and ragged sails, Lean, rent and beggar 'd by the strumpet wind ! Salar. Here comes Lorenzo : more of this here- after. „ ^ ^ Enter Lorenzo. Lor. Sweet friends, your patience for my long Not I, but my affairs, have made you wait : [abode ; When you shall please to play the thieves for wives, I 'U watch as long for you then. Approach ; Here dwells my father Jew. Ho ! who 's within ? Enter Jessica, above, in ioy^s clothes. Jes. Who are you ? Tell me, for more certainty, Albeit I '11 swear that I do know your tongue. Lor. Lorenzo, and thy love. Jes. Lorenzo, certain, and my love indeed. For who love I so much ? And now who knows But you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours ? [thou art. Lor. Heaven and thy thoughts are witness that Jes. Here, catch this casket; it is worth the I am glad 't is night, you do not look on me, [pains. For I am much ashamed of my exchange : But love is blind and lovers cannot see The pretty follies that themselves commit ; For if they could, Cupid himself would blush To see me thus transformed to a boy. Lor. Descend, for you must be my torch-bearer. Jes. What, must I hold a candle to my shames ? They in themselves, good sooth, are too too light. Why, 't is an office of discovery, love ; And I should be obscured. Lor. So are you, Even in the lovely garnish of a boy. But come at once : ACT THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. scene viii. For the close night doth play the runaway, And we are stay'd for at Bassanio's feast. Jes. I will make fast the doors, and gild myself With some more ducats, and be with you straight. \_Exit above. Gra. Now, by my hood, a Gentile and no Jew. Lor. Beshrew me but I love her heartily ; For she is wise, if I can judge of her, •And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true, And true she is, as she hath proved herself. And therefore, like herself, wise, fair and true, Shall she be placed in my constant soul. Enter Jessica, helow. What, art thou come ? On, gentlemen ; away ! bur masquing mates by this time for us stay. [Exit with Jessica and Salarino. Enter Antonio. Ant. "Who's there? Gra. Signior Antonio ! Ant. Fie, fie, Gratiano ! where are all the rest ? "T is nine o'clock : our friends all stay for you. No masque to-night : the wind is come about ; .Bassanio presently will go aboard : I have sent twenty out to seek for you. Gra. I am glad on 't : I desire no more delight Than to be under sail and gone to-night. [Exeunt. SCENE VII. — Belmont. A room in Portia''s hause. Flourish of cornets. Enter Portia, with the Prince of Morocco, and their trains. For. Go draw aside the curtains and discover The several caskets to this noble prince. Now make your choice. Mor. The first, of gold, who this inscription bears, ' "Who chooseth me shall gain what many men de- sire ; ' The second, silver, which this promise carries, ' Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves ;' This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt, ' Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath. ' How shall I know if I do choose the right ? For. The one of them contains my picture, prince : If you choose that, then I am yours withal. [see ; Mor. Some god direct my judgment! Let me I will survey the inscriptions back again. What says this leaden casket ? [hath. ' 'Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he Must give : for what ? for lead ? hazard for lead ? This casket threatens. Men that hazard all Do it in hope of fair advantages : A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross ; I '11 then nor give nor hazard aught for lead. What says the silver with her virgin hue ? ' Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves. ' As much as he deserves! Pause there, Morocco, And weigh thy value with an even hand : If thou be'st rated by thy estimation. Thou dost deserve enough ; and yet enough May not extend so far as to the lady : And yet to be afeard of my deserving Were but a weak disabling of myself. As much as I deserve ! Why, that 's the lady : I do in birth deserve her, and in fortunes, In graces and in qualities of breeding ; But more than these, in love I do deserve. What if I stray'd no further, but chose here ? Let 's see once more this saying graved in gold ; ' Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.' Why, that 's the lady ; all the world desires her ; From the four corners of the earth they come, To kiss this shrine, this mortal-breathing saint : The Hyrcanian deserts and the vasty wilds Of wide Arabia are as throughf ares now For princes to come view fair Portia : The watery kingdom, whose ambitious head Spits in the face of heaven, is no bar To stop the foreign spirits, but they come, As o'er a brook, to see fair Portia. One of these three contains her heavenly picture. Is 't like that lead contains her ? 'T were damnation To think so base a thought : it were too gross To rib her cerecloth in the obscure grave. Or shall I think in silver she 's immured. Being ten times undervalued to tried gold ? sinful thought ! Never so rich a gem Was set in worse than gold. They have in England A coin that bears the figure of an angel Stamped in gold, but that 's insculp'd upon ; But here an angel in a golden bed Lies all within. Deliver me the key : Here do I choose, and thrive I as I may ! [there, For. There, take it, prince; and if my form lie Then I am yours. [He unlocks the golden casket. Mor. O hell ! what have we here ? A carrion Death, within whose empty eye There is a written scroll ! I '11 read the writing. [Beads] All that glisters is not gold ; Often have you heard that told : Many a man his life hath sold But my outside to behold : Gilded tombs do worms infold. Had you been as wise as bold, Young in limbs, in judgment old. Your answer had not been inscroll'd : Fare you well ; your suit is cold. Cold, indeed ; and labour lost : Then, farewell, heat, and welcome, frost ! Portia, adieu. I have too grieved a heart To take a tedious leave : thus losers part. [Exit with his train. Flourish of cornets. For. A gentle riddance. Draw the curtains, go. Let all of his complexion choose me so. [Exeunt. SCENE VIII.— Femce. A street. Enter Salarino and Salanio. Salar. Why, man, I saw Bassanio imder sail : With him is Gratiano gone along ; And in their ship I am sure Lorenzo is not. Salan. The villain Jew with outcries raised the duke, Who went with him to search Bassanio's ship. Salar. He came too late, the ship was under sail : But there the duke was given to imderstand That in a gondola were seen together Lorenzo and his amorous Jessica : Besides, Antonio certified the duke They were not with Bassanio in his ship. Salan. 1 never heard a passion so confused, So strange, outrageous, and so variable. As the dog Jew did utter in the streets : ' My daughter ! O my ducats ! O my daughter ! Fled with a Christian ! O my Christian ducats ! Justice ! the law ! my ducats, and my daughter! A sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats. Of double ducats, stolen from me by my daughter! And jewels, two stones, two rich and precious stones. Stolen by my daughter ! Justice ! find the girl ; She hath the stones upon her, and the ducats.' Salar. Why, all the boys in Venice follow him, Crying, his stones, his daughter, and his ducats. Salan. Let good Antonio look he keep his day, Or he shall pay for this. Salar. Marry, well remember'd. 1 reason'd with a Frenchman yesterday. Who told me, in the narrow seas that part The French and English, there miscarried A vessel of our country richly fraught : I thought upon Antonio when he told me ; And wish'd in silence that it were not his. 157 ACT II. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. SCENE IX. Solan. You were best to tell Antonio what you hear ; Yet do not suddenly, for it may grieve him. Solar. A kinder gentleman treads not the earth. I saw Bassanio and Antonio part : Bassanio told him he would make some speed Of his return : he answer'd, ' Do not so; Slubber not business for my sake, Bassanio, But stay the very riping of the time ; And for the Jew's bond which he hath of me, Let it not enter in your mind of love : Be merry, and employ your chiefest thoughts To courtship and such fair ostents of love As shall conveniently become you there:' And even there, his eye being big with tears, Turning his face, he put his hand behind him, And with affection wondrous sensible He wrung Bassanio's hand ; and so they parted. Solan. I think he only loves the world for him. I pray thee, let us go and find him out And quicken his embraced heaviaess With some delight or other. Solar. Do we so. [Exeuyit. SCENE IX. — Belmont. A room in Portions house. Enter Nerissa with a Servitor. Ifer. Quick, quick, I pray thee ; draw the curtain straight : The Prince of Arragon hath ta'en his oath. And comes to his election presently. Flourish of cornets. Enter the Prince of Arragon, Portia, and their trains. For. Behold, there stand the caskets, noble prince : If you choose that wherein I am contain'd. Straight shall our nuptial rites be solemnized : But if you fail, without more speech, my lord, You must be gone from hence immediately. Ar. I am enjoin 'd by oath to observe three things : Pirst, never to unfold to any one Which casket 't was I chose ; next, if I fail Of the right casket, never in my life To woo a maid in way of marriage : Lastly, If I do fail in fortune of my choice. Immediately to leave you and be gone. For. To these injunctions every one doth swear That comes to hazard for my worthless self. Ar. And so have I address'd me. Fortune now To my heart's hope ! Gold ; silver ; and base lead. * Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath. ' You shall look fairer, ere I give or hazard. What says tlie golden chest ? ha ! let me see : ' Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire. ' What many men desire ! that ' many ' may be meant By the fool multitude, that choose by show, Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach ; Which pries not to the interior, but, like the martlet. Builds in the weather on the outward wall. Even in the force and road of casualty. I will not choose what many men desire. Because I will not jump with common spirits And rank me with the barbarous multitudes. Why, then to thee, thou silver treasure-house; Tell me once more what title thou dost bear : ' Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves :' And well said too ; for who shall go about To cozen fortune and be honourable Without the stamp of merit ? Let none presume To wear an undeserved dignity. 158 O, that estates, degrees and offices Were not derived corruptly, and that clear honour Were purchased by the merit of the wearer ! How many then should cover tliat stand bare ! How many be commanded that command ! How much low peasantry would then be glean'd From the true seed of honour I and how much honour Pick'd from the chaff and ruin of the times To be new-varnish'd ! Well, but to my choice : ' Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.' I will assume desert. Give me a key for this. And instantly unlock my fortunes here. [He opens the silver casket. For. Too long a pause for that which you find there. Ar. What 's here ? the portrait of a blinking idiot, Presenting me a schedule ! I will read it. How much unlike art thou to Portia ! How much unlike my hopes and my deservings ! ' Who chooseth me shall have as much as he de- Did I deserve no more than a fool's head ? Is that my prize ? are my deserts no better ? For. To offend, and judge, are distinct offices And of opposed natures. Ar. What is here ? [Beads] The fire seven times tried this : Seven times tried that judgment is, That did never choose amiss. Some there be that shadows kiss; Such have but a shadow's bliss: There be fools alive, I wis, Silver'd o'er ; and so was this. Take what wife you will to bed, I will ever be your head : So be gone : you are sped. Still more fool I shall appear By the time I linger here : With one fool's head I came to woo, But I go away with two. Sweet, adieu. I '11 keep my oath. Patiently to bear my wroth. [Exeunt Arragon and tram. For. Thus hath the candle singed the moth. O, these deliberate fools ! when they do choose, They have the wisdom by their wit to lose. JVer. The ancient saying is no heresy. Hanging and wiving goes by destiny. For. Come, draw the curtain, Nerissa. Miter a Servant. Serv. Where is my lady ? For. Here : what would my lord ? Serv. Madam, there is alighted at your gate A yoimg Venetian, one that comes before To signify the approaching of his lord ; From whom he bringeth sensible regreets. To wit, besides commends and com-teous breath, Gifts of rich value. Yet I have not seen So likely an ambassador of love : A day in April never came so sweet, To show how costly summer was at hand, As this fore-spurrer comes before his lord. For. No more, I pray thee : I am half afeard Thou wilt say anon he is some kin to thee. Thou spend 'st such high-day wit in praising him. Come, come, Nerissa : for I long to see Quick Cupid's post that comes so mannerly. JVer. Bassanio, lord Love, if thy will it be! [Eoceunt. ACT III. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. SCENE II. ^OT III. SCENE I.— Femce. A Enter Salanio and Salarino. Salan. Now, what news on the Eialto ? Salar. Why, yet it lives there unchecked that Antonio hath a ship of rich lading wrecked on the narrow seas ; the Goodwins, I think they call the place; a very dangerous flat and fatal, where the carcases of many a tall ship lie buried, as they say, if my gossip Eeport be an honest woman of her word. Salan. I would she were as lying a gossip in that as ever knapped ginger or made her neighbours be- lieve she wept for the death of a third husband. But it is true, without any slips of prolixity 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 sayest thou ? Why, the end is, he hath lost a ship. Salar. I would it might prove the end of his Salan. Let me say ' amen ' betimes, lest the devil cross my prayer, for here he comes in the likeness of a Jew, _, „, , , Enter Shylock. How now, Shylock! what news among the mer- chants ? Shy. You knew, none so well, none so well as you, of my daughter'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 fledged ; and then it is the complexion of them all to leave the dam. Sky. She is damned for it. Salar. That's certain, if the devil may be her Shy. My own flesh and blood to rebel ! [judge. Salan. Out upon it, old carrion ! rebels it at these years ? Shy. I say, my daughter is my flesh and blood. Salar. There is more difference between thy flesh and hers than between jet and ivory ; more between your bloods than there is between 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 bank- rupt, a prodigal, who dare scarce show his head on the Eialto ; a beggar, that was 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 will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge. He hath disgraced me, and hindered me half a million ; laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, 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, or- gans, dimensions, senses, affections, passions ? fed with the same food, hiu't 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 ? If you prick us, do we not bleed? if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison us, do we not die ? and if you wrong us, shall we not revenge ? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility ? Eevenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example? Why, revenge. The villany you teach me, I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction. JEnie7' a Servant. Serv. Gentlemen, my master Antonio is at his house and desires to speak with you both. Salar. We have been up and down to seek him. Enter Tubal. Salan. Here comes another of the tribe : a third cannot be matched, unless the devil himself turn Jew. [Exeunt Salan., Salar., and Servant. Shy. How now. Tubal ! what news from Genoa ? hast thou found my daughter ? Tub. 1 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. I would my daughter were dead at my foot, and the jewels in her ear! would she were hearsed 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 satis- faction, no revenge: nor no ill luck stirring but what lights on my shoulders ; no sighs but of my breathing ; no tears but of my shedding. Tub. Yes, other men have ill luck too : Antonio, as I heard in Genoa, — Shy. What, what, what ? ill luck, ill luck ? Tiib. Hath an argosy cast away, coming from Tripolis. Shy. 1 thank God, I thank God. Is 't true, is 't true? Tm. I spoke with some of the sailors that es- caped 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, in one night fourscore ducats. Shy. Thou stickest a dagger in me : I 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 swear he cannot choose but break. Shy. I am very glad of it : I '11 plague him ; I 'U torture him : I am glad of it. Tub. One of them showed me a ring that he had of your daughter for a monkey. Shy. Out upon her ! Thou torturest me, Tubal : it was my turquoise ; I had it of Leah when I was a bachelor : I would not have given it for a wilder- ness 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 will have the heart of him, if he forfeit ; for, were he out of Venice, I can make what mer- chandise I will. Go, go, Tubal, and meet me at our synagogue ; go, good Tubal ; at our synagogue, Tubal. [Exeunt. SCENE II. — Belmont. A room in Portia^s house. Enter Bassanio, Portia, Gratiano, Nerissa, and Attendants. For. I pray you, tarry : pause a day or two Before you hazard ; for, in choosing wrong, I lose your company : therefore forbear awhile. There 's something tells me, but it is not love, 159 ACT III. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. SCENE 11, I would not lose you ; and you know yourself, Hate counsels not in such a quality. But lest you should not understand me well, — And yet a maiden hath no tongue but thought,— I would detain you here some month or two Before you venture for me. I could teach you How to choose right, but I am then forsworn ; So will I never be : so may you miss me ; But if you do, you '11 make me wish a sin. That I had been forsworn. Beshrew your eyes, They have o'erlook'd me and divided me; One half of me is yours, the other half yours. Mine own, I would say ; but if mine, then yours, And so all yours. O, these naughty times Put bars between the owners and their rights I And so, though yours, not yours. Prove it so, Let fortune go to hell for it, not I. I speak too long ; but 't is to peize the time, To eke it and to draw it out in length, To stay you from election. -Bass. Let me choose ; For as I am, I live upon the rack. For. 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 anything. Bass. Promise me life, and I '11 confess the truth. For. Well then, confess and live. Bass. ' Confess ' and ' love ' Had been the very sum of my confession : 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 : that the comparison May stand more proper, my eye shall be the stream And watery death-bed tor him. He may win ; And what is music then ? Then music is Even as the flourish when true subjects bow To a new-crowned monarch : such it is As are those dulcet sounds in break of day That creep into the dreaming bridegroom's ear And summon him to marriage. Now he goes, With no less presence, but with much more love, Than young Alcides, when he did redeem The virgin tribute paid by howling Troy To the sea-monster : I stand for sacrifice ; The rest aloof are the Dardanian wives, With bleared visages, come forth to view The issue of the exploit. Go, Hercules ! Live thou, I live : with much much more dismay 1 view the fight than thou that makest the fray. Jfusic, whilst Bassanio comments on the caskets to himself. SONG. Tell me where is fancy bred, Or in the heart or in the head ? How begot, how nourished ? Eeply, reply. It is engender'd in the eyes. With gazing fed ; and fancy dies In the cradle where it lies. Let us all ring fancy's knell : I '11 begin it,— Ding, dong, bell. All. Ding, dong, bell. [selves : Bass. So may the outward shows be least them- The world is still deceived with ornament. In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt 160 But, being seasoned with a gracious voice, Obscures the show of evil ? In religion. What damned error, but some sober brow Will bless it and approve it with a text. Hiding the grossness with fair ornament ? There is no vice so simple but assumes Some mark of virtue on his outward parts : How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars, Who, inward search 'd, have livers white as milk; And these assume but valour's excrement To render them redoubted ! Look on beauty. And you shall see 't is purchased by the weight ; Which therein works a miracle in nature. Making them lightest that wear most of it : So are those crisped snaky golden locks Which make such wanton gambols with the wind, Upon supposed fairness, often known To be the dowry of a second head. The skull that bred them in the sepulchre. 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 ; Nor none of thee, thou pale and common drudge 'Tween man and man : but thou, thou meagre lead, Which rather threatenest than dost promise aught, Thy paleness moves me more than eloquence ; And here choose I : joy be the consequence ! For. [Aside] How all the other passions fleet to air. As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embraced despair. And shuddering fear, and green-«yed jealousy ! love, Be moderate ; allay thy ecstasy ; In measure rein thy joy ; scant this excess. 1 feel too much thy blessing : make it less, For fear I surfeit. Bass. What find I here ? [Opening the leaden casket Fair Portia's counterfeit ! What demi-god Hath come so near creation ? Move these eyes ? Or whether, riding on the balls of mine. Seem they in motion ? Here are sever'd lips. Parted with sugar breath : so sweet a bar Should sunder such sweet friends. Here in her haira The painter plays the spider and hath woven A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men Faster than gnats in cobwebs : but her eyes,— How could he see to do them ? having made one, Methinks it should have power to steal both his And leave itself unfurnish'd. Yet look, how far The substance of my praise doth wrong this shadow In underprizing it, so far this shadow Doth limp behind the substance. Here 's the scroll, The continent and summary of my fortune. [Beads] You that choose not by the view, Chance as fair and choose as true I Since this fortune falls to you, Be content and seek no new. If you be well pleased with this And 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. Like one of two contending in a prize. That thinks he hath done well in people's eyes, Hearing applause and universal shout. Giddy in spirit, still gazing in a doubt Whether those peals of praise be his or no ; So, thrice-fair lady, stand I, even so ; As doubtful whether what I see be true, Until confirm'd, sign'd, ratified by you. For. You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand, ACT III. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. SCENE II. 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 in your account, 1 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 girl, unschool'd, unpractised; Happy in this, she is not yet so old But she may learn ; happier than this. She is not bred so dull but she can learn ; 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 : I give them with this ring ; Which when you part from, lose, or give away, Let it presage the ruin of your love And be my vantage to exclaim on you. Bass. Madam, you have bereft me of all words, Only my blood speaks to you in my veins ; And there is such confusion in my powers, As, after some oration fairly spoke By a beloved prince, there doth appear Among the buzzing pleased multitude ; Where every something, being blent together, Turns to a wild of nothing, save of joy. Expressed and not express'd. But when this ring Parts from this finger, then parts life from hence : O, then be bold to say Bassanio's dead! JVer. 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 your honours mean to solemnize 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 lordj, can look as swift as yours : You saw the mistress, I beheld the maid ; You loved, I loved for intermission. No more pertains to me, my lord, than you. Your fortune stood upon the casket 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 your fortune Achieved her mistress. For. Is this true, Nerissa ? Ner. Madam, it is, so you stand pleased withal. Bass. And do you, Gratiano, mean good faith ? Gra. Yes, faith, my lord. Bass. Our feast shall be much honour'd in your iiarriage. Gra. We '11 play with them the first boy for a thousand ducats. Ner. What, and stake down ? [stake down. Gra. No ; we shall ne'er win at that sport, and But who comes here ? Lorenzo and his infidel ? What, and my old Venetian friend Salerio ? Enter Lorenzo, Jessica, and Salerio, a Messenger from Venice. Bass. Lorenzo and Salerio, welcome hither; If that the youth of my new interest here 11 Have power to bid you welcome. By your leave, I bid my very friends and countrymen, Sweet Portia, welcome. For. So do I, my lord : They are entirely welcome. Lor. I thank your honour. For my part, my lord, My purpose was not to have seen you here ; But meeting with Salerio by the way, He did intreat me, past all saying nay. To come with him along. Saler. I did, my lord ; And I have reason for it. Signer Antonio Commends him to you. [Gives Bassanio a letter. Bass. Ere I ope his letter, I pray you, tell me how my good friend doth. Saler. Not sick, my lord, unless it be in mind; Nor well, unless in mind : his letter there Will show you his estate. [come. Gra. Nerissa, cheer yon stranger; bid her wel- Your hand, Salerio : what 's the news from Venice ? How doth that royal merchant, good Antonio ? I know he will be glad of our success ; We are the Jasons, we have won the fleece. Saler. I would you had won the fleece that he hath lost. [paper, For. There are some shrewd contents in yon same That steals the colour from Bassanio's cheek: Some dear friend dead ; else nothing in the world Could turn so much the constitution Of any constant man. What, worse and worse! With leave, Bassanio ; I am half yourself. And I must freely have the half of anything That this same paper brings you. Bass. O sweet Portia, Here are a few of the unpleasant 'st words That ever blotted paper ! Gentle lady, When I did first impart my love to yoil, I freely told you, all the wealth I had Kan in my veins, I was a gentleman; And then I told you true : and yet, dear lady, Rating myself at nothing, you shall see How much I was a braggart. When I told you My state was nothing, I should then have told you That I was worse than nothing ; for, indeed, I have engaged myself to a dear friend. Engaged my friend to his mere enemy. To feed my means. Here is a letter, lady ; The paper as the body of my friend. And every word in it a gaping wound. Issuing life-blood. But is it true, Salerio ? Have all his ventures f ail'd ? What, not one hit ? From Tripolis, from Mexico and England, From Lisbon, Barbary and India? And not one vessel 'scape the dreadful touch Of merchant-marring rocks i* Saler. Not one, my lord. Besides, it should appear, that if he had The present money to discharge the Jew, He would not take it. Never did I know A creature, that did bear the shape of man. So keen and greedy to confound a man : He plies the duke at morning and at night. And doth impeach the freedom of the state. If they deny him justice : twenty merchants. The duke himself, and the magnificoes Of greatest port, have all persuaded with him; But none can drive him from the envious plea Of forfeiture, of justice and his bond. Jes. When I was with him I have heard him swear To Tubal and to Chus, his countrymen, That he would rather have Antonio's flesh Than twenty times the value of the sum That he did owe him : and I know, my lord. If law, authority and power deny not, It will go hard with poor Antonio. For. Is it your dear friend that is thus in trouble ? Bass. The dearest friend to me, the kindest man, 161 ACT III. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. SCENE IV. The best-condition 'd and unwearied spirit In doing courtesies, and one in whom The ancient Eoman honour more appears Than any that draws breath in Italy. For. What sum owes he the Jew i* ^ass. Tor me three thousand ducats. For. What, no more ? Pay liim six thousand, and deface the bond ; Double six thousand, and then treble that, Before a friend of this description Shall lose a hair through Bassanio's fault. First go with me to church and call me wife, And then away to Yenice to your friend ; For never shall you lie by Portia's side With an unquiet soul. You shall have gold To pay the petty debt twenty times over : When it is paid, bring your true friend along. My maid Nerissa and myself meantime Will live as maids and widows. Come, away ! For you shall hence upon your wedding-day : Bid your friends welcome, show a merry cheer: Since you are dear bought, I will love you dear. But let me hear the letter of your friend. Bass. [Reads] Sweet Bassanio, my ships have all miscarried, my creditors grow cruel, my estate is very low, my bond to the Jew is forfeit ; and since in paying it, it is impossible I should live, all debts are cleared between you and I, if I might but see you at my death. Notwithstanding, use your pleasure : if your love do not persuade you to come, let not my letter. For. O love, dispatch all business, and be gone ! Bass. Since I have your good leave to go away, I will make haste : but, till I come again, No bed shall e'er be guilty of my stay, No rest be interposer 'twixt us twain. [Exeunt. SCENE III. — Fenice. A street. Mfiter Shylock, Salarino, Antonio, and Gaoler. Shy. Gaoler, look to him : tell not me of mercy ; This is the fool that lent out money gratis : ■Gaoler, look to him. Ant. Hear me yet, good Shylock. Shy. 1 '11 have my bond; speak not against my bond; I have sworn an oath that I will have my bond. Thou call'dst me dog before thou hadst a cause; But, since I am a dog, beware my fangs : The duke shall grant me justice. I do wonder, Thou naughty gaoler, that thou art so fond To come abroad with him at his request. Ant. I pray thee, hear me speak. Shy. 1 '11 have my bond ; I will not hear thee speak: I '11 have my bond ; and therefore speak no more. I '11 not be made a soft and dull-eyed fool. To shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield To Christian intercessors. Follow not ; I '11 have no speaking : I will have my bond. [Exit. Salar. It is the most impenetrable cur That ever kept with men. Ant. Let him alone : I '11 follow him no more with bootless prayers. He seeks my life ; his reason well I know : I oft deliver'd from his forfeitures Many that have at times made moan to me ; Therefore he hates me. Salar. I am sure the duke Will never grant this forfeiture to hold. Ant. The duke cannot deny the course of law ; For the commodity that strangers have With us in Venice, if it be denied. Will much impeach the justice of his state; Since that tbe trade and profit of the city Consisteth of all nations. Therefore, go : These griefs and losses have so bated me, That I shall hardly spare a pound of flesh To-morrow to my bloody creditor. 162 Well, gaoler, on. Pray God, Bassanio come To see me pay his debt, and then I care not ! [Exeunt. SCENE IV. — Belmont. A room in Fortia's house. Enter Portia, Nerissa, Lorenzo, Jessica, and Balthasar. Lor. Madam, although I speak it in your presence, You have a noble and a true conceit Of god-like amity ; which appears most strongly In bearing thus the absence of your lord. But if you knew to whom you show this honour, How true a gentleman you send relief. How dear a lover of my lord your husband, I know you would be prouder of the work Than customary bounty can enforce you. For. I never did repent for doing good, Nor shaU not now : for in companions That do converse and waste the time together, Whose souls do bear an equal yoke of love, There must be needs a like proportion Of lineaments, of manners and of spirit; Which makes me think that this Antonio, Being the bosom lover of my lord. Must needs be like my lord. If it be so. Plow little is the cost I have bestow 'd In purchasing the semblance of my soul From out the state of hellish misery ! This comes too near the praising of myself ; Therefore no more of it : hear other things. Lorenzo, I commit into your hands The husbandry and manage of my house Until my lord's return : for mine own part, I have toward heaven breathed a secret vow To live in prayer and contemplation, Only attended by Nerissa here. Until her husband and my lord's return: There is a monastery two miles off ; And there will we abide. I do desire you Not to deny this imposition ; The which my love and some necessity Now lays upon you. Lor. Madam, with aU my heart ; I shall obey you in aU fair commands. For. My people do already know my mind, And will acknowledge you and Jessica In place of Lord Bassanio and myself. And so farewell, till we shall meet again. Lor . Fair thoughts and happy hours attend on you I Jes. I wish your ladyship all heart's content. For. I thank you for your wish, and am well please(J To wish it back on you : fare you well, Jessica. [Exeunt Jessica and Lorenzo. Now, Balthasar, As I have ever found thee honest-true. So let me find thee stOl. Take this same letter, And use thou aU the endeavour of a man In speed to Padua : see thou render this Into my cousin's hand. Doctor Bellario ; And,look,what notes and garments hedoth give thee. Bring them, I pray thee, with imagined speed Unto the tranect, to the common ferry Which trades to Venice. Waste no time in words, But get thee gone : I shall be there before thee. Balth. Madam, I go with all convenient speed. [Exit. For. Come on, Nerissa ; I have work in hand That you yet know not of : we '11 see our husbands Before they think of us. Ner. Shall they see us ? For. They shall, Nerissa; but in such a habit. That they shall think we are accomplished With that we lack. I '11 hold thee any wager, When we are both accoutred like young men, I '11 prove the prettier fellow of the two. And wear my dagger with the braver grace, And speak between the change of man and boy XCT IV. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. SCENE I. With a reed voice, and turn two mincing steps Into a manly stride, and speak of frays Like a fine bragging youth, and tell quaint lies, How honourable ladies sought my love, "Which I denying, they fell sick and died ; I could not do withal ; then I '11 repent. And wish, for all that, that I had not kiird them ; And twenty of these puny lies I '11 teU, That men shall swear I have discontinued school Above a twelvemonth. I have within my mind A thousand raw tricks of these bragging Jacks, Which I will practise. JVer. Why, shall we turn to men ? For. Fie, what a question 's that, If thou wert near a lewd interpreter ! But come, I '11 tell thee all my whole device When I am in my coach, which stays for us At the park gate ; and therefore haste away. For we must measure twenty miles to-day. lExeunt. SCENE V. — The same. A garden. Enter Launcelot and Jessica. Laun. Yes, truly; for, look you, the sins of the father are to be laid upon the children : therefore, I promise ye, I fear you. I was always plain with you, and so now I speak my agitation of the matter : therefore be of good cheer, for truly I think you are damned. There is but one hope in it that can do you any good; and that is but a kind of bastard hope neither. Jes. And what hope is that, I pray thee ? Laun. Marry, you may partly hope that your father got you not, that you are not the Jew's daughter. Jes. That were a kind of bastard hope, indeed: so the sins of my mother should be visited upon me. Laun. Truly then I fear you are damned both by father and mother: thus when I shun Scylla, your father, I fall into Charybdis, your mother : well, you are gone both ways. Jes. I shall be saved by my husband; he hath made me a Christian. Laun. Truly, the more to blame he: we were Christians enow before ; e'en as many as could well live, one by another. This making of Christians wiU raise the price of hogs : if we grow all to be pork-eaters, we shall not shortly have a rasher on the coals for money. Enter Lorenzo. Jes. I'll tell my husband, Laimcelot, what you say : here he comes. Lor. I shall grow jealous of you shortly, Launce- lot, if you thus get my wife into corners. Jes. Nay, you need not fear us, Lorenzo : Launce- lot and I are out. He tells me flatly, there is no mercy for me in heaven, because I am a Jew's daughter: and he says, you are no good member of the commonwealth, for in converting Jews to Christians, you raise the price of pork. Lor. I shall answer that better to the common- wealth than you can the getting up of the negro's belly: the Moor is with child by you, Launcelot. Laun. It is much that the Moor should be more than reason : but if she be less than an honest wo- man, she is indeed more than I took her for. Lor. How every fool can play upon the word! I think the best grace of wit will shortly turn into silence, and discourse grow commendable in none only but parrots. Go in, sirrah ; bid them prepare for dinner. Laun. That is done, sir; they have all stomachs. Lor. Goodly Lord, what a wit-snapper are you ! then bid them prepare dinner. Laun. That is done too, sir ; only ' cover ' is the word. Lor. Will you cover then, sir? Laun. Not so, sir, neither; I know my duty. Lor. Yet more quarrelling with occasion ! Wilt thou show the whole wealth of thy wit in an instant ? I pray thee, understand a plain man in his plain meaning: go to thy fellows; bid them cover the table, serve in the meat, and we will come in to din- ner. Laun. For the table, sir, it shall be served in ; for the meat, sir, it shall be covered ; for your coming in to dinner, sir, why, let it be as humours and con- ceits shall govern. [Exit. Lor. O dear discretion, how his words are suited! The fool hath planted in his memory An army of good words ; and I do know A many fools, that stand in better place. Garnish 'd like him, that for a tricksy word Defy the matter. How cheer'st thou, Jessica ? And now, good sweet, say thy opinion. How dost thou like the Lord Bassanio's wife ? Jes. Past all expressing. It is very meet The Lord Bassanio live an upright life ; For, having such a blessing in his lady. He finds the joys of heaven here on earth; And if on earth he do not mean it, then In reason he should never come to heaven. Why, if two gods should play some heavenly match And on the wager lay two earthly women. And Portia one, there must be something else Pawn'd with the other, for the poor rude world Hath not her fellow. Lor. Even such a husband Hast thou of me as she is for a wife. Jes. Nay, but ask my opinion too of that. Lor. I will anon : first, let us go to dinner. Jes. Nay, let me praise you while I have a stomach. Lor. No, pray thee, let it serve for table-talk; Then, howsoe'er thou speak'st, 'mong other things I shall digest it. Jes. Well, I '11 set you forth. [Exeunt. A^OT I^, SCENE I. — Venice. A court of justice. Enter the Duke, the Magniflcoes, Antonio, Bassanio, Gratiano, Salerio, and others. Duke. What, is Antonio here ? Ant. Eeady, so please your grace. [swer Duke. I am sorry for thee : thou art come to an- A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch Uncapable of pity, void and empty From any dram of mercy. Ant. I have heard Your grace hath ta'en great pains to qualify His rigorous course ; but siuce 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. Duke. Go one, and call the Jew into the court. Saler. He is ready at the door : he comes, my lord. Enter Shylock. Duke. Make room, and let him stand before our Shylock, the world thinks, and I thmk so too, [face. That thou but lead'st this fashion of thy malice To the last hour of act ; and then 't is thought 163 ACT IV. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. SCENE I. Thou 'It 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 loose 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, Enow 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 offices of tender courtesy. We all expect a gentle answer, Jew. [pose ; Shy. I have possess'd your grace of what I pur- 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 '11 ask me, why I rather choose to have A weight of carrion flesh than to receive Three thousand ducats : I '11 not answer that : But, say, it is my humour : is it answer'd ? What if my house be troubled with a rat And I be pleased to give ten thousand ducats To have it baned ? What, are you answer'd yet ? Some men there are love not a gaping pig ; Some, that are mad if they behold a cat ; And others, when the bagpipe sings i' the nose, Cannot contain their urine : for affection. Mistress of passion, sways it to the mood Of what it likes or loathes. Now, for your answer : As there is no firm reason to be render'd, Why he cannot abide a gaping pig ; Why he, a harmless necessary cat ; Why he, a woollen bag-pipe ; but of force Must yield to such inevitable shame As to offend, himself being offended; So can I give no reason, nor I will not. More than a lodged hate and a certain loathing I bear Antonio, that I follow thus A losing suit against him. Are you answer'd ? Bass. This is no answer, thou unfeeling man, To excuse the current of thy cruelty. [swers. Shy. I am not bound to please thee with my an- Bdss. Do all men kill the things they do not love ? Shy. Hates any man the thing he would not kill ? Bass. Every offence is not a hate at first, [twice? Shy. What, wouldst thou have a serpent sting thee Ant. I pray you, think you question with the Jew : You may as well go stand upon the beach 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 fretten 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 farther 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 ; I would have my bond. Duke. How shalt thou hope for mercy, rendering none ? [wrong ? Shy. What judgment shall I dread, doing no You have among you many a purchased 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 burthens ? let their beds 164 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, Is dearly bought : 't is mine and I will have it. If you deny me, fie upon your law ! There is no force in the decrees of Venice. I stand for judgment : answer ; shall I have it ? Buke. Upon my power I may dismiss this court, Unless Bellario, a learned doctor, Whom I have sent for to determine this, Come here to-day. SaUr. My lord, here stays without 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, cour- age yet ! The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones and all, Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood. Ant. 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 employed, Bassanio, Than to live still and write mine epitaph. Enter Nerissa, dressed like a lawyer^s clerk. Duke. Came you from Padua, from Bellario ? Ner. From both, my lord. Bellario greets your grace. [Presenting a letter. Bass. Why dost thou whet thy knife so earnestly ? Shy. To cut the forfeiture from that bankrupt there. Gra. Not on thy sole, but on thy soul, harsh Jew, Thou makest 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. Gra. O, be thou damn'd, inexecrable dog ! And for thy life let justice be accused. Thou almost makest 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, who, hang'd for human slaughter. Even from the gallows did his fell soul fleet. And, whilst thou lay'st in thy unhallow'd dam. Infused itself in thee ; for thy desires Are wolvish, bloody, starved and ravenous. Shy. Till thou canst rail the seal from off my bond, Thou but offend'st thy lungs to speak so loud : Eepair thy wit, good youth, or it wiU 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 ? JSfer. He attendeth here hard by. To know your answer, whether you '11 admit him, Duke. With all my heart. Some three or four of Go give him courteous conduct to this place, [you Meantime the court shall hear Bellario's letter. Clerk. [Reads] Your grace shall understand that at the receipt of your letter I am very sick : but in the instant that your messenger came, in loving visitation was with me a young doctor of Kome ; his name is Balthasar. I acquainted him with the cause in controversy between the Jew and Antonio the merchant : we turned o'er many books together : he is furnished with my opinion; which, bettered with his own learning, the greatness whereof I can- not enough commend, comes with him, at my im^ portunity, to fill up your grace's request in my stead. I beseech you, let his lack of years be no impedi- ment to let 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 shaU better publish his commendation. ACT IV. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. SCENE I. Buke. You hear the learn 'd Bellario, what he And here, I take it, is the doctor come. [writes : Enter Portia, dressed like a doctor of laws. Give me your hand. Come you from old Bellario ? For. I did, my lord. Buke. You are welcome : take your place. Are you acquainted with the difference That holds this present question in the court ? For. I am informed throughly of the cause. Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew ? Buke. Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth. For. Is your name Shylock ? Shy. Shylock is my name. For. Of a strange nature is the suit you follow : Yet in such rule that the Venetian law Cannot impugn you as you do proceed. You stand within his danger, do you not ? Ant. Ay, so he says. For. Do you confess the bond ? Ant. I do. For. Then must the Jew be merciful. Shy. On what compulsion must I ? tell me that. *• For. The quality of mercy is not strain 'd, _- It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath : it is twice blest ; It blesseth him that gives and him that takes : 'T is 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 sceptred 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 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, twice 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: 'T will 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 ! O wise young judge, how I do honour thee ! For. I pray you, let me look upon the bond. Shy. Here 't is, most reverend doctor, here it is. For. Shylock, there's thrice thy money offer'd thee. Shy. An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven : Shall I lay perjury 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 off Nearest the merchant's heart. Be merciful : Take thrice thy money ; bid me tear the bond. Shy. When it is paid according to the tenour. 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 I For. For the intent and purpose of the law Hath full relation to the penalty, Which here appeareth due upon the bond. Shy. 'T is very true : O wise and upright judge ! How much more elder art thou than thy looks ! For. 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. For. It is so. Are there balance here to weigh The flesh ? Shy. I have them ready. [charge. For. Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death. Shy. Is it so nominated in the bond ? For. It is not so express'd : but what of that ? 'T were good you do so much for charity. Shy. 1 cannot find it ; 't is not in the bond. For. You, merchant, have you any thing to say ? Ant. But little: I am arm'd and well prepared. Give me your hand, Bassanio : fare you well ! Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you ; For herein Fortune shows herself more kind Than is her custom : it is still her use To let the wretched man outlive his wealth. To view with hollow eye and wrinkled brow An age of poverty; from which lingering penance Of such misery doth she cut me off. Commend me to your honourable 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 but 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 '11 pay it presently with all my heart. Bass. Antonio, I am married to a wife Which is as dear to me as life itself ; But life itself, my wife, and all the world, Are not with me esteem 'd above thy life : I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them aU Here to this devil, to deliver you. [that, For. Your wife would give you little thanks for If she were by, to hear you make the offer. 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. JVer. 'T is well you offer it behind her back ; The wish would make else an unquiet house. Shy. These be the Christian husbands. I have a Would any of the stock of Barrabas [daughter; Had been her husband rather than a Christian ! [Aside. We trifle time : I pray thee, pursue sentence. For. A pomid of that same merchant's flesh is thine : The court awards it, and the law doth give it. Shy. Most rightful judge ! [breast : For. And you must cut this flesh from off his The law allows it, and the court awards it. /S/i*/. Most learned judge! A sentence! Come, pre- pare ! For. Tarry a little ; there is something else. This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood; 165 ACT IV. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. SCENE I. 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. [judge ! Gra. O upright judge! Mark, Jew: O learned Shy. Is that the law ? For. Thyself shalt see the act : Tor, as thou urgest justice, be assured Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desirest. Qra. O learned judge 1 Mark, Jew: a learned judge ! Shy. I take this offer, then ; pay the bond thrice And let the Christian go. Bass. Here is the money. For. 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 ! For. 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 cut'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 conflscate. Gra. A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew! Now, infidel, I have you on the hip. [feiture. For. Why doth the Jew pause? take thy for- Shy. Give me my principal, and let me go. Bass. I have it ready for thee ; here it is. For. He hath refused 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 ? For. Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture, To be so taken at thy peril, Jew. Shy. Why, then the devil give him good of it ! I '11 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 proved against an alien That by direct or indirect attempts He seek the life 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 lies in the mercy Of the duke only, 'gainst all other voice. In which predicament, I say, thou stand'st ; For it appears, by manifest proceedmg, That indirectly and directly too Thou hast contrived against the very life Of the defendant ; and thou hast incurr'd The danger formerly by me rehearsed. Down therefore and beg mercy of the duke. Gra. Beg that thou mayst have leave to hang thyself : 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. Duke. That thou shalt see the difference of our I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it : [spirits. 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 life When you do take the means whereby I live. For. What mercy can you render him, Antonio ? Gra. A halter gratis; nothing else, for G-od'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 favour, 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. Dvke. He shall do this, or else I do recant The pardon that I late pronounced here. [say ? For. Art thou contented, Jew ? what dost thou Shy. I am content. For. 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. BuTce. Get thee gone, but do it. Gra. In christening shalt thou have two god- fathers : Had I been judge, thou shouldst have had ten more, To bring thee to the gallows, not the font. lExit Shylock. Duke. Sir, I entreat you home with me to dinner. For. I humbly do desire your grace of pardon: I must away this night toward Padua, And it is meet I presently set forth. Duke. I am sorry that your leisure serves you not. Antonio, gratify this gentleman. For, in my mind, you are much bound to him. [Exeunt Duke and his train. Bass. Most worthy gentleman, I and my friend Have by your wisdom been this day acquitted Of grievous penalties ; in lieu whereof. Three thousand ducats, due unto the Jew, We freely cope your courteous pains withal. Ant. And stand indebted, over and above, In love and service to you evermore. For. He is well paid that is well satisfied; And I, delivering you, am satisfied And therein do account myself well paid : My mind was never yet more mercenary. I pray you, know me when we meet again : I wish you well, and so I take my leave. Bass. Dear sir, of force I must attempt you further : Take some remembrance of us, as a tribute, Not as a fee : grant me two things, I pray you. Not to deny me, and to pardon me. [yield. For. You press me far, and therefore I will [To Ant.] Give me your gloves, I '11 wear them for your sake ; [To Bass.] And, for your love, I '11 take this ring from you : Do not draw back your hand ; I '11 take no more ; And you in love shall not deny me this. Bass. This ring, good sir, alas, it is a trifle! I will not shame myself to give you this. For. 1 will have nothing else but only this ; And now methinks I have a mind to it. [value. Bass. There 's more depends on this than on the The dearest ring in Venice will I give you. And find it out by proclamation : Only for this, I pray you, pardon me. For. I see, sir, you are liberal in offers: You taught me first to beg ; and now methinks You teach me how a beggar should be answer'd. Bass. Good sir, this ring was given me by my And when she put it on, she made me vow [wife ; That I should neither sell nor give nor lose it. For. That 'scuse serves many men to save their gifts. An if your wife be not a mad-woman. And know how well I have deserved the ring, ACT V. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. SCEKE I. She would not hold out enemy for ever, For giving it to me. Well, peace be with you ! [Exeunt Portia and Nerissa. Ant. My Lord Bassanio, let him have the ring : Let his deservings and my love withal Be valued 'gainst your wife's commandment. Bass. Gro, Gratiano, run and overtake him; Give him the ring, and bring him, if thou canst, Unto Antonio's house : away ! make haste. [Exit Gratiano. Come, you and I will thither presently ; And in the morning early will we both Fly toward Belmont : come, Antonio. SCENE II.— The same. A street. Enter Portia and Nerissa. For. Inquire the Jew's house out, give him this And let him sign it : we '11 away to-night And be a day before our husbands home : This deed will be well welcome to Lorenzo. [deed Enter Gratiano. Gra. Fair sir, you are well o'erta'en: My Lord Bassanio upon more advice Hath sent you here this ring, and doth entreat Your company at dinner. For. That cannot be : His ring I do accept most thankfully : And so, I pray you, tell him : furthermore, I pray you, show my youth old Shylock's house. Gra. That will I do. JVer. Sir, I would speak with you. [Aside to For.] I '11 see if I can get my husband's ring, Which I did make him swear to keep for ever. For. [Aside to Ner.] Thou mayst, I warrant. We shall have old swearing That they did give the rings away to men ; But we '11 outface them, and outswear them too. [Aloud] Away ! make haste : thou know'st where I wiU tarry. [house ? — Exeunt. Ner. Come, good sir, will you show me to this A.OT ^. SCENE I. — Belmont. Avenue to Fortia^s house. Enter Lorenzo and Jessica. Lor. The moon shines bright: in such a night as this. When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees And they did make no noise, in such a night Troilus methinks mounted the Troyan walls And sigh'd his soul toward the Grecian tents, Where Cressid lay that night. Jes. In such a night Did Thisbe fearfully o'ertrip the dew And saw the lion's shadow ere himself And ran dismay'd away. Lor. In such a night Stood Dido with a willow in her hand Upon the wild sea banks and waft her love To come again to Carthage. Jes. In such a night Medea gather'd the enchanted herbs That did renew old ^son. Lor. In such a night Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew And with an unthrift love did run from Venice As far as Belmont. Jes. In such a night Did young Lorenzo swear he loved her well, Stealing her soul with many vows of faith And ne'er a true one. Lor. In such a night Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew. Slander her love, and he forgave it her. Jes. I would out-night you, did no body come ; But, hark, I hear the footing of a man. Enter Stephano. Lor. Who comes so fast in silence of the night ? Steph. A friend. Lor. A friend ! what friend ? your name, I pray you, friend ? Steph. Stephano is my name ; and I bring word My mistress will before the break of day Be here at Belmont : she doth stray about By holy crosses, where she kneels and prays For happy wedlock hours. Lor. Who comes with her ? Steph. jSTone but a holy hermit and her maid. I pray you, is my master yet return'd ? Lor. He is not, nor we have not heard from him. But go we in, I pray thee, Jessica, And ceremoniously let us prepare Some welcome for the mistress of the house. Enter Launcelot. Laun. Sola, sola! wo ha, ho! sola, sola! Lor. Who calls ? Laun. Sola ! did you see Master Lorenzo ? Mas- ter Lorenzo, sola, sola! Lor. Leave hollaing, man : here. Laun. Sola! where? where? Lor. Here. Laun. Tell him there's a post come from my master, with his horn full of good news : my master will be here ere morning. [Exit. Lor. Sweet soul, let 's in, and there expect their coming. And yet no matter : why should we go in ? My friend Stephano, signify, I pray you. Within the house, your mistress is at hand; And bring your music forth into the air. [Exit Stephano. How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank I Here will we sit and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears : soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold : There 's not the smallest orb which thou behold 'st But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins ; Such harmony is in immortal souls ; But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. Enter Musicians. Come, ho ! and wake Diana with a hymn : With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear And draw her home with music. [Music. Jes. I am never merry when I hear sweet music. Lor. The reason is, your spirits are attentive: For do but note a wild and wanton herd. Or race of youthful and unhandled colts, Fetchingmad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud, Which is the hot condition of their blood ; If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound, Or any air of music touch their ears, You shall perceive them make a mutual stand, Their savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze By the sweet power of music : therefore the poet Did feig-n that Orpheus drew trees, stones and floods ; 167 ACT V. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. SCENE I. Since nought so stockish, hard and full of rage, But music for the time doth change his nature. The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils ; The motions of his spirit are dull as night And his affections dark as Erebus : Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music. Enter Portia and Nerissa. For. That light we see is burning in my hall. How far that little candle throws his beams ! So shines a good deed in a naughty world. Ner. When the moon shone, we did not see the candle. For. So doth the greater glory dim the less : A substitute shines brightly as a king Until a king be by, and then his state Empties itself, as doth an inland brook Into the main of waters. Music ! hark I Ner. It is your music, madam, of the house. For. Nothing is good, I see, without respect : Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by day. Ner. Silence bestows that virtue on it, madam. For. The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark When neither is attended, and I think The nightingale, if she should sing by day. When every goose is cackling, would be thought No better a musician than the wren. How many things by season season'd are To their right praise and true perfection ! Peace, ho ! the moon sleeps with Endymion And would not be awaked. [Music ceases. Lor. That is the voice. Or I am much deceived, of Portia. [cuckoo. For. He knows me as the blind man knows the By the bad voice. Lor. Dear lady, welcome home. For. We have been praying for our husbands' healths. Which speed, we hope, the better for our words. Are they return'd ? Lor. Madam, they are not yet ; But there is come a messenger before, To signify their coming. For. Go in, Nerissa ; Give order to my servants that they take No note at all of our being absent hence ; Nor you, Lorenzo ; Jessica, nor you. [A tucket sounds. Lor. Your husband is at hand ; I hear his trumpet : We are no tell-tales, madam ; fear you not. For. This night methinks is but the daylight sick ; It looks a little paler : 't is a day Such as the day is when the sun is hid. Enter Bassanio, Antonio, Gratiano, and their followers. Bass. We should hold day with the Antipodes, If you would walk in absence of the sun. For. Let me give light, but let me not be light ; For a light wife doth make a heavy husband, And never be Bassanio so for me : [lord. But God sort all! Your are welcome home, my Bass. I thank you, madam. Give welcome to my This is the man, this is Antonio, [friend. To whom I am so infinitely bound. For. You should in all sense be much bound to For, as I hear, he was much bound for you. [him, Ant. No more than I am well acquitted of. For. Sir, you are very welcome to our house : It must appear in other ways than words. Therefore I scant this breathing courtesy. Gra. [To Ner.) By yonder moon I swear you do In faith, I gave it to the judge's clerk : [me wrong ; Would he were gelt that had it, for my part, Since you do take it, love, so much at heart. 168 For. A quarrel, ho, already ! what 's the matter ? Gra. About a hoop of gold, a paltry ring That she did give me, whose posy was For all the world like cutler's poetry Upon a knife, ' Love me, and leave me not.' Ner. What talk you of the posy or the value ? You swore to me, when I did give it you. That you would wear it till your hour of death And that it should lie with you in your grave : Though not for me, yet for your vehement oaths. You should have been respective and have kept it. Gave it a judge's clerk! no, God 's my judge, The clerk will ne'er wear hair on 's face that had it. Gra. He will, an if he live to be a man. Ner. Ay, if a woman live to be a man. Gra. Now, by this hand, I gave it to a youth, A kind of boy, a little scrubbed boy. No higher than thyself, the judge's clerk, A prating boy, that begg'd it as a fee: I could not for my heart deny it him. For. You were to blame, I must be plain with you, To part so slightly with your wife's first gift ; A thing stuck on with oaths upon your finger And so riveted with faith unto your flesh. I gave my love a ring and made him swear Never to part with it ; and here he stands ; I dare be sworn for him he would not leave it Nor pluck it from his finger, for the wealth That the world masters. Now, in faith, Gratiano, You give your wife too unkind a cause of grief : An 't were to me, I should be mad at it. Bass. [Aside] Why, I were best to cut my left And swear I lost the ring defending it. [hand off, Gra. My Lord Bassanio gave his ring away Unto the judge that begg'd it and indeed Deserved it too ; and then the boy, his clerk. That took some pains in writing, he begg'd mine; And neither man nor master would take aught But the two rings. For. What ring gave you, my lord ? Not that, I hope, which you received of me. Bass. If I could add a lie unto a fault, I would deny it ; but you see my finger Hath not the ring upon it ; it is gone. For. Even so void is your false heart of truth. By heaven, I will ne'er come in your bed Until I see the ring. Ner. Nor I in yours Till I again see mine. Bass. Sweet Portia, If you did know to whom I gave the ring, If you did know for whom I gave the ring, And would conceive for what I gave the ring, And how unwillingly I left the ring, When nought would be accepted but the ring, You would abate the strength of your displeasure. For. If you had known the virtue of the ring, Or half her worthiness that gave the ring. Or your own honour to contain the ring. You would not then have parted with the ring. What man is there so much unreasonable, If you had pleased to have defended it With any terms of zeal, wanted the modesty To urge the thing held as a ceremony ? Nerissa teaches me what to believe : I '11 die for 't but some woman had the ring. Bass. No, by my honour, madam, by my soul. No woman had it, but a civil doctor. Which did refuse three thousand ducats of me And begg'd the ring ; the which I did deny him And suffer'd him to go displeased away ; Even he that did uphold the very life Of my dear friend. What should I say, sweet lady ? I was enforced to send it after him ; I was beset with shame and courtesy ; My honour would not let ingratitude So much besmear it. Pardon me, good lady ; ACT V. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. SCENE I. For, by these blessed candles of the night, Had you been there, I think you would have begg'd The ring of me to give the worthy doctor. For. Let not that doctor e'er come near my house : Since he hath got the jewel that I loved, And that which you did swear to keep for me, I will become as liberal as you : I '11 not deny him any thing I have, i^o, not my body nor my husband's bed : Know him I shall, I am well sure of it : Lie not a night from home ; watch me like Argus : If you do not, if I be left alone. Now, by mine honour, which is yet mine own, I '11 have that doctor for my bedfellow. Ner. And I his clerk ; therefore be well advised How you do leave me to mine own protection. Gra. Well, do you so : let not me take him, then; For if I do, I '11 mar the young clerk's pen. Ant. I am the unhappy subject of these quarrels. For. Sir, grieve not you ; you are welcome not- withstanding. Bass. Portia, forgive me this enforced wrong ; And, in the hearing of these many friends, I swear to thee, even by thine own fair eyes, Wherein I see myself— ' For. Mark you but that ! In both my eyes he doubly sees himself; In each eye, one : swear by your double self, And there 's an oath of credit. Bass. Nay, but hear me : Pardon this fault, and by my soul I swear I never more will break an oath with thee. Ant. I once did lend my body for his wealth ; Which, but for him that had your husband's ring, Had quite miscarried : I dare be bound again, My soul upon the forfeit, that your lord Will never more break faith advisedly. For. Then you shall be his surety. Give him this And bid him keep it better than the other. Ant. Here, Lord Bassanio ; swear to keep this ring. Bass. By heaven, it is the same I gave the doctor ! For. I had it of him : pardon me, Bassanio ; For, by this ring, the doctor lay with me. Ner. And pardon me, my gentle Gratiano ; For that same scrubbed boy, the doctor's clerk, In lieu of this last night did lie with me. Gra. Why, this is like the mending of highways In summer, where the ways are fair enough : What, are we cuckolds ere we have deserved it? For. Speak not so grossly. You are all amazed : Here is a letter ; read it at your leisure ; It comes from Padua, from Bellario: There you shall find that Portia was the doctor, jSTerissa there her clerk : Lorenzo here Shall witness I set forth as soon as you And even but now return 'd ; I have not yet Enter'd my house. Antonio, you are welcome; And I have better news in store for you Than you expect : unseal this letter soon ; There you shall find three of your argosies Are richly come to harbour suddenly: You shall not know by what strange accident I chanced on this letter. Ant. I am dumb. Bass. Were you the doctor and I knew you not ? Ora. Were you the clerk that isto make me cuckold? Ner. Ay, but the clerk that never means to do it. Unless he live until he be a man. Bass. Sweet doctor, you shall be my bedfellow : When I am absent, then lie with my wife. Ant. Sweet lady, you have given me life and living; For here I read for certain that my ships Are safely come to road. For. How now, Lorenzo! My clerk hath some good comforts too for you. Ner. Ay, and I '11 give them him without a fee. There do I give to you and Jessica, From the rich Jew, a special deed of gift, After his death, of all he dies possess 'd of. Lor. Fair ladies, you drop manna in the way Of starved people. For. It is almost morning, And yet I am sure you are not satisfied Of these events at full. Let us go in ; And charge us there upon inter'gatories, And we will answer all things faithfully. Gra. Let it be so : the first inter'gatory That my Nerissa shall be sworn on is, Whether till the next night she had rather stay, Or go to bed now, being two hours to day • But were the day come, I should wish it dark, That I were couching with the doctor's clerk. Well, while I live I '11 fear no other thing So sore as keeping safe Nerissa's ring. {Exeuni. Sdk,nio.—l never heard a passion so confus'd, So strange, outrageous, and so variable, As the dog Jew did utter in the streets : " My daughter ! — O my ducats ! — O my daughter ! Pled with a Christian ! — O my Christian ducats ! Justice 1 the law I my ducats, and my daughter ! Act II., Scene viii. AS YOU LIKE IT. DBAMATIS PEBSON^. Diike, living in banishment. Frederick, his brother, and usurper of his dominions. Amiens, | ^^^^^ attending on the banished duke. Jaques, ) Le Beau, a courtier attending upon Frederick. Charles, wrestler to Frederick. Oliver, 1 Jaques, V sons of Sir Eowland de Boys. Orlando, J Adam, Dennis, Touchstone, a clown. Sir Oliver Martext, a vicar. |- servants to Oliver. shepherds. Corin, Silvius, William, a country fellow, in love with Audrey. A person representing Hymen. Rosalind, daughter to the banished duke. Celia, daughter to Frederick. Phebe, a shepherdess. Audrey, a country wench. Lords, pages, attendants, &c. SCENE — Oliver's house; Duke FredericK's cowrt; and the Forest of Arden. [Fc alysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page XLVlll.] A-OT I. SCENE I. — Orchard of Oliver''s liouse. Enter Orlando and Adam. Orl. As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion bequeathed me by will but poor a thousand crowns, and, as thou sayest, charged my brother, on his blessing, to breed me well : and there begins 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 more 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 man- age, and to that end riders dearly hired : but I, his brother, gain nothing under him but growth ; for the which his animals on his dunghills 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 servitude : I will no longer endure it, though yet I know no wise remedy how to avoid it. Adam. Yonder comes my master, your brother. Orl. Go apart, Adam, and thou shalt hear how he will shake me up. Enter Oliver. Oli. Now, sir ! what make you here ? Orl. Nothing: I am not taught to make anything. Oli. What mar you then, sir ? Orl. Marry, sir, I am helping you to mar that which God made, a poor unworthy brother of yours, with idleness. Oli. Marry, sir, be better employed, and be naught awhile. Orl. Shall I keep your hogs and eat husks with them ? What prodigal portion have I spent, that I ehould come to such penury ? 170 Oli. Know you where you are, sir? Orl. O, sir, very well : here in your orchard. Oli. Know you before whom, sir? Orl. Ay, better than him I am before knows me. I know you are my eldest brother ; and, in the gen- tle condition of blood, you should so 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. Oli. What, boy! Orl. Come, come, elder brother, you are too young in this. Oli. Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain ? Orl. I am no villain ; I am the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys ; he was my father, and he is thrice a villain that says such a father begot vil- lains. 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 fa- ther's remembrance, be at accord. Oli. I^et 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, ob- scuring and hiding from me all gentleman-like qual- ities. 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 me by testa- ment ; witli that I will go buy my fortunes. Oli. 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. Oli. Get you with him, you old dog. Adam. Is ' old dog ' my reward ? Most true, I have lost my teeth in your service. God be with ACT I. AS YOU LIKE IT. SCENE II. my old master! he would not have spoke such a word. [Exeunt Orlando and Adam. Oli. Is it even so ? begin you to grow upon me V I will physic your rankness, and yet give no thousand crowns neither. Holla, Dennis ! Enter Dennis. Ben. Calls your worship ? Oli. Was not Charles, the duke's wrestler, here to speak with me ? Den. So please you, he is here at the door and importunes access to you. Oil. Call htm in. [Exit Bennis.l 'T will be a good way ; and to-morrow the wrestling is. Enter Charles. Gha, Good morrow to your worship. Oli. Good Monsieur Charles, what's the new news at the new court ? Cha. There 's no news at the court, sir, but the old news: that is, the old duke is banished by his younger brother the new duke ; and three or four loving lords have put themselves into voluntary exile with him, whose lands and revenues enrich the new duke ; therefore he gives them good leave to wander. Oli. Can you tell if Eosalind, the duke's daughter, be banished with her father r* Cha. O, no ; for the duke's daughter, her cousin, so loves her, being ever from their cradles bred to- gether, that she would have followed her exile, or have died to stay behind her. She is at the court, and no less beloved of her uncle than his own daughter; and never two ladies loved as they do. (Mi. "Where will the old duke live ? Cha. They say he is akeady in the forest of Arden, and a many merry men with him ; and there they live like the old Robin Hood of England : they say many young gentlemen flock to him every day, and fleet the time carelessly, as they did in the golden world. Oli. "What, you wrestle to-morrow before the new duke ? Cha. Marry, do I, sir; and I came to acquaint you with a matter. I am given, sir, secretly to understand that your younger brother Orlando hath a disposition to come in disguised against me to try a fall. To-morrow, sir, I wrestle for my credit ; and he that escapes me without some broken limb shall acquit him well. Your brother is but young and tender; and, for your love, I would be loath to foil him, as I must, for my own honour, if he come in : therefore, out of my love to you, I came hither to acquaint you withal, that either you might stay him from his intendment or brook such disgrace well as he shall run into, in that it is a thing of his own search and altogether against my will. Oli. Charles, I thank thee for thy love to me, which thou shalt find I will most kindly requite. I had myself notice of my brother's purpose herein and have by underhand means laboured to dissuade him from it, but he is resolute. I'll tell thee, Charles: it is the stubbornest young fellow of France, full of ambition, an envious emulator of every man's good parts, a secret and villanous con- triver against me his natural brother: therefore use thy discretion ; I had as lief thou didst break his neck as his finger. And thou wert best look to 't ; for if thou dost him any slight disgrace or if he do not mightily grace himself on thee, he will practise against thee by poison, entrap thee by some treacherous device and never leave thee till he hath ta'en thy life by some indirect means or other; for, I assure thee, and almost with tears I speak it, there is not one so young and so villanous this day living. I speak but brotherly of him ; but should I anato- mize him to thee as he is, I must blush and weep and thou must look pale and wonder. Cha. I am heartily glad I came hither to you. If he come to-morrow, I '11 give him his payment : if ever he go alone again, I '11 never wrestle for prize more : and so God keep your worship ! Oli. Farewell, good Charles. [Exit Cliarles.] Now will I stir this gamester : I hope I shall see an end of him; for my soul, yet I know not why, hates nothing more than he. Yet he's gentle, never schooled and yet learned, full of noble device, of all sorts enchantingly beloved, and indeed so much in the heart of the world, and especially of my own people, who best know him, that I am altogether misprised : but it shall not be so long ; this wrestler shall clear all : nothing remains but that I kindle the boy thither ; which now I '11 go about. [Exit. SCENE n. — Lawn before the Duke''s palace. Enter Celia and Rosalind. Cel. I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be merry. -Bos. Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I am mistress of; and would you yet I were merrier? Unless you could teach me to forget a banished father, you must not learn me how to remember any extraordinary pleasure. Cel. Herein I see thou lovest me not with the full weight that I love thee. If my uncle, thy banished father, had banished thy uncle, the duke my father, so thou hadst been still with me, I could have taught my love to take thy father for mine : so wouldst thou, if the truth of thy love to me were so rights eously tempered as mine is to thee. Bos. "Well, I will forget the condition of my es- tate, to rejoice in yours. Cel. You know my father hath no child but I, nor none is like to have : and, truly, when he dies, thou shalt be his heir, for what he hath taken away from thy father perforce, I will render thee again in affection; by mine honour, I will; and when I break that oath, let me turn monster: therefore, my sweet Rose, my dear Rose, be merry. Bos. From henceforth I will, coz, and devise sports. Let me see : what think you of falling in love ? Cel. Marry, I prithee, do, to make sport withal: but love no man in good earnest ; nor no further in sport neither than with safety of a pure blush thou mayst in honour come off again. Bos. "What shall be our sport, then ? Cel. Let us sit and mock the good housewife For- tune from her wheel, that her gifts may henceforth be bestowed equally. Bos. I would we could do so, for her benefits are mightily misplaced, and the bomitiful blind woman doth most mistake in her gifts to women. Cel. 'T is true ; for those that she makes fair she scarce makes honest, and those that she makes honest she makes very ill-favouredly. Bos. Nay, now thou goest from Fortune's oflice to Nature's : Fortune reigns in gifts of the world, not in the lineaments of Nature. Enter Touchstone. Cel. No ? when Nature hath made a fair creature, may she not by Fortune fall into the fire ? Though Nature hath given us wit to flout at Fortune, hath not Fortune sent in this fool to cut off the argument ? -Bos. Indeed, there is Fortune too hard for Na- ture, when Fortune makes Nature's natural the cutter-off of Nature's wit. Cel. Peradventure this is not Fortune's work neither, but Nature's ; who perceiveth our natural wits too dull to reason of such goddesses and hath sent this natural for our whetstone ; for always the dulness of the fool is the whetstone of the wits. How now, wit ! whither wander you ? [father. Touch. Mistress, you must come away to your Cel. Were you made the messenger ? 171 ACT I. AS YOU LIKE IT. SCENE II. Touch. No, by mine honour, but I was bid to come for you. Bos. Where learned you that oath, fool ? Touch. Of a certain knight that swore by his honour they were good pancakes and swore by his honour the mustard was naught : now I '11 stand to it, the pancakes were naught and the mustard was good, and yet was not the knight forsworn. Cel. How prove you that, in the great heap of your knowledge ? Ros. Ay, marry, now unmuzzle your wisdom. Touch. Stand you both forth now: stroke your chins, and swear by your beards that I am a knave. Cel. By our beards, if we had them, thou art. Touch. By my knavery, if I had it, then I were ; but if you swear by that that is not, you are not forsworn: no more was this knight, swearing by his honour, for he never had any ; or if he had, he had sworn it away before ever he saw those pan- cakes or that mustard. Cel. Prithee, who is 't that thou meanest ? Touch. One that old Frederick, your father, loves. Cel. My father's love is enough to honour him: enough! speak no more of him; you '11 be whipped for taxation one of these days. Touch. The more pity, that fools may not speak wisely what wise men do foolishly. Cel. By my troth, thou sayest true; for since the little wit that fools have was silenced, the little foolery that wise men have makes a great show. Here comes Monsieur Le Beau. Ros. With his mouth full of news. [young. Cel. Which he will put on us, as pigeons feed their Ros. Then shall we be news-crammed. [able. Cel. All the better ; we shall be the more market- Enter Le Beau. Bon jour. Monsieur Le Beau : what 's the news ? Le Beau. Fair princess, you have lost much good Cel. Sport ! of what colour ? [sport. Le Beau. What colour, madam ! how shall I answer Ros. As wit and fortune will. [you ? Touch. Or as the Destinies decree. Cel. Well said : that was laid on with a trowel. Touch. Nay, if I keep not my rank, — Ros. Thou losest thy old smell. Le Beau. You amaze me, ladies: I would have told you of good wrestling, which you have lost the sight of. Ros. Yet tell us the manner of the wrestling. Le Beau. I will tell you the beginning; and, if it please your ladyships, you may see the end; for the best is yet to do ; and here, where you are, they are coming to perform it. Cel. Well, the beginning, that is dead and buried. Le Beau. There comes an old man and his three sons,— Cel. I could match this beginning with an old tale. Le Beau. Three proper young men, of excellent growth and presence. Ros. With bills on their necks, ' Be it known unto all men by these presents.' Le Beau. The eldest of the three wrestled with Charles, the duke's wrestler; which Charles in a moment threw him and broke three of his ribs, that there is little hope of life in him : so he served the second, and so the third. Yonder they lie ; the poor old man, their father, making such pitiful dole over them that all the beholders take his part with weep- Ros. Alas! [ing. Touch. But what is the sport, monsieur, that the ladies have lost V Le Beau. Why, this that I speak of. Touch. Thus men may grow wiser every day : it is the first time that ever I heard breaking of ribs was sport for ladies. Cel. Or I, I promise thee. 172 Ros. But is there any else longs to see this broken music in his sides ? is there yet another dotes upon rib-breaking ? Shall we see this wrestling, cousin ? Le Beau. You must, if you stay here ; for here is the place appointed for the wrestling, and they are ready to perform it. Cel. Yonder, sure, they are coming: let us now stay and see it. Enter Duke Frederick, Lords, Or- lando, Charles, and Attendants. Buke F. Come on : since the youth will not be entreated, his own peril on his forwardness. Ros. Is yonder the man ? Le Beau. Even he, madam. [fully. Cel. Alas, he is too young ! yet he looks success- DuJce F. How now, daughter and cousin ! are you crept hither to see the wrestling ? Ros. Ay, my liege, so please you give us leave. Buke F. You will take little delight in it, I can tell you ; there is such odds in the man. In pity of the challenger's youth I would fain dissuade him, but he will not be entreated. Speak to him, ladies ; see if you can move him. Cel. Call him hither, good Monsieur Le Beau. Buke F. Do so : I '11 not be by. Le Beau. Monsieur the challenger, the princesses call for you. Orl. I attend them with all respect and duty. Ros. Young man, have you challenged Charles the wrestler ? Orl. No, fair princess; he is the general chal- lenger: I come but in, as others do, to try with him the strength of my youth. Cel. Young gentleman, your spirits are too bold for your years. You have seen cruel proof of this man's strength : if you saw yourself with your eyes or knew yourself with your judgment, the fear of your adventure would counsel you to a more equal enterprise. We pray you, for your own sake, to embrace your own safety and give over this attempt. Ros. Do, young sir; your reputation shall not therefore be misprised : we will make it our suit to the duke that the wrestling might not go forward. Orl. I beseech you, punish me not with your hard thoughts; wherein I confess me much guilty, to deny so fair and excellent ladies any thing. But let your fair eyes and gentle wishes go with me to my trial : wherein if I be foiled, there is but one shamed that was never gracious ; if killed, but one dead that is willing to be so : I shall do my friends no wrong, for I have none to lament me, the world no injury, for in it I have nothing; only in the world I fill up a place, which may be better supplied when I have made it empty. Ros. The little strength that I have, I would it were with you. Cel. And mine, to eke out hers. [in you ! Ros. Fare you well: pray heaven I be deceived Cel. Your heart's desires be with you ! Cha. Come, where is this young gallant that is so desirous to lie with his mother earth ? Orl. Eeady, sir ; but his will hath in it a more modest working. Buke F. You shall try but one fall. CJia. No, I warrant your grace, you shall not en- treat him to a second, that have so mightily per- suaded him from a first. Orl. An you mean to mock me after, you should not have mocked me before : but come your ways. Ros. Now Hercules be thy speed, young man ! Cel. I would I were invisible, to catch the strong fellow by the leg. [They wrestle. Ros. O excellent young man! Cel. If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye, I can tell who should down. [Shout. Charles is throvon, Buke F. No more, no more. ACT I. AS YOU LIKE IT. SCENE III. Orl. Yes, I beseech j^our grace: I am not yet well breathed. Duke F. How dost thou, Charles ? Le Beau. He cannot speak, my lord. Duke F. Bear him away. "What is thy name, young man ? Orl. Orlando, my liege ; the youngest son of Sir Kowland de Boys. [man else : Duke F. I would thou hadst been son to some The world esteem 'd thy father honourable. But I did find him still mine enemy : [deed. Thou shouldst have better pleased me with this Hadst thou descended from another house. But fare thee well ; thou^ art a gallant youth : I would thou hadst told me of another father. [Exeunt Duke Fred., train, and Le Beau. Cel. "Were I my father, coz, would I do this ? Orl. I am more proud to be Sir Rowland's son. His youngest son ; and would not change that call- To be adopted heir to Frederick. [tag, Bos. My father loved Sir Rowland as his soul, And all the world was of my father's mind : Had I before known this young man his son, I should have given him tears unto entreaties, -Ere he should thus have ventured. Cel. Gentle cousin, Let us go thank him and encourage him : My father's rough and envious disposition Sticks me at heart. Sir, you have well deserved : If you do keep your promises in love But justly, as you have exceeded all promise. Your mistress shall be happy. Bos. Gentleman, [Giving him a chain from her neck. "Wear this for me, one out of suits with fortune. That could give more, but that her hand lacks Shall we go, coz ? [means. Cel. Ay. Fare you well, fair gentleman. Orl. Can I not say, I thank you ? My better parts [up Are all thrown down, and that which here stands Is but a quintain, a mere lifeless block, [fortunes ; Bos. He calls us back: my pride fell with my I '11 ask him what he would. Did you call, sir ? Sir, you have vn:est]ed well and overthrown More than your enemies. Cel. "Will you go, coz ? Bos. Have with you. Fare you well. [Exeunt Bosalind and Celia. Orl. "What passion hangs these weights upon my tongue V I cannot speak to her, yet she urged conference. O poor Orlando, thou art overthrown ! Or Charles or something weaker masters thee. Be-enter Le Beau. Le Beau. Good sir, I do in friendship counsel you To leave this place. Albeit you have deserved High commendation, true applause and love. Yet such is now the duke's condition That he misconstrues all that you have done. The duke is humorous! what he is indeed. More suits you to conceive than I to speak of. Orl. I thank you, sir : and, pray j^ou, tell me this ; "Which of the two was daughter of the duke That here was at the wrestling ? [manners ; Le Beau. Neither his daughter, if we judge by But yet indeed the lesser is his daughter : The other is daughter to the banish 'd duke. And here detain'd by her usurping uncle. To keep his daughter company ; whose loves Are dearer than the natural bond of sisters. But I can tell you that of late this duke Hath ta'en displeasure 'gainst his gentle niece, Grounded upon no other argument But that the people praise her for her virtues And pity her for her good father's sake ; And, on my life, his malice 'gainst the lady Will suddenly break forth. Sir, fare you well: Hereafter, in a better world than this, I shall desire more love and knowledge of you. Orl. I rest much bounden to you : fare you well. [Exit Le Beau. Thus must I from the smoke into the smother ; From tyrant duke unto a tyrant brother : But heavenly Rosalind ! [Exit. SCENE III.— A room in the palace. Enter Celia and Rosalind. Cel. "Why^ cousin! why, Rosalind! Cupid have have mercy ! not a word V Boe. Not one to throw at a dog. Cel. No, thy words are too precious to be cast aAvay upon curs ; throw some of them at me ; come, lame me with reasons. Bos. Then there were two cousins laid up : when the one should be lame with reasons and the other mad without any. Cel. But is all this for your father ? Bos. NOj some of it is for my child's father. O, how full ot 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 petticoats will catch them. Bos. I could shake them off my coat : these burs are in my heart. Cel. Hem them away. [him. Bos. I would try, if I could cry ' hem ' and have Cel. Come, come, wrestle with thy affections. Bos. O, they take the part of a better wrestler than myself ! Cel. O, a good wish upon you ! you will try in time, in despite of a fall. But, turning these jests out of service, let us talk in good earnest: is it possible, on such a sudden, you should fall into so strong aliking with old Sir Rowland's youngest son ? Bos. The duke my father loved his father dearly. Cel. Doth it therefore ensue that you should love his son dearly V By this kind of chase, I should hate him, for my father hated his father dearly ; yet I hate not Orlando. Bos. No, faith, hate him not, for my sake. Cel. "Why should I not ? doth he not deserve well ? Bos. 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. Enter Duke Frederick, with Lords. Duke F. Mistress, dispatch you with your safest And get you from our court. [haste Bos. Me, uncle ? Duke F. You, cousin: Within these ten days if that thou be'st found So near our public court as twenty miles. Thou diest for it. Bos. 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 yom: highness. Duke F. Thus do all traitors: If their purgation did consist in words. They are as innocent as grace itself: Let it suffice thee that I trust thee not. Bos. Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor : Tell me whereon the likelihood depends, [enough. Duke F. Thou art thy father's daughter ; there's Bos. So was I when your highness took his duke- So was I when your highness banish 'd him : [dom ; Treason is not Inherited, my lord ; 173 ACT II. AS YOU LIKE IT. SCENE I. Or, if we did derive it from our friends, Wiiat '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 ranged 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. Bvke F. She is too subtle for thee ; and her Her very silence and her patience [smoothness, 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 passed upon her ; she is banish 'd. Cel. Pronounce that sentence then on me, my I cannot live out of her company. [liege : BukeF. You are a fool. You, niece, provide your- If you outstay the time, upon mine honour, [self: And in the greatness of my word, you die. [Exeunt Duke Frederick and Lords. 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 grieved than I am. Bos. I have more cause. Cel. Thou hast not, cousin ; Prithee, be cheerful : know'st thou not, the duke Hath banish 'd me, his daughter ? Bos. 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 ? No : let my father seek another heir. Therefore devise with me how we may fly. Whither to go and what to bear with us ; And do not seek to take your change upon you, To bear your griefs yourself and leave me out ; For, by this heaven^ now at our sorrows pale. Say what thou cansr, I '11 go along with thee. Bos. Why, whither shall we go ? Cel. To seek my uncle in the forest of Arden. Bos. Alas, what danger will it be to us, Maids as we are, to travel forth so far ! Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold. Cel. I '11 put myself in poor and mean attire And with a kind of umber smirch my face ; The like do you : so shall we pass along And never stir assailants. Bos. Were it not better, Because that I am more than common tall, That 1 did suit me all points like a man ? A gallant curtle-axe upon my thigh, A boar-spear in my hand ; and — in my heart Lie there what hidden woman's fear there will — We '11 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 ? Bos. I '11 have no worse a name than Jove's own And therefore look you call me Ganymede, [page ; But what will you be call'd ? Cel. Something that hath a reference to my state ; JSTo longer Celia, but Aliena. Bos. 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 '11 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. JS.CT II SCENE l.—The Forest of Arden. Enter Duke senior, Amiens, and two or three Lords, like foresters. Duke S. Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile. 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 churlish chiding of the winter's wind. Which, when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say ' 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. I would not change it. Ami. 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. Should in their ovm confines with forked heads Have their round haunches gored. 174 First Lord. Indeed, my lord, The melancholy Jaques 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 which place a poor sequester'd stag, That from the hunter's aim had ta'en a hurt. Did come to languish, and indeed, my lord. The wretched animal heaved forth such groans That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat Almost to bursting, and the big round tears Coursed one another down his ninocent nose In piteous chase ; and thus the hairy fool. Much marked of the melancholy Jaques, Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook, Augmenting it with tears. Duke S. But what said Jaques ? Did he not moralize this spectacle ? First Lord. O, yes, into a thousand similes. First, for his weeping into the needless stream ; 'Poor deer,' quoth he ' thou makest a testament As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more [alone. To that which had too much : ' then, being there Left and abandon 'd of his velvet friends, ' 'T is right : ' quoth he ' thus misery doth part The flux of company : ' anon a careless herd, Full of the pasture, jumps along by him ACT II. AS YOU LIKE IT. SCENE IV. And never stays to greet him ; ' Ay,' quoth Jaques, ' Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens ; 'T is just the fashion : wherefore do you look 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, [tion ? Dvke S. And did you leave him in this contempla- Sec. Lord. We did, my lord, weeping and com- TJpon the sobbing deer. [menting Duke S. Show me the place : I love to cope him in these sullen fits. For then he 's full of matter. First Lord. I '11 bring you to him straight. [Exeunt. SCENE II. — A room in the palace. Enter Duke Frederick, with Lords. Dvke F. Can it be possible that no man saw them ? It cannot be : some villains of my court Are of consent and sufferance in this. First Lord. I cannot hear of any that did see her. The lafiies, her attendants of her chamber. Saw her a-bed, and in the morning early They found the bed untreasured of their mistress. Sec. Lord. My lord, the roynish clovm, at whom so Your grace was wont to laugh, is also missing, [oft Hisperia, the princess' gentlewoman, Confesses that she secretly o'erheard Your daughter and her cousin much commend The parts and graces of the wrestler That did but lately foil the sinewy Charles ; And she believes, wherever they are gone, That youth is surely in their company. [hither ; Duke F. Send to his brother ; fetch that gallant If he be absent, bring his brother to me; I '11 make him find him : do this suddenly, And let not search and inquisition quail To bring again these foolish runaways. [Exeunt. SCENE in. — Before Oliver's house. Enter Orlando and Adam, meeting. Orl. Who 's there ? [master! Adam. What, my young master ? O my gentle my sweet master ! O you memory Of old Sir Kowland ! 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 bonny 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 use to lie And you within it : if he fail of that. He will have other means to cut you off. 1 overheard him and his practices. This is no place ; this house is but a butchery: Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it. [go ? Orl. Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me Adam. No matter whither, so you come not here. Orl. What, wouldst thou have me go and b^ my food ? Or with a base and boisterous sword enforce A thievish living on the common road ? This I must do, or know not what to do : Yet this I will not do, do how I can ; I ratlier will subject me to the malice Of a diverted blood and bloody brother, [crowns, Adam. But do not so. I have five hundred The thrifty hire I saved under your father, Which I did 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 I 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; 1 '11 do the service of a younger man In all your business and necessities. Orl. O good old man, how well in thee appears The coflstant 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 prunest a rotten tree, That cannot so much as a blossom yield In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry. But come thy ways ; we '11 go along together, And ere we have thy youthful wages spent. We '11 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 ytears till now almost f oiirscore 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. SCENE IV. — The Forest of Arden. Enter Rosalind/or Ganjmaede, Celia/or Aliena, and Touchstone. Bos. O Jupiter, how weary are my spirits ! Touch. 1 care not for my spirits, if my legs were not weary. Bos. I could find in my heart to disgrace my man's apparel and to cry like a woman ; but I must com- fort the weaker vessel, as doublet and hose ought to show itself courageous to petticoat : therefore cour- age, good Aliena ! Cel. I pray you, bear with me; I can go no further. Touch. For my part, I had 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. Bos. 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. Bos. Ay, be so, good Touchstone. Enter Corin and Silvius. Look you, who comes here; a young man and an old in solemn talk. 175 ACT II. AS YOU LIKE IT. SCENE T. Cor. That is tlie way to make her scorn you still. Sil. O Corin, tliat ttiou knew'st how I do'love her ! Cor. I partly guess ; for I have loved ere now. Sil. No, Corin, being old, thou canst not guess, Though in thy youth thou wast as true a lover As ever sigh'd upon a midnight pillow : But if tliy 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 loved : Or if thou hast not sat as I do now, Wearying thy hearer in thy mistress' praise, Thou hast not loved : Or if thou hast not broke from company Abruptly, as my passion now makes me, Thou hast not loved. Phebe, Phebe, Phebe ! [Exit. Bos. Alas, poor shepherd ! searchingof thy wound, 1 have by hard adventure found mine own. Touch. And I mine. I remember, when I was in love I broke my sword upon a stone and bid him take that for coming a-night to Jane Smile ; and I remember the kissing of her batlet and the cow's dugs that her pretty chopt hands had milkgd ; and I remember the wooing of a peascod instead of her, from whom I took two cods and, giving her them again, said with weeping tears ' Wear these for my sake.' We that are true lovers run into strange capers ; but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly. Eos. Thou speakest wiser than thou art ware of. Touch. Nay, I shall ne'er be ware of mine own wit tiU I break my shins against it. Bos. Jove, Jove ! this shepherd's passion Is much upon my fashion. Touch. And mine ; but it grows something stale with me. Cel. I pray you, one of you question yond man If he for gold will give us any food : I faint almost to death. Touch. Holla, you clown ! Bos. Peace, fool: he 's not thy kinsman. Cor. Who calls ? Tov£h. Your betters, sir. Cor. Else are they very wretched. Bos. Peace, I say. Good even to you, friend. Cor. And to you, gentle sir, and to you all. Bos. I prithee, 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 succour. Cor. Pair 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. Bos. What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture ? [erewhile, Cor. That young swain that you saw here but That little cares for buying anything. Bos. I pray thee, if it stand with honesty. Buy thou the cottage, pastm'e and the flock, And thou shalt have to pay for it of us. 176 Cel. And we will mend thy wages. I like this And willingly could waste my time in it. [place, 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 faithful feeder be And buy it with your gold right suddenly. [Exeunt. SCENE V. — The forest. Enter Amiens, Jaques, and others. SONG. Ami. Under the greenwood tree Who loves to lie with me. And turn his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat, Come hither, come hither, come hither: Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather. Jaq. More, more, I prithee, more. Ami. It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques. Jaq. I thank it. More, I prithee, more. I can suck melancholy out of a song, as a weasel sucks eggs. More, I prithee, more. Ami. My voice is ragged : I know I cannot please you. Jaq. 1 do not desire you to please me ; I do desire you to sing. Come, more; another stanzo: call you 'em stanzos ? Ami. What you will. Monsieur Jaques. Jaq. Nay, I care not for their names; they owe me nothing. Will you sing ? Ami. More at your request than to please myself. Jaq. Well then, if ever I thank any man, I '11 thank you ; but that they call compliment is like the encounter of two dog-apes, and when a man thanks me heartily, methinks I have given him a penny and he renders me the beggarly thanks. Come, sing ; and you that will not, hold your tongues. A7ni. Well, I '11 end the song. Sirs, cover the while; the duke will drink under this tree. He hath been all this day to look you. Jaq. And I have been all this day to avoid him. He is too disputable for my company : I think of as many matters as he, but I give heaven thanks and make no boast of them. Come, warble, come. SONG. Who doth ambition shun [All together here. And loves to live i' the sun. Seeking the food he eats And pleased with what he gets. Come hither, come hither, come hither: Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather. Jaq. 1 '11 give you a verse to this note that I made yesterday in despite of my invention. Ami. And I '11 sing it. Jaq. Thus it goes : — If it do come to pass That any man turn ass. Leaving his wealth ana ease, A stubborn will to please, Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame: Here shall he see Gross fools as he. An if he will come to me. Ami. What 's that ' ducdame ' ? Jaq. 'T is a Greek invocation, to call fools into a ACT II, AS YOU LIKE IT. SCENE VII. circle. I '11 go sleep, if I can ; if I cannot, I '11 rail against all the first-born of Egypt. Ami. And I '11 go seek tlie duke : his banquet is prepared. [Exeunt severally. SCENE VI.— The forest. Enter Orlando and Adam. Adam. Dear master, I can go no further: O, I die for food ! Here lie I down, and measure out my grave. Farewell, kind master. Orl. Why, how now, Adam ! no greater heart in thee ? Live a little ; comfort a little ; cheer thyself a little. If this uncouth forest yield any thing savage, I will either be food for it or bring it for food to thee. Thy conceit is nearer death than thy powers. For my sake be comfortable ; hold death awhile at the arm's end : I will here be with thee presently ; and if I bring thee not something to eat, I will give thee leave to die : but if thou diest before I come, thou art a mocker of my labour. Well said ! thou lookest cheerly, and I '11 be with thee quickly. Yet thou liest in the bleak air : come, I will bear thee to some shelter; and thou shalt not die for lack of a dinner, if there live any thing in this desert. Cheerly, good Adam ! [Exeunt. SCENE VII.— Tlie forest. A table set out. Enter Duke senior, Amiens, and Lords like outlaws. Duke S. I think he be transform'd into a beast ; For I can no where find him like a man. First Lord. My lord, he is but even now gone Here was he merry, hearing of a song. [hence : Duke S. If he, compact of jars, grow musical, We shall have shortly discord in the spheres. Go, seek him : tell him I would speak with him. Enter Jaques. First Lord. He saves my labour by his own ap- proach, [is this, Duke S. Why, how now, monsieur ! what a life That your poor friends must woo your company ? What, you look merrily! Jaq. A fool, a fool ! I 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 smi. 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 we may see,' quoth he, ' how the world wags : 'T is but an hour ago since it was nine. And after one hour more 't will be 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 ! A worthy fool ! Motley 's the only wear. Duke S. What fool is this ? [tier, Jaq. O worthy fool ! One that hath been a cour- And says, 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 I am ambitious for a motley coat. 12 Duke S. Thou shalt have one. Jaq. It is my only suit ; 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 ? 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 anatomized 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. [do. Duke S. Fie on thee ! I can tell what thou wouldst, Jaq. What, for a counter, would I do but good ? Duke S. Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding For thou thyself hast been a libertine, [sin : As sensual as the brutish sting itself ; And all the embossed sores and headed evils, That thou with license of free foot hast caught, Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world, 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 weary very means do ebb ? What woman in the city do I name, When that I say the 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 neighbour ? 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 ? [wherein There then ; how then ? what then ? Let me see My tongue hath wrrong'd him: if it do him right. Then he hath wrong 'd himself; if he be free. Why then my taxing like a wild-goose flies, Unclaim'd of any man. But who comes here ? Enter Orlando, with his sword drawn. Orl. Forbear, and eat no more. Jaq. Why, I have eat none yet. Orl. Nor shalt not, till necessity be served. Jaq. Of what kind should this cock come of ? Duke iS. Art thou thus bolden'd, man, by thy Or else a rude despiser of good manners, [distress. That in civility thou seem'st so empty ? [point Orl. You touch 'd my vein at first: the thorny 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 ? Your gentle- ness 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 stern commandment. But whate'er you are That 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 knoll'd to church, 177 ACT III, AS YOU LIKE IT. SCENE II. If ever sat at any good man's feast, If ever from your eyelids wiped a tear And know what 't is 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 knoU'd to church And sat at good men's feasts and wiped 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 minister'd. 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 sufficed, 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 blest for your good com- fort ! [Mcit. Duke S. Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy : This wide and universal theatre Presents more woeful pageants than the 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 ; And one man in his 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 honour, 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 lined. With eyes severe and beard of formal cut. Full of wise saws and modern 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 saved, 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. Ee-enter Orlando, with Adam. Duke S. Welcome. Set down your venerable And let him feed. [burthen, 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. SONG. Ami. Blow, blow, 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 holly : Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly : Then, heigh-ho, the holly ! This life is most jolly. Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, That dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot : Though thou the waters warp, Thy sting is not so sharp As friend remember'd not. Heigh-ho ! sing, &c. Duke S. If that you were the good Sir Kowland's As you have whisper'd faithfully you were, [son, And as mine eye doth his effigies witness Most truly limn'd and living in your face. Be truly welcome hither : I am the duke That loved 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 imderstand. [Uxeunt. ^CT III. SCENE I. — A room in the palace. Enter Duke Frederick, Lords, and Oliver, Duke F. Not see him since ? Sir, sir, that cannot be: But were I not the better part made mercy, I should not seek an absent argument Of my revenge, thou present. But look to it : Find out thy brother, wheresoe'er he is ; Seek him with candle ; bring him dead or living Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more To seek a living in our territory. Thy lands and all things that thou dost call thine Worth seizure do we seize into our hands. Till thou canst quit thee by thy brother's mouth Of what we think against thee. Oli. O that your highness knew my heart in this 1 I never loved my brother in my life. Duke F. More villain thou. Well, push him out of doors ; And let my officers of such a nature Make an extent upon his house and lands : Do this expediently and turn him going. [Exeunt. 178 SCENE II.— The forest. Enter Orlando, with 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 sphere 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 '11 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 unexpressive she. [Exit. Enter Corin and Touchstone. Cor. And how like you this shepherd's life. Mas- ter Touchstone ? Touch. Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a good life ; but in respect that it is a shepherd'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 ACT III, AS YOU LIKE IT. SCENE II. court, it is tedious. As it is a spare life, look you, it fits my humour well; but as there is no more plenty in it, it goes much against my stomach. Hast any philosophy in thee, shepherd ? Cor. No more but that I know the more one sick- ens the worse 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, shepherd? Cor. No, truly. Touch. Then thou art damned. Cor. Nay, I hope. Touch. Truly, thou art damned like an ill-roasted egg, all on one side. Cor. For not being at court ? Your reason. Touch. Why, if thou never wast at court, thou never sawest good manners ; if thou never sawest good manners, then thy manners must be wicked; and wickedness is sin, and sin is damnation. Thou art in a parlous state, shepherd. Cor. Not a whit. Touchstone : those that are good manners at the court are as ridiculous in the coun- try as the behaviour of the country is most mocka- ble at the court. You told me you salute not at the court, but you kiss your hands: that courtesy would be uncleanly, if courtiers were shepherds. Touch. Instance, briefly ; come, instance. Cor. Why, we are still handling our ewes, and their fells, you know, are greasy. Touch. Why, do not your courtier's hands sweat ? and is not the grease of a mutton as wholesome as the sweat of a man V Shallow, shallow. A better instance, I say ; come. Cor. Besides, our hands are hard. Touch. Your lips will feel them the sooner. Shal- low again. A more sounder instance, come. Cor. And they are often tarred over with the surgery of our sheep ; and would you have us kiss tar .'' The courtier's hands are perfumed with civet. Touch. Most shallow man ! thou worms-meat, in respect of a good piece of flesh indeed ! Learn of the wise, and perpend: civet is of a baser birth than tar, the very uncleanly flux of a cat. Mend the in- stance, shepherd. Cor. You have too courtly a wit for me : I '11 rest. Touch. Wilt thou rest damned ? God help thee, shallow man! God make incision in thee ! thou art raw. Cor. Sir, I am a true labourer: I earn" that I eat, fet that 1 wear, owe no man hate, envy no man's appiness, 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 suck. Touch. That is another simple sin in you, to bring the ewes and the rams together and to offer to get your living by the copulation of cattle ; to be bawd to a bell-wether, and to betray a she-lamb of a twelve- month to a crooked-pated, old, cuckoldly ram, out of all reasonable match. If thou beest not damned for this, the devil himself will have no shepherds; I cannot see else how thou shouldst 'scape. Cor. Here comes young Master Ganymede, my new mistress's brother. Ihiter Rosalind, with a paper, reading. Bos. 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 lined Are but black to Rosalind. Let no fair be kept in mind But the fair of Rosalind. Touch. I '11 rhyme you so eight years together, dinners and suppers and sleeping-hours excepted: it is the right butter-women's rank to market. Eos. 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 lined. So must slender Rosalind. They that reap must sheaf and bind ; Theia to cart with Rosalind. Sweetest nut hath sourest rind, Such a nut is Rosalind. He that sweetest rose will find Must find love's prick and Rosalind. This is the very false gallop of verses : why do you infect yourself with them ? Eos. Peace, you dull fool! I found them on a tree. Touch. Truly, the tree yields bad fruit. Bos. I '11 graff it with you, and then I shall graft it with a medlar : then it will be the earliest fruit i' the coimtry ; for you '11 be rotten ere you be half ripe, and that 's the right virtue of the medlar. Touch. You have said ; but whether wisely or no, let the forest judge. Enter Celia, with a writing. Bos. Peace! Here comes my sister, reading : stand aside. Gel. [Beads] Why should this a desert be ? For it is unpeopled ? No ; Tongues I '11 hang on every tree. That shall civil sayings show : Some, how brief the life of man Runs his erring pilgrimage, That the stretching of a span Buckles in his sum of age ; Some, of violated vows 'Twixt 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 charged That one body should be fiU'd With all graces wide-enlarged : Nature presently distill'd Helen's cheek, but not her heart, Cleopatra's majesty, Atalanta's better part, Sad Lucretia's modesty. Thus Rosalind of many parts By heavenly synod was devised, Of many faces, eyes and hearts, To have the touches dearest prized. Heaven would that she these gifts should have, And I to live and die her slave. Bos. O most gentle pulpiter ! what tedious hom- ily of love have you wearied your parishioners with- al, and never cried ' 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 honoura- ble retreat ; though not with bag and baggage, yet with scrip and scrippage. [Exeunt Corin and Touchstone. Cel. Didst thou hear these verses ? Bos. O, yes, I heard them all, and more too; for some of them had in them more feet than the verses would bear. 179 ACT III, AS YOU LIKE IT. SCENE II. Cel. That 's no matter : the feet might bear the verses. Bos. Ay, but the feet were lame and could not bear themselves without the verse and therefore stood lamely in the verse. Cel. But didst thou hear without wondering how thy name should be hanged and carved upon these trees ? Bos. I was seven of the nine days out of the won- der before you came ; for look here what I found on a palm-tree. I was never so berhymed since Pyth- agoras' time, that I was an Irish rat, which I can hardly remember. Cel. Trow you who hath done this ? Bos. Is it a man ? Cel. And a chain, that you once wore, about his neck. Change you colour ? Bos. I prithee, who V Cel. O Lord, Lord ! it is a hard matter for friends to meet; but mountains may be removed with earthquakes and so encounter. Bos. Nay, but who is it ? Cel. Is it possible i' Bos. Nay, I prithee now with most petitionary vehemence, tell me who it is. Cel. O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonder- ful wonderful ! and yet again wonderful, and after that, out of all hooping! Bos. Good my complexion! dost thou think, though I am caparisoned like a man, I have a doublet and hose in my disposition ? One inch of delay more is a South-sea of discovery ; I prithee, tell me who is it quickly, and speak apace. I would thou couldst stammer, that thou mightst pour this concealed man out of thy mouth, as wine comes out of a narrow-mouthed bottle, either too much at once, or none at all. I prithee, take the cork out of thy mouth that I may drink thy tidings. Cel. So you may put a man in your belly. Bos. Is he of God's making '? What manner of man ? Is his head worth a hat, or his chin worth a Cel. Nay, he hath but a little beard. [beard r" Bos. Why, God will send more, if the man will be thankful : let me stay the growth of his beard, if thou delay me not the knowledge of his chin. Cel. It is young Orlando, that tripped up the wrestler's heels and your heart both in an instant. Bos. Nay, but the devil take mocking: speak, sad brow and true maid. Cel. V faith, coz, 'tis he. Bos. Orlando? Cel. Orlando. Bos. Alas the day ! what shall I do with my doublet and hose ? What did he when thou sawest him ? What said he ? How looked 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. You must borrow me Gargantua's mouth first : 't is 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. Bos. But doth he know that I am in this forest and in man's apparel l' 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 good observance. I found him under a tree, like a dropped acorn. Bos. It may well be called Jove's tree, when it drops forth such fruit. Cel. Give me audience, good madam. Bos. Proceed. Cel. There lay he, stretched along, like a wounded knight. Bos. Though it be pity to see such a sight, it well becomes the ground. 180 Cel. Cry ' holla ' to thy tongue, I prithee ; it cur- vets unseasonably. He was furnished like a hunter. Bos. O, ominous ! he comes to kill my heart. Cel. I would sin^ my song without a burden : thou bringest me out of tune. Bos. Do you not know I am a woman ? when I think, I must speak. Sweet, say on. Cel. You brmg me out. Soft ! comes he not here ? JEMer Orlando and Jaques. Bos. 'T is he : slink by, and note him. 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. God be wi' 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 wilting love-songs in their barks. Orl. I pray you, mar no more of my verses with reading them ill-favouredly. 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 christened. Jaq. What stature is she of ? Orl. Just as high as my heart. Jaq. You are full of pretty answers. Have you not been acquainted with goldsmiths' wives, and conned them out of rings ? Orl. Not so ; but I answer you right painted cloth, from whence you have studied your questions. Jaq. You have a nimble wit : I think 't was made of Atalanta's heels. Will you sit down with me ? and we two will rail against our mistress the world and all our misery. Orl. I will chide no breather in the world but myself, against whom I know most faults. Jaq. The worst fault you have is to be in love. Orl. 'T is a fault I will not change for your best virtue. I am weary of you. Jaq. By my troth, I was seeking for a fool when I foimd you. Orl. He is drowned in the brook : look but in, and you shall see him. Jaq. There I shall see mine own figure. Orl. Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher. Jaq. I '11 tarry no longer with you : farewell, good Signior Love. Orl. I am glad of your departure ; adieu, good Monsieur Melancholy. [Exit Jaques. Bos. [Aside to Celia\ I will speak to him like a- saucy lackey and under that habit play the knave with him. Do you hear, forester ? Orl. Very well : what would you ? Bos. I pray you, what is't o'clock? Orl. You should ask me what time o' day: there 's no clock in the forest. Bos. Then there is 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 ? Bos. By no means, sir: Time travels in divers paces with divers persons. I '11 tell you who Time ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal and who he stands still withal. Orl. I prithee, who doth he trot withal ? Bos. Marry, he trots hard with a young maid be- tween the contract of her marriage and the day it is solemnized: if the interim be but a se'nnight, Time's pace is so hard that it seems the length of seven year. Orl. Who ambles Time withal ? Bos. With a priest that lacks Latin and a rich man that hath not the gout, for the one sleeps easily ACT III. AS YOU LIKE IT. SCENE III. 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 110 burden of heavy tedious penury; these Time ambles withal. Orl. Who doth he gallop withal ? Bos. With a thief to the gallows, for though he go as softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too Orl. Who stays it still withal Y [soon there. Bos. 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 ? -Bos. With this shepherdess, my sister ; here in the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat. Orl. Are you native of this place '? [is kindled. Bos. As the cony that you see dwell where she Orl. Your accent is something finer than you could purchase in so removed a dwelling. Bos. 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 God I am not a woman, to be touched with so many giddy offences as he hath generally taxed their whole sex withal. Orl. Can you remember any of the principal evils that he laid to the charge of women ? Bos. There were none principal ; they were all like one another as half-pence are, every one fault seem- ing monstrous till his fellow-fault came to match it. Orl. I prithee, recount some of them. Bos. No, I will not cast away my physic but on those that are sick. There is a man haunts the for- est, that abuses our young plants with carving ' Rosalind ' on their barks ; hangs odes upon haw- thorns and elegies on brambles, all, forsooth, deify- ing the name of Rosalind: if I could meet that fancy-monger, I would give him some good coun- sel, for he seems to have the quotidian of love upon him. Orl. I am he that is so love-shaked : I pray you, tell me your remedy. Bos. There is none of my imcle'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 pris- Orl. What were his marks ? [oner. Bos. A lean cheek, which you have not, a blue eye and sunken, which you have not, an unques- tionable spirit, which you have not, a beard neglect- ed, which you have not ; but I pardon you for that, for simply your having in beard is a younger brother's revenue : then your hose should be ungar- tered, your bonnet unhanded, your sleeve unbut- toned, your shoe untied and every thing about you demonstrating a careless desolation ; but you are no such man; you are rather point-device in your accoutrements as loving yourself than seem- ing the lover of any other. Orl. Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love. Bos. Me believe it! you may as soon make her that you love believe 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 Rosa- lind is so admired ? Orl. I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortunate he. Bos. But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak ? [much. Orl Neither rhyme nor reason can express how -Kos, Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as mad- men do : and the reason why they are not so pim- ished and ciu-ed is, that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are in love too. Yet I profess curing it by counsel. Orl. Did you ever cure any so ? Bos. 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 eifeminate, changeable, longing and liking, proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles, for every passion something and for no pas- sion truly any thing, as boys and women are for the most part cattle of this colour ; would now like him, now loathe him ; then entertain him, then forswear him ; now weep for him, then spit at him ; that I drave my suitor from his mad humour of love to a living humour of madness; which was, to for- swear the full stream of the world and to live in a nook merely monastic. And thus 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. Orl. I would not be cured, youth. Bos. I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind and come every day to my cote and woo me. Orl. Now, by the faith of my love, I will : tell me where it is. Bos. Go with me to it and I '11 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. Bos. Nay, you must call me Rosalind. Come, sis- ter, will you go ? [Exeunt. SCENE in— The forest. Enter Touchstone and Audrey ; Jaques behind. I Touch. Come apace, good Audrey: I will fetch up your goats, Audrey. And how, Audrey ? am I ! the man yet V doth my simple feature content you ? Aud. Your features ! Lord warrant us ! what features V Touch. I am here with thee and thy goats, as the most capricious poet, honest Ovid, was among the Goths. Jaq. [Aside] O knowledge ill-inhabited, worse than Jove in a thatched house I Touch. When a man's verses cannot be under- stood, nor a man's good wit seconded with the for- ward child Understanding, it strikes a man more dead than a great reckoning in a little room. Truly, I would the gods had made thee poetical. Aud. I do not know what 'poetical' is: is it honest in deed and word? is it a true thing? Touch. No, truly; for the truest poetry is the most feigning ; and lovers are given to poetry, and what they swear in poetry may be said as lovers they do feign. [poetical? Aud. Do you wish then that the gods had made me Touch. 1 do, truly; for thou swearest to me thou art honest : now, if thou wert a poet, I might have some hope thou didst feign. Aud. Would you not have me honest ? Touch. No, truly, unless thou wert hard-favoured ; for honesty coupled to beauty is to have honey a sauce to sugar. Jaq. [Aside] A material fool ! Aud. Well, I am not fair; and therefore I pray the gods make me honest. Touch. Truly, and to cast away honesty upon a foul slut were to put good meat into an unclean dish. Aud. I am not a slut, though I thank the gods I am foul. Touch. Well, praised be the gods for thy foulness ! sluttishness may come hereafter. But be it as it may be, I will marry thee, and to that end I have been with Sir Oliver Martext,the vicar of the next 181 ACT III. AS YOU LIKE IT. SCENE V. village, who hath promised to meet me in this place of the forest and to couple us. Jaq. {Asidt\ I would fain see this meeting. Ami. Well, the gods give us joy ! Touch. Amen. A man may, if he were of a fear- ful heart, stagger in this attempt ; for here we have no temple but the wood, no assembly but horn- beasts. But what though? Courage! As horns are odious, they are necessary. It is said, ' many a man knows no end of his goods : ' right ; many a man has good horns, and knows no end of them. Well, that is the dowry of his wife ; 't is none of his own getting. Horns? Even so. Poor men alone? No, no; the noblest deer hath them as huge as the rascal. Is the single man therefore blessed ? No : as a walled town is more worthier than a village, so is the forehead of a married man more honourable than the bare brow of a bachelor •, and by how much defence is better than no skill, by so much is a horn more precious than to want. Here comes Sir Oliver. Enter Sir Oliver Martext. Sir Oliver Martext, you are well met : will you dis- patch us here under this tree, or shall we go with you to your chapel ? Sir Oli. Is there none here to give the woman ? Toiich. I will not take her on gift of any man. Sir Oli. Truly, she must be given, or the mar- riage is not lawful. Jaq. [Advancing] Proceed, proceed : I '11 give her. Touch. Good even, good Master What-ye-call 't : how do you, sir ? You are very well met : God 'ild you for your last company : I am very glad to see you : even a toy in hand here, sir : nay, pray be cov- Jaq. Will you be married, motley ? [ered. Touch. As the ox hath his bow, sir, the horse his curb and the falcon her bells, so man hath his de- sires ; and as pigeons bill, so wedlock would be nib- bling. Jaq. And will you, being a man of your breeding, be married under a bush like a beggar ? Get you to church, and have a good priest that can tell you what marriage is : this fellow will but join you to- gether as they join wainscot ; then one of you will prove a shrunk panel and, like green timber, warp, warp. Touch. [Aside] I am not in the mind but I were better to be married of him than of another : for he is not like to marry me well ; and not being well married, it will be a good excuse for me hereafter to leave my wife. Jaq. Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee. Touch. Come, sweet Audrey : We must be married, or we must live in bawdry. Farewell, good Master Oliver : not,— O sweet Oliver, O brave Oliver, Leave me not behind thee : but,— Wind away, Begone, I say, I will not to wedding with thee. [Exeunt Jaques, Touchstone and Audrey. Sir Oli. 'T is no matter : ne'er a fantastical knave of them all shall flout me out of my calling. [Exit. SCENE IV.— The forest. Enter Rosalind and Celia, Ros. Never talk to me ; I will weep. Cel. Do, I prithee ; but yet have the grace to con- sider that tears do not become a man. Ros. But have I not cause to weep ? [weep. Cel. As good cause as one would desire ; therefore Ros. His very hair is of the dissembling colour. Cel. Something browner than Judas's : marry, his kisses are Judas's own children. 182 Ros. I' faith, his hair is of a good colour. Cel. An excellent colour : your chestnut was ever the only colour. Ros. And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch of holy bread. Cel. He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana : a nun of winter's sisterhood kisses not more relig- iously ; the very ice of chastity is in them. Ros. But why did he swear he would come this morning, and comes not ? Cel. Nay, certamly, there is no truth in him. Ros. Do you think so ? Cel. Yes; I think he is not a pick-purse nor a horse-stealer, but for his verity in love, I do think him as concave as a covered goblet or a worm-eaten Ros. Not true in love ? [nut. Cel. Yes, when he is in ; but I think he is not in. Ros. You have heard him swear downright he was. Cel. ' Was ' is not ' is : ' besides, the oath of a lover is no stronger than the word of a tapster; they are both the confirmer of false reckonings. He attends here in the forest on the duke your father. Ros. I met the duke yesterday and had much question with him : he asked me of what parentage I was ; I told him, of as good as he ; so he laughed and let me go. But what talk we of fathers, when there is such a man as Orlando ? Cel. O, that 's a brave man ! he writes brave verses, speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely, quite traverse, athwart the heart of his lover ; as a puisny filter, that spurs his horse but on one side, breaks his staff like a noble goose : but all 's brave that youth mounts and folly guides. Who comes here ? Enter Corin. Cor. Mistress and master, you have oft inquired After the shepherd that complain 'd of love, Who you saw sitting by me on the turf, Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess That was his mistress. Cel. Well, and what of him ? Cor. If you will see a pageant truly play'd. Between the pale complexion of true love And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain, Go hence a little and I shall conduct you. If you will mark it. Ros. O, come, let us remove : The sight of lovers feedeth those in love. Bring us to this sight, and you shall say I '11 prove a busy actor in their play. [Exeunt. SCENE v.— Another part of the forest. Enter Silvius and Phebe. Sil. Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, Say that you love me not, but say not so [Phebe ; In bitterness. The common executioner. Whose heart the accustom 'd sight of death makes Palls not the axe upon the humbled neck [hard. But first begs pardon : will you sterner be Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops ? Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Corin, behind. Phe. I would not be thy executioner : I fly thee, for I would not injure thee. Thou tell'st me there is murder in mine eye : 'T is pretty, sure, and very probable. That eyes, that are the frail'st and softest things. Who shut their coward gates on atomies. Should be call'd tyrants, butchers, murderers ! Now I do frown on thee with all my heart ; And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee : Now counterfeit to swoon ; why now fall down ; Or if thou canst not, O, for shame, for shame, Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers ! Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee: Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains ACT IV. AS YOU LIKE IT. SCENE I. Some scar of it ; lean but upon a rush, The cicatrice and capable impressure Thy palm some moment keeps ; but now mine eyes, Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not, Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes Tliat can do hurt. Sil. O dear Phebe, If ever, — as that ever may be near, — You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy. Then shall you know the wounds invisible That love's keen arrows make. Phe. But till that time Come not thou near me : and when that time comes, Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not ; As till that time I shall not pity thee. [mother, Ros. And why, I pray you ? Who might be your That you insult, exult, and all at once, [beauty, — Over the wretched y What though you have no As, by my faith, I see no more in you Than without candle may go dark to bed — Must you be therefore proud and pitiless ? Why, what means this ? Why do you look on me V I see no more in you than in the ordinary Of nature's sale-work. 'Od 's my little life, I think she means to tangle my eyes too ! No, faith, proud mistress, hope not after it: 'T is not your inky brows, your black silk hair, Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream, That can entame my spirits to your worship. You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her, Like foggy south puffing with wind and rain V You are a' thousand times a properer man Than she a woman : 't is such fools as you That makes the world full of ill-favour'd children : 'Tis not her glass, but you, that flatters her; And out of you she sees herself more proper . Than any of her lineaments can show her. But, mistress, know yourself : down on your knees. And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man's love : For I must tell you friendly in your ear. Sell when you can : you are not for all markets : Cry the man mercy ; love him ; take his ofEer : Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer. So take her to thee, shepherd : fare you well. Phe. Sweet youth, I pray you, chide a year together : I had rather hear you chide than this man woo. -Bos. He 's fallen in love with your foulness and she '11 fall in love with my anger. If it be so, as fast as she answers thee with frowning looks, I '11 sauce her with bitter words. Why look you so upon Phe. For no ill-will I bear you. [me ? Eos. I pray you, do not fall in love with me, For I am falser than vows made in wine : Besides, I like you not. If you will know my house, 'T is at the tuft of olives here hard by. Will you go, sister ? Shepherd, ply her hard. Come, sister. Shepherdess, look on him better, And be not proud : though all the world could see, None could be so abused in sight as he. Come, to our flock. [Exeunt Bosalind, Celia and Corin. Phe. Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might, ' Who ever loved that loved not at first sight ? ' Sil. Sweet Phebe, — Phe. Ha, what say'st thou, Silvius ? Sil. Sweet Phebe, pity me. Phe. Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius. Sil. Wherever sorrow is, relief would be : If you do sorrow at my grief in love. By giving love your sorrow and my grief Were both extermined. Phe. Thou hast my love : is not that neighbourly ? Sil. I would have you. Phe. Why, that were covetousness. Silvius, the time was that I hated thee. And yet it is not that I bear thee love ; But since that thou canst talk of love so well. Thy company, which erst was irksome to me, I will endure, and I '11 employ thee too : But do not look for further recompense Than thine own gladness that thou art employ'd. Sil. So holy and so perfect is my love, And I in such a poverty of grace. That I shall think it a most plenteous crop To glean the broken ears after the man That the main harvest reaps : loose now and then A scatter'd smile, and that I '11 live upon, [while ? Phe. Kno w'st thou the youth that spoke to me ere- Sil. Not very well, but I have met him oft ; And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds That the old carlot once was master of. Phe. Think not I love him, though I ask for him ; 'T is but a peevish boy ; yet he talks well : But what care I for words ? yet words do well When he that speaks them pleases those that hear. It is a pretty youth : not very pretty : But, sure, he 's proud, and yet his pride becomes him : He '11 make a proper man : the best thing in him Is his complexion ; and faster than his tongue Did make offence his eye did heal it up. He is not very tall ; yet for his years he 's tall : His leg is but so so ; and yet 't is well : There was a pretty redness in his lip, A little riper and more lusty red [ference Than that mix'd in his cheek ; 't was just the dif- Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask. There be some women, Silvius, had they mark'd him In parcels as I did, would have gone near To fall in love with him ; but, for my part, ■ I love him not nor hate him not ; and yet I have more cause to hate him than to love him : For what had he to do to chide at me ? He said mine eyes were black and my hair black ; And, now I am remember'd, scorn'd at me : I marvel why I answer'd not again : But that 's all one ; omittance is no quittance. I '11 write to him a very taunting letterj And thou shalt bear it : wilt thou, Silvius ? Sil. Phebe, with all my heart. Phe. I '11 write it straight ; The matter 's in my head and in my heart : I will be bitter with him and passing short. Go with me, Silvius. [Exeunt. A.CT IV. SCENE I.— The forest. Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Jaques. Jaq. 1 prithee, pretty youth, let me be better ac- quainted with thee. -Ros. They say you are a melancholy fellow. Jaq. I ani so ; I do love it better than laughing. Eos. Those that are in extremity of either are abominable fellows and betray themselves to every modern censure worse than drunkards. Jaq. Why, 't is good to be sad and say nothing. Bos. 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, ex- tracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry 183 ACT IV. AS YOU LIKE IT. SCENE 1, contemplation of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous sadness. Bos. 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 have seen much and to have nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor hands. Jag. Yes, 1 have gained my experience. Bos. 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 ! Enter Orlando. Orl. Good day and happiness, dear Rosalind ! Jaq. Nay, then, God be wi' you, an you talk in blank verse. [Exit. Bos. Farewell, Monsieur Traveller: look you lisp and wear strange suits , disable all the benefits of your own country, be out of love with your nativity and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are, or I will scarce think you have swam in a fondola. Why, how now, Orlando ! where have you een all this while ? You a lover ! An you serve me such another trick, never come in my sight more. Orl. My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise. Bos. Break an hour's promise in love ! He that will divide a minute into a thousand parts and break but a part of the thousandth part of a minute in the af- fairs of love, it may be said of him that Cupid hath clapped him o' the shoulder, but I '11 warrant him Orl. Pardon me, dear Rosalind. [heart-whole. Bos. Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight : I had as lief be wooed of a snail. Orl. Of a snail? Bos. Ay, of a snail ; for though he comes slowly, he carries his house on his head ; a better jointure, I think, than you make a woman : besides, he brings his destiny with him. Orl. What 's that ? Bos. Why, horns, which such as you are fain to be beholding to your wives for : but he comes armed in his fortune and prevents the slander of his wife. Orl. Virtue is no horn-maker ; and my Rosalind is Bos. And I am your Rosalind. [virtuous. Cel. It pleases him to call you so ; but he hath a Rosalind of a better leer than you. Bos. Come, woo me, woo me, for now I am in a holiday humour and like enough to consent. What would you say to me now, an I were your very very Orl. I would kiss before I spoke. [Rosalind ? Bos. Nay, you were better speak first, and when you were gravelled for lack of matter, you might take occasion to kiss. Very good orators, when they are out, they will spit ; and for lovers lacking — God warn us ! — matter, the cleanliest shift is to Orl. How if the kiss be denied ? [kiss. -Bos. Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins new matter. Orl. Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress Y Bos. Marry, that should you, if I were your mis- tress, or I should think my honesty ranker than my Orl. What, of my suit ? [wit. Bos. Not out of your apparel, and yet 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. Bos. Well in her person I say I will not have you. Orl. Then in mine own person I die. Bos. 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, vide- licet, in a love-cause. Troilus had his brains dashed out with a Grecian club ; yet he did what he could to die before, 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 184 but forth to wash him in the Hellespont and being taken with the cramp was drowned : and the foolish coroners of that age found it was ' Hero of Sestos.' But these are all lies : men have died from time to time and worms have eaten them, but not for love. Orl. I would not have my right Rosalind of this mind, for, I protest, her frown might kill me. Bos. By this hand, it will not kill a fly. But come, now I will be your Rosalind in a more coming-ori disposition, and ask me what you will, I will grant it. Orl. Then love me, Rosalind. Bos. Yes, faith, will I, Fridays and Saturdays Orl. And wilt thou have me ? [and all. . Bos. Ay, and twenty such. Orl. What sayest thou ? Bos. Are you not good ? Orl. I hope so. Bos. Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing v Come, sister, you shall be the priest and marry us. Give me your hand, Orlando. What do you say, sister ^ Orl. Pray thee, marry us. Cel. I cannot say the words. Bos. You must begin, ' Will you, Orlando—' Cel. Goto. Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Orl. I will. [Rosalind ? Bos. Ay, but when ? Orl. Why now ; as fast as she can marry us. Bos. Then you must say ' I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.' Orl. I take thee, Rosalind, for wife. Bos. I might ask you for your commission ; but I do take thee, Orlando, for my husband : there 's a girl goes before the priest ; and certainly a woman's thought runs before her actions. Orl. So do all thoughts ; they are winged. Bos. Now tell me how long you would have her after you have possessed her. Orl. For ever and a day. Bos. Say '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 cock-pigeon over his hen, more clamorous than a parrot against rain, more new-fangled than an ape, more giddy in my desires tlian 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 ? Bos. By my life, she will do as I do. Orl. O, but she is wise. Bos. Or else she could not have the wit to do this : the wiser, the waywarder : make the doors upon a woman's wit and it will out at the casement ; shut that and 't will out at the keyhole ; stop that, 't will fly with the smoke out of the chimney. Orl. A man that had a wife with such a wit, he might say ' Wit, whither wilt ? ' Bos. Nay, you might keep that check for it till you met your wife's wit going to your neighbour's bed. [that? Orl. And what wit could wit have to excuse Bos. Marry, to say she came to seek you there. You shall never take her without her answer, unless you take her without her tongue. O, that woman that cannot make her fault her husband's occasion, let her never nurse her child herself, for she will breed it like a fool ! Orl. For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee. [hours. Bos. Alas ! dear love, I cannot lack thee two Orl. I must attend the duke at dinner : by two o'clock I will be with thee again. Bos. Ay, go your ways, go your -ways; I knew what you would prove: my friends told me as much, and I thought no less : that flattering tongue ACT IV. AS YOU LIKE IT. SCENE III. of yours won me : 't is but one cast away, and so, come, death ! Two o'clock is your tiour V Ori. Ay, sweet Rosalind. Bos. By my troth, and in good earnest, and so God mend me, 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. With no less religion than if thou wert in- deed my Rosalind : so adieu. Bos. Well, Time is the old justice that examines all such offenders, and let Time try: adieu. [Exit Orlando. Cel. You have simply misused our sex in your love-prate: we must have your doublet and hose plucked over your head, and show the world what the bird hath done to her own nest. Bos. 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 un- known bottom, like the bay of Portugal. Cel. Or rather, bottomless, that as fast as you pour affection in, it runs out. Bos. ^0, that same wicked bastard of Venus that was begot of thought, conceived of spleen and born of madness, that blind rascally boy that abuses every one's eyes because his own are out, let him be judge how deep I am in love. I '11 tell thee^ Aliena, I cannot be out of the sight of Orlando : I 'II go find a shadow and sigh till he come. Cel. And I '11 sleep. [IJxeunt. SCENE n. The forest. Enter Jaques, Lords, and Foresters. Jaq. Which is he that killed the deer ? A Lord. Sir, it was I. Jaq. Let 's present him to the duke, like a Roman conqueror ; and it would do well to set the deer's horns upon his head, for a branch of victory. Have you no song, forester, for this purpose ? For. Yes, sir. Jaq. Sing it : 't is no matter how it be in tune, so it make noise enough. SONG. For. What shall he have that kill'd the deer ? His leather skin and horns to wear. Then sing him home ; [The rest shall bear this burden. Take thou no scorn to wear the horn ; It was a crest ere thou wast born : Thy father's father wore it, And thy father bore it : The horn, the horn, the lusty horn Is not a thing to laugh to scorn. [Exeunt. SCENE in. The forest. Enter Rosalind and Celia. Bos. How say you now? Is it not past two o'clock ? and here much Orlando ! Cel. I warrant you, with pure love and troubled brain, he hath ta'en his bow and arrows and is gone forth to sleep. Look, who comes here. Enter Silvius. Sil. My errand is to you, fair youth ; My gentle Phebe bid me give you this : I know not the contents; but, as I guess By the stern brow and waspish action Which she did use as she was writing of it, It bears an angry tenour : pardon me ; I am but as a guiltless messenger. Bos. Patience herself would startle at this letter And play the swaggerer ; bear this, bear all : She says I am not fair, that I lack manners ; She calls me proud, and that she could not love me. Were man as rare as phcenix. 'Od 's my will ! Her love is not the hare that I do hunt : Why writes she so to me V Well, shepherd, well, This is a letter of your own device. Sil. No, I protest, I know not the contents: Phebe did write it. Bos. Come, come, you are a fool And turn'd into the extremity of love. I saw her hand : she has a leathern hand, A freestone-colour'd hand ; I verily did think That her old gloves were on, but 'twas her hands : She has a huswife's hand ; but that 's no matter : I say she never did invent this letter ; This is a man's invention and his hand. Sil. Sure, it is hers. Bos. Why, 'tis a boisterous and a cruel style, A style for challengers ; why, she defies me. Like Turk to Christian : women's gentle brain Could not drop forth such giant-rude invention, Such Ethiope words, blacker in their effect Than in their countenance. Will you hear the letter ? Sil. So please you, for I never heard it yet ; Yet heard too much of Phebe's cruelty. Bos. She Phebes me: mark how the tyrant writes. [Beads. Art thou god to shepherd turn'd, That a maiden's heart hath burn'd ? Can a woman rail thus ? Sil. Call you this railing ? Bos. [Beads] Why, thy godhead laid apart, Warr'st thou with a woman's heart ? Did you ever hear such railing ? Whiles the eye of man did woo me, That could do no vengeance to me. Meaning me a beast. If the scorn of your bright eyne Have power to raise such love in mine, Alack, in me what strange effect Would they work in mild aspect ! Whiles you chid me, I did love ; How then might your prayers move I He that brings this love to thee Little knows this love in me : And by him seal up thy mind ; Whether that thy youth and kind Will the faithful offer take Of me and all that I can make ; Or else by him my love deny. And then I '11 study how to die. Sil. Call you this chiding ? Cel. Alas, poor shepherd ! Bos. Do you pity him ? no, he deserves no pity, Wilt thou love such a woman ? What, to make thee an instrument and play false strains upon thee ! not to be endured ! Well, go your way to her, for I see love hath made thee a tame snake, and say this to her: that if she love me, I charge her to love thee; if she will not, I will never have her unless thou en- treat for her. If you be a true lover, hence, and not a word; for here comes more company. [Exit Silvius. Enter Oliver. Oli. Good morrow, fair ones: pray you, if you know, Where in the purlieus of this forest stands A sheep-cote fenced about with olive trees ? Cel. West of this place, down in the neighbour 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. 185 ACT V. AS YOU LIKE IT. SCENE I. Then should I know you by description ; Such garments and sucli years : ' The boy is fair, Of female favor, and bestows himself Like a ripe sister : the woman low And browner than her brotlier.' Are not you The owner of the house I did inquire for ? Gel. 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 Kosalind He sends this bloody napkin. Are you he ? Bos. 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 handkercher was stain'd. Gel. 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 befel! 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 wreathed 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, with udders all drawn dry, Lay couching, head on ground, with catlike watch, When that the sleeping man should stir ; for 't is 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. Gel. O, I have heard him speak of that same brother ; And he did render him the most unnatural That lived amongst men. Oli. And well he might so do. For well I know he was unnatural. Ros. But, to Orlando : did he leave him there, Food to the suck'd and hungry lioness ? Oli. Twice did he turn his back and purposed so ; But kindness, nobler ever than revenge, And nature, stronger than his just occasion, Made him give battle to the lioness. Who quickly fell before him : in which hurtling From miserable slumber I awaked. Gel. Are you his brother ? Bos. Was 't you he rescued ? Gel. Was 't you that did so oft contrive to kill him y Oli. 'T was I ; but 't is not I : I do not shame To tell you what I was, since my conversion So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am. Bos. But, for the bloody napkin? Oli. By and by. When from the first to last betwixt us two Tears our recountments had most kindly bathed, 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 cried, in fainting, upon Rosalind. Brief, I recover 'd him, bound up his wound ; And, after some small space, being strong at heart, He sent me hither, stranger as I am. To tell this story, that you might excuse His broken promise, and to give this napkin Dyed in his blood unto the shepherd youth That he in sport doth call his Rosalind. [Bosalind swoons. Gel. Why, how now, Ganymede! sweet Gany- mede! Oli. Many will swoon when they do look on blood. Gel. There is more in it. Cousin Ganymede I Oli. Look, he recovers. Bos. I would I were at home. Gel. We '11 lead you thither. I pray you, will you take him by the arm ? Oli. Be of good cheer, youth: you a man! you lack a man's heart. Bos. I do so, I confess it. Ah, sirrah, a body would think this was well counterfeited ! I pray you, tell your brother how well I counterfeited. Heigh-ho ! Oli. This was not counterfeit : there is too great testimony in your complexion that it was a passion of earnest. Bos. Counterfeit, I assure you. Oli. Well then, take a good heart and counterfeit to be a man. Bos. So I do : but, i' faith, I should have been a woman by right. Gel. Come, you look paler and paler: pray you, draw homewards. Good sir, go with us. Oli. That will I, for I must bear answer back How you excuse my brother, Rosalind. Bos. I shall devise something : but, I pray you, commend my counterfeiting to him. Will you go? [JEkceunt. A.OT V. SCENE I.— The forest. Enter Touchstone and Audrey. Touch. We shall find a time, Audrey, patience, gentle Audrey. And. Faith, the priest was good enough, for all the old gentleman's saying. Toioch. A most wicked Sir Oliver, Audrey, a most vile Martext. But, Audrey, there is a youth here in the forest lays claim to you. Aud. Ay, I know who 't is ; he hath no interest in me in the world: here comes the man you mean. Toiich. It is meat and drink to me to see a clown: by my troth, we that have good wits have much to answer for ; we shall be flouting ; we can- not hold. 186 BnUr William. Will. Good even, Audrey. Aud. God ye good even, William. Will. And good even to you, sir. Touch. Good even, gentle friend. Cover thy head, coverthyhead; nay, prithee, be covered. Howoldare Will. Five and twenty, sir. [you, friend ? Toujch. A ripe age. Is thy name William ? Will. William, sir. Touch. A fair name. Wast born i' the forest here ? Will. Ay, sir, I thank God. Touch. ' Thank God ; ' a good answer. Art rich ? Will. Faith, sir, so so. Touch, ' So so ' is good, very good, very excellent good ; and yet it is not ; it is but so so. Art thou Will Ay, sir, I have a pretty wit. [wise ? ACT V. AS YOU LIKE IT. SCENE II. Touch. Why, thou sayest well. I do now remem- ber a saying, 'The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.' The lieathen philosopher, when he had a desire to eat a grape, would open his lips when he put it into his mouth ; meaning thereby that grapes were made to eat and lips to open. You do love this maid ? Will. I do, sir. Touch. Give me your hand. Art thou learned ? Will. No, sir. Tovjch. Then learn this of me : to have, is to have ; for it is a figure in rhetoric that drink, being poured out of a cup into a glass, by filling the one doth empty the other; for all your writers do consent that ipse is he : now, you are not ipse, for I am he. Will. Which he, sir ? Touch. He, sir, that must marry this woman. Therefore, you clown, abandon, — which is in the vulgar leave, — the society, — which in the boorish is company, — of this female, — which in the com- mon is woman; which together is, abandon the society of this female, or, clown, thou perishest; or, to thy better understanding, diest; or, to wit, I kill thee, make thee away, translate thy life into -death, thy liberty into bondage : I will deal in poison with thee, or in bastinado, or in steel; I will bandy with thee in faction ; I will o'er-run thee with pol- icy ; I will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways : there- fore tremble, and depart. Aud. Do, good William. Will. God rest you merry, sir. [Exit. Enter Corin. Cor. Our master and mistress seek you ; come, away, away ! Touch. Trip, Audrey ! trip, Audrey ! I attend, I attend. \ Exeunt. SCENE HI.— The forest. Enter Orlando and Oliver. Orl. Is 't possible that on so little acquaintance you should Uke her ? that but seeing you should love her ? and loving woo V and, wooing, she should grant ? and will you persever to enjoy her '? Oli. Neither call the giddiness of it in question, the poverty of her, the small acquaintance, my sud- den wooing, nor her sudden consenting; but say with me, I love Aliena ; say with her, that she loves me; consent with both that we may enjoy each other : 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. Orl. You have my consent. Let your wedding be to-morrow : thither will I invite the duke and all 's contented followers. Go you and prepare Aliena ; for look you, here comes my Rosalind. Enter Rosalind. Bos. God save you, brother. Oli. And you, fair sister. [Exit. Bos. O, my dear Orlando, how it grieves me to see thee wear thy heart in a scarf ! Orl. It is my arm. Bos. I thought thy heart had been wounded with the claws of a lion . Orl. Wounded it is, but with the eyes of a lady. Bos. Did your brother tell you how I counter- feited to swoon when he showed me your bandker- cher ? Orl. Ay, and greater wonders than that. Bos. O, I know where you are: nay, 'tis true: there was never anything so sudden but the fight of two rams and Csesar'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 one 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 which they will climb incontinent, or else be incontinent before 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-morrow be at the height of heart-heaviness, by how much I shall think my brother happy in having what he wishes for. Bos. Why then, to-morrow I cannot serve your turn for Rosalind ? Orl. I can live no longer by thinking. Bos. I will weary you then no longer with idle talking. Know of me then, for now I speak to some purpose, that I know you are a gentleman of good conceit : I speak not this that you should bear a good opinion of my knowledge, insomuch I say I know you are ; neither do I labour for a greater esteem than may in some little measure 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 with a magician, most profound in his art and yet not damnable. If you do love Rosa- lind so near your heart as your gesture cries it out, when your brother marries Aliena, 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 you, to set her before your eyes to-morrow human as she is and without any danger. Orl. Speakest thou in sober meanings ? Bos. 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 aiid Pnebe. Look, here comes a lover of mine and a lover of hers. Ehe. Youth, you have done me muchungentleness, To show the letter that I writ to you. Bos. I care not if I have : it is my study To seem despiteful and ungentle to you : You are there followed by a faithful shepherd ; Look upon him, love him ; he worships you. [love. Phe. Good shepherd, tell this youth what 't is to 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. Bos. 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. Orl. And I for Rosalind. Bos. And I for no woman. Sil. It is to be all made of fantasy, All made of passion and all made of vdshes, 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. Bos. And so am I for no woman. Phe. If this be so, why blame you me to love you ? Sil. If this be so, why blame you me to love you ? Orl. If this be so, why blame you me to love you ? Bos. Who do you speak to, ' Why blame you me to love you ? ' Orl. To her that is not here, nor doth not hear. Bos. Pray you, no more of this; 'tis like the howling of Irish wolves against the moon. [To Sil.] I will help you, if I can: [To Phe.] 1 would love you, if I could. To-morrow meet me all to- gether. [To Plie.] I will marry you, if ever I marry 187 ACT V. AS YOU LIKE IT. SCENE IV. woman, and I '11 be married to-morrow: [To Orl.'] I will satisfy you, if ever I satisfied man, and you shall be married to-morrow: [To Sil.'\ I will content you, if what pleases you contents you, and you shall be married to-morrow. [To Orl.l As you love Rosa- lind, meet: [To Sil.] as you love Phebe, meet; and as I love no woman, I '11 meet. So fare you well : I have left you commands. Sil. I '11 not fail, if I live. Phe. Nor I. Orl. Nor I. [Exeunt. SCENE III.— The forest. Enter Touchstone and Audrey. Touch. To-morrow is the joyful day, Audrey; to- morrow will we be married. Aud. I do desire it with all my heart ; and I hope it is no dishonest desire to desire to be a woman of the world. Here come two of the banished duke's Enter two Pages. First Page. Well met, honest gentleman. Touch. By my troth, well met. Come, sit, sit, and a song. Sec. Page. We are for you : sit i' the middle. First Page. Shall we clap into 't roundly, without hawking or spitting or saying we are hoarse, which are the only prologues to a bad voice ? Sec. Page. I' faith, i' faith ; and both in a tune, like two gipsies on a horse. SONG. It was a lover and his lass, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey noniao. That o'er the green corn-field did pass In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding : Sweet lovers love the spring. Between the acres of the rye, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, These pretty country folks would lie. In spring time, &c. This carol they began that hour. With a heyj and a ho, and a hey nonino, How that a life was but a flower In spring time, &c. And therefore take the present time. With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino ; Tor love is crowned with the prime In spring time, &c. Touch. Truly, young gentlemen, though there was no great matter in the ditty, yet the note was very untuneable. First Page. You are deceived, sir: we kept time, we lost not our time. Touch. By my troth, yes ; I count it but time lost to hear such a foolish song. G-od be wi' you ; and God mend your voices ! Come, Audrey. [Exeunt. SCENE IV.— The forest. Enter Duke senior, Amiens, Jaques, Orlando, Oliver, and Celia. IhJce 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. Bos. Patience once more, whiles our compact is urged : You say, if I bring in your Rosalind, You will bestow her on Orlando here ? 188 Duke S. That would I, had I kingdoms to give with her. [her ? Bos. And you say, you will have her, when I bring Orl. That would I, were I of all kingdoms king. Bos. You say, you '11 marry me, if I be willing ? Phe. That will I, should I die the hour after. Bos. But if you do refuse to marry me. You '11 give yourself to this most faithful shepherd ? Phe. So is the bargain. Bos. You say, that you '11 have Phebe, if she will ? Sil. Though to have her and death were both one thing. Bos. I have promised 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 '11 marry me. Or else refusing me, to wed this shepherd : Keep your word, Silvius, that you '11 marry her. If she refuse me : and from hence I go, To make these doubts all even. [Exeunt Bosalind and Celia. Duke 8. I do remember in this shepherd boy Some lively touches of my daughter's favour. 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, Obscured in the circle of this forest. Enter Touchstone and Audrey. Jaq. There is, sure, another flood toward, and these couples are coming to the ark. Here comes a pair of very strange beasts, which in all tongues are called fools. Touch. Salutation and greeting to you aU ! 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 flat- tered 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. JDuke S. I like him very well. Touch. God 'ild you, sir ; I desire you of the like. I press in here, sir, amongst the rest of the country copulatives, to swear and forswear; according as marriage binds and blood breaks ; a poor virgin, sir, an ill-favoured thing, sir, but mine own ; a poor humour 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 sen- tentious. Touch. According to the fool's bolt, sir, and such dulcet diseases. 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 called 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 ACT V. AS YOU LIKE IT. SCENE IV. well cut,' he would say, I lied: this is called the Countercheck Quarrelsome : and so to the Lie Cir- cumstantial and the Lie Direct. Jaq. And how oft did you say his beard was not well cut ? Touch. I durst go no further than the Lie Circum- stantial, 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 V 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 Countercheck 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 themselves, one of them thought but of an If, as, ' If you said so, then I 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 rane fellow, my lord? he's as good at any thing and yet a fool. Duke S. He uses his folly like a stalking-horse and under the presentation of that he shoots his wit. Enter Hymen, Rosalind, and Celia. Still Music. Hym. Then is there mirth in heaven. When earthly things made even Atone together. Good duke, receive thy daughter: Hymen from heaven brought her. Yea, brought her hither, That thou mightst join her hand with his "Whose heart within his bosom is. Bos. [ To Duke] To you I give myself , for I am yours. [To Orl.] To you I give myself, for I am yours. 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 '11 have no father, if you be not he : I '11 have no husband, if you be not he : Nor ne'er wed woman, if you be not she. Hym. Peace, ho ! I bar confusion : 'T is I must make conclusion Of these most strange events : Here 's eight that must take hands To join in Hymen's bands. If truth holds true contents. You and you no cross shall part : You and you are heart in heart : You to his love must accord, Or have a woman to your lord : You and you are sure together, As the winter to foul weather. Whiles a wedlock-hymn we sing, Feed yourselves with questioning ; That reason wonder may diminish, How thus we met, and these things finish. SONG. Wedding is great Juno's crown : O blessed bond of board and bed ! 'T is Hymen peoples every town ; High wedlock then be honoured : Honour, high honour and renown, To Hymen, god of every town ! Dvke S. O my dear niece, welcome thou art to Even daughter, welcome, in no less degree, [me! Phe. I will not eat my word, now thou art mine ; Thy faith my fancy to thee doth combine. Enter Jaques de Boys. Jaq. de B. Let me have audience for a word or I am the second son of old Sir Rowland, [two : 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 and from the world, His crown bequeathing to his banish 'd brother, And all their lands restored to them again That were with him exiled. This to be true, I do engage my life. Duke S. Welcome, young man ; Thou offer'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 endured 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-fall'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 duke 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 learn 'd. [To Duke] You to your former honour I bequeath ; Your patience and your virtue well deserves it : [To Orl.] You to a love that your true faith doth merit : [allies : To Oli.] You to your land and love and great To Sil.] You to a long and well-deserved bed: To Touch.] And you to wrangling ; for thy loving voyage [ures : Is but for two months victuall'd. So, to your pleas- I am for other than for dancing measures. Duke 8. Stay, Jaques, stay. Jaq. To see no pastime I : what you would have I '11 stay to know at your abandon 'd cave. [Exit. Duke S. Proceed, proceed : we will begin these As we do trust they 'U end, in true delights, [rites, [A dance. EPILOGUE. Bos. It is not the fashion to see the lady the epilogue ; but it is no more imhandsome than to see the lord the prologue. If it be true that good wine needs no bush, 'tis true that a good play needs no epilogue; yet to good wine they do use good bushes, and good plays prove the better by the help of good epilogues. What a case am I in then, that am neither a good epilogue nor cannot insinuate with you in the behalf of a good play ! I am not furnished like a beggar, therefore to beg will not become me : my way is to conjure you ; and I '11 begin with the women. I charge you, O women, for the love you bear to men, to like as much or this play as please you : and I charge you, O men,, for the love you bear to women — as I perceive by your simpering, none of you hates them — that be- tween you and the women the play may please. If I were a woman I would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased me, complexions that liked me and breaths that I defied not : and, I am sure, as many as have good beards or good faces or sweet breaths will, for my kind offer, when I make curtsy, bid me farewell. [Exeunt. THE TAMING OF THE SHKEW. BBAMATIS PEBSON^. A Lord. 1 Christopher Sly, a tinker. I Persons in the Hostess, Page, Players, Huntsmen, j Induction. and Servants. J Baptists, a rich gentleman of Padua. Vincentio, an old gentleman of Pisa. Lucentio, son to Vincentio, in love with Bianca. Petruchio, a gentleman of Verona, a suitor to Katharina. ^^ °' I suitors to Bianca. Hortensio, Tranio, Biondello, Grumio, Cvirtis, A Pedant. Katharina, the shrew, I servants to Lucentio. servants to Petruchio. • daughters to Baptista. Widow. Tailor, Haberdasher, and Servants attending on Bap tista and Petruchio. SCENE — Padua, and Petruchio' s country house. [For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page XLIX.] insTDuoTioisr. SCENE I. — Before an alehouse on a heath. Enter Hostess and Sly. Sly. I '11 pheeze you, in faith. Host. A pair of stocks, you rogue! Sly. Ye are a baggage: the Slys are no rogues; look in the chronicles ; we came in with Kichard Conqueror. Therefore paucas pallabris; let the world slide : sessa ! [burst ? Host. You will not pay for the glasses you have Sly. No, not a denier. Go by, Jeronimy : go to thy cold bed, and warm thee. Host. I know my remedy; I must go fetch the third-borough. [Exit. Sly. Third, or fourth, or fifth borough, I'll an- swer him by law : I '11 not budge an inch, boy : let him come, and kindly. \_Falls asleep. Horns winded. Enter a Lord from hunting, with his train. Lord. Huntsman, I charge thee, tender well my hounds : Brach Merriman, the poor cur is emboss'd; And couple Clowder with the deep-mouth'd brach. Saw'st thou not, boy, how Silver made it good At the hedge-corner, in the coldest fault ? I would not lose the dog for twenty pound, [lord ; First Hun. Why, Belman is as good as he, my He cried upon it at the merest loss And twice to-day pick'd out the dullest scent : Trust me, I take him for the better dog. Lord. Thou art a fool : if Echo were as fleet, I would esteem him worth a dozen such. But sup them well and look unto them all : To-morrow I intend to hunt again. First Hun. I will, my lord. Lord. What 's here ? one dead, or drunk ? See, doth he breathe ? Sec. Hun. He breathes, my lord. Were he not warm'd with ale. This were a bed but cold to sleep so soundly, [lies ! Lord. O monstrous beast! how like a swine he Grim death, how foul and loathsome is thine image ! Sirs, I will practise on this drunken man. What think you, if he were convey'd to bed, Wrapp'd in sweet clothes, rings put upon his fingers, A most delicious banquet by his bed, 190 And brave attendants near him when he wakes. Would not the beggar then forget himself ? [choose . First Hun. Believe me, lord, I think he cannot Sec. Hun. It would seem strange unto him when he waked. [fancy. Lord. Even as a flattering dream or worthless Then take htm up and manage well the jest : Carry him gently to my fairest chamber And hang it round with all my wanton pictures : Balm his foul head in warm distilled waters And burn sweet wood to make the lodging sweet : Procure me music ready when he wakes, To make a dulcet and a heavenly sound ; And if he chance to speak, be ready straight And with a low submissive reverence Say ' What is it your honour will command ? ' Let one attend him with a silver basin Full of rose-water and bestrew 'd with flowers; Another bear the ewer, the third a diaper. And say 'Will't please your lordship cool your Some one be ready with a costly suit [hands ? ' And ask him what apparel he will wear ; Another tell him of his hounds and horse, And that his lady mourns at his disease : Persuade him that he hath been lunatic ; And when he says he is, say that he dreams, For he is nothing but a mighty lord. This do and do it kindly, gentle sirs : It will be pastime passing excellent. If it be husbanded with modesty. First Hun. My lord, I warrant you we will play As he shall think by our true diligence [our part, He is no less than what we say he is. Lord. Take him up gently and to bed with him; And each one to his office when he wakes. [Some bear out Sly. A trumpet sounds. Sirrah, go see what trumpet 'tis that sounds: [Exit Servingman. Belike, some noble gentleman that means, Travelling some journey, to repose him here. Re-enter Servingman. How now ! who is it ? Serv. An 't please your honour, players That offer service to your lordship. Lord. Bid them come near. NDUCTION. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. SCENE II. Enter Players. Now, fellows, you are welcome. Players. We thank your honour. Lord. Do you intend to stay with me to-night ? A Player. So please your lordship to accept our duty. Lord. With all my heart. This fellow I remember. Since once he play'd a farmer's eldest son : 'T was where you woo'd the gentlewoman so well : I have forgot your name ; but, sure, that part Was aptly fitted and naturally perform 'd. [means. A Player. I think 't was Soto that your honour Lord. "'Tis very true : thou didst it excellent. Well, you are come to me in happy time ; The rather for I have some sport in hand Wherein your cunning can assist me much. There is a lord will hear you play to-night : . But I am doubtful of your modesties ; Lest over-eyeing of his odd behaviour, — For yet his honour never heard a play, — You break into some merry passion And so offend him ; for I tell you, sirs, If you should smile he grows impatient. [selves, A Player. Fear not, my lord : we can contain our- Were he the veriest antic in the world. Lord. Gro, sirrah, take them to the buttery, And give them friendly welcome every one : Let them want nothing that my house affords. [Exit one with the Players. Sirrah, go you to Barthol'mew my page, And see him dress'd in all suits like a lady : That done, conduct him to the drunkard's chamber ; And call him ' madam,' do him obeisance. Tell him from me, as he will win my love, He bear himself with honourable action, Such as he hath observed in noble ladies Unto their lords, by them accomplished : Such duty to the drunkard let him do With soft low tongue and lowly courtesy, And say ' What is 't your honour will command. Wherein your lady and your humble wife May show her duty and make known her love ? ' And then with kind embracements, tempting kisses, And with declining head into his bosom. Bid him shed tears, as being overjoy'd To see her noble lord restored to health. Who for this seven years hath esteemed him No better than a poor and loathsome beggar : And if the boy have not a woman's gift To rain a shower of commanded tears. An onion will do well for such a shift. Which in a napkin being close convey'd Shall in despite enforce a watery eye. See this dispatch 'd with all the haste thou canst : Anon I '11 give thee more instructions. [Exit a Servingman. I know the boy will well usurp the grace. Voice, gait and action of a gentlewoman : I long to hear him call the drunkard husband, And how my men will stay themselves from laughter When they do homage to this simple peasant. I '11 in to counsel them ; haply my presence May well abate the over-merry spleen Which otherwise would grow into extremes. [Exeunt. SCENE II. — A iedchamher in the Lord^s house. Enter aloft Sly, tvith Attendants ; some with apparel, others with basin and ewer and other appurtenances; and Lords. Sly. For God's sake, a pot of small ale. First Serv. Will 't please your lordship drink a cup of sack ? Sec. Serv. Will 't please your honour taste of these conserves ? Third Serv. What raiment will your honour wear to-day ? Sly. I am Christophero Sly ; call not me ' honour ' nor 'lordship: ' I ne'er drank sack in my life; and if you give me any conserves, give me conserves of beef: ne'er ask me what raiment I '11 wear; for I have no more doublets than backs, no more stock- ings than legs, nor no more shoes than feet; nay, sometime more feet than shoes, or such shoes as my toes look through the over-leather. Lord. Heaven cease this idle humour in your O, that a mighty man of such descent, [honour ! Of such possessions and so high esteem. Should be infused with so foul a spirit ! Sly. What, would you make me mad ? Am not I Christopher Sly, old Sly's son of Burtonheath, by birth a pedlar, by education a cardmaker,by trans- mutation a bear-herd, and now by present profes- sion a tinker ? Ask Marian Hacket, the fat ale- wife of Wincot, if she know me not : if she say I am not fourteen pence on the score for sheer ale, score me up for the lyingest knave in Christendom. What ! 1 am not bestraught : here 's — . Third Serv. O, this it is that makes your lady mourn ! « [droop ! Sec. Serv. O, this it is that makes your servants Lord. Hence comes it that your kindred shuns your ..^^^^, As beaten hence by your strange lunacy. noble lord, bethink thee of thy birth. Call home thy ancient thoughts from banishment And banish hence these abject lowly dreams. Look how thy servants do attend on thee, Each in his office ready at thy beck. Wilt thou have music ? hark ! Apollo plays [Music. And twenty caged nightingales do sing : Or wilt thou sleep ? we '11 have thee to a couch Softer and sweeter than the lustful bed On purpose trimm'd up for Semiramis. Say thou wilt walk ; we will bestrew the ground : Or wilt thou ride ? thy horses shall be trapp'd, Their harness studded all with gold and pearl. Dost thou love hawking ? thou hast hawks will soar Above the morning lark : or wilt thou hunt ? Thy hounds shall make the welkin answer them And fetch shrill echoes from the hollow earth. First Serv. Say thou wilt course ; thy greyhounds are as swift As breathed stags, ay, fleeter than the roe. >S'ec. Serv. Dost thou love pictures ? we will fetch thee straight Adonis painted by a running brook, And Cytherea all in sedges hid. Which seem to move and wanton with her breath, Even as the waving sedges play with wind. Lord. We '11 show thee lo as she was a maid. And how she was beguiled and surprised. As lively painted as the deed was done. [wood. Third Serv. Or Daphne roaming through a thorny Scratching her legs that one shall swear she bleeds. And at that sight shall sad Apollo weep. So workmanly the blood and tears are drawn. Lord. Thou art a lord and nothing but a lord: Thou hast a lady far more beautiful Than any woman in this waning age. [for thee First Serv. And till the tears that she hath shed Like envious floods o'er-run her lovely face. She was the fairest creature in the world ; And yet she is inferior to none. Sly. Am I a lord ? and have I such a lady ? Or do I dream ? or have I dream 'd till now ? 1 do not sleep : I see, I hear, I speak ; I smell sweet savours and I feel soft things ; Upon my life, I am a lord indeed And not a tinker nor Christophero Sly. Well, bring our lady hither to our sight ; And once again, a pot o' the smallest ale. 191 ACT I. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. SCENE I. Sec. Serv. "Will 't please your mightiness to wash your hands ? O, how we joy to see your wit restored ! O, that once more you knew but what you are ! These fifteen years you have been in a dream ; Or when you waked, so waked as if you slept. Sly. These fifteen years ! by my fay, a goodly nap. But did I never speak of all that time ? First Serv. O, yes, my lord, but very idle words : For though you lay here in this goodly chamber, Yet would you say ye were beaten out of door ; And rail upon the hostess of the house ; And say you would present her at the leet. Because she brought stone jugs and no seal'd quarts : Sometimes you would call out for Cicely Hacket. Sly. Ay, the woman's maid of the house. Tliircl Serv. Why, sir, you know no house nor no such maid, Nor no such men as you have reckon 'd up. As Stephen Sly and old John Naps of Greece And Peter Turph and Henry Pimpernell And twenty more such names and men as these Which never were nor no man ever saw. Sly. Now Lord be thanked for my good amends ! All. Amen. Sly. I thank thee : thou shalt not lose by it. Miter the Page as a lady, with Attendants. Page. How fares my noble lord ? Sly. Marry, I fare well ; for here is cheer enough. Where is my wife ? Page. Here, noble lord : what is thy will with her ? Sly. Are vou my wife and will not call me hus- band ? [man. My men should call me ' lord : ' I am your good- Page. My husband and my lord, my lord and hus- I am your wife in all obedience. [band ; Sly. I know it well. What must I call her ? Lord. Madam. Sly. Al'ce madam, or Joan madam ? [ladies. Lord. 'Madam,' and nothing else: so lords call Sly. Madam wife, they say that I have dream'd And slept above some fifteen year or more. Page. Ay, and the time seems thirty unto me, Being all this time abandon'd from your bed. Sly. 'Tis much. Servants, leave me and her alone. Madam, undress you and come now to bed. Page. Thrice-noble lord, let me entreat of you To pardon me yet for a night or two, Or, if not so, until the sun be set : For your physicians have expressly charged, In peril to incur your former malady. That I should yet absent me from your bed : I hope this reason stands for my excuse. Sly. Ay, it stands so that I may hardly tarry so long. But I would be loath to fall into my dreams again : I will therefore tarry in despite of the flesh and the blood. „ Unter a Messenger. Mess. Your honour's players, hearing your amend- Are come to play a pleasant comedy : [ment, For so your doctors hold it very meet, Seeing too much sadness hath congeal'd your blood. And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy : Therefore they thought it good you hear a play And frame your mind to mirth and merriment. Which bars a thousand harms and lengthens life. Sly. Marry, I will, let them play it. Is not a comonty a Christmas gambold or a tumbling-trick ? Page. No, my good lord ; it is more pleasing stuff. Sly. What, household stuff ? Page. It is a kind of history. Sly. Well, we '11 see 't. Come, madam wife, sit by my side and let the world slip : we shall ne'er be younger. Flourish. A^CTI SCENE I.— Padua. A public place. Enter Lucentio and his man Tranio. Luc. Tranio, since for the great desire I had To see fair Padua, nursery of arts, I am arrived for fruitful Lombardy, The pleasant garden of great Italy ; And by my father's love and leave am arm'd With his good will and thy good company, My trusty servant, well approved in all. Here let us breathe and haply institute A course of learning and ingenious studies. Pisa renowned for grave citizens Gave me my being and my father first, A merchant of great traffic through the world, Yincentio, come of the Bentivolii. Vincentio's son brought up in Florence It shall become to serve all hopes conceived, To deck his fortune with his virtuous deeds : And therefore, Tranio, for the time I study, Virtue and that part of philosophy Will I apply that treats of happiness By virtue specially to be achieved. Tell me thy mind ; for I have Pisa left And am to Padua come, as he that leaves A shallow plash to plunge him in the deep And with satiety seeks to quench his thirst. Tra. Mi perdonato, gentle master mine, I am in all affected as yourself ; Glad that you thus continue your resolve To suck the sweets of sweet philosophy. Only, good master, while we do admire This virtue and this moral discipline, 192 Let 's be no stoics nor no stocks, I pray ; Or so devote to Aristotle's checks As Ovid be an outcast quite abjured : Balk logic with acquaintance that you have And practise rhetoric in your common talk; Music and poesy use to quicken you ; The mathematics and the metaphysics. Fall to them as you find your stomach serves you; No profit grows where is no pleasure ta'en : In brief, sir, study what you most affect. Luc. Gramercies, Tranio, well dost thou advise. If, Biondello, thou wert come ashore, We could at once put us in readiness, And take a lodging fit to entertain Such friends as time in Padua shall beget. But stay a while : what company is this ? Tra. Master, some show to welcome us to town. J?jiter Baptista, Katharina, Bianca, Gremio.and Hortensio. Lucentio and Tranio stand iy. Bap. Gentlemen, importune me no farther, For how I firmly am resolved you know; That is, not to bestow my youngest daughter Before I have a husband for the elder : If either of you both love Katharina, Because I know you well and love you well, Leave shall you have to court her at your pleas- ure. Gre. [Aside] To cart her rather : she 's too rough for me. There, there, Hortensio, will you any wife? Kath. I pray you, sir, is it your will To make a stale of me amongst these mates ? ACT I. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. SCENE I. Hor. Mates, maid ! how mean you that ? no mates Unless you were of gentler, milder mould, [for you, Kath. V faith, sir, you shall never need to fear : I wis it is not half way to her heart ; But if it were, doubt not her care should he To comb your noddle with a three-legg'd stool And paint your face and use you like a fool. Hor. From all such devils, good Lord deliver us ! Gre. And me too, good Lord ! [ward : Tra. Hush, master ! here 's some good pastime to- That wench is stark mad or wonderful froward. Luc. But in the other's silence do I see Maid's mild behaviour and sobriety. Peace, Tranio ! Tra. Well said, master; mum! and gaze your fill. Bap. Gentlemen, that I may soon make good What I have said, Bianca, get you in : And let it not displease thee, good Bianca, For I will love thee ne'er the less, my girl. Kath. A pretty peat ! it is best Put finger in the eye, an she knew why. Bian. Sister, content you in my discontent. Sir, to your pleasure humbly I subscribe : My books and instruments shall be my company. On them to look and practise by mySelf . [speak. Lvjc. Hark, Tranio! thou may'st hear Minerva Hor. Signior Baptista, will you be so strange ? Sorry am 1 that our good will effects Bianca 's grief. Gre. Why will you mew her up, Signior Baptista, for this fiend of hell, And make her bear the penance of her tongue ? Bap. Gentlemen, content ye : I am resolved : Go in, Bianca : [Exit Bianca. And for I know she taketh most delight In music, instruments and poetry. Schoolmasters will I keep within my house, Fit to instruct her youth. If you, Hortensio, Or Signior Gremio, you, know any such. Prefer them hither ; for to cunning men I will be very kind, and liberal To mine own children in good bringing up : And so farewell. Katharina, you may stay ; For I have more to commune with Bianca. [Exit. Kath. Why, and I trust I may go too, may I not ? What, shall I be appointed hours ; as though, belike, I knew not what to take, and what to leave, ha ? [Exit. Gre. You may go to the devil's dam : your gifts are so good, here 's none will hold you. Their love is not so great, Hortensio, but we may blow our nails together, and fast it fairly out : our cake 's dough on both sides. Farewell : yet, for the love I bear my sweet Bianca, if I can by any means light on a fit man to teach her that wherein she delights, I will wish him to her father. Hor. So will I, Signior Gremio : but a word, I pray. Though the nature of our quarrel yet never brooked parle, know now, upon advice, it toucheth us both, that we may yet again have access to our fair mis- tress and be happy rivals in Bianca's love, to labour and effect one thing specially. Gre. What 's that, I pray ? Hor. Marry, sir, to get a husband for her sister. Gre. A husband ! a devil. Hor. I say, a husband. Gre. I say, a devil. Thinkest thou, Hortensio, though her father be very rich, any man is so very a fool to be married to hell ? Hor. Tush, Gremio, though it pass your patience and mine to endure her loud alarums, why, man, there be good feUows in the world, an a man could light on them, would take her with all faults, and money enough. Gre. I cannot tell; but I had as lief take her dowry with this condition, to be whipped at the high cross every morning. 13 Hor. Faith, as you say, there 's small choice in rotten apples. But come; since this bar in law makes us friends, it shall be so far forth friendly maintained till by helping Baptista 's eldest daughter to a liusband we set his youngest free for a husband, and then have to 't afresh. Sweet Bianca ! Happy man be his dole ! He that runs fastest gets the ring. How say you, Signior Gremio ? Gre. I am agreed ; and would I had given him the best horse in Padua to begin his wooing that would thoroughly woo her, wed her and bed her and rid the house of her ! Come on. [Exeunt Gremio and Hortensio. Tra. I pray, sir, tell me, is it possible That love should of a sudden take such hold ? Luc. O TraniOj till I found it to be true, I never thought it possible or likely; But see, while idly I stood looking on, I found the effect of love in idleness : And now in plainness do confess to thee, That art to me as secret and as dear As Anna to the Queen of Carthage was, Tranio, I burn, I pine, I perish, Tranio, If I achieve not this young modest girl. Counsel me, Tranio, for I know thou canst; Assist me, Tranio, for I know thou wilt. Tra. Master, it is no time to chide you now ; Affection is not rated from the heart : If love have touch 'd you, nought remains but so, ' Redime te captum quam queas minimo.' Lmc. Gramercies, lad. go forward ; this contents: The rest will comfort, for thy counsel's sound. Tra. Master, you look'd so longly on the maid, Perhaps you mark'd not what 's the pith of aU. Luc. O yes, I saw sweet beauty in her face. Such as the daughter of Agenor had. That made great Jove to humble him to her hand, When with his knees he kiss'd the Cretan strand. Tra. Saw you no more V mark'd you not how her Began to scold and raise up such a storm [sister That mortal ears might hardly endure the din ? Luc. Tranio, I saw her coral lips to move And with her breath she did perfume the air : Sacred and sweet was all I saw in her. [trance. Tra. Nay, then, 'tis time to stir him from his I pray, awake, sir : if you love the maid, [stands : Bend thoughts and wits to achieve her. Thus it Her eldest sister is so curst and shrewd That tiU the father rid his hands of her. Master, your love must live a maid at home ; And therefore has he closely mew'd her up, Because she will not be annoy'd with suitors. Luc. Ah, Tranio, what a cruel father 's he! But art thou not advised, he took some care To get her cunning schoolmasters to instruct her ? Tra. Ay, marry, am I, sir; and now 'tis plotted, Lmc. I have it, Tranio. Tra. Master, for my hand. Both our inventions meet and jump in one. Luc. Tell me thine first. Tra. You will be schoolmaster And undertake the teaching of the maid : That 's your device. Luc. It is : may it be done ? Tra. Not possible ; for who shall bear your part, And be in Padua here Vincentio's son, Keep house and ply his book, welcome his friends, Visit his countrymen and banquet them ? Luc. Basta ; content thee, for I have it full. We have not yet been seen in any house, Nor can we be distinguish 'd by our faces For man or master ; then it follows thus ; Thou Shalt be master, Tranio, in my stead, Keep house and port and servants, as I should: I will some other be, some Florentine, Some Neapolitan, or meaner man of Pisa. 'T is hatch'd and shall be so : Tranio, at once 193 ACT I. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. SCENE II. Uncase thee ; take my colour'd hat and cloak : When Biondello comes, he waits on thee; But I will charm him first to keep his tongue. Ti-a. So had you need. In brief, sir, sith it your pleasure is, And I am tied to be obedient ; For so your father charged me at our parting, ' Be serviceable to my son,' quoth he, Although I think 't was in another sense ; I am content to be Lucentio, Because so well I love Lucentio. Luc. Tranio, be so, because Lucentio loves: And let me be a slave, to achieve that maid Whose sudden sight hath thrall'd my wounded eye. Here comes the rogue. Enter Biondello. Sirrah, where have you been ? Bion. Where have I been ! JSTay, how now ! where are you ? Master, has my fellow Tranio stolen your clothes ? Or you stolen his ? or both V pray, what 's the news ? Ijuc. Sirrah, come hither: 't is no time to jest, And therefore frame your manners to the time. Your fellow Tranio here, to save my life, Puts my apparel and my countenance on, And I for my escape have put on his ; For ia a quarrel since I came ashore I kill'd a man and fear I was descried : Wait you on him, I charge you, as becomes, While I make way from hence to save my life : You understand me ? Bion. I, sir! ne'er a whit. Imc. And not a jot of Tranio in your mouth : Tranio is changed into Lucentio. Bion. The better for him : would I were so too ! Tra. So could I, faith, boy, to have the next wish after, [daughter. That Lucentio indeed had Baptista's youngest But, sirrah, not for my sake, but your master's, I advise [panics : You use your manners discreetly in all kind of com- When I am alone, why, then I am Tranio ; But in all places else your master Lucentio. Imc. Tranio, let 's go : one thing more rests, that thyself execute, to make one among these wooers : if thou ask me why, sufficeth, my reasons are both good and weighty. [Exeunt. The presenters above speak. First Serv. My lord, you nod; you do not mind the play. Sly. Yes, by Saint Anne, do I. A good matter, surely : comes there any more of it ? Page. My lord, 't is but begun. Sly. 'T is a very excellent piece of work, madam lady : would 't were done ! [They sit and mark. SCENE II. — Padua. Before Hortensio''s hmise. Enter Petruchio and his man Grumio. Pet. Verona, for a while I take my leave, To see my friends in Padua, but of all My best beloved and approved friend, Hortensio ; and I trow this is his house. Here, sirrah Grumio ; knock, I say. Oru. Knock, sir ! whom should I knock ? is there any man has rebused your worship ? Pet. Villain, I say, knock me here soundly. Gru. Knock you here, sir! why, sin what am I, sir, that I should knock you here, sir ^ Pet. Villain, I say, knock me at this gate And rap me well, or I '11 knock your knave's pate. Gru. My master is grown quarrelsome. I should knock you first, And then I know after who comes by the worst. Pet. Will it not be? 194 Faith, sirrah, an you '11 not knock, I '11 ring it; I '11 try how you can sol, fa, and sing it. [He wrings him by the ears. Gru. Help, masters, help ! my master is mad. Pet. Now, knock when I bid you, sirrah villain 1 Enter Hortensio. Hor. How now ! what 's the matter ? My old friend Grumio! and my good friend Petruchio! How do you all at Verona y Pet. Signior Hortensio , come you to part the fray ? ' Con tutto il cuore, ben trovato,' may I say. Hor. 'Alia nostra casa ben venuto, molto honorato signor mio Petruchio.' Rise, Grumio, rise : we will compound this quarrel. Gru. Nay, 't is no matter, sir, what he 'leges in Latin. If this be not a lawful cause for me to leave his service, look you, sir, he bid me knock him and rap him soundly, sir: well, was it fit for a servant to use his master so, being perhaps, for aught I see, two and thirty, a pip out if Whom would to God I had well knock'd at first, Then had not Grumio come by the worst. Pet. A senseless villain ! Good Hortensio, I bade the rascal knock upon your gate, And could not get him for my heart to do it, Gru. Knock at the gate! O heavens! you not these words plain, ' Sirrah, knock me here, rap me here, knock me well, and knock me soundly ' ? And come you now with, ' knocking at the gate ' ? Pet. Sirrah, be gone, or talk not, I advise you. Hor. Petruchio, patience; lamGrumio'spledge: Why, this 's a heavy chance 'twixt him and you, Your ancient, trusty, pleasant servant Grumio. And tell me now, sweet friend, what happy gale Blows you to Padua here from old Verona ? Pet. Such wind as scatters young men through the world To seek their fortunes farther than at home Where small experience grows. But in a few, Signior Hortensio, thus it stands with me: Antonio, my father, is deceased ; And I have thrust myself into this maze. Haply to wive and thrive as best I may : Crowns in my purse I have and goods at home, And so am come abroad to see the world. Hor. Petruchio, shall I then come roundly to thee And wish thee to a shrewd ill-favour'd wife ? Thou 'Idst thank me but a little for my eoimsel : And yet I '11 promise thee she shall be rich And very rich : but thou 'rt too much my friend, And I '11 not wish thee to her. Pet. Signior Hortensio, 'twixt such friends as vre Few words sufiice : and therefore, if thou know One rich enough to be Petruchio's wife. As wealth is burden of my wooing dance, Be she as foul as was Florentius' love, As old as Sibyl and as curst and shrewd As Socrates' Xanthippe, or a worse. She moves me not, or not removes, at least, Affection's edge in me, were she as rough As are the swelling Adriatic seas : I come to wive it wealthily in Padua ; If wealthily, then happily in Padua. Gru. Nay, look you, sir, he tells you flatly what his mind is: why, give him gold enough and marry him to a puppet or an aglet-baby ; or an old trot with ne'er a tooth in her head, though she have as many diseases as two and fifty horses : why, nothing comes amiss, so money comes withal. Hor. Petruchio, since we are stepp'd thus far in, I will continue that I broach'd in jest. I can, Petruchio, help thee to a wife With wealth enough and young and beauteous, Brought up as best becomes a gentlewoman : Her only fault, and that is faults enough, Is that she is intolerable curst ACT I. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. SCENE II. And shrewd and fro ward, so beyond all measure That, were my state far worser than it is, I would not wed her for a mine of gold. [effect : Pet. Hortensio, peace! thou know'st not gold's Tell me her father's name and 't is enough ; For I will board her, though she chide as loud As thunder when the clouds in autumn crack. Hor. Her father is Baptista Minola, An affable and courteous gentleman : Her name is Katharina Minola, Kenown'd in Padua for her scolding tongue. Pet. I know her father, though I know not her; And he knew my deceased father well. I will not sleep, Hortensio, till I see her ; And therefore let me be thus bold with you To give you over at this first encounter, Unless you will accompany me thither. Gru. I pray you, sir, let him go while the humour lasts. O' my word, an she knew him as well as I do, she would think scolding would do little good upon him : she may perhaps call him half a score knaves or so : why, that 's nothing ; an he begin once, he '11 rail in his rope-tricks. I '11 tell you what, sir, an she stand him but a little, he will throw a figure in her face and so disfigure her with it that she shall have no more eyes to see withal than a cat. You know him not, sir. Hor. Tarry, Petruchio, I must go with thee, For in Baptista 's keep my treasure is : He hath the jewel of my life in hold, His youngest daughter, beautiful Bianca, And her withholds from me and other more, Suitors to her and rivals in my love. Supposing it a thing impossible, For those defects I have before rehearsed, That ever Katharina will be woo'd ; Therefore this order hath Baptista ta'en, That none shall have access unto Bianca Till Katharine the curst have got a husband. Gru. Katharine the curst ! A title for a maid of all titles the worst. Hor. Now shall my friend Petruchio do me grace, And offer me disguised in sober robes To old Baptista as a schoolmaster "Well seen in music, to instruct Bianca ; That so I may, by this device, at least Have leave and leisure to make love to her And unsuspected court her by herself. Gru. Here 's no knavery ! See, to beguile the old folks, how the young folks lay their heads together ! Ihiter Gremio, and Lucentio disguised. Master, master, look about you : who goes there, ha ? Hor. Peace, Grumio ! it is the riv^ of my love. Petruchio, stand by a while. Gru. A proper stripling and an amorous ! Gre. O, very well, I have perused the note. Hark you, sir ; I '11 have them very fairly bound : All books of love, see that at any hand ; And see you read no other lectures to her : You understand me : over and beside Signior Baptista's liberality, I '11 mend it with a largess. Take your paper too, And let me have them very well perfumed : For she is sweeter than perfume itself To whom they go to. What will you read to her ? Imc. Whate'er I read to her, I '11 plead for you As for my patron, stand you so assured, As firmly as yourself were still in place : Yea, and perhaps with more successful words Than you, unless you were a scholar, sir. Gre. O this learning, what a thing it is ! Gru. O this woodcock, what an ass it is ! Pet. Peace, sirrah ! [Gremio. Hor. Grumio, mum! God save you, Signior Gre. And you are well met^ Signior Hortensio. Trow you whither I am going ;* To Baptista Minola. I promised to inquire carefully About a schoolmaster for the fair Bianca : And by good fortune I have lighted well On this young man, for learning and behaviour Fit for her turn, well read in poetry And other books, good ones, I warrant ye. Hor. 'T is well ; and I have met a gentleman Hath promised me to help me to another, A fine musician to instruct our mistress; So shall I no whit be behind in duty To fair Bianca, so beloved of me. [prove, Gre. Beloved of me; and that my deeds shall Gru. And that his bags shall prove. Hor. Gremio, 't is now no time to vent our love ; Listen to me, and if you speak me fair, I '11 tell you news indifferent good for either. Here is a gentleman whom by chance I met. Upon agreement from us to his liking. Will undertake to woo curst Katharine, Yea, and to marry her, if her dowry please. Gre. So said, so done, is well. Hortensio, have you told him all her faults ? Pet. I know she is an irksome brawling scold : If that be all, masters, I hear no harm. [man ? Gre. No, say'st me so, friend? What country- Pet. Born in Verona, old Antonio's son: My father dead, my fortune lives for me; And I do hope good days and long to see. [strange I Gre. O sir, such a life, with such a wife, were But if you have a stomach, to 't i' God's name : You shall have me assisting you in all. But will you woo this wild-cat ? Pet. Will I live ? Gru. Will he woo her ? ay, or I '11 hang her. Pet. Why came I hither but to that intent ? Think you a little din can daunt mine ears i* Have I not in my time heard lions roar ? Have I not heard the sea puff'd up with winds Kage like an angry boar chafed with sweat ? Have I not heard great ordnance in the field, And heaven's artillery thunder in the skies ? Have I not in a pitched battle heard Loud 'larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets' clang? And do you tell me of a woman's tongue, That gives not half so great a blow to hear As will a chestnut in a farmer's fire ? Tush, tush ! fear boys with bugs. Gru. For he fears none. Gre. Hortensio, hark: This gentleman is happily arrived. My mind presumes, for his own good and ours. Hor. I promised we would be contributors And bear his charge of wooing, whatsoe'er. Gre. And so we will, provided that he win her. Gru. I would I were as sure of a good dinner. Enter Tranio brave, and Biondello. Tra. Gentlemen, God save you. If I may be bold, Tell me, I beseech you, which is the readiest way To the house of Signior Baptista Minola ? Bion. He that has the two fair daughters : is 't Tra. Even he, Biondello. [he you mean? Gre. Hark you, sir; you mean not her to — Tra. Perhaps, him and her, sir : what have you to do y Pet. Not her that chides, sir, at any hand, I pray. Tra. I love no chiders, sir. Biondello, let 's away. Lice. Well begun, Tranio. Hor. Sir, a word ere you go ; Are you a suitor to the maid you talk of, yea or no V Tra. And if I be, sir, is it any offence ? Gre. No ; if without more words you will get you hence. Tra. Why, sir, I pray, are not the streets as free For me as for you ? Gre. But so is not she. Tra. For what reason, I beseech you ? 195 ACT II. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. SCENE I. Ore. For this reason, if you '11 know, That she 's the choice love of Signior Gremio. Hor. That she 's the chosen of Signior Hortensio. Tra. Softly, my masters ! if you be gentlemen. Do me this right ; hear me with patience. Baptista is a noble gentleman, To whom my father is not all unknown ; And were his daughter fairer than she is, She may more suitors have and me for one. Fair Leda's daughter had a thousand wooers ; Then well one more may fair Bianca have : And so she shall ; Lucentio shall make one. Though Paris came in hope to speed alone. Ore. What ! this gentleman will out-talk us all. Luc. Sir, give him head : I know he '11 prove a jade. Pet. Hortensio, to what end are all these words? Hor. Sir, let me be so bold as ask you. Did you yet ever see Baptista's daughter ? Tra. No, sir; but hear I do that he hath two, The one as famous for a scolding tongue As is the other for beauteous modesty. Pet. Sir, sir, the first 's for me ; let her go by. Ore. Yea, leave that labour to great Hercules ; And let it be more than Alcides' twelve. Pet. Sir, understand you this of me in sooth : The youngest daughter whom you hearken for Her father keeps from all access of suitors, And will not promise her to any man Until the elder sister first be wed : The younger then is free and not before. Tra. If it be so, sir, that you are the man Must stead us all and me amongst the rest, And if you break the ice and do this feat, Achieve the elder, set the younger free For our access, whose hap shall be to have her Will not so graceless be to be ingrate. Hor. Sir, you say well and well you do conceive ; And since you do profess to be a suitor, You must, as we do, gratify this gentleman, To whom we all rest generally beholding. Tra. Sir, I shall not be slack : in sign whereof, Please ye we may contrive this afternoon. And quafE carouses to our mistress' health, And do as adversaries do in law, Strive mightily, but eat and drink as friends. Oru. Bion. O excellent motion ! Fellows, let 's be gone. -Hbr. The motion 's good indeed and be it so, Petruchio, I shall be your ben venuto. {Exeunt. ^CT II. SCENE 1.— Padua. A room in Baptista's house. Enter Katharina and Bianca. Bian. Good sisterj vnrong me not, nor wrong your- To make a bondmaid and a slave of me : [self, That I disdain : but for these other gawds. Unbind my hands, I '11 pull them off: myself, Yea, all my raiment, to my petticoat ; Or what you will command me will I do, So well I know my duty to my elders. Kath. Of all thy suitors, here I charge thee, tell Whom thou lovest best : see thou dissemble not. Bian. Believe me, sister, of all the men alive . I never yet beheld that special face Which I could fancy more than any other. Kath. Minion, thou liest. Is 't not Hortensio ? Bian. If you affect him, sister, here I swear I '11 plead for you myself, but you shall have him. Kath. O then, belike, you fancy riches more: You wUl have Gremio to keep you fair. Bian. Is it for him you do envy me so ? Nay then you jest, and now I will perceive You have but jested with me all this whUe : I prithee, sister Kate, imtie my hands. Kath. If that be jest, then all the rest was so. ^ {Strikes her. Enter Baptista. Bap. Why, how now, dame ! whence grows this insolence ? Bianca, stand aside. Poor girl! she weeps. Go ply thy needle ; meddle not with her. For shame, thou hilding of a devilish spirit, Why dost thou wrong her that did ne'er wrong thee ? When did she cross thee with a bitter word ? Kath. Her silence flouts me, and I '11 be revenged. [Flies after Bianca. Bap. What, in my sight ? Bianca, get thee in. [Exit Bianca. Kath. What, will you not suffer me ? Nay, now I see She is yoiir treasure, she must have a husband ; I must dance barefoot on her wedding day And for your love to her lead apes in hell. Talk not to me : I will go sit and weep Till I can find occasion of revenge. [Exit. 196 Bap. Was ever gentleman thus grieved as I? But who comes here ? Enter Gremio, Lucentio in the habit of a mean man; Petruchio, leith Hortensio as a musician; and Trajiio, with Biondello bearing a lute and books. Ore. Good morrow, neighbour Baptista. Bap. Good morrow, neighbour Gremio. God save you, gentlemen ! Pet. And you, good sir! Pray, have you not a daughter Call'd Katharina, fair and virtuous ? Bap. I have a daughter, sir, called Katharina. Ore. You are too blunt : go to it orderly, [leave. Pet. You wrong me, Signior Gremio : give me I am a gentleman of Verona, sir. That, hearing of her beauty and her wit. Her affability and bashful modesty, Her wondrous qualities and mild behaviour. Am bold to show myself a forward guest Within your house, to make mine eye the witness Of that report which I so oft have heard. And, for an entrance to my entertajjiment, I do present you with a man of mine, [Presenting Hortensia. Cunning in music and the mathematics. To instruct her fully in those sciences. Whereof I know she is not ignorant : Accept of him, or else you do me wrong : His name is Licio, born in Mantua. [sake. Bap. You 're welcome, sir ; and he, for your good But for- my daughter Katharine, this I know. She is not for your turn, the more my grief. Pet. I see you do not mean to part with her. Or else you like not of my company. Bap. Mistake me not ; I speak but as I find. Whence are you, sir ? what may I call your name ? Pet. Petruchio is my name ; Antonio's son, A man well knovra throughout all Italy. [sake. Bap. I know him well : you are welcome for his Ore. Saving your tale, Petruchio, I pray, Let us, that are poor petitioners, speak too : Baccare ! you are marvellous forward. Pet. O, pardon me, Signior Gremio ; I would fain be doing. [wooing. Ore. I doubt it not, sir ; but you will curse your THE TA3IING OF THE SHREW. SCENE I. Neighbour, this is a gift very grateful, I am sure of it. To express the like kindness, myself, that have been more kindly beholding to you than any, freely give unto you this young scholar {presenting Imcentio], that hath been long studying at Eheims ; as cunning in Greek, Latin, and other languages, as the other in music and mathematics : his name is Cambio ; pray, accept his service. Bap. A thousand thanks, Signior Gremio. Wel- come, good Cambio. [To Tranio] But, gentle sir, methinks you walk like a stranger : may I be so bold to know the cause of your coming ? Tra. Pardon me, sir, the boldness is mine own. That, being a stranger in this city here, Do make myself a suitor to your daughter, Unto Bianca, fair and virtuous. Nor is your firm resolve unknown to me, In the preferment of the eldest sister. This liberty is all that I request. That, upon knowledge of my parentage, I may have welcome 'mongst the rest that woo And free access and favour as the rest : And, toward the education of your daughters, I here bestow a simple instrument. And this small packet of Greek and Latin books : If you accept them, then their worth is great. Bap. Lucentio is your name ; of whence, I pray ? Tra. Of Pisa, sir; son to Vincentio. Bap. A mighty man of Pisa ; by report I know him well : you are very welcome, sir. Take you the lute, and you the set of books ; You shall go see your pupils presently. Holla, within ! Miter a Servant. Sirrah, lead these gentlemen To my daughters ; and tell them both. These are their tutors : bid them use them weU. [Mtil Servant, with Lz^^xntio and Hortensio, Bion- dello following. We wiU go walk a little in the orchard. And then to dinner. You are passing welcome. And so I pray you all to think yourselves. Pet. Signior Baptista, my business asketh haste, And every day I cannot come to woo. You knew my father well, and in him me. Left solely heir to all his lands and goods, Which I have better'd rather than decreased : Then tell me, if I get your daughter's love. What dowry shall I have with her to wife ? Bap. After my death the one half of my lands, And in possession twenty thousand crowns. Pet. And, for that dowry, I '11 assm'e her of Her widowhood, be it that she survive me, In all my lands and leases whatsoever : Let specialties be therefore drawn between us. That covenants may be kept on either hand. Bap. Ay, when the special thing is well obtain'd. That is, her love ; for that is all in all. Pet. Why, that is nothing ; for I tell you, father, I am as peremptory as she proud-minded ; And where two raging fires meet together They do consume the thing that feeds their fury : Though little fire grows great with little wind. Yet extreme gusts will blow out fire and all : So I to her and so she yields to me ; Por I am rough and woo not like a babe. [speed ! Bap. Well mayst thou woo, and happy be thy But be thou arm'd for some unhappy words, [winds, Pet. Ay, to the proof; as mountains are for That shake not, though they blow perpetually. He-enter Hortensio, vnth his head broke. Bap. How now, my friend ! why dost thou look so pale ? Hor. Por fear, I promise you, if I look pale. Bap. What, will my daughter prove a good musician ? Hor. I think she '11 sooner prove a soldier : Iron may hold with her, but never lutes. [lute ? Bap. Why, then thou canst not break her to the Hor. Why, no ; for she hath broke the lute to me. I did but tell her she mistook her frets. And bow'd her hand to teach her fingering ; When, with a most impatient devilish spirit, ' Frets, call you these ? ' quoth she ; ' I '11 fume with them : ' And, with that word, she struck me on the head, And through the instrument my pate made way ; And there I stood amazed for a while. As on a pillory, looking through the lute : While she did call me rascal fiddler And twangling Jack ; with twenty such vile terms, As had she studied to misuse me so. Pet. Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench; I love her ten times more than e'er I did : O, how I long to have some chat with her! Bap. Well, go with me and be not so discomfited : Proceed in practice with my younger daughter ; She 's apt to learn and thankful for good turns. Signior Petruchio, will you go with us. Or shall I send my daughter Kate to you ? Pet. I pray you do. [Exeunt all but Petruchio. 1 will attend her here, And woo her with some spirit when she comes. Say that she rail ; why then I '11 tell her plain She sings as sweetly as a nightingale : Say that she frown ; I '11 say she looks as clear As morning roses newly wash'd with dew: Say she be mute and wiU not speak a word ; Then I '11 commend her volubility. And say she uttereth piercing eloquence : If she do bid me pack, I '11 give her thanks, As though she bid me stay by her a week: If she deny to wed, I '11 crave the day When I shall ask the banns and when be married. But here she comes ; and now, Petruchio, speak. Mnter Katharina. Good morrow, Kate ; for that 's your name, I hear. Kath. WeU have you heard, but something hard of hearing : They caU me Katharine that do talk of me. Pet. You lie, in faith ; for you are caU'd plain Kate, And bonny Kate and sometimes Kate the curst ; But Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom, Kate of Kate Hall, my super-dainty Kate, For dainties are all Kates, and therefore, Kate, Take this of me, Kate of my consolation ; Hearing thy mildness praised in every town. Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded. Yet not so deeply as to thee belongs, Myself am moved to woo thee for my wife. Kath. Moved ! in good time : let him that moved you hither Remove you hence : I knew you at the first You were a moveable. Pet. Why, what 's a moveable ? Kath. A join'd-stool. Pet. Thou hast hit it: come, sit on me. Kath. Asses are made to bear, and so are you. Pet. Women are made to bear, and so are you. Kath. No such jade as you, if me you mean. Pet. Alas ! good Kate, I will not burden thee ; For, knowing thee to be but young and light — Kath. Too light for such a swain as you to catch ; And yet as heavy as my weight should be. Pet. Should be ! should —buzz ! Kath. Well ta'en, and like a buzzard. Pet. O slow-wing'd turtle ! shall a buzzard take thee ':* Kath. Ay, for a turtle, as he takes a buzzard. Pet. Come, come, you wasp ; i' faith, you are too angry. Kath. If I be waspish, best beware my sting. 197 ACT II. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. SCENE I. Pet. My remedy is then, to pluck it out. Kath. Ay, if the fool could find it where it lies. Pet. Who knows not where a wasp does wear his sting ? In his tail. Kath. In his tongue. Pet. Whose tongue ? Kath. Yours, if you talk of tails : and so farewell. Pet. What, with my tongue in your tail? nay, Good Kate ; I am a gentleman. [come again, Kath. That I 'II try. [She strikes him. Pet. I swear I '11 cuff you, if you strike again. Kath. So may you lose your arms : If you strike me, you are no gentleman ; And if no gentleman, why then no arms. Pet. A herald, Kate ? O, put me in thy books ! Kath. What is your crest ? a coxcomb ? Pet. A combless cock, so Kate will be my hen. Kath. No cock of mine ; you crow too like a craven. Pet. Nay, come, Kate, come ; you must not look so sour. Kath. It is my fashion, when I see a crab. Pet. Why, here 's no crab ; and therefore look not sour. Kath. There is, there is. Pet. Then show it me. Kath. Had I a glass, I would. Pet. What, you mean my face ? Kath. Well aim'd of such a young one. Pet. Now, by Saint George, I am too youngforyou. Kath. Yet you are wither'd. Pet. 'T is with cares. Kath. I care not. Pet. Nay, hear you, Kate : in sooth you scape not Kath. I chafe you, if I tarry : let me go. [so. Pet. No, not a whit : I find you passing gentle. 'T was told me you were rough and coy and suUeu, And now I find report a very liar ; For thou art pleasant , gamesome, passing courteous, But slow in speech, yet sweet as spring-time flowers : Thou canst not frown, thou canst not look askance, Nor bite the lip, as angry wenches will, Nor hast thou pleasure to be cross in talk. But thou with mildness entertain'st thy wooers. With gentle conference, soft and affable. Why does the world report that Kate doth limp ? slanderous world ! Kate like the hazel-twig Is straight and slender and as brown in hue As hazel nuts and sweeter than the kernels. O, let me see thee walk : thou dost not halt. Kath. Go, fool, and whom thou keep'st command. Pet. Did ever Dian so become a grove As Kate this chamber with her princely gait ? O, be thou Dian, and let her be Kate ; And then let Kate be chaste and Dian sportful ! Kath. Where did you study all this goodly speech ? Pet. It is extempore, from my mother-wit. Kath. A witty mother ! witless else her son. Pet. Am I not wise ? Kath. Yes ; keep you warm. Pet. Marry, so I mean, sweet Katharine, in thy And therefore, setting all this chat aside, [bed : Thus in plain terms : your father hath consented That you shall be my wife ; your dowry 'greed on ; And, will you, nill you, I will marry you. Now, Kate, I am a husband for your turn; For, by this light, whereby I see thy beauty. Thy beauty, that doth make me like thee well, Thou must be married to no man but me ; For I am he am born to tame you Kate, And bring you from a wild Kate to a Kate Conformable as other household Kates. Here conies your father : never make denial ; 1 must and will have Katharine to my wife. Be-enter Baptista, Gremio, and Tranio. Bap. Now, Signior Petruchio, how speed you with my daughter ? 198 Pet. How but well, sir? how but well ? It were impossible I should speed amiss. Bap. Why, how now, daughter Katharine! in your dumps ? [you Kath. Call you me daughter? now, I promise You have show'd a tender fatherly regard, To wish me wed to one half lunatic ; A mad-cap ruffian and a swearing Jack, That thinks with oaths to face the matter out. Pet. Father, 't is thus : yourself and all the worlds That talk'd of her, have talk'd amiss of her: If she be curst, it is for policy, For she 's not fro ward, but modest as the dove; She is not hot, but temperate as the morn; For patience she will prove a second Grissel, And Roman Lucrece for her chastity : And to conclude, we have 'greed so well together, That upon Sunday is the wedding-day. Kath. I '11 see thee hang'd on Sunday first. Gre. Hark, Petruchio; she says she'll see thee hang'd first. Tra. Is this your speeding? nay, then, good night our part ! [self ; Pet. Be patient, gentlemen; I choose her for my- If she and I be pleased, what 's that to you ? 'T is bargain'd twixt us twain, being alone. That she shall still be curst in company. I tell you, 'tis incredible to believe How much she loves me : O, the kindest Kate I She hung about my neck ; and kiss on kiss She vied so fast, protesting oath on oath. That in a twink she won me to her love. O, you are novices ! 't is a world to see, How tame, when men and women are alone, A meacock wretch can make the curstest shrew. Give me thy hand, Kate : I will unto Venice, To buy apparel 'gainst the v/edding-day. Provide the feast, father, and bid the guests; I will be sure my Katharine shall be fine. Bap. 1 know not what to say : but give me your God send you joy, Petruchio ! 't is a match. Gre. Tra. Amen, say we : we will be witnesses. Pet. Father, and wife, and gentlemen, adieu; I will to Venice ; Sunday comes apace : We will have rings and things and fine array ; And kiss me, Kate, we will be married o' Sunday. [Exeunt Petruchio and Katharina severally. Gre. Was ever match clapp'd up so suddenly ? Bap. Faith, gentlemen, now I play a merchant's And venture madly on a desperate mart. [part, Tra. 'T was a commodity lay fretting by you : 'T will bring you gain, or perish on the seas. Bap. The gain I seek is, quiet in the match. Gre. No doubt but he hath got a quiet catch. But now, Baptista, to your younger daughter: Now is the day we long have looked for : I am your neighbour, and was suitor first. Tra. And I am one that love Bianca more Than words can witness, or your thoughts can guess. Gre. Youngling, thou canst not love so dear as I. Tra. Greybeard, thy love doth freeze. Gre. But thine doth fry. Skipper, stand back : 't is age that nourisheth. Tra. But youth in ladies' eyes that flourisheth. Bap. Content you, gentlemen: I will compound this strife : 'T is deeds must win the prize ; and he of both That can assure my daughter greatest dower Shall have my Bianca's love. Say, Signior Gremio, what can you assure her ? Gre. First, as you know, my house within the Is richly furnished with plate and gold ; [city Basins and ewers to lave her dainty hands ; My hangings all of Tyrian tapestry ; In ivory coffers I have stuff 'd my crowns; In cypress chests my arras counterpoints, Costly apparel, tents, and canopies, ACT III. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. SCENE I. Fine linen^ Turkey cushions boss'd with pearl, Valance of Venice gold in needlework, Pewter and brass and all things that belong To house or housekeeping : then, at my farm I have a hundred milch-kine to the pail, Sixscore fat oxen standing in my stalls. And all things answerable to this portion. Myself am struck in years, I must confess ; And if I die to-morrow, this is hers, If whilst I live she will be only mine. Tra. That ' only ' came well in. Sir, list to me : I am my father's heir and only son : If I may have your daughter to my wife, I '11 leave her houses three or four as good, Within rich Pisa walls, as any one Old Signior G-remio has in Padua ; Besides two thousand ducats by the year Of fruitful land, all which shall be her jointure. What, have I pinch'd you, Signior Gremio ? Ghre. Two thousand ducats by the year of land! ily land amounts not to so much in all : That she shall have ; besides an argosy That now is lying in Marseilles' road. What, have I choked you with an argosy? Tra. Gremio, 't is known my father hath no less Than three great argosies ; besides two galliases. And twelve tight galleys : these I will assure her. And twice as much, whate'er thou offer'st next. Ore. Nay, I have offer'd all, I have no more; And she can have no more than all I have : If you like me, she shall have me and mine. Tra. Why, then the maid is mine from all the world. By your firm promise : Gremio is out-vied. Bap. I must confess your offer is the best ; And, let your father make her the assurance. She is your own ; else, you must pardon me. If you should die before him, where 's her dower ? Tra. That 's but a cavil: he is old, I young. Gre. And may not young men die, as weU as old ? Bap. Well, gentlemen, I am thus resolved : on Sunday next you know My daughter Katharine is to be married : Now, on the Sunday following, shall Bianca Be bride to you, if you make this assurance ; If not, to Signior Gremio : And so, I take my leave, and thank you both. Gre. Adieu, good neighbour. {Exit Baptista. Now I fear thee not : Sirrah young gamester, your father were a fool To give thee all, and in his waning age Set foot under thy table : tut, a toy ! An old Italian fox is not so kind, my boy. [Exit. Tra. A vengeance on your crafty wither'd hide ! Yet I have faced it with a card of ten. 'T is in my head to do my master good : I see no reason but supposed Lucentio Must get a father, call'd ' supposed Vincentio ; ' And that 's a wonder : fathers commonly Do get their children : but in this case of wooing, A child shall get a sire, if I fail not of my cunning. [Exit. ^OT III. SCENE I.— Padua, Baptista'' s Enter Lucentio, Hortensio, and Bianca. Liic. Fiddler, forbear ; you grow too forward, sir: Have you so soon forgot the entertainment Her sister Katharine welcomed you withal ? ITor. But, wrangling pedant, this is The patroness of heavenly harmony : Then give me leave to have prerogative ; And when in music we have spent an hour. Your lecture shall have leisure for as much. Luc. Preposterous ass, that never read so far To know the cause why music was ordain'd ! Was it not to refresh the mind of man After his studies or his usual pain ? Then give me leave to read philosophy. And while I pause, serve in your harmony. Hot. Sirrah, I will not bear these braves of thine. Bian. Why, gentlemen, you do me double wrong. To strive for that which resteth in my choice : I am no breeching scholar in the schools ; I '11 not be tied to hours nor 'pointed times. But learn my lessons as I please myself. And, to cut off all strife, here sit we down : Take you your instrument, play you the whiles; His lecture will be done ere you have tuned. Hor. You '11 leave his lecture when I am in tune ? Li(£. That will be never : tune your instrument. Bian. Where left we last ? Luc. Plere, madam : ' Hie ibat Simois ; hie est Sigeia tellus ; Hie steterat Priami regia celsa senis.' Bian. Construe them. Luc. ' Hie ibat,' as I told you before, ' Simois,' I am Lucentio, ' hie est,' son unto Vincentio of Pisa, ' Sigeia tellus,' disguised thus to get your love ; ' Hie steterat,' and that Lucentio that comes a-wooing, 'Priami,' is my man Tranio, 'regia,' bearing my port, ' celsa senis,' that we might beguile the old pantaloon. Hor. Madam, my instrument 's in tune. Bian. Let 's hear. O fie! the treble jars. Luc. Spit in the hole, man, and tune again. Bian. Now let me see if I can construe it : ' Hie ibat Simois,' I know you not, ' hie est Sigeia tellus,' I trust you not ; ' Hie steterat Priami,' take heed he hear us not, 'regia,' presume not, 'celsa senis,' despair not. Hor. Madam, 't is now in tune. Lm. All but the base. Hor. The base is right ; 't is the base knave that \_Asi(le\ How fiery and forward our pedant is ! [jars. Now, for my life, the knave doth court my love : Pedascule, I '11 watch you better yet. Bian. In time I may believe, yet I mistrust. Luc. Mistrust it not; for, sure, ^acides Was Ajax, call'd so from his grandfather. [you, Bian. I must believe my master ; else, I promise I should be arguing still upon that doubt : But let it rest. Now, Licio, to you: Good masters, take it not unkindly, pray, That I have been thus pleasant with you both. Hor . You may go walk , and give me leave a while : My lessons make no music in three parts. Luc. Are you so formal, sir ? well, I must wait, [Aside] And watch withal ; for, but I be deceived, Our fine musician groweth amorous. Hor. Madam, before you touch the instrument. To learn the order of my fingering, I must begin with rudiments of art ; To teach you gamut in a briefer sort. More pleasant, pithy and effectual. Than hath been taught by any of my trade : And there it is in writing, fairly drawn. Bian. Why, I am past my gamut long ago. Hor. Yet read the gamut of Hortensio. [accord, Bian. [Beads] " ' Gamut ' I am, the ground of all ' A re,' to plead Hortensio's passion ; ' B mi,' Bianca, take him for thy lord, ' C fa ut,' that loves with all affection : 199 ACT III, THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. SCENE II. ' D sol re,' one clef, two notes have I : 'E la mi,' show pity, or I die." Call you this gamut ? tut, I like it not : Old fashions please me best ; I am not so nice, To change true rules for old inventions. Enter a Servant. Serv. Mistress, your father prays you leave your And help to dress your sister's chamber up : [books You know to-morrow is the wedding-day. Bian. Farewell, sweet masters both ; I must be gone. [Exeunt Bianca and Servant. Luc. Faith, mistress, then I have no cause to stay. [Exit. Hor. But I have cause to pry into this pedant : Methinks he looks as though he were in love : Yet if thy thoughts, Bianca, be so humble To cast thy wandering eyes on every stale. Seize thee that list : if once I find thee ranging, Hortensio will be quit with thee by changing. [Exit. SCENE II. — Padua. Before Baptista^s house. Enter Baptista, Gremio, Tranio, Katharina, Bianca, Lucentio, and others, Attendants. Bap. [To Tranio] Signior Lucentio, this is the 'pointed day That Katharine and Petruchio should be married, And yet we hear not of our son-in-law. What will be said ? what mockery will it be, To want the bridegroom when the priest attends To speak the ceremonial rites of marriage ! What says Lucentio to this shame of ours V Kath. No shame but mine ; I must, forsooth, be forced To give my hand opposed against my heart Unto a mad-brain rudesby full of spleen ; Who woo'd in haste and means to wed at leisure. I told you, I, he was a frantic fool, Hiding his bitter jests in blunt behaviour: And, to be noted for a merry man, He '11 woo a thousand, 'point the day of marriage. Make feasts, invite friends, and proclaim the banns ; Yet never means to wed where he hath woo'd. Now must the world point at poor Katharine, And say, ' Lo, there is mad Petruchio's wife. If it would please him come and marry her ! ' Tra. Patience, good Katharine, and JBaptista too. Upon my life, Petruchio means but well, Whatever fortune stays him from his word : Though he be blunt, I know him passing wise ; Though he be merry, yet withal he 's honest. . Kath. Would Katharine had never seen him though ! [Exit weeping, followed by Bianca and others. Bap. Go, girl ; I cannot blame thee now to weep; For such an injury would vex a very saint, Muoh more a shrew of thy impatient humour. Enter Biondello. Bion. Master, master ! news, old news, and such news as you never heard of ! Bap. Is it new and old too ? how may that be ? Bion. AVhy, is it not news, to hear of Petruchio's Bap. Is he come ? [coming ? Bion. AVhy, no, sir. Bap. What then ? Bion. He is coming. Bap. When will he be here ? Bion. When he stands where I am and sees you Tra. But say, what to thine old news ? [there. Bion. Why, Petruchio is coming in a new hat and an old jerkin, a pair of old breeches thrice turned, a pair of boots that have been candle-cases, one buckled, another laced, an old rusty sword ta'en out of the town-armoury, with a broken hilt, and chapeless ; with two broken points : his horse hip- ped with an old mothy saddle and stirrups of no kindred ; besides, possessed with the glanders and like to mose in the chine ; troubled with the lam- pass, infected with the fashions, full of windgalls, sped with spavins, rayed with the yellows, past cure of the fives, stark spoiled with the staggers, begnawn with the bots, swayed in the back and shoulder- shotten ; near-legged before and with a half -checked bit and a head-stall of sheep's leather which, being restrained to keep him from stumbling, hath been often burst and now repaired with knots ; one girth six times pieced and a woman's crupper of velure, which hath two letters for her name fairly set down in studs, and here and there pieced with packthread. Bap. W ho comes with him V Bion. O, sir, his lackey, for all the world ca- parisoned like the horse ; with a linen stock on one leg and a kersey boot-hose on the other, gartered with a red and blue list ; an old hat and ' the humour of forty fancies ' pricked in 't for a feather : a mon- ster, a very monster in apparel, and not like a Chris- tian footboy or a gentleman's lackey. Tra. 'T is some odd humour pricks him to this fashion ; Yet oftentimes he goes but mean-apparell'd. Bap. I am glad he 's come, howsoe'er he comes. Bion. Why, sir, he comes not. Bap. Didst thou not say he comes ? Bion. Who V that Petruchio came ? Bap. Ay, that Petruchio came. Bion. No, sir; I say his horse comes, with him on his back. Bap. Why, that 's all one. Bion. Nay, by Saint Jamy, I hold you a penny, A horse and a man Is more than one, And yet not many. Enter Petruchio and Grumio. Pet. Come, where be these gallants? who's at Bap. You are welcome, sir. [home ? Pet. And yet I come not well. Bap. And yet you halt not. Tra. Not so well appareU'd As I wish you were. Pet. Were it better, I should rush in thus. But where is Kate ? where is my lovely bride ? How does my father? Gentles, methinks you frown : And wherefore gaze this goodly company, As if they saw some wondrous monument, Some comet or unusual prodigy ? [day : Bap. Why, sir, you know this is your wedding- First were we sad, fearing you would not come; Now sadderj that you come so unprovided. Fie, dofC this habit, shame to your estate. An eye-sore to our solemn festival ! Tra. And tell us, what occasion of import Hath all so long detain 'd you from your wife. And sent you hither so unlike yourself ? Pet. Tedious it were to tell, and harsh to hear: , Sufficethj I am come to keep my word. Though m some part enforced to digress ; Which, at more leisure, I will so excuse As you shall well be satisfied withal. But where is Kate ? I stay too long from her: The morning wears, ' t is time we were at church. Tra. See not your bride in these unreverent robes: Go to my chamber ; put on clothes of mine. Pet. Not I, believe me : thus I '11 visit her. Bap. But thus, I trust, you will not marry her. Pet. Good sooth, even thus ; therefore ha' done with words : To me she 's married, not unto my clothes: ACT III. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 5CENE II. Could I repair what she will wear in me, As I can change these poor accoutrements, 'T were well for Kate and better for myself. But what a fool am I to chat with you, When I should bid good morrow to my bride, And seal the title with a lovely kiss ! {Exeunt PetrucMo and Grumio. Tra. He hath some meaning in his mad attire : "We will persuade him, be it possible, To put on better ere he go to church. Bap. I '11 after him, and see the event of this. [Exeunt Baptista, Gremio, and attendants. Tra. But to her love concemeth us to add Her father's liking : which to bring to pass, As I before imparted to your worship, I am to get a man,— whate'er he be. It skills not much, we '11 fit him to our turn, — And he shall be Vincentio of Pisa ; And make assurance here in Padua Of greater sums than I have promised. So shall you quietly enjoy your hope. And marry sweet Bianca with consent. Luc. Were it not that my fellow-schoolmaster Doth watch Bianca 's steps so narrowly, 'T were good, methinks, to steal our marriage ; Which once performed, let all the world say no, I '11 keep mine own, despite of all the world. Tra. That by degrees we mean to look into, And watch our vantage in this business : We '11 over-reach the greybeard, Gremio, The narrow-prying father, Minola, The quaint musician, amorous Licio ; All for my master's sake, Lucentio. Ee-enter Gremio. Signior Gremio, came you from the church ? Gre. As willingly as e'er I came from school. Tra. And is the bride and bridegroom coming home? Gre. A bridegroom say you? 't is a groom indeed, A grumbling groom, and that the girl shall find. Tra. Curster than she ? why, 't is impossible. Gre. Why, he 's a devil, a devil, a very fiend. Tra. Why, she 's a devil, a devil, the devil's dam. Gre. Tut, she 's a lamb, a dove, a fool to him! I '11 tell you. Sir Lucentio : when the priest Should ask, if Katharine should be his wife, ' Ay, by gogs-wouns,' quoth he ; and swore so loud. That, all-amazed, the priest let fall the book ; And, as he stoop'd again to take it up. The mad-brain'd bridegroom took him such a cuff That down fell priest and book and book and priest : ' Now take them up,' quoth he, ' if any list.' Tra. What said the wench when he rose again ? Gre. Trembled and shook; for why, he stamp 'd and swore. As if the vicar meant to cozen him. But after many ceremonies done. He calls for wine : ' A health ! ' quoth he, as if He had been aboard, carousing to his mates After a storm ; quaff 'd off the muscadel And threw the sops all in the sexton's face ; Having no other reason But that his beard grew thin and hungerly And seem'd to ask him sops as he was drinking. This done, he took the bride about the neck And kiss'd her lips with such a clamorous smack That at the parting all the church did echo : And I seeing this came thence for very shame ; And after me, I know, the rout is coming. Such a mad marriage never was before : Hark, hark ! I hear the minstrels play. [Music. Be-enter Petruchio, Katharina, Bianca, Bap- tista, Hortensio, Grumio, and Train. Pet. Gentlemen and friends, I thank you for your pains: I know you think to dine with me to-day. And have prepared great store of wedding cheer ; But so it is, my haste doth call me hence. And therefore here I mean to take my leave. Bap. Is 't possible you will away to-night ? Pet. 1 must away to-day, before night come : Make it no wonder ; if you knew my business, You would entreat me rather go than stay. And, honest company, I thank you all. That have beheld me give away myself To this most patient, sweet and virtuous wife: Dine with my father, drink a health to me; For I must hence ; and farewell to you all. Tra. Let us entreat you stay till after dinner. Pet. It may not be. Gre. Let me entreat you. Pet. It cannot be. Kath. Let me entreat you. Pet. I am content. Kath. Are you content to stay ? Pet. I am content you shall entreat me stay ; But yet not stay, entreat me how you can. Kath. Now, if you love me, stay. Pet. Grumio, my horse. Gru. Ay, sir, they be ready : the oats have eaten the horses. Kath. Nay, then. Do what thou canst, I will not go to-day; No, nor to-morrow, not till I please myself. The door is open, sir; there lies your way; You may be jogging whiles your boots are green; For me, I '11 not be gone till I please myself: 'Tis like you '11 prove a jolly surly groom. That take it on you at the first so roundly. Pet. O Kate, content thee; prithee, be not angry. Kath. 1 will be angry: what hast thou to do i* Father, be quiet : he shall stay my leisure. Gre. Ay, marry, sir, now it begins to work. Kath. Gentlemen, forward to the bridal dinner: I see a woman may be made a fool, If she had not a spirit to resist. [mand. Pet. They shall go forward, Kate, at thy corn- Obey the bride, you that attend on her ; Go to the feast, revel and domineer. Carouse full measure to her maidenhead. Be mad and merry, or go hang yourselves : But for my bonny Kate, she must with me. Nay, look not big, nor stamp, nor stare, nor fret ; I will be master of what is mine own: She is my goods, my chattels; she is my house, My household stuff, my field, my barn. My horse, my ox, my ass, my any thing ; And here she stands, touch her whoever dare; I '11 bring mine action on the proudest he That stops my way in Padua. GrumiOj Draw forth thy weapon, we are beset with thieves," Eescue thy mistress, if thou be a man. Fear not, sweet wench, they shall not touch thee Kate: I '11 buckler thee against a million. [Exeu7it Petruchio, Katharina, and Grumio, Bap. Nay, let them go, a couple of quiet ones. Gre. Went they not quickly, I should die with laughing. Tra. Of all mad matches never was the like. Luc. Mistress, what 's your opinion of your sister? Bian. That, being mad herself, she's madly mated. Gre. I warrant him, Petruchio is Kated. Bap. Neighbours and friends, though bride and bridegroom wants For to supply the places at the table. You know there wants no junkets at the feast. Lucentio, you shall supply the bridegroom's place; And let Bianca take her sister's room. Tra. Shall sweet Bianca practise how to bride it ? Bap. She shall, Lucentio. Come, gentlemen, let 's go. [Exeunt. 201 ACT IV. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. SCENE I. _A.OT I^. SCENE I. — Petruchio''s country house. Enter Grumio. Oru. Fie, fie on all tired jades, on all mad mas- ters, and all foul ways ! Was ever man so beaten ? was ever man so rayed ? was ever man so weary ? I am sent before to make a fire, and they are coming after to warm them. Now, were not I a little pot and soon hot, my very lips might freeze to my teeth, my tongue to the roof of my mouth, my heart in my belly, ere I should come by a fire to thaw me : but I, with blowing the fire, shall warm myself ; for, con- sidering the weather, a taller man than I will take cold. Holla, ho ! Curtis. Unter Curtis. Curt. Who is that calls so coldly ? Gru. A piece of ice : if thou doubt it, thou mayst slide from my shoulder to my heel with no greater a run but my head and my neck. A fire, good Curtis. Curt. Is my master and his wife coming, Grumio V Gru. O, ay, Curtis, ay : and therefore fire, fire ; cast on no water. Curt. Is she so hot a shrew as she 's reported ? Chru. She was, good Curtis, before this frost : but, thou knowest, winter tames man, woman and beast ; for it hath tamed my old master and my new mis- tress and myself, fellow Curtis. Curt. Away, you three-inch fool ! I am no beast. Gru. Am I but three inches ? why, thy horn is a foot ; and so long am I at the least. But wilt thou make a fire, or shall I complain on thee to our mis- tress, whose hand, she being now at hand, thou ehalt soon feel, to thy cold comfort, for being slow in thy hot office ? Curt. I prithee, good Grumio, tell me, how goes the world ? Gru. A cold world, Curtis, in every office but thine; and therefore fire: do thy duty, and have thy duty ; for my master and mistress are almost frozen to death. Curt, There 's fire ready ; and therefore, good Grumio, the news. Gru. Why, ' Jack, boy ! ho ! boy ! ' and as much news as will thaw. Curt. Come, you are so full of cony-catching! Gru. Why, therefore fire ; for I have caught ex- treme cold. Where 's the cook Y is supper ready, the house trimmed, rushes strewed, cobwebs swept ; the serving-men in their new fustian, their white stockings, and every officer his wedding-garment on y Be the jacks fair within, the jills fair with- out, the carpets laid, and every thing in order ? Curt. All ready ; and therefore, I pray thee, news. Gru. First, know, my horse is tired ; my master and mistress fallen out. Curt. HowV Gru. Out of their saddles into the dirt; and thereby hangs a tale. Curt. Let 's ha 't, good Grumio. Gru. Lend thine ear. Curt. Here. Ghru. There. [Strikes him. Curt. This is to feel a tale, not to hear a tale. Gru. And therefore 't is called a sensible tale : and this cuff was but to knock at your ear, and beseech listening. Now I begin: Imprimis, we came down a foul hill, my master riding behind my mistress, — Curt. Both of one horse ? Gru. What 's that to thee ? Curt. Why, ahorse. Gru. Tell thou the tale: but hadst thou not crossed me, thou shouldst have heard how her 202 horse fell and she under her horse ; thou shouldst have heard in how miry a place, how she was bemoiled, how he left her with the horse upon her, how he beat me because her horse stumbled, how she waded through the dirt to pluck him off me, how he swore, how she prayed, that never prayed before, how I cried, how the horses ran away, how her bridle was burst, how I lost my crupper, with many things of worthy memory, which now shall die in oblivion and thou return unexperienced to thy grave. [she. Curt. By this reckoning he is more shrew than Gru. Ay ; and that thou and the proudest of you all shall find when he comes home. But what talk I of this y Call forth Nathaniel, Joseph, Nicholas, Philip, Walter, Sugarsop and the rest : let their heads be sleekly combed, their blue coats brushed and their garters of an indifferent knit : let them curtsy with their left legs and not presume to touch a hair of my master's horsetail till they kiss their hands. Are they all ready ? Curt. They are. Gru. Call them forth. Curt. Do you hear, ho ? you must meet my master to countenance my mistress. Gru. Why, she hath a face of her own. Curt. Who knows not that V Gru. Thou, it seems, that calls for company to countenance her. Curt. 1 call them forth to credit her. Gru. Why, she comes to borrow nothing of them. Enter four or Jive Servingmen. JSfath. Welcome home, Grmnio I Phil. How now, Grumio ! Jos. What, Grumio! Nich. Fellow Grumio ! Nath. How now , old lad ? Gru. Welcome, you; — how now, you; — what, you;— fellow, you;— and thus much for greeting. Now, my spruce companions, is all ready, and all things neat ? Nath. All things is ready. How near is our master ? Gru. E'en at hand, alighted by this: and there- fore be not — Cock's passion, silence! I hear my master. Enter Petruchio and Katharina. Pet. Where be these knaves ? What, no man at To hold my stirrup nor to take my horse ! [door Where is Nathaniel, Gregory, Philip ? All Serv. Here, here, sir; here, sir. Pet. Here, sir! here, sir! here, sir! here^sir! You logger-headed and unpolish'd grooms! What, no attendance ? no regard ? no duty ? Where is the foolish knave I sent before ? Gru. Here, sir; as foolish as I was before. Pet. You peasant swain! you whoreson malt- horse drudge ! Did I not bid thee meet me in the park. And bring along these rascal knaves with thee V Gru. Nathaniel's coat, sir, was not fully made. And Gabriel's pumps were all unpink'd i' the heel; There was no link to colour Peter's hat. And Walter's dagger was not come from sheathing : There were none fine but Adam , Ralph , and Gregory; The rest were ragged, old, and beggarly ; Yet, as they are, here are they come to meet you. Pet. Go, rascals, go, and fetch my supper in. [Exeunt Servants. [Singing] Where is the life that late I led — Where are those— Sit down, Kate, and welcome.— Soud, soud, soud, soud! ACT IV. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. SCENE II. Re-enter Servants with supper. Why,, when, I say ? Nay, good sweet Kate, be merry. Off with my boots, you rogues ! you villains, when ? [(Sings] It was the friar of orders grey. As he forth walked on his way : — Out, you rogue ! you pluck my foot awry : Take that, and mend the plucking off the other. {Strikes him. Be merry, Kate. Some water, here ; what, ho ! "Where 's my spaniel Troilus ? teirrah, get you hence, And bid my cousin Ferdinand come hither : One, Kate, that you must kiss, and be acquainted with. Where are my slippers ? Shall I have some water ? Enter one with water. Come, Kate, and wash, and welcome heartily. You whoreson villain ! will you let it fall V {Strikes him. Kath. Patience, I pray you; 'twas a fault un- willing. Pet. A whoreson beetle-headed, flap-ear'd knave ! Come,Kate, sit down ; 1 know you have a stomach. .Will you give thanks, sweet Kate ; or else shall I V What 's this ? mutton Y First Sero. Ay. Pet. Who brought it ? Peter. I. Pet. 'T is burnt ; and so is all the meat. What dogs are these ! Where is the rascal cook ? How durst you, villains, bring it from the dresser, And serve it thus to me that love it not V There, take it to you, trenchers, cups, and all: [Throws the meat, cfcc, about the stage. You heedless joltheads and unmanner'd slaves ! What, do you grumble V I '11 be with you straight. Kath. I pray you, husband, be not so disquiet : The meat was well, if you were so contented. Pet. I tell thee, Kate, 't was burnt and dried away : And I expressly am forbid to touch it, For it engenders choler, planteth anger ; And better 't were that both of us did fast, Since, of ourselves, ourselves are choleric. Than feed it with such over-roasted flesh. Be patient ; to-morrow 't shall be mended. And, for this night, we '11 fast for company : Come, I will bring thee to thy bridal chamber. Be-enter Servants severally. Nath. Peter, didst ever see the like ? Peter. He kills her in her own humour. Be-enter Curtis. Gru. Where is he ? Curt. In her chamber, making a sermon of con- tinency to her ; And rails, and swears, and rates, that she, poor soul, Knows not which way to stand, to look, to speak, And sits as one new-risen from a dream. Away, away ! for he is coming hither. {Exeunt. Be-enter Petruchio. Pet. Thus have I politicly begun my reign. And 't is my hope to end successfully. My falcon now is sharp and passing empty ; And till she stoop she must not be full-gorged. For then she never looks upon her lure. Another way I have to man my haggard, To make her come and know her keeper's call, That is, to watch her, as we watch these kites That bate and beat and will not be obedient. She eat no meat to-day, nor none shall eat ; Last night she slept not, nor to-night she shall not ; As with the meat, some undeserved fault I '11 find about the making of the bed ; And here I '11 fling the pillow, there the bolster. This way the coverlet, another way the sheets: Ay, and amid this hurly I intend That all is done in reverend care of her ; And in conclusion she shall watch all night : And if she chance to nod I '11 rail and brawl And with the clamour keep her still awake. This is a way to kill a wife with kindness ; And thus I '11 curb her mad and headstrong humour. He that knows better how to tame a shrew. Now let him speak : 't is charity to show. {Exit. SCENE II.— Padua. Before Baptista''s house. Enter Tranio and Hortensio. Tra. Is 't possible, friend Licio, that Mistress Doth fancy any other but Lucentio ? [Bianca I tell you, sir, she bears me fair in hand. Hor. Sir, to satisfy you in what I have said. Stand by and mark the manner of his teaching. Enter Bianca and Lucentio. Luc. Now, mistress, profit you in what you read ? Bian. What, master, read you ? first resolve me that. Luc. 1 read that I profess, the Art to Love. Bian. And may you prove, sir, master of your art I Luc. While you, sweet dear, prove mistress of my heart ! Hor. Quick proceeders, marry! Now, tell me, I pray. You that durst swear that your mistress Bianca Loved none in the world so well as Lucentio. Tra. O despiteful love ! unconstant womankind I I tell thee, Licio, this is wonderful. Hor. Mistake no more : I am not Licio, Nor a musician, as I seem to be ; But one that scorn to live in this disguise, For such a one as leaves a gentleman. And makes a god of such a cuUion : Know, sir, that I am call'd Hortensio. Tra. Signior Hortensio, I have often heard Of your entire affection to Bianca ; And since mine eyes are witness of her lightness, I will with you, if you be so contented. Forswear Bianca and her love for ever. Hor. See, how they kiss and court ! Signior Lu- centio, Here is my hand, and here I firmly vow Never to woo her more, but do forswear her. As one unworthy all the former favours That I have fondly flatter'd her withal. Tra. And here I take the like unfeigned oath. Never to marry with her though she would entreat ; Fie on her! see, how beastly she doth court him ! Hor. Would all the world but he had quite for- sworn ! For me, that I may surely keep mine oath, I will be married to a wealthy widow. Ere three days pass, which hath as long loved me As I have loved this proud disdainful haggard. And so farewell, Signior Lucentio. Kindness in women, not their beauteous looks. Shall win my love : and so I take my leave, In resolution as I swore before. {Exit. Tra. Mistress Bianca, bless you with such grace As 'longeth to a lover's blessed case ! Nay, I have ta'en you napping, gentle love. And have forsworn you with Hortensio. Bian. Tranio, you jest: but have you both for- sworn me ? Tra. Mistress, we have. Luc. Then we are rid of Licio. Tra. I' faith, he '11 have a lusty widow now, That shall be woo'd and wedded in a day. Bian. God give him joy ! Tra. Ay, and he '11 tame her. Bian. He says so, Tranio. ACT IV. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. SCENE III. Tra. Faith, he is gone unto the taming-school. Bian. The taming-school! what, is there such a place ? Tra. Ay, mistress, and Petruchio is the master; That teacheth tricks eleven and twenty long. To tame a shrew and charm her chattering tongue. Enter Biondello. Bion. O master, master, I have watch'd so long That I am dog-weary : but at last I spied An ancient angel coming down the hill. Will serve the turn. Tra. What is he, Biondello ? Bion. Master, a mercatante, or a pedant, I know not what ; hut formal in apparel. In gait and countenance surely like a father. Luc. And what of him, Tranio V Tra. If he be credulous and trust my tale, I '11 make him glad to seem Vincentio, And give assurance to Baptista Minola, As if he were the right Vincentio. Take in your love, and then let me alone. {Exeunt Lucentio and Bianca. Miter a Pedant. Fed. God save you, sir ! Tra. And you, sir ! you are welcome. Travel you far on, or are you at the farthest ? Fed. Sir, at the farthest for a week or two : But then up farther, and as far as Rome ; And so to Tripoli, if God lend me life. Tra. What countryman, I pray? Fed. Of Mantua. Tra. Of Mantua, sir ? marry, God forbid ! And come to Padua, careless of your life ? Fed. My_ life, sir ! how, I pray ? for that goes hard. Tra. 'T is death for any one in Mantua To come to Padua. Know you not the cause ? Your ships are stay'd at Venice, and the duke, For private quarrel 'twixt your duke and him. Hath publish 'd and proclaim 'd it openly: 'T is marvel, but that you are but newly come, You might have heard it else proclaim'd about. Fed. Alas ! sir, it is worse for me than so ; For I have bills for money by exchange From Florence and must here deliver them. Tra. Well, sir, to do you courtesy. This will I do, and this I will advise you : First, tell me, have you ever been at Pisa ? Fed. Ay, sir, in Pisa have I often been, Pisa, renowned for grave citizens. Tra. Among them know you one Vincentio ? Fed. I know him not, but I have heard of him ; A merchant of incomparable wealth. 2Va. He is my father, sir ; and, sooth to say. In countenance somewhat doth resemble you. Bion. [Aside] As much as an apple doth an oyster, and all one. Tra. To save your life in this extremity. This favour will I do you for his sake ; And think it not the worst of all your fortunes That you are like to Sir Vincentio. His name and credit shall you undertake. And in my house you shall be friendly lodged : Look that you take upon you as you should ; You understand me, sir: so shall you stay Till you have done your business in the city : If this be courtesy, sir, accept of it. Fed. O sir, I do ; and will repute you ever The patron of my life and liberty. Tru. Then go with me to make the matter good. This, by the way, I let you understand ; My father is here look'd for every day. To pass assurance of a dower in marriage 'Twixt me and one Baptista's daughter here : In all these circumstances I '11 instruct you : Go with me to clothe you as becomes you. [Exeunt. 204 SCENE III.— -^ room in Fetruchio''s house. Enter Katharina and Grumio. Gru. No, no, forsooth; I dare not for my life. Kath. The more my wrong, the more his spite ap- What, did he marry me to famish me ? [pears: Beggars, that come unto my father's door, Upon entreaty have a present alms ; If not, elsewhere they meet with charity: But I, who never knew how to entreat, Nor never needed that I should entreat. Am starved for meat, giddy for lack of sleep. With oaths kept waking and with brawling led : And that which spites me more than all these wants, He does it under name of perfect love ; As who should say, if I should sleep or eat, 'T were deadly sickness or else present death. I prithee go and get me some repast ; I care not what, so it be wholesome food. Gru. What say you to a neat's foot ? Kath. 'T is passing good : I prithee let me have it. Gru. I fear it is too choleric a meat. How say you to a fat tripe finely broil 'd ? Kath. I like it well : good Grumio, fetch it me. Gru. I cannot tell ; I fear 't is choleric. What say you to a piece of beef and mustard ? Kath. A dish that I do love to feed upon. Gru. Ay, but the mustard is too hot a little. Kath. Why then , the beef, and let the mustard rest. Gru. Nay then, I will not : you shall have the mus- Or else you get no beef of Grumio. [tard, Kath. Then both, or one, or anything thou wilt. Gru. Why then, the mustard without the beef. Kath. Go, get thee gone, thou false deluding slave, [Beats him. That feed'st me with the very name of meat : Sorrow on thee and all the pack of you. That triumph thus upon my misery ! Go, get thee gone, I say. Enter Petruchio and Hortensio with meat. Fet. How fares my Kate ? What, sweeting, all IZbr. Mistress, what cheer? [amort? Kath. Faith, as cold as can be. Fet. Pluck up thy spirits ; look cheerfully upon me. Here, love ; thou see'st how diligent I am To dress thy meat myself and bring it thee : I am sure, sweet Kate, this kindness merits thanks. What, not a word ? Nay, then thou lovest it not ; And all my pains is sorted to no proof. Here, take away this dish. Kath. I pray you, let it stand. Fet. The poorest service is repaid with thanks ; And so shall mine, before you touch the meat. Kath. 1 thank you, sir. Hor. Signior Petruchio, fie ! you are to blame. Come, Mistress Kate, I '11 bear you company, [me. Pet. [Aside] Eat it up all, Hortensio, if thou lovest Much good do it unto thy gentle heart ! Kate, eat apace : and now, my honey love. Will we return unto thy father's house And revel it as bravely as the best, With silken coats and caps and golden rings. With ruffs and cuffs and fardingales and things ; With scarfs and fans and double change of bravery, With amber bracelets, beads and all this knavery. What, hast thou dined ? The tailor stays thy leisure. To deck thy body with his ruffling treasure. Snter Tailor. Come, tailor, let us see these ornaments ; Lay forth the gown. Enter Haberdasher. What news with you, sir ? Hah. Here is the cap your worship did bespeak, Fet. Why, this was moulded on a porringer ; ->'^ ^ ACT IV. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. SCENE IV. A velvet dish : fie, fie ! 't is lewd and filthy : Why, 't is a cockle or a walnut-shell, A knack, a toy, a trick, a baby's cap : Away with it ! come, let me have a bigger. Kath. I '11 have no bigger : this doth fit the time, And gentlewomen wear such caps as these. Pet. When you are gentle, you shall have one too. And not till then. Hor. [Aside] That will not be in haste. Kath. Why, sir, I trust I may have leave to speak ; And speak I will ; I am no child, no babe : Your betters have endured me say my mind. And if you cannot, best you stop your ears. My tongue will tell the anger of my heart. Or else my heart concealing it will break. And rather than it shall, I will be free Even to the uttermost, as I please, in words. Fet. Why, thou say'st true ; it is a paltry cap, A custard-coffin, a bauble, a silken pie: I love thee well, in that thou likest it not. Kath. Love me or love me not, I like the cap; And it I will have, or I will have none. [Exit Haberdasher. Pet. Thy gown? why, ay: come, tailor, let us see't. mercy, God ! what masquing stuff is here ? What 's this ? a sleeve ? 't is like a demi-cannon : What, up and down, carved like an apple-tart ? Here 's snip and nip and cut and slish and slash, Like to a censer in a barber's shop : Why, what, i' devil's name, tailor, call'st thou this ? Hot. [Aside] I see she 's like to have neither cap nor gown. Tai. You bid me make it orderly and weU, According to the fashion and the time. Pet. Marry, and did ; but if you be remember'd, 1 did not bid you mar it to the time. Go, hop me over every kennel home. For you shall hop without my custom, sir : I '11 none of it : hence ! make your best of it. Kath. I never saw a better-fashion 'd gown, More quaint, more pleasing, nor more commend- Belike you mean to make a puppet of me. [able : Pet. Why, true ; he means to make a puppet of thee. Tai. She says your worship means to make a puppet of her. Pet. O monstrous arrogance! Thou liest, thou thread, thou thimble ! Thou yard, three-quarters, half -yard, quarter, nail. Thou flea, thou nit, thou winter-cricket thou! Braved in mine ovra house with a skein of thread ? Away, thou rag, thou quantity, thou remnant : Or I shall so be-meet thee with thy yard As thou Shalt think on prating whilst thou livest I I tell thee, I, that thou hast marred her govni. Tai. Your worship is deceived ; the gown is made Just as my master had direction : Grumio gave order how it should be done. Gru. I gave him no order ; I gave him the stuff. Tai. But how did you desire it should be made ? Gru. Marry, sir, with needle and thread. Tai. But did you not request to have it cut ? Gru. Thou hast faced many things. Tai. I have. Gru. Face not me : thou hast braved many men ; brave not me ; I will neither be faced nor braved. I say unto thee, I bid thy master cut out the gown ; but I did not bid him cut it to pieces : ergo, thou liest. Tai. Why, here is the note of the fashion to tes- Pet. Bead it. [tify. Gru. The note lies in 's throat, if he say I said so. Tai. [Reads] ' Imprimis, a loose-bodied gown : ' Gru. Master, if ever I said loose-bodied gown, sew me in the skirts of it, and beat me to death with a bottom of brown thread : I said a gown. Pet. Proceed. Tai. [Reads] ' With a small compassed cape : ' Gru. I confess the cape. Tai. [Reads] ' With a trunk sleeve : ' Gru. I confess two sleeves. Tai. [Reads] ' The sleeves curiously cut.' Pet. Ay, there 's the villany. Gru. Error i' the bill, sir ; error i' the bill. I commanded the sleeves should be cut out and sewed up again ; and that I '11 prove upon thee, though thy little finger be armed in a thimble. Tai. This is true that I say: an I had thee in place where, thou shouldst know it. Gru. I am for thee straight : take thou the bill, give me thy mete-yard, and spare not me. [odds. Hor. God-a-mercy, Grumio I then he shall have no Pet. Well, sir, in brief, the gown is not for me. Gru. You are i' the right, sir: 'tis for my mis- Pet. Go, take it up unto thy master's use. [tress. Gru. Villain, not for thy life : take up my mis- stress' gown for thy master's use ! Pet. Why, sir, what 's your conceit in that ? [for : Gru. O, sir, the conceit is deeper than you think Take up my mistress' gown to his master's use ! O, fie, fie, fie! [paid. Pet. [Aside] Hortensio, say thou wilt see the tailor Go take it hence ; be gone, and say no more. Hor. Tailor, I '11 pay thee for thy govm to-morrow : Take no unkindness of his hasty words : Away ! I say ; commend me to thy master. [Exit Tailor. Pet. Well, come, my Kate ; we will unto your Even in these honest mean habiliments : [father's Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor ; For 't is the mind that makes the body rich ; And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds, So honour peereth in the meanest habit. What is the jay more precious than the lark, Because his feathers are more beautiful ? Or is the adder better than the eel. Because his painted skin contents the eye ? O, no, good Kate ; neither art thou the worse For this poor furniture and mean array. If thou account 'st it shame, lay it on me ; And therefore frolic : we will hence forthwith, To feast and sport us at thy father's house. Go, call my men, and let us straight to him ; And bring our horses unto Long-lane end ; There will we mount, and thither walk on foot. Let 's see ; I think 't is now some seven o'clock, And well we may come there by dinner-time. Kath. I dare assure you, sir, 't is almost two : And 't will be supper-time ere you come there. Pet. It shall be seven ere I go to horse : Look, what I speak, or do, or think to do. You are still crossing it. Sirs, let 't alone : I will not go to-day ; and ere I do. It shall be what o'clock I say it is. Hor. [Aside] Why, so this gallant will command the sun. [Exeunt. SCENE IV.— Padua. Before Baptista^s house. Enter Tranio, and the Pedant dressed like Vincentio. Tra. Sir, this is the house : please it you that I call? Ped. Ay, what else ? and but I be deceived Signior Baptista may remember me, Near twenty years ago, in Genoa, Where we were lodgers at the Pegasus. Tra. 'T is well ; and hold your own, in any case, With such austerity as 'longeth to a father. Ped. I warrant you. Enter Biondello. But, sir, here comes your boy ; 'Twere good he were school 'd. 205 ACT IV. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. SCENE V. Tra. Fear you not him. Sirrah Biondello, Now do your duty throughly, I advise you : Imagine 'twere the right Vincentio. Bion. Tut, fear not me. Tra. But hast thou done thy errand to Baptista ? Bion. I told him that your father was at Venice, And that you look'd for him this day in Padua. Tra. Thou'rt a tall fellow: hold thee that to drink. Here comes Baptista : set your countenance, sir. Enter Baptista and Lucentio. Signior Baptista, you are happily met. [you of : [To the Pedant'] Sir, this is the gentleman I told I pray you, stand good father to me now, Give me Bianca for my patrimony. Fed. Soft, son! Sir, by your leave : having come to Padua To gather in some debts, my son Lucentio Made me acquainted with a weighty cause Of love between your daughter and himself : And, for the good report I hear of you And for the love he beareth to your daughter And she to him, to stay him not too long, I am content, in a good father's care. To have him match'd ; and if you please to like No worse than I, upon some agreement Me shall you find ready and willing "With one consent to have her so bestow 'd ; For curious I cannot be with you, Signior Baptista, of whom I hear so well. Bap. Sir, pardon me in what I have to say: Your plainness and your shortness please me well. Eight true it is, your son Lucentio here Doth love my daughter and she loveth him, Or both dissemble deeply their affections : And therefore, if you say no more than this, That like a father you will deal with him And pass my daughter a sufficient dower. The match is made, and all is done: Your son shall have my daughter with consent. Tra. I thank you, sir. Where then do you know We be affied and such assurance ta'en [best As shall with either part's agreement stand? Bap. Not in my house, Lucentio ; for, you know. Pitchers have ears, and I have many servants : Besides, old Gremio is hearkening still ; And happily we might be interrupted. Tra. Then at my lodging, an it like you : There doth my father lie; and there, this night. We '11 pass the business privately and well. Send for your daughter by your servant here ; My boy shall fetch the scrivener presently. The worst is this, that, at so slender warning. You are like to have a thin and slender pittance. Bap. It likes me well. Biondello, hie you home. And bid Bianca make her ready straight ; And, if you will, tell what hath happened, Lucentio's father is arrived in Padua, And how she 's like to be Lucentio's wife. Bion. I pray the gods she may with all my heart ! Tra. Dally not with the gods, but get thee gone. [Exit Bion. Signior Baptista, shall I lead the way ? Welcome ! one mess is like to be your cheer : Come, sir; we will better it in Pisa. Bap. I follow you. [Exeunt Tranio, Pedant, and Baptista. Be-enter Biondello. Bion. Cambio! Luc. What sayestthou, Biondello? Bion. You saw my master wink and laugh upon Luc. Biondello, what of that ? [you ? Bion. Faith, nothing; but has left me here be- hind, to expound the meaning or moral of his signs and tokens. 206 Luc. 1 pray thee, moralize them. Bion. Then thus. Baptista is safe, talking with the deceiving father of a deceitful son. Luc. And what of him ? Bion. His daughter is to be brought by you to the supper. Luc. And then ? Bion. The old priest of Saint Luke's church is at your command at all hours. Luc. And what of all this ? Bion. 1 cannot tell; expect they are busied about a counterfeit assurance : take you assurance of her, ' cum privilegio ad imprimendum solum : ' to the church; take the priest, clerk, and some sufficient honest witnesses : If this be not that you look for, I have no more to But bid Bianca farewell for ever and a day. [say, LiK. Hearest thou, Biondello? Bion. I cannot tarry : I knew a wench married in an afternoon as she went to the garden for parsley to stuff a rabbit ; and so may you, sir : and so, adieu, sir. My master hath appointed me to go to Saint Luke's, to bid the priest be ready to come against you come with your appendix. [Exit. Luc. 1 may, and will, if she be so contented: She will be pleased ; then wherefore should I doubt ? Hap what hap may, I '11 roundly go about her : It shall go hard if Cambio go without her. [Exit, SCENE v.— A public road. Enter Petruchio, Katharina, Hortensio, and Servants. Pet. Come on, i' God's name ; once more toward our father's. Good Lord , how bright and goodly shines the moon ! Kath. The moon! the sun : it is not moonlight now. Pet. I say it is the moon that shines so bright. Kath. I know it is the sun that shines so bright. Pet. Now, by my mother's son, and that 's myself, It shall be moon, or star, or what I list, Or ere I journey to your father's house. Go on, and fetch our horses back again. Evermore cross'd andcross'd; nothing but cross'd! Hor. Say as he says, or we shall never go. Kath. Forward, I pray, since we have come 80 far, And be it moon, or sun, or what you please : An if you please to call it a rush-candle. Henceforth I vow it shall be so for me. Pet. I say it is the moon. Kath. I know it is the moon. Pet. Nay, then you lie : it is the blessed sun. Kath. Then, God be bless'd, it is the blessed sun : But sun it is not, when you say it is not ; And the moon changes even as your mind. What you will have it named, even that it is ; And so it shall be so for Katharine. Hor. Petruchio, go thy ways ; the field is won. Pet. Well, forward, forward! thus the bowl should And not unluckily against the bias. [run, But, soft ! company is coming here. Enter Vincentio. [To Vincentio] Good morrow, gentle mistress : where Tell me, sweet Kate, and tell me truly too, [away ? Hast thou beheld a fresher gentlewoman ? Such war of white and red within her cheeks ! What stars do spangle heaven with such beauty. As those two eyes become that heavenly face ? Fair lovely maid, once more good day to thee. Sweet Kate, embrace her for her beauty's sake. Hor. A' will make the man mad, to make a woman of him. Kath. Young budding virgin, fair and fresh and Whither away, or where is thy abode ? [sweet, Happy the parents of so fair a child ; ACT V. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. SCENE I. Happier the man, whom favourable stars Allot thee for his lovely bed-fellow ! [mad : Pet. Why, how now, Kate! I hope thou art not This is a man, old, wrinkled, faded, wither'd, And not a maiden, as thou say'st he is. Kath. Pardon, old father, my mistaking eyes. That have been so bedazzled with the sun That everything I look on seemeth green : Now I perceive thou art a reverend father ; Pardon, I pray thee, for my mad mistaking. Fet. Do, good old grandsire; and withal make known "Which way thou travellest : if along with us, "We shall be joyful of thy company. Vin. Fair sir, and you my merry mistress, That with your strange encounter much amazed me. My name is call'd Vincentio ; my dwelling Pisa ; And bound I am to Padua ; there to visit A son of mine, which long I have not seen. Pet. "What is his name V Vin. Lucentio, gentle sir. Pet. Happily met ; the happier for thy son. And now by law, as well as reverend age, I may entitle thee my loving father : The sister to my wife, this gentlewoman, Thy son by this hath married. "Wonder not, Nor be not grieved : she is of good esteem. Her dowry wealthy, and of worthy birth ; Beside, so qualified as may beseem The spouse of any noble gentleman. Let me embrace with old "Vincentio, And wander we to see thy honest son. Who will of thy arrival be full joyous. Vin. But is this true ? or is it else your pleasure, Like pleasant travellers, to break a jest Upon the company you overtake ? Hor. I do assure thee, father, so it is. Pet. Come, go along, and see the truth hereof ; For our first merriment hath made thee jealous. {Exeunt all but Hortensio. Hor. Well, Petruchio, this has put me in heart. Have to my widow ! and if she be froward. Then hast thou taught Hortensio to be untoward. [Mcit. ^OT V. — Padua. Before Lucentio'' s house. Gremio discovered. Enter behind Biondello, Lu- centio, and Bianca. Bion. Softly and swiftly, sir; for the priest is ready. Luc. I fly, Biondello : but they may chance to need thee at home ; therefore leave us. Bion. Nay, faith, I '11 see the church o' your back ; and then come back to my master's as soon as 1 can. [Exeunt Lucentio, Bianca, and Biondello. Ore. I marvel Cambio comes not all this while. Enter Petruchio, Kabharina, Vincentio, Gru- mio, with Attendants. Pet. Sir, here 's the door, this is Lucentio 's house : My father's bears more toward the market-place ; Thither must I, and here I leave you, sir. Vin. You shall not choose but drink before you go: I think I shall command your welcome here, And, by all likelihood, some cheer is toward. [Knocks. Ore. They 're busy within ; you were best knock louder. Pedant looks out of the window. Ped. What 's he that knocks as he would beat down the gate ? Vin. Is Signior Lucentio within, sir? Ped. He 's within, sir, but not to be spoken withal. Vin. What if a man bring him a hundred poimd or two, to make merry withal ? Ped. Keep your hundred poimds to yourself : he shall need none, so long as I live. Pet. Nay, I told you your son was well beloved in Padua. Do you hear, sir ? To leave frivolous circumstances, I pray you, tell Signior Lucentio that his father is come firom Pisa and is here at the door to speak with him. Ped. Thou liest : his father is come from Padua and here looking out at the window. Vin. Art thou his father ? Ped. Ay, sir ; so his mother says, if I may believe her. Pet. [To Vincentio'] Why, how now, gentleman! why, this is flat knavery, to take upon you another man's name. Ped. Lay hands on the villain : I believe a' means to cozen somebody in this city under my countenance. Be-enter Biondello. Bion. I have seen them in the church together : God send 'em good shipping ! But who is here ? mine old master Vincentio! now we are undone and brought to nothing. Vin. [Seeing Biondello] Come hither, crack hemp. Bion. I hope I may choose, sir. [got me ? Vin. Come hither, you rogue. What, have you for- Bion. Forgot you ! no, sir : I could not forget you, for I never saw you before in all my life. Vin. What, you notorious villain, didst thou never see thy master's father, Vincentio ? Bion. What, my old worshipful old master ? yes, marry, sir : see where he looks out of the window. Vin. Is 't so, indeed i* [Beats Biondello. Bion. Help, help, help! here's a madman will murder me. [Exit. Ped. Help, son ! help, Signior Baptista I [Exit from above. Pet. Prithee, Kate, let 's stand aside and see the end of this controversy. [Tkey retire. Be-enter Pedant below; Tranio, Baptista, and Servants. Tra. Sir, what are you that offer to beat my ser- vant ? Vin. What am I, sir ! nay, what are you, sir ? O immortal gods ! O fine villain I A silken doublet ! a velvet hose ! a scarlet cloak ! and a copatain hat ! O, I am undone! I am undone! while I play the good husband at home, my son and my servant spend all at the university. Tra. How now ! what 's the matter ? Bap. What, is the man lunatic ? Tra. Sir, you seem a sober ancient gentleman by your habit, but your words show you a madman. Why. sir, what 'cerns it you if I wear pearl and gold r I thank my good father, I am able to main- tain it. [Bergamo Vin. Thy father ! O villain I he is a sail-maker in Bap. You mistake, sir, you mistake, sir. Pray, what do you think is his name ? Vin. His name ! as if I knew not his name : I have brought him up ever since he was three years old, and his name is Tranio. Ped. Away, away, mad ass ! his name is Lucentio ; and he is mine only son, and heir to the lands of me, Signior Vincentio. 207 ACT V. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. SCENE II. Vin. Lucentio ! O, lie hath murdered his master ! Lay hold on him, I charge you, in the duke's name. O, my son, my son ! Tell me, thou villain, where is my son Lucentio ? Tra. Call forth an oflBcer. Enter one with an Officer. Carry this mad knave to the gaol. Father Baptista, I charge you see that he be forthcoming. Vin. Carry me to the gaol ! Gre. Stay, officer : he shall not go to prison. Bap. Talk not, Signior Gremio : I say he shall go to prison. Gre. Take heed, Signior Baptista, lest you be cony-catched in this business : I dare swear this is the right Vincentio. Ped. Swear, if thou darest. Gre. Nay, I dare not swear it. Tra. Then thou wert best say that I am not Lu- centio. Gre. Yes, I know thee to be Signior Lucentio. £ap. Away with the dotard ! to the gaol with him ! Vin. Thus strangers may be haled and abused : O monstrous villain ! Re-enter Biondello, vyith Lucentio and Bianca. Bion. O ! we are spoiled and — yonder he is : deny him, forswear him, or else we are all undone. Luc. [Kneeling] Pardon, sweet father. Vin. Lives my sweet son ? {Exeunt Biondello, Tranio, and Pedant, as fast as may be. Bian. Pardon, dear father. Bap. How hast thou offended ? "Where is Lucentio ? 1/wc. Here 's Lucentio, Right son to the right Vincentio ; That have by marriage made thy daughter mine, While counterfeit supposes blear'd thine eyne. Gre. Here 's packing, with a witness, to deceive us all ! Vin. Where is that damned villain Tranio, That faced and braved me in this matter so ? Bap. Why, tell me, is not this my Cambio ? Bian. Cambio is changed into Lucentio. Imc. Love wrought these miracles. Bianca's love Made me exchange my state with Tranio, While he did bear my countenance in the town ; And happily I have arrived at the last Unto the wished haven of my bliss. What Tranio did, myself enforced him to ; Then pardon him, sweet father, for my sake. Vin. I '11 slit the villain's nose, that would have sent me to the gaol. Bap. But do you hear, sir ? have you married my daughter without asking my good will? Vin. Fear not, Baptista ; we will content you, go to : but I will in, to be revenged for this villany. [Exit. Bap. And I, to sound the depth of this knavery. [Exit. Imc. Look not pale, Bianca • thy father will not frown. [Exeunt Lucentio and Bianca. Gre. My cake is dough; but I'll in among the rest, Out of hope of all, but my share of the feast. [Exit. Kath. Husband, let 's follow, to see the end of this Pet. First kiss me, Kate, and we will. [ado. Kath. What, in the midst of the street? Pet. What, art thou ashamed of me ? Kath. No, sir, God forbid ; but ashamed to kiss. Pet. Why, then let 's home again. Come, sirrah, let 's away. Kath. Nay, I will give thee a kiss: now pray thee, love, stay. Pet. Is not this well ? Come, my sweet Kate : Better once than never, for never too late. [Exeunt. SCENE II.— Padua. Lucentio^s house. Enter Baptista, Vincentio, Gremio, the Pedant, Lu- centio, Bianca, Petruchio, Katharina, Hortensio, and Widow, Tranio, Biondello, and Grumio : the Servingmen with Tranio bringing in a banquet. Luc. At last, though long, our jarring notes agree : And time it is, when raging war is done, To smile at scapes and perils overblown. My fair Bianca, bid my father wekome, While I with self -same kindness welcome thine. Brother Petruchio, sister Katharina, And thou, Hortensio, with thy loving widow, Feast with the best, and welcome to my house: My banquet is to close our stomachs up. After our great good cheer. Pray you, sit down ; For now we sit to chat as well as eat. Pet. Nothing but sit and sit, and eat and eat ! Bap. Padua affords this kindness, son Petruchio. Pet. Padua affords nothing but what is kind. Hor. For both our sakes, I would that word were true. Pet. Now, for my life, Hortensio fears his widow. Wid. Then never trust me, if I be afeard. Pet. You are very sensible, and yet you miss my I mean, Hortensio is afeard of you. [sense : Wid. He that is giddy thinks the world turns Pet. Roundly replied. [round. Kath. Mistress, how mean you that ? Wid. Thus I conceive by him. Pet. Conceives by me ! How likes Hortensio that ? Hor. My widow says, thus she conceives her tale. Pet. Very well mended. Kiss him for that, good widow. [round:' Kath. ' He that is giddy thinks the world turns I pray you, tell me what you meant by that. Wid. Your husband, being troubled with a shrew, Measures my husband's sorrow by his woe : And now you know my meaning. Kath. A very mean meaning. Wid. Right, I mean you. Kath. And I am mean indeed, respecting you. Pet. To her, Kate ! Hor. To her, widow ! [down. Pet. A hundred marks, my Kate does put her Hor. That 's my office. Pet. Spoke like an officer: ha' to thee, lad ! [Brinks to Hortensio. Bap. How likes Gremio these quick-witted folks ? Gre. Believe me, sir, they butt together well. Bian. Head, and butt ! an hasty-witted body Would say your head and butt were head and horn. Vin. Ay, mistress bride, hath that awaken 'd you ? Bian. Ay, but not frighted me ; therefore I '11 sleep again. [gun, Pet. Nay, that you shall not : since you have be- Have at you for a bitter jest or two ! Bian. Am I your bird ? I mean to shift my bush ; And then pursue me as you draw your bow. You are welcome all. [Exeunt Bianca, Katharina, and Widow. Pet. She hath prevented me. Here, Signior Tranio, This bird you aim'd at, though you hit her not ; Therefore a health to all that shot and miss'd. Tra. 0,sir,Lucentio slipp'dme like his greyhound. Which runs himself and catches for his master. Pet. A good swift simile, but something currish. Tra. 'T is well, sir, that you hunted for yourself: 'T is thought your deer does hold you at a bay. Bap. O ho, Petruchio ! Tranio hits you now. Luc. 1 thank thee for that gird, good Tranio. Hor. Confess, confess, hath he not hit you here ? Pet. A' has a little gall'd me, I confess ; And, as the jest did glance away from me, 'Tis ten to one it maim'd you two outright. Bap. Now, in good sadness, son Petruchio, I think thou hast the veriest shrew of all. ACT V. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. SCENE H. Pet. Well, I say no : and therefore for assurance Let 's each one send unto his wife ; And he whose wife is most obedient To come at first when he doth send for her, Shall win the wager which we will propose. Hot. Content. What is the wager ? Luc. Twenty crowns. Pet. Twenty crowns ! I '11 venture so much of my hawk or hound. But twenty times so much upon my wife. Lvjc. a hundred then. Hor. Content. Pet. A match ! 't is done. Hor, Who shall begin ? Jjm. That will I. Go, Biondello, bid your mistress come to me. Bion. I go. {Exit. Bap. Son, I '11 be your half, Bianca comes. Luc. I '11 have no halves ; I '11 bear it all myself. He-enter Biondello. How now ! what news ? Bion. Sir, my mistress sends you word That she is busy and she cannot come. .Pet. How ! she is busy and she cannot come ! Is that an answer ? Gre. Ay, and a kind one too : Pray God, sir, your wife send you not a worse. Pet. I hope, better. Hor. Sirrah Biondello, go and entreat my wife To come to me forthwith. [Exit Bion. Pet. O, ho ! entreat her ! Nay, then she must needs come. Hor. I am afraid, sir, Do what you can, yours will not be entreated. Be-enter Biondello. Now, where 's my wife ? Bion. She says you have some goodly jest in hand: She will not come ; she bids you come to her. Pet. Worse and worse ; she will not come ! O vile, Intolerable, not to be endured ! Sirrah Grumio, go to your mistress ; Say, I command her come to me. [Exit Grumio. Hor. I know her answer. Pet. What? Hor. She will not. Pet. The fouler fortune mine, and there an end. Bap. Now,by my holidame,here comes Katharina! Be-enter Katharina. Kath. What is your will, sir, that you send for me ? Pet. Where is your sister, and Hortensio's wife ? Kath. They sit conferring by the parlour fire. Pet. Go, fetch them hither : if they deny to come. Swinge me them soundly forth unto their husbands : Away, I say, and bring them hither straight. [Exit Katharina. Luc. Here is a wonder, if you talk of a wonder. Hor. And so it is : I wonder what it bodes. Pet. Marry, peace it bodes, and love and quiet life. And awful rule and right supremacy ; And, to be short, what not, that 's sweet and happy ? Bap. Now, fair befal thee, good Petruchio ! The wager thou hast won ; and I will add Unto their losses twenty thousand crowns ; Another dowry to another daughter, Por she is changed, as she had never been. Pet. Nay, I will win my wager better yet And show more sign of her obedience, Her new-built virtue and obedience. See where she comes and brings your froward wives As prisoners to her womanly persuasion. Be-enter Katharina, with Bianca and "Widow. Katharine, that cap of yours becomes you not : Off with that bauble, throw it under-foot. 14 Wid. Lord, let me never have a cause to sigh, Till I be brought to such a silly pass ! Bian. Fie ! what a foolish duty call you this ? Luc. I would your duty were as foolish too : I The wisdom of your duty, fair Bianca, Hath cost me a hundred crowns since supper-time. Bian. The more fool you, for laying on my duty. Pet. Katharine, I charge thee, tell these head- strong women What duty they do owe their lords and husbands. Wid. Come, come, you 're mocking : we will have no telling. Pet. Come on, I say ; and first begin with her. Wid. She shall not. Pet. I say she shall : and first begin with her. Kath. Pie, fie ! unknit that threatening unkind brow. And dart not scornful glances from those eyes. To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor : It blots thy beauty as frosts do bite the meads. Confounds thy fame as whirlwinds shake fair buds,, And in no sense is meet or amiable. A woman moved is like a fountain troubled. Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty; And while it is so, none so dry or thirsty Will deign to sip or touch one drop of it. Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper, Thy head, thy sovereign ; one that cares for thee, And for thy maintenance commits his body To painful labour both by sea and landj To watch the night in storms, the day m cold. Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe; And craves no other tribute at thy hands But love, fair looks and true obedience; Too little payment for so great a debt. Such duty as the subject owes the prince Even such a woman oweth to her husband ; And when she is froward, peevish, sullen, sour, And not obedient to his honest will. What is she but a foul contending rebel And graceless traitor to her loving lord ? I am ashamed that women are so simple To offer war where they should kneel for peace. Or seek for rule, supremacy and sway. When they are bound to serve, love and obey. Why are our bodies soft and weak and smooth. Unapt to toil and trouble in the world, But that our soft conditions and our hearts Should well agree with our external parts ? Come, come, you froward and unable worms ! My mind hath been as big as one of yours. My heart as great, my reason haply more, To bandy word for word and frown for frown ; But now I see our lances are but straws. Our strength as weak, our weakness past compare, That seeming to be most which we indeed least are Then vail your stomachs, for it is no boot. And place your hands below your husband's foot: In token of which duty, if he please. My hand is ready ; may it do him ease. Pet. Why, there 's a wench ! Come on, and kiss me, Kate. Luc. Well, go thy ways, old lad ; for thou shalt ha't. Vin. 'T is a good hearing when children are to- ward, [ward. Luc. But a harsh hearing when woman are fro- Pet. Come, Kate, we '11 to bed. We three are married, but you two are sped. [To Luc.] 'Twas I won the wager, though you hit the white ; And, being a winner, God give you good night ! [Exeunt Petruchio and Katharina. Hor. Now, go thy ways ; thou hast tamed a curst shrew. Luc. 'Tis a wonder, by your leave, she will be tamed so. [Exeuni, ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. DBAMATIS PEE SON JE. King of Prance. Duke of Florence. Bertram, Count of Kousillon. Lafeu, an old lord. Parolles, a follower of Bertram. Steward, i servants to the Countess of Clown, J Eousillon. A Page. Countess of Bousillon, mother to Bertram. Helena, a gentlewoman protected by the Countess. An old Widow of Florence. Diana, daughter to the Widow. Violenta, } neighbours and friends to the Mariana, J Widow. Lords, Officers, Soldiers, &c., French and Florentine. SCKN'Ei — Bousillon ; Paris; Florence; Marseilles. [For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, sea Pag* L.] A.OT I. SCENE 1.— Bousillon. The CounVs palace. Enter Bertram, the Countess of Rousillon, He- lena, and Lafeu, all in black. Count. In delivering my son from me, I bury a second husband. Ber. Andl ingoing,madam,weepo'ermyfather's death anew: but I must attend his majesty's com- mand, to whom I am now in ward, evermore in sub- jection. Laf. You shall find of the king a husband, madam; you, sir, a father: he that so generally is at all times good must of necessity hold his virtue to you ; whose worthiness would stir it up where it wanted rather than lack it where there is such •abundance. [ment ? Count. What hope is there of his majesty's amend- Laf. He hath abandoned his physicians, madam ; wnder whose practices he hath persecuted time with hope, and finds no other advantage in the pro- cess but only the losing of hope by time. Count. This young gentlewoman had a father, — O, that 'had'! how sad a passage 'tis! — whose skill was almost as great as his honesty; had it stretched so far, would have made nature immor- tal, and death should have play for lack of work. Would, for the king's sake, he were living ! I think it would be the death of the king's disease, [madam ? Laf. How called you the man you speak of, Count. He was famous, sir, in his profession, and it was his great right to be so : Gerard de Narbon. Laf. He was excellent indeed, madam : the king very lately spoke of him admiringly and mourn- ingly: he was skilful enough to have lived still, if knowledge could be set up against mortality. Ber. What is it, my good lord, the king languishes Lcf. A fistula, my lord. [of? Ber. I heard not of it before. Laf. I would it were not notorious. Was this gentlewoman the daugliter of Gerard de Narbon ? Count. His sole child, my lord, and bequeathed to my overlooking. I have those hopes of her good that her education promises; her dispositions she Inherits, which makes fair gifts fairer ; for where ,an unclean mind carries virtuous qualities, there commendations go with pity; they are virtues .and traitors too: in her they are the better for their simpleness; she derives her honesty and .achieves her goodness. 210 Laf. Your commendations, madam, get from her tears. Count. 'T is the best brine a maiden can season her praise in. The remembrance of her father never approaches her heart but the tyranny of her sorrows takes all livelihood from her cheek. No more of this, Helena; go to, no more; lest it be rather thought you affect a sorrow than have it. Hel. I do affect a sorrow indeed, but I have it too. Laf. Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessive grief the enemy to the living. Count. If the living be enemy to the grief, the excess makes it soon mortal. Ber. Madam, I desire your holy wishes. Laf. How understand we that V [father Count. Be thou blest, Bertram, and succeed thy In manners, as in shape ! thy blood and virtue Contend for empire in thee, and thy goodness Share with thy birthright ! Love all, trust a few, Do wrong to none : be able for thine enemy Rather in power than use, and keep thy friend Under thy own life's key : be check'd for silence. But never tax'd for speech. What heaven more will, That thee may furnish and my prayers pluck down, Fall on thy head ! Farewell, my lord ; 'T is an unseason'd courtier ; good my lord, Advise him. Laf. He cannot want the best That shall attend his love. Count. Heaven bless him ! Farewell, Bertram. [Exit. Ber. [To Helena] The best wishes that can be forged in your thoughts be servants to you ! Be comfortable to my mother, your mistress, and make much of her. Laf. Farewell, pretty lady: you must hold the credit of your father. [Exeunt Bertram and Lafeu, Hel. O, were that all ! I think not on my father; And these great tears grace his remembrance more Than those I shed for him. What was he like ? I have forgot him : my imagination Carries no favour in 't but Bertram's. I am undone : there is no living, none, If Bertram be away. 'T were all one That I should love a bright particular star And think to wed it, he is so above me : In his bright radiance and collateral light Must I be comforted, not in his sphere. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. SCENE II. The ambition in my love thus plagues itself : The hind tliat would be mated by the lion Must die for love. 'T was pretty, though a plague, To see him every hour ; to sit and draw His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls, In our heart's table ; heart too capable Of every line and trick of his sweet favour : But now he 's gone, and my idolatrous fancy Must sanctify his reliques. Who comes here ? Enter Parolles. lAside\ One that goes with him : I love him for his sake ; And yet I know him a notorious liar. Think him a great way fool, solely a coward ; Yet these flx'd evils sit so fit in him. That they take place, when virtue's steely bones Look bleak i'the cold wind : withal, full oft we see Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly. Par, Save you, fair queen ! Hel. And you, monarch ! Par. No. Hel. And no. Par. Are you meditating on virginity ? Hel. Ay. You have some stain of soldier in you : let me ask you a question. Man is enemy to vir- ginity ; how may we barricade it against him ? Par. Keep him out. Hel. But he assails; and our virginity, though valiant, in the defence yet is weak : unfold to us some warlike resistance. Par. There is none: man, sitting down before you, will undermine you and blow you up. Hel. Bless our poor virginity from underminers and blowers up ! Is there no military policy, how virgins might blow up men ! Par. Virginity being blown down, man will quicklier be blown up; marry, in blowing him down again, with the breach yourselves made, you lose your city. It is not politic in the common- wealth of nature to preserve virginity. Loss of vir- ginity is rational increase and there was never vir- gin got till virginity was first lost. That you were made of is metal to make virgins. Virginity by being once lost may be ten times found ; by being ever kept, it is ever lost : 't is too cold a companion ; away with 't. Hel. I will stand for 't a little, though therefore I die a virgin. Par. There 's little can be said in 't ; 't is against the rule of nature. To speak on the part of vir- ginity, is to accuse your mothers; which is most infallible disobedience. He that hangs himself is a virgin: virginity murders itself; and should be buried in highways out of all sanctified limit, as a desperate offendress against nature. Virginity breeds mites, much like a cheese ; consumes itself to the very paring, and so dies with feeding his own stomach. Besides, virginity is peevish, proud, idle, made of self-love, which is the most inhibited sin in the canon. Keep it not; you cannot choose but lose by 't : out with 't ! within ten year it will make itself ten, which is a goodly increase ; and the prin- cipal itself not much the worse ; away with 't ! Hel. How might one do, sir, to lose it to her own liking ? Par. Let me see: marry, ill, to like him that ne'er it likes. 'T is a commodity will lose the gloss with lying; the longer kept, the less worth: off with 't while 't is vendible ; answer the time of re- quest. Virginity, like an old courtier, wears her cap out of fashion: richly suited, but unsuitable: just like the brooch and the tooth-pick, which wear not now. Your date is better in your pie and your porridge than in your cheek: and your virginity, your old virginity, is like one of our French with- ered pears, it looks ill, it eats drily ; marry, 't is a withered pear ; it was formerly better ; marry, yet 't is a withered pear : will you anything with it ? Hel. Not my virginity yet . . . There shall your master have a thousand loves. A mother and a mistress and a friend, A phoenix, captain and an enemy, A guide, a goddess, and a sovereign, A counsellor, a traitress, and a dear ; His humble ambition, proud humility. His jarring concord, and his discord dulcet. His faith, his sweet disaster ; with a world Of pretty, fond, adoptions Christendoms, That blinking Cupid gossips. Now shall he — I know not what he shall. God send him well I The court 's a learning place, and he is one— Par. What one, i' faith ? Hel. That I wish well. 'T is pity — Par. What 's pity ? Hel. That wishing well had not a body in 't, Which might be felt ; that we, the poorer born, Whose baser stars do shut us up in wishes, Might with effects of them follow our friends. And show what we alone must think, which never Eeturns us thanks. Enter Page. Page. Monsieur Parolles, my lord calls for you. [Exit. Par. Little Helen, farewell : if I can remember thee, I will think of thee at court. Hel. Monsiem- Parolles, you were born under a charitable star. Par. Under Mars, I. Hel. I especially think, under Mars. Par. Why under Mars ? Hel. The wars have so kept you under that you must needs be born under Mars. Par. When he was predominant. Hel. When he was retrograde, I think, rather. Par. Why think you so i Hel. You go so much backward when you fight. Par. That 's for advantage. Hel. So is running away, when fear proposes the safety : but the composition that your valour and fear makes in you is a virtue of a good wing, and I like the wear well. Par. I am so full of businesses, I cannot answer thee acutely. I will return perfect courtier; in the which, my instruction shall serve to naturalize thee, so thou wilt be capable of a courtier's counsel and understand what advice shall thrust upon thee; else thou diest in thine unthankfulness, and thine ignorance makes thee away : farewell. When thou hast leisure, say thy prayers ; when thou hast none, remember thy friends: get thee a good husband, and use him as he uses thee : so, farewell. [Exit. Hel. Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie. Which we ascribe to heaven : the fated sky Gives us free scope, only doth backward pull Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull. What power is it which mounts my love so high. That makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye ? The mightiest space in fortune nature brings To join like likes and kiss like native things. Impossible be strange attempts to those That weigh their pains in sense and do suppose What hath been cannot be : who ever strove To show her merit, that did miss her love ? The king's disease— my project may deceive me. But my intents are fix'd and will not leave me. [Exit. SCENE II. — Paris. The king^s palace. Flourish of cornets. Enter the King of France, with lettersfand divers Attendants. King. The Florentines and Senoys are by the ears ; Have fought with equal fortune and continue A braving war. 211 ACT I. ALUS WELL THAT ENDS WELL. scene hi. First Lord. So 't is reported, sir. King. Nay, 't is most credible ; we here receive it A certainty, vouch 'd from our cousin Austria, With caution that the Florentine will move us For speedy aid ; wherein our dearest friend Prejudicates the business and would seem To have us make denial. First Lord. His love and wisdom, Approved so to your majesty, may plead For amplest credence. Kirw. He hath arm'd our answer, And Florence is denied before he comes : Yet, for our gentlemen that mean to see The Tuscan service, freely have they leave To stand on either part. Sec. Lord. It well may serve A nursery to our gentry, who are sick For breathing and exploit. King. What 's he comes here ? Enter Bertram, Lafeu, and Parolles. First Lord. It is the Count Eousillon, my good Young Bertram. [lord, King. Youth,thou bear'st thy father's face ; Frank nature, rather curious than in haste. Hath well composed thee. Thy father's moral parts Mayst thou inherit too ! Welcome to Paris. Ber. My thanks and duty are your majesty's. King. I would I had that corporal soundness now. As when thy father and myself in friendship First tried our soldiership ! He did look far Into the service of the time and was Discipled of the bravest : he lasted long ; But on us both did haggish age steal on And wore us out of act. It much repairs me To talk of your good father. In his youth He had the wit which I can well observe To-day in our young lords ; but they may jest Till their own scorn return to them unnoted Ere they can hide their levity in honour : So like a courtier, contempt nor bitterness Were in his pride or sharpness ; if they were, His equal had awaked them, and his honour, Clock to itself, knew the true minute when Exception bid him speak, and at this time His tongue obey'd his hand : who were below him He used as creatures of another place And bow'd his eminent top to their low ranks. Making them proud of his humility, In their poor praise he humbled. Such a man Might be a copy to these younger times ; Which, follow 'd well, would demonstrate them now But goers backward. Ber. His good remembrance, sir. Lies richer in your thoughts than on his tomb ; So in approof lives not his epitaph As in your royal speech. [say— King. Would I were with him ! He would always Methinks I hear him now ; his plausive words He scatter'd not in ears, but grafted them. To grow there and to bear, — '^Let me not live,' — This his good melancholy oft began. On the catastrophe and heel of pastime, When it was out, — 'Let me not live,' quoth he, ' After my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff Of younger spirits, whose apprehensive senses All but new things disdain ; whose judgments are Mere fathers of their garments : whose constancies Expire before their fashions. This he wish'd : X after him do after him wish too. Since I nor wax nor honey can bring home, I quickly were dissolved from my hive. To give some laboirrers room. (Sec. Lord. You are loved, sir ; They that least lend it you shall lack you first. King. I fill a place, I know 't. How long is 't, count, 212 Since the physician at your father's died ? He was much famed. Ber. Some six months since, my lord. King. If he were living, I would try him yet. Lend me an arm ; the rest have worn me out With several applications : nature and sickness Debate it at their leisure. Welcome, count ; My son 's no dearer, Ber. Thank your majesty. [Exeunt. Flourish. SCENE ni.—R my friend, and comfort The gracious queen, part of his theme, but nothing Of his ill-ta'en suspicion ! Come, Camillo ; I will respect thee as a father if Thou bear'st my life oft hence : let us avoid. Cam. It is in mine authority to command The keys of all the posterns : please your highness To take the urgent hour. Come, sir, away. [Exeunt. ^OT II. SCENE I. — A room in Leontes'' palace. Enter Hermione, Mamillius, and Ladies. Her. Take the boy to you; he so troubles me, 'T is past enduring. First Lady. Come, my gracious lord, Shall I be your playfellow ? Mam. No, I '11 none of you. First Lady. "Why, my sweet lord ? Mam. You '11 kiss me hard and speak to me as if I were a baby still. I love you better. Sec. Lady. And why so, my lord ? Mam. Not for because Your brows are blacker yet black brows, they say. Become some women btot, so that there be not Too much hair there, but in a semicircle, Or a half-moon made with a pen. Sec. Lady. "Who taught you this ? Mam. I learnt it out of women's faces. Pray now "What colour are your eyebrows ? First Lady. Blue, my lord. Mam. Nay, that 's a mock : I have seen a lady's nose That has been blue, but not her eyebrows. First Lady. Hark ye ; The queen your mother rounds apace : we shall Present our services to a fine new prince One of these days ; and then you 'Id wanton with us. If we would have you. Sec. Lady. She is spread of late Into a goodly bulk : good time encounter her ! Her. What wisdom stirs amongst you ? Come, I am for you again : pray you, sit by us, [sir, now And tell 's a tale. Mam. Merry or sad shall 't be ? Her. As merry as you will. Mam. A sad tale 's best for winter : I have one Of sprites and goblins. Her. Let 's have that, good sir. Come on, sit down : come on, and do your best To fright me with your sprites ; you 're powerful Jfam. There was a man — [at it. Her. Nay, come, sit down; then on. Mam. Dwelt by a churchyard : I will tell it softly ; Yond crickets shall not hear it. Her. Come on, then, And give 't me in mine ear. Enter Leontes, with Antigonus, Lords, and others. Leon. "Was he met there? his train? Camillo with him ? [never First Lord. Behmd the tuft of pines I met them ; Saw I men scour so on their way : I eyed them Even to their ships. Leon. How blest am I In my just censure, in my true opinion! Alack, for lesser knowledge ! how accursed In being so blest ! There may be in the cup A spider steep'd, and one may drink, depart. And yet partake no venom, for his knowledge Is not infected : but if one present The abhorr'd ingredient to his eye, make known How he hath drunk, he cracks his gorge, his sides, "With violent hefts. I have drunk, and seen the Camillo was his help in this, his pander : [spider. There is a plot against my life, my crown ; All 's true that is mistrusted : that false villain "Whom I employ 'd was pre-employ'd by him: He has discover'd my design, and I Remain a pinch'd thing ; yea, a very trick For them to play at will. How came the posterns So easily open ? First Lord. By his great authority ; "Which often hath no less prevail 'd than so On your command. Leon. I know 't too well. Give me the boy : I am glad you did not nurse him : Though he does bear some signs of me, yet you Have too much blood in him. Her. "What is this ? sport ? Leon. Bear the boy hence; he shall not come about her ; Away with him ! and let her sport herself "With that she 's big with ; for 't is Polixenes Has made thee swell thus. Her. But I 'Id say he had not, And I '11 be sworn you would believe my saying, Howe'er you lean to the nay ward. Leon. You, my lords, 255 ACT II. THE WINTER'S TALE. SCENE r^ Look on her, mark her well ; be but about To say ' she is a goodly lady,' and The justice of your hearts will thereto add ' 'T is pity she 's not honest, honourable : ' Praise her but for this her without-door form. Which on my faith deserves high speech, and straight The shrug, the hum or ha, these petty brands That calumny doth use — O, I am out— That mercy does, for calumny will sear Virtue itself : these shrugs, these hums and ha's, When you have said ' she 's goodly,' come between Ere you can say ' she 's honest : ' but be 't known, From him that has most cause to grieve it should be, She 's an adulteress. Her. Should a villain say so, The most replenish 'd villain in the world. He were as much more villain : you, my lord, Do but mistake. Leon. You have mistook, my lady, Polixenes for Leontes : O thou thing ! Which I '11 not call a creature of thy place, Lest barbarism, making me the precedent, Should a like language use to all degrees And mannerly distinguishment leave out Betwixt the prince and beggar : I have said She 's an adulteress ; I have said with whom : More, she 's a traitor and Camillo is A federary with her, and one that knows What she should shame to know herself But with her most vile principal, that she 's A bed-swerver, even as bad as those That vulgars give bold'st titles, ay, and privy To this their late escape. Her. No, by my life, Privy to none of this. How will this grieve you, When you shall come to clearer knowledge, that You thus have publish 'd me ! Gentle my lord, You scarce can right me throughly then to say You did mistake. Leon. No ; if I mistake In those foundations which I build upon, The centre is not big enough to bear A school-boy's top. Away with her ! to prison ! He who shall speak for her is afar off guilty But that he speaks. Her . There 's some ill planet reigns : I must be patient till the heavens look With an aspect more favourable. Good my lords, I am not prone to weeping, as our sex Commonly are ; the want of which vain dew Perchance shall dry your pities : but I have That honourable grief lodged here which burns Worse than tears drown : beseech you alL my lords. With thoughts so qualified as your charities Shall best instruct you, measure me; and so The king's will be perform'd! Leon. Shall I be heard ? Her. Who is 't that goes with me ? Beseech your highness, My women may be with me ; for you see My plight requires it. Do not weep, good fools ; There is no cause : when you shall know your mis- tress Has deserved prison, then abound in tears As I come out : this action I now go on Is for my better grace. Adieu, my lord : I never wish'd to see you sorry ; now I trust I shall. My women, come ; you have leave. Leon. Go, do our bidding ; hence ! \_Exit Queen, guarded; with Ladies. First Lord. Beseech your highness, call the queen again. Ant. Be certain what you do, sir, lest your justice Prove violence ; in the which three great ones suffer. Yourself, your queen, your son. First Lord. For her, my lord, 256 I dare my life lay down and will do 't, sir. Please you to accept it, that the queen is spotless I' the eyes of heaven and to you; I mean, In this which you accuse her. Ant. If it prove She 's otherwise, I '11 keep my stables where I lodge my wife ; I '11 go in couples with her; Than when I feel and see her no farther trust her ; For every inch of woman in the v/orld. Ay, every dram of woman's flesh is false, If she be. Leon. Hold your peaces. First Lord. Good my lord, — Ant. It is for you we speak, not for ourselves: You are abused and by some putter-on That will be damn'd for 't ; would I knew the villain, I would land-damn him. Be she honour-flaw'd, I have three daughters ; the eldest is eleven ; The second and the third, nine, and some five ; If this prove true, they '11 pay for 't : by mine honour, I '11 geld 'em all ; fourteen they shall not see, To bring false generations : they are co-heirs ; And I had rather glib myself than they Should not produce fair issue. Leon. Cease ; no more. You smell this business with a sense as cold As is a dead man's nose : but I do see 't and feel 't, As you feel doing thus ; and see withal The instruments that feel. Ant. If it be so, We need no grave to bury honesty : There 's not a grain of it the face to sweeten Of the whole dungy earth. Leon. What ! lack I credit ? First Lord. I had rather you did lack than I, my lord. Upon this ground ; and more it would content me To have her honour true than your suspicion. Be blamed for 't how you might. Leon. Why, what need we Commune with you of this, but rather follow Our forceful instigation ? Our prerogative Calls not your coimsels, but our natural goodness Imparts this ; which if you, or stupified Or seeming so in skill, cannot or will not Relish a truth like us, inform yourselves We need no more of your advice : the matter, The loss, the gain, the ordering on 't, is all Properly ours. Ant. And I wish, my liege. You had only in your silent judgment tried it, Without more overture. Leon. How could that be ? Either thou art most ignorant by age. Or thou wert born a fool. Camillo's flight, Added to their familiarity. Which was as gross as ever touch'd conjecture, That lack'd sight only, nought for approbation But only seeing, all other circumstances Made up to the deed, doth push on this proceeding : Yet, for a greater confirmation. For in an act of this importance 'twere Most piteous to be wild, I have dispatch'd in post To sacred Delphos, to Apollo's temple, Cleomenes and Dion, whom you know Of stuff 'd sufiiciency : now from the oracle They will bring all ; whose spiritual counsel had, Shall stop or spur me. Have I done well ? First Lord. Well done, my lord. Leon. Though I am satisfied and need no more Than what I know, yet shall the oracle Give rest to the minds of others, such as he Whose ignorant credulity will not Come up to the truth. So have we thought it good From our free person she should be confined, Lest that the treachery of the two fled hence Be left her to perform. Come, follow us ; ACT I] THE WINTER'S TALE. SCENE III. We are to speak in public ; for this business Will raise us all. Ant. [Aside] To laughter, as I take it, If the good truth were known. {Exeunt. SCENE II.— A prison. Enter Paulina, a Gentleman, and Attendants. Paul. The keeper of the prison, call to him ; Let him have knowledge who I am. [Exit Gent. Good lady, No court in Europe is too good for thee ; What dost thou then in prison ? Be-enter Gentleman, with the Gaoler. Now, good sir, You know me, do you not ? Gaol. For a worthy lady And one whom much I honour. Paul. Pray you then, Conduct me to the queen. Gaol. I may not, madam : To the contrary I have express commandment. Paid. Here 's ado, To lock up honesty and honour from The access of gentle visitors ! Is 't lawful, pray you. To see her women ? any of them ? Emilia i* Gaol. So please you, madam. To put apart these your attendants, I Shall bring Emilia forth. Paul. I pray now, caU her. Withdraw yourselves. [Exeunt Gentleman and Attendants. Gaol. And, madam, I must be present at your conference. Paul. Well, be 't so, prithee. [Exit Gaoler. Here 's such ado to make no stain a stain ; colouring. Be-enter Gaoler, with Emilia. Dear gentlewoman, How fares our gracious lady ? Emil. As well as one so great and so forlorn May hold together : on her frights and griefs. Which never tender lady hath borne greater, She is something before her time deliver'd. Paul. A boy? Emil. A daughter, and a goodly babe. Lusty and like to live : the queen receives Much comfort in 't ; says ' My poor prisoner, I am innocent as you.' Paid. I dare be sworn : [them! These dangerous unsafe lunes i' the king, beshrew He must be told on 't, and he shall : the office Becomes a woman best ; I '11 take 't upon me : If I prove honey-mouth 'd, let my tongue blister And never to my red-look'd anger be The trumpet any more. Pray you, Emilia, Commend my best obedience to the queen : If she dares trust me with her little babe, I '11 show 't the king and undertake to be Her advocate to the loud'st. We do not know How he may soften at the sight o' the child : The silence often of pure innocence Persuades when speaking fails. Emil. Most worthy madam. Your honour and your goodness is so evident That your free undertaking cannot miss A thriving issue : there is no lady living So meet for this great errand. Please your ladyship To visit the next room, I '11 presently Acquaint the queen of your most noble offer ; Who but to-day hammer'd of this design But durst not tempt a minister of honour, Lest she should be denied. Paul. Tell her, Emilia, I '11 use that tongue I have : if wit flow from 't 17 As boldness from my bosom, let 't not be doubted I shall do good. Emil. Now be you blest for it ! I '11 to the queen: please you, comesomething nearer. Gaol. Madam, if 't please the queen to send the I know not what I shall incur to pass it, [babe, Having no warrant. Paul. You need not fear it, sir : This child was prisoner to the womb and is By law and process of great nature thence Freed and enfranchised, not a party to The anger of the king nor guilty of, If any be, the trespass of the queen. Gaol. I do believe it. Paul. Do not you fear: upon mine honour, I Will stand betwixt you and danger. [Exeunt. SCENE III. — A room in Leontes'' palace. Enter Leontes, Antigonus, Lords, and Servants. Leon. Nor night nor day no rest: it is but weakness To bear the matter thus ; mere weakness. If The cause were not in being,— part o' the cause, She the adulteress ; for the harlot king Is quite beyond mine arm, out of the blank And level of my brain, plot-proof; but she I can hook to me : say that she were gone, Given to the fire, a moiety of my rest Might come to me again. Who 's there ? First Serv. My lord ? Leon. How does the boy ? First Serv. He took good rest to-night ; 'T is hoped his sickness is discharged. Leon. To see his nobleness ! Conceiving the dishonour of his mother. He straight declined, droop 'd, took it deeply, Fasten'd and fix'd the shame on 't in himself. Threw off his spirit, his appetite, his sleep, And downright languish'd. Leave me solely : go, See how he fares. [Exit Serv.] Fie, fie ! no thought of The very thought of my revenges that way [him : Eecoil upon me : in himself too mighty, And in his parties, his alliance ; let him be Until a time may serve : for present vengeance. Take it on her. Camillo and Polixenes Laugh at me, make their pastime at my sorrow: They should not laugh if I could reach them, nor Shall she within my power. Enter Paulina, with a child. First Lord. You must not enter. Paul. Nay, rather, good my lords, be second to Fear you his tyrannous passion more, alas, [me : Than the queen's life Y a gracious innocent soul. More free than he is jealous. Ant. That 's enough. Sec. Serv. Madam, he hath not slept to-night; None should come at him. [commanded Paul. Not so hot, good sir: I come to bring him sleep. 'T is such as you. That creep like shadows by him and do sigh At each his needless heavings, such as you Nourish the cause of his awaking : I Do come with words as medicinal as true. Honest as either, to purge him of that humour That presses him from sleep. Leon. What noise there, ho ? Paul. No noise, my lord ; but needful conference About some gossips for your highness. Leon. How ! Away with that audacious lady ! Antigonus, I charged thee that she should not come about me : I knew she would. Ant. I told her so, my lord. On your displeasure's perU and on mine, She should not visit you. 257 ACT II. THE WINTER'S TALE. SCENE III. Lton. What, canst not rule her ? Paul. From all dishonesty he can : in this, Unless he take the course that you have done, Commit me for committing honour, trust it, He shall not rule me. Ant. La you now, you hear : When she will take the rein I let her run ; But she '11 not stumble. Paul. Good my liege, I come; And I beseech you, hear me, who profess Myself your loyal servant, your physician, Your most obedient counsellor, yet that dare Less appear so in comforting your evils. Than such as most seem yours : I say, I come From your good queen. Leon. Good queen ! Paul. Good queen, my lord, Good queen ; I say good queen ; And would by combat make her good, so were I A man, the worst about you. Leon. Force her hence. Paul. Let him that makes but trifles of his eyes First hand me : on mine own accord I '11 off ; But first I '11 do my errand. The good queen, For she is good, hath brought you forth a daughter ; Here 't is ; commends it to your blessings. [Laying down the child. Leon. Out ! A mankind witch ! Hence with her, out o' door : A most intelligencing bawd ! Paul. Not so : I am as ignorant in that as you In so entitling me, and no less honest Than you are mad; which is enough, I '11 warrant. As this world goes, to pass for honest. Leon. Traitors ! Will you not push her out ? Give her the bastard. Thou dotard ! thou art woman-tired, unroosted By thy dame Partlet here. Take up the bastard ; Take 't up, I say ; give 't to thy crone. Paul. For ever Unvenerable be thy hands, if thou Takest up the princess by that forced baseness IVhich he has put upon 't ! Leon. He dreads his wife. ' Paul. So I would you did ; then 't were past all You 'Id call your children yours. [doubt Leon. A nest of traitors ! Ant. I am none, by this good light. Paul. Nor I, nor any But one that 's here, and that 's himself, for he The sacred honour of himself, his queen's. His hopeful son's, his babe's, betrays to slander, Whose sting is shariier than the sword's ; and will For, as the case now stands, it is a curse [not — He cannot be compell'd to 't — once remove The root of his opinion, which is rotten As ever oak or stone was sound. Leon. A callat Of boundless tongue, who late hath beat her hus- band And now baits me ! This brat is none of mine ; It is the issue of Polixenes : Hence with it, and together with the dam Commit them to the fire ! Paul. It is yours ; And, might we lay the old proverb to your charge, So like you, 't is the worse. Behold, my lords, Although the print be little, the whole matter And copy of the father, eye, nose, lip, The trick of 's frown, his forehead, nay, the valley, The pretty dimples of his chin and cheek, His smiles. The very mould and frame of hand, nail, finger : And thou, good goddess Nature, which hast made it So like to him that got it, if thou hast The ordering of the mind too, 'mongst all colours 258 No yellow in 't, lest she suspect, as he does, Her children not her husband's ! Leon. A gross hag ! And, lozel, thou art worthy to be hang'd. That wilt not stay her tongue. Ant. Hang all the husbanda That cannot do that feat, you '11 leave yourself Hardly one subject. Leon. Once more, take her hence. Paul. A most unworthy and unnatural lord Can do no more. Leon. I '11 ha' thee burnt. Paul. I care not : It is an heretic that makes the fire. Not she which burns in 't. I '11 not call you tyrant ; But this most cruel usage of your queen. Not able to produce more accusation [vours Than your own weak-hinged fancy, something sa- Of tyranny and will ignoble make you, Yea, scandalous to the world. Leon. On your allegiance, Out of the chamber with her ! Were I a tyrant, Where were her life ? she durst not call me so, If she did know me one. Away with her ! Paul. I pray you, do not push me ; I '11 be gone. Look to your babe, my lord ; 't is yours : Jove send her A better guiding spirit ! What needs these hands ? You, that are thus so tender o'er his follies. Will never do him good, not one of you. So, so: farewell; we are gone. [Exit. Leon. Thou, traitor, hast set on thy wife to this. My child ? away with 't ! Even thou, that hast A heart so tender o'er it, take it hence And see it instantly consumed with fire ; Even thou and none but thou. Take it up straight : Within this hour bring me word 'tis done. And by good testimony, or I '11 seize thy life. With what thou else call'st thine. If thou refuse And wilt encounter with my wrath, say so; The bastard brains with these my proper hands Shall I dash out. Go, take it to the fire ; For thou set'st on thy wife. Ant. I did not, sir: These lords, my noble fellows, if they please, Can clear me in 't. Lords. We can : my royal liege. He is not guilty of her coming hither. ieon. You 're liars all. [credit: First Lord. Beseech your highness, give us better We have always truly served you, and beseech you So to esteem of us, and on our knees we beg. As recompense of our dear services Past and to come, that you do change this purpose, Which being so horrible, so bloody, must Lead on to some foul issue : we all kneel. Leon. I am a feather for each wind that blows : Shall I live on to see this bastard kneel And call me father ? better burn it now Than curse it then. But be it ; let it live. It shall not neither. You, sir, come you hither; You that have been so tenderly officious With Lady Margery, your midwife there. To save this bastard's life,— for 'tis a bastard. So sure as this beard 's grey,— what will you adven- To save this brat's life ? [ture Ant. Any thing, my lord. That my ability may undergo And nobleness impose : at least thus much : I '11 pavra the little blood which I have left To save the innocent : any thing possible. Leon. It shall be possible. Swear by this sword Thou wilt perform my bidding. Ant. I will, my lord. Leon. Mark and perform it, see'st thou : for the Of any point in 't shall not only be [fail Death to thyself but to thy lewd-tongued wife, ACT III. THE WINTER'S TALE. SCENE II. Whom for this time we pardon. We enjoin thee, As thou art liege-inan to us, tliat thou carry This female bastard hence and that thou bear it To some remote and desert place quite out Of our dominions, and that there thou leave it. Without more mercy, to its own protection And favour of the climate. As by strange fortune It came to us, I do in justice charge thee, On thy soul's peril and thy body's torture. That thou commend it strangely to some place Where chance may nurse or end it. Take it up. Ant. I swear to do this, though a present death Had been more merciful. Come on, poor babe : Some powerful spirit instruct the kites and ravens To be thy nurses ! Wolves and bears, they say, Casting their savageness aside have done Like offices of pity. Sir, be prosperous In more than this deed does require ! And blessing Against this cruelty fight on thy side, Poor thing, condemn 'd to loss I [Exit with the child. Leon. No, I '11 not rear Another's issue. Enter a Servant. Serv. Please your highness, posts From those you sent to the oracle are come An hour since : Cleomenes and Dion, Being well arrived from Delphos, are both landed, Hasting to the court. First Lord. So please you, sir, their speed Hath been beyond account. Leon. Twenty-three days They have been absent : 't is good speed ; foretells The great Apollo suddenly will have The truth of this appear. Prepare you, lords ; Summon a session, that we may arraign Our most disloyal lady, for, as she hath Been publicly accused, so shall she have A just and open trial. While she lives My heart will be a burthen to me. Leave me, And think upon my bidding. "" ^-- A^OT III. SCENE I. — A sea-port in Sicilia. Miter Cleomenes and Dion. Cleo. The climate 's delicate, the air most sweet, Fertile the isle, the temple much surpassing The common praise it bears. Bion. I shall report, Por most it caught me, the celestial habits, Methinks I so should term them, and the reverence Of the grave wearers. O, the sacrifice ! How ceremonious, solemn and unearthly It was i' the offering ! Cleo. But of all, the burst And the ear-deafening voice o' the oracle, Kin to Jove's thunder, so surprised my sense, That I was nothing I Bion. If the event o' the journey Prove as successful to the queen, — O be 't so ! — As it hath been to us rare, pleasant, speedy. The time is worth the use on 't. Cleo. Great Apollo Turn all to the best ! These proclamations, So forcing faults upon Hermione, I little like. Bion, The violent carriage of it Will clear or end the business : when the oracle, Thus by Apollo's great divine seal'd up. Shall the contents discover, something rare Even then will rush to knowledge. Go : fresh horses ! And gracious be the issue ! [Exeunt. SCENE II. — A court of Justice. Enter Leontes, Lords, and Oflacers. Leon. This sessions, to our great grief we pro- nounce, Even pushes 'gainst our heart : the party tried The daughter of a king, our wife, and one Of us too much beloved. Let us be clear'd Of being tyrannous, since we so openly Proceed in justice, which shall have due course. Even to the guilt or the purgation. Produce the prisoner. Off. It is his highness' pleasure that the queen Appear in person here in court. Silence ! Enter Hermione guarded ; Paulina and Ladies attending. Leon. Read the indictment. Off. [Eeads] Hermione, queen to the worthy Leon- tes, king of Sicilia, thou art here accused and ar- raigned of high treason, in committing adultery with Polixenes, king of Bohemia, and conspiring with Camillo to take away the life of our sovereign lord the king, thy royal husband: the pretence whereof being by circumstances partly laid open, thou, Hermione, contrary to the faith and allegiance of a true subject, didst coimsel and aid them, for their better safety, to fly away by night. Her. Since what I am to say must be but that Which contradicts my accusation and The testimony on my part no other But what comes from myself, it shall scarce boot me To say ' not guilty : ' mine integrity Being counted falsehood, shall, as I express it, Be so received. But thus : if powers divine Behold our human actions, as they do, I doubt not then but innocence shall make False accusation blush and tyranny Tremble at patience. You, my lord, best know, Who least will seem to do so, my past life Hath been as continent, as chaste, as true, As I am now unhappy ; which is more Than history can pattern, though devised And play'd to take spectators. For behold me A fellow of the royal bed, which owe A moiety of the throne, a great king's daughter. The mother to a hopeful prince, here standing To prate and talk for life and honour 'fore Who please to come and hear. For life, I prize it As I weigh grief, which I would spare : for honour, 'T is a derivative from me to mine, And only that I stand for. I appeal To your own conscience, sir, before Polixenes Came to your court, how I was in your grace, How merited to be so ; since he came. With what encounter so uncurrent I Have strain 'd to appear thus : if one jot beyond , The bound of honour, or in act or will That way inclining, harden'd be the hearts Of all that hear me, and my near'st of kin Cry fie upon my grave ! Leon. I ne'er heard yet That any of these bolder vices wanted Less impudence to gainsay what they did Than to perform it first. Her. That 's true enough ; Though 't is a saying, sir, not due to me. Leon. You will not own it. Her. More than mistress of Which comes to me in name of fault, I must not At all acknowledge. For Polixenes, ACT III, THE WINTER'S TALE. SCENE II. With whom I am accused, I do confess I loved him as in honour he required, With such a kind of love as might become A lady like me, with a love even such, So and no other, as yourself commanded : Which not to have done I think had been in me Both disobedience and ingratitude [spoke, To you and toward your friend, whose love had Even since it could speak, from an infant, freely That it was yours. Now, for conspiracy, I know not how it tastes ; though it be dish'd For me to try how : all I know of it Is that Camillo was an honest man ; And why he left your court, the gods themselves, Wotting no more than I, are ignorant. Leon. You knew of his departure, as you know What you have underta'en to do in 's absence. Her. Sir, You speak a language that I understand not : My life stands in the level of your dreams, Which I '11 lay down. Leon. Your actions are my dreams ; You had a bastard by Polixenes, And I but dream'd it. As you were past all shame, — Those of your fact are so — so past all truth : Which to deny concerns more than avails ; for as Thy brat hath been cast out, like to itself, No father owning it, — which is, indeed. More criminal in thee than it,— so thou Shalt feel our justice, in whose easiest passage Look for no less than death. Her. Sir, spare your threats : The bug which you would fright me with I seek. To me can life be no commodity : The crown and comfort of my life, your favour, I do give lost; for I do feel it gone. But know not how it went. My second joy And first-fruits of my body, from his presence I am barr'd, like one infectious. My third comfort, Starr'd most unluckily, is from my breast. The innocent milk in it most innocent mouth, Haled out to murder : myself on every post Proclaimed a strumpet : with immodest hatred The child-bed privilege denied, which 'longs To women of all fashion ; lastly, hurried Here to this place, i' the open air, before I have got strength of limit. Now, my liege, Tell me what blessings I have here alive. That I should fear to die ? Therefore proceed. But yet hear this ; mistake me not ; no life, I prize it not a straw, but for mine honour, Which I would free, if I shall be condemn 'd Upon surmises, all proofs sleeping else But what your jealousies awake, I tell you 'T is rigour and not law. Your honours all, I do refer me to the oracle : Apollo be my judge ! First Lord. This your request Is altogether just: therefore bring forth. And in Apollo's name, his oracle. [Exeunt certain Officers. Her. The Emperor of Russia was my father : O that he were alivCj and here beholding His daughter's trial! that he did but see The flatness of my misery, yet with eyes Of pity, not revenge! Be-enter Oflacers, with Oleomenes and Dion. 0^'. You here shall swear upon this swordof justice. That you, Cleomenes and Dion, have Been both at Delphos, and from thence have brought This seal'd-up oracle, by the hand deliver'd Of great Apollo's priest and that since then You have not dared to break the holy seal Nor read the secrets in 't. Gleo. Dion. All this we swear. Leon. Break up the seals and read. Off.VReads'l Hermione is chaste ; Polixenes blame- less ; Camillo a true subject ; Leontes a jealous ty- rant; his innocent babe truly begotten; and the king shall live without an heir, if that which is lost be not found. Lords. Now blessed be the great Apollo ! Her. Praised I Leon. Hast thou read truth ? Off. Ay, my lord ; even so- As it is here set down. Leon. There is no truth at all i' the oracle : The sessions shall proceed : this is mere falsehood. Serv. My lord the king, the king I Leon. What is the business ? Serv. O sir, I shall be hated to report it ! The prince your son, with mere conceit and fear Of the queen's speed, is gone. Leon. How! gone! Serv. Is dead. Leon. Apollo's angry; and the heavens themselves Do strike at my injustice. {Hermione swoons.] How now there ! [down Paul. This news is mortal to the queen: look And see what death is doing. Leon. Take her hence : Her heart is but o'ercharged ; she will recover : I have too much believed mine own suspicion : Beseech you, tenderly apply to her Some remedies for life. {Exeunt Paulina and Ladies, with Hermione, Apollo J pardon My great profaneness 'gainst thine oracle! I '11 reconcile me to Prolixenes, New woo my queen, recall the good Camillo, Whom I proclaim a man of truth, of mercy; For, being transported by my jealousies To bloody thoughts and to revenge, I chose Camillo for the minister to poison My friend Polixenes : which had been done, But that the good mind of Camillo tardied My swift command, though 1 with death and with Reward did threaten and encourage him, Not doing 't and being done: he, most humane And flll'd with honour, to my kingly guest TJnclasp'd my practice, quit his fortunes here, Which you knew great, and to the hazard Of all incertainties himself commended. No richer than his honour : how he glisters Thorough my rust ! and how his piety Does my deeds make the blacker ! Be-enter Paulina. Paul. Woe the while ! O, cut my lace, lest my heart, cracking it, Break too 1 First Lord. What fit is this, good lady ? Paul. What studied torments, tyrant, hast for me? What wheels ? racks i* fires i* what flaying ? boiling ? In leads or oils ? what old or newer torture Must I receive, whose every word deserves To taste of thy most worst ? Thy tyranny Together working with thy jealousies, Fancies too weak for boys, too green and idle For girls of nine, O, think what they have done And then run mad indeed, stark mad ! for all Thy by-gone fooleries were but spices of it. That thou betray 'dst Polixenes, 'twas nothing; That did but show thee, of a fool, inconstant And damnable ingrateful: nor was 't much. Thou wouldst have poison'd good Camillo 's honour, To have him kill a king ; poor trespasses. More monstrous standing by : whereof I reckon The casting forth to crows thy baby-daughter To be or none or little ; though a devil Would have shed water out of fire ere done 't : ACT III. THE WINTER' 8 TALE. SCENE III. Xor is 't directly laid to thee, the death Of the young prince, whose honourable thoughts, Thoughts high for one so tender, cleft the heart That could conceive a gross and foolish sire Blemish 'd his gracious dam: this is not, no, Laid to thy answer: but the last, — O lords. When I have said, cry ' woe ! '—the queen, the queen. The sweet 'st, dear'st creature 's dead, and vengeance Not dropp'd down yet. [for 't First Lord. The higher powers forbid ! Paul. I say she 's dead ; I '11 swear 't. If word Prevail not, go and see : if you can bring [nor oath Tincture or lustre in her lip, her eye. Heat outwardly or breath within, I '11 serve you As I would do the gods. But, O thou tyrant ! Do not repent these things, for they are heavier Than all thy woes can stir : therefore betake thee To nothing but despair. A thousand knees Ten thousand years together, naked, fasting, Upon a barren mountain, and still winter In storm perpetual, could not move the gods To look that way thou wert. Leon. Goon, goon: Thou canst not speak too much ; I have deserved All tongues to talk their bitterest. First Lord. Say no more : Howe'er the business goes, you have made fault I' the boldness of your speech. Paul. I am sorry for 't : All faults I make, when I shall come to know them, I do repent. Alas ! I have show'd too much The rashness of a woman : he is touch'd [help To the noble heart. What 's gone and what 's past Should be past grief : do not receive affliction At my petition ; I beseech you, rather Let me be punish 'd, that have minded you Of what you should forget. Now, good my liege, Sir, royal sir, forgive a foolish woman : The love I bore your queen — lo, fool again ! — I '11 speak of her no more, nor of your children; I '11 not remember you of my own lord, Who is lost too : take your patience to you, And I '11 say nothing. Leon. Thou didst speak but well When most the truth ; which I receive much better Than to be pitied of thee. Prithee, bring me To the dead bodies of my queen and son : One grave shall be for both : upon them shall The causes of their death appear, unto Our shame perpetual. Once a day I '11 visit The chapel where they lie, and tears shed there Shall be my recreation : so long as nature Will bear up with this exercise, so long I daily vow to use it. Come and lead me Unto these sorrows. [Exeunt. SCENE ni. — Bohemia. Adesert country near the sea. Enter Antigonus with a child, and a Mariner. Ant. Thou art perfect then, our ship hath touch'd The deserts of Bohemia ? [upon Mar. Ay, my lord ; and fear We have landed in ill time : the skies look grimly And threaten present blusters. In my conscience. The heavens with that we have in hand are angry And frown upon 's. Ant. Their sacred wills be done ! Go, get aboard ; Look to thy bark : I 'U not be long before I call upon thee. Har. Make your best haste, and go not Too far i' the land : 't is like to be loud weather; Besides, this place is famous for the creatures Of prey that keep upon 't. Ant. Go thou away : I '11 follow instantly. Mar. 1 am glad at heart To be so rid o' the business. [Exit. Ant. Come, poor babe : I have heard, but not believed, the spirits o' the dead May walk again : if such thing be, thy mother Appear'd to me last night, for ne'er was dream So like a waking. To me comes a creature. Sometimes her head on one side, some another; I never saw a vessel of like sorrow. So fill'd and so becoming : in pure white robes, Like very sanctity, she did approach My cabin where I lay ; thrice bow'd before me. And gasping to begin some speech, her eyes Became two spouts : the fury spent, anon Did this break from her : ' Good Antigonus, Since fate, against thy better disposition. Hath made thy person for the thrower-out Of my poor babe, according to thine oath. Places remote enough are in Bohemia, There weep and leave it crying ; and, for the babe Is counted lost for ever, Perdita, I prithee, call 't. For this ungentle business, Put on thee by my lord, thou ne'er shalt see Thy wife Paulina more.' And so, with shrieks, She melted into air. Affrighted much, I did in time collect myself and thought This was so and no slumber. Dreams are toys : Yet for this once, yea, superstitiously, I will be squared by this. I do believe Hermione hath suffer'd death, and that Apollo would, this being indeed the issue Of King Polixenes, it should here be laid, Either for life or death, upon the earth Of its right father. Blossom, speed thee well! There lie, and there thy character : there these ; Which may, if fortune please, both breed thee, pretty, And still rest thine. The storm begins: poor wretch, That for thy mother's fault art thus exposed To loss and what may follow ! Weep I cannot, But my heart bleeds ; and most accursed am I To be by oath enjoin'd to this. Farewell! [liave The day frowns more and more: thou'rt like to A lullaby too rough : I never saw The heavens so dim by day. A savage clamour ! Well may I get aboard ! This is the chase : I am gone for ever. [Exit, pursued by a bear. Enter a Shepherd. Shep. I would there were no age between sixteen and three-and-twenty, or that youth would sleep out the rest ; for there is nothing in the between but getting wenches with child, wronging the an- cientry, stealing, fighting — Hark you now ! Would any but these boiled brains of nineteen and two- and-twenty hunt this weather ? They have scared away two of my best sheep, which I fear the wolf will sooner find than the master: if any where I have them, 'tis by the sea-side, browsing of ivy. Good luck, an 't be thy will ! what have we here Y Mercy on 's, a barne ; a very pretty barne ! A boy or a child, I wonder ? A pretty one ; a very pretty one: sure, some 'scape: though I am not bookish, yet I can read waiting-gentlewoman in the 'scape. This has been some stair-work, some trunk-work, some behind-door-work: they were warmer that got this than the poor thing is here. I '11 take it up for pity : yet I '11 tarry till my son come ; he hal- looed but even now. Whoa, ho, hoa ! Miter Clown. ao. Hilloa, loa ! Shep. What, art so near ? If thou'lt see a thing to talk on when thou art dead and rotten, come hither. What ailest thou, man ? Clo. I have seen two such sights, by sea and by land I but I am not to say it is a sea, for it is now the sky : betwixt the firmament and it you cannot thrust a bodkin's point. ACT IV. THE WINTER'S TALE. SCENE II. Shep. Why, boy, how is it ? Clo. I would you did but see how it chafes, how it rages, how it takes up the shore ! but that ^s not to the point. O, the most piteous cry of the poor souls ! sometimes to see 'em, and not to see 'em ; now the ship boring the moon with her main-mast, and anon swallowed with yest and froth, as you 'Id thrust a cork into a hogshead. And then for the land-service, to see how the bear tore out his shoulder-bone ; how he cried to me for help and said his name was Antigonus, a nobleman. But to make an end of the ship, to see how the sea flap-drag- oned it: but, first, how the poor souls roared, and the sea mocked them ; and how the poor gentleman roared and the bear mocked him, both roaring louder than the sea or weather. Shep. Name of mercy, when was this, boy ? Clo. Now, now : I have not winked since I saw these sights : the men are not yet cold under water, nor the bear half dined on the gentleman : he 's at it now. Shep. "Would I had been by, to have helped the old man ! Clo. I would you had been by the ship's side, to have helped her: there your charity would have lacked footing. Shep. Heavy matters! heavy matters! but look thee here, boy. Now bless thyself: thou mettest with things dying, I with things new-born. Here 's a sight for thee; look thee, a bearing-cloth for a squire's child! look thee here; take up, take up, boy ; open 't. So, let 's see : it was told me I should be rich by the fairies. This is some changeling: open 't. What 's within, boy ? Olo. You 're a made old man : if the sins of your youth are forgiven you, you 're well to live. Gold ! all gold ! Shep. This is fairy gold, boy, and 't will prove so : up with 't, keep it close : home, home, the next way. We are lucky, boy ; and to be so still requires noth- ing but secrecy. Let my sheep go: come, good boy, the next way home. Clo. Go you the next way with your findings. I '11 go see if the bear be gone from the gentleman and how much he hath eaten : they are never curst but when they are hungry : if there be any of him left, I '11 bury it. Shep. That 's a good deed. If thou mayest dis- cern by that which is left of him what he is, fetch me to the sight of him. Clo. Marry, will I; and you shall help to put him 1' the ground. Shep. 'T is a lucky day, boy, and we 'U do good deeds on 't. [Exeunt. A.OT IV^. SCENE I. Enter Time, i/ie Clwrus. Time. I, that please some, try all, both joy and terror Of good and bad, that makes and unfolds error, Now take upon me, in the name of Time, To use my wings. Impute it not a crime To me or my swift passage, that I slide O'er sixteen years and leave the growth untried Of that wide gap, since it is in my power To o'erthrow law and in one self-born hour To plant and o'erwhelm custom. Let me pass The same I am, ere ancient 'st order was Or what is now received : I witness to The times that brought them in ; so shall I do To the freshest things now reigning and make stal,e Tlie glistering of this present, as my tale Now seems to it. Your patience this allowing, I turn my glass and give my scene such growing As you had slept between : Leontes leaving. The effects of his fond jealousies so grieving That he shuts up himself, imagine me. Gentle spectators, that I now may be In fair Bohemia ; and remember well, I mentioned a son o' the king's, which Florizel I now name to you ; and with speed so pace To speak of Perdita, now grown in grace Equal with wondering : what of her ensues I list not prophesy ; but let Time's news Be knovra when 't is brought forth. A shepherd's daughter, And what to her adheres, which follows after, Is the argument of Time. Of this allow. If ever you have spent time worse ere now ; If never, yet that Time himself doth say He wishes earnestly you never may. [Exit. SCENE II. — Bohemia. The palace of Polixenes. Enter Polixenes and Camillo. Pol. 1 pray thee, good Camillo, be no more im- portimate : 't is a sickness denying thee any thing ; a death to grant this. Cam. It is fifteen years since I saw my country : though I have for the most part been aired abroad, I desire to lay my bones there. Besides, the peni- tent king, my master, hath sent for me ; to whose feeling sorrows I might be some allay, or I o'erween to think so, which is another spur to my departure. Pol. As thou lovest me, Camillo, wipe not out the rest of thy services by leaving me now : the need I have of thee thine own goodness hath made ; better not to have had thee than thus to want thee : thou, having made me businesses which none without thee can sufficiently mjuiage, must either stay to execute them thyself or take away with thee the very services thou hast done ; which if I have not enough considered, as too much I cannot, to be more thankful to thee shall be my study, and my profit therein the heaping friendships. Of that fatal country, Sicilia, prithee speak no more ; whose very naming punishes me with the remembrance of that penitent, as thou callest him, and reconciled king, my brother ; whose loss of his most precious queen and children are even now to be afresh la- mented. Say to me, when sawest thou the Prince Florizel, my son ? Kings are no less unhappy, their issue not being gracious, than they are in losing them when they itiave approved their virtues. Cam. Sir, it is three days since I saw the prince. What his happier affairs may be, are to me un- known: but I have missingly noted, he is of late much retired from court and is less frequent to his princely exercises than formerly he hath appeared. Pol. I have considered so much, Camillo, and with some care ; so far that I have eyes under my service which look upon his removedness; from whom I have this intelligence, that he is seldom from the house of a most homely shepherd; a man,, they say, that from very nothing, and beyond the imagination of his neighbours, is grown into an un- speakable estate. Cam. I have heard, sir, of such a man, who hath a daughter of most rare note: the report of her is extended more than can be thought to begin from Pol. That ^s likewise part of my intelligence ; but. ACT IV. THE WINTER'S TALE. SCENE IV. I fear, the angle that plucks our son thither. Thou Shalt accompany us to the place; where we will, not appearing what we are, have some question with the shepherd ; from Avhose simplicity I think it not uneasy to get the cause of my son's resort thither. Prithee, be my present partner in this business, and lay aside the thoughts of Sicilia. Cam. I willingly obey your command. Pol. My best Camillo! We must disguise our- selves. {Exeunt. SCENE III. — A road near the Shepherd''s cottage. Enter Autolycus, singing. When daffodils begin to peer. With heigh ! the doxy over the dale, Why, then comes in the sweet o' the year; For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale. The white sheet bleaching on the hedge, With heigh 1 the sweet birds, O, how they sing! Doth set my pugging tooth on edge ; For a quart of ale is a dish for a king. The lark, that tirra-lyra chants. With heigh ! with heigh ! the thrush and the jay, Are summer songs for me and my aunts, While we lie tumbling in the hay. I have served Prince Florizel and in my time wore three-pile ; but now I am out of service : But shall I go mourn for that, my dear ? The pale moon shines by night : And when I wander here and there, I then do most go right. If tinkers may have leave to live, And bear the sow-skin budget, Then my account I well may give, And in the stocks avouch it. My traffic is sheets ; when the kite builds, look to lesser linen. My father named me Autolycus ; who being, as I am, littered under Mercury, was likewise a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles. With die and drab I purchased this caparison, and my revenue is the silly cheat. Gallows and knock are too powerful on the highway : beating and hanging are terrors to me : for the life to come, I sleep out the thought of it. A prize ! a prize ! JEnter Clown. Clo. Let me see : every 'leven wether tods ; every tod yields pound and odd shilling ; fifteen hundred shorn, what comes the wool to V Aut. [Aside] If the springe hold, the cock 's mine. Clo. I cannot do 't without counters. Let me see; what am I to buy for our sheep-shearing feast? Three pound of sugar, five pound of currants, rice, — what will this sister of mine do with rice r* But my father hath made her mistress of the feast, and she lays it on. She hath made me four and twenty nosegays for the shearers, three-man-song-men all, and very good ones; but they are most of them means and bases ; but one puritan amongst them, and he sings psalms to horn-pipes. I must have saffron to colour the warden pies ; mace ; dates V — none, that's out of my note; nutmegs, seven; a race or two of ginger, but that I may beg; four pound of prunes, and as many of raisins o' the sun. Aut. O that ever I was born ! [Grovelling on the ground. Clo. V the name of me — Aut. O, help me, help me ! pluck but off these rags ; and then, death, death ! Clo. Alack, poor soul ! thou hast need of more rags to lay on thee, rather than have these off. Aut. O sir, the loathsomeness of them offends me more than the stripes I have received, which are mighty ones and millions. Clo. Alas, poor man ! a million of beating may ■come to a great matter. Aut. I am robbed, sir, and beaten; my money and apparel ta'en from me, and these detestable things put upon me. Clo. What, by a horseman, or a footman ? Aut. A footman, sweet sir, a footman. Clo. Indeed, he should be a footman by the gar- ments he has left with thee : if this be a horseman's coat, it hath seen very hot service. Lend me thy hand, I '11 help thee : come, lend me thy hand. Aut. O, good sir, tenderly, O ! Clo. Alas, poor soul ! Aut. O, good sir, softly, good sir ! I fear, sir, my shoulder-blade is out. Clo. How now ! canst stand ? Aut. [Picking his pocket] Softly, dear sir; good sir, softly. You ha' done me a charitable office. Clo. Dost lack any money ? I have a little money for thee. Aut. No, good sweet sir; no, I beseech you, sir: I have a kinsman not past three-quarters of a mile hence, unto whom I was going ; I shall there have money, or any thing I want : offer me no money, I pray you ; that kills my heart. [you ? Clo. What manner of fellow was he that robbed Aut. A fellow, sir, that I have known to go about with troll-my-dames : I knew him once a servant of the prince : I cannot tell, good sir, for which of his virtues it was, but he was certainly whipped out of the court. Clo. His vices, you would say ; there 's no virtue whipped out of the court : they cherish it to make it stay there ; and yet it will no more but abide. Aut. Vices, I would say, sir. I know this man well: he hath been since an ape-bearer; then a pro- cess-server, a bailiff ; then he compassed a motion of the Prodigal Son, and married a tinker's wife within a mile where my land and living lies ; and, having fiown over many knavish professions, he settled only in rogue : some call him Autolycus. Clo. Out upon him ! prig, for my life, prig : he haunts wakes, fairs and bear-baitings. Aut. Very true, sir ; he, sir, he ; that 's the rogue that put me into this apparel. Clo. Not a more cowardly rogue in all Bohemia : if you had but looked big and spit at him, he 'Id have run. Aut. 1 must confess to you, sir, I am no fighter : I am false of heart that way ; and that he knew, I Clo. How do you now ? [warrant him. Aut. Sweet sir, much better than I was; I can stand and walk : I will even take my leave of you, and pace softly towards my kinsman's. Clo. Shall I bring thee on the way ? Aut. No, good-faced sir; no, sweet sir. Clo. Then fare thee well : I must go buy spices for our sheep-shearing. Aut. Prosper you, sweet sir ! [Exit Clown.] Your purse is not hot enough to purchase your spice. I '^11 be with you at your sheep-shearing too : if I make not this cheat bring out another and the shearers prove sheep, let me be unrolled and my name put - in the book of virtue ! [Sings] Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way. And merrily hent the stile-a : A merry heart goes all the day. Your sad tires in a mile-a. [Exit. SCENE IV.— The Shepherd'' s cottage. Enter Florizel and Perdita. Flo. These your unusual weeds to each part of you Do give a life : no shepherdess, but Flora ACT IV. THE WINTER'S TALE. SCENE IV. Peering in April's front. This your slieep-shearing Is as a meeting of the petty gods, And you the queen on 't. Per. Sir, my gracious lord, To chide at your extremes it not becomes me : O, pardon, that I name them ! Your liigh seK, The gracious mark o' the land, you have obscured With a swain's wearing, and me, poor lowly maid, Most goddess-like prank'd up : but that our feasts In every mess have folly and the feeders Digest it with a custom, I should blush To see you so attired, sworn, I think, To show myself a glass. Flo. I bless the time "When my good falcon made her flight across Thy father's ground. Per. Now Jove afford you cause ! To me the difference forges dread ; your greatness Hath not been used to fear. Even now I tremble To think your father, by some accident, Should pass this way as you did : O, the Fates ! How would he look, to see his work so noble Vilely bound up ? What would he say ? Or how Should I, in these my borrow'd flaunts, behold The sternness of his presence ? Flo. Apprehend If othing but jollity. The gods themselves, Humbling their deities to love, have taken The shapes of beasts upon them : Jupiter Became a bull, and bellow'd; the green Neptune A ram, and bleated ; and the fire-robed god, Golden Apollo, a poor humble swain. As I seem now. Their transformations Were never for a piece of beauty rarer, Nor in a way so chaste, since my desires Kun not before mine honour, nor my lusts Burn hotter than my faith. Per. O, but, sir, Your resolution cannot hold, when 'tis Opposed, as it must be, by the power of the king: One of these two must be necessities, [purpose, Which then will speak, that you must change this Or I my life. Flo. Thou dearest Perdita, With these forced thoughts, I prithee, darken not The mirth o' the feast. Or I '11 be thine, my fair, Or not my father's. For I cannot be Mine own, nor any thing to any, if I be not thine. To this I am most constant, Though destiny say no. Be merry, gentle ; Strangle such thoughts as these with any thing That you behold the while. Your guests are coming: Lift up your countenance, as it were the day Of celebration of that nuptial which We two have sworn shall come. Per. O lady Fortune, Stand you auspicious ! Flo. See, your guests approach : Address yourself to entertain them sprightly, And let 's be red with mirth. Enter Shepherd, Clo-wn, Mopsa, Dorcas, and others^ with Polixenes and Camillo disguised. Shep. Fie, daughter ! when my old wife lived, upon This day she was both pantler, butler, cook, Both dame and servant; welcomed all, served all; Would sing her song and dance her turn ; now here, At upper end o' the table, now i' the middle; On his shoulder, and his; her face o' fire With labour and the thing she took to quench it, She would to each one sip. You are retired, As if you were a feasted one and not The hostess of the meeting : pray you, bid These unknown friends to 's welcome ; for it is A way to make us better friends, more known. Come, quench your blushes and present yourself That which you are, mistress o' the feast : come on, 264 And bid us welcome to your sheep-shearing, As your good flock shall prosper. Per. [To PoL] Sir, welcome: It is my father's will I should take on me The hostess-ship o' the day. [To Ca7n.] You 're wel- come, sir. Give me those flowers there , Dorcas . Reverend sirs, For you there 's rosemary and rue ; these keep Seeming and savour all the winter long : Grace and remembrance be to you both, And welcome to our shearing ! Pol. Shepherdess,— A fair one are you— well you fit our ages With flowers of winter. Per. Sir, the year growing ancient, Not yet on summer's death, nor on the birth Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o'the sea- Are our carnations and streak'd gillyvors, [son Which some call nature's bastards : of that kind Our rustic garden 's barren ; and I care not To get slips of them. Pol. Wherefore, gentle maiden, Do you neglect them ? Per. For I have heard it said There is an art which in their piedness shares With great creating nature. Pol. Say there be ; Yet nature is made better by no mean But nature makes that mean : so, over that art Which you say adds to nature, is an art That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marrv A gentler scion to the wildest stock, And make conceive a bark of baser kind By bud of nobler race : this is an art Which does mend nature, change it rather, but The art itself is nature. Per. So it is. Pol. Then make your garden rich in gillsrvors, And do not call them bastards. Per. I '11 not put The dibble in earth to set one slip of them ; No more than were I painted I would wish [fore This youth should say 't were well and only there- Desire to breed by me. Here 's flowers for you ; Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram ; The marigold, that goes to bed wi' the sun And with him rises weeping : these are flowers Of middle summer, and I think they are given To men of middle age. You 're very welcome. Cam. I should leave grazing, were I of your flock, And only live by gazing. Per. Out, alas ! You 'Id be so lean, that blasts of January Would blow you through and through. Now, my fair'st friend, I would I had some flowers o' the spring that might Become your time of day; and yours, and yours. That wear upon your virgin-branches yet Your maidenheads growing : O Proserpina, For the flowers now, that frighted thou let'st fall From Dis's wagon ! daffodils. That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty ; violets dim. But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes Or Cytherea's breath ; pale primroses, That die unmarried, ere they can behold Bright PhcEbus in his strength — a malady Most incident to maids ; bold oxlips and The crown imperial ; lilies of all kinds. The flower-de-luce being one ! O, these I lack. To make you garlands of, and my sweet friend. To strew him o'er and o'er! Flo. What, like a corse 1 Per. No, like a bank for love to lie and play on; Not like a corse ; or if, not to be buried, [flowers : But quick and in mine arms. Come, take your Methinks I play as I have seen them do ACT IV. THE WINTER'S TALE. SCENE IV. In Whitsun pastorals : sure this robe of mine Does change my disposition. Flo. What you do Still betters what is done. "When you speak, sweet, I 'Id have you do it ever : when you sing, I 'Id have you buy and sell so, so give alms, Pray so ; and, for the ordering your affairs. To sing them too : when you do dance, I wish you A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do Nothing but that ; move still, still so. And own no other fimction : each your doing, So singular in each particular. Crowns what you are doing in the present deed, That all your acts are queens. Pm\ O Doricles, Your praises are too large : but that your youth. And the true blood which peepeth fairly through 't. Do plainly give you out an unstain'd shepherd, With wisdom I might fear, my Doricles, You woo'd me the false way. Flo. I think you have As little skill to fear as I have purpose To put you to 't. But come; our dance, I pray: Your hand, my Perdita : so turtles pair, That never mean to part. Per. I '11 swear for 'em. Pol. This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever Ran on the green-sward : nothing she does or seems But smacks of something greater than herself, Too noble for this place. Cam. He tells her something That makes her blood look out : good sooth, she is The queen of curds and cream. Clo. Come on, strike up ! Dor. Mopsa must be your mistress ; marry, garlic. To mend her kissing with ! Moj). Now, in good time ! Clo. Not a word, a word ; we stand upon our man- Come, strike up ! [ners. [Music. Here a dance of Shepherds and Shepherdesses. Pol. Pray, good shepherd, what fair swain is this Which dances with your daughter ? Shep. They call him Doricles ; and boasts himself To have a worthy feeding : but I have it Upon his own report and I believe it ; He looks like sooth. He says he loves my daughter : I think so too ; for never gazed the moon Upon the water as he '11 stand and read As 't were my daughter's eyes : and, to be plain, I think there is not half a kiss to choose Who loves another best. Pol. She dances featly. Shep. So she does anything ; though I report it, That should be silent : if young Doricles Do light upon her, she shall bring him that Which he not dreams of. Enter Servant. Serv. O master, if you did but hear the pedlar at the door, you would never dance again after a tabor and pipe; no, the bagpipe could not move you: he sings several tunes faster than you '11 tell money ; he utters them as he had eaten ballads and all men's ears grew to his tunes. Clo. He could never come better ; he shall come in. I love a ballad but even too well, if it be dole- ful matter merrily set down, or a very pleasant thing indeed and sung lamentably. Serv. He hath songs for man or woman, of all sizes; no milliner can so fit his customers with gloves : he has the prettiest love-songs for maids ; so without bawdry, which is strange; with such delicate burthens of dildos and fadings, 'jump her and thump her ; ' and where some stretch-mouthed rascal would, as it were, mean mischief and break a foul gap into the matter, he makes the maid to answer ' Whoop, do me no harm, good man; ' puts him off, slights him, with ' Whoop,'do me no harm, good man.' Pol. This is a brave fellow. Clo. Believe me, thou talkest of an admirable conceited fellow. Has he any unbraided wares ? Serv. He hath ribbons of all the colours i' the rainbow ; points more than all the lawyers in Bohe- mia can learnedly handle, though they come to him by the gross: inkles, caddisses, cambrics, lawns: why, he sings 'em over as they were gods or god- desses ; you would think a smock were a she-angel, he so chants to the sleeve-hand and the work about the square on't. Clo. Prithee bring him in ; and let him approach singing. Per. Forewarn him that he use no scurrilous words in 's tunes. [Exit Servant. Clo. You have of these pedlars, that have more in them than you 'Id think, sister. Per. Ay, good brother, or go about to think. Enter Autolycus, singing. Lawn as white as driven snow ; Cyprus black as e'er was crow; Gloves as sweet as damask roses ; Masks for faces and for noses ; Bugle bracelet, necklace amber, Perfume for a lady's chamber ; Golden quoifs and stomachers, For my lads to give their dears : Pins and poking-sticks of steel. What maids lack from head to heel : Come buy of me, come; come buy, come buy; Buy, lads, or else your lasses cry : Come buy. Clo. If I were not in love with Mopsa, thou shouldst take no money of me ; but being enthralled as I am, it will also be the bondage of certain rib- bons and gloves. Mop. I was promised them against the feast ; but they come not too late now. Dor. He hath promised you more than that, or there be liars. Mop. He hath paid you all he promised you : may be, he has paid you more, which will shame you to give him again. Clo. Is there no manners left among maids ? will they wear their plackets where they should bear their faces ? Is there not milking-time, when you are going to bed, or kiln-hole, to whistle off these secrets, but you must be tittle-tattling before all our guests ? 't is well they are whispering : clamour your tongues, and not a word more. Mop. I have done. Come, you promised me a tawdry-lace and a pair of sweet gloves. Clo. Have I not told thee how I was cozened by the way and lost all my money Y Aut. And indeed, sir, there are cozeners abroad ; therefore it behoves men to be wary. [here. Clo. Fear not thou, man, thou shalt lose nothing Aut. I hope so, sir; for I have about me many parcels of charge. Clo. What hast here? ballads? Mop. Pray now, buy some: I love a ballad in print o' life, for then we are sure they are true. Aut. Here 's one to a very doleful tune, how a usurer's wife was brought to bed of twenty money- bags at a burthen, and how she longed to eat ad- ders' heads and toads carbonadoed. Mop. Is it true, think you ? Aut. Very true, and but a month old. Dor. Bless me from marrying a usurer ! Aut. Here 's the midwife's name to 't, one Mis- tress Tale-porter, and five or six honest wives that were present. Why should I carry lies abroad ? Mop. Pray you now, buy it. 265 ACT IV. THE WINTER'S TALE. SCENE IV. Clo. Come on, lay it by: and let's first see more ballads ; we '11 buy the other things anon. Aut. Here's another ballad of a fish, that ap- peared upon the coast on Wednesday the four-score of April, forty thousand fathom above water, and sung this ballad against the hard hearts of maids : it was thought she was a woman and was turned into a cold fish for she would not exchange flesh with one that loved her : the ballad is very pitiful and as Dor. Is it true too, think you 'r* [true. Aut. Five justices' hands at it, and witnesses more than my pack will hold. Clo. Lay it by too : another. Aut. This is a merry ballad, but a very pretty one. Mop. Let 's have some merry ones. Aut. Why, this is a passing merry one and goes to the tune of ' Two maids wooing a man : ' there 's scarce a maid westward but she sings it; 'tis in request, I can tell you. Mop. We can both sing it : if thou 'It bear a part, thou Shalt hear ; 't is in three parts. Dor. We had the tune on 't a month ago. Aut. I can bear my part ; you must know 't is my occupation ; have at it with you. SONG. A. Get you hence, for I must go Where it fits not you to know. D. Whither ? M. O, whither ? D. Whither ? M. It becomes thy oath full well, Thou to me thy secrets tell. D. Me too, let me go thither. M. Or thou goest to the grange or mill. D. If to either, thou dost ill. A. Neither. D. What, neither? A. Neither. D. Thou hast sworn my love to be. M. Thou hast sworn it more to me : Then whither goest ? say, whither? Clo. We'll have this song out anon by ourselves : my father and the gentlemen are in sad talk, and we '11 not trouble them . Come, bring away thy pack after me. Wenches, I '11 buy for you both. Pedlar, let 's have the first choice. Follow me, girls. [Exit with Dorcas and Mopsa. Aut. And you shall pay well for 'em. [Follows singing. Will you buy any tape. Or lace for your cape. My dainty duck, my dear-a? Any silk, any thread. Any toys for your head, Of the new'st and fines , finest wear-a? Come to the pedlar ; Money "s a medler, That doth utter all men's ware-a. [Exit. Re-enter Servant. Serv. Master, there is three carters, three shep- herds, three neat-herds, three swine-herds, that have made themselves all men of hair, they call themselves Saltiers, and they have a dance which the wenches say is a gallimaufry of gambols, be- cause they are not in 't ; but they themselves are o' the mind, if it be not too rough for some that know little but bowling, it will please plentifully. Shep. Away ! we '11 none on 't : here has been too much homely foolery already. I know, sir, we weary you. Fol. You weary those that refresh us : pray, let 's see these four threes of herdsmen. Serv. One three of them, by their own report, sir, hath danced before the king ; and not the worst of the three but jumps twelve foot and a half by the squier. Shep. Leave your prating : since these good men are pleased, let them come in; but quickly now. Serv. Why, they stay at door, sir. [Exit. Here a dance of twelve Satyrs. Pol. O, father, you '11 know more of that here- after. [To Cam.] Is it not too far gone ? 'T is time to part them. He 's simple and tells much. [To Flor.} How now, fair shepherd ! Your heart is full of something that does take Your mind from feasting. Sooth, when I was young And handed love as you do, I was wont [sack'd To load my she with knacks : I would have ran- The pedlar's silken treasury and have pour'd it To her acceptance ; you have let him go And nothing marted with him. If your lass Interpretation should abuse and call this Your lack of love or bounty, you were straited For a reply, at least if you make a care Of happy holding her. Flo. Old sir, I know She prizes not such trifles as these are : The gifts she looks from me are pack'd and lock'd Up in my heart ; which I have given already. But not deliver'd. O, hear me breathe my life Before this ancient sir, who, it should seem. Hath sometime loved ! I take thy hand, this hand, As soft as dove's down and as white as it, [bolted Or Ethiopian's tooth, or the fann'd snow that 's By the northern blasts twice o'er. Pol. What follows this? How prettily the young swain seems to wash The hand was fair before ! I have put you out : But to your protestation ; let me hear What you profess. Flo. Do, and be witness to 't. Pol. And this my neighbour too ? Flo. And he, and more Than he, and men, the earth, the heavens, and all: That, were I crowii'd the most imperial monarch, Thereof, most worthy, were I the fairest youth That ever made eye swerve, had force and knowl- edge More than was ever man's, I would not prize them Without her love; for her employ them all; Commend them and condemn them to her service Or to their own perdition. Pol. Fairly offer'd. Cam. This shows a sound affection. Shep. But, my daughter, Say you the like to him ? Per. I cannot speak So well, nothing so well ; no, nor mean better: By the pattern of mine own thoughts I cut out The purity of his. Shep. Take hands, a bargain ! And, friends unknown, you shall bear witness to 't: I give my daughter to him, and will make Her portion equal his. Flo. O, that must be I' the virtue of your daughter : one being dead, I shall have more than you can dream of yet ; Enough then for your wonder. But, come on, Contract us 'fore these witnesses. Shep. Come, your hand ; And, daughter, yours. Pol. Soft, swain, awhile, beseech you ; Have you a father ? Flo. " I have : but what of him ? Pol. Knows he of this ? Flo. He neither does nor shall. Pol. Methinks a father Is at the nuptial of his son a guest That best becomes the table. Pray you once more. Is not your father grown incapable Of reasonable affairs ? is he not stupid With age and altering rheums ? can he speak ? hear ? Know man from man ? dispute his own estate ? ACT IV. THE WINTER'S TALE. SCENE IV. Lies he not bed-rid ? and again does nothing But what he did being childish ':* Flo. No, good sir; He has his health and ampler strength indeed Than most have of his age. Pol. By my white beard, You offer him, if this be so, a wrong Something unfllial : reason my son Should choose himself a wife, but as good reason The father, all whose joy is nothing else But fair posterity, should hold some counsel In such a business. Flo. I yield all this ; But for some other reasons, my grave sir, Which 't is not fit you know, I not acquaint My father of this business. Pol. Let him know 't.. Flo. He shall not. Pol. Prithee, let him. Flo. No, he must not. Shep. Let him, my son: he shall not need to grieve At knowing of thy choice. Flo. Come, come, he must not. Mark our contract. Pol. Mark your divorce, young sir, [Discovering himself. Whom son I dare not call ; thou art too base To be acknowledged : thou a sceptre's heir. That thus affect 'st a sheep-hook ! Thou old traitor, I am sorry that by hanging thee I can But shorten thy life one week. And thou, fresh piece Of excellent witchcraft, who of force must know The royal fool thou copest with, — Shep. O, my heart ! Pol. I '11 have thy beauty scratch'd with briers, and made More homely than thy state. For thee, fond boy, if I may ever know thou dost but sigh That thou no more shalt see this knack, as never I mean thou shalt, we '11 bar thee from succession ; Not hold thee of our blood, no, not our kin. Far than Deucalion oft' : mark thou my words : Follow us to the court. Thou churl, for this time. Though full of our displeasure, yet we free thee From the dead blow of it. And you, enchantment,— Worthy enough a herdsman; yea, him too. That makes himself, but for our honour therein. Unworthy thee, — if ever henceforth thou These rural latches to his entrance open, Or hoop his body more with thy embraces, I will devise a death as cruel for thee As thou art tender to 't. [Exit. Per. Even here undone ! I was not much afeard ; for once or twice I was about to speak and tell him plainly, The selfsame sun that shines upon his court Hides not his visage from our cottage but Looks on alike. Will 't please you, sir, be gone ? I told you what would come of this : beseech you. Of your own state take care : this dream of mine, — Being now awake, I '11 queen it no inch farther. But milk my ewes and weep. Cam. Why, how now, father ! Speak ere thou diest. Shep. I cannot speak, nor think. Nor dare to know that which I know. O sir ! You have undone a man of fourscore three. That thought to fill his grave in quiet, yea, To die upon the bed my father died. To lie close by his honest bones : but now Some hangman must put on my shroud and lay me Where no priest shovels in dust. O cursed wretch. That knew'st this was the prince, and wouldst ad- venture To mingle faith with him ! Undone ! undone ! If I might die within this hour, I have lived To die when I desire. [Exit. Flo. Wliy look you so upon me ? I am but sorry, not afeard; delay 'd. But nothing alter 'd : what I was, I am ; More straining on for plucking back, not following My leash unwillingly. Cam. Gracious my lord. You know your father's temper : at this time He will allow no speech, wliich I do guess You do not purpose to him ; and as hardly Will he endure your sight as yet, I fear: Then, till the fury of his highness settle, Come not before him. Flo. I not purpose it. I think, Camillo ? Cam. Even he, my lord. Per. How often have I told you 't would be thus! How often said, my dignity would last But till 'twere known! Flo. It cannot fail but by The violation of my faith : and then Let nature crush the sides o' the earth together And mar the seeds within ! Lift up thy looks : From my succession wipe me, father; I Am heir to my affection. Cam.. Be advised. Flo. I am, and by my fancy : if my reason Will thereto be obedient, I have reason; If not, my senses, better pleased with madness, Do bid it welcome. Cavi. This is desperate, sir. Flo. So call it : but it does fulfil my vow; I needs must think it honesty. Camillo, Not for Bohemia, nor the pomp that may Be thereat glean'd, for all the sun sees or The close earth wombs or the profound sea hides In unknown fathoms, will I break my oath To this my fair beloved : therefore, I pray you, As you have ever been my father's honour'd friend, When he shall miss me, — as, in faith, I mean not To see him any more,— cast your good counsels Upon his passion : let myself and fortune Tug for the time to come. This you may know And so deliver, I am put to sea With her whom here I cannot hold on shore ; And most opportune to our need I have A vessel rides fast by, but not prepared For this design. What course I mean to hold Shall nothing benefit your knowledge, nor Concern me the reporting. Cam. O my lord ! I would your spirit were easier for advice, Or stronger for your need. Flo. Hark, Perdita [Drawing her aside, I '11 hear you by and by. Cam. He 's irremoveable, Resolved for flight. Now were I happy, if His going I could frame to serve my turn, Save him from danger, do him love and honour, Purchase the sight again of dear Sicilia And that unhappy king, my master, whom I so much thirst to see. Flo. Now, good Camillo ; I am so fraught with curious business that I leave out ceremony. Cam. Sir, I think You have heard of my poor services, i' the love That I have borne your father ? Flo. Yery nobly Have you deserved : it is my father's music To speak your deeds, not little of his care To have them recompensed as thought on. Cavi. Well, my lord, If you may please to think I love the king And through him what is nearest to him, which is Your gracious self, embrace but my direction: If your more ponderous and settled project May suffer alteration, on mine honour. ACT IV. THE WINTER'S TALE. SCENE IV, I '11 point you where you shall have such receiving As shall become your highness ; where you may Enjoy your mistress, from the whom, I see, There 's no disjunction to be made, but by — As heavens f orefend ! — your ruin ; marry her. And, with my best endeavours in your absence, Your discontenting father strive to qualify ■ And bring him up to liking. Flo. How, Camillo, May this, almost a miracle, be done ? That I may call thee something more than man And after that trust to thee. Cam. Have you thought on A place whereto you '11 go ? Flo. Not any yet : But as the unthought-on accident is guilty To what we wildly do, so we profess Ourselves to be the slaves of chance and flies Of every wind that blows. Cam. Then list to me : This follows, if you will not change your purpose But undergo this flight, make for Sicilia, And there present yourself and your fair princess, For so I see she must be, 'fore Leontes : She shall be habited as it becomes The partner of your bed. Methinks I see Leontes opening his free arms and weeping His welcomes forth ; asks thee the son forgiveness, As 't were i' the father 's person ; kisses the hands Of your fresh princess; o'er and o'er divides him 'Twixt his unkindness and his kindness : the one He chides to hell and bids the other grow Faster than thought or time. Flo. Worthy Camillo, "What colour for my visitation shall I Hold up before him ? Cam. Sent by the king your father To greet him and to give him comforts. Sir, The manner of your bearing towards him, with "What you as from your father shall deliver. Things known betwixt us three, I '11 write you down: The which shall point you forth at every sitting "What you must say ; that he shall not perceive But that you have your father's bosom there And speak his very heart. Flo. I am bound to you : There is some sap in this. Cam. A cause more promising Than a wild dedication of yourselves To unpath'd waters, undream 'd shores, most certain To miseries enough; no hope to help you. But as you shake off one to take another ; Nothing so certain as your anchors, who Do their best ofiice, if they can but stay you Where you '11 be loath to be : besides you know Prosperity 's the very bond of love, Whose fresh complexion and whose heart together Affliction alters. Per. One of these is true : I think affliction may subdue the cheek, But not take in the mind. Cam. Yea, say you so ? There shall not at your father's house these seven years Be born another such. Flo. My good Camillo, She is as forward of her breeding as She is i' the rear our birth. Cam. I cannot say 't is pity She lacks instructions, for she seems a mistress To most that teach. Per. Your pardon, sir; for this I '11 blush you thanks. Flo. My prettiest Perdita ! But O, the thorns we stand upon ! Camillo, Preserver of my father, now of me. The medicine of our house, how shall we do ? 268 We are not furnish'd like Bohemia's son, Nor shall appear in Sicilia. Cam. My lord. Fear none of this : I think you know my fortunes Do all lie there : it shall be so my care To have you royally appointed as if The scene you play were mine. For instance, sir. That you may know you shall not want, one word. [They talk aside. Be-enter Autolycus. Aut. Ha, ha ! what a fool Honesty is ! and Trust, his sworn brother, a very simple gentleman ! I have sold all my trumpery ; not a counterfeit stone, not a ribbon, glass, pomander, brooch, table-book, ballad, knife, tape, glove, shoe-tie, bracelet, horn- ring, to keep my pack from fasting : they throng who should buy first, as if my trinkets had been hallowed and brought a benediction to the buyer : by which means I saw whose purse was best in picture ; and what I saw, to my good use I remem- bered. My clown, who wants but something to be a reasonable man, grew so in love with the wenches' song, that he would not stir his pettitoes till he had both tune and words ; which so drew the rest of the herd to me that all their other senses stuck in ears: you might have pinched a placket, it was senseless ; 't was nothing to geld a codpiece of a purse ; I could have filed keys off that hung in chains : no hearing, no feeling, but my sir's song, and admiring the nothing of it. So that in this time of lethargy I picked and cut most of their festival purses ; and had not the old man come in with a whoo-bub against his daughter and the king's son and scared my choughs from the chaff, I had not left a purse alive in the whole army. [Camillo, Florizel, and Perdita come forward. Cam. Nay, but my letters, by this means being there So soon as you arrive, shall clear that doubt. Flo. And those that you'll procure from King Leontes — Cam. Shall satisfy your father. Per. Happy be you ! All that you speak shows fair. Cam. Who have we here ? [Seeing Autolyciis. We '11 make an instrument of this, omit Nothing may give us aid. [ing. Aut. If they have overheard me now, why, hang- Cam. How now, good fellow ! why shakest thou so ? Fear not, man ; here 's no harm intended to Aut. I am a poor fellow, sir. [thee. Cam. Why, be so still ; here 's nobody will steal that from thee : yet for the outside of thy poverty we must make an exchange ; therefore disease thee instantly, — thou must think there's a necessity in 't,— and change garments with this gentleman: though the pennyworth on his side be the worst, yet hold thee, there 's some boot. Aut. I am a poor fellow, sir. [Aside] I know ye well enough. Cam. Nay, prithee, dispatch: the gentleman is half flayed already. Aut. Are you in earnest, sir? [Aside] I smell the trick on 't. Flo. Dispatch, I prithee. Aut. Indeed, I have had earnest ; but I cannot with conscience take it. Cam. Unbuckle, unbuckle. [Florizel and Autolycus exchange garments. Fortunate mistress,— let my prophecy Come home to ye ! — you must retire yourself Into some covert : take your sweetheart's hat And pluck it o'er your brows, muffle your face. Dismantle you, and, as you can, disliken The truth of your own seeming ; that you may — ACT IV. THE WINTER'S TALE. SCENE IV. For I do fear eyes over— to shipboard Get undescried. Per. I see the play so lies That I must bear a part. Cam. No remedy. Have you done there ? Flo. Should I now meet my father, He would not call me son. Cam. Nay, you shall have no hat. [Giving it to Perdita. Come, lady, come. Farewell, my friend. Aut. Adieu, sir. Flo. O Perdita, what have we twain forgot ! Pray you, a word. [king Cam. [Aside] "What 1 do next shall be to tell the Of this escape and whither they are bound ; Wherein my hope is I shall so prevail To force him after : in whose company I shall review Sicilia, for whose sight I have a woman's longing. Flo. Fortune speed us ! Thus we set on, Camillo, to the sea-side. Cam. The swifter speed the better. [Exeunt Florizel, Perdita, and Camillo. ' Awt. I understand the business, I hear it : to have an open ear, a quick eye, and a nimble hand, is nec- essary for a cut-purse ; a good nose is requisite also, to smell out work for the other senses. I see this is the time that the unjust man doth thrive. What an exchange had this been without boot ! What a boot is here with this exchange ! Sure the gods do this year connive at us, and we may do anything extempore. The prince himself is about a piece of iniquity, stealing away from his father with his clog at his heels : if I thought it were a piece of honesty to acquaint the king withal, I would not do 't : I hold it the more knavery to conceal it ; and therein am I constant to my profession. Be-enter Clown and Shepherd. Aside, aside ; here is more matter for a hot brain : every lane's end, every shop, church, session, hang- ing, yields a careful man work. Clo. See, see ; what a man you are now! There is no other way but to tell the king she 's a change- ling and none of your flesh and blood. She-p. Nay, but hear me. Clo. Nay, but hear me. Shep. Go to, then. Clo. She being none of your flesh and blood, your flesh and blood has not offended the king ; and so your flesh and blood is not to be punished by him. Show those things you found about her, those secret things, all but what she has with her: this being done, let the law go whistle : I warrant you. Shep. I will tell the king all, every word, yea, and his son's pranks too; who, I may say, is no honest man, neither to his father, nor to me, to go about to make me the king's brother-in-law. Clo. Indeed, brother-in-law was the farthest off you could have been to him and then your blood had been the dearer by I know how much an ounce. Aut. [Aside] Very wisely, puppies ! Shep. Well, let us to the king: there is that in this fardel will make him scratch his beard. Aut. [Aside] I know not what impediment this complaint may be to the flight of my master. Clo. Pray heartily he be at palace. Aut. [Aside] Though I am not naturally honest, I am so sometimes by chance : let me pocket up my pedlar's excrement. [Takes off his falseheard.] How now, rustics ! whither are you bound ? Shep. To the palace, an it like your worship. Aut. Your affairs there, what, with whom, the condition of that fardel, the place of your dwelling, your names, your ages, of what having, breeding, and any thing that is fitting to be known, discover. Clo. We are but plain fellows, sir. Aut. A lie ; you are rough and hairy. Let me have no lying : it becomes none but tradesmen, and they often give us soldiers the lie ; but we pay them for it with stamped coin, not stabbing steel : there- fore they do not give us the lie. Clo. Your worship had like to have given us one, if you had not taken yourself with the manner. Shep. Are you a courtier, an 't like you, sir ? Aut. Whether it like me or no, I am a courtier. Seest thou not the air of the court in these enfold- ings 'j' hath not my gait in it the measure of the court? receives not thy nose court-odour from me y reflect I not on thy baseness court-contempt ? Thinkest thou, for that I insinuate, or toaze from thee thy business, I am therefore no courtier ? I am courtier cap-a-pe ; and one that will either push on or pluck back thy business there : whereupon I command thee to open thy affair. Shep. My business, sir, is to the king. Aut. What advocate hast thou to him ? Shep. I know not, an 't like you. Clo. Advocate 's the court-word for a pheasant : say you have none. [hen. Shep. None, sir; I have no pheasant, cock nor Aut. How blessed are we that are not simple men ! Yet nature might have made me as these are, Therefore I will not disdain. Clo. This cannot be but a great courtier. Shep. His garments are rich, but he wears them not handsomely. Clo. He seems to be the more noble in being fan- tastical : a great man, I '11 warrant ; I know by the picking on 's teeth. Aut. The fardel there? what's i' the fardel? Wherefore that box? Shep. Sir, there lies such secrets in this fardel and box, which none must know but the king ; and which he shall know within this hour, if I may come to the speech of him. Aut. Age, thou hast lost thy labour. Shep. Why, sir ? Aut. The king is not at the palace; he is gone aboard a new ship to purge melancholy and air him- self : for, if thou beest capable of things serious, thou must know the king is full of grief. Shep. So 'tis said, sir; about his son, that should have married a shepherd's daughter. Aut. If that shepherd be not in hand-fast, let him fly : the curses he shall have, the tortures he shall f eel , will break the back of man, the heart of monster. Clo. Think you so, sir ? Aut. Not he alone shall suffer what wit can make heavy and vengeance bitter; but those that are ger- mane to him, though removed fifty times, shall all come under the hangman : which though it be great pity, yet it is necessary. An old sheep-whistling rogue, a ram-tender, to offer to have his daughter come into grace ! Some say he shall be stoned ; but that death is too soft for him , say I : draw our throne into a sheep-cote ! all deaths are too few, the sharpest too easy. Clo. Has the old man e'er a son, sir, do you hear, an 't like you, sir ? Aut. He has a son, who shall be flayed alive; then 'nointed over with honey, set on the head of a wasp's nest ; then stand till he be three-quarters and a dram dead ; then recovered again with aqua-vitae or some other hot infusion; then, raw as he is, and in the hottest day prognostication proclaims, shall he be set against a brick-wall, the sun looking with a southward eye upon him, where he is to behold him with flies blown to death. But what talk we of these traitorly rascals, whose miseries are to be smiled at, their offences being so capital ? Tell me, for you seem to be honest plam men, what you have to the king : being something gently considered, I '11 ACT V. THE WINTER'S TALE. SCENE bring you where he is aboard, tender your persons to his presence, whisper him in your behalfs; and if it be in man besides the king to effect your suits, here is man shall do it. Glo. He seems to be of great authority : close with him, give him gold ; and though authority be a stub- born bear, yet he is oft led by the nose with gold : show the inside of your purse to the outside of his hand, and no more ado. Remember ' stoned,' and 'flayed alive.' Shep. An 't please you, sir, to undertake the busi- ness for us, here is that gold I have : I '11 make it as much more and leave this young man in pawn till I bring it you. Aut. After I have done what I promised ? Shep. Ay, sir. Aut. Well, give me the moiety. Are you a party in this business ? Clo. In some sort, sir: but though my case be a pitiful one, I hope I shall not be flayed out of it. Aut. O, that 's the case of the shepherd's son : hang him, he '11 be made an example. Clo. Comfort, good comfort! We must to the king and show our strange sights : he must know 'tis none of your daughter nor my sister; we are gone else. Sir, I will give you as much as this old man does when the business is performed, and re- main, as he says, your pawn till it be brought you. Aut. I will trust you. Walk before toward the sea-side ; go on the right hand : I will but look upon the hedge and follow you. [blest. Clo. We are blest in this man, as I may say, even Shep. Let 's before as he bids us : he was provided to do us good. {Exeunt Shepherd and Clown. Aut. If I had a mind to be honest, I see Fortune would not suffer me : she drops booties in my mouth. I am courted now with a double occasion, gold and a means to do the prince my master good ; which who knows how that may turn back to my advance- ment ? I will bring these two moles, these blind ones, aboard him: if he think it fit to shore them again and that the complaint they have to the king concerns him nothing, let him call me rogue for being so far officious; for I am proof against that title and what shame else belongs to 't. To him will I present them : there may be matter in it. [Exit. J^CT ^r. SCENE I. — ^ room in Leontes^ palace. Enter Leontes, Cleomenes, Dion, Paulina, and Servants. Cleo. Sir, you have done enough, and have per- formed A saint-like sorrow : no fault could you make, Which you have not redeem'd ; indeed, paid down More penitence than done trespass: at the last, Do as the heavens have done, forget your evil; With them forgive yourself. Leon. Whilst I remember Her and her virtues, I cannot forget My blemishes iifthem, and so still think of The wrong I did myself; which was so much, That heirless it hath made my kingdom and Destroy 'd the sweet 'st companion that e'er man Bred his hopes out of. Paid. True, too true, my lord : If, one by one, you wedded all the world, Or from the all that are took something good, To make a perfect woman, she you kill'd Would be unparallel'd. Leon. I think so. Kill'd! She I kill'd ! I did so : but thou strikest me Sorely, to say I did; it is as bitter Upon thy tongue as in my thought : now, good now, Say so but seldom. Cleo. Not at all, good lady : You might have spoken a thousand things that would Have done the time more benefit and graced Your kindness better. Paid. You are one of those Would have him wed again. Dion. If you would not so, You pity not the state, nor the remembrance Of his most sovereign name ; consider little What dangers, by his highness' fail of issue, May drop upon his kingdom and devour Incertain lookers on. What were more holy Than to rejoice the former queen is well ? What holier than, for royalty's repair. For present comfort and for future good, To bless the bed of majesty again With a sweet fellow to 't ? Paul. There is none worthy, Respecting her that 's gone. Besides, the gods 270 Will have fulfill 'd their secret purposes; For has not the divine Apollo said. Is 't not the tenour of his oracle, That King Leontes shall not have an heir Till his lost child be found ? which that it shall, Is all as monstrous to our human reason As my Antigonus to break his grave And come again to me ; who, on my life. Did perish with the infant. 'T is your counsel My lord should to the heavens be contrary. Oppose against their wills. [To Leontes.] Care not for issue; The crown will find an heir : great Alexander Left his to the worthiest ; so his successor Was like to be the best. Leon. Good Paulina, Who hast the memory of Hermione, I know, in honour, O, that ever I Had squared me to thy counsel ! then, even now, I might have look'd upon my queen's fuU eyes. Have taken treasure from her lips — Paul. And left them More rich for what they yielded. Leon. Thou speak'st truth. No more such wives ; therefore, no wife : one worse, And better used, would make her sainted spirit Again possess her corpse, and on this stage. Where we 're offenders now, appear soul-vex'd. And begin, ' Why to me ? ' Paul. Had she such power. She had just cause. Leon. She had ; and would incense me To murder her I married. Paul. I should so. Were I the ghost that walk'd, I 'Id bid you mark Her eye, and tell me for what dull part in 't You chose her ; then I 'Id shriek, that even your ears Should rift to hear me ; and the words that follow 'd Should be ' Remember mine.' Leon. Stars, stars, And all eyes else dead coals ! Fear thou no wife ; I '11 have no wife, Paulina. Paul. Will you swear Never to marry but by my free leave ? Leon. Never, Paulina ; so be blest my spirit ! Paul. Then, good my lords, bear witness to his Cleo. You tempt him over-much. [oath. Paul. Unless another, ACT V. THE WINTER'S TALE. SCENE I. As like Hermione as is her picture, Affront his eye. CUo. Good madam, — Paul. I have done. Yet, if my lord will marry, — if you will, sir, No remedy, but you will, — give me the office To choose you a queen : she shall not be so young As was your former ; but she shall be such As, walk'd your first queen's ghost, it should take joy To see her in your arms. Leon. My true Paulina, We shall not marry till thou bid'st us. Paul. That Shall be when your first queen 's again in breath ; Never till then. Enter a Gentleman. Gent. One that gives out himself Prince Florizel, Son of Polixenes, with his princess, she The fairest I have yet beheld, desires access To your high presence. Leon. What with him ? he comes not Like to his father's greatness: his approach, So out of circumstance and sudden, tells us 'Tis not a visitation framed, but forced By need and accident. What train ? Gent. But few. And those but mean. Leon. His princess, say you, with him ? Gent. Ay, the most peerless piece of earth, I think, That e'er the sun shone bright on. Paul. O Hermione, As every present time doth boast itself Above a better gone, so must thy grave Give way to what 's seen now ! Sir, you yourself Have said and writ so, but your writing now Is colder than that theme, ' She had not been, -Nor was not to be equall'd ; ' — thus your verse Plow'd with her beauty once : 't is shrewdly ebb'd, To say you have seen a better. Gent. Pardon, madam : The one I have almost forgot, — your pardon, — The other, when she has obtain 'd your eye. Will have your tongue too. This is a creature, Would she begin a sect, might quench the zeal Of all professors else, make proselytes Of who she but bid follow. Paul. How ! not women ? Gent. Women will love her, that she is a woman More worth than any man ; men, that she is The rarest of all women. Leon. Go, Cleomenes; Yourself, assisted with your honour'd friends. Bring them to our embracement. Still, 't is strange [Exeunt Cleomenes and others. He thus should steal upon us. Paul. Had our prince, Jewel of children, seen this hour, he had pair'd Well with this lord : there was not full a month Between their births. Leon. Prithee, no more ; cease ; thou know'st He dies to me again when talk'd of: sure. When I shall see this gentleman, thy speeches Will bring me to consider that which may Unfurnish me of reason. They are come. He-enter Cleomenes and others, with Florizel and Perdita. Your mother was most true to wedlock, prince ; For she did print your royal father olf , Conceiving you: were I but twenty-one, Your father's image is so hit in you, His very air, that I should call you brother, As I did him, and speak of something wildly By us perform'd before. Most dearly welcome ! And your fair princess,— goddess ! — O, alas ! I lost a couple, that 'twixt heaven and earth Might thus have stood begetting wonder as You, gracious couple, do: and then I lost — All mine own folly — the society. Amity too, of your brave father, whom, Though bearing misery, I desire my life Once more to look on him. Flo. By his command Have I here touch 'd Sicilia and from him Give you all greetings that a king, at friend. Can send his brother: and, but infirmity Which waits upon worn times hath something seized His wish'd ability, he had himself The lands and waters 'twixt your throne and his Measured to look upon you ; whom he loves — He bade me say so — more than all the sceptres And those that bear them living. Leon. O my brother. Good gentleman ! the wrongs I have done thee stir Afresh within me, and these thy offices. So rarely kind, are as interpreters Of my behind-hand slackness. Welcome hither, As is the spring to the earth. And hath he too Exposed this paragon to the fearful usage, At least ungentle, of the dreadful Neptune, To greet a man not worth her pains, much less The adventure of her person ? Flo. Good my lord. She came from Libya. Leon. Where the warlike Smalus, That noble honour'd lord, is fear'd and loved ? Flo. Most royal sir, from thence; from him, whose daughter His tears proclaim'd his, parting with her: thence, A prosperous south wind friendly, we have cross 'd, To execute the charge my father gave me For visiting your highness : my best train I have from your Sicilian shores dismiss'd; Who for Bohemia bend, to signify Not only my success in Libya, sir. But my arrival and my wife's in safety Here where we are. Leon. The blessed gods Purge all infection from our air whilst you Do climate here ! You have a holy father, A graceful gentleman ; against whose person, So sacred as it is, I have done sin : For which the heavens, taking angry note, Have left me issueless ; and your father 's blest, As he from heaven merits it, with you Worthy his goodness. What might I have been, Might I a son and daughter now have look'd on, Such goodly things as you ! Enter a Lord. Lord. Most noble sir, That which I shall report will bear no credit. Were not the proof so nigh. Please you, great sir, Bohemia greets you from himself by me ; Desires you to attach his son, who has — His dignity and duty both cast off — Fled from his father, from his h(ipes, and with A shepherd's daughter. Leon. Where 's Bohemia ? speak. Lord. Here in your city ; I now came from him : I speak amazedly ; and it becomes My marvel and my message. To your court Whiles he was hastening, in the chase, it seems, Of this fair couple, meets he on the way The father of this seeming lady and Her brother, having both their country quitted With this young prince. Flo. Camillo has betray 'd me ; Whose honour and whose honesty till now Endured all weathers. Lord. Lay 't so to his charge : He 's with the king your father. Leon. Who? Camillo? Lord. Camillo, sir ; I spake with him ; who now 271 ACT V. THE WINTER'S TALE. SCENE II. Has these poor men in question. Never saw I Wretches so quake : they kneel, they kiss the earth ; Forswear themselves as often as they speak : Bohemia stops his ears, and threatens them With divers deaths in death. Per. O my poor father ! The heaven sets spies upon us, will not have Our contract celebrated. Leon. You are married ? Flo. We are not, sir, nor are we like to be ; The stars, I see, will kiss the valleys first : The odds for high and low 's alike. Leon. My lord, Is this the daughter of a king ? Flo. She is, When once she is my wife. [speed, Leon. That ' once,' I see by your good father's Will come on very slowly. I am sorry, Most sorry, you have broken from his liking Where you were tied in duty, and as sorry Your choice is not so rich in worth as beauty, That you might well enjoy her. Flo. Dear, look up : Though Fortune, visible an enemy, Should chase us with my father, power no jot Hath she to change our loves. Beseech you, sir, Remember since you owed no more to time Than I do now : with thought of such affections, Step forth mine advocate ; at your request My father vrtll grant precious things as trifles. Leon. Would he do so, I 'Id beg your precious Which he counts but a trifle. [mistress, Paul. Sir, my liege. Your eye hath too much youth in 't : not a month 'Fore your queen died, she was more worth such Than what you look on now. [gazes Leon. I thought of her. Even in these looks I made. [To Florizel.] But your petition Is yet unanswer 'd. I will to your father : Your honour not o'erthrown by your desires, I am friend to them and you : upon which errand I now go toward him ; therefore follow me And mark what way I make: come, good my lord. [JExeunt. SCENE II. — Before Leontes^ palace. Enter Autolycus and a Gentleman. Aut. Beseech you, sir, were you present at this relation ? First Gent. I was by at the opening of the fardel, heard the old shepherd deliver the manner how he found it : whereupon, after a little amazedness, we were all commanded out of the chamber; only this methought I heard the shepherd say, he found the child. Aut. I would most gladly know the issue of it. First Gent. I make a broken delivery of the busi- ness ; but the changes I perceived in the king and Camillo were very notes of admiration : they seemed almost, with staring on one another, to tear the cases of their eyes ; there was speech in their dumbness, language in their very gesture ; they looked as they had heard of a world ransomed, or one destroyed : a notable passion of wonder appeared in them ; but the wisest beholder, that knew no more but seeing, could not say if the importance were joy or sorrow; but in the extremity of the one, it must needs be. Enter another Gentleman. Here comes a gentleman that haply knows more. The news, Rogero ? Sec. Gent. Kothing but bonfires : the oracle is ful- filled ; the king's daughter is found : such a deal of wonder is broken out within this hour that ballad- makers cannot be able to express it. 272 Enter a third Gentleman. Here comes the Lady Paulina's steward : he can de- liver you more. How goes it now, sir ? this news which is called true is so like an old tale, that the verity of it is in strong suspicion : has the king found his heir ? Third Gent. Most true, if ever truth were preg- nant by circumstance : that which you hear you '11 swear you see, there is such unity in the proofs. The mantle of Queen Hermione's, her jewel about the neck of it, the letters of Antigonus found with it which they know to be his character, the majesty of the creature in resemblance of the mother, the af- fection of nobleness which nature shows above her breeding, and many other evidences proclaim her with all certainty to be the king's daughter. Did you see the meeting of the two kings i* Sec. Gent. No. Third Gent. Then have you lost a sight, which was to be seen, cannot be spoken of. There might you have beheld one joy crown another, so and in such manner that it seemed sorrow wept to take leave of them, for their joy waded in tears. There was casting up of eyes, holding up of hands, with countenances of such distraction that they were to be known by garment, not by favour. Our king, being ready to leap out of himself for joy of liis found daughter, as if that joy were now become a loss, cries ^O, thy mother, thy mother! ' then asks Bohemia forgiveness ; then embraces his son-in-law ; then again worries he his daughter with clipping her ; now he thanks the old shepherd, which stands by like a weather-bitten conduit of many kings' reigns. I never heard of such another encounter, which lames report to follow it and undoes descrip- tion to do it. Sec. Gent. What, pray you, became of Antigonus, that carried hence the child ? Third Gent. Like an old tale still, which will have matter to rehearse, though credit be asleep and not an ear open. He was torn to pieces with a bear : this avouches the shepherd's son ; who has not only his innocence, which seems much, to justify him, but a handkerchief and rings of his that Paulina knows. First Gent. What became of his bark and his fol- lowers ? Third Gent. Wrecked the same instant of their master's death and in the view of the shepherd : so that all the instruments which aided to expose the child were even then lost when it was found. But O, the noble combat that 'twixt joy and sorrow was fought in Paulina! She had one eye declined for the loss of her husband, another elevated that the ora- cle was fulfilled : she lifted the princess from the earth, and so locks her in embracing, as if she would pin her to her heart that she might no more be in danger of losing. First Gent. The dignity of this act was worth the audience of kings and princes; for by such was it acted. Third Gent. One of the prettiest touches of all and that which angled for mine eyes, caught the water though not the fish, was when, at the relation of the queen's death, with the manner how she came to 't bravely confessed and lamented by the king, how attentiveness wounded his daughter ; till, from one sign of dolour to another, she did, with an 'Alas,' I would fain say, bleed tears, for I am sure my heart wept blood. Who was most marble there changed colour ; some swooned, all sorrowed : if all the world could have seen 't, the woe had been universal. First Gent. Are they returned to the court ? Third Gent. No : the princess hearing of her moth- er's statue, which is in the keeping of Paulina, — a piece many years in doing and now newly performed by that rare Italian master, Julio Romano, who, had ACT V. THE WINTER'S TALE. SCENE III. he himself eternity and could put breath into his work, would beguile Nature of her custom, so per- fectly he is her ape : he so near to Hermione hath done Hermione that they say one would speak to her and stand in hope of answer : thither with all greediness of affection are they gone, and there they intend to sup. Sec. Gent. I thought she had some great matter there in hand ; for she hath privately twice or thrice a day, ever since the death of Hermione, visited that removed house. Shall we thither and with our com- pany piece the rejoicing ? First Gent. Who would be thence that has the benefit of access ? every wink of an eye some new grace will be born : our absence makes us unthrifty to our knowledge. Let's along. [Exeunt Gentlemen. Aut. Now, had I not the dash of my former life in me, would preferment drop on my head. I brought the old man and his son aboard the prince ; told him I heard them talk of a fardel and I know not what : but he at that time, overfond of the shepherd's daughter, so he then took her to be, who began to be much sea-sick, and himself little better, ex- tremity of weather continuing, this mystery re- mained undiscovered. But 't is all one to me ; for had I been the finder out of this secret, it would not have relished among my other discredits. Enter Shepherd and Clown. Here come those I have done good to against my will, and already appearing in the blossoms of their fortune. Shep. Come, boy ; I am past moe children, but thy sons and daughters will be all gentlemen born. Clo. You are well met, sir. You denied to fight with me this other day, because I was no gentleman bom. See you these clothes V say you see them not and think me still no gentleman born: you were best say these robes are not gentlemen born : give me the lie, do, and try whether I am not now a gen- tleman born. Aut. I know you are now, sir, a gentleman born. Olo. Ay, and have been so any time these four hours. Shep. And so have I, boy. Clo. So you have : but I was a gentleman born before my father; for the king's son took me by the hand, and called me brother ; and then the two kings called my father brother ; and then the prince my brother and the princess my sister called my father father; and so we wept, and there was the first gentleman-like tears that ever we shed. Shep. We may live, son, to shed many more. Clo. Ay; or else 'twere hard luck, being in so preposterous estate as we are. Aut. I humbly beseech you, sir, to pardon me all the faults I have committed to your worship and to give me your good report to the prince my master. Shep. Prithee, son, do; for we must be gentle, 20w we are gentlemen. Clo. Thou wilt amend thy life ? Aut. Ay, an it like your good worship. Clo. Give me thy hand : I will swear to the prince thou art as honest a true fellow as any is in Bo- Shep. You may say it, but not swear it. Clo. Not swear it, now I am a gentleman ? Let boors and franklins say it, I '11 swear it. Shep. How if it be false, son r Clo. If it be ne'er so false, a true gentleman may swear it in the behalf of his friend : and I '11 swear to the prince thou art a tall fellow of thy hands and that thou wilt not be drunk ; but I know thou art no tall fellow of thy hands and that thou wilt be drunk : but I '11 swear it, and I would thou wouldst be a tall fellow of thy hands. 18 Aut. I will prove so, sir, to my power. Clo. Ay, by any means prove a tall fellow: if I do not wonder how thou darest venture to be drunk, not being a tall fellow, trust me not. Hark ! the kings and the princes, our kindred, are going to see the queen's picture. Come, follow us : we '11 be thy good masters. [Exeunt. SCENE ni. — A chapel in Paulina^s house. EnterJ-ieontes, Polixenes, Plorizel, Perdita, Oai millo, Paulina, Lords, and Attendants. Leon. O grave and good Paulina, the great com- That I have had of thee ! [fort Paul. What, sovereign sir, I did not well I meant well. All my services You have paid home : but that you have vouch- safed, [tracted With your crown'd brother and these your con- Heirs of your kingdoms, my poor house to visit, It is a surplus of your grace, which never My life may last to answer. Leon. O Paulina, We honour you with trouble : but we came To see the statue of our queen : your gallery Have we pass'd through, not without much content In many singularities ; but we saw not That which my daughter came to look upon. The statue of her mother. Paul. As she lived peerless, So her dead likeness, I do well believe, Excels whatever yet you look'd upon Or hand of man hath done ; therefore I keep it Lonely, apart. But here it is : prepare To see the life as lively mock'd as ever Still sleep mock'd death : behold, and say 'tis weU. [Paulina draws a curtain, and discovers Hermione standing like a statue. I like your silence, it the more shows off Your wonder : but yet speak ; first, you, my liege. Comes it not something near ? Leon. Her natural posture ! Chide me, dear stone, that I may say indeed Thou art Hermione ; or rather, thou art she In thy not chiding, for she was as tender As infancy and grace. But yet, Paulina, Hermione was not so much wrinkled, nothing So aged as this seems. Pol. O, not by much. Paul. So much the more our carver's excellence; Which lets go by some sixteen years and makes her As she lived now. Leon. As now she might have done, So much to my good comfort, as it is Now piercing to my soul. O, thus she stood. Even with such life of majesty, warm life. As now it coldly stands, when first I woo'd her! I am ashamed : does not the stone rebuke me For being more stone than it ? O royal piece There 's magic in thy majesty, which has My evils conjured to remembrance and From thy admiring daughter took the spirits, Standing like stone with thee. Per. And give me leave. And do not say 't is superstition, that I kneel and then implore her blessing. Lady, Dear queen, that ended when I but began. Give me that hand of yours to kiss. Paul. O, patience! The statue is but newly fix'd, the colour 's Not dry. Cam. My lord, your sorrow was too sore laid on, Which sixteen winters cannot blow away, So many summers dry : scarce any joy Did ever so long live ; no sorrow But kiU'd itself much sooner. Pol. Dear my brother, 273 ACT V. THE WINTER'S TALE. SCENE III. Let him that was the cause of this have power To take off so much grief from you as he Will piece up in himself. Paul. Indeed, my lord, If I had thought the sight of my poor image Would thus have wrought you, — for the stone is I 'Id not have show'd it. [mine — Lemi. Do not draw the curtain. Paul. No longer shall you gaze on 't, lest your May think anon it moves. [fancy Leon. Let be, let be. Would I were dead, but that, methinks, already — What was he that did make it ? See, my lord, Would you not deem it breathed ? and that those Did verily bear blood ? [veins Pol. Masterly done : The very life seems warm upon her lip. Leon. The fixure of her eye has motion in 't, As we are mock'd with art. Paul. I '11 draw the curtain : My lord 's almost so far transported that He '11 think anon it lives. Leon. O sweet Paulina, Make me to think so twenty years together ! No settled senses of the world can match The pleasure of that madness. Let 't alone. Paul. I am sorry, sir, I have thus far stirr'd you : I could afflict you farther. [but Leon. Do, Paulina; For this affliction has a taste as sweet As any cordial comfort. Still, methinks. There is an air comes from her : what fine chisel Could ever yet cut breath ? Let no man mock me, For I will kiss her. Paul. Good my lord, forbear : The ruddiness upon her lip is wet ; You '11 mar it if you kiss it, stain your own With oily painting. Shall I draw the curtain ? Leon. No, not these twenty years. Per. So long could I Stand by, a looker on. Paul. Either forbear. Quit presently the chapel, or resolve you For more amazement. It you can behold it, I '11 make the statue move indeed, descend And take you by the hand : but then you 'U think— Which I protest against — I am assisted By wicked powers. Leon. What you can make her do, I am content to look on : what to speak, I am content to hear ; for 't is as easy To make her speak as move. Paul. It is required You do awake your faith. Then all stand stUl ; On : those that think it is unlawful business I am about, let them depart. Leon. Proceed: No foot shall stir. Paul. Music, awake her; strike! [Musk,. 'T is time ; descend ; be stone no more ; approach ; Strike all that look upon with marvel. Come, I '11 fill your grave up : stir, nay, come away, 274 Bequeath to death your numbness, for from him Dear life redeems you. You perceive she stirs: [Hermione comes down. Start not ; her actions shall be holy as You hear my spell is lawful : do not shun her Until you see her die again; for then You kill her double. Nay, present your hand : When she was young you woo'd her ; now in age Is she become the suitor ? Leon. O, she 's warm ! If this be magic, let it be an art Lawful as eating. Pol. She embraces him. Cam. She hangs about his neck : If she pertain to life let her speak too. Pol. Ay, and make 't manifest where she has lived, Or how stolen from the dead. Paul. That she is living, Were it but told you, should be hooted at Like an old tale : but it appears she lives. Though yet she speak not. Mark a little while. Please you to interpose, fair madam : kneel And pray your mother's blessing. Turn, good lady ; Our Perdita is found. Her. You gods, look down And from your sacred vials pour your graces Upon my daughter's head ! Tell me, mine own. Where hast thou been preserved ? where lived ? how found Thy father's court ? for thou shalt hear that I, Knowing by Paulina that the oracle Gave hope thou wast in being, have preserved Myself to see the issue. Paul. There 's time enough for that ; Lest they desire upon this push to trouble Your joys with like relation. Go together. You precious winners all : your exultation Partake to every one. I, an old turtle. Will wing me to some wither'd bough and there My mate, that 's never to be found again, Lament till I am lost. Leon. O, peace, Paulina ! Thou shouldst a husband take by my consent. As I by thine a wife : this is a match, [mine ; And made between 's by vows. Thou hast found But how, is to be question 'd ; for I saw her, As I thought, dead, and have in vain said many A prayer upon her grave. I '11 not seek far — For him, I partly know his mind — to find thee An honourable husband. Come, Camillo, And take her by the hand, whose worth and honesty Is richly noted and here justified By us, a pair of kings. Let 's from this place. What ! look upon my brother : both your pardons, That e'er I put between your holy looks My ill suspicion. This is your son-in-law And son unto the king, who, heavens directing, Is troth-plight to your daughter. Good Paulina, Lead us from hence, where we may leisurely Each one demand and answer to his part Perform 'd in this wide gap of time since first We were dissever'd : hastily lead away. {Exeunt, ^••^'M^'=^f^-^ THE LIFE AND DEATH OF KING JOHN. DBAMATIS PEBSONM. King? John. Prince Henry, son to the king. Arthur, Duke of Bretagne, nephew to the king. The Earl of Pembroke. The Earl of Essex. The Earl of Salisbury. The Lord Bigot. Hubert de Burgh. Bobert Faulconbridge, son to Sir Robert Faul- conbridge. Philip the Bastard, his half-brother. James Gumey, servant to Lady Faulconbridge. Peter of Pomfret, a prophet. Philip, King of France. [For an Analysis of the Lewis, the Dauphin. Lymoges, Duke of Austria. Cardinal Pandiilph, the Pope's legate. Melun, a French Lord. Chatillon, ambassador from France to King John. Queen Elinor, mother to King John. Constance, mother to Arthur. Blanch of Spain, niece to King John. Lady Faulconbridge. Lords, Citizens of Angiers, Sheriff, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, Messengers, and other Attendants. SCENE — Partly in England, servants to King Eichard. Green, J Earl of Northumberland. Henry Percy, surnamed Hotspur, his son. [For an Analysis of the Lord Ross. Lord Willoughby. Lord Fitzwater. Bishop of Carlisle. Abbot of Westminster. Lord Marshal. Sir Stephen Scroop. Sir Pierce of Exton. Captain of a band of Welshmen. Queen to King Richard. Duchess of York. Duchess of Gloucester. Lady attending on the Queen. Lords, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, two Gardeners, '. Messenger, Groom, and other Attendants SCENE — England and Wales. Plot of this Play, see Page Lilt.] ^CT I. SCENE I. — London. King Richard'' s palace. Enter King Richard, John of Gaunt, with other Nobles and Attendants. K. Rich. Old John of Gaunt, time-honour 'd Lan- Hast thou, according to thy oath and band, [caster, Brought hither Henry Hereford thy bold son, Here to make good the boisterous late appeal, Which then our leisure would not let us hear, Against tlie Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray ? Gaunt. I have, my liege. [him, K. Rich. Tell me, moreover, hast thou sounded If he appeal the duke on ancient malice ; Or worthily, as a good subject should, On some known ground of treachery in him ? [ment , Gaunt. As near as I could sift him on that argu- On some apparent danger seen in him Aim'd at your highness, no inveterate malice, [face, K. Rich. Then call them to our presence ; face to And frowning brow to brow, ourselves will hear The accuser and the accused freely speak : High-stomach'd are they both, and full of ire. In rage deaf as the sea, hasty as lire. Enter Bolingbroke and Mowbray. Baling. Many years of happy days befal My gracious sovereign, my most loving liege! Movj. Each day still better other's happiness; Until the heavens, envying earth's good hap, Add an immortal title to your crown ! [us, K. Rich. We thank you both : yet one but flatters As well appeareth by the cause you come ; Namely, to appeal each other of high treason. Cousin of Hereford, what dost thou object Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray ? Boling. First, heaven be the record to my speech ! In the devotion of a subject's love. Tendering the precious safety of my prince. And free from other misbegotten hate, Come I appellant to this princely presence. Now, Thomas Mowbray, do I turn to thee, And mark my greeting well ; for what I speak My body shall make good upon this earth, Or my divine soul answer it in heaven. Thou art a traitor and a miscreant, Too good to be so and too bad to live, Since the more fair and crystal is the sky. The uglier seem the clouds that in it fly. Once more, the more to aggravate the note. With a foul traitor's name stuff I thy throat ; And wish, so please my sovereign, ere I move, [prove. What my tongue speaks my right drawn sword may Mow. Let not my cold words here accuse my zeal : 'T is not the trial of a woman's war. The bitter clamour of two eager tongues. Can arbitrate this cause betwixt us twain ; The blood is hot that must be cool'd for this: Yet can I not of such tame patience boast As to be hush'd and nought at all to say: First, the fair reverence of your highness curbs me From giving reins and spurs to my free speech ; Which else would post until it had return 'd These terms of treason doubled down his throat. Setting aside his high blood's royalty. And let him be no kinsman to my liege, I do defy him, and I spit at him ; : Call him a slanderous coward and a villain : Which to maintain I would allow him odds, And meet him, were I tied to run afoot Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps, Or any other ground inhabitable, Where ever Englisliman durst set his foot. Mean time let this defend my loyalty. By all my hopes, most falsely doth he lie. [gage, Boling. Pale trembling coward, there I throw my Disclaiming here the kindred of the king, And lay aside my high blood's royalty, Which fear, not reverence, makes thee to except. 295 ACT I. KING RICHARD II SCENE II. If guilty dread have left thee so much strength As to take up mine honour's pawn, then stoop : By that and all the rites of knighthood else, Will I make good against thee, arm to arm, What I have spoke, or thou canst vi^orse devise. Mow. I take it up; and by that sword I swear. Which gently laid my knighthood on my shoulder, I '11 answer thee in any fair degree, Or chivalrous design of knightly trial : And when I mount, alive may I not light, If I be traitor or unjustly fight ! [charge ? K. Bicli. What doth our cousin lay to Mowbray's It must be great that can inherit us So much as of a thought of ill in him. [it true ; Boling. Look, what I speak, my life shall prove That Mowbray hath received eight thousand nobles In name of lendings for your highness' soldiers. The which he hath detain'd for lewd employments. Like a false traitor and injurious villain. Besides I say and will in battle prove. Or here or elsewhere to the furthest verge That ever was survey'd by English eye. That all the treasons for these eighteen years Complotted and contrived in this land [spring. Fetch from false Mowbray their first head and Further I say and further will maintain Upon his bad life to make all this good, That he did plot the Duke of Gloucester's death, Suggest his soon-believing adversaries, And consequently, like a traitor coward, [blood: Sluiced out his innocent soul through streams of Which blood, like sacrificing Abel's, cries. Even from the tongueless caverns of the earth. To me for justice and rough chastisement; And, by the glorious worth of my descent. This arm shall do it, or this life be spent. K. Rich. How high a pitch his resolution soars ! Thomas of Norfolk, what say'st thou to this ? Mow. 0,let my sovereign turn away his face And bid his ears a little while be deaf, Till I have told this slander of his blood. How God and good men hate so foul a liar, [ears : K. Rich. Mowbray, impartial are our eyes and Were he my brother, nay, my kingdom's heir, As he is but my father's brother's son. Now, by my sceptre's awe, I make a vow. Such neighbour nearness to our sacred blood Should nothing privilege him, nor partialize The unstooping firmness of my upright soul : He is our subject, Mowbray; so art thou : Free speech and fearless I to thee allow. Mow. Then, Bolingbroke, as low as to thy heart. Through the false passage of thy throat, thou liest. Three parts of that receipt I had for Calais Disbursed I duly to his highness' soldiers ; The other part reserved I by consent, For that my sovereign liege was in my debt Upon remainder of a dear account, Since last I went to France to fetch his queen : Now swallow down that lie. For Gloucester's death, I slew him not ; but to my own disgrace Neglected my sworn duty in that case. For you, my noble Lord of Lancaster, The honourable father to my foe, Once did I lay an ambush for your life, A trespass that doth vex my grieved soul ; But ere I last received the sacrament I did confess it, and exactly begg'd Your grace's pardon, and I hope I had it. This is my fault : as for the rest appeal 'd. It issues from the rancour of a villain, A recreant and most degenerate traitor : Which in myself I boldly will defend ; And interchangeably hurl down my gage Upon this overweening traitor's foot, To prove myself a loyal gentleman Even in the best blood chamber'd in his bosom. 296 In haste whereof, most heartily I pray Your highness to assign our trial day. [me ; A'. Rick. Wrath-kindled gentlemen, be ruled by Let 's purge this choler without letting blood : This we prescribe, though no physician ; Deep malice makes too deep incision ; Forget, forgive; conclude and be agreed ; Our doctors say this is no month to bleed. Good uncle, let this end where it begun ; We '11 calm the Duke of Norfolk, you your son. Gaunt. To be a make-peace sliall become my age : Throw down, my son, the Duke of Norfolk's gage. K. Rich. And, Norfolk, throw down his. Gaunt. When, Harry, when ? Obedience bids I should not bid again. [no boot. K. Rich. Norfolk, throw down, we bid; there is Mow. Myself I throw, dread sovereign, at thy foot. My life thou shalt command, but ftot my shame : The one my duty owes ; but my fair name. Despite of death that lives upon my grave. To dark dishonour's use thou shalt not have. I am disgraced, impeach 'd and baffled here, Pierced to the soul with slander's venom'd spear. The which no balm can cure but his heart-blood Which breathed this poison. K. Rich. Rage must be withstood : Give me his gage : lions make leopards tame. Moio. Yea, but not change his spots: take but my And I resign my gage. My dear, dear lord, [shame, The purest treasure mortal times alf ord Is spotless reputation : that away, Men are but gilded loam or painted clay. A jewel in a ten-times-barr'd-up chest Is a bold spirit in a loyal breast. Mine honour is my life ; both grow in one ; Take honour from me, and my life is done : Then, dear my liege, mine honour let me try; In that I live and for that will I die. [begin. K.Rich. Cousin, throw up your gage; do you Bvling. O, God defend my soul from sucTi deep Shall I seem crest-fall'n in my father's sight ? [sin ! Or with pale beggar-fear impeach my height Before this out-dared dastard ? Ere my tongue Shall wound my honour with such feeble wrong, Or sound so base a parle, my teeth shall tear The slavish motive of recanting fear. And spit it bleeding in his high disgrace, Where shame doth harbour, even in Mowbray's face. [Exit Gaunt. K. Rich. We were not born to sue, but to com- mand ; Which since we cannot do to make you friends, Be ready, as your lives shall answer it, At Coventry, upon Saint Lambert's day: There shall your swords and lances arbitrate The swelling difference of your settled hate : Since we can not atone you, we shall see Justice design the victor's chivalry. Lord marshal, command our officers at arms Be ready to direct these home alarms. lExeunt, SCENE II. — The Duke of Lancaster's palace. Enter John of Gaunt with the Duchess of Gloucester. Gaunt. Alas, the part I had in Woodstock's blood Doth more solicit me than your exclaims. To stir against the butchers of his life ! But since correction lieth in those hands Which made the fault that we cannot correct, Put we our quarrel to the will of heaven ; Who, when they see the hours ripe on earth. Will rain hot vengeance on offenders' heads. Duch. Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur ? Hath love in thy old blood no living fire ? Edward's seven sons, whereof thyself art one, Were as seven vials of his sacred blood. ACT I. KING RICHARD II SCENE III. Or seven fair branches springing from one root : Some of tliose seven are dried by nature's course, Some of those branches by tlie Destinies cut ; But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Gloucester, One vial full of Edward's sacred blood, One flourishing branch of his most royal root. Is crack 'd, and all the precious liquor spilt. Is hack'd down, and his summer leaves all faded. By envy's hand and murder's bloody axe. [womb. Ah, Gaunt, his blood was thine! that bed, that That metal, that self-mould, that fashion'd thee Made him a man; and though thou livest and breathest. Yet art thou slain in him : thou dost consent In some large measure to thy father's death. In that thou seest thy wretched brother die, Who was the model of thy father's life. CaU it not patience, Gaunt ; it is despair: In suffering thus thy brother to be slaughter'd. Thou showest the naked pathway to thy life, Teaching stern murder how to butcher thee : That which in mean men we intitle patience Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts. What shall I say ? to safeguard thine own life, -The best way is to venge my Gloucester's death. Gaunt. God's is the quarrel ; for God's substitute, His deputy anointed in His sight. Hath caused his death : the which if wrongfully, Let heaven revenge ; for I may never lift An angry arm against His minister. Duch. Where then, alas, may I complain myself ? Gaunt. To God, the widow's champion and de- fence. Buck. Why, then, I will. Farewell, old Gaunt. Thou goest to Coventry, there to behold Our cousin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight : O, sit my husband's wrongs on Hereford's spear, That it may enter butcher Mowbray's breast ! Or, if misfortune miss the first career, Be Mowbray's sins so heavy in his bosom. That they may break his foaming courser's back, And throw the rider headlong in the lists, A caitiff recreant to my cousin Hereford ! Parewell, old Gaunt : thy sometimes brother's wife With her companion grief must end her life. Gaunt. Sister, farewell ; I must to Coventry : As much good stay with thee as go with me ! Buck. Yet one word more : grief boundeth where it falls, Not with the empty hollowness, but weight: I take my leave before I have begun. For sorrow ends not when it seemeth done. Commend me to thy brother, Edmund York. Lo, this is all : — nay, yet depart not so ; Though this be all, do not so quickly go ; I shall remember more. Bid him— ah, what ? — With all good speed at Flashy visit me. Alack, and what shall good old York there see But empty lodgings and unfurnish'd walls. Unpeopled offices, untrodden stones ? And what hear there for welcome but my groans ? Therefore commend me ; let him not come there, To seek out sorrow that dwells every where. Desolate, desolate, will I hence and die: The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye. [Exeunt. SCENE III.— The lists at Coventry. Enter the Lord Marshal and the Duke of Au- merle. Jfar. My Lord Aumerle,is Harry Hereford arm 'd? Aum. Yea, at all points ; and longs to enter in. Mar. The Duke of Norfolk, sprightf uUy and bold, Stays but the summons of the appellant's trumpet. Aum. Why, then, the champions are prepared, and For nothing but his majesty's approach. [stay The trumpets sound, and the King" enters with his nobles, Gaunt, Bushy, Bagot, Green, and others. When they are set, enter Mowbray in arms, defendant, with a Herald. K. Eich. Marshal, demand of yonder champion The cause of his arrival here in arms : Ask him his name and orderly proceed To swear him in the justice of his cause. [art Mar. In God's name and the king's, say who thou And why thou comest thus knightly clad in arms. Against what man thou comest, and what thy quar- Speak truly, on thy knighthood and thy oath ; [rel : As so defend thee heaven and thy valour ! Mow. My name is Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Nor- Who hither come engaged by my oath — [folk ; Which God defend a knight should violate ! — Both to defend my loyalty and truth To God, my king and my succeeding issue. Against the Duke of Hereford that appeals me ; And, by the grace of God and this mine arm. To prove him, in defending of myself, A traitor to my God, my king, and me : And as I truly fight, defend me heaven ! The trumpets sound. Enter Bolingbroke, ap- pellant, in armour, with a Herald. K. Eich. Marshal, ask yonder knight in arms, Both who he is and why he cometh hither Thus plated in habiliments of war. And formally, according to our law. Depose him in the justice of his cause. Mar. What is thy name ? and wherefore comest thou hither. Before King Kichard in his royal lists ? [rel ? Against whom comest thou ? and what 's thy quar- Speak like a true knight, so defend thee heaven ! Boling. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby Am I ; who ready here do stand in arms. To prove, by God's grace and my body's valour, In lists, on Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, That he is a traitor, foul and dangerous. To God of heaven, King Richard and to me ; And as I truly fight, defend me heaven ! Mar. On pain of death, no person be so bold Or daring-hardy as to touch the lists. Except the marshal and such officers Appointed to direct these fair designs. [hand, Boling. Lord marshal, let me kiss my sovereign's And bow my knee before his majesty: For Mowbray and myself are like two men That vow a long and weary pilgrimage ; Then let us take a ceremonious leave And loving farewell of our several friends, [ness. Mar. The appellant in all duty greets your high- And craves to kiss your hand and take his leave. K. Eich. We will descend and fold him in our arms. Cousin of Hereford, as thy cause is right. So be thy fortune in this royal fight ! Farewell, my blood ; which if to-day thou shed. Lament we may, but not revenge thee dead. Boling. O, let no noble eye profane a tear For me, if I be gored with Mowbray's spear: As confident as is the falcon's flight Against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight. My loving lord, I take my leave of you ; Of you, my noble cousin. Lord Aumerle ; Not sick, although I have to do with death. But lusty, young, and cheerly drawing breath. Lo, as at English feasts, so I regreet The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet : O thou, the earthly author of my blood. Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate, Doth with a twofold vigour lift me up To reach at victory above my head, Add proof unto mine armour with thy prayers; And with thy blessings steel my lance's point, That it may enter Mowbray's waxen coat, 297 ACT I. KING RICHARD II SCENE III. And furbish new the name of John a Gaunt, Even in the lusty haviour of his son. [perous ! Qaunt. God in thy good cause make tliee pros- Be swift like lightning in the execution ; And let thy blows, doubly redoubled, Fall like amazing thunder on the casque Of thy adverse pernicious enemy : Rouse up thy youthful blood, be valiant and live. Boling. Mine innocency and Saint George to thrive ! Moxo. However God or fortune cast my lot. There lives or dies, true to King Richard's throne, A loyal, just and upright gentleman : Never did captive with a freer heart Cast off his chains of bondage and embrace His golden uncontroll'd enfranchisement, More than my dancing soul doth celebrate This feast of battle with mine adversary. Most mighty liege, and my companion peers. Take from my mouth the wish of happy years : As gentle and as jocund as to jest Go I to tight : truth hath a quiet breast. K. Rich. Farewell, my lord: securely I espy Virtue with valour couched in thine eye. Order the trial, marshal, and begin. Mar. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby, Receive thy lance ; and God defend the right ! Boling. Strong as a tower in hope, I cry amen. Mar. Go bear this lance to Thomas, Duke of Norfolk. First Her. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby, Stands here for God, his sovereign and himself, On pain to be found false and recreant, To prove the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray, A traitor to his God, his king and him ; And dares him to set forward to the fight. Sec. Her. Here standeth Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, On pain to be found false and recreant, Both to defend himself and to approve Henry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby, To God, his sovereign and to him disloyal ; Courageously and with a free desire Attending but the signal to begin. Mar. Sound, trumpets; and set forward, com- batants. [A charge sounded. Stay, the king hath thrown his warder down. K. Bich. Let them layby their helmets and their spears. And both return back to their chairs again : Withdraw with us : and let the trumpets sound While we return these dukes what we decree. [A long flourish. Draw near. And list what with our council we have done. For that our kingdom's earth should not be soil'd With that dear blood which it hath fostered ; And for our eyes do hate the dire aspect Of civil wounds plough 'd up with neighbours' sword ; And for we think the eagle-winged pride Of sky-aspiring and ambitious thoughts. With rival-hating envy, set on you To wake our peace, which in our country's cradle Draws the sweet infant breath of gentle sleep ; Which so roused up with boisterous untuned drums. With harsh-resounding trumpets' dreadful bray. And grating shock of wrathful iron arms. Might from our quiet confines fright fair peace And make us wade even in our kindred's blood ; Therefore, we banish you our territories : You, cousin Hereford, upon pain of life. Till twice five summers have enrich 'd our fields Shall not regreet our fair dominions. But tread the stranger paths of banishment, [be, Boling. Your will be done : this must my comfort That sun that warms you here shall shine on me ; And those his golden beams to you here lent Shall point on me and gild my banishment. K. Rich. Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier doom. Which I with some unwillingness pronounce : The sly slow hours shall not determinate The dateless limit of thy dear exile ; The hopeless word of ' never to return ' Breathe I against thee, upon pain of life. Mow. A heavy sentence, my most sovereign liege, And all unlook'd for from your highness' mouth : A dearer merit, not so deep a maim As to be cast forth in the common air, Have I deserved at your highness' hands. The language I have learned these forty years, My native English, now I must forego: And now my tongue's use is to me no more Than an unstringed viol or a harp, Or like a cunning instrument cased up. Or, being open, put into his hands That knows no touch to tune the harmony : Within my mouth you have engaol'd my tongue, Doubly portcullis 'd with my teeth and lips; And dull unfeeling barren ignorance Is made my gaoler to attend on me. I am too old to fawn upon a nurse, Too far in years to be a pupil now : What is thy sentence then but speechless death^, Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath ? K. Rich. It boots thee not to be compassionate : After our sentence plaining comes too late, [light, Mow. Then thus I turn me from my country's To dwell in solemn shades of endless night. K. Rich. Return again , and take an oath with thee. Lay on our royal sword your banish 'd hands; Swear by the duty that you owe to God — Our part therein we banish with yourselves — To keep the oath that we administer : You never shall, so help you truth and God.! Embrace each other's love in banishment ; Nor never look upon each other's face ; Nor never virrite, regreet, nor reconcile This louring tempest of your home-bred hate ; Nor never by advised purpose meet To plot, contrive, or complot any ill 'Gainst us, our state, our subjects, or our land. Boling. I swear. Mow. And I, to keep all this. Boling. Norfolk, so far as to mine enemy: — By this time, had the king permitted us, One of our souls had wander'd in the air, Banish'd this frail sepulchre of our fiesh. As now our flesh is banish'd from this land : Confess thy treasons ere thou fly the realm ; Since thou hast far to go, bear not along The clogging burthen of a guilty soul. Mow. No, Bolingbroke: if ever I were traitor, My name be blotted from the book of life. And I from heaven banish'd as from hence ! But what thou art, God, thou, and I do know; And all too soon, I fear, the king shall rue. Farewell, my liege. Now no way can I stray ; Save back to England, all the world 's my way. [Exit. K. Rich. Uncle, even in the glasses of thine eyes I see thy grieved heart : thy sad aspect Hath from the number of his banish'd years Pluck 'd four away. [To Boling.] Six frozen win« ters spent. Return with welcome home from banishment. Boling. How long a time lies in one little word I Four lagging winters and four wanton springs End in a word : such is the breath of kings. Gaunt. I thank my liege, that in regard of me He shortens four years of my son's exile: But little vantage shall I reap thereby ; For, ere the six years that he hath to spend ACT I. KING RICHARD II SCENE lY. Can change their moons and bring their times about , My oil-dried lamp and time-bewasted light Shall be extinct with age and endless night ; My inch of taper will be burnt and done, And blindfold death not let me see my son. [live. K. Rich. Why, micle, thou hast many years to Gaunt. But not a minute, king, that thou canst give: Shorten my days thou canst with sullen sorrow, And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow ; Thou canst help time to furrow me with age, But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage ; Thy word is current with him for my death, But dead, thy kingdom cannot buy my breath. K. Rich. Thy son is banish 'd upon good advice. Whereto thy tongue a party-verdict gave : Why at our justice seem'st thou then to lour ? Gaunt. Things sweet to taste prove in digestion You urged me as a judge ; but I had rather [sour. You would have bid me argue like a father. O, had it been a stranger, not my child. To smooth his fault I should have been more mild : A partial slander sought I to avoid. And in the sentence my own life destroy'd. Alas, I look'd when some of you should say, I was too strict to make mine own away; But you gave leave to my unwilling tongue Against my will to do myself this wrong. K. Rich. Cousin, farewell ; and, uncle, bid Mm Six years we banish him, and he shall go. [so : [Flourish. Exeunt King Richard and train. Aum. Cousin, farewell ; what presence must not know, From where you do remain let paper show. Mar. My lord, no leave take I ; for I wiU ride. As far as land will let me, by your side. [words. Gaunt. O, to what purpose dost thou hoard thy That thou return'st no greeting to thy friends ? Baling. I have too few to take my leave of you, When the tongue's oflSce should be prodigal To breathe the abundant dolour of the heart. Gaunt. Thy grief is but thy absence for a time. Baling. Joy absent, grief is present for that time. Gawmt. What is six winters? they are quickly gone. [ten. Baling. To men in joy ; but grief makes one hour Gaunt. Call it a travel that thou takest for pleas- ure. Baling. My heart will sigh when I miscall it so, Which finds it an inforced pilgrimage. Gaunt. The sullen passage of thy weary steps Esteem as foil wherein thou art to set The precious jewel of thy home return. Baling. Nay, rather, every tedious stride I make Will but remember me what a deal of world I wander from the jewels that I love. Must I not serve a long apprenticehood To foreign passages, and in the end, Having my freedom, boast of nothing else But that I was a journeyman to grief ? Gaunt. All places that the eye of heaven visits Are to a wise man ports and happy havens. Teach thy necessity to reason thus ; There is no virtue like necessity. Think not the king did banish thee. But thou the king. Woe doth the heavier sit, Where it perceives it is but faintly borne. Go, say I sent thee forth to purchase honour And not the king exiled thee ; or suppose Devouring pestilence hangs in our air And thou art flying to a fresher clime : Look, what thy soul holds dear, imagine it To lie that way thou go'st, not whence thou comest : Suppose the singing birds musicians, [strewed, The grass whereon thou tread'st the presence The flowers fair ladies, and thy steps no more Than a delightful measure or a dance ; For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite The man that mocks at it and sets it light. Baling. O, who can hold a fire in his hand By thinking on the frosty Caucasus ? Or cloy the hmigry edge of appetite By bare imagination of a feast ? Or wallow naked in December snow By thinking on fantastic summer's heat ? O, no! the apprehension of the good Gives but the greater feeling to the worse : Fell sorrow's tooth doth never rankle more Than when he bites, but lanceth not the sore. Gaunt. Come, come, my son, I '11 bring thee on thy way : Had I thy youth and cause, I would not stay. Baling. Then England's ground, farewell; sweet soil, adieu ; My mother, and my nurse, that bears me yet ! Where'er I wander, boast of this I can. Though banish'd, yet a trueborn Englishman. IMceunt. SCENE IV.— The court. Enter the King, with Bagot and Green at one door; and the Duke of Aumerle at another. K. Rich. We did observe. Cousin Aumerle, How far brought you high Hereford on his way ? Aum. I brought high Hereford, if you call him so, But to the next highway, and there I left him. K. Rich. And say, what store of parting tears were shed ? [wind, Aum. Faith, none for me ; except the northeast Which then blew bitterly against our faces. Awaked the sleeping rheum, and so by chance Did grace our hollow parting with a tear. K. Rich. What said our cousin when you parted with him ? Aum. ' Farewell ; ' And, for my heart disdained that my tongue Should so profane the word, that taught me craft To counterfeit oppression or such grief That words seem'd buried in my sorrow's grave. Marry, would the word ' farewell ' have lengthen 'd And added years to his short banishment, [hours He should have had a volume of farewells ; But since it would not, he had none of me. K. Rich. He is our cousin, cousin ; but 't is doubt, When time shall call him home from banishment, Whether our kinsman come to see his friends. OurseLf and Bushy, Bagot here and Green Observed his courtship to the common people ; How he did seem to dive into their hearts With humble and familiar courtesy. What reverence he did throw away on slaves, Wooing poor craftsmen with the craft of smiles And patient underbearing of his fortune. As 't were to banish their affects with him. Off goes his bonnet to an oyster-wench ; A brace of draymen bid God speed him well And had the tribute of his supple knee. With ' Thanks, my countrymen, my loving friends ; ' As were our England in reversion his. And he our subjects' next degree in hope. Green. Well, he is gone ; and with him go these thoughts. Now for the rebels which stand out in Ireland, Expedient manage must be made, my liege. Ere fm'ther leisure yield them further means For their advantage and your highness' loss. K. Rich. We will ourself in person to this war: And, for our coffers, with too great a court And liberal largess, are grown somewhat light, We are inforced to farm our royal realm ; The revenue whereof shall furnish us For our affairs in hand : if that come short. Our substitutes at home shall have blank charters ; Whereto, when they shall know what men are rich ACT II. KING RICHARD II SCENE I. They shall subscribe them for large sums of gold And send them after to supply our wants ; Por we will make for Ireland presently. Enter Bushy. Bushy, what news ? [lord, Bushy. Old John of Gaunt is grievous sick, my Suddenly taken ; and hath sent post haste To entreat your majesty to visit him. K. Rich. Where lies he ? Bushij. At Ely Plouse. K. Rich. Now put it, God, in the physician's mind To help him to his grave immediately ! The lining of his coffers shall make coats To deck our soldiers for these Irish wars. Come, gentlemen, let 's all go visit him : Pray God we may make haste, and come too late ! All. Amen. [Exeunt. ^OT II. SCENE I.— . Enter John of Gaunt sicfc, with the Duke of York, &c. Gaunt. "Will the king come, that I may breathe my In wholesome counsel to his unstaid youth ? [last York. Vex not yourself, nor strive not with your For all in vain comes counsel to his ear. [breath ; Gaunt. O, but they say the tongues of dying men / Enforce attention like deep harmony : [vain, V Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in For they breathe truth that breathe their words in pain. He that no more must say is listen'd more Than they whom youth and ease have taught to More are men's ends mark'd than their lives before : f The setting sun, and music at the close, \ As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last, ■Writ in remembrance more than things long past : Though Eichard my life's counsel would not hear, My death's sad tale may yet undeaf his ear. York. No; itisstopp'd with otherflattering sounds, As praises, of whose taste the wise are fond, Lascivious metres, to whose venom sound The open ear of youth doth always listen ; Keport of fashions in proud Italy, Whose manners still our tardy apish nation Limps after in base imitation. Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity — So it be new, there 's no respect how vile — That is not quickly buzz'd into his ears ? Then aU too late comes counsel to be heard. Where will doth mutiny with wit's regard. Direct not him whose way himself will choose : [lose. 'Tis breath thou lack'st, and that breath wilt thou Gaunt. Methinks I am a prophet new inspired And thus expiring do foretell of him : His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last. For violent fires soon burn out themselves ; Small showers last long, but sudden storms are short; He tires betimes that spurs too fast betimes ; With eager feeding food doth choke the feeder : Light vanity, insatiate cormorant. Consuming means, soon preys upon itself. ^This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise. This fortress built by Nature for herself „^ Against infection and the hand of war, This happy breed of men, this little world. This precious stone set in the silver sea. Which serves it in the office of a wall Or as a moat defensive to a house, Agamst the envy of less happier lands, [land, ^- This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this Eng- This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings, Fear'd by their breed and famous by their birth. Renowned for their deeds as far from home. For Christian service and true chivalry, As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry Of the world's ransom, blessed Mary's son, 300 This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land, Dear for her reputation through the world, Is now leased out, I die pronouncing it, Like to a tenement or pelting farm : England, bound in with the triumphant sea, Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege Of watery Neptune, is now bound in with shame, With inky blots and rotten parchment bonds : That England, that was wont to conquer others. Hath made a shameful conquest of itself. Ah, would the scandal vanish with my life. How happy then were my ensuing death ! ^nier King Richard ant? Queen, Aumerle, Bushy, Green, Bagot, Ross, and "Willoughby. York. The king is come: deal mildly with hisyouth; For young hot colts being raged do ra^e the more. Queen. How fares our noble uncle, Lancaster ? K. Rich. What comfort, man ? how is 't with aged Gaunt ? Gaunt. O, how that name befits my composition! Old Gaunt indeed, and gaunt in being old: Within me grief hath kept a tedious fast ; And who abstains from meat that is not gaunt ? For sleeping England long time have I watch 'd ; Watching breeds leanness, leanness is all gaunt : The pleasure that some fathers feed upon, Is my strict fast ; I mean, my children's looks ; And therein fasting, hast thou made me gaunt : Gaimt am I for the grave, gaunt as a grave. Whose hollow womb inherits nought but bones. K. Rich. Can sick men play so nicely with their names ? Gaunt. No, misery makes sport to mock itseK: Since thou dost seek to kill my name in me, I mock my name, great king, to flatter thee, pive ? K. Rich. Should dying men flatter with those that Gaunt. No, no, men living flatter those that die. K. Rich. Thou, now a-dying, say'st thou flatterest me. Gaunt. O, no ! thou diest, though I the sicker be. K. Rich. 1 am in health, I breathe, and see thee ill. Gaunt. Now He that made me knows I see thee ill ; 111 in myself to see, and in thee seeing ill. Thy death-bed is no lesser than thy land Wherein thou liest in reputation sick ; And thou, too careless patient as thou art, Commit 'st thy anointed body to the cure Of those physicians that first wounded thee •. A thousand flatterers sit within thy crown. Whose compass is no bigger than thy head ; And yet, incaged in so small a verge. The waste is no whit lesser than thy land. O, had thy grandsire with a prophet's eye Seen how his son's son should destroy his sons. From forth thy reach he would have laid thy shame Deposing thee before thou wert possess'd, Which art possess'd now to depose thyself. Why, cousin, wert thou regent of the world. It were a shame to let this land by lease ; But for thy world enjoying but this land, Is it not more than shame to shame it so ? ACT II. KING RICHARD II SCENE I. Landlord of England art thou now, not king : Thy state of law is bondslave to the law ; And thou — A". Bich. A lunatic lean-witted fool, Presuming on an ague's privilege, Darest with thy frozen admonition Make pale our cheek, chasing the royal blood With fury from his native residence. Now, by my seat's right royal majesty, "Wert thou not brother to great Edward's son. This tongue that runs so roundly in thy head Should run thy head from thy unreverent shoulders. Gaunt. O, spare me not, my brother Edward's son. For that I was his father Edward's son ; That blood already, like the pelican, Hast thou tapp'd out and drunkenly caroused ; My brother Gloucester, plain well-meaning soul. Whom fair befall in heaven 'mongst happy souls ! May be a precedent and witness good That thou respect'st not spilling Edward's blood : Join with the present sickness that I have ; And thy unkindness be like crooked age. To crop at once a too long wither'd flower. Live in thy shame, but die not shame with thee : .These words hereafter thy tormentors be ! Convey me to my bed, then to my grave : Love they to live that love and honour have. [Exit, home off by his Attendants. K. Bich. And let them die that age and sullens have; For both hast thou, and both become the grave. York. I do beseech your majesty, impute his words To wayward sickliness and age in him : He loves you, on my life, and holds you dear As Harry Duke of Hereford, were he here. K. Bich. Right, you say true : as Hereford's love, As theirs, so mine ; and all be as it is. [so his ; Enter Northumberland. North. My liege, old Gaunt commends him to your K. Bich. What says he ? [majesty. North. Nay, nothing ; all is said : His tongue is now a stringless instrument ; Words, life and all, old Lancaster hath spent, [so ! York. Be York the next that must be bankrupt Though death be poor, it ends a mortal woe. [he ; K. Bich. The ripest fruit first falls, and so doth His time is spent, our pilgrimage must be. So much for that. Now for our Irish wars : We must supplant those rough rug-headed kerns, Which live like venom where no venom else But only they have privilege to live. And for these great affairs do ask some charge, Towards our assistance we do seize to us The plate, coin, revenues and moveables. Whereof our uncle Gaunt did stand possess 'd. York. How long shall I be patient ? ah. how long Shall tender duty make me suffer vsrrong ? Not Gloucester's death, nor Hereford's banishment. Nor Gaunt 's rebukes, nor England's private wrongs. Nor the prevention of poor Bolingbroke About his marriage, nor my own disgrace, Have ever made me sour my patient cheek. Or bend one vnrinkle on my sovereign's face. I am the last of noble Edward's sons, Of whom thy father. Prince of Wales, was first : In war was never lion raged more fierce. In peace was never gentle lamb more mild. Than was that young and princely gentleman. His face thou hast, for even so look'd he, Accomplish'd with the number of thy hours ; But when he frovsm'd, it was against the French And not against his friends ; his noble hand Did win what he did spend and spent not that Which his triumphant father's hand had won ; His hands were guilty of no kindred blood, But bloody with the enemies of his kin. O Richard ! York is too far gone with grief, Or else he never would compare between. K. Bich. Why, uncle, what 's the matter ? York. O my liege. Pardon me, if you please; if not, I, pleased Not to be pardon'd, am content withal. Seek you to seize and gripe into your hands The royalties and rights of banish'd Hereford ? Is not Gaunt dead, and doth not Hereford live ? Was not Gaunt just, and is not Harry true ? Did not the one deserve to have an heir l* Is not his heir a well-deserving son ? Take Hereford's rights away, and take from Time His charters and his customary rights ; Let not to-morrow then ensue to-day ; Be not thyself ; for how art thou a king But by fair sequence and succession ? Now, afore God — God forbid I say true ! — If you do wrongfully seize Hereford's rights, Call in the letters-patent that he hath By his attorneys-general to sue His livery, and deny his offer'd homage. You pluck a thousand dangers on your head, You lose a thousand well-disposed hearts And prick my tender patience to those thoughts Which honour and allegiance cannot think. K. Bich. Think what you will, we seize into our hands His plate, his goods, his money and his lands. York. I '11 not be by the while : my liege, fare- well: What will ensue hereof, there 's none can tell ; But by bad courses may be understood That their events can never fall out good. [Exit. K. Bich. Go, Bushy, to the Earl of Wiltshire Bid him repair to us to Ely House [straight : To see this business. To-morrow next We will for Ireland ; and 't is time, I trow : And we create, in absence of ourself , Our uncle York lord governor of England ; For he is just and always loved us well. Come on, our queen : to-morrow must we part ; Be merry, for our time of stay is short. [Flourish. Exeunt King, Queen, Aumerle, Bushy, Green, and Bagot. North. Well, lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead. Boss. And living too ; for now his son is duke. Willo. Barely in title, not in revenue. North. Richly in botli, if justice had her right. Boss. My heart is great; but it must break with silence, Ere 't be disburden'd with a liberal tongue. North. Nay, speak thy mind ; and let him ne'er speak more That speaks thy words again to do thee harm ! Willo. Tends that thou wouldst speak to the Duke of Hereford ? If it be so, out with it boldly, man ; Quick is mine ear to hear of good towards him. Boss. No good at all that I can do for him ; Unless you call it good to pity him, Bereft and gelded of his patrimony. [are borne North. Now, afore God, 't is shame such wrongs In him, a royal prince, and many moe Of noble blood in this declining land. The king is not himself, but basely led By flatterers ; and what they will inform, Merely in hate, 'gainst any of us all. That will the king severely prosecute 'Gainst us, our lives, our children, and our heirs. Boss. The commons hath he pill'd with grievous taxes, [fined And quite lost their hearts: the nobles hath he For ancient quarrels, and quite lost their hearts. Willo. And daily new exactions are devised. As blanks, benevolences, and I wot not what : But what, o' God's name, doth become of this ? 301 ACT I] KING RICHARD II SCENE II. North. Wars have not wasted it, for warr'd he hath not, But basely yielded upon compromise That which his noble ancestors achieved with blows: More hath he spent in peace than they in wars. Ross. The Earl of Wiltshire hath the realm in farm. [man. Willo. The king 's grown bankrupt, like a broken North. Eeproach and dissolution hangeth over him. Ross. He hath not money for these Irish wars, His burthenous taxations notwithstanding. But by the robbing of the banish 'd duke. North. His noble kinsman : most degenerate king ! But, lords, we hear this fearful tempest sing, Yet seek no shelter to avoid the storm ; We see the wind sit sore upon our sails. And yet we strike not, but securely perish. Ross. We see the very wreck that we must suffer ; And unavoided is the danger now. For siifCering so the causes of our wreck. [death North. Not so ; even through the hollow eyes of I spy life peering ; but I dare not say How near the tidings of our comfort is. Willo. Nay, let us share thy thoughts, as thou dost ours. Ross. Be confident to speak, Northumberland : We three are but thyself ; and, speaking so. Thy words are but as thoughts; therefore, be bold. North. Then thus : I have from Port le Blanc, a In Brittany, received intelligence [bay That Harry Duke of Hereford, Eainold Lord Cobham, That late broke from the Duke of Exeter, His brother. Archbishop late of Canterbury, Sir Thomas Erping'ham, Sir John Kamston, Sir John Norbery, Sir Kobert Waterton and Francis Quoint, All these well furnish'd by the Duke of Bretagne With eight tall ships, three thousand men of war, Are making hither with all due expedience And shortly mean to touch our northern shore : Perhaps they had ere this, but that they stay The first departing of the king for Ireland. If then we shall shake oif our slavish yoke, • Imp out our drooping country's broken wing. Redeem from broking pawn the blemish 'd crown. Wipe off the dust that hides our sceptre's gilt And make high majesty look like itself. Away with me in post to Ravenspurgh ; But if you faint, as fearing to do so. Stay and be secret, and myself will go. [that fear. Ross. To horse, to horse! urge doubts to them Willo. Hold out my horse, and I wiU first be there. [Exeunt. SCENE II. — The palace. Enter Queen, Bushy, and Bagot. Bushy. Madam, your majesty is too much sad : You promised, when you parted with the king. To lay aside life-harming heaviness And entertain a cheerful disposition. Queen. To please the king I did ; to please my- I cannot do it ; yet I know no cause [self Why I should welcome such a guest as grief. Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guest As my sweet Richard: yet again, methinks. Some unborn sorrow, ripe in fortune's womb. Is coming towards me, and my inward soul With nothing trembles : at some thing it grieves. More than with parting from my lord the king. Bushy. Each substance of a grief hath twenty Which shows like grief itself, but is not so ; For sorrow's eye, glazed with blinding tears, 302 I)ivides one thing entire to many objects ; "Xike perspectives, which rightly gazed upon Show nothing but confusion, eyed awry Distinguish form : so your sweet majesty. Looking awry upon your lord's departure, Find shapes of grief, more than himself, to wail; Which, look'd on as it is, is nought but shadows Of what it is not. Then, thrice-gracious queen. More than your lord's departiure weep not : more 's Or if it be, 't is with false sorrow's eye, [not seen ; Which for things true weeps things imaginary. Queen. It may be so ; but yet my inward soul Persuades me it is otherwise : howe'er it be, I cannot but be sad ; so heavy sad As, though on thinking on no thought I think, Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink. Bushy. 'Tis nothing but conceit, my gracious lady. Queen. 'T is nothing less : conceit is still derived From some forefather grief ; mine is not so. For nothing hath begot my something grief; Or something hath the nothing that I grieve : 'T is in reversion that I do possess ; But what it is, that is not yet knovra ; what I cannot name ; 't is nameless woe, I wot. Enter Green. Green. God save your majesty! and well met, gentlemen : I hope the king is not yet shipp'd for Ireland, [is ; Queen. Why hopest thou so ? 't is better hope he For his designs crave haste, his haste good hope : Then wherefore dost thou hope he is not shipp'd ? Green. That he, our hope, might have retired his power. And driven into despair an enemy's hope. Who strongly hath set footing in this land : The banish 'd Bolingbroke repeals himself, And with uplifted arms is safe arrived At Ravenspurgh. Queen. Now God in heaven forbid ! Green. Ah, madam, 't is too true: and that is worse, [Percy, The Lord Northumberland, his son young Henry The Lords of Ross, Beaumond, and Willoughby, ' With all their powerful friends, are fled to him. Bushy. Why have you not proclaim'd Northum- berland And all the rest revolted faction traitors ? [cester Green. We have: whereupon the Earl of Wor- Hath broke his staff, resign'd his stewardship. And all the household servants fled with him To Bolingbroke. [woe. Queen. So, Green, thou art the midwife to my And Bolingbroke my sorrow's dismal heir; Now hath my soul brought forth her prodigy, And I, a gasping new-deliver'd mother. Have woe to woe, sorrow to sorrow join'd. Bushy. Despair not, madam. Queen. Who shall hinder me ? I will despair, and be at enmity With cozening hope : he is a flatterer, A parasite, a keeper back of death. Who gently would dissolve the bands of life, Which false hope lingers in extremity. Enter York. Ch-een. Here comes the Duke of York. Queen. With signs of war about his aged neck : O, full of careful business are his looks ! Uncle, for God's sake, speak comfortable words. York. Should I do so, I should belie my thoughts: Comfort 's in heaven ; and we are on the earth. Where nothing lives but crosses, cares and grief. Your husband, he is gone to save far off. Whilst others come to make him lose at home : Here am I left to underprop his land. KING RICHARD II SCENE III. Who, weak with age, cannot support myself: Now comes the sick hour that his surfeit made ; Now shall he try his friends that flatter'd him. Enter a Servant. Serv. My lord, your son was gone before I came. York. He was ? Why, so ! go all which way it will ! [cold. The nobles they are fled, the commons they are And will, I fear, revolt on Hereford's side. Sirrah, get thee to Plashy, to my sister Gloucester; Bid her send me presently a thousand pound : Hold, take my ring. Serv. My lord, I had forgot to tell your lordship, To-day, as I came by, I called there ; But I shall grieve you to report the rest. York. What is 't, knave ? Sew. An hour before I came, the duchess died. York. God for his mercy ! what a tide of woes Comes rushing on this woeful land at once ! I know not what to do : I would to God, So my untruth had not provoked him to it, The king had cut off my head with my brother's. What, are there no posts dispatch 'd for Ireland ? How shall we do for money for these wars ? [me. Come, sister,— cousin, I would say,— pray, pardon Go, fellow, get thee home, provide some carts And bring away the armour that is there. {Exit Servant. Gentlemen, will you go muster men '? If I know how or which way to order these affairs Thus thrust disorderly into my hands, Never beUeve me. Both are my kinsmen : The one is my sovereign, whom both my oath And duty bids defend ; the other again Is my kinsman, whom the king hath wrong'd. Whom conscience and my kindred bids to right. Well, somewhat we must do. Come, cousin, I 'E Dispose of you. Gentlemen, go, muster up your men, And meet me presently at Berkeley. I should to Plashy too ; But time will not permit : all is uneven, ^ And every thing is left at six and seven. [Exeunt York and Queen. Bushy. The wind sits fair for news to go to Irelandf But none returns. For us to levy power Proportionable to the enemy Is all unpossible. Green. Besides, our nearness to the king in love Is near the hate of those love not the king. Bagot. And that's the wavering commons : for their love Lies in their purses, and whoso empties them By so much fills their hearts with deadly hate. Bushy. Wherein the king stands generally con- demn'd. Bagot. If judgment lie in them, then so do we. Because we ever have been near the king, [castle : Green. Well, I will for refuge straight to Bristol The Earl of Wiltshire is already there. Bushy. Thither will I with you; for little ofiice The hateful commons will perform for us. Except like curs to tear us all to pieces. Will you go along with us ? Bagot. No ; I will to Ireland to his majesty. Farewell : if heart's presages be not vain. We three here part that ne'er shall meet again. Bushy. That 's as York thrives to beat back Bo- hngbroke. Green. Alas, poor duke ! the task he undertakes Is numbering sands and drinking oceans dry : Where one on his side fights, thousands will fly. Farewell at once, for once, for all, and ever. Bushy. Well, we may meet again. Bagot. I fear me, never. [Exeunt. SCENE III. — Wilds in Gloucestershire. Enter Bolingbroke and Northumberland, with Forces. Baling. How far is it, my lord, to Berkeley now ? North. Believe me, noble lord, I am a stranger here in Gloucestershire : These high wild hills and rough uneven ways Draws out our miles, and makes them wearisome; And yet your fair discourse hath been as sugar. Making the hard way sweet and delectable. But I bethink me what a weary way From Eavenspurgh to Cotswold will be found In Ross and Willoughby, wantmg your company, Which, I protest, hath very much beguiled The tediousness and process of my travel : But theirs is sweetened with the hope to have The present benefit which I possess ; And hope to joy is little less in joy Than hope enjoy 'd : by this the weary lords Shall make their way seem short, as mine hath done By sight of what I have, your noble company. Baling. Of much less value is my company Than your good words. But who comes here ? Enter Henry Percy. North. It is my son, young Harry Percy, Sent from my brother Worcester, whencesoever. Harry, how fares your uncle ? Percy. I had thought, my lord, to have learn'd his health of you. North. Why, is he not with the queen ? [court, Percy. No, my good lord; he hath forsook the Broken his staff of ofiice and dispersed The household of the king. North. What was his reason ? • He was not so resolved when last we spake together. Percy. Because your lordship was proclaimed trai- But he, my lord, is gone to Ravenspurgh, [tor. To offer service to the Duke of Hereford, And sent me over by Berkeley, to discover What power the Duke of York had levied there ; Then with directions to repair to Ravenspurgh. North. Have you forgot the Duke of Hereford, boy? Percy. No, my good lord, for that is not forgot Which ne'er I did remember : to my knowledge, I never in my life did look on him. [duke. North. Then learn to know him now ; this is the Percy. My gracious lord, I tender you my service. Such as it is, being tender, raw and young ; Which elder days shall ripen and confirm To more approved service and desert. Baling. I thank thee, gentle Percy; and be sure I count myself in nothing else so happy As in a soul remembering my good friends ; And, as my fortune ripens with thy love, It shall be still thy true love's recompense : My heart this covenant makes, my hand thus seals it. North. How far is it to Berkeley ? and what stir Keeps good old York there with his men of war ? Percy. There stands the castle, by yon tuft of trees, Mann'd with three hundred men, as I have heard ; And in it are the Lords of York, Berkeley, and Sey- None else of name and noble estimate. [mour; Enter Ross and "Willoughby. North. Here come the Lords of Ross and WiUough- Bloody with spurring, fiery-red with haste. [by, Baling. Welcome, my lords. I wot your love pur- A banish 'd traitor: all my treasury [sues Is yet but unfelt thanks, which more enrich'd Shall be yom- love and labour's recompense, [lord. Boss. Your presence makes us rich, most noble Willo. And far surmormts our labour to attain it. Baling. Evermore thanks, the exchequer of the poor; ACT I] RING RICHARD II SCENE IV. "Which, till my infant fortune comes to years, Stands for my bounty. But who comes here ? Enter Berkeley. North. It is my Lord of Berkeley, as I guess. Berk. My Lord of Hereford, my message is to you. Baling. My lord, my answer is — to Lancaster; And I am come to seek that name in England ; And I must find that title in your tongue, Before I make reply to aught you say. Berk. Mistake me not, my lord; 'tis not my meaning To raze one title of your honour out : To you, my lord, I come, what lord you will, Trom the most gracious regent of this land. The Duke of York, to know what pricks you on To take advantage of the absent time And fright our native peace with self-born arms. Muter York, attended. Baling. I shall not need transport my words by Here comes his grace in person. [you ; My noble uncle ! {Kneels. York. Show me thy humble heart, and not thy Whose duty is deceivable and false. [knee, Baling. My gracious imcle — York. Tut, tut. Grace me no grace, nor uncle me no uncle : I am no traitor's uncle ; and that word ' grace ' In an ungracious mouth is but profane. Why have those banish 'd and forbidden legs Dared once to touch a dust of England's ground ? But then more ' why ' ? why have they dared to march So many miles upon her peaceful bosom, Frighting her pale-faced villages with war And ostentation of despised arms ? Oomest thou because the anointed king is hence ? Why, foolish boy, the king is left behind. And in my loyal bosom lies his power. Were I but now the lord of such hot youth As when brave Gaunt, thy father, and myself Eescued the Black Prince, that young Mars of men. From forth the ranks of many thousand French, O, then how quickly should this arm of mine, Now prisoner to the palsy, chastise thee And minister correction to thy fault ! Boling. My gracious uncle, let me know my fault : On what condition stands it and wherein ? York. Even in condition of the worst degree, In gross rebellion and detested treason : Thou art a banish 'd man, and here art come Before the expiration of thy time, In braving arms against thy sovereign. [ford ; Boling. As I was banish'd, I was banish'd Here- But as I come, I come for Lancaster. And, noble uncle, I beseech your grace Look on my wrongs with an indifferent eye: You are my father, for methinks in you I see old Gaunt alive; O, then, my father. Will you permit that I shall stand condemn 'd A wandering vagabond ; my rights and royalties Pluck'd from my arms perforce and given away To upstart unthrifts ? Wherefore was I born ? If that my cousin king be King of England, It must be granted I am Duke of Lancaster. You have a son, Aumerle, my noble cousin ; Had you first died, and he been thus trod dovra. He should have found his uncle Gaunt a father. To rouse his wrongs and chase them to the bay. I am denied to sue my livery here. And yet my letters-patents give me leave : 304 My father's goods are all distrain 'd and sold, And these and all are all amiss employ'd. What would you have me do ? I am a subject. And I challenge law : attorneys are denied me ; And therefore personally I lay my claim To my inheritance of free descent. North. The noble duke hath been too much abused. Ross. It stands your grace upon to do him right. Willo. Base men by his endowments are made great. York. My lords of England, let me tell you this: I have had feeling of my cousin's wrongs And laboured all I could to do him right ; But in this kind to come, in braving arms, Be his own carver and cut out his way, To find out right with wrong, it may not be ; And you that do abet him in this kind Cherish rebellion and are rebels all. North. The noble duke hath sworn his coming is But for his ovni ; and for the right of that We all have strongly sworn to give him aid ; And let him ne'er see joy that breaks that oath I York. Well, well, I see the issue of these arms: I cannot mend it, I must needs confess. Because my power is weak and all ill left : But if I could, by Him that gave me life, I would attach you all and make you stoop Unto the sovereign mercy of the king ; But since I cannot, be it known to you I do remain as neuter. So, fare you weU; Unless you please to enter in the castle And there repose you for this night. Boling. An offer, uncle, that we will accept: But we must win your grace to go with us To Bristol castle, which they say is held By Bushy, Bagot and their complices, The caterpillars of the commonwealth, Which I have sworn to weed and pluck away. York. It may be I will go with you : but yet I 'II For I am loath to break our country's laws. Nor friends nor foes, to me welcome you are : Things past redress are now with me past care. [Exevmi. SCENE IV.— -4. camp in Wales. Enter Salisbury and a Welsh Captain. Cap. My Lord of Salisbury, we have stay'd ten And hardly kept our countrymen together, [days, And yet we hear no tidings from the king ; Therefore we will disperse ourselves : farewell. Sal. Stay yet another day, thou trusty Welshman : The king reposeth all his confidence in thee. Cap. 'T is thought the king is dead ; we will not stay. The bay-trees in oiir country are aU wither'd And meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven ; The pale-faced moon looks bloody on the earth And lean-look 'd prophets whisper fearful change ; Rich men look sad and ruffians dance and leap. The one in fear to lose what they enjoy. The other to enjoy by rage and war : These signs forerun the death or fall of kings. Farewell : our countrymen are gone and fled, As well assured Richard their king is dead. [Exit. Sal. Ah, Richard, with the eyes of heavy mind I see thy glory like a shooting star Fall to the base earth from the firmament. Thy sun sets weeping in the lowly west. Witnessing storms to come, woe and unrest : Thy friends are fled to wait upon thy foes, And crossly to thy good all fortune goes. lExii- ACT III. KING RICHARD IL SCENE II, A^CT III. SCENE I. — Bristol. Before the castle. Enter Bolingbroke, York, Northumberland, Boss, Percy, Willoughby, with Busby and Green, pris- oners. Baling. Bring forth these men. Bushy and Green, I will not vex your souls — Since presently your souls must part your bodies — With too much urgmg your pernicious lives, For 't were no charity ; yet, to wash your blood From off my hands, here in the view of men I will unfold some causes of your deaths. You have misled a prince, a royal king, A happy gentleman in blood and lineaments^ By you unhappied and disfigured clean : You have in manner with your sinful hours Made a divorce betwixt his queen and him, Broke the possession of a royal bed And stain'd the beauty of a fair queen's cheeks With tears drawn from' her eyes by your foul wrongs. Myself, a prince by fortune of my birth. Near to the king in blood, and near in love Till you did make him misinterpret me. Have stoop'd my neck under your injuries. And sigh'd my English breath in foreign clouds. Eating the bitter bread of banishment ; Whilst you have fed upon my signories, Dispark'd my parks and fell'd my forest woods, From my own windows torn my household coat. Razed out my imprese, leaving me no sign, Save men's opinions and my living blood, To show the world I am a gentleman. This and much more, much more than twice all this, Condemns you to the death . See them deliver 'd over To execution and the hand of death. Bushy. More welcome is the stroke of death to me Than Bolingbroke to England. Lords, farewell. Green. My comfort is that heaven will take our And plague injustice with the pains of hell, [souls Baling. My Lord Northumberland, see them dis- patch'd. [Exeunt Northumberland and others, with the prisoners. Uncle, you say the queen is at your house ; For God's sake, fairly let her be entreated : Tell her I send to her my kind commends ; Take special care my greetings be deliver'd. Yorlc. A gentleman of mine I have dispatch 'd With letters of your love to her at large. Baling. Thanks, gentle uncle. Come, lords, away, To fight with Glendower and his complices : Awhile to work, and after holiday. [Exeunt. SCENE II. — The coast of Wales. A castle in view. Drums : flourish and colours. Enter King Richard, the Bishop of Carlisle, Aumerle, and Soldiers. K. Rich. Barkloughly castle call they this at hand !* Aum. Yea, my lord. How brooks your grace the After your late tossing on the breaking seas ? [air, K. Rich. Needs must I like it well : I weep for To stand upon my kingdom once again. [joy Dear earth, I do salute thee with my hand, Though rebels wound thee with their horses' hoofs : As a long-parted mother with her child Plays fondly with her tears and smiles in meeting. So, weeping, smiling, greet I thee, my earth, And do thee favours with my royal hands. Feed not thy sovereign's foe, my gentle earth, Nor with thy sweets comfort his ravenous sense ; But let thy spiders, that suck up thy venom. And heavy-gaited toads lie in their way, Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet Which with usurping steps do trample thee 20 Yield stinging nettles to mine enemies ; And when they from thy bosom pluck a flower. Guard it, I pray thee, with a lurking adder Whose double tongue may with a mortal touch Throw death upon thy sovereign's enemies. Mock not my senseless conjuration, lords: This earth shall have a feeling and these stones Prove armed soldiers, ere her native king Shall falter under foul rebellion's arms. [king Car. Fear not, my lord : that Power that made you Hath power to keep you king in spite of all. The means that heaven yields must be embraced, And not neglected ; else, if heaven would. And we will not, heaven's offer we refuse. The proffer'd means of succour and redress. Aum. He means, my lord, that we are too remiss ; Whilst Bolingbroke, through our security. Grows strong and great in substance and in power. K. Rich. Discomfortable cousin ! know 'st thou not That when the searching eye of heaven is hid, Behind the globe, that lights the lower world. Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen In murders and in outrage, boldly here; But when from under this terrestrial ball He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines And darts his light through every guilty hole. Then murders, treasons and detested sins, [backs, The cloak of night being pluck'd from off' their Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves ? So when this thief, this traitor, Bolingbroke, Who all this while hath revell'd in the night Whilst we were wandering with the antipodes, Shall see us rising in our throne, the east, His treasons will sit blushing in his face. Not able to endure the sight of day. But self-affrighted tremble at his sin. Not all the water in the rough rude sea Can wash the balm off from an anointed king ; The breath of worldly men cannot depose The deputy elected by the Lord : For every man that Bolingbroke hath press'd To lift shrewd steel against our golden crown, God for his Richard hath in heavenly pay A glorious angel : then, if angels fight, [right. Weak men must fall, for heaven still guards the Enter Salisbury. Welcome, my lord : how far off lies your power ? Sal. Nor near nor farther off, my gracious lord, Than this weak arm : discomfort guides my tongue And bids me speak of nothing but despair. One day too late, I fear me, noble lord. Hath clouded all thy happy days on earth : O, call back yesterday, bid time return, And thou shalt have twelve thousand fighting men ! To-day, to-day, unhappy day, too late, O'erthrows thy joys, friends, fortune and thy state : For all the Welshmen, hearing thou wert dead. Are gone to Bolingbroke, dispersed and fled. Aum. Comfort, my liege: why looks your grace so pale ? [men K. Rich. But now the blood of twenty thousand Did triumph in my face, and they are fled ; And, till so much blood thither come again. Have I not reason to look pale and dead ? All souls that will be safe fly from my side. For time hath set a blot upon my pride. Aum. Comfort, my liege; remember who you are. K. Rich. I had forgot myself : am I not king ? Awake, thou coward majesty ! thou sleepest. Is not the king's name twenty thousand names ? Arm, arm, my name ! a puny subject strikes At thy great glory. Look not to the groimd, Ye favourites of a king : are we not high ? 805 ACT III. KING RICHARD II SCENE III. High be our thoughts : I know my uncle York Hath power enough to serve our turn. But who comes here ? MfiUr Scroop. Scroop. More health and happiness betide my liege Than can my care-tuned tongue deliver him ! K. Bicli. Mine ear is open and my heart prepared : The worst is worldly loss thou canst unfold. Say, is my kingdom lost v why, 'twas my care; And what loss is it to be rid of care ? Strives Bolingbroke to be as great as we ? Greater he shall not be ; if he serve God, We '11 serve Him too and be his fellow so : Revolt our subjects ? that we cannot mend; They break their faith to God as well as us : Cry woe, destruction, ruin and decay ; The worst is death, and death will have his day. Scroop. Glad am I that your highness is so arm'd To bear the tidings of calamity. Like an unseasonable stormy day. Which makes the silver rivers drown their shores, As if the world were all dissolved to tears. So high above his limits swells the rage Of Bolingbroke, covering your fearful land With hard bright steel and hearts harder than steel. White-beards have arm'd their thin and hairless scalps Against thy majesty ; boys, with women's voices. Strive to speak big and clap their female joints In stiff unwieldly arms against thy crown : Thy very beadsmen learn to bend their bows Of double-fatal yew against thy state ; Yea, distaff -women manage rusty bills Against thy seat : both young and old rebel, And all goes worse than I have power to tell. [ill. K. Rich. Too well, too well thou tell'st a tale so Where is the Earl of Wiltshire ? where is Bagot ? What is become of Bushy ? where is Green ? That they have let the dangerous enemy Measure our confines with such peaceful steps ? If we prevail, their heads shall pay for it : I warrant they have made peace with Bolingbroke. Scroop. Peace have they made with him indeed, my lord. [demption ! K. Bich. O villains, vipers, damn'd without re- Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man ! [heart ! Snakes, in my heart-blood warm'd, that sting my Three Judases, each one thrice worse than Judas ! Would they make peace ? terrible hell make war Upon their spotted souls for this offence ! Scroop. Sweet love, I see, changing his property. Turns to the sourest and most deadly hate : Again uncurse their souls ; their peace is made With heads, and not with hands : those whom you curse Have felt the worst. of death's destroying wound And lie full low, graved in the hollow ground. Aum. Is Bushy, Green, and the Earl of Wiltshire dead ? Scroop. Ay, all of them at Bristol lost their heads. Aum. Where is the duke my father with his power ? [speak : K. Bich. No matter where ; of comfort no man Let 's talk of graves, of worms and epitaphs; Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth, Let 's choose executors and talk of wills : And yet not so, for what can we bequeath Save our deposed bodies to the ground ? Our lands, our lives and all are Bolingbroke 's. And nothing can we call our own but death And that small model of the barren earth Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. Eor God's sake, let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings : How some have been deposed ; some slain in war ; 306 Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed ; Some poison'd by their wives ; some sleeping kill'd; All murder'd : for within the hollow crown That rounds the mortal temples of a king Keeps Death his court and there the antic sits, Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp. Allowing him a breath, a little scene, To monarchize, be fear'd and kill with looks, Infusing him with self and vain conceit, As if this flesh which walls about our life Were brass impregnable, and humour'd thus Comes at the last and with a little pin Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king! Cover yom- heads and mock not flesh and blood With solemn reverence : throw away respect, Tradition, form and ceremonious duty. For you have but mistook me all this while : I live with bread like you, feel want. Taste grief, need friends : subjected thus. How can you say to me, I am a king ? Car. My lord, wise men ne'er sit and wail their But presently prevent the ways to wail. [woes, To fear the foe, since fear oppresseth strength. Gives in your weakness strength unto your foe, And so your follies fight against yourself. Fear, and be slain ; no worse can come to fight : And fight and die is death destroying death ; Where fearing dying pays death servile breath. Aum. My father hath a power ; inquire of him, And learn to make a body of a limb. K. Bich. Thou chidest me well: proud Boling- broke, I come To change blows with thee for our day of doom. This ague fit of fear is over-blown ; An easy task it is to win our own. Say, Scroop, where lies our uncle with his power? Speak sweetly, man, although thy looks be sour. Scroop. Men judge by the complexion of the sky The state and inclination of the day : So may you by my dull and heavy eye. My tongue hath but a heavier tale to say. I play the torturer, by small and small To lengthen out the worst that must be spoken : Your uncle York is joined with Bolingbroke, And all your northern castles yielded up. And all your southern gentlemen in arms Upon his party. K. Bich. Thou hast said enough. Beshrew thee, cousin, which didst lead me forth [To Aumerle. i.ir! Of that sweet way I was in to despair ! What say you now ? what comfort have we now ? By heaven, I '11 hate him everlastingly That bids me be of comfort any more. Go to Flint castle : there I '11 pine away ; A king, woe's slave, shall kingly woe obey. That power I have, discharge ; and let them go To ear the land that hath some hope to grow, For I have none : let no man speak again To alter this, for counsel is but vain. Awn. My liege, one word. K. Bich. He does me double wrong That wounds me with the flatteries of his tongue. Discharge my followers : let them hence away, From Richard's night to Bolingbroke 's fair day. [Exeunt. SCENE HI. — Wales. Before Flint Castle. Enter, with drum and colours, Bolingbroke, York, Northumberland, Attendants, and forces. Baling. So that by this intelligence we learn The Welshmen are dispersed, and Salisbury Is gone to meet the king, who lately landed With some few private friends upon this coast. North. The news is very fair and good, my lord: Richard not far from hence hath hid his head. ACT III. KING RICHARD II SCENE III. Yorh. It would beseem the Lord Northumberland To say ' King Kichard : ' alack the heavy day When such a sacred king should hide his head. North. Your grace mistakes ; only to be brief, Left I his title out. York. The time hath been, "Would you have been so brief with him, he would Have been so brief with you, to shorten you. For taking so the head, your whole head's length. Baling . Mistake not, uncle, further than you should. [should, Yorlc. Take not, good cousin, further than you Lest you mistake the heavens are o'er our heads. Baling . I know it, uncle, and oppose not myself Against their will. But who comes here ? Enter Percy. "Welcome, Harry: what, will not this castle yield? Percy. The castle royally is mann'd, my lord. Against thy entrance. Baling. Royally! Why, it contains no king ? Percy. Yes, my good lord. It doth contain a king ; King Richard lies Within the limits of yon lime and stone : And with him are the Lord Aumerle, Lord Salisbury, Sir Stephen Scroop, besides a clergyman Of holy reverence ; who, I cannot learn. North. O, belike it is the Bishop of Carlisle. Baling. Noble lords, Go to the rude ribs of that ancient castle ; Through brazen trumpet send the breath of parley Into his ruin'd ears, and thus deliver: Henry Bolingbroke On both his knees doth kiss King Richard's hand And sends allegiance and true faith of heart To his most royal person, hither come Even at his feet to lay my arms and power, Provided that my banishment repeal'd And lands restored again be freely granted : If not, I '11 use the advantage of my power And lay the summer's dust with showers of blood Rain'd from the wounds of slaughter'd Englishmen : The which, how far off from the mind of Bolingbroke It is, such crimson tempest should bedrench The fresh green lap of fair King Richard's land, My stooping duty tenderly shall show. Go, signify as much, while here we march Upon the grassy carpet of this plain. Let 's march without the noise of threatening drum, That from this castle's tatter 'd battlements Our fair appointments may be well perused. Methinks King Richard and myself should meet With no less terror than the elements Of fire and water, when their thundering shock At meeting tears the cloudy cheeks of heaven. Be he the fire, I '11 be the yielding water: The rage be his, whilst on the earth I rain My waters ; on the earth, and not on him. March on, and mark King Richard how he looks. Parle without, and answer within. Then a flourish. Miter on the walls, King Richard, the Bishop of Carlisle, Aumerle, Scroop, and Salisbury. See, see. King Richard doth himself appear. As doth the blushing discontented sun Erom out the fiery portal of the east. When he perceives the envious clouds are bent To dim his glory and to stain the track Of his bright passage to the Occident. York, "i et looks he like a king : behold, his eye. As bright as is the eagle's, lightens forth Controlling majesty: alack, alack, for woe, That any harm should stain so fair a show! [stood K. Rich. We are amazed ; and thus long have we To watch the fearful bending of thy knee , [To North. Because we thought ourself thy lawful king: And if we be, how dare thy joints forget To pay their awful duty to our presence ? If we be not, show us the hand of God That hath dismiss'd us from our stewardship; For well we know, no hand of blood and bone Can gripe the sacred handle of our sceptre. Unless he do profane, steal, or usurp. And though you think that all, as you have done, Have torn their souls by turning them from us, And we are barren and bereft of friends ; Yet know, my master, God omnipotent. Is mustering in his clouds on our behalt Armies of pestilence; and they shall strike Your children yet unborn and unbegot, That lift your vassal hands against my head And threat the glory of my precious crown. Tell Bolingbroke — for yond methinks he stands — That every stride he makes upon my land Is dangerous treason : he is come to open The purple testament of bleeding war ; But ere the crown he looks for live in peace. Ten thousand bloody crowns of mothers' sons Shall ill become the flower of England's face. Change the complexion of her maid-pale peace To scarlet indignation and bedew Her pastures' grass with faithful English blood. North. The king of heaven forbid our lord the king Should so with civil and uncivil arms Be rush'd upon ! Thy thrice noble cousin Harry Bolingbroke doth humbly kiss thy hand ; And by the honourable tomb he swears. That stands upon your royal grandsire's bones. And by the royalties of both your bloods. Currents that spring from one most gracious head, And by the buried hand of warlike Gaunt, And by the worth and honour of himself, Comprising all that may be sworn or said. His coming hither hath no further scope Than for his lineal royalties and to beg Enfranchisement immediate on his knees : Which on thy royal party granted once. His glittering arms he will commend to rust. His barbed steeds to stables, and his heart To faithful service of your majesty. This swears he, as he is a prince, is just ; And, as I am a gentleman, I credit him. [turns: K. Bich. Northumberland, say thus the king re- His noble cousin is right welcome hither ; And all the number of his fair demands Shall be accomplish 'd without contradiction; With all the gracious utterance thou hast Speak to his g^tle hearing kind commends. "We do debase ourselves, cousin, do we not, [To Aumerle. To look so poorly and to speak so fair .'' Shall we call back Northumberland, and send Defiance to the traitor, and so die ? [words Aum. No, good my lord ; let 's fight with gentle Till time lend friends and friends their helpful swords. [mine, K. Rich. O God, O God! that e'er this tongue of That laid the sentence of dread banishment On yon proud man, should take it off again With words of sooth ! O that I were as great As is my grief, or lesser than my name ! Or that I could forget what I have been. Or not remember what I must be now ! [beat, Swell'st thou, proud heart ? I '11 give thee scope to Since foes have scope to beat both thee and me. Aum. Northumberland comes back from Boling- broke. [submit ? K. Rich. What must the king do now ? must he The king shall do it : must he be deposed ? The king shall be contented : must he lose The name of king ? o' God's name, let it go: I '11 give my jewels for a set of beads, My gorgeous palace for a hermitage, 307 ACT III. KING RICHARD II SCENE lY . My gay apparel for an almsman's gown, My Bgured goblets for a dish of wood, My sceptre for a palmer's walking-staff, My subjects for a pair of carved saints And my large kingdom for a little grave, A little little grave, an obscure grave ; Or I '11 be buried in the king's highway, Some way of common trade, where subjects' feet May hourly trample on their sovereign's head ; For on my heart they tread now whilst I live ; And buried once, why not upon my head ? Aumerle, thou weep'st, my tender-hearted cousin! "We '11 make foul weather with despised tears ; Our sighs and they shall lodge the summer corn, And make a dearth in this revolting land. Or shall we play the wantons with our woes. And make some pretty match with shedding tears ? As thus, to drop them still upon one place. Till they have fretted us a pair of graves Within the earth ; and, therein laid,— there lies Two kinsmen digg'd their graves with weeping eyes. Would not this ill do well ? Well, well, I see I talk but idly, and you laugh at me. Most mighty prince, my Lord Northumberland, What says King Bolingbroke ? will his majesty Give Richard leave to live till Richard die ? You make a leg, and Bolingbroke says ay. North. My lord, in the base court he doth attend To speak with you ; may it please you to come down. K. Rich. Down, dovyn I come; like glistering Phaethon, Wanting the manage of unruly jades. [base, In the base court ? Base court, where kings grow To come at traitors' calls and do them grace. In the base court? Come down? Down, court! down, king ! For night-owls shriek where mounting larks should sing. [Exeunt from above. jBoling. What says his majesty ? North. Sorrow and grief of heart Makes him speak fondly, like a frantic man : Yet he is come. Enter King Richard and his Attendants below. Boling. Stand all apart. And show fair duty to his majesty. [He kneels down. My gracious lord,— [knee K. Rich. Fair cousin, you debase your princely To make the base earth proud with kissing it : Me rather had my heart might feel your love Than my unpleased eye see your c^irtesy. Up, cousin, up ; your heart is up, r-know. Thus high at least, although your knee be low. Boling. My gracious lord, I come but for mine own. [and all. K. Rich. Your own is yours, and I am yours, Boling. So far be mine, my most redoubted lord, As my true service shall deserve your love, [have, K. Rich. Well you deserve : they well deserve to That know the strong 'st and surest way to get. Uncle, give me your hands : nay, dry your eyes ; Tears show their love, but want their remedies. ■ Cousin, I am too young to be your father, Though you are old enough to be my heir. What you will have, I '11 give, and willing too ; For do we must what force will have us do. Set on towards London, cousin, is it so ? Boling. Yea, my good lord. K. Rich. Then I must not say no. [Flourish. Exeunt. SCENE IV.—Langley. The Duke of Tork^s garden. Enter the Queen and two Ladies. Queen. What sport shall we devise here in this gar- To drive away the heavy thought of care ? [den, Lady. Madam, we '11 play at bowls. [rubs. Queen. 'T will make me think the world is full of And that my fortune runs against the bias. Lady. Madam, we '11 dance. Queen. My legs can keep no measure in delight, When my poor heart no measure keeps in grief : Therefore, no dancing, girl ; some other sport. Lady. Madam, we '11 tell tales. Queen. Of sorrow or of joy ? Lady. Of either, madam. Queen. Of neither, girl : For if of joy, being altogether wanting. It doth remember me the more of sorrow ; Or if of grief, being altogether had. It adds more sorrow to my want of joy: For what I have I need not to repeat ; And what I want it boots not to complain. Lady. Madam, I '11 sing. Queen. 'T is well that thou hast cause ; But thou shouldst please me better, wouldst thou weep. [good. Lady. I could weep, madam, would it do you Queen. And I could sing, would weeping do me And never borrow any tear of thee. [good, Enter a Gar- jner, and two Servants. But stay, here &ome the gardeners : Let 's step into the shadow of these trees. My wretchedness unto a row of pins, They '11 talk of state ; for every one doth so Against a change: woe is forerun with woe. [Queen and Ladies retire. Oard. Go, bind thou up yon dangling apricocks, Which, like unruly children, make their sire Stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight : Give some supportance to the bending twigs. Go thou^ and like an executioner, Cut off the heads of too fast growing sprays, That look too lofty in our commonwealth: All must be even in our government. You thus employ 'd, I will go root away The noisome weeds, which without profit suck The soil's fertility from wholesome flowers. Serv. Why should we in the compass of a pale Keep law and form and due proportion. Showing, as in a model, our firm estate. When our sea-walled garden, the whole land, Is full of weeds, her fairest flowers choked up, Her fruit-trees all unpruned, her hedges ruin'd, Her knots disorder'd and her wholesome herbs Swarming with caterpillars ? Gard. Hold thy peace : He that hath suffer'd this disorder'd spring Hath now liimself met with the fall of leaf : The weeds which his broad-spreading leaves did shelter, That seem'd in eating him to hold him up. Are pluck'd up root and all by Bolingbroke, I mean the Earl of Wiltshire, Bushy, Green. Serv. What, are they dead ? Gard. They are ; and Bolingbroke Hath seized the wasteful king. O, what pity is it That he had not so trimm'd and dress'd his land As we this garden ! We at time of year Do wound the bark, the skin of our fruit-trees, Lest, being over-proud in sap and blood. With too much riches it confound itself: Had he done so to great and growing men. They might have lived to bear and he to taste Their fruits of duty : superfluous branches We lop away, that bearing boughs may live : Had he done so, himself had borne the crown. Which waste of idle hours hath quite thrown down. Serv. What, think you then the king shall be de* Gard. Depress'd he is already, and deposed 'T is doubt he will be : letters came last night ACT IV. KING RICHARD II SCENE I. To a dear friend of the good Duke of York's, That tell black tidings. Qiteen. O, I am press'd to death through want of speaking! [Coming forward . Thou, old Adam's likeness, set to dress this garden, How dares thy harsh rude tongue sound this uu- pleasing news ? What Eve, what serpent, hath suggested thee To make a second fall of cursed man ? Why dost thou say King Eichard is deposed ? Barest thou, thou little better thing than earth. Divine his downfall ? Say, where, when, and how, Camest thou by this ill tidings ? speak, thou wretch. Gard. Pardon me, madam : little joy have I To breathe this news ; yet what I say is true. King Richard, he is in the mighty hold Of Bolingbroke : their fortunes both are weigh'd : In your lord's scale is nothing but himself, And some few vanities that make him light ; But in the balance of great Bolingbroke, Besides himself, are all the English peers, And with that odds he weighs King Eichard down. Post you to London, and you will find it so ; I speak no more than every one doth know. Queen. Nimble mischance, that art so light of foot, Doth not thy embassage belong to me, And am I last that knows it ? O, thou think'st To serve me last, that I may longest keep Thy sorrow in my breast. Come, ladies, go, To meet at London London's king in woe. What, was I born to this, that my sad look Should grace the triumph of great Bolingbroke ? Gardener, for telling me these news of woe. Pray God the plants thou graft 'st may never grow. [Exeunt Queen and Ladies. Gard. Poor queen ! so that thy state might be no worse, I would my skill were subject to thy curse. Here did she fall a tear ; here in this place I '11 set a bank of rue, sour herb of grace : Eue, even for ruth, here shortly shall be seen, In the remembrance of a weeping queen. [Exeunt. A.OT IV. SCElirE 1.— Westminster Hall. Enter, as to the Parliament, Bolingbroke, Aumerle, Northumberland, Percy, Fitzwater, Surrey, the Bishop of Carlisle, the Abbot of Westminster, and another Lord, Herald, Officers, and Bagot. Baling. Call forth Bagot. Now, Bagot, freely speak thy mind ; What thou dost know of noble Gloucester's death. Who wrought it with the king, and who perform 'd The bloody office of his timeless end. Bagot. Then set before my face the Lord Aumerle. Bating. Cousin, stand forth, and look upon that man. [tongue Bagot. My Lord Aumerle, I know your daring Scorns to unsay what once it hath deliver'd. In that dead time when Gloucester's death was plotted, I heard you say, ' Is not my arm of length. That reacheth from the wrestful English court As far as Calais, to mine uncle's head ? ' Amongst much other talk, that very time, I heard you say that you had rather refuse The offer of an hundred thousand crowns Than Bolingbroke's return to England ; Adding withal, how blest this land would be In this your cousin's death. Aum. Princes and noble lords, What answer shall I make to this base man ? Shall I so much dishonour my fair stars, On equal terms to give him chastisement ? Either I must, or have mine honour soil'd With the attainder of his slanderous lips. There is my gage, the manual seal of death. That marks thee out for hell : I say, thou liest. And will maintain what thou hast said is false In thy heart-blood, though being all too base To stain the temper of my knightly sword. Baling. Bagot, forbear : thou shalt not take it up. Aum. Excepting one, I would he were the best In all this presence that hath moved me so. Fitz. If that thy valour stand on sj'^mpathy. There is my gage, Aumerle, in gage to thine: By that fair sun which sliows me where thou stand'st , I heard thee say, and vauntingly thou spakest it, That thou wert cause of noble Gloucester's death. If thou deny'st it twenty times, thou liest ; And I will turn thy falsehood to thy heart. Where it was forged, with my rapier's point, [day. Aum. Thou darest not, coward, live to see that Fitz. Now, by my soul, I would it were this hour. Aum. Fitzwater, thou art damn'd to hell for this. Percy. Aumerle, thou liest; his honour is as true In this appeal as thou art all unjust ; And that thou art so, there I throw my gage, To prove it on thee to the extremest point Of mortal breathing: seize it, if thou darest. Aum. An if I do not, may my hands rot off And never brandish more revengeful steel Over the glittering helmet of my foe ! Another Lord. I task the earth to the like, for- sworn Aumerle ; And spur thee on with full as many lies As may be holloa'd in thy treacherous ear From sun to sun : there is my honour's pawn; Engage it to the trial, if thou darest. Aum. Who sets me else ? by heaven, I '11 throw at all : I have a thousand spirits in one breast. To answer twenty thousand such as you. Surrey. My Lord Fitzwater, I do remember well The very time Aumerle and you did talk. Fitz. 'T is very true : you were in presence then ; And you can witness with me this is true. Surrey. As false, by heaven, as heaven itself is Fitz. Surrey, thou liest. [true. Surrey. Dishonourable boy ! That lie shall lie so heavy on my sword. That it shall render vengeance and revenge Till thou the lie-giver and that lie do lie In earth as quiet as thy father's skull : In proof whereof, there is my honour's pawn; Engage it to the trial, if thou darest. litz. How fondly dost thou spur a forward horse ! If I dare eat, or drink, or breathe, or live, I dare meet Surrey in a wilderness, And spit upon him, whilst I say he lies. And lies, and lies : there is my bond of faith, To tie thee to my strong correction. As I intend to thrive in this new world, Aumerle is guilty of my true appeal : Besides, I heard the banish 'd Norfolk say That thou, Aumerle, didst send two of thy men To execute the noble duke at Calais. Aum. Some honest Christian trust me with a gage, That Norfolk lies : here do I throw down this. If he may be repeal'd, to try his honour. Baling. These differences shall all rest under gage, Till Norfolk be repeal'd : repeal'd he shall be, And, though mine enemy, restored again 309 ACT IV. KING RICHARD II SCENE I. To all his lands and signories : when he 's returned, Against Aumerle we will enforce his trial. (Jar. That honourable day shall ne'er be seen. Many a time hath banish'd Norfolk fought For Jesu Christ in glorious Christian field, streaming the ensign of the Christian cross A.gainst black pagans, Turks, and Saracens ; And toil'd with works of war, retired himself To Italy ; and there at Venice gave His body to that pleasant country's earth. And his pure soul unto his captain Christ, Under whose colours he had fought so long. Boling. AVhy, bishop, is Norfolk dead V Car. As surely as I live, my lord. Boling. Sweet peace conduct his sweet soul to the bosom Of good old Abraham ! Lords appellants, Your differences shall all rest under gage Till we assign you to your days of trial. Enter York, attended. YorTi. Great Duke of Lancaster, I come to thee From plume-pluck 'd Richard ; who with willing soul Adopts thee heir, and his high sceptre yields To the possession of thy royal hand : Ascend his throne, descending now from him; And long live Henry, fourth of that name! Boling. In God's name, I '11 ascend the regal Car. Marry, God forbid ! [throne. "Worst in this royal presence may I speak. Yet best beseeming me to speak the truth. Would God that any in this noble presence Were enough noble to be upright judge Of noble Richard ! then true noblesse would Learn him forbearance from so foul a wrong. What subject can give sentence on his king r' And who sits here that is not Richard's subject ? Thieves are not judged but they are by to hear, Although apparent guilt be seen in them ; And shall the figure of God's majesty. His captain, steward, deputy-elect. Anointed, crowned, planted many years. Be judged by subject and inferior breath. And he himself not present ? O, forfend it, God, That in a Christian climate souls refined Should show so heinous, black, obscene a deed! I speak to subjects, and a subject speaks, Stirr'd up by God, thus boldly for his king. My Lord of Hereford here, whom you call king, Is a ford traitor to proud Hereford's king : And if you crown him, let me prophesy: The blood of English shall manure the ground, And future ages groan for this foul act ; Peace shall go sleep with Turks and infidels. And in this seat of peace tumultuous wars Shall kin with kin and kind with kind confound ; Disorder, horror, fear and mutiny Shall here inhabit, and this land be call'd The field of Golgotha and dead men's skulls. O, if you raise this house against this house, It will the woefuUest division prove That ever fell upon this cursed earth. Prevent it, resist it, let it not be so, Lest child, child's children, cry against you 'woe! ' North. Well have you argued, sir ; and, for your Of capital treason we arrest you here. [pains. My Lord of Westminster, be it your charge To keep him safely till his day of trial. May it please you, lords, to grant the commons' suit. Boling. Fetch hither Richard, that in common He may surrender ; so we shall proceed [view Without suspicion. York. I will be his conduct. [Exit. Boling. Lords, you that here are under our arrest, Procure your sureties for your days of answer. Little are we beholding to your love, And little look'd for at your helping hands. 310 J?e-enterYork, with Richard, an(Z Officers bearm^r the regalia. K. Eich. Alack, why am I sent for to a king, Before I have shook off the regal thoughts Wherewith I reign'd ? I hardly yet have learn'd To insinuate, flatter, bow, and bend my limbs : Give sorrow leave awhile to tutor me To this submission. Yet I well remember The favours of these men : were they not mine ? Did they not sometime cry, ' all hail ! ' to me ? So Judas did to Christ : but he, in twelve, [none. Found truth in all but one ; I, in twelve thousand, God save the king ! Will no man say amen ? Am I both priest and clerk ? well then, amen. God save the king ! although I be not he ; And yet, amen, if heaven do think him me. To do what service am I sent for hither ? York. To do that office of thine own good will Which tired majesty did make thee offer. The resignation of thy state and crown To Henry Bolingbroke. K. Bich. Give me the crown. Here, cousin, seize Here cousin ; [the crown ; On this side my hand, and on that side yours. Now is this golden crown like a deep well That owes two buckets, filling one another, The emptier ever dancing in the air. The other down, unseen and full of water: That bucket down and full of tears am I, Drinking my griefs, whilst you mount up on high. Boling. 1 thought you had been willing to resign. K. Bich. My crown I am ; but still my griefs are You may my glories and my state depose, [mine : But not my griefs ; still am I king of those, [crown. Bolinq. Part of your cares you give me with your K. Rich. Your cares set up do not pluck my cares My care is loss of care, by old care done ; [dovra. Your care is gain of care, by new care won : The cares I give I have, though given away; They tend the crown, yet still with me they stay. ^ Boling. Are you contented to resign the crown ? K. Bich. Ay, no ; no, ay ; for I must nothing be; Therefore no no, for I resign to thee. Now mark me, how I will undo myself : I give this heavy weight from off my head And this unwieldly sceptre from my hand, The pride of kingly sway from out my heart ; With mine own tears I wash away my balm, With mine own hands I give away my crown, With mine own tongue deny my sacred state, With mine own breath release all duty's rites : All pomp and majesty I do forswear; My manors, rents, revenues I forego; My acts, decrees, and statutes I deny : God pardon all oaths that are broke to me ! God keep all vows unbroke that swear to thee ! Make me, that nothing have, with nothing grieved, And thou with all pleased, that hast all achieved! Long mayst thou live in Richard's seat to sit, And soon lie Richard in an earthy pit ! God save King Harry, unking'd Richard says. And send him many years of sunshine days ! What more remains ? North. No more, but that you read These accusations and these grievous crimes Committed by your person and your followers Against the state and profit of this land ; That, by confessing them, the souls of men May deem that you are worthily deposed. K. Rich. Must I do so i* and must I ravel out My weaved-up folly V Gentle Northumberland, If thy offences were upon record, Would it not shame thee in so fair a troop To read a lecture of them y If thou wouldst. There shouldst thou find one heinous article, Containing the deposmg of a king ACT V. KING RICHARD II SCENE I. And cracking the strong warrant of an oath, Mark'd with a blot, damn'd in the book of heaven : Nay, all of you that stand and look upon, Whilst that my wretchedness doth bait myself, Though some of you with Pilate wash your hands Showing an outward pity ; yet you Pilates Have here deliver'd me to my sour cross. And water cannot wash away your sin. North. My lord, dispatch ; read o'er these articles. K. Bich. Mine eyes are full of tears, I cannot see : And yet salt water blinds them not so much But they can see a sort of traitors here. Nay, if I turn mine eyes upon myself, I find myself a traitor with the rest ; For I have given here my soul's consent To undeck the pompous body of a king ; Made glory base and sovereignty a slave, Proud majesty a subject, state a peasant. North. My lord,— [man, K. Bich. No lord of thine, thou haught insulting Nor no man's lord; I have no name, no title, No, not that name was given me at the font, But 'tis usurp'd: alack the heavy day. That I have worn so many winters out, -And know not now what name to call myself! O that I were a mockery king of snow. Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke, To melt myself away in water-drops ! Good king, great king, and yet not greatly good, An if my word be sterling yet in England, Let it command a mirror hither straight. That it may show me what a face I have. Since it is bankrupt of his majesty. Baling. Go some of you and fetch a looking-glass. [Exit an attendant. North. Bead o'er this paper while the glass doth come. K. Bich. Fiend, thou torment 'st me ere I come to hell! Baling. Urge it no more, my Lord Northumber- laind. North. The commons will not then be satisfied. K. Bich. They shall be satisfied : I '11 read enough. When I do see the very book indeed Where all my sins are writ, and that 's myself. Be-enter Attendant, with a glass. Give me the glass, and therein will I read. No deeper wrinkles yet ? hath sorrow struck So many blows upon this face of mine. And made no deeper wounds ? O flattering glass. Like to my followers in prosperity, Thou dost beguile me ! Was this face the face That every day under his household roof Did keep ten thousand men ? was this the face That, like the sun, did make beholders wink? Was this the face that faced so many follies. And was at last out-faced by Bolingbroke ? A brittle glory shineth in this face : As brittle as the glory is the face ; [Dashes the glass against the ground. For there it is, crack'd in a hundred shivers. Mark, silent king, the moral of this sport. How soon my sorrow hath destroy 'd my face. Baling. The shadow of your sorrow hath destroy 'd The shadow of your face. K. Bich. Say that again. Tlie shadow of my sorrow ! ha ! let 's see : 'T is very true, my grief lies all within ; And these external manners of laments Are merely shadows to the unseen grief That swells with silence in the tortured soul ; There lies the substance : and I thank thee, king. For thy great bounty, that not only givest Me cause to wail but teachest me the way How to lament the cause. I '11 beg one boon. And then be gone and trouble you no more. Shall I obtain it ? Baling. Name it, fair cousin. K. Bich. ' Fair cousin ' ? I am greater than a king : For when I was a king, my flatterers Were then but subjects ; being now a subject, I have a king here to my flatterer. Being so great, I have no need to beg. Baling. Yet ask. K. Bich. And shall I have ? Baling. You shall. K. Bich. Then give me leave to go. Baling. Whither? [sights. K. Bich. Whither you will, so I were from your Baling. Go, some of you convey him to the Tower. K. Bich. O, good ! convey ? conveyers are you all, That rise thus nimbly by a true king's fall. [Exeunt King Bichard, some Lards, and a Guard. Baling. On Wednesday next we solemnly set down Our coronation : lords, prepare yourselves. [Exeunt all except the Bishop of Carlisle, the Abbot of Westminster, and Aumerle. Abbot. A woeful pageant have we here beheld. Car. The woe 's to come ; the children yet imborn Shall feel this day as sharp to them as thorn. Aum. You holy clergymen, is there no plot To rid the realm of this pernicious blot ? Abbot. My lord. Before I freely speak my mind herein. You shall not only take the sacrament To bury mine intents, but also to effect Whatever I shall happen to devise. I see your brows are full of discontent. Your hearts of sorrow and your eyes of tears : Come home with me to supper ; and I '11 lay A plot shall show us all a merry day. [Exeunt. J^CT ^. SOEliE I. — London. A street leading to the Tower. Enter Queen and Ladies. Queen. This way the king will come ; this is the To Julius Caesar's ill-erected tower, [way To whose flint bosom my condemned lord Is doom'd a prisoner by proud Bolingbroke : Here let us rest, if this rebellious earth Have any resting for her true king's queen. Enter Richard, and Guard. But soft, but see, or rather do not see. My fair rose wither : yet look up, behold. That you in pity may dissolve to dew, Ajx(\ -wash him fresh again with true-love tears. Ah, thou, the model where old Troy did stand. Thou map of honour, thou King Richard's tomb, And not King Richard ; thou most beauteous inn, Why should hard-favour'd grief be lodged in thee, When triumph is become an alehouse guest ? [so, K. Bich. Join not with grief, fair woman, do not To make my end too sudden : learn, good soul, To think our former state a happy dream ; From which awaked, the truth of what we are Shows us but this : I am sworn brother, sweet, To grim Necessity, and he and I Will keep a league till death. Hie thee to France And cloister thee in some religious house : Our holy lives must win a new world's crown. Which our profane hours here have stricken down. 311 ACT V. KING RICHARD II SCENE II. Queen. What, is my Richard both in shape and mind [posed Transform 'd and weaken 'd? hath Bolingbroke de- Thine intellect ? hath he been in thy heart ? The lion dying thrusteth forth his paw, And wounds the earth, if nothing else, with rage To be o'erpower'd; and wilt thou, pupil-like, Take thy correction mildly, kiss the rod. And fawn on rage with base humility, Which art a lion and a king of beasts ? Pseasts, K. Rich. A king of beasts, indeed; if aught but I had been still a happy king of men. [France : Good sometime queen, prepare thee hence for Think I am dead and that even here thou takest. As from my death-bed, thy last living leave. In winter's tedious nights sit by the fire With good old folks and let them tell thee tales Of woeful ages long ago betid ; And ere thou bid good night, to quit their griefs, Tell thou the lamentable tale of me And send the hearers weeping to their beds : Tor why, the senseless brands will sympathize The heavy accent of thy moving tongue And in compassion weep the fire out ; And some will mourn in ashes, some coal-black, For the deposing of a rightful king. Enter Northumberland and others. North. My lord, the mind of Bolingbroke is changed ; You must to Pomfret, not unto the Tower. And, madam, there is order ta'en for you; With all swift speed you must away to France. K. Rich. Northumberland, thou ladder where- withal The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne. The time shall not be many hours of age More than it is ere foul sin gathering head Shall break into corruption : thou shalt think. Though he divide the realm and give thee hali. It is too little, helping him to all ; And he shall think that thou, which know'st the way To plant unrightful kings, wilt know again. Being ne'er so little urged, another way To pluck him headlong from the usurped throne. The love of wicked men converts to fear ; That fear to hate, and hate turns one or both To worthy danger and deserved death. North. My guilt be on my head, and there an end. Take leave and part; for you must part forthwith. -K". iJic/i. Doubly divorced ! Bad men, you violate A twofold marriage, 'twixt my crown and me, And then betwixt me and my married wife. Let me unkiss the oath 'twixt thee and me ; And yet not so, for with a kiss 't was made. Part us, Northumberland ; I towards the north. Where shivering cold and sickness pines the clime ; My wife to France : from whence, set forth in pomp. She came adorned hither like sweet May, Sent back like Hallowmas or short 'st of day. Queen. And must we be divided ? must we part ? K. Rich. Ay, hand from hand, my love, and heart from heart. Queen. Banish us both and send the king with me. North. That were some love but little policy. Queen. Then whither he goes, thither let me go. K. Rich. So two, together weeping, make one woe. Weep thou for me in France, I for thee here ; Better far off than near, be ne'er the near. • Go^ count thy way with sighs; I mine with groans. Queen. So longest way shall have the longest moans. K. Rich. Twice for one step I 'U groan, the way being short, And piece the way out with a heavy heart. Come, come, in wooing sorrow let 's be brief, Since, wedding it, there is such length in grief: 312 One kiss shall stop our mouths, and dumbly part; Thus give I mine, and thus take I thy heart. Queen. Give me mine own again; 'twere no good To take on me to keep and kill thy heart. [part So, now I have mine own again, be gone, That I may strive to kill it with a groan, [delay : K. Rich. We make woe wanton with this fond Once more, adieu ; the rest let sorrow say. [Exeunt. SCENE II.— Tfte Duke of York^s palace. Enter York and his Duchess. Duch. My lord, you told me you would tell the rest, When weeping made you break the story off, Of our two cousins coming into London. York. Where did I leave ? Duch. At that sad stop, my lord, Where rude misgovern'd hands from windows' tops Threw dust and rubbish on King Richard's head. York. Then, as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke, Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed Which his aspiring rider seem'd to know. With slow but stately pace kept on his course. Whilst all tongues cried 'God save thee, Boling- broke ! ' You would have thought the very windows spake, So many greedy looks of young and old Through casements darted their desiring eyes Upon his visage, and that all the walls With painted imagery had said at once ' Jesu preserve thee ! welcome, Bolingbroke ! ' Whilst he, from the one side to the other turning, Bareheaded, lower than his proud steed's neck, Bespake them thus ; ' I thank you, countrymen : ' And thus still doing, thus he pass'd along. Duch. Alack, poor Richard! where rode he the whilst ? York. As in a theatre, the eyes of men, After a well-graced actor leaves the stage, Are idly bent on him that enters next. Thinking his prattle to be tedious ; Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes Did scowl on gentle Richard ; no man cried ' God save him ! ' No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home : But dust was thrown upon his sacred head ; Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off. His face still combating with tears and smiles. The badges of his grief and patience. That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel'd The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted And barbarism itself have pitied him. But heaven hath a hand in these events. To whose high will we bound our calm contents. To Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now, Whose state and honour I for aye allow. Duch. Here comes my son Aumerle. York. Aumerle that was; But that is lost for being Richard's friend. And, madam, you must call him Rutland now: I am in parliament pledge for his truth And lasting fealty to the new made king. Enter Aumerle. Duch. Welcome, my son : who are the violets now That strew the green lap of the new come spring ? Aum. Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not : God knows I had as lief be none as one. [time, York. Well, bear you well in this new spring of Lest you be cropp'd before you come to prime. What news from Oxford ? hold those justs and tri- umphs ? Aum. For aught I know, my lord, they do. York. You will be there, 1 know. Aum. If God prevent not, I purpose so. [bosom? York. What seal is that, that hangs without thy Yea, look'st thou pale ? let me see the writing. ACT V. KING RICHARD II SCENE III. Aum. My lord, 'tis nothing. York. No matter, then, who see it : I will be satisfied ; let me see the writing. Aum. I do beseech your grace to pardon me : It is a matter of small consequence. Which for some reasons I would not have seen. York. Which for some reasons, sir, I mean to see. I fear, I fear,— Biidx . What should you fear ? 'T is nothing but some bond, that he has enter 'd into For gay apparel 'gainst the triumph day. York. Bound to himself ! what doth he with a bond That he has bound to ? Wife, thou art a fool. Boy, let me see the writing. [show it. Aum. I do beseech you, pardon me; I may not York. I will be satisfied ; let me see it, I say. [iJe i)lucks it out of his bosom, and reads it. Treason ! foul treason ! Villain ! traitor ! slave ! Buck. What is the matter, my lord ? York. Ho ! who is within there ? Enter a Servant. Saddle my horse. God for his mercy, what treachery is here ! • Duch. Why, what is it, my lord ? York. Give me my boots, I say ; saddle my horse. [Exit Servant. Now, by mine honour, by my life, by my troth, I will appeach the villain. Duch. What is the matter ? York. Peace, foolish woman. [Aumerle ? Duch. I will not peace. What is the matter, Aum. Good mother, be content, it is no more Than my poor life must answer. Duch. Thy life answer ! York. Bring me my boots : I will unto the king. Re-enter Servant vnth boots. Duch. Strike him, Aumerle. Poor boy, thou art Hence, villain ! never more come in my sight. York. Give me my boots, I say. Duch. Why, York, what wilt thou do ? Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own ? Have we more sons ? or are we like to have ? Is not my teeming date drunk up with time ? And v/ilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age, And rob me of a happy mother's name ? Is he not like thee ? is he not thine own ? York. Thou fond mad woman. Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy ? A dozen of them here have ta'en the sacrament, And interchangeably set down their hands, To kill the king at Oxford. Duch. He shall be none ; We '11 keep him here : then what is that to him ? York. Away, fond woman ! were he twenty times I would appeach him. [my son, Dwch. Hadst thou groan'd for him As I have done, thou wouldst be more pitiful. But now I know thy mind ; thou dost suspect That I have been disloyal to thy bed. And that he is a bastard, not thy son : Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind : He is as like thee as a man may be. Not like to me, or any of my kin. And yet I love him. York. Make way, unruly woman ! [Exit. Duch. After, Aumerle! mount thee upon his Spur post, and get before him to the king, [horse ; And beg thy pardon ere he do accuse thee. I '11 not be long behind ; though I be old, I doubt not but to ride as fast as York : And never will I rise up from the ground Till Bolingbroke have pardon'd thee. Away, be gone I SCENE 111.— A royal palace. Enter Bolingbroke, Percy, and other Lords. Baling. Can no man tell me of my unthrifty son ? 'T is full three months since I did see him last ; If any plague hang over us, 't is he. I would to God, my lords, he might be found : Inquire at London, 'mongst the taverns there, For there, they say, he daily doth frequent. With unrestrained loose companions. Even such, they say, as stand in narrow lanes. And beat our watch, and rob our passengers. Which he, young wanton and effeminate boy, Takes on the point of honour to support So dissolute a crew. [prince, Percy. My lord, some two days since I saw the And told him of those triumphs held at Oxford. Boling. And what said the gallant ? Percy. His answer was, he would unto the stews. And from the common 'st creature pluck a glove, And wear it as a favour : and with that He would unhorse the lustiest challenger. [both Boling. As dissolute as desperate; yet through I see some sparks of better hope, which elder years May happily bring forth. But who comes here ? Enter Aumerle. Aum. Where is the king ? [looks Boling. What means our cousin, that he stares and So wildly ? [majesty, Aum. God save your grace! I do beseech your To have some conference with your grace alone. Boling. Withdraw yourselves, and leave us here alone. [Exeunt Percy and Lords. What is the matter with our cousin now ? Aum. For ever may my knees grow to the earth, My tongue cleave to my roof within my mouth, Unless a pardon ere I rise or speak. Boling. Intended or committed was this fault ? If on the first, how heinous e'er it be, To win thy after-love I pardon thee. [key, Aum. Then give me leave that I may turn the That no man enter till my tale be done. Boling. Have thy desire. York. [ Within'\ My liege, beware : look to thyself ; Thou hast a traitor in thy presence there. Boling. Villain, I '11 make thee safe. [Draioing. Aum. Stay thy revengeful hand; thou hast no cause to fear. [king : York. [ Within'] Open the door, secure, fool-hardy Shall I for love speak treason to thy face ? Open the door, or I will break it open. Enter York. Boling. What is the matter, uncle ? speak ; Recover breath ; tell us how near is danger, That we may arm us to encounter it. [know York. Peruse this writing here, and thou shalt The treason that my haste forbids me show. Aum. Remember, as thou read'st, thy promise I do repent me ; read not my name there ; [pass'd : My heart is not confederate with my hand. York. It was, villain, ere thy hand did set it down. I tore it from the traitor's bosom, king; Fear, and not love, begets his penitence: Forget to pity him, lest thy pity prove A serpent that will sting thee to the heart. Boling. O heinous, strong and bold conspitwcy! O loyal father of a treacherous son ! Thou sheer, immaculate and silver fountain. From whence this stream through muddy } Hath held his current and defiled himself ! Thy overflow of good converts to bad. And thy abundant goodness shall excuse This deadly blot in thy digressing son. York. So shall my virtue be his vice's bawd; And he shaU. spend mine honour with his shame, 313 ACT V. KING RICHARD II SCENE V. As thriftless sons their scraping fathers' gold. Mine honour lives when his dishonour dies, Or my shamed life in his dishonour lies : Thou kill'st me in his life ; giving him breath, The traitor lives, the true man 's put to death. Buck. \_Withiii\ What ho, my liege! for God's sake, let me in. Baling. What shrill-voiced suppliant makes this eager cry ? Buck. A woman, and thy aunt, great king ; 't is I. Speak with me, pity me, open the door: A beggar begs that never begg'd before. Boling. Our scene is alter'd from a serious thing, And now changed to ' The Beggar and the King.' My dangerous cousin, let your mother in : I know she is come to pray for your foul sin. York. If thou do pardon, whosoever pray, More sins for this forgiveness prosper may. This fester'd joint cut off, the rest rest sound ; This let alone will all the rest confomid. Enter Duchess. Buch. O king, believe not this hard-hearted man! Love loving not itself none other can. [here ? York. Thou frantic woman, what dost thou make Shall thy old dugs once more a traitor rear ? Buch. Sweet York, be patient. Hear me, gentle liege. [Kneels. Boling. Rise up, good aunt. Buch. Not yet, I thee beseech : For ever will I walk upon my knees, And never see day that the happy sees. Till thou give joy ; until thou bid me joy. By pardoning Rutland, my transgressing boy. Aum. Unto my mother's prayers I bend my knee. York. Against them both my true joints bended 111 mayst thou thrive, if thou grant any grace ! [be. Buxih. Pleads he in earnest ? look upon his face ; His eyes do drop no tears, his prayers are in jest ; His words come from his mouth, ours from our breast : He prays but faintly and would be denied ; We pray with heart and soul and all beside : His weary joints would gladly rise, I know; Our knees shall kneel till to the ground they grow : His prayers are full of false hypocrisy ; Ours of true zeal and deep integrity. Our prayers do out-pray his ; then let them have That mercy which true prayer ought to have. Boling. Good aunt, stand up. Buch. Nay, do not say, ' stand up ; ' Say ' pardon ' first, and afterwards ' stand up.' An if I were thy nurse, thy tongue to teach, ' Pardon ' should be the first word of thy speech. I never long'd to hear a word till now ; Say ' pardon,' king ; let pity teach thee how : The word is short, but not so short as sweet ; No word like ' pardon ' for kings' mouths so meet. York. Speak it in French, king ; say, ' pardonne moi.' Buch. Dost thou teach pardon pardon to destroy ? Ah, my sour husband, my hard-hearted lord. That set'st the word itself against the word! Speak ' pardon ' as 't is current in our land ; The chopping French we do not understand. Thine eye begins to speak ; set thy tongue there ; Or in thy piteous heart plant thou thine ear ; That hearing how our plaints and prayers do pierce. Pity may move thee ' pardon ' to rehearse. Boling, Good aunt, stand up. Buch. I do not sue to stand ; Pardon is aU the suit I have in hand. Boling. I pardon him, as God sliall pardon me. Buch. O happy vantage of a kneeling knee ! Yet am I sick for fear : speak it again ; Twice saying ' pardon ' doth not pardon twaiu, But makes one pardon strong. 314 Boling. With all my heart I pardon him. Buch. A god on earth thou art. [abbots Boling. But for our trusty brother-in-law and the With all the rest of that consorted crew. Destruction straight shall dog them at the heels. Good uncle, help to order several powers To Oxford, or where'er these traitors are: They shall not live within this world, I swear, But I will have them, if I once know where. Uncle, farewell: and, cousin too, adieu: Your mother well hath pray'd, and prove you true. Buch. Come, my old son : I pray God make thee new. [Exeunt. SCENE IV.— The same. Enter Exton and Servant. Exton. Didst thou not mark the king, what words he spake, ' Have I no friend will rid me of this living fear ? ' Was it not so ? Ser. These were his very words. Exton. ' Have I no friend ?' quoth he : he spake it And urged it twice together, did he not ? [twice, Serv. He did. Exton. And speaking it, he wistly look'd on me ; As who should say, ' I would thou wert the man That would divorce this terror from my heart ; ' Meaning the king at Pomfret. Come, let 's go : I am the king's friend, and will rid his foe. [EceunU SCENE v.— Pomfret castle. Enter King Richard. K. Eich. I have been studying how I may compare This prison where I live unto the world : And for because the world is populous And here is not a creature but myself, I cannot do it ; yet I '11 hammer it out. My brain I '11 prove the female to my soul,- My soul the father ; and these two beget A generation of still-breeding thoughts, And these same thoughts people this little world, In humours like the people of this world. For no thought is contented. The better sort, As thoughts of things divine, are intermix'd With scruples and do set the word itself Against the word : As thus, ' Come, little ones,' and then again, ' It is as hard to come as for a camel To thread the postern of a small needle's eye.' Thoughts tending to ambition, they do plot Unlikely wonders ; how these vain weak nails May tear a passage through the flinty ribs Of this hard world, my ragged prison walls. And, for they cannot, die in their own pride. Thoughts tending to content flatter themselves That they are not the first of fortune's slaves, Nor shall not be the last ; like silly beggars Who sitting in the stocks refuge their shame, That many have and others must sit there ; And in this thought they find a kind of ease, Bearing their own misfortunes on the back Of such as have before endured the like. Thus play I in one person many people, And none contented ; sometimes am I king ; Then treasons make me wish myself a beggar. And so I am : then crushing penury Persuades me I was better when a king ; Then am I king'd again : and by and by Think that I am unking'd by Bolingbroke, And straight am nothing : but whate'er I be, Nor I nor any man that but man is With nothing shall be pleased, till he be eased With being nothing. Music do I hear ? [Music Ha, ha ! keep time : how sour sweet music is. When time is broke and no proportion kept ! ACT Vo KING RICHARD 11. SCENE VI. So is it in the music of men's lives. And here have I the daintiness of ear To check time brolce in a disorder'd string ; But for tlie concord of my state and time Had not an ear to hear my true time brolie. I wasted time, and now doth time waste me; Por now hath time made me his numbering clock : My thoughts are minutes ; and with sighs they jar Their watches on unto mine eyes, the outward "Whereto my finger, like a dial's point, [watch. Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears. Now sir, the sound that tells what hour it is Are clamorous groans, which strike upon my heart. Which is the bell : so sighs and tears and groans Show minutes, times, and hours : but my time Runs posting on in Bolingbroke's proud joy, While I stand fooling here, his Jack o' the clock. This music mads me ; let it sound no more ; For though it have holp madmen to their wits, In me it seems it will make wise men mad. Yet blessing on his heart that gives it me ! For 't is a sign of love ; and love to Eichard Is a strange brooch in this all-hating world. Enter a Groom of the Stable. Groom. Hail, royal priiice ! K. Bich. Thanks, noble peer ; The cheapest of us is ten groats too dear. What art thou ? and how comest thou hither. Where no man never comes but that sad dog That brings me food to make misfortune live ? Groom. I was a poor groom of thy stable, king, When thou wert king; who, travelling towards With much ado at length have gotten leave [York , To look upon my sometimes royal master's face. O, how it yearn 'd my heart when I beheld In London streets, that coronation-day, When Bolingbroke rode on roan Barbary, That horse that thou so often hast bestrid. That horse that I so carefully have dress 'd ! K. Bich. Eode he on Barbary ? Tell me, gentle How went he under him ? [friend, Groom. So proudly as if he disdain'd the ground. K. Bich. So proud that Bolingbroke was on his back ! That jade hath eat bread from my royal hand ; This hand hath made him proud with clapping him. Would he not stumble ? would he not fall down, Since pride must have a fall, and break the-neck Of that proud man that did usurp his back ? Forgiveness, horse ! why do I rail on thee. Since thou, created to be awed by man, Wast born to bear ? I Avas not made a horse ; And yet I bear a burthen like an ass, Spurr'd, gall'd and tired by jauncing Bolingbroke. Enter Keeper, luith a dish. Keep. Fellow, give place; here is no longer stay. K. Bich. If thou love me, 't is time thou wert away. Groom. What my tongue dares not, that my heart shall say. [Exit. Keep. My lord, will 't please you to fall to ? K. Bich. Taste of it first, as thou art wont to do. Keep. My lord, I dare not: Sir Pierce of Exton,who lately came from the king, commands the contrary. K. Bich. The devil take Henry of Lancaster and Patience is stale, and I am weary of it. [thee ! [Beats the keeper. Keep. Help, help, help! Enter Bxton and Servants, armed. K. Bich. How now! what means death in this rude assault ? Villain, thy ovm hand yields thy death's instrument. [Snatching an axe from, a Servant and killing him. Go thou, and fill another room in hell. [He, kills another. Then Exton strikes him down. That hand shall bum in never-quenching fire That staggers thus my person. Exton, thy fierce hand [land. Hath with the king's blood stain 'd the king's own Mount, mount, my soul ! thy seat is up on high ; Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward, here to die. [Dies. Exton. As full of valour as of royal blood : Both have I spill 'd ; O would the deed were good ! For now the devil, that told me I did well, Says that this deed is chronicled in hell. This dead king to the living king I '11 bear : Take hence the rest, and give them burial here. [Exeunt. SCENE Yl.— Windsor castle. Flourish. Enter Bolingbroke, York, with other Lords, and Attendants. Boling. Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear Is that the rebels have consumed with fire Our town of Cicester in Gloucestershire ; But whether they be ta'en or slain we hear not. Enter Northumberland. Welcome, my lord : what is the news ? North. First, to thy sacred state wish I all hap- The next news is, I have to London sent [piness. The heads of Oxford, Salisbury, Blunt, and Kent: The manner of their taking may appear At large discoursed in this paper here. Bo ling. We thank thee , gentle Percy, for thy pains ; And to thy worth will add right worthy gains. Enter Fitzwater. Fitz. My lord, I have from Oxford sent to London The heads of Brocas and Sir Bennet Seely, Two of the dangerous consorted traitors That sought at Oxford thy dire overthrow. Boling. Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot ; Right noble is thy merit, well I wot. Enter Percy, and the Bishop of Carlisle. Percy. The grand conspirator, Abbot of West- minster, With clog of conscience and sour melancholy Hath yielded up his body to the grave ; But here is Carlisle living, to abide Thy kingly doom and sentence of his pride. Boling. Carlisle, this is your doom : Choose out some secret place, some reverend room, More than thou hast, and with it joy thy life ; So as thou livest in peace, die free from strife : For though mine enemjr thou hast ever been, High sparks of honour in thee have I seen. Enter Bxton, with persons hearing a coffin. Exton. Great king, within this coffin I present Thy buried fear : herein all breathless lies The mightiest of thy greatest enemies, Richard of Bordeaux, by me hither brought. Boling. Exton, I thank thee not ; for thou hast A deed of slander with thy fatal hand [vsrrought Upon my head and all this famous land. [deed. Exton. From your own mouth, my lord, did I this Boling. They love not poison that do poison need, Nor do I thee : though I did wish him dead, I hate the murderer, love him murdered. The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour, But neither my good word nor princely favour : With Cain go wander through shades of night. And never show thy head by day nor light. Lords, I protest, my soul is full of woe. That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow. Come, mourn with me for that I do lament. And put on sullen black incontinent : I '11 make a voyage to the Holy Land, To wash this blood off from my guilty hand : March sadly after ; grace my mournings here_; In weeping after this untimely bier. 315 THE MEST PAET OP KING HENRY THE FOURTH. DBAMATIS FEBSONM. King Henry the Fourth. Henry, Prince of Wales, 1 j. .i. rr- ^ . \,rt ^ ' f sons to the King. John of Lancaster, J ° Earl of Westmoreland. Sir Walter Blunt. Thomas Percy, Earl of Worcester. Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland. Henry Percy, surnamed Hotspur, his son. Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March. Richard Scroop, Archbishop of York. Archibald, Earl of Douglas. Owen Glendower. Sir Richard Vernon. Sir John Falstaff. [For an Analysis of the Sir Michael, a Friend to the Archbishop of York. Poins. Gadshill. Peto. Bardolph. Lady Percy, wife to Hotspur, and sister to Mortimer. Lady Mortimer, daughter to Glendower, and wife to Mortimer. Mistress Quickly, hostess of a tavern in Eastcheap. Lords, OflSicers, Sherifif, Vintner, Chamberlain, Drawers, two Carriers, Travellers, and Attendants. SCENE — England. Play, see Page LIV.] A.OT I. SCENE 1.— London. The palace. Emter King Henry, Lord John of Lancaster, the Earl of Westmoreland, Sir Walter Blunt, and others. King. So shaken as we are, so wan with care, Find we a time for frighted peace to pant, And breathe short-winded accents of new broils To be commenced in strands afar remote. No more the thirsty entrance of this soil Shall daub her lips with her own children's blood ; Xo more shall trenching war channel her fields. Nor bruise her flowerets with the armed hoofs Of hostile paces : those opposed eyes. Which, like the meteors of a troubled heaven, All of one nature, of one substance bred, Did lately meet in the intestine shock And furious close of civil butchery Shall now, in mutual well-beseeming ranks, March all one way and be no more opposed Against acquaintance, kindred and allies: The edge of war, like an ill-sheathed knife. No more shall cut his master. Therefore, friends, As far as to the sepulchre of Christ, Whose soldier now, under whose blessed cross We are impressed and engaged to fight, Forthwith a power of English shall we levy ; Whose arms were moulded in their mothers' womb To chase these pagans in those holy fields Over whose acres walk 'd those blessed feet Which fourteen hundred years ago were nail'd For our advantage on the bitter cross. But this our purpose now is twelve month old. And bootless 't is to tell you we will go : Therefore we meet not now. Then let me hear Of you, my gentle cousin Westmoreland, What yesternight our council did decree In forwarding this dear expedience. West. My liege, this haste was hot in question, And many limits of the charge set down But yesternight : when all athwart there came A post from Wales loaden with heavy news ; Whose worst was, that the noble Mortimer, . Leading the men of Herefordshire to fight Against the irregular and wild Glendower, Was by the rude hands of that Welshman taken, A thousand of his people butchered ; Upon whose dead corpse there was such misuse, Such beastly shameless transformation. By those Welshwomen done as may not be Without much shame retold or spoken of. King. It seems then that the tidings of this broil Brake off our business for the Holy Land. [lord ; West. This match 'd with other did, my gracious For more uneven and unwelcome news Came from the north and thus it did import : On Holy-rood day, the gallant Hotspur there, Y'oung Harry Percy and brave Archibald, That ever-valiant and approved Scot, At Holmedon met. Where they did spend a sad and bloody hour; As by discharge of their artillery. And shape of likelihood, the news was told; For he that brought them, in the very heat And pride of their contention did take horse. Uncertain of the issue any way. King. Here is a dear, a true industrious friend. Sir Walter Blunt, new lighted from his horse. Stain 'd with the variation of each soil Betwixt that Holmedon and this seat of ours ; And lie hath brought us smooth and welcome news. The Earl of Douglas is discomfited : Ten thousand bold Scots, two and twenty knights, Balk'd in their own blood did Sir Walter see On Holmedon 's plains. Of prisoners. Hotspur took Mordake the Earl of Fife, and eldest son To beaten Douglas ; and the Eari of Athol, Of Murray, Angus, and Menteith : And is not this an honourable spoil ? A gallant prize ? ha, cousin, is it not ? West. In faith. It is a conquest for a prince to boast of. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene ii. King. Yea, there thou makest me sad and In envy that my Lord Northumberland [me sin Should be the father to so blest a sou, A son who is the theme of honour's tongue ; Amongst a grove, the very straightest plant ; Who is s^veet Fortune's minion and her pride : Whilst I, by looking on the praise of him. See riot and dishonour stain the brow Ol; my young Harry. O that it could be proved That some night-tripping fairy had exchanged In cradle-clothes our children where they lay. And call'd mine Percy, his Plantagenet ! Then would I have his Harry, and he mine. [coz, But let him from my thoughts. What think you, Of this young Percy's pride ? the prisoners. Which he in this adventure hath surprised, To his own use he keeps ; and sends me word, I shall have none but Mordake Earl of Fife, [ter, West. This is his uncle's teaching ; this is Worces- Malevolent to you in all aspects ; Which makes him prmie himself, and bristle up The crest of youth against your dignity. King. But I have sent for him to answer this ; And for this cause awhile we must neglect - Our holy purpose to Jerusalem. Cousin, on AVednesday next our council we Will hold at Windsor ; so inform the lords : But come yourself with speed to us again ; For more is to be said and to be done Than out of anger can be uttered. West. I wiU, my liege. [Exeunt. SCENE II. — London. A n apartment of the Princess. Enter the Prince of "Wales and Falstaflf. Fal. Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad ? Prince. Thou art so fat-witted, with drinking of old sack and unbuttoning thee after supper and sleeping upon benches after noon, that thou hast forgotten to demand that truly which thou wouldst truly know. What a devil hast thou to do with the time of the day ? Unless hours were cups of sack and minutes capons and clocks the tongues of bawds and dials the signs of leaping-houses and the blessed Bun himself a fair hot wench in flame-coloured taf- feta, I see no reason why thou shouldst be so super- fluous to demand the time of the day. Fal. Indeed, you come near me now, Hal ; for we that take purses go by the moon and the seven stars, and not by Phoebus, he, ' that wandering knight so fair.' And, I prithee, sweet wag, when thou art king, as, God save thy grace, — majesty I should say, for grace thou wilt have none, — Prince. What, none? Fal. No, by my troth, not so much as will serve to be prologue to an egg and butter. Prince. Well, how then ? come, roundly, roundly. Fal. Marry, then, sweet wag, when thou art king, let not us that are squires of the night's body be called thieves of the day's beauty : let us be Diana's foresters, gentlemen of the shade, minions of the moon ; and let men say we be men of good govern- ment, being governed, as the sea is, by our noble and chaste mistress the moon, under whose coun- tenance we steal. Prince. Thou sayest well, and it holds well, too ; for the fortune of us that are the moon's men doth ebb and flow like the sea, being governed, as the sea is, by the moon. As, for proof, now: a purse of gold most resolutely snatched on Monday night and most dissolutely spent onTuesday morning ; got with swearing ' Lay by ' and spent with crying ' Bring in ; ' now in as low an ebb as the foot of the ladder and by and by in as high a flow as the ridge of the gallows. Fal. By the Lord, thou sayest true, lad. And is not my hostess of the tavern a most sweet wench ? Prince. As the honey of Hybla, my old lad of the castle. And is not a buff jerkin a most sweet robe of durance ? Fal. How now, how now, mad wag ! what, in thy quips and thy quiddities V what a plague have I to do with a buff jerkin ? Prince. Why, what a pox have I to do with my hostess of the tavern ? Fal. Well, thou hast called her to a reckoning many a time and oft. Prince. Did I ever call for thee to pay thy part ? Fal. No ; I '11 give thee thy due, thou hast paid all there. Prince. Yea, and elsewhere, so far as my coin would stretch ; and where it would not, I have used my credit. Fal. Yea, and so used it that, were it not here apparent that thou art heir apparent— But , I prithee , sweet wag, shall there be gallows standing in Eng- land when thou art king? and resolution thus fobbed as it is with the rusty curb of old father antic the law? Do not thou, when thou art king, hang a thief. Prince. No ; thou shalt. Qudge. Fal. Shall I? Orare! By the Lord, I '11 be a brave Prince. Thou judgest false already : I mean, thou shalt have the hanging of the thieves and so become a rare hangman. Fal. Well, Hal, well- and in some sort it jumps with my humour as well as waiting in the court, I can tell you. Prince. For obtaining of suits ? Fal. Yea, for obtaining of suits, whereof the hangman hath no lean wardrobe. 'Sblood, I am as melancholy as a gib cat or a lugged bear. Prince. Or an old lion, or a lover's lute. Fal. Yea, or the drone of a Lincolnshire bagpipe. Prince. What sayest thou to a hare, or the mel- ancholy of Moor-ditch ? Fal. Thou hast the most unsavoury similes and art indeed the most comparative, rascalliest, sweet young prince. But, Hal, I prithee, trouble me no more with vanity. I would to God thou and I knew where a commodity of good names were to be bought. An old lord of the council rated me the other day in the street about you, sir, but I marked him not ; and yet he talked very wisely, but I regarded him not ; and yet he talked wisely, and in the street too. Prince. Thou didst well; for wisdom cries out in the streets, and no man regards it. Fal. O, thou hast damnable iteration and art in- deed able to corrupt a saint. Thou hast done much harm upon me, Hal; God forgive thee for it ! Be- fore I knew thee, Hal, I knew nothing ; and now am I, if a man should speak truly, little better than one of the wicked. I must give over this life, and I will give it over : by the Lord, an I do not, I am a villain: I '11 be damned for never a king's son in Christendom. [Jack? Prince. Where shall we take a purse to-morrow, Fal. 'Zounds, where thou wilt, lad ; I '11 make one ; an I do not, call me villain and baffle me. Prince. I see a good amendment of life in thee; from praying to purse-taking. Fal. Why, Hal, 't is my vocation, Hal ; 't is no sin for a man to labour in his vocation. Enter Poins. Poins ! Now shall we know if Gadshill have set a match. O, if men were to be saved by merit, what hole in hell were hot enough for him ? This is the most omnipotent villain that ever cried ' Stand ' to a Prince. Good morrow, Ned. [true man. Poms. Good morrow, sweet Hal. What says Monsieur Remorse ? what says Sir John Sack and Sugar ? Jack ! how agrees the devil and thee about 317 ACT I. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY IV. sceite hi. thy soul, that thou soldest him on Good-Friday last for a cup of Madeira and a cold capon's leg ? Prince. Sir John stands to his word, the devil shall have his bargain ; for he was never yet a breaker of proverbs : he vs^ill give the devil his due. Poins. Then art thou damned for keeping thy word with the devil. Prince. Else he had been damned for cozening the devil. Poins. But, my lads, my lads, to-morrow morn- ing, by four o'clock, early at Gadshill ! there are pilgrims going to Canterbury with rich offerings, and traders riding to London with fat purses : I have vizards for you all ; you have horses for your- selves : Gadshill lies to-night in Kochester : I have bespoke supper to-morrow night in Eastcheap : we ,may do it as secure as sleep. If you will go, I will stuff your purses full of crowns; if you will not, tarry at home and be hanged. Fal. Hear ye, Yedward ; if I tarry at home and go not, I '11 hang you for going. Poins. You will, chops i* Fal. Hal, wilt thou make one ? Prince. Who, I rob ? I a thief ? not I, by my faith. Fal. There 's neither honesty, manhood, nor good fellowship in thee, nor thou camest not of the blood royal, if thou darest not stand for ten shillings. Prince. Well then, once in my days I '11 be a mad- Fal. Why, that 's well said. [cap. Prince. Well, come what willj I '11 tarry at home. Fal. By the Lord, I '11 be a traitor then, when thou Prince. I care not. [art king. Poins. Sir John, I prithee, leave the prince and me alone : I will lay him down such reasons for this adventure that he shall go. Fal. Well, God give thee the spirit of persuasion and him the ears of profiting, that what thou speak- est may move and what he hears may be believed, that the true prince may, for recreation sake, prove a false thief; for the poor abuses of the time want coun- tenance. Farewell : you shall find me in Eastcheap. Prince. Farewell, thou latter spring! farewell, AU-hallown summer ! [Exit Falstaf. Poins. Now, my good sweet honey lord, ride with us to-morrow : I have a jest to execute that I can- not manage alona Falstaff, Bardolph, Peto and Gadshill shall rob those men that we have already waylaid; yourself and I will not be there; and when they have the booty, if you and I do not rob them, cut this head off from my shoulders, [forth ? Prince. How shall we part with them in setting Poins, Why, we will set forth before or after them, and appoint them a place of meeting, wherein it is at our pleasure to fail, and then will they adventure upon the exploit themselves ; which they shall have no sooner achieved, but we '11 set upon them. Prince. Yea, but 't is like that they will know us by our horses, by our habits and by every other ap- pointment, to be ourselves. Poins. Tut ! our horses they shall not see ; I '11 tie them in the wood ; our vizards we will change after we leave them : and, sirrah, I have cases of buckram for the nonce, to immask our noted outward gar- ments, [for us. Prince. Yea, but I doubt they will be too hard Poins. Well, for two of them, I know them to be as true-bred cowards as ever turned back ; and for the third, if he fight longer than he sees reason, I '11 forswear arms. The virtue of this jest will be, the incomprehensible lies that this same fat rogue will tell us when we meet at supper : how thirty, at least, he fought with ; what wards, what blows, what ex- tremities he endured ; and in the reproof of this lies the jest. Prince. Well, I '11 go with thee : provide us all things necessary and meet me to-morrow night in Eastcheap ; there I '11 sup. Farewell. 318 Poins. Farewell, my lord. [Exit. Prince. I know you ail, and will awhile uphold The unyoked humour of your idleness : Yet herein will I imitate the sun. Who doth permit the base contagious clouds To smother up his beauty from the world, That, when he please again to be himself. Being wanted, he may be more wonder'd at, By breaking through the foul and ugly mists Of vapours that did seem to strangle him. If all the year were playing holidays, To sport would be as tedious as to work ; But when they seldom come, they wish'd for come, And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents. So, when this loose behaviour I throw off And pay the debt I never promised, By how much better than my word I am, By so much shall I falsify men's hopes ; And like bright metal on a sullen ground. My reformation, glittering o'er my fault. Shall show more goodly and attract more eyes Than that which hath no foil to set it off. I '11 so offend, to make offence a skill ; Eedeeming time when men think least I will. [Exit. SCENE III.— London. The palace. Enter the King, Northumberland, Worcester, Hotspur, Sir "Walter Blunt, mth others. King. 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 ot respect Which the proud soul ne'er pays but to the proud. Wor. 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,— King. Worcester, get thee gone ; for I do see Danger and disobedience in thine eye : O, sir, your 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 Wor. 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. But 1 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, and 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 smiled and talk'd, 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 ACT I. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene hi. He question 'd me ; amongst 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 he 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 sbvereign'st thing on earth Was parmaceti for an inward bruise ; And that it was great pity, so it was, This villanous salt-petre 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, Whate'er Lord Harry Percy then had said To such a person and in such a place, At such a time, with all the rest retold. May reasonably die and never rise To do him wrong or any way impeach What then he said, so he unsay it now. King. Why, yet he doth deny his prisoners. But with proviso and exception. That we at our own charge shall ransom straight His brother-in-law, the foolish Mortimer; Who, on my soul, hath wilfully betray 'd The lives of those that he did lead to fight Against that great magician, damn'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. Hot. Eevolted 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 breathed and three times did they Upon agreement, of swift Severn's flood ; [drink, Who then, affrighted with their bloody looks. Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds. And hid his crisp head in the hojlow bank Bloodstained with these valiant combatants. Never did base and rotten policy Colour her working with such deadly wounds ; Nor never could the noble Mortimer Receive so many, and all willingly : Then let not him be slander'd with revolt, [him ; King. Thou dost belie him, Percy, thou dost belie 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 thou not ashamed ? 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 will hear of it. [Exeunt King Henry, Blunt, and train. Hot. An if the devil come and roar for them, I will not send them : I will after straight And tell him so ; for I will ease my heart. Albeit I make a hazard of my head. [awhile : North. What, drunk with choler ? stay and pause Here comes your uncle. He-enter Worcester. Hot. Speak of Mortimer ! 'Zounds, I will speak of him ; and let my soul Want mercy, if I do not join with him : Yea, on his part I '11 empty all these veins. And shed my dear blood drop by drop in the dust. But I will lift the down-trod Mortimer As high in the air as this unthankful king, As this ingrate and canker'd Bolingbroke. [mad. North. Brother, the king hath made your nephew Wor. Who struck this heat up after I was gone ? Hot. He will, forsooth, have all my prisoners ; And when I urged 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 not he proclaim 'd By Richard that dead is the next of blood i* 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 ; From whence he intercepted did return To be deposed and shortly murdered. [mouth Wor. And for whose death we in the world's wide Live scandalized and foully spoken of. Hot. But, soft, I pray you ; did King Richard 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, That wish'd him on the barren mountains starve. 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 murderous subornation, shall it be. That you a world of curses undergo. Being the agents, or base second means. The cords, the 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, 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 Richard, 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 time serves wherein you may redeem Your banish'd honours 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 To answer all the debt he owes to you Even with the bloody payment of your deaths : Therefore, I say,— Wor. Peace, cousin, say no more : And now I will unclasp a secret book. And to your quick-conceiving discontents I '11 read you matter deep and dangerous. As full of peril and adventurous spirit As to o'er-walk a current roaring loud On the unsteadfast footing of a spear. 319 ACT II. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene i. Hot. If he fall in, good night ! or sink or swim : Send danger from the east mito the west, So honour cross it from the north to south. And let them grapple : O, the blood more stirs To rouse a lion than to start a hare ! North. Imagination of some great exploit Drives him beyond the bounds of patience. Hot. By heaven, methinks it were an easy leap, To pluck bright honour from the pale-faced moon. Or dive mto the bottom of the deep. Where fathom-line could never touch the ground, And pluck up drowned honour by the locks ; So he that doth redeem her thence might wear "Without corrival all her dignities : But out upon this half -faced fellowship ! War. He apprehends a world of figures here, But not the form of what he should attend. Good cousin, give me audience for a while. Hot. I cry you mercy. War. Those same noble Scots That are your prisoners,— Hot. I '11 keep them all ; By God, he shall not have a Scot of them ; No, if a Scot would save his soul, he shaU not : I '11 keep them, by this hand. Wor. You start away And lend no ear unto my purposes. Those prisoners you shall keep. Hot. Nay, I will ; that 's flat : He said he would not ransom Mortimer ; Forbad my tongue to speak of Mortimer ; But I will find him when he lies asleep. And in his ear I '11 holla ' Mortimer ! ' Nay, I '11 have a starling shaU be taught to speak Nothing but ' Mortimer,' and give it him. To keep his anger still in motion. Wor. 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 Wales, But that I think his father loves him not And would be glad he met with some mischance, I would have him poisoned with a pot of ale. Wor. Farewell, kinsman : I 'U talk to you When you are better temper 'd to attend. [fool North. Why, what a wasp-stung and impatient 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 scom-ged with rods. Nettled and stung with pismires, when I hear Of this vile politician, Bolingbroke. In Eichard's time, — what do you call the place ? — A plague upon it, it is in Gloucestershire ; 'T was where the madcap duke his uncle kept, His uncle York ; where I first bow'd my knee Unto this king of smiles, this Bolingbroke,— 'SbloodI — When you and he came back from Ravenspurgh. North. At Berkley castle. Hot. You say true : Why, what a candy deal of courtesy This fawning greyhound then did proffer me ! Look, ' when his infant fortune came to age,' And ' gentle Harry Percy,' and ' kind cousin; ' O, the devil take such cozeners ! God forgive me I Good uncle, tell your tale ; I have done. Wor. Nay, if you have not, to it again ; We will stay your leisure. Hot. I have done, i' faith. Wor. 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 assured, Will easily be granted. You, my lord, \_To Northumberland. Your son in Scotland being thus employ'd, ShaU secretly into the bosom creep Of that same noble prelate, well beloved, The archbishop. Hot. Of York, is it not ? Wor. True ; who bears hard His 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 but 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 is afoot, thou still let'st slip. 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 shaU. Hot. In faith, it is exceedingly well aim'd. Wor. And 't is 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 f oimd a time to pay us home I And see already how he doth begin To make us strangers to his looks of love. Hot. He does, he does : we '11 be revenged 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 'U 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 at much uncertainty. North. Farewell, good brother : we shall thrive, I trust. Hot. Uncle, adieu : O, let the hours be short TiU fields and blows and groans applaud our sport ! [Exeunt. SCENE I.—Eochester. An inn yard. Miter a Carrier ivith a lantern in his hand. First Car. Heigh-ho! an it be not four by the day, I '11 be hanged : Charles' wain is over the new chimney, and yet our horse not packed. What, ostler ! Ost. [Within] Anon, anon. First Car. I prithee, Tom, beat Cut's saddle, put a few fiocks in the point ; poor jade, is wnmg in the withers out of all cess. II. Ihter another Carrier. Sec. Car. Peas and beans are as dank here as a dog, and that is the next way to give poor jades the bots : this house is turned upside down since Robin Ostler died. First Car. Poor fellow, never joyed since the price of oats rose ; it was the death of him. Sec. Car. I think this be the most villanous house in all London road for fleas : I am stimg like a tench. First Car. Like a tench ! by the mass, there is ACT II. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene ii. ne'er a king christen could be better bit than I have been since the first cock. Sec. Car. Why, they will allow us ne'er a Jordan, and then we leak in your chimney; and your cham- ber-lie breeds fleas like a loach. First Car. What, ostler! come away and be hanged ! come away. Sec. Car. I have a gammon of bacon and two razes of ginger, to be delivered as far as Charingcross. First Car. God's body ! the turkeys in my pannier are quite starved. What, ostler ! A plague on thee ! hast thou never an eye in thy head ? canst not hear ? An 'twere not as good deed as drink, to break the pate on thee, I am a very villain. Come, and be hanged ! hast no faith in thee ? Mnter Gadshill, Gads. Good morrow, carriers. What 's o'clock ? First Car. I think it be two o'clock. Gads. I prithee, lend me thy lantern, to see my gelding in the stable. First Car. ISTay, by God soft ; I know a trick worth two of that, i' faith. Gads. I pray thee, lend me thine. - Sec. Car. Ay, when ? canst tell ? Lend me thy lantern, quoth he ? marry, I '11 see thee hanged first. Gads. Sirrah carrier, what time do you mean to come to London ? Sec. Car. Time enough to go to bed with a candle, I warrant thee. Come, neighbor Mugs, we '11 call up the gentlemen : they will along with company, for they have great charge. [Exeunt Carriers. Gads. What, ho ! chamberlain ! Cham. [Within] At hand, quoth pick-purse. Gratis. That's even as fair as — at hand, quoth the chamberlain; for thou variest no more from picking of purses than giving direction doth from labouring ; thou layest the plot how. Miter Ohamberlain. Cham. Good morrow, Master GadshiU. It holds current that I told you yesternight : there 's a frank- lin in the wild of Kent hath brought three hundred marks with him in gold : I heard him tell it to one of his company last night at supper; a kind of auditor; one that hath abundance of charge too, God knows what. They are up already, and caU for eggs and butter : they will away presently. Gads. Sirrah, if they meet not with Saint Nich- olas' clerks, I '11 give thee this neck. Cham. No, I '11 none of it : I pray thee keep that for the hangman; for I know thou worshippest Saint Nicholas as truly as a man of falsehood may. Gads. What talkest thou to me of the hangman ? if I hang, I '11 make a fat pair of gallows ; for if I hang, old Sir John hangs with me, and thou know- est he is no starveling. Tut ! there are other Tro- jans thait thou dreamest not of, the which for sport sake are content to do the profession some grace ; that would, if matters should be looked into, for their own credit sake, make all whole. I am joined with no foot-land rakers, no long-staff sixpenny strikers, none of these mad mustachio purple-hued malt-worms; but with nobility and tranquillity, burgomasters and great oneyers, such as can hold in, such as will strike sooner than speak, and speak sooner than drink, and drink sooner than pray : and yet, 'zounds, I lie ; for they pray continually to their saint, the commonwealth; or rather, not pray to her, but prey on her, for they ride up and down on her and make her their boots. Cham. What, the commonwealth their boots? will she hold out water in foul way ? Gads. She will, she will; justice hath liquored her. We steal as in a castle, cock-sure ; T»e have the receipt of fern-seed, we walk invisible. Cham. Nay, by my faith, I think you are more 21 beholding to the night than to fern-seed for your walking invisible. Gads. Give me thy hand : thou shalt have a share in our purchase, as I am a true man. Cham. Nay, rather let me have it, as you are a false thief. Gads. Go to ; ' homo ' is a common name to all men. Bid the ostler bring my gelding out of the stable. Farewell, you muddy knave. [Exeunt. SCENE II.— The highway, near Gadshill. Enter Prince Henry and Poins. Poins. Come, shelter, shelter: I have removed Falstaff 's horse, and he frets like a gummed velvet. Prince. Stand close. Enter FalstaflF. Fal. Poins! Poins, and be hanged ! Poins! Prince. Peace, ye fat-kidneyed rascal! what a brawling dost thou keep ! Fal. Where 's Poins, Hal ? Prince. He is walked up to the top of the hill : I '11 go seek him. Fal. 1 am accursed to rob in that thief's com- pany : the rascal hath removed my horse, and tied him I know not where. If I travel but four foot by the squier further afoot, I shall break my wind. Well, I doubt not but to die a fair deatJi for all this, if I 'scape hanging for killing that rogue. I have forsworn his company hourly any time this two and twenty years, and yet I am bewitched with the rogue's company. If the rascal have not given me medicines to make me love him, I '11 be hanged ; it could not be else; I have drunk medicines. Poins ! Hal ! a plague upon you both ! Bardolph ! Peto ! I '11 starve ere I '11 rob a foot further. An 'twere not as good a deed as drink, to turn true man and to leave these rogues, I am the veriest varlet that ever chewed with a tooth. Eight yards of uneven ground is threescore and ten miles afoot with me; and the stony-hearted villains know it well enough : a plague upon it when thieves cannot be true one to another! [They whistle.] Whew! A plague upon you all! Give me my horse, you rogues ; give me my horse, and be hanged ! Prince. Peace, ye fat-guts! lie down; lay thine ear close to the ground and list if thou canst hear the tread of travellers. Fal. Have you any levers to lift me up again, being down ? 'Sblood, I '11 not bear mine own flesh so far afoot again for all the coin in thy father's exchequer. What a plague mean ye to colt me thus? Prince. Thou liest ; thou art not colted, thou art uncolted. Fal. I prithee, good Prince Hal, help me to my horse, good king's son. Prince. Out, ye rogue! shall I be your ostler? Fal. Go, hang thyself in thine own heir-apparent garters ! If I be ta'en, I '11 peach for this. An I have not ballads made on you all and sung to filthy tunes, let a cup of sack be my poison : when a jest is so forward, and afoot too ! I hate it. Enter GadsMll, Bardolph, and Peto with him. Gads. Stand. Fal. So I do, against my will. Poins. O, 't is our setter : I know his voice. Bar- dolph, what news ? Bard. Case ye, case ye; on with your vizards: there 's money of the king's coming down the hill ; 't is going to the king's exchequer. Fal. You lie, ye rogue ; 't is going to the king's tavern. Gads. There 's enough to make us all. Fal. To be hanged. 321 ACT II. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene in. Prince. Sirs, you four shall front them in the nar- row lane ; Ned Poins and I will walk lower : if they 'scape from your encounter, then they light on us. Peto. How many be there of them ? Gads. Some eight or ten. Fal. 'Zounds, will they not rob us ? Prince. What, a coward. Sir John Paunch ? Fal. Indeed, I am not John of Gaunt, your grand- father; but yet no coward, Hal. Prince. Well, we leave that to the proof. Poins. Sirrah Jack, thy horse stands behind the hedge : when thou needest him, there thou shalt find him. Farewell, and stand fast. Fal. Now cannot I strike him, if I should be hanged. Prince. Ned, where are our disguises ? Poins. Here, hard by : stand close. [Exeunt Prince and Poins. Fal. Now, my masters, happy man be his dole, say I : every man to his business. Enter the Travellers. First Trav. Come, neighbour: the boy shall lead our horses down the hill ; we '11 walk afoot awhile, and ease, our legs. Thieves. Stand! Travellers. Jesus bless us ! Fal. Strike ; down with them ; cut the villains' throats: ah! whoreson caterpillars! bacon-fed knaves! they hate us youth: down with them: fleece them. Travellers. O, we are undone, both we and ours for ever ! Fal. Hang ye, gorbellied knaves, are ye undone ? No, ye fat chuffs ; I would your store were here ! On, bacons, on! What, ye knaves! young men must live. You are grandjurors, are ye ? we '11 jure ye, 'faith. [Here they rob them and bind them. Exeunt. He-enter Prince Henry and Poins. Prince. The thieves have bound the true men. Now could thou and I rob the thieves and go mer- rily to London, it would be argument for a week, laughter for a month and a good jest for ever. Poins. Stand close ; I hear them coming. Unter the Thieves again. Fal. Come, my masters, let us share, and then to horse before day. An the Prince and Poins be not two arrant cowards, there 's no equity stirring : there 's no more valour in that Poins than in a Prince. Your money ! [wild-duck. Poins. Villains! [As they are sharing, the Prince and Poins set upon them ; they all run away ; and Falstaff, after a blow or two, runs away too, leaving the booty behind them.] Prince. Got with much ease. Now merrily to horse : The thieves are all scatter'd and possess'd with fear So strongly that they dare not meet each other ; Each takes his feUow for an officer. Away, good Ned. Falstaff sweats to death. And lards the lean earth as he walks along : Were 't not for laughing, I should pity him. Poins. How the rogue roar'd ! [Exeunt. SCENE Ul.— Warkworth castle. Enter Hotspur, solus, reading a letter. Hot. ' But, for mine own part, my lord, I could be well contented to be there, in respect of the love I bear your house.' He could be contented: why is he not, then ? In respect of the love he bears our house: he shows in this, he loves his own barn better than he loves our house. Let me see some more. ' The purpose you undertake is dangerous ; ' — why, that 's certain : 't is dangerous to take a cold, to sleep, to drink ; but I tell you, my lord fool, out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety. 'The purpose you undertake is dangerous; the friends you have named uncertain ; the time itself unsorted; and your whole plot too liglit for the coimterpoise of so great an opposition.' Say you so, say you so ? I say unto you again, you are a shallow cowardly hind, and you lie. What a lack- brain is this ! By the Lord, our plot is a good plot as ever was laid ; our friends true and constant ; a good plot, good friends, and full of expectation ; an excellent plot, very good friends. What a frosty- spirited rogue is this ! Why, my lord of York com- mends the plot and the general course of the action. 'Zounds, an I were now by this rascal, I could brain him with his lady's fan. Is there not my father, my uncle and myself? lord Edmund Mortimer, my lord of York and Owen Glendower? is there not besides the Douglas ? have I not all their letters to meet me in arms by the ninth of the next month ? and are they not some of them set forward already ? What a pagan rascal is this ! an infidel ! Ha ! you shall see now in very sincerity of fear and cold heart, will he to the king and lay open all our proceedings. O, I could divide myself and go to buffets, for moving such a dish of skim milk with so honourable an ac- tion! Hang him! let him tell the king: we are prepared. I will set forward to-night. Enter Lady Percy. How now, Kate ! I must leave you within these two hours. Lady. O, my good lord, why are you thus alone? For what offence have I this fortnight been A banish'd woman from my Harry's bed y Tell me, sweet lord, what is 't that takes from thee Thy stomach, pleasure and thy golden sleep ? Why dost thou bend thine eyes upon the earth. And start so often when thou sit'st alone ? Why hast thou lost the fresh blood in thy cheeks ; And given my treasures and my rights of thee To thick-eyed musing and cursed melancholy ? In thy faint slumbers I by thee have watch 'd. And heard thee murmur tales of iron wars ; Speak terms of manage to thy bounding steed : Cry ' Courage ! to the field ! ' And thou hast talk'd Of sallies and retires, of trenches, tents, Of palisadoes, frontiers, parapets. Of basilisks, of cannon, culverin. Of prisoners' ransom and of soldiers slain, And all the currents of a heady fight. Thy spirit within thee hath been so at war And thus hath so bestirr'd thee in thy sleep, That beads of sweat have stood upon thy brow, Like bubbles in a late-disturbed stream ; And in thy face strange motions have appear 'd, Such as we see when men restrain their breath On some great sudden best. O, what portents are these ? Some heavy business hath my lord in hand, And I must know it, else he loves me not. Hot. What, ho! Miter Servant. Is Gilliams with the packet gone ? Serv. He is, my lord, an hour ago. [sheriff ? Hot. Hath Butler brought those horses from the Serv. One horse, my lord, he brought even now. Hot. What horse ? a roan, a crop-ear, is it not? Serv. It is, my lord. Hot. That roan shall be my throne. Well, I will back him straight : O esperance! Bid Butler lead him forth into the park. [Exit Servant. Lady. But hear you, my lord. Hot. What say'st thou, my lady ? A.CT II. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene iv. Lady. What is it carries you away ? Hot. Why, my horse, my love, my horse. Ladij. Out, you mad-headed ape ! A weasel hath not such a deal of spleen As you are toss'd with. In faith, I 'llknow your business, Harry, that I will. I fear my brother Mortimer doth stir About his title, and hath sent for you To line his enterprise; but if you go, — Hot. So far afoot, I shall be weary, love. Lady. Come, come, you paraquito, answer me Directly unto this question that I ask : In faith, I '11 break thy little finger, Harry, An if thou wilt not tell me all things true. Hot. Away, Away, you trifler ! Love ! I love thee not, I care not for thee, Kate : this is no world To play with mammets and to tilt with lips : We must have bloody noses and crack'd crowns. And pass them current too. God's me, my horse ! What say'st thou, Kate ? what would'st thou have with me ? Lady. Do you not love me ? do you not, indeed ? Well, do not then ; for since you love me not, I will not love myself. Do you not love me ? Nay, tell me if you speak in jest or no. Hot. Come, wilt thou see me ride ? And when I am o' horseback, I will swear I love thee infinitely. But hark you, Kate ; I must not have you henceforth question me Whither I go, nor reason whereabout : Whither I must, I must; and, to conclude. This evening must I leave you, gentle Kate. I know you wise, but yet no farther wise Than Harry Percy's wife : constant you are, But yet a woman : and for secrecy, ISIo lady closer; for I well believe Thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know ; And so far will I trust thee, gentle Kate. Lady. How ! so far ? Hot. Not an inch further. But hark you, Kate : Whither I go, thither shall you go too ; To-day will I set forth, to-morrow you. Will this content you, Kate ? Lady. It must of force. [JExeunt. SCENE IV.— The Boards-Head Tavern, Eastcheap. Enter the Prince and Poins. Prince. Ned, prithee, come out of that fat room, and lend me thy hand to laugh a little. Poins. Where hast been, Hal ? Prince. With three or four loggerheads amongst three or four score hogsheads. I have sounded the very base-string of humility. Sirrah, I am sworn brother to a leash of drawers ; and can call them all by their christen names, as Tom, Dick, and Francis. They take it already upon their salvation, that though I be but Prince of Wales, yet I am the king of courtesy ; and tell me flatly I am no proud Jack, like Falstaff, but a Corinthian, a lad of mettle, a good boy, by the Lord, so they call me, and when I am king of England, I shall command all the good lads in Eastcheap. They call drinking deep, dyeing scarlet; and when you breathe in your watering, they cry ' hem ! ' and bid you play it off. To con- clude, I am so good a proficient in one quarter of an hour, that I can drink with any tinker in his own language during my life. I tell thee, Ned, thou hast lost much honour, that thou wert not with me in this action. But, sweet Ned, — to sweeten which name of Ned, I give thee this pennyworth of sugar, clapped even now into my hand by an under- Skinker, one that never spake other English in his life than ' Eight shillings and sixpence,' and ' You are welcome,' with this shrill addition, 'Anon, anon, sir! Score a pint of bastard in the Half- moon,' or so. But, Ned, to driv3 away the time till Falstaff come, I prithee, do thou stand in some by-room, while I question my puny drawer to what end he gave me the sugar ; and do thou never leave calling ^Francis,' that his tale to me may be noth' ing but 'Anon.' Step aside, and I'll show thee » Poins. Francis! [precedent. Prince. Thou art perfect. Poins. Francis ! [Exit Poins Enter Francis. Fran. Anon, anon, sir. Look down into the Pomgarnet, Kalph. Prince. Come hither, Francis. Fran. My lord ? Prince. How long hast thou to serve, Francis ? Fran. Forsooth, five years, and as much as to — Poins. [Within] Francis! Fran. Anon, anon, sir. Prince. Five year! by 'r lady, a long lease for the clinking of pewter. But, Francis, darest thou be so valiant as to play the coward with thy indenture and show it a fair pair of heels and run from it ? Fran. O Lord, sir, I '11 be sworn upon all the books in England, I could find in my heart. Poins. [Within] Francis! Fran. Anon, sir. Prince. How old art thou, Francis? Fran. Let me see— about Michaelmas next I shall Poins. [Within] Francis! [be — Fran. Anon, sir. Pray stay a little, my lord. Prince. Nay, but hark you, Francis: for the sugar thou gavest me, 't was a pennyworth, wast 't not ? Fran. O Lord, I would it had been two ! Prince. 1 will give thee for it a thousand pound: ask me when thou wilt, and thou shalt have it. Poins. [Within] Francis! Fran. Anon, anon. Prince. Anon, Francis? No, Francis; but to- morrow, Francis; or Francis, o' Thursday; or in- deed, Francis, when thou wilt. But, Francis ! Fran. My lord? Prince. Wilt thou rob this leathern jerkin, crystal- button, not-pated, agate-ring,puke-stocking,caddis- garter, smooth-tongue, Spanish-pouch, — Fran. O Lord, sir, who do you mean ? Prince. Why, then, your brown bastard is your only drink ; for look you, Francis, your white canvas doublet will sully : in Barbary, sir, it cannot come to Fran. What, sir? [so much. Poins. [Within] Francis! Prince. Away, you rogue! dost thou not hear them call ? [Here they both call him; the drawer stands amazed, not knowing which way to go. Enter Vintner. Vint. What, standest thou still, and hearest such a calling ? Look to the guests within. [Exit Fran- cis.] My lord, old Sir John, with half-a-dozen more, are at the door : shall I let them in ? Prince. Let them alone awhile, and then open the door. [Exit Vintner.] Poins ! Be-enter Poins. Poins. Anon, anon, sir. Prince. Sirrah, Falstaff and the rest of the thieves are at the door : shall we be merry ? Poins. As merry as crickets, my lad. But hark ye ; what cunning match have you made with this jest of the drawer ? come, what 's the issue ? Prince. 1 am now of all humours that have showed themselves humours since the old days of goodman Adam to the pupil age of this present twelve o'clock at midnight. „ „ Be-enter Francis. What 's o'clock, Francis ? Fran. Anon, anon, sir. [Exit .CT II. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene iv. Prince. That ever this fellow should have fewer words than a parrot, and yet the son of a woman ! His industry is up-stairs and down-stairs ; his elo- quence the parcel of a reckoning. I am not yet of Percy's mind, the Hotspur of the north; he that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots at a break- fast, washes his hands, and says to his wife ' Fie upon this quiet life ! I want work. ' ' O my sweet Harry,' says she, ' how many hast thou killed to- day?' 'Give my roan horse a drench,' says he; and answers 'Some fourteen,' an hour after; 'a trifle, a trifle.' I prithee, call in Falstaff : I '11 play Percy, and that damned brawn shall play Dame Mortimer his wife. ' Eivo ! ' says the drunkard. Call in ribs, call in tallow. Enter PalstafF, Gadshill, Bardolph, and Peto; Francis following with wine. Poins. "Welcome, Jack : where hast thou been ? Fal. A plague of all cowards, I say, and a ven- geance too ! marry, and amen ! Give me a cup of sack, boy. Ere I lead this life long, I '11 sew nether stocks and mend them and foot them too . A plague of all cowards ! Give me a cup of sack, rogue. Is there no virtue extant ? [He drinks. Prince. Didst thou never see Titan kiss a dish of butter? pitiful-hearted Titan, that melted at the sweet tale of the sim's ! if thou didst, then behold that compound. Fal. You rogue, here's lime in this sack too: there is nothing but roguery to be found in villan- ous man : yet a coward is worse than a cup of sack with lime in it. A villanous coward ! Go thy ways, old Jack; die when thou wilt, if manhood, good manhood, be not forgot upon the face of the earth, then am I a shotten herring. There live not three good men unhanged in England ; and one of them is fat and grows old : God help the while ! a bad world, I say. I would I were a weaver; I could sing psalms or anything. A plague of all cowards, I say still. Prince. How now, wool-sack ! what mutter you ? Fal. A king's son ! If I do not beat thee out of thy kingdom with a dagger of lath, and drive all thy subjects afore thee like a flock of wild-geese, I '11 never wear hair on my face more. You Prince of Wales ! Prince. "Why, you whoreson round man, what 's the matter ? Fal. Are not you a coward ? answer me to that : and Poins there ? Poins. 'Zounds, ye fat paunch, an ye call me coward, by the Lord, I '11 stab thee. Fal. I call thee coward ! I '11 see thee damned ere I call thee coward : but I would give a thousand pound I could run as fast as thou canst. You are straight enough in the shoulders, you care not who sees your back : call you that backing of your friends? A plague upon such backing ! give me them that will face me. Give me a cup of sack : I am a rogue, if I drunk to-day. Prince. O villain ! thy lips are scarce wiped since thou drunkest last. Fal. AU 's one for that. [He drinks.] A plague of all cowards, still say I. Prince. "What 's the matter ? Fal. What 's the matter ! there be four of us here have ta'en a thousand pound this day morning. . Prince. Where is it. Jack ? where is it ? Fal. Where is it ! taken from us it is : a hundred upon poor four of us. Prince. What, a hundred, man ? Fal. I am a rogue, if I were not at half -sword with a dozen of them two hours together. I have 'scaped by miracle. I am eight times thrust through the doublet, four through the hose; my buckler cut through and through; my sword hacked like a 324 hand-saw — ecce signum ! I never dealt better since I was a man : all would not do. A plague of all cow- ards ! Let them speak : if they speak more or less than truth, they are villains and the sons of dark- Prince. Speak, sirs ; how was it ? [ness. Gads. We four set upon some dozen — Fal. Sixteen at least, my lord. Gads. And bound them. Peto. No, no, they were not bound. Fal. You rogue, they were bound, every man of them ; or I am a Jew else, an Ebrew Jew. Gads. As we were sharing, some six or seven fresh men set upon us— [other. Fal. And unbound the rest, and then come in the Prince. What, fought you with them all ? Fal. All ! I know not what you call all; but if I fought not with fifty of them, I am a bunch of rad- ish : if there were not two or three and fifty upon poor old Jack, then am I no two-legged creature. Prince. Pray God you have not murdered some of them. Fal. Nay, that's past praying for: I have pep- pered two of them ; two I am sure I have paid, two rogues in buckram suits. I tell thee what, Hal, if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse. Thou knowest my old ward ; here I lay, and thus I bore my point. Four rogues in buckram let drive at me — Prince. What, four ? thou saidst but two even now. Fal. Four, Hal ; I told thee four. Poins. Ay, ay, he said four. Fal. These four came all a-front, and mainly thrust at me. I made me no more ado but took all their seven points in my target, thus. [now. Prince. Seven? why, there were but four even Fal. In buckram ? Poins. Ay, four, in buckram suits. Fal. Seven, by these hilts, or I am a villain else. Prince. Prithee, let him alone : we shall have more Fal. Dost thou hear me, Hal ? [anon. Prince. Ay, and mark thee too. Jack. Fal. Do so, for it is worth the listening to. These nine in buckram that I told thee of — Prince. So, two more already. Fal. Their points being broken, — Poins. Down fell their hose. Fal. Began to give me ground: but I followed me close, came in foot and hand ; and with a thought seven of the eleven I paid. Prince. O monstrous ! eleven buckram men grown out of two ! Fal. But, as the devil would have it, three mis- begotten knaves in Kendal green came at my back and let drive at me ; for it was so dark, Hal, that thou couldst not see thy hand. Prince. These lies are like their father that begets them ; gross as a mountain, open, palpable. Why, thou clay-brained guts, thou knotty-pated fool, thou whoreson, obscene, greasy tallow-catch,— Fal. What, art thou mad ? art thou mad ? is not the truth the truth ? Prince. Why, how couldst thou know these men in Kendal green, when it was so dark thou couldst not see thy hand ? come, tell us your reason : what sayest thou to this ? Poins. Come, your reason. Jack, your reason. Fal. What, upon compulsion ? 'Zounds, an I were at the strappado, or all the racks in the world, I would not tell you on compulsion. Give you a rea^ son on compulsion ! if reasons were as plentiful as blackberries, I would give no man a reason upon compulsion, I. Prince. I'll be no longer guilty of this sin; this sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horseback- breaker, this huge hill of flesh, — Fal. ■^S blood, you starveling, you elf -skin,, you dried neat's tongue, you bull's pizzle, you stock-fish ! O for breath to utter what is like thee ! you tailor's- ACT II, FIRST PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene iv. yard, you sheath, you bow-case, you vile standing- tuck, — Prince. Well, breathe awhile, and then to it again : and when thou hast tired thyself in base compari- sons, hear me speak but this. Poins. Mark, Jack. Prince. We two saw you four set on four and bound them, and were masters of their wealth. Mark now, how a plain tale shall put you down. Then did we two set on you four ; and, with a word, out-faced you from your prize, and have it; yea, and can show it you here in the house : and, Fal- staff , you carried your guts away as nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roared for mercy and stUl run and roared, as ever I heard bull-calf. What a slave art thou, to hack thy sword as thou hast done, and then say it was in fight ! What trick, what device, what starting-hole, canst thou now find out to hide thee from this open and apparent shame ? Poins. Come, let 's hear, Jack ; what trick hast thou now y Fal. By the Lord, I knew ye as well as he that made ye. Why, hear you, my masters: was it for me to kill the heir-apparent ? should I turn upon the true prince ? why, thou knowest I am as valiant as Hercules : but beware instinct ; the lion will not touch the true prince. Instinct is a great matter ; I was now a coward on instinct. I shall think the better of myself and thee during my life ; I for a valiant lion, and thou for a true prince. But, by the Lord, lads, I am glad you have the money. Hostess, clap to the doors: watch to-night, pray to-morrow. Gallants, lads, boys, hearts of gold, all the titles of good fellowship come to you ! What, shall we be merry ? shall we have a play extempore ? Prince. Content ; and the argument shall be thy running away. Fal. Ah, no more of that, Hal, an thou lovest me ! Miter Hostess. Host. O Jesu, my lord the prince ! Prince. How now, my lady the hostess ! what say- est thou to me r* Host. Marry, my lord, there is a nobleman of the court at door would speak with you: he says he comes from your father. Prince. Give him as much as will make him a royal man, and send him back again to my mother. Fal. What manner of man is he ? Host. An old man. Fal. What doth gravity out of his bed at mid- night ? Shall I give him his answer j* Prince. Prithee, do. Jack. Fal. 'Faith, and I '11 send him packing. [Exit. Prince. Now, sirs: by 'r lady, you fought fair; so did you, Peto; so did you, Bardolph: you are lions too, you ran away upon instinct, you will not touch the true prince ; no, fie ! Bard. 'Faith, I ran when I saw others run. Prince. 'Faith, tell me now in earnest, how came Falstaff 's sword so hacked ? Peto. Why, he hacked it with his dagger, and said he would swear truth out of England but he would make you believe it was done in fight, and persuaded us to do the like. Bard. Yea, and to tickle our noses with spear- grass to make them bleed , and then to beslubber our garments with it and swear it was the blood of true men. I did that I did not this seven year before, I blushed to hear his monstrous devices. Prince. O villain, thou stolest a cup of sack eight- een years ago, and wert taken with the manner, and ever since thou hast blushed extempore. Thou hadst fire and sword on thy side, and yet thou ran- nest away : what instinct hadst thou for it ? Bard. My lord, do you see these meteors ? do you behold these exhalations ? Prince. I do. Bard. What think you they portend ? Prince. Hot livers and cold purses. Bard. Choler, my lord, if rightly taken. Prince. No, if rightly taken, halter. Re-enter Falstaff. Here comes lean Jack, here comes bare-bone. How now, my sweet creature of bombast! How long is 't ago, Jack, since thou sawest thine own knee ? Fal. My own knee ! when I was about thy years, Hal, I was not an eagle's talon in the waist ; I could have crept into any alderman's thumb-ring: a plague of sighing and grief! it blows a man up like a bladder. There's villanous news abroad: here was Sir John Bracy from your father; you must to the court in the morning. That same mad fellow of the north, Percy, and he of Wales, that gave Amamon the bastinado and made Lucifer cuckold and swore the devil his true liegeman upon the cross of a Welsh hook — what a plague call you him? Poins. O, Glendower. Fal. Owen, Owen, the same; and his son-in-law Mortimer, and old Northumberland, and that sprightly Scot of Scots, Douglas, that runs o' horseback up a hill perpendicular,— Prince. He that rides at high speed and with his pistol kills a sparrow flying. Fal. You have hit it. Prince. So did he never the sparrow. Fal. Well, that rascal hath good mettle in him ; he will not run. Prince. Why, what a rascal art thou then, to praise him so for running ! Fal. O' horseback, ye cuckoo; but afoot he will not budge a foot. Prince. Yes, Jack, upon instinct. Fal. I grant ye, upon instinct. Well, he is there too, and one Mordake, and a thousand blue-caps more: Worcester is stolen away to-night; thy fa- ther's beard is turned white with the news: you may buy land now as cheap as stinking mackerel. Prince. Why, then, it is like, if there come a hot June and this civil buffeting hold, we shall buy maidenheads as they buy hob-nails, by the hundreds. Fal. By the mass, lad, thou sayest true ; it is like we shall have good trading that way. But tell me, Hal, art not thou horrible afeard i* thou being heir- apparent, could the world pick thee out three such enemies again as that fiend Douglas, that spirit Percy, and that devU Glendower? Art thou not horribly afraid ? doth not thy blood thrill at it ? Prince. Not a whit, i'faith; I lack some of thy instinct. Fal. Well, thou wilt be horribly chid to-morrow when thou comest to thy father : if thou love me, practise an answer. Prince. Do thou stand for my father, and examine me upon the particulars of my life. Fal. Shall I? content: this chair shall be my state, this dagger my sceptre, and this cushion my crown. Prince. Thy state is taken for a joined-stool, thy golden sceptre for a leaden dagger, and thy precious rich crown for a pitiful bald crown ! Fal. Well, an the fire of grace be not quite out of thee, now shalt thou be moved. Give me a cup of sack to make my eyes look red, that it may be thought I have wept ; for I must speak in passion, and I will do it in King Cambyses' vein. Prince. Well, here is my leg. Fal. And here is my speech. Stand aside, nobility. Host. O Jesu, this is excellent sport, i' faith! Fal. Weep not, sweet queen; for trickling tears are vain. Host. 0, the father, how he holds his countenance ! 325 ACT II. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene iv. Fal. For God's sake, lords, convey my tristful queen ; For tears do stop the flood-gates of her eyes. Host. O Jesu, he doth it as like one of these har- lotry players as ever I see ! Fal. Peace, good pint-pot; peace, good tickle- brain. Harry, I do not only marvel where thou spendest thy time, but also how thou art accom- panied; for though the camomile, the more it is trodden on the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted the sooner it wears. That thou art my son, I have partly thy mother's word, partly my own opinion, but chiefly a villanous trick of thine eye and a foolish hanging of thy nether lip, that doth warrant me. If then thou be son to me, here lies the point ; why, being son to me, art thou so pointed at ? Shall the blessed sun of heaven prove a micher and eat blackberries ? a question not to be asked. Shall the son of England prove a thief and take purses ? a question to be asked. There is a thing, Harry, which thou hast often heard of and it is known to many in our land by the name of pitch : this pitch, as ancient writers do report, doth defile ; so doth the company thou keepest : for, Harry, now I do not speak to thee in drink but in tears, not in pleasure but in passion, not in words only, but in woes also : and yet there is a virtuous man whom I have often noted in thy company, but I know not his name. Prince. What manner of man, an it like your majesty? Fal. A goodly portly man, i' faith, and a corpu- lent ; of a cheerful look, a pleasing eye and a most noble carriage ; and, as I think, his age some fifty, or, by 'r lady, inclining to three score ; and now I remember me, his name is Falstaff: if that man should be lewdly given, he deceiveth me; for, Harry, I see virtue in his looks. If then the tree may be known by the fruit, as the fruit by the tree, then, peremptorily I speak it, there is virtue in that Falstaff : him keep with, the rest banish. And tell me now, thou naughty varlet, tell me, where hast thou been this month ? Prince. Dost thou speak like a king ? Do thou stand for me, and I '11 play my father. Fal. Depose me ? if thou dost it half so gravely, so majestically, both in word and matter, hang me up by the heels for a rabbit-sucker or a poulter's Prince. Well, here I am set. [hare. Fal. And here I stand: judge, my masters. Prince. Now, Harry, whence come you ? Fal. My noble lord, from Eastcheap. [ous. Prince. The complaints I hear of thee are griev- Fal. 'Sblood, my lord, they are false: nay, I'll tickle ye for a young prince, i' faith. Prince. Swearest thou, ungracious boy? hence- forth ne'er look on me. Thou art violently carried away from grace : there is a devil haunts thee in the likeness of an old fat man ; a tun of man is thy companion. Why dost thou converse with that trunk of humours, that bolting-hutch of beastliness, that swollen parcel of dropsies, that huge bombard of sack, that stuffed cloak-bag of guts, that roasted Manningtree ox with the pudding in his belly, that reverend vice, that grey iniquity, that father ruffian, that vanity in years ? Wherein is he good, but to taste sack and drink it ? wherein neat and cleanly, but to carve a capon and eat it ? wherein cunning^ but in craft? wherein crafty, but in villany? wherein villanous, but in all things? wherein worthy, but in nothing ? Fal. I would your grace would take me with you : whom means your grace ? Prince. That villanous abominable misleader of youtli, Falstaff, that old white-bearded Satan. Fal. My lord, the man I know. Prince. I know thou dost. 326 Fal. But to say I know more harm in him than in myself, were to say more than I know. That he is old, the more the pity, his white hairs do witness it; but that he is, saving your reverence, a whore- master, that I utterly deny. If sack and sugar be a fault, God help the wicked ! if to be old and merry be a sin, then many an old host that I know is damned : if to be fat be to be hated, then Pharaoh's lean klne are to be loved. No, my good lord; banish Peto, banish Bardolph, banish Poins: but for sweet Jack Falstaff, kind Jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff, valiant Jack Falstaff, and therefore more valiant, being, as he is, old Jack Falstaff, banish not him thy Harry's company, banish not him thy Harry's company: banish plump Jack, and banish all the world. Prince. I do, I will. [A knocking heard. lExeunt Hostess, Francis, and Bardolph. Be-enter Bardolph, running. Bard. O, my lord, my lord ! the sheriff with a most monstrous watch is at the door. Fal. Out, ye rogue! Play out the play: I have much to say in the behalf of that Falstaff. Be-enter the Hostess. Host. O Jesu, my lord, my lord! Prince. Heigh, heigh ! the devil rides upon a fid- dlestick : what 's the matter ? Host. The sheriff and all the watch are at the door : they are come to search the house. Shall I* let them in ? Fal. Dost thou hear; Hal ? never call a true piece of gold a counterfeit: thou art essentially mad, without seeming so. [stinct. Prince. And thou a natural coward, without in^ Fal. I deny your major: if you will deny the sheriff, so ; if not, let him enter: if I become not a cart as well as another man, a plague on my bring- ing up ! I hope I shall as soon be strangled with a halter as another. Prince. Go, hide thee behind the arras : the rest walk up above. Now, my masters, for a true face and good conscience. Fal. Both which I have had : but their date is out, and therefore I '11 hide me. Prince. Call in the sheriff. [Fxeunt all except the Prince and Peto. Enter Sheriflf and the Carrier. Now, master sheriff, what is your will with me ? Sher. First, pardon me, my lord. A hue and cry Hath foUow'd certain men unto this house. Prince. What men ? [lord, Sher. One of them is well known, my gracious A gross fat man. Car. As fat as butter. Prince. The man, I do assure you, is not here; For I myself at this time have employ'd him. And, sheriff, I will engage my word to thee That I will, by to-morrow dinner-time. Send him to answer thee, or any man. For any thing he shall be charged withal : And so let me entreat you leave the house. Sher. 1 will, my lord. There are two gentlemen Have in this robbery lost three hundred marks. Prince. It may be so : if he have robb'd these men, He shall be answerable ; and so farewell. Sher. Good night, my noble lord. Prince. I think it is good morrow, is it not ? Sher. Indeed, my lord, I think it be two o'clock. [Fxeimt Sheriff and Carrier. Prince. This oily rascal is kno\^^l as well as Paul's. Go, call him forth. Peto. Falstaff! — Fast asleep behind the arras, and snorting like a horse. Prince. Hark, how hard he fetches breath. Search FIRST PART OF KING HENRY IV. SCENE I. his pockets. [He searcheth his pockets, and findeth certain papers.] What hast thou found ? Peto. Nothing but papers, my lord. Prince. Let 's see what they be : read them. Peto. [Beads} Item, A capon, . . .2s. 2d. Item, Sauce, . . . 4d. Item, Sack, two gallons, . 5s. 8d. Item, Anchovies and sack after supper, . . 2s. 6d. Item, Bread, ... ob. Prince. O monstrous! but one half -penny worth of bread to this intolerable deal of sack! What there is else, keep close ; we'll read it at more ad- vantage : there let him sleep till day. I '11 to the court in the morning. We must all to the wars, and thy place shall be honourable. I '11 procure this fat rogue a charge of foot; and I know his death will be a march of twelve-score. The money shall be paid back again with advantage. Be with me betimes in the morning; and so, good morrow, Peto. [Exeunt. Peto. Good morrow, good my lord. A^CT III. SCENE I.— Bangor. The Archdeacon'^s house. Enter Hotspur, "Worcester, Mortimer, and Glendow^er. Mort. These promises are fair, the parties sure, And our induction full of prosperous hope. Hot. Lord Mortimer, and cousin Glendower, Will you sit down ? And uncle Worcester : a plague upon it ! 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 oft 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 Shaked like a coward. Hot. Why, so it would have done at the same season, if your mother's cat had but kittened, though yourself had never been born. 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 And not in fear of your nativity. [on fire. Diseased nature oftentimes breaks forth In strange eruptions ; oft the teeming earth Is with a kind of colic pinch 'd and vex'd By the imprisoning of unruly wind Within her womb ; which , for enlargement striving. Shakes the old beldam earth and topples 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 's no man speaks better Welsh. I '11 to dinner. [mad. Mort. Peace, cousin Percy; you will make him 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 devil. 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 '11 be sworn I have power to shame him hence. O, while you live, tell truth and shame the devil ! Mort. Come, come, no more of this unprofitable chat. [head Glend. Three times hath Henry Bolingbroke made Against my power ; thrice from the banks of Wye 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, in the devil's name ? Glend. Come, here 's the map : shall we divide our According to our threefold order ta'en ? [right Mort. The archdeacon hath divided it Into three limits very equally : England, from Trent and Severn hitherto. By south and east is to my part assign 'd : All westward, Wales beyond the Severn shore, And all the fertile land within that bound. To Owen Glendower : and, dear coz, to you The remnant northward, lying off from Trent. And our indentures tripartite are drawn ; Which being sealed interchangeably, A business that this night may execute. To-morrow, cousin Percy, you and I And my good Lord of Worcester will set forth To meet your father and the Scottish power, As is appointed us, at Shrewsbury. My father Glendower is not ready yet, Nor shall we need his help these fourteen days. Within that space you may have drawn together Your tenants, friends and neighbouring gentlemen. Glend. A shorter time shall send me to you, lords : And in my conduct shall your ladies come ; From whom you now must steal and take no leave, For there will be a world of water shed Upon the parting of your wives and you. [here, Hot. Methinks my moiety, north from Burton In quantity equals not one of yours : See how this river comes me cranking in. And cuts me from the best of all my land A huge half-moon, a monstrous cantle out. I '11 have the current in this place damm'd up; And here the smug and silver Trent shall run In a new channel, fair and evenly ; It shall not wind with such a deep indent. To rob me of so rich a bottom here. [doth. Glend. Not wind? it shall, it must; you see it Mort. Yea, but Mark how he bears his course, and runs me up With like advantage on the other side ; Gelding the opposed continent as much As on the other side it takes from you. Wor. Yea, but a little charge will trench him here 327 ACT III. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY IV. SCENE I. And on this north side win this cape of land ; And then he runs straight and even. Hot. I '11 have it so : a little charge will do it. Glend. I '11 not have it alter'd. Hot. Will not you ? Glend. No, nor you shall not. Hot. Who shall say me nay ? Glend. Why, that will I. [Welsh. Hot. Let me not understand you, then ; speak it in Glend. I can speak English, lord, as well as you ; For I was train'd up in the English court ; Where, being but yoimg, 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 am glad of it with all my heart : I had rather be a kitten and cry mew Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers ; I had rather hear a brazen canstick turn'd, Or a dry wheel grate on the axle-tree ; And that would set my teeth nothing on edge, Nothing so much as mincing poetry : 'T is like the forced gait of a shuffling nag. Glend. Come, you shall have Trent turn'd. "^ Hot. I do not care : 1 '11 give thrice so much land To any well-deserving friend ; But in the way of bargain, mark ye me, I '11 cavil on the ninth part of a hair. Are the indentures drawn ? shall we be gone ? Glend. The moon shines fair ; you may away by I '11 haste the writer and withal [night : Break with your wives of your departure hence : I am afraid my daughter will run mad, So much she doteth on her Mortimer. [Exit. Mort. Fie, cousin Percy ! how you cross my father ! Hot. I cannot choose : sometime he angers me With telling me of the moldwarp and the ant. Of the dreamer Merlin and his prophecies. And of a dragon and a finless fish, A clip-wing 'd griffin and a moulten raven, A couching lion and a ramping cat. And such a deal of skimble-skamble stuff As puts rae from my faith. I tell you what ; He held me last night at least nine hours In reckoning up the several devils' names [to,' That were his lackeys : I cried ' hum,' and 'well, go But mark'd him not a word. O, he is as tedious As a tired horse, a railing wife ; Worse than a smoky house : I had rather live With cheese and garlic in a windmill, far, Than feed on cates and have him talk to me In any summer-house in Christendom. Mort. In faith, he is a worthy gentleman, Exceedingly well read, and profited In strange concealments, valiant as a lion And wondrous affable and as bountiful As mines of India. Shall I tell you, cousin ? He holds your temper in a high respect And curbs himself even of his natural scope When you come 'cross his humour; faith, he does: I warrant you, that man is not alive Might so have tempted him as you have done, Without the taste of danger and reproof : But do not use it oft, let me entreat you. Wor. In faith, my lord, you are too wilful-blame ; And since your coming hither have done enough To put him quite beside his patience. You must needs learn, lord, to amend this fault : Though sometimes it show greatness, courage, blood,— And that 's the dearest grace it renders you, — Yet oftentimes it doth present harsh rage. Defect of manners, want of government. Pride, haughtiness, opinion and disdain : The least of which haunting a nobleman Loseth men's hearts and leaves behind a stain Upon the beauty of all parts besides. Beguiling them of commendation. [speed ! Hot. Well, I am school'd: good manners be your Here come our wives, and let us take our leave. Be-enter Glendo^wer with the ladies. Mort. This is the deadly spite that angers me ; My wife can speak no English, I no Welsh. Glend. My daughter weeps: she will not part with you ; She '11 be a soldier too, she '11 to the wars. [Percy Mort. Good father, tell her that she and my aunt Shall follow in your conduct speedily. [Glendower speaks to her in Welsh, and she answers him in the same. Glend. She is desperate here ; a peevish self-will 'd harlotry, one that no persuasion can do good upon. [The lady speaks in Welsh. Mort. I understand thy looks : that pretty Welsh Which thou pour'st down from these swelling heav- I am too perfect in ; and, but for shame, [ens In such a parley should I answer thee. [The lady speaks again in Welsh. I understand thy kisses and thou mine. And that 's a feeling disputation : But I will never be a truant, love. Till I have learn 'd thy language ; for thy tongue Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penn'd. Sung by a fair queen in a summer's bower, With ravishing division, to her lute. Glend. Nay, if you melt, then will she run mad. [The lady speaks again in Welsh. Mort. O, I am ignorance itself in this! [down Glend. She bids you on the wanton rushes lay you And rest your gentle head upon her lap. And she will sing the song that pleaseth you And on your eyelids crown the god of sleep. Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness, Making such difference 'twixt wake and sleep As is the difference betwixt day and night The hour before the heavenly-harness 'd team Begins his golden progress in the east. Mort. With all my heart I '11 sit and hear her sing : By that time will our book, I think, be drawn. Glend. Do so ; And those musicians that shall play to you Hang in the air a thousand leagues from hence. And straight they shall be here : sit, and attend. Hot. Come, Kate, thou art perfect in lying down : come, quick, quick, that I may lay my head in thy Lady P. Go, ye giddy goose. [lap. [The music plays. Hot. Now I perceive the devil understands Welsh ; And 't is no marvel he is so humorous. By 'r lady, he is a good musician. Lady P. Then should you be nothing but musical, for you are altogether governed by humors. Lie still , ye thief, and hear the lady sing in Welsh. [Irish. Hot. I had rather hear Lady, my brach, howl in Lady P. Wouldst thou have thy head broken ? Hot. No. Lady P. Then be still. Hot. Neither ; 't is a woman's fault. Lady P. Now God help thee ! Hot. To the Welsh lady's bed. Lady P. What 's that ? Hot. Peace ! she sings. [Here the lady sings a Welsh song. Hot. Come, Kate, I '11 have your song too. Lady P. Not mine, in good sooth. Hot. Not yours, in good sooth ! Heart ! you swear like a comfit-maker's wife. ' Not you, in good sooth,' and ' as true as I live,' and ' as God shall mend me,' and ' as sure as day,' And givest such sarcenet surety for thy oaths, As if thou never walk'st further than Finsbury. Swear me, Kate, like a lady as thou art. ACT III. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene ii. A good mouth-filling oath, and leave ' in sooth,' And such protest of pepper-gingerbread. To velvet-guards and Sunday-citizens. Come, sing. Lady P. I vi^ill not sing. Hot. 'T is the next way to turn tailor, or be red- breast teacher. An the indentures be drawn, I '11 away withiri these two hours ; and so, come in when ye will. [Exit. Glend. Come, come. Lord Mortimer; you are as As hot Lord Percy is on fire to go. [slow By this our book is drawn ; we '11 but seal, And then to horse immediately. Mort. With all my heart. [Exeunt. SCENE II. — London. The palace. Enter the King, Prince of Wales, and others. King. Lords, give us leave ; the Prince of Wales and I [hand. Must have some private conference : but be near at For we shall presently have need of you. [Exeunt 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 '11 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 mistreadings. Tell me else, 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 ? Prince. So please your majesty, I would I could Quit all offences with as clear excuse As well as I am doubtless I can purge Myself of many I am charged withal : Yet such extenuation let me beg. As, in reproof of many tales devised, 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. King. God pardon thee ! yet let me wonder, Harry, At thy affections, which do hold a wing Quite from the flight of all thy ancestors. Thy place in council thou hast rudely lost, Which by thy younger brother is supplied, And art almost an alien to the 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 doth 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 left 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 is he ; ' Others would say ' Where, which is Bolingbroke ? ' And then I stole all courtesy from heaven, 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 king. Thus did I keep my person fresh and new ; My presence, like a robe pontifical, Ke'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 With shallow jesters and rash bavin wits. Soon kindled and soon burnt ; 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 every beardless vain comparative. Grew a companion to the common streets, Enfeoff'd himself to popularity ; That, being daily swallow'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 commimity, Afford no extraordinary gaze, Such as is bent on sun-like majesty When it shines seldom in admiring eyes; But rather drowzed and h\mg their eyelids down, Slept in his face and render 'd such aspect As cloudy men use to their adversaries. Being with his presence glutted, gorged and full. And in that very line, Harry, standest thou ; For thou hast lost thy princely privilege With vile participation : not an eye But is a-weary of thy common sight. Save mine, which hath desired to see thee more; Which now doth that I would not have it do, Make blind itself with foolish tenderness. Prince. I shall hereafter, my thrice gracious lord. Be more myself. King. For all the world As thou art to this hour was Richard then When I from France set foot at Ravenspurgh, 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 colour 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 honour hath he got Against renowned Douglas ! whose high deeds. 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 : Thrice hath this Hotspur, Mars in swathling clothes, This infant warrior, in his enterprises Discomfited great Douglas, ta'en him once. Enlarged 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 ? i?ercy, Northumber- land, [mer. The Archbishop's grace of York, Douglas, Morti- Capitulate against us 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 curtsy at his frowns. To show how much thou art degenerate. Prince. Do not think so ; you shall not find it so : And God forgive them that so much have sway'd Your majesty's good thoughts away from me ! I will redeem all this on Percy's head ACT III. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene hi. 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 favours 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 honour and renown. This gallant Hotspur, this all-praised knight. And your unthought-of Harry chance to meet. Tor every honour 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 God, I promise here : The which if He be pleased I shall perform, I do beseech your majesty may salve The long-grown wounds of my intemperance : If not, the end of life cancels all bands; And I will die a hundred thousand deaths Ere break the smallest parcel of this vow. King. A hundred thousand rebels die in this ; Thou Shalt have charge and sovereign trust herein. Ihiter Blunt. How now, good Blunt ? thy looks are full of speed. Blunt. So hath the business that I come to speak Lord Mortimer of Scotland hath sent word [of. That Douglas and the English rebels met The eleventh of this month at Shrewsbury : A mighty and a fearful head they are. If promises be kept on every hand. As ever offer'd foul play in a state. King. The Earl of Westmoreland set forth to-day ; With him my son, Lord John of Lancaster; For this advertisement is Ave days old : On Wednesday next, Harry, you shall set forward; On Thursday we ourselves will march : our meeting Is Bridgenorth : and, Harry, you shall march Through Gloucestershire; by which account. Our business valued, some twelve days hence Our general forces at Bridgenorth shall meet. Our hands are full of business : let 's away ; Advantage feeds him fat, while men delay. [Exeunt. SCENE III.— ^osic/ieop. The Boards-Head Tavern. Enter Falstaflf and Bardolph. Fal. Bardolph, am I not fallen away vilely since this last action? do I not bate? do I not dwindle ? Why, my skin hangs about me like an old lady's loose gown; I am withered like an old apple-john. Well, I '11 repent, and that suddenly, while I am in some liking ; I shall be out of heart shortly, and then I shall have no strength to repent. An I have not forgotten what the inside of a church is made of, I am a peppercorn, a brewer's horse: the inside of a church ! Company, villanous com- pany, hath been the spoil of me. Bard. Sir John, you are so fretful, you cannot live long. Fal. Why, there is it: come sing me a bawdy song ; make me merry. I was as virtuously given as a gentleman need to be ; virtuous enough ; swore little ; diced not above seven times a week ; went to a bawdy-house not above once in a quarter — of an hour ; paid money that I borrowed, three or four times ; lived well and in good compass ; and now I live out of all order, out of all compass. Bard. A¥hy, you are so fat, Sir John, that you 330 must needs be out of all compass, out of aU reason- able compass, Sir John. Fal. Do thou amend thy face, and I '11 amend my life: thou art our admiral, thou bearest the lantern in the poop, but 't is in the nose of thee; thou art the Knight of the Burning Lamp. Bard. Why, Sir John, my face does you no harm. Fal. No. I '11 be sworn ; I make as good use of it as many a man doth of a Death's-head or a me- mento mori : I never see thy face but I think upon hell-fire and Dives that lived in purple ; for there he is in his robes, burning, burning. If thou wert any way given to virtue, I would swear by thy face ; my oath should be ' By this fire, that 's God's angel : ' but thou art altogether given over ; and wert in- deed, but for the light in thy face, the son of utter darkness. When thou ranriest up Gadshill in the night to catch my horse, if I did not think thou hadst been an ignis fatuus or a ball of wildfire, there 's no purchase in money. O, thou art a perpetual triumph, an everlasting bonfire-light 1 Thou hast saved me a thousand marks in links and torches, walking with thee in the night betwixt tavern and tavern: but the sack that thou hast drunk me would have bought me lights as good cheap at the dearest chandler's in Europe. I have maintained that salamander of yours with fire any time this two and thirty years; God reward me for it ! Bard. 'Sblood, I would my face were in your belly ! [burned. Fal. God-a-mercy ! so should I be sure to be heart- Enter Hostess. How now. Dame Partlet the hen ! have you inquired yet who picked my pocket ? Host. Why, Sir John, what do you think. Sir John ? do you think I keep thieves in my house ? I have searched, I have inquired, so has my hus- band, man by man, boy by boy, servant by servant : the tithe of a hair was never lost in my house before. Fal. Ye lie, hostess : Bardolph was shaved and lost many a hair ; and I '11 be sworn my pocket was picked. Go to, you are a woman, go. Host. Who, I? no; I defy thee: God's light, I was never called so in mine own house before. Fal. Go to, I know you well enough. Host. No, Sir John; you do not know me, Sir John. I know you. Sir John : you owe me money, Sir John ; and now you pick a quarrel to beguile me of it : I bought you a dozen of shirts to your back. Fal. Dowlas, filthy dowlas: I have given them away to bakers' wives, and they have made bolters of them. Host. Now, as I am a true woman, hoUand of eight shillings an ell. You owe money here besides, Sir John, for your diet and by-drinkmgs, and money lent you, four and twenty pound. Fal. He had his part of it ; let him pay. Host. He ? alas, he is poor ; he hath nothing. Fal. How! poor? look upon his face: what call you rich ? let them coin his nose, let them coin his cheeks ; I '11 not pay a denier. What, will you make a younker of me? shall I not take mine ease in mine inn but I shall have my pocket picked ? I have lost a seal-ring of my grandfather's worth forty mark. Host. O Jesu, I have heard the prince tell him, I know not how oft, that that ring was copper ! Fal. How! the prince is a Jack, a sneak-cup: 'sblood, an he were here, I would cudgel him like a dog, if he would say so. Enter the Prince and Peto, marching, and Palstaff meets them playing on his truncheon like a fife. How now, lad ! is the wind in that door, i' faith ? must we all march ? ACT IV. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY IV. SCENE I. Bard. Yea, two and two, Newgate fashion. Host. My lord, I pray you, hear me. Prince. What sayest thou. Mistress Quickly? How doth thy husband ? I love him well ; he is an honest man. Host. Good my lord, hear me. Fat. Prithee, let her alone, and list to me. Prince. What sayest thou, Jack y Fal. The other night I fell asleep here behind the arras and had my pocket picked : this house is turned bawdy-house ; they pick pockets. Prince. What didst thou lose. Jack ? Fal. Wilt thou believe me, Hal? three or four bonds of forty pound a-piece, and a seal-ring of my grandfather's. Prince. A trifle, some eight-penny matter. Host. So I told him, my lord; and I said. I heard your grace say so: and, my lord, he speaks most vilely of you, like a foul-mouthed man as he is ; and said he would cudgel you. Prince. What ! he did not ? Host. There 's neither faith, truth, nor woman- hood in me else. Fal. There 's no more faith in thee than in a stewed prune ; nor no more truth in thee than in a drawn fox ; and for womanhood, Maid Marian may be the deputy's wife of the ward to thee. Go, you thing, go. Host. Say, what thing ? what thing ? Fal. What thing ? why, a thing to thank God on. Host. I am no thing to thank God on, I would thou shouldst know it ; I am an honest man's wife : and, setting thy knighthood aside, thou art a knave to call me so. Fal. Setting thy womanhood aside, thou art a beast to say otherwise. Host. Say, what beast, thou knave, thou ? Fal. What beast ! why, an otter. Prince. An otter. Sir John ! why an otter ? Fal. Why, she's neither fish nor flesh; a man knows not where to have her. Host. Thou art an unjust man in saying so : thou or any man knows where to have me, thou knave, thou! Prince. Thou sayest true, hostess ; and he slan- ders thee most grossly. Host. So he doth you, my lord , and said this other day you ought him a thousand pound. Prince. Sirrah, do I owe you a thousand pound ? Fal. A thousand pound, Hal ! a million : thy love is worth a million : thou owest me thy love. Host. Nay, my lord, he called you Jack, and said he would cudgel you. Fal. DidI,Bardolph? Bard. Indeed, Sir John, you said so. Fal. Yea, if he said my ring was copper. Prince. I say 't is copper : darest thou be as good as thy word now ? Fal. Why, Hal, thou knowest, as thou art but man, I dare : but as thou art prince, I fear thee as I fear the roaring of the lion's whelp. Prince. And why not as the lion ? Fal. The king himself is to be feared as the lion : dost thou think I '11 fear thee as I fear thy father ? nay, an I do, I pray God my girdle break. Prince. O, if it should, how would thy guts fall about thy knees ! But, sirrah, there 's no room for faith, truth, nor honesty in this bosom of thine; it is all filled up with guts and midriff. Charge an honest woman with picking thy pocket ! why, thou whoreson, impudent, embossed rascal, if there were anything in thy pocket but tavern-reckonings, mem- orandums of bawdy-houses, and one poor penny- worth of sugar-candy to make thee long-winded, if thy pocket were enriched with any other injuries but these, I am a villain : and yet you will stand to it ; you will not pocket up wrong : art thou not ashamed ? Fal. Dost thou hear, Hal ? thou knowest in the state of innocency Adam fell; and what should poor Jack Falstaff do in the days of villany ? Thou seest I have more flesh than another man, and there- fore more frailty. You confess then, you picked my pocket ? Prince. It appears so by the story. Fal. Hostess, I forgive thee: go, make ready breakfast; love thy husband, look to thy servants, cherish thy guests : thou shalt find me tractable to any honest reason : thou seest I am pacified still. Nay, prithee, begone. [Exit Hostess.] Now, Hal, to the news at court : for the robbery, lad, how is that answered ? Prince. O, my sweet beef, I must still be good angel to thee : the money is paid back again. Fal. O, I do not like that paying back; 'tis a double labour. Prince. I am good friends with my father and may do anything. Fal. Rob me the exchequer the first thing thou doest, and do it with unwashed hands too. Bard. Do, my lord. Prince. I have procured thee, Jack, a charge of foot. Fal. I would it had been of horse. Where shall I find one that can steal well ? O for a fine thief, of the age of two and twenty or thereabouts! I am heinously unprovided. Well, God be thanked for these rebels, they offend none but the virtuous : I laud them, I praise them. Prince. Bardolph! Bard. My lord? Prince. Go bear this letter to Lord John of Lan- caster, to my brother John ; this to my Lord of Westmoreland. {Exit Bardolph.'] Go, Peto,tohorse, to horse ; for thou and I have thirty miles to ride yet ere dinner-time. [Exit Peto.l Jack, meet me to-morrow in the temple hall at two o'clock in the afternoon. There shalt thou know thy charge ; and there re- ceive Money and order for their furniture. The land is burning ; Percy stands on high ; And either we or they must lower lie. [Exit. Fal. Rare words! brave world! Hostess, my breakfast, come ! O, I could wish this tavern were my drum ! [Exit. ^CT IV. SCENE I. — The rebel camp near Shrewsiury. Enter Hotspur, "Worcester, and Douglas. Hot. Well said, my noble Scot : if speaking truth In this fine age were not thought flattery. Such attribution should tlie Douglas have, As not a soldier of this season's stamp Should go so general current through the world. By God, I cannot flatter; I do defy The tongues of soothers ; but a braver place In my heart's love hath no man than yourself: Nay, task me to my word ; approve me, lord. Doug. Thou art the king of honour : No man so potent breathes upon the ground But I will beard him. Hot. Do so, and 't is well. 331 FIRST PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene ii. Enter a Messenger with letters. What letters hast thou there ? — I can but thank you. Mess. These letters come from your father. Hot. Letters from him ! why comes he not himself ? Mess. He cannot come, my lord; he is grievous sick. Hot. 'Zounds ! how has he the leisure to be sick In such a justling time ? "Who leads his power ? Under whose government come they along ? Mess. His letters bear his mind, not I, my lord. War. I prithee, tell me, doth he keep his bed ? Mess. He did, my lord, four days ere I set forth; And at the time of my departure thence He was much fear'd by his physicians. Wot. I would the state of time had first been whole Ere he by sickness had been visited : His health was never better worth than now. [feet Hot. Sick now ! droop now ! this sickness doth in- The very life-blood of our enterprise ; 'T is catching hither, even to our camp. He writes me here, that inward sickness — And that his friends by deputation could not So soon be drawn, nor did he think it meet To lay so dangerous and dear a trust On any soul removed but on his own. Yet doth he give us bold advertisement, That with our small conjunction we should on, To see how fortune is disposed to us ; Eor, as he writes, there is no quailing now, Because the king is certainly possess 'd Of all our purposes. What say you to it ? Wor. Your father's sickness is a maim to us. Hot. A perilous gash, a very limb lopp'd ofC : And yet, in faith, it is not ; his present want Seems more than we shall find it : were it good To set the exact wealth of all our states All at one cast ? to set so rich a main On the nice hazard of one doubtful hour ? It were not good ; for therein should we read The very bottom and the soul of hope, The very list, the very utmost bound Of all our fortunes. Boug. 'Faith, and so we should ; Where now remains a sweet reversion : We may boldly spend upon the hope of what Is to come in : A comfort of retirement lives in this. Hot. A rendezvous, a home to fly unto, If that the devil and mischance look big Upon the maidenhead of our affairs. Wor. But yet I would your father had been here. The quality and hair of our attempt Brooks no division : it will be thought By some, that know not why he is away. That wisdom, loyalty and mere dislike Of our proceedings kept the earl from hence : And think how such an apprehension May turn the tide of fearful faction And breed a kind of question in our cause ; Por well you know we of the offering side Must keep aloof from strict arbitrement, And stop all sight-holes, every loop from whence The eye of reason may pry in upon us : This absence of your father's draws a curtain. That shows the ignorant a kind of fear Before not dreamt of. Hot. You strain too far. I rather of his absence make this use ; It lends a lustre and more great opinion, A larger dare to our great enterprise, Than if the earl were here ; for men must think. If we without his help can make a head To push against a kingdom, with his help We shall o'erturn it topsy-turvy down. Yet all goes well, yet all our joints are whole. Boug. As heart can think : there is not such a word Spoke of ia Scotland as this term of fear. 332 Enter Sir Richard Vernon. Hot. My cousin Yernon! welcome, by my soul. Ver. Pray God my news be worth a welcome, lord. The Earl of Westmoreland, seven thousand strong, Is marching hitherwards ; with him Prince John. Hot. No harm : what more ? Ver. And further, I have learn'd, The king himself in person is set forth. Or hitherwards intended speedily. With strong and mighty preparation. Hot. He shall be welcome too. Where is his son^ The nimble-footed madcap Prince of Wales, And his comrades, that daff 'd the world aside, And bid it pass ? Ver. All furnish'd, all in arms ; All plumed like estridges that with the wind Baited like eagles having lately bathed ; Glittering in golden coats, like images ; As full of spirit as the month of May, And gorgeous as the sun at midsummer ; Wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls. I saw young Harry, with his beaver on. His cuisses on his thighs, gallantly arm'd, Bise from the ground like feather'd Mercury, And vaulted with such ease into his seat. As if an angel dropp'd down from the clouds, To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus And witch the world with noble horsemanship. Hot. No more, no more : worse than the sun in March, This praise doth nourish agues. Let them come; They come like sacrifices in their trim. And to the fire-eyed maid of smoky war All hot and bleeding will we offer them : The mailed Mars shall on his altar sit Up to the ears in blood. I am on fire To hear this rich reprisal is so nigh And yet not ours. Come, let me taste my horse, Who is to bear me like a thunderbolt Against the bosom of the Prince of Wales : Harry to Harry shall, hot horse to horse. Meet and ne'er part till one drop down a corse. that Glendower were come ! Ver. There is more news : 1 learn'd in Worcester, as I rode along, He cannot draw his power this fourteen days. Boug. That 's the worst tidings that I hear of yet. Wor. Ay, by my faith, that bears a frosty sound. Hot. What may the king's whole battle reach unto? Ver. To thirty thousand. Hot. Forty let it be : My father and Glendower being both away, The powers of us may serve so great a day. Come, let us take a muster speedily : Doomsday is near; die all, die merrily. Boug. Talk not of dying : I am out of fear Of death or death's hand for this one-half year. [Exeunt. SCENE n. — A public road near Coventry. Enter Falstaff and Bardolph. Fal. Bardolph, get thee before to Coventry; fill me a bottle of sack: our soldiers shall march through; we '11 to Sutton Co'fll' to-night. Bard. Will you give me money, captain? Fal. Lay out, lay out. Bard. This bottle makes an angel. Fal. An if it do, take it for thy labour ; and if it make twenty, take them all; I 'U answer the coin- age. Bid my lieutenant Peto meet me at town's end. Bard. 1 will, captain : farewell. [Exit. Fal. If I be not ashamed of my soldiers, I am a soused gurnet. I have misused the king's press damnably. I have got, in exchange of a hundred ACT IV. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene hi. and fifty soldiers, three hundred and odd pounds. I press me none but good householders, yeoman's sons ; inquire me out contracted bachelors, such as had been asked twice on the banns; such a com- modity of warm slaves, as had as lieve hear the devil as a drum ; such as fear the report of a caliver worse than a struck fowl or a hurt wild-duck. I pressed me none but such toasts-and-butter, with hearts in their bellies no bigger than pins' heads, and they have bought out their services ; and now my whole charge consists of ancients, corporals, lieutenants, gentlemen of companies, slaves as ragged as Lazarus in the painted cloth, where the glutton's dogs licked his sores; and such as indeed were never soldiers, but discarded unjust serving- men, younger sons to younger brothers, revolted tapsters and ostlers trade-faUen, the cankers of a calm world and a long peace, ten times more dis- honourable ragged than an old faced ancient : and such have I, to fill up the rooms of them that have bought out their services, that you would think that I had a hundred and fifty tattered prodigals lately come from swine-keeping, from eating draff and husks. A mad fellow met me on the way and - told me I had unloaded all the gibbets and pressed the dead bodies. No eye hath seen such scarecrows. I '11 not march through Coventry with them, that 's flat : nay, and the villains march wide betwixt the legs, as if they had gyves on ; for indeed I had the most of them out of prison. There 's but a shirt and a half in all my company ; and the half shirt is two nap- kins tacked together and thrown over the shoulders like an herald's coat without sleeves ; and the shirt,to say the truth, stolen from my host at Saint Alban's, or the red-nose innkeeper of Daventry. But that 's all one ; they '11 find linen enough on every hedge. E)xter the Prince and "Westmoreland. Prince. How now, blown Jack ! how now, quilt ! Fal. What, Hal! how now, mad wag! what a devil dost thou in Warwickshire ? My good Lord of Westmoreland, I cry you mercy: I thought your honour had already been at Shrewsbury. West. Faith, Sir John, 't is more than time that I were there, and you too ; but my powers are there already. The king, I can tell you, looks for us all ; we must away all night. Fal. Tut, never fear me: I am as vigilant as a cat to steal cream. Prince. I think, to steal cream indeed, for thy theft hath already made thee butter. But tell me, Jack, whose fellows are these that come after ? Fal. Mine, Hal, mine. Prince. I did never see such pitiful rascals. Fal. Tut, tut; good enough to toss; food for powder, food for powder ; they '11 fill a pit as well as better: tush, man, mortal men, mortal men. West. Ay, but. Sir John, methinks they are ex- ceeding poor and bare, too beggarly. Fal. 'Faith, for their poverty, I know not where they had that ; and for their bareness, I am sure they never learned that of me. Prince. ISTo, I '11 be sworn ; unless you call three fingers on the ribs bare. But, sirrah, make haste ; Percy is already in the field. Fal. What, is the king encamped ? West. He is. Sir John : I fear we shall stay too Fal. Well, [long. To the latter end of a fray and the beginning of a feast Fits a duU fighter and a keen guest. [Exeunt. SCENE III. — The rebel camp near Shrewsbury. Fnter Hotspur, Worcester, Douglas, and Vernon Hot. We '11 fight with him to-night Wor. It may not be. Poug. You give him then advantage. Ver. Not a whit. Hot. Why say you so ? looks he not for supply v Ver. So do we. Hot. His is certain, ours is doubtful. Wor. Good cousin, be advised; stir not to-night. Ver. Do not, my lord. Poug. You do not counsel well ; You speak it out of fear and cold heart. Ver. Do me no slander, Douglas : by my life, And I dare well maintain it with my life. If weU-respected honour bid me on, I hold as little counsel with weak fear As you, my lord, or any Scot that this day lives: Let it be seen to-morrow in the battle Which of us fears. Poug. Yea, or to-night. Ver. Content. Hot. To-night, say I. Ver. Come, come, it may not be. I wonder much, Being men of such great leading as you are. That you foresee not what impediments Drag back our expedition : certain horse Of my cousin Yernon's are not yet come up : Your uncle Worcester's horse came but to-day ; And now their pride and mettle is asleep. Their courage with hard labour tame and dull, That not a horse is half the half of himself. Hot. So are the horses of the enemy In general, journey-bated and brought low: The better part of ours are full of rest. Wor. The number of the king exceedeth ours : For God's sake, cousin, stay till all come in. [The trumpet sounds a parley. Enter Sir Walter Blunt. Plunt. I come with gracious offers from the king, If you vouchsafe me hearing and respect. Hot. Welcome, Sir Walter Blunt ; and would to You were of our determination 1 [God Some of us love you well ; and even those some Envy your great deservings and good name, Because you are not of our quality, But stand against us like an enemy. Plunt. And God defend but stiU I should stand so, So long as out of limit and true rule You stand against anointed majesty. But to my charge. The king hath sent to know The nature of your griefs, and whereupon You conjure from the breast of civil peace Such bold hostility, teaching his duteous land Audacious cruelty. If that the king Have any way your good deserts forgot. Which he confesseth to be manifold. He bids you name your griefs ; and with all speed. You shall have your desires with interest And pardon absolute for yourself and these Herein misled by your suggestion. Hot. The king is kind ; and weU we know the king Knows at what time to promise, when to pay. My father and my uncle and myself Did give him that same royalty he wears ; And when he was not six and twenty strong. Sick in the world's regard, wretched and low, A poor unminded outlaw sneaking home. My father gave him welcome to the shore ; And when he heard him swear and vow to God He came but to be Duke of Lancaster, To sue his livery and beg his peace. With tears of innocency and terms of zeal. My father, in kind heart and pity moved, Swore him assistance and perform 'd it too. Now when the lords and barons of the realm Perceived Northumberland did lean to him. The more and less came in with cap and knee ; Met him in boroughs, cities, villages. Attended him on bridges, stood in lanes, ACT V. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY IV. SCENE I. Laid gifts before liim, proffer'd him their oaths, Gave him their heirs, as pages follow'd him Even at the lieels in golden multitudes. He presently, as greatness knows itself, Steps me a little higher than his vow Made to my father, while liis blood was poor, Upon the naked shore at Ravenspurgh ; And now, forsooth , takes on him to reform Some certain edicts and some strait decrees That lie too heavy on the commonwealth, Cries out upon abuses, seems to weep Over his country's wrongs ; and by this face, This seeming brow of justice, did he win The hearts of all that he did angle for ; Proceeded further ; cut me off the heads Of all the favourites that the absent king In deputation left behind him here. When he was personal in the Irish war. Blunt. Tut, I came not to hear this. Hot. Then to the point. In short time after, he deposed the king ; Soon after that, deprived him of his life; And in the neck of that, task'd the whole state ; To make that worse, suffer'd his kinsman March, Who is, if every owner were well placed, Indeed his king, to be engaged in Wales, There without ransom to lie forfeited ; Disgraced me in my happy victories. Sought to entrap me by intelligence ; Rated mine uncle from the council-board ; In rage dismiss'd my father from the court ; Broke oath on oath, committed wrong on wrong. And in conclusion drove us to seek out This head of safety ; and withal to pry Into his title, the which we find Too indirect for long continuance. Blunt. Shall I return this answer to the king ? Hot. Not so, Sir Walter: we '11 withdraw awhile. Go to the king ; and let there be impawn 'd Some surety for a safe return again, And in the morning early shall my uncle Bring him our purposes : and so farewell. Blunt. I would you would accept of grace and love. Hot. And may be so we shall. Blunt. Pray God you do. [Mceunt. SCENE IV.— York. The Archbishop^ s palace. Enter the Archbishop of York and Sir Michael. Arch. Hie, good Sir Michael ; bear this sealed brief With winged haste to the lord marshal ; This to my cousin Scroop, and all the rest To whom they are directed. If you knew How much they do import, you would make haste. iSir M. My good lord, I guess their tenour. Arch. Like enough you do. To-morrow, good Sir Michael, is a day Wherein the fortune of ten thousand men Must bide the touch ; for, sir, at Shrewsbury, As I am truly given to understand. The king with mighty and quick-raised power Meets with Lord Harry : and, I fear. Sir Michael, What with the sickness of Northumberland, Whose power was in the first proportion, And what with Owen Glendower's absence thence, Who with them was a rated sinew too And comes not in, o'er-ruled by prophecies, I fear the power of Percy is too weak To wage an instant trial with the king. Sir M. Why, my good lord, you need not fear; There is Douglas and Lord Mortimer. Arch. No, Mortimer is not there. Sir M. But there is Mordake, Vernon, Lord Harry Percy, And there is my Lord of Worcester and a head Of gallant warriors, noble gentlemen. [drawn Arch. And so there is: but yet the king hath The special head of all the land together : The Prince of Wales, Lord John of Lancaster, The noble Westmoreland and warlike Blunt ; And many moe corrivals and dear men Of estimation and command in arms. [opposed. Sir M. Doubt not, my lord, they shall be well Arch. I hope no less, yet needful 't is to fear ; And, to prevent the worst. Sir Michael, speed : For if Lord Percy thrive not, ere the king Dismiss his power, he means to visit us, For he hath heard of our confederacy. And 't is but wisdom to make strong against him: Therefore make haste. I must go write again To other friends ; and so farewell. Sir Michael. {Exeunt^ ^OT V. SCENE I. — The King''s camp near Shrewsbury. Miter the Kins', Prince of Wales, Lord John of Lan- caster, Earl of Westmoreland, Sir Walter Blunt, i and Falstaff. King. How bloodily the sun begins to peer Above yon busky hill ! the day looks pale At his distemperature. Prince. The southern wind Doth play the trumpet to his purposes. And by his hollow whistling in the leaves Foretells a tempest and a blustering day. King. Then with the losers let it sympathize. For nothing can seem foul to those that win. [The trumpet sounds. Enter Worcester and Vernon. How now, my Lord of Worcester ! 't is not well That you and I should meet upon such terms As now we meet. You have deceived our trust, And made us doff our easy robes of peace. To crush our old limbs in ungentle steel : This is not well, my lord, this is not well. What say you to it ? will you again imknit 334 This churlish knot of all-abhorred war ? And move in that obedient orb again Where you did give a fair and natural light, And be no more an exhaled meteor, A prodigy of fear and a portent Of broached mischief to the unborn times ? Wor. Hear me, my liege: For mine own part, I could be well content To entertain the lag-end of my life With quiet hours ; for I do protest, I have not sought the day of this dislike, [then ? King. You have not sought it? how comes it Fal. Rebellion lay in his way, and he found it. Prince. Peace, chewet, peace ! Wor. It pleased your majesty to turn your looks Of favour from myself and all our house ; And yet I must remember you, my lord. We were the first and dearest of your friends. For you my staff of office did I break In Richard's time; and posted day and night To meet you on the way, and kiss your hand, When yet you were in place and in account Nothing so strong and fortunate as I. It was myself, my brother and his son, ACT V. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene ii. That brought you home and boldly did outdare The dangers of the time. You swore to us, And you did swear that oath at Doncaster, That you did nothing purpose 'gainst the state ; Nor claim no further than your new-fall 'n right, The seat of Gaunt, dukedom of Lancaster: To this we swore our aid. But in short space It rain'd down fortune showering on your head ; And such a flood of greatness fell on you, Wliat with our help, what with the absent king, What with the injuries of a wanton time. The seeming sufferances that you had borne. And the contrarious winds that held the king So long in his unlucky Irish wars That all in England did repute him dead : And from this swarm of fair advantages You took occasion to be quickly woo'd To gripe the general sway into your hand ; Forgot your oath to us at Doncaster ; And being fed by us you used us so As that ungentle gull, the cuckoo's bird, Useth the sparrow; did oppress our nest ; Grew by our feeding to so great a bulk That even our love durst not come near your sight -For fear of swallowing ; but with liimble wing We were enforced, for safety sake, to fly Out of your sight and raise this present head ; Whereby we stand opposed by such means As you yourself have forged against yourself By unkind usage, dangerous countenance, And violation of all faith and troth Sworn to us in your younger enterprise. King. These things indeed you have articulate, Proclaim'd at market-crosses, read in churches, To face the garment of rebellion With some fine colour that may please the eye Of fickle changelings and poor discontents, Which gape and rub the elbow at the news Of hurlyburly innovation : And never yet did insurrection want Such water-colours to impaint his cause ; Nor moody beggars, starving for a time Of pellmell havoc and confusion. Prince. In both your armies there is many a soul Shall pay full dearly for this encounter. If once they join in trial. Tell your nephew, The Prince of Wales doth join with all the world In praise of Henry Percy : by my hopes. This present enterprise set off his head, I do not think a braver gentleman. More active-valiant or more valiant-young, More daring or more bold, is now alive To grace this latter age with noble deeds. For my part, I may speak it to my shame, I have a truant been to chivalry ; And so I hear he doth account me too ; Yet this before my father's majesty — I am content that he shall take the odds Of his great name and estimation. And will, to save the blood on either side, Try fortune with him in a single fight. [thee. King. And, Prince of Wales, so dare we venture Albeit considerations infinite Do make against it. No, good Worcester, no, We love our people well ; even those we love That are misled upon your cousin's part; And, will they take the offer of our grace. Both he and they and you, yea, every man Shall be my friend again and I '11 be his : So tell your cousin, and bring me word What he will do : but if he will not yield, Kebuke and dread correction wait on us And they shall do their office. So, be gone; We will not now be troubled with reply : We offer fair; take it advisedly. [Exeunt Worcester and Vernon, Prince. It will not be accepted, on my life : The Douglas and the Hotspur both together Are confident against the world in arms. King. Hence, therefore, every leader to his charge ; For, on their answer, will we set on them : And God befriend us, as our cause is just ! [JExeunt all but the Prince of Wales and Falstaff. Fal. Hal, if thou see me down in the battle and bestride me, so ; 'tis a point of friendship. Prince. Nothing but a colossus can do thee that friendship. Say thy prayers, and farewell. Fal. I would 't were bed-time, Hal, and all well. Prince. Why, thou owest God a death. [Exit. Fal. 'Tis not due yet; I would be loath to pay him before his day. What need I be so forward with him that calls not on me V Well, 't is no mat- ter ; honour pricks me on. Yea, but how if honour prick me ofi: when I come on':* how then? Can honour set to a leg ? no : or an arm ? no : or take away the grief of a wound Y no. Honour hath no skill in surgery, then? no. What is honour? a word. What is in that word honour ? what is that honour? air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? he that died o' Wednesday. Doth he feel it ? no. Doth he hear it ? no. 'Tis insensible, then. Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living ? no. Why? detraction will not suffer it. There- fore I '11 none of it. Honour is a mere scutcheon: and so ends my catechism. [Exit. SCENE 11.— The rebel camp. Enter Worcester and Vernon. Wor. O, no, my nephew must not know. Sir Richard, The liberal and kind offer of the king. Ver. 'T were best he did. Wor. Then are we all undone. It is not possible, it cannot be, The king should keep his word in loving us ; He will suspect us still and find a time To punish this offence in other faults : Suspicion all our lives shall be stuck full of eyes; For treason is but trusted like the fox. Who, ne'er so tame, so cherish 'd and lock'd up, Will have a wild trick of his ancestors. Look how we can, or sad or merrily. Interpretation will misquote our looks. And we shall feed like oxen at a stall, The better cherish 'd, still the nearer death. My nephew's trespass may be well forgot ; It hath the excuse of youth and heat of blood, And an adopted name of privilege, A hare-brain'd Hotspur, govern'd by a spleen: All his offences live upon my head And on his father's ; we did train him on, And, his corruption being ta'en from us. We, as the spring of all, shall pay for all. Therefore, good cousin, let not Harry know, In any case, the offer of the king. Ver. Deliver what you will ; I '11 say 't is so. Here comes your cousin. Enter Hotspur and Douglas. Hot. My uncle is return'd : Deliver up my Lord of Westmoreland. Uncle, what news ? Wor. The king will bid you battle presently. Doug. Defy him by the Lord of Westmoreland. Hot. Lord Douglas, go you and tell him so. Doug. Marry, and shall, and very willingly. {Exit, Wor. There is no seeming mercy in the king. Hot. Did you beg any ? God forbid I Wor. I told him gently of our grievances. Of his oath-breaking ; which he mended thus, By now forswearing that he is forsworn : He calls us rebels, traitors ; and will scourge With haughty arms this hateful name in lis. ACT V, FIRST PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene iv. Be-enter Douglas. Doug. Arm, gentlemen; to arms! for I have A brave defiance in King Henry's teeth, [thrown And Westmoreland, that was engaged, did bear it ; "Which cannot choose but bring him quickly on. TVor. The Prince of Wales stepp'd forth before the king, And, nephew, challenged you to single fight. Hot. O, would the quarrel lay upon our heads, And that no man might draw short breath to-day But I and Harry Monmouth ! Tell me, tell me. How show'd his tasking ? seem'd it in contempt ? Ver. No, by my soul; I never in my life Did hear c challenge urged more modestly, Unless a brother should a brother dare To gentle exercise and proof of arms. He gave you all the duties of a man : Trimm'd up your praises with a princely tongue, Spoke your deservings like a chronicle, Making you ever better than his praise By still dispraising praise valued with you ; And, which became him like a prince indeed, He made a blushing cital of himself ; And chid his truant youth with such a grace As if he master 'd there a double spirit Of teaching and of learning instantly. There did he pause : but let me tell the world, If he outlive the envy of this day, England did never owe so sweet a hope, So much misconstrued in his wantonness. Hot. Cousin, I think thou art enamoured On his follies : never did I hear Of any prince so wild a libertine. But be he as he will, yet once ere night I will embrace him with a soldier's arm, That he shall shrink under my courtesy. Arm , arm with speed : and, fellows, soldiers, friends, Better consider what you have to do Than I, that have not well the gift of tongue, Can lift your blood up with persuasion. Miter a Messenger. Mess. My lord, here are letters for you. Hot. I cannot read them now. O gentlemen, the time of life is short! To spend that shortness basely were too long, If life did ride upon a dial's point. Still ending at the arrival of an hour. An if we live, we live to tread on kings ; If die, brave death, when princes die with us! Now, for our consciences, the arms are fair. When the intent of bearing them is just. JEnter another Messenger. Mess. My lord, prepare ; the king comes on apace. Hot. I thank him, that he cuts me from my tale, Tor I profess not talking; only this— Let each man do his best : and here draw I A sword, whose temper I intend to stain With the best blood that I can meet withal In the adventure of this perilous day. Now, Esperance ! Percy ! and set on. Sound all the lofty instruments of war. And by that music let us all embrace ; For, heaven to earth, some of us never shall A second time do such a courtesy. [The trumpets sound. They embrace, and exeunt. SCENE III. — Plain between the camps. The King enters with his power. Alarum to the battle. Then enter Douglas and Sir "Walter Blunt. Blunt. What is thy name, that in the battle thus Thou Grossest me ? what honour dost thou seek Upon my head ? Doug. Know then, my name is Douglas ; And I do haunt thee in the battle thus Because some tell me that thou art a king. Blunt. Thev tell thee true. [bought Doug. The Lord of Stafford dear to-day hath Thy likeness, for instead of thee, King Harry, This sword hath ended him : so shall it thee. Unless thou yield thee as my prisoner. Blunt. I was not born a yielder, thou proud Scot ; And thou shalt find a king that will revenge Lord Stafford's death. [They fight. Douglas Mils _, ^ „ . Blunt. Enter Hotspur. Hot. O Douglas, hadst thou fought at Holmedon I never had triumph'd upon a Scot. [thus, Doug. All 's done, all 's won; here breathless lies ifo«. Where? [the king. Doug. Here. Hot. This, Douglas? no: I know this face full well: A gallant knight he was, his name was Blunt ; Semblably furnish'd like the king himself. Doug. A fool go with thy soul, whither it goes ! A borrow'd title hast thou bought too dear : Why didst thou tell me that thou wert a king ? Hot. The king hath many marching in his coats. Doug. Now, by my sword, I will kill all his coats ; I 'U murder all his wardrobe, piece by piece, Until I meet the king. Hot. Up, and away ! Our soldiers stand full fairly for the day. [Exeunt. Alarum. Enter Falstaflf, solus. Fal. Though I could 'scape shot-free at London, I fear the shot here ; here 's no scoring but upon the pate. Soft ! who are you ? Sir Walter Blunt : there 's honour for you ! here 's no vanity ! I am as hot as molten lead, and as heavy too : God keep lead out of me ! I need no more weight than mine own bowels. I have led my ragamuffins where they are peppered : there 's not three of my hundred and fifty left alive ; and they are for the town's end, to beg during life. But who comes here ? Enter the Prince. Prince. What, stand'st thou idle here ? lend me thy Many a nobleman lies stark and stiff [sword : Under the hoofs of vaunting enemies. Whose deaths are yet unrevenged : I prithee, lend me thy sword. Fal. O Hal, I prithee, give me leave to breathe awhile. Turk Gregory never did such deeds in arms as I have done this day. I have paid Percy, I have made him sure. Prince. He is, indeed ; and living to kill thee. I prithee, lend me thy sword. Fal. Nay, before God, Hal, if Percy be alive, thou get'st not my sword ; but take my pistol, if thou wilt. Prince. Give it me : what, is it in the case ? Fal. Ay, Hal ; 't is hot, 't is hot ; there 's that will sack a city. [The Prince draios it out, and finds it to be a bottle of sack. Prince. What, is it a time to jest and dally now? [He throws the bottle at him. Exit. Fal. Well, if Percy be alive, I '11 pierce him. If he do come in my way, so : if he do not, if I come in his willingly, let him make a carbonado of me. I like not such grinning honour as Sir Walter hath : give me life : which if I can save, so ; if not, honour comes unlocked for, and there 's an end. [Exit. SCENE TV.— Another part of the field. Alarum. Excursions. Enter the King, the Prince, Lord John of Lancaster, and Earl of Westmoreland. King. I prithee, Harry, withdraw thyself; thou bleed'st too much. Lord John of Lancaster, go you with him. Lan. Not I, my lord, unless I did bleed too. ACT V. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene iv. Prince. I beseech your majesty, make up, Lest your retirement do amaze your friends. King. I will do so. My Lord of Westmoreland, lead him to his tent. West. Come, my lord, I '11 lead you to your tent. Prince. Lead me , my lord;' I do not need your help : And God forbid a shallow scratch should drive The Prince of Wales from such a field as this, Where stain 'd nobility lies trodden on. And rebels' arms triumph in massacres! Lan. We breathe too long: come, cousin West- moreland, Our duty this way lies ; for God's sake, come. [Exeunt Prince John and Westmoreland. Prince. By God, thou hast deceived me, Lancaster; I did not think thee lord of such a spirit : Before, I loved thee as a brother, John ; But now, I do respect thee as my soul. King. I saw him hold Lord Percy at the point With lustier maintenance than I did look for Of such an migrown warrior. Prince. O, this boy Lends mettle to us all ! [Exit. Enter Douglas. Doug. Another king! they grow like Hydra's I am the Douglas, fatal to all those [heads : That wear those colours on them : what art thou, That counterfeit 'st the person of a king ? King. The king himself ; who, Douglas, grieves at So many of his shadows thou hast met [heart And not the very king. I have two boys Seek Percy and thyself about the field : But, seeing thou fall'st on me so luckily, I will assay thee: so, defend thyself. Doug. I fear thou art another counterfeit ; And yet, in faith, thou bear'st thee like a king : But mine I am sure thou art, whoe'er thou be, And thus I win thee. [They fight; the King being in danger, re-enter Prince of Wales. Prince. Hold up thy head, vile Scot, or thou art Never to hold it up again ! the spirits Qike Of valiant Shirley, Stafford, Blunt, are in my arms : It is the Prince of Wales that threatens thee ; Who never promiseth but he means to pay. [Tliey fight: Douglas flies. Cheerly, my lord : how fares your grace ? Sir Nicholas Gawsey hath for succour sent, And so hath Clifton : I '11 to Clifton straight. King. Stay, and breathe awhile : Thou hast redeem'd thy lost opinion. And show'd thou makest some tender of my life, In this fair rescue thou hast brought to me. Prince. O God ! they did me too much injury That ever said I hearken'd for your death. If it were so, I might have let alone The insulting hand of Douglas over you. Which would have been as speedy in your end As all the poisonous potions in the world And saved the treacherous labour of your son. King. Make up to Clifton : I 'U to Sir Nicholas Gawsey. [Exit. Enter Hotspur. Hot. If I mistake not, thou art Harry Monmouth. Prince. Thou speak 'st as if I would deny my name. Hot. My name is Harry Percy. Prince. Why, then I see A very valiant rebel of the name. I am the Prince of Wales ; and think not, Percy, To share with me in glory any more : Two stars keep not their motion in one sphere ; Nor can one England brook a double reign, Of Harry Percy and the Prince of Wales. Hot. Nor shall it, Harry; for the hour is come To end the one of us ; and would to God Thy name in arms were now as great as mine ! Prince. I '11 make it greater ere I part fi'om thee ; And all the budding honours on thy crest I '11 crop, to make a garland for my head. Hot. I can no longer brook thy vanities. [They fight. Enter Falstaff. Fal. Well said, Hal ! to it, Hal ! Nay, you shall find no boy's play here, I can teU you. Re-enter Douglas ; he fights with FalstaflF, who falls dovm as if he were dead, and exit Douglas. Hotspur is wounded, and falls. Hot. O, Harry, thou hast robb'd me of my youth! I better brook the loss of brittle life Than those proud titles thou hast won of me ; They wound my thoughts worse than thy sword my flesh : But thought 's the slave of life, and life time's fool ; And time, that takes survey of all the world, Must have a stop. O, I could prophesy. But that the earthy and cold hand of death Lies on my tongue: no, Percy, thou art dust. And food for— [Dies. Prince. For worms, brave Percy: fare thee weU, great heart ! Ill-weaved ambition, how much art thou shrunk! When that this body did contain a spirit, A kingdom for it was too small a bound ; But now two paces of the vilest earth Is room enough : this earth that bears thee dead Bears not alive so stout a gentleman. If thou wert sensible of courtesy, I should not make so dear a show of zeal : But let my favours hide thy mangled face ; And, even in thy behalf, I '11 thank myself For doing these fair rites of tenderness. Adieu, and take thy praise with thee to heaven I Thy ignominy sleep with thee in the grave, But not remember'd in thy epitaph ! [He spieth Falstaff on the grmmd. What, old acquaintance ! could not all this flesh Keep in a little life ? Poor Jack, fareweU ! I could have better spared a better man : O, I should have a heavy miss of thee, If I were much in love with vanity ! Death hath not struck so fat a deer to-day, Though many dearer, in this bloody fray. EmboweU'd will I see thee by and by : Till then in blood by noble Percy lie. [Exit. Fal. [Rising up] Embowelled ! if thou embowel me to-day, I '11 give you leave to powder me and eat me too to-morrow. 'Sblood, 't was time to counter- feit, or that hot termagant Scot had paid me scot and lot too. Covmterfeit ? I lie, I am no counter- feit : to die, is to be a counterfeit ; for he is but the counterfeit of a man who hath not the life of a man : but to counterfeit dying, when a man thereby liveth, is to be no comiterfeit, but the true and perfect image of life indeed. The better part of valour is discretion ; in the which better part I have saved my life. 'Zounds, I am afraid of this gunpowder Percy, though he be dead : how, if he should coun- terfeit too and rise ? by my faith, I am afraid he would prove the better counterfeit. Therefore I '11 make him sure ; yea, and I '11 swear I killed him. Why may not he rise as well as I ? Nothing con- futes me but eyes, and nobody sees me. Therefore, sirrah [stabbing him], with a new wound in your thigh, come you along with me. [Takes up Hotspur on his hack. Be-enter the Prince of "Wales and Lord John of Lancaster. Prince. Come, brother John; full bravely hast Thy maiden sword. [thou flesh'd Lan. But, soft ! whom have we here ? Did you not teU me this fat man was dead ? 337 ACT V. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene v. Prince. I did ; I saw him dead, [alive ? Breathless and bleeding on the ground. Art thou Or is it fantasy that plays upon our eyesight ? I prithee, speak ; we will not trust our eyes Without our ears : thou art not what thou seem'st. Fal. No, that 's certain ; T am not a double man : but if I be not Jack FalstafC, then am I a Jack. There is Percy [throwing the body down]: if your father will do me any honour, so ; if not, let him kill the next Percy himself. I look to be either earl or duke, I can assure you. [dead. Prince. Why, Percy I killed myself and saw thee Fal. Didst thou ? Lord, Lord, how this world is fiven to lying ! I grant you I was down and out of reath ; and so was he : but we rose both at an in- stant and fought a long hour by Shrewsbury clock. If I may be believed, so ; if not, let them that should reward valour bear the sin upon their own heads. I '11 take it upon my death, I gave him this wound in the thigh : if the man were alive and would deny it , 'zounds, I would make him eat a piece of my sword. Lan. This is the strangest tale that ever I heard. Prince. This is the strangest fellow, brother John. Come, bring your luggage nobly on your back: Por my part, if a lie may do thee grace, I '11 gild it with the happiest terms I have. [A retreat is sounded. The trumpet sounds retreat ; the day is ours. Come, brother, let us to the highest of the field. To see what friends are living, who are dead. {Exeunt Prince of Wales and Lancaster. Fal. I '11 follow, as they say, for reward. He that rewards me, God reward him ! If I do grow great, I '11 grow less; for I '11 purge, and leave sack, and live cleanly as a nobleman should do. [Exit. SCENE v.— Another :part of the field. The trumpets sound. Enter the King, Prince of Wales, Lord John of Lancaster, Earl of Westmoreland, with Worcester and Vernon prisoners. King. Thus ever did rebellion find rebuke. Ill-spirited Worcester ! did not we send grace. Pardon and terms of love to all of you ? And wouldst thou turn our ofEers contrary ? Misuse the tenour of thy kinsman's trust ? Three knights upon our party slain to-day, A noble earl and many a creature else Had been alive this hour. If like a Christian thou hadst truly borne Betwixt oiu: armies true intelligence. Wor. What I have done my safety urged me to ; And I embrace this fortune patiently. Since not to be avoided it falls on me. [too : King. Bear Worcester to the death and Vernon Other offenders we will pause upon. [Exeunt Worcester and Vernon, guarded. How goes the field ? [saw Prince. The noble Scot, Lord Douglas, when he The fortune of the day quite turn'd from him. The noble Percy slain, and all his men Upon the foot of fear, fled with the rest ; And falling from a hill, he was so bruised That the pursuers took him. At my tent The Douglas is ; and I beseech your grace I may dispose of him. King. With all my heart. Prince. Then, brother John of Lancaster, to you This honourable bounty shall belong : Gro to the Douglas, and deliver him Up to his pleasure, ransomless and free : His valour shown upon oiu- crests to-day Hath taught us how to cherish such high deeds Even in the bosom of our adversaries. Lan. I thank your grace for this high courtesy, Which I shall give away immediately. [power. King. Then this remains, that we divide our You, son John, and my cousin Westmoreland Towards York shall bend you with your dearest To meet Northumberland and the prelate Scroop. Who, as we hear, are busily in arms : Myself and you, son Harry, will towards Wales, To fight with Glendower and the Earl of March. Eebellion in this land shall lose his sway, Meeting the check of such another day : And since this business so fair is done. Let us not leave till all our own be won. [Exeunt,. JWstaJ.-I have peppered two of them : two, I am, sure, I have paid, two rorJes in buckram SUltB. 1 tell thee what, Hal, -if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse.- Act II., Scene iv. THE SECOND PART OP KING HENRY THE FOUETH. BBAMATIS FEBSONM. Rumour, the Presenter. King Henry the Fourth. Henry, Prince of Wales, afterwards King Henry V., Thomas, Duke of Clarence, \ his sons. Prince John of Lancaster, I Prince Humphrey of Gloucester, J Earl of Warwick. Earl of Westmoreland. Earl of Surrey. Gower. Harcourt. Blunt. Lord Chief- Justice of the King's Bench. A Servant of the Chief- Justice. Earl of Northumberland. Scroop, Archbishop of York. Lord Mo'wbray. Lord Hastings. Lord Bardolph. Sir John ColevUe. Travers and Morton, retainers of Northumberland. [For an Analys Sir John Falstaff. His Page. Bardolph. ' 1^ country justices. Poins. Peto. Shallow, Silence, Davy, Servant to Shallow. Mouldy, Shadow, Wart, Feeble, and Bulloalf, recruits. Fang and Snare, Sheriff's officers. Lady Northumberland. Lady Percy. Mistress Quickly, hostess of a tavern in Eastcheap. Doll Tearsheet. Lords and Attendants; Porter, Drawers, Beadles, Grooms, &c. A Dancer, speaker of the epilogue. SCENE — England. Plot of this Play, see Page LIV.] I isr D TJ C T I O I^ Warkworth. Before the castle. Enter Rvunour, painted full of tongues. Bum. Open your ears; for which of you will stop The vent of hearing when loud Rumour speaks ? I, from the orient to the drooping west, Making the wind my post-horse, still unfold The acts commenced on this ball of earth : Upon my tongues continual slanders ride, The which in every language I pronounce, Stuffing the ears of men with false reports. I speak of peace, while covert enmity Under the smile of safety wounds the world : And who but Rumour, who but only I, Make fearful musters and prepared defence, Whiles the big year, swoln with some other grief, Is thought with child by the stern tyrant war, And no such matter ? Rumour is a pipe Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures, And of so easy and so plain a stop That the blunt monster with uncounted heads, The still-discordant wavering multitude, Can play upon it. But what need I thus My well-known body to anatomize Among my household ? Why is Rumour here ? I run before King Harry's victory ; Who in a bloody field by Shrewsbury Hath beaten down young Hotspur and his troops, Quenching the flame of bold rebellion Even with the rebel's blood. But what mean I To speak so true at first ? my office is To noise abroad that Harry Monmouth fell Under the wrath of noble Hotspur's sword, And that the king before the Douglas' rage Stoop'd his anointed head as low as death. This have I rumour 'd through the peasant towns Between that royal field of Shrewsbury And this worm-eaten hold of ragged stone, Where Hotspur's father, old Northumberland, Lies crafty-sick : the posts come tiring on. And not a man of them brings other news Than they have learn'd of me: from Rumour's tongues They bring smooth comforts false, worse than true wrongs. [Exit. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene i. ^CT I. SCENE 1.— The same. Enter Lord Bardolph. X. Bard. Who keeps the gate here, ho ? The Porter opens the gate. Where is the earl ? Fort. What shall I say you are ? L. Bard. Tell thou the earl That the Lord Bardolph doth attend him here. Port. His lordship is walk'd forth into the orchard : Please it your honour, knock but at the gate, And he himself will answer. Enter Northumberland. L. Bard. Here comes the earl. [Exit Porter. North. What news. Lord Bardolph ? every minute Should be the father of some stratagem : [now The times are wild ; contention, like a horse Full of high feeding, madly hath broke loose And bears down all before him. L. Bard. iffoble earl, I bring you certain news from Shrewsbury. North. Good, an God will ! L. Bard. As good as heart can wish : The king is almost wounded to the death ; And, in the fortune of my lord your son, Prince Harry slain outright ; and both the Blunts KiU'd by the hand of Douglas; young Prince John And Westmoreland and Stafford fled the field ; And Harry Monmouth's brawn, the hulk Sir John, Is prisoner to your son : O, such a day, So fought, so foUow'd and so fairly won, Came not till now to dignify the times, Since Caesar's fortunes ! North. How is this derived ? Saw you the field ? came you from Shrewsbury ? L. Bard. I spake with one, my lord, that came from thence, A gentleman well bred and of good name, That freely render'd me these news for true. North. Here comes my servant Travers, whom I sent On Tuesday last to listen after news. Enter Travers. L. Bard. My lord, I over-rode him on the way ; And he is furnished with no certainties More than he haply may retail from me. North. Now, Travers, what good tidings comes with you ? Tra. My lord, Sir John Umfrevile turn'd me back With joyful tidings; and, being better horsed, Outrode me. After him came spurring hard A gentleman, almost forspent with speed, That stopped by me to breathe his bloodied horse. He ask'd the way to Chester ; and of him I did demand what news from Shrewsbury: He told me that rebellion had bad luck And that young Harry Percy's spur was cold. With that, he gave his able horse the head, And bending forward struck his armed heels Against the panting sides of his poor jade Up to the rowel-head, and starting so He seem'd in running to devour the way, Staying no longer question. North. Ha ! Again : Said he young Harry Percy's spur was cold ? Of Hotspur Coldspur ? that rebellion Had met ill luck ? L. Bard. My lord, I '11 tell you what ; If my young lord your son have not the day- 340 Upon mine honour, for a silken point I '11 give my barony : never talk of it. [Travers North. Why should that gentleman that rode by Give then such instances of loss ? L. Bard. Who, he? He was some hildtng fellow that had stolen The horse he rode on, and, upon my life. Spoke at a venture. Look, here comes more news. Enter Morton. North. Yea, this man's brow, like to a title-leaf. Foretells the nature of a tragic volume : ,So looks the strand whereon the imperious flood rHath left a witness'd usurpation. Say, Morton, didst thou come from Shrewsbury? Mor. 1 ran from Shrewsbury, my noble lord; Where hateful death put on his ugliest mask To fright our party. North. How doth my son and brother ? Thou tremblest ; and the whiteness in thy cheek Is apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand. Even such a man, so faint, so spiritless, So dull, so dead in look, so woe-begone, Drew Priam's curtain in the dead of night, And would have told him half his Troy was burnt ; But Priam found the fire ere he his tongue. And I my Percy's death ere thou report 'st it. This thou wouldst say, ' Your son did thus and thus ; Your brother thus : so fought the noble Douglas : ' Stopping my greedy ear with their bold deeds : But in the end, to stop my ear indeed, Thou hast a sigh to blow away this praise, Ending with ' Brother, son, and all are dead.'-* Mor. Douglas is living, and your brother, yet; But, for my lord your son,— North. Why, he is .dead. See what a ready tongue suspicion hath ! He that but fears the thing he would not know Hath by instinct knowledge from others' eyes That what he f ear 'd is chanced. Yet speak, Morton ; Tell thou an earl his divination lies. And I will take it as a sweet disgrace And make thee rich for doing me such wrong. Mor. You are too great to be by me gainsaid: Your spirit is too true, your fears too certain. North. Yet, for all this, say not that Percy's dead. I see a strange confession in thine eye : Thou shakest thy head and hold'st it fear or sin To speak a truth. If he be slain, say so ; The tongue offends not that reports his death : And he doth sin that doth belie the dead. Not he which says the dead is not alive. Yet the first briuger of unwelcome news Hath but a losing office, and his tongue Soimds ever after as a sullen bell, Kemember'd tolling a departing friend. L. Bard. I cannot think, my lord, your son is dead. Mor. I am sorry I should force you to believe That which I would to God I had not seen ; But these mine eyes saw him in bloody state. Rendering faint quittance, wearied and out- breathed, To Harry Monmouth ; whose swift wrath beat down The never-daunted Percy to the earth, From whence with life he never more sprung up. In few, his death, whose spirit lent a fire Even to the dullest peasant in his camp, Being bruited once, took fire and heat away From the best-temper'd courage in his troops ; For from his metal was his party steel'd ; Which once in him abated, all the rest Turn'd on themselves, like dull and hea\'7 lead: And as the thing that 's heavy in itself, Upon enforcement flies with greatest speed, ACT I. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene ii. So did our men, lieavy in Hotspur's loss, Lend to this weight such lightness with their fear That arrows fled not swifter toward their aim Than did our soldiers, aiming at their safety, Fly from the field. Then was that noble Worcester Too soon ta'en prisoner ; and that furious Scot, The bloody Douglas, whose well-labouring sword Had three times slain the appearance of the king, 'Gan vail his stomach and did grace the shame Of those that turn'd their backs, and in his flight, Stumbling in fear, was took. The sum of all Is that the king hath won, and hath sent out A speedy power to encounter you, my lord, Under the conduct of young Lancaster And "Westmoreland. This is the news at full. North. For this I shall have time enough to mourn. In poison there is physic ; and these news. Having been well, that would have made me sick. Being sick, have in some measure made me well: And as the wretch, whose fever-weaken 'd joints, Like strengthless hinges, buckle under life, Impatient of his fit, breaks like a fire Out of his keeper's arms, even so my limbs, Weaken'd with grief, being now enraged with grief. Are thrice themselves. Hence, therefore, thou nice A scaly gauntlet now with joints of steel [crutch ! Must glove this hand ; and hence, thou sickly quoif ! Thou art a guard too wanton for the head Which princes, flesh 'd with conquest, aim to hit. Now bind my brows with iron ; and approach The ragged 'st hour that time and spite dare bring To frown upon the enraged Northumberland ! Let heaven kiss earth ! now let not Nature's hand Keep the wild flood confined ! let order die ! And let this world no longer be a stage To feed contention in a lingering act ; But let one spirit of the first-born Cain Eeign in all bosoms, that, each heart being set On bloody courses, tlie rude scene may end, And darkness be the burier of the dead ! [lord. Tra. This strained passion doth you wrongj my L. Bo.rd. Sweet earl, divorce not wisdom from your honour. Mor. The lives of all your loving complices Lean on your health ; the which, if you give o'er To stormy passion, must perforce decay. You cast the event of war, my noble lord. And summ'd the accoimt of chance, before you said ' Let us make head.' It was your presurmise. That, in the dole of blows, your son might drop : You knew he walk'd o'er perils, on an edge, More likely to fall in than to get o'er ; You were advised his flesh was capable Of wovmds and scars and that his forward spirit Would lift him where most trade of danger ranged : Yet did you say ' Go forth ; ' and none of this, Though strongly apprehended, could restrain The stiff-borne action : what hath then befallen, Or what hath this bold enterprise brought forth, More than that being which was like to be ? L. Bard. We all that are engaged to this loss Knew that we ventm-ed on such dangerous seas That if we wrought our life 't was ten to one ; And yet we ventured^ for the gain proposed Choked the respect of likely peril fear'd ; And since we are o'erset, venture again. Come, we will all put forth, body and goods. Mor. 'T is more than time : and, my most noble I hear for certain, and do speak the truth, [lord. The gentle Archbishop of York is up With well-appointed powers : he is a man Who with a double surety binds his followers. My lord your son had only but the corpse. But shadows and the shows of men, to fight ; For that same word, rebellion, did divide The action of their bodies from their souls ; And they did fight with queasiness, constrain 'd. As men drink potions, that their weapons only Seem'd on our side ; but, for their spirits and souls, This word, rebellion, it had froze them up. As fish are in a pond. But now the bishop Turns insurrection to religion : Supposed sincere and holy in his thoughts. He 's followed both with body and with mind ; And doth enlarge his rising with the blood Of fair King Richard, scraped from Pomfret stones ; Derives from heaven his quarrel and his cause ; Tells them he doth bestride a bleeding land. Gasping for life under great Bolingbroke ; And more and less do flock to follow him. North. I knew of this before ; but, to speak truth, This present grief had wiped it from my mind. Go in with me ; and counsel every man The aptest way for safety and revenge : Get posts and letters, and make friends with speed: Never so few, and never yet more need. [Exeunt. SCENE II.— London. A street. Enter Falstaflf, with his Page bearing his sword and buckler. Fal. Sirrah, you giant, what says the doctor to my water ? Page. He said, sir, the water itself was a good healthy water; but, for the party that owed it, he might have more diseases than he knew for. Fal. Men of all sorts take a pride to gird at me : the brain of this foolish-compounded clay, man, is not able to invent any thing that tends to laughter, more than I invent or is invented on me : I am not only witty in myself, but the cause that wit is in other men. I do here walk before thee like a sow that hath overwhelmed all her litter but one. If the prince put thee into my service for any other reason than to set me off, why then I have no judg- ment. Thou whoreson mandrake, thou art fitter to be worn in my cap than to wait at my heels. I was never manned with an agate till now: but I will inset you neither in gold nor silver, but in vile apparel, and send you back again to your master, for a jewel, — the juvenal, the prince your master, whose chin is not yet fledged. I will sooner have a beard grow in the palm of my hand than he shall get one on his cheek ; and yet he will not stick to say his face is a face-royal : God may finish it when he will, 't is not a hair amiss yet : he may keep it still at a face-royal, for a barber shall never earn sixpence out of it ; and yet he '11 be crowing as if he had writ man ever since his father was a bach- elor. He may keep his own grace, but he 's almost out of mine, I can assure him. What said Master Dombledon about the satin for my short cloak and my slops ? Page. He said, sir, you should procure him better assxirance than Bardolph: he would not take his band and yours ; he liked not the security. Fal. Let him be danmed, like the glutton ! pray God his tongue be hotter ! A whoreson Achitophel ! a rascally yea-forsooth knave ! to bear a gentleman in hand , and then stand upon security ! The whore- son smooth-pates do now wear nothing but high shoes, and bunches of keys at their girdles ; and if a man is through with them in honest taking up, then they must stand upon secmlty. I had as lief they would put ratsbane in my mouth as offer to stop it with security. I looked a' should have sent me two and twenty yards of satin, as I am a true knight, and he sends me security. Well, he may sleep in security ; for he hath the horn of abundance, and the lightness of his wife shines through it : and yet cannot he see, though he have his own lanthorn to light him. Where 's Bardolph ? Page. He 's gone into Smithfield to buy your wor- ship a horse. 341 SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene ii. Fal. I bought him in Paul's, and he '11 buy me a horse in Smithfleld : an I could get me but a wife in the stews, I were manned, horsed, and wived. Unter the Lord Chief- Justice and Servant. Page. Sir, here comes the nobleman that com- mitted the prince for striking him about Bardolph. Fal. Wait close ; I will not see him. Ch. Just. What 's he that goes there ? Serv. Falstaff , an 't please your lordship. Ch. Just. He that was in question for the rob- bery? Serv. He, my lord : but he hath since done good service at Shrewsbury ; and, as I hear, is now going with some charge to the Lord John of Lancaster. Ch. Just. What, to York ? Call him back again. Serv. Sir John Falstaff ! Fal. Boy, tell him I am deaf. Page. You must speak louder ; my master is deaf. CJi. Just. I am sure he is, to the hearing of any- thing good. Go, pluck him by the elbow; I must speak with him. Serv. Sir John ! Fal. What! a young knave, and begging! Is there not wars ? is there not employment ? doth not the king lack subjects ? do not the rebels need soldiers ? Though it be a shame to be on any side but one, it is worse shame to beg than to be on the worst side, were it worse than the name of rebellion can tell how to make it. Serv. You mistake me, sir. Fal. Why, sir, did I say you were an honest man ? setting my knighthood and my soldiership aside, I had lied in my throat, if I had said so. Serv. I pray you, sir, then set your knighthood and your soldiership aside; and give me leave to tell you, you lie in your throat, if you say I am any other than an honest man. Fal. I give thee leave to tell me so ! I lay aside that which grows to me ! If thou gettest any leave of me, hang me : if thou takest leave, thou wert better be hanged. You hunt counter: hence! avaunt I Serv. Sir, my lord would speak with you. CJi. Just. Sir John Falstaff, a word with you. Fal. My good lord ! God give your lordship good time of day. I am glad to see your lordship abroad : I heard say your lordship was sick : I hope your lordship goes abroad by advice. Your lordship, though not clean past your youth, hath yet some smack of age in you, some relish of the saltness of time ; and 1 most humbly beseech your lordship to have a reverent care of your health. Ch. Just. Sir John, I sent for you before your ex- pedition to Shrewsbury. Fal. An 't please your lordship, I hear his majesty is returned with some discomfort from Wales. Ch. Just. I talk not of his majesty : you would not come when I sent for you. Fal. And I hear, moreover, his highness is fallen into this same whoreson apoplexy. Ch. Just. Well, God mend him ! I pray you, let me speak with you. Fal. This apoplexy is, as I take it, a kind of lethargy, an 't please your lordship ; a kind of sleep- ing in the blood, a whoreson tingling. Ch. Just. What tell you me of it ? be it as it is. Fal. It hath its original from much grief, from study and perturbation of the brain : I have read the cause of his effects in Galen: it is a kind of deafness. Cli. Just. I think you are fallen into the disease ; for you hear not what I say to you. Fal. Yery well, my lord, very well : rather, an 't please you, it is the disease of not listening, the malady of not marking, that I am troubled withal. Ch. Just. To punish you by the heels would amend 342 the attention of your ears ; and I care not if I do become your physician. Fal. I am as poor as Job, my lord, but not so patient : your lordship may minister the potion of imprisonment to me in respect of poverty ; but how I should be your patient to follow your prescriptions, the wise may make some dram of a scruple, or in- deed a scruple itself. Ch. Just. I sent for you, when there were matters against you for your life, to come speak with me. Fal. As I was then advised by my learned counsel in the laws of this land-service, I did not come. Ch. Just. Well, the truth is, Sir John, you live in great infamy. Fal. He that buckles him in my belt cannot live in less. Ch. Just. Your means are very slender, and your waste is great. Fal. I would it were otherwise; I would my means were greater, and my waist slenderer. Ch. Just. You have misled the youthful prince. Fal. The young prince hath misled me : I am the fellow with the great belly, and he my dog. Ch. Just. Well, I am loath to gall a new-healed wound: your day's service at Shrewsbury hath a little gilded over your night's exploit on Gad's-hill: you may thank the unquiet time for your quiet o'er- posting that action. Fal. My lord? Ch. Just. But since aU is well, keep it so : wake not a sleeping wolf. Fal. To wake a wolf is as bad as to smell a fox. Ch. Just. What ! you are as a candle, the better part burnt out. Fal. A wassail candle, my lord, all tallow : if I did say of wax, my growth would approve the truth. Ch. Just. There is not a white hair on your face but should have his effect of gravity. Fal. His effect of gravy, gravy, gravy. . Cli. Just. You follow the young prince up and. down, like his ill angel. Fal. Not so, my lord; your ill angel is light ; but I hope he that looks upon me will take me without weighing : and yet, in some respects, I grant, I can- not go : I cannot tell. Virtue is of so little regard in these costermonger times that true valour is turned bear-herd : pregnancy is made a tapster, and hath his quick wit wasted in giving reckonings : all the other gifts appertinent to man, as the malice of this age shapes them, are not worth a gooseberry. You that are old consider not the capacities of us that are young; you do measure the heat of our livers with the bitterness of your galls : and we that are in the vaward of our youth, I must confess, are wags too. Ch. Just. Do you set down your name in the scroll of youth, that are written down old with all the characters of age ? Have you not a moist eye ? a dry hand? a yellow cheek? a white beard? a de- creasing leg ? an increasing belly ? is not your voice broken ? your wind short ? your chin double ? your wit single ? and every part about you blasted with antiquity? and will you yet call yourself young? Tie, fie, fie. Sir John ! Fal. My lord, I was born about three of the clock in the afternoon, with a white head and something a round belly. For my voice, I have lost it with halloing and singing of anthems. To approve my youth further, I will not : the truth is, I am only old in judgment and understanding; and he that will caper with me for a thousand marks, let him lend me the money, and have at him ! For the box of the ear that the prince gave you, he gave it like a rude prince, and you took it like a sensible lord. I have checked him for it, and the young lion re- pents ; marry, not in ashes and sackcloth, but in new silk and old sack. • ACT I. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene hi. Ch. Just. Well, God send the prince a better com- panion ! Fal. God send the companion a better prince ! I cannot rid my hands of him. Cli. Just. Well, the king hath severed you and Prince Harry : I hear you are going with Lord John of Lancaster against the Archbishop and the Earl of Northumberland. Fal. Yea ; I thank your pretty sweet wit for it. But look you pray, all" you that kiss my lady Peace at home, that our armies join not in a hot day ; for, by the Lord, I take but two shirts out with me, and I mean not to sweat extraordmarily : if it be a hot day, and I brandish any thing but a bottle, I would I might never spit white again. There is not a dangerous action can peep out his head but I am thrust upon it : well, I cannot last ever: but it was alway yet the trick of our English nation, if they have a good thing, to make it too common. If ye will needs say I am an old man, you should give me rest. I would to God my name were not so terrible to the enemy as it is : I were better to be eaten to death with a rust than to be scoured to nothing with perpetual motion. ' Ck. Just. Well, be honest, be honest; and God bless your expedition ! Fal. Will your lordship lend me a thousand pound to furnish me forth V Ch. Just. ISTot a penny, not a penny ; you are too impatient to bear crosses. Fare you well : commend me to my cousin Westmoreland. [Exeunt Chief-Justice and Servant. Fal. If I do, fillip me with a three-man beetle. A man can no more separate age and covetousness than a' can part young limbs and lechery : but the gout galls the one, and the pox pinches the other ; and so both the degrees prevent my curses. Boy ! Page. Sir? Fal. What money is in my purse ? Page. Seven groats and two pence. Fal. I can get no remedy against this consump- tion of the purse : borrowing only lingers and lingers it out, but the disease is incurable. Go bear this letter to my Lord of Lancaster ; this to the prince ; this to the Earl of Westmoreland ; and this to old Mistress Ursula, whom I have weekly sworn to marry since I perceived the first white hair on my chin. About it : you know where to find me. [Exit Page.] A pox of this gout ! or, a gout of this pox ! for the one or the other plays the rogue with my great toe. 'T is no matter if I do halt ; I have the wars for my colour, and my pension shall seem the more reasonable. A good wit will make use of any thing : I will turn diseases to commodity. [Exit. SCENE III.— York. The Archbishop''s palace. Enter the Archbishop, the Lords Hastings, Mowbray, and Bardolph. Arch. Thus have you heard our cause and known our means ; And, my most noble friends, I pray you all. Speak plainly your opinions of our hopes : And first, lord marshal, what say you to it ? Mowb. I well allow the occasion of our arms ; But gladly would be better satisfied How in our means we should advance ourselves To look with forehead bold and big enough Upon the power and puissance of the king. Hast. Our present musters grow upon the file To five and twenty thousand men of choice ; ' And our supplies live largely in the hope Of great Northumberland, whose bosom burns With an incensed fire of injuries. [eth thus ; L. Bard. The question then. Lord Hastings, stand- Whether our present five and twenty thousand May hold up head without Northumberland i' Hast. With him, we may. L. Bard. Yea, marry, there 's the point: But if without him Ave be thought too feeble. My judgment is, we should not step too far Till we had his assistance by the hand ; For in a theme so bloody-faced as this Conjecture, expectation, and surmise Of aids incertain should not be admitted. Arch. 'Tis very true, Lord Bardolph; for indeed It was young Hotspur's case at Shrewsbury, [hope, L. Bard. It was, my lord; who lined himself with Eating the air on promise of supply, Flattering himself in project of a power Much smaller than the smallest of his thoughts-. And so, with great imagination Proper to madmen, led his powers to death And winking leap'd into destruction. Hast. But, by your leave, it never yet did hurt To lay down likelihoods and forms of hope. L. Bard. Yes, if this present quality of war, Indeed the instant action : a cause on foot Lives so in hope as in an early spring We see the appearing buds ; which to prove fruit, Hope gives not so much warrant as despair" That frosts will bite them . When we mean to build, We first survey the plot, then draw the model; And when we see the figure of the house. Then must we rate the cost of the erection ; Which if we find outweighs ability. What do we then but draw anew the model In fewer offices, or at last desist To build at all ? Much more, in this great work, Which is almost to pluck a kingdom down And set another up, should we survey The plot of situation and the model. Consent upon a sure foundation. Question surveyors, know our own estate, How able such a work to undergo, To weigh against his opposite ; or else We fortify m paper and in figures. Using the names of men instead of men : Like one that draws the model of a house Beyond his power to build it ; who, half through, Gives o'er and leaves his part-created cost A naked subject to the weeping clouds And waste for churlish winter's tyranny. Hast. Grant that our hopes, yet likely of fair birth, Should be still-born, and that we now possess'd The utmost man of expectation, I think we are a body strong enough. Even as we are, to equal with the king, [thousand ? L. Bard. What, is the king but five and twenty Hast. To us no more ; nay, not so much. Lord Bar- For his divisions, as the times do brawl, [dolph. Are in three heads : one power against the French, And one against Glendower ; perforce a third Must take up us : so is the unfirm king In three divided ; and his coffers sound With hollow poverty and emptiness. [together Arch. That he should draw his several strengths And come against us in full puissance, Need not be dreaded. Hast. If he should do so. He leaves his back unarm 'd, the French and Welsh Baying him at the heels : never fear that, [hither ? . L. Bard. Who is it like should lead his forces Hast. The Duke of Lancaster and Westmoreland ; Against the Welsh, himself and Harry Monmouth : But who is substituted 'gainst the French, I have no certain notice. Arch. Let us on. And publish the occasion of our arms. The commonwealth is sick of their own choice ; Their over-greedy love hath surfeited : An habitation giddy and unsure Hath he that buildeth on the vulgar heart. O thou fond many, with what loud applause ACT II. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene i. Didst thou beat heaven with blessing Bolingbroke, Before he was what thou wouldst have liim be ! And being now trimm'd in thine own desires, Thou, beastly feeder, art so full of him, That thou provokest thyself to cast him up. So, so, thou common dog, didst thou disgorge Thy glutton bosom of the royal Eichard ; And now thou wouldst eat thy dead vomit up. And howl'st to find it. What trust is in these times ? They that, when Richard lived, would have him die, Are now become enamour'd on his grave : Thou, that threw'st dust upon his goodly head When through proud London he came sighing on After the admired heels of Bolingbroke, Criest now ' O earth, yield us that king again, And take thou this! ' O thoughts of men accursed! Past and to come seems best ; things present worst. Mowb. Shall we go draw our numbers and set on ? Hast. We are time's subjects, and time bids be gone. [Exeunt. ^CT II. SCENHl.— London. A street. Enter Hostess, Pang and his Boy with her, and Snare following. Host. Master Fang, have you entered the action ? Fang. It is entered. Host. Where 's your yeoman ? Is 't a lusty yeo- man ? will a' stand to 't ? Fang. Sirrah, where 's Snare ? Host. O Lord, ay! good Master Snare. Snare. Here, here. Fang. Snare, we must arrest Sir John Falstaff. Host. Yea, good Master Snare; I have entered him and all. Snare. It may chance cost some of us our lives, for he will stab. Host. Alas the day ! take heed of him ; he stabbed me in mine ovm house, and that most beastly: in good faith, he cares not what mischief he does, if his weapon be out : he will f oiu like any devil ; he will spare neither man, woman, nor child. Fang. If I can close with him, I care not for his thrust. Host. No, nor I neither: I 'U be at your elbow. Fang. An I but fist him once ; an a' come but within my vice, — Host. I am undone by his going ; I warrant you, he 's an infinitive thing upon my score. Good Mas- ter Fang, hold him sure : good Master Snare, let him not 'scape. A' comes continuantly to Pie- corner — saving your manhoods — to buy a saddle; and he is indited to dinner to the Lubber's-head in Lumbert street, to Master Smooth's the silkman : I pray ye, since my exion is entered and my case so openly known to the world, let him be brought in to his answer. A hundred mark is a long one for a poor lone woman to bear : and I have borne, and borne, and borne, and have been fubbed off, and fubbed off, and fubbed off, from this day to that day, that it is a shame to be thought on. There is no honesty in such dealing ; unless a woman should be made an ass and a beast, to bear every knave's wrong. Yonder he comes ; and that arrant malmsey- nose knave, Bardolph, with him. Do your offices, do your offices : Master Fang and Master Snare, do me, do me, do me your offices., FMer Palstaff, Page, and Bardolph. Fal. How now I whose mare's dead ? what 's the matter ? Fang. Sir John, I arrest you at the suit of Mis- tress Quickly. Fal. Away, varlets ! Draw, Bardolph : cut me off the villain's head: throw the quean in the channel. Host. Throw me in the channel ! I '11 throw thee in the channel. Wilt thou ? wilt thou ? thou bas- tardly rogue ! Murder, murder ! Ah, thou honey- suckle villain ! wilt thou kill God's officers and the king's? Ah, thou honey-seed rogue! thou art a honey-seed, a man-queller, and a woman-queller. Fal. Keep them off, Bardolph. 344 Fang. A rescue! a rescue! Host. Good people, bring a rescue or two. Thou wo't, wo't thou? thou wo't, wo't ta? do, do, thou rogue! do, thou hemp-seed! Fal. Away, you scullion ! you rampallian ! you fustilarian ! I '11 tickle your catastrophe. Miter the Lord Chief- Justice, and his men, Ch. Just. What is the matter ? keep the peace here, ho ! Host. Good my lord, be good to me. I beseech you, stand to me. Ch. Just. How now, Sir John; what are you brawling here ? [ness ? Doth this become your place, your time and busi- You should have been well on your way to York. Stand from him, fellow: wherefore hang'st upon him ? Host. O my most worshipful lord, an't please your grace, I am a poor widow of Easteheap, and he is arrested at my suit. Ch. Just. For what sum ? Host. It is more than for some, my lord ; it is for all, all I have. He hath eaten me out of house and home ; he hath put all my substance into that fat belly of his : but I will have some of it out again, or I will ride thee o' nights like the mare. Fal. 1 think I am as like to ride the mare, if I have any vantage of ground to get up. Ch. Just. How comes this. Sir John ? Fie ! what man of good temper would endure this tempest of exclamation ? Are you not ashamed to enforce a poor widow to so rough a course to come by her own? Fal. What is the gross sum that I owe thee ? Host. Marry, if thou wert an honest man, thyself and the money too. Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in my Dolphin-chamber, at the round-table, by a sea-coal fire, upon Wednes- day in Wheeson week, when the prince broke thy head for liking his father to a singing-man of Wind- sor, thou didst swear to me then, as I was washing thy wound, to marry me and make me my lady thy wife. Canst thou deny it ? Did not goodwife Keech, the butcher's wife, come in then and call me gossip Quickly ? coming in to borrow a mess of vinegar ; telling us she had a good dish of prawns ; whereby thou didst desire to eat some ; whereby I told thee they were ill for a green wound ? And didst thou not, when she was gone down stairs, desire me to be no more so familiarity with such poor people ; saying that ere long they should call me madam ? And didst thou not kiss me and bid me fetch thee thirty shillings ? I put thee now to thy book-oath : deny it, if thou canst. Fal. My lord, this is a poor mad soul ; and she says up and down the town that her eldest son is like you : she hath been in good case, and the truth is, poverty hath distracted her. But for these fool- ish officers, I beseech you I may have redress against them. ACT II. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene ii. Cli. Just. Sir John, Sir John; I am well acquainted with your manner of wrenching the true cause the false way. It is not a confident brow, nor the throng of words that come with such more than impudent sauciness from you, can thrust me from a level consideration: you have, as it appears to me, practised upon the easy-yielding spirit of this woman, and made her serve your uses both in purse and in person. Host. Yea, in truth, my lord. Ch. Just. Pray thee, peace. Pay her the debt you owe her, and unpay the villany you have done her : I the one you may do with sterling money, and the other with current repentance. Fal. My lord, I will not undergo this sneap with- out reply. You call honourable boldness impudent sauciness; if a man will make courtesy and say nothing, he is virtuous : no, my lord, my humble duty remembered, 1 will not be your suitor. I say to you, I do desire deliverance from these officers, being upon hasty employment in the king's affairs. Ch. Just. You speak as having power to do wrong : but answer in the effect of your reputation, and sat- isfy the poor woman. - Fal. Come hither, hostess. Enter Gower. Ch. Just. Now, Master Gower, what news ? Gow. The king, my lord, and Harry Prince of Are near at hand : the rest the paper tells. [Wales Fal. As I am a gentleman. Host. Faith, you said so before. [of it. Fal. As I am a gentleman. Come, no more words Host. By this heavenly ground I tread on, I must be fain to pawn both my plate and the tapestry of my dining-chambers. Fal. Glasses, glasses, is the only drinking: and for thy walls, a pretty slight drollery^ or the story of the Prodigal, or the German himtmg in water- work, is worth a thousand of these bed-hangings and these fly-bitten tapestries. Let it be ten pound, if thou canst. Come, an 't were not for thy hu- mours, there 's not a better wench in England. Go, wash thy face, and draw the action. Come, thou must not be in this humour with me ; dost not know me ? come, come, I know thou wast set on to this. Host. Pray thee. Sir John, let it be but twenty nobles : i' faith, I am loath to pawn my plate, so God save me, la! Fal. Let it alone ; I '11 make other shift : you '11 be a fool still. Host. Well, you shall have it, though I pawn my gown. I hope you '11 come to supper. You '11 pay me all together ? Fal. Will I live ? [To Bardolph] Go, with her, with her ; hook on, hook on. Host. Will you have Doll Tearsheet meet you at Fal. No more words ; let 's have her. [supper ? [Exeunt Hostess, Bardolph, Officers and Boy. Ch. Just. I have heard better news. Fal. What 's the news, my lord ? Ch. Just. Where lay the king last night ? Gow. At Basingstoke, my lord. Fal. 1 hope, my lord, all 's well : what is the news, my lord ? Cli. Just. Come all his forces back ? [horse, Gow. No- fifteen hundred foot, five hundred Are march'd up to my lord of Lancaster, Against Northumberland and the Archbishop. Fal. Comes the king back from Wales, my noble lord ? [ently : Ch. Just. You shall have the letters of me pres- Come, go along with me, good Master Gower. Fal. My lord! Cli. Just. What 's the matter ? [to dinner ? FaL Mastes Gower, shall I entreat you with me Gow. I must wait upon my good lord here; I thank you, good Sir John. Ch. Just. Sir John, you loiter here too long, being you are to take soldiers up in counties as you go. Fal. Will you sup with me. Master Gower ? Ch. Just. What foolish master taught you these manners, Sir John ? Fal. Master Gower, if they become me not, he was a fool that taught them me. This is the right fencing grace, my lord ; tap for tap, and so part fair. Ch. Just. Now the Lord lighten thee I thou art a great fool. [Exeunt. SCENE H.— London. Another street. Enter Prince Henry and Poins. Prince. Before God, I am exceeding weary, Poins. Is 't come to that ? I had thought weari- ness durst not have attached one of so high blood. Prince. Paith, it does me ; though it discolours the complexion of my greatness to acknowledge it. Doth it not show vilely in me to desire smaU beer ? Poins. Why, a prince should not be so loosely studied as to remember so weak a composition. Prince. Belike then my appetite was not princely got ; for, by my troth, I do now remember the poor creature, small beer. But, indeed, these humble considerations make me out of love with my great- ness. What a disgrace is it to me to remember thy name ! or to know thy face to-morrow ! or to take note how many pair of silk stockings thou hast, viz. these, and those that were thy peach-coloured ones! or to bear the inventory of thy shirts, as, one for superfluity, and another for use ! But that the tennis-court-keeper knows better than I ; for it is a low ebb of linen with thee when thou keepest not racket there ; as thou hast not done a great while, because the rest of thy low countries have made a shift to eat up thy hoUand: and God knows, whether those that bawl out the ruins of thy linen shall inherit his kingdom: but the midwives say the children are not in the fault ; whereupon the world increases, and kindreds are mightily strength- ened. Poins. How ill it follows, after you have laboured so hard, you should talk so idly ! TeU me, how many good young princes would do so, their fathers being so sick as yours at this time is ? Prince. Shall I tell thee one thing, Poins ? Poins. Yes, faith ; and let it be an excellent good thing. Prince. It shall serve among wits of no higher breeding than thine. Poins. Goto; I stand the push of your one thing that you will teU. Prince. Marry, I tell thee, it is not meet that I should be sad, now my father is sick : albeit I could tell to thee, as to one it pleases me, for fault of a better, to caU my friend, I could be sad, and sad indeed too. Poins. Very hardly upon such a subject. Prince. By this hand, thou thinkest me as far in the devil's book as thou and FalstafE for obduracy and persistency : let the end try the man. But I tell thee, my heart bleeds inwardly that my father is so sick : and keeping such vile company as thou art hath in reason taken from me aU ostentation of Poins. The reason ? [sorrow. Prince. What wouldst thou think of me, if I should weep ? [crite. Poins. I would think thee a most princely hypo- Prince. It would be every man's thought; and thou art a blessed fellow to think as every man thinks : never a man's thought in the world keeps the road-way better than thine : every man would think me an hypocrite indeed. And what accites your most worshipful thought to think so ? 345 ACT II. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene hi. Poins. Why, because you have been so lewd and so nauch engraffed to Falstafl. Prince. And to thee. Poins. By this light, I am well spoke on ; I can hear it with mine own ears : the worst that they can say of me is that I am a second brother and that I am a proper fellow of my hands ; and those two things, I confess, I cannot help. By the mass, here comes Bardolph. Enter Bardolph. and Page. Prince. And the boy that I gave Falstaff : a' had him from me Christian : and look, if the fat villain have not transformed him ape. Bard. God save your grace ! Prince. And yours, most noble Bardolph ! Bard. Come, you virtuous ass, you bashful fool, must you be blushing ? wherefore blush you now ? What a maidenly man-at-arms are you become ! Is 't such a matter to get a pottle-pot's maidenhead ? Page. A' calls me e'en now, my lord, through a red lattice, and I could discern no part of his face from the window: at last I spied his eyes, and me- thought he had made two holes in the ale-wife's new petticoat and so peeped through. Prince. Has not the boy profited ? Bard. Away, you whoreson upright rabbit, away ! Page. Away, you rascally Althaea's dream, away ! Prince. Instruct us, boy ; what dream, boy Y Page. Marry, my lord, Althsea dreamed she was delivered of a fire-brand ; and therefore I call him her dream. Prince. A crown's worth of good interpretation : there 'tis, boy. Poins. O, that this good blossom could be kept from cankers! Well, there is sixpence to preserve thee. Bard. An you do not make him hanged among you, the gallows shall have wrong. Prince. And how doth thy master, Bardolph ? Bard. Well, my lord. He heard of your grace's coming to town : there 's a letter for you. Poins. Delivered with good respect. And how doth the martlemas, your master ? Bard. In bodily health, sir. Poins. Marry, the immortal part needs a physi- cian ; but that moves not him : though that be sick, it dies not. Prince. I do allow this wen to be as familiar with me as my dog; and he holds his place; for look you how he writes. Poins. [Reads] ' John Falstafl, knight,'— every man must know that, as oft as he has occasion to name himself : even like those that are kin to the king; for they never prick their finger but they say, 'There's some of the king's blood spilt.' ' How comes that ? ' says he, that takes upon him not to conceive. The answer is as ready as a bor- rower's cap, ' I am the king's poor cousin, sir.' Prince. Nay, they will be kin to us, or they will fetch it from Japhet. But to the letter : Poins. [Beads] ' Sir John Falstaff, knight, to the son of the king, nearest his father, Harry Prince of Wales, greeting.' Why, this is a certificate. Prince. Peace! Poins. [Beads] ' I will imitate the honourable Ko- mans in brevity : ' he sure means brevity in breath, short-winded. ' I commend me to thee, I commend thee, and I leave thee. Be not too familiar with Poins ; for he misuses thy favours so much, that he swears thou art to marry his sister JSTell. Kepent at idle times as thou may est ; and so, farewell. ' Thine, by yea and no, which is as much as to say, as thou usest him. Jack Fal- staff with my familiars, John with my brothers and sisters, and Sir John with aU Europe.' 346 My lordj I '11 steep this letter in sack and make him eat it. Prince. That 's to make him eat twenty of his , words. But do you use me thus, Ned ? must I marry your sister ? Poins. Grod send the wench no worse fortune! But I never said so. Prince. Well, thus we play the fools with the time, and the spirits of the wise sit in the clouds and mock us. Is your master here in London ? Bard. Yea, my lord. Prince. Where sups he ? doth the old boar feed in the old frank ? Bard. At the old place, my lord, in Eastcheap. Prince. What company ? Page. Ephesians, my lord, of the old church. Prince. Sup any women with him ? Page. None, my lord, but old Mistress Quickly and Mistress Doll Tearsheet. Prince. What pagan may that be ? Page. A proper gentlewoman, sir, and a kins- woman of my master's. Prince. Even such kin as the parish heifers are to the town bull. Shall we steal upon them, Ned, at supper ? [you. Poins. I am your shadow, my lord; I'll follow Prince. Sirrah, you boy, and Bardolph, no word to your master that I am yet come to town : there 's for your silence. Bard. I have no tongue, sir. Page. And for mine, sir, I will govern it. Prince. Fare you well; go. [Exeunt Bardolph and Page,] This Doll Tearsheet should be some road. Poins. I warrant you, as common as the way be- tween Saint Alban's and London. Prince. How might we see Falstaff bestow him- self to-night in his true colours, and not ourselves be seen ? Poins. Put on two leathern jerkins and aprons, and wait upon him at his table as drawers. Prince. From a God to a bull ? a heavy descension ! it was Jove's case. From a prince to a prentice ? a low transformation ! that shall be mine ; for in every thing the purpose must weigh with the folly. Fol- low me, Ned. [Exeunt. SCENE III. — Warkworth. Before the castle. Enter Northumberland, Lady Northumber- land, and Lady Percy. North. I pray thee, loving wife, and gentle daugh- Give even way unto my rough affairs : [ter, Put not you on the visage of the times And be like them to Percy troublesome. Lady N. 1 have given over, I will speak no more : Do what you will ; your wisdom be your guide. North. Alas, sweet wife, my honour is at pawn; And, but my going, nothing can redeem it. [wars ! Lady P. O yet, for God's sake, go not to these The time was, father, that you broke your word. When you were more endear'd to it than now; When your own Percy, when my heart's dear Harry, Threw many a northward look to see his father Bring up his powers ; but he did long in vain. Who then persuaded you to stay at home ? There were two honours lost, yours and your son's. For yours, the God of heaven brighten it ! For his, it stuck upon him as the sun In the grey vault of heaven, and by his light Did all the chivalry of England move To do brave acts : he was indeed the glass Wherein the noble youth did dress themselves : He had no legs that practised not his gait ; And speaking thick, which nature made his blemish, Became the accents of the valiant ; For those that could speak low and tardily m- ACT II. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene iv. Would turn their own perfection to abuse, To seem like him : so that in speech, in gait. In diet, in aiiections of delight, In military rules, humours of blood. He was the mark and glass, copy and book, That fashion 'd others. And him, O wondrous him ! miracle of men ! him did you leave. Second to none, unseconded by you. To look upon the hideous god of war In disadvantage ; to abide a field Where nothing but the sound of Hotspur's name Did seem defensible : so you left him. Never, O never, do his ghost the wrong To hold your honour more precise and nice With others than with him ! let them alone : The marshal and the archbishop are strong : Had my sweet Harry had but half their numbers, To-day might I, hanging on Hotspur's neck, Have talk'd of Monmouth's grave. North. Beshrew your heart, Fair daughter, you do draw my spirits from me With new lamenting ancient oversights. But I nx'ist go and meet with danger there, Or it will seek me in another place And find me worse provided. Lady N. O, fly to Scotland, Till that the nobles and the armed commons Have of their puissance made a little taste, [king. Lady P. If they get ground and vantage of the Then join you with them, like a rib of steel. To make strength stronger ; but, for all our loves, First let them try themselves. So did your son ; He was so suffer'd: so came I a widow; And never shall have length of life enough To rain upon remembrance with mine eyes. That it may grow and sprout as high as heaven. For recordation to my noble husband. [mind North. Come, come, go in with me. 'T is with my As with the tide swell'd up unto his height. That makes a still-stand, running neither way: Fain would I go to meet the archbishop. But many thousand reasons hold me back. 1 will resolve for Scotland: there am I, Till time and vantage crave my company. [Exeunt. SCENE TV. — London. The Boar's-Head Tavern in Eastcheap. Enter two Drawers. First Draw. What the devil hast thou brought there? apple-johns :• thoU knowest Sir John cannot endure an apple-john. Sec. Draw. Mass, thou sayest true. The prince once set a dish of apple-johns before him, and told him there were five more Sir Johns, and, putting off his hat, said ' I will now take my leave of these six dry, round, old, withered knights.' It angered him to the heart : but he hath forgot that. First Draiv. Why, then, cover, and set them down: and see if thou canst find out Sneak's noise ; Mis- tress Tearsheet would fain hear some music. Dis- patch: the room where they supped is too hot: they '11 come in straight. Sec. Draw. Sirrah, here will be the prince and Master Poins anon; and they will put on two of our jerkins and aprons; and Sir John must not know of it: Bardolph hath brought word. First Draw. By the mass, here will be old Utis : it will be an excellent stratagem. Sec. Draw. I '11 see if I can find out Sneak. [Exit. Enter Hostess and Doll Tearsheet. Host. I' faith, sweetheart, methinks now you are in an excellent good temperality: your pulsidge beats as extraordinarily as heart would desire ; and your colour, I warrant you, is as red as any rose, in good truth, la ! But, i' faith, you have drunk too much canaries ; and that 's a marvellous searching wine, and it perfumes the blood ere one can say ' What 's this Y ' How do you now ? Dol. Better than I was : hem ! Host. Why, that 's well said ; a good heart 's worth gold. Lo, here comes Sir John. Enter Falstaff. Fal. [Singing] ' When Arthur first in court ' — E mpty the j ordan . [Exit First Drawer] . — [Singing] ' And was a worthy king.' How now, Mistress Doll ! Host. Sick of a calm ; yea, good faith. Fal. So is all her sect ; an they be once in a calm, they are sick. Dol. You muddy rascal, is that all the comfort you give me ? Fal. You make fat rascals. Mistress Doll. Dol. I make them ! gluttony and diseases make them; I make them not. Fal. If the cook help to make the gluttony, you help to make the diseases, Doll : we catch of you, Doll, we catch of you; grant that, my poor virtue, grant that. Dol. Yea, joy, our chains and our jewels. Fal. ' Your brooches, pearls, and ouches : ' for to serve bravely is to come halting off, you know : to come off the breach with his pike bent bravely, and to surgery bravely; to venture upon the charged chambers bravely, — Dol. Hang yourself, you muddy conger, hang yourself ! Host. By my troth, this is the old fashion ; you two never meet but you fall to some discord : you are both, i' good truth, as rheumatic as two dry toasts; you cannot one bear with another's con- firmities. What the good-year! one must bear, and that must be you : you are the weaker vessel, as they say, the emptier vessel. Dol. Can a weak empty vessel bear such a huge full hogshead ? there 's a whole merchant's venture of Bourdeaux stuff in him; you have not seen a hulk better stuffed in the hold. Come, I '11 be friends with thee, Jack: thou art going to the wars ; and whether I shall ever see thee again or no, there is nobody cares. He-enter First Drawer. First Draw. Sir, Ancient Pistol's below, and would speak with you. Dol. Hang him, swaggering rascal ! let him not come hither : it is the f oul-mouthed'st rogue in Eng- land. Host. If he swagger, let him not come here: no, by my faith; I must live among my neighbours; I '11 no swaggerers : I am in good name and fame with the very best : shut the door ; there comes no swaggerers here : I have not lived all this while, to have swaggering now : shut the door, I pray you. Fal. Dost thou hear, hostess ? Host. Pray ye, pacify yourself, Sir John: there comes no swaggerers here. Fal. Dost thou hear ? it is mine ancient. Host. Tilly-fally, Sir John, ne'er tell me: your ancient swaggerer comes not in my doors. I was before Master Tisick, the deputy, t' other day ; and, as he said to me, 't was no longer ago than Wed- nesday last, 'I' good faith, neighbour Quickly,' says he ; Master Dumbe, our minister, was by then ; 'neighbour Quickly,' says he, 'receive those that are civil; for,' said he, 'you are in an ill name: ' now a' said so, I can tell whereupon; 'for,' says he, ' you are an honest woman, and well thought on ; therefore take heed what guests you receive : receive,' says he, 'no swaggering companions.' There comes none here: you would bless you to hear what he said: no, I '11 no swaggerers. J^aZ. He 's no swaggerer, hostess ; a tame cheater, 347 ACT II. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene iv. i' faith ; you may stroke him as gently as a puppy greyhound : he '11 not swagger with a Barbary hen, if her feathers turn back in any show of resistance. Call him up, drawer. ^Exit First Drawer. Host. Cheater, call you him ? I will bar no hon- est man my house, nor no cheater : but I do not love swaggering, by my troth; I am the worse, when one says swagger : feel, masters, how I shake ; look you, I warrant you. Dol. So you do, hostess. Host. Do I? yea, in very truth, do I, an 'twere an aspen leaf: I cannot abide swaggerers. Enter Pistol, Bardolph, and Page. Fist. God save you. Sir John ! Fal. "Welcome, Ancient Pistol. Here, Pistol, I charge you with a cup of sack : do you discharge upon mine hostess. Fist. I wiU discharge upon her, Sir John, with two bullets. Fal. She is pistol-proof, sir; you shall hardly offend her. Host. Come, I 'U drink no proofs nor no bullets : I '11 drink no more than will do me good, for no man's pleasure, I. Fist. Then to you, Mistress Dorothy; I wUl charge you. Dol. Charge me! I scorn you, scurvy companion. What ! you poor, base, rascally, cheating, lack-linen mate! Away, you mouldy rogue, away! I am meat for your master. Fist. I know you. Mistress Dorothy. Dol. Away, you cut-purse rascal ! you filthy bung, away ! by this wine, I '11 thrust my knife in your mouldy chaps, and you play the saucy cuttle with me. Away, you bottle-ale rascal ! you basket-hilt stale juggler, you! Siuce when, I pray you, sir? God's light, with two points on your shoulder? much I Fist. God let me not live, but I will murder your ruff for this. Fal. No more. Pistol ; I would not have you go off here : discharge yourself of our company. Pistol. Host. No, good Captain Pistol; not here, sweet captain. Dol. Captain ! thou abominable damned cheater, art thou not ashamed to be called captain? An captains were of my mind, they would trrmcheon you out, for taking their names upon you before you have earned them. You a captain ! you slave, for what ? for tearing a poor whore's ruff in a bawdy-house? He a captain! hang him, rogue! he lives upon mouldy stewed prunes and dried cakes. A captain I God's light, these villains will make the word as odious as the word ' occupy ; ' which was an excellent good word before it was ill sorted : therefore captains had need look to 't. Bard. Pray thee, go dovsm, good ancient. Fal. Hark thee hither. Mistress Doll. Fist. Not I : I tell thee what. Corporal Bardolph, I could tear her : I '11 be revenged of her. Fage. Pray thee, go down. Fist. I '11 see her damned first ; to Pluto's damned lake, by this hand, to the infernal deep, with Erebus and tortures vile also. Hold hook and line, say I. Down, dovra, dogs! down, faitors ! Have we not Hiren here ? Host. Good Captain Peesel, be quiet; 'tis very late, i' faith : I beseek you now, aggravate your choler. Fist. These be good humours, indeed ! Shall pack- And hollow pamper'd jades of Asia, [horses Which cannot go but thirty mile a-day. Compare with Csesars, and with Cannibals, And Trojan Greeks ? nay, rather damn them with King Cerberus ; and let the welkin roar. Shall we fall foul for toys ? Host. By my troth, captain, these are very bitter words. Bard. Be gone, good ancient : this will grow to a brawl anon. Fist. Die men like dogs ! give crovras like pins! Have we not Hiren here ? Host. O' my word, captain, there's none such here. What the good-year ! do you think I would deny her ? Por God's sake, be quiet. Fist. Then feed, and be fat, my fair Calipolis. Come, give 's some sack. ' Si fortune me tormente, sperato me contento.' Fear we broadsides ? no, let the fiend give fire : Give me some sack : and, sweetheart, lie thou there. [Laying down his sword. Come we to full points here; and are etceteras Fal. Pistol, I would be quiet. [nothing ? Fist. Sweet knight, I kiss thy neif : what! we have seen the seven stars. Dol. For God's sake, thrust him down stairs: I cannot endure such a fustian rascal. Fist. Thrust him down stairs! know we not Galloway nags ? Fal. Quoit him down, Bardolph, like a shove- groat shilling: nay, an a' do nothing but speak nothing, a' shall be nothing here. Bard. Come, get you down stairs. Fist. What ! shall we have incision ? shall we imbrue ? [Snatching up his sword. Then death rock me asleep, abridge my doleful days ! Why, then, let grievous, ghastly, gaping wounds Untwine the Sisters Three ! Come, Atropos, I say! Host. Here 's goodly stuff toward ! Fal. Give me my rapier, boy. Dol. I pray thee. Jack, I pray thee, do not draw. Fal. Get you down stairs. [Drawing, and driving Fistol out. Host. Here's a goodly tumult! I'll forswear keeping house, afore I'll be in these tirrits and frights. So ; murder, I warrant now. Alas,'alas! put up your naked weapons, put up your naked weapons. [Exeunt Fistol and Bardolph. Dol. I pray thee, Jack, be quiet ; the rascal 's gone. Ah, you whoreson little valiant villain, you ! Host. Are you not hurt i' the groin ? methought a' made a shrewd thrust at your belly. Re-enter Bardolph. Fal. Have you turned him out o' doors ? Bard. Yea, sir. The rascal 's drunk : you have hurt him, sir, i' the shoulder. Fal. A rascal ! to brave me ! Dol. Ah, you sweet little rogue, you ! Alas, poor ape, how thou sweatest ! come, let me wipe thy face ; come on, you whoreson chops: ah, rogue! i' faith, I love thee : thou art as valorous as Hector of Troy, worth five of Agamemnon, and ten times better than the Nine Worthies : ah, villain ! Fal. A rascally slave ! I will toss the rogue in a blanket. Dol. Do, an thou darest for thy heart: an thou dost, I '11 canvass thee between a pair of sheets. Enter Music. Fage. The music is come, sir. Fat Let them play. Play, sirs. Sit on my knee, Doll. A rascal bragging slave ! the rogue fled from me like quicksilver. Dol. V faith, and thou followedst him like a church. Thou whoreson little tidy Bartholomew boar-pig, when wilt thou leave fighting o' days and foining o' nights, and begin to patch up thine old body for heaven ? Enter, behind, Prince Henry and Poins, disguised. Fal. Peace, good Doll ! do not speak like a death's- head ; do not bid me remember mine end. ACT II. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene iv. Dol. Sirrah, what huinour 's the prince of ? Fal. A good shallow young fellow : a' would have made a good pantler, a' would ha' chipped bread Dol. They say Poins has a good wit. [well. Fal. He a good wit V hang him, baboon ! his wit 's as thick as Tewksbury mustard ; there 's no more conceit in him than is in a mallet. Dol. Why does the prince love him so, then ? Fal. Because their legs are both of a bigness, and a' plays at quoits well, and eats conger and fennel, and drinks off candles' ends for flap-dragons, and rides the wild-mare with the boys, and jumps upon joined-stools, and swears with a good grace, and wears his boots very smooth, like unto the sign of the leg, and breeds no bate with telling of discreet stories ; and such other gambol faculties a' has, that show a weak mind and an able body, for the which the prince admits him: for the prince himself is such another ; the weight of a hair will turn the scales between their avoirdupois. Prince. Would not this nave of a wheel have his ears cut off ? Poins. Let 's beat him before his whore. Prince. Look, whether the withered elder hath not his poll clawed like a parrot. Poins. Is it not strange that desire should so many years outlive performance ? Fal. Kiss me, Doll. Prince. Saturn and Venus this year in conjunc- tion ! what says the almanac to that ? Poins. And, look, whether the fiery Trigon, his man, be not lisping to his master's old tables, his note-book, his counsel-keeper. Fal. Thou dost give me flattering busses. Dol. By my troth, I kiss thee with a most con- stant heart. Fal. I am old, I am old. Dol. I love thee better than I love e'er a scurvy young boy of them all. Fal. What stuff wilt have a kirtleof? I shall receive money o' Thursday: shalt have a cap to- morrow. A merry song, come : it grows late ; we '11 to bed. Thou 'It forget me when I am gone. Dol. By my troth, thou 'It set me a-weeping, an thou sayest so : prove that ever I dress myself hand- some till thy return : well, hearken at the end. Fal. Some sack, Francis. PokiT' \ ^^*'^' anon, sir. [Coming forward. Fal. Ha ! a bastard son of the king's ? And art not thou Poins his brother ? Prince. Why, thou globe of sinful continents, what a life dost thou lead ! Fal. A better than thou : I am a gentleman ; thou art a drawer. Prince. Very true, sir; and I come to draw you out by the ears. Host. O, the Lord preserve thy good grace! by my troth, welcome to London. Now, the Lord bless that sweet face of thine! O Jesu from Wales? Fal. Thou whoreson mad compound of majesty, by this light flesh and corrupt blood, thou art wel- Dol. How, you fat fool ! I scorn you. [come. Poins. My lord, he will drive you out of your re- venge and turn all to a merriment, if you take not the heat. Prince. You whoreson candle-mine, you, how vilely did you speak of me even now before this honest, virtuous, civil gentlewoman! Host. God's blessing of your good heart ! and so she is, by my troth. Fal. Didst thou hear me ? Prince. Yea, and you knew me, as you did when you ran away by Gad's-hill: you knew I was at your back, and spoke it on purpose to try my pa- tience. are you come Fal. No, no, no ; not so ; I did not think thou wast within hearing. Prince. I shall drive you then to confess the wil- ful abuse ; and then I know how to handle you. Fal. No abuse, Hal, o' my honour; no abuse. Prince. Not to dispraise me, and call me pantler and bread-chipper and I know not what ? Fal. No abuse, Hal. Poins. No abuse ? Fal. No abuse, Ned, i' the world; honest Ned, none. I dispraised him before the wicked, that the wicked might not fall in love with him ; in which doing, I have done the part of a careful friend and a true subject, and thy father is to give me thanks for it. No abuse, Hal : none, Ned, none : no, faith, boys, none. Prince. See now, whether pure fear and entire cowardice doth not make thee wrong this virtuous gentlewoman to close with us ? is she of the wicked ? is thine hostess here of the wicked V or is thy boy of the wicked? or honest Bardolph, whose zeal burns in his nose, of the wicked ? Poins. Answer, thou dead elm, answer. Fal. The fiend hath pricked down Bardolph irre- coverable ; and his face is Lucifer's privy-kitchen, where he doth nothing but roast malt-worms. For the boy, there is a good angel about him ; but the devil outbids him too. Prince. For the women ? Fal. For one of them, she is in hell already, and burns poor souls. For the other, I owe her money ; and whether she be damned for that, I know not. Host. No, I warrant you. Fal. No, I thmk thou art not ; I think thou art quit for that. Marry, there is another indictment upon thee, for suffering flesh to be eaten in thy house, contrary to the law ; for the which I think thou wilt howl. Host. All victuallers do so ; what 's a joint of mut- ton or two in a whole Lent ? Prince. You, gentlewoman, — Dol. What says your grace ? Fal. His grace says that which his flesh rebels against. [KnocMng within. Host. Who knocks so loud at door ? Look to the door there, Francis. Enter Peto. Prince. Peto, how now! what news? Peto. The king your father is at Westminster ; And there are twenty weak and wearied posts Come from the north: and, as I came along, I met and overtook a dozen captains. Bare-headed, sweating, knocking at the taverns, And asking every one for Sir John Falstaff. Prince. By heaven, Poins, I feel me much to blame. So idly to profane the precious time. When tempest of commotion, like the south Borne with black vapour, doth begin to melt And drop upon our bare unarmed heads. Give me my sword and cloak. Falstaff, good night. [Exeunt Prince Henry, Poins, Peto., and Bardolph. Fal. Now comes in the sweetest morsel of the night, and we must hence and leave it unpicked. [Knocking within.] More knocking at the door ! Be-enter Bardolph. How now ! what 's the matter ? JBard. You must away to court, sir, presently; A dozen captains stay at door for you. Fal. [To the Page] Pay the musicians, sirrah. Farewell, hostess; farewell, Doll. You see, my good wenches, how men of merit are sought after : the undeserver may sleep, when the man of action is called on. Farewell, good wenches : if I be not sent away post, I will see you again ere I go. 349 ACT III. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene ii. Dol. I cannot speak ; if my heart be not ready to burst,— well, sweet Jack, have a care of thyself. Fal. Farewell, farewell. [Exeunt Falstaff and Bardolph. Host. "Well, fare thee well : I have known thee these twenty nine years, come peascod-time ; but an hon- ester and truer-hearted man,— well, fare thee well. Bard. [ Withiix] Mistress Tearsheet ! Host. What 's the matter ? Bard. [ Within\ Bid Mistress Tearsheet come to my master. Host. O, run, Doll, run; run, good Doll: come. [She comes blubbered.] Yea, will you come, Doll? [Exeunt. ^OT III. SCEKEil. — Westminster. The palace. Enter the King in his nightgown, with a Page. King. Go call the Earls of Surrey and of Warwick ; But, ere they come, bid them o'er-read these letters. And well consider of them : make good speed. [Exit Page. How many thousand of my poorest subjects Are at this hour asleep ! O sleep, O gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee. That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down And steep my senses in f orgetf ulness ? Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs. Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber, Than in the perfumed chambers of the great. Under the canopies of costly state, And lull'd with sound of sweetest melody ? O thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile In loathsome beds, and leavest the kingly couch A watch-case or a common 'larum-bell ? Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains In cradle of the rude imperious surge And in the visitation of the winds, Who take the ruffian billows by the top. Curling their monstrous heads and hanging them With deafening clamour in the slippery clouds. That, with the hurly, death itself awakes ? Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude. And in the calmest and most stillest night. With all appliances and means to boot. Deny it to a king ? Then happy low, lie down ! Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. Enter 'Warwick and Surrey. War. Many good morrows to your majesty ! King. Is it good morrow, lords ? War. 'T is one o'clock, and past. [lords. King. Why, then, good morrow to you all, my Have you read o'er the letters that I sent you ? War. We have, my liege. King. Then you perceive the body of our kingdom How foul it is ; what rank diseases grow. And with what danger, near the heart of it. War. It is but as a body yet distemper'd; Which to his former strength may be restored With good advice and little medicine : My Lord Northumberland will soon be cool'd. King. O God ! that one might read the book of fate, And see the revolution of the times Make mountains level, and the continent, Weary of solid firmness, melt itself Into the sea! and, other times, to see The beachy girdle of the ocean Too wide for Neptune's hips ; how chances mock, And changes fill the cup of alteration With divers liquors ! O, if this were seen, The happiest youth, viewing his progress through, What perils past, what crosses to ensue, Would shut the book, and sit him down and die. 'T is not ten years gone Since Richard and Northumberland, great friends, 350 Did feast together, and in two years after Were they at wars : it is but eight years since This Percy was the man nearest my soul, Who like a brother toil'd in my affairs And laid his love and life under my foot, Yea, for my sake, even to the eyes of Richard Gave him defiance. But which of you was by — You, cousin Nevil, as I may remeinber— [To Warwick. When Richard, with his eye brimful of tears. Then check'd and rated by Northumberland, Did speak these words, now proved a prophecy? ' Northumberland, thou ladder by the which My cousin Bolingbroke ascends my throne ; ' Though then, God knows, I had no such intent, But that necessity so bow'd the state That I and greatness were compell'd to kiss : ' The time shall come,' thus did he follow it, ' The time will come, that foul sin, gathering head, Shall break into corruption : ' so went on, Foretelling this same time's condition And the division of our amity. War. There is a history in all men's lives, Figuring the nature of the times deceased ; The which observed, a man may prophesy, With a near aim, of the main chance of things As yet not come to life, which in their seeds And weak beginnings lie intreasured. Such things become the hatch and brood of time ; And by the necessary form of this King Richard might create a perfect guess That great Northumberland, then false to him. Would of that seed grow to a greater falseness ; Which should not find a ground to root upon, Unless on you. King. Are these things then necessities ? Then let us meet them like necessities : And that same word even now cries out on us : They say the bishop and Northumberland Are fifty thousand strong. War. It cannot be, my lord ; Rumour doth double, like the voice and echo. The numbers of the fear'd. Please it your grace To go to bed. Upon my soul, my lord, The powers that you already have sent forth Shall bring this prize in very easily. To comfort you the more, I have received A certain instance that Glendower is dead. Your majesty hath been this fortnight ill. And these unseason'd hours perforce must add Unto your sickness. King. I will take your counsel : And were these inward wars once out of hand. We would, dear lords, unto the Holy Land. [Exeunt. SCENE 11.— Gloucestershire. Before Justice Shallow''s house. Enter Shallow and Silence, meeting ; Mouldy, Shadow, Wart, Feeble, Bullcalf, a Servant or two with them. Shal. Come on, come on, come on, sir ; give me your hand, sir, give me your hand, sir : an early stirrer, by the rood ! And how doth my good cousia Silence ? ACT III. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene ii. Sil. Good morrow, good cousin Shallow. Shal. And how doth my cousin, your bedfellow ? and your fairest daughter and mine, my god- daughter Ellen Y Sil. Alas, a black ousel, cousin Shallow ! Shal. By yea and nay, sir, I dare say my cousin William is become a good scholar : he is at Oxford still, is he not i* Sil. Indeed, sir, to my cost. Shal. A' must, then, to the inns o' court shortly. I was once of Clement's Inn, where I think they will talk of mad Shallow yet. Sil. You were called ' lusty Shallow ' then, cousin. Shal. By the mass, I was called any thing ; and I would have done any thing indeed too, and round- ly too. There was I, and little John Doit of Staf- fordshire, and black George Barnes, and Francis Pickbone, and Will Squele, a Cotswold man; you had not four such swinge-bucklers in all the inns o' com't again : and I may say to you, we knew where the bona-robas were and had the best of them all at commandment. Then was Jack Falstaff, now Sir John, a boy, and page to Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk. Sil. This Sir John, cousin, that comes hither anon about soldiers ? Shal. The same Sir John, the very same. I see him break Skogan's head at the com-t-gate, when a' was a crack not thus high : and the very same day did I fight with one Sampson Stockfish, a fruit- erer, behind Gray's Inn. Jesu, Jesu, the mad days that I have spent ! and to see how many of my old acquaintance are dead ! Sil. We shall all follow, cousin. Shal. Certain, 't is certain ; very sure, very sure : death, as the Psalmist saith, is certain to all: all shall die. How a good yoke of bullocks at Stam- ford fair V Sil. By my troth, I was not there. Shal. Death is certain. Is old Double of your town living yet ? Sil. Dead, sir. Shal. Jesu, Jesu, dead ! a' drew a good bow ; and dead ! a' shot a fine shoot : John a Gaunt loved him well, and betted much money on his head. Dead ! a' would have clapped i' the clout at twelve score ; and carried you a forehand shaft a fourteen and fourteen and a half, that it would have done a man's heart good to see. How a score of ewes now ? Sil. Thereafter as they be : a score of good ewes may be worth ten pounds. Shal. And is old Double dead ? [I think. Sil. Here come two of Sir John Falstaff 's men, as Enter Bardolph and one with him. Bard. Good morrow, honest gentlemen ; I beseech you, which is Justice Shallow ? Shal. I am Robert Shallow, sir ; a poor esquire of this county, and one of the king's justices of the peace : what is your good pleasure with me ? Bard. My captain, sir, commends him to you; my captain. Sir John Falstaff, a tall gentleman, by heaven, and a most gallant leader. Shal. He greets me well, sir. I knew him a good backsword man. How doth the good knight ? may I ask how my lady his wife doth ? Bard. Sir, pardon ; a soldier is better accommo- dated than with a wife. Shal. It is well said, in faith, sir; and it is well said indeed too. Better accommodated ! it is good : yea, indeed, is it : good phrases are surely, and ever were, very commendable. Accommodated! it comes of ' accommodo : ' very good ; a good phrase. Bard. Pardon me, sir; I have heard the word. Phrase call you it ? by this good day, I know not the phrase ; but I will maintain the word with my sword to be a soldier-like word, and a word of ex- ceeding good command, by heaven. Accommo- dated ; that is, when a man is, as they say, accom- modated ; or when a man is, being, whereby a' may be thought to be accommodated ; which is an ex- cellent thing. Shal. It is very just. Enter FalstaflF. Look, here comes good Sir John. Give me your good hand, give me your worship's good hand : by my troth, you like well and bear your years very well: welcome, good Sir John. Fal. I am glad to see you well, good Master Robert Shallow: Master Surecard, as I think ? Shal. No, Sir John; it is my cousin Silence, in commission with me. Fal. Good Master Silence, it well befits you should be of the peace. Sil. Your good worship is welcome. Fal. Fie ! this is hot weather, gentlemen. Have you provided me here half a dozen sufficient men ? Shal. Marry, have we, sir. Will you sit ? Fal. Let me see them, I beseech you. Shal. Where 's the roll ? where 's the roll ? where 's the roll ? Let me see, let me see, let me see. SOj so, so, so, so, so, so : yea, marry, sir ; Ralph Mouldy ! Let them appear as I call ; let them do so, let them do so. Let me see ; where is Mouldy ? Mdul. Here, an 't please you. Shal. What think you, Sir John ? a good-limbed fellow ; young, strong, and of good friends. Fal. Is thy name Mouldy ? Moul. Yea, an 't please you. Fal. 'T is the more time thou wert used. Shal. Ha, ha, ha ! most excellent, i' faith ! things that are mouldy lack use : very singular good ! in faith, well said. Sir John, very well said. Fal. Prick him. Moul. I was pricked well enough before, an you could have let me alone : my old dame will be un- done now for one to do her husbandry and her drudgery : you need not to have pricked me ; there are other men fitter to go out than I. Fal. Goto: peace, Mouldy ; you shall go. Mouldy, it is time you were spent. Moul. Spent! Shal. Peace, fellow, peace; stand aside: know you where you are ? For the other. Sir John : let me see : Simon Shadow ! Fal. Yea, marry, let me have him to sit under: he 's like to be a cold soldier. Shal. Where 's Shadow ? Shad. Here, sir. Fal. Shadow, whose son art thou ? Shad. My mother's son, sir. Fal. Thy mother's son! like enough, and thy father's shadow : so the son of the female is the shadow of the male: it is often so, indeed; but much of the father's substance! Shal. Do you like him, Sir John ? Fal. Shadow will serve for summer ; prick him, for we have a number of shadows to fill up the mus- Shal. Thomas Wart! [ter-book. Fal. Where 's he ? Wart. Here, sir. Fal. Is thy name Wart ? Wart. Yea, sir. Fal. Thou art a very ragged wart. Shal. Shall I prick him down. Sir John ? Fal. It were superfluous ; for his apparel is built upon his back and the whole frame stands upon pins : prick him no more. Shal. Ha, ha, ha ! you can do it, sir; you can do it : I commend you well. Francis Feeble ! Fee. Here, sir. Fal. What trade art thou. Feeble ? Fee. A woman's tailor, sir. 351 ACT III. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene ii. Shal. Shall I prick him, sir ? Fal. You may : but if he had been a man's tailor, he 'Id ha' pricked you. Wilt thou make as many holes in an enemy's battle as thou hast done in a woman's petticoat ? [more. Fee. I will do my good will, sir : you can have no Fal. Well said, good woman's tailor ! well said, courageous Feeble ! thou wilt be as valiant as the wrathful dove or most magnanimous mouse. Prick the woman's tailor: well. Master Shallow; deep. Master Shallow. Fee. I would Wart might have gone, sir. Fal. I would thou wert a man's tailor, that thou mightst mend him and make him fit to go. I can- not put him to a private soldier that is the leader of so many thousands : let that sufiice, most forcible Fee. It shall suffice, sir. [Feeble. Fal. I am bound to thee, reverend Feeble. Who Shal. Peter BuUcalf o' the green ! [is next ? Fal. Yea, marry, let 's see BuUcalf. Bull. Here, sir. Fal. 'Fore God, a likely fellow ! Come, prick me BuUcalf till he roar again. Bull. O Lord ! good my lord captain,— Fal. What, dost thou roar before thou art pricked ? Bull. O Lord, sir ! I am a diseased man. Fal. What disease hast thou ? B^^ll. A whoreson cold, sir, a cough, sir, which I caught with ringing in the king's affairs upon his coronation-day, sir. Fal. Come, thou shalt go to the wars in a gown ; we will have away thy cold ; and I will take such order that thy friends shall ring for thee . Is here all ? Shal. Here is two more called than your number ; you must have but four here, sir: and so, I pray you, go in with me to dinner. Fal. Come, I will go drink with you, but I cannot tarry dinner. I am glad to see you, by my troth, Master Shallow. Shal. O, Sir John, do you remember since we lay all night in the windmill in Saint George's field ? Fal. No more of that, good Master Shallow, no more of that. Shal. Ha! 'twas a merry night. And is Jane Nightwork alive ? Fal. She lives, Master Shallow. Shal. She never could away with me. Fal. Kever, never; she would always say she could not abide Master Shallow. Shal. By the mass, I could anger her to the heart. She was then a bona-roba. Doth she hold her own Fal. Old, old. Master Shallow. [well ? Shal. Nay, she must be old; she cannot choose but be old ; certain she 's old ; and had Robin Night- work by old Nightwork before I came to Clement's Sil. That 's fifty-five year ago. [Inn. Shal. Ha, cousin Silence, that thou hadst seen that that this knight and I have seen! Ha, Sir John, said I well ? Fal. We have heard the chimes at midnight, Mas- ter Shallow. Shal. That we have, that we have, that we have ; in faith, Sir John, we have: our watchword was ' Hem boys ! ' Come, let 's to dinner ; come, let 's to dinner : Jesus, the days that we have seen ! Come, come. [Exeunt Falstaff and the Justices. Bull. Good Master Corporate Bardolph, stand my friend; and here 's four Harry ten shillings in French crowns for you. In very truth, sir, I had as lief be hanged, sir, as go : and yet, for mine own part, sir, I do not care ; but rather, because I am unwilling, and, for mine own part, have a desire to stay with my friends; else, sir, I did not care, for mine own part, so much. Bard. Go to ; stand aside. Moul. And, good master corporal captain, for my old dame's sake, stand my friend : she has nobody 352 to do any thing about her when I am gone ; and she is old, and cannot help herself : you shall have forty. Bard. Go to ; stand aside. [sir. Fee. By my troth, I care not ; a man can die but once : we owe God a death : I '11 ne'er bear a base mind : an 't be my destiny, so ; an 't be not, so : no man is too good to serve 's prince ; and let it go which way it will, he that dies this year is quit for the next. Bard. Well said ; thou 'rt a good fellow. Fee. Faith, I '11 bear no base mind. Be-enter Falstaff and the Justices. Fal. Come, sir, which men shall I have ? Shal. Four of which you please. Bard. Sir, a word with you : I have three pound to free Mouldy and BuUcalf. Fal. Go to ; weU. Shal. Come, Sir John, which four will you have? Fal. Do you choose for me. [Shadow. Shal. Marry, then. Mouldy, BuUcalf, Feeble and Fal. Mouldy and BuUcalf : for you. Mouldy, stay at home till you are past service : and for your part, BuUcalf, grow tiU you come unto it : I will none of you. Shal. Sir John, Sir John, do not yourself wrong : they are your likeliest men, and I would have you served with the best. Fal. Will you tell me. Master Shallow, how to choose a man ? Care I for the limb, the thewes^ the stature, bulk, and big assemblance of a man ! Give me the spirit. Master ShaUow. Here 's Wart ; you see what a ragged appearance it is : a' shall charge you and discharge you with the motion of a pewterer's hammer, come ofi and on swifter than he that gibbets on the brewer's bucket. And this same half -faced fellow. Shadow ; give me this man : he presents no mark to the enemy ; the foeman may with as great aim level at the edge of a penknife. And for a retreat ; how swiftly will this Feeble the woman's tailor run off ! O, give me the spare men, and spare me the great ones. Put me a caliver into Wart's hand, Bardolph. Bard. Hold, Wart, traverse; thus, thus, thus. Fal. Come, manage me your caliver. So: very well : go to : very good, exceeding good. O, give me always a little, lean, old, chapt, bald shot. Well said, i' faith, Wart ; thou 'rt a good scab : hold, there 's a tester for thee. Shal. He is not his craft's master; he doth not do it right. I remember at Mile-end Green, when I lay at Clement's Iim, — I was then Sir Dagonet in Arthur's show, — there was a little quiver fellow, and a' would manage you his piece thus ; and a' would about and about, and come you in and come you in: 'rah, tah, tah,' would a' say; 'bounce' would a' say ; and away again would a' go, and again would a' come : I shall ne'er see such a fellow. Fal. These feUows will do well. Master Shallow. God keep you, Master Silence: I will not use many words with you. Fare you well, gentlemen both : I thank you : I must a dozen mile to-night. Bar- dolph, give the soldiers coats. Shal. Sir John, the Lord bless you! God prosper your affairs ! God send us peace ! At your return visit our house; let our old acquaintance be re- newed : perad venture I will with ye to the court. Fal. 'Fore God, I would you would, Master Shal- low. Shal. Goto; I have spoke at a word. God keep you. Fal. Fare you well, gentle gentlemen. [Exeunt Justices.] On, Bardolph ; lead the men away. [Ex- eunt Bardolph, Recruits, &c.] As I return, I will fetch off these justices: I do see the bottom of Jus- tice Shallow. Lord, Lord, how subject we old men are to this vice of lying ! This same starved justice hath done nothing but prate to me of the wildness of his youth, and the feats he hath done about ACT IV. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene i. Turnbull Street ; and every third word a lie, duer paid to the hearer than the Turk's tribute. I do remember him at Clement's Inn like a man made after supper of a cheese-paring : when a' was naked, he was, for all the world, like a forked radish, with a head fantastically carved upon it with a knife : a' was so forlorn, that his dimensions to any thick sight were invincible: a' was the very genius of famine ; yet lecherous as a monkey, and the whores called him mandrake : a' came ever in the rearward of the fashion, and sung those tunes to the over- scutched huswives that he heard the carmen whis- tle, and sware they were his fancies or his good- nights. And now is this Vice's dagger become a squire, and talks as familiarly of John a Gaunt as if he had been sworn brother to him ; and I '11 be sworn a' ne'er saw him but once in the Tilt-yard ; and then he burst liis head for crowding among the marshal's men. I saw it, and told John a Gaunt he beat his own name ; for you might have thrust him and all his apparel into an eel-skin ; the case of a treble hautboy was a mansion for him, a court : and now has he land and beefs. Well, I '11 be acquainted with him, if I return ; and it shall go hard but I will make him a philosopher's two stones to me : if the young dace be a bait for the old pike, I see no reason in the law of nature but I may snap at him. Let time shape, and there an end. [Exit. A.CT lAT. SCENE I. — Yorkshire. QauUree Forest. Enter the Archbishop of York, Mowbray, Hast- ings, and others. Arch. "What is this forest call'd ? [grace. Hast. 'T is Gaultree Forest, an 't shall please your Arch. Here stand, my lords ; and send discoverers To know the numbers of our enemies. [forth Hast. We have sent forth already. Arch. 'T is well done. My friends and brethren in these great affairs, I must acquaint you that I have received New-dated letters from Northumberland ; Their cold intent, tenour and substance, thus: Here doth he wish his person, with such powers As might hold sortance with his quality, The which he could not levy ; whereupon He is retired, to ripe his growing fortunes, To Scotland ; and concludes in hearty prayers That your attempts may overlive the hazard And fearful meeting of their opposite. [ground Mowh. Thus do the hopes we have in him touch And dash themselves to pieces. Enter a Messenger. Hast. Now, what news ? Mess. West of this forest, scarcely off a mile, In goodly form comes on the enemy ; And, by the ground they hide, I judge their number Upon or near the rate of thirty thousand. Mowh. The just proportion that we gave them out. Let us sway on and face them in the field. Arch. What well-appointed leader fronts us here ? Enter 'Westmoreland.. Movob. I think it is my Lord of Westmoreland. West. Health and fair greeting from our general, The prince, Lord John and Duke of Lancaster. Arch. Say on, my Lord of Westmoreland, in What doth concern your coming ? [peace : West. Then, my lord, Unto your grace do I in chief address The substance of my speech. If that rebellion Came like itself, in base and abject routs. Led on by bloody youth, guarded with rags, And conntenanced by boys and beggary, I say, if damn'd commotion so appear'd. In his true, native and most proper shape. You, reverend father, and these noble lords Had not been here, to dress the ugly form Of base and bloody insurrection With your fair honours. You, lord archbishop, Whose see is by a civil peace maintain 'd^ Whose beard the silver hand of peace hath touch'd, Whose learning and good letters peace hath tutor'd, Whose white investments figure innocence. The dove and very blessed spirit of peace, 23 Wherefore do you so ill translate yourself Out of the speech of peace that bears such grace, Into the harsh and boisterous tongue of war ; Turning your books to graves, your ink to blood, Your pens to lances and your tongue divine To a loud trumpet and a point of war ? Arch. Wherefore do I this ? so the question stands. Briefly to this end : we are all diseased, And with our surfeiting and wanton hours Have brought ourselves into a burning fever, And we must bleed for it ; of which disease Our late king, Kichard, being infected, died. But, my most noble Lord of Westmoreland, I take not on me here as a physician. Nor do I as an enemy to peace Troop in the throngs of military men ; But rather show awhile like fearfiU war, To diet rank minds sick of happiness And purge the obstructions which begin to stop Our very veins of life. Hear me more plainly. I have in equal balance justly weigh 'd [suffer, What wrongs our arms may do, what wrongs we And find our griefs heavier than our offences. We see which way the stream of time doth run. And are enforced from our most quiet there By the rough torrent of occasion ; And have the summary of all our griefs. When time shall serve, to show in articles; Which long ere this we offer'd to the king. And might by no suit gain our audience : When we are wrong'd and would unfold our griefs, We are denied access unto his person Even by those men that most have done us wrong. The dangers of the days but newly gone, Whose memory is written on the earth With yet appearing blood, and the examples Of every minute's instance, present now. Hath put us in these ill-beseeming arms, Not to break peace or any branch of it. But to establish here a peace indeed. Concurring both in name and quality. West. When ever yet was your appeal denied ? Wherein have you been galled by the king ? What peer hath been suborn 'd to grate on you, That you should seal this lawless bloody book Of forged rebellion with a seal divine And consecrate commotion's bitter edge ? Arch. My brother general, the commonwealth, To brother born an household cruelty, I make my quarrel in particular. West. There is no need of any such redress ; Or if there were, it not belongs to you. Mowh. Why not to him in part, and to us all That feel the bruises of the days before. And suffer the condition of these times To lay a heavy and unequal hand Upon our honours ? 353 ACT IV. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene ii. West. O, my good Lord Mowbray, Construe the times to their necessities, And you shall say indeed, it is the time. And not the king, that doth you injuries, Yet for your part, it not appears to me Either from the king or in the present time That you should have an inch of any ground To build a grief on : were you not restored To all the Duke of Norfolk's signories, Your noble and right well remember 'd father's ? Mowb. What thing, in honour, had my father lost, That need to be revived and breathed in me ? The king that loved him, as the state stood then. Was force perforce compell'd to banish him : And then that Henry Bolingbroke and he. Being mounted and both roused in their seats, Their neighing coursers daring of the spur, Their armed staves in charge, their beavers down, Their eyes of fire sparkling through sights of steel And the loud trumpet blowing theni together. Then, then, when there was nothing could have My father from the breast of Bolingbroke, [stay'd O, when the king did throw his warder down, His own life hung upon the staff he threw ; Then threw he down himself and all their lives That by indictment and by dint of sword Have since miscarried under Bolingbroke. West. You speak, Lord Mowbray, now you know not what. The Earl of Hereford was reputed then In England the most valiant gentleman : Who knows on whom fortune would then have But if your father had been victor there, [smiled ? He ne'er had borne it out of Coventry : For all the country in a general voice Cried hate upon him ; and all their prayers and love Were set on Hereford, whom they doted on And bless 'd and graced indeed, more than the king. But this is mere digression from my purpose. Here come I from our princely general To know your griefs ; to tell you from his grace That he will give you audience ; and wherein It shall appear that your demands are just, You shall enjoy them, every thing set off That might so much as think you enemies. Mowb. But he hath forced us to compel this offer ; And it proceeds from policy, not love. West. Mowbray, you overween to take it so ; This offer comes from mercy, not from fear : For, lo ! within a ken our army lies. Upon mine honour, all too confident To give admittance to a thought of fear. Our battle is more full of names than yours, Our men more perfect in the use of arms. Our armour all as strong, our cause the best ; Then reason will our hearts should be as good : Say you not then our offer is compell'd. Mowb. Well, by my will we shall admit no parley. West. That argues but the shame of your offence : A rotten case abides no handling. Hast. Hath the Prince John a full commission, In very ample virtue of his father, To hear and absolutely to determine Of what conditions we shall stand upon ? West. That is intended in the general's name : I muse you make so slight a question, [schedule, Arch. Then take, my Lord of Westmoreland, this Eor this contains our general grievances : Each several article herein redress'd, All members of our cause, both here and hence. That are insinew'd to this action. Acquitted by a true substantial form And present execution of our wills To us and to our purposes confined, We come within our awful banks again And knit our powers to the arm of peace. [lords, West. This will I show the general. Please you, 354 In sight of both our battles we may meet ; And either end in peace, which God so frame! Or to the place of difference call the swords Which must decide it. Arch. My lord, we will do so. [Exit West. Mowb. There is a thing within my bosom teUs me That no conditions of our peace can stand. Hast. Fear you not that: if we can make our Upon such large terms and so absolute [peace As our conditions shall consist upon, Our peace shall stand as firm as rocky mountains. Mowb. Yea, but our valuation shall be such That every slight and false-derived cause. Yea, every idle, nice and wanton reason Shall to the king taste of this action ; That, were our royal faiths martyrs in love, We shall be winnow'd with so rough a wind That even our corn shall seem as light as chaff And good from bad find no partition. [weaiy Arch. No, no, my lord. Note this; the king is Of dainty and such picking grievances : For he hath found to end one doubt by ^ Revives two greater in the heirs of life. And therefore will he wipe his tables clean And keep no tell-tale to his memory That may repeat and history his loss To new remembrance ; for full well he knows He cannot so precisely weed this land As his misdoubts present occasion ; His foes are so enrooted with his friends That, plucking to unfix an enemy, He doth unfasten so and shake a friend: So that this land, like an offensive wife That hath enraged him on to offer strokes, As he is striking, holds his infant up And hangs resolved correction in the arm That was uprear'd to execution. Hast. Besides, the king hath wasted aU his rods On late offenders, that he now doth lack The very instruments of chastisement : So that his power, like to a fangless lion, May offer, but not hold. Arch. 'T is very true : And therefore be assured, my good lord marshal, If we do now make our atonement well. Our peace will, like a broken limb united, Grow stronger for the breaking. Mowb. Be it so. Here is return'd my Lord of Westmoreland. Ee-enter Westmoreland. West. The prince is here at hand : pleaseth your lordship To meet his grace just distance 'tween our armies. Mowb. Your grace of York, in God's name, then, set forward. Arch. Before, and greet his grace : my lord, we come. [Exeunt. SCENE IL.— Another part of the forest. Enter, from one side, Mowbray, attended; afterwards the Archbisliop, Hastings, and others ; from the other side, Prince John of Lancaster, and Westmoreland; Ofllcers, and others with them. Lan. You are well encounter'd here, my cousin Mowbray : Good day to you, gentle lord archbishop ; And so to you, Lord Hastings, and to all. My Lord of York, it better show'd with you When that your flock, assembled by the bell. Encircled you to hear with reverence Your exposition on the holy text Than now to see you here an iron man. Cheering a rout of rebels with your drum. Turning the word to sword and life to death. That man that sits within a monarch's heart, ACT IV. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene hi. And ripens in the sunsliine of his favour, Would he abuse tlie countenance of the king, Alack, what mischiefs might he set abroach In shadow of such greatness! With you, lord bishop, It is even so. Who hath not heard it spoken How deep you were within the books of God ? To us the speaker in his parliament ; To us the imagined voice of God himself ; The very opener and intelligencer Between the grace, the sanctities of heaven And our dull workings. O, who shall believe Jiut you misuse the reverence of your place. Employ the countenance and grace of heaven, As a false favourite doth his prince's name. In deeds dishonourable ? You have ta'en up, Under the counterfeited zeal of God, The subjects of his substitute, my father. And both against the peace of heaven and him Have here up-swarm'd them. Arch. Good my Lord of Lancaster, I am not here against your father's peace; But, as I told my Lord of Westmoreland, The time misorder'd doth, in common sense, Crowd us and crush us to this monstrous form. To hold our safety up. I sent your grace The parcels and particulars of our grief, [court, The which hath been with scorn shoved from the Whereon this Hydra son of war is born ; Whose dangerous eyes may well be charm'd asleep With grant of our most just and right desires, And true obedience, of this madness cured, Stoop tamely to the foot of majesty. Mowb. If not, we ready are to try our fortunes To the last man. Hast. And though we here fall down, We have supplies to second our attempt : If they miscarry, theirs shall second them ; And so success of mischief shall be bom And heir from heir shall hold this quarrel up Whiles England shall have generation, [shallow, Lan. You are too shallow, Hastings, much too To sound the bottom of the after-times. West. Pleaseth your grace to answer them di- How far forth you do like their articles. [rectly Lan. I like them all, and do allow them well, And swear here, by the honour of my blood, My father's purposes have been mistook, And some about him have too lavishly Wrested his meaning and authority. My lord, these griefs shall be with speed redress'd ; Upon my soul, they shall. If this may please you, Discharge your powers unto their several counties, As we will ours : and here between the armies Let 's drink together friendly and embrace. That all their eyes may bear those tokens home Of our restored love and amity. Arch. I take your princely word for these redresses. Lan. I give it you, and will maintain my word: And thereupon I drink unto your grace. Hast. Go, captain, and deliver to the army This news of peace : let them have pay, and part : I know it wiU well please them. Hie thee, captain. [Mcit Officer. Arch. To you, my noble Lord of Westmoreland. West. I pledge your grace; and, if you knew what pains I have bestowed to breed this present peace, You would drink freely : but my love to ye Shall show itself more openly hereafter. Arch. I do not doubt you. West. 1 am glad of it. Health to my lord and gentle cousin, Mowbray. Mowb. You wish me health in very happy season ; Por I am, on the sudden, something ill. Arch. Against ill chances men are ever merry ; But heaviness foreruns the good event. West. Therefore be merry, coz; since sudden sorrow [morrow.' Serves to say thus, 'some good thing comes to- Arch. Believe me, I am passing light in spirit. Mowb. So much the worse, if your own rule b«» true. [Shouts ivithiii, Lan. The word of peace is render'd : hark, ho\^ they shout ! Mowb. This had been cheerful after victory. Arch. A peace is of the nature of a conquest ; For then both parties nobly are subdued. And neither party loser. Lan. Go, my lord. And let our army be discharged too. [Exit Westmoreland. And, good my lord, so please you, let our trains March by us, that we may peruse the men We should have coped withal. Arch. Go, good Lord Hastings, And, ere they be dismiss'd, let them march by. [Exit Hastings. Lan. I trust, lords, we shall lie to-night together. Be-enter "Westmoreland. Now cousin, wherefore stands our army still ? West. The leaders, having charge from you to Will not go off until they hear you speak, [stand, Lan. They know their duties. Be-enter Hastings. Hast. My lord, our army is dispersed already : Like youthful steers unyoked, they take their courses [up. East, west, north, south; or, like a school broke Each hurries toward his home and sporting-place. West. Good tidings, my Lord Hastings; for the I do arrest thee, traitor, of high treason : [which And you, lord archbishop, and you, lord Mowbray, Of capital treason I attach you both. Mowb. Is this proceeding just and honourable ? West. Is your assembly so ? Arch. Will you thus break your faith ? Lan. I pawn'd thee none : I promised you redress of these same grievances Whereof you did complain; which, by mine hon- I will perform with a most Christian care. [our, But for you, rebels, look to taste the due Meet for rebellion and such acts as yours. Most shallowly did you these arms commence. Fondly brought here and foolishly sent hence. Strike up our drums, pursue the scatter 'd stray: God, and not we, hath safely fought to-day. Some guard these traitors to the block of death, Treason's true bed and yielder up of breath. [Exeunt. SCENE III. — Another part of the forest. Alarum. Excursions. Enter FalstafF and Cole- vile, meeting. Fal. What 's your name, sir ? of what condition are you, and of what place, I pray ? Cole. lam a knight, sir; and my name is Cole- vile of the dale. Fal. Well, then, Colevile is your name, a knight is your degree, and your place the dale: Colevile shall be still your name, a traitor your degree, and the dungeon your place, a place deep enough; so shall you be still Colevile of the dale. Cole. Are not you Sir John FalstafC ? Fal. As good a man as he, sir, whoe'er I am. Do ye yield, sir? or shall I sweat for you? If I do sweat, they are the drops of thy lovers, and they weep for thy death: therefore rouse up fear and trembling, and do observance to my mercy. Cole. I think you are Sir John Falstaff, and in that thought yield me. 355 ACT IV. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene iv. Fal. I have a whole school of tongues in this belly of mine, and not a tongue of them all speaks any other word but my name. An I had but a belly of any indifferency, I were simply the most active fellow in Europe: my womb, my womb, my womb, undoes me. Here comes our general. Enter Prince John of Lancaster, "Westmore- land, Blunt, and others. Lan. The heat is past ; follow no further now : Call in the powers, good cousin Westmoreland. [Exit Westmoreland. Now, Falstaff, where have you been all this while ? When every thing is ended, then you come : These tardy tricks of yours will, on my life. One time or other break some gallows' back. Fal. I would be sorry, my lord, but it should be thus : I never knew yet but rebuke and check was the reward of valour. Do you think me a swallow, an arrow, or a bullet ? have I, in my poor and old motion, the expedition of thought ? I have speeded hither with the very extremest inch of possibility ; I have foundered nine score and odd posts: and here, travel-tainted as I am, have, in my pure and immaculate valour, taken Sir John Colevile of the dale, a most furious knight and valorous enemy. But what of that ? he saw me, and yielded; that I may justly say, with the hook-nosed fellow of Eome, 'I came, saw, and overcame.' [serving. Lan. It was more of his courtesy than your de- Fal. I know not: here he is, and here I yield him: and I beseech your grace, let it be booked with the rest of this day's deeds ; or, by the Lord, I will have it in a particular ballad else, with mine own picture on the top on 't, Colevile kissing my foot : to the which course if I be enforced, if you do not all show like gilt two-pences to me, and I in the clear sky of fame o'ershine you as much as the full moon doth the cinders of the element, which show like pins' heads to her, believe not the word of the noble : therefore let me have right, and let desert mount. Lan. Thine 's too heavy to mount. Fal. Let it shine, then. Lan. Thine 's too thick to shine. Fal. Let it do something, my good lord, that may do me good, and call it what you will. Lan. Is thy name Colevile ? Cole. It is, my lord. Lan. A famous rebel art thou, Colevile. Fal. And a famous true subject took him. Cole. I am, my lord, but as my betters are That led me hither : had they been ruled by me. You should have won them dearer than you have. Fal. I know not how they sold themselves : but thou, like a kind fellow, gavest thyself away gratis ; and I thank thee for thee. He-enter 'Westmoreland. Lan. Now, have you left pursuit ? West. Ketreat is made and execution stay'd. Lan. Send Colevile with his confederates To York, to present execution : Blunt, lead him hence ; and see you guard him sure. [Exeunt Blunt and others with Colevile. And now dispatch we toward the court, my lords : I hear the king my father is sore sick : Our news shall go before us to his majesty. Which, cousin, you shall bear to comfort him. And we with sober speed will follow you. Fal. My lord, I beseech you, give me leave to go Through Gloucestershire : and, when you come to court. Stand my good lord, pray, in your good report. Lan. Fare you well, FalstafC : I, in my condition. Shall better speak of you than you deserve. [Exeunt all but Falstaff. 356 Fal. 1 would you had but the wit : 't were better than your dukedom. Good faith, this same young sober-blooded boy doth not love me; nor a man cannot make him laugh ; but that 's no marvel, he drinks no wine. There 's never none of these de- mure boys come to any proof ; for thin drink doth so over-cool their blood, and making many fish- meals, that they fall into a kind of male green- sickness; and then, when they marry, they get wenches: they are generally fools and cowards; which some of us should be too, but for inflamma- tion. A good sherris-sack hath a two-fold opera- tion in it. It ascends me into the brain ; dries me there all the foolish and dull and crudy vapours which environ it; makes it apprehensive, quick, forgetive, full of nimble fiery and delectable shapes ; which, delivered o'er to the voice, the tongue, which is the birth, becomes excellent wit. The second property of your excellent sherris is, the warming of the blood ; which, before cold and settled, left the liver white and pale, which is the badge of pu- sillanimity and cowardice ; but the sherris warms it and makes it course from the inwards to the parts extreme : it illumineth the face, which as a beacon gives warning to all the rest of this little kingdom, man, to arm; and then the vital com- moners and inland petty spirits muster me all to their captain, the heart, who, great and puffed up with this retinue, doth any deed of courage ; and this valour comes of sherris. So that skill in the weapon is nothing without sack, for that sets it a- work ; and learning a mere hoard of gold kept by a devil, till sack commences it and sets it in act and use. Hereof comes it that Prince Harry is valiant ; for the cold blood he did naturally inherit of his father he hath, like lean, sterile and bare land, manured, husbanded and tilled with excellent en- deavour of drinking good and good store of fertile sherris, that he is become very hot and valiant. If I had a thousand sons, the first humane principle I would teach them should be, to forswear thin pota- tions and to addict themselves to sack. Enter Bardolph. How now, Bardolph v Bard. The army is discharged all and gone. Fal. Let them go. I '11 through Gloucestershire ; and there will I visit Master Robert Shallow, es- quire : I have him already tempering between my finger and my thumb, and shortly will I seal with him. Come away. [Exeunt. SCENHIV. — Westminster. The Jerusalem Chamber. Miter the 'King, the Princes Thomas of Clarence and Humphrey of Gloucester, Warwick, and others. King. Now, lords, if God doth give successful end To this debate that bleedeth at our doors, We will our youth lead on to higher fields And draw no swords but what are sanctified. Our navy is address'd, our power collected. Our substitutes in absence well invested, And every thing lies level to our wish : Only, we want a little personal strength ; And pause us, till these rebels, now afoot. Come underneath the yoke of government. War. Both which we doubt not but your majesty Shall soon enjoy. King. Humphrey, my son of Gloucester, Where is the prince your brother ? [Windsor. Glou. I think he 's gone to hunt, my lord, at King. And how accompanied ? Glou. I do not know, my lord. King. Is not his brother, Thomas of Clarence, with him ? ACT IV. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene v. Glou. No, my good lord ; he is in presence here. Clar. What would my lord and father ? [ence. King. Nothing but well to thee, Thomas of Clar- How chance thou art not with the prince thy brother ? He loves thee, and thou dost neglect him, Thomas ; Thou hast a better place in his affection Than all thy brothers : cherish it, my boy, And noble offices thou mayst effect Of mediation, after I am dead, Between his greatness and thy other brethren : Therefore omit him not ; blunt not his love, Nor lose the good advantage of his grace By seeming cold or careless of his will ; For he is gracious, if he be observed: He hath a tear for pity and a hand Open as day for melting charity : Yet notwithstanding, being incensed, he 's flint, As humorous as winter and as sudden As flaws congealed in the spring of day. His temper, therefore, must be well observed : Chide him for faults, and do it reverently. When you perceive his blood inclined to mirth ; But, being moody, give him line and scope. Till that his passions, like a whale on ground. Confound themselves with working. Learn this, Thomas, And thou shalt prove a shelter to thy friends, A hoop of gold to bind thy brothers in. That the united vessel of their blood, Mingled with venom of suggestion — As, force perforce, the age will pour it in — Shall never leak, though it do work as strong As aconitum or rash gunpowder. Clar. I shall observe him with all care and love. King. Why art thou not at Windsor with him, Thomas ? Clar. He is not there to-day ; he dines in London. King. And how accompanied? canst thou tell that ? [lowers. Clar. With Poins, and other his continual fol- King. Most subject is the fattest soil to weeds ; And he, the noble image of my youth. Is overspread with them : therefore my grief Stretches itself beyond the hour of death : The blood weeps from my heart when I do shape In forms imaginary the unguided days And rotten times that you shall look upon When I am sleeping with my ancestors. For when his headstrong riot hath no curb. When rage and hot blood are his counsellors. When means and lavish manners meet together, O, with what wings shall his affections fly Towards fronting peril and opposed decay ! [quite : War. My gracious lord, you look beyond him The prince but studies his companions [guage, Like a strange tongue, wherein, to gain the lan- 'T is needful that the most immodest word Be look'd upon and learn'd ; which once attain 'd. Your highness knows, comes to no further use But to be known and hated. So, like gross terms, The prince will in the perfectness of time Cast off his followers ; and their memory Shall as a pattern or a measure live, By which his grace must mete the lives of others. Turning past evils to advantages. [comb King. 'T is seldom when the bee doth leave her In the dead carrion. Miter "Westmoreland. Who 's here ? Westmoreland ? West. Health to my sovereign, and new happiness Added to that that I am to deliver ! Prmce .Tohn your son doth kiss your grace's hand : Mowbray, the Bishop Scroop, Hastings and all Are brought to the correction of your law ; There is not now a rebel's sword unsheath'd, But Peace puts forth her olive every where. The manner how this action hath been borne Here at more leisure may your highness read, With every course in his particular. King. O Westmoreland, thou art a summer bird, Which ever in the haunch of winter sings The lifting up of day. Enter Harcourt. Look, here 's more news. Har. From enemies heaven keep your majesty ; And, when they stand against you, may they fall As those that I am come to tell you of ! The Earl Northumberland and the Lord Bardolph, With a great power of English and of Scots, Are by the sheriff of Yorkshire overthrown : The manner and true order of the fight This packet, please it you, contains at large. King. And wherefore should these good news make me sick ? Will Fortune never come with both hands full, But write her fair words still in foulest letters ? She either gives a stomach and no food ; Such are the poor, in health ; or else a feast And takes away the stomach ; such are the rich, That have abundance and enjoy it not. I should rejoice now at this happy news; And now my sight fails, and my brain is giddy: O me ! come near me ; now I am much ill. Glou. Comfort, your majesty ! Clar. O my royal father ! West. My sovereign lord, cheer up yourself, look up. War. Be patient, princes ; you do know, these fits Are with his highness very ordinary. Stand from him, give him air ; he '11 straight be well. Clar. No, no, he cannot long hold out these pangs : The incessant care and labom- of his mind Hath wrought the mure that should confine it in So thin that life looks through and will break out. Glou. The people fear me; for they do observe Unfather'd heirs and loathly births of nature : The seasons change their manners, as the year Had found some months asleep and leap'd them over. Clar. The river hath thrice flow'd,no ebb between ; And the old folk, time's doting chronicles. Say it did so a little time before That our great-grandsire, Edward, sick'd and died. War. Speak lower, princes, for the king recovers. Glou. This apoplexy will certain be his end. King. I pray you, take me up, and bear me hence Into some other chamber : softly, pray. SCENE v.— Another chamber. The King lying on a bed : Clarence, Gloucester, War-wick, and others in attendance. King. Let there be no noise made, my gentle Unless some dull and favourable hand [friends ; Will whisper music to my weary spirit. War. Call for the music in the other room. King. Set me the crown upon my pillow here. Clar. His eye is hollow, and he changes much. War. Less noise, less noise ! Enter Prince Henry. Prince. Who saw the Duke of Clarence ? Clar. I am here, brother, full of heaviness. Prince. How now ! rain within doors, and none How doth the king ? [abroad ! Glou. Exceeding ill. Prince. Heard he the good news yet ? Tell it him. Glou. He alter'd much upon the hearing it. Prince. If he be sick with joy, he '11 recover with- out physic, [speak low; War. Not so much noise, my lorda; sweet prince, The king your father is disposed to sleep. 357 ACT IV. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene v. Clar. Let us withdraw into the other room. War. Will 't please your grace to go along with us? Prince. No; I will sit and watch here by the king. [Exeunt all but the Prince. Why doth the crown lie there upon his pillow, Being so troublesome a bedfellow ? O polish 'd perturbation ! golden care ! That keep'st the ports of slumber open wide To many a watchful night ! sleep with it now I Yet not so sound and half so deeply sweet As he whose brow with homely biggen bound Snores out the watch of night. O majesty ! When thou dost pinch thy bearer, thou dost sit Like a rich armour worn in heat of day, That scalds with safety. By his gates of breath There lies a downy feather which stirs not : Did he suspire, that light and weightless down Perforce must move. My gracious lord ! my father! This sleep is sound indeed ; this is a sleep That from this golden rigol hath divorced So many English kings. Thy due from me Is tears and heavy sorrows of the blood, Which nature^ love, and filial tenderness, Shall, O dear rather, pay thee plenteously: My due from thee is this imperial crown. Which, as immediate from thy place and blood, Derives itself to me. Lo, here it sits. Which God shall guard : and put the world's whole Into one giant arm, it shall not force [strength This lineal honour from me : this from thee Will I to mine leave, as 't is left to me. [Exit. King. Warwick! Gloucester! Clarence! Be-enter Warwick, Gloucester, Clarence, and the rest. Clar. Doth the king call ? [grace ? War. What would your majesty? Howfaresyour King. Why did you leave me here alone, my lords ? Clar. We left the prince my brother herej my Who imdertook to sit and watch by you. [liege. King. The Prince of Wales ! Where is he ? let me He is not here. [see him : War. This door is open ; he is gone this way. Glou. He came not through the chamber where we stay'd. [pillow ? King. Where is the crown ? who took it from my War. When we withdrew, my liege, we left it here. [him out. King. The prince hath ta'en it hence : go, seek Is he so hasty that he doth suppose My sleep my death ? Pind him, my Lord of Warwick ; chide him hither. [Exit Warwick. This part of his conjoins with my disease. And helps to end me. See, sons, what things you How quickly natiu-e falls into revolt [are ! When gold becomes her object ! Por this the foolish over-careful fathers Have broke their sleep with thoughts, their brains with care. Their bones with industry ; Por this they have engrossed and piled up The canker 'd heaps of strange-achieved gold ; For this they have been thoughtful to invest Their sons with arts and martial exercises : When, like the bee, culling from every flower The virtuous sweets, [honey, Our thighs pack'd with wax, our mouths with We bring it to the hive, and, like the bees. Are murdered for our pains. This bitter taste Yield his engrossments to the ending father. Be-enter 'Warwick. Now, where is he that will not stay so long Till his friend sickness hath determined me ? War. My lord, I found the prince in the next room, 358 Washing with kindly tears his gentle cheeks. With such a deep demeanour in great sorrow That tyranny, which never quaff'd but blood. Would, by beholding him, have wash'd his knife With gentle eye-drops. He is coming hither. King. But wherefore did he take away the crown ? Be-enter Prince Henry. Lo, where he comes. Come hither to me, Harry. Depart the chamber, leave us here alone. [Exeunt Warwick and the rest. Prince. I never thought to hear you speak again. King. Thy wish was father, Harry, to that I stay too long by thee, I weary thee. [thought : Dost thou so hunger for mine empty chair That thou wilt needs invest thee with my honours Before thy hour be ripe ? O foolish youth ! Thou seek'st the greatness that will overwhelm thee. Stay but a little ; for my cloud of dignity Is held from falling with so weak a wind That it will quickly drop : my day is dim. Thou hast stolen that which after some few hours Were thine without offence ; and at my death Thou hast seal'd up my expectation : Thy life did manifest thou lovedst me not. And thou wilt have me die assured of it. Thou hidest a thousand daggers in thy thoughts, Which thou hast wlietted on thy stony heart, To stab at half an hour of my life. What ! canst thou not forbear me half an hour ? Then get thee gone and dig my grave thyself. And bid the merry bells ring to thine ear That thou art crowned, not that I am dead. Let all the tears that should bedew my hearse Be drops of balm to sanctify thy head : Only compound me with forgotten dust ; Give that which gave thee life unto the worms. Pluck down my officers, break my decrees; For now a time is come to mock at form : . Harry the Fifth is crown 'd: up, vanity! Down, royal state ! all you sage counsellors, hence! And to the English court assemble now, From every region, apes of idleness! Now, neighbour confines, purge you of your scum: Have you a ruffian that will swear, drink, dance. Revel the night, rob, murder, and commit The oldest sins the newest kind of ways ? Be happy, he will trouble you no more ; England shall double gild his treble guilt, England shall give him office, honour, might ; For the fifth Harry from curb'd license plucks The muzzle of restraint, and the wild dog Shall flesh his tooth on every innocent. my poor kingdom, sick with civil blows! When that my care could not withhold thy riots, What wilt thou do when riot is thy care ? O, thou wilt be a wilderness again. Peopled with wolves, thy old inhabitants ! Prince. O, pardon me, my liege ! but for my tears, The moist impediments unto my speech, 1 had forestaU'd this dear and deep rebuke Ere you with grief had spoke and I had heard The course of it so far. There is your crown ; And He that wears the crown immortally Long guard it yours ! If I affect it more Than as your honour and as your renown, Let me no more from this obedience rise. Which my most inward true and duteous spirit Teacheth, this prostrate and exterior bending. God witness with me, when I here came in, And found no course of breath within your majesty, How cold it struck my heart ! If I do feign, O, let me in my present wildness die And never live to show the incredulous world The noble change that I have purposed ! Coming to look on you, thinking you dead, And dead almost, my liege, to think you were. ACT V. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene i. I spake unto this crown as having sense, And thus upbraided it : ' The care on thee depending Hath fed upon the body of my father ; Therefore, thou best of gold art worst of gold : Other, less fine in carat, is more precious, Preserving life in medicine potable ; But thou, most fine, most honour'd, most renown'd, Hast eat thy bearer up.' Thus, my most royal liege, Accusing it, I put it on my head. To try with it, as with an enemy That had before my face murder'd my father, The quarrel of a true inheritor. But if it did infect my blood with joy. Or swell my thoughts to any strain of pride ; If any rebel or vain spirit of mine Did with the least affection of a welcome Give entertainment to the might of it. Let God for ever keep it from my head And make me as the poorest vassal is That doth with awe and terror kneel to it ! King. O my son, God put it in thy mind to take it hence. That thou mightst win the more thy father's love, Pleading so wisely in excuse of it ! Come hither, Harry, sit thou by my bed ; And hear, I think, the very latest counsel That ever I shall breathe. God knows, my son, By what by-paths and indirect crook'd ways I met this crown ; and I myself know well How troublesome it sat upon my head. To thee it shall descend with better quiet, Better opinion, better confirmation ; Por all the soil of the achievement goes With me into the earth. It seem'd in me But as an honour snatch 'd with boisterous hand, And I had many living to upbraid My gain of it by their assistances ; Which daily grew to quarrel and to bloodshed. Wounding supposed peace : all these bold fears Thou see'st with peril I have answered; Por all my reign hath been but as a scene Acting that argument : and now my death Changes the mode ; for what in me was purchased. Palls upon thee in a more fairer sort ; So thou the garland wear'st successively. [do, Yet, though thou stand'st more sure than I could Thou art not firm enough, since griefs are green ; And all my friends, which thou must make thy friends. Have but their stings and teeth newly ta'eu out ; By whose fell working I was first advanced And by whose power I well might lodge a fear To be again displaced : which to avoid, I cut them off ; and had a purpose now To lead out many to the Holy Land, Lest rest and lying still might make them look Too near unto my state. Therefore, my Harry, Be it thy course to busy giddy minds With foreign quarrels ; that action, hence borne out, May waste the memory of the former days. More would I, but my lungs are wasted so That strength of speech is utterly denied me. How I came by the crown, O God forgive ; And grant it may with thee in true peace live ! Prince. My gracious liege. You won it, wore it, kept it, gave it me ; Then plain and right must my possession be: Which I with more than with a common pain 'Gainst all the world will rightfully maintain. Enter Lord John of Lancaster. King. Look, look, here comes my John of Lan- caster, [father ! Lan. Health, peace, and happiness to my royal King. Thou bring'st me happiness and peace, son John ; But health, alack, with youthful wings is flown From this bare wither'd trunk : upon thy sight My worldly business makes a period. Where is my Lord of Warwick ? Prince. My Lord of Warwick 1 Enter "Warwick, and others. King. Doth any name particular belong Unto the lodging where I first did swoon ? War. 'T is eall'd Jerusalem, my noble lord. King. Laud be to God ! even there my life must It hath been prophesied to me many years, [end. I should not die but in Jerusalem ; Which vainly I supposed the Holy Land : But bear me to that chamber ; there I 'U lie ; In that Jerusalem shall Harry die. . [Exeunt. ^OT V^. — Gloucestershire. Shallow''s house. Enter Shallow, Falstaff, Bardolph, and Page. Shal. By cock and pie, sir, you shall not away to- night. What, Davy, I say ! Qow. Pal. You must excuse me. Master Eobert Shal- Shal. I will not excuse you; you shall not be excused; excuses shall not be admitted; there is no excuse shall serve; you shall not be excused. Why, Davy ! Enter Davy. Davy. Here, sir. Shal. Davy, Davy, Davy, Davy, let me see, Davy ; let me see, Davy ; let me see : yea, marry, William cook, bid him come hither. Sir John, you shall not be excused. Davy. Marry, sir, thus; those precepts cannot be served : and^ again, sir, shaU we sow the headland with wheat ? Shal. With red wheat, Davy. But for William cook : are there no young pigeons ? Davy. Yes, sir. Here is now the smith's note for shoeing and plough-irons. Shal. Let it be cast and paid. Sir John, you shall not be excused. Davy. Now, sir, a new link to the bucket must needs be had : and, sir, do you mean to stop any of William's wages, about the sack he lost the other day at Hinckley fair ? Shal. A' shall answer it. Some pigeons, Davy, a couple of short-legged hens, a joint of mutton, and any pretty little tiny kickshaws, tell William cook. Davy. Doth the man of war stay all night, sir? Shal. Yea, Davy. I will use him well : a friend i' the court is better than a penny in purse. Use his men well, Davy; for they are arrant knaves, and will backbite. Davy. No worse than they are backbitten, sir; for they have marvellous foul linen. Shal. Well conceited, Davy : about thy business, Davy. Davy. I beseech you, sir, to countenance William Visor of Woncot against Clement Perkes of the hill. Shal. There is many complaints, Davy, against that Visor: that Visor is an arrant knave, on my knowledge. Davy. I grant your worship that he is a knave, sir; but yet, God forbid, sir, but a knave should have some countenance at his friend's request. An 359 ACT V. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene ii. honest man, sir, is able to speak for himself, when a knave is not. I have served your worship truly, sir, this eight years ; and if I cannot once or twice in a quarter bear out a knave against an honest man, I have but a very little credit with your worship. The knave is mine honest friend, sir ; therefore, I beseech your worship, let him be countenanced. Shal. Go to : I say he shall have no wrong. Look about^ Davy. [Exit Davy.] Where are you, Sir John? Come, come, come, off with yoiir boots. Give me your hand. Master Bardolph. Bard. I am glad to see your worship. Shal. I thank thee with all my heart, kind Mas- ter Bardolph : and welcome, my tall fellow [to the Page], Come, Sir John. Fal. I '11 follow you, good Master Kobert Shallow. [Uxit Shallow.] Bardolph, look to our horses. [Ex- eunt Bardolph and Page.] If I were sawed into quan- tities, I should make four dozen of such bearded hermits' staves as Master Shallow. It is a wonder- ful thing to see the sembable coherence of his men's spirits and his : they, by observing of him, do bear themselves like foolish justices; he, by conversing with them, is turned into a justice-like serving-man : their spirits are so married in conjunction with the participation of society that they flock together in consent, like so many wild-geese. If I had a suit to Master Shallow, I would humour his men with the imputation of being near their master : if to his men, I would curry with Master Shallow that no man could better command his servants. It is cer- tain that either wise bearing or ignorant carriage is caught, as men take diseases, one of another : there- fore let men take heed of their company. I will de- vise matter enough out of this Shallow to keep Prince Harry in continual laughter the wearing out of six fashions, which is four terms, or two actions, and a' shall laugh without intervallums. O, it is much that a lie with a slight oath and a jest with a sad brow will do with a fellow that never had the ache in his shoulders ! O, you shall see him laugh till his face be like a wet cloak ill laid up ! Shal. [ Within] Sir John ! Fal. I come. Master Shallow; I come, Master Shallow. [Exit. SCENE II.— Westminster. The palace. Bnter "Warwick and the Lord Chief-Justice, meeting. War. How now, my lord chief -justice ! whither Ch. Just. How doth the king ? [away ? War. Exceeding well ; his cares are now all ended. Ch. Just. I hope, not dead. War. He 's walk'd the way of nature ; And to our purposes he lives no more. [him : Ch. Just. I would his majesty had call'd me with The service that I truly did his life Hath left me open to all injuries. War. Indeed I think the young king loves you not. Ch. Just. I know he doth not, and do arm myself To welcome the condition of the time, "Which cannot look more hideously upon me Than I have drawn it in my fantasy. Enter Lancaster, Clarence, Gloucester, "Westmoreland, and others. War. Here come the heavy issue of dead Harry : O that the living Harry had the temper Of him, the worst of these three gentlemen ! How many nobles then should hold their places, That must strike sail to spirits of vile sort ! Ch. Just. O God, I fear all will be overturn 'd! Lan. Good morrow, cousin "Warwick, good mor- ClZ: 1 ^"^'i morrow, cousm. ^ow. Lan. "We meet like men that had forgot to speak. War. We do remember ; but our argument Is all too heavy to admit much talk. [heavy I Lan. "Well, peace be with him that hath made us Ch. Just. Peace be with us, lest we be heavier ! Glou. O, good my lord, you have lost a friend in- And I dare swear you borrow not that face [deed ; Of seeming sorrow, it is sure your own. Lan. Though no man be assured what grace to find. You stand in coldest expectation : I am the sorrier ; would 't were otherwise. [fair ; Clar. "Well, you must now speak Sir John Palstaff "Which swims against your stream of quality. Ch. Just. Sweet princes, what I did, I did in hon- Led by the impartial conduct of my soul ; [our, And never shall you see that I will beg A ragged and forestall'd remission. If truth and upright innocency fail me, I '11 to the king my master that is dead. And tell him who hath sent me after him. War. Here comes the prince. Enter King Henry the Fifth, attended. Ch. Just. Good morrow; and God save your majesty ! King. This new and gorgeous garment, majesty, Sits not so easy on me as you think. Brothers, you mix your sadness with some fear: This is the English, not the Turkish court; Not Amurath an Amurath succeeds. But Harry Harry. Yet be sad, good brothers, For, by my faith, it very well becomes you: Sorrow so royally in you appears That I will deeply put the fashion on And wear it in my heart : why then, be sad ; But entertain no more of it, good brothers, Than a joint burden laid upon us all. For me, by Heaven, I bid you be assured, I '11 be your father and your brother too ; Let me but bear your love, I '11 bear your cares : Yet weep that Harry 's dead; and so will I"; But Harry lives, that shall convert those tears By number into hours of happiness. Princes. We hope no other from your majesty. King. You all look strangely on me : and you most ; You are, I think, assured I love you not. Ch. Just. I am assured, if I be measured rightly, Your majesty hath no just cause to hate me. King. No! How might a prince of my great hopes forget So great indignities you laid upon me ? What ! rate, rebuke, and roughly send to prison The immediate heir of England ! Was this easy ? May this be wash'd in Lethe, and forgotten ? Ch. Just. I then did use the person of your father ; The image of his power lay then in me : And, in the administration of his law. Whiles I was busy for the commonwealth, Your highness pleased to forget my place. The majesty and power of law and justice, The image of the king whom I presented, And struck me in my very seat of judgment; Whereon, as an offender to your father, I gave bold way to my authority And did commit you. If the deed were ill. Be you contented, wearing now the garland, To have a son set your decrees at nought. To phick down justice from your awful bench, To trip the course of law and blunt the sword That guards the peace and safety of your person ; Nay, more, to spurn at your most royal image And mock your workings in a second body. Question your royal thoughts, make the case yours Be now the father and propose a son. Hear your own dignity so much profaned. See your most dreadful laws so loosely slighted, Behold yourself so by a son disdain'd ; And then imagine me taking your part ACT V. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene hi. And in your power soft silencing your son : After this cold considerance, sentence me ; And, as you are a king, speak in your state "What I have done that misbecame my place, My person, or my liege's sovereignty. [well ; King. You are right, justice, and you weigh this Therefore still bear the balance and the sword : And I do wish your honours may increase, Till you do live to see a son of mine Offend you and obey you, as I did. So shall I live to speak my father's words : 'Happy am I, that have a man so bold, That dares do justice on my proper son; And not less happy, having such a son. That would deliver up his greatness so Into the hands of justice.' You did commit me : For which, I do commit into your hand The unstained sword that you have used to bear ; With this remembrance, that you use the same With the like bold, just and impartial spirit As you have done 'gainst me. There is my hand. You shall be as a father to my youth : My voice shall sound as you do prompt mine ear, And I will stoop and humble my intents To your well-practised wise directions. And, princes all, believe me, I beseech you ; My father is gone wild into his grave, For in his tomb lie my aif ections ; And with his spirit sadly I survive, To mock the expectation of the world, To frustrate prophecies and to raze out Eotten opinion, who hath writ me down After my seeming. The tide of blood in me Hath proudly flow'd in vanity till now : Now doth it turn and ebb back to the sea, Where it shall mingle with the state of floods And flow henceforth in formal majesty. Now call we our high court of parliament : And let us choose such limbs of noble counsel, That the great body of our state may go In equal rank with the best govern 'd nation ; That war, or peace, or both at once, may be As things acquainted and familiar to us ; In which you, father, shall have foremost hand. Our coronation done, we will accite, As I before remember 'd, all our state : And, God consigning to my good intents, No prince nor peer shall have just cause to say, God shorten Harry's happy life one day ! [Moeunt. SCENE III. — Gloucestershire. Shallow^s orchard. Enter Falstaff, Shallow, Silence, Davy, Bar- dolph, and the Page. Shal. Nay, you shall see my orchard, where, in an arbour, we wiU eat a last year's pippin of my own graffing, with a dish of caraways, and so forth : come, cousin Silence : and then to bed. Fal. 'Fore God, you have here a goodly dwelling and a rich. Shal,. Barren, barren, barren; beggars all, beg- gars all, Sir John : marry, good air. Spread, Davy ; spread, Davy; well said, Davy. Fal. This Davy serves you for good uses ; he is your serving-man and your husband. Shal. A good varlet, a good varlet, a very good varlet, Sir John: by the mass, I have drunk too much sack at supper: a good varlet. Now sit down, now sit down : come cousin. Sil. Ah, sirrah! quoth-a, we shall Do nothing but eat, and make good cheer, [Singing. And praise God for the merry year ; When flesh is cheap and females dear. And lusty lads roam here and there So merrily. And ever among so merrily. Fal. There 's a merry heart ! Good Master Silence, I '11 give you a health for that anon. Shal. Give Master Bardolph some wine, Davy. Davy. Sweet sir, sit ; I '11 be with you anon ; most sweet sir, sit. Master page, good master page, sit. Prof ace ! What you want in meat, we '11 have in drink : but you must bear ; the heart 's all. [Exit. Shal. Be merry. Master Bardolph ; and, my little soldier there, be merry. Sil. Be merry, be merry, my wife has all ; [Singing. For women are shrews, both short and tall : 'T is merry in hall when beards wag all. And welcome merry Shrove-tide. Be merry, be merry. Fal. I did not think Master Silence had been a man of this mettle. Sil. Who, I ? I have been merry twice and once ere now. ^ He-enter Davy. Davy. There 's a dish of leather-coats for you. [To Bardolph. Shal. Davy! Davy. Your worship ! I '11 be with you straight [to Bardolph]. A cup of wine, sir ? Sil. A cup of wine that 's brisk and fine, [Singing. And drink unto the leman mine ; And a merry heart lives long-a. Fal. Well said. Master Silence. Sil. An we shall be merry, now comes in the sweet o' the night. Fal. Health and long life to you. Master Silence. Sil. Fill the cup, and let it come ; [Singing. I '11 pledge you a mile to the bottom. Shal. Honest Bardolph, welcome: if thou wantest any thing, and wilt not call, beshrew thy heart. Welcome, my little tiny thief [to the Page], and wel- come indeed too. I '11 drink to Master Bardolph, and to aU the cavaleros about London. Davy. 1 hope to see London once ere I die. Bard. An I might see you there, Davy, — Shal. By the mass, you '11 crack a quart together, ha ! will you not. Master Bardolph ? Bard. Yea, sir, in a pottle-pot. Shal. By God's liggens, I thank thee : the knave wiU stick by thee, I can assure thee that. A' will not out ; he is true bred. Bard. And I '11 stick by him, sir. Shal. Why, there spoke a king. Lack nothing: be merry. [Knocking within.] Look who 's at door there, ho ! who knocks Y [Exit Davy. Fal. Why, now you have done me right. [To Silence, seeing him take off a bumper. Sil. Do me right [Singing. And dub me knight : Samingo. Is 't not so ? Fal. 'T is so. [somewhat. Sil. Is 't so ? Why then, say an old man can do Be-enter Davy. Davy. An 't please your worship, there 's one Pistol come from the court with news. Fal. From the court ! let him come in. Enter Pistol. How now, Pistol ! Pist. Sir John, God save you ! Fal. What wind blew you hither, Pistol ? Pist. Not the ill wind which blows no man to good. Sweet knight, thou art now one of the great- est men in this realm. Sil. By 'r lady, I think a' be, but goodman Puff of Barson. Pist. Puff! Puff in thy teeth, most recreant coward base I 361 ACT V. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene v. Sir John, I am thy Pistol and thy friend, And lielter-skelter liave I rode to thee. And tidings do I bring and lucky joys And golden times and happy news of price. Fal. I pray thee now, deliver them like a man of this Avorld. Pist. A foutre for the world and worldlings base ! I speak of Africa and golden joys. Fal. O base Assyrian knight, what is thy news ? Let King Cophetua know the truth thereof. Sil. And Robin Hood, Scarlet, and John. [Singing. Pist. Shall dunghill curs confront the Helicons ? And shall good news be baffled ? Then, Pistol, lay thy head in Furies' lap. Sil. Honest gentleman, I know not your breeding. Fist. Why then, lament, therefore. Shal. Give me pardon, sir : if, sir, you come with news from the court, I take it there 's but two ways, either to utter them, or to conceal them. I am, sir, under the king, in some authority. Pist. Under which king, Besonian ? speak, or die. Slial. Under King Harry. Pist. Harry the Fourth ? or Fifth ? Slial. Harry the Fourth. Pist. A foutre for thine office ! Sir John, thy tender lambkin now is king ; Harry the Fifth 's the man. I speak the truth : When Pistol lies, do this; and fig me, like The bragging Spaniard. Fal. What, is the old king dead ? Pist. As nail in door : the things I speak are just. Fal. Away, Bardolph ! saddle my horse. Master Robert Shallow, choose what office thou wilt in the land, 't is thine. Pistol, I will double-charge thee Bard. O joyful day ! [with dignities. I would not take a knighthood for my fortune. Pist. What ! I do bring good news. Fal. Carry Master Silence to bed. Master Shal- low, my Lord Shallow, — be what thou wilt; I am fortune's steward — get on thy boots : we '11 ride all night. O sweet Pistol! Away, Bardolph! [Exit Bard.] Come, Pistol, utter more to me ; and withal devise something to do thyself good. Boot, boot, Master Shallow : I know the young king is sick for me. Let us take any man's horses; the laws of England are at my commandment. Blessed are they that have been my friends ; and woe to my lord chief-justice I Pist. Let vultures vile seize on his lungs also ! ' Where is the life that late I led ? ' say they : Why, here it is ; welcome these pleasant days ! [Exeunt. SCENE IV.— London. A street. Enter Beadles, dragging in Hostess Quickly and Doll Tearsheet. Host. No, thou arrant knave ; I would to God that I might die, that I might have thee hanged : thou hast drawn my shoulder out of joint. First Bead. The constables have delivered her over to me; and she shall have whipping-cheer enough, I warrant her: tliere hath been a man or two lately killed about her. Dol. Nut-hook, nut-hook, you lie. Come on ; I '11 tell thee what, thou damned tripe-visaged ras- cal, an the child I now go with do miscarry, thou wert better thou hadst struck thy mother, thou paper-faced villain. Most. O the Lord, that Sir John were come ! he would make this a bloody day to somebody. But I pray God the fruit of her womb miscarry ! First Bead. If it do, you shall have a dozen of cushions again ; you have but eleven now. Come, I charge you both go witli me ; for the man is dead that you and Pistol beat amongst you. Bol. I '11 tell you what, you thin man in a cen- ser, I will have you as soundly swinged for this,— you blue-bottle rogue, you filthy famished correc- tioner, if you be not swinged, I '11 forswear half- kirtles. [come. First Bead. Come, come, you she knight-errant, Host. O God, that riglit should thus overcome might ! Well, of sufferance comes ease. [tice. JDoI. Come, you rogue, come ; bring me to a jus- Host. Ay, come, you starved blood-hound. Bol. Goodman death, goodman bones! Host. Thou atomy, thou ! Dol. Come, you thin thing ; come, you rascal. First Bead. Very well. [Exeunt. SCENE V. — A louhlic place near Westminster Abbey. Writer two Grooms, strewing rushes. First Groom. More rushes, more rushes. Sec. Groom. The trumpets have sounded twice. First Groom. 'T will be two o'clock ere they come from the coronation : dispatch, dispatch. [Exeunt. Enter Palstaff, Shallow, Pistol, Bardolph, and Page. Fal. Stand here by me. Master Robert Shallow ; I will make the king do you grace : I will leer upon him as a' comes by; and do but mark the coun- tenance that he will give me. Pist. God bless thy lungs, good knight. Fal. Come here. Pistol; stand behind me. O, if I had had time to have made new liveries, I would have bestowed the thousand pound I borrowed of you. But 't is no matter ; this poor show doth bet- ter : this doth infer the zeal I had to see him. Shal. It doth so. Fal. It shows my earnestness of affection,— Shal. It doth so. Fal. My devotion,— Shal. It doth, it doth, it doth. Fal. As it were, to ride day and night; and not to deliberate, not to remember, not to have pa- tience to shift me, — Shal. It is best, certain. Fal. But to stand stained with travel, and sweat- ing with desire to see him; thinking of nothing else, putting all affairs else in oblivion, as if there were nothing else to be done but to see him. Pist. 'T is ' semper idem,' for ' obsque hoc nihil est : ' 't is all in every part. Shal. 'T is so, indeed. Pist. My knight, I will Inflame thy noble liver. And make thee rage. Thy Doll, and Helen of thy noble thoughts. Is in base durance and contagious prison ; Haled thither By most mechanical and dirty hand : [snake, Rouse up revenge from ebon den with fell Alecto's For Doll is in. Pistol speaks nought but truth. Fal. I will deliver her. [Shouts within, and the trumpets sound. Pist. There roar'd the sea, and trumpet-clangor sounds. Enter the King and his train, the Lord Chief- Jus- tice among them. Fal. God save thy grace. King Hal ! my royal Hal! Pist. The heavens thee guard and keep, most royal imp of fame ! Fal. God save thee, my sweet boy ! [man. King. My lord chief-justice, speak to that vain Ch. Just. Have you your wits ? know you what 't is you speak ? Fal. My king! my Jove! I speak to thee, my heart I ACT V. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene v. King. I know thee not, old man: fall to thy prayers ; How ill white hairs become a fool and jester ! I have long dream'd of such a kind of man, So surfeit-swell 'd, so old and so profane ; But, being awaked, I do despise my dream. Make less thy body hence, and more thy grace ; Leave gormandizing ; know the grave doth gape Por thee thrice wider than for other men. Reply not to me with a fool-born jest : Presume not that I am the thing I was ; Por God doth know, so shall the world perceive, That I have turned away my former self ; So will I those that kept me company. When thou dost hear I am as I have been. Approach me, and thou shalt be as thou wast, The tutor and the feeder of my riots : Till then, I banish thee, on pain of death. As I have done the rest of my misleaders, IN'ot to come near our person by ten mile. Por competence of life I will allow you. That lack of means enforce you not to evil : And, as we hear you do reform yourselves. We will, according to your strengths and qualities. Give you advancement. Be it your charge, my lord, To see perform'd the tenour of our word. Set on. [Exeunt King, &c. Fal. Master Shallow, I owe you a thousand pound. ShM. Yea, marry. Sir John ; which I beseech you to let me have home with me. Fal. That can hardly be. Master Shallow. Do not you grieve at this ; I shall be sent for in pri- vate to him : look you, he must seem thus to the world : fear not your advancements ; I will be the man yet that shall make you great. Shal. I cannot well perceive how, unless you should give me your doublet and stuff: me out with straw. I beseech you, good Sir John, let me have five hundred of my thousand. Fal. Sir, I will be as good as my word : this that you heard was but a colour. [John. Shal. A colour that I fear you will die in. Sir Fal. Pear no colours: go with me to dinner: come. Lieutenant Pistol ; come, Bardolph : I shall be sent for soon at night. Be-ent&r Prince John, the Lord Chief-Justice; OfiBcers with them. CJi. Just. Go, carry Sir John Palstaff to the Pleet ; Take all his company along with him. i^aZ. My lord, my lord, — [soon. Ch. Just. I cannot now speak : I will hear you Take tiiem away. Fist. Si fortuna me tormenta, spero contenta. [Exeunt all but Prince John and the Chief-Justice. Lan. I like this fair proceeding of the king's: He hath intent his wonted followers Shall all be very well provided for ; But all are banish'd till their conversations Appear more wise and modest to the world. Ch. Just. And so they are. Lan. The king hath call'd his parliament, my lord. Ch. Just. He hath. Lan. I will lay odds that, ere this year expire, We bear our civil swords and native fire As far as Prance : I heard a bird so sing. Whose music, to my thinking, pleased the king. Come, will you hence ? [Exeunt. EPILOGUE, Spoken by a. Dancer, Pirst my fear ; then my courtesy ; last my speech. My fear is, your displeasure ; my courtesy, my duty ; and my speech, to beg your pardons. If you look for a good speech now, you undo me : for what I have to say is of mine own making ; and what in- deed I should say will, I doubt, prove mine own marring. But to the purpose, and so to the ven- ture. Be it known to you, as it is very well, I was lately here in the end of a displeasing play, to pray your patience for it and to promise you a better. I meant indeed to pay you with this ; which, if like an ill venture it come unluckily home, I break, and you, my gentle creditors, lose. Here I promised you I would be and here I commit my body to your mercies: bate me some and I will pay you some and, as most debtors do, promise you infinitely. If my tongue cannot entreat you to acquit me, will you command me to use my legs ? and yet that were but light payment, to dance out of your debt. But a good conscience will make any possible satis- faction, and so would I. All the gentlewomen here have forgiven me : if the gentlemen will not, then the gentlemen do not agree with the gentlewomen, which was never seen before in such an assembly. One word more, I beseech you. If you be not too much cloyed with fat meat, our humble author will continue the story, with Sir John in it, and make you merry with fair Katharine of Prance: where, for any thing I know, Palstaff shall die of a sweat, unless already a' be killed with your hard opinions ; for Oldcastle died a martyr, and this is not the man. My tongue is weary; when my legs are too, I will bid you good night : and so kneel down before you ; but, indeed, to pray for the queen. FaZslaff.-r'Yea,, many, let 's see BullcaJf. BuUcalf.—Keve, sir. J'oZstaJ.— 'Fore God, a likely fellow ! C roar again. prick me Bullealf till he Act III., Scene ii. THE LIFE OP KING HENEY THE FIFTH. DBAMATIS PEBSON^. brothers to the King. King Henry the Fifth Duke of Gloucester, Duke of Bedford, Duke of Exeter, uncle to the King. Duke of York, cousin to the King. Earls of Salisbury, Westmoreland, and War- wick. Arctibisliop of Canterbury. Bisbop of Ely. Earl of Cambridge. Lord Scroop. Sir Thomas Grey. Sir Thomas Erpingham, Gower, Fluellen, Mac- morris, Jamy, officers in King Henry's army. Bates, Court, Williams, soldiers in the same. Pistol, Nym, Bardolph. Boy. A Herald. Charles the Sixth, King of France. Lewis the Dauphin. Dukes of Burgundy, Orleans, and : The Constable of France. Eambures and Grandpr§, French Lords. Governor of Harfleur. Montjoy, a French Herald. Ambassadors to the King of England. Isabel, Queen of France. Katharine, daughter to Charles and Isabel. Alice, a lady attending on her. Hostess of a tavern in Eastcheap, formerly Mistress Quickly, and now married to Pistol. Lords, Ladies, Officers, Soldiers, Citizens, Messengers, and Attendants. Chorus. England ; afterwards France. [For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page LV.] PHOLOaUE. Enter Chorus. Chor. O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend The brightest heaven of invention, A kingdom for a stage, princes to act And monarchs to behold the swelling scene ! Then should the warlike Harry, like himself. Assume the port of Mars ; and at his heels, [fire Leash'd in like hounds, should famine, sword and Crouch for employment. But pardon, gentles all, The flat unraised spirits that have dared On this unworthy scaffold to bring forth So great an object : can this cockpit hold The vasty fields of Prance ? or may we cram Within this wooden O the very casques That did affright the air at Agincourt ? O, pardon ! since a crooked figure may Attest in little place a million ; And let us, ciphers to this great accompt, On your imaginary forces work. Suppose within the girdle of these walls Are now confined two mighty monarchies, Whose high upreared and abutting fronts The perilous narrow ocean parts asunder : Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts ; Into a thousand parts divide one man, And make imaginary puissance ; Think, when we talk of horses, that you see them Printing their proud hoofs i' the receiving earth ; For 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings, Carry them here and there ; jumping o'er times, Turning the accomplishment of many years Into an hour-glass : for the which supply, Admit me Chorus to this history ; Who prologue-like your humble patience pray, Gently to hear, kindly to judge, our play. [Mcit. -ACT I. SCENE I. — London. An ante-chamher in the King''s palace. Enter the Arcbbishop of Canterbury, and the Bishop of Ely. Cant. My lord, I '11 tell you ; that self bill is urged. Which in the eleventh year of the last king's reign Was like, and had indeed against l^s pass'd, But that the scambling and unquiet time Did push it out of farther question. Ely. But how, my lord, shall we resist it now? Cant. It must be thought on. If it pass against us, We lose the better half of our possession : For all the temporal lands which men devout By testament have given to the church "Would they strip from us; being valued thus: As much as would maintain, to the king's honour, Full fifteen earls and fifteen hundred knights, Six thousand and two hundred good esquires ; And, to relief of lazars and weak age. Of indigent faint souls past corporal toil, A hundred almshouses right well supplied; And to the coffers of the king beside, A thousand poimds by the year: thus runs the bill ACT I. KING HENRY V. SCENE II. Ely. This would drink deep. Cant. 'T would drink the cup and all. Ely. But what prevention ? Cant. The king is full of grace and fair regard. Ely. And a true lover of the holy church. Cant. The courses of his youth promised it not. The breath no sooner left his father's body, But that his wildness, mortified in him, Seem'd to die too ; yea, at that very moment Consideration, like an angel, came And whipp'd the offending Adam out of him, Leaving his body as a paradise. To envelope and contain celestial spirits. Never was such a sudden scholar made ; Never came reformation in a flood. With such a heady currance, scouring faults; Nor never Hydra-headed wilfulness So soon did lose his seat and all at once As in this king. Ely. We are blessed in the change. Cant. Hear him but reason in divinity. And all-admiring with an inward wish You would desire the king were made a prelate : Hear him debate of commonwealth affairs. You would say it hath been all in all his study : List his discourse of war, and you shall hear A fearful battle render 'd you in music: Turn him to any cause of policy. The Gordian knot of it he will unloose, Familiar as his garter: that, when he speaks, The air, a charter'd libertine, is still. And the mute wonder Im-keth in men's ears, To steal his sweet and honey 'd sentences; So that the art and practic part of life Must be the mistress to this theoric : Which is a wonder how his grace should glean it, Since his addiction was to courses vain. His companies unletter'd, rude and shallow. His hours fill'd up with riots, banquets, sports, And never noted in him any study, Any retirement, any sequestration From open haunts and popularity. Ely. The strawberry grows underneath the nettle And' wholesome berries thrive and ripen best Neighbour'd by fruit of baser quality : And so the prince obscured his contemplation Under the veil of wildness; which, no doubt, Grew like the summer grass, fastest by night, Unseen, yet crescive in his faculty. Cant. It must be so ; for miracles are ceased ; And therefore we must needs admit the means How things are perfected. Ely. But, my good lord. How now for mitigation of this bill Urged by the commons ? Doth his majesty Incline to it, or no ? Cant. He seems indifferent, Or rather swaying more upon our part Than cherishing the exhibiters against us ; For I have made an offer to his majesty. Upon our spiritual convocation And in regard of causes now in hand. Which I have open'd to his grace at large, As touching France, to give a greater sum Than ever at one time the clergy yet Did to his predecessors part withal. Ely. How did this olf er seem received, my lord ? Cant. With good acceptance of his majesty; Save that there was not time enough to hear. As I perceived his grace would fain have done, The severals and unhidden passages Of his true titles to some certain dukedoms And generally to the crown and seat of France Derived from Edward, his great-grandfather. Ely. What was the impediment that broke this off? Chnt. The French ambassador upon that instant Craved audience ; and the hour, I think, is come To give him hearing : is it four o'clock ? Ely. It is. Cant. Then go we in, to know his embassy; Which I could with a ready guess declare. Before the Frenchman speak a word of it. Ely. I '11 wait upon you, and I long to hear it. [Exeunt. SCENE II. — The same. The Presence chamber. Enter King Henry, Gloucester, Bedford, Exeter, Warwick, Westmoreland, and Attendants. K. Hen. Where is my gracious Lord of Canterbury? Exe. Not here in presence. K. Hen. Send for him, good uncle. West. Shall we call in the ambassador, my liege ? K. Hen. Not yet, my cousin : we would be resolved, Before we hear him, of some things of weight That task our thoughts, concerning us and France. Enter the Archbishop of Canterbury, and the Bishop of Ely. Cant. God and his angels guard your sacred throne And make you long become it ! K. Hen. Sure, we thank you. My learned lord, we pray you to proceed And justly and religiously unfold Why the law Salique that they have in France Or should, or should not, bar us in our claim : And God forbid, my dear and faithful lord, [ing. That you should fashion, wrest, or bow your read- Or nicely charge your understanding soul With opening titles miscreate, whose right Suits not in native colours with the truth ; For God doth know how many now in health Shall drop their blood in approbation Of what your reverence shall incite us to. Therefore take heed hoAv you impawn our person, How you awake our sleeping sword of war : We charge you, in the name of God, take heed ; For never two such kingdoms did contend Without much fall of blood ; whose guiltless drops Are every one a woe, a sore complaint 'Gainst him whose wrong gives edge unto the swords That make such waste in brief mortality. Under this conjuration speak, my lord ; For we will hear, note and believe in heart That what you speak is in your conscience wash'd As pure as sin with baptism. [peers, Cant. Then hear me, gracious sovereign, and you That owe yourselves, your lives and services To this imperial throne. There is no bar To make against your highness' claim to France But this, which they produce from Pharamond, ' In terram Salicam mulieres ne succedant ; ' ' No woman shall succeed in Salique land : ' Which Salique land the French unjustly gloze To be the realm of France, and Pharamond The founder of this law and female bar. Yet their own authors faithfully affirm That the land Salique is in Germany, Between the floods of Sala and of Elbe ; [ons, Where Charles the Great, having subdued the Sax- There left behind and settled certain French ; Who, holding in disdain the German women For some dishonest manners of their life, Establish'd then this law ; to wit, no female Should be inheritrix in Salique land : Which Salique, as I said, 'twixt Elbe and Sala, Is at this day in Germany call'd Meisen. Then doth it well appear the Salique law Was not devised for the realm of France ; Nor did the French possess the Salique land Until four hundred one and twenty years After defunction of King Pharamond, Idly supposed the founder of this law ; ACT I. KING HENRY F. SCENE II. Who died within the year of our redemption Four hundred twenty-six ; and Charles the Great Subdued the Saxons, and did seat the Trench Beyond the river Sala, in the year Eight hundred five. Besides, their writers say, King Pepin, which deposed Childeric, Did, as heir general, being descended Of Blithild, which was daughter to King Clothair, Make claim and title to the crown of France. Hugh Capet also, who usurp'd the croAvn Of Charles the duke of Lorraine, sole heir male Of the true line and stock of Charles the Great, To find his title with some shows of truth. Though, in pure truth, it was corrupt and naught. Conveyed himself as heir to the Lady Lingare, Daughter to Charlemain, who was the son To Lewis the emperor, and Lewis the son Of Charles the Great. Also King Lewis the Tenth, "Who was sole heir to the usurper Capet, Could not keep quiet in his conscience. Wearing the crown of France, till satisfied That fair Queen Isabel, his grandmother. Was lineal of the Lady Ermengare, Daughter to Charles the foresaid duke of Lorraine : By the which marriage the line of Charles the Great Was re-united to the crown of France. So that, as clear as is the summer's sun. King Pepin's title and Hugh Capet's claim, King Lewis his satisfaction, all appear To hold in right and title of the female : So do the kings of France unto this day ; Howbeit they would hold up this Salique law To bar your highness claiming from the female, And rather choose to hide them in a net Than amply to imbar their crooked titles Usurp'd from you and your progenitors. [claim ? K. Hen. May I with right and conscience make this Cant. The sin upon my head, dread sovereign! For in the book of Numbers is it writ, ■ When the man dies, let the inheritance Descend unto the daughter. Gracious lord. Stand for your own; unwind your bloody flag; Look back into your mighty ancestors ; Go, my dread lord, to your great-grandsire's tomb. From whom you claim ; invoke his warlike spirit. And your great-uncle's, Edward the Black Prince, Who on the French ground play'd a tragedy, Making defeat on the full power of France, Whiles his most mighty father on a hill Stood smiling to behold his lion's whelp Forage in blood of French nobility. O noble English, that could entertain With half their forces the full pride of France And let another half stand laughing by, All out of work and cold for action ! My. Awake remembrance of these valiant dead And with your puissant arm renew their feats : You are their heir ; you sit upon their throne ; The blood and courage that renowned them Kuns in your veins ; and my thrice-puissant liege Is in the very May-morn of his youth. Ripe for exploits and mighty enterprises. [earth Exe. Your brother kings and monarchs of the Do all expect that you should rouse yourself, As did the former lions of your blood. West. They know your grace hath cause and means and might ; So hath your highness ; never king of England Had nobles richer and more loyal subjects. Whose hearts have left their bodies here in England And lie pavilioned in the fields of France. Cant. O, let their bodies follow, my dear liege, With blood and sword and fire to win your right ; In aid whereof we of the spiritualty WiU raise your highness such a mighty sum As never did the clergy at one time Bring in to any of your ancestors. K. Hen. We must not only arm to invade the But lay down our proportions to defend [French, Against the Scot, who will make road upon us With all advantages. Cant. They of those marches, gracious sovereign. Shall be a wall sufficient to defend Our inland from the pilfering borderers. [only, K. Hen. We do not mean the coursing snatchers But fear the main intendment of the Scot, Who hath been still a giddy neighbour to us ; For you shall read that my great-grandfather jSTever went with his forces into France But that the Scot on his unfurnish'd kingdom Came pouring, like the tide into a breach. With ample and brim fulness of his force. Galling the gleaned land with hot assays, Girding with grievous siege castles and towns ; That England, being empty of defence. Hath shook and trembled at the ill neighbourhood. Cant. She hath been then more fear'd than harm'd, my liege; For hear her but exampled by herself : When all her chivalry hath been in France And she a mourning widow of her nobles. She hath herself not only well defended But taken and impounded as a stray The King of Scots ; whom she did send to France, To fill King Edward's fame with prisoner kings And make her chronicle as rich with praise As is the ooze and bottom of the sea With sunken wreck and sumless treasuries. West. But there 's a saying very old and true, ' If that you will France win Then with Scotland first begin : ' For once the eagle England being in prey, To her unguarded nest the weasel Scot Comes sneaking and so sucks her princely eggs, Playing the mouse in absence of the cat. To tear and havoc more than she can eat. • Exe. It follows then the cat must stay at home : Yet that is but a crush 'd necessity. Since we have locks to safeguard necessaries. And pretty traps to catch the petty thieves. While that the armed hand doth fight abroad. The advised head defends itself at home ; For government, though high and low and lower,- Put into parts, doth keep in one consent, Congreeing in a full and natural close, Like music. Cant. Therefore doth heaven divide The state of man in divers functions. Setting endeavour in continual motion; To which is fixed, as an aim or butt. Obedience : for so work the honey-bees. Creatures that by a rule in nature teach The act of order to a peopled kingdom. They have a king and officers of sorts ; Where some, like magistrates, correct at home, Others, like merchants, venture trade abroad, Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings. Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds. Which pillage they with merry march bring home To the tent-royal of their emperor ; Who, busied in his majesty, surveys The singing masons building roofs of gold. The civil citizens kneading up the honey. The poor mechanic porters crowding in Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate. The sad-eyed justice, with his surly hum, Delivering o'er to executors pale The lazy yawning drone. I this infer. That many things, having full reference To one consent, may work ccntrariously : As many arrows, loosed several ways, Come to one mark ; as many ways meet in one town As many fresh streams meet in one salt sea ; As many lines close in the dial's centre ; ACT II. KING HENRY V. PROLOGUE. So may a thousand actions, once afoot, End in one purpose, and be all well borne Without defeat. Therefore to France, my liege. Divide your happy England into four ; Whereof take you one quarter into France, And you withal shall make all Gallia shake. If we, with thrice such powers left at home, Cannot defend our own doors from the dog, Let us be worried and our nation lose The name of hardiness and policy. K. Hen. Call in the messengers sent from the Dauphin. [Exeunt some Attendants. Now are we well resolved; and, by God's help, And yours, the noble sinews of our power, France being ours, we '11 bend it to our awe, Or break it all to pieces : or there we '11 sit, Euling in large and ample empery O'er France and all her almost kingly dukedoms, Or lay these bones in an unworthy urn, Tombless, with no remembrance over them: Either our history shall with full mouth Speak freely of our acts, or else our grave, Like Turkish mute, shall have a tongueless mouth, Not worshipp'd with a waxen epitaph. Unter Ambassadors of France. Now are we well prepared to know the pleasure Of our fair cousin Dauphin ; for we hear Your greeting is from him, not from the king. First A7nb, May 't please your majesty to give us Freely to render what we have in chai'ge ; [leave Or shall we sparingly show you far off The Dauphin's meaning and our embassy ? K. Hen. We are no tyrant, but a Christian king; Uuto whose grace our passion is as subject As are our wretches fetter 'd in our prisons : Therefore with frank and with uncurbed plainness Tell us the Dauphin's mind. First Amb. Thus, then, in few. Your highness, lately sending into France, Did claim some certain dukedoms, in the right Of your great predecessor. King Edward the Third. In answer of which claim, the prince our master Says that you savour too much of your youth. And bids you be advised there 's nought in France That can be with a nimble galliard won ; You cannot revel into dukedoms there. He therefore sends you, meeter for your spirit. This tun of treasure ; and, in lieu of this, Desires you let the dukedoms that you claim Hear no more of you. This the Dauphin speaks. K. Hen. What treasure, uncle ? Fxe. Tennis-balls, my liege. K. Hen. We are glad the Dauphin is so pleasant with us ; His present and your pains we thank you for : When we have match'd our rackets to these balls, We will, in France, by God's grace, play a set Shall strike his father's crown into the hazard. Tell him he hath made a match with such a wranglei That all the courts of France will be disturb'd With chaces. And we understand him well. How he comes o'er us with our wilder days, Not measuring what use we made of them. We never valued this poor seat of England ; And therefore, living hence, did give ourself To barbarous license ; as 't is ever common That men are merriest when they are from home. But tell the Dauphin I will keep my state. Be like a king and show my sail of greatness When I do rouse me in my throne of France: For that I have laid by my majesty And plodded like a man for working-days, But I will rise there with so full a glory That I will dazzle all the eyes of France, Yea, strike the Dauphin blind to look on us. And tell the pleasant prince this mock of his Hath turn'd his balls to gun-stones ; and his soul Shall stand sore charged for the wasteful vengeance That shall fly with them: for many a thousand widows Shall this his mock mock out of their dear hus- bands ; Mock mothers from their sons, mock castles down; And some are yet ungotten and unborn That shall have cause to curse the Dauphin's scorn. But this lies all within the will of God, To whom I do appeal ; and in whose name Tell you the Dauphin I am coming on, To venge me as I may and to put forth My rightful hand in a well-hallow'd cause. So get you hence in peace ; and tell the Dauphin His jest will savour but of shallow wit. When thousands weep more than did laugh at it. Convey them with safe conduct. Fare you well. [Exeunt Ambassadors. Exe. This was a merry message. K. Hen. We hope to make the sender blush at it. Therefore, my lords, omit no happy hour That may give furtherance to our expedition ; For we have now no thought in us but France, Save those to God, that run before our business. Therefore let our proportions for these wars ' Be soon collected and all things thought upon That may with reasonable swiftness add More feathers to our wings ; for, God before, We '11 chide this Dauphin at his father's door. Therefore let every man now task his thought. That this fair action may on foot be brought. [Exeunt.— Flourish. Js^CT II. PROLOGUE, Enter Chorus. Chor. Now all the youth of England are on fire. And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies : Now thrive the armourers, and honour's thought Eeigns solely in the breast of every man : They sell the pasture now to buy the horse, Following the mirror of all Christian kings. With winged heels, as English Mercuries. For now sits Expectation in the air. And hides a sword from hilts unto the point With crowns imperial, crowns and coronets. Promised to Harry and his followers. The French, advised by good intelligence Of this most dreadful preparation, Shake in their fear and with pale policy Seek to divert the English purposes. O England ! model to thy inward greatness, Like little body with a mighty heart. What mightst thou do, that honour would thee do, Were all thy children kind and natural ! But see thy fault ! France hath in thee found out A nest of hollow bosoms, which he fills With treacherous crowns ; and three corrupted men. One, Eichard Earl of Cambridge, and the second, Henry Lord Scroop of Masham, and the third, Sir Thomas Grey, knight, of Northumberland, Have, for the gilt of France,— O guilt indeed! — Confirm'd conspiracy with fearful France ; And by their hands this grace of kings must die, If hell and treason hold their promises, 367 ACT II. KING HENRY V. SCENE I, Ere he take ship for France, and in Southampton. Linger your patience on ; and we '11 digest The abuse of distance ; force a play : The sum is paid ; the traitors are agreed ; The king is set from London ; and the scene Is now transported, gentles, to Southampton; There is the playhouse now, there must you sit : And thence to France shall we convey you safe, And bring you back, charming the narrow seas To give you gentle pass; for, if we may, We '11 not offend one stomach with our play. But, till the king come forth, and not till then, Unto Southampton do we shift our scene. [Exit. SCENE I. — London. A street. Enter Corporal Nym and Lieutenant Bardolph. Bard. Well met, Corporal Nym. Nym. Good morrow, Lieutenant Bardolph. Bard. What, are Ancient Pistol and you friends yet? Nym. For my part, I care not : I say little ; but when time shall serve, there shall be smiles, but that shall be as it may. I dare not fight ; but I will wink and hold out mine iron : it is a simple one ; but what though ? it will toast cheese, and it will endure cold as another man's sword will : and there 's an end. Bard. I will bestow a breakfast to make you friends ; and we '11 be all three sworn brothers to France : let it be so, good Corporal Nym. Nym. Faith, I will live so long as I may, that 's the certain of it ; and when I cannot live any longer, I will do as I may: that is my rest, that is the rendezvous of it. Bard. It is certain, corporal, that he is married to Nell Quickly : and certainly she did you wrong ; for you were troth-plight to her. Nym. I cannot tell : things must be as they may : men may sleep, and they may have their throats about them at that time ; and some say knives have edges. It must be as it may : though patience be a tired mare, yet she will plod. There must be con- clusions. Well, I cannot tell. Enter Pistol and Bard. Here comes Ancient Pistol and his wife : good corporal, be patient here. How now, mine host Pist. Base tike, call'st thou me host ? [Pistol ! Now, by this hand, I swear, I scorn the term ; Nor shall my Nell keep lodgers. Host. No, by my troth, not long ; for we cannot lodge and board a dozen or fourteen gentlewomen that live honestly by the prick of their needles, but it will be thought we keep a bawdy house straight. iNym and Pistol draw.] O well a day, Lady, if he be not drawn now ! we shall see wiKul adultery and murder committed. Bard. Good lieutenant! good corporal! offer nothing here. Nym. Pish! Pist. Pish for thee, Iceland dog! thou prick-ear 'd cur of Iceland ! Host. Good Corporal Nym, show thy valour, and put up your sword. Nym. Will you shog off ? I would have you solus. Pist. ' Solus,' egregious dog ? O viper vile ! The ' solus ' in thy most mervailous face ; The ' solus ' in tliy teeth, and in thy throat. And in thy hateful lungs, yea, in thy maw, perdy, And, which is worse, within thy nasty mouth ! I do retort the ' solus ' in thy bowels ; For I can take, and Pistol's cock is up. And flashing fire will follow. Nym. I am not Barbason ; you cannot conjure me. I have an humour to knock you indifferently well. If you grow foul with me. Pistol, I wiU scour you with my rapier, as I may, in fair terms : if you would walk off, I would prick your guts a little, in good terms, as I may : and that 's the humour of it. Pist. O braggart vile and damned furious wight ! The grave doth gape, and doting death is near; Therefore exhale. Bard. Hear me, hear me what I say: he that strikes the first stroke, I '11 run him up to the hilts, as I am a soldier. [Draws. Pist. An oath of mickle might; and fury shall Give me thy fist, thy fore-foot to me give : [abate. Thy spirits are most tall. Nym. 1 will cut thy throat, one time or other, in fair terms : that is the humour of it. Pist. ' Couple a gorge ! ' That is the word. I thee defy again. hound of Crete, think 'st thou my spouse to get ? No ; to the spital go. And from the powdering-tub of infamy Fetch forth the lazar kite of Cressid's kind, Doll Tearsheet she by name, and her espouse : 1 have, and I will hold, the quondam Quickly For the only she ; and — pauca, there 's enough. Goto. Miter the Boy. Boy. Mine host Pistol, you must come to my mas- ter, and you, hostess : he is very sick, and would to bed. Good Bardolph, put thy face between his sheets, and do the oifice of a warming-pan. Faith, he 's very Bard. Away, you rogue ! [ill. Host. By my troth, he '11 yield the crow a pudding one of these days. The king has killed his heart. Good husband, come home presently. [Exeunt Hostess and Boy. Bard. Come, shall I make you two friends ? We must to France together : why the devil should we keep knives to cut one another's throats ? [on ! Pist. Let floods o'erswell, and flends for food howl Nym. You '11 pay me the eight shillings.I won of you at betting ? Pist. Base is the slave that pays. [of it. Nym. That now I will have ; that 's the humour Pist. As manhood shall compound : push home. [They draw. Bard. By this sword, he that makes the first thrust, I '11 kill him ; by this sword, I will. Pist. Sword is an oath, and oaths must have their course. Bard. Corporal Nym, an thou wilt be friends, be friends : an thou wilt not, why, then, be enemies with me too. Prithee, put up. Nym. I shall have my eight shillings I won of you at betting ? Pist. A noble shalt thou have, and present pay; And liquor likewise will I give to thee. And friendship shall combine, and brotherhood: I '11 live by Nym, and Nym shall live by me ; Is not this just ? for I shall sutler be Unto the camp, and profits will accrue. Give me thy hand. Nym. 1 shall have my noble ? Pist. In cash most justly paid. Nym. Well, then, that 's the humour of 't. Re-enter Hostess. Host. As ever you came of women, come in quickly to Sir John. Ah, poor heart ! he is so shaked of a burning quotidian tertian, that it is most lament- able to behold. Sweet men, come to him. Nym. The king hath run bad humours on the knight ; that 's the even of it. Pist. Nym, thou hast spoke the right ; His heart is fracted and corroborate. Nym. The king is a good king : but it must be as it may ; he passes some humours and careers. Pist. Let us condole the knight ; for, lambkina we wiU live. ■« ACT II. KING HENRY V. SCENE II. SCENE 11. — Southampton. A council-chamber. Enter Exeter, Bedford, and "Westmoreland. Bed. 'Fore God, bis grace is bold, to trust these traitors. Exe. They shall be apprehended by and by. West. How smooth and even they do bear them- As if allegiance in their bosoms sat, [selves ! Crowned with faith and constant loyalty. Bed. The king hath note of all that they intend, By interception which they dream not of. Exe. Nay, but the man that was his bedfellow. Whom he hath duU'd and cloy'd with gracious fa- That he should, for a foreign purse, so sell [vours, His sovereign's life to death and treachery. Trumpets sound. Enter King' Henry, Scroop, Cambridge, Grey, and Attendants. K. Hen. Now sits the wind fair, and we vrill aboard. [Masham, My Lord of Cambridge, and my kind Lord of And you, my gentle knight, give me your thoughts : Think you not that the powers we bear with us Will cut their passage through the force of France, Doing the execution and the act For which we have in head assembled them ? [best. Scroop. No doubt, my liege, if each man do his K. Men. I doubt not that ; since we are well per- We carry not a heart with us from hence [suaded That grows not in a fair consent with ours, Nor leave not one behind that doth not wish Success and conquest to attend on us. Cam. Never was monarch better fear'd and loved Than is your majesty : there 's not, I think, a subject That sits in heart-grief and uneasiness Under the sweet shade of your government. Grey. True : those that were your father's enemies Have steep'd their galls in honey and do serve you With hearts create of duty and of zeal. [fulness ; K. Hen. We therefore have great cause of thank- And shall forget the office of our hand. Sooner than quittance of desert and merit According to the weight and worthiness. Scroop. So service shall with steeled sinews toil. And labour shall refresh itself with hope. To do your grace incessant services. K. Hen. We judge no less. Uncle of Exeter, Enlarge the man committed yesterday. That rail'd against our person : we consider It was excess of wine that set him on ; And on his more advice we pardon him. Scroop. That 's mercy, but too much security : Let him be punish'd, sovereign, lest example Breed, by his sufferance, more of such a kind. K. Hen. O, let us yet be merciful. Cam. So may your highness, and yet punish too. Grey. Sir, You show great mercy, if you give him life. After the taste of much correction. K. Hen. Alas, your too much love and care of me Are heavy orisons 'gainst this poor wretch ! If little faults, proceeding on distemper, Shall not be wink'd at, how shall we stretch our eye When capital crimes, chew'd, swallow'd and di- gested. Appear before us ? We '11 yet enlarge that man. Though Cambridge, Scroop and Grey, in their dear And tender preservation of our person, [care Would have him punish'd. And now to our French Who are the late commissioners ? [causes : Cam. I one, my lord : Your highness bade me ask for it to-day. Scroop. So did you me, my liege. Grey. And I, my royal sovereign. [is yours ; K. Hen. Then, Richard Earl of Cambridge, there There yours, Lord Scroop of Masham; and, sir knight, 24 Grey of Northumberland, this same is yours: Read them ; and know, I know your worthiness. My Lord of Westmoreland, and uncle Exeter, We will aboard to-night. Why, how now, gentle- What see you in those papers that you lose [men ! So much complexion ? Look ye, how they change! Their cheeks are paper. Why, what read you there, That hath so cowarded and chased your blood Out of appearance ? Cam. I do confess my fault ; And do submit me to your highness' mercy. Scroop. } ^^ ^^^^^ ^^ ^^^ ^PP^*^- K. Hen. The mercy that was quick in us but late, By your own counsel is suppress 'd and kilPd : You must not dare, for shame, to talk of mercy ; For your own reasons turn into your bosoms. As dogs upon their masters, worrying you. See you, my princes and my noble peers, [here, These English monsters ! My Lord of Cambridge You know how apt our love was to accord To furnish him with all appertinents Belonging to his honour ; and this man Hath, for a few light crowns, lightly conspired, And sworn unto the practices of France, To kill us here in Hampton : to the which This knight, no less for bounty bound to us Than Cambridge is, hath likewise sworn. But, O, What shall I say to thee. Lord Scroop ? thou cruel, Ingratef ul, savage and inhuman creature ! Thou that didst bear the key of all my counsels. That knew'st the very bottom of my soul. That almost mightst have coin'd me into gold, Wouldst thou have practised on me for thy use. May it be possible, that foreign hire Could out of thee extract one spark of evil That might annoy my finder ? 't is so strange, That, though the truth of it stands off as gross As black and white, my eye will scarcely see it. Treason and murder ever kept together. As two yoke-devils sworn to either's purpose, Working so grossly in a natm'al cause. That admiration did not whoop at them: But thou, 'gainst all proportion, didst bring in Wonder to wait on treason and on murder : And whatsoever cunning fiend it was That wrought upon thee so preposterously Hath got the voice in heU for excellence : All other devils that suggest by treasons Do botch and bungle up damnation With patches, colours, and with forms being fetch 'd From glistering semblances of piety ; But he that temper'd thee bade thee stand up. Gave thee no instance why thou shouldst do treason, Unless to dub thee with the name of traitor. If that same demon that hath guU'd thee thus Should with his lion gait walk the whole world. He might return to vasty Tartar back. And tell the legions ' I can never win A soul so easy as that Englishman's.' O, how hast thou with jealousy infected The sweetness of affiance ! Show men dutiful ? Why, so didst thou: seem they grave and learned? Why, so didst thou : come they of noble family ? Why, so didst thou : seem they religious ? Why, so didst thou : or are they spare in diet. Free from gross passion or of mirth or anger, Constant in spirit, not swerving with the blood, Garnish'd and deck'd in modest complement. Not working with the eye without the ear. And but in purged judgment trusting neither ? Such and so finely bolted didst thou seem : And thus thy fall hath left a kind of blot. To mark the full-fraught man and best indued With some suspicion. I will weep for thee ; For this revolt of thine, methinks, is like Another fall of man. Their faults are open : ACT II. KING HENRY V. SCENE IV. Arrest them to the answer of the law ; And God acquit them of their practices ! Exe. I arrest thee of high treason, by the name of Kichard Earl of Cambridge. I arrest thee of high treason, by the name of Henry Lord Scroop of Masham. I arrest thee of high treason, by the name of Thomas Grey, knight, of Northumberland. Scroop. Our purposes God justly hath discover'd; And I repent my fault more than my death ; Which I beseech your highness to forgive. Although my body pay the price of it. Cam. For me, the gold of France did not seduce ; Although I did admit it as a motive The sooner to effect what I intended : But God be thanked for prevention ; Which I in sufferance heartily will rejoice, Beseeching God and you to pardon me. Grey. Never did faithful subject more rejoice At the discovery of most dangerous treason Than I do at this hour joy o'er myself, Prevented from a damned enterprise : My f ault,but not my body , pardon, sovereign, [tence. K. Hen. God quit you in his mercy! Hear your sen- You have conspired against our royal person, Join'd with an enemy proclaim'd and from his coffers Received the golden earnest of our death ; Wherein you would have sold your king to slaughter, His princes and his peers to servitude. His subjects to oppression and contempt And his whole kingdom into desolation. Touching our person seek we no revenge ; But we our kingdom's safety must so tender. Whose ruin you have sought, that to her laws We do deliver you. Get you therefore hence, Poor miserable wretches, to your death : The taste whereof, God of his mercy give You patience to endure, and true repentance Of all your dear offences ! Bear them hence. [Exeunt Cambridge, Scroop and Grey, guarded. Now, lords, for France ; the enterprise whereof Shall be to j'ou, as us, like glorious. We doubt not of a fair and lucky war. Since God so graciously hath brought to light This dangerous treason lurking in our way To hinder our beginnings. We doubt not now But every rub is smoothed on our way. Then forth, dear countrymen : let us deliver Our puissance into the hand of God, Putting it straight in expedition. Cheerly to sea ; the signs of war advance : No king of England, it not king of France. [Exeunt. SCENE III. — London. Before a tavern. Enter Pistol, Hostess, Nym, Bardolph, and Boy. Host. Prithee, honey-sweet husband, let me bring thee to Staines. Pist. No ; for my manly heart doth yearn. Bardolph , be blithe : Nym , rouse thy vaunting veins : Boy, bristle thy courage up ; for Falstaff he is dead, And we must yearn therefore. Bard. Would I were with him, wheresome'er he is, either in heaven or in hell ! Host. Nay, sure, he 's not in hell : he 's in Arthur's bosom, if ever man went to Arthur's bosom. A' made a finer end and went away an it had been any christom child; a' parted even just between twelve and one, even at the turning o' the tide: for after I saw him fumble with the sheets and play with flowers and smile upon his fingers' ends, I knew there was but one way ; for his nose was as sharp as a pen, and a' babbled of green fields. ' How now, Sir John ! ' quoth I : ' what, man ! be o' good cheer.' So a' cried out ' God, God, God ! ' three or four times. Now I, to comfort him, bid him a' should not think of God ; I hoped there was no need 370 to trouble himself with any such thoughts yet. So a' bade me lay more clothes on his feet : I put my hand into the bed and felt them, and they were as cold as any stone ; then I felt to his knees, and they were as cold as any stone, and so upward and up- ward, and all was as cold as any stone. JSfym. They say he cried out of sack. Host. Ay, that a' did. Bard. And of women. Host. Nay, that a' did not. [incarnate. Boy. Yes, that a' did ; and said they were devils Host. A' could never abide carnation; 'twas a colour he never liked. [women. Boy. A' said once, the devil would have him about Host. A' did in some sort, indeed, handle women; but then he was rheumatic, and talked of the whore of Babylon. Boy. Do you not remember, a' saw a flea stick upon Bardolph's nose, and a' said it was a black soul burning in hell-fire ? Bard. Well, the fuel is gone that maintained that fire : that 's all the riches I got in his service. JSFym. Shall we shog ? the king will be gone from Southampton. [lips. Pist. Come, let 's away. My love, give me thy Look to my chattels and my movables : Let senses rule ; the word is ' Pitch and Pay : ' Trust none ; For oaths are straws, men's faiths are wafer-cakes, And hold-fast is the only dog, my duck : Therefore, Caveto be thy counsellor. Go, clear thy crystals. Yoke-fellows in arms, Let us to France ; like horse-leeches, my boys, To suck, to suck, the very blood to suck ! Boy. And that 's but unwholesome food, they say. Pist. Touch her soft mouth, and march. Bard. Farewell, hostess. [Kissing her. Nym. I cannot kiss, that is the humour of it; but, adieu. [command. Pist. Let housewifery appear : keep close, I thee Host. Farewell; adieu. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. — France. The King^s palace. Flourish. Miter the French King, the Dauphin, the Dukes of Berri and Bretagne, the Constable, and others. Fr. King. Thus comes the English with full power And more than carefully it us concerns [upon us ; To answer royally in our defences. Therefore the Dukes of Berri and of Bretagne, Of Brabant and of Orleans, shall make forth, And you. Prince Dauphin, with all swift dispatch, To line and new repair our towns of war With men of courage and with means defendant ; For England his approaches makes as fierce As waters to the sucking of a gulf. It fits us then to be as provident As fear may teach us out of late examples Left by the fatal and neglected English Upon our fields. Bail. My most redoubted father, It is most meet we arm us 'gainst the foe ; For peace itself should not so dull a kingdom, Though war nor no known quarrel were in question. But that defences, musters, preparations, Should be maintain 'd, assembled and collected, As were a war in expectation. Therefore, I say 't is meet we all go forth To view the sick and feeble parts of France : And let us do it with no show of fear ; No, with no more than if we heard that England Were busied with a Whitsun morris-dance : For, my good liege, she is so idly king'd. Her sceptre so fantastically borne By a vain, giddy, shallow, humorous youth, That fear attends her not. ACT III. KING HENRY V. PROLOGUE. Con. O peace, Prince Dauphin ! You are too much mistaken in this king : Question your grace the late ambassadors, "With what great state he heard their embassy, How well supplied with noble counsellors, How modest in exception, and withal How terrible in constant resolution. And you shall find his vanities forespent Were but the outside of the Roman Brutus, Covering discretion with a coat of folly ; As gardeners do with ordure hide those roots That shall first spring and be most delicate. Dau. Well, 'tis not so, my lord high constable; But though we think it so, it is no matter: In cases of defence 't is best to weigh The enemy more mighty than he seems : So the proportions of defence are fiU'd ; Which of a weak and niggardly projection Doth, like a miser, spoil his coat with scanting A little cloth. Fr. King. Think we King Harry strong ; And, princes, look you strongly arm to meet him. The kindred of him hath been fleshed upon us ; And he is bred out of that bloody strain That haunted us in our familiar paths : Witness our too much memorable shame When Cressy battle fatally was struck, And all our princes captived by the hand Of that black name, Edward, BlackPrince of Wales; Whiles that his mountain sire, on mountain stand- Up in the air, crown 'd with the golden sun, [ing, Saw his heroical seed, and smiled to see him, Mangle the work of nature and deface The patterns that by God and by French fathers Had twenty years been made. This is a stem Of that victorious stock ; and let us fear The native mightiness and fate of him. Enter a Messenger. Mess. Ambassadors from Harry King of England Do crave admittance to your majesty. Fr. King. We '11 give them present audience. Go, and bring them. {Exeunt Messenger and certain Lords. You see this chase is hotly follow'd, friends, [dogs Bau. Turn head, and stop pursuit ; for coward Most spend their mouths when what they seem to threaten Runs far before them. Good my sovereign. Take up the English short, and let them know Of what a monarchy you are the head : Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin As self-neglecting. Be-enter Lords, with Exeter and train. Fr. King. From our brother England ? Exe. From him ; and thus he greets your majesty. He wills you, in the name of God Almighty, That you divest yourself, and lay apart The borrow'd glories that by gift of heaven. By law of nature and of nations, 'long To him and to his heirs; namely, the crown And all wide-stretched honours that pertain By custom and the ordinance of times Unto the crown of France. That you may know 'Tis no sinister nor no awkward claim, Pick'd from the worm-holes of long-vanish 'd days, Nor from the dust of old oblivion raked, He sends you this most memorable line, In every branch truly demonstrative ; Willing you overlook this pedigree : And when you find him evenly derived From his most famed of famous ancestors, Edward the Third, he bids you then resign Your crown and kingdom, indirectly held From him the native and true challenger. Fr. King. Or else what follows ? Fxe. Bloody constraint ; for if you hide the crown Even in your hearts, there will he rake for it : Therefore in fierce tempest is he coming. In thunder and in earthquake, like a Jove, That, if requiring fail, he will compel ; And bids you, in the bowels of tlie Lord, Deliver up the crown, and to take mercy On the poor souls for whom this hungry war Opens his vasty jaws ; and on your head Turning the widows' tears, the orphans' cries, The dead men's blood, the pining maidens' groans, For husbands, fathers and betrothed lovers. That shall be swallow 'd in this controversy. This is his claim, his threatening and my message ^ Unless the Dauphin be in presence here. To whom expressly I bring greeting too. Fr. King. For us, we will consider of this further : To-morrow shall you bear our full intent Back to our brother England. Bau. For the Dauphin, I stand here for him : what to him from England ? Exe. Scorn and defiance ; slight regard, contempt. And any thing that may not misbecome The mighty sender, doth he prize you at. Thus says my king; an if your father's highness Do not, in grant of all demands at large. Sweeten the bitter mock you sent his majesty. He '11 call you to so hot an answer of it. That caves and womby vaultages of France Shall chide your trespass and return your mock In second accent of his ordnance. Bau. Say, if my father render fair return. It is against my will ; for I desire Nothing but odds with England : to that end. As matching to his youth and vanity, I did present him with the Paris balls. Exe. He '11 make your Paris Louvre shake for it. Were it the mistress-court of mighty Europe : And, be assured, you '11 find a difference. As we his subjects have in wonder found, Between the promise of his greener days And these he masters now : now he weighs time Even to the utmost grain : that you shall read In your own losses, if he stay in France, [at full. Fr. King. To-morrow shall you know our mind Exe. Dispatch us with all speed, lest that our Come here himself to question our delay ; [king For he is footed in this land already. Fr. King. You shall be soon dispatch 'd with fair conditions : A night is but small breath and little pause To answer matters of this consequence. IFlourish. — Exeunt. A.CT III. PKOLOGUB. Miter Chorus. Chor. Thus with imagined wing our swift scene In motion of no less celerity [flies Than that of thought. Suppose that you have seen The well-appointed king at Hampton pier Embark his royalty ; and his brave fleet With silken streamers the young Phoebus fanning; Play with your fancies, and in them behold Upon the hempen tackle ship-boys climbing ; Hear the shriU whistle which doth order give 371 ACT III. KING HENRY V. SCENE II. To sounds confused ; behold the threaden sails, Borne with the invisible and creeping wind, Draw the huge bottoms through the furrow'd sea, Breasting the lofty surge : O, do but think You stand upon the rivage and behold A city on the inconstant billows dancing ; For so appears this fleet majestical. Holding due course to Harlle-or. Follow, follow : Grapple your minds to sternage of this navy, And leave your England, as dead midnight still, Guarded with grandsires, babies and old women. Either past or not arrived to pith and puissance ; For who is he, whose chin is but enrich'd With one appearing hair, that will not follow These cuU'd and choice-drawn cavaliers to France ? Work, work your thoughts, and therein see a siege ; Behold the ordnance on their carriages, With fatal mouths gaping on girded Harfleur. Suppose the ambassador from the French comes Tells Harry that the king doth offer him [back ; Katharine his daughter, and with her, to dowry, Some petty and unprofitable dukedoms. The offer likes not : and the nimble gimner With linstock now the devilish cannon touches. [Alarum, and chambers go off. And down goes all before them. Still be kind, And eke out our performance with your mind. [Exit. SCENE 1.— France. Before Harfleur. Alarum. Enter King Henry, Exeter, Bedford, Gloucester, and Soldiers, with scaling-ladders. K. Hen. Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more ; Or close the wall up with our English dead. In peace there 's nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility : But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger ; Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, Disguise fair nature with hard-f avour'd rage ; Then lend the eye a terrible aspect ; Let it pry through the portage of the head Like the brass cannon ; let the brow o'erwhelm it As fearfully as doth a galled rock O'erhang and jutty his confounded base, Swill 'd with the wild and wasteful ocean. Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide, Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit To his full height. On, on, you noblest English, Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof I Fathers that, like so many Alexanders, Have in these parts from morn till even fought And sheathed their swords for lack of argument : Dishonour not your mothers; now attest That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you. Be copy now to men of grosser blood, And teach them how to war. And you, good yeo- men. Whose limbs were made in England, show us here The mettle of your pasture ; let us swear [not ; That you are worth yoxir breeding ; which I doubt For there is none of you so mean and base, That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game 's afoot : Follow your spirit, and upon this charge Cry ' God for Harry, England, and Saint George ! ' [Exeunt. Alarum, and chambers go off. SCENE II.— The same. Enter Nym, Bardolph, Pistol, and Boy. Bard. On, on, on, on, on! to the breach, to the breach ! Nym. Pray thee, corporal, stay : the knocks are too hot ; and, for mine own part, I have not a case 372 of lives : the humour of it is too hot, that is the very plain-song of it. Pist. The plain-song is most just ; for humours do abound : Knocks go and come ; God's vassals drop and die ; And sword and shield. In bloody field. Doth win immortal fame. Boy. Would I were in an alehouse in London ! I would give all my fame for a pot of ale and safety. Pist. And I : If wishes would prevail with me. My purpose should not fail with me, But thither would I hie. Boy. As duly, but not as truly. As bird doth sing on bough. Enter Fluellen. Flu. Up to the breach, you dogs! avaunt, you cuUions ! [Driving them forward. Pist. Be merciful, great duke, to men of mould. Abate thy rage, abate thy manly rage. Abate thy rage, great duke ! [chuck ! Good bawcock, bate thy rage; use lenity, sweet Nym. These be good humom's ! your honour wins bad humours. [Exeunt all but Boy. Boy. As young as I am, I have observed these three swashers. I am boy to them all three : but all they three, though they would serve me, could not be man to me; for indeed three such antics do not amount to a man. For Bardolph, he is white-livered and red-faced ; by the means where- of a' faces it out, but fights not. For Pistol, he hath a killing tongue and a quiet sword; by the means whereof a' breaks words, and keeps whole weapons. For Nym, he hath heard that men of few words are the best men; and therefore he scorns to say his prayers, lest a' should be thought a coward: but his few bad words are matched with as few good deeds ; for a' never broke any man's head but his own, and that was against a post when he was drunk. They will steal any thing, and call it purchase. Bardolph stole a lute- case, bore it twelve leagues, and sold it for three half -pence. Nym and Bardolph are sworn brothers in filching, and in Calais they stole a fire-shovel : I knew by that piece of service the men would carry coals. They would have me as familiar with men's pockets as their gloves or their handkerchers : which makes much against my manhood, if I should take from another's pocket to put into mine ; for it is plain pocketing up of wrongs. I must leave them, and seek some better service: their viUany goes against my weak stomach, and therefore I must cast it up. [Exit. Be-enter Fluellen, Govrer following. Gow. Captain Fluellen, you must come presently to the mines ; the Duke of Gloucester would speak with you. Flu. To the mines 1 teU you the duke, it is not so good to come to the mines ; for, look you, the mines is not according to the disciplines of the war : the concavities of it is not sufficient ; for, look you, th' athversary, you may discuss unto the duke, look you, is digt himseif four yard under the counter- mines : by Cheshu, I think a' will plow up all, i£ there is not better directions. Gow. The Duke of Gloucester, to whom the order of the siege is given, is altogether directed by an Irishman, a very valiant gentleman, i' faith. Flu. It is Captain Macmorris, is it not ? Gow. I think it be. Flu. By Cheshu, he is an ass, as in the world: I win verify as much in his beard : he has no more directions in the true disciplines of the wars, look you, of the Roman disciplkies,than is a puppy-dog. ACT III. KING HENRY V. SCENE IV. Enter Macmorris and Captain Jamy. Gow. Here a' comes ; and the Scots captain, Cap- tain Jamy, witli him. Flu. Captain Jamy is a marvellous falorous gen- tleman, that is certain ; and of great expedition and Icnowledge in th' aunchient wars, upon my particu- lar knowledge of his directions : by Cheshu, he will maintain his argument as well as any military man in the world, in the disciplines of the pristine wars of the Eomans. Jamy. I say gud-day, Captain Fluellen. Flu. G-od-den to your worship, good Captain James. Gow. How now, Captain Macmorris! have you quit the mines ? have the pioners given o'er ? 3fac. ByChrish,la! tish ill done: the work ish give over, the trompet sound the retreat. By my hand, I swear, and my father's soul, the work ish ill done ; it ish give over : I would have blowed up the town, so Chrish save me, la! in an hour: O, tish ill done, tish ill done ; by my hand, tish ill done I Flu. Captain Macmorris, I beseech you now, will you voutsafe me, look you, a few disputations with you, as partly touching or concerning the disciplines of the war, the Roman wars, in the way of argu- ment, look you, and friendly communication ; partly to satisfy my opinion, and partly for the satisfaction, look you, of my mind, as touching the direction of the military discipline ; that is the point. Jamy. It sail be vary gud, gud feith, gud captains bath : and I sail quit you with gud leve, as I may pick occasion ; that sail I, marry. Mac. It is no time to discourse, so Chrish save me: the day is hot, and the weather, and the wars, and the king, and the dukes : it is no time to dis- course. The town is beseeched, and the trumpet call us to the breach ; and we talk, and, be Chrish, do nothing : 't is shame for us all : so God sa' me, 'tis shame to stand still; it is shame, by my hand : and there is throats to be cut, and works to be done ; and there ish nothing done, so Chrish sa' me, la ! Jamy. By the mess, ere theise eyes of mine take themselves to slomber, ay '11 de gud service, or ay '11 lig i' the grund for it ; ay, or go to death ; and ay '11 pay 't as valorously as I may, that sail I suerly do, that is the breff and the long. Marry, 1 wad full fain hear some question 'tween you tway. Flu. Captain Macmorris, I think, look you, under your correction, there is not many of your nation — Mac. Of my nation ! What ish my nation ? Ish a villain, and a bastard, and a knave, and a rascal. What ish my nation ? Who talks of my nation ? Flu. Look you, if you take the matter otherwise than is meant. Captain Macmorris, peradventure I shall think you do not use me with that affability as in discretion you ought to use me, look you; bemg as good a man as yourself, both in the disci- plines of war, and in the derivation of my birth, and in other particularities. Mac. I do not know you so good a man as myself : so Chrish save me, I will cut off your head. Gow. Gentlemen both, you will mistake each Jamy. A ! that 's a foul fault. [other. [A parley sounded. Gow. The town sounds a parley. Flu. Captain Macmorris, when there is more better opportunity to be required, look you, 1 will be so bold as to tell you I know the disciplines of war ; and there is an end. [Exeunt. SCENE in.— T/ie same. Before the gates. The Gbvernor and some Citizens on the walls; the Englishforces below. Enter King Henry and train. K. Hen. How yet resolves the governor of the This is the latest parle we will admit : [town ? Therefore to our best mercy give yourselves ; Or like to men proud of destruction Defy us to our worst : for, as I am a soldier, A name that in my thoughts becomes me best, If I begin the battery once again, I will not leave the half -achieved Harfleur Till in her ashes she lie buried. The gates of mercy shall be all shut up, And the flesh'd soldier, rough and hard of heart, In liberty of bloody hand shall range With conscience wide as hell, mowing like grass Your fresh-fair virgins and your flowering infants. What is it then to me, if impious war, Array'd in flames like to the prince of flends. Do, with his smirch 'd complexion, all fell feats Enlink'd to waste and desolation ? What is 't to me, when you yourselves are cause, If your pure maidens fall into the hand Of hot and forcing violation ? What rein can hold licentious wickedness When down the hill he holds his flerce career? We may as bootless spend our vain command Upon the enraged soldiers in their spoil As send precepts to the leviathan To come ashore. Therefore, you men of Harfleur, Take pity of your town and of your people. Whiles yet my soldiers are in my command ; Whiles yet the cool and temperate wind of grace O'erblows the filthy and contagious clouds Of heady murder, spoil and villany. If not, why, in a moment look to see The blind and bloody soldier with foul hand Defile the locks of your shrill-shrieking daughters ; Your fathers taken by the silver beards. And their most reverend heads dash'd to the walls. Your naked infants spitted upon pikes. Whiles the mad mothers with their howls confused Do break the clouds, as did the wives of Jewry At Herod's bloody-hunting slaughtermen. What say you ? will you yield, and this avoid. Or, guilty in defence, be thus destroy 'd ? Gov. Our expectation hath this day an end : The Dauphin, whom of succours we entreated. Returns us that his powers are yet not ready To raise so great a siege. Therefore, great king, We yield our town and lives to thy soft mercy. Enter our gates ; dispose of us and ours ; For we no longer are defensible. K. Hen. Open your gates. Come, uncle Exeter, Go you and enter Harfleur ; there remain. And fortify it strongly 'gainst the French : Use mercy to them all. For us, dear uncle. The winter coming on and sickness growing Upon our soldiers, we will retire to Calais. To-night in Harfleur we will be your guest, To-mon-ow for the march are we addrest. [Flourish. The King and his train enter the town. SCENE IV.— The French King'' s palace. Enter Katharine and Alice. Kath. Alice, tu as ete en Angleterre, et tu paries bien le langage. Alice. Un pen, madame. Kath. Je te prie, m'enseignez; il faut que j'ap- prenne a parler. Comment appelez-vous la main en Anglois ? Alice. La main ? elle est appelee de hand. Kath. De hand. Et les doigts ? Alice. Les doigts? ma foi, j'oublie les doigts; mais je me souviendrai. Les doigts ? je pense qu'ils sont appeles de fingres; oui, de fingres. Kath. La main, de hand; les doigts, de fingres. Je pense que je suis le bon ecolier ; j'ai gagne deux mots d'Anglois vitement. Comment appelez-vous les ongles ? Alice. Les ongles ? nous les appelons de nails. ACT III. KING HENRY V. SCENE VI. Kath. De nails, ficoutez ; dites-moi, si je parle bien : de hand, de fingres, et de nails. Alice. C'est bien dit, madame; il est fort bon Anglois. Kath. Dites-moi I'Anglois pour le bras. Alice. De arm, madame. Kath. Et le coude ? Alice. De elbow. Kath. De elbow. Je m'en fais la repetition de tons les mots que vous m'avez appris des a present. Alice. II est trop difficile, madame, comme je pense. Kath. Excusez-moi, Alice ; ecoutez: dehand, de fingres, de nails, de arma, de bilbow. Alice. De elbow, madame. Kath. O Seigneur Dieu, je m'en oublie ! de elbow. Comment appelez-vous le col ? Alice. De neck, madame. Kath. De nick. Et le menton ? Alice. De chin. Kath. De sin. Le col, de nick ; de menton, de sin. Alice. Oui. Sauf votre honneur, en verite, vous prononcez les mots aussi droit que les natifs d'An- gleterre. Kath. Je ne doute point d'apprendre, par la grace de Dieu, et en peu de temps. Alice. N'avez vous pas deja oublie ce que je vous ai enseigne ? Kath. Non, je reciterai a vous promptement : de hand, de fingres, de mails, — Alice. De nails, madame. Kath. De nails, de arm, de ilbow. Alice. Sauf votre honneur, de elbow. Kath. Ainsi dis-je ; de elbow, de nick, et de sin. Comment appelez-vous le pied et la robe ? Alice. De foot, madame ; et de conn. Kath. De foot et de conn ! O Seigneur Dieu ! ce sont mots de son mauvais, corruptible, gros, et im- pudique, et non pour les dames d'honneur d'user: je ne voudrais prononcer ces mots devant les seig- neurs de France pour tout le monde. Foh ! le foot et le conn ! JSTeanmoins, je reciterai une autre fois ma leQon ensemble : de hand, de fingres, de nails, de arm, de elbow, de nick, de sin, de foot, de coun. Alice. Excellent, madame ! Kath. C'est assez pour une fois: allons-nous a diner. [Exeunt. SCENE v.— The same. Miter the King of Prance, the Dauphin, the Duke of Bourbon,i/ie Constable of France, andothers. Ft. King. 'T is certain he hath pass'd the river Somme. Con. And if he be not fought withal, my lord. Let us not live in France ; let us quit all And give our vineyards to a barbarous people. Dau. O Dieu vivant ! shall a few sprays of us. The emptying of our fathers' luxury, Our scions, put in wild and savage stock, Spirt lip so suddenly into the clouds, And overlook their grafters ? [bastards ! Bour. Normans, but bastard Normans, Norman Mort de ma vie ! if they march along Unfought withal, but I will sell my dukedom, To buy a slobbery and a dirty farm In that nook-shotten isle of Albion. [tie ? Con. Dieu de batailles ! where have they this met- is not their climate foggy, raw and dull. On whom, as in despite, the sun looks pale. Killing their fruit with frowns ? Can sodden water, A drench for sur-rein'd jades, their barley-broth, Decoct their cold blood to such valiant heat ? And shall our quick blood, spirited with wine. Seem frosty ? O, for honour of our land. Let us not hang like roping icicles Upon our houses' thatch, whiles a more frosty people Sweat drops of gallant youth in our rich fields ! Poor we may call them in their native lords. 374 Dau. By faith and honour. Our madams mock at us, and plainly say Our mettle is bred out and they will give Their bodies to the lust of English youth To new-store France with bastard warriors. Bour. They bid us to the English dancing-schools, And teach lavoltas high and swift corantos ; Saying our grace is only in our heels. And that we are most lofty runaways. Fi\ King. Where is Montjoy the herald ? speed him hence : Let him greet England with our sharp defiance. Up, princes ! and, with spirit of honour edged More sharper than your swords, hie to the field : Charles Delabreth, high constable of France; You Dukes of Orleans, Bourbon, and of Berri. AlenQon, Brabant, Bar, and Burgundy ; Jaques Chatillon, Rambures, Vaudemont, Beaumont, Grandpre, Roussi, and Fauconberg, Foix, Lestrale, Bouciqualt, and Charolois; High dukes, great princes, barons, lords and knights, For your great seats now quit you of great shames. Bar Harry England, that sweeps through our land With pennons painted in the blood of Harfleur : Bush on his host, as doth the melted snow Upon the valleys, whose low vassal seat The Alps doth spit and void his rheum upon : Go down upon him, you have power enough, And in a captive chariot into Rouen Bring him our prisoner. Con. This becomes the great. Sorry am I his numbers are so few. His soldiers sick and famish 'd in their march, For I am sure, when he shall see our army. He '11 drop his heart into the sink of fear And for achievement offer us his ransom. Fr. King. Therefore, lord constable, haste on Montjoy, And let him say to England that we send . To know what willing ransom he will give. Prince Dauphin, you shall stay with us in Rouen. Dau. Not so, I do beseech your majesty. [us. Fr. King. Be patient, for you shall remain with Now forth, lord constable and princes all. And quickly bring us word of England's fall. {Exeunt. SCENE VI. — TJie English camp in Picardy. Enter Gower and Fluellen, meeting. Qow. How now. Captain Fluellen! come you from the bridge ? Flu. I assure you, there is very excellent services committed at the bridge. Gow. Is the Duke of Exeter safe ? Flu. The Duke of Exeter is as magnanimous as Agamemnon ; and a man that I love and honour with my soul, and my heart, and my duty, and my life, and my living, and my uttermost power: he is not — God be praised and blessed! — any hurt in the world; but keeps the pridge most valiantly, with excellent discipline. There is an aunchient lieutenant there at the pridge, I think in my very conscience he is as valiant a man as Mark Antony ; and he is a man of no estimation in the world ; but I did see him do as gallant service. Gow. What do you call him ? Flu. He is called Aunchient Pistol. Gow. I know him not. Enter Pistol. Flu. Here is the man. Fist. Captain, I thee beseech to do me fa^jours : The Duke of Exeter doth love thee well. Flu. Ay, I praise God; and I have merited some love at his hands. Fist. Bardolph, a soldier, firm and sound of heart. ACT III. KING HENRY V. ;CENE VI. And of buxom valour, hath, by cruel fate, And giddy Fortune's rurious fickle wheel, That goddess blind, That stands upon the rolling restless stone— Flu. By your patience, Aunchient Pistol. For- tune is painted blind, with a muffler afore her eyes, to signify to you that Fortune is blind ; and she is painted also with a wheel, to signify to you, which is the moral of it, that she is turning, and incon- stant, and mutability, and variation : and her foot, look you, is fixed upon a spherical stone, which rolls, and rolls, and rolls: in good truth, the poet makes a most excellent description of it : Fortune is an excellent moral. [him ; Pist. Fortune is Bardolph's foe, and frowns on For he hath stolen a pax, and hanged must a' be : A damned death ! Let gallows gape for dog ; let man go free And let not hemp his wind-pipe suffocate : But Exeter hath given the doom of death For pax of little price. Therefore, go speak: the duke will hear thy voice: And let not Bardolph's vital thread be cut With edge of penny cord and vile reproach : Speak, captaiUj for his life, and I will thee requite. Flu. Aunchient Pistol, I do partly understand your meaning. Pist. Why then, rejoice therefore. Flu. Certainly, aunchient, it is not a thing to re- joice at: for if, look you, he were my brother, I would desire the duke to use his good pleasure, and put him to execution ; for discipline ought to be used. Pist. Die and be damn'd ! and figo for thy friend- Flu. It is well. [ship ! Pist. The. fig of Spain! {Exit. Flu. Very good. Gow. Why, this is an arrant counterfeit rascal ; I remember him now ; a bawd, a cutpurse. Flu. I '11 assure you, a' uttered as brave words at the pridge as you shall see in a summer's day. But it is very well ; what he has spoke to me, that is well, I warrant you, when time is serve. Oow. Why, 'tis a gull, a fool, a rogue, that now and then goes to the wars, to grace himself at his return into London under the form of a soldier. And such fellows are perfect in the great command- ers' names : and they will learn you by rote where services were done ; at such and such a sconce, at such a breach, at such a convoy; who came off bravely, who was shot, who disgraced, what terms the enemy stood on ; and this they con perfectly in the phrase of war, which they trick up with new"- tuned oaths : and what a beard of the general's cut and a horrid suit of the camp will do among foam- ing bottles and ale-washed wits, is wonderful to be thought on. But you must learn to know such slanders of the age, or else you may be marvel- lously mistook. Flu. I tell you what. Captain Gower; I do per- ceive he is not the man that he would gladly make show to the world he is: if I find a hole in his coat, I will tell him my mind. [Drum heard:] Hark you , the king is coming, and I must speak with him from the pridge. Drum and colours. Enter King Henry, Glouces- ter, and Soldiers. God pless your majesty ! [the bridge ? K. Hen. How now, Fluellen ! earnest thou from Flu. Ay, so please your majesty. The Duke of Exeter has very gallantly maintained the pridge: the French is gone off, look you ; and there is gal- lant and most prave passages; marry, th' athver- sary was have possession of the pridge ; but he is enforced to retire, and the Duke of Exeter is mas- ter of the pridge : I can tell your majesty, the duke is a prave man. K. Hen. What men have you lost, Fluellen ? Flu. The perdition of th' atliversary hath been very great, reasonable great : marry, for my part, I think the duke hath lost never a man, but one that is like to be executed for robbing a church, one Bardolph, if your majesty know the man: his face is all bubukles, and whelks, and knobs, and flames o' fire : and his lips blows at his nose, and it is like a coal of fire, sometimes plue and sometimes red ; but his nose is executed, and his fire 's out. K. Hen. We would have all such offenders so cut off : and we give express charge, that in our marches through the country, there be nothing compelled from the villages, nothing taken but paid for, none of the French upbraided or abused in disdainful lan- guage ; for when lenity and cruelty play for a king- dom, the gentler gamester is the soonest winner. Tucket. Enter Montjoy. Mont. You know me by my habit. K. Hen. Well then I know thee : what shall I know of thee ? Mont. My master's mind. K. Hen. Unfold it. Mont. Thus says my king: Say thou to Harry of England : Though we seemed dead , we did but sleep : advantage is a better soldier than rashness. Tell him we could have rebuked him at Harfleur, but that we thought not good to bruise an injury till it were full ripe : now we speak upon our cue, and our voice is imperial : England shall repent his folly, see his weakness, and admire our sulferance. Bid him therefore consider of his ransom ; which must proportion the losses we have borne, the sub- jects we have lost, the disgrace we have digested ; which in weight to re-answer, his pettiness would bow under. For our losses, his exchequer is too poor; for the effusion of our blood, the muster of his kingdom too faint a number ; and for our dis- grace, his own person, kneeling at our feet, but a weak and worthless satisfaction: To this add defi- ance ; and tell him, for conclusion, he hath betrayed his followers, whose condemnation is pronounced. So far my king and master ; so much my office. K. Hen. What is thy name 'i I know thy quality. Mont. Montjoy. [back, K. Hen. Thou dost thy office fairly. Turn thee And tell thy king I do not seek him now ; But could be willing to march on to Calais Without impeachment : for, to say the sooth, Though 'tis no wisdom to confess so much Unto an enemy of craft and vantage. My people are with sickness much enfeebled. My numbers lessened, and those few I have Almost no better than so many French ; Who when they were in health, I tell thee, herald, I thought upon one pair of English legs Did march three Frenchmen. Yet, forgive me, God, That I do brag thus ! This your air of France Hath blown that vice in me ; I must repent. Go therefore, tell thy master here I am; My ransom is this frail and worthless trunk, My army but a weak and sickly guard ; Yet, God before, tell him we will come on. Though France himself and such another neighbour Stand in our way. There 's for thy labour, Montjoy. Go, bid thy master well advise himself: If we may pass, we will ; if we be hinder'd, We shall your tawny ground with your red blood Discolour : and so, Montjoy, fare you well. The sum of all our answer is but this : We would not seek a battle, as we are ; ISTor, as we are, we say we will not shun it : So tell your master. Mont. I shaU deliver so. Thanks to your high- ness. {Exit. Qlou. I hope they will not acme upon us now. 375 ACT III. KING HENRY V. SCENE VII. K. Hen. We are in God's iiand, brother, not in theirs. March to the bridge ; it now draws toward night : Beyond the river we '11 encamp ourselves, And on to-morrow bid them march away. [Exeunt. SCENE VII. — The French camp, near Agincourt. Enter the Constable of France, the Lord Ram- bures, Orleans, Dauphin, with others. Con. Tut ! I have the best armour of the world. Would it were day ! Orl. You have an excellent armour ; but let my horse have his due. Con. It is the best horse of Europe. Orl. Will it never be morning ? Dau. My Lord of Orleans, and my lord high con- stable, you talk of horse and armour ? Orl. You are as well provided of both as any prince in the world. Dau. What a long night is this ! I will not change my horse with any that treads but on four pasterns, (ya, ha ! he bounds from the earth, as if his entrails were hairs ; le cheval volant, the Pegasus, chez les narines de feu ! When I bestride him, I soar, I am a hawk : he trots the air ; the earth sings when he touches it ; the basest horn of his hoof is more mu- sical than the pipe of Hermes. Orl. He 's of the colour of the nutmeg. Dau. And of the heat of the ginger. It is a beast for Perseus : he is pure air and hre ; and the dull elements of earth and water never appear in him, but only in patient stillness while his rider mounts him : he is indeed a horse ; and all other jades you may call beasts. Con. Indeed, my lord, it is a most absolute and excellent horse. Dau. It is the prince of palfreys ; his neigh is like the bidding of a monarch and his countenance en- forces homage. Orl. No more, cousin. Dau. Nay, the man hath no wit that cannot, from the rising or the lark to the lodging of the lamb, vary deserved praise on my palfrey : it is a theme as fluent as the sea : turn the sands into eloquent tongues, and my horse is argument for them all : 't is a subject for a sovereign to reason on, and for a sovereign's sovereign to ride on ; and for the world, familiar to us and unknown, to lay apart their par- ticular functions and wonder at him. I once writ a sonnet in his praise and began thus : ' Wonder of nature,' — [tress. Orl. I have heard a sonnet begin so to one's mis- Daw. Then did they imitate that which I com- posed to my courser, for my horse is my mistress. Orl. Your mistress bears well. Daic. Me well ; which is the prescript praise and perfection of a good and particular mistress. Con. Nay, for methought yesterday your mistress shrewdly shook your back. Dau. So perhaps did yours. Con. Mine was not bridled. Dau. O then belike she was old and gentle ; and you rode, like a kern of Ireland, your French hose off, and in your strait strossers. Con. You have good judgment in horsemanship. Dau. Be warned by me, then : they that ride so and ride not warily, fall into foul bogs. I had rather have my horse to my mistress. Con. I had as lief have my mistress a jade. Dau. I tell thee, constable, my mistress wears his own hair. Con. I could make as true a boast as that, if I had a sow to my mistress. Dau. ' Le chien est retourne a son propre vomisse- ment, et la truie lavee au bom'bier : ' thou makest use 01 any thing. 376 Con. Yet do I not use my horse for my mistress, or any such proverb so little kin to the purpose. Bam. My lord constable, the armour that I saw in your tent to-night, are those stars or suns upon it? Con. Stars, my lord. Dau. Some of them will fall to-morrow, I hope. Con. And yet my sky shall not want. Dau. That may be, for you bear a many super- fluously, and 'twere more honour some were away. Con. Even as your horse bears your praises ; who would trot as well, were some of your brags dis- mounted. Dau. Would I were able to load him with his desert ! Will it never be day ? I will trot to-mor- row a mile, and my way shall be paved with English faces. Con. I will not say so, for fear I should be faced out of my way : but I would it were morning ; for I would fain be about the ears of the English. Bam. Who will go to hazard with me for twenty prisoners ? Con. You must first go yourself to hazard, ere you have them. Dau. 'T is midnight ; I '11 go arm myself. [Exit. Orl. The Dauphin longs for morning. Bam. He longs to eat the English. Con. I think he will eat all he kills. [prince. Orl. By the white hand of my lady, he 's a gallant Con. Swear by her foot, that she may tread out the oath. Orl. He is simply the most active gentleman of France. Con. Doing is activity ; and he will still be doing. Orl. He never did harm, that I heard of. Con. Nor will do none to-morrow : he will keep that good name still. Orl. I know him to be valiant. Con. I was told that by one that knows him bet- ter than you. Orl. What 's he ? Con. Marry, he told me so himself ; and he said he cared not who knew it. Orl. He needs not ; it is no hidden virtue in him. Con. By my faith, sir, but it is ; never anybody saw it but his lackey : 't is a hooded valour ; and when it appears, it will bate. Orl. Ill will never said well. Con. I will cap that proverb with ' There is flat- tery in friendship.' [his due.' Orl. And I will take up that with ' Give the devil Con. Well placed : there stands your friend for the devil : have at the very eye of that proverb with ' A pox of the devil. ' Orl. You are the better at proverbs, by how much ' A fool's bolt is soon shot.' Con. You have shot over. Orl. 'Tis not the first time you were overshot. Unter a Messenger. Mess. My lord high constable, the English lie within fifteen hundred paces of your tents. Con. Who hath measured the ground ? Mess. The Lord Grandpre. Con. A valiant and most expert gentleman. Would it were day ! Alas, poor Harry of England ! he longs not for the dawning as we do. Orl. What a wretched and peevish fellow is this king of England, to mope with his fat-brained fol- lowers so far out of his knowledge ! Con. If the English had any apprehension, they would run away. Orl. That they lack ; for if their heads had any intellectual armour, they could never wear such heavy head-pieces. Bat mischief and what murder too Hath been enacted through your enmity ; Then be at peace, except ye thirst for blood. Win. He shall submit, or I will never yield. Glou. Compassion on the king commands me Or I would see his heart out, ere the priest [stoop ; Should ever get that privilege of me. War. Behold, my Lord of Winchester, the duke Hath banish'd moody discontented fury. As by his smoothed brows it doth appear : Why look you still so stern and tragical ? Glou. Here, Winchester, I offer thee my hand. King. Pie, imcle Beaufort! I have heard you preach That malice was a great and grievous sin ; ACT III. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY VI. scene ii. And will not you maintain the thing you teach, But prove a chief offender in the same '? War. Sweet king ! the bishop hath a kindly gird. For shame, my Lord of Winchester, relent ! What, shall a child instruct you what to do ? Win. Well, Duke of Gloucester, I will yield to thee ; Love for thy love and hand for hand I give. Glou. [Aside] Ay, but, I fear me, with a hollow heart.— See here, my friends and loving countrymen; This token serveth for a flag of truce Betwixt ourselves and all our followers: So help me God, as I dissemble not ! Win. [Aside] So help me God, as I intend it not ! King. O loving uncle, kind Duke of Gloucester, How joyful am I made by this contract ! Away, my masters ! trouble us no more ; But join in friendship, as your lords have done. First Serv. Content : I '11 to the surgeon's. Sec. Serv. And so will I. Third Serv. And I vrill see what physic the tav- ern affords. [Uxeunt Serving-men, Mayor, &c. War. Accept this scroll, most gracious sovereign, Which in the right of Richard Plantagenet We do exhibit to your majesty. [prince, Glou. Well urged , my Lord of Warwick: for, sweet An if your grace mark every circumstance, You have great reason to do Richard right : Especially for those occasions At Eltham Place I told your majesty. Khig. And those occasions, uncle, were of force : Therefore, my loving lords, our pleasure is That Richard be restored to his blood. War. Let Richard be restored to his blood : So shall his father's wrongs be recompensed. Win. As will the rest, so willeth Winchester. King. If Richard will be true, not that alone But all the whole inheritance I give That doth belong unto the house of York, From whence you spring by lineal descent. Plan. Thy humble servant vows obedience And humble service till the point of death, [foot ; King. Stoop then and set your knee against my And, in reguerdon of that duty done, I gird thee with the valiant sword of York : Rise, Richard, like a true Plantagenet, And rise created princely Duke of York. Plan. And so thrive Richard as thy foes may fall I And as my duty springs, so perish they That grudge one thought against your majesty ! All. Welcome, high prince, the mighty Duke of York! [of York! Som. [Aside] Perish, base prince, ignoble Duke Glou. Now will it best avail your majesty To cross the seas and to be crown 'd in France : The presence of a king engenders love Amongst his subjects and his loyal friends, As it disanimates his enemies. [Henry goes ; King. When Gloucester says the word, King For friendly counsel cuts off many foes. Glou. Your ships already are in readiness. [Sennet. Flourish. Exeunt all hut Exeter. Exe. Ay, we may march in England or in France, Not seeing what is likely to ensue. This late dissension grown betwixt the peers Burns under feigned ashes of forged love And will at last break out into a flame : As fester'd members rot but by degree, Till bones and flesh and sinews fall away, So will this base and envious discord breed. And now I fear that fatal prophecy Which in the time of Henry named the Fifth Was in the mouth of every sucking babe ; That Henry born at Monmouth should win all And Henry born at Windsor lose all : Which is so plain that Exeter doth wish His days may finish ere that, hapless time. [Exit. SCENE II.— France. Before Rouen. Enter La Pucelle disguised, with four Soldiers with sacks upon their backs. Puc. These are the city gates, the gates of Rouen, Through which our policy must make a breach : Take heed, be wary how you place your words; Talk like the vulgar sort of market men That come to gather money for their corn. If we have entrance, as I hope we shall. And that we find the slothful watch but weak, I '11 by a sign give notice to our friends, That Charles the Dauphin may encounter them. First Sol. Our sacks shall be a mean to sack the And we be lords and rulers over Rouen ; [city, Therefore we '11 knock. [Knocks. Watch. [Within] Qui est la ? Puc. Paysans, pauvres gens de France; Poor market folks that come to sell their corn. Watch. Enter, go in ; the market bell is rung. Puc. Now, Rouen, I '11 shake thy bulwarks to the ground. [Exeunt. Enter Charles, the Bastard of Orleans, Alenpon, Reignier, and forces. Char. Saint Denis bless this happy stratagem! And once again we '11 sleep secure in Rouen. Bast. Here enter'd Pucelle and her practisants; Now she is there, how will she specify Where is the best and safest passage in ? Reign. By thrusting out a torch from yonder tower ; Which, once discern'd, shows that her meaning is, No way to that, for weakness, which she enter'd. Enter La Pucelle on the top, thrusting out a torch burning. Puc. Behold, this is the happy wedding torch That joineth Rouen unto her countrymen. But burning fatal to the Talbotites ! [Exit. Bast. See, noble Charles, the beacon of our friend ; The burning torch in yonder turret stands. Cliar. Now shine it like a comet of revenge, A prophet to the fall of all our foes ! Reign. Defer no time, delays have dangerous ends : Enter, and cry ' The Dauphin ! ' presently. And then do execution on the watch. [Alarum. Exeunt. An alarum. Enter Talbot in an excursion. Tal. France, thou shalt rue this treason with thy If Talbot but survive thy treachery. [tears, Pucelle, that witch, that damned sorceress, Hath wrought this hellish mischief unawares. That hardly we escaped the pride of France. [Exit. An alarum : excursions. Bedford, brought in sick in a chair. Enter Talbot and Burgundy without : within La Pucelle, Charles, Bastard, Alen9on, and Reig- nier, on the walls. Pifc. Good morrow, gallants! want ye com for I think the Duke of Burgundy will fast [bread ? Before he '11 buy again at such a rate : 'T was full of darnel ; do you like the taste ? Bur. Scoff on, vile fiend and shameless courtezan ! I trust ere long to choke thee with thine own And make thee curse the harvest of that corn. Char. Your grace may starve perhaps before that time. [treason ! Bed. O, let no words, but deeds, revenge this Puc. What will you do, good grey-beard r* break And run a tilt at death within a chair ? [a lance, Tal. Foul fiend of France, and hag of all despite, Encompass'd with thy lustful paramours ! Becomes it thee to taunt his valiant age And twit with cowardice a man half dead ? Damsel, I '11 have a bout with you again. Or else let Talbot perish with this shame. ACT III. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY VL scene hi. Fuc. Are ye so hot, sir ? yet, Pucelle, hold thy If Talbot do but thunder, rain will follow, [peace ; [The English whisper together in council. God speed tlie parliament ! who shall be the speaker ? Tal. Dare ye come forth and meet us in the field ? Puc. Belike your lordship takes us then for fools, To try if that our own be ours or no. Tal. I speak not to that railing Hecate, But unto thee, Alenfon, and the rest ; Will ye, like soldiers, come and fight it out ? Alen. Signior, no. Tal. Signior, hang I base muleters of France ! Like peasant foot-boys do they keep the walls And dare not take up arms like gentlemen. Puc. Away, captains ! let 's get us from the walls ; For Talbot means no goodness by his looks. God be wi' you, my lord I we came but to tell you That we are here. [Exeunt from the walls. Tal. And there will we be too, ere it be long, Or else reproach be Talbot's greatest fame I Vow, Burgundy, by honour of thy house. Prick 'd on by public wrongs sustain'd in France, Either to get the town again or die : And I, as sure as English Henry lives And as his father here was conqueror, As sure as in this late-betrayed town Great Coeur-de-lion's heart was buried, So sure I swear to get the town or die. Bur. My vows are equal partners with thy vows. Tal. But, ere we go, regard this dying prince, The valiant Duke of Bedford. Come, my lord, We will bestow you in some better place, Fitter for sickness and for crazy age. Bed. Lord Talbot, do not so dishonour me: Here will I sit before the walls of Eouen And will be partner of your weal or woe. [you. Bur. Courageous Bedford, let us now persuade Bed. Not to be gone from hence ; for once I read That stout Pendragon in his litter sick Came to the field and vanquished his foes : Methinks I should revive the soldiers' hearts, Because I ever found them as myself. Tal. Undaunted spirit in a dying breast ! Then be it so : heavens keep old Bedford safe ! And now no more ado, brave Burgundy, But gather we our forces out of hand And set upon our boasting enemy. [Exeunt all but Bedford and Attendants. An alarum : excursions. Enter Sir John Pastolfe and a Captain, Cap. Whither away. Sir John Fastolfe, in such haste ? Fast. Whither away ! to save myself by flight : We are like to have the overthrow again. Cap. What ! will you fly, and leave Lord Talbot ! Fast. Ay, All the Talbots in the world, to save my life. [Exit. Cap. Cowardly knight ! ill fortune follow thee ! [Exit. Betreat : excursions. La Pucelle, Alen9on, and Charles j^y. Bed. Now, quiet soul, depart when heaven please. For I have seen our enemies' overthrow. What is the trust or strength of foolish man ? They that of late were daring with their scoffs Are glad and fain by flight to save themselves. [Bedford dies, and is carried in hy two in his chair. An alarum. Be-enter Talbot, Burgundy, and the rest. Tal. Lost, and recover'd in a day again! This is a double honour, Burgundy : Yet heavens have glory for this victory ! Bur. Warlike and martial Talbot, Burgundy 400 Enshrines thee in his heart and there erects Thy noble deeds as valour's monuments. Tal. Thanks, gentle duke. But where is Pucelle I think her old familiar is asleep : [now ? Now where 's the Bastard's braves, and Charles hia gleeks v What, all amort ? Eouen hangs her head for grief That such a valiant company are fled. Now will we take some order in the town, Placing therein some expert ofiicers, And then depart to Paris to the king, For there young Henry with his nobles lie. Bur. What wills Lord Talbot pleaseth Burgundy. Tal. But yet, before we go, let 's not forget The noble Duke of Bedford late deceased. But see his exequies fulfill 'd in Eouen : A braver soldier never couched lance, A gentler heart did never sway in court ; But kings and mightiest potentates must die^ For that 's the end of human misery. SCENE III. — The plains near Bouen. Enter Charles, the Bastard of Orleans, Alen9on, La Pucelle, and forces. Puc. Dismay not, princes, at this accident, Nor grieve that Eouen is so recovered : Care is no cure, but rather corrosive. For things that are not to be remedied. Let frantic Talbot triumph for a while And like a peacock sweep along his tail ; We '11 pull his plumes and take away his train, If Dauphin and the rest will be but ruled. Char. We have been guided by thee hitherto And of thy cunning had no diflidence : One sudden foil shall never breed distrust. Bast. Search out thy wit for secret policies, And we will make thee famous through the world. Alen. We '11 set thy statue in some holy. place, And have thee reverenced like a blessed saint : Employ thee then, sweet virginj for our good. Puc. Then thus it must be ; this doth Joan devise : By fair persuasions mix'd with sugar 'd words We will entice the Duke of Burgundy To leave the Talbot and to follow us. Char. Ay, marry, sweeting, if we could do that, France were no place for Henry's warriors ; Nor should that nation boast it so with us. But be extirped from our provinces. Alen. For ever should they be expulsed from And not have title of an earldom here. [France Puc. Your honours shall perceive how I will work To bring this matter to the wished end. [Drum sounds afar off. Hark ! by the sound of di:um you may perceive Their powers are marching unto Paris-ward. Here sound an English march. Enter, and pass over at a distance, Talbot and his forces. There goes the Talbot, with his colours spread, And all the troops of English after him. French march. Enter the Duke of Btirgundy and forces. Now in the rearward comes the duke and his : Fortune in favour makes him lag behind. Summon a parley ; we will talk with him. [Trumijets sound a parley. Char. A parley with the Duke of Burgundy! Bur. Who craves a parley with the Burgundy ? Puc. The princely Charles of France, thy coun- tryman, [ing hence. Bur. What say'st thou, Charles ? for I am march- Char. Speak, Pucelle, and enchant him with thy words. Puc. Brave Burgundy, undoubted hope of France I Stay, let thy humble hfindmaid speak to thee. ACT IV. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY VI Bur. Speak on ; but be not over-tedious. Puc. Look on thy country, look on fertile France, And see the cities and the towns defaced By wasting ruin of the cruel foe. As looks the mother on her lowly babe When death doth close his tender dying eyes, See, see the pining malady of France ; Behold the Avounds, the most unnatural wounds. Which thou thyself hast given her woful breast. O, turn thy edged sword another way ; Strike those that hurt, and hurt not those that help. One drop of blood drawn from thy country's bosom Should grieve thee more than streams of foreign gore : Eeturn thee therefore with a flood of tears. And wash away thy country's stained spots. Bur. Either she hath bewitch 'd me with her words, Or nature makes me suddenly relent. Puc. Besides, all French and France exclaims on Doubting thy birth and lawi'ul progeny. [thee, Who join'st thou with but with a lordly nation That will not trust thee but for profit's sake ? When Talbot hath set footing once in France And fashion'd thee that instrument of ill, Who then but English Henry will be lord And thou be thrust out like a fugitive ? Call we to mind, and mark but this for proof, Was not the Duke of Orleans thy foe ? And was he not in England prisoner ? But when they heard he was thine enemy, They set him free without his ransom paid. In spite of Burgundy and all his friends. See, then, thou fight 'st against thy countrymen And join'st with them will be thy slaughter-men. Come, come, return ; return, thou wandering lord ; Charles and the rest will take thee in their arms. Bur. I am vanquished ; these haughty words of Have batter'd me like roaring cannon-shot, [hers And made me almost yield upon my knees. Forgive me, country, and sweet countrymen, And, lords, accept this hearty kind embrace : My forces and my power of men are yours : So farewell, Talbot ; I '11 no longer trust thee. Puc. [Aside] Done like a Frenchman : turn, and turn again ! CTiar. Welcome, brave duke ! thy friendship makes us fresh. Bast. And doth beget new courage in our breasts. Alen. Pucelle hath bravely play'd her part in this. And doth deserve a coronet of gold. [powers, Char. Now let us on, my lords, and join our And seek how we may prejudice the foe. [Exeunt. SCENE IV.— Pans. The palace. Enter the King-, Gloucester, Bishop of Winchester, York, Suffolk, Somerset, Warwick, Exeter : Ver- non, Basset, and others. To them with his Soldiers, Talipot. Tal. My gracious prince, and honourable peers, Hearing of your arrival in this realm, I have awhile given truce unto my wars. To do my duty to my sovereign : In sign whereof, this arm, that hath reclaim'd To your obedience fifty fortresses. Twelve cities and seven walled towns of strength, Beside five hundred prisoners of esteem. Lets fall his sword before your highness' feet. And with submissive loyalty of heart Ascribes the glory of his conquest got First to my God and next unto your grace. [Kneels. King. Is this the Lord Talbot, uncle Gloucester, That hath so long been resident in France ? Glou. Yes, if it please your majesty, my liege. jRTmg'. Welcome, brave captain and victorious lord ! When I was young, as yet I am not old, I do remember how my father said A stouter champion never handled sword. Long since we were resolved of your truth, Your faithful service and your toil in war ; Yet never have you tasted our reward. Or been reguerdon'd with so much as thanks. Because till now we never saw your face : Therefore, stand up ; and, for these good deserts, We here create you Earl of Shrewsbury ; And in our coronation take your place. [Sennet. Flourish. Exeunt all hut Vernon and Basset. Ver. Now, sir, to you, that were so hot at sea. Disgracing of these colours that I wear In honour of my noble Lord of York : [spakest ? Darest thou maintain the former words thou Bas. Yes, sir ; as well as you dare patronage The envious barking of your saucy tongue Against my lord the Duke of Somerset. Ver. Sirrah, thy lord I honour as he is. Bas. Why, what is he ? as good a man as York. Ver. Hark ye; not so : in witness, take ye that. [Strikes him. Bas. Villain, thou know'st the law of arms is such That whoso draws a sword, 't is present death, Or else this blow should broach thy dearest blood. But I '11 unto his majesty, and crave I may have liberty to venge this wrong ; When thou shalt see I '11 meet thee to thy cost. Ver. Well, miscreant, I '11 be there as soon as you ; And,after,meet you sooner than you would. [Exeunt. ,A.OT IV. SCENE I.— Paris. A hall of i Enter the Kins', Gloucester, Bishop of Winchester, York, Suffolk, Somerset, Warwick, Talhot, Exeter, the Governor of Paris, and others. Glou. Lord bishop, set the crown upon his head. Win. God save King Henry , of that name the sixth ! Glou. Now, governor of Paris, take your oath. That you elect no other king but him ; Esteem none friends but such as are his friends. And none your foes but such as shall pretend Malicious practices against his state : This shall ye do, so help you righteous God! Enter Sir John Fastolfe. Fast. My gracious sovereign, as I rode from To haste unto your coronation, [Calais, A letter was deliver'd to my hands, "Writ to your grace from the Duke of Burgundy. Tal. Shame to the Duke of Burgundy and thee I I vow'd, base knight, when I did meet thee next. To tear the garter from thy craven's leg, [Plucking it of. Which I have done, because unworthily Thou wast installed in that high degree. Pardon me, princely Henry, and the rest : This dastard, at the battle of Patay, When but in all I was six thousand strong And that the French were almost ten to one, Before we met or that a stroke was given. Like to a trusty squire did run away : In which assault we lost twelve hundred men ; Myself and divers gentlemen beside Were there surprised and taken prisoners. Then judge, great lords, if I have done amiss ; Or whether that such cowards ouglit to wear This ornament of knighthood, yea or no. Glou. To say the truth, this fact was infamous 401 ACT IV. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY VI SCENE I. And ill beseeming any common man, Much more a knight, a captain and a leader. Tal. When first this order was ordain'd, my lords, Knights of the garter were of noble birth, Valiant and virtuous, full of haughty courage. Such as were grown to credit by the wars ; Not fearing death, nor shrinking for distress, But always resolute in most extremes. He then that is not furnish'd in this sort Doth but usurp the sacred name of knight. Profaning this most honourable order. And should, if I were worthy to be judge. Be quite degraded, like a hedge-born swain That doth presume to boast of gentle blood, [doom ! King. Stain to thy countrymen, thou hear'st thy Be packing, therefore, thou that wast a knight : Henceforth we banish thee, on pain of death. [Mcit Fastolfe. And now, my lord protector, view the letter Sent from our uncle Duke of Burgundy, [his style? Glou. What means his grace, that he hath changed No more but, plain and bluntly, ' To the king ! ' Hath he forgot he is his sovereign ? Or doth this churlish superscription Pretend some alteration in good will ? What 's here ? [Beads] ' I have, upon especial cause. Moved with compassion of my country's wreck. Together with the pitiful complaints Of such as your oppression feeds upon, Forsaken your pernicious faction [France.' And join'd with Charles, the rightful King of monstrous treachery ! can this be so , That in alliance, amity and oaths, There should be found such false dissembling guile? King. What ! doth my m.icle Burgundy revolt ? Glou. He doth, my lord, and is become your foe. King. Is that the worst this letter doth contain ? Glou. It is the worst, and all, my lord, he writes. King. Why, then,Lord Talbot there shall talk with And give him chastisement for this abuse. [him How say you, my lord ? are you not content ? Tal. Content, my liege! yes, but that I am pre- vented, 1 should have begg'd I might have been employ'd. King. Then gather strength and march unto him straight : Let him perceive how ill we brook his treason And what offence it is to flout his friends. Tal. I go, my lord, in heart desiring still You may behold confusion of your foes. [Exit. Miter Vernon and Basset. Ver. Grant me the combat, gracious sovereign. Bas. And me, my lord, grant me the combat too. York. This is my servant : hear him, noble prince. Som. And this is mine : sweet Henry, favour him. K. Hen. Be patient, lords; and give them leave to speak. Say, gentlemen, what makes you thus exclaim? And wherefore crave you combat ? or with whom ? Ver. With him, my lord ; for he hath done me wrong. Bas. And I with him ; for he hath done me wrong. K. Hen. What is that wrong whereof you both complain ? First let me know, and then I '11 answer you. Bas. Crossing the sea from England into France, This fellow here, with envious carping tongue, Upbraided me about the rose I wear ; Saying, the sanguine colour of the leaves Did represent my master's blushing cheeks, When stubbornly he did repugn the truth About a certain question in the law Argued betwixt the Duke of York and him ; With other vile and ignominious terms : In confutation of which rude reproach And in defence of my lord's worthiness, I crave the benefit of law of arms. 402 Ver. And that is my petition, noble lord : For though he seem with forged quaint conceit To set a gloss upon his bold intent. Yet know, my lord, I was provoked by him; And he first took exceptions at this badge, Pronouncing that the paleness of this flower Bewray'd the faintness of my master's heart. York. Will not this malice, Somerset, be left ? Som. Your private grudge, my Lord of York, will Though ne'er so cunningly you smother it. [out, K. Hen. Good Lord, what madness rules in brain- sick men. When for so slight and frivolous a cause Such factious emulations shall arise ! Good cousins both, of York and Somerset, Quiet yourselves, I pray, and be at peace. York. Let this dissension first be tried by fight, And then your highness shall command a peace. Som. The quarrel toucheth none but us alone ; Betwixt ourselves let us decide it then. York. There is my pledge; accept it, Somerset. Ver. Nay, let it rest where it began at first. Bas. Confirm it so, mine honourable lord. Glou. Confirm it so ! Confounded be your strife I And perish ye, with your audacious prate ! Presumptuous vassals, are you not ashamed With this immodest clamorous outrage To trouble and disturb the king and us ? And you, my lords, methinks you do not well To bear with their perverse objections ; Much less to take occasion from their mouths To raise a mutiny betwixt yourselves : Let me persuade you take a better course. Hxe. It grieves his highness : good my lords, be friends. [batants : K. Hen. Come hither, you that would be corn- Henceforth I charge you, as you love our favour, Quite to forget this quarrel and the cause. And you, my lords, remember where we are ; In France, amongst a fickle wavering nation: If they perceive dissension in our looks And that within ourselves we disagree, How will their grudging stomachs be provoked To vsdlful disobedience, and rebel! Beside, what infamy will there arise. When foreign princes shall be certified That for a toy, a thing of no regard, King Henry's peers and chief nobility Destroy 'd themselves, and lost the realm of France 1 O, think upon the conquest of my father, My tender years, and let us not forego That for a trifle that was bought with blood ! Let me be umpire in this doubtful strife. I see no reason, if I wear this rose, [Putting on a red rose. That any one should therefore be suspicious I more incline to Somerset than York : Both are my kinsmen, and I love them both : As well they may upbraid me with my crown. Because, forsooth, the king of Scots is crown'd. But your discretions better can persuade Than I am able to instruct or teach : And therefore, as we hither came in peace. So let us still continue peace and love. Cousin of York, we institute your grace To be our regent in these parts of France : And, good my Lord of Somersetj unite Your troops of horsemen with his bands of foot ; And, like true subjects, sons of your progenitors, Go cheerfully together and digest Your angry choler on your enemies. Ourself , my lord protector and the rest After some respite will return to Calais ; From thence to England ; where I hope ere long To be presented, by your victories. With Charles, Alen9on and that traitorous rout. [Flourish. Exeunt all hut York, Warwick, Exeter and Vernon. ACT IV. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY VI scene iv. War. My Lord of York, I promise you, the king Prettily, metliought, did play the orator. York. And so he did; but yet I like it not. In that he wears the badge of Somerset. [not ; War. Tush, that was but his fancy, blame him I dare presume, sweet prince, he thought no harm. York. An if I wist he did, — but let it rest; Other affairs must now be managed. [Exeunt all but Exeter. Exe. Well didst thou, Richard, to suppress thy For, had the passions of thy heart burst out, [voice ; I fear we should have seen decipher'd there More rancorous spite, more furious raging broils, Than yet can be imagined or supposed. But howsoe'er, no simple man that sees This jarring discord of nobility. This shouldering of each other in the court, This factious bandying of their favourites, But that it doth presage some ill event. 'T is much when sceptres are in children's hands ; But more when envy breeds unkind division ; There comes the ruin, there begins confusion. [Exit. SCENE II. — Before Bourdeaux. Enter Talbot, with trump and drum. Tal. Go to the gates of Bourdeaux, trumpeter; Summon their general unto the wall. Trumpet sounds. Enter General and others, aloft. English John Talbot, captains, calls you forth, Servant in arms to Harry King of England ; And thus he would : Open your city gates ; Be humble to us ; call my sovereign yours. And do him homage as obedient subjects ; And I '11 withdraw me and my bloody power : But, if you frown upon this proffer'd peace. You tempt the fury of my three attendants. Lean famine, quartering steel, and climbing fire; Who in a moment even with the earth Shall lay your stately and air-braving towers, If you forsake the offer of their love. Gen. Thou ominous and fearful owl of death, Our nation's terror and their bloody scourge ! The period of thy tyranny approacheth. On us thou canst not enter but by death ; Eor, I protest, we are well fortified And strong enough to issue out and fight : If thou retire, the Dauphin, well appointed, Stands with the snares of war to tangle thee : On either hand thee there are squadrons pitch 'd, To wall thee from the liberty of flight ; And no way canst thou turn thee for redress, But death doth front thee with apparent spoil And pale destruction meets thee in the face. Ten thousand French have ta'en the sacrament To rive their dangerous artillery Upon no Christian soul but English Talbot. Lo, there thou stand'st, a breathing valiant man. Of an invincible unconquer'd spirit ! This is the latest glory of thy praise That I, thy enemy, due thee withal; For ere the glass, that now begins to run. Finish the process of his sandy hour. These eyes, that see thee now well coloured, Shall see thee wither'd, bloody, pale and dead. [Drum afar off. Hark ! hark ! the Dauphin's drum, a warning bell, Sings heavy music to thy timorous soul ; And mine shall ring thy dire departure out. [Exeunt General, &c. Tal. He fables not ; I hear the enemy : Out, some light horsemen, and peruse their wings. O, negligent and heedless discipline ! How are we park'd and bounded in a pale, A little herd of England's timorous deer. Mazed with a yelping kennel of French curs ! If we be English deer, be then in blood ; Not rascal-like, to fall down with a pinch, But rather, moody-mad and desperate stags. Turn on the bloody hounds with heads of steel And make the cowards stand aloof at bay : Sell every man his life as dear as mine. And they shall find dear deer of us, my friends. God and Saint George, Talbot and England's right, Prosper our colours in this dangerous fight! [Exeunt. SCENE III.— PZams in Gascony. Enter a Messenger that meets York. Enter York with trumpet and many Soldiers. York. Are not the speedy scouts return'd again, That dogg'd the mighty army of the Dauphin v Mess. They are returned, my lord, and give it out That he is march 'd to Bourdeaux with his power, To fight with Talbot: as he march 'd along, By your espials were discovered Two mightier troops than that the Dauphin led, Which join'd with him and made their march for Bourdeaux. York. A plague upon that villain Somerset, That thus delays my promised supply Of horsemen, that were levied for this siege ! Renowned Talbot doth expect my aid. And I am lowted by a traitor villain And cannot help the noble chevalier : God comfort him in this necessity ! If he miscarry, farewell wars in France. Enter Sir 'Williara Lucy. Lucy. Thou princely leader of our English strength, Never so needful on the earth of France, Spur to the rescue of the noble Talbot, Who now is girdled with a waist of iron And hemm'd about with grim destruction : To Bourdeaux, warlike duke! to Bourdeaux, York! Else, farewell Talbot, France, and England's hon- our. York. O God, that Somerset, who in proud heart Doth stop my cornets, were in Talbot's place ! So should we save a valiant gentleman By forfeiting a traitor and a coward. Mad ire and wrathful fury makes me weep, That thus we die, while remiss traitors sleep. iMcy. O, send some succour to the distress'd lord ! York. He dies, we lose ; I break my warlike word ; We mourn, France smiles ; we lose, they daily get ; All 'long of this vile traitor Somerset. [soul ; iMcy. Then God take mercy on brave Talbot's And on his son young John, who two hours since I met in travel toward his warlike father ! This seven years did not Talbot see his son ; And now they meet where both their lives are done. York. Alas, what joy shall noble Talbot have To bid his young son welcome to his grave ? Away ! vexation almost stops my breath, That sunder'd friends greet in the hour of death. Lucy, farewell: no more my fortune can, But curse the cause I cannot aid the man. Maine, Blois, Poictiers, and Tours are won away, 'Long all of Somerset and his delay. [Exit., loith his soldiers. Lucy. Thus, while the vulture of sedition Feeds in the bosom of such great commanders, Sleeping neglection doth betray to loss The conquest of our scarce cold conqueror. That ever living man of memory, Henry the Fifth : whiles they each other cross. Lives, honours, lands and all hurry to loss. [Exit. SCENE IV. — Other plains in Gascony. Enter Somerset, with his army ; a Captain of Talbot's with him. Som. It is too late ; I cannot send them now; This expedition was by York and Talbot 403 A^CT IV. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY VI scene vi. Too rashly plotted : all our general force Might with a sally of the very town Be buckled with : the over-daring Talbot Hath sullied all his gloss of former honour By this unheedful, desperate, wild adventure: York set him on to fight and die in shame, That, Talbot dead, great York might bear the name. Caxj. Here is Sir William Lucy, who with me Set from our o'ermatched forces forth for aid. Enter Sir 'William Lucy. Som. How now. Sir William ! whither were you sent ? [Lord Talbot ; Lucy. Whither, my lord ? from bought and sold Who, ring'd about with bold adversity. Cries out for noble York and Somerset, To beat assailing death from his weak legions: And whiles the honourable captain there Drops bloody sweat from his war-wearied limbs, And, in advantage lingering, looks for rescue. You, his false hopes, the trust of England's honour, Keep off aloof with worthless emulation. Let not your private discord keep away The levied succours that should lend him aid, While he, renowned noble gentleman. Yields up his life unto a world of odds : Orleans the Bastard, Charles, Burgundy, Alencon, Reignier, compass him about. And Talbot perisheth by your default. [him aid. Som. York set him on; York should have sent Lucy. And York as fast upon your grace exclaims ; Swearing that you withhold his levied host, Collected for this expedition. [horse; Som. York lies ; he might have sent and bad the I owe him little duty, and less love ; And take foul scorn to fawn on him by sending. Lucy. The f raudof England ,not the force of France, Hath now entrapp'd the noble-minded Talbot : Never to England shall he bear his life; But dies, betray 'd to fortune by your strife. Som. Come, go; I will dispatch the horsemen Within six hours they will be at his aid. [straight : iMcy. Too late comes rescue : he is ta'en or slain ; Eor fly he could not, if he would have fled; And fly would Talbot never, though he might. Som. If he be dead, brave Talbot, then adieu! Lucy. His fame lives in the world, his shame in you. [Exeunt. SCENE "V.—The English camp near Bourdeaux. Enter Talbot and John his son. Tal. O young John Talbot ! I did send for thee To tutor thee in stratagems of war. That Talbot's name might be in thee revived When sapless age and weak unable limbs Should bring thy father to his drooping chair. But, O malignant and ill-boding stars ! Now thou art come unto a feast of death, A terrible and unavoided danger : Therefore, dear boy, mount on my swiftest horse; And I '11 direct thee how thou shalt escape By sudden flight : come, dally not, be gone. John. Is my name Talbot ? and am I your son ? And shall I fly V O, if you love my mother. Dishonour not her honourable name. To make a bastard and a slave of me ! The world will say, he is not Talbot's blood. That basely fled when noble Talbot stood. Tal. Ely, to revenge my death, if I be slain. John. He that flies so will ne'er return again. Tal. If we both stay, we both are sure to die. John. Then let me stay; and, father, do you fly: Your loss is great, so your regard should be ; My worth unknown, no loss is known in me. Upon my death the French can little boast ; In yours they will, in you all hopes are lost. Flight cannot stain the honour you have won ; 404 But mine it will, that no exploit have done : You fled for vantage, every one will swear ; But, if I bow, they '11 say it was for fear. There is no hope that ever I will stay. If the first hour I shrink and run away. Here on my knee I beg mortality. Bather than life preserved with infamy. Tal. Shall all thy mother's hopes lie in one tomb ? John. Ay, rather than I '11 shame my mother's womb. Tal. Upon my blessing, I command thee go. John. To fight I will, but not to fly the foe. Tal. Part of thy father may be saved in thee. John. No part of him but will be shame in me. Tal. Thou never hadst renown, nor canst not lose it. [it? John. Yes, your renowned name: shall flight abuse Tal. Thy father's charge shall clear thee from that stain. John. You cannot witness for me, being slain. If death be so apparent, then both fly. Tal. And leave my followers here to fight and die ? My age was never tainted with such shame. John. And shall my youth be guilty of such blame? No more can I be sever'd from your side. Than can yourself yourself in twain divide : Stay, go, do what you will, the like do I ; For live I will not, if my father die. Tal. Then here I take my leave of thee, fair son, Born to eclipse thy life this afternoon. Come, side by side together live and die ; And soul with soul from France to heaven fly. [Exeunt. SCENE VI. —Afield of battle. Alarum: excursions, wherein Talbot's son is hemmed about, and Talbot rescues him. Tal. Saint George and victory! fight, soldiers, fight: The regent hath with Talbot broke his word And left us to the rage of France his sword. Where is John Talbot ? Pause , and take thy breath ; I gave thee life and rescued thee from death. John. O, twice my father, twice am I thy son! The life thou gavest me first was lost and done, Till with thy warlike sword, despite of fate. To my determined time thou gavest new date. Tal. When from the Dauphin's crest thy sword struck fire, It warm'd thy father's heart with proud desire Of bold-faced victory. Then leaden age, Quicken 'd with youthful spleen and warlike rage, Beat down Alencon, Orleans, Burgundy, And from the pride of Gallia rescued thee. The ireful bastard Orleans, that drew blood From thee, my boy, and had the maidenhood Of thy first fight, I soon encountered. And interchanging blows I quickly shed Some of his bastard blood ; and m disgrace Bespoke him thus; ' Contaminated, base And misbegotten blood I spill of thine. Mean and right poor, for that pure blood of mine Which thou didst force from Talbot, my brave boy;* Here, purposing the Bastard to destroy. Came in strong rescue. Speak, thy father's care, Art thou not weary, John ? how dost thou fare ? Wilt thou yet leave the battle, boy, and fly. Now thou art seal'd the son of chivalry ? Fly, to revenge my death when I am dead : The help of one stands me m little stead. O, too much folly is it, well I wot, To hazard all our lives in one small boat ! If I to-day die not with Frenchmen's rage, To-morrow I shall die with mickle age : By me they nothing gain an if I stay ; 'T is but the shortening of my life one day : In thee thy motlier dies, our household's name. My death's revenge, thy youth, and England's fame: ACT V. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY VI SCENE I. All these and more we hazard by thy stay; All these are saved if thou wilt fly away, [smart ; John. The sword of Orleans hath not made me These words of yours draw life-blood from my heart : On that advantage, bought with such a shame, To save a paltry life and slay bright fame, Before young Talbot from old Talbot fly, The coward horse that bears me fall and die ! And like me to the peasant boys of France, To be shame's scorn and subject of mischance! Surely, by all the glory you have won, An if I fly, I am not Talbot's son : Then talk no more of flight, it is no boot ; If son to Talbot, die at Talbot's foot. Tal. Then follow thou thy desperate sire of Crete, Thou Icarus ; thy life to me is sweet : If thou wilt fight, fight by thy father's side ; And, commendable proved, let 's die in pride. [Exeunt. SCENE Yll. — Another part of the field. Alarum : excursions. Enter old Talbot led by a Servant. Tal. Where is my other life ? mine ovm is gone ; 0, where 's young Talbot ? where is valiant John V Triumphant death, smear 'd with captivity. Young Talbot's valour makes me smile at thee: When he perceived me shrink and on my knee, His bloody sword he brandish 'd over me, And, like a hungry lion, did commence Rough deeds of rage and stern impatience ; But when my angry guardant stood alone, Tendering my ruin and assail'd of none, Dizzy-eyed fury and great rage of heart Suddenly made him from my side to start Into the clustering battle of the French ; And in that sea of blood my boy did drench His over-mounting spirit, and there died. My Icarus, my blossom, in his pride. Serv. O my dear lord, lo, where your son is borne! Enter Soldiers, with the body of young Talbot. Tal. Thou antic death, which laugh'st us here to Anon, from thy insulting tyranny, [scorn, Coupled in bonds of perpetuity. Two Talbots, winged through the lither sky, In thy despite shall 'scape mortality. O thou, whose wounds become hard-favour'd death, Speak to thy father ere thou yield thy breath ! Brave death by speaking, whether he will or no ; Imagine him a Frenchman and thy foe. Poor boy ! he smiles, methinks, as who should say. Had death been French, then death had died to-day. Come, come and lay him in his father's arms : My spirit can no longer bear these harms. Soldiers, adieu ! I have what I would have, jSTow my old arms are young John Talbot's grave. [Dies. Enter Charles, Alengon, Burgundy, Bastard, La Pucelle, and forces. Char. Had York and Somerset brought rescue in. We should have found a bloody day of this. Bast. How the young whelp of Talbot's, raging- wood. Did flesh his puny sword in Frenchmen's blood ! Puc. Once I encounter'd him, and thus I said : ' Thou maiden youth, be vanquish 'd by a maid : ' But, with a proud majestical high scorn, He answer'd thus : ' Young Talbot was not bom To be the pillage of a giglot wench : ' So, rushing in the bowels of the French, He left me proudly, as unworthy fight. [knight : Bur. Doubtless he would have made a noble See, where he lies inhearsed in the arms Of the most bloody nurser of his harms ! [der. Bast. Hew them to pieces, hack their bones asun- Whose life was England's glory, Gallia's wonder. Char. O, no, forbear! for that which we have fled During the life, let us not wrong it dead. Enter Sir 'Williani Lucy, attended; Herald of the French preceding. Lucy. Herald, conduct me to the Dauphin's tent. To know who hath obtain 'd the glory of the day. Char. On what submissive message art thou sent? Lucy. Submission, Dauphin ! 't is a mere French word; We English warriors wot not what it means. I come to know what prisoners thou hast ta'en And to survey the bodies of the dead. [is. Char. For prisoners ask'st thou ? hell our prison But tell me whom thou seek'st. Lucy. But where 's the great Alcides of the field. Valiant Lord Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, Created, for his rare success in arms. Great Earl of Washford, Waterford and Yalence ; Lord Talbot of Goodrig and Urchinfield, Lord Strange of Blackmere, Lord Verdun of Alton, Lord Cromwell of Wingfield, Lord Furnival of Sheffield, The thrice-victorious Lord of Falconbridge ; Knight of the noble order of Saint George, Worthy Saint Michael and the Golden Fleece ; Great marshal to Henry the Sixth Of all his wars within the realm of France ? Puc. Here is a silly stately style indeed ! The Turk, that two and fifty kingdoms hath, Writes not so tedious a style as this. Him that thou magnifiest with all these titles Stinking and fly-blown lies here at our feet. Lu/iy. Is Talbot slain, the Frenchmen's only scourge. Your kingdom's terror and black Nemesis ? O, were mine eye-balls into bullets turn'd. That I in rage might shoot them at your faces ! O, that I could but call these dead to life ! It were enough to fright the realm of France : Were but his picture left amongst you here, It would amaze the proudest of you all. Give me their bodies, that I may bear them hence And give them burial as beseems their worth. Puc. I think this upstart is old Talbot's ghost. He speaks with such a proud commanding spirit. For God's sake, let him have 'em ; to keep them here. They would but stink, and putrefy the air. Char. Go, take their bodies hence. Lucy. I '11 bear them hence ; but from their ashes shall be rear'd A phoenix that shall make all France afeard. Char. So we be rid of them, do with 'em what thou And now to Paris, in this conquering vein : [wilt. All wiU be ours, now bloody Talbot 's slain. [Exeunt. -A.CT V. SCENE 1.— London. The palace. Sennet. Enter King, Gloucester, and Exeter. King. Have you perused the letters from the pope, The emperor and the Earl of Armagnac ? Glou. 1 have, my lord : and their intent is this : They humbly sue unto your excellence To have a godly peace concluded of Between the realms of England and of France, King. How doth your grace affect their motion ? Glou. Well, my good lord ; and as the only means 405 ACT V. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY VI scene hi. To stop effusion of our Christian blood And stablish quietness on every side. King. Ay, marry, uncle ; for I always thought It was both impious and unnatural That such immanity and bloody strife Should reign among professors of one faith. Gloii,. Beside, my lord, the sooner to eifect And surer bind this knot of amity. The Earl of Armagnac, near knit to Charles, A man of great authority in France, Proffers his only daughter to your grace In marriage, with a large and sumptuous dowry. Kinij. Marriage, uncle ! alas, my years are young I And fitter is my study and my books Than wanton dalliance with a paramour. Yet call the ambassadors ; and, as you please, So let them have their answers every one : I shall be well content with any choice Tends to God's glory and my country's weal. Enter Winchester in CardinaVs habit, a Legate and two Ambassadors. Exe. "What ! is my Lord of "Winchester install'd, And call'd unto a cardinal's degree ? Then I perceive that will be verified Henry the Fifth did sometime prophesy, ' If once he come to be a cardinal. He '11 make his cap co-equal with the crown.' King. My lords ambassadors, your several suits Have been consider'd and debated on. Your purpose is both good and reasonable ; And therefore are we certainly resolved To draw conditions of a friendly peace ; Which by my Lord of Winchester we mean Shall be transported presently to France. Glou. And for the proffer of my lord your master, I have inform'd his highness so at large As liking of the lady's virtuous gifts, Her beauty and the value of her dower. He doth intend she shall be England's queen. King. In argument and proof of which contract, Bear her this jewel, pledge of my affection. And so, my lord protector, see them guarded And safely brought to Dover; where inshipp'd Commit them to the fortune of the sea. [Exeimt all but Winchester and Legate. Win. Stay, my lord legate : you shall first receive The sum of money which I promised Should be deliver'd to his holiness For clothing me in these grave ornaments. Leg. I will attend upon your lordship's leisure. Win. [Aside] Now "Winchester will not submit, I Or be inferior to the proudest peer. [trow, Humphrey of Gloucester, thou shalt well perceive That, neither in birth or for authority, The bishop will be overborne by thee : I '11 either make thee stoop and bend thy knee. Or sack this country with a mutiny. [Exeunt. SCENE II. — France. Plains in Anjou. Enter Charles, Burgundy, Alenpon, Bastard, Reignier, La Pucelle, and forces. CJiar. These news, my lords, may cheer our droop- ing spirits : 'T is said the stout Parisians do revolt And turn again unto the warlike French. [France, Alen. Then march to Paris, royal Charles of And keep not back your powers in dalliance. Puc. Peace be amongst them, if they turn to us; Else, ruin combat with their palaces ! Enter Scout. Scout. Success unto our valiant general, And happiness to his accomplices ! [speak. Char. AVhat tidings send our scouts ? I prithee, Scout. The English army, that divided was Into two parties, is now conjoin'd in one. And means to give you battle presently. Char. Somewhat too sudden, sirs, the warning is: But we will presently provide for them. Bur. I trust the ghost of Talbot is not there : Now he is gone, my lord, you need not fear. Puc. Of all base passions, fear is most accursed. Command the conquest, Charles, it shall be thine. Let Henry fret and all the world repine. Char. Then on, my lords; and France be for- tunate! [Exeunt. SCENE 111. — Before Angiers. Alarum. Excursions. Enter La Pucelle. Puc. The regent conquers, and the Frenchmen Now help, ye charming spells and periapts ; [fly. And ye choice spirits that admonish me And give me signs of future accidents. [Thunder. You speedy helpers, that are substitutes Under the lordly monarch of the north, Appear and aid me in this enterprise. Miter Fiends. This speedy and quick appearance argues proof Of your accustom'd diligence to me. Now, ye familiar spirits, that are cuU'd Out of the powerful regions under earth. Help me this once, that France may get the field. [They walk, and speak not. O, hold me not with silence over-long ! Where I was wont to feed you with my blood, I '11 lop a member off and give it you In earnest of a further benefit. So you do condescend to help me now. [They hang their heads. No hope to have redress ? My body shall Pay recompense, if you will grant my suit. [They shake their heads. Cannot my body nor blood-sacrifice Entreat you to your wonted furtherance ? Then take my soul, my body, soul and aU, Before that England give the French the foil. [They depart. See, they forsake me ! Now the time is come That France must vail her lofty-plumed crest And let her head fall into England's lap. My ancient incantations are too weak. And hell too strong for me to buckle with : Now, France, thy glory droopeth to the dust. [Exit. Excursions. Re-enter La Pucelle fighting hand to hand with York : La Pucelle is taken. The French fly. York. Damsel of France, I think I have you fast : Unchain your spirits now with spelling charms And try if they can gain your liberty. A goodly prize, fit for the devil's grace ! See, how the ugly wench doth bend her brows, As if with Circe she would change my shape ! Puc. Changed to a worser shape thou canst not be. York. O, Charles the Dauphin is a proper man; No shape but his can please your dainty eye. Puc. A plaguing mischief light on Charles and And may ye both be suddenly surprised [thee ! By bloody hands, in sleeping on your beds ! York. Fell banning hag, enchantress, hold thy tongue ! Pu£. I prithee, give me leave to ci;rse awhile. York. Curse, miscreant, when thou comest to the stake. [Exeunt. > hand. Alarum. Enter Suflfolk, with Margaret in i y pri! Gazes on her. Suf. Be what thou wilt, thou art my prisoner. [G fairest beauty, do not fear nor fly ! For I will touch thee but with reverent hands ; 1 kiss these fingers for eternal peace, ACT V. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY VI scene hi. And lay them gently on thy tender side. Who art thou ? say, that I may honour thee. liar. Margaret my name, and daughter to a king, The King of Naples, whosoe'er thou art. Suf. An earl I am, and Suffolk am I call'd. Be not offended, nature's miracle, Thou art allotted to be ta'en by me : So doth the swan her downy cygnets save, Keeping them prisoner miderneath her wings. Yet, if this servile usage once offend. Go and be free again as Suffolk's friend. [*S7ie is going. O, stay ! I have no power to let her pass ; My liand would free her, but my heart says no. As plays the sun upon the glassy streams. Twinkling another counterfeited beam. So seems this gorgeous beauty to mine eyes. Fain would I woo her, yet I dare not speak: I '11 call for pen and ink, and write my mind. Fie, de la Pole ! disable not thyself ; Hast not a tongue ? is she not here ? "Wilt thou be daunted at a woman's sight ? Ay, beauty's princely majesty is such. Confounds the tongue and makes the senses rough. - Mar. Say, Earl of Suffolk — if thy name be so — What ransom must I pay before I pass ? For I perceive I am thy prisoner. Suf. How canst thou tell she will deny thy suit, Before thou make a trial of her love ? [I pay ? Mar. Why speak'st thou not !* what ransom must Suf. She 's beautiful and therefore to be woo'd: She IS a woman, therefore to be won. Mar. Wilt thou accept of ransom ? yea, or no. Suf. Fond man, remember that thou hast a wife ; Then how can Margaret be thy paramour ? Mar. I were best to leave him, for he will not hear. Sijf. There all is marr'd ; there lies a cooling card. Mur. He talks at random ; sure, the man is mad. Sitf. And yet a dispensation may be had. Mar. And yet I would that you would answer me. Suf. I '11 win this Lady Margaret. For whom V Why, for my king : tush, that 's a wooden thing ! Ifar. He talks of wood : it is some carpenter. Suf. Yet so my fancy may be satisfied. And peace established between these realms. But there remains a scruple in that too ; For thouo-h her father be the King of IsTaples, Duke of Anjou and Maine, yet is he poor, And our nobility will scorn the match. Mar. Hear ye, captain, are you not at leisure ? Sif. It shall be so, disdain they ne'er so much: Henry is youthful and will quickly yield. Madam, I have a secret to reveal. [knight, Mar. What though I be enthrall'd ? he seems a And will not any way dishonour me. Sijf. Lady, vouchsafe to listen what I say. Mar. Perhaps I shall be rescued by the French; And then I need not crave his courtesy. Suf. Sweet madam, give me hearing in a cause — Mar. Tush, women have been captivate ere now. Sif. Lady, wherefore talk you so ? Imr. I cry you mercy, 't is but Quid for Quo. Suf. Say, gentle princess, would you not suppose Your bondage happy, to be made a queen ? Mar. To be a queen in bondage is more vile Than is a slave in base servility ; For princes should be free. Suf. And so shall you, If happy England's royal king be free. Mar. Why, what concerns his freedom unto me ? Suf. I '11 undertake to make thee Henry's queen, To put a golden sceptre in thy hand And set a precious crown upon thy head, If thou wilt condescend to be my — Mar. What ? Sijf. His love. Mar. I am unworthy to be Henry's wife. Suf. No, gentle madam ; I unworthy am To woo so fair a dame to be his wife And have no portion in the choice myself. How say you, madam, are ye so content ? Mar. An if my father please, I am content. Suf. Then call our captains and our colours forth. And, madam, at your father's castle walls We '11 crave a parley, to confer with him. A parley sounded. Enter Reignier on the walls. See, Reignier, see, thy daughter prisoner! Beig. To whom ? Suf. To me. Beig. Suffolk, what remedy ? I am a soldier and unapt to weep Or to exclaim on fortune's fickleness. Suf. Yes, there is remedy enough, my lord: Consent, and for thy honour give consent, Thy daughter shall be wedded to my king ; Whom I with pain have woo'd and won thereto; And this her easy-held imprisonment Hath gain'd thy daughter princely liberty. Beig. Speaks Suffolk as he thinks ? Suf. Fair Margaret knows That Suffolk doth not flatter, face, or feign. Beig. Upon thy princely warrant, I descend To give thee answer of thy just demand. [Exit from the walls, Suf. And here I will expect thy coming. Trumpets sound. Enter Reignier, below. Beig. Welcome, brave earl, into our territories: Command in Anjou what your honour pleases. Suf. Thanks, Reignier, happyfor so sweet achild, Fit to be made companion with a king : What answer makes your grace unto my suit ? Beig. Since thou dost deign to woo her little worth To be the princely bride of such a lord ; Upon condition I may quietly Enjoy mine own, the country Maine and Anjou, Free from oppression or the stroke of war, My daughter shall be Henry's, if he please. Suf. That is her ransom ; I deliver her ; And those two counties I will undertake Your grace shall well and quietly enjoy. Beig. And I again, in Henry's royal name, As deputy unto that gracious king. Give thee her hand, for sign of plighted faith. Suf. Reignier of France, I give thee kingly thanks. Because this is in traffic of a king. [Aside] And yet, methinks, I could be well content To be mine own attorney in this case. I '11 over then to England with this news, And make this marriage to be solemnized. So farewell, Reignier : set this diamond safe In golden palaces, as it becomes. Jtieig. I do embrace thee, as I would embrace The Christian prince, King Henry, were he here. Mar. Farewell, my lord : good wishes, praise and prayers Shall Suffolk ever have of Margaret. [Going. Suf. Farewell, sweet madam : but hark you, Mar'^ No princely commendations to my king ? [garet ; Mar. Such commendations as becomes a maid, A virgin and his servant, say to him. Suf. Words sweetly placed and modestly directed. But, madam, I must trouble you again ; No loving token to his majesty V Mar. Yes, my good lord, a pure unspotted heart, Never yet taint with love, I send the king. Sif. And this withal. [Kisses her. Mar. That for thyself: I will not so presume To send such peevish tokens to a king. [Exeunt Beignier and Margaret. Suf. O, wert thou for myself ! But, Suffolk, stay ; Thou mayst not wander in that labyrinth ; There Minotaurs and ugly treasons lurk. 407 ACT V. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY VI scene iv. Solicit Henry with her wondrous praise : Betlaink thee on her virtues that surmount, And natural graces that extinguish art ; Repeat their semblance often on the seas, That, when thou comest to kneel at Henry's feet, Thou mayst bereave him of his wits with wonder. iExit. SCENE IV. — Camp of the Duke of York in Anjou. Enter York, "War-wick, and others. York. Bring forth that sorceress condemn'd to bum. Enter La Pucelle, guarded, and a Shepherd. Shep. Ah, Joan, this kills thy father's heart out- Have I sought every country far and near, [right ! And, now it is my chance to find thee out, Must I behold thy timeless cruel death ? Ah, Joan, sweet daughter Joan, I '11 die with thee! Puc. Decrepit miser ! base ignoble wretch ! I am descended of a gentler blood : Thou art no father nor no friend of mine, [not so*, Shep. Out, out! My lords, an please you, 'tis I did beget her, all the parish knows : Her mother liveth yet, can testify She was the first fruit of my bachelorship. War. Graceless ! wilt thou deny thy parentage ? York. This argues what her kind of life hath been, "Wicked and vile ; and so her death concludes. Shep. Fie, Joan, that thou wilt be so obstacle ! God knows thou art a collop of my flesh ; And for thy sake have I shed many a tear : Deny me not, I prithee, gentle Joan. [man, Puc. Peasant, avaunt ! You have suborn'd this Of purpose to obscure my noble birth. Shep. 'T is true, I gave a noble to the priest The morn that I was wedded to her mother. Kneel down and take my blessing, good my girl. "Wilt thou not stoop ? Now cursed be the time Of thy nativity ! I would the milk Thy mother gave thee when thou suck'dst her breast. Had been a little ratsbane for thy sake ! Or else, when thou didst keep my lambs a-field, I wish some ravenous wolf had eaten thee ! Dost thou deny thy father, cursed drab ? O, burn her, burn her ! hanging is too good. [Exit. York. Take her away ; for she hath lived too long. To fill the world with vicious qualities, [demn'd: Puc. First, let me tell you whom you have con- Not me begotten of a shepherd swain. But issued from the progeny of kings ; Virtuous and holy; chosen from above. By inspiration of celestial grace. To work exceeding miracles on earth. I never had to do with wicked spirits : But you, that are polluted with your lusts, Stain'd with the guiltless blood of innocents. Corrupt and tainted with a thousand vices. Because you want the grace that others have, You judge it straight a thing impossible To compass wonders but by help of devils. No, misconceived ! Joan of Arc hath been A virgin from her tender infancy, Chaste and immaculate in very thought ; "Whose maiden blood, thus rigorously effused. Will cry for vengeance at the gates of heaven. York. Ay, ay : away with her to execution ! War. And hark ye, sirs ; because she is a maid. Spare for no faggots, let there be enow : Place barrels of pitch upon the fatal stake, That so her torture may be shortened. Puc. "Will nothing turn your unrelenting hearts ? Then, Joan, discover thine infirmity. That warranteth by law to be thy privilege. I am with child, ye bloody homicides : Murder not then the fruit within my womb, Although ye hale me to a violent death. [child ! York. Now heaven f orf end ! the holy maid with 408 War. The greatest miracle that e'er ye wrought : Is all your strict preciseness come to this ? York. She and the Dauphin have been juggling: I did imagine what would be her refuge. War. "Well, go to; we '11 have no bastards live; Especially since Charles must father it. Puc. You are deceived ; my child is none of his : It was AlenQon that enjoy'd my love. York. Alengou ! that notorious Machiavel ! It dies, an if it had a thousand lives. Puc. O, give me leave, I have deluded you: 'T was neither Charles nor yet the duke I named. But Eeignier, king of Naples, that prevail'd. War. A married man ! that 's most intolerable. York. "Why, here 's a girl ! I think she knows not well. There were so many, whom she may accuse. War. It 's sign she hath been liberal and free. York. And yet, forsooth, she is a virgin pure. Strumpet, thy words condemn thy brat and thee: Use no entreaty, for it is in vain. [curse : Puc. Then lead me hence ; with whom I leave my May never glorious sun reflex his beams Upon the country where you make abode ; But darkness and the gloomy shade of death Environ you, till mischief and despair Drive you to break your necks or hang yourselves ! [Exit, guarded. York. Break thou in pieces and consume to ashes, Thou foul accursed minister of hell I Enter Cardinal Beaufort, Bishop of "Winchester, attended. Car. Lord regent, I do greet your excellence "With letters of commission from the king. For know, my lords, the states of Christendom, Moved with remorse of these outrageous broils, Have earnestly implored a general peace Betwixt our nation and the aspiring French ; And here at hand the Dauphin and his train Approacheth, to confer about some matter. York. Is all our travail turn'd to this effect ? After the slaughter of so many peers, So many captains, gentlemen and soldiers. That in this quarrel have been overthrown And sold their bodies for their country's benefit* Shall we at last conclude effeminate peace ? Have we not lost most part of all the towns, By treason, falsehood and by treachery, Our great progenitors had conquered ? O, "Warwick, "Warwick ! I foresee with grief The utter loss of all the realm of France. War. Be patient, York : if we conclude a peace, It shall be with such strict and severe covenants As little shall the Frenchmen gain thereby. Enter Charles, Alen9on, Bastard, Reignier, and others. Char. Since, lords of England, it is thus agreed That peaceful truce shall be proclaim'd in France, "We come to be informed by yourselves "What the conditions of that league must be. York. Speak, "Winchester; for boiling choler chok^a The hollow passage of my poison'd voice. By sight of these our baleful enemies. Win. Charles, and the rest, it is enacted thus: That, in regard King Henry gives consent. Of mere compassion and of lenity. To ease your country of distressful war. And suffer you to breathe in fruitful peace, You shall become true liegemen to his crown ; And, Charles, upon condition thou wilt swear To pay him tribute, and submit thyself, Thou Shalt be placed as viceroy under him. And still enjoy thy regal dignity. Alen. Must he be then as shadow of himself ? Adorn his temples with a. coronet, And yet, in substance and authority. ACT V. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY VI SCENE V. Retain but privilege of a private man ? This proffer is absurd and reasonless. Char. 'Tis known already that I am possess'd AVith more than half the Gallian territories, And therein reverenced for their lawful king : Sliall I, for lucre of the rest unvanquish'd, Detract so much from that prerogative, As to be call'd but viceroy of the whole ? No, lord ambassador, I '11 rather keep That which I have than, coveting for more, Be cast from possibility of all. [means York. Insulting Charles! hast thou by secret Used intercession to obtain a league. And, now the matter grows to compromise, Stand'st thou aloof upon comparison ? Either accept the title thou usurp'st, Of benefit proceeding from our king And not of any challenge of desert, Or we will plague thee with incessant wars. JReig. My lord, you do not well in obstinacy To cavil in the course of this contract : If once it be neglected, ten to one We shall not find like opportunity. Alen. To say the truth, it is your policy . To save your subjects from such massacre And ruthless slaughters as are daily seen By our proceeding in hostility ; Ajid therefore take this compact of a truce, Although you break it when your pleasure serves. War. How say'st thou, Charles i* shall our condi- Char. It shall ; [tion stand ? Only reserved, you claim no interest In any of our towns of garrison. York. Then swear allegiance to his majesty, As thou art knight, never to disobey Nor be rebellious to the crown of England, Thou, nor thy nobles, to the crown of England. So, now dismiss your army when ye please ; Hang up your ensigns, let your drums be still, For here we entertain a solemn peace. [Exeunt. SCENE V. — London. The palace. Enter Suffolk in conference with the King, Glou- cester and Exeter. King. Your wondrous rare description, noble earl, Of beauteous Margaret hath astonish 'd me : Her virtues graced with external gifts Do breed love's settled passions in my heart: And like as rigour of tempestuous gusts Provokes the mightiest hulk against the tide, So am I driven by breath of her renown Either to suffer shipwreck or arrive Where I may have fruition of her love. Suf. Tush, my good lord, this superficial tale Is but a preface of her worthy praise ; The chief perfections of that lovely dame. Had 1 sufficient skill to utter them. Would make a volume of enticing lines. Able to ravish any dull conceit : And, which is more, she is not so divine, So full-replete with choice of all delights, But with as humble lowliness of mind She is content to be at your command ; Command, I mean, of virtuous chaste intents, To love and honour Henry as her lord. King. And otherwise will Henry ne'er presume. Therefore, my lord protector, give consent That Margaret may be England's royal queen. Glou. So should I give consent to flatter sin. You know, my lord, your highness is betroth 'd Unto another lady of esteem : How shall we then dispense with that contract. And not deface your honour with reproach ? Suf. As doth a ruler with unlawful oaths ; Or one that, at a triumph having vow'd To try his strength, forsaketh yet the lists By reason of his adversary's odds : A poor earl's daughter is unequal odds, And therefore may be broke without offence. Glou. Why, what, I pray, is Margaret more than Her father is no better than an earl, [that ? Although in glorious titles he excel. Suf. Yes, my lord, her father is a king. The King of Naples and Jerusalem ; And of such great authority in Prance As his alliance will confirm our peace And keep the Frenchmen in allegiance. Glou. And so the Earl of Armagnac may do, Because he is near kinsman unto Charles, [dower, Exe. Beside, his wealth doth warrant a liberal Where Reignier sooner will receive than give. Suf. A dower, my lords ! disgrace not so your king, That he should be so abject, base and poor. To choose for wealth and not for perfect love. Henry is able to enrich his queen And not to seek a queen to make him rich : So worthless peasants bargain for their wives, As market-men for oxen, sheep, or horse. Marriage is a matter of more worth Than to be dealt in by attorneyship ; Not whom we will, but whom his grace affects, Must be companion of his nuptial bed : And therefore, lords, since he affects her most, It most of all these reasons bindeth us, In our opinions she should be preferr 'd. For what is wedlock forced but a hell, An age of discord and continual strife ? Whereas the contrary bringeth bliss. And is a pattern of celestial peace. Whom should we match with Henry, being a king, But Margaret, that is daughter to a' king ? Her peerless feature, joined with her birth, Approves her fit for none but for a king : Her valiant courage and undaunted spirit. More than in women commonly is seen. Will answer our hope in issue of a king ; For Henry, son unto a conqueror. Is likely to beget more conquerors. If with a lady of so high resolve As is fair Margaret he be link'd in love. Then yield, my lords ; and here conclude with me That Margaret shall be queen, and none but she. King. Whether it be through force of your report. My noble Lord of Suffolk, or for that My tender youth was never yet attaint With any passion of inflaming love, I cannot tell ; but this I am assured, I feel such sharp dissension in my breast. Such fierce alarums both of hope and fear. As I am sick with working of my thoughts. Take, therefore, shipping ; post, my lord, to France ; Agree to any covenants, and procure That Lady Margaret do vouchsafe to come To cross the seas to England and be crown'd King Henry's faithful and anointed queen : For your expenses and sufficient charge, Among the people gather up a tenth. Be gone, I say ; for, till you do return, I rest perplexed with a thousand cares. And you, good uncle, banish all offence : If you do censure me by what you were. Not what you are, I know it will excuse This sudden execution of my will. And so, conduct me where, from company, I may revolve and ruminate my grief. [Exit. Glou. Ay, grief, I fear me, both at first and last, [Exeunt Gloucester and Exeter. Suf. Thus Suffolk hath prevailed; and thus he As did the youthful Paris once to Greece, [goes, With hope to find the like event in love, But prosper better than the Trojan did. Margaret shalUrow be queen, and rule the king; But I will rule both her, the king and realm. [Exit. THE SECOND PART OF KING HENEY THE SIXTH. DBAMATI8 PERSONS. King Henry the Sixth. Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, his uncle. Cardinal Beaufort, Bishop of Winchester, great- uncle to the King. Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York. Edward and Richard, his sons. Puke of Somerset. Puke of Suffolk. Puke of Buckingham. Iiord Clifford. Young Clifford, his son. Earl of Salisbury. Earl of Warwick. Lord Scales. Lord Say. Sir Humphrey Staflford, and William Staf- ford, his brother. Sir John Stanley. Vaux. Matthew Goflfe. A Sea-captain, Master, and Master's-Mate, and Walter Whitmore. Two Gentlemen, prisoners with Suffolk. John Hume and John Southwell, priests. Bolinghroke, a conjurer. Thomas Horner, an armourer. Peter, his man. Clerk of Chatham. Mayor of Saint Alban's. Simpcox, an impostor. Alexander Iden, a Kentish gentleman. Jack Cade, a rebel. George Bevis, John Holland, Dick the butcher Smith the weaver, Michael, &c., followers of Cade. Two Murderers. Margaret, Queen to King Henry. Eleanor, Duchess of Gloucester. Margaret Jourdain, a witch. Wife to Simpcox. Lords, Ladies, and Attendants, Petitioners, Aldermen, a Herald, a Beadle, Sheriif, and Officers, Citizens, 'Pr^i- tices. Falconers, Guards, Soldiers, Messengers, &c. [Fc SCENE I.— ion(^on. Thepalac SCENE Plot of this Play, see Page LVIl.] A Spirit. England. A.CT I. Flourish of trumpets: then hautboys. Enter the King, Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, Salisbury, War- wick, and Cardinal Beaufort, on the one side; the Queen, Suffolk, York, Somerset, and Buckingham, on the other . Suf. As by your high imperial majesty I hacl in charge at my depart for France, As procurator to your excellence, To marry Princess Margaret for your grace. So, in the famous ancient city Tours, In presence of the Kings of France and Sicil, [con. The Dukes of Orleans, Calaber, Bretagne and Alen- Seven earls, twelve barons and twenty reverend bishops, I have perform'd my task and was espoused : And humbly now upon my bended knee. In sight of England and her lordly peers. Deliver up my title in the queen To your most gracious hands, that are the substance Of that great shadow I did represent ; The happiest gift that ever marquess gave, The fairest queen that ever king received. King. Suffolk, arise. Welcome, Queen Margaret: I can express no kinder sign of love Than this kind kiss. O Lord, that lends me life, Lend me a heart replete with thankfulness ! For thou hast given me in this beauteous face A world of earthly blessings to my soul, If sympathy of love unite our thoughts. [lord, Queen. Great King of England and my gracious 410 The mutual conference that my mind hath had, By day, by night, waking and in my dreams, In courtly company or at my beads. With you, mine alder-liefest sovereign, Makes me the bolder to salute my king With ruder terms, such as my wit affords And over-joy of heart doth minister. King. Her sight did ravish; but her grace in speech. Her words y-clad with wisdom's majesty. Makes me from wondering fall to weeping joys ; Such is the fulness of my heart's content. Lords, with one cheerful voice welcome my love. All [kneeling]. Long live Queen Margaret, Eng- land's happiness! Queen. We thank you all. [Flourish. Suff. My lord protector, so it please your grace, Here are the articles of contracted peace Between our sovereign and the French king Charles, For eighteen months concluded by consent. Glou. [Beads] 'Imprimis, It is agreed between the French king Charles, and William de la Pole, Mar- quess of Suffolk, ambassador for Henry King of England, that the said Henry shall espouse the Lady Margaret, daughter unto Keignier King of Naples, Sicilia and Jerusalem, and crown her Queen of England ere the thirtieth of May next ensuing. Item, that the duchy of Anjou and the comity of Maine shall be released and delivered to tlie king her father ' — [Lets the paver fall. King. Uncle, how now! Olou. [Lets the pajser fall Pardon me, gracious lord ; ACT I. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI. scene i. Some sudden qualm hath struck me at the heart And dimm'd mine eyes, that I can read no further. King. Uncle of Winchester, I pray, read on. Car. [Reads] ' Item, It is further agreed between them, that the duchies of Anjou and Maine shall be released and delivered over to the king her father, and she sent over of the King of England's own proper cost and charges, without having any dowry. ' King. They please us well. Lord marquess, kneel down : "We here create thee the first duke of Suffolk, And gird thee with the sword. Cousin of York, We here discharge your grace from being regent I' the parts of France, till term of eighteen months Be full expired. Thanks, uncle Winchester, Gloucester, York, Buckingham, Somerset, Salisbury, and Warwick ; We thank you all for this great favour done, In entertainment to my princely queen. Come, let us in, and with all speed provide To see her coronation be perform 'd. [Exeunt King, Queen, and Suffolk. Glou. Brave peers of England, pillars of the state, To you Duke Humphrey must unload his grief, - Your grief, the common grief of all the land. What ! did my brother Henry spend his youth, His valour, coin and people, in the wars ? Did he so often lodge in open field, In winter's cold and summer's parching heat, To conquer France, his true inheritance ? And did my brother Bedford toil his wits, To keep by policy what Henry got ? Have you yourselves, Somerset, Buckingham, Brave York, Salisbury, and victorious Warwick, Received deep scars in France and Normandy r" Or' hath mine uncle Beaufort and myself. With all the learned council of the realm, Studied so long, sat in the council-house Early and late, debating to and fro How France and Frenchmen might be kept in awe, And had his highness in his infancy Crowned in Paris in despite of foes ? And shall these labours and these honoxirs die ? Shall Henry's conquest, Bedford's vigilance. Your deeds of war and all our counsel die ? peers of England, shameful is this league ! Fatal this marriage, cancelling your fame. Blotting your names from books of memory, Razing the characters of your renown, Defacing monuments of conquer'd France, Undoing all, as all had never been ! [course, Car. ISTephew, what means this passionate dis- This peroration with such circumstance ? For France, 't is ours ; and we will keep it still. Glou. Ay, uncle, we will keep it, if we can; But now it is impossible we should : Suffolk, the new-made duke that rules the roast, Hath given the duchy of Anjou and Maine Unto the poor King Reignier, whose large style Agrees not with the leanness of his purse. Sal. Now, by the death of Him that died for all, These counties were the keys of Normandy, But wherefore weeps Warwick, my valiant son ? War. For grief that they are past recovery: For, were there hope to conquer them again, My sword should shed hot blood, mine eyes no tears. Anjou and Maine ! myself did win them both ; Those provinces these arms of mine did conquer : And are the cities, that I got with wounds, Deliver'd up again with peaceful words ? Mort Dieu ! York. For Suffolk's duke, may he be suffocate. That dims the honour of this warlike isle ! France should have torn and rent my very heart. Before I would have yielded to this league. 1 never read but England's kings have had Large sums of gold and dowries with their wives ; And our King Henry gives away his own. To match with her that brings no vantages. Glou. A proper jest, and never heard before. That Suffolk should demand a whole fifteenth For costs and charges in transporting her ! She should have stayed in France and starved in Before— [France, Car. My Lord of Gloucester, now ye grow too It was the pleasure of my lord the king. [hot : Glou. My Lord of Winchester, I know your mind ; 'T is not my speeches that you do mislike. But 'tis my presence that doth trouble ye. Rancour will out : proud prelate, in thy face I see thy fury : if I longer stay. We shall begin our ancient bickerings. Lordings, farewell ; and say, when I am gone, I prophesied France will be lost ere long. [Exit. Car. So, there goes our protector in a rage. 'T is known to you he is mine enemy, Nay, more, an enemy unto you all. And no great friend, I fear me, to the king. Consider, lords, he is the next of blood, And heir apparent to the English crown: Had Henry got an empire by his marriage, And all the wealthy kingdoms of the west, There 's reason he should be displeased at it. Look to it, lords ; let not his smoothing words Bewitch your hearts; be wise and circumspect. What though the common people favour him, Calling him ' Humphrey, the good Duke of Glou- cester,' Clapping their hands, and crying with loud voice, ' Jesu maintain your royal excellence 1 ' With ' God preserve the good Duke Humphrey I ' I fear me, lords, for all this flattering gloss. He will be found a dangerous protector. Buck. Why should he, then, protect our sovereign. He being of age to govern of himself ? Cousin of Somerset, join you with me. And all together, with the Duke of Suffolk, We '11 quickly hoise Duke Humphrey from his seat. Car. This weighty business will not brook delay ; I '11 to the Duke of Suffolk presently. [Exit. Som. Cousin of Buckingham, though Humphrey's And greatness of his place be grief to us, [pride Yet let us watch the haughty cardinal : His insolence is more intolerable Than all the princes in the land beside : If Gloucester be displaced, he '11 be protector. Buck. Or thou or I, Somerset, will be protector. Despite Duke Humphrey or the cardinal. [Exeunt Buckingham and Somerset. Sal. Pride went before, ambition follows him. While these do labour for their own preferment, Behoves it us to labour for the realm. I never saw but Humphrey Duke of Gloucester Did bear him like a noble gentleman. Oft have I seen the haughty cardinal, More like a soldier than a man o' the church, As stout and proud as he were lord of all. Swear like a ruffian and demean himself Unlike the ruler of a commonweal. Warwick, my son, the comfort of my age, Thy deeds, thy plainness and thy housekeeping. Hath won the greatest favour of the commons, Excepting none but good Duke Humphrey : And, brother York, thy acts in Ireland, In bringing them to civil discipline, Thy late exploits done in the heart of France, When thou wert regent for our sovereign. Have made thee fear'd andhonour'd of the people: Join we together, for the public good. In what we can, to bridle and suppress The pride of Suffolk and the cardinal. With Somerset's and Buckingham's ambition; And, as we may, cherish Duke Humphrey's deeds, While they do tend the profit of the land. 411 ACT I. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI. scene ii. War. So God help Warwick, as he loves the land, And common profit of his country ! Yorh. [Aside] And so says York, for he hath greatest cause. Sal. Then let 's make haste away, and look unto the main. War. Unto the main ! O father, Maine is lost ; That Maine which by main force Warwick did win. And would have kept so long as breath did last ! Main chance, father, you meant ; but I meant Maine, Which I will win from France, or else be slain. [Exeunt Warwick and Salisbury. York. Anjou and Maine are given to the French ; Paris is lost ; the state of Normandy Stands on a tickle point, now they are gone : Suffolk concluded on the articles. The peers agreed, and Henry was well pleased To change two dukedoms for a duke's fair daughter. I cannot blame them all : what is 't to them ? 'T is thine they give away, and not their own. Pirates may make cheap pennyworths of their pillage And purchase friends and give to courtezans, Still revelling like lords till all be gone ; While as the silly owner of the goods Weeps over them and wrings his hapless hands And shakes his head and trembling stands aloof, While all is shared and all is borne away, Eeady to starve and dare not touch his own : So York must sit and fret and bite his tongue, While his own lands are bargain'd for and sold. Methinks the realms of England, France and Ireland Bear that proportion to my flesh and blood As did the fatal brand Althaea burn'd Unto the prince's heart of Calydon. Anjou and Maine both given unto the French ! Cold news for me, for I had hope of France, Even as I have of fertile England's soil. A day will come when York shall claim his own ; And therefore I will take the Nevils' parts And make a show of love to proud Duke Humphrey, And, when I spy advantage, claim the crown, For that 's the golden mark I seek to hit : Kor shall proud Lancaster usurp my right, Nor hold the sceptre in his childish fist, Nor wear the diadem upon his head. Whose church-like humours fits not for a crown. Then, York, be still awhile, till time do serve : Watch thou and wake when others be asleep. To pry into the secrets of the state ; Till Henry, surfeiting in joys of love, [queen, With his new bride and England's dear-bought And Humphrey with the peers be fall'n at jars : Then will I raise aloft the milk-white rose. With whose sweet smell the air shall be perfumed ; And in my standard bear the arms of York, To grapple with the house of Lancaster ; And, force perforce, I '11 make him yield the crown, Whose bookish rule hath puU'd fair England down. [Exit. SCENE II. — The Duke of Gloucester's house. Enter Duke Humphrey and liis wife Eleanor. Buck. Why droops my lord, like over-ripen'd corn, Hanging the head at Ceres' plenteous load ? Why doth the great Duke Humphrey knit his brows, As frowning at the favours of the world ? Why are thine eyes fix'd to the sullen earth, Gazing on that which seems to dim thy sight ? What seest thou there V King Henry's diadem, Enchased with all the honours of the world ? If so, gaze on, and grovel on thy face, Until thy head be circled with the same. Put forth thy hand, reach at the glorious gold. What, is 't too short ? I '11 lengthen it witli mine ; And, having both together heaved it up, We '11 both together lift our heads to heaven, 412 And never more abase our sight so low As to vouchsafe one glance unto the ground. Glou. O Nell, sweet Nell, if thou dost love thy lord, Banish the canker of ambitious thoughts. And may that thought, when I imagine ill Against my king and nephew, virtuous Henry, Be my last breathing in this mortal world ! My troublous dream this night doth make me sad. Duch. What dream 'd my lord ? tell me, and I '11 requite it With sweet rehearsal of my morning's dream. Glou. Methought this staff, mine office-badge in court. Was broke in twain ; by whom I have forgot, But, as I think, it was by the cardinal ; And on the pieces of the broken wand Were placed the heads of Edmund Duke of Somerset, And William de la Pole, first duke of Suffolk. This was my dream : what it doth bode, God knows. Duch. Tut, this was nothing but an argument That he that breaks a stick of Gloucester's grove Shall lose his head for his presumption. But list to me, my Humphrey, my sweet duke : Methought I sat in seat of majesty In the cathedral church of Westminster, And in that chair where kings and queens are crown'd; Where Henry and dame Margaret kneel'd to me And on my head did set the diadem. Glou. Nay, Eleanor, then must I chide outright : Presumptuous dame, ill-nurtured Eleanor, Art thou not second woman in the realm. And the protector's wife, beloved of him ? Hast thou not worldly pleasure at command. Above the reach or compass of thy thought ? And wilt thou still be hammering treachery, To tumble down thy husband and thyself From top of honour to disgrace's feet ? Away from me, and let me hear no more! Duch. What, what, my lord ! are you so choleric With Eleanor, for telling but her dream ? Next time I '11 keep my dreams unto myself. And not be check'd. Glou. Nay, be not angry; I am pleased again. Miter Messenger. Mess. My lord protector, 'tishishighness' pleasure You do prepare to ride unto Saint Alban's, Where as the king and queen do mean to hawk. Glou. I go. Come, Nell, thou wilt ride with us ? Duch. Yes, my good lord, I '11 follow presently. ',nt Gloucester and Messenger, Follow I must; Icannot go before. While Gloucester bears this base and humble mind. Were I a man, a duke, and next of blood, I would remove these tedious stumbling-blocks And smooth my way upon their headless necks ; And, being a woman, I will not be slack To play my part in Fortune's pageant. Where are you there ? Sir John ! nay, fear not, man, We are alone ; here 's none but thee and I. Enter Hume. Hume. Jesus preserve your royal majesty ! Duch. What say 'st thou? majesty! I am but grace. Hume. But, by the grace of God, and Hume's Your grace's title shall be multiplied. [advice, Duch. What say'st thou, man ? hast thou as yet conferr'd With Margery Jourdain, the cunning witch. With Eoger Bolingbroke, the conjurer ? And will they undertake to do me good ? [highness Hume. This they have promised, to show your A spirit raised from depth of under-ground, That shall make answer to such questions As by your grace shall be propounded him. Duch. It is enough; I '11 think upon the questions; ACT I. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI. scene tii. Wlien from Saint Alban's we do make return, We '11 see these things effected to the full. Here. Hume, take this reward; make merry, man, With' thy confederates in this weighty cause. [Exit. Hume. Hume must make merry with the duchess' gold; Marry, and shall. But, how now, Sir John Hume ! Seal up your lips, and give no words but mum : The business asketh silent secrecy. Dame Eleanor gives gold to bring the witch : Gold cannot come amiss, were she a devil. Yet have I gold flies from another coast ; I dare not say, from the rich cardinal And from the great and new-made Duke of Suffolk, Yet I do find it so ; for, to be plain. They, knowing Dame Eleanor's aspiring humour. Have hired me to undermine the duchess . And buz these conjurations in her brain. They say ' A crafty knave does need no broker ; ' Yet am I Suffolk and the cardinal's broker. Hume, if you take not heed, you shall go near To call them both a pair of crafty knaves. Well, so it stands; and thus, I fear, at last Hume's knavery will be the duchess' wreck, ■ And her attainture will be Humphrey's fall: Sort how it will, I shall have gold for all. [Mcit. SCENE III.— The palace. Enter three or four Petitioners, Peter, the Ar'mourer''s man, being one. First Petit. My masters, let 's stand close : my lord protector will come this way by and by, and then we may deliver our supplications in the quill. Sec. Petit. Marry, the Lord protect him, for he 's a good man ! Jesu bless him ! Enter Suflfolk and Queen. Peter. Here a' comes, methinks, and the queen with him. I '11 be the first, sure. Sec. Petit. Come back, fool ; this is the Duke of Suffolk, and not my lord protector. [me ? Suf. How now, fellow ! wouldst any thing with First Petit. I pray, my lord, pardon me; I took ye for my lord protector. Queen. [Beading} ' To my Lord Protector ! ' Are your supplications to his lordship? Let me see them : Avhat is thine ? First Petit. Mine is, an't please your grace, against John Goodman, my lord cardinal's man, for keeping my house, and lands, and wife and all, from me. Suf. Thy wife too! that's some wrong, indeed. What 's yours ? What 's here ! [Reads] ' Against the Duke of Suffolk, for enclosing the commons of Melford.' How now, sir knave ! Sec. Petit. Alas, sir, I am but a poor petitioner of our whole township. Peter. [Giving his petition] Against my master, Thomas Horner, for saying that the Duke of York was rightful heir to the crown. Queen. What say'st thou ? did the Duke of York say he was rightful heir to the cro-^Ti ? Peter. That my master was? no, forsooth: my master said that he was, and that the king was an usurper. Suf. Who is there ? [Enter Servant.] Take this fellow in, and send for his master with a pursuivant presently : we '11 hear more of your matter before the king. [Exit Servant with Peter. Queen. And as for you, that love to be protected Under the wings of our protector's grace, Begin your suits anew, and sue to him. [Tears the supplications. Away, base cuUions ! Suffolk, let them go. All. Come, let 's be gone. [Exeunt. Queen. My Lord of Suffolk, say, is this the guise, Is this the fashion in the court of England ? Is this the government of Britain's isle, And this the royalty of Albion's king ? What, shall King Henry be a pupil still Under the surly Gloucester's governance ? Am I a queen in title and in style, And must be made a subject to a duke ? I tell thee, Pole, when in the city Tours Thou ran'st a tilt in honour of my love And stolest away the ladies' hearts of France,. I thought King Henry had resembled thee In courage, courtship and proportion: But all his mind is bent to holiness. To number Ave-Maries on his beads ; His champions are the prophets and apostles. His weapons holy saws of sacred writ. His study is his tilt-yard, and his loves Are brazen images of canonized saints. I would the college of the cardinals Would choose him pope and carry him to Kome, And set the triple crown upon his head : That were a state fit for his holiness. Suf. Madam, be patient : as I was cause Your highness came to England, so will I In England work your grace's full content. Queen. Beside the haughty protector, have we Beaufort The imperious churchman, Somerset, Buckingham, And grumbling York ; and not the least of these But can do more in England than the king. Suf. And he of these that can do most of all Cannot do more in England than the Nevils : Salisbury and Warwick are no simple peers. Queen. Not all these lords do vex me half so much As that proud dame, the lord protector's wife. She sweeps it through the court with troops of ladies. More like an empress than Duke Humphrey's wife : Strangers in court do take her for the queeu : She bears a duke's revenues on her back. And in her heart she scorns our poverty : Shall I not live to be avenged on her ? Contemptuous base-born callet as she is. She vaunted 'mongst her minions t'other day, The very train of her worst wearing gown Was better worth than all my father's lands. Till Suffolk gave two dukedoms for his daughter. Suf. Madam, myseK have limed a bush for her. And placed a quire of such enticing birds, That she will light to listen to the lays, And never moimt to trouble you again. So, let her rest : and, madam, list to me ; For I am bold to counsel you in this. Although we fancy not the cardinal. Yet must we join with him and with the lords, Till we have brought Duke Humphrey in l _„ As for the Duke of York, this late complaint Will make but little for his benefit. So, one by one, we '11 weed them aU at last. And you yoiu'self shall steer the happy helm. Sound a sennet. Enter the Kins', Duke Humphrey of Gloucester, Cardinal Beaufort, Bucking-ham, York, Somerset, Salisbury, Warwick, and the Duchess of Gloucester. King. For my part, noble lords,! care not which ; Or Somerset or York, all 's one to me. York. If York have ill demean'd himself in France, Then let him be denay'd the regentship. Som. If Somerset be unworthy of the place. Let York be regent ; I will yield to him. War. Whether your grace be worthy, yea or no, Dispute not that : York is the worthier. Car. Ambitious Warwick, let thy betters speak. War. The cardinal 's not my better in the field. Buck. All in this presence are thy betters, War- wick. War. Warwick may live to be the best of all. 413 SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI. scene iy. Sal. Peace, son ! and show some reason, Bucking- Why Somerset should be preferred in tliis. [ham, Queen. Because the king, forsooth, will have it so. Glou. Madam, the king is old enough himself To give his censure : these are no women's matters. Queen. If he be old enough, what needs your grace To be protector of his excellence ? Glou. Madam, I am protector of the realm ; And, at his pleasure, will resign my place. Suf. Resign it then and leave thine insolence. Since thou wert king — as who is king but thou ? — The commonwealth hath daily run to wreck ; The Dauphin hath prevail'd beyond the seas; And all the peers and nobles of the realm Have been as bondmen to thy sovereignty. Car. The commons hast thou rack'd; the clergy's Are lank and lean with thy extortions. [bags Som. Thy sumptuous buildings and thy wife's Have cost a mass of public treasury. [attire Buck. Thy cruelty in execution Upon offenders hath exceeded law And left thee to the mercy of the law. Queen. Thy sale of offices and towns in France, If they were known, as the suspect is great, "Would make thee quickly hop without thy head. [Exit Gloucester. The Queen drops her fan. Give me my fan : what, minion ! can ye not ? [She gives the Duchess a box on the ear. I cry you mercy, madam ; was it you ? Duch. "Was 't I ! yea, I it was, proud French- woman : Could I come near your beauty with my nails, I 'Id set my ten commandments in your face. Kinq. Sweet aunt, be quiet; 'twas against her will. Duch. Against her will ! good king, look to 't in time; She '11 hamper thee, and dandle thee like a baby : Though in this place most master wear no breeches, She shall not strike Dame Eleanor unrevenged. [Exit. Buck. Lord cardinal, I will follow Eleanor, And listen after Humphrey, how he proceeds : She 's tickled now ; her fume needs no spurs, She '11 gallop far enough to her destruction. [Exit. Re-enter Gloucester. Glou. Now, lords, my choler being over-blown. "With walking once about the quadrangle, I come to talk of commonwealth affairs. As for your spiteful false objections. Prove them, and I lie open to the law : But God in mercy so deal with my soul. As I in duty love my king and country ! But, to the matter that we have in hand: I say, my sovereign, York is meetest man To be your regent in the realm of France. Suf. Before we make election, give me leave To show some reason, of no little force. That York is most unmeet of any man. York. I '11 tell thee, Suffolk, why I am unmeet : First, for I cannot flatter thee in pride ; Next, if I be appointed for the place. My Lord of Somerset will keep me here, "Without discharge, money, or furniture. Till France be won into the Dauphin's hands: Last time, I danced attendance on his will Till Paris was besieged, famish 'd, and lost. War. That can I witness ; and a fouler fact Did never traitor in the land commit. Suf. Peace, headstrong "Warwick ! War. Image of pride, why should I hold my peace? Enter Horner, the Armourer^ and his man Peter, guarded. Suf. Because here is a man accused of treason : Pray God the Duke of York excuse himself ! York. Doth any one accuse York for a traitor ? 414 King. "What mean'st thou, Suif oik ; teU me, what are these ? Suf. Please it your majesty, this is the man That doth accuse his master of high treason : His words were these : that Richard Duke of York "Was rightful heir unto the English crown And that your majesty was an usurper. King. Say, man, were these thy words? Hor. An 't shall please your majesty, I never said nor thought any such matter : God is my witness, I am falsely accused by the villain. Pet. By these ten bones, my lords, he did speak them to me in the garret one night, as we were scouring my Lord of York's armour. York. Base dunghill villam and mechanical, I '11 have thy head for this thy traitor's speech. I do beseech your royal majesty. Let him have all the rigour of the law. Hor. Alas, my lord, hang me, if ever I spake the words. My accuser is my 'prentice; and when I did correct him for his fault the other day, he did vow upon his knees he would be even with me : I have good witness of this ; therefore I beseech your majesty, do not cast away an honest man for a vil- lain's accusation. King. Uncle, what shall we say to this in law? Glou. This doom, my lord, if I may judge : Let Somerset be regent o'er the French, Because in York this breeds suspicion : And let these have a day appointed them For single combat in convenient place. For he hath witness of his servant's malice: This is the law, and this Duke Humphrey's doom. Som. I humbly thank your royal majesty. Hor. And I accept the combat willingly. Pet. Alas, my lord, I cannot fight ; for God's sake, pity my case. The spite of man prevalleth against me. O Lord, have mercy upon me ! I shall never be able to fight a blow. O Lord, my heart ! - Glou. Sirrah, or you must fight, or else be hang'd. King. Away with them to prison; and the day of combat shall be the last of the next month. Come, Somerset, we '11 see thee sent away. [Flourish. Exeunt. SCENE IV. — Gloucester''s garden. Enter Margery Jourdain, Hume, South-well, and Bolingbroke. Hume. Come, my masters; the duchess, I tell you, expects performance of your promises. Boling. Master Hume, we are therefore provided ; will her ladyship behold and hear our exorcisms ? Hume. Ay, what else ? fear you not her courage. Boling. I have heard her reported to be a woman of an invincible spirit : but it shall be convenient, Master Hume, that you be by her aloft, while we be busy below; and so, I pray you, go, in God's name, and leave us. [Exit Hume.] Mother Jour- dain, be you prostrate and grovel on the earth ; John Southwell, read you ; and let us to our work. Enter Duchess aloft, Hume following. Duch. "Well said, my masters; and welcome all. To this gear the sooner the better. [times : Boling. Patience, good lady; wizards know their Deep night, dark night, the silent of the night. The time of night when Troy was set on fire ; The time when screech-owls cry and ban-dogs howl And spirits walk and ghosts break up their graves. That time best fits the work we have in hand. Madam , sit you and fear not : whom we raise, "We will make fast within a hallow'd verge. [Here they do the ceremonies belonging, and make the circle; Bolingbroke or Southwell reads, Conjuro te, &c. It thunders and lightens terribly ; then the Spirit riseth. ACT II. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI. scene i. Spir. Adsum. 31. Jourd. Asmath, By the eternal G-od, whose name and power Thou tremblest at, answer that I shall ask ; Tor, till thou speak, thou shalt not pass from hence. Spir. Ask what thou wilt. That I had said and done! Boling. ' First of the king : what shall of him be- come y ' [Beading out of a paper. Spir. The duke yet lives that Henry shall depose ; But him outlive, and die a violent death. [As the Spirit speaks, Southwell writes the answer. Boling. ' What fates await the Duke of Suffolk ? ' Spir. By water shall he die, and take his end. Boling. 'What shall befall the Duke of Somerset ?' Spir. Let him shun castles ; Safer shall he be upon the sandy plains Than where castles mounted stand. Have done, for more I hardly can endure. Boling. Descend to darkness and the burning lake ! False fiend, avoid! [Thunder and lightning. Exit Spirit. Enter the Duke of York and the Duke of Buck- ingham with their Guard and break in. York. Lay hands upon these traitors and their Beldam, I think we watch 'd you at an inch, [trash. What, madam, are you there ? the king and com- monweal Are deeply indebted for this piece of pains : My lord protector will, I doubt it not. See you well guerdon 'd for these good deserts. Buch. Not half so bad as thine to England's king, Injurious duke, that threatest where 's no cause. Buck. True, madam, none at all : what call you this? Away with them ! let them be clapp'd up close. And kept asunder. You, madam, shall with us. Stafford, take her to thee. [Exeunt above Duchess and Hume, guarded. We '11 see your trinkets here all forthcoming. All, away ! [Exeunt guard with Jourdain, Southwell, &c. York. Lord Buckingham, methinks, you watch 'd her well : A pretty plot, well chosen to build upon ! Now, pray, my lord, let 's see the devil's writ. What have we here Y [Beads. ' The duke yet lives that Henry shall depose ; But him outlive, and die a violent death.' Why, this is just ' Aio te, -iSlacida, Romanes vincere posse.' Well, to the rest: ' Tell me what fate awaits the Duke of Suffolk ? ' By water shall he die, and take his end. What shall betide the Duke of Somerset ? ' Let him shun castles ; Safer shall he be upon the sandy plains Than where castles mounted stand.' Come, come, my lords ; These oracles are hardly attain'd, And hardly understood. The king is now in progress towards Saint Alban's, With him the husband of this lovely lady : Thither go these news, as fast as horse can carry A sorry breakfast for my lord protector. [them : Buck. Your grace shall give me leave, my Lord of To be the post, in hope of his reward. [York, York. At your pleasure, my good lord. Who 's within there, ho ! Enter a Servingman. Invite my Lords of Salisbury and Warwick To sup with me to-morrow night. Away ! [Exeunt. A.CT II. SCENE I.— Saint Alban's. Enter the King, Queen, Gloucester, Cardinal, and Suffolk, with Falconers halloing. Queen. Believe me, lords, for flying at the brook, I saw not better sport these seven years' day : Yet, by your leave, the wind was very high ; And, ten to one, old Joan had not gone out. King. But what a point , my lord , your falcon made , And what a pitch she flew above the rest ! To see how God in all his creatures works ! Yea, man and birds are fain of climbing high. Suf. No marvel, an it like your majesty, My lord protector's hawks do tower so well; They know their master loves to be aloft And bears his thoughts above his falcon's pitch. Glou. My lord, 't is but a base ignoble mind That mounts no higher than a bird can soar. Car. I thought as much ; he would be above the clouds. [that ? Glou. Ay, my lord cardinal ? how think you by Were it not good your grace could fly to heaven ? King. The treasury of everlasting joy. [thoughts Car. Thy heaven is on earth; thine eyes and Beat on a crown, the treasure of thy heart ; Pernicious protector, dangerous peer. That smooth 'st it so with king and commonweal! Glou. What, cardinal, is your priesthood grown Tantsene animis ccelestibus irse ? [peremptory V Churchmen so hot ? good uncle, hide such malice ; With such holiness can you do it ? Suf. No malice, sir ; no more than well becomes So good a quarrel and so bad a peer. Glou. As who, my lord ? Suf. Why, as you, my lord, An 't like your lordly lord-protectorship. Glou. Why, Suffolk, England knows thine inso- Queen. And thy ambition, Gloucester. [lence. King. 1 prithee, peace, good queen. And whet not on these furious peers ; For blessed are the peacemakers on earth. Car. Let me be blessed for the peace I make, Against this proud protector, with my sword ! Glou. [Aside to Car.] Faith, holy uncle, would 't were come to that ! Car. [Aside to Glou.] Marry, when thou darest. Glou. [Aside to Car.] Make up no factious num- bers for the matter ; In thine own person answer thy abuse. Car. [Aside to Glou.] Ay, where thou darest not peep : an if thou darest. This evening, on the east side of the grove. King. How now, my lords ! Car. Believe me, cousin Gloucester, Had not your man put up the fowl so suddenly. We had had more sport. [Aside to Glou.] Come with thy two-hand sword. Glou. True, uncle. Car. [Aside to Glou.] Are ye advised ? the east side of the grove ? Glou. [Aside to Car.] Cardinal, I am with you. King. Why, how now, uncle Gloucester ! Glou. Talking of hawking ; nothing else, my lord. [Aside to Car.] Now, by God's mother, priest, I 'U shave your crown for this. Or all my fence shall fail. Car. [Aside to Glou.] Medice, teipsum — Protector, see to 't well, protect yourself. 415 ACT II. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI. scene i. King. The winds grow high ; so do your stomachs, How irksome is this music to my lieart ! [lords. When such strings jar, what liope of liarmony ? I pray, my lords, let me compound this strife. Unter a Townsman of Saint Alban''s, crying 'A miracle ! ' Glou. What means this noise ? Fellow, what miracle dost thou proclaim ? Towns. A miracle ! a miracle ! 8uf. Come to the king and tell him what miracle. Towns. Forsooth, a blind man at Saint Alban's shrine. Within this half -hour, hath received his sight ; A man that ne'er saw in his life before. King. Now, God be praised, that to believing souls Gives light in darkness, comfort in despair! Miter the Mayor of Saint Alban's and Ms brethren, bear- ing Simpcox, between two in a chair, Simpcox's Wife foUoiving. Car. Here comes the townsmen on procession. To present your highness with the man. King. Great is his comfort in this earthly vale, Although by his sight his sin be multiplied. Glou. Stand by, my masters : bring him near the His highness' pleasure is to talk with him. [king ; King. Good fellow, tell us here the circumstance, That we for thee may glorify the Lord. What, hast thou been long blind and now restored ? Simp. Born blind, an 't please your grace. Wife. Ay, indeed, was he. Sw. What woman is this ? Wife. His wife, an 't like your worship. Glou. Hadst thou been his mother, thou couldst have better told. King. Where wert thou born ? [grace. Simp. At Berwick in the north, an 't like your King. Poor soul, God's goodness hath been great to thee : Let never day nor night unhallow'd pass. But still remember what the Lord hath done. Queen. Tell me, good fellow, earnest thou here by Or of devotion, to this holy shrine ? [chance. Simp. God knows, of pure devotion ; being call'd A hundred times and oftener, in my sleep. By good Saint Alban; who said, ' Simpcox, come, Come, offer at my shrine, and I will help thee.' Wife. Most true, forsooth ; and many time and oft Myself have heard a voice to call him so. Car. What, art thou lame ? Simp. Ay, God Almighty help me ! Suf. How earnest thou so ? Sinw. A fall off of a tree. Wife. A plum-tree, master. Glou. How long hast thou been blind ? Simp. O, born so, master. Glou. What, and wouldst climb a tree ? Simp. But that in all my life, when I was a youth. Wife. Too true; and bought his climbing very dear. Glou. Mass, thou lovedst plums wells, that wouldst venture so. [damsons. Simp. Alas, good master, my wife desired some And made me climb, with danger of my life. Glou. A subtle knave ! but yet it shall not serve. Let me see thine eyes : wink now : now open them : In my opinion yet thou see'st not well. Simp. Yes, master, clear as day, I thank God and Saint Alban. [cloak of ? Glou. Say'st thou me so? What colour is this Simp. Red, master ; red as blood. [gOA^aa of ? Glou. Why, that 's well said. AYhat colour is my Simp. Black, forsooth : coal-black as jet. [is of? King. Why, then, thou know'st what colour jet Sif. And yet, I think, jet did he never see. Glou. But cloaks and gowns, before this day, a many. 416 Wife. Never, before this day, in all his life. Glou. Tell me, sirrah, what 's my name ? Simp. Alas, master, I know not. Glou. What 's his name ? Simp. I know not. Glou. For his ? Simp. No, indeed, master. Glou. What 's thine own name ? [ter. Simp. Saunder Simpcox, an if it please you, mas- Glou. Then, Saunder, sit there, the lyingest knave in Christendom. If thou hadst been born blind, thou mightst as well have known all our names as thus to name the several colours we do wear. Sight may distinguish of colours, but suddenly to nomi- nate them all, it is impossible. My lords, Saint Alban here hath done a miracle ; and would ye not think his cunning to be great, that could restore this cripple to his legs again ? Simp. O master, that you could! Glou. My masters of Saint Alban's, have you not beadles in your town, and things called whips ? Hay. Yes, my lord, if it please your grace. Glou. Then send for one presently. May. Sirrah, go fetch the beadle hither straight. [Exit an Attendant. Glou. Now fetch me a stool hither by and by. Now, sirrah, if you mean to save yourself from whipping, leap me over this stool and run away. Simp. Alas, master, I am not able to stand alone : You go about to torture me in vain. Enter a Beadle with whips. Glou. Well, sir, we must have you find your legs. Sirrah beadle, whip him till he leap over that same stool. Bead. 1 will, my lord. Come on, sirrah ; off with your doublet quickly. Simp. Alas, master, what shall I do ? I am not able to stand. [After the Beadle hath hit him once, he leaps over the stool and runs away; and they follow and cry, ' A miracle ! ' King. O God, seest Thou this, and bearest so long ? Queen. It made me laugh to see the villain run. Glou. Follow the knave ; and take this drab away. Wife. Alas, sir, we did it for pure need. Glou. Let rhem be whipped through every mar- ket-town, till they come to Berwick, from whence they came. [Exeunt Wife, Beadle, Mayor, &c. Car. Duke Humphrey has done a miracle to-day. Sif. True ; made the lame to leap and fly away. Glou. But you have done more miracles than I ; You made in a day, my lord, whole towns to fly. Enter Buckingham. King. What tidings with our cousin Bucking- nam? Buck. Such as my heart doth tremble to unfold. A sort of naughty persons, lewdly bent. Under the countenance and confederacy Of Lady Eleanor, the protector's wife. The ringleader and head of all this rout. Have practised dangerously against your state, Dealing with witches and with conjurers: Whom we have apprehended in the fact ; Kaising up wicked spu'its from under ground, Demanding of King Henry's life and death, And other of your highness' privy-comicil ; As more at large your grace shall understand. Car. [Aside to Glou.] And so, my lord protector, by this means Your lady is forthcoming yet at London. This news, I think, hath turn'd your weapon's edge ; 'T is like, my lord, you will not keep yom- hoiir. Glou. Ambitious churchman, leave to afflict mj» heart : Sorrow and grief have vanquish'd all my powers ; ACT II. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI. scene hi. And, vanquish'd as I am, I yield to thee, Or to the meanest groom. [ones. King. O God, what mischiefs work the wicked Heaping confusion on their own heads thereby ! Queen. Gloucester, see here the tainture of thy nest, And look thyself be faultless, thou wert best. Gloii. Madam, for myself, to heaven I do appeal, How I have loved my king and commonweal : And, for my wife, I know not how it stands; Sorry I am to hear what I have heard : Noble she is, but if she have forgot Honour and virtue and conversed with such As, like to pitch, defile nobility, I banish her my bed and company And give her as a prey to law and shame, That hath dishonour'd Gloucester's honest name. King. Well, for this night we will repose us here : To-morrow toward London back again. To look into this business thoroughly And call these foul offenders to their answers And poise the cause in justice' equal scales. Whose beam stands sure, whose rightful cause pre- vails. [Flourish. Exeunt. SCENE 11.— London. The Duke of Tork^s garden. Enter York, Salisbury, and War-wick. York. Now, my good Lords of Salisbury and Warwick, Our simple supper ended, give me leave In this close walk to satisfy myself. In craving your opinion of my title. Which is infallible, to England's crown. Sal. My lord, I long to hear it at full. War. Sweet York, begin: and if thy claim be The JSTevils are thy subjects to command. [good, York. Then thus: Edward the Third, my lords, had seven sons : The first, Edward the Black Prince, Prince of Wales ; The second, William of Hatfield, and the third, Lionel Duke of Clarence ; next to whom Was John of Gaunt, the Duke of Lancaster ; The fifth was Edmund Langley, Duke of York ; The sixth was Thomas of Woodstock, Duke of Gloucester ; William of Windsor was the seventh and last. Edward the Black Prince died before his father And left behind him Richard, his only son, [king; Who after Edward the Third's death reign'd as Till Henry Bolingbroke, Duke of Lancaster, The eldest son and heir of John of Gaunt, Crown'd by the name of Henry the Fourth, Seized on the realm, deposed the rightful king. Sent his poor queen to France, from whence she came, And him to Pomfret ; where, as all you know. Harmless Richard was murder 'd traitorously. War. Father, the duke hath told the truth ; Thus got the house of Lancaster the crown. York. Which now they hold by force and not by right ; For Richard, the first son's heir, being dead, The issue of the next son should have reign'd. Sal. But William of Hatfield died without an heir. York. The third son, Duke of Clarence, from whose line I claim the crown, had issue, Philippe, a daughter, Who married Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March : Edmund had issue, Roger Earl of March ; Roger had issue, Edmund, Anne and Eleanor. Sal. This Edmund, in the reign of Bolingbroke, As I have read, laid claim unto the crown ; And, but for Owen Glendower, had been king. Who kept him in captivity till he died. But to the rest, 27 York. His eldest sister, Anne, My mother, being heir unto the crown. Married Richard Earl of Cambridge ; who was son To Edmund Langley, Edward the Third's fifth son. By her I claim the kingdom : she was heir To Roger Earl of March, who was the son Of Edmund Mortimer, who married Philippe, Sole daughter unto Lionel Duke of Clarence : So, if the issue of the elder son Succeed before the younger, I am king. [this ? War. What plain proceeding is more plain than Henry doth claim the crown from John of Gaunt, The fourth son ; York claims it from the third. Till Lionel's issue fails, his should not reign : It fails not yet, but flourishes in thee And in thy sons, fair slips of such a stock. Then, father Salisbury, kneel we together; And in this private plot be we the first That shall salute our rightful sovereign With honour of his birthright to the crown. Both. Long live our sovereign Richard, England's king ! [king York. We thank you, lords. But I am not your Till I be crown'd and that my sword be stain 'd With heart-blood of the house of Lancaster ; And that 's not suddenly to be perform'd, But with advice and silent secrecy. Do you as I do in these dangerous days : Wink at the Duke of Suffolk's insolence. At Beaufort's pride, at Somerset's ambition, At Buckingham and all the crew of them. Till they have snared the shepherd of the flock, That virtuous prince, the good Duke Humphrey : 'T is that they seek, and they in seeking that Shall find their deaths, if York can prophesy. Sal. My lord, break we off ; we know your mind at full. [wick War. My heart assures me that the Earl of War- Shall one day make the Duke of York a king. York. And, Nevil, this I do assure myself : Richard shall live to make the Earl of Warwick The greatest man in England but the king. [Exeunt. SCENE III. — J. hall of justice. trumpets. Enter the King, the Queen, Glouces- ter, York, Suffolk, and Salisbury ; the Duchess of Gloucester^ Margery Jourdain, Southwell, Hume, and Bolingbroke, under guard. King. Stand forth. Dame Eleanor Cobham, Glou- cester's wife: In sight of God and us, your guilt is great : Receive the sentence of the law for sins Such as by God's book are adjudged to death. You four, from hence to prison back again ; From thence unto the place of execution : The witch in Smithfield shall be burn'd to ashes, And you three shall be strangled on the gallows. You, madam, for you are more nobly born. Despoiled of your honour in your life, Shall, after three days' open penance done. Live in your country here in banishment. With Sir John Stanley, in the Isle of Man. Buch. Welcome is banishment ; welcome were my death. [thee : Glou. Eleanor, the law, thou see'st, hath judged I cannot justify whom the law condemns. [Exeunt Duchess and other prisoners, guarded. Mine eyes are full of tears, my heart of grief. Ah, Humphrey, this dishonour in thine age Will bring thy head with sorrow to the ground! I beseech your majesty, give me leave to go ; Sorrow would solace and mine age would ease. King. Stay, Humphrey Duke of Gloucester ; ere thou go. Give up thy staff : Henry will to himself Protector be ; and God shall be my hope, 417 ACT II. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI. scene iv. My stay, my guide and lantern to my feet : And go in peace. Humphrey, no less beloved Than when thou wert protector to thy king. Queen. I see no reason why a king of years Should be to be protected like a child. God and King Henry govern England's realm. Give up your staff, sir, and the king his realm. Qlou. My staff ? here, noble Henry, is my staff : As willingly do I the same resign As e'er thy father Henry made it mine ; And even as willingly at thy feet I leave it As others would ambitiously receive it. Farewell, good king : when I am dead and gone, May honourable peace attend thy throne ! [Exit. Queen. Why, now is Henry king, and Margaret queen,; And Humphrey Duke of Gloucester scarce himself. That bears so shrewd a maim ; two pulls at once ; His lady banish 'd, and a limb lopp'd off. This staff of honour raught, there let it stand Where it best fits to be, in Henry's hand, [sprays ; Suf. Thus droops this lofty pine and hangs his Thus Eleanor's pride dies in her youngest days. York. Lords, let him go. Please it your majesty, This is the day appointed for the combat ; And ready are the appellant and defendant, The armourer and his man, to enter the lists, So please your highness to behold the fight. Queen. Ay, good my lord ; for purposely therefore Left I the com-t, to see this quarrel tried. [fit : King. O' God's name, see the lists and all things Here let them end it ; and God defend the right ! York. I never saw a fellow worse bested, Or more afraid to fight, than is the appellant, The servant of this armourer, my lords. Enter at one door, Homer, the Armourer, and Ms Neigrh- bours, drinking to him so much that he is drunk ; and he enters with a drum before him and his staff with a sand-hag Jastened to it; and at the other door Peter, his man, with a drum and sand-bag, and 'Prentices drinking to him. First Neigh. Here, neighbour Horner, I drink to you in a cup of sack : and fear not, neighbour, you shall do well enough. [charneco. Sec. Neigh. And here, neighbour, here 's a cup of Third Neigh. And here 's a pot of good double beer, neighbour: drink, and fear not your man. Hor. Let it come, i' faith, and I '11 pledge you all ; and a fig for Peter ! [not afraid. First ''Pren. Here, Peter, I drink to thee : and be Sec. ''Pren. Be merry, Peter, and fear not thy master : fight for credit of the 'prentices. Peter. I thank you all : drink, and pray for me, I pray you ; for I think I have taken my last draught in this world. Here, Kobin, an if I die, I give thee my apron : and. Will, thou shalt have my hammer : and here, Tom, take all the money that I have. O Lord bless me! I pray God! for I am never able to deal with my master, he hath learnt so much fence already. Sal. Come, leave your drinking, and fall to blows. Sirrah, what 's thy name ? Peter. Peter, forsooth. Sal. Peter ! what more ? Peter. Thump. [well. Sal. Thump! then see thou thump thy master Hor. Masters, I am come hither, as it were, upon my man's instigation, to prove him a knave and myself an honest man : and touching the Duke of York, I will take my death, I never meant him any ill, nor the king, nor the queen: and therefore, Peter, have at thee with a downright blow ! [double. York. Dispatch: this knave's tongue begins to Sound, trumpets, alarum to the combatants ! [Alarum. They fight, and Peter strikes him down. Hor, Hold, Peter, hold! I confess, I confess [Dies. 418 York. Take away his weapon. Fellow, thank God, and the good wine in thy master's way. Peter. O God, have I overcome mine enemy in this presence ? O Peter, thou hast prevailed in right! King. Go, take hence that traitor from our sight; For by his death we do perceive his guilt : And God in justice hath reveal'd to us The truth and innocence of this poor fellow, Which he had thought to have murder'd wrongfully. Come, fellow, follow us for thy reward. [Sound a flourish. Exeunt. SCENE IV. — A street. Enter Gloucester and his Servingmen, in mourn' ing cloaks. Glou. Thus sometimes hath the brightest day a And after summer evermore succeeds [cloud ; Barren winter, with his wrathful nipping cold : So cares and joys abound, as seasons fleet. Sirs, what 's o'clock ? Serv. Ten, my lord. Glou. Ten is the hour that was appointed me To watch the coming of my punish 'd duchess: Uneath may she endure the flinty streets, To tread them with her tender-feeling feet. Sweet Nell, ill can thy noble mind abrook The abject people gazing on thy face. With envious looks, laughing at thy shame. That erst did follow thy proud chariot-wheels When thou didst ride in triumph through the streets. But, soft ! I think she comes ; and I '11 prepare My tear-stain'd eyes to see her miseries. Miter the Duchess of Gloucester in a white sheet, and a taper burning in her hand; with Sir John Stanley, the Sheriflf, and Officers. Serv. So please your grace, we '11 take her from the sheriff. Glou. No, stir not, for your lives ; let her pass by. Duch. Come you, my lord, to see my open shame ? Now thou dost penance too. Look how they gaze I See how the giddy multitude do point. And nod their heads, and throw their eyes on thee ! Ah, Gloucester, hide thee from their hateful looks, And, in thy closet pent up, rue my shame. And ban thine enemies, both mine and thine I Glou. Be patient, gentle Nell; forget this grief. Duch. Ah, Gloucester, teach me to forget myself! For whilst I think I am thy married wife And thou a prince, protector of this land, Methinks I should not thus be led along, Mail'd up in shame, with papers on my back. And foUow'd with a rabble that rejoice To see my tears and hear my deep-fet groans. The ruthless flint doth cut my tender feet. And when I start, the envious people laugh And bid me be advised how I tread. Ah, Humphrey, can I bear this shameful yoke? Trow'st thou that e'er I '11 look upon the world, Or count them happy that enjoy the sun ? No; dark shall be my light and night my day; To think upon my pomp shall be my hell. Sometime I '11 say, I am Duke Humphrey's wife, And he a prince and ruler of the land : Yet so he ruled and such a prince he was As he stood by whilst I, his forlorn duchess, Was made a wonder and a pointing-stock To every idle rascal follower. But be thou mild and blush not at my shame, Nor stir at nothing till the axe of death Hang over thee, as, sure, it shortly will ; For "Suffolk, he that can do all in all With her that hateth thee and hates us all, And York and impious Beaufort, that false priest, Have all limed bushes to betray thy wings, And, fly thou how thou canst, they '11 tangle thee : ACT III. SECOND PART OF KINO HENRY VI. scene i. But fear not thou, until thy foot be snared, Nor never seek prevention of thy foes. Glou. Ah, ]Srell, forbear! thou aimest all awry; I must offend before I be attainted ; Andiiad I twenty times so many foes, And each of them had twenty times their power, All these could not procure me any scathe, So long as I am loyal, true and crimeless. Wouldst have me rescue thee from this reproach ? Why, yet thy scandal were not wiped away, But I in danger for the breach of law. Thy greatest help is quiet, gentle Nell : I pray thee, sort thy heart to patience ; These few days' wonder will be quickly worn. Enter a Herald. Her. I summon your grace to his majesty's parlia- ment, HoMen at Bury the first of this next month. Glou. And my consent ne'er ask'd herein before ! This is close dealing. Well, I will be there. [Exit Herald. My Nell, I take my leave : and, master sheriff. Let not her penance exceed the king's commission. Sher. An't please your grace, here my commission And Sir John Stanley is appointed now [stays, To take her with him to the Isle of Man. Glou. Must you. Sir John, protect my lady here V Stan. So am I given in charge, may 't please your grace. Glou. Entreat her not the worse in that I pray You use her well : the world may laugh again ; And I may live to do you kindness if You do it her: and so. Sir John, farewell ! [well^ Duch. What, gone, my lord, and bid me not fare- Glou. Witness my tears, I cannot stay to speak. [Exeunt Gloucester and Servingmen. Duch. Art thou gone too? all comfort go with theel For none abides with me : my joy is death ; Death, at whose name I oft have been afear'd. Because I wish'd this world's eternity. Stanley, I prithee, go, and take me hence ; I care not whither, for I beg no favour. Only convey me where thou art commanded. Stan. Why, madam, that is to the Isle of Man ; There to be used according to your state. Duch. That 's bad enough, for I am but reproach: And shall I then be used reproachfully ? Stan. Like to a duchess, and Duke Humphrey's lady; According to that state you shall be used. Duch. Sheriff, farewell, and better than I fare, Although thou hast been conduct of my shame. Sher. It is my office ; and, madam, pardon me. Duch. Ay, ay, farewell ; thy office is discharged. Come, Stanley, shall we go ? Stan. Madam, your penance done, throw off this And go we to attire you for our journey. [sheet, Duch. My shame will not be shifted with my sheet: No, it will hang upon my richest robes And show itself, attire me how I can. Go, lead the way ; I long to see my prison. [Exeunt. A.OT III. SCENE I. — The Ahhey at Bury St. Edmund's. a sennet. Enter the King, the Queen, Cardinal Beaufort, Suffolk, York, Buckingham, Salisbury and Warwick, to the Parliament. King. I muse my Lord of Gloucester is not come : 'T is not his wont to be the hindmost man, Whate'er occasion keeps him from us now. Queen. Can you not see ? or will ye not observe The strangeness of his alter 'd countenance ? With what a majesty he bears himself. How insolent of late he is become. How proud, how peremptory, and unlike himself ? We know the time since he was mild and affable. And if we did but glance a far-off look. Immediately he was upon his knee. That all the court admired him for submission : But meet him now, and, be it in the morn. When every one will give the time of day, He knits his brow and shows an angry eye And passeth by with stiff unbowed knee, Disdaining duty that to us belongs. Small curs are not regarded when they grin ; But great men tremble when the lion roars ; And Humphrey is no little man in England. Eirst note that he is near you in descent. And should you fall, he as the next will mount. Me seemeth then it is no policy. Respecting what a rancorous mind he bears And his advantage following your decease. That he should come about your royal person Or be admitted to your highness' council. By flattery hath he won the commons' hearts. And when he please to make commotion, 'T is to be fear'd they all will follow him. Now 't is the spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted ; Suffer them now, and they '11 o'ergrow the garden And choke the herbs for want of husbandry. The reverent care I bear unto my lord Made me collect these dangers in the duke. If it be fond, call it a woman's fear; Which fear if better reasons can supplant, I will subscribe and say I wrong 'd the duke. My Lord of Suffolk, Buckingham, and York, Reprove my allegation, if you can; Or else conclude my words effectual. Suf. Well hath your highness seen into this duke ; And, had I first been put to speak my mind, I think I should have told your grace's tale. The duchess by his subornation. Upon my life, began her devilish practices: Or, if he were not privy to those faults. Yet, by reputing of his high descent. As next the king he was successive heir, And such high vaunts of his nobility. Did instigate the bedlam brain-sick duchess By wicked means to frame our sovereign's fall. Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep ; And in his simple show he harbours treason. The fox barks not when he would steal the lamb. No, no, my sovereign ; Gloucester is a man Unsounded yet and full of deep deceit. Car. Did he not, contrary to form of law, Devise strange deaths for small offences done ? York. And did he not, in his protectorship, Levy great sums of money through the reahn For soldiers' pay in France, and never sent it ? By means whereof the towns each day revolted. Buck. Tut, these are petty faults to faults unknown, Which time will bring to light in smooth Duke Humphrey. King. My lords, at once: the care you have of us. To mow down thorns that would annoy our foot. Is worthy praise : but, shall I speak my conscience, Our kinsman Gloucester is as innocent From meaning treason to our royal person As is the sucking lamb or harmless dove : The duke is virtuous, mild and too well given To dream on evil or to work my downfall. 419 ACT III. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI. scene i. Queen. Ah, what's more dangerous than this fond affiance ! Seems he a dove ? his feathers are but borrow'd, For he 's disposed as the hateful raven : Is he a lamb ? his skin is surely lent him, For he 's inclined as is the ravenous wolf. Who cannot steal a shape that means deceit ? Take heed, my lord; the welfare of us all Hangs on the cutting short that fraudful man. Enter Somerset. Som. All health unto my gracious sovereign ! King. Welcome, Lord Somerset. What news from France ? Som. That all your interest in those territories Is utterly bereft you ; all is lost. King. Cold news, Lord Somerset : but God's will be done ! [of France Yorh. [Aside] Cold news for me ; for I had hope As firmly as I hope for fertile England. Thus are my blossoms blasted in the bud And caterpillars eat my leaves away ; But I will remedy this gear ere long, Or sell my title for a glorious grave. Enter Gloucester. Glou. All happiness unto my lord the king ! Pardon, my liege, that I have stay'd so long, [soon, Suf. Nay, Gloucester, know that thou art come too Unless thou wert more loyal than thou art : I do arrest thee of high treason here. Glou. Well, Suffolk, thou shalt not see me blush Nor change my countenance for this arrest : A heart unspotted is not easily daunted. The purest spring is not so free from mud As I am clear from treason to my sovereign : Who can accuse me ? wherein am I guilty ? Yorh. 'Tis thought, my lord, that you took bribes of France, And, being protector, stayed the soldiers' pay ; By means whereof his highness hath lost France. Glou. Is it but thought so V What are they that I never robb'd the soldiers of their pay, [think it ? Nor ever had one penny bribe from France. So help me God, as I have watch'd the night, Ay, night by night, in studying good for England, That doit that e'er I wrested from the king, Or any groat I hoarded to my use. Be brought against me at my trial-day ! No ; many a pound of mine own proper store, Because I would not tax the needy commons. Have I dispursed to the garrisons, And never ask'd for restitution. Car. It serves you well, my lord, to say so much. Glou. I say no more than truth, so help me God ! York. In your protectorship you did devise Strange tortures for offenders never heard of, That England was defamed by tyranny. [tector, Glou. Why, 't is well known that, whiles I was pro- Pity was all the fault that was in me ; For I should melt at an offender's tears, And lowly words were ransom for their fault. Unless it were a bloody murderer. Or foul felonious thief that fleeced poor passengers, I never gave them condign punishment : Murder indeed, that bloody sin, I tortured Above the felon or what trespass else. [swered : Suf. My lord, these faults are easy, quickly an- But mightier crimes are laid unto your charge. Whereof you cannot easily purge yourself. I do arrest you in his highness' name ; And here commit you to my lord cardinal To keep, until your further time of trial. King. My lord of Gloucester, 't is my special hope That you will clear yourself from all suspect : My conscience tells me you are innocent. Glou. Ah, gracious lord, these days are dangerous : 420 Virtue is choked with foul ambition And charity chased hence by rancour's hand ; Foul subornation is predominant And equity exiled your highness' land. I know their complot is to have my life, • And if my death might make this island happy And prove the period of their tyranny, I would expend it with all willingness : But mine is made the prologue to their play : For thousands more, that yet suspect no peril, Will not conclude their plotted tragedy. Beaufort's red sparkling eyes blab his heart's malice, And Suffolk's cloudy brow his stormy hate ; Sharp Buckingham unburthens with his tongue The envious load that lies upon his heart ; And dogged York, that reaches at the moon, Whose overweening arm I have pluck'd back, By false accuse doth level at my life : And you, my sovereign lady, with the rest, Causeless have laid disgraces on my head And with your best endeavour have stirr'd up My liefest liege to be mine enemy : Ay, all of you have laid your heads together — Myself had notice of your conventicles — And all to make away my guiltless life. I shall not want false witness to condemn me, Nor store of treasons to augment my guilt ; The ancient proverb will be well effected : 'A staff is quickly found to beat a dog.' Car. My liege, his railing is intolerable : If those that care to keep your royal person From treason's secret knife and traitors' rage Be thus upbraided, chid and rated at. And the offender granted scope of speech, 'T will make them cool in zeal unto your grace. Suf. Hath he not twit our sovereign lady here With ignominious words, though clerkly couch'd, As if she had suborned some to swear False allegations to o'erthrow his state ? . Queen. But I can give the loser leave to chide. Glou. Far truer spoke than meant : I lose, indeed ; Beshrew the winners, for they play'd me false 1 And well such losers may have leave to speak. Buck. He '11 wrest the sense and hold us here all day : Lord cardinal, he is your prisoner. [sure. Car. Sirs, take away the duke, and guard him Glou. Ah ! thus King Henry throws away his Before his legs be firm to bear his body. [crutch Thus is the shepherd beaten from thy side And wolves are gnarling who shall gnaw thee first. Ah, that my fear were false ! ah, that it were ! For, good King Henry, thy decay I fear. [Exit, guarded. King. My lords, what to your wisdoms seemeth best. Do or undo, as if ourself were here. [ment ? Queen. What, will your highness leave the parlia- King. Ay, Margaret ; my heart is drown'd with grief. Whose flood begins to flow withm mine eyes. My body round engirt with misery. For what 's more miserable than discontent ? Ah, uncle Humphrey ! in thy face I see The map of honour, truth and loyalty : And yet, good Humphrey, is the hour to come That e'er I proved thee false or fear'd thy faith. What louring star now envies thy estate. That these great lords and Margaret our queen Do seek subversion of thy harmless life ? Thou never didst them wrong nor no man wrong ; And as the butcher takes away the calf And binds the wretch and beats it when it strays. Bearing it to the bloody slaughter-house. Even so remorseless have they borne him hence ; And as the dam runs lowing up and down. Looking the way her harmless young one went, ACT III. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI. scene i. And can do nought but wail her darling's loss, Even so myself bewails good Gloucester's case With sad unhelpful tears, and with dimm'd eyes Look after him and cannot do him good, So mighty are his vowed enemies. His fortunes I will weep and 'twixt each groan Say ' Who 's_ a traitor ? Gloucester he is none. ' : all but Queen, Cardinal Beaufort Suffolk, and York; Somerset remains apart. Queen. Free lords, cold snow melts with the sun's Henry my lord is cold in great affairs, piot beams. Too full of foolish pity, and Gloucester's show Beguiles him as the mournful crocodile With sorrow snares relenting passengers, Or as the snake roU'd in a flowering bank, With shining checker'd slough, doth sting a child That for the beauty thinks it excellent. Believe me, lords, were none more wise than I — And yet herein I judge mine own wit good — This Gloucester should be quickly rid the world, To rid us from the fear we have of him. Car. That he should die is worthy policy ; But yet we want a colour for his death : 'T is meet he be condemn'd by course of law. Suf. But, in my mind, that were no policy: The king will labour still to save his life. The commons haply rise, to save his life ; And yet we have but trivial argument, More than mistrust, that shows him worthy death. York. So that, by this, you would not have him die. Suf. Ah, York, no man alive so fain as 1 1 York. 'T is York that hath more reason for his death. But, my lord cardinal, and you, my Lord of Suffolk, Say as you think, and speak it from your souls. Were 't not all one, an empty eagle were set To guard the chicken from a hungry kite. As place Duke Humphrey for the king's protector ? Queen . So the poor chicken should be sure of death. Suf. Madam, 't is true ; and were 't not madness, To make the fox surveyor of the fold ? [then. Who being accused a crafty murderer. His guilt should be but idly posted over. Because his purpose is not executed. No ; let him die, in that he is a fox. By nature proved an enemy to the flock. Before his chaps be stain 'd with crimson blood, As Humphrey, proved by reasons, to my liege, And do not stand on quillets how to slay him : Be it by gins, by snares, by subtlety. Sleeping or waking, 't is no matter how. So he be dead ; for that is good deceit Which mates him first that first intends deceit. Queen. Thrice-noble Suffolk, 't is resolutely spoke. Suf. Not resolute, except so much were done; For things are often spoke and seldom meant : But that my heart accordeth with my tongue, Seeing the deed is meritorious. And to preserve my sovereign from his foe. Say but the word, and I will be his priest. Car. But I would have him dead, my Lord of Ere you can take due orders for a priest : [Suffolk, Say you consent and censure well the deed. And I '11 provide his executioner, I tender so the safety of my liege. Suf. Here is my hand, the deed is worthy doing. Queen. And so say I. York. And I : and now we three have spoke it, It skills not greatly who impugns our doom. Enter a Post. Post. Great lords, from Ireland am I come amain, To signify that rebels there are up And put the Englishmen unto the sword : Send succours, lords, and stop the rage betime, Before the wound do grow uncurable ; For, being green, there is great hope of help. Car. A breach that craves a quick expedient stop I What counsel give you in this weighty cause ? York. That Somerset be sent as regent thither: 'T is meet that lucky ruler be employ 'd ; Witness the fortune he hath had in France. Som. If York, with all his far-fet policy. Had been the regent there instead of me, He never would have stay'd in France so long. York. No, not to lose it all, as thou hast done: I rather would have lost my life betimes Than bring a burthen of dishonour home By staying there so long till all were lost. Show me one scar character'd on thy skin : Men's flesh preserved so whole do seldom win. Queen. Nay, then, this spark will prove a raging If wind and fuel be brought to feed it with : [fire, No more, good York; sweet Somerset, be still: Thy fortune, York, hadst thou been regent there, Might happily have proved far worse than his. York. What, worse than nought r* nay, then, a shame take all ! Som. And , in th e number, thee that wishest shame! Car. My Lord of York, try what your fortune is. The uncivil kerns of Ireland are in arms And temper clay with blood of Englishmen : To Ireland will you lead a band of men. Collected choicely, from each county some. And try your hap against the Irishmen ? York. I will, my lord, so please his majesty. Suf. Why, our authority is his consent. And what we do establish he confirms : Then, noble York, take thou this task in hand. York. I am content : provide me soldiers, lorda, Whiles I take order for mine own affairs. Suf. A charge. Lord York, that I will see per- form 'd. But now return we to the false Duke Humphrey. Car. No more of him : for I will deal with him That henceforth he shall trouble us no more. And so break off ; the day is almost spent : Lord Suffolk, you and I must talk of that event. York. My Lord of Suffolk, within fourteen days At Bristol I expect my soldiers ; For there I '11 ship them aU for Ireland. Suf. I '11 see it truly done, my Lord of York. [JExeunt all but York. York. Now, York, or never, steel thy fearful And change misdoubt to resolution : [thoughts, Be that thou hopest to be, or what thou art Eesign to death ; it is not worth the enjoying : Let pale-faced fear keep with the mean-born man, And find no harbour in a royal heart. [thought, Faster than spring-time showers comes thought on And not a thought but thinks on dignity. My brain more busy than the labouring spider Weaves tedious snares to trap mine enemies. Well, nobles, well, 't is politicly done. To send me packing with an host of men : I fear me you but warm the starved snake. Who, cherish 'din your breasts, will sting your hearts. 'T was men I lack'd and you will give them me : I take it kindly ; yet be well assured You put sharp weapons in a madman's hands. Whiles I in Ireland nourish a mighty band, I will stir up in England some black storm Shall blow ten thousand souls to heaven or heU ; And this fell tempest shall not cease to rage Until the golden circuit on my head, Like to the glorious sun's transparent beams, Do calm the fury of this mad-bred flaw. And, for a minister of my intent, I have seduced a headstrong Kentishman, John Cade of Ashford, To make commotion, as full well he can, Under the title of John Mortimer. In Ireland have I seen this stubborn Cade Oppose himself against a troop of kerns, 421 ACT III. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI. scene ii. And fought so long, till that his thighs with darts Were almost like a sharp-quill 'd porpentine ; And, in the end being rescued, I have seen Him caper upright like a wild Morisco, Shaking the bloody darts as he his bells. Eull often, like a shag-hair 'd crafty kern, Hath he conversed with the enemy, And undiscover'd come to me again And given me notice of their villanies. This devil here shall be my substitute ; For that John Mortimer, which now is dead, In face, in gait, in speech, he doth resemble: By this I shall perceive the commons' mind. How they affect the house and claim of York. Say he be taken, rack'd and tortured, I know no pain they can inflict upon him Will make him say I moved him to those arms. Say that he thrive, as 't is great like he will. Why, then from Ireland come I with my strength And reap the harvest which that rascal sow'd; For Humphrey being dead, as he shall be, And Henry put apart, the next for me. [Exit. SCENE II. — Bury St. EdmuncPs. A room of state. Enter certain Murderers, First Mur. Run to my Lord of Suffolk ; let him know We have dispatch'd the duke, as he commanded. Sec. Mur. O that it were to do ! What have we Didst ever hear a man so penitent ? [done ? Enter Suffolk. First Mur. Here comes my lord. Suf. Now, sirs, have you dispatch'd this thing ? First Mur. Ay, my good lord, he 's dead. Suf. Why, that 's well said. Go, get you to my house ; I will reward you for this venturous deed. The king and all the peers are here at hand. Have you laid fair the bed ? Is all things well, According as I gave directions ? First Mur. 'T is, my good lord. Suf. Away ! be gone. [Exeunt Murderers. Sound trumpets. Enter the King", the Queen, Car- dinal Beaufort, Somerset, with Attendants. King. Go, call our uncle to our presence straight ; Say we intend to try his grace to-day, If he be guilty, as 't is published. Suf. 1 '11 call him presently, my noble lord. [Exit. King. Lords, take your places; and, I pray you all. Proceed no straiter 'gainst our uncle Gloucester Than from true evidence of good esteem He be approved in practice culpable. Queen. God forbid any malice should prevail, That faultless may condemn a nobleman ! Pray God he may acquit him of suspicion I [much. King. I thank thee, Meg ; these words content me Ee-enter Suffolk. How now ! why look'st thou pale ? why tremblest thou? Where is our uncle ? what 's the matter, Suffolk ? Suf. Dead in his bed, my lord ; Gloucester is dead. Queen. Marry, God f orfend ! Car. God's secret judgment: I did dream to-night The duke was dumb and could not speak a word. [Tlie King swoons. Queen. How fares my lord? Help, lords! the king is dead. Som. Hear up his body ; wring him by the nose. Qween. Run, go, help, help ! O Henry, ope thine eyes! Suf. He doth revive again: madam, be patient. King. O heavenly God ! Queen. How fares my gracious lord ? 422 Suf. Comfort, my sovereign! gracious Henry, comfort ! King. What, doth my Lord of Suffolk comfort me? Came he right now to sing a raven's note, Whose dismal tune bereft my vital powers ; And thinks he that the chirping of a wren, By crying comfort from a hollow breast. Can chase away the first-conceived sound ? Hide not thy poison with such sugar 'd words ; Lay not thy hands on me; forbear, I say; Their touch affrights me as a serpent's sting. Thou baleful messenger, out of my sight I Upon thy eye-balls murderous tyranny Sits in grim majesty, to fright the world. Look not upon me, for thine eyes are wounding; Yet do not go away : come, basilisk. And kill the innocent gazer with thy sight ; For in the shade of death I shall find joy; In life but double death, now Gloucester 's dead. Queen. Why do you rate my Lord of Suffolk thus ? Although the duke was enemy to him, Yet he most Christian-like laments his death : And for myself, foe as he was to me. Might liquid tears or heart-offending groans Or blood-consuming sighs recall his lite, I would be blind with weeping, sick with groans, Look pale as primrose with blood-drinking sighs, And all to have the noble duke alive. What know I how the world may deem of me ? For it is known we were but hollow friends : It may be judged I made the duke away; So shall my name with slander's tongue be wounded, And princes' courts be flU'd with my reproach. This get I by his death : ay me, unhappy ! To be a queen, and crown 'd with infamy ! [man I King. Ah, woe is me for Gloucester, wretched Queen. Be woe for me, more wretched than he is. What, dost thou turn away and hide thy face ? I am no loathsome leper: look on me. What ! art thou, like the adder, waxen deaf ? Be poisonous too and kill thy forlorn queen. Is all thy comfort shut in Gloucester's tomb ? Why, then, dame Margaret was ne'er thy joy. Erect his statua and worship it. And make my image but an alehouse sign. Was I for this nigh wreck'd upon the sea And twice by awkward wind from England's bank Drove back again unto my native clime ? What boded this, but well forewarning wind Did seem to say ' Seek not a scorpion's nest, Nor set no footing on this unkind shore ' ? What did I then, but cursed the gentle gusts And he that loosed them forth their brazen caves ; And bid them blow towards England's blessed Or turn our stern upon a dreadful rock ? [shore. Yet ^olus would not be a murderer. But left that hateful office unto thee : The pretty-vaulting sea refused to drown me. Knowing that thou wouldst have me drown'd on shore, With tears as salt as sea, through thy unkindness: The splitting rocks cower'd in the sinking sands And would not dash me with their ragged sides. Because thy flinty heart, more hard than they. Might in thy palace perish Margaret. As far as I could ken thy chalky cliffs. When from thy shore the tempest beat us back, I stood upon the hatches in the storm. And when the dusky sky began to rob My earnest-gaping sight of thy land's view, I took a costly jewel from my neck, A heart it was, bound in with diamonds. And threw it towards thy land : the sea received it. And so I wish'd thy body might my heart : And even with this I lost fair England's view And bid mine eyes be packing with my heart And call'd them blind and dusky spectacles. ACT III. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI. scene ii. For losing ken of Albion's wished coast. How often have I tempted Suffolk's tongue, The agent of thy foul inconstancy, To sit and witch me, as Ascanius did When he to madding Dido would unfold His father's acts commenced in burning Troy ! Am I not witch'd like her ? or thou not false like Ay me, I can no more ! die, Margaret ! [him ? For Henry weeps that thou dost live so long. N^oise within. Enter "Warwick, Salisbury, and many Commons. War. It is reported, mighty sovereign. That good Duke Humphrey traitorously is murder 'd By Suffolk and the Cardinal Beaufort's means. The commons, like an angry hive of bees That want their leader, scatter up and down And care not who they sting in his revenge. Myself have calm'd their spleenful mutiny, Until they hear the order of his death. [true ; King. That he is dead, good Warwick, 't is too But how he died God knows, not Henry : Enter his chamber, view his breathless corpse, And comment then upon his sudden death. ' TTar. That shall I do, my liege. Stay, Salisbury, With the rude multitude till I return. [Exit. King. O Thou that judgest all things, stay my thoughts. My thoughts, that labour to persuade my soul Some violent hands were laid on Humphrey's life ! If my suspect be false, forgive me, God, For judgment only doth belong to thee. Fain would I go to chafe his paly lips With twenty thousand kisses and to drain Upon his face an ocean of salt tears. To tell my love unto his dumb deaf trimk And with my fingers feel his hand unfeeling : But all in vain are these mean obsequies ; And to survey his dead and earthy image. What were it but to make my sorrow greater ? Be-enter War-wick and others, hearing Glou- cester's body on a bed. War. Come hither, gracious sovereign, view this body. King. That is to see how deep my grave is made ; For with his soul fled all my worldly solace. For seeing him I see my life in death. War. As surely as my soul intends to live With that dread King that took our state upon him To free us from his father's wrathful curse, I do believe that violent hands were laid Upon the life of this thrice-famed duke. Suf. A dreadful oath, sworn with a solemn tongue ! What instance gives Lord Warwick for his vow ? War. See how the blood is settled in his face. Oft have I seen a timely-parted ghost, Of ashy semblance, meagre, pale and bloodless. Being all descended to the labouring heart ; Who, in the conflict that it holds with death. Attracts the same for aidance 'gainst the enemy ; Which with the heart there cools and ne'er returneth To blush and beautify the cheek again. But see, his face is black and full of blood, His eye-balls further out than when he lived. Staring full ghastly like a strangled man ; [gling ; His hair uprear'd, his nostrils stretched with strug- His hands abroad display'd, as one that grasp'd And tugg'd for life and was by strength subdued : Look, on the sheets his hair, you see, is sticking; His well-proportion 'd beard made rough and rugged, Like to the summer's corn by tempest lodged. It cannot be but he was murder 'd here ; The least of all these signs were probable, [death ? Suf. Why, Warwick, who should do the duke to Myself and Beaufort had him in protection ; And we, I hope, sir, are no murderers. War. But both of you were vow'd Duke Humph- rey's foes. And you, forsooth, had the good duke to keep -. 'T is like you would not feast him like a friend ; And 't is well seen he found an enemy. Queen. Then you, belike, suspect these noblemen As guilty of Duke Humphrey's timeless death. War. Who finds the heifer dead and bleeding fresh And sees fast by a butcher with an axe. But will suspect 't was he that made the slaughter ? Who finds the partridge in the puttock's nest. But may imagine how the bird was dead. Although the kite soar with unbloodied beak ? Even so suspicious is this tragedy. [your knife ? Queen. Are you the butcher, Suffolk ? Where 's Is Beaufort term'd a kite V Where are his talons ? Suf. I wear no knife to slaughter sleeping men ; But here 's a vengeful sword, rusted with ease. That shall be scoured in his rancorous heart That slanders me with murder's crimson badge. Say, if thou darest, proud Lord of Warwickshire, That I am faulty in Duke Humphrey's death. [Exeunt Cardinal, Somerset, and others. War. What dares not Warwick, if false Suffolk dare him ? Queen. He dares not calm his contumelious spirit Nor cease to be an arrogant controller. Though Suffolk dare him twenty thousand times. War. Madam, be still ; with reverence may I say ; For every word you speak in his behalf Is slander to your royal dignity. Suf. Blimt-witted lord, ignoble in demeanour 1 If ever lady wrong 'd her lord so much. Thy mother took into her blameful bed Some stern untutor'd churl, and noble stock Was graft with crab-tree slip ; whose fruit thou art And never of the Nevils' noble race. War. But that the guilt of murder bucklers thee And I should rob the deathsman of his fee. Quitting thee thereby of ten thousand shames. And that my sovereign's presence makes me mild, I would, false murderous coward, on thy knee Make thee beg pardon for thy passed speech And say it was thy mother that thou meant 'st, That thou thyself wast born in bastardy ; And after all this fearful homage done, Give thee thy hire and send thy soul to hell, Pernicious blood-sucker of sleeping men ! Suf. Thou Shalt be waking while I shed thy blood, If from this presence thou darest go with me. War. Away even now, or I will drag thee hence : Unworthy though thou art, I '11 cope with thee And do some service to Duke Humphrey's ghost. [Exeunt Suffolk and Warwick. King. What stronger breastplate than a heart un- tainted ! Thrice is he armed that hath his quarrel just, And he but naked, though lock'd up in steel, Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted. [A noise within. Queen. What noise is this ? Be-enter Suffolk and "Warwick, with their weapons drawn. King. Why. how now, lords! your wrathful weapons drawn Here in our presence ! dare you be so bold ? Why, what tumultuous clamour have we here ? Stif. The traitorous Warwick with the men of Set all upon me, mighty sovereign. [Bury Sal. [To the Commons, entering] Sirs, stand apart; the king shall know your mind. Dread lord, the commons send you word by me, Unless Lord Suffolk straight be done to death, Or banished fair England's territories. They will by violence tear him from your palace And torture him with grievous lingering death. 423 ACT III. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VL scene ii. They say, by him the good Duke Humphrey died ; They say, in him they fear your higlmess' death ; And mere instinct of love and loyalty. Free from a stubborn opposite intent, As being thought to contradict your liking, Makes them thus forward in his banishment. They say, in care of your most royal person, That if your highness should intend to sleep And charge that no man should disturb your rest In pain of your dislike or pain of death. Yet, notwithstanding such a strait edict. Were there a serpent seen, with forked tongue, That slily glided towards your majesty. It were but necessary you were waked. Lest, being suffer'd In that harmful slumber. The mortal worm might make the sleep eternal ; And therefore do they cry, though you forbid. That they will guard you, whether you will or no, From such fell serpents as false Suffolk is. With whose envenomed and fatal sting. Your loving uncle, twenty times his worth, They say, is shamefully bereft of life. Commons. [ Within] An answer from the king, my Lord of Salisbury ! 8uf. 'T is like the commons, rude unpolish'd hinds, Could send such message to their sovereign : But you, my lord, were glad to be employ'd, To show how quaint an orator you are : But all the honour Salisbury hath won Is, that he was the lord ambassador Sent from a sort of tinkers to the king. Commons. [Withhi] An answer from the king, or we will all break in ! King. Go, Salisbury, and tell them all from me, I thank them for their tender loving care ; And had I not been cited so by them. Yet did I purpose as they do entreat ; For, sure, my thoughts do hourly prophesy Mischance unto my state by Suffolk's means : And therefore, by His majesty I swear, Whose far unworthy deputy 1 am. He shall not breathe infection in this air But three days longer, on the pain of death. [_Exit Salisbury. fueen. O Henry, let me plead for gentle Suffolk ! ing. Ungentle queen, to call him gentle Suffolk I No more, I say : if thou dost plead for him. Thou wilt but add increase unto my wrath. Had I but said, I would have kept my word, But when I swear, it is irrevocable. If, after three days' space, thou here be'st found On any ground that I am ruler of, The world shall not be ransom for thy life. Come, Warwick, come, good Warwick, go with me ; I have great matters to impart to thee. [Uxeunt all but Queen and Suffolk. Queen. Mischance and sorrow go along with you ! Heart's discontent and sour affliction Be playfellows to keep you company ! There 's two of you ; the devil make a third ! And threefold vengeance tend upon your steps ! Suf. Cease, gentle queen, these execrations And let thy Suffolk take his heavy leave, [wretch ! Queen. Fie, coward woman and soft-hearted Hast thou not spirit to curse thine enemy ? Suf. A plague upon them! wherefore should I curse them ? Would curses kill, as doth the mandrake's groan, I would invent as bitter-searching terms, As curst, as harsh and horrible to hear, Deliver'd strongly through my fixed teeth. With full as many signs of deadly hate. As lean-faced Envy in her loathsome cave : My tongue should stumble in mine earnest words ; Mine eyes should sparkle like the beaten flint ; Mine hair be fix'd on end, as one distract; Ay, every joint should seem to curse and ban : 424 And even now my burthen 'd heart would break, Should I not curse them. Poison be their drink ! GaU, worse than gall, the daintiest that they taste! Their sweetest shade a grove of cypress trees ! Their chiefest prospect murdering basilisks ! Their softest touch as smart as lizards' stings ! Their music frightful as the serpent's hiss. And boding screech-owls make the concert full ! All the foul terrors in dark-seated hell — Queen. Enough, sweet Suffolk; thou torment 'st thyself ; And these dread curses, like the sun 'gainst glass. Or like an overcharged gun, recoil. And turn the force of them upon thyself. Suf. You bade me ban, and will you bid me leave ? Now, by the ground that I am banish'd from, Well could I curse away a winter's night, Though standing naked on a mountain top, Where biting cold would never let grass grow, And thiak it but a minute spent in sport. Qusen. O, let me entreat thee cease. Give me thy That I may dew it with my mournful tears ; [hand, Nor let the rain of heaven wet this place. To wash away my woful monuments. O, could this kiss be printed in thy hand. That thou mightst think upon these by the seal, Through whom a thousand sighs are breathed for thee! So, get thee gone, that I may know my grief; 'T is but surmised whiles thou art standing by, As one that surfeits thinking on a want. I will repeal thee, or, be well assured. Adventure to be banished myself : And banished I am, if but from thee. Go ; speak not to me ; even now be gone. O, go not yet I Even thus two friends condemn'd Embrace and kiss and take ten thousand leaves, Loather a hundred times to part than die. Yet now farewell ; and farewell life with thee I Suf. Thus is poor Suffolk ten times banished ; Once by the king, and three times thrice by thee. 'T is not the land I care for, wert thou thence ; A wilderness is populous enough. So Suffolk had thy heavenly company : For wliere thou art, there is the world itself, With every several pleasure in the world, And where thou art not, desolation. I can no more : live thou to joy thy life ; Myself no joy in nought but that thou livest. Enter Vaux. Queen. Whither goes Vaux so fast ? what news, I Vaux. To signify unto his majesty [prithee ? That Cardinal Beaufort is at point of death ; For suddenly a grievous sickness took him. That makes him gasp and stare and catch the air. Blaspheming God and cursing men on earth. Sometime he talks as if Duke Humphrey's ghost Were by his side ; sometime he calls the king And whispers to his pillow as to him The secrets of his overcharged soul : And I am sent to tell his majesty That even now he cries aloud for him. Queen. Go tell this heavy message to the king. [Exit Vaux. Ay me ! what is this world ! what news are these ! But wherefore grieve I at an hour's poor loss. Omitting Suffolk's exile, my soul's treasure ? Why only, Suffolk, mourn I not for thee. And with the southern clouds contend in tears, Theirs for the earth's increase, mine for my sorrows ? Now get thee hence: the kmg, thou know'st, is coming ; If thou be found by me, thou art but dead. Suf. If I depart from thee, I cannot live ; And in thy sight to die, what were it else But like a pleasant slumber in thy lap ? ACT IV. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI. scene i. Here could I breathe my soul into the air, As mild and gentle as the cradle-babe Dying with mother's dug between its lips : Where, from thy sight, I should be raging mad And cry out for thee to close up mine eyes, To have thee with thy lips to stop my mouth ; So shouldst thou either turn my flying soul, Or I should breathe it so into thy body, And then it lived in sweet Elysium. To die by thee were but to die in jest ; From thee to die were torture more than death : 0, let me stay, befall what may befall ! Queen. Away ! though parting be a fretful corro- sive, It is applied to a deathful wound. To France, sweet Suffolk : let me hear from thee ; For wheresoe'er thou art in this world's globe, I '11 have an Iris that shall find thee out. Suf. I go. Queen. And take my heart with thee. Huf. A jewel, lock'd into the wofull'st cask That ever did contain a thing of worth. Even as a splitted bark, so sunder we : This way fall I to death. ■ Queen. This way for me. {Exeunt severally. SCENE III.— ^ bedchamber. Enter the King, Salisbury, Warwick, to the Cardinal in bed. King. How fares my lord ? speak, Beaufort, to thy sovereign. Car. If thou be'st death, I '11 give thee England's Enough to purchase such another island, [treasure. So thou wilt let me live, and feel no pain. King. Ah, what a sign it is of evil life. Where death's approach is seen so terrible ! War. Beaufort, it is thy sovereign speaks to thee. Car. Bring me unto my trial when you will. Died he not in his bed ? where should he die ? Can I make men live, whether they vnll or no ? O, torture me no more ! I will confess. Alive again ? then show me where he is : I '11 give a thousand pound to look upon him. He hath no eyes, the dust hath blinded them. Comb down his hair ; look, look ! it stands upright, Like lime-twigs set to catch my winged soul. Give me some drink ; and bid the apothecary Bring the strong poison that I bought of him. King. O thou eternal Mover of the heavens. Look with a gentle eye upon this wretch ! O, beat away the busy meddling fiend That lays strong siege unto this wretch's soul And from his bosom purge this black despair ! War. See, how the pangs of death do make him grin! Sal. Disturb him not ; let him pass peaceably. Ki7ig. Peace to his soul, if God's good pleasure be ! Lord cardinal, if thou think 'st on heaven's bliss. Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope. He dies, and makes no sign. O God, forgive him! War. So bad a death argues a monstrous life. King. Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all. Close up his eyes and draw the curtain close ; And let us all to meditation. [Exeunt. Js^CT I^. SCENE I.— The coast of Kent. Alarum. Fight at sea. Ordnance goes off. Enter a Cap- tain, a Master, a Master's Mate, Walter Whitmore, and others; with them, Suflfolk, and others, prisoners. Cap. The gaudy, blabbing and remorseful day Is crept into the bosom of the sea ; And now loud-howling wolves arouse the jades That drag the tragic melancholy night ; Who, with their drowsy, slow and flagging wings. Clip dead men's graves and from their misty jaws Breathe foul contagious darkness in the air. Therefore bring forth the soldiers of our prize ; For, whilst our pinnace anchors in the Dovms, Here shall they make their ransom on the sand, Or with their blood stain this discolour'd shore. Master, this prisoner freely give I thee ; And thou that art his mate, make boot of this ; The other, Walter Whitmore, is thy share. Pknow. First Gent. What is my ransom, master? let me Mast. A thousand crowns, or else lay down your head. [yours. Mate. And so much shall you give, or off goes Cap. What, think you much to pay two thousand crowns. And bear the name and port of gentlemen ? Cut both the villains' throats ; for die you shall : The lives of those which we have lost in fight Be counterpoised with such a petty sum ! First Gent. I'll give it, sir; and therefore spare my life. [straight. Sec. Gent. And so will I and write home for it Whit. I lost mine eye in laying the prize aboard, And therefore to revenge it , shalt thou die ; [ To Suf. And so should these, if I might have my will. Cap. Be not so rash ; take ransom, let him live. Suf. Look on my George ; I am a gentleman : Bate me at what thou wilt, thou shalt be paid. Whit. And so am I; my name is Walter Whitmore. How now! why start 'st thou? what, doth death affright ? [death. Stif. Thy name affrights me, in whose sound is A cunning man did calculate my birth And told me that by water I should die : Yet let not this make thee be bloody-minded ; Thy name is Gaultier, being rightly sounded. Whit. Gaultier or Walter, which it is, I care not: Never yet did base dishonour blur our name. But with our sword we wiped away the blot ; Therefore, when merchant-like I sell revenge, Broke be my sword, my arms torn and defaced, And I proclaim 'd a coward through the world 1 Suf. Stay, Whitmore ; for thy prisoner is a prince, The Duke of Suffolk, William de la Pole. Whit. The Duke of Suffolk muffled up in rags ! Suf. Ay, but these rags are no part of the duke : Jove sometime went disguised, and why not I ? Cap. But Jove was never slain, as thou shalt be. Suf. Obscure and lowly swain, King Henry's blood. The honourable blood of Lancaster, Must not be shed by such a jaded groom. Hast thou not kiss'd thy hand and held my stirrup ? Bare-headed plodded by my foot-cloth mule And thought thee happy when I shook my head ? How often hast thou waited at my cup. Fed from my trencher, kneel'd do^vn at the board, When I have feasted with Queen Margaret ? Remember it and let it make thee crest-faU'n, Ay, and allay this thy abortive pride ; How in our voiding lobby hast thou stood And duly waited for my coming forth ? This hand of mine hath writ in thy behalf And therefore shall it charm thy riotous tongue. Wliit. Speak,captain, shall I stab the forlorn swain? Cap. First let my words stab him, as he hath me. Suf. Base slave ,thy words are blunt and so art thoU/ 425 A.CT IV. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI. scene ii. Cap. Convey him hence and on our long-boat's side Strike off his head. Suf. Thou darest not, for thy own. Cap. Yes, Pole. Suf. Pole! Cap. Pool ! Sir Pool ! lord ! Ay, kennel, puddle, sink; whose filth and dirt Troubles the silver spring where England drinks. Now will I dam up this thy yawning mouth For swallowing the treasure of the realm : Thy lips that kiss'd the queen shall sweep the ground ; [death And thou that smiledst at good Duke Humphrey's Against the senseless winds shalt grin in vain, Who in contempt shall hiss at thee again : And wedded be thou to the hags of hell, For daring to affy a mighty lord Unto the daughter of a worthless king. Having neither subject, wealth, nor diadem. By devilish policy art thou grown great And, like ambitious Sylla, overgorged With gobbets of thy mother's bleeding heart. By thee Anjou and Maine were sold to Prance, The false revolting Normans thorough thee Disdain to call us lord, and Picardy Hath slain their governors, surprised our forts And sent the ragged soldiers wounded home. The princely Warwick, and the Nevils all. Whose dreadful swords were never drawn in vain, As hating thee, are rising up in arms : And now the house of York, thrust from the crown By shameful murder of a guiltless king And lofty proud encroaching tyranny. Burns with revenging fire ; whose hopeful colours Advance our half -faced sun, striving to shine, Under the which is writ ' luvitis nubibus.' The commons here in Kent are up in arms : And, to conclude, reproach and beggary Is crept into the palace of our king. And all by thee. Away ! convey him hence. Suf. O that I were a god, to shoot forth thunder Upon these paltry, servile, abject drudges! Small things make base men proud: this vinain Being captain of a pinnace, threatens more [here, Than Bargulus the strong Illyrian pirate. Drones suck not eagles' blood but rob bee-hives : It is impossible that I should die By such a lowly vassal as thyself. Thy words move rage and not remorse in me : I go of message from the queen to France ; I charge thee waft me safely cross the Channel. Cap. Walter, — [death. Whit. Come, Suffolk, I must waft thee to thy Suf. Gelidustimoroccupatartus;itisthee I fear. Wliit. Thou Shalt have cause to fear before I leave thee. What, are ye daunted now ? now will ye stoop ? First Gent. My gracious lord, entreat him, speak him fair. Suf. Suffolk's imperial tongue is stern and rough. Used to command, untaught to plead for favour. Far be it we should honour such as these With humble suit : no, rather let my head Stoop to the block than these knees bow to any Save to the God of heaven and to my king ; And sooner dance upon a bloody pole Than stand uncover'd to the vulgar groom. True nobility is exempt from fear : More can I bear than you dare execute. Cap. Hale him away, and let him talk no more. Suf. Come, soldiers, show what cruelty ye can, That this my death may never be forgot ! Great men oft die by vile bezonians : A Roman sworder and banditto slave Murder'd sweet Tully ; Brutus' bastard hand Stabb'd Julius Csesar ; savage islanders Pompey the Great ; and Suffolk dies by pirates. [Hxeunt Whitmore and others with Suffolh. 426 Cap. And as for these whose ransom we have set, It is our pleasure one of them depart : Therefore come you with us and let him go. [Exeunt all but the First Gentleman. Be-enter "WTaitmore with Suffolk's body. Whit. There let his head and lifeless body lie. Until the queen his mistress bury it. [Exit, First Gent. O barbarous and bloody spectacle I His body will I bear imto the king : If he revenge it not, yet will his friends ; S( will the queen, that living held him dear. [Exit with the body, SCENE II.— Blackheath. Enter George Bevis and John Holland. Bevis. Come, and get thee a sword, though made of a lath : they have been up these two days. Holl. They have the more need to sleep now, then. Bevis. I tell thee, Jack Cade the clothier means to dress the commonwealth, and turn it, and set a new nap upon it. Holl. So he had need, for 't is threadbare. Well, I say it was never merry world in England since gentlemen came up. Bevis. O miserable age! virtue is not regarded in handicrafts-men. [aprons. Holl. The nobility think scorn to go in leather Bevis. Nay, more, the king's council are no good workmen. Holl. True ; and yet it is said, labour in thy vo- cation ; which is as much to say as, let the magis- trates be labouring men ; and therefore should we Bevis. Thou hast hit it; for there's no better sign of a brave mind than a hard hand. Holl. 1 see them ! I see them ! There 's Best's son, the tanner of Wingham, — Bevis. He shall have the skin of our enemies, to make dog's-leather of. Holl. And Dick the Butcher,— Bevis. Then is sin struck down like an ox, and iniquity's throat cut like a calf. Holl. And Smith the weaver,— Bevis. Argo, their thread of life is spun. Holl. Come, come, let 's fall in with them. Drum. Enter Cade, Dick Butcher, Smith the Weaver, and a Sawyer, with infinite numbers. Cade. We John Cade, so termed of our supposed father,— [herrings. Bich. [Aside] Or rather, of stealing a cade of Cade. For our enemies shall fall before us, in- spired with the spirit of putting down kings and princes, — Command silence. JDich. Silence! Cade. My father was a Mortimer,— Bick. [Aside] He was an honest man, and a good Cade. My mother a Plantagenet,— PDricklayer. Dick. [Aside] I knew her well ; she was a midwife. Cade. My wife descended of the Lacies, — Dick. [Aside] She was, indeed, a pedler's daughter, and sold many laces. Smith. [Aside] But now of late, not able to travel with her furred pack, she Trashes bucks here at home. Cade. Therefore am I of an honourable house. Dick. [Aside] Ay, by my faith, the field is hon- ourable ; and there was he born, under a hedge, for his father had never a house but the cage. Cade. Yaliant I am. [valiant. Smith. [Aside] A' must needs ; for beggary is Cade. I am able to endure much. Dick. [Aside] No question of that; for I have seen him whipped three market-days together. Cade. I fear neither sword nor fire. Smith. [Aside] He need not fear the sword ; for his coat is of proof. ACT IV. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI. scexne hi. JDick. [Aside] But methinks he should stand in fear of tire, being burnt i' the hand for stealing of sheep. Cade. Be brave, then ; for your captain is brave, and vows reformation. There shall be in England seven halfpenny loaves sold for a penny : the three- hooped pot shall have ten hoops ; and I will make it felony to drink small beer : all the realm shall be in common ; and in Cheapside shall my paltry go to grass : and when I am king, as king L will be,— All. God save your majesty ! Cade. I thank you, good people: there shall be no money ; all shall eat and drink on my score ; and I will apparel them all in one livery, that they may agree like brothers and worship me their lord. Dick. The first thing we do, let 's kill all the law- yers. Cade. Nay, that I mean to do. Is not this a la- mentable thing, that of the skin of an innocent lamb should be made parchment ^ that parchment, being scribbled o'er, should undo a man ? Some say the bee stings : but I say, 't is the bee's wax ; for I did but seal once to a thing, and I was never mine own man since. How now 1 who 's there ? JEnter some, bringing forward the Clerk of Chatham. Smith. The clerk of Chatham : he can write and read and cast accompt. Cade. O monstrous I Smith. We took him setting of boys' copies. Cade. Here 's a villain ! Smith. Has a book in his pocket with red letters Cade. Nay, then, he is a conjurer. [in 't. Dick. Nay, he can make obligations, and write court-hand. Cade. I am sorry for 't : the man is a proper man, of mine honour ; unless I find him guilty, he shall not die. Come hither, sirrah , I must examine thee : what is thy name f* Clerk. Emmanuel. Dick. They use to write it on the top of letters : 't will go hard with you. Cade. Let me alone. Dost thou use to write thy name ? or hast thou a mark to thyself, like an hon- est plain-dealing man ? Clerk. Sir, I thank God, I have been so well brought up that I can write my name. AU. He hath confessed : away with him ! he 's a villain and a traitor. Cade. Away with him, I say ! hang him with his pen and ink-horn about his neck. [Exit one with the Clerk. Enter Michael. Mich. Where 's our general ? Cade. Here I am, thou particular fellow. Mich. Fly, fly, fly! Sir Humphrey Stafford and his brother are hard by, with the king's forces. Cade. Stand, villain, stand, or I '11 fell thee down. He shall be encountered with a man as good as himself: he is but a knight, is a' ? Mich. No. Cade. To equal him, I will make myself a knight presently. [Kneels] Rise up Sir John Mortimer. [Bises] Now have at him ! Enter Sir Humphrey Stafford and his Brother, with drum and soldiers. Staf. Eebellious hinds, the filth and scum of Kent, Mark'd for the gallows, lay your weapons down ; Home to your cottages, forsake this groom : The king is merciful, if you revolt. Bro. But angry, wrathful, and inclined to blood, If you go forward ; therefore yield, or die. Cade. As for these silken-coated slaves, I pass not : It is to you, good people, that I speak. Over whom, in time to come, I hope to reign ; Eor I am rightful heir imto the crown. Stqf. Villain, thy father was a plasterer; And thou thyself a shearman, art thou not ? Cade. And Adam was a gardener. Bro. And what of that ? [March, Cade. Marry, this: Edmund Mortimer, Earl of Married the Duke of Clarence' daughter, did he Staf. Ay, sir. [not ? Cade. By her he had two children at one birth. Bro. That 's false. Cade. Ay, there 's the question ; but I say, 't is The elder of them, being put to nurse, [true : Was by a beggar-woman stolen away ; And, ignorant of his birth and parentage. Became a bricklayer when he came to age : His sou am I ; deny it, if you can. Dick. Nay, 't is too true ; therefore he shall be king. Smith. Sir, he made a chimney in my father's house, and the bricks are alive at this day to testify it ; therefore deny it not. Staf. And will you credit this base drudge's words, That speaks he knows not what ? All. Ay, marry, will we ; therefore get ye gone. Bro. Jack Cade, the Duke of York hath taught you this. Cade. [Aside] He lies, for I invented it myself. Go to, sirrah, tell the king from me, that, for his father's sake, Henry the Eifth, in whose time boys went to span-counter for French crowns, I am con- tent he shall reign ; but I '11 be protector over him. Dick. And furthermore, we '11 have the Lord Say's head for selling the dukedom of Maine. Cade. And good reason ; for thereby is England mained, and fain to go with a staff, but that my puissance holds it up. Fellow kings, I tell you that that Lord Say hath gelded the commonwealth, and made it an eunuch : and more than that, he can speak French ; and therefore he is a traitor. Staf. O gross and miserable ignorance ! Cade. Nay, answer, if you can: the Frenchmen are our enemies ; go to, then, I ask but this : can he that speaks with the tongue of an enemy be a good counsellor, or no ? All. No, no ; and therefore we '11 have his head. Bro. Well, seeing gentle words will not prevail, Assail them with the army of the king. Staf. Herald, away; and throughout every town Proclaim them traitors that are up with Cade ; That those which fly before the battle ends May, even in their wives' and children's sight, Be hang'd up for example at their doors: And you that be the king's friends, follow me. [Exeunt the two Sta,ffords, and soldiers. Cade. And you that love the commons, follow me. Now show yourselves men ; 't is for liberty. We will not leave one lord, one gentleman : Spare none but such as go in clouted shoon ; For they are thrifty honest men and such As would, but that they dare not, take our parts. Dick. They are all in order and march toward us. Cade. But then are we in order when we are most out of order. Come, march forward. [Exeunt. SCENE 111. — Another part of Blackheath. Alarums to the fight, wherein both the Staffords are slain. Enter Cade and the rest. Cade. Where 's Dick, the butcher of Ashford ? Dick. Here, sir. Cade. They fell before thee like sheep and oxen, and thou behavedst thyself as if thou hadst been in thine own slaughter-house: therefore thus will I reward thee, the Lent shall be as long again as it is ; and thou shalt have a license to kill for a hundred Dick. I desire no more. [lacking one. Cade. And, to speak truth, thou deservest no less. This monument of the victory will I bear [putting on Sir Humphrey'' s brigandine]; and the bodies shall 'at nay horse heels till I do come to Lon- 427 ACT IV. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI. scene vii. don, where we will have the mayor's sword borne before us. Dick. If we mean to thrive and do good, break open the gaols and let out the prisoners. Cade. Fear not that, I warrant thee. Come, let 's march towards London. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. — London. The palace. Enter the King with a supplication, and the Queen with Suffolk's head, the Duke of Buckingham and the Lord Say. Queen. Oft have I heard that grief softens the mind And makes it fearful and degenerate ; Think therefore on revenge and cease to weep. But who can cease to weep and look on this ? Here may his head lie on my throbbing breast : But where 's the body that I should embrace ? Buck. "What answer makes your grace to the rebels' supplication ? King. I '11 send some holy bishop to entreat ; For God forbid so many simple souls Should perish by the sword ! And I myself. Rather than bloody war shall cut them short, "Will parley with Jack Cade their general : But stay, I '11 read it over once again. Queen. Ah, barbarous villains! hath this lovely Ruled, like a wandering planet, over me, [face And could it not enforce them to relent, That were unworthy to behold the same? King. Lord Say, Jack Cade hath sworn to have thy head. Say. Ay, but I hope your highness shall have his. King. How now, madam ! Still lamenting and mourning for Suffolk's death ? I fear me, love, if that I had been dead. Thou wouldest not have mourn'd so much for me. Queen. No, my love, I should not mourn, but die for thee. Enter a Messenger. Kinq. How now ! what news ? why comest thou m such haste ? Mess. The rebels are in Southwark ; fly, my lord ! Jack Cade proclaims himself Lord Mortimer, Descended from the Duke of Clarence' house. And calls your grace usurper openly And vows to crowoi himself in "Westminster. His army is a ragged multitude Of hinds and peasants, rude and merciless : Sir Humphrey Stafford and his brother's death Hath given them heart and courage to proceed : All scholars, lawyers, courtiers, gentlemen, They call false caterpillars and intend their death. King. O graceless men ! they know not what they do. Buck. My gracious lord, retire to Killingworth, "Until a power be raised to put them down. Queen. Ah, were the Duke of Suffolk now alive. These Kentish rebels would be soon appeased ! King. Lord Say, the traitors hate thee; Therefore away with us to Killingworth. Say. So might your grace's person be in danger. The sight of me is odious in their eyes ; And therefore in this city will I stay And live alone as secret as I may. Enter another Messenger. Mess. Jack Cade hath gotten London bridge : The citizens fly and forsake their houses : The rascal people, thirsting after prey. Join with the traitor, and they jointly swear To spoil the city and your royal court. Buck. Then linger not, my lord; away, take horse. [cour us. King. Come, Margaret; God, our hope, will suc- Qu£en. My hope is gone, now Suffolk is deceased. King. Farewell, my lord: trust not the Kentish rebels. 428 Buck. Trust nobody, for fear you be betray'd. Say. The trust I have is in mine innocence, And therefore am I bold and resolute. \Mceunt. SCENE v.— London. The Tower. Enter Lord Scales upon the Tower, walking. Then enter two or three Citizens below. Scales. How now ! is Jack Cade slain ? First Cit. No, my lord, nor likely to be slain ; for they have won the bridge, killing all those that with- stand them: the lord mayor craves aid of your honour from the Tower to defend the city from the rebels. Scales. Such aid as I can spare you shall command ; But I am troubled here with them myself ; The rebels have assay'd to win the Tower. But get you to Smithfield and gather head, And thither I will send you Matthew Goffe ; Fight for your king, your country and your lives ; And so, farewell, for I must hence again. [Exeunt. SCENE VI. — iondoji. Cannon Street. Enter Jack Cade and the rest, and strikes his staff on London-stone. Cade. Now is Mortimer lord of this city. And here, sitting upon London-stone, I charge and com- mand that, of the city's cost, the pissing-conduit run nothing but claret wine this first year of our reign. And now henceforward it shall be treason for any that calls me other than Lord Mortimer. Enter a Soldier, running. Sold. Jack Cade ! Jack Cade ! Cade. Knock him down there. [They kill him. Smith. If this fellow be wise, he '11 never call ye Jack Cade more : I think he hath a very fair warning. Dick. My lord, there 's an army gathered together in Smithfield. Cade. Come, then, let 's go fight with them : but first, go and set London bridge on fire ; and, if you can, burn down the Tower too. Come, let 's away. [Exeunt. SCENE VJl.— London. Smithfield. Alarums. Matthew Goflfe is slain, and all the rest. Then enter Jack Cade, with his company. Cade. So, sirs: now go some and pull down the Savoy ; others to the inns of court ; down with them Dick. I have a suit unto your lordship. [all. Cade. Be it a lordship, thou shalt have it for that word. Dick. Only that the laws of England may come out of your mouth. Holl. [Asidel Mass, 'twill be sore law, then; for he was thrust in the mouth with a spear, and 't is not whole yet. Smith. [Aside] ]Sray,John,it will be stinking law; for his breath stinks with eating toasted cheese. Cade. 1 have thought upon it, it shall be so. Away, burn all the records of the realm : my mouth shall be the parliament of England. Holl. [Aside] Then we are like to have biting statutes, unless his teetli be pulled out. [common. Cade. And henceforward all things shall be in Enter a Messenger. Mess. My lord, a prize, a prize ! here 's the Lord Say, which sold the towns in France ; he that made us pay one and twenty fifteens, and one shilling to the pound, the last subsidy. Enter George Be vis, with the Lord Say. Cade. Well, he shall be beheaded for it ten times. Ah, thou say, thou serge, nay, thou buckram lord! now art thou within point-blank of our jurisdiction ACT IV. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI. scene viii. regal. What canst thou answer to my majesty for giving up of Normandy unto Mounsieur Basimecu, the dauphin of France ? Be it known unto thee by these presence, even the presence of Lord Morti- mer, that I am tlie besom that must sweep the court clean of such filth as thou art. Thou hast most traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm in erecting a grammar school : and whereas, before, our forefathers had no other books but the score and the tally, thou hast caused printing to be used, and, contrary to the king, his crown and dignity, thou hast built a paper-mill. It will be proved to thy face that thou hast men about thee that usually talk of a noun and a verb, and such abominable words as no Christian ear can endure to hear. Thou hast appointed justices of peace, to call poor men before them about matters they were not able to answer. Moreover, thou hast put them in prison ; and because they could not read, thou hast hanged them ; when, indeed, only for that cause they have been most worthy to live. Thou dost ride in a foot-cloth, dost thou not ? Say. What of that ? Cade. Marry, thou oughtest not to let thy horse "wear a cloak, when honester men than thou go in their hose and doublets. Dick. And work in their shirt too; as myself, for example, that am a butcher. Say. You men of Kent, — Dick. What say you of Kent ? [gens.' Say. Nothing but this; 'tis 'bona terra, mala Cade. Away with him, away with him ! he speaks Latin. [will. Say. Hear me but speak, and bear me where you Kent, in the Commentaries Csesar writ. Is term'd the civil'st place of all this isle: Sweet is the comitry, because full of riches ; The people liberal, valiant, active, wealthy ; Which makes me hope you are not void of pity. I sold not Maine, I lost not Normandy, Yet, to recover them, would lose my life. Justice with favour have I always done ; Prayers and tears have moved me, gifts could never. When have I aught exacted at your hands, But to maintain the king, the realm and you ? Large gifts have I bestow'd on learned clerks, Because my book preferr'd me to the king, And seeing ignorance is the curse of God, Knowledge the wing wherewith we fly to heaven, Unless you be possess'd with devilish spirits. You cannot but forbear to murder me : This tongue hath parley 'd unto foreign kings For your behoof, — [field ? Cade. Tut, when struck'st thou one blow in the Say. Great men have reaching hands : oft have I struck Those that I never saw and struck them dead. Geo. O monstrous coward! what, to come behind folks ? [good. Say. These cheeks are pale for watching for your Cade. Give him a box o' the ear and that will make 'em red again. Say. Long sitting to determine poor men's causes Hath made me full of sickness and diseases. Cade. Ye shall have a hempen caudle then and the help of hatchet. JDick. Why dost thou quiver, man ? Say. The palsy, and not fear, provokes me. Cade. Nay, he nods at us, as who should say, I '11 be even with you : I '11 see if his head will stand steadier on a pole, or no. Take him away, and be- head him. Say. Tell me wherein have I offended most ? Have I affected wealth or honour ? speak. Are my chests fiU'd up with extorted gold ? Is my apparel sumptuous to behold ? Whom have I injured, that ye seek my death ? These hands are free from guiltless blood-shedding, This breast from harbouring foul deceitful thoughts. O, let me live! Cade. [Aside] I feel remorse in myself with his words; but I'll bridle it: he shall die, an it be but for pleading so well for his life. Away with him ! he has a familiar under Ms tongue ; he speaks not o' God's name. Go, take him away, I say, and strike off his head presently ; and then break into his son-in-law's house. Sir James Cromer, and strike off his head, and bring them both upon two poles hither. All. It shall be done. [prayers, Say. Ah, countrymen! if when you make your God should be so obdurate as yourselves. How would it fare with your departed souls ? And therefore yet relent, and save my life. Cade. Away with him ! and do as I command ye. [Exeunt some with Lord Say. The proudest peer in the realm shall not wear a head on his shoulders, unless he pay me tribute; there shall not a maid be married, but she shall pay to me her maidenhead ere they have it : men shall hold of me in capite ; and we charge and com- mand that their wives be as free as heart can wish or tongue can tell. Dick. My lord, when shall we go to Cheapside and take up commodities upon our bills ? Cade. Marry, presently. All. O, brave ! He-enter one with the heads. Cade. But is not this braver? Let them kiss one another, for they loved well when they were alive. Now part them again, lest they consult about the giving up of some more towns in France. Soldiers, defer the spoil of the city until night : for with these borne before us, instead of maces, will we ride through the streets and at every corner have them kiss. Away ! '[Exeunt. SCENE VIII.— Southwark. Alarum and retreat. Enter Cade and all his rdb- blement. Cade. Up Fish Street ! dovm Saint Magnus' Cor- ner ! kill and knock down ! throw them into Thames ! [Soiond a parley.] What noise is this I hear ? Dare any be so bold to sound retreat or parley, when I command them kill ! Enter Buckingham and old Cliffbrd, attended. Buck. Ay, here they be that dare and will dis- turb thee : Know, Cade, we come ambassadors from the king Unto the commons whom thou hast misled ; And here pronounce free pardon to them all That will forsake thee and go home in peace. Clif. What say ye, countrymen ? will ye relent, And yield to mercy whilst 't is offer'd you ; Or let a rebel lead you to your deaths ? Who loves the king and will embrace his pardon. Fling up his cap, and say ' God save his majesty ! ' Who hateth him and honours not his father, Henry the Fifth, that made all France to quake, Shake he his weapon at us and pass by. All. God save the king ! God save the king ! Cade. What, Buckingham and Clifford, are j^e so brave ? And you, base peasants, do ye believe him ? will you needs be hanged with your pardons about your necks ? Hath my sword therefore broke through London gates, that you should leave me at the White Hait in Southwark ? I thought ye would never have given out these arms till you had recovered your ancient freedom: but you are all recreants and dastards, and delight to live in slavery to the nobility. Let them break your backs with burthens, take your houses over your heads, ravish your wives and daughters before your faces; 429 ACT IV. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI. scene x. for me, I will make shift for one; and so, God's curse light upon you all ! All. We '11 follow Cade, we '11 follow Cade ! Clif. Is Cade the son of Henry the Fifth, That thus you do exclaim you '11 go with him ? "Will he conduct you through the heart of France, And make the meanest of you earls and dukes ? Alas, he hath no home, no place to fly to ; Nor knows he how to live but by the spoil, Unless by robbing of your friends and us. Were 't not a shame, that whilst you live at jar, The fearful French, whom you late vanquished, Should make a start o'er seas and vanquish you ? Methinks already in this civil broil I see them lording it in London streets, Crying ' Villiago ! ' unto all they meet. Better ten thousand base-born Cades miscarry Than you should stoop unto a Frenchman's mercy. To France, to France, and get what you have lost ; Spare England, for it is your native coast : Henry hath money, you are strong and manly ; God on our side, doubt not of victory. All. A Clifford ! a Clifford ! we '11 follow the king and Clifford. Cade. Was ever feather so lightly blown to and fro as this multitude ? The name of Henry the Fifth hales them to an hundred mischiefs and makes them leave me desolate. I see them lay their heads to- gether to surprise me. My sword make way for me, for here is no staying. In despite of the devils and hell , have through the very middest of you ! and heav- ens and honour be witness that no want of resolution in me, but only my followers' base and ignominious treasons, makes me betake me to my heels. [Exit. Buck. What, is he fled ? Go some, and follow him ; And he that brings his head unto the king Shall have a thousand crowns for his reward. [Exeunt some of them. Follow me, soldiers : we '11 devise a mean To reconcile you all unto the king. [Exeunt. SCENE IK.—Kenilworth Castle. Sound trumpets. Enter King, Queen, and Som- erset, on the terrace. King. Was ever king that joy'd an earthly throne, And could command no more content than I ? No sooner was I crept out of my cradle But I was made a king, at nine months old. Was never subject long'd to be a king As I do long and wish to be a subject. Enter Buckingham and old OliflFord. Buck. Health and glad tidings to your majesty ! King. Why, Buckingham, is the traitor Cade sur- Or is he but retired to make him strong ? [prised ? Enter, helovj, multitudes, with halters about their necks. Clif. He is fled, my lord, and all his powers do yield ; And humbly thus, with halters on their necks, Expect your highness' doom, of life or death. King. Then, heaven, set ope thy everlasting gates, To entertain my vows of thanks and praise! Soldiers, this day have you redeem 'd your lives And show'd how well you love your prince and country : Continue still in this so good a mind. And Henry, though he be infortunate. Assure yourselves, will never be unkind : And so, with thanks and pardon to you all, I do dismiss you to your several countries. All. God save the king ! God save the king ! Enter a Messenger. Mess, Please it your grace to be advertised The Duke of York is newly come from Ireland, And with a puissant and a mighty power 430 Of gallowglasses and stout kerns Is marching hitherward in proud array. And still proclaimeth, as he comes along, His arms are only to remove from thee The Duke of Somerset, whom he terms a traitor. King. Thus stands my state, 'twixt Cade and York distress 'd ; Like to a ship that, having 'scaped a tempest. Is straightway calm'd and boarded with a pirate : But now is Cade driven back, his men dispersed ; And now is York in arms to second him. I pray thee, Buckingham, go and meet him, And ask him what 's the reason of these arms. Tell him I '11 send Duke Edmund to the Tower; And, Somerset, we will commit thee hither, Until his army be dismiss'd from him. Som. My lord, I '11 yield myself to prison willingly. Or unto death, to do my country good. King. In any case, be not too rough in terms ; For he is fierce and cannot brook hard language. Buck. I will, my lord ; and doubt not so to deal As all things shall redound unto your good. King. Come, wife, let 's in, and learn to govern better ; For yet may England curse my wretched reign. [Flourish. Exeunt. SCENE X.—Kent. Iden''s garden. Enter Cade. Cade. Fie on ambition ! fie on myself, that have a sword, and yet am ready to famish ! These five days have I hid me in these woods and durst not peep out, for all the country is laid for me ; but now am I so hungry that if I might have a lease of my life for a thousand years I could stay no longer. Wherefore, on a brick wall have I climbed into this garden, to see if I can eat grass, or pick a sallet another while, which is not amiss to cool a' man's stomach this hot weather. And I think this word ' sallet ' was born to do me good : for many a time, but for a sallet, my brain-pan had been cleft with a brown bill : and many a time, when I have been dry and bravely marching, it hath served me instead of a quart pot to drink in ; and now the word ' sallet ' must serve me to feed on. Enter Iden. Iden. Lord, who would live turmoiled in the court, And may enjoy such quiet walks as these ? This small inheritance my father left me Contenteth me, and worth a monarchy. I seek not to wax great by others' waning, Or gather wealth, I care not, with what envy: Sumceth that I have maintains my state And sends the poor well pleased from my gate. Cade. Here 's the lord of the soil come to seize me for a stray, for entering his fee-simple without leave. Ah, villain, thou wilt betray me, and get a thousand crowns of the king by carrying my head to him : but I '11 make thee eat iron like an ostrich, and swallow my sword like a great pin, ere thou and I part. Iden. Why, rude companion, whatsoe'er thou be, I know thee not ; why, then, should I betray thee ? Is 't not enough to break into my garden. And, like a thief, to come to rob my grounds, Climbing my walls in spite of me the owner. But thou wilt brave me with these saucy terms ? Cade. Brave thee ! ay, by the best blood that ever was broached, and beard thee too. Look on me well : I have eat no meat these five days ; yet, come thou and thy five men, and if I do not leave you all as dead as a door-nail, I pray God I may never eat grass more. [stands, Iden. Nay, it shall ne'er be said, while England That Alexander Iden, an esquire of Kent, Took odds to combat a poor f amish'd man. ACT V. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI. scene i. Oppose thy steadfast-gazing eyes to mine, See if thou canst outface me with thy looks : Set limb to limb, and thou art far the lesser ; Thy hand is but a finger to my fist, Thy leg a stick compared with this truncheon ; My foot shall fight with all the strength thou hast ; And if mme arm be heaved in the air, Thy grave is digg'd already in the earth. As for words, whose greatness answers words, Let this my sword report what speech forbears. Cade. By my valour, the most complete cham- pion that ever I heard! Steel, if thou turn the edge, or cut not out the burly-boned clown in chines of beef ere thou sleep in thy sheath, I be- seech God on my knees thou mayst be turned to hobnails. [Here they fight. Cade falls. O, I am slain ! famine and no other hath slain me : let ten thousand devils come against me, and give me but the ten meals I have lost, and I 'Id defy them all. Wither, garden ; and be henceforth a burying-place to all that do dwell in this house, because the unconquered soul of Cade is fled. Men. Is 't Cade that I have slain, that monstrous traitor ? Sword, 1 will hallow thee for this thy deed. And hang thee o'er my tomb when I am dead: Ne'er shall this blood be wiped from thy point; But thou Shalt wear it as a herald's coat. To emblaze the honour that thy master got. Cade. Iden, farewell, and be proud of thy victory. Tell Kent from me, she hath lost her best man, and exhort all the world to be cowards; for I, that never feared any, am vanquished by famine, not by valour. [Dies. Iden. How much thou wrong'st me, heaven be my judge. Die, damned wretch, the curse of her that bare thee; And as I thrust thy body in with my sword, So wish 1, I might thrust thy soul to hell. Hence will I drag thee headlong by the heels Unto a dunghill which shall be thy grave. And there cut off thy most ungracious head ; Which I will bear in triumph to the king. Leaving thy trunk for crows to feed upon. [Exit. A.CT V. SCENE I. — Fields between JDartford and Black- heath. Enter York, and his army of Irish, with drum and colours. York. From Ireland thus comes York to claim his right. And pluck the crown from feeble Henry's head : Ring, bells, aloud ; burn, bonfires, clear and bright, To entertain great England's lawful king. Ah ! sancta majestas, who would not buy thee dear? Let them obey that know not how to rule ; This hand was made to handle nought but gold. I cannot give due action to my words. Except a sword or sceptre balance it : A sceptre shaU it have, have I a soul, On which I '11 toss the flower-de-luce of France. Enter Buckinghani. Whom have we here ? Buckingham, to disturb me ? The king hath sent him, sure : I must dissemble. Buck. York, if thou meanest well, I greet thee well. [greeting. York. Humphrey of Buckingham, I accept thy Art thou a messenger, or come of pleasure ? Buck. A messenger from Henry, our dread liege. To know the reason of these arms in peace ; Or why thou, being a subject as I am, Against thy oath and true allegiance sworn. Should raise so great a power without his leave, Or dare to bring thy force so near the court. York. [Aside] Scarce can I speak, my choler is so O, I cordd hew up rocks and fight with flint, [great: I am so angry at these abject terms ; And now, like Ajax Telamonius, On sheep or oxen could I spend my fury. I am far better born than is the king, More like a king, more kingly in my thoughts: But I must make fair weather yet awhile. Till Henry be more weak and I more strong. — Buckingham, I prithee, pardon me. That I have given no answer all this while ; My mind was troubled with deep melancholy. The cause why I have brought this army hither Is to remove proud Somerset from the king, Seditious to his grace and to the state. Buck. That is too much presumption on thy part : But if thy arms be to no other end, The king hath yielded unto thy demand : The Duke of Somerset is in the Tower. York. Upon thine honour, is he prisoner? Buck. Upon mine honour, he is prisoner. York. Then, Buckingham, I do dismiss my powers. Soldiers, I thank you all ; disperse yourselves; Meet me to-morrow in Saint G-eorge's field. You shall have pay and every thing you wish. And let my sovereign, virtuous Henry, Command my eldest son, nay, all my sons. As pledges of my fealty and love ; I '11 send them all as willing as I live : Lands, goods, horse, armour, any thing I have, Is his to use, so Somerset may die. Buck. York, I commend this kind submission: We twain will go into his highness' tent. Enter King and Attendants. King. Buckingham, doth York intend no harm to That thus he marcheth with thee arm in arm ? [us, York. In all submission and humility York doth present himself unto your highness. King. Then what intends these forces thou dost bring ? York. To heave the traitor Somerset from hence. And fight against that monstrous rebel Cade, Who since I heard to be discomfited. Enter Iden, with Cade's head. Iden. If one so rude and of so mean condition May pass into the presence of a king, Lo, I present your grace a traitor's head, The head of Cade, whom I in combat slew. King. The head of Cade ! Great God, how just O, let me view his visage, being dead, [art Thou! That living wrought me such exceeding trouble. Tell me, my friend, art thou the man that slew him ? Iden. I was, an 't like your majesty. King. How art thou call'd ? and what is thy de* Iden. Alexander Iden, that 's my name ; [gree ? A poor esquire of Kent, that loves his king. Buck. So please it you, my lord, 't were not amiss He were created knight for his good service. King. Iden, kneel down. [He kneels.] Else up a We give thee for reward a thousand marks, [knight. And will that thou henceforth attend on us. Iden. May Iden live to merit such a bounty. And never live but true unto his liege ! [Mises. Enter Queen and Somerset. King. See, Buckingham, Somerset comes with the Go , bid her hide him quickly from the duke, [queen : 431 ACT V. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI. scene ii. Queen. For thousand Yorks he shall not hide his But boldly stand and front him to his face, [head, York. How now ! is Somerset at liberty ? Then, York, unloose thy long-imprison'd thoughts, And let thy tongue be equal with thy heart. Shall I endure the sight of Somerset ? False king ! why hast thou broken faith with me, Knowing how hardly I can brook abuse ? King did I call thee ? no, thou art not king, Not fit to govern and rule multitudes. Which darest not, no, nor canst not rule a traitor. That head of thine doth not become a crown ; Thy hand is made to grasp a palmer's staff. And not to grace an awful princely sceptre. That gold must round engirt these brows of mine. Whose smile and frown, like to Achilles' spear. Is able with the change to kill and cure. Here is a hand to hold a sceptre up And with the same to act controlling laws. Give place : by heaven, thou shalt rule no more O'er him whom heaven created for thy ruler. Som. O monstrous traitor ! I arrest thee, York, Of capital treason 'gainst the king and crown : Obey, audacious traitor ; kneel for grace. York. Wouldst have me kneel ? first let me ask If they can brook I bow a knee to man. [of these. Sirrah, call in my sons to be my bail : [Mcit Attendant. I know, ere they will have me go to ward. They '11 pawn their swords for my enfranchisement. Queen. Call hither Clifford ; bid him come amain, To say if that the bastard boys of York Shall be the surety for their traitor father, [Uxit Buckingham. York. O blood-besotted Neapolitan, Outcast of Naples, England's bloody scourge ! The sons of York, thy betters in their birth. Shall be their father's bail ; and bane to those That for my surety will refuse the boys ! I^nter Ed-ward and Richard. See where they come : I '11 warrant they '11 make it good. Enter old Clifford and his Son. Queen. And here comes Clifford to deny their bail. Vlif. Health and all happiness to my lord the king ! [Kneels. York. I thank thee, Clifford: say, what news with Nay, do not fright us with an angry look : [thee ? We are thy sovereign, Clifford, kneel again ; For thy mistaking so, we pardon thee. Clif. This is my king, York, I do not mistake ; But thou mistakest me much to think I do : To Bedlam with him ! is the man grown mad ? King. Ay, Clifford; a bedlam and ambitious humour Makes him oppose himself against his king. Clif. He is a traitor ; let him to the Tower, And chop away that factious pate of his. Queen. He is arrested, but will not obey; His sons, he says, shall give their words for him. York. Will you not, sons ? JEdw. Ay, noble father, if our words will serve. Bich. And if words will not, then our weapons shall. Clif. Why, what a brood of traitors have we here ! York. Look m a glass, and call thy image so: I am thy king, and thou a false-heart traitor. Call hither to the stake my two brave bears. That with the very shaking of their chains They may astonish these fell-lurking curs : Bid Salisbury and Warwick come to me. Enter the Earls of Warwick and Salisbury. Clif. Are these thy bears ? we '11 bait thy bears to death, 432 And manacle the bear-ward in their chains. If thou darest bring them to the baiting place. Bich. Oft have I seen a hot o'erweening cur Run back and bite, because he was withheld; Who, being suffer'd with the bear's fell paw. Hath clapp'd his tail between his legs and cried: And such a piece of service will you do. If you oppose yourselves to match Lord Warwick, Clif. Hence, heap of wrath, foul indigested lump, As crooked in thy manners as thy shape ! York. Nay, we shall heat you thoroughly anon. Clif. Take heed, lest by your heat you burn your- selves, [bow ? King. Why, Warwick, hath thy knee forgot to Old Salisbury, shame to thy silver hair, Thou mad misleader of thy brain-sick son ! What, wilt thou on thy death-bed play the ruffian, And seek for sorrow with thy spectacles ? O, where is faith ? O, where is loyalty ? If it be banish 'd from the frosty head. Where shall it find a harbour in the earth ? Wilt thou go dig a grave to find out war, And shame thine honourable age with blood ? Why art thou old, and want'st experience ? Or wherefore dost abuse it, if thou hast it ? For shame ! in duty bend thy knee to me That bows unto the grave with mickle age. Sal. My lord, I have consider'd with myself The title of this most renowned duke ; And in my conscience do repute his grace The rightful heir to England's royal seat. King. Hast thou not sworn allegiance unto me ? Sal. I have. [an oath ? King. Canst thou dispense with heaven for such Sal. It is great sin to swear unto a sin, But greater sin to keep a sinful oath. Who can be bound by any solemn vow To do a murderous deed, to rob a man. To force a spotless virgin's chastity. To reave the orphan of his patrimony, To wring the widow from her custom'd right, And have no other reason for this wrong But that he was bound by a solemn oath ? Queen. A subtle traitor needs no sophister. King. Call Buckingham, and bid him arm himself. York. Call Buckingham, and all the friends thou I am resolved for death or dignity. [hast, Clif. The first I warrant thee, if dreams prove true. War. You were best to go to bed and dream again, To keep thee from the tempest of the field. Clif. 1 am resolved to bear a greater storm Than any thou canst conjure up to-day; And that I '11 write upon thy burgonet. Might I but know thee by thy household badge. War. Now, by my father's badge, old Nevil's crest, The rampant bear chain 'd to the ragged staff, This day I '11 wear aloft my burgonet. As on a mountain top the cedar shows That keeps his leaves in spite of any storm. Even to affright thee with the view thereof. Clif. And from thy burgonet I '11 rend thy bear And tread it under foot with all contempt, Despite the bear-ward that protects the bear. Y. Clif. And so to arms, victorious father, To quell the rebels and their complices. Bich. Fie ! charity, for shame ! speak not in spite, For you shall sup with Jesu Christ to-night. Y. Clif. Foul stigmatic, that 's more than thou canst tell. Bich. If not in heaven, you '11 surely sup in hell. [Exeunt severally. SCENE II. — Saint Alban^s. Alarums to the battle. Enter Warwick, War. Clifford of Cumberland, 'tis Warwick caUs; And if thou not hide thee from the bear. ACT V. SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI. scene hi. Xow, when the angry trumpet sounds alarum And dead men's cries do fill the empty air, Clifford, I say, come forth and fight with me: Proud northern lord, Clifford of Cumberland, Warwick is hoarse with calling thee to arms. Enter York. How now, my noble lord ! what, all afoot ? York. The deadly-handed Clifford slew my steed. But match to match I have encounter'd him And made a prey for carrion kites and crows Even of the bonny beast he loved so well. Enter old Clifford. War. Of one or both of us the time is come. York. Hold, Warwick, seek thee out some other chase, For I myself must hunt this deer to death. War. Then, nobly, York; 'tis for a crown thou fight'st. As I intend, Clifford, to thrive to-day. It grieves my soul to leave thee unassail'd. [Exit. Clif. What seest thou in me, York? why dost thou pause ? • York. With thy brave bearing should I be in love, But that thou art so fast mine enemy. Clif. Nor should thy prowess want praise and But that 't is shown ignobly and in treason. York. So let it help me now against thy sword As I in justice and true right express it. Clif. My soul and body on the action both ! York. A dreadful lay ! Address thee instantly. [They fight, and Clifford falls. Clif. Lafincouronnelesceuvres. [Dies. York. Thus war hath given thee peace, for thou art still. Peace with his soul, heaven, if it be thy will ! [Exit. Enter young Clifford. Y. Clif. Shame and confusion ! all is on the rout ; Pear frames disorder, and disorder wounds Where it should guard. O war, thou son of hell, Whom angry heavens do make their minister, Throw in the frozen bosoms of our part Hot coals of vengeance ! Let no soldier fly. He that is truly dedicate to war Hath no self-love, nor he that loves himself Hath not essentially but by circumstance The name of valour. [Seeing his dead father. O, let the vile world end. And the premised flames of the last day Knit earth and heaven together ! Now let the general trumpet blow his blast, Particularities and petty sounds To cease ! Wast thou ordain'd, dear father. To lose thy youth in peace, and to achieve The silver livery of advised age, And, in thy reverence and thy chair-days, thus To die in ruffian battle ? Even at this sight My heart is turn'd to stone : and while 't is mine. It shall be stony. York not our old men spares ; No more will I their babes : tears virginal Shall be to me even as the dew to fire. And beauty that the tyrant oft reclaims Shall to my flaming wrath be oil and flax. Henceforth I will not have to do with pity : Meet I an infant of the house of York, Into as many gobbets will I cut it As wild Medea young Absyrtus did : In cruelty will I seek out my fame. Come, thou new ruin of old Clifford's house: As did ^neas old Anchises bear, So bear I thee upon my manly shoulders ; But then uEneas bare a living load, Nothing so heavy as these woes of mine. [Exit, bearing o^ his father Enter Richard and Somerset to fight. Somerset is killed. JRicfi.. So, lie thou there; For underneath an alehouse' paltry sign. The Castle in Saint Alban's, Somerset Hath made the wizard famous in his death. Sword, hold thy temper; heart, be wrathful still : Priests pray for enemies, but princes kill. [Exit. Fight : excursions. Enter King, Queen, and others. Queen. Away, my lord ! you are slow ; for shame, away! King. Can we outrun the heavens? good Mar- garet, stay. Queen. What are you made of ? you '11 nor fight Now is it manhood, wisdom and defence, [nor fly : To give the enemy way, and to secure us By what we can, which can no more but fly. [Alarum afar off. If you be ta'en, we then should see the bottom Of all our fortunes ; but if we haply scape. As well we may, if not through your neglect. We shall to London get, where you are loved And where this breach now in our fortunes made May readily be stopp'd. Re-enter young Clifford. Y. Clif. But that my heart 's on future mischief I would speak blasphemy ere bid you fly : [set, But fly you must ; uncurable discomfit Reigns m the hearts of all our present parts. Away, for your relief ! and we will live To see their day and them our fortune give : Away, my lord, away ! [Exeunt. SCENE in.— Fields near St. Alban''s. Alarum. Betreat. Enter York, Richard, War- ■wick, and Soldiers, with drum and colours. York. Of Salisbury, who can report of him. That winter lion, who in rage forgets Aged contusions and all brush of time, And, like a gallant in the brow of youth, Eepairs him with occasion ? This happy day Is not itself, nor have we won one foot, If Salisbury be lost. Rich. My noble father. Three times to-day I holp him to his horse. Three times bestrid him ; thrice I led him off, Persuaded him from any further act : But still, where danger was, still there I met him ; And like rich hangings in a homely house, So was his will in his old feeble body. But, noble as he is, look where he comes. Enter Salisbury. Sal. Now, by my sword, well hast thou fought to-day ; By the mass, so did we all. I thank you, Bichard : God knows how long it is I have to live ; And it hath pleased him that three times to-day You have defended me from imminent death. Well, lords, we have not got that which we have: 'T is not enough our foes are this time fled, Being opposites of such repairing nature. York. I know our safety is to follow them ; For, as I hear, the king is fled to London, To call a present court of parliament. Let us pursue him ere the writs go forth. What says Lord Warwick ? shall we after them ? War. After them! nay, before them, if we can. Now, by my faith, lords, 'twas a glorious day : Saint Alban's battle won by famous York Shall be eternized in all age to come. Sound drums and trumpets, and to London all : Ajid more such days as these to us befall ! [Exeunt. THE THIRD PAET OP KING HENEY THE SIXTH. DBAMATIS PEBSONM. King Henry the Sixth, Edward, Prince of Wales, his son, Lewis XI, King of France. Duke of Somerset. Duke of Exeter. Earl of Oxford. Earl of Northumberland. Earl of "Westmoreland. Lord Clifford. Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York, Edward, Earl of March, afterwards King Edward IV., Edmimd, Earl of Rutland, George, afterwards Duke of Clarence, Richard, afterwards Duke of Glou- Duke of Norfolk, Marquess of Montague. Earl of Warwick, Earl of Pembroke. Lord Hastings. Lord Stafford. Sir John Mortimer, ) , , „ , „„ i Sir Hugh Mortimer, I ^"^^l^ *° *« ^^^« of York. Henry, Earl of Eichmond, a youth. Lord Rivers, brother to Lady Grey. Sir WilUam Stanley. Sir John Montgomery. Sir John Somerville. Tutor to Eutlaud. Mayor of York. Lieutenant of the Tower. A Nobleman. Two Keepers, A Huntsman. A Son that has killed his father. A Father that has killed his son. Queen Margaret. Lady Grey, afterwards Queen to Edward IV. Bona, sister to the French Queen. Soldiers, Attendants, Messengers, Watchmen, &c. SCENE — England and France. [For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page LVII.] ^CT I. SCENE I. — London. The Parliament-hotise. Alarum. Enter the Duke of York, Edward, Richard, Norfolk, Montague, Warwick, and Soldiers. War. I wonder how the king escaped our hands, York. While we pursued the horsemen of the He slily stole away and left his men : [north, Whereat the great Lord of Northumberland, Whose warlike ears could never brook retreat, Cheer'd up the drooping army ; and himself. Lord Clifford and Lord Stafford, all abreast, Charged our main battle's front, and breaking in Were by the swords of common soldiers slain. Ed;m. Lord Stafford's father, Duke of Bucking- Is either slain or wounded dangerously ; [ham, I cleft his beaver with a downright blow : That this is true, father, behold his blood, [blood, Mont. And, brother, here 's the Earl of Wiltshire's Whom I enoounter'd as the battles join'd. Bieh. Speak thou for me and tell them what I did. [Throwing down the Duke of Somersefs head. York. Richard hath best deserved of all my sons. But is your grace dead, my Lord of Somerset ? Norf. Such hope have all the line of John of Gaunt ! Bich. Thus do I hope to shake King Henry's head. War. And so do I. Victorious Prince of York, Before I see thee seated in that throne Which now the house of Lancaster usurps, I Yow by heaven these eyes shall never close. This is the palace of the fearful king, And this the regal seat : possess it, York ; For this is thine and not King Henry's heirs'. York. Assist me, then, sweet Warwick, and I will ; Tor hither we have broken in by force, 434 Iforf. We '11 all assist you ; he that flies shall die. York. Thanks, gentle Norfolk : stay by me, my lords ; And, soldiers, stay and lodge by me this night. [They go up. War. And when the king comes, offer him no violence. Unless he seek to thrust you out perforce, [ment, York. The queen this day here holds her parlia- But little thinks we shall be of her council : By words or blows here let us win our right. Bich. Arm'd as we are, let 's stay within this house. War. The bloody parliament shall this be caU'd, Unless Plantagenet, Duke of York, be king, And bashful Henry deposed, whose cowardice Hath made us by-words to our enemies. York. Then leave me not, my lords; be resolute; I mean to take possession of my right. War. Neither the king, nor he that loves him best. The proudest he that holds up Lancaster, Dares stir a wing, if Warwick shake his bells. I '11 plant Plantagenet, root him up who dares: Resolve thee, Richard ; claim the English crown. Flourish. Enter King Henry, Clifford, Northumber- land, Westmoreland, Exeter, and the rest. K. Hen. My lords, look where the sturdy rebel sits, Even in the chair of state : belike he means, Back'd by the power of Warwick, that false peer, To aspire unto the crown and reign as king. Earl of Northumberland, he slew thy father. And thine. Lord Clifford ; and you both have vow'd revenge On him, his sons, his favourites and his friends. ACT I. THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VI SCENE I. North. If I be not, heavens be revenged on me ! Clif. The hope thereof makes Clifford mourn in steel. [down : West. What, shall we suffer this ? let 's pluck him My heart for anger burns ; I cannot brook it. K. Hen. Bepatient, gentle Earl of Westmoreland. Clif. Patience is for poltroons, such as he: He durst not sit there, had your father lived. My gracious lord, here in the parliament Let us assail the family of York. North. Well hast thou spoken, cousin: be it so. K. Hen. Ah, know you not the city favours them, And they have troops of soldiers at their beck ? Mce. But when the duke is slain, they '11 quickly fly. [heart, K. Hen. Far be the thought of this from Henry's To make a shambles of the parliament-house ! Cousin of Exeter, frowns, words and threats Shall be the war that Henry means to use. Thou factious Duke of York, descend my throne, And kneel for grace and mercy at my feet ; I am thy sovereign. York. I am thine. [of York. Exe. For shame, come down: he made thee Duke York. 'T was my inheritance, as the earldom was. Exe. Thy father was a traitor to the crown. War. Exeter, thou art a traitor to the crown In following this usurping Henry. Clif. Whom should he follow but his natural king ? War. True, Clifford; and that's Richard Duke of York. [throne ? K. Hen. And shall I stand, and thou sit in my York. It must and shall be so : content thyself. War. Be Duke of Lancaster; let him be king. West. He is both king and Duke of Lancaster ; And that the Lord of Westmoreland shall maintain. War. And Warwick shall disprove it. You forget That we are those which chased you from the field And slew your fathers, and with colours spread March'd through the city to the palace gates. North. Yes, Warwick, I remember it to my grief ; And, by his soul, thou and thy house shall rue it. West. Plantagenet, of thee and these thy sons. Thy kinsmen and thy friends, 1 '11 have more lives Than drops of blood were in my father's veins. Clif. Urge it no more ; lest that, instead of words, I send thee, Warwick, such a messenger As shall revenge his death before I stir, [threats ! War. Poor Clifford! how I scorn his worthless York. Will you we show our title to the crown i* If not, our swords shall plead it in the field. K. Hen. What title hast thou, traitor, to the crown V Thy father was, as thou art, Duke of York ; Thy grandfather, Roger Mortimer, Earl of March : I am the son of Henry the Fifth, Who made the Dauphin and the French to stoop And seized upon their towns and provinces. War. Talk not of France, sith thou hast lost it all. K. Hen. The lord protector lost it, and not I : When I was crown'd I was but nine months old. Bich. You are old enough now, and yet, methinks, you lose. Father, tear the crovra from the usurper's head. Edw. Sweet father, do so ; set it on your head. Mont. Good brother, as thou lovest and honour- est arms, Let 's fight it out and not stand cavilling thus. Hich. Sound drums and trumpets, and the king York. Sons, peace ! [will fly. K. Hen. Peace, thou ! and give King Henry leave to speak. [lords ; War. Plantagenet shall speak first: hear him. And be you silent and attentive too, For he that interrupts him shall not live, [throne, K. Hen. Think'st thou that I will leave my kingly Wherein my grandsire and my father sat ? No : first shall war unpeople this my realm ; Ay, and their colours, often borne in France, And now in England to our heart's great sorrow. Shall be my winding-sheet. Why faint you, lords ? My title 's good, and better far than his. War. Prove it, Henry, and thou shalt be king. K. Hen. Henry the Fourth by conquest got the crown. York. 'T was by rebellion against his king. K. Hen. [Aside] I know not what to say; my title 's weak. — Tell me, may not a king adopt an heir ? York. What then? K. Hen. An if he may, then am I lawful king ; For Richard, in the view of many lords, Resign'd the crown to Henry the Fourth, Whose heir my father was, and I am his. York. He rose against him, being his sovereign, And made him to resign his cro^vn perforce. War. Suppose, my lords, he did it unconstrain'd, Think you 'twere prejudicial to his crown ? Exe. No ; for he could not so resign his crown But that the next heir should succeed and reign. K. Hen. Art thou against us, Duke of Exeter ? Exe. His is the right, and therefore pardon me. York. Why whisper you, my lords, and answer not? Exe. My conscience tells me he is lawful king. K. Hen. [Aside] AU will revolt from me, and turn to him. North. Plantagenet, for all the claim thou lay'st, Think not that Henry shall be so deposed. War. Deposed he shall be, in despite of all. North. Thou art deceived : 'tis not thy southern power, Of Essex, Norfolk, Suffolk, nor of Kent, Which makes thee thus presumptuous and proud. Can set the duke up in despite of me. Clif. King Henry, be thy title right or wrong. Lord Clifford vows to fight in thy defence : May that ground gape and swallow me alive. Where I shall kneel to him that slew my father ! K. Hen. O Clifford, how thy words revive my heart ! York. Henry of Lancaster, resign thy crown. What mutter you, or what conspire you, lords ? War. Do right unto this princely Duke of York, Or I will fill the house with armed men, And over the chair of state, where now he sits, Write up his title with usurping blood. [He stamps with his foot, and the Soldiers show themselves. K. Hen. My Lord of Warwick, hear me but one Let me for this my life-time reign as king, [word : York. Confirm the crown to me and to mine heirs, And thou shalt reign in quiet while thou livest. King. I am content : Richard Plantagenet, Enioy the kingdom after my decease. Clif. What wrong is this unto the prince your son ! War. What good is this to England and himself ! West. Base, tearful and despairing Henry! Clif. How hast thou injured both thyself and us ! West. I cannot stay to hear these articles. North. Nor I. Clif. Come, cousin, let us tell the queen these news. [king. West. Farewell, faint-hearted and degenerate In whose cold blood no spark of honour bides. North. Be thou a prey unto the house of York, And die in bands for this unmanly deed ! Clif. In dreadful war mayst thou be overcome, Or live in peace abandon'd and despised ! [Exeunt North., Cliff., and West. War. Turn this way, Henry, and regard them not. Exe. They seek revenge and therefore will not K. Hen. Ah, Exeter ! [yield. War, Why should you sigh, my lord ? 435 ACT I. THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VI scene ir. K. Hen. Not for myself, Lord Warwick, but my Whom I unnaturally shall disinherit. [son, But be it as it may : I here entail The crown to thee and to thine heirs for ever ; Conditionally, that here thou take an oath To cease this civil war, and, whilst I live, To honour me as thy king and sovereign, And neither by treason nor hostility To seek to put me down and reign thyself. York. This oath I willingly take and will perform. War. Lon^ live King Henry ! Plantagenet, em- brace him. [ward sons! K. Hen. And long live thou and these thy for- Tork. Now York and Lancaster are reconciled. Mice. Accursed be he that seeks to make them foes ! [Sennet. Here they come down. York. Farewell, my gracious lord ; I '11 to my castle. War. And I '11 keep London with my soldiers. I^Torf, And I to Norfolk with my followers. Mont. And I unto the sea from whence I came. [Exeunt York and his Sons, Warwick, Norfolk, Montague, their Soldiers, and Attendants. K. Hen. And I, with grief and sorrow, to the court. Miter Queen Margaret and the Prince of "Wales. Exe. Here comes the queen, whose looks bewray I '11 steal away. [her anger : K. Hen. Exeter, so will I. Q. Mar. Nay, go not from me ; I will follow thee. K. Hen. Be patient, gentle queen, and I will stay. Q. Mar. Who can be patient in such extremes ? Ah, wretched man I would I had died a maid, And never seen thee, never borne thee son, Seeing thou hast proved so unnatural a father I Hath he deserved to lose his birthright thus ? Hadst thou but loved him half so well as I, Or felt that pain which I did for him once, Or nourish 'd him as I did with my blood, [there. Thou wouldst have left thy dearest heart-blood Bather than have made that savage duke thine heir And disinherited thine only son. Prince. Father, you cannot disinherit me: If you be king, why should not I succeed ? [son : K. Hen. Pardon me, Margaret ; pardon me, sweet The Earl of Warwick and the duke enforced me. Q. Mar. Enforced thee ! art thou king, and wilt be forced ? I shame to hear thee speak. Ah, timorous wretch I Thou hast undone thyself, thy son and me ; And given unto the house of York such head As thou Shalt reign but by their sufferance. To entail him and his heirs unto the crown, What is it, but to make thy sepulchre And creep into it far before thy time ? Warwick is chancellor and the lord of Calais ; Stern Falconbridge commands the narrow seas ; The duke is made protector of the realm ; And yet shalt thou be safe ? such safety finds The trembling lamb environed with wolves. Had I been there, which am a silly woman. The soldiers should have toss'd me on their pikes Before I would have granted to that act. But thou pref err'st thy life before thine honour : And seeing thou dost, I here divorce myseK Both from thy table, Henry, and thy bed, Until that act of parliament be repeal'd Whereby my son is disinherited. The northern lords that have forsworn thy colours Will follow mine, if once they see them spread; And spread they shall be, to thy foul disgrace And utter ruin of the house of York. Thus do I leave thee. Come, son, let 's away ; Our army is ready ; come, we '11 after them. K. Hen. Stay, gentle Margaret, and hear me speak. Q. Mar. Thou hast spoke too much already ; get thee gone. 436 K. Hen. Gentle son Edward, thou wilt stay with me? Q. Mar. Ay, to be murder'd by his enemies. Prince. When I return with victory from the field I '11 see your grace : till then I '11 follow her. Q. Mar. Come, son^ away; we may not linger thus. [Exeunt Queen Margaret and the Prince. K. Hen. Poor queen ! how love to me and to her son Hath made her break out into terms of rage ! Eevenged may she be on that hateful duke. Whose haughty spirit, winged with desire, Will cost my crown, and like an empty eagle Tire on the flesh of me and of my son ! The loss of those three lords torments my heart r I '11 write unto them and entreat them fair. Come, cousin, you shall be the messenger. Exe. And I, I hope, shall reconcile them all. [Eooeunt, SCENE II. — Sandal Castle. Enter Richard, Edward, and Montague. Bich. Brother,though I be youngest, give me leave. Edw. No, I can better play the orator. Mont. But I have reasons strong and forcible. Enter the Duke of York. York. Why, how now, sons and brother! at a What is your quarrel? how began it first? [strife? Edw. No quarrel, but a slight contention. For fc. About what ? [us; Bich. About that which concerns your grace and The crown of England, father, which is yours. York. Mine, boy ? not till King Henry be dead. Bich, Your right depends not on his life or death. Edw. Now you are heir, therefore enjoy it now : By giving the house of Lancaster leave to breathe. It will outrun you, father, in the end. York. I took an oath that he should quietly reign. Edw. But for a kingdom any oath may be broken : I would break a thousand oaths to reign one year. Bich. No ; God forbid your grace should be for- York. I shall be, if I claim by open war. [sworn. Bich. I '11 prove the contrary, if you '11 hear me speak. York. Thou canst not, son; it is impossible. Bich. An oath is of no moment, being not took Before a true and lawful magistrate. That hath authority over him that swears : Henry had none, but did usurp the place ; Then, seeing 't was he that made you to depose, Your oath, my lord, is vain and frivolous. Therefore, to arms ! And, father, do but think How sweet a thing it is to wear a crown ; Within whose circuit is Elysium And all that poets feign of bliss and joy. Why do we linger thus ? I cannot rest Until the white rose that I wear be dyed Even in the lukewarm blood of Henry's heart. York. Kichard, enoiigh; I will be king, or die. Brother, thou shalt to London presently. And whet on Warwick to this enterprise. Thou, Richard, shalt to the Duke of Norfolk, And tell him privily of our intent. You, Edward, shall unto my Lord Cobham, With whom the Kentishmen will willingly rise : In them I trust ; for they are soldiers, Witty, courteous, liberal, full of spirit. While you are thus employ'd, what resteth more, But that I seek occasion how to rise. And yet the king not privy to my drift, Nor any of the house of Lancaster ? MUer a Messenger. But, stay : what news ? Why comest thou in such post ? [lords 6abr. The queen with all the northern earls and Intend here to besiege you in your castle : ACT I. THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VI scene iv. She is hard by with twenty thousand men ; And therefore fortify your hold, my lord. York. Ay, with my sword. "What I thiuk'st thou that we fear them ? Edward and Kichard, you shall stay with me; My brother Montague shall post to London : Let noble Warwick, Cobham, and the rest, Whom we have left protectors of the king, AVith powerful policy strengthen themselves, And trust not simple Henry nor his oaths. Mont. Brother, I go ; I '11 win them , fear it not : And thus most humbly I do take my leave. [Exit. Miter Sir John Mortimerarw? Sir Hugh Mortimer. York. Sir John and Sir Hugh Mortimer, mine uncles, You are come to Sandal in a happy hour ; The army of the queen mean to besiege us. [field. Sir John. She shall not need ; we '11 meet her in the York. What, with five thousand men ? Rich. Ay, with five hundred, father, for a need : A woman 's general ; what should we fear ? [A march afar off. Edio. I hear their drums : let 's set our men "in order, And issue forth and bid them battle straight. York. Five men to twenty ! though the odds be I doubt not, uncle, of our victory. [great, Many a battle have I won in France, When as the enemy hath been ten to one : Why should I not now have the like success ? [Alarum. Exeunt. SCENE III.— Field of battle betwixt Sandal Castle and Wakefield. Alarums. Enter Rutland and his Tutor. Rut. Ah, whither shall I fly to 'scape their hands ? Ah, tutor, look where bloody Clifford comes ! Enter Cliffbrd and Soldiers. Clif. Chaplain, away! thy priesthood saves thy As for the brat of this accursed duke, [life. Whose father slew my father, he shall die. Tut. And I, my lord, will bear him company. Clif. Soldiers, away with him ! Tut. Ah, Clifford, murder not this innocent child. Lest thou be hated both of God and man ! [Exit, dragged off by Soldiers. Clif. How now ! is he dead already ? or is it fear That makes him close his eyes V I '11 open them. Rut. So looks the pent-up lion o'er the wretch That trembles under his devouring paws ; And so he walks, insulting o'er his prey. And so he comes, to rend his limbs asunder. Ah, gentle Clifford, kill me with thy sword. And not with such a cruel threatening look. Sweet Clifford, hear me speak before I die. I am too mean a subject for thy wrath : Be thou revenged on men, and let me live, [blood Clif. In vain thou speak'st, poor boy ; my father's Hath stopp'd the passage where thy words should enter. Rut. Then let my father's blood open it again : He is a man, and, Clifford, cope with him. [thine Clif. Had I thy brethren here, their lives and Were not revenge sufficient for me ; jSTo, if I digg'd up thy forefathers' graves And hung their rotten coffins up in chains. It could not slake mine ire, nor ease my heart. The sight of any of the house of York Is as a fury to torment my soul ; And till I root out their accursed line And leave not one alive, I live in hell. Therefore — [Lifting his hand. Rut. O, let me pray before I take my death ! To thee I pray ; sweet Clifford, pity me ! Clif. Such pity as my rapier's point affords. Rut. I never did thee harm : why wilt thou slay me'? Clif. Thy father hath. Rut. But 'twas ere I was bom. Thou hast one son ; for his sake pity me. Lest in revenge thereof, sith God is just, He be as miserably slain as I. Ah, let me live in prison all my days ; And when I give occasion of offence. Then let me die, for now thou hast no cause. Clif. No cause ! Thy 'father slew my father ; therefore, die. [Stabs him. Rut. Di faciant laudis summa sit ista tuse ! [Dies. Clif. Plantagenet ! I come, Plantagenet ! And this thy son's blood cleaving to my blade Shall rust upon my weapon, till thy blood, Congeal'd with this, do make me wipe off both. [Exit. SCENE IV.— Another part of the field. Alarum. Enter Richard, Duke of York. York. The army of the queen hath got the field ; My uncles both are slain in rescuing me ; And all my followers to the eager foe Turn back and fly, like ships before the wind Or lambs pursued by hunger-starved wolves. My sons, God knows what hath bechanced them : But this I know, they have demean'd themselves Like men born to renown by life or death. Three times did Richard make a lane to me, And thrice cried ' Courage, father ! fight it out ! ' And full as oft came Edward to my side, With purple falchion, painted to the hilt In blood of those that had encounter'd him : And when the hardiest warriors did retire, Richard cried ' Charge ! and give no foot of ground !' And cried 'A crown, or else a glorious tomb! A sceptre, or an earthly sepulchre ! ' With this, we charged again: but, out, alas! We bodged again ; as I have seen a swan With bootless labour swim against the tide And spend her strength with over-matching waves. [A short alarum within. Ah, hark ! the fatal followers do pursue ; And I am faint and cannot fly their fury : And were I strong, I would not shun their fury : The sands are number'd that make up my life ; Here must I stay, and here my life must end. Enter Queen Margaret, Cliffbrd, Northumber- land, the young Prince, and Soldiers. Come, bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland, I dare your quenchless fury to more rage : I am your butt, and I abide your shot. North. Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet. Clif. Ay, to such mercy as his ruthless arm. With downright payment, show'd unto my father. Now Phaethon hath tumbled from his car, And made an evening at the noontide prick. York. My ashes, as the phoenix, may bring forth A bird that will revenge upon you all : And in that hope I throw mine eyes to heaven, Scorning whate'er you can afflict me with. Why come you not ? what ! multitudes, and fear? Clif. So cowards fight when they can fly no fur- ther; So doves do peck the falcon's piercing talons ; So desperate thieves, all hopeless of their lives, Breathe out invectives 'gainst the officers. York. O Clifford, but bethink thee once again, And in thy thought o'er-run my former time ; And, if thou canst for blushing, view this face. And bite thy tongue, that slanders him with cow- ardice Whose frown hath made thee faiut and fly ere this J 437 ACT I. THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VI scene iv. Clif. I will not bandy with thee word for word, But buckle with thee blows, twice two for one. Q. Mar. Hold, valiant Clifford ! for a thousand causes I would prolong awhile the traitor's life. Wrath makes him deaf : speak thou, Northumber- land. North. Hold, Clifford! do not honour him so much To prick thy finger, though to wound his heart : What valour were it, when a cur doth grin, For one to thrust his hand between his teeth. When he might spurn him with his foot away ? It is war's prize to take all vantages ; And ten to one is no impeach of valour. [Tliey lay hands on York, who struggles. Clif. Ay, ay, so strives the woodcock with the gin. North. So doth the cony struggle in the net. York. So triumph thieves upon their conquer'd booty ; So true men yield, with robbers so o'ermatch'd. North. What would your grace have done unto him now ? Q. Mar. Brave warriors, Clifford and Northum- berland, Come, make him stand upon this molehill here. That raught at mountains with outstretched arms, Yet parted but the shadow with his hand. What ! was it you that would be England's king ? Was 't you that revell'd in our parliament. And made a preachment of your high descent ? Where are your mess of sons to back you now ? The wanton Edward, and the lusty George ? And where 's that valiant crook-back prodigy, Dicky your boy, that with his grumbling voice Was wont to cheer his dad in mutinies ? Or, with the rest, where is your darling Eutland ? Look, York : I stain'd this napkin with the blood That valiant Clifford, with his rapier's point, Made issue from the bosom of the boy ; And if thine eyes can water for his death, I give thee this to dry thy cheeks withal. Alas, poor York ! but that I hate thee deadly, I should lament thy miserable state. I prithee, grieve, to make me merry, York. What, hath thy fiery heart so parch 'd thine entrails That not a tear can fall for Eutland 's death ? Why art thou patient, man ? thou shouldst be mad ; And I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus. Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance. Thou wouldst be fee'd, I see, to make me sport : York cannot speak, unless he wear a crown. A crown for York ! and, lords, bow low to him : Hold you his hands, whilst I do set it on. [Putting a paper crown on his head. Ay, marry, sir, now looks he like a king ! Ay, this is he that took King Henry's chair, And this is he was his adopted heir. But how is it that great Plantagenet Is crown'd so soon, and broke his solemn oath ? As I bethink me, you should not be king Till our King Henry had shook hands with death. And will you pale your head in Henry's glory, And rob his temples of the diadem, Now in his life, against your holy oath ? O, 't is a fault too too unpardonable ! Off with the crown ; and, with the crown, his head ; And, whilst we breathe, take time to do him dead. Clif. That is my office, for my father's sake. Q. Mar. Nay, stay ; let 's hear the orisons he makes. York. She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves of France, Whose tongue more poisons than the adder's tooth ! How ill-beseeming is it in thy sex To triumph, like an Amazonian trull. Upon their woes whom fortune captivates ! But that thy face is, visard-like, unchanging^ Made impudent with use of evil deeds, I would assay, proud queen, to make thee blush. To tell thee whence thou camest, of whom derived, Were shame enough to shame thee, wert thou not shameless. Thy father bears the type of King of Naples, Of both the Sicils and Jerusalem, Yet not so wealthy as an English yeoman. Hath that poor monarch taught thee to insult ? It needs not, nor it boots thee not, proud queen, Unless the adage must be verified. That beggars mounted run their horse to death. 'T is beauty that doth oft make women proud ; But, God he knows, thy share thereof is small : 'T is virtue that doth make them most admired ; Thg contrary doth make thee wonder'd at : 'T is government that makes them seem divine ; The want thereof makes thee abominable : Thou art as opposite to every good As the Antipodes are unto us. Or as the south to the septentrion. tiger's heart wrapt in a woman's hide ! How couldst thou drain the life-blood of the child, To bid the father wipe his eyes withal. And yet be seen to bear a woman's face ? Women are soft, mild, pitiful and flexible ; Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless. Bid'st thou me rage ? why, now thou hast thy wish : Wouldst have me weep ? why, now thou hast thy will: For raging wind blows up incessant showers. And when the rage allays, the rain begins. These tears are my sweet Rutland's obsequies : And every drop cries vengeance for his death, 'Gainst thee, fell Clifford, and thee, false French- woman. North. Beshrew me, but his passion moves me so That hardly can I check my eyes from tears. York. That face of his the hungry cannibals Would not have touch'd, would not have stain'd with blood : But you are more inhuman, more inexorable, O, ten times more, than tigers of Hyrcania. See, ruthless queen, a hapless father's tears : This cloth thou dip'dst in blood of my sweet boy. And I with tears do wash the blood away. Keep thou the napkin, and go boast of this : And if thou tell'st the heavy story right, Upon my soul, the hearers will shed tears ; Yea even my foes will shed fast-falling tears, And say ' Alas, it was a piteous deed ! ' There, take the crown, and, with the crown, my curse ; And in thy need such comfort come to thee As now I reap at thy too cruel hand ! Hard-hearted Clifford, take me from the world: My soul to heaven, my blood upon your heads ! North. Had he been slaughter-man to all my kin, 1 should not for my life but weep with him, To see how inly sorrow gripes his soul. Q. Mar. What, weeping-ripe, my Lord Northum- berland ? Think but upon the wrong he did us all. And that will quickly dry thy melting tears. Clif. Here 's for my oath, here 's for my father's death. [Stabbing him. Q. Mar. And here 's to right our gentle-hearted king. [Stabbing him. York. Open Thy gate of mercy, gracious God ! My soul flies through these wounds to seek out Thee. [Dies, Q. Mar. Off with his head, and set it on York So York may overlook the town of York. [Flourish. Exeunt, ACT II. THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VI scene i. ^OT II. SCENE I.— A plain near Mortimer'' s Cross in Herefordshire. A march. Enter Edward, Richard, and their power. Edw. I wonder how our princely father 'scaped, Or whether he be 'scaped away or no From Clifford's and Northumberland's pursuit : Had he been ta'en, we should have heard the news ; Had he been slain, we should have heard the news; Or had he 'scaped, methinks we should have heard The happy tidings of his good escape. How fares my brother ? why is he so sad ? Rich. I cannot joy, until I be resolved Where our right valiant father is become. I saw him in the battle range about ; And watch'd him how he singled Clifford forth. Methought he bore him in the thickest troop As doth a lion in a herd of neat ; Or as a bear, encompass'd round with dogs. Who having pinch'd a few and made them cry, The rest stand all aloof, and bark at him. ■ So fared our father with his enemies ; So fled his enemies my warlike father : Methinks, 't is prize enough to be his son. See how the morning opes her golden gates. And takes her farewell of the glorious sun ! How well resembles it the prime of youth, Trimm'd like a yoimker prancing to his love ! Edw. Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three suns ? Bich. Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun ; Not separated with the racking clouds. But sever'd in a pale clear-shining sky. See, see ! they join, embrace, and seem to kiss, As if they vow'd some league inviolable : Now are they but one lamp, one light, one sun. In this the heaven figures some event. [heard of. Ed'w. 'T is wondrous strange, the like yet never I think it cites us, brother, to the field. That we, the sons of brave Plantagenet, Each one already blazing by our meeds, Should notwithstanding join our lights together And over-shine the earth as this the world. Whate'er it bodes, henceforward will I bear Upon my target three fair-shining suns. Bich. Nay, bear three daughters : by your leave I speak it. You love the breeder better than the male. £}nter a Messenger. But what art thou, whose heavy looks foretell Some dreadful story hanging on thy tongue ? Mess. Ah, one that was a woful looker-on When as the noble Duke of York was slain. Your princely father and my loving lord ! Edw. O, speak no more, for I have heard too much. Bich. Say how he died, for 1 will hear it all. Mess. Environed he was with many foes. And stood against them, as the hope of Troy Against the Greeks that would have enter'd Troy. But Hercules himself must yield to odds ; And many strokes, though with a little axe. Hew down and fell the hardest-timber 'd oak. By many hands your father was subdued ; But only slaughter 'd by the ireful arm Of unrelenting Clifford and the queen. Who crown 'd the gracious duke in high despite, Laugh'd in his face ; and when with grief he wept. The ruthless queen gave him to dry his cheeks A napkin steeped in the harmless blood Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slain : And after many scorns, many foul taunts. They took his head, and on the gates of York They set the same ; and there it doth remain, The saddest spectacle that e'er I view'd. Edw. Sweet Duke of York, our prop to lean upon, Now thou art gone, we have no staff, no stay. O Clifford, boisterous Clifford ! thou hast slain The flower of Europe for his chivalry ; And treacherously hast thou vanquish 'd him, For hand to hand he would have vanquish'd thee. Now my soul's palace is become a prison : Ah, would she break from hence, that this my body Might in the ground be closed up in rest ! For never henceforth shall I joy again. Never, O never, shall I see more joy ! Bich. I cannot weep ; for all my body's moisture Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart : Nor can my tongue unload my heart's great burthen ; For selfsame wind that I should speak withal Is kindling coals that fires all my breast, [quench. And burns me up with fiames that tears would To weep is to make less the depth of grief : Tears then for babes ; blows and revenge for me ! Richard, I bear thy name ; I '11 venge thy death, Or die renowned by attempting it. [thee : Edw. His name that valiant duke hath left with His dukedom and his chair with me is left. Bich. Nay, if thou be that princely eagle's bird, Show thy descent by gazing 'gainst the sun : For chair and dukedom, throne and kingdom say ; Either that is thine, or else thou wert not his. March. Enter "Warwick, Marquess of Mon- tague, and their army. War. How now, fair lords ! What fare ? what news abroad ? [count Bich. Great Lord of Warwick, if we should re- Our baleful news, and at each word's deliverance Stab poniards in our flesh till all were told. The words would add more anguish than the wounds. valiant lord, the Duke of York is slain ! Edw. O Warwick, Warwick ! that Plantagenet, Which held thee dearly as his soul's redemption. Is by the stern Lord Clifford done to death. War. Ten days ago I drown'd these news in tears ; And now, to add more measure to your woes, 1 come to tell you things sith then befall'n. After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought. Where your brave father breathed his latest gasp, Tidings, as swiftly as the posts could run. Were brought me of your loss and his depart. I, then in London, keeper of the king, Muster'd my soldiers, gather'd flocks of friends, And very well appointed, as I thought, [queen, March 'd toward Saint Alban's to intercept the Bearing the king in my behalf along ; For by my scouts I was advertised That she was coming with a full intent To dash our late decree in parliament Touching King Henry's oath and your succession. Short tale to make, we at Saint Alban's met, Our battles join'd, and both sides fiercely fought*. But whether 'twas the coldness of the king. Who look'd full gently on his warlike queen. That robb'd my soldiers of their heated spleen ; Or whether 't was report of her success ; Or more than common fear of Clifford's rigour, Who thunders to his captives blood and death, I cannot judge : but, to conclude with truth. Their weapons like to lightning came and went ; Our soldiers', like the night-owl's lazy flight. Or like an idle thresher with a flail, Fell gently dovm, as if they struck their friends, I cheer 'd them up with justice of our cause. With promise of high pay and great rewards : But all in vain ; they had no heart to fight, And we in them no hope to win the day ; So that we fled ; the king unto the queen ; 439 ACT II, THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VI scene ii. Lord George your brother, Norfolk and myself, In haste, post-haste, are come to join with you ; Por in the marches here we heard you were, Making another head to fight again. [wick ? Edw. Where is the Duke of Norfolk, gentle War- And when came George from Burgundy to England? War. Some six miles oS. the duke is with the sol- diers ; And for your brother, he was lately sent From your kind aunt. Duchess of Burgundy, With aid of soldiers to this needful war. [fled : Bich. 'T was odds, belike, when valiant Warwick Oft have I heard his praises in pursuit, But ne'er till now his scandal of retire. [liear ; War. JSTor now my scandal, Richard, dost thou For thou Shalt know this strong right hand of mine Can pluck the diadem from faint Henry's head, And wring the awful sceptre from his fist, Were he as famous and as bold in war As he is famed for mildness, peace, and prayer. Rich. I know it well. Lord Warwick ; blame me 'T is love I bear thy glories makes me speak, [not : But in this troublous time what 's to be done ? Shall we go throw away our coats of steel, And wrap our bodies in black mourning gowns, Numbering our Ave-Maries with our beads ? Or shall we on the helmets of our foes Tell our devotion with revengeful arms ? If for the last, say ay, and to it, lords. [out ; War. Why, therefore Warwick came to seek you And therefore comes my brother Montague. Attend me, lords. The proud insulting queen, With Clifford and the haught Northumberland, And of their feather many moe proud birds, Have wrought the easy-melting king like wax. He swore consent to your succession, His oath enrolled in the parliament ; And now to London all the crew are gone. To frustrate both his oath and what beside May make against the house of Lancaster. Their power, I think, is thirty thousand strong : Now, if the help of Norfolk and myself, With aU the friends that thou, brave Earl of March, Amongst the loving Welshmen canst procure, Will but amount to five and twenty thousand. Why, Via! to London will we march amain, And once again bestride our foaming steeds, And once again cry ' Charge upon our foes ! ' But never once again turn back and fly. [speak : Rich. Ay, now methinks I hear great Warwick Ne'er may he live to see a sunshine day. That cries ' Eetire,' if Warwick bid him stay. Edw. Lord Warwick, on thy shoulder will I lean ; And when thou f ail'st — as God forbid the hour ! — Must Edward fall, which peril heaven forfend ! War. No longer Earl of March, but Duke of York: The next degree is England's royal throne ; For King of England shalt thou be proclaim'd In every borough as we pass along ; And he that throws not up his cap for joy Shall for the fault make forfeit of his head. King Edward, valiant Richard, Montague, Stay we no longer, dreaming of renown. But soimd the trmnpets, and about our task. Rich. Then, Clifford, were thy heart as hard as As thou hast shown it flinty by thy deeds, [steel, I come to pierce it, or to give thee mine. Edw. Then strike up drums: God and Saint George for us ! Enter a Messenger. War. How now ! what news '? Mess. The Duke of Norfolk sends you word by me, The queen is coming with a puissant host ; And craves your company for speedy counsel. War. Why then it sorts, brave warriors, let's away. [Exeunt, 440 SCENE U.— Before York. Flourish. Enter King Henry, Queen Margaret, the Prince of "Wales, Clifford, and Northumberland, with drum and trumpets. Q. Mar. Welcome, my lord, to this brave towTi Yonder 's the head of that arch-enemy [of York. That sought to be encompass'd with your cro^Ti : Doth not the object cheer your heart, my lord ? K. Hen. Ay, as the rocks cheer them that fear their wreck : To see this sight, it irks my very soul. Withhold revenge, dear God! 'tis not my fault, Nor wittingly have I infringed my vow. Clif. My gracious liege, this too much lenity And harmful pity must be laid aside. To whom do lions cast their gentle looks ? Not to the beast that would usurp their den. Whose hand is that the forest bear doth lick ? Not his that spoils her young before her face. Who 'scapes the lurking serpent's mortal sting ? Not he that sets his foot upon her back. The smallest worm will turn being trodden on. And doves will peck in safeguard of their brood. Ambitious York did level at thy crown, Thou smiling while he knit his angry brows : He, but a duke, would have his son a king, And raise his issue, like a loving sire ; Thou, being a king, blest with a goodly son, Didst yield consent to disinherit him, Which argued thee a most unloving father. Unreasonable creatures feed their young ; And though man's face be fearful to their eyes, Yet, in protection of their tender ones, Who hath not seen them, even with those wings Which sometime they have used with fearful flight, Make war with him that climb'd unto their nest, Offering their own lives in their young's defence ? For shame, my liege, make them your precedent ! Were it not pity that this goodly boy Should lose his birthright by his father's fault, And long hereafter say unto his child, ' What my great-grandfather and grandsire got My careless father fondly gave away ' ? Ah, what a shame were this ! Look on the boy; And let his manly face, which promiseth Successful fortune, steel thy melting heart To hold thine own and leave thine own with him. K. Hen. Full well hath Clifford play'd the orator, Inferring arguments of mighty force. But, Clifford, tell me, didst thou never hear That things ill-got had ever bad success ? And happy always was it for that son Whose father for his hoarding went to hell ? I '11 leave my son my virtuous deeds behind ; And would my father had left me no more ! For all the rest is held at such a rate As brings a thousand-fold more care to keep Than in possession any jot of pleasure. Ah, cousin York ! would thy best friends did know How it doth grieve me that thy head is here I Q. Mar. My lord, cheer up your spirits : our foes are nigh. And this soft courage makes your followers faint. You promised knighthood to our forward son : Unsheathe your sword, and dub him presently. Edward, kneel down. K. Hen. Edward Plantagenet, arise a knight ; And learn this lesson, draw thy sword in right. Prince. My gracious father, by your kingly leave, I'll draw it as apparent to the crown, And in that quarrel use it to the death. G.if. Why, that is spoken like a toward prince. Enter a Messenger. Mess. Royal commanders, be in readiness : For with a band of thirty thousand men ACT II. THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VI scene hi. Comes Warwick, backing of the Duke of York ; And in the tovras, as they do march along, Proclaims him king, and many fly to him : Darraign your battle, for they are at hand. Clif. I would your highness would depart the field : The queen hath best success when you are absent. Q. Mar. Ay, good my lord, and leave us to our fortune. [I '11 stay. K. Hen. Why, that 's my fortune too ; therefore North. Be it with resolution then to fight. Prince. My royal father, cheer these noble lords And hearten those that fight in your defence : Unsheathe your sword, good father; cry 'Saint George ! ' March. Enter Edward, George, Richard, War- ■wick, Norfolk, Montague, and Soldiers. Edw. jSTow, perjured Henry ! wilt thou kneel for And set thy diadem upon my head ; [grace, Or bide the mortal fortune of the field ? Q. Mar. Go, rate thy minions, proud Insulting Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms [boy ! Before thy sovereign and thy lawful king ? Edw. I am his king, and he should bow his knee ; ■ I was adopted heir by his consent : fSince when, his oath is broke ; for, as I hear. You, that are king, though he do wear the crown, Have caused him, by new act of parliament, To blot out me, and put his own son in. Clif. And reason too : Who should succeed the father but the son ? Bich. Are you there, butcher ? 0,1 cannot speak ! Clif. Ay, crook-back, here I stand to answer thee^ Or any he the proudest of thy sort. [it not ? Bich. 'T was you that kill'd young Kutland, was Clif. Ay, and old York, and yet not satisfied. Bich. For God's sake, lords, give signal to the fight. War. What say 'st thou, Henry, wilt thou yield the crown ? Q. Mar. Why, how now, long-tongued Warwick ! dare you speak ? When you and I met at Saint Alban's last, Your legs did better service than your hands. War. Then 't was my turn to fly, and now 't is thine. Clif. You said so much before, and yet you fled. War. 'Twas not your valour, Clifford, drove me thence. [you stay. North. No, nor your manhood that durst make Bich. Northumberland, I hold thee reverently. Break off the parley ; for scarce I can refrain The execution of my big-swoln heart Upon that ClifEord, that cruel child-killer. Clif. I slew thy father, call'st thou him a child ? Bich. Ay, like a dastard and a treacherous coward. As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland ; But ere sunset I '11 make thee curse the deed. K. Hen. Have done with words, my lords, and hear me speak. [lips. Q^ Mar. Defy them then, or else hold close thy A. Hen. I prithee, give no limits to my tongue: I am a king, and privileged to speak. [here Clif. My liege, the wound that bred this meeting Cannot be cured by words ; therefore be still. Bich. Then, executioner, unsheathe thy sword: By him that made us all, I am resolved That Clifford's manhood lies upon his tongue. Edw. Say, Henry, shall I have my right, or no ? A thousand men have broke their fasts to-day, That ne'er shall dine unless thou yield the crown. War. If thou deny, their blood upon thy head ; For York in justice puts his armour on. [right. Prince. If that be right which Warwick says is There is no wrong, but everything is right. Bich. Whoever got tliee, there thy mother stands ; For, well I wot, thou hast thy mother's tongue. Q. Mar. But thou art neither like thy sire nor But like a foul mis-shapen stigmatic, [dam ; Mark'd by the destinies to be avoided. As venom toads, or lizards' dreadful stings. Bich. Iron of Naples hid with English gilt. Whose father bears the title of a king, — As if a channel should be call'd the sea,— Shamest thou not, knowing whence thou art ex- traught. To let thy tongue detect thy base-born heart ? Edw. A wisp of straw were worth a thousand crowns. To make this shameless callet know herself. Helen of Greece was fairer far than thou. Although thy husband may be Menelaus ; And ne'er was Agamemnon's brother wrong 'd By that false woman, as this king by thee. His father revell'd in the heart of France, And tamed the king, and made the dauphin stoop; And had he match 'd according to his state. He might have kept that glory to this day ; But when he took a beggar to his bed. And graced thy poor sire with his bridal-day, Even then that sunshine brew'd a shower for him. That wash'd his father's fortunes forth of France, And heap'd sedition on his crown at home. For what hath broach'd this tumult but thy pride V Hadst thou been meek, our title still had slept; And we, in pity of the gentle king, Had slipp'd our claim until another age. [spring, Geo. But when we saw our sunshine made thy And that thy summer bred us no increase. We set the axe to thy usurping root ; And though the edge hath something hit ourselves. Yet, know thou, since we have begun to strike. We '11 never leave till we have hewn thee down, ■ Or bathed thy growing wath our heated bloods. Edw. And, in this resolution, I defy thee; Not willing any longer conference, Since thou deniest the gentle king to speak. Sound trumpets ! let our bloody colours wave ! And either victory, or else a grave. Q. Mar. Stay, Edward. Edw. No, wrangling woman, we '11 no longer stay : These words will cost ten thousand lives this day. [Exeunt. SCENE III. — A field of battle between Towton and Saxton, in Yorkshire. Alarum. Excursions. Enter Warwick. War. Forspent with toil, as runners with a race, I lay me down a little while to breathe ; For strokes received, and many blows repaid, Have robb'd my strong-knit sinews of their strength , And spite of spite needs must I rest awhile. Enter Edward, running. Edw. Smile, gentle heaven! or strike, ungentle death ! For this world frowns, and Edward's sun is clouded. War. How now, my lord! what hap? what hope of good ? ^ Enter George. Geo. Our hap is loss, our hope but sad despair; Our ranks are broke, and ruin follows us: What counsel give you ? whither shall we fly ? Edw. Bootless is flight, they follow us with wings ; And weak we are and cannot shun pursuit. Enter Richard. Bich. Ah, Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thyself? Thy brother's blood the thirsty earth hath drunk, Broach'd with the steely point of Clifford's lance ; And in the very pangs of death he cried. Like to a dismal clangor heard from far, ' Warwick, revenge ! brother, revenge my death ! ' So, underneath the belly of their steeds, 441 ACT II. THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VI scene v, That stain'd their fetlocks in his smoking blood, The noble gentleman gave up the ghost. [blood : War. Then let the earth be drunken with our I '11 kill my horse, because I will not fly. Why stand we like soft-hearted women here, Wailing our losses, whiles the foe doth rage ; And look upon, as if the tragedy Were play'd in jest by counterfeiting actors ? Here on my knee I vow to God above, I '11 never pause again, never stand still. Till either death hath closed these eyes of mine Or fortune given me measure of revenge. Udio. O Warwick, I do bend my knee with thine ; And in this vow do chain my soul to thine ! And, ere my knee rise from the earth's cold face, I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to thee. Thou setter up and plucker down of kings. Beseeching thee, if with thy will it stands That to my foes this body must be prey. Yet that thy brazen gates of heaven may ope, And give sweet passage to my sinful soul ! Now, lords, take leave until we meet again. Where'er it be, in heaven or in earth. [Warwick, Bich. Brother, give me thy hand; and, gentle Let me embrace thee in my weary arms : I, that did never weep, now melt with woe That winter should cut ofE our spring-time so. War. Away, away! Once more, sweet lords, farewell. Oeo. Yet let us all together to our troops, And give them leave to fly that will not stay ; And call them pillars that will stand to us ; And, if we thrive, promise them such rewards As victors wear at the Olympian games : This may plant courage in their quailing breasts ; For yet is hope of life and victory. Porslow no longer, make we hence amain. [Exeunt. SCENE TV .—Another part of the field. Excursions. Enter Richard and Clifford. Bich. Now, Clifford, I have singled thee alone: Suppose this arm is for the Duke of York, And this for Eutland ; both bound to revenge, Wert thou environ'd with a brazen wall. Clif. Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone: This is the hand that stabb'd thy father York ; And this the hand that slew thy brother Rutland ; And here 's the heart that triumphs in their death And cheers these hands that slew thy sire and brother To execute the like upon thyself ; And so, have at thee ! [They fight' Warwick comes ; Clifford flies. Bich. Nay, Warwick, single out some other chase ; For I myself will hunt this wolf to death. [Exeunt. SCENE v.— Another part of thefidd. Alarum. Enter King Henry alone. King. This battle fares like to the morning's war, When dying clouds contend with growing light, What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails. Can neither call it perfect day nor night. Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea Forced by the tide to combat with the wind ; Now sways it that way, like the selfsame sea Forced to retire by fury of the wind : Sometime the flood prevails, and then the wind; Now one the better, then another best ; Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast, Yet neither conqueror nor conquered : So is the equal poise of this fell war. Here on this molehill will I sit me down. To whom God will, there be the victory ! For Margaret my queen, and Clifford too. Have chid me from the battle ; swearing both They prosper best of all when I am thence. 442 Would I were dead ! if God's good will were so; For what is in this world but grief and woe ? O God ! methinks it were a happy life. To be no better than a homely swain ; To sit upon a hill, as I do now. To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, Thereby to see the minutes how they run. How many make the hour full complete ; How many hours bring about the day ; How many days will finish up the year ; How many years a mortal man may live. When this is known, then to divide the times: i So many hours must I tend my flock ; So many hours must I take my rest ; So many hours must I contemplate ; So many hours must I sport myself ; So many days my ewes have been with young ; So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean ; So many years ere I shall shear the fleece : So minutes, hours, days, months, and years, Pass'd over to the end they were created. Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. Ah, what a life were this ! how sweet ! how lovely! Gives not the hawthorn-bush a sweeter shade To shepherds looking on their silly sheep. Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy To kings that fear their subjects' treachery ? O, yes, it doth; a thousand-fold it doth. And to conclude, the shepherd's homely curds, His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle. His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade. All which secure and sweetly he enjoys, Is far beyond a prince's delicates. His viands sparkling in a golden cup. His body couched in a curious bed. When care, mistrust, and treason waits on him. Alarum. Enter a Son that has killed his father, dragging in the dead body. Son. Ill blows the wind that profits nobody. This man, whom hand to hand I slew in fight, May be possessed with some store of crowns ; And I, that haply take them from him now. May yet ere night yield both my life and them To some man else, as this dead man doth me. Who 's this ? O God ! it is my father's face. Whom in this conflict I un wares have kill'd. O heavy times, begetting such events ! From London by the king was I press 'd forth ; My father, being the Earl of Warwick's man, Came on the part of York, press'd by his master; And I, who at his hands received my life, Have by my hands of life bereaved him. Pardon me, God, I knew not what I did ! And pardon, father, for I knew not thee! My tears shall wipe away these bloody marks ; And no more words till they have flow'd their fill. K. Hen. O piteous spectacle ! O bloody times ! Whiles lions war and battle for their dens. Poor harmless lambs abide their enmity. Weep, wretched man, I '11 aid thee tear for tear; And let our hearts and eyes, like civil war, [grief. Be blind with tears, and break o'ercharged with Enter a Father that has killed his son, bringing in the body. Fath. Thou that so stoutly hast resisted me. Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold ; For I have bought it with an hundred blows. But let me see: is this our foeman's face ? Ah, no, no, no, it is mine only son ! Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee, Throw up thine eye ! see, see what showers arise, Blown with the windy tempest of my heart. Upon thy wounds, that kill mine eye and heart 1 O, pity, God, this miserable age! What stratagems, how fell, how butcherly, Erroneous, mutinous and unnatural. THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VI scene vi. This deadly quarrel daily doth beget ! O boy, thy father gave thee life too soorij And hath bereft thee of thy life too late ! [grief ! K. Hen. Woe above woe ! grief more than common that my death would stay these ruthf ul deeds ! O, pity, pity, gentle heaven, pity ! The red rose and the white are on his face, The fatal colours of our striving houses : The one his purple blood right well resembles ; The other his pale cheeks, methinks, presenteth: Wither one rose, and let the other flourish •, If you contend, a thousand lives must wither. Son. How will my mother for a father's death Take on with me and ne'er be satisfied ! Fath. How wiU my wife for slaughter of my son Shed seas of tears and ne'er be satisfied ! [chances K. Hen. How will the country for these woful Misthink the king and not be satisfied ! Son. Was ever son so rued a father's death ? Fath. Was ever father so bemoan'd his son ? K. Hen. Was ever king so grieved for subjects'woe? Much is your sorrow ; mine ten times so much. Son. I '11 bear thee hence, where I may weep my fill. [Exit with the body. Fath. These arms of mine shall be thy winding- My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulchre, [sheet ; For from my heart thine image ne'er shall go ; My sighing breast shall be thy funeral bell ; And so obsequious will thy father be. Even for the loss of thee, having no more, As Priam was for all his valiant sons. 1 'U bear thee hence ; and let them fight that will, Tor I have murdered where I should not kill. [Exit with the body. K. Hen. Sad-hearted men, much overgone with Here sits a king more woful than you are. [care. Alarums : excursions. Enter Queen Margaret, the Prince, and Exeter. Prince. Fly, father, fly! for all your friends are fled, And Warwick rages like a chafed bull : Away ! for death doth hold us in pursuit. Q. 'Mar. Mount you, my lord ; towards Berwick post amain : Edward and Kichard, like a brace of greyhounds Having the fearful flying hare in sight. With fiery eyes sparkling for very wrath. And bloody steel grasp'd in their ireful hands. Are at om' backs ; and therefore hence amain. Exe. Away! for vengeance comes along with them: Nay, stay not to expostulate, make speed •, Or else come after : I '11 away before. [ter : K. Hen. Nay, take me with thee, good sweet Exe- Not that I fear to stay, but love to go Whither the queen intends. Forward ; away ! [Exeunt. SCENE "VI.— Another part of the field. A loud alarum. Enter Clifford, wounded. Clif. Here burns my candle out ; ay, here it dies, Which, whiles it lasted, gave King Henry light. O Lancaster, I fear thy overthrow More than my body's parting with my soul! My love and fear glued many friends to thee ; And, now I faU, thy tough commixture melts. Impairing Henry, strengthening misproud York, The common people swarm like summer flies ; And whither fly the gnats but to the sun ? And who shines now but Henry's enemies ? O Phcebus, hadst thou never given consent That Phaethon should check thy fiery steeds. Thy burning car never had scorch'd the earth ! And, Henry, hadst thou sway'd as kings should do. Or as thy father and his father did. Giving no ground unto the house of York, They never then had sprung like summer flies ; I and ten thousand in this luckless realm Had left no mourning widows for our death ; And thou this day hadst kept thy chair in peace. For what doth cherish weeds but gentle air ? And what makes robbers bold but too much lenity ? Bootless are plaints, and cureless are my wounds ; No way to fly, nor strength to hold out flight : The foe is merciless, and wiU not pity ; For at their hands I have deserved no pity. The air hath got into my deadly wounds, And much effuse of blood doth make me faint. Come, York and Eichard, Warwick and the rest ; I stabb'd your fathers' bosoms, split my breast. LHe faints. Alarum and retreat. Enter Ed-ward, George, Rich- ard, Montague, "War-wick, and Soldiers. Edw. Now breathe we, lords : good fortime bids us pause, And smooth the frowns of war with peaceful looks. Some troops pursue the bloody-minded queen, That led calm Henry, though he were a king, As doth a sail, fiU'd with a fretting gust. Command an argosy to stem the waves. But think you, lords, that Clifford fled with them ? War. No, 'tis impossible he should escape; For, though before his face I speak the words, Your brother Richard mark'd him for the grave : And wheresoe'er he is, he 's surely dead. [Clifford groans, and dies. Edw. Whose soul is that which takes her heavy leave ? [ing. Bich. A deadly groan, like life and death's depart- Edw. See who it is : and, now the battle 's ended, If friend or foe, let him be gently used. [ford ; Bich. Revoke that doom of mercy, for 't is Clif- Who not contented that he lopp'd the branch In hewing Rutland when his leaves put forth. But set his murdering knife unto the root From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring, I mean our princely father, Duke of York, [head, War. From off the gates of York fetch down the Your father's head, which Clifford placed there ; Instead whereof let this supply the room : Measure for measure must be answered. [house, Edw. Bring forth that fatal screech-owl to our That nothing sung but death to us and ours : Now death shall stop his dismal threatening sound, And his iU-boding tongue no more shall speak. War. I think his understanding is bereft. Speak, Clifford, dost thou know who speaks to thee? Dark cloudy death o'ershades his beams of life. And he nor sees nor hears us what we say. Bich. O, would he did! and so perhaps he doth: 'T is but his policy to counterfeit. Because he would avoid such bitter taunts Which in the time of death he gave our father. 6reo. If so thou think'st, vex him with eager words. Bich. Clifford, ask mercy and obtain no grace. Edw. Clifford, repent in bootless penitence. War. Clifford, devise excuses for thy faults. Geo. While we devise fell tortures for thy faults. Bich. Thou didst love York, and I am son to York. Edw. Thou pitied 'st Rutland; I will pity thee. Geo. Where's Captain Margaret, to fence you now ? [wast wont. War. They mock thee, Clifford : swear as thou Bich. What, not an oath V nay, then the world goes hard When Clifford cannot spare his friends an oath. I know by that he 's dead ; and, by my soul. If this right hand would buy two hours' life, That I in all despite might rail at him, [blood This hand should chop it off, and with the issuing Stifle the villain whose unstanched thirst York and young Rutland could not satisfy, [head. War. Ay, but he's dead: off with the traitor's 443 ACT III. THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VI scene i. And rear it in the place j^our father's stands. And now to London with triumphant march, There to be crowned England's royal king : From whence shall Warwick cut the sea to France, And ask the Lady Bona for thy queen : So Shalt thou sinew both these lands together; And, having France thy friend, thou shalt not dread The scatter'd foe that hopes to rise again ; For though they cannot greatly sting to hurt. Yet look to iiave them buzz to offend thine ears. First will I see the coronation ; And then to Brittany I '11 cross the sea, To effect this marriage, so it please my lord. Edw. Even as thou wilt, sweet AVarwick, let it be ; For in thy shoulder do I build my seat. And never will I undertake the thing Wherein thy counsel and consent is wanting. Kichard, I will create thee Duke of Gloucester, And George, of Clarence: Warwick, as ourself, Shall do and undo as him pleaseth best. Eich. Let me be Duke of Clarence, George of Gloucester ; For Gloucester's dukedom is too ominous. War. Tut, that 's a foolish observation: Eichard, be Duke of Gloucester. Now to London, To see these honours in possession. [Uxeunt. A.OT III. SCENE I. — A forest in the north of England. Enter two Keepers, with cross-bows in their hands. First Keep. Under this thick-grown brake we '11 shroud ourselves ; For through this laund anon the deer will come ; And in this covert will we make our stand, Culling the principal of all the deer. Sec. Keep. I '11 stay above the hill, so both may shoot. [cross-bow First Keep. That cannot be; the noise of thy Will scare the herd, and so my shoot is lost. Here stand we both, and aim we at the best : And, for the time shall not seem tedious, I '11 tell thee what befel me on a day In this self -place where now we mean to stand. Sec. Keep. Here comes a man ; let 's stay till he be past. Enter King Henry, disguised^ with a prayer-iooh. K. Men. From Scotland am I stol'n, even of pure love, To greet mine own land with my wishful sight. No, Harry, Harry, 'tis no land of thine; Thy place is flU'd, thy sceptre wrung from thee, Thy balm wash'd off wherewith thou wast anointed : No bending knee will call thee Csesar now. No humble suitors press to speak for right, No, not a man comes for redress of thee; For how can I help them, and not myself ? First Keep. Ay, here's a deer whose skin's a keeper's fee : This is the quondam king ; let 's seize upon him. K. Hen. Let me etnbrace thee, sour adversity. For wise men say it is the wisest course. [him. Sec. Keep. Why linger we ? let us lay hands upon First Keep. Forbear awhile ; we '11 hear a little more. [for aid ; K. Hen. My queen and son are gone to France And, as I hear, the great commanding Warwick Is thither gone, to crave the French king's sister To wife for Edward : if this news be true. Poor queen and son, your labour is but lost ; For Warwick is a subtle orator. And Lewis a prince soon won with moving words. By this account then Margaret may win him ; For she 's a woman to be pitied much : Her sighs will make a battery in his breast ; Her tears will pierce into a marble heart ; The tiger will be mild whiles she doth mourn ; And Nero will be tainted with remorse. To hear and see her plaints, her brinish tears. Ay, but she 's come to beg, Warwick, to give; She, on his left side, craving aid for Henry, He, on his right, asking a wife for Edward. She weeps, and says her Henry is deposed; He smiles, and says his Edward is install 'd; That she, poor wretch, for grief can speak no more ; 444 Whiles Warwick tells his title, smooths the wrong, Inferreth arguments of mighty strength, And in conclusion wins the king from her, With promise of his sister, and what else. To strengthen and support King Edward's place. O Margaret, thus 'twill be; and thou, poor soul. Art then forsaken, as thou went'st forlorn ! Sec. Keep. Say, what art thou that talk'st of kings and queens ? [born to : K. Hen. More than I seem, and less than I was A man at least, for less I should not be ; And men may talk of kings, and why not I ? Sec. Keep. Ay, but thou talk'st as if thou wert a king. K. Hen. Why, so I am, in mind; and that 's enough. Sec. Keep. But, if thou be a king, where is thy crown ? K. Hen. My crown is in my heart, not on my head ; Not deck'd with diamonds and Indian stones, Nor to be seen : my crown is called content : . A crown it is that seldom kings enjoy. [content. Sec. Keep. Well, if you be a king crown'd with Your crown content and you must be contented To go along with us ; for, as we think. You are the king King Edward hath deposed ; And we his subjects sworn in all allegiance Will apprehend you as his enemy. K. Hen. But did you never swear, and break an oath ? [now. Sec. Keep. No, never such an oath; nor will not K. Hen. Where did you dwell when I was King of England ? [remain. Sec. Keep. Here in this country, where we now K. Hen. I was anointed king at nine months old ; My father and my grandfather were kings. And you were sworn true subjects unto me : And tell me, then, have you not broke your oaths ? First Keep. No ; For we were subjects but while you were king. K. Hen. Why, am I dead? do I not breathe a man? Ah, simple men, you know not what you swear ! Look, as I blow this feather from my face. And as the air blows it to me again. Obeying with my wind when I do blow. And yielding to another when it blows. Commanded always by the greater gust ; Such is the lightness of you common men. But do not break your oaths ; for of that sin My mild entreaty shall not make you guilty. Go where you will, the king shall be commanded; And be you kings, command, and I '11 obey. First Keep. We are true subjects to the king. King Edward. K. Hen. So would you be again to Henry, If he were seated as King Edward is. [the king's. First Keep. We charge you, in God's name, and To go with us unto the ofBcers. [be obey'd : K. Hen. In God's name, lead; your king's A.CT III. THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VI scene ii. And what God will, that let your king perform ; And what he will, I humbly yield unto. [Exeunt. SCENE H. — London. The palace. Enter King Ed-wrard, Gloucester, Clarence, and Lady Grey. K. Edw. Brother of Gloucester, at Saint Albau's field This lady's husband, Sir Richard Grey, was slain, His lands then seized on by the conqueror : Her suit is now to repossess those lands ; "Which we in justice cannot well deny. Because in quarrel of the house of York The worthy gentleman did lose his life. Glou. Your highness shall do well to grant her It were dishonour to deny it her. [suit ; K. Edw. It were no less ; but yet I '11 make a Glou. [Aside to CRar.] Yea, is it so ? [pause. I see the lady hath a thing to grant. Before the king wUl grant her humble suit. Clar. [Aside to Olou.^ He knows the game : how true he keeps the wind ! Glou. [Aside to Clar.l Silence! K. Edw. Widow, we will consider of your suit ; And come some other time to know our mind. L. Grey. Eight gracious lord, I cannot brook delay: May it please your highness to resolve me now ; And what your pleasure is, shall satisfy me. Glou. [Aside to Clar.'\ Ay, widow ? then I '11 war- rant you all your lands. An if what pleases him shall pleasure you. Fight closer, or, good faith, you '11 catch a blow. Clar. [Aside to Gl(m.'\ I fear her not, unless she chance to fall. Ghu. [Aside to CZar.] God forbid that 1 for he '11 take vantages. K. Edw. How many children hast thou, widow ? tell me. Clar. [Aside to ©Zom.] I think he means to beg a child of her. Glou. [Aside to Clar.] Nay, whip me then : he '11 rather give her two. L. Grey. Three, my most gracious lord. Glou. [Aside to Clar.l You shall have four, if you '11 be ruled by him. K. Edw. 'T were pity they should lose their fa- ther's lands. L. Grey. Be pitiful, dread lord, and grant it then. K. Edw. Lords, give us leave : I '11 try this wid- ow's wit. Glou. [Aside to Clar.'] Ay, good leave have you ; for you will have leave. Till youth take leave and leave you to the crutch. [Glou. and Clar. retire. K. Edw. Now tell me, madame, do you love your children ? L. Grey. Ay, full as dearly as I love myself. K. Edw. And would you not do much to do them good? [harm. L. Grey. To do them good, I would sustain some K. Edw. Then get your husband's lands, to do them good. L. Grey. Therefore I came unto your majesty. K. Edw. I 'U teU you how these lands are to be got. [service. L. Grey. So shall you bind me to your highness' K. Edw. What service wilt thou do me, if I give them ? [to do. L. Ghrey. What you command, that rests in me K. Edw. But you will take exceptions to my boon. L. Grey. No, gracious lord, except I cannot do it. K. Edw. Ay, but thou canst do what I mean to ask. [commands. L. Grey. Why, then I will do what your grace Glou. [Aside to Clar.l He plies her hard; and much rain wears the marble. Clar. [Aside to Glou."] As red as fire! nay, then her wax must melt. [my task ? L. Grey. Why stops my lord? shall I not hear K. Edw. An easy task ; 't is but to love a king. L. Grey. That 's soon perform'd, because I am a subject. [give thee. K. Edw. Why, then, thy husband's lands 1 freely L. Grey. I take my leave with many thousand thanks. Glou. [Aside to Clar.'\ The match is made ; she seals it with a curtsy. [mean. K. Edw. But stay thee, 't is the fruits of love I L. Grey. The fruits of love I mean, my loving liege. K. Edw. Ay, but, I fear me, in another sense. What love, think 'st thou, I sue so much to get ? L. Grey. My love till death, my humble thanks, my prayers ; That love which virtue begs and virtue grants. K. Edw. No, by my troth, I did not mean such love. [you did. L. Grey. Why, then you mean not as I thought K. Edw. But now you partly may perceive my mind. [ceive L. Grey. My mind will never grant what I per- Your highness aims at, if I aim aright. K. Edw. To tell thee plain, I aim to lie with thee. L. Grey. To tell you plain, I had rather lie in prison. [band's lands. K. Edw. Why, then thou shalt not have thy hus- L. Grey. Why, then mine honesty shall be my For by that loss I wiU not purchase them, [dower ; K. Edw. Therein thou wrong'st thy children mightily. [and me. L. Grey. Herein your highness wrongs both them But, mighty lord, this merry inclination Accords not with the sadness of my suit : Please you dismiss me, either with ' ay ' or ' no.' K. Edw. Ay, if thou wilt say ' ay ' to my request; NOj if thou dost say ' no ' to my demand. L. Grey. Then, no, my lord. My suit is at an end. Glou. [Aside to Clar.'\ The widow likes him not, she knits her brows. Clar. [Aside to Glou.] He is the bluntest wooer in Christendom. [with modesty ; K. Edw. [Aside] Her looks do argue her replete Her words do show her wit incomparable ; All her perfections challenge sovereignty : One way or other, she is for a king; And she shall be my love, or else my queen. — : Say that King Edward take thee for his queen ? L. Grey. 'Tis better said than done, my gracious I am a subject fit to jest withal, [lord ; But far tmfit to be a sovereign. [thee K. Edw. Sweet widow, by my state I swear to I speak no more than what my soul intends ; And that is, to enjoy thee for my love. L. Grey. And that is more than I will yield unto : I know i am too mean to be your queen. And yet too good to be your concubine. [queen. K. Edw. You cavil, widow: I did mean, my L. Grey. 'T will grieve your grace my sons should call you father. [thee mother. K. Edw. No more than when my daughters call Thou art a widow, and thou hast some children ; And, by God's mother, I, being but a bachelor, Have other some : why, 't is a happy thing To be the father unto many sons. Answer no more, for thou shalt be my queen. Glou. [Aside to Clar.] The ghostly father now hath done his shrift. Clar. [Aside to Glou.] When he was made a shriver, 't was for shift. K. Edw. Brothers, you muse what chat we two have had. [sad. Glou. The widow likes it not, for she looks very K. Edw. You'll think it strange if I should Clar. To whom, my lord ? [marry her. 445 ACT III. THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VI scene hi. K. JEdw. Why, Clarence, to myself. Glou. That would be ten days' wonder at the least. Clar. That 's a day longer than a wonder lasts. Glou. By so much is the wonder in extremes. K. Edw. Well, jest on, brothers: I can tell you Her suit is granted for her husband's lands, [both Enter a Nobleman. Nol. My gracious lord, Henry your foe is taken, And brought your prisoner to your palace gate. K. Edw. See that he be convey 'd unto the Tower : And go we, brothers, to the man that took him, To question of his apprehension. Widow, go you along. Lords, use her honourably. [Exeunt all hut Gloucester. Glou. Ay, Edward will use women honourably. Would he were wasted, marrow, bones and all, That from his loins no hopeful branch may spring, To cross me from the golden time I look for ! And yet, between my soul's desire and me — The lustful Edward's title buried — Is Clarence, Henry, and his son young Edward, And all the unlook'd for issue of their bodies, To take their rooms, ere I can place myself: A cold premeditation for my purpose ! Why, then, I do but dream qn sovereignty ; Like one that stands upon a promontory. And spies a far-off shore where he would tread, Wishing his foot were equal with his eye. And chides the sea that sunders him from thence, Saying, he '11 lade it dry to have his way : So do I wish the crown, being so far off ; And so I chide the means that keeps me from it ; And so I say, I '11 cut the causes oft'. Flattering me with impossibilities. My eye 's too quick, my heart o'erweens too much, Unless my hand and strength could equal them. Well, say there is no kingdom then for Richard; What other pleasure can the world afford ? I '11 make my heaven in a lady's lap, And deck my body in gay ornaments, And witch sweet ladies with my words and looks. O miserable thought ! and more unlikely Than to accomplish twenty golden crowns ! Why, love forswore me in my mother's womb : And, for I should not deal in her soft laws, She did corrupt frail nature with some bribe. To shrink mine arm up like a wither'd shrub ; To make an envious mountain on my back, Where sits deformity to mock my body ; To shape my legs of an unequal size ; To disproportion me in every part. Like to a chaos, or an unlick'd bear-whelp That carries no impression like the dam. And am I then a man to be beloved ? monstrous fault, to harbour such a thought! Then, since this earth affords no joy to me. But to command, to check, to o'erbear such As are of better person than myself, 1 '11 make my heaven to dream upon the crown, And, whiles I live, to account this world but hell, Until my mis-shaped trunk that bears this head Be round impaled with a glorious crown. And yet I know not how to get the crown, Eor many lives stand between me and home : And I,— like one lost in a thorny, wood, That rends the thorns and is rent with the thorns, Seeking a way and straying from the way ; Not knowing how to find the open air. But toiling desperately to find it out, — Torment myself to catch the English crown : And from that torment I will free myself, Or hew my way out with a bloody axe. Why, I can smile, and murder whiles I smile. And cry ' Content ' to that which grieves my heart. And wet my cheeks with artificial tears, 446 And frame my face to all occasions. I '11 drown more sailors than the mermaid shall ; I '11 slay more gazers than the basilisk ; I '11 play the orator as well as Nestor, Deceive more slily than Ulysses could, And, like a Sinon, take another Troy. I can add colours to the chameleon, Change shapes with Proteus for advantages, And set the murderous Machiavel to school. Can I do this, and cannot get a crown ? Tut, were it farther off, I '11 pluck it down. [Exit. SCENE 111.— France. The King^s palace. Flourish. Enter Lewis the French King, his sister Bona, his Admiral, called Bourbon : Prince Edward, Queen Margaret, and the Earl of Oxford. Lewis sits, and riseth up again. K. Lew. Eair queen of England, worthy Margaret, Sit down with us : it ill befits thy state And birth, that thou shouldst stand while Lewis doth sit. [garet Q. Mar. No, mighty King of France : now Mar- Must strike her sail and learn awhile to serve Where kings command. I was, I must confess, Great Albion's queen in former golden days : But now mischance hath trod my title down, And with dishonour laid me on the ground ; Where I must take like seat unto my fortime. And to my humble seat conform myself. K. Lew. Why, say, fair queen, whence springs this deep despair ? Q.Mar. From such a cause as fills mine eyes with tears [cares. And stops my tongue, while heart is drown'd in K. Lew. Whate'er it be, be thou still like thyself. And sit thee by our side : [Seats her by him] yield not thy neck To fortune's yoke, but let thy dauntless mind Still ride in triumph over all mischance. Be plain. Queen Margaret, and tell thy grief; It shall be eased , if France can yield relief, [thoughts Q. Mar. Those gracious words revive my drooping And give my tongue-tied sorrows leave to speak. Now, therefore, be it known to noble Lewis, That Henry, sole possessor of my love, Is of a king become a banish 'd man, And forced to live in Scotland a forlorn ; While proud ambitious Edward Duke of York Usurps the regal title and the seat Of England's true-anointed lawful king. This is the cause that I, poor Margaret, With this my son. Prince Edward, Henry's heir, Am come to crave thy just and lawful aid; And if thou fail us, all our hope is done : Scotland hath wiQ. to help, but cannot help ; Our people and our peers are both misled. Our treasure seized, our soldiers put to flight. And, as thou seest, ourselves in heavy plight, [storm, K. Lew. Renowned queen, with patience, calm the While we bethink a means to break it off. [foe. Q. Mar. The more we stay, the stronger grows oui K. Lew. The more I stay, the more I 'U succour thee. Q. Mar. O, but impatience waiteth on true sorrow. And see where comes the breeder of my sorrow ! Enter "Warwick. K. Lew. What 's he approacheth boldly to oui presence ? [friend. Q. Mar. Our Earl of Warwick, Edward's greatest K. Lew. Welcome, brave Warwick ! What brings thee to France ? [He descends. She ariseth. Q. Mar. Ay, now begins a second storm to rise ; For this is he that moves both wind and tide. War. From worthy Edward, King of Albion, My lord and sovereign, and thy vowed friend, I come, in kindness and imfeigned love. ACT III. THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VI scene hi First, to do greetings to thy royal person ; And then to crave a league of amity ; And lastly, to confirm that amity With nuptial knot, if thou vouchsafe to grant That virtuous Lady Bona, thy fair sister, To England's king in lawful marriage. Q. Mar. [Aside] If that go forward, Henry's hope is done. [king's behalf, War. [To Bona] And, gracious madam, in our I am commanded, with your leave and favour. Humbly to kiss your hand and with my tongue To teU the passion of my sovereign's heart ; "Where fame, late entering at his heedful ears. Hath placed thy beauty's image and thy virtue. Q. Mar. King Lewis and Lady Bona, hear me Before you answer Warwick. His demand [speak. Springs not from Edward's well-meant honest love, But from deceit bred by necessity ; For how can tyrants safely govern home, Unless abroad they purchase great alliance ? To prove him tyrant this reason may suffice, That Henry liveth still ; but were he dead, Yet here Prince Edward stands. King Henry's son. Look, therefore, Lewis, that by this league and mar- - Thou draw not on thy danger and dishonour ; [riage For though usurpers sway the rule awhile. Yet heavens are just, and time suppresseth wrongs. War. Injurious Margaret ! Prince. And why not queen ? War. Because thy father Henry did usurp ; And thou no more art prince than she is queen. Oxf. Then Warwick disannuls great John of Gaiint, Which did subdue the greatest part of Spain ; And, after John of Gaunt, Henry the Fourth, Whose wisdom was a mirror to the wisest ; And, after that wise prince, Henry the Fifth, Who by his prowess conquered all France : From these our Henry lineally descends, [course, War. Oxford, how haps it, in this smooth dis- You told not how Henry the Sixth hath lost All that which Henry the Fifth had gotten ? Methinks these peers of France should smile at that. But for the rest, you tell a pedigree Of threescore and two years ; a silly time To make prescription for a kingdom's worth, [liege, Oxf. Why, Warwick, canst thou speak against thy Whom thou obeyed 'st thirty and six years. And not bewray thy treason with a blush ? War. Can Oxford, that did ever fence the right, Now buckler falsehood with a pedigree ? For shame ! leave Henry, and call Edward king. Oxf. Call him my king by whose injurious doom My elder brother, the Lord Aubrey Vere, Was done to death ? and more than so, my father, Even in the downfall of his mellow 'd years, When nature brought him to the door of death ? 'No, Warwick, no ; while life upholds this arm, This arm upholds the house of Lancaster. War. And I the house of York. [Oxford, K. Lew. Queen Margaret, Prince Edward, and Vouchsafe, at our request, to stand aside. While I use further conference with Warwick. [They stand aloof. W; ■ ' ■ Q. Mar. Heavens grant that Warwick's words bewitch him not I [conscience, K. Lew. Now, Warwick. teU me, even upon thy Is Edward your true king ? for I were loath To link with him that were not lawful chosen. War. Thereon I pawn my credit and mine honour. K. Lew. But is he gracious in the people's eye ? War. The more that Henry was unfortunate. K. Lew. Then further, all dissembling set aside, Tell me for truth the measure of his love Unto our sister Bona. War. Such it seems As may beseem a monarch like himself. Myself have often heard him say and swear That this his love was an eternal plant. Whereof the root was fix'd in virtue's groimd. The leaves and fruit maintain 'd with beauty's sun, Exempt from envy, but not from disdain, Unless the Lady Bona quit his pain. K. Lew. Now, sister, let us hear your firm resolve. Bona. Your grant, or your denial, shall be mine : [To War.] Yet I confess that often ere this day, When I have heard your king's desert recounted. Mine ear hath tempted judgment to desire. K. Lew. Then, Warwick, thus : our sister shall be Edward's ; And now forthwith shall articles be drawn Touching the jointure that your king must make, Which with her dowry shall be counterpoised. Draw near. Queen Margaret, and be a witness That Bona shall be wife to the English king. Prince. To Edward, but not to the English king. Q. Mar. Deceitful Warwick ! it was thy device By this alliance to make void my suit : Before thy coming Lewis was Henry's friend. K. Lew. And still is friend to him and Margaret : But if your title to the crown be weak. As may appear by Edward's good success, Then 't is but reason that I be released From giving aid which late I promised. Yet shall you have all kindness at my hand That your estate requires and mine can yield. War. Henry now lives in Scotland at his ease, Where having nothing, nothing can he lose. And as for you yourself, our quondam queen. You have a father able to maintain you ; And better 't were you troubled him than France. Q. Mar. Peace, impudent and shameless War- wick, peace. Proud setter up and puller dovm of kings ! I will not hence, till, with my talk and tears. Both full of truth, I make King Lewis behold Thy sly conveyance and thy lord's false love ; For both of you are birds of selfsame feather. [Post blows a horn within. K. Lew. Warwick, this is some post to us or thee. Miter a Post. Post. [To War.] My lord ambassador, these let- ters are for you, Sent from your brother, Marquess Montague : [To Lewis] These from our king mito your majesty : [To Margaret] And, madam, these for you; from whom I know not. [They all read their letters. Oxf. I like it weU that our fair queen and mistress Smiles at her news, while Warwick frowns at his. Prince. Nay, mark how Lewis stamps, as he were I hope all 's for the best. [nettled : K. Lew. Warwick, what are thy news ? and yours, fair queen ? [joys. Q. Mar. Mine, such as fill my heart with unhoped War. Mine, full of sorrow and heart's discontent. K. Lew. What ! has your king married the Lady And now, to soothe your forgery and his, [Grey ? Sends me a paper to persuade me patience ? Is this the alliance that he seeks with France ? Dare he presume to scorn us in this manner ? Q. Mar. 1 told your majesty as much before : This proveth Edward's love and Warwick's honesty. War. King Lewis, I here protest, in sight of And by the hope I have of heavenly bliss, [heaven. That 1 am clear from this misdeed of Edward's, No more my king, for he dishonours me. But most himselt, if he could see his shame. Did I forget that by the house of York My father came untimely to his death ? Did I let pass the abuse done to my niece ? Did I impale him with the regal crown ? Did I put Henry from his native right ? And am I guerdon'd at the last ;with shame ? 447 ACT IV. THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VL scene i. Shame on himself ! for my desert is honour : And to repair my honour lost for him, I here renounce him and return to Henry. My noble queen, let former grudges pass, And henceforth I am thy true servitor : I will revenge his wrong to Lady Bona And replant Henry in his former state. Q. Mar. Warwick, these words have turn'd my hate to love : And I forgive and quite forget old faults. And joy that thou becomest King Henry's friend. War. So much his friend, ay, his unfeigned friend, That, if King Lewis vouchsafe to furnish us With some few bands of chosen soldiers, I '11 undertake to land them on our coast And force the tyrant from his seat by war. T is not his new-made bride shall succour him : And as for Clarence, as my letters tell me. He 's very likely now to fall from him. For matching more for wanton lust than honour. Or than for strength and safety of our country. Bona. Dear brother, how shall Bona be revenged But by thy help to this distressed queen ? Dive, S. Mar. Renowned prince, how shall poor Henry _ ess thou rescue him from foul despair ? Bona. My quarrel and this English queen's are one. War. And mine, fair Lady Bona, joins with yours. K. Lew. And mine with hers, and thine, and Mar- Therefore at last I firmly am resolved [garet's. You shall have aid. Q. Mar. Let me give humble thanks for all at once. K. Lew. Then, England's messenger, return in And tell false Edward, thy supposed king, [post, That Lewis of France is sending over masquers To revel it with him and his new bride : Thou seest what 's past, go fear thy king withal. Bona. Tell him, in hope he '11 prove a widower I '11 wear the willow garland for his sake, [shortly, Q,. Mar. Tell him, my mourning weeds are laid And I am ready to put armour on. [aside, War. Tell him from me that he hath done me wrong. And therefore I '11 uncrown him ere 't be long. There 's thy reward : be gone. [Exit Post. K. Lew. But, Warwick, Thou and Oxford, with five thousand men, Shall cross the seas, and bid false Edward battle ; And, as occasion serves, this noble queen And prince shall follow with a fresh supply. Yet, ere thou go, but answer me one doubt, What pledge have we of thy firm loyalty ? War. This shall assure my constant loyalty, That if our queen and this young prince agree, I '11 join mine eldest daughter and my joy To him forthwith in holy wedlock bands. Q. Mar. Yes, I agree, and thank you for your Son Edward, she is fair and virtuous, [motion. Therefore delay not, give thy hand to Warwick ; And, with thy hand, thy faith irrevocable, That only Warwick's daughter shall be thine, [it ; Prince. Yes, I accept her, for she well deserves And here, to pledge my vow, I give my hand. [He gives his hand to Warwick. K. Lew. Why stay we now ? These soldiers shall be levied, And thou. Lord Bourbon, our high admiral, Shalt waft them over with our royal fleet. I long till Edward fall by war's mischance. For mocking marriage with a dame of France. [Exeunt all but Warwick. War. I came from Edward as ambassador, But I return his sworn and mortal foe : Matter of marriage was the charge he gave me, But dreadful war shall answer his demand. Had he none else to make a stale but me ? Then none but I shall turn his jest to sorrow. I was the chief that raised him to the crown. And I '11 be chief to bring him down again : Not that I pity Henry's misery, But seek revenge on Edward's mockery. [Exit. ^OT IV. I. — London. The palace. Enter Gloucester, Clarence, Somerset, and Montague. Glou. Now tell me, brother Clarence, what think Of this new marriage with the Lady Grey ? [you Hath not our brother made a worthy choice ? Clar. Alas, you know, 'tis far from hence to France ; How could he stay till Warwick made return ? Som. My lords, forbear this talk ; here comes the Glou. And his well-chosen bride. [king. Clar. I mind to tell him plainly what I think. Flourish. Enter King Edward, attended ; Lady Grey, as Queen; Pembroke, Stafford, Hastings, and others. K. Edw. Now, brother of Clarence, how like you our choice. That you stand pensive, as half malcontent ? Clar. As well as Lewis of France, or the Earl of Warwick, Which are so weak of courage and in judgment That they '11 take no offence at our abuse, [cause, K. Edw. Suppose they take oifence without a They are but Lewis and Warwick : I am Edward, Your king and Warwick's, and must have my will. Glou. And shall have your will, because oxu: king : Yet hasty marriage seldom proveth well. K. Edw. Yea, brother Richard, are you offended Glou. Not I: [too? No, God forbid that I should wish them sever'd 448 Whom God hath joined together; ay. and 'twere To sunder them that yoke so well together. [pity K. Edw. Setting your scorns and your mislike Tell me some reason why the Lady Grey [aside, Should not become my wife and England's queen. And you too, Somerset and Montague, Speak freely what you think. Clar. Then this is mine opinion : that King Lewis Becomes your enemy, for mocking him About the marriage of the Lady Bona. Glou. And Warwick, doing what you gave in Is now dishonoured by this new marriage, [charge, K. Edw. What if both Lewis and Warwick be By such invention as I can devise ? [appeased Mont. Yet, to have join'd with France in such alliance Would more have strengthen'd this our common- wealth [riage. 'Gainst foreign storms than any home-bred mar- Hast. Why, knows not Montague that of itseK England is safe, if true within itself ? Mont. But the safer when 't is backed with France. Hast. 'Tis better using France than trusting France : Let us be back'd with God and with the seas Which He hath given for fence impregnable. And with their helps only defend ourselves ; In them and in ourselves our safety lies. Clar. For this one speech Lord Hastings well de- To have the heir of the Lord Hungerford. ACT IV. THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VI scene ii. K. Eclw. Ay, what of that ? it was my will and grant ; And for this once my will shall stand for law. Glou. And yet methinks your grace hath not done To give the heir and daughter of Lord Scales [well, Unto the brother of your loving bride ; She better would have fitted me or Clarence : But in your bride you bury brotherhood. [heir Clar. Or else you would not have bestow'd the Of the Lord Bonville on your new wife's son, And leave your brothers to go speed elsewhere. K. Edw. Alas, poor Clarence ! is it for a wife That thou art malcontent ? I will provide thee. Clar. In choosing for yourself, you show'd your judgment. Which being shallow, you shall give me leave To play the broker in miile own behalf ; And to that end I shortly mind to leave you. K. Edw. Leave me, or tarrj^ Edward will be king, And not be tied unto his brother's will. Q. Eliza. My lords, before it pleased his majesty To raise my state to title of a queen. Do me but right, and you must all confess That I was not ignoble of descent ; And meaner than myself have had like fortune. But as this title honours me and mine, So your dislike, to whom I would be pleasing, Doth cloud my joys with danger and with sorrow. K. Edw. My love, forbear to fawn upon their frowns : What danger or what sorrow can befall thee, So long as Edward is thy constant friend. And their true sovereign, whom they must obey ? Nay, whom they shall obey, and love thee too, Unless they seek for hatred at my hands ; Which if they do, yet wiU I keep thee safe, And they shall feel the vengeance of my wrath. Glou. I hear, yet say not much, but think the more, [Aside. Miter a Post. K. Edw. Now, messenger, what letters or what From France ? [news Post. Mysovereignliege,no letters; andfewwords. But such as I, without your special pardon, Dare not relate. K. Edw. Go to, we pardon thee : therefore, in brief, Tell me their words as near as thou canst guess them. What answer makes King Lewis unto our letters ? Post. At my depart, these were his very words : * Go tell false Edward, thy supposed king. That Lewis of France is sending over masquers To revel it with him and his new bride.' [Henry. K. Edw. Is Lewis so brave ? belike he thinks me But what said Lady Bona to my marriage ? Post. These were her words, utter'd with mild disdain : * Tell him, in hope he '11 prove a widower shortly, I '11 wear the willow garland for his sake.' K. Edw. I blame not her, she could say little less ; She had the wrong. But what said Henry's queen ? For I have heard that she was there in place. Post. ' Tell him,' quoth she, ' my mourning weeds And I am ready to put armour on.' [are done, K. Edw. Belike she minds to play the Amazon. But what said Warwick to these injuries ? Post. He, more incensed against your majesty Than all the rest, discharged me with these words : ' Tell him from me that he hath done me wrong. And therefore I '11 uncrown him ere 't be long.' K. Ediv. Ha ! durst the traitor breathe out so proud words ? Well, I will arm me, being thus forewarn 'd : They shall have wars and pay for their presumption. But say, is Warwick friends with Margaret ? Post. Ay, gracious sovereign ; they are so link'd in friendship, [daughter. That young Prince Edward marries Warwick's 29 Clar. Belike the elder; Clarence will have the younger. Now, brother king, farewell, and sit you fast. For I will hence to Warwick's other daughter ; That, though I want a kingdom, yet in marriage I may not prove inferior to yourself. You that love me and Warwick, follow me. [Exit Clarence, and Somerset follows. Glou. [Aside.] Not I : My thoughts aim at a further matter ; I Stay not for the love of Edward, but the cro-«ai. it. Edw. Clarence and Somerset both gone to Warwick ! Yet am I arm'd against the worst can happen ; And haste is needful in this desperate case. Pembroke and Stafford, you in our behalf Go levy men, and make prepare for war; They are already, or quickly will be landed : Myself in person will straight follow you. [Exeunt Pevihroke and Stafford. But, ere I go, Hastings and Montague, Eesolve my doubt. You twain, of all the rest. Are near to Warwick by blood and by alliance : Tell me if you love Warwick more than me ? If it be so, then both depart to him; I rather wish you foes than hollow friends : But if you mind to hold your true obedience, Give me assurance with some friendly vow. That I may never have you in suspect. Mont. So God help Montague as he proves true ! Hast. And Hastings as he favours Edward's cause! K. Edw. Now, brother Eichard, will you stand by us ? [you. Glou. Ayjin despite of all that shall withstand K. Edw. Why, so ! then am I sure of victory. Now therefore let us hence ; and lose no hour, Till we meet Warwick with his foreign power. [Exeunt. SCENE II. — A plain in Warwickshire. Enter "War-TO-ick and Oxford, with French soldiers. War. Trust me, my lord, all hitherto goes well; The common people by numbers swarm to us. Enter Clarence and Somerset. But see where Somerset and Clarence comes ! Speak suddenly, my lords, are we all friends ? Clar. Fear not that, my lord. War. Then, gentle Clarence, welcome imto War- wick; And welcome, Somerset : I hold it cowardice To rest mistrustful where a noble heart Hath pawn'd an open hand in sign of love ; Else might I think that Clarence, Edward's brother, Were but a feigned friend to our proceedings : But welcome, sweet Clarence; my daughter shall be thine. And now what rests but, in night's coverture, Thy brother being carelessly encamp'd. His soldiers lurking in the towns about. And but attended by a simple guard. We may surprise and take him at our pleasure ? Our scouts have found the adventure very easy : That as Ulysses and stout Diomede With sleight and manhood stole to Rhesus' tents, And brought from thence the Thracian fatal steeds, So we, well cover'd with the night's black mantle. At unawares may beat down Edward's guard And seize himself; I say not, slaughter him. For I intend but only to surprise him. You that wiU follow me to this attempt. Applaud the name of Henry with your leader. [They all cry, ' Henry ! ' Why, then, let 's on our way in sUent sort : For Warwick and his friends, God and Saint George I [Exeunt. 449 THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VI scene v. SCENE III. — Edward'' s camp, near Warwick, Enter three "Watchmen, to guard the King's tent. First Watch. Come on, my masters, each man take his stand : The king by this is set him down to sleep. Second Watch. What, will he not to bed ? [vow First Watch. Why, no ; for he hath made a solemn Never to lie and take his natural rest Till Warwick or himself be quite suppress'd. [day. Second Watch. To-morrow then belike shall be the If Warwick be so near as men report. [is that Third Watch. But say, I pray, what nobleman That with the king here resteth in his tent ? First Watch. 'Tis the Lord Hastings, the king's chiefest friend. [king Third Watch. O, is it so ? But why commands the That his chief followers lodge in towns about him. While he himself keeps in the cold field ? Second Watch. 'T is the more honour, because more dangerous. [quietness ; Third Watch. Ay, but give me worship and I like it better than a dangerous honour. If Warwick knew in what estate he stands, 'T is to be doubted he would waken him. [passage. First Watch. Unless our halberds did shut up his Second Watch. Ay, wherefore else guard we his royal tent. But to defend his person from night-foes ? Enter "War-wick, Clarence, Oxford, Somerset, and French Soldiers, silent all. War. This is his tent ; and see where stand his guard. Courage, my masters ! honour now or never ! But follow me, and Edward shall be ours. First Watch. Who goes there ? Second Watch. Stay, or thou diest ! [Warwick and the rest cry all, 'Warwick! Warwick ! ' and set upon the Guard, who fly, crying, ' Arm ! arm ! ' Warwick and the rest following them. The drum playing and trumpet sounding, re-enter War- wick, Somerset, and the rest, bringing the King out in his gaum, sitting in a chair. Bichard and Hastings fly over the stage. Som. What are they that fly there ? War. Richard and Hastings : let them go ; here is The duke. [parted, K. Edtv. The duke ! Why, Warwick, when we Thou call'dst me king. War. Ay, but the case is alter'd : When you disgraced me in my embassade, Then I degraded you from being king. And come now to create you Duke of York. Alas ! how should you govern any kingdom, That know not how to use ambassadors, Nor how to be contented with one wife, Nor how to use your brothers brotherly. Nor how to study for the people's welfare, Nor how to shroud yourself from enemies ? [too ? K. Ediv. Yea, brother of Clarence, art thou here Nay, then I see that Edward needs must down. Yet, Warwick, in despite of all mischance. Of thee thyself and all thy complices, Edward will always bear himself as king : Though fortune's malice overthrow my state, My mind exceeds the compass of her wheel. War. Then, for his mind, be Edward England's king : [ Takes off his o'own. But Henry now shall wear the English crown. And be true king indeed, thou but the shadow. My Lord of Somerset, at my request. See that forthwith Duke Edward be convey 'd Unto my brother, Archbishop of York. When I have fought with Pembroke and his fellows, 450 I '11 follow you, and tell what answer Lewis and the Lady Bona send to him. Now, for a while farewell, good Duke of York. [They lead him out forcibly. K. Edw. What fates impose, that men must needs It boots not to resist both wind and tide, [abide ; [Exit, guarded. Oxf. What now remains, my lords, for us to do But march to London with our soldiers ? [do ; War. Ay, that 's the first thing that we have to To free King Henry from imprisonment And see him seated in the regal throne. [Exeunt. SCENE IV.— London. The palace. Enter Queen Elizabeth and Rivers. Biv. Madam, what m3,kes you in this sudden change ? Q. FRiz. Why, brother Elvers, are you yet to learn What late misfortune is befall'n King Edward V Biv. What! loss of some pitch'd battle against Warwick ? Q. Eliz. No, but the loss of his own royal person. Biv. Then is my sovereign slain ? Q. Eliz. Ay, almost slain, for he is taken prisoner, Either betray 'd by falsehood of his guard Or by his foe surprised at unawares : And, as I further have to understand. Is new committed to the Bishop of York, Fell Warwick's brother and by that our foe. Biv. These news I must confess are full of grief ; Yet, gracious madame, bear it as you may: Warwick may lose, that now hath won the day. Q. Eliz. Till then fair hope must hinder life's And I the rather wean me from despair [decay. For love of Edward's offspring in my womb: This is it that makes me bridle passion And bear with mildness my misfortune's cross ; Ay, ay, for this I draw in many a tear And stop the rising of blood-sucking sighs, ' Lest with my sighs or tears I blast or drown King Edward's fruit, true heir to the English crown. Biv. But, madame, where is Warwick then be- come ? [London, Q. Eliz. I am inform'd that he comes towards To set the crown once more on Henry's head : Guess thou the rest ; King Edward's friends must But, to prevent the tjTant's violence, — [down. For trust not him that hath once broken faith, — I '11 hence forthwith unto the sanctuary, To save at least the heir of Edward's right : There shall I rest secure from force and fraud. Come, therefore, let us fly while we may fly: If Warwick take us we are sure to die. [Exeunt. SCENE v. — A park near Middleham Castle in Yorkshire. Enter Gloucester, Lord Hastings, and Sir William Stanley. Olou. Now, my Lord Hastings and Sir William Leave off to wonder why I drew you hither, [Stanley, Into this chiefest thicket of the park. [brother, Thus stands the case: you know our king, my Is prisoner to the bishop here, at whose hands He hath good usage and great liberty. And, often but attended with weak guard. Comes hunting this way to disport himself. I have advertised him by secret means That if about this hour he make this way Under the colour of his usual game, He shall here find his friends with horse and men To set him free from his captivity. Enter King Edward and a Huntsman with him. Hunt. This way, my lord ; for this way lies the ACT IV. THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VI scene vii. K. Edw. Nay, this way, man: see where the hunts- men stand. [rest, Now, brother of Gloucester, Lord Hastings, and the Stand you thus close, to steal the bishop's deer Y Glou. Brother, the time and case requireth haste : Your horse stands ready at the park-corner. K. Edw. But whither shall we then ? Bast. To Lynn, my lord. And ship from thence to Flanders. [meaning. Glou. Well guess'd, believe me; for that was my K. Edw. Stanley, I will requite thy forwardness. Glou. But wherefore stay we ? 't is no time to talk. [go along V K.Edw. Huntsman, what say 'st thou? wilt thou Hunt. Better do so than tarry and be hang'd. Glou. Come then, away ; let 's ha' no more ado. K.Edw. Bishop, farewell ; shield thee from War- wick's frown ; And pray that I may repossess the crown. [Exeunt. SCENE VI.— London. The Tmver. Flourish. Enter King Henry, Clarence, Warwick, Somerset, young Richmond, Oxford, Montague, and ■ Lieutenant of the Tower. K. Hen. Master Lieutenant, now that God and Have shaken Edward from the regal seat, [friends And turn'd my captive state to liberty, My fear to hope, my sorrows unto joys. At our enlargement what are thy due fees ? Lieu. Subjects may challenge nothing of their sovereigns ; But if an humble prayer may prevail, I then crave pardon of your majesty. K. Hen. For what, lieutenant ? for well using me? Nay, be thou sure I '11 well requite thy kindness, For that it made my imprisonment a pleasure ; Ay, such a pleasure as incaged birds Conceive when after many moody thoughts At last by notes of household harmony They quite forget their loss of liberty. But, Warwick, after God, thou set'st me free, And chiefly therefore I thank God and thee ; He was the author, thou the instrument. Therefore, that I may conquer fortune's spite By living low, where fortune cannot hurt me, And that the people of this blessed land May not be punish'd with my thwarting stars, Warwick, although my head still wear the crown, I here resign my government to thee. For thou art fortunate in all thy deeds. War. Your grace hath still been famed for vir- And now may seem as wise as virtuous, [tuous ; By spying and avoiding fortune's malice. For few men rightly temper with the stars : Yet in this one thing let me blame your grace. For choosing me when Clarence is in place. Clar. No, Warwick, thou art worthy of the sway, To whom the heavens in thy nativity Adjudged an olive branch and laurel crown. As likely to be blest in peace and war ; And therefore I yield thee my free consent. War. And I choose Clarence only for protector. K. Hen. Warwick and Clarence, give me both your hands : [hearts, Now join your hands, and with your hands your That no dissension hinder government : I make you both protectors of this land, While I myself will lead a private life And in devotion spend my latter days. To sin's rebuke and my Creator's praise. War. What answers Clarence to his sovereign's will? [sent; Clar. That he consents, if Warwick yield con- For on thy fortune I repose myself. [content : War. Why, then, though loath, yet must I be We '11 yoke together, like a double shadow To Henry's body, and supply his place ; I mean, in bearing weight of government, While he enjoys the honour and his ease. And, Clarence, now then it is more than needful Forthwith that Edward be pronounced a traitor. And all his lands and goods be confiscate. Clar. What else? and that succession be de- termined, [part. War. Ay, therein Clarence shall not want his K. Hen. But, with the first of all your chief affairs, Let me entreat, for I command no more. That Margaret your queen and my son Edward Be sent for, to return from France with speed ; For, till I see them here, by doubtful fear My joy of liberty is half eclipsed. [speed. Clar. It shall be done, my sovereign, with all K. Hen. My Lord of Somerset, what youth is that, Of whom you seem to have so tender care ? Som. My liege, it is young Henry, earl of Rich- mond. K. Hen. Come hither, England's hope. [Lays his hand on his head.] If secret powers Suggest but truth to my divining thoughts. This pretty lad will prove our country's bliss. His looks are full of peaceful majesty. His head by nature framed to wear a crown, His hand to wield a sceptre, and himself Likely in time to bless a regal throne. Make much of him, my lords, for this is he Must help you more than you are hurt by me. Enter a Post. War. What news, my friend? Post. That Edward is escaped from your brother. And fled, as he hears since, to Burgundy. War. Unsavoury news ! but how made he escape ? Post. He was convey 'd by Eichard Duke of Glou- And the Lord Hastings, who attended him [cester In secret ambush on the forest side And from the bishop's huntsmen rescued him ; For hunting was his daily exercise. War. My brother was too careless of his charge. But let us hence, my sovereign, to provide A salve for any sore that may betide. [Exeunt all but Somerset, Richmond, and Oxford. Som. My lord, I like not of this flight of Edward's ; For doubtless Burgundy will yield him help. And we shall have more wars before 't be long. As Henry's late presaging prophecy [mond, Did glad my heart with hope of this young Eich- So doth my heart misgive me, in these conflicts What may befall him, to his harm and ours : Therefore, Lord Oxford, to prevent the worst. Forthwith we '11 send him hence to Brittany, Till storms be past of civil enmity. Oxf. Ay, for if Edward repossess the crown, 'T is like that Eichmond with the rest shall down. Som. It shall be so; he shall to Brittany. Come, therefore, let 's about it speedily. [Exeunt. SCENE VII. — Before York. Flourish. Enter King Edward, Gloucester, Hastings, and Soldiers. K. Edw. Now, brother Eichard, Lord Hastings, and the rest, Yet thus far fortune maketh us amends. And says that once more I shall interchange My waned state for Henry's regal crown. Well have we pass'd and now repass'd the seas And brought desired help from Burgundy : What then remains, we being thus arrived From Eavenspurgh haven before the gates of York, But that we enter, as into our dukedom ? [this ; Glou. The gates made fast ! Brother, I like not For many men that stumble at the threshold Are well foretold that danger lurks within. 451 ACT IV. THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VI scene viii. K. Eclw. Tush, man, abodements must not now affright us : By fair or foul means we must enter in, For hither will our friends repair to us. [them. Hast. My liege, I '11 knock once more to summon Enter, on the walls, the Mayor of York, and his Brethren. May. My lords, we were forewarned of your "coming, And shut the gates for safety of ourselves ; For now we owe allegiance unto Henry. [king, K. Edvu But, master mayor, if Henry be your Yet Edward at the least is Duke of York. Maij. True, my good lord ; I know you for no less. K. Edw. Why, and I challenge nothing but my As being well content with that alone, [dukedom, Glou. \_Aside\ But when the fox hath once got in his nose, He '11 soon find means to make the body follow. Hast. Why, master mayor, why stand you in a doubt? Open the gates ; we are King Henry's friends. May. Ay, say you so? the gates shall then be open'd. [They descend. Glou. A wise stout captain, and soon persuaded ! Hast. The good old mun would fain that all were well. So 't were not 'long of him ; but being enter'd, I doubt not, I, but we shall soon persuade Both him and all his brothers unto reason. Enter the Mayor and two Aldermen, below. K. Edw. So, master mayor : these gates must not But in the night or in the time of war. [be shut What ! fear not, man, but yield me up the keys ; [Takes his keys. For Edward will defend the town and thee. And all those friends that deign to follow me. March. Enter Montgomery, with drum and soldiers. Glou. Brother, this is Sir John Montgomery, Our trusty friend, unless I be deceived, [in arms ? K. Edw. Welcome, Sir John ! But why come you Mont. To help King Edward in his time of storm. As every loyal subject ought to do. [forget K. Edw. Thanks, good Montgomery ; but we now Our title to the crown and only claim Our dukedom till God please to send the rest. Mont. Then fare you well, for I will hence again : I came to serve a king and not a duke. Drummer, strike up, and let us march away. [The drum begins to march. K. Edw. Nay, stay, Sir John, awhile, and we '11 debate By what safe means the crown may be recover'd. Mont. What talk you of debating ? in few words, If you '11 not here proclaim yourself our king, I '11 leave you to your fortune and be gone To keep them back that come to succour you : Why shall we fight, if you pretend no title? Glou. Why. brother, wherefore stand you on nice points ? [our claim : K. Edw. When we grow stronger, then we '11 make Till then, 'tis wisdom to conceal our meaning. Hast. Away with scrupulous wit ! now arms must rule. Ghu. And fearless minds climb soonest unto crowns. Brother, we will proclaim you out of hand ; The bruit thereof will bring you many friends. K. Edw. Then be it as you will ; for 't is my right. And Henry but usurps the diadem. [self ; Mont. Ay, now my sovereign speaketh like him- And now will I be Edward's champion, [claim'd : Hast. Sound trumpet ; Edward shall be here pro- Come, fellow-soldier, make thou proclamation. [Flourish. 452 Sold. Edward the Fourth, by the grace of God, king of England and France, and lord of Ireland, &c. Mont. And whosoe'er gainsays King Edward's By this I challenge him to single fight. [right, [Throws down his gauntlet. All. Long live Edward the Fourth ! X. Edw. Thanks, brave Montgomery ; and thanks unto you all : If fortune serve me, I '11 requite this kindness. Now, for this night, let 's harbour here in York ; And when the morning sun shall raise his car Above the border of this horizon. We '11 forward towards Warwick and his mates ; For well I wot that Henry is no soldier. Ah, froward Clarence ! how evil it beseems thee, To flatter Henry and forsake thy brother ! Yet, as we may, we '11 meet both thee and Warwick. Come on, brave soldiers : doubt not of the day, And, that once gotten, doubt not of large pay. [Exeunt. SCENE VIII. — London. The palace. Flourish. Enter King Henry, "War-wrick, Mon- tague, Clarence, Exeter, and Oxford. War. What counsel, lords ? Edward from Belgia, With hasty Germans and blunt Hollanders, Hath pass'd in safety through the narrow seas. And with his troops doth march amain to London ; And many giddy people flock to him. K. Hen. Let 's levy men, and beat him back again. Clar. A little fire is quickly trodden out ; Which, being suffer'd, rivers cannot quench. War. In Warwickshire I have true-hearted friends, Not mutinous in peace, yet bold in war ; Those will I muster up : and thou, son Clarence, Shalt stir up in Suffolk, Norfolk and in Kent, The knights and gentlemen to come with thee : Thou, brother Montague, in Buckingham, Northampton and in Leicestershire, shalt find Men well inclined to hear what thou command'st : And thou, brave Oxford, wondrous well beloved, In Oxfordshire shalt muster up thy friends. My sovereign, with the loving citizens. Like to his island girt in with the ocean. Or modest Dian circled with her nymphs, Shall rest in London till we come to him. Fair lords, take leave and stand not to reply. Farewell, my sovereign. K. Hen. FareweU, my Hector, and my Troy's true hope. Clar. In sign of truth, I kiss your highness' hand. • K. Hen. Well-minded Clarence, be thou fortu- nate! Mont. Comfort, my lord ; and so I take my leave. Oxf. And thus I seal my truth, and bid adieu. K. Hen. Sweet Oxford, and my loving Montague, And all at once, once more a happy farewell. War. Farewell, sweet lords : let 's meet at Coven- try. [Exeunt all but King Henry and Exeter, K. Hen. Here at the palace will I rest awhile. Cousin of Exeter, what thinks your lordship ? Methinks the power that Edward hath in field Should not be able to encounter mine. Exe. The doubt is that he will seduce the rest. K. Hen. That 's not my fear; my meed hath got me fame : I have not stopp'd mine ears to their demands, Nor posted off their suits with slow delays ; My pity hath been balm to heal their wounds. My mildness hath allay 'd their swelling griefs, My mercy dried their water-flowing tears ; I have not been desirous of their wealth, Nor much oppress'd them with great subsidies. Nor forward of revenge, though they much err'd : Then why should they love Edward more than me ? No, Exeter, these graces challenge grace : ACT V. THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VI SCENE I. And wlien the lion fawns upon the lamb, The lamb will never cease to follow him. [Shout within, ' A Lancaster ! A Lancaster ! ' Exe. Hark, hark, my lord ! what shouts are these ! Enter King Edward, Gloucester, and Soldiers. K. Edw. Seize on the shame-faced Henry, bear him hence ; And once again proclaim us king of England. You are the fount that makes small brooks to flow : Now stops thy spring ; my sea shall suck them dry. And swell so much the higher by their ebb. Hence with him to the Tower ; let him not speak. [Exeunt some with King Henry, And, lords, towards Coventry bend we our course, Where peremptory Warwick now remains : The sun shines hot; and, if we use delay. Cold biting winter mars our hoped-for hay. Glou. Away betimes, before his forces join, And take the great-grown traitor unawares : Brave warriors, march amain towards Coventry. [Exeunt. j^CT V. SCENE I.— Coventry. Enter "Warwick, the Mayor of Coventry, two Messengers, and others upon the walls. War. Where is the post that came from valiant Oxford? How far hence is thy lord, mine honest fellow ? ■ First Mess. By this at Dunsmore, marching hitherward. War. How far off is our brother Montague ? Where is the post that came from Montague ? Second Mess. By this at Daintry, with a puissant troop. Enter Sir John Somerville. War. Say, Somerville, what says my loving son ? And, by thy guess, how nigh is Clarence now ? Smn. At Southam I did leave him with his forces. And do expect him here some two hours hence. [Drum heard. War. Then Clarence is at hand ; I hear his drum. Som. It is not his, my lord ; here Southam lies : The drum your honor hears marcheth from War- wick, [friends. War. Who should that be ? belike, unlook'd-for Som. They are at hand, and you shall quickly know. March : flourish. Enter King Edward, Glou- cester, and Soldiers. K. Edw. Go, trumpet, to the walls, and sound a parle. Glou. See how the surly Warwick mans the wall ! War. O unbid spite ! is sportful Edward come ? Where slept our scouts, or how are they seduced, That we could hear no news of his repair ? [gates, K. Edw. Now, Warwick, wilt thou ope the city Speak gentle words and humbly bend thy knee, Call Edward king and at his hands beg mercy? And he shall pardon thee these outrages. War. Nay, rather, wilt thou draw thy forces hence. Confess who set thee up and pluck 'd thee down. Call Warwick patron and be penitent ? And thou shalt still remain the Duke of York. Glou. I thought, at least, he would have said the Or did he make tlie jest against his will ? [king ; War. Is not a dukedom, sir, a goodly gift ? Glou. Ay, by my faith, for a poor earl to give : I '11 do thee service for so good a gift. War. 'Twas I that gave the kingdom to thy brother. [wick's gift. K. Edw. Why then 't is mine, if but by War- War. Thou art no Atlas for so great a weight : And, weakling, Warwick takes his gift again ; And Henry is my king, Warwick his subject. K. Edw. But Warwick's king is Edward's pris- And, gallant Warwick, do but answer this : [oner : What is the body when the head is off ? Glou. Alas, that Warwick had no more forecast, But, whiles he thought to steal the single ten. The king was slily finger'd from the deck ! You left poor Henry at the Bishop's palace. And, ten to one, you '11 meet him in the Tower. K. Edw. 'T is even so ; yet you are Warwick still. Glou. Come, Warwick, take the time; kneel down, kneel down : Nay, when ? strike now, or else the iron cools. War. I had rather chop this hand off at a blow, And with the other fling it at thy face. Than bear so low a sail, to strike to thee. K. Edw. Sail how thou canst, have wind and tide thy friend, This hand, fast wound about thy coal-black hair, Shall, whiles thy head is warm and new cut off. Write in the dust this sentence with thy blood, ' Wind-changing Warwick now can change no more. ' Enter Oxford, with drum and colours. War. O cheerful colours ! see where Oxford comes I Oxf. Oxford, Oxford, for Lancaster ! [He and his forces enter the city, Glou. The gates are open, let us enter too. K. Edw. So other foes may set upon our backs. Stand we in good array ; for they no doubt Will issue out again and bid us battle : If not, the city being but of small defence. We '11 quickly rouse the traitors in the same. War. O, welcome, Oxford! for we want thy help. Enter Montague, with drum and colours. Mont. Montague, Montague, for Lancaster! [He and his forces enter the city. Glou. Thou and thy brother both shall buy this treason Even with the dearest blood your bodies bear. K. Edw. The harder match 'd, the greater victory : My mind presageth happy gain and conquest. Enter Somerset, with drum and colours. Som. Somerset, Somerset, for Lancaster! [He and his forces enter the city. Glou. Two of thy name, both Dukes of Somerset, Have sold their lives unto the house of York ; And thou shalt be the third, if this sword hold. Enter Clarence, with drum and colours. War. And lo, where George of Clarence sweeps Of force enough to bid his brother battle ; [along. With whom an upright zeal to right prevails More than the nature of a brother's love ! Come, Clarence, come ; thou wilt, if Warwick call. Clar. Father of Warwick, know you what this means ? [Taking his red rose out of his hat Look here, I throw my infamy at thee : I will not ruinate my father's house, Who gave his blood to lime the stones together. And set up Lancaster. Why, trow'st thou, Warwick, That Clarence is so harsh, so blunt, unnatural, To bend the fatal instruments of war Against his brother and his lawful king ? 453 ACT V. THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VI scene iv. Perhaps thou wilt object my holy oath : To keep that oath were more impiety Than Jephthah's, when he sacriflced his daughter. I am so sorry for my trespass made That, to deserve well at my brother's hands, I here proclaim myself thy mortal foe, "With resolution, wheresoe'er I meet thee — As I will m.eet thee, if thou stir abroad — To plague thee for thy foul misleading me. And so, proud-hearted Warwick, I defy thee, And to my brother turn my blushing cheeks. Pardon me, Edward, I will make amends : And, Richard, do not frown upon my faults, Por I will henceforth be no more unconstant. K. Edw. Now welcome more, and ten times more beloved. Than if thou never hadst deserved our hate. Glo. Welcome, good Clarence ; this is brother-like. War. O passing traitor, perjured and unjust ! K. Edw. What, Warwick, wilt thou leave the town and fight ? Or shall we beat the stones about thine ears ? War. Alas, I am not coop'd here for defence ! I will away towards Barnet presently, And bid thee battle, Edward, if thou darest. K. Edw. Yes, Warwick, Edward dares, and leads the way. Lords, to the field ; Saint George and victory ! [Exeunt King Edward and his company. March. Warwick and his company follow. SCENE II.— Afield of battle near Barnet. Alarum and excursions. Enter King Ed-ward, bringing forth "War-wick wounded. K. Edw. So, lie thou there : die thou, and die our For Warwick was a bug that fear'd us all. [fear ; Now, Montague, sit fast ; I seek for thee, That Warwick's bones may keep thine company. [Exit. War. Ah, who is nigh? come to me, friend or foe, And tell me who is victor, York or Warwick ? Why ask I that ? my mangled body shows, My blood , my want of strength , my sick heart shows , That I must yield my body to the earth And, by my fall, the conquest to my foe. Thus yields the cedar to the axe's edge. Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle, Under whose shade the ramping lion slept. Whose top-branch overpeer'd Jove's spreading tree And kept low shrubs from winter's powerful wind. These eyes, that now are dimm'd with death's black veil. Have been as piercing as the mid-day sun. To search the secret treasons of the world : The wrinkles in my brows, now flll'd with blood. Were liken'd oft to kingly sepulchres ; For who lived king, but I could dig his grave ? And who durst smile when Warwick bent his brow ? Lo, now my glory smear'd in dust and blood! My parks, my walks, my manors that I had. Even now forsake me, and of all my lands Is nothing left me but my body's length. Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust ? And, live we how we can, yet die we must. Enter Oxford and Somerset. Som. Ah, Warwick, Warwick ! wert thou as we We might recover all our loss again : [are, The queen from France hath brought a puissant power : Even now we heard the news : ah, couldst thou fly ! War. Why, then I would not fly. Ah, Montague, If thou be there, sweet brother, take my hand. And with thy lips keep in my soul awhile ! Thou lovest me not ; for, brother, if thou didst. Thy tears would wash this cold congealed blood 454 That glues my lips and will not let me speak. Come quickly, Montague, or I am dead, [his last; Som. Ah, Warwick! Montague hath breathed And to the latest gasp cried out for Warwick And said ' Commend me to my valiant brother.' And more he would have said, and more he spoke, Which sounded like a clamour in a vault, That mought not be distinguish'd ; but at last I well might hear, deliver'd with a groan, ' O, farewell, Warwick ! ' [yourselves ; War. Sweet rest his soul ! Fly, lords, and save For Warwick bids you all farewell, to meet in heaven. [Dies. Oxf. Away, away, to meet the queen's great power ! [Here they hear away his body. [Exeunt. SCENE 111.— Another part of the field. Flourish. Enter King Ed-ward in triumph; with Gloucester, Clarence, and the rest. K. Edw. Thus far our fortune keeps an upward course. And we are graced with -wreaths of victory. But, in the midst of this bright-shining day, I spy a black, suspicious, threatening cloud, That will encounter with our glorious sun, Ere he attain his easeful western bed : I mean, my lords, those powers that the queen Hath raised in Gallia have arrived our coast And, as we hear, march on to fight with us. Clar. A little gale will soon disperse that cloud And blow it to the source from whence it came : The very beams will dry those vapours up. For every cloud engenders not a storm. Glo. The queen is valued thirty thousand strong, And Somerset, with Oxford, fled to her: If she have time to breathe, be well assured Her faction will be full as strong as ours. . K. Edw. We are advertised by our loving friends That they do hold their course toward Tewksbury : We, having now the best at Barnet field. Will thither straight, for willingness rids way; And, as we march, our strength will be augmented In every county as we go along. Strike up the drum ; cry ' Courage ! ' and away. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. — Plains near Tewksbury. March. Enter Queen Margaret, Prince Ed-ward, Somerset, Oxford, and Soldiers. Q. Mar. Great lords, wise men ne'er sit and wail their loss, But cheerly seek how to redress their harms. What though the mast be now blown overboard, The cable broke, the holding-anchor lost, And half our sailors swallow'd in the flood ? Yet lives our pilot still. Is 't meet that he Should leave the helm and like a fearful lad "With tearful eyes add water to the sea [much, And give more strength to that which hath too Whiles, in his moan, the ship splits on the rock. Which industry and courage might have saved ? Ah, what a shame ! ah, what a fault were this ! Say Warwick was our anchor ; what of that ? And Montague our topmast ; what of him ? Our slaughter'd friends the tackles ; what of these ? Why, is not Oxford here another anchor ? And Somerset another goodly mast ? The friends of France our shrouds and tacklings ? And, though unskilful, why not Ned and I For once allow'd the skilful pilot's charge ? AVe will not from the helm to sit and weep, But keep our course, though the rough wind say no, From shelves and rocks that threaten us with wreck. ACT V. THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VI scene v. As good to chide the waves as speak them fair. And what is Edward but a ruthless sea ? What Clarence but a quicksand of deceit ? And Richard but a ragged fatal rock ? All these the enemies to our poor bark. Say you can swim ; alas, 't is but a while ! Tread on the sand ; why, there you quickly sink : Bestride the rock ; the tide will wash you ofE, Or else you famish ; that 's a threefold death. This speak I, lords, to let you understand, If case some one of you would fly from us, That there 's no hoped-for mercy with the brothers More than with ruthless waves,with sands and rocks. "Why, courage then ! what cannot be avoided 'T were childish weakness to lament or fear. Prince. Methinks a woman of this valiant spirit Should, if a coward heard her speak these words, Infuse his breast with magnanimity And make him, naked, foil a man at arms. I speak not this as doubting any here ; For did I but suspect a fearful man, He should have leave to go away betimes, Lest in our need he might infect another And make him of like spirit to himself. ■ If any such be here — as God forbid ! — Let him depart before we need his help. Oxf. Women and children of so high a courage, And warriors faint! why, 'twere perpetual shame. brave young prince ! thy famous grandfather Doth live again in thee : long mayst thou live To bear his image and renew his glories ! Som. And he that will not fight for such a hope, Go home to bed, and like the owl by day, If he axise, be mock'd and wonder'd at. Q. Mar. Thanks, gentle Somerset; sweet Oxford, thanks. [else. Prince. And take his thanks that yet hath nothing Dnter a Messenger. Mess. Prepare you, lords, for Edward is at hand, Ready to fight ; therefore be resolute. Oxf. I thought no less : it is his policy To haste thus fast, to find us unprovided. Som. But he 's deceived ; we are in readiness. Q. Mar. This cheers my heart, to see your for- wardness, [budge. Oxf. Here pitch our battle; hence we will not Flourish and march. Enter King Edward, Glou- cester, Clarence, and Soldiers. K. Edw. Brave followers, yonder stands the thorny wood. Which , by the heavens' assistance and your strength, Must by the roots be hewn up yet ere night. 1 need not add more fuel to your fire, For well I wot ye blaze to biu-n them out : Give signal to the fight, and to it, lords! Q. Mar. Lords, knights, and gentlemen, what I should say My tears gainsay ; for every word I speak. Ye see, I drink the water of mine eyes. Therefore, no more but this : Henry," your sovereign. Is prisoner to the foe ; his state usurp 'd. His realm a slaughter-house, his subjects slain, His statutes caucell'd and his treasure spent ; And yonder is the wolf that makes this spoil. You fight in justice: then, in God's name, lords, Pe valiant and give signal to the fight. [Alarum: Metreat: Excursions. Exeunt. SCENE v.— Another part of the field. Flourish. Enter King Edward, Gloucester, Clarence, and Soldiers; with Queen Margaret, Oxford, and Somerset, prisoners. K. Edw. Now here a period of tumultuous broils. Away with Oxford to Hames Castle straight : For Somerset, off with his guilty head. Go, bear tliem hence ; I will not hear them speak. Oxf. For my part, I '11 not trouble thee with words. Som. Nor I, but stoop with patience to my fortune. [Exeunt Oxford and Somerset, guarded. Q. Mar. So part we sadly in this troublous world, To meet with joy in sweet Jerusalem. [Edward K. Edw. Is proclamation made, that who finds Shall have a high reward, and he his life ? Glou. It is: and lo, where youthful Edward comes! Enter Soldiers, with Prince Edward. K. Edw. Bring forth the gallant, let us hear him What ! can so youn g a thorn begin to prick ? [speak. Edward, what satisfaction canst thou make For bearing arms, for stirrmg up my subjects. And all the trouble thou hast turn'd me to ? Prince. Speak like a subject, proud ambitious York! Suppose that I am now my father's mouth ; Resign thy chair, and where I stand kneel thou, Whilst I propose the selfsame words to thee. Which, traitor, thou wouldst have me answer to. g. 3far. Ah, that thy father had been so resolved I lou. That you might still have worn the petticoat, And ne'er have stol'n the breech from Lancaster. Prince. Let ^sop fable in a winter's night ; His currish riddles sort not with this place. Glou. By heaven, brat, I '11 plague ye for that word. [men. Q. Mar. Ay, thou wast born to be a plague to Ulou. For God's sake, take away this captive scold. Prince. Nay, take away this scolding crookback rather. [tongue. K. Ediv. Peace, wilful boy, or I will charm your Clar. Untutor'd lad, thou art too malapert. Prince. I know my duty ; you are all undutiful : Lascivious Edward, and thou perjured George, And thou mis-shapen Dick, I tell ye all I am your better, traitors as ye are : And thou usurp'st my father's right and mine. K. Edw. Take that, thou likeness of this raUer here. [Stabs him. Glou. Sprawl'st thou? take that, to end thy agony. [Stabs him. Cla. And there 's for twitting me with perjury. [Stabs him. Q. Mar. O, kill me too ! Gloii. Marry, and shall. [Offers to kill her. K. Edw. Hold, Richard, hold ; for we have done too much. [words ? Glou. Why should she live, to fill the world with K. Edw. What, doth she swoon ? use means for her recovery. Glou. Clarence, excuse me to the king my brother; I '11 hence to London on a serious matter : Ere ye come there, be sm-e to hear some news. Clar. AVhat? what? Glou. The Tower, the Tower. [Exit. Q. Mar. O Ned, sweet Ned ! speak to thy mother, boy! Canst thou not speak ? O traitors ! murderers ! They that stabb'd Caesar shed no blood at all. Did not offend, nor were not worthy blame. If this foul deed were by to equal it : He was a man ; this, in respect, a child : And men ne'er spend their fury on a child. What 's worse than murderer, that I may name it ? No, no, my heart will burst, an if I speak : And I will speak, that so my heart may burst. Butchers and villains ! bloody cannibals ! How sweet a plant have you untimely cropp'd ! You have no children, butchers ! if you had, The thought of them would have stirr 'd up remorse But if you ever chance to have a child. Look in his youth to have him so cut off As,deathsmen,youhave rid this sweet young prince ! 455 ACT V. THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VZ scene vii. K. Ediu. Away with her; go, bear her hence per- force, [liere ; Q. Mar. Nay, never bear me hence, dispatch me Here sheathe thy sword, I '11 pardon thee my death : What, wilt thou not ? then, Clarence, do it thou. Clar. By heaven, I will not do thee so much ease. Q. Mar. Good Clarence, do; sweet Clarence, do thou do it. [do it ? Clar. Didst thou not hear me swear I would not Q. Mar. Ay, but thou usest to forswear thyself: 'T was sin before, but now 't is charity. What, wilt thou not ? Where is that devil's butcher, Hard-f avour'd Eichard ? Eichard, where art thou r Thou art not here : murder is thy alms-deed ; Petitioners for blood thou ne'er put'st back. K. Echo. Away, I say; I charge ye, bear her hence. Q. Mar. So come to you and yours, as to this prince! [Exit, led out forcibly. K. Ediv. Where 's Eichard gone ? Clar. To London, all in post ; and, as I guess, To make a bloody supper in the Tower. K. Edio. He 's sudden, if a thing comes in hishead. Now march we hence : discharge the common sort With pay and thanks, and let 's away to London And see our gentle queen how well she fares : By this, I hope, she hath a son for me. [Exeunt. SCENE VI. — London. The Tower. Enter King Henry and Gloucester, with the Lieutenant, on the icalls. Qlou. Good day, my lord. What, at your book so hard ? K. Hen. Ay, my good lord:— my lord, I should say rather ; 'T is sin to flatter ; ' good ' was little better : ' Good Gloucester ' and ' good devil ' were alike, And both preposterous; therefore, not ' good lord.' Qlou. Sirrah, leave us to ourselves : we must con- fer. [Exit Lieutenant. K. Hen. So flies the reckless shepherd from the . wolf ; So first the harmless sheep doth yield his fleece And next his throat unto the butcher's knife. What scene of death hath Eoscius now to act ? Gloxi. Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind ; The thief doth fear each bush an officer. K. Hen. The bird that hath been limed in a bush, With trembling wings misdoubteth every bush ; And I, the hapless male to one sweet bird. Have now the fatal object in my eye [kill'd. Where my poor young was limed, was caught and Glou. Why, what a peevish fool was that of Crete, That taught his son the office of a fowl ! And yet, for all his wings, the fool was drown'd. K. Hen. I, Daedalus ; my poor boy, Icarus ; Thy father, Minos, that denied our course ; The sun that sear'd the wings of my sweet boy Thy brother Edward, and thyself the sea Whose envious gulf did swallow up his life. Ah, kill me with thy weapon, not with words ! My breast can better brook thy dagger's point Than can my ears that tragic history. But wherefore dost thou come ? is 't for my life ? Glou. Think'st thou I am an executioner ? K. Hen. A persecutor, I am sure, thou art : If murdering innocents be executing. Why, then thou art an executioner. Glou. Thy son I kill'd for his presumption. K. Hen. Hadst thou been kill'd when first thou didst presume, Thou hadst not lived to kill a son of mine. And thus I prophesy, that many a thousand, Which now mistrust no parcel of my fear. And many an old man's sigh and many a widow's, And many an orphan's water-standing eye — Men for their sons, wives for their husbands, 456 And orphans for their parents' timeless death — Shall rue the hour that ever thou wast born. The owl shriek 'd at thy birth, — an evil sign ; The night-crow cried, abodhig luckless time; Dogs howl'd, and hideous tempest shook down trees ; The raven rook'd her on the chimney's top. And chattering pies in dismal discords sung. Thy mother felt more than a mother's pain, And yet brouglit forth less than a mother's hope, To wit, an indigested and deformed lump. Not like the fruit of such a goodly tree. Teeth hadst thou in thy head when thou wast born, To signify thou camest to bite the world : And, if the rest be true which I have heard, Thou camest — Glou. I '11 hear no more : die, prophet, in thy speech : [Stabs him. For this, amongst the rest, was I ordain 'd. [this. K. Hen. Ay, and for much more slaughter after O, God forgive my sins, and pardon thee ! [Dies. Glou. What, will the aspiring blood of Lancaster Sink in the ground? I thought it would have mounted. See how my sword weeps for the poor king's death I 0, may such purple tears be alway shed From those that wish the downfall of our house I If any spark of life be yet remaining, Down, down to hell ; and say I sent thee thither: [Stabs him again. 1, that have neither pity, love, nor fear. Indeed, 't is true that Henry told me of ; For I have often heard my mother say I came into the world with my legs forward : , Had I not reason, think ye, to make haste, And seek their ruin that usurp'd our right ? The midwife wonder'd and the women cried ' O, Jesus bless us, he is born with teeth! ' And so I was ; which plainly signified That I should snarl and bite and play the dog. Then, since the heavens have shaped my body so, Let hell make crook'd my mind to answer it. I have no brother, I am like no brother ; And this word ' love,' which greybeards call divine^ Be resident in men like one another And not in me : I am myself alone. Clarence, beware ; thou keep'st me from the light: But I will sort a pitchy day for thee ; For I will buz abroad such prophecies That Edward shall be fearful of his life. And then, to purge his fear, I '11 be thy death. King Henry and the prince his son are gone : Clarence, thy turn is next, and then the rest, Counting myseK but bad till I be best. I '11 throw thy body in another room And triumph, Henry, in thy day of doom. [Exit.1 with the body. SCENE 'Sni.— London. The palace. Flourish. Enter King Edward, Queen Elizabeth, Clarence, Gloucester, Hastings, a Nurse with the young Prince, and Attendants. K. Edw. Once more we sit in England's royal Ee-purchased with the blood of enemies, [throne, What valiant foemen, like to autumn's corn. Have we mow'd down in tops of all their pride ! Three Dukes of Somerset, threefold renown'd For hardy and undoubted champions ; Two ClifEords, as the father and the son. And two Northumberlands ; two braver men Ne'er spurr'd their coursers at the trumpet's sound-, With them, the two brave bears, Warwick and Montague, That in their chains fetter'd the kingly lion And made the forest tremble when they roar'd. Thus have we swept suspicion from our seat And made our footstool of security. THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VI scene vii. Come hither, Bess, and let me kiss my boy. Young Ned, for thee, thine uncles and myself Have in our armours watch'd the winter's night, "Went all afoot in summer's scalding heat. That thou mightst repossess the crown in peace ; And of our labours thou shalt reap the gain. Glou. [Aside] I '11 blast his harvest, if your head were laid ; For yet I am not look'd on in the world. This shoulder was ordain 'd so thick to heave : And heave it shall some weight, or break my back : "Work thou the way, — and thou shalt execute. K. Edw. Clarence and Gloucester, love my lovely queen ; And kiss your princely nephew, brothers both. Glar. The duty that I owe unto your majesty I seal upon the lips of this sweet babe. Q. Eliz. Thanks, noble Clarence ; worthy brother, thanks. Olou. And, that I love the tree from whence thou sprang'st, Witness the loving kiss I give the fruit. \_Aside\ To say the truth, so Judas kiss'd his master, And cried ' all hail ! ' when as he meant all harm. K. Edw. ISTow am I seated as my soul delights. Having my country's peace and brothers' loves. Clar. What will your grace have done with Margaret ? Reignier, her father, to the king of France Hath pawn'd the Sicils and Jerusalem, And hither have they sent it for her ransom. K. Edw. Away with her, and waft her hence to France. And now what rests but that we spend the time With stately triumphs, mirthful comic shows, Such as befits the pleasure of the court ? Sound drums and trumpets ! farewell sour annoy ! For here, I hope, begins our lasting joy. [Exeunt. Itichard.—So-w, Clifford, I have singled thee alone: Suppose this arm is for the Duke of York; And this for Rutland ; both bound to revenge, Wert thou environ'd with a brazen wall. Clifford.— T>!oy,; Richard, I am with thee here alone: This is the hand that stabb'd thy father York ; And this the hand that slew thy brother Rutland ; And here 's the heart that triumphs in their death And cheers these hands that slew thy sire and brothiir To execute the like upon thyself; And so, have at thee 1— Act II., Scene iv. 457 THE TRAGEDY OF KING RICHARD THE THIRD. BBAMATIS PEBSONM. l^iT\g Edward the Fourth. Edward, Prince of Wales, afterwards "i g^j^^ ^ ^^ King Edward V., \ ^. Richard, Duke of York, ) ^' George, Duke of Clarence, brothers to " the King. Richard, Duke of Gloucester, afterwards King Richard III., A young son of Clarence. Henry, Earl of Richmond, afterwards King Henry VII. Cardinal Bourchier, Archbishop of Canterbury. Thomas Rotherham, Archbishop of York. John Morton, Bishop of Ely. Duke of Buckingham. Duke of Norfolk. Earl of Surrey, his son. Earl Rivers, brother to Elizabeth. Marquis of Dorset and Lord Grey, sons to Eliza- beth. Earl of Oxford. Lord Hastings. Lord Stanley, called also Earl of Derby. Lord Lovel. Sir Thomas Vaughan. Sir Richard Ratcliff. Sir Wmiam Catesby. Sir James Tyrrel. Sir James Blount. Sir Walter Herbert. Sir Robert Brakenbury, Lieutenant of the Tower. Christopher Urswick, a priest. Another Priest. Tressel and Berkeley, gentlemen attending on the Lady Anne. Lord Mayor of London. SheriiF of Wiltshire. Elizabeth, queen to King Edward IV. Margaret, widow of King Henry VI. Duchess of York, mother to King Edward IV. Lady Anne, widow of Edward Prince of Wales, son to King Henry VI. ; afterwards married to Richard. A young Daughter of Clarence (Margaret Plan- tagenet). Ghosts of those murdered by Richard III., Lords and other Attendants ; a Pursuivant, Scrivener, Citizens, Murderers, Messengers, Soldiers, &c. SCE^^— England. [For an Analysis of the Plot of this. Play, see Page LVM.] ^CT I. SCENE I. — London. A street. Enter Richard, Duke of Gloucester, solus. Glou. Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York ; And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths ; Our bruised arms hung up for monuments ; Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. Grim-visaged war hath smooth 'd his wrinkled front; And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds To fright the souls of fearful adversaries. He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber To the lascivious pleasing of a lute. But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass ; I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty To strut before a wanton ambling nymph ; L, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion. Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, Deform 'd, unfinish'd, sent before my time Into this breathing world, scarce half made up, And that so lamely and unfashionable That dogs bark at me as I halt by them ; Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace, Have no delight to pass away the time, Unless to spy my shadow in the sun And descant on mine own deformity : And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover, 458 To entertain these fair well-spoken days, I am determined to prove a villain And hate the idle pleasures of these days. Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous, By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams, To set my brother Clarence and the king In deadly hate the one against the other: And if King Edward be as true and just As I am subtle, false and treacherous. This day should Clarence closely be mew'd up, About a prophecy which says that G Of Edward's heirs the murderer shall be. [comes. Dive, thoughts, down to my soul: here Clarence Miter Clarence, guarded, and Brakenbury. Brother, good day : what means this armed guard That waits upon your grace ? Glar. His majesty. Tendering my person's safety, hath appointed This conduct to convey me to the Tower. Glou. Upon what cause ? Glar. Because my name is George. Glou. Alack, my lord, that fault is none of yours ; He should, for that, commit your godfathers : O, belike his majesty hath some intent That you shall be new-christen'd in the Tower. But what 's the matter, Clarence ? may I know ? Glar. Yea, Richard, when I know; for I protest As yet I do not : but, as I can learn, He hearkens after prophecies and dreams : And from the cross-row plucks the letter G, ii — ¥ IfiJfl'Jjilf^'^lf K" ffi!; 'lif|)i|li ,jlfl|fc| ^^^^^^^^^^^Hi y|i''y| ^^^^^^^^^^^^^i^^ffi - Ih ^^^^m i H ^^^^^^^^^B ^^ ^^^^^^^^^B^HI ■vTG RICH > D 'f^^M ^^^^^^B^^P H ' '' '^f^^^ X X |;,|H 2 '\ 'i 1 ' t-ii.liiHP^ ^wvi^fes^^^^^i^^^j^ ^==^si|^SlB,:ir 1 i iM ^^^^^^R^^^P ilfi'HI ^^Kl ^ -^ iipii jfi 111 ! ' 1^^^^^^^ , iifrT^^S i m gL •ifi'11 B ^i^^w^Mi|i^i^^^p^^^^ K ^^^m mm v?f TTfll ( ^ ^H "^fI ■ i — f^ ACT I. KING RICHARD III. 5CENE II. And says a wizard told him tliat by G His issue disinherited should be ; And, for my name of George begins with G, It follows in his thought that I am he. These, as I learn, and such like toys as these Have moved his highness to commit me now. Glou. Why, this it is, when men are ruled by women : 'T is not the king that sends you to the Tower ; My Lady Grey his wife, Clarence, 't is she That tempers him to this extremity. Was it not she and that good man of worship, Anthony AVoodville, her brother there. That made him send Lord Hastings to the Tower, From whence this present day he is deliver'd ? We are not safe, Clarence; we are not safe. Clar. By heaven, I think there 's no man is secure But the queen's kindred and night- walking heralds That trudge betwixt the king and Mistress Shore. Heard ye not what an humble suppliant Lord Hastings was to her for his delivery ? Glou. Humbly complaining to her deity Got my lord chamberlain his liberty. I '11 tell you what ; I think it is our way, If we will keep in favour with the king. To be her men and wear her livery : The jealous o'erworn widow and herself, Since that our brother dubb'd them gentlewomen, Are mighty gossips in this mo'narchy. Brak. I beseech your graces both to pardon me ; His majesty hath straitly given in charge That no man shall have private conference, Of what degree soever, with his brother. Glou. Even so ; an 't please your worship, Brak- You may partake of any thing we say : [enbury, We speak no treason, man : we say the king Is wise and virtuous, and his noble queen Well struck in years, fair, and not jealous ; We say that Shore's wife hath a pretty foot, A cherry lip, a bonny eye, a passing pleasing tongue ; And that the queen's kindred are made gentlefolks : How say you, sir ? can you deny all this ? Brak. With this, my lord, myself have nought to do. [thee, fellow, Glou. Naught to do with Mistress Shore ! I tell He that doth naught with her, excepting one, Were best he do it secretly, alone. Brak. What one, my lord ? Glou. Her husband, knave : wouldst thou betray me ? [withal Brak. I beseech your grace to pardon me, and Forbear your conference with the noble duke. [obey. Clar. We know thy charge, Brakenbury, and will Glou. We are the queen's abjects, and must obey. Brother, farewell : I will unto the king ; And whatsoever you will employ me in. Were it to call King Edward's widow sister, I will perform it to enfranchise you. Meantime, this deep disgrace in brotherhood Touches me deeper than you can imagine. Clar. I know it pleaseth neither of us well. Glou. Well, your imprisonment shall not be long ; I will deliver you, or else lie for you: Meantime, have patience. Clar. I must perforce. Farewell. {Exeunt Clarence, Brakenbury, and Guard. Glou. Go, tread the path that thou shalt ne'er re- Simple, plain Clarence ! I do love thee so, [turn, That I will shortly send thy soul to heaven, If heaven will take the present at our hands. But who comes here ? the new-deliver'd Hastings ? Enter Lord Hastings. Hast. Good time of day unto my gracious lord ! Glou. As much unto my good lord chamberlain ! Well are you welcome to the open air. How hath your lordship brook 'd imprisonment ? Hast. With patience, noble lord, as prisoners must : But I shall live, my lord, to give them thanks That were the cause of my imprisonment. Glou. No doubt, no doubt ; and so shall Clarence For they that were your enemies are his, [too ; And have prevail 'd as much on him as you. Hast. More pity that the eagle should be mew'd, While kites and buzzards prey at liberty. Glou. What news abroad ? Hast. No news so bad abroad as this at home ; The king is sickly, weak and melancholy. And his physicians fear him mightily. Glou. Now, by Saint Paul, this news is bad : O, he hath kept an evil diet long. And overmuch consumed his royal person : 'T is very grievous to be thought upon. What, is he in bis bed ? Hast. He is. Glou. Go you before, and I will follow you. \_Exit - He cannot live, I hope ; and must not die Till George be pack'd with post-horse up to heaven. I '11 in, to urge his hatred more to Clarence, With lies well steel'd with weighty arguments ; And, if I fail not in my deep intent, Clarence hath not another day to live : Which done, God take King Edward to his mercy, And leave the world for me to bustle in ! For then I'll marry Warwick's youngest daughter. What though I kill'd her husband and her father V The readiest way to make the wench amends Is to become her husband and her father : The which will I ; not all so much for love As for another secret close intent. By marrying her which I must reach unto. But yet I run before my horse to market : Clarence still breathes; Edward still lives and reigns: When they are gone, then must I count my gains. [Exit. SCENE II. — The same. Another street. Enter the corpse of King Henry tbe Sixth, Gentlemen vnth halberds to guard it ; Lady Anne being the mourner. Anne. Set down, set down your honourable load, If honour may be shrouded in a hearse. Whilst I awhile obsequiously lament The untimely fall of virtuous Lancaster. Poor key-cold figure of a holy king ! Pale ashes of the house of Lancaster ! Thou bloodless remnant of that royal blood ! Be it lawful that I invocate thy ghost, To hear the lamentations of poor Anne, Wife to thy Edward, to thy slaughter'd son, Stabb'd by the selfsame hand that made these wounds! Lo, in these windows that let forth thy life, I pour the helpless balm of my poor eyes. Cursed be the hand that made these fatal holes! Cursed be the heart that had the heart to do it ! Cursed the blood that let this blood from hence ! More direful hap betide that hated wretch. That makes us wretched by the death of thee, Than I can wish to adders, spiders, toads, Or any creeping venom 'd thing that lives! If ever he have child, abortive be it. Prodigious and untimely brought to light. Whose ugly and unnatural aspect May fright the hopeful mother at the view ; And that be heir to his unhappiness ! If ever he have wife, let her be made As miserable by the death of him As I am made by my poor lord and thee ! Come, now towards Chertsey with your holy load, Taken from Paul's to be interred there ; And still, as you are weary of the weight, Rest you, whiles I lament King Henry's corse. 459 ACT I. KING RICHARD IIL SCENE II. Enter Gloucester. Qlou. Stay, you that bear the corse, and set it down. Anne. What black magician conjures up this fiend, To stop devoted charitable deeds ? Gloiu Villains, set down the corse; or, by Saint I '11 make a corse of him that disobeys. [Paul, Gent. My lord, stand back, and let the cofSu pass. Qlou. Unmanner'd dog ! stand thou, when I com- mand: Advance thy halberd higher than my breast. Or, by Saint Paul, I '11 strike thee to my foot, And spurn upon thee, beggar, for thy boldness. Anne. What, do you tremble ? are you all afraid ? Alas, I blame you not ; for you are mortal. And mortal eyes cannot endure the devil. Avaunt, thou dreadful minister of hell ! Thou hadst but power over his mortal body, His soul thou canst not have ; therefore, be gone. Glo'U. Sweet saint, for charity, be not so curst. Anne. Foul devil, for God's sake, hence, and trouble us not ; For thou hast made the happy earth thy hell, Pill'd it with cursing cries and deep exclaims. If thou delight to view thy heinous deeds. Behold this pattern of thy butcheries. O, gentlemen, see, see! dead Henry's wounds Open their congeal'd mouths and bleed afresh ! Blush, blush, thou lump of foul deformity ; For 't is thy presence that exhales this blood From cold and empty veins, where no blood dwells ; Thy deed, inhuman and unnatural, Provokes this deluge most unnatural. O God, which this blood madest, revenge his death ! O earth , which this blood drink 'st , revenge his death ! Either heaven with lightning strike the murderer Or earth, gape open wide and eat him quick, [dead. As thou dost swallow up this good king's blood, Which his hell-govern'd arm hath butchered ! Glou. Lady, you know no rules of charity. Which renders good for bad, blessings for curses. Anne. Villain, thou know'st no law of God nor man: No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity. Gloit,. But I know none, and therefore am no beast. Anne. O wonderful, when devils tell the truth ! Glou. More wonderful, when angels are so angry. Vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman, Of these supposed evils, to give me leave. By circumstance, but to acquit myself. Anne. Vouchsafe, defused infection of a man, For these known evils, but to give me leave, By circumstance, to curse thy cursed self. Glou. Fairer than tongue can name thee, let me Some patient leisure to excuse myself. [have Anne. Fouler than heart can think thee, thou canst No excuse current, but to hang thyself. . [make Glou. By such despair, I should accuse myself. Anne. And, by despairing, shouldst thou stand excused ; For doing worthy vengeance on thyself, Which didst unworthy slaughter upon others. Glou. Say that I slew them not ? Anne. Why, then they are not dead : But dead they are, and, devilish slave, by thee. Glou. I did not kill yoirr husband. Anne. Why, then he is alive. Glou. Nay, he is dead; and slain by Edward's hand. [garet saw Anne. In thy foul throat thou liest : Queen Mar- Thy murderous falchion smoking in his blood ; The which thou once didst bend against her breast. But that thy brothers beat aside the point. Glou. I was provoked by her slanderous tongue. Which laid their guilt upon my guiltless shoulders. Anne. Thou wast provoked by thy bloody mind, 460 Which never dreamt on aught but butcheries : Didst thou not kill this king ? Glou. I grant ye. Anne. Dost grant me, hedgehog? then, God grant me too Thou mayst be damned for that wicked deed ! O, he was gentle, mild, and virtuous ! Glou. The fitter for the King of heaven, that hath him. [come. Anne. He is in heaven, where thou shalt never Glou. Let him thank me, that holp to send him For he was fitter for that place than earth, [thither ; Anne. And thou unfit for any place but hell. Glou. Yes, one place else, if you will hear me Anne. Sorne dungeon. [name it. Glou. Your bed-chamber. Anne. Ill rest betide the chamber where thou liest! Glou. So will it, madame, till I lie with you. Anne. I hope so. Glou. I know so. But, gentle Lady Anne, To leave this keen encounter of our wits. And fall somewhat into a slower method. Is not the causer of the timeless deaths Of these Plantagenets, Henry and Edward, As blameful as the executioner ? [effect. Anne. Thou art the cause, and most accursed Glou. Your beauty was the cause of that effect ; Your beauty, which did haunt me in my sleep To undertake the death of all the world, So I might live one hour in your sweet bosom. Anne. If I thought that, I tell thee, homicide, Tliese nails should rend that beauty from my cheeks. [wreck ; Glou. These eyes could never endure sweet beauty's You should not blemish it, if I stood by: As all the world is cheered by the sun. So I by that ; it is my day, my life. Anne. Black night o'ershade thy day, and death thy life ! [both. Glou. Curse not thyself, fair creature ; thou art Anne. I would I were, to be revenged on thee.- Glou. It is a quarrel most unnatural. To be revenged on him that loveth you. Anne. It is a quarrel just and reasonable. To be revenged on him that slew my husband. Glou. He that bereft thee, lady, of thy husband, Did it to help thee to a better husband. Anne. His better doth not breathe upon the earth. Glou. He lives that loves thee better than he could. Anne. Name him. Glou. Plantagenet. Anne. Why, that was he. Glou. The selfsame name,but one of better nature. Anne. Where is he ? Glou. Here. \_Slie spitteth at him.] Why dost thou spit at me ? Anne. Would it were mortal poison, for thy sake ! Glou. Never came poison from so sweet a place. Anne. Never hung poison on a fouler toad. Out of my sight ! thou dost infect my eyes. Glou. Thine eyes, sweet lady, have infected mine. Anne. Would they were basilisks, to strike thee dead! Glou. 1 would they were, that I might die at once ; For now they kill me with a living death. Those eyes of thine from mine have drawn salt tears, Shamed their aspect with store of childish drops: These eyes, which never shed remorseful tear. No, when my father York and Edward wept. To hear the piteous moan that Rutland made When black-faced Clifford shook his sword at him; Nor when thy warlike father, like a child. Told the sad story of my father's death. And twenty times made pause to sob and weep. That all the standers-by had wet their clieeks, Like trees bedash'd with rain : in that sad time My manly eyes did scorn an humble tear ; ACT I. KING RICHARD III SCENE III. And what these sorrows could not thence exhale, Thy beauty hath, and made them blind with weep- I never sued to friend nor enemy ; [ing. My tongue could never learn sweet smootliing But, now thy beauty is proposed my fee, [words ; My proud heart sues and prompts my tongue to speak. [S/ie looks scornfully at him. Teach not thy lips such scorn, for they were made For kissing, lady, not for such contempt. If thy revengeful heart cannot forgive, Lo, here I lend thee this sharp-pointed sword; "Which if thou please to hide in this true bosom, And let the soul forth that adoreth thee, I lay it naked to the deadly stroke, And humbly beg the death upon my knee. [He lays his breast open : she offers at it with his sword. ISTay, do not pause ; for I did kill King Henry, But 't was thy beauty that provoked me. [Edward, Nay, now dispatch; 'twas I that stabb'd young But 't was thy heavenly face that set me on. [Here she lets fall the sword. Take up the sword again, or take up me. Anne. Arise, dissembler: though I wish thy death, I will not be the executioner. Glou. Then bid me kill myself, and I will do it. Anne. I have already. Glou. Tush, that was in thy rage : Speak it again, and, even with the word. That hand, which, for thy love, did kill thy love. Shall, for thy love, kill a far truer love ; To both their deaths thou shalt be accessary. Anne. I would I knew thy heart. Glou. 'T is figured in my tongue. Anne. I fear me both are false. Glou. Then never man was true. Anne. Well, well, put up your sword. Glou. Say, then, my peace is made. Anne. That shall you know hereafter. Glou. But shall I live in hope ? Anne. All men, I hope, live so. Glou. Vouchsafe to wear this ring. Anne. To take is not to give. Glou. Look, how this ring encompasseth thy finger, Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart ; Wear both of them, for both of them are thine. And if thy poor devoted suppliant may But beg one favour at thy gracious hand, Thou dost confirm his happiness for ever. Anne. What is it ? [designs Glou. That it would please thee leave these sad To him that hath more cause to be a mourner, And presently repair to Crosby Place ; Where, after I have solemnly interr'd At Chertsey monastery this noble king, And wet his grave with my repentant tears, I will with all expedient duty see you : For divers unknown reasons, I beseech you, Grant me this boon. Anne. With all my heart ; and much it joys me too, To see you are become so penitent. Tressel and Berkeley, go along with me. Glou. Bid me farewell. Anne. 'T is more than you deserve ; But since you teach me how to flatter you. Imagine I have said farewell already. [Exeunt Lady Anne, Tressel, and Berkeley. Glou. Sirs, take up the corse. Gent. Towards Chertsey, noble lord ? Glou. No, to White-Friars; there attend my coming. [Exeunt all but Gloucester. Was ever woman in this humour woo'd ? Was ever woman in this humour won ? I '11 have her ; but I will not keep her long. What ! I, that kill'd her husband and his father, To take her in her heart's extremest hate, With curses in her mouth, tears in her eyes, The bleeding witness of her hatred by ; [me, Having G-od, her conscience, and these bars against And I nothing to back my suit at all, But the plain devil and dissembling looks. And yet to win her, all the world to nothmg ! Ha! Hath she forgot already that brave prince, Edward, her lord, whom I, some three months since, Stabb'd in my angry mood at Tewksbury ? A sweeter and a lovelier gentleman. Framed in the prodigality of nature. Young, valiant, wise, and, no doubt, right ro5'al, The spacious world cannot again afford : And will she yet debase her eyes on me, That cropp'd the golden prime of this sweet prmce. And made her widow to a wof ul bed ? On me, whose all not equals Edward's moiety? On me, that halt and am unshapen thus ? My dukedom to a beggarly denier, I do mistake my person all this while : Upon my life, she finds, although I cannot. Myself to be a marvellous proper man. I '11 be at charges for a looking-glass. And entertain some score or two of tailors, To study fashions to adorn my body : Since I am crept in favour with myself, I will maintain it with son>3 little cost. But first I '11 turn yon fellow n his grave ; And then return lamenting ^o my love. Shine out, fair sun, till I have bought a glass. That I may see my shadow as I pass. [Exit. SCENE III.— The palace. Enter Queen Elizabeth, Lord Rivers, and Lord Grey. Biv. Have patience, madam : there 's no doubt his majesty Will soon recover his accustom'd health. Grey. In that you brook it ill, it makes him worse : Therefore, for God's sake, entertam good comfort, And cheer his grace with quick and merry words. Q. Eliz. If he were dead, what would betide of Biv. No other harm but loss of such a lord, [me ? Q. Eliz. The loss of such a lord includes all harm. Grey. The heavens have bless'd you with a goodly To be your comforter when he is gone. [son, Q. Eliz. Oh, he is yormg, and his minority Is put unto the trust of Kichard Gloucester, A man that loves not me, nor none of you. Biv. Is it concluded he shall be protector ? Q. Eliz. It is determined, not concluded yet : But so it must be, if the king miscarry. Enter Buckingham and Derby. Grey. Here come the lords of Buckingham and Derby. Buck. Good time of day unto your royal grace ! Der. God make your majesty joyful as you have been ! [of Derby, Q. Eliz. The Countess Richmond, good my Lord To your good prayers will scarcely say amen. Yet, Derby, notwithstanding she 's your wife. And loves not me, be you, good lord, assured I hate not you for' her proud arrogance. Der. I do beseech you, either not believe The envious slanders of her false accusers ; Or, if she be accused in true report. Bear with her weakness, which, I think, proceeds From wayward sickness, and no grounded malice. Biv. Saw you the king to-day, my Lord of Derby ? Der. But now the Duke of Buckingham and l" Are come from visiting his majesty. Q. Eliz. What likelihood of his amendment, lords? Buck. Madam, good hope ; his grace speaks cheer- fully, [with him ? Q. Eliz. God grant him health ! Did you confer 461 ACT I. KING RICHARD III SCENE III. Bvdc. Madam, we did : he desires to make atone- ment Betwixt the Duke of Gloucester and your brothers, And betwixt tliem and my lord chamberlain ; And sent to warn them to his royal presence, [be : Q. Eliz. Would all were well ! but that will never T fear our happiness is at the highest. Enter Gloucester, Hastings, and Dorset. Glou. They do me wrong, and I will not endure it : Who are they that complain unto the king. That I, forsooth, am stern and love them not ? By holy Paul, they love his grace but lightly That fill his ears with such dissentious rumours. Because I cannot flatter and speak fair. Smile in men's faces, smooth, deceive and cog. Duck with French nods and apish courtesy, I must be held a rancorous enemy. Cannot a plain man live and think no harm, But thus his simple truth must be abused By silken, sly, insinuating Jacks ? [grace ? Biv. To whom in all this presence speaks your Olou. To thee, that hast nor honesty nor grace. When have I injured thee ? when done thee wrong ? Or thee ? or thee V or any of your faction ? A plague upon you all ! His royal person, — Whom God preserve better than you would wish ! — Cannot be quiet scarce a breathing-while. But you must trouble him with lewd complaints. Q. Eliz. Brother of Gloucester, you mistake the The king, of his own royal disposition, [matter. And not provoked by any suitor else ; Aiming, belike, at your interior hatred, Which in your outward actions shows itself Against my kindred, brothers, and myself, Makes him to send ; that thereby he may gather The ground of your ill-will, and so remove it. Glou. I cannot tell : the world is grown so bad. That wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch : Since every Jack became a gentleman. There 's many a gentle person made a Jack. ^. Eliz. Come, come, we know your meaning, brother Gloucester ; You envy my advancement and my friends' : God grant we never may have need of you ! [you : Glou. Meantime, God grants that we have need of Our brother is imprison'd by your means, Myself disgraced, and the nobility Held in contempt ; whilst many fair promotions Are daily given to ennoble those [noble. That scarce, some two days since, were worth a Q. Eliz. By Him that raised me to this careful height From that contented hap which I enjoy 'd, I never did incense his majesty Against the Duke of Clarence, but have been An earnest advocate to plead for him. My lord, you do me shameful injury. Falsely to draw me in these vile suspects. Glou. You may deny that you were not the cause Of my Lord Hastings' late imprisonment. Riv. She may, my lord, for— [not so ? Glou. She may, Lord Rivers! why, who knows She may do more, sir, than denying that: She may help you to many fair preferments. And then deny her aiding hand therein. And lay those honours on your high deserts. What may she not? She may, yea, marry, may she, — Riv. What, marry, may she ? Glou. What, marry, may she ! marry with a king, A bachelor, a handsome stripling too : I wis your grandam had a worser match. [borne Q. Eliz. My Lord of Gloucester, I have too long Your blunt upbraidings and your bitter scoffs : By heaven, I will acquaint his majesty With those gross taunts I often have endured. I had rather be a country servant-maid 462 Than a great queen, with this condition. To be thus taunted, scorn'd, and baited at : Enter Queen Margaret, behind. Small joy have I in being England's queen, [thee I Q. Mar. And lessen'd be that small, God, I beseech Thy honour, state and seat is due to me. [king ? Glou. What ! threat you me with telling of the Tell him, and spare not : look, what I have said I will avouch in presence of the king : I dare adventure to be sent to the Tower. 'T is time to speak ; my pains are quite forgot. Q. Mar. Out, devil ! I remember them too well : Thou slewest my husband Henry in the Tower, And Edward, my poor son, at Tewksbury. [king, Glou. Ere you were queen, yea, or your husband I was a pack-horse in his great affairs ; A weeder-out of his proud adversaries, A liberal rewarder of his friends : To royalise his blood I spilt mine own. [thine. Q. Mar. Yea, and much better blood than his or Glou. In all which time you and your husband Were factious for the house of Lancaster ; [Grey And, Rivers, so were you. Was not your husband In Margaret's battle at Saint Alban's slain ? Let me put in your minds, if you forget. What you have been ere now, and what you are; Withal, what I have been, and what I am. Q. Mar. A murderous villain, and so still thou art. Glou. Poor Clarence did forsake his father, War- wick; Yea, and forswore himself ,— which Jesu pardon ! — g. Mar. Which God revenge ! lou. To fight on Edward's party for the crown ; And for his meed, poor lord, he is mew'd up. I would to God my heart were flint, like Edward's; Or Edward's soft and pitiful, like mine : I am too childish-foolish for this world. [world, Q. Mar. Hie thee to hell for shame, and leave the Thou cacodemon ! there thy kingdom is. Riv. My Lord of Gloucester, in those busy days Which here you urge to prove us enemies. We foUow'd then our lord, our lawful king: So should we you, if you should be our king. Glou. If I should be! I had rather be a pedlar: Far be it from my heart, the thought of it ! Q. Eliz. As little joy, my lord, as you suppose You should enjoy, were you this country's king, As little joy may you suppose in me. That I enjoy, being the queen thereof. Q,. Mar. A little joy enjoys the queen thereof; For I am she, and altogether joyless. I can no longer hold me patient. [Advancing, Hear me, you wrangling pirates, that fall out In sharing that which you have pill'd from me ! Which of you trembles not that looks on me ? If not, that, I being queen, you bow like subjects, Yet that, by you deposed, you quake like rebels ? O gentle villain, do not turn away ! [my sight ? Glou. Foul wrinkled witch, what makest thou in Q. Mar. But repetition of what thou hast marr 'd ; That will I make before I let thee go. Glou. Wert thou not banished on pain of death? Q. Mar. I was ; but I do find more pain in ban- ishment Than death can yield me here by my abode. A husband and a son thou owest to me ; And thou a kingdom ; all of you allegiance : T'-e sorrow that I have, by right is yours, And all the pleasures you usurp are mine. Glou. The curse my noble father laid on thee, When thou didst crown his warlike brows with paper And with thy scorns drew'st rivers from his eyes, And then, to dry them, gavest the duke a clout Steep'd in the faultless blood of pretty Rutland,— His curses, then from bitterness of soul ACT I, KING RICHARD III SCENE III. Denounced against thee, are all fall'n upon thee; And God, not we, hath plagued thy bloody deed. Q. Eliz. So just is God, to right the innocent. Hast. O, 'twas the foulest deed to slay that babe. And the most merciless that e'er was heard of ! Eiv. Tyrants themselves wept when it was re- ported. Bor. No man but prophesied revenge for it. Buck. Northumberland, then present, wept to see it. [came, Q. Mar. "What were you snarling all before I Ready to catch each other by the throat, And turn you all your hatred now on me ? Did York's dread curse prevail so much with heaven That Henry's death, my lovely Edward's death. Their kingdom's loss, my woful banishment, Could all but answer for that peevish brat ? Can curses pierce the clouds and enter heaven ? Why, then, give way, dull clouds, to my quick If not by war, by surfeit die your king, [curses ! As ours by murder, to make him a king ! Edward thy son, which now is Prince of Wales, Eor Edward my son, which was Prince of Wales, Die in his youth by like untimely violence ! Thyself a queen, for me that was a queen. Outlive thy glory, like my wretched self! Long mayst thou live to wail thy children's loss ; And see another, as I see thee now, Deck'd in thy rights, as thou art stall 'd in mine ! Long die thy happy days before thy death ; And, after many lengthen'd hours of grief. Die neither mother, wife, nor England's queen ! Eivers and Dorset, you were standers by, And so wast thou, Lord Hastings, when my son Was stabb'd with bloody daggers : God, I pray him, That none of you may live your natural age. But by some unlook'd accident cut off ! [hag ! Glou. Have done thy charm, thou hateful wither'd Q. 3far. And leave out thee ? stay, dog, for thou Shalt hear me. If heaven have any grievous plague in store Exceeding those that I can wish upon thee, O, let them keep it till thy sins be ripe, And then hurl down their indignation On thee, the troubler of the poor world's peace! The worm of conscience still begnaw thy soul ! Thy friends suspect for traitors while thou livest, And take deep traitors for thy dearest friends ! No sleep close up that deadly eye of thine. Unless it be whilst some tormenting dream Affrights thee with a hell of ugly devils ! Thou elvish-mark 'd, abortive, rooting hog ! Thou that wast seal'd in thy nativity The slave of nature and the son of hell ! Thou slander of thy mother's heavy womb I Thou loathed issue of thy father's loins ! Thou rag of honour ! thou detested — Glou. Margaret. Q. Mar. Eichard ! Glou. Ha ! Q. Mar. I call thee not. Glou. I cry thee mercy then, for I had thought That thou hadst call'd me all these bitter names. Q. Mar. Why, so I did ; but look'd for no reply. O, let me make the period to my curse ! Glou. 'T is done by me, and ends in ' Margaret.' Q. Eliz. Thus have you breathed your curse against yourself. [fortune ! Q. Mar. Poor painted queen, vain flourish of mvj Why strew'st thou sugar on that bottled spider. Whose deadly web ensnareth thee about ? Fool, fool ! thou whet'st a knife to kill thyself. The time will come when thou shalt wish for me To help thee curse that poisonous bunch-back'd toad. Hast. False-boding woman, end thy frantic curse, Lest to thy harm thou move our patience. Q. Mar. Foul shame upon you! you have all moved mine. [your duty. Biv. Were you well served, you would be taught Q. Mar. To serve me well, you all should do me duty. Teach me to be your queen, and you my subjects : O, serve me well, and teach yourselves that duty! Dor. Dispute not with her ; she is lunatic, [pert : Q.Mar. Peace, master marquess, you are mala- Your fire-new stamp of honour is scarce current. O, that your young nobility could judge What 't were to lose it, and be miserable ! They that stand high have many blasts to shake them; And if they fall, they dash themselves to pieces. Glou. Good counsel, marry : learn it, learn it, marquess. Bor. It toucheth you, my lord, as much as me. Glou. Yea, and much more : but I was born so high, Our aery buildeth in the cedar's top. And dallies with the wind and scorns the sun. Q. Mar. And turns the sun to shade ; alas ! alas ! Witness my son, now in the shade of death ; Whose bright out-shining beams thy cloudy wrath Hath in eternal darkness folded up. Your aery buildeth in our aery's nest. O God, that seest it, do not suffer it ; As it was won with blood, lost be it so ! Buck. Have done! for shame, if not for charity. Q. Mar. Urge neither charity nor shame to me : Uncharitably with me have you dealt, And shamefully by you my hopes are butcher'd. My charity is outrage, life my shame ; And in that shame still live my sorrow's rage ! Buck. Have done, have done. [hand, Q. Mar. O princely Buckingham, I '11 kiss thy In sign of league and amity with thee : Now fair befal thee and thy noble house ! Thy garments are not spotted with our blood. Nor thou within the compass of my curse. B^lck. Nor no one here ; for curses never pass The lips of those that breathe them in the air. Q. Mar. I '11 not believe but they ascend the sky, And there awake God's gentle-sleeping peace. Buckingham, take heed of yonder dog ! Look, when he fawns, he bites ; and when he bites, His venom tooth will rankle to the death : Have not to do with him, beware of him ; Sin, death, and hell have set their marks on him. And all their ministers attend on him. [ingham ? Glou. What doth she say, my Lord of Buck- Buck. Nothing that I respect, my gracious lord. Q. Mar. What, dost thou scorn me for my gentle counsel ? And soothe the devil that I warn thee from ? O, but remember this another day. When he shall split thy very heart with sorrow, And say poor Margaret was a prophetess ! Live each of you the subjects to his hate. And he to yours, and all of you to God's ! [Exit. Hast. My hair doth stand on end to hear her curses. [erty. Biv. And so doth mine : I muse why she 's at lib- Glou. I cannot blame her ; by God's holy mother. She hath had too much wrong ; and I repent My part thereof that I have done to her. g. Eliz. I never did her any, to my knowledge. lou. But you have all the vantage of her wrong. 1 was too hot to do somebody good. That is too cold in thinking of it now. Marry, as for Clarence, he is well repaid; He is frank'd up to fatting for his pains : God pardon them that are the cause of it ! Biv. A virtuous and a Christian-like conclusion, To pray for them that have done scathe to us. Glou. So do I ever : [Aside\ being well advised. For had I cursed now, I had cursed myself. ACT I. KING RICHARD III SCENE IV. Enter Oatesby. Gates. Madam, bis majesty doth call for you: And for your grace ; and you, my noble lords, [us ? Q.Eliz. Catesby,wecome. Lords,willyougowith Miv. Madam, we will attend your grace. [Exeunt all but Gloucester. Olou. I do the wrong, and first begin to brawl. The secret mischiefs that I set abroach I lay unto the grievous charge of others. Clarence, whom I, indeed, have laid in darkness, I do beweep to many simple gulls ; Namely, to Hastings, Derby, Buckingham ; And say it is the queen and her allies That stir the king against the duke my brother. Now, they believe it ; and withal whet me To be revenged on Rivers, Vaughan, Grey : But then I sigh ; and, with a piece of scripture, Tell them that God bids us do good for evil : And thus I clothe my naked villany With old odd ends stolen out of holy writ ; And seem a saint, when most I play the devil. Enter two Murderers. But, soft I here come my executioners. How now, my hardy, stout resolved mates ! Are you now going to dispatch this deed ? First Murd. We are, my lord; and come to have the warrant. That we may be admitted where he is. Glou. Well thought upon ; I have it here about me. [Gives the warrant. When you have done, repair to Crosby Place. But, sirs, be sudden in the execution. Withal obdm'ate, do not hear him plead; For Clarence is well-spoken, and perhaps May move your hearts to pity, if you mark him. First Murd. Tush! Fear not, my lord, we will not stand to prate ; Talkers are no good doers : be assured We come to use our hands and not our tongues. Glou. Your eyes drop millstones, when fools' eyes drop tears : I like you, lads ; about your business straight ; Go-go, dispatch. First Murd. We will, my noble lord. [Exeunt. SCENE IV.— London. The Tower. Enter Clarence and Brakenbury. BraJc. Why looks your grace so heavily to-day ? Clar. O, I have pass'd a miserable night, So full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams, That, as I am a Christian faithful man, I would not spend another such a night, Though 't were to buy a world of happy days, So full of dismal terror was the time ! Brdk. What was your dream? I long to hear you tell it. [Tower, Clar. Methoughts that I had broken from the And was embark'd to cross to Burgundy ; And, in my company, my brother Gloucester; Who from my cabin tempted me to walk [land, Upon the hatches : thence we look'd toward Eng- And cited up a thousand fearful times. During the wars of York and Lancaster That had befall'n us. As we paced along Upon the giddy footing of the hatches, [ing, Methought that Gloucester stumbled ; and, in fall- Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard. Into the tumbling billows of the main. Lord, Lord! methought, what pain it was to drown ! What dreadful noise of waters in mine ears ! What ugly sights of death within mine eyes I Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks ; Ten thousand men that fishes gnaw'd upon ; Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl, 464 Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels. All scatter'd in the bottom of the sea : Some lay in dead men's skulls ; and, in those holes Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept, As 't were in scorn of eyes, reflecting gems. Which woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep, And mock'd the dead bones that lay scatter'd by. Brak. Had you such leisure in the time of death To gaze upon the secrets of the deep ? (Jlar. Methought I had ; and often did I strive To yield the ghost : but still the envious flood Kept in my soul, and would not let it forth To seek the empty, vast and wandering air ; But smother'd it within my panting biilk. Which almost burst to belch it in the sea. Brak. Awaked you not with this sore agony ? Clar. O, no, my dream was lengthen 'd after life; O, then began the tempest to my soul, Who pass'd, methought, the melancholy flood, With that grim ferryman which poets write of, Unto the kingdom of perpetual night. The first that there did greet my stranger soul. Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick; Who cried aloud, ' What scourge for perjury Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence ? ' And so he vanish'd : then came wandering by A shadow like an angel, with bright hair Dabbled in blood; and he squeak'd out aloud, ' Clarence is come; false, fleeting, perjured Clarence, That stabb'd me in the field by Tewksbury ; Seize on him. Furies, take him to your torments ! ' With that, methoughts, a legion of foul fiends Environ'd me about, and howled in mine ears Such hideous cries, that with the very noise I trembling waked, and for a season after Could not believe but that I was in hell, Such terrible impression made the dream. [you ; Bralc. No marvel, my lord, though it affrighted I promise you, I am afraid to hear you tell it. Clar. O Brakenbury, I have done those things. Which now bear evidence against my soul. For Edward's sake; and see how he requites me! God ! if my deep prayers cannot appease thee, But thou wilt be avenged on my misdeeds, Yet execute thy wrath in me alone, O, spare my guiltless wife and my poor children! 1 pray thee, gentle keeper, stay by me ; My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep. Bralc. I will, my lord: God give your grace good rest ! [Clarence sleeps. Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours, Makes the night morning, and the noon-tide night. Princes have but their titles for their glories, An outward honour for an inward toil ; And, for unfelt imagination. They often feel a world of restless cares : So that, betwixt their titles and low names, There 's nothing differs but the outward fame. Enter the two Murderers. First Murd. Ho ! who 's here ? [you hither ? Bralc. In God's name what are you, and how came First Murd. I would speak with Clarence, and I came hither on my legs. Brak. Yea, are you so brief ? Sec. Murd. O sir, it is better to be brief than te- dious. Shew him our commission ; talk no more. [Brakenbury reads it, Brak. I am, in this, commanded to deliver The noble Duke of Clarence to your hands : I will not reason what is meant hereby, Because I will be guiltless of the meaning. Here are the keys, there sits the duke asleep : I '11 to the king ; and signify to him That thus I have resign'd my charge to you. First Murd. Do so, it is a point of wisdom : fare you well. [Exit Brakenbury. ACT I. KING RICHARD III SCENE IV. Sec. Murd. What, shall we stab him as he sleeps ? First Murd. No ; then he will say 't was done cow- ardly, when he wakes. Sec. Murd. "When he wakes ! why, fool, he shall never wake till the judgment-day. [sleeping. First Murd. Why, then he will say we stabbed him Sec. Murd. The urging of that word 'judgment ' hath bred a kind of remorse in me. First Murd. What, art thou afraid ? Sec. Murd. iSTot to kill him, having a warrant for it ; but to be damned for killing him, from which no warrant can defend us. First Murd. I thought thou hadst been resolute. Sec. Murd. So I am, to let him live. [him so. First Murd. Back to the Duke of Gloucester, tell Sec. Murd. I pray thee, stay a while : I hope my holy humour will change; 'twas wont to hold me but while one would tell twenty. First Murd. How dost thou feel thyself now ? Sec. Murd. 'Faith, some certain dregs of con- science are yet within me. First Murd. Remember our reward, when the deed is done. [ward. Sec. Murd. 'Zounds, he dies : I had forgot the re- ■ First Murd. Where is thy conscience now ? Sec. Murd. In the Duke of Gloucester's purse. First Murd. So when he opens his purse to give us our reward, thy conscience flies out. Sec. Murd. Let it go ; there 's few or none will entertain it. First Murd. How if it come to thee again ? Sec. Murd. I '11 not meddle with it : it is a dan- gerous thing: it makes a man a coward: a man cannot steal, but it accuseth him ; he cannot swear, but it checks him; he cannot lie with his neigh- bour's wife, but it detects him: 'tis a blushing shamefast spirit that mutinies in a man's bosom ; it fills one full of obstacles : it made me once re- store a piuse of gold that I found ; it beggars any naan that keeps it : it is turned out of all towns and cities for a dangerous thing ; and every man that means to live well endeavours to trust to himself and to live without it. First Murd. 'Zounds, it is even now at my elbow, persuading me not to kill the duke. Sec. Murd. Take the devil in thy mind, and be- lieve him not : he would insinuate with thee but to make thee sigh. First Murd. Tut, I am strong-framed, he cannot prevail with me, I warrant thee. Sec. Murd. Spoke like a tall fellow that respects his reputation. Come, shall we to this gear ? First Murd. Take him over the costard with the hilts of thy sword, and then we will chop him in the malmsey-butt in the next room. Sec. Murd. O excellent device ! make a sop of him. First Murd. Hark ! he stirs : shall I strike ? Sec. Murd. N'o, first let 's reason with him. [wine. Clar. Where art thou, keeper ? give me a cup of Sec. Murd. You shall have wine enough, my lord, Clar. In God's name, what art thou ? [anon. Sec. Murd. A man, as you are. Clar. But not, as I am, royal. Sec. Murd. Nor you, as we are, loyal, [humble. CRar. Thy voice is thunder, but thy looks are Sec. Murd. My voice is now the king's, my looks mine own. Clar. How darkly and how deadly dost thou speak! Your eyes do menace me : why look you pale ? Who sent you hither ? Wherefore do you come ? Both. To, to, to — Clar. To murder me ? Both. Ay, ay. Clar. You scarcely have the hearts to teU me so. And therefore cannot have the hearts to do it. Wherein, my friends, have I offended you ? [king. First Murd. Offended us you have not, but the Clar. I shall be reconciled to him again. [die. Sec. Murd. Never, my lord ; therefore prepare to Clar. Are you call'd forth from out a world of men To slay the innocent ? What is my offence ? Where are the evidence that do accuse me ? What lawful quest have given their verdict up Unto the frowning judge ? or who pronounced The bitter sentence of poor Clarence' death ? Before I be convict by course of law. To threaten me with death is most unlawful. I charge you, as you hope to have redemption By Christ's dear blood shed for our grievous sins, That you depart and lay no hands on me : The deed you undertake is damnable. First Murd, What we will do, we do upon com- mand, [king. Sec. Murd. And he that hath commanded is the Clar. Erroneous vassal ! the great King of kings Hath in the tables of his law commanded That thou shalt do no murder : and wilt thou, then, Spurn at his edict and fulfil a man's ? Take heed ; for he holds vengeance in his hands, To hurl upon their heads that break his law. (Sec. Murd. And that same vengeance doth ho hurl on thee. For false forswearing and for murder too : Thou didst receive the holy sacrament. To fight in quarrel of the house of Lancaster. First Murd. And,like a traitor to the name of God, Didst break that vow; and with thy treacherous blade XJnrip'dst the bowels of thy sovereign's son. Sec. Murd. Whom thou wert sworn to cherish and defend. [law to us, First Murd. How canst thou urge God's dreadfxil When thou hast broke it in so dear degree ? Clar. Alas ! for whose sake did I that ill deed ? For Edward, for my brother, for his sake : Why, sirs. He sends ye not to murder me for this ; For in this sin he is as deep as I. If God win be revenged for this deed, O, know you yet, he doth it publicly: Take not the quarrel from his powerful arm ; He needs no indirect nor lawless course To cut off those that have offended him. [ister, First Murd. Who made thee, then, a bloody min- When gallant-springing brave Plantagenet, That princely novice, was struck dead by thee ? Clar. My brother's love, the devil, and my rage. First Murd. Thy brother's love, our duty, and thy Provoke us hither now to slaughter thee. [fault, Clar. Oh, if you love my brother, hate not me; I am his brother, and I love him well. If you be hired for meed, go back again. And I will send you to my brother Gloucester, Who shall reward you better for my life Than Edward will for tidings of my death. Sec. Murd. You are deceived, your brother Glou- cester hates you. Clar. O, no, he loves me, and he holds me dear: Go you to him from me. Both. Ay, so we will. [York Clar. Tell him, when that our princely father Bless'd his three sons with his victorious arm, And charged us from his soul to love each other, He little thought of this divided friendship : Bid Gloucester think of this, and he will weep. First Murd. Ay, millstones ; as he lesson'd us to weep. Clar. O, do not slander him, for he is kind. First Murd. Right, As snow in harvest. Thou deceivest thyself : 'T is he that sent us hither now to slaughter thee. Clar. It cannot be ; for when I parted with him, He hugg'd me in his arms, and swore, with sobs, That he would labour my delivery. 465 ACT II. KING RICHARD III SCENE I. Sec. Murd. Why, so he doth, now he delivers thee From this world's thraldom to the joys of heaven. First Murd. Make peace with God, for you must die, my lord. Clar. Hast thou that holy feeling in thy soul, To counsel me to make my peace with G-od, And art thou yet to thy own soul so blind, That thou wilt war with God by murdering me ? Ah, sirs, consider, he that set you on To do this deed will hate you for the deed. Sec. Murd. What shall we do ? Clar. Kelent, and save your souls. First Murd. Relent ! 't is cowardly and womanish. Clar. Not to relent is beastly, savage, devilish. Which of you, if you were a prince's son. Being pent from liberty, as I am now, If two such murderers as yourselves came to you. Would not entreat for life ? My friend, I spy some pity in thy looks ; O, if thine eye be not a flatterer. Come thou on my side, and entreat for me. As you would beg, were you in my distress : A begging prince what beggar pities not ? Sec. Murd. Look behind you, my lord. First Murd. Take that, and that: if all this will not do, [Stabs him. 1 '11 drown you in the malmsey-butt within. [Exit, with the body. Sec. Murd. A bloody deed, and desperately dis- patch 'd! How fain, like Pilate, would I wash my hands Of this most grievous guilty murder done ! Re-enter First Murderer. First Murd. How now ! what mean'st thou, that thou help'st me not V By heavens, the duke shall know how slack thou art I Sec. Murd. I would he knew tliat I had saved his brother ! Take thou the fee, and tell him what I say ; For I repent me that the duke is slain. [Exit. First Murd. So do not I : go, coward as thou art. Now must I hide his body in some hole. Until the duke take order for his burial : And when I have my meed, I must away ; For this will out, and here I must not stay. A.CT II. SCENE 1. — London. The palace. Flourish. Enter King Edward sicJc, Queen Elizabeth, Dorset, Rivers, Hastings, Buckingham, Grey, and others. K. Edw. Why, so : now have I done a good day's You peers, continue this united league : [work : I every day expect an embassage From my Redeemer to redeem me hence ; And now in peace my soul shall part to heaven, Since I have set my friends at peace on earth. Rivers and Hastings, take each other's hand ; Dissemble not your hatred, swear your love, [hate ; Biv. By heaven, my heart is purged from grudging And with my hand I seal my true heart's love. Hast. So thrive I, as I truly swear the like ! K. Edw. Take heed you dally not before your Lest he that is the supreme King of kings [king ; Confound your hidden falsehood, and award Either of you to be the other's end. Hast. So prosper I, as I swear perfect love ! Biv. And I, as I love Hastings with my heart ! K. Edw. Madam, yourself are not exempt in this, Nor your son Dorset, Buckingham, nor you ; You have been factious one against the other. Wife, love Lord Hastings, let him kiss your hand ; And what you do, do it unfeignedly. [member Q. Eliz. Here, Hastings; I will never more re- Our former hatred, so thrive I and mine ! K. Edw. Dorset, embrace him; Hastings, love lord marquess. Bor. This interchange of love, I here protest. Upon my part shall be unviolable. Hast. And so swear I, my lord. [Then embrace. K. Edw. Now, princely Buckingham, seal thou this league With thy embracements to my wife's allies. And make me happy in your unity. Buck. Whenever Buckingham doth turn his hate On you or yours [to the Queen}., but with all duteous Doth cherish you and yours, God punish me [love With hate in those where I expect most love ! When I have most need to employ a friend, And most assured that he is a friend, Deep, hollow, treacherous, and full of guile. Be he unto me ! this do I beg of God, When I am cold in zeal to you or yours. [They embrace. K. Edw. A pleasing cordial, princely Buckingham, Is this thy vow unto my sickly heart. There wanteth now our brother Gloucester here, To make the perfect period of this peace. [duke. Bvx:k. And, in good time, here comes the noble Enter Gloucester. Glou. Good morrow to my sovereign king and And, princely peers, a happy time of day ! [queen ; K. Edw. Happy, indeed, as we have spent the day. Brother, we have done deeds of charity ; Made peace of enmity, fair love of hate. Between these swelling wrong-incensed peers. Glou. A blessed labour, my most sovereign liege.' Amongst this princely heap, if any here, By false intelligence, or wrong surmise, Hold me a foe ; If I unwittingly, or in my rage, Have aught committed that is hardly borne By any in this presence, I desire To reconcile me to his iriendly peace: 'T is death to me to be at enmity ; I hate it, and desire all good men's love. First, madam, I entreat true peace of you, Which I will purchase with my duteous service; Of you, my noble cousin Buckingham, If ever any grudge were lodged between us ; Of you, Lord Rivers, and, Lord Grey, of you; That all without desert have frown'd on me ; Dukes, earls, lords, gentlemen; indeed, of all. I do not know that Englishman alive With whom my soul is any jot at odds More than the infant that is born to-night : I thank my God for my humility. Q. Eliz. A holy day shall this be kept hereafter: I would to God all strifes were well compounded. My sovereign liege, I do beseech your majesty To take our brother Clarence to your grace. Glou. Why, madam, have I offer'd love for this, To be so flouted in this royal presence ? Who knows not that the noble duke is dead ? [They all start. You do him injury to scorn his corse. Biv. Who knows not he is dead ! who knows he is ? Q. Eliz. All-seeing heaven, what a world is this! Buck. Look I so pale, Lord Dorset, as the rest ? Bor. Ay, my good lord ; and no one in this presence But his red colour hath forsook his cheeks. ACT II. KING RICHARD III iCENE II. K. Edw. Is Clarence dead ? the order was re- versed. Glou. But he, poor soul, by your first order died , And that a winged Mercury did bear ; Some tardy cripple bore the countermand. That came too lag to see him buried. God grant that some, less noble and less loyal, Nearer in bloody thoughts, but not in blood. Deserve not worse than wretched Clarence did, And yet go current from suspicion ! Enter Derby. Der. A boon, my sovereign, for my service done ! K. Edw. I pray thee, peace : my soul is full of sorrow. Ber. I will not rise, unless your highness grant. K. Edw. Then speak at once what is it thou de- mand'st. Ber. The forfeit, sovereign, of my servant's life ; Who slew to-day a righteous gentleman Lately attendant on the Duke of ISTorfolk. [death, K. Edw. Have I a tongue to doom my brother's And shall the same give pardon to a slave ? My brother slew no man ; his fault was thought, And yet his punishment was cruel death. Who sued to me for him ? who, in my rage. Kneel 'd at my feet, and bade me be advised ? Who spake of brotherhood V who spake of love ? Who told me how the poor soul did forsake The mighty Warwick, and did fight for me ? Who told me, in the field by Tewksbury, When Oxford had me down, he rescued me, And said, ' Dear brother, live, and be a king ' ? Who told me, when we both lay in the field Frozen almost to death, how he did lap me Even in his own garments, and gave himself, All thin and naked, to the numb cold night ? All this from my remembrance brutish wrath Sinfully pluck'd, and not a man of you Had so much grace to put it in my mind. But when your carters or your waiting-vassals Have done a drunken slaughter, and defaced The precious image of our dear Eedeemer, You straight are on your knees for pardon, pardon ; And I, unjustly too, must grant it you : But for my brother not a man would speak, Nor I, ungracious, speak unto myself For him, poor soul. The proudest of you all Have been beholding to him in his life ; Yet none of you would once plead for his life. O God, I fear thy justice will take hold On me, and you, and mine, and yours for this ! Come, Hastings, help me to my closet. Oh, poor Clarence ! [Exeunt some with King and Queen. Glou. This is the fruit of rashness ! Mark'd you How that the guilty kindred of the queen [not Look'd pale when they did hear of Clarence' death ? O, they did urge it still unto the king ! God will revenge it. But come, let us in, To comfort Edward with our company. Buck. We wait upon your grace. [Exeunt. SCENE II.— The palace. Mater the Duchess of York, with the two children of Clarence. Boy. Tell me, good grandam, is our father dead ? Buck. No, boy. [breast. Boy. Why do you wring your hands, and beat your And cry ' O Clarence, my unhappy son ! ' [head. Girl. Why do you look on us, and shake your And call us wretches, orphans, castaways. If that our noble father be alive ? Buch. My pretty cousins, you mistake me much ; I do lament the sickness of the king. As loath to lose him, not your father's death ; It were lost sorrow to wail one that 's lost. Boy. Then, grandam, you conclude that he is dead. The king my uncle is to blame for this : God will revenge it ; whom I will importime With daily prayers all to that eifect. Girl. And so will I. [you well: Buch. Peace, children, peace ! the king doth love Incapable and shallow innocents. You cannot guess who caused your father's death. Boy. Grandam, we can ; for my good uncle Glou- Told me, the king, provoked by the queen, [cester Devised impeachments to imprison him : And when my uncle told me so, he wept, [cheek; And hugg'd me in his arm, and kindly kiss'd my Bade me rely on him as on my father. And he would love me dearly as his child. Buch. Oh, that deceit should steal such gentle And with a virtuous vizard hide foul guile ! He is my son ; yea, and therein my shame ; ' Yet from my dugs he drew not this deceit. Son. Think you my uncle did dissemble , grandam ? Buch. Ay, boy. Son. I cannot think it. Hark ! what noise is this ? Enter Queen Elizabeth, with her hair about her ears ; Rivers and Dorset after her. Q. Eliz. Oh, who shall hinder me to wail and weep, To chide my fortune, and torment myself ? 1 '11 join with black despair against my soul. And to myself become an enemy. Buch. What means this scene of rude impatience ? Q. Eliz. To make an act of tragic violence : Edward, my lord, your son, our king, is dead. Why grow the branches now the root is wither 'd ? Why wither not the leaves the sap being gone ? If you will live, lament ; if die, be brief. That our swift- winged souls may catch the king's; Or, like obedient subjects, follow him To his new kingdom of perpetual rest. Buch. Ah, so much interest have I in thy sorrow As I had title in thy noble husband ! I have bewept a worthy husband's death, And lived by looking on his images : But now two mirrors of his princely semblance Are crack'd in pieces by malignant death, And I for comfort have but one false glass, Which grieves me when I see my shame in him. Thou art a widow; yet thou art a mother. And hast the comfort of thy children left thee : But death hath snatch'd my husband from mine arms. And pluck'd two crutches from my feeble limbs, Edward and Clarence. O, what cause have I, Thine being but a moiety of my grief. To overgo thy plaints and drown thy cries ! [death ; Boy. Good aunt, you wept not for our father's How can we aid you with our kindred tears ? Girl. Our fatherless distress was left unmoan'd ; Your widow-dolour likewise be unwept ! Q. Eliz. Give me no help in lamentation ; I am not barren to bj-ing forth complaints : All springs reduce their currents to mine eyes, That I, being govern'd by the watery moon, May send forth plenteous tears to drown the world ! Oh for my husband, for my dear lord Edward ! Chil. Oh for our father, for our dear lord Clarence ! Buch. Alas for both, both mine, Edward and Clarence ! [gone. Q. Eliz. What stay had I but Edward ? and he 's Chil. What stay had we but Clarence ? and he 's gone. [gone. Buch. What stays had I but they ? and they are Q. Eliz. Was never widow had so dear a loss ! Chil. Were never orphans had so dear a loss I Buch. Was never mother had so dear a loss I Alas, I am the mother of these moans ! Their woes are parcell'd, mine are general, 467 ACT II. KING RICHARD III SCENE IV. She for an Edward weeps, and so do I ; I for a Clarence weep, so doth not she : These babes for Clarence weep, and so do I ; I for an Edward weep, so do not they : Alas, you three, on me, threefold distress'd. Pour all your tears ! I am your sorrow's nurse, And I will pamper it with lamentations, [pleased Dor. Comfort, dear mother: God is much dis- That you take with unthankfulness his doing : In common worldly things, 'tis call'd ungrateful, With dull unwillingness to repay a debt Which with a bounteous hand was kindly lent ; Much more to be thus opposite with heaven, For it requires the royal debt it lent you. Riv. Madam, bethink you, like a careful mother, Of the young prince your son : send straight for him ; Let him be crown'd ; in him your comfort lives : Drown desperate sorrow in dead Edward's grave, And plant your joys in living Edward's throne. Enter Gloucester, Buckingham, Derby, Hastings, and Ratcliff. Glou. Madam, have comfort : all of us have cause To wail the dimming of our shining star ; But none can cure their harms by wailing them. Madam, my mother, I do cry you mercy ; I did not see your grace : humbly on my knee I crave your blessing. [mind, Buck. God bless thee ; and put meekness in thy Love, charity, obedience, and true duty ! [man ! Qlou. [Aside] Amen ; and make me die a good old That is the butt-end of a mother's blessing : I marvel why her grace did leave it out. [peers, Buck. You cloudy princes and heart-sorrowing That bear this mutual heavy load of moan, Now cheer each other in each other's love : Though we have spent our harvest of this king, We are to reap the harvest of his son. The broken rancour of your high-swoln hearts. But lately splinter'd, knit, and join'd together. Must gently be preserved, cherish 'd, and kept : Me seemeth good, that, with some little train. Forthwith from Ludlow the young prince be fetch'd Hither to London, to be crown'd our king. JRiv. Why with some little train, my Lord of Buckingham ? Buck. Marry, my lord, lest, by a multitude, The new-heal'd wound of malice should break out ; Which would be so much the more dangerous, By how much the estate is green and yet ungovem'd : Where every horse bears his commanding rein, And may direct his course as please himself. As well the fear of harm, as harm apparent, In my opinion, ought to be prevented. Glou. I hope the king made peace with all of us ; And the compact is firm and true in me. Biv. And so in me ; and so, I think, in all : Yet, since it is but green, it should be put To no apparent likelihood of breach. Which haply by much company might be urged : Therefore I say with noble Buckingham, That it is meet so few should fetch the prince. Hast. And so say I. Glou. Then be it so ; and go we to determine Who they shall be that straight shall post to Ludlow. Madam, and you, my mother, will you go To give your censures in this weighty business ? Bufh^' } ^^^^ *^^ ^"^ hearts. [Exeunt all but Buckingliam and Gloucester. Buck. My Lord, whoever journeys to the prince. For God's sake, let not us two be behind ; For, by the way, I '11 sort occasion. As index to the story we late talk'd of, To part the queen's proud kindred from the king. Glou. My other self, my counsel's consistory, My oracle, my prophet ! My dear cousin. I, like a child, will go by thy direction. Towards Ludlow then, for we '11 not stay behind. [Exeunt. SCENE III. —London. A street. Enter two Citizens, meeting. First Cit. Neighbour, well met : whither away so fast? Sec. Cit. I promise you, I scarcely know myself : Hear you the news abroad V First Cit. Ay, that the king is dead. Sec. Cit. Bad news, by 'r lady ; seldom comes the better : I fear, I fear 't will prove a troublous world. Ihiier another Citizen. Third Cit. Neighbours, God speed ! First Cit. Give you good morrow, sir. Third Git. Doth this news hold of good King Ed- ward's death ? [while! Sec. Cit. Ay, sir, it is too true ; God help the Third Cit. Then, masters, look to see a troublous world. [shall reign. First Cit. No, no; by God's good grace his son Third Cit. Woe to that land that 's govern'd by a child ! Sec. Cit. In him there is a hope of government. That in his nonage council under him. And in his full and ripen'd years himself. No doubt, shall then and till then govern weU. First Cit. So stood the state when Henry the Sixth Was crown'd in Paris but at nine months old. Third Cit. Stood the state so? No, no, good friends, God wot ; For then this land was famously enrich 'd With politic grave counsel ; then the king Had virtuous uncles to protect his grace. First Cit. Why, so hath this, both by the father and mother. ' [father, Third Cit. Better it were they all came by the Or by the father there were none at all ; For emulation now, who shall be nearest. Will touch us all too near, if God prevent not. O, full of danger is the Duke of Gloucester ! And the queen 's sons and brothers haught and proud: And were they to be ruled, and not to rule. This sickly land might solace as before. First Cit. Come, come, we fear the worst; all shall be well. [their cloaks ; Third Cit. When clouds appear, wise men put on When great leaves fall, the winter is at hand ; When the sun sets, who doth not look for night ? Untimely storms make men expect a dearth. All may be well ; but, if God sort it so, 'T is more than we deserve, or I expect. Sec. Cit. Truly, the souls of men are full of dread : Ye cannot reason almost with a man That looks not heavily and full of fear. Third Cit. Before the times of change, still is it By a divine instinct men's minds mistrust [so: Ensuing dangers ; as, by proof, we see The waters swell before a boisterous storm. But leave it all to God. Whither away ? Sec. Cit. Marry, we were sent for to the justices. Third Cit. And so was I : I '11 bear you company. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. — London. The palace. Enter the Archbishop of York, the young Duke of York, Queen Elizabeth, and the Duchess of York. Arch. Last night, I hear, they lay at Northamp- At Stony-Stratford will they be to-night : [ton ; To-morrow, or next day, they will be here. Duch. I long with all my heart to see the prince: I hope he is much grown since last I saw him. ACT III. KING RICHARD III SCENE I. Q. Eliz. But I hear, no ; they say my son of York Hath almost overta'en him in his growth. York. Ay, mother ; but I would not have it so. Duch. Why, my young cousin, it is good to grow. York. Grandam, one night, as we did sit at supper. My uncle Rivers talk'd how I did grow [cester, More than my brother : ' Ay,' quoth my uncle Glou- ' Small herbs have grace, great weeds do grow apace: ' And since, methinks, I would not grow so fast. Because sweet flowers are slowand weedsmakehaste. Diich. Good faith, good faith, the saying did not In him that did object the same to thee : [hold He was the wretched'st thing when he was young, So long a-growing and so leisurely, That, if this rule were true, he should be gracious. Arch. Why, madam, so, no doubt, he is. Duch. I hope he is ; but yet let mothers doubt. York. jSTow, by my troth, if I had been remember'd, I could have given my uncle's grace a flout. To touch his growth nearer than he touch'd mine. Duch. How, my pretty York? I pray thee, let me hear it. York. Marry, they say my uncle grew so fast That he could gnaw a crust at two hours old : T was full two years ere I could get a tooth. Grandam, this would have been a biting jest. Duch. I pray thee, pretty York, who told thee this ? York. Grandam, his nurse. [born. Duch. His nurse ! why, she was dead ere thou wert York. If 't were not she, I cannot tell who told me. Q. Eliz. A parlous boy : go to, you are too shrewd. Arch. Good madam, be not angry with the child. Q. Eliz. Pitchers have ears. Enter a Messenger. Arch. Here comes a messenger. What news ? Mess. Such news, my lord, as grieves me to unfold. Q. Eliz. How fares the prince ? Mess. Well, madam, and in health. Duch. What is thy news then ? [Pomfret, Mess. Lord Rivers and Lord Grey are sent to With them Sir Thomas Vaughau, prisoners. Duch. Who hath committed them ? Mess. The mighty dukes Gloucester and Buckingham. Q. Eliz. For what offence ? Mess. The sum of all I can, I have disclosed ; Why or for what these nobles were committed Is all unknown to me, my gracious lady. Q. Eliz. Ay me, I see the downfall of our house! The tiger now hath seized the gentle hind ; Insulting tyranny begins to jet Upon the innocent and aweless throne : Welcome, destruction, death, and massacre I I see, as in a map, the end of all. Duch. Accursed and unquiet wrangling days, How many of you have mine eyes beheld ! My husband lost his life to get the crown ; And often up and down my sons were toss'd. For me to joy and weep their gain and loss : And being seated, and domestic broils Clean over-blown, themselves, the conquerors, Make war upon themselves ; blood against blood, Self against self: O, preposterous And frantic outrage, end thy damned spleen ; Or let me die, to look on death no more ! Q. Eliz. Come, come, my boy; we will to sanctuary. Madam, farewell. J»Mc/i. I '11 go along with you. Q. Eliz. You have no cause. Arch. My gracious lady, go; And thither bear your treasure and your goods. For my part, I '11 resign unto your grace The seal I keep : and so betide to me As well I tender you and all of yours ! Come, I 'U conduct you to the sanctuary. [Exeunt. A^CT III. SCENE I. — iontJon. A street. The trumpets sound. Enter the young Prince, the Dukes of Gloucester and Buckingham, Cardinal Bour- chier, Catesby, and others. Buck. Welcome, sweet prince, to London, to your chamber. [ereign : Glou. Welcome, dear cousin, my thoughts' sov- The weary way hath made you melancholy. Prince. No, uncle; but our crosses on the way Have made it tedious, wearisome, and heavy : I want more uncles here to welcome me. [years Glou. Sweet prince, the untainted virtue of your Hath not yet dived into the world's deceit : Nor more can you distinguish of a man Than of his outward show; which, God he knows. Seldom or never jumpeth with the heart. Those uncles which you Avant were dangerous ; Your grace attended to their sugar'd words. But look'd not on the poison of their hearts : God keep you from them, and from such false friends! Prince. God keep me from false friends ! but they were none. [greet you. Qlou. My lord, the mayor of London comes to Enter the Lord Mayor and his train. May. God bless your grace with health and happy days ! [you all. Prince. I thank you, good my lord ; and thank I thought my mother, and my brother York, Would long ere this have met us on the way : Fie, what a slug is Hastings, that he comes not To tell us whether they will come or no ! Enter Lord Hastings. Buck. And, in good time, here comes the sweat- ing lord. [come ? Prince. Welcome, my lord : what, will our mother Hast. On what occasion, God he knows, not I, The queen your mother, and your brother York, Have taken sanctuary : the tender prince Would fain have come with me to meet your grace, But by his mother was perforce withheld. Buck. Fie, what an indirect and peevish course Is this of hers ! Lord cardinal, will your grace Persuade the queen to send the Duke of York Unto his princely brother presently ? If she deny. Lord Hastings, go with him. And from her jealous arms pluck him perforce. Card. My Lord of Buckingham, if my weak ora- Can from his mother win the Duke of York, [tory Anon expect him here ; but if she be obdurate To mild entreaties, God in heaven forbid We should infringe the holy privilege Of blessed sanctuary ! not for all this land Would I be guilty of so deep a sin. Buck. You are too senseless-obstinate, my lord, Too ceremonious and traditional : Weigh it but with the grossness of this age. You break not sanctuary in seizing him. The benefit thereof is always granted To those whose dealings have deserved the place, And those who have the wit to claim the place : This prince hath neither claim'd it nor deserved it; And therefore, in mine opinion, cannot have it: Then, taking him from thence that is not there, ACT III. KING RICHARD III SCENE I. You break no privilege nor charter there. Oft have I heard of sanctuary men ; But sanctuary children ne'er till now. [once. Card. My lord, you shall o'er-rule my mind for Come on, Lord Hastings, will you go with me ? Hast. I go, my lord. Prince. Good lords, make all the speedy haste you may. [^Exeunt Cardinal and Say, uncle Gloucester, if our brother come. Where shall we sojourn till our coronation ? Glou. Where it seems best unto your royal self. If I may counsel you, some day or two Your highness shall repose you at the Tower: [fit Then where you please, and shall be thought most For your best health and recreation. Prince. I do not like the Tower, of any place. Did Julius Caesar build that place, my lord ? Buck. He did, my gracious lord, begin that place ; Which, since, succeeding ages have re-edified. Prince. Is it upon record, or else reported Successively from age to age, he built it ? Buck. Upon record, my gracious lord. Prince. But say, my lord, it were not register'd, Methinks the truth should live from age to age, As 't were retail'd to all posterity. Even to the general all-ending day. [live long. Glou. {Aside~\ So wise so young, they say, do never Prince. What say you, uncle ? Glou. I say, without characters, fame lives long. _Aside'\ Thus, like the formal vice. Iniquity, i moralize two meanings in one word. Prince. That Julius Caesar was a famous man ; With what his valour did enrich his wit. His wit set down to make his valour live : Death makes no conquest of this conqueror ; For now he lives in fame, though not in life. I '11 tell you what, my cousin Buckingham, — -Bwcfc. Wliat, my gracious lord ? Prince. An if I live until I be a man, I '11 win our ancient right in France again. Or die a soldier, as I lived a king. (ward spring. Glou. {Aside'] Short summers lightly have a for- Enter young York, Hastings, and the Cardinal. Buck. Now, in good time, here comes the Duke of York. [brother ? Prince. Kichard of York ! how fares our loving York. Well, my dread lord; so must I call you now. Prince. Ay, brother, to our grief, as it is yours : Too late he died that might have kept that title. Which by his death hath lost much majesty. Glou. How fares our cousin, noble Lord of York ? York. I thank you, gentle uncle. O, my lord. You said that idle Aveeds are fast in growth : The prince my brother hath outgrown me far. Glou. He hath, my lord. York. And therefore is he idle ? Glou. O, my fair cousin, I must not say so. York. Then is he more beholding to you than I. Glou. He may command me as my sovereign ; But you have power in me as in a kinsman. York. I pray you, uncle, give me this dagger. Glou. My dagger, little cousin ? with all my heart. Prince. A beggar, brother ? York. Of my kind uncle, that I know will give ; And being but a toy, which is no grief to give. Glou. A greater gii^t than that I '11 give my cousin. York. A greater gift ! O, that 's the sword to it. Glou. Ay, gentle cousin, were it light enough. York. O, then, I see, you will part but with light In weightier things you '11 say a beggar nay. [gifts ; Glou. It is too lieavy for your grace to wear. York. I weigh it lightly, were it heavier, [lord ? Glou. What, would you have my weapon, little York. I would, that I might thank you as you Olou. How ? [caU me. York. Little. 470 Prince. My Lord of York will still be cross in talk : Uncle, your grace knows how to bear with him. York. You mean, to bear me, not to bear with me: Uncle, my brother mocks both you and me ; Because that 1 am little, like an ape, [ders. He thinks that you should bear me on your shoul- Buck. With what a sharp-provided wit he reasons ! To mitigate the scorn he gives his uncle. He prettily and aptly taunts himself : So cunning and so young is wonderful. Glou. My lord, will 't please you pass along ? Myself and my good cousin Buckingham Will to your mother, to entreat of her To meet you at the Tower and welcome you. York. What, will you go mito the Tower, my lord? Prince. My lord protector needs will have it so. York. I shall not sleep in quiet at the Tower. Glou. Why, what should you fear V York. Marry, my uncle Clarence' angry ghost: My grandam told me he was murder'd there. Prince. I fear no uncles dead. Glou. Nor none that live, I hope. Prince. An if they live, I hope I need not fear. But come, my lord ; and with a heavy heart. Thinking on them, go I unto the Tower. [_A Sennet. Exeunt all hut Gloucester., Buckingham and Cateshy. Buck. Think you, my lord, this little pratuig Was not incensed by his subtle mother [York To taunt and scorn you thus opprobriously ? Glou. No doubt, no doubt : O, 'tis a parlous boy; Bold, quick, ingenious, forward, capable : He is all the mother's, from the top to toe. Buck. Well, let them rest. Come hither, Catesby. Thou art sworn as deeply to effect what we intend As closely to conceal what we impart : Thou know'st our reasons urged upon the way; What think'st thou ? is it not an easy matter To make William Lord Hastings of our mind, For the instalment of this noble duke In the seat royal of this famous isle ? Cate. He for his father's sake so loves the prince, That he will not be won to aught against him. Buck. What think'st thou, then, of Stanley ? what will he ? Cate. He will do all in all as Hastings doth, [by, Buck. Well,then,no more but this: go, gentle Cates- And, as it were far off, sound thou Lord Hastings, How he doth stand affected to our purpose ; And summon him to-morrow to the Tower, To sit about the coronation. If thou dost find him tractable to us, Encourage him, and show him all our reasons: If he be leaden, icy-cold, unwilling, Be thou so too ; and so break off your talk. And give us notice of his inclination : For we to-morrow hold divided councils. Wherein thyself shalt highly be employ 'd. [Catesby, Glou. Commend me to Lord William : tell him, His ancient knot of dangerous adversaries To-morrow are let blood at Pomf ret-castle ; And bid my friend, for joy of this good news. Give Mistress Shore one gentle kiss the more. Buck. Good Catesby, go, effect this business soundly. [may. Cate. My good lords both, with all the heed I Glou. Shall we hear from you, Catesby, ere we Cate. You shall, my lord. [sleep ? Glou. At Crosby Place, there shall you find us both. [Exit Catesby. Buck. Now, my lord, what shall we do, if we per- ceive Lord Hastings will not yield to our complots ? Glou. Chop off his head, man ; somewhat we will And, look, when I am king, claim thou of me [do : The earldom of Hereford, and the moveables Whereof the king my brother stood possess 'd. ACT III. KING RICHARD III SCENE II. Buck. I '11 claim that promise at your grace 's hands. 6lou. And look to have it yielded with all willing- Come, let us sup betimes, that afterwards [ness. "We may digest our complots in some form. {Exeunt. SCENE II. — Before Lord Hastings'' house. Enter a Messenger. Mess. What, ho ! my lord ! Hast. [ Witlmil Who knocks at the door ? Mess. A messenger from the Lord Stanley. Enter Lord Hast. What is 't o'clock ? Mess. Upon the stroke of four. [nights ? Hast. Cannot thy master sleep these tedious Mess. So it should seem by that I have to say. First, he commends him to your noble lordship. Hast. And then '^ Mess. And then he sends you word He dreamt to-night the boar had razed his helm : Besides, he says there are two councils held; And that may be determined at the one Which may make you and him to rue at the other. Therefore he sends to know your lordship's pleasure, If presently you will take horse with him, And with all speed post with him toward the north, To shun the danger that his soul divines. Hast. Go, fellow, go, return unto thy lord ; Bid him not fear the separated councils : His honour and myself are at the one, Ajid at the other is my servant Catesby ; Where nothing can proceed that toucheth us Whereof I shall not have intelligence. Tell him his fears are shallow, wanting instance : And for his dreams, I wonder he is so fond To trust the mockery of unquiet slumbers : To fly the boar before the boar pm'sues. Were to incense the boar to follow us And make pursuit where he did mean no chase. Go, bid thy master rise and come to me ; And we will both together to the Tower, Where, he shall see, the boar will use us kindly. Mess. My gracious lord, I '11 tell him what you say. ^ ^ ^ ^ , [Exit. Enter Catesby. Gate. Many good morrows to my noble lord ! Hast. Good morrow, Catesby ; you are early stir- ring: What news, what news, in this our tottering state ? Gate. It is a reeling world, indeed, my lord ; And I believe 't will never stand upright Till Eichard wear the garland of the realm, [crown ? Hast. How! wear tlie garland ! dost thou mean the Gate. Ay, my good lord. [shoulders Hast. I '11 have this crown of mine cut from my Ere I win see the crown so foul misplaced. But canst thou guess that he doth aim at it ? Gate. Ay, on my life ; and hopes to find you for- Upon his party for the gain thereof : [ward And thereupon he sends you this good news, That this same very day your enemies. The kindred of the queen, must die at Pomfret. Hast. Indeed, I am no mourner for that news, Because they have been still mine enemies : But, that I 'U give my voice on Eichard's side. To bar my master's heirs in true descent, God knows I will not do it, to the death. [mind! Gate. God keep your lordship in that gracious Hast. But I shall laugh at this a twelve-month hence. That they who brought me in my master's hate, I live to look upon their tragedy. I tell thee, Catesby,— Gate. What, my lord? Hast. Ere a fortnight make me elder, I '11 send some packing that yet think not on it. Gate. 'Tis a vile thing to die, my gracious lord, When men are unprepared and look not for it. Hast. O monstrous, monstrous ! and so falls it out With Elvers, Vaughan, Grey: and so 'twill do With some men else, who think themselves as safe As thou and I ; who, as thou know'st, are dear To princely Eichard and to Buckingham. Gate. The princes both make high account of you ; [Aside] Eor they account his head upon the bridge. Hast. I know they do ; and I have well deserved it. Enter Lord Stanley. Come on, come on ; where is your boar-spear, man? Fear you the boar, and go so unprovided ? Stan. My lord, good morrow; good morrow, You may jest on, but, by the holy rood, [Catesby : I do not like these several councils, I. Hast. My lord, I hold my life as dear as you do yours ; And never in my life, I do protest. Was it more precious to me than 'tis now: Think you, but that I know our state secure, I would be so triumphant as I am ? [London, Stan. The lords at Pomfret, when they rode from Were jocund, and supposed their state was sure. And they indeed had no cause to mistrust ; But yet, you see, how soon the day o'ercast. This sudden stab of rancour I misdoubt : Pray God, I say, I prove a needless coward! What, shall we toward the Tower ? the day is spent. Hast. Come, come, have with you. Wot you what, my lord ? To-day the lords you talk of are beheaded, [heads Stan. They , for their truth, might better wear their Than some that have accused them wear their hats. But come, my lord, let us away. Enter a Pursuivant. Hast. Go on before ; I '11 talk with this good fel- low. [Exeunt Stanley and Gatesby. How now, sirrah ! how goes the world with thee ? Purs. The better that your lordship please to ask. Hast. I tell thee, man, 't is better with me now Than when I met thee last where now we meet : Then was I going prisoner to the Tower, By the suggestion of the queen's allies ; But now, I tell thee— keep it to thyself— This day those enemies are put to death, And I in better state than e'er I was. Purs. God hold it, to your honour's good content 1 Hast. Gramercy, fellow: there, drkik that for me. [Throws him his purse. Purs. God save your lordship ! [Exit. Enter a. Priest. Priest. Well met, my lord ; I am glad to see your honour. [heart. Hast. 1 thank thee, good Sir John, with all my I am in your debt for your last exercise ; Come the next Sabbath, and I will content you. [He whispers in his ear. Enter Buckingham. Buck. What, talking with a priest, lord chamber- Iain? Your friends at Pomfret, they do need the priest ; Your honour hath no shriving work in hand. Hast. Good faith, and when I met this holy man, Those men you talk of came into my mind. What, go you toward the Tower ? Bu^k. I do, my lord ; but long I shall not stay : I shall return before your lordship thence. Hast. 'T is like enough, for I stay dinner there. Buck. [Aside] And supper too, although thou know'st it not. Come, wiU you go ? Hast. I '11 wait upon your lordship. [Exeunt. 471 ACT III. KING RICHARD III SCENE IV. SCENE III. —Pomfret Castle. Enter Sir Richard Ratcliff, with halberds, carrying Rivers, Grey, and Vaughan to death. Bat. Come, bring forth the prisoners. Biv. Sir Kichard EatclifE, let me tell thee this : To-day shalt thou behold a subject die ]For truth, for duty, and for loyalty. [you! Grey. God keep the prince from all the pack of A knot you are of damned blood-suckers. [after. Vaug. You live that shall cry woe for this here- Bat. Dispatch ; the limit of your lives is out. Biv. O Pomfret, Pomfret ! O thou bloody prison, Fatal and ominous to noble peers ! Within the guilty closure of thy walls Kichard the second here was hack'd to death ; And, for more slander to thy dismal seat, We give thee up our guiltless blood to drink. Grey. Now Margaret's curse is fall'n upon our heads, Tor standing by when Richard stabb'd her son. Biv. Then cursed she Hastings, then cursed she Buckingham, Then cursed she Eichard. O, remember, God, To hear her prayers for them, as now for us ! And for my sister and her princely sons, Be satisfied, dear God, with our true blood, Which, as thou know'st, unjustly must be spilt. Bat. Make haste ; the hour of death is expiate. Biv. Come, Grey, come, Vaughan, let us all em- brace : And take our leave, until we meet in heaven. [Exeunt. SCENE IV.— The Tmoer of London. Enter Buckingham, Derby, Hastings, the Bishop of Ely, Ratcliff, Level, with others, and take their seats at a table. Hast. My lords, at once : the cause why we are Is, to determine of the coronation. [met In God's name, speak : when is the royal day ? Buck. Are all things fitting for that royal time ? Ber. It is, and wants but nomination. My. To-morrow, then, I judge a happy day. Buch. Who knows the lord protector's mind herein ? Who is most inward with the royal duke ? My. Your grace, we think, should soonest know his mind. [faces. Buck. Who, I, my lord! we know each other's But for our hearts, he knows no more of mine, Than I of yours ; Nor I no more of his, than you of mine. Lord Hastings, you and he are near in love. Hast. I thank his grace, I know he loves me well ; But, for his purpose in the coronation, I have not sounded him, nor he deliver'd His gracious pleasure any way therein : But you, my noble lords, may name the time; And in the duke's behalf I '11 give my voice. Which, I presume, he '11 take in gentle part. Enter Gloucester. My. Now in good time, here comes the duke him- self, [row. Glou. My noble lords and cousins all, good mor- I have been long a sleeper; but, I hope. My absence doth neglect no great designs. Which by my presence might have been concluded. Buck. Had not you come upon j^our cue, my lord, William Lord Hastings had pronounced your part, — I mean, your voice, — for crowning of the king. Glou. Than my Lord Hastings no man might be bolder ; His lordship knows me well, and loves me weU. Hast. I thank your grace. 472 Glou. My lord of Ely! My. My lord ? Glou. When I was last in Holborn, I saw good strawberries in your garden there : I do beseech you send for some of them. My. Marry, and will, my lord, with all my heart. [Exit, Glou. Cousin of Buckingham, a word with you. [Drawing him aside. Catesby hath sounded Hastings in our business, And finds the testy gentleman so hot, As he will lose his head ere give consent His master's son, as worshipful he terms it. Shall lose bhe royalty of England's throne. [you. Buck. Withdraw you hence, my lord, I '11 follow [Exit Gloucester, Buckingham following. Der. We have not yet set down this day of triumph. To-morrow, in mine opinion, is too sudden; For I myself am not so well provided As else I would be, were the day prolong'd. Be-enter Bishop of Ely. My. Where is my lord protector ? I have sent fo* these strawberries. Hast. His grace looks cheerfully and smooth to- There 's some conceit or other likes him well, [day ; When he doth bid good morrow with such a spirit. I think there 's never a man in Christendom That can less hide his love or hate than he; For by his face straight shall you know his heart. Der. What of his heart perceive you in his face By any likelihood he show'd to-day ? Hast. Marry, that with no man here he is offended ; For, were he, he had shown it in his looks. Ber. I pray God he be not, I say. Be-enter Gloucester and Buckingham. Glou. I pray you all, tell me what they deserve That do conspire my death with devilish plots Of damned witchcraft, and that have prevail'd Upon my body with their hellish charms ? Hast. The tender love I bear your grace, my lord, Makes me most forward in this noble presence To doom the offenders, whatsoever they be: I say, my lord, they have deserved death. Glou. Then be your eyes the witness of this ill : See how I am bewitch'd; behold mine arm Is, like a blasted sapling, wither'd up : And this is Edward's wife, that monstrous witch. Consorted with that harlot strumpet Shore, That by their witchcraft thus have marked me. Hast. If they have done this thing, my gracious lord, — [pet, Glou. If I thou protector of this damned strum- Tellest thou me of ' ifs ' ? Thou art a traitor : Off with his head ! Now, by Saint Paul I swear, I will not dine until I see the same. Lovel and Ratcliff, look that it be done : The rest, that love me, rise and follow me. [Exeunt all but Hastings, Batcliff, and Lovel. Hast. Woe, woe for England ! not a whit for me ; For I, too fond, might have prevented this. Stanley did dream the boar did raze his helm ; But I disdain'd it, and did scorn to fly : Three times to-day my foot-cloth horse did stumble, And startled, when he look'd upon the Tower, As loath to bear me to the slaughter-house. O, now I want the priest that spake to me: I now repent I told the pursuivant. As 't were triumphing at mine enemies. How they at Pomfret bloodily were butcher'd. And I myself secure in grace and favour. O Margaret, Margaret, now thy heavy curse Is lighted on poor Hastings' wretched head I [ner; Bat. Dispatch, my lord ; the duke would be at diii« Make a short shrift ; he longs to see your head. Hast. O momentary grace of mortal men, ACT III. KING RICHARD III SCENE VI. Which we more hunt for than the grace of God ! Who builds his hopes in air of your good looks, Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast, Eeady, with every nod, to tumble down Into the fatal bowels of the deep. [claim. Lov. Come, come, dispatch; 'tis bootless to ex- Hast. bloody Richard ! miserable England ! I prophesy the fearfull'st time to thee That ever ^vretched age hath look'd upon. Come, lead me to the block ; bear him my head : They smile at me that shortly shall be dead. {^Exeunt. SCENE v.— The Tower-walls. Enter Gloucester and Bucklngliam, in rotten armour, marvellous ill-favoured. Glou. Come, cousin, canst thou quake, and change thy colour. Murder thy breath in the middle of a word, And then begin again, and stop again, As if thou wert distraught and mad with terror ? Buck. Tut, I can counterfeit the deep tragedian ; Speak and look back, and pry on every side. Tremble and start at wagging of a straw, Intending deep suspicion : ghastly looks Are at my service, like enforced smiles ; And both are ready in their offices. At any time, to grace my stratagems. But what, is Catesby gone ? Glou. He is ; and, see, he brings the mayor along. Enter the Mayor and Catesby. Buck. Lord mayor, — Glou. Look to the drawbridge there ! Buck. Hark ! a drum. Glou. Catesby, o'erlook the walls. Buck. Lord mayor, the reason we have sent — Glou. Look back, defend thee, here are enemies. Buck. God and our innocency defend and guard us ! [Lovel. Glou. Be patient, they are friends, Ratcliff and Enter Lovel and Ratcliff, with Hastings' head. Lov. Here is the head of that ignoble traitor, The dangerous and unsuspected Hastings. Glou. bo dear I loved the man, that I must weep. I took him for the plainest harmless creature That breathed upon this earth a Christian ; Made him my book, wherein my soul recorded The history of all her secret thoughts : So smooth he daub'd his vice with show of virtue. That, his apparent open guilt omitted, I mean, his conversation with Shore's wife, He lived from all attainder of suspect. [traitor Buck. Well, well, he was the covert 'st shelter 'd That ever lived. Would you imagine, or almost believe. Were 't not that, by great preservation. We live to tell it you, the subtle traitor This day had plotted, in the council-house To murder me and my good Lord of Gloucester ? May. What, had he so ? Glou. What, think you we are Turks or infidels? Or that we would, against the form of law. Proceed thus rashly to the villain's death. But that the extreme peril of the case. The peace of England and our persons' safety. Enforced us to this execution ? May. Now, fair befall you ! he deserved his death ; And you my good lords, both have well proceeded. To warn false traitors from the like attempts. I never look'd for better at his hands. After he once fell in with Mistress Shore. Glou. Yet had not we determined he should die. Until your lordship came to see his death ; AVhich now the loving haste of these our friends, Somewhat against our meaning, have prevented; Because, my lord, we would have had you heard The traitor speak, and timorously confess The manner and the purpose of his treason ; That you might well have signified the same Unto the citizens, who haply may Misconstrue us in him and wail his death, [serve, May. But, my good lord, your grace's word shall As well as I had seen and heard him speak : And doubt you not, right noble princes both, But I '11 acquaint our duteous citizens With all your just proceedings in this cause, [here, Glou. And to that end we wish'd your lordship To avoid the carping censures of the world. Buck. But since you come too late of our intents, Yet witness what you hear we did intend : And so, my good lord mayor, we bid farewell. [Exit Mayor. Glou. Go, after, after, cousin Buckingham. The mayor towards Guildhall hies him in all post : There, at your meet'st advantage of the time. Infer the bastardy of Edward's children : Tell them how Edward put to death a citizen. Only for saying he would make his son Heir to the crown ; meaning indeed his house, Which, by the sign thereof, was termed so. Moreover, urge his hateful luxury, •And bestial appetite in change of lust ; Which stretched to their servants, daughters, wives, Even where his lustful eye or savage heart. Without control, listed to make his prey. Nay, for a need, thus far come near my person : Tell them, when that my mother went with child Of that unsatiate Edward, noble York My princely father then had wars in France ; And, by just computation of the time. Found that the issue was not his begot ; Which well appeared in his lineaments. Being nothing like the noble duke my father : But touch this sparingly, as 'twere far oif ; Because you know, my lord, my mother lives. Buck. Fear not, my lord, I '11 play the orator As if the golden fee for which I plead Were for myself : and so, my lord, adieu. [Castle ; Glou. If you thrive well, bring them to Baynard's Where you shall find me well accompanied With reverend fathers and well-learned bishops. Buck. I go ; and towards three or four o'clock Look for the news that the Guildhall affords. [Exit. Glou. Go, Lovel, with all speed to Doctor Shaw; [To Gate.] Go thou to Friar Penker; bid them both Meet me within this hour at Baynard's Castle. [Exeunt all but Gloucester. Now will I in, to take some privy order. To draw the brats of Clarence out of sight; And to give notice, that no manner of person At any time have recourse unto the princes. [Exit. SCENE VI.— The same. A street. Enter a Scrivener, with a paper in Ms hand. Scriv. This is the indictment of the good Lord Hastings ; Which in a set hand fairly is engross'd. That it may be this day read over in Paul's. And mark how well the sequel hangs together: Eleven hours I spent to write it over. For yesternight by Catesby was it brought me; The precedent was full as long a-doing : And yet within these five hours liA^ed Lord Hastings, Untainted, unexamined, free, at liberty. Here 's a good world the while ! Why who 's so gross. That seeth not this palpable device ? Yet who 's so blind, but says he sees it not ? Bad is the world ; and all will come to nought. When such bad dealing must be seen in thought. [Exit. 473 KING RICHARD III SCENE VII. SCENE VU.—Baynard^s Castle. Enter Gloucester and Buckingham, at several doors. Glou. How now^ my lord, what say the citizens ? Buck. Now, by £he holy mother of our Lord, The citizens are mum and speak not a word. Glou. Touch'd you the bastardy of Edward's children ? Buck. I did ; with his contract with Lady Lucy, And his contract by deputy in France ; The insatiate greediness of his desires. And his enforcement of the city wives ; His tyranny for trifles ; his own bastardy, As being- got, your father then in France, And his resemblance, being not like the duke: Withal I did infer your lineaments. Being the right idea of your father, Both in your form and nobleness of mind ; Laid open all your victories in Scotland, Your discipline in war, wisdom in peace, Your bounty, virtue, fair humility ; Indeed, left nothing fitting for the purpose Untouch'd, or slightly handled, in discourse: And when mine oratory grew to an end, I bid them that did love their country's good Cry ' God save Eichard, England's royal king ! ' G-lou. Ah ! and did they so ? Buck. No, so God help me, they spake not a word ; But, like dumb statuas or breathing stones. Gazed each on other, and look'd deadly pale. "Which when I saw, I reprehended them ; And ask'd the mayor what meant this wilful silence : His answer was, the people were not wont To be spoke to but by the recorder. Then he was urged to tell my tale again, ' Thus saith the duke, thus hath the duke inferr'd ; ' But nothing spake in warrant from himself. When he had done, some followers of mine own. At the lower end of the hall, hurl'd up their caps, And some ten voices cried ' God save King Richard! ' And thus I took the vantage of those few, ' Thanks, gentle citizens and friends,' quoth I; ' This general applause and loving shout Argues your wisdoms and your love to Richard : ' And even here brake off, and came away. Glou. What tongueless blocks were they ! would they not speak ? ^Mcfc. No, by my troth, my lord. [come? Glou. Will not the mayor then and his brethren Buck. The mayor is here at hand : intend some Be not you spoke with, but by mighty suit : [fear ; And look you get a prayer-book in your hand, And stand betwixt two churchmen, good my lord ; For on that ground I '11 build a holy descant : And be not easily won to our request : Play the maid's part, still answer nay, and take it. Glou. I go ; and if you plead as well for them As I can say nay to thee for myself, No doubt we '11 bring it to a happy issue. Buck. Go, go, up to the leads ; the lord mayor knocks. [Exit Gloucester. Enter the Mayor and Citizens. Welcome, my lord : I dance attendance here ; I think the duke will not be spoke withal. Unter Catesby. Here comes his servant : how now, Catesby, What says he ? Gate. My lord, he doth entreat your grace To visit him to-morrow or next day : He is within, with two right reverend fathers. Divinely bent to meditation ; And in no worldly suit would he be moved, To draw him from his holy exercise. Buck. Return, good Catesby, to thy lord again ; 474 Tell him, myself, the mayor and citizens. In deep designs and matters of great moment, No less importing than our general good, Are come to have some conference with his grace. Gate. I 'U tell him what you say, my lord. [Exit. Buck. Ah, ha, my lord, this prince is not an Ed- He is not lolling on a lewd day-bed, [ward ! But on his knees at meditation ; Not dallying with a brace of courtezans, But meditating with two deep divines ; Not sleeping, to engross his idle body, But praying, to enrich his watchful soul : Happy were England, would this gracious prince Take on himself the sovereignty thereof : But, sure, I fear, we shall ne'er win him to it. May. Marry, God forbid his grace should say us Buck. I fear he wiU. [nay I Be-enter Catesby. How now, Catesby, what says your lord ? Gate. My lord, He wonders to what end you have assembled Such troops of citizens to speak with him. His grace not being warn'd thereof before : My lord, he fears you mean no good to him. Buck. Sorry I am my noble cousin should Suspect me, that I mean no good to him : By heaven, I come in perfect love to him ; And so once more return and teU his grace. [Exit Catesby. When holy and devout religious men Are at their beads, 'tis hard to draw them thence. So sweet is zealous contemplation. Enter Gloucester aloft, between two Bishops. Catesby returns. May. See, where he stands between two clergy- men! Buck. Two props of virtue for a Christian prince, To stay him from the fall of vanity : And, see, a book of prayer in his hand, True ornaments to know a holy man. Famous Plantagenet, most gracious prince, Lend favourable ears to our request ; And pardon us the interruption Of thy devotion and right Christian zeal. Glou. My lord, there needs no such apology: I rather do beseech you pardon me. Who, earnest in the service of my God, Neglect the visitation of my friends. But, leaving this, what is your grace's pleasure ? Buck. Even that, I hope, which pleaseth God And all good men of this ungovern'd isle, [above, Glou. I do suspect I have done some offence That seems disgracious in the city's eyes. And that you come to reprehend my ignorance. Buck. You have, my lord : would it might please your grace. At our entreaties, to amend that fault ! [land ? Glou. Else wherefore breathe I in a Christian Buck. Then know, it is your fault that you resign The supreme seat, the throne majestical, The scepter'd office of your ancestors. Your state of fortune and your due of birth. The lineal glory of your royal house, To the corruption of a blemish'd stock : Whilst, in the mildness of your sleepy thoughts, Which here we waken to our country's good. This noble isle doth want her proper limbs ; Her face defaced with scars of infamy. Her royal stock graft with ignoble plants, And almost shoulder'd in the swallowing gulf Of blind forgetf ulness and dark oblivion. Which to recure, we heartily solicit Your gracious self to take on you the charge And kingly government of this your land; Not as protector, steward, substitute. ACT IV. KING RICHARD III SCENE I. Or lowly factor for another's gain ; But as successively from blood to blood, Your right of birth, your empery, your own. For this, consorted with the citizens, Your very worshipful and loving friends. And by their vehement instigation, In this just suit come I to move your grace. Gloii.. I know not whether to depart in silence, Or bitterly to speak in your reproof. Best fitteth my degree or your condition : If not to answer, you might haply think Tongue-tied ambition, not replying, yielded To bear the golden yoke of sovereignty. Which fondly you would here impose on me ; If to reprove you for this suit of yours. So season'd with your faithful love to me, Then, on the other side, I check'd my friends. Therefore, to speak, and to avoid the first. And then, in speaking, not to incur the last, Definitively thus I answer you. Your love deserves my thanks ; but my desert Unmeritable shuns your high request. First, if all obstacles were cut away, And that my path were even to the crown, As my ripe revenue and due by birth ; Yet so much is my poverty of spirit, So mighty and so many my defects. As I had rather hide me from my greatness, Being a bark to brook no mighty sea, Than in my greatness covet to be hid. And in the vapour of my glory smother'd. But, God be thanked, there 's no need of me, And much I need to help you, if need were ; The royal tree hath left us royal fruit. Which, mellow'd by the stealing hours of time, Will well become the seat of majesty. And make, no doubt, us happy by his reign. On him I lay what you would lay on me, The right and fortune of his happy stars ; Which God defend that I should wring from him ! Buck. My lord, this argues conscience in your grace ; But the respects thereof are nice and trivial, All circumstances well considered. You say that Edward is your brother's son : So say we too, but not by Edward's wife ; For first he was contract to Lady Lucy — Your mother lives a witness to that vow — And afterward by substitute betroth 'd To Bona, sister to the King of France. These both put by, a poor petitioner, A care-crazed mother of a many children, A beauty-waning and distressed widow, Even in the afternoon of her best days. Made prize and purchase of his lustful eye, Seduced the pitch and height of all his thoughts To base declension and loathed bigamy : By her, in his unlawful bed, he got This Edw4rd, whom our manners term the prince. More bitterly could I expostulate, Save that, for reverence to some alive, I give a sparing limit to my tongue. Then, good my lord, take to your royal self This proffer'd benefit of dignity ; If not to bless us and the land withal. Yet to draw forth your noble ancestry From the corruption of abusing times, Unto a lineal true-derived course. May. Do, good my lord, your citizens entreat you. Buck. Refuse not, mighty lord, this proffer'd love. Gate. O, make them joyful, grant their lawful suit ! Glou. Alas, why would you heap these cares on me? I am unfit for state and majesty : I do beseech you, take it not amiss ; I cannot nor I will not yield to you. Buck. If you refuse it, — as, in love and zeal, Loath to depose the child, your brother's son; As well we know your tenderness of heart And gentle, kind, effeminate remorse, Which we have noted in you to your kin, And egally indeed to all estates, — Yet whether you accept our suit or no. Your brother's son shall never reign our king; But we will plant some other in the throne. To the disgrace and downfall of your house : And in this resolution here we leave you. — Come, citizens : 'zounds ! I '11 entreat no more. Qlou. O, do not swear, my lord of Buckingham. \_Exit Buckingham with the Citizens. Gate. Call them again, my lord, and accept their suit. [rue it. Another. Do, good my lord, lest all the land do Glou. Would you enforce me to a world of care ? Well, call them again. I am not made of stone, But penetrable to your kind entreats. Albeit against my conscience and my soul. He-enter Buckingliara and the rest. Cousin of Buckingham, and you sage, grave men, Since you will buckle fortune on my back. To bear her burthen, whether I will or no, I must have patience to endure the load : But if black scandal or foul-faced reproach Attend the sequel of your imposition, Your mere enforcement shall acquittance me From all the impure blots and stains thereof ; For God he knows, and you may partly see. How far I am from the desire thereof. [it. May. God bless your grace ! we see it, and wiU say Glou. In saying so, you shall but say the truth. Buck. Then I salute you with this kingly title : Long live Richard, England's royal king! May. and Git. Amen. Buck. To-morrow will it please you to be crown 'd ? GZoM. Even when youplease,sinceyou will haveitso. Buck. To-morrow, then, we will attend your grace : And so most joyfully we take our leave. Glou. Come, let us to our holy task again. Farewell, good cousin; farewell, gentle friends. [Uxeunt. A.OT IV. SCENE 1.-— Before the Tower. Enter, on one side, Queen Elizabeth, Duchess of York, and Marquess of Dorset ; on the other, Anne, Duchess of Gloucester, leading Lady Margaret Plantagenet, Ci&veiice'a young Daughter. Buch. Who meets us here? my niece Plantage- net Led in the hand of her kind aunt of Gloucester ? Now, for my life, she 's wandering to the Tower, On pure heart's love to greet the tender princes. Daughter, well met. Anne. God give your graces both A happy and a joyful time of day ! [away ? Q. Miz. As much to you, good sister! Whither Anne. No farther than the Tower; and, as I guess, Upon the like devotion as yourselves, To gratulate the gentle princes there. [gether. Q. Miz. Kind sister, thanks : we '11 enter all to- Enter Brakenbury. And, in good time, here the lieutenant comes. Master lieutenant, pray you, by your leave. How doth the prince, and my young son of York ? 475 ACT IV. KING RICHARD III SCENE II. Brdk. Right well, dear madam. By your pa- I may not suffer you to visit them ; [tience, The king hath straitly charged the contrary. Q. Miz. The king I why, who 's that ? Brak. I cry you mercy : I mean the lord protector. Q. Miz. The Lord protect him from that kingly Hath he set bounds betwixt their love and me? [title! I am their mother ; who should keep me from them? Duch. I am their father's mother ; I will see them. Anne. Their aunt I am in law, in love their mother : Then bring me to their sights ; I '11 bear th blame And take thy office from thee, on my peril. Brak. No, madam, no ; I may not leave it so : I am bound by oath, and therefore pardon me. [_Exit. Enter Lord Stanley. Stan. Let me but meet you, ladies, one hour hence, And I '11 salute your grace of York as mother. And reverend looker on ,of two fair queens, [minster, [To Anne'] Come, madam, you must straight to West- There to be crowned Richard's royal queen, [heart Q. Eliz. O, cut my lace in sunder, that my pent May have some scope to beat, or else I swoon With this dead-killing news ! Anne. Despiteful tidings ! O unpleasing news ! Dor. Be of good cheer : mother, how fares your grace? [hence! Q. Miz. O Dorset, speak not to me, get thee Death and destruction dog thee at the heels ; Thy mother's name is ominous to children. If thou wilt outstrip death, go cross the seas, And live with Riclimoud, from the reach of hell : Go, hie thee, hie thee from this slaughter-house, Lest thou increase the number of the dead ; And make me die the thrall of Margaret's curse, Nor mother, wife, nor England's counted queen. Stan. Full of wise care is this your counsel, madam. Take all the swift advantage of the hours ; STou shall have letters from me to my son To meet you on the way, and welcome you. Be not ta'en tardy by unwise delay. Buck. O ill-dispersing wind of misery I my accursed womb, the Bed of death ! A cockatrice hast thou hatch'd to the world. Whose unavoided eye is murderous. [sent. Stan. Come, madam, come; I in all haste was Anne. And I in all unwillingness will go. 1 would to God that the inclusive verge Of golden metal that must round my brow Were red-hot steel, to sear me to the brain ! Anointed let me be with deadly venom, And die, ere men can say, God save the queen ! Q,. Eliz. Go, go, poor soul, I envy not thy glory; To feed my humour, wish thyself no harm. [now Anne. No! why? When he that is my husband Came to me, as I follow'd Henry's corse, [hands When scarce the blood was well wash'd from his Which issued from my other angel husband And that dead saint which then I weeping follow'd ; O, when, I say, I look'd on Richard's face, This was my wish: ' Be thou,' quoth I, ' accursed. For makhig me, so yoiuig, so old a widow ! And, when thou wed'st, let sorrow haunt thy bed; And be thy wife — if any be so mad — As miserable by the life of thee As thou hast made me by my dear lord's death ! ' Lo, ere I can repeat this curse again, Even in so short a space, my woman's heart Grossly grew captive to his honey words And proved the subject of my own soul's curse, Which ever since hath kept my eyes from rest ; For never yet one hour in his bed Have I enjoy 'd the golden dew of sleep, But have been waked by his timorous dreams. Besides, he hates me for my father Warwick ; And will, no doubt, shortly be rid of me. [ing. Q. Miz. Poor heart, adieu ! I pity thy complain- 476 Anne. No more than from my soul I mourn for yours. Q. Eliz. Farewell, thou woful welcomer of glory ! Anne. Adieu, poor soul, that takest thy leave of it I Duch. {To Dorset] Go thou to Richmond, and good fortune guide thee ! {To Anne] Go thou to Richard, and good angels guard thee ! [To Queen Eliz.] Go thou to sanctuary, and good thoughts possess thee ! I to my grave, where peace and rest lie with me I Eighty odd years of sorrow have I seen. And each hour's joy wreck'd with a week of teen. Q. Eliz. Stay, yet look back with me unto the Tower. Pity, you ancient stones, those tender babes Whom envy hath immured within your walls ! Rough cradle for such little pretty ones ! Rude ragged nurse, old sullen playfellow For tender princes, use my babies well! So foolish sorrow bids your stones farewell. [Exeunt. SCENE 11.— London. The palace. Sennet. Enter Richard, in pomp, crowned; Buck- ingham, Oatesby, a Page, and others. K. Eich. Stand all apart. Cousin of Buckingham 1 Buck. My gracious sovereign ? K. Rich. Give me thy hand. [Here he ascendeth his throne.] Thus high, by thy advice And thy assistance, is King Richard seated: But shall we wear these honours for a day ? Or shall they last, and we rejoice in them ? Buck. Still live they and for ever may they last ! K. Bich. O Buckingham, now do I play the touch, To try if thou be current gold indeed : Young-Edward lives : think now what I would say. Buck. Say on, my loving lord. [king. K. Bich. Why, Buckingham, I say, I would be Buck. Why, so you are, my thrice renowned liege. K. Rich. Ha ! am I king ? 't is so : but Edward Buck. True, noble prince. [lives. K. Rich. O bitter consequence, That Edward still should live ! ' True , noble prince I ' Cousin, thou wert not wont to be so dull : Shall I be plain ? I wish the bastards dead ; And I would have it suddenly perform 'd. What sayest thou ? speak suddenly ; be brief. Buck. Your grace may do your pleasure. K. Rich. Tut, tut, thou art all ice, thy kindness f reezeth : Say, have I thy consent that they shall die ? Buck. Give me some breath, some little pause, my Before I positively speak herein : [lord, I will resolve your grace immediately. [Exit. Gate. [Aside to a slander by] The king is angry : see, he bites the lip. K. Rich. I will converse with iron-witjf ed fools And unrespective boys : none are for me That look into me with considerate eyes : High-reaching Buckingham grows circumspect. Boy ! V Page. My lord ? [gold K. Rich. Know'st thou not any whom corrupting Would tempt unto a close exploit of death ? Page. My lord, I know a discontented gentleman, Whose humble means match not his haughty mmd : Gold were as good as twenty orators. And will, no doubt, tempt him to any thing. K. Rich. What is his name ? Page. His name, my lord, is Tyrrel. K. Rich. I partly know the man: go, call him hither. [Exit Page. The deep-revolving witty Buckingham No more shall be the neighbour to my counsel: Hath he so long held out with me imtired, And stops he now for breath ? ACT IV. KING RICHARD III SCENE III. Enter Stanley. How now ! what news with yon ? Stan. My lord, I hear the Marquis Dorset 's fled To Richmond, in those parts beyond the sea "Where he abides. \_Stands apart. K. Rich. Catesby ! Cate. My lord? K. Bich. Eumour it abroad That Anne, my wife, is sick and like to die : I will take order for her keeping close. Inquire me out some mean-born gentleman. Whom I will marry straight to Clarence' daughter : The boy is foolish, and I fear not him. Look, how thou dream'st ! I say again, give out That Anne my wife is sick and like to die : About it ; for it stands me much upon, To stop all hopes whose growth may damage me. [Uxit Catesby. I must be married to my brother's daughter, Or else my kingdom stands on brittle glass. Murder her brothers, and then marry her 1 Uncertain way of gain ! But I am in So far in blood that sin will pluck on sin : Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye. Be-enter Page, with Tyrrel. Is thy name Tyrrel ? D'ect. Ihjr. James Tyrrel, and your most obedient sub- K. Bich. Art thou, indeed ? Tyr. Prove me, my gracious sovereign. K. Bich. Darest thou resolve to kill a friend of Tyr. Ay, my lord ; [mine ? But I had rather kill two enemies. [enemies, K. Bich. "Why, there thou hast it : two deep Foes to my rest and my sweet Sleep's disturbers Are they that I would have thee deal upon : Tyrrel, I mean those bastards in the Tower. Tyr. Let me have open means to come to them, And soon I '11 rid you from the fear of them. K. Bich. Thou sing'st sweet music. Hark, come hither, Tyrrel : Go, by this token : rise, and lend thine ear : [Whispers. There is no more but so : say it is done. And I will love thee, and prefer thee too. Tyr. 'T is done, my gracious lord. [sleep ? K. Bich. Shall we hear from thee, Tyrrel, ere we Tyr. Ye shall, my lord. [Exit. Be-enter BucMngliam. Buch. My lord, I have consider'd in my mind The late demand that you did sound me in. K. Bich. "\Yell, let that pass. Dorset is fled to Buck. I hear that news, my lord. [Richmond. K. Bich. Stanley, he is your wife's son : weU, look to it. [promise, Buclc. My lord, I claim your gift, my due by For which your honom- and your faith is pawn'd ; The earldom of Hereford and the moveables The which you promised I should possess. [vey K. Bich. Stanley, look to yom: wife : if she con- Letters to RlPlimond, you shall answer it. [mand ? Buck. "What says your highness to my just de- K. Bich. As I remember, Henry the Sixth Did prophesy that Richmond should be king, "When Richmond was a little peevish boy. A king, perhaps, perhaps, — Buck. My lord ! [that time K. Bich. How chance the prophet could not at Have told me, I being by, that I should kill him ? Buck. My lord, your promise for the earldom, — K. Bich. Richmond ! "When last I was at Exe- The mayor in courtesy show'd me the castle, [ter, And caU'd it Rougemont : at which name I started, Because a bard of Ireland told me once, I should not live long after I saw Richmond. Buck. My lord ! K. Bich. Ay, what 's o'clock ? Buck. I am thus bold to put your grace in mind Of what you promised me. K. Bich. "Well, but what 's o'clock ? Buck. "Upon the stroke of ten. K. Bich. Well, let it strike. Buck. Why let it strike ? [the stroke K. Bich. Because that, like a Jackj thou keep'st Betwixt thy begging and my meditation. I am not in the giving vein to-day. [or no. Buck. Why, then resolve me whether you will K. Bich. Tut, tut, Thou troublest me ; I am not in the vein. [Exexint all but Buckingham. Buck. Is it even so ? rewards he my true service With such deep contempt ? made I him king for O, let me think on Hastings, and be gone [this ? To Brecknock, while my fearful head is on! [Exit. SCENE 111.— The same. Enter Tyrrel. Tyr. The tyrannous and bloody deed is done, The most arch act of piteous massacre That ever yet this land was guilty of. Dighton and Forrest, whom I did suborn To do this ruthless piece of butchery. Although they were flesh 'd villains, bloody dogs, Melting with tenderness and kind compassion Wept like two children in their deaths' sad stories. ' Lo,thus,' quothDighton, ' lay those tender babes : ' ' Thus, thus,' quoth Forrest, ' girdling one another Within their innocent alabaster arms : Their lips were four red roses on a stalk. Which in their summer beauty kiss'd each other. A book of prayers on their pillow lay ; [mind; Which once,' quoth Forrest, ' almost changed my But O I the devil ' — there the villain stopp'd ; Whilst Dighton thus told on : ' We smothered The most replenished sweet work of nature. That from the prime creation e'er she framed.' Thus both are gone with conscience and remorse ; They could not speak; and so I left them both. To bring this tidings to the bloody king. And here he comes. Enter King Richard. All hail, my sovereign liege ! K. Bich. Kind Tyrrel, am I happy in thy news ? Tyr. If to have done the thing you gave in charge Beget your happiness, be happy then. For it is done, my lord. K. Bich. But didst thou see them dead ? Tyr. I did, my lord. K. Bich. And buried, gentle Tyrrel ? Tyr. The chaplain of the Tower hath buried them ; But how or in what place I do not know. K. Bich. Come to me, Tyrrel, soon at after supper, And thou shalt tell the process of their death. Meantime, but think how I may do thee good. And be inheritor of thy desire. Farewell tUl soon. [Exit Tyrrel. The son of Clarence have I pent up close ; His daughter meanly have I match 'd in marriage ; The sons of Edward sleep in Abraham's bosom, And Ann e my wife hatli bid the world good night. Now, for I know the Breton Richmond aims At young Elizabeth, my brother's daughter. And, by that knot, looks proudly o'er the crown. To her I go, a joUy thriving wooer. Enter Catesby. Cate. My lord! K. Bich. Good news or bad, that thou comest in so bluntly? [mond; Cate. Bad news, my lord: Ely is fled to Rich- 477 ACT IV. KING RICHARD III SCENE IV. And Buckingham , back 'd with the hardy Welshmen, Is in the field, and still his power increaseth. [near K. Bich. Ely with Richmond troubles me more Than Buckingham and his rash-levied army. Come, I have heard that fearful commenting Is leaden servitor to dull delay ; Delay leads impotent and snail-paced beggary : Then fiery expedition be my wing, Jove's Mercury, and herald for a king ! Come, muster men : my counsel is my shield ; We must be brief when traitors brave the field. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. — Before the palace. Enter Queen Margaret. Q. Mar. So, now prosperity begins to mellow And drop into the rotten mouth of death. Here in these confines slily have I lurk'd. To watch the waning of mine adversaries. A dire induction am I witness to. And will to France, hoping the consequence Will prove as bitter, black, and tragical. [here ? Withdraw thee, wretched Margaret: who comes Enter Queen Elizabeth and the Duchess of York. Q. Eliz. Ah, my young princes! ah, my tender My unblown flowers, new-appearing sweets ! If yet your gentle souls fly in the air And be not fix'd in doom perpetual. Hover about me with your airy wings And hear your mother's lamentation ! [right Q. Mar. Hover about her; say, that right for Hath dimm'd your infant morn to aged night. Duch. So many miseries have crazed my voice. That my woe-wearied tongue is mute and dumb, Edward Plantagenet, why art thou dead ? Q. Mar. Plantagenet doth quit Plantagenet. Edward for Edward pays a dying debt. [lambs, Q. Eliz. Wilt thou, O God, fly from such gentle And throw them in the entrails of the wolf ? When didst thou sleep when such a deed was done ? Q. Mar. When holy Harry died, and my sweet son. Buck. Blind sight, dead life, poor mortal living ghost, [usurp 'd. Woe's scene, world's shame, grave's due by life Brief abstract and record of tedious days, Eest thy unrest on England's lawful earth, [Sitting down. Unlawfully made drunk with innocents' blood ! Q. Eliz. O, that thou wouldst as well afford a As thou canst yield a melancholy seat ! [grave Then would I hide my bones, not rest them here. O, who hath any cause to mourn but I ? [Sitting down by her. Q. Mar. If ancient sorrow be most reverend. Give mine the benefit of seniory, And let my woes frown on the upper hand. If sorrow can admit society, [Sitting down with them. Tell o'er your woes again by viewing mine : I had an Edward, till a Richard kill'd him ; I had a Harry, till a Richard kill'd him : Thou hadst an Edward, till a Richard kill'd him ; Thou hadst a Richard, till a Richard kill'd him. Duch. I had a Richard too, and thou didst kill I had a Rutland too, thou holp'stto kill him. [him ; Q. Mar. Thou hadst a Clarence too, and Richard kill'd him. From forth the kennel of thy womb hath crept A hell-hound that doth hunt us all to death : That dog, that had his teeth before his eyes, To worry lambs and lap their gentle blood, That foul defacer of God's handiwork, That excellent grand tyrant of the earth. That reigns in galled eyes of weeping souls. Thy womb let loose, to chase us to our graves. 478 upright, just, and true-disposing God, How do I thank thee, that this carnal cur Preys on the issue of his mother's body, And makes her pew-fellow with others' moan I Duch. O Harry's wife, triumph not in my woes! God witness with me, I have wept for thine. Q. Mar. Bear with me ; I am hungry for revenge. And now I cloy me with beholding it. Thy Edward he is dead, that stabb'd my Edward; Thy other Edward dead, to quit my Edward; Young York he is but boot, because both they Match not the high perfection of my loss : Thy Clarence he is dead that kill'd my Edward ; And the beholders of this tragic play. The adulterate Hastings, Rivers, Vaughan, Grey, Untimely smother'd in their dusky graves. Richard yet lives, hell's black intelligencer, Only reserved their factor, to buy souls And send them thither : but at hand, at hand, Ensues his piteous and unpitied end : Earth gapes, hell burns, fiends roar, saints pray. To have him suddenly convey'd away. Cancel his bond of life, dear God, I pray. That I may live to say. The dog is dead ! [come Q. Eliz. O, thou didst prophesy the time would That I should wish for thee to help me curse That bottled spider, that foul bunch-back'd toadl Q. Mar. 1 call'd thee then vain flourish of my fortune ; 1 call'd thee then poor shadow, painted queen; The presentation of but what 1 was ; The flattering index of a direful pageant ; One heaved a-high, to be hurl'd down below; A mother only mock'd with two sweet babes; A dream of what thou wert, a breath, a bubble, A sign of dignity, a garish flag. To be the aim of every dangerous shot ; A queen in jest, only to fill the scene. Where is thy husband now ? where be thy brothers ? Where are thy children ? wherein dost thou joy ? Who sues to thee and cries ' God save the queen ? ' Where be the bending peers that flatter'd thee V Where be the thronging troops that foUow'd thee ? Decline all this, and see what now thou art : For happy wife, a most distressed widow ; For joyful mother, one that wails the nan For queen, a very caitiff crown'd with care ; For one being sued to, one that humbly sues ; For one that scorn 'd at me, now scorn 'd of me; For one being fear'd of all, now fearing one ; For one commanding all, obey'd of none. Thus hath the course of justice wheel'd about, And left thee but a very prey to time ; Having no more but thought of what thou wert. To torture thee the more, being what thou art. Thou didst usurp my place, and dost thou not Usurp the just proportion of my sorrow ? Now thy proud neck bears half my burthen 'd yoke ; From which even here I slip my weary neck. And leave the burthen of it all on thee. Farewell, York's wife, and queen of sad mischance: These English woes will make me smile in France. Q. Eliz. O thou well skill'd in curses, stay awhile, And teach me how to curse mine enemies ! [days ; Q. Mar. Forbear to sleep the nights, and fast the Compare dead happiness with living woe ; Think that thy babes were fairer than they were. And he that slew them fouler than he is : Bettering thy loss makes the bad causer worse : Revolving this will teach thee how to curse, [thine ! Q. Eliz. My words are dull ; O, quicken them with Q. Mar. Thy woes will make them sharp, and pierce like mine. [Exit, Duch. Why should calamity be full of words ? Q. Eliz. Windy attorneys to their client woes. Airy succeeders of intestate joys, Poor breathing orators of miseries I ACT IV. KING RICHARD III SCENE IV. Let them have scope: though what they do impart Help not at all, yet do they ease the heart. Dudi. If so, then be not tongue-tied : go with me, And in the breath of bitter words let 's smother My damned son, which thy two sweet sons smoth- I hear his drum : be copious in exclaims. [er'd. Enter King Richard, marching, with drums and trumpets. K. Bich. "Who intercepts my expedition ? Buch. O, she that might have intercepted thee, By strangling thee in her accursed womb, From all the slaughters, wretch, that thou hast done! [crown, Q. Eliz. Hidest thou that forehead with a golden Where should be graven, if that right were right. The slaughter of the prince that owed that crown. And the dire death of my two sons and brothers V Tell me, thou villain slave, where are my children ? Duch. Thou toad, thou toad, where is thy brother And little Ned Plantagenet, his son ? [Clarence ? Q. Eliz. Where is kind Hastings, Rivers, Vaaghan. Grey ? [drums ! K. Bich. A flourish, trumpets! strike alarum, Let not the heavens hear these tell-tale women Eail on the Lord's anointed: strike, I say I [Flourish. Alarums. Either be patient, and entreat me fair. Or with the clamorous report of war Thus will I drown your exclamations. Duch. Art thou my son ? [self. K. Bich. Ay, I thank God, my father, and your- Duch. Then patiently hear my impatience, [tion, K. Bich. Madame, I have a touch of your condi- Which cannot brook the accent of reproof. Duch. O, let me speak ! K. Bich. Do then ; but I '11 not hear. Duch. I will be mild and gentle in my speech. K. Bich. And brief, good mother; for I am in haste. Duch. Art thou so hasty ? I have stay'd for thee, God knows, in anguish, pain and agony. K. Bich. And came I not at last to comfort you ? Duch. Ho, by the holy rood, thou know'st it well. Thou camest on earth to make the earth my hell. A grievous burthen was thy birth to me ; Tetchy and wayward was thy infancy : Thy school-days frightful, desperate, wild, and furious, Thy prime of manhood daring, bold, and venturous. Thy age confirm'd, proud, subtle, bloody, treach- erous. More mild, but yet more harmful, kind in hatred: What comfortable hour canst thou name. That ever graced me in thy company ? K. Bich. Faith, none, but Humphrey Hour, that call'd your grace To breakfast once forth of my company. If I be so disgracious in your sight, Let me march on, and not offend your grace. Strike up the drum. Duch. 1 prithee, hear me speak. K. Bich. You speak too bitterly. Duch. Hear me a word ; For I shall never speak to thee again. K. Bich. So. Duch. Either thou wilt die, by God's just ordi- Ere from this war thou turn a conqueror, [nance, Or I with grief and extreme age shall perish And never look upon thy face again. Therefore take with thee my most heavy curse ; Which, in the day of battle, tire thee more Than all the complete armour that thou wear'st ! My prayers on the adverse party fight ; And there the little souls of Edward's children Whisper the spirits of thine enemies And promise them success and victory. Bloody thou art, bloody will be thy end; Shame serves thy life and doth thy death attend. [Exit. Q. Eliz. Though far more cause, yet much less spirit to curse Abides in me ; I say amen to all. [you. K. Bich. Stay, madam ; I must speak a word with Q. Eliz. I have no moe sons of the royal blood For thee to murder: for my daughters, Richard, They shall be praying nuns, not weeping queens ; And therefore level not to hit their lives. K. Bich. You have a daughter call'd Elizabeth, Virtuous and fair, royal and gracious. Q. Eliz. And must she die for this ? O , let her live, And I '11 corrupt her manners, stain her beauty; Slander myself as false to Edward's bed; Throw over her the veil of infamy : So she may live unscarr'd of bleeding slaughter, I will confess she was not Edward's daughter. K. Bich. Wrong not her birth, she is of royal blood. Q. Eliz. To save her life, I '11 say she is not so. K. Bich. Her life is only safest in her birth. Q. Eliz. And only in that safety died her brothers. K. Bich. Lo, at their births good stars were op- posite, [trary. Q. Eliz. IN"©, to their lives bad friends were con- K. Bich. All unavoided is the doom of destiny. Q. Eliz. True, when avoided grace makes destiny : My babes were destined to a fairer death. If grace had bless'd thee with a fairer life. K. Bich. You speak as if that I had slain my cousins. [cozen'd Q. Eliz. Cousins, indeed; and by their uncle Of comfort, kingdom, kindred, freedom, life. Whose hand soever lanced their tender hearts. Thy head, all indirectly, gave direction : No doubt the murderous knife was dull and blunt Till it was whetted on thy stone-hard heart, To revel in the entrails of my lambs. But that still use of grief makes wild grief tame, My tongue should to thy ears not name my boys Till that my nails were auchor'd in thine eyes; And I, in such a desperate bay of death, Like a poor bark, of sails and tackling reft. Rush all to pieces on thy rocky bosom. K. Bich. Madam, so thrive I in my enterprise And dangerous success of bloody wars, As I intend more good to you and yours Than ever you or yours were by me wrong'd ! Q. Eliz. What good is cover'd with the face of To be discover'd, that can do me good ? [heaven, K. Bich. The advancement of your children, Jentle lady. [heads V Hz. Up to some scaffold, there to lose their it. Bich. No, to the dignity and height of honour, The high imperial type of this earth's glory. Q. Eliz. Flatter my sorrows with report of it ; Tell me what state, what dignity, what honour. Canst thou demise to any child of mine ? K. Bich. Even all I have ; yea, and myself and Will I withal endow a child of thine ; [aU, So in the Lethe of thy angry soul Thou drown the sad remembrance of those wrongs Which thou supposest I have done to thee. Q. Eliz. Be brief, lest that the process of thy kindness Last longer telling than thy kindness' date. K. Bich. Then know, that from my soul I love thy daughter. Q.Eliz. My daughter's mother thinks it with her K. Bich. What do you think ? [soul. Q. Eliz. That thou dost love iny daughter from thy soul : So from thy soul's love didst thou love her brothers; And from my heart's love I do thank thee for it. K. Bich. Be not so hasty to confound my meaning : 479 ACT IV. KING RICHARD III. SCENE IV, I mean, that with my soul I love thy daughter, And mean to make her queen of England. Q. Eliz. Say then, who dost thou mean shall be her king ? K. Bich. Even he that makes her queen : who shoiild be else ? Q. Eliz. What, thou ? K. Bich. I, even I : what think you of it, madam ? Q. Eliz. How canst thou woo her ? K. Bich. That would I learn of you, As one that are best acquainted with her humour. Q. Eliz. And wilt thou learn of me ? K. Bich. Madam, with aU my heart. Q. Eliz. Send to her, by the man that slew her brothers, A pair of bleeding hearts ; thereon engrave Edward and York ; then haply she will weep : Therefore present to her, — as sometime Margaret Did to thy father, steep'd in Eutland's blood, — A handkerchief; which, say to her, did drain The purple sap from her sweet brother's body. And bid her dry her weeping eyes therewith. If this inducement force her not to love, Send her a story of thy noble acts ; Tell her thou madest away her imcle Clarence, Her uncle Rivers ; yea, and, for her sake, Madest quick conveyance with her good aunt Anne. K. Bich. Come, come, you mock me ; this is not To win your daughter. [the way Q. Eliz. There is no other way ; Unless thou couldst put on some other shape. And not be Richard that hath done all this. K. Bich. Say that I did all this for love of her. Q. Eliz. Nay, then indeed she cannot choose but hate thee. Having bought love with such a bloody spoil. K. Bich. Look, what is done cannot be now Men shall deal unadvisedly sometimes, [amended : Which after hom-s give leisure to repent. If I did take the kingdom from your sons. To make amends, I 'U give it to your daughter. If I have kilPd the issue of your womb. To quicken your increase, I will beget Mine issue of your blood upon your daughter: A grandam's name is little less in love Than is the doting title of a mother ; They are as children but one step below. Even of your mettle, of your very blood ; Of all one pain, save for a night of groans Endured of her, for whom you bid like sorrow. Your children were vexation to your youth, But miae shall be a comfort to your age. The loss you have is but a son being king, And by that loss your daughter is made queen. I cannot make you what amends I would, Therefore accept such kindness as I can. Dorset your son, that with a fearful soul Leads discontented steps in foreign soil. This fair alliance quickly shall call home To high promotions and great dignity : The king, that calls your beauteous daughter wife, Eamiliarly shall call thy Dorset brother ; Again shall you be mother to a king. And all the ruins of distressful times Repair'd with double riches of content. What ! we have many goodly days to see : The liquid drops of tears that you have shed Shall come again, transform'd to orient pearl, Advantaging their loan with interest Of ten times double gain of happiness. Go, then, my mother, to thy daughter go ; Make bold her bashful years with your experience ; Prepare her ears to hear a wooer's tale ; Put in her tender heart the aspiring flame Of golden sovereignty ; acquaint the princess With the sweet silent hours of marriage joys: And when this arm of mine hath chastised 480 The petty rebel, dull-brain 'd Buckingham, Bound with triumphant garlands will I come And lead thy daughter to a conqueror's bed ; To whom I will retail my conquest woii. And she shall be sole victress, Caesar's (Jsesar. Q. Eliz. What were I best to say ? her father's brother Would be her lord ? or shall I say, her uncle ? Or, he that slew her brothers and her uncles ? Under what title shall I woo for thee, That God, the law, my honour and her love. Can make seem pleasing to her tender years ? K. Bich. Infer fair England's peace by this alliance. [ing war. Q. Eliz. Which she shall purchase with still last- K. Bich. Say that the king, which may command, entreats. [forbids. Q. Eliz. That at her hands which the king's King K. Bich. Say, she shall be a high and mighty queen. Q. Eliz. To wail the title, as her mother doth. K. Bich. Say, I will love her everlastingly. Q. Eliz. But how long shall that title ' ever ' last ? K. Bich. Sweetly in force unto her fair life's end. Q. Eliz. But how long fairly shall her sweet life last ? [it. K. Bich. So long as heaven and nature lengthens Q. Eliz. So long as hell and Richard likes of it. K. Bich. Say, I,her sovereign, am her subject love. Q. Eliz. But she, your subject, loathes such sov- ereignty. K. Bich. Be eloquent in my behalf to her. [told. Q. Eliz. An honest tale speeds best being plamly A. Bich. Then in plain terms tell her my loving tale. Q. Eliz. Plain and not honest is too harsh a style. A. Bich. Your reasons are too shallow and too quick. Q. Eliz. O no, my reasons are too deep and dead; Too deep and dead, poor infants, in their grave. K. Bich. Harp not on that string, madam ; that is past. [break. Q. Eliz. Harp on it still shall I till heart-strings K. Bich. Now, by my George, my garter, and my crown, — [usurp 'd. Q. Eliz. Profaned, dishonour'd, and the third it. Bich. I swear — Q. Eliz. By nothing ; for this is no oath : The George, profaned, hath lost his holy honour ; The garter, blemish'd, pawn'd his knightly virtue ; The crown, usurp 'd, disgraced his kingly glory. If something thou wilt swear to be believed. Swear then by something that thou hast not wrong'd. K. Bich. Now, by the world — Q. Eliz. 'T is full of thy foul wrongs. K. Bich. My father's death — Q. Eliz. Thy life hath that dishonour'd. K. Bich. Then, by myself— Q. Eliz. Thyself thyself misusest. K. Bich. Why then, by God — Q. Eliz. God's wrong is most of all. If thou hadst fear'd to break an oath by Him, The unity the king thy brother made Had not been broken, nor my brother slain : If thou hadst fear'd to break an oath by Him, The imperial metal, circling now thy brow. Had graced the tender temples of my child. And both the princes had been breathing here, Which now, two tender playfellows for dust. Thy broken faith hath made a prey for worms. What canst thou swear by now ? -ST. Bich. The time to come. Q. Eliz. That thou hast wronged in the time o'er- For I myself have many tears to wasli [past ; Hereafter time, for time past wrong'd by thee. The children live, whose parents thou hast slaugh- Ungovern'd youth, to wail it in their age ; [ter'd, The parents live ,whose children thou hast butcher'd, ACT IV. KING RICHARD III. SCENE IV. Old wither'd plants, to wail it with their age. Swear not by time to come ; for that thou hast Misused ere used, by time misused o'erpast. K. Rich. As I intend to prosper and repent, So thrive I in my dangerous attempt Of hostile arms ! myself myself confound ! Heaven and fortune bar me happy hours ! Day, yield me not thy light ; nor, night, thy rest ! Be opposite all planets of good luck To my proceedings, if, with pure heart's love, Immaculate devotion, holy thoughts, I tender not thy beauteous princely daughter ! In her consists my happiness and thine ; "Without her, follows to this land and me, To thee, herself, and many a Christian soul, Death, desolation, ruin and decay : It cannot be avoided but by this ; It will not be avoided but by this. Therefore, good mother, — I must call you so — Be the attorney of my love to her : Plead what I will be, not what I have been ; Not my deserts, but what I will deserve : Urge the necessity and state of times, And be not peevish-fond in great designs. - Q. Eliz. Shall I be tempted of the devil thus ? ■ong yourself. Q. Eliz. But thou didst kill my children, [them : K. Mich. But in your daughter's womb I bury Where in that nest of spicery they shall breed Selves of themselves, to your recomforture. Q. Eliz. Shall I go win my daughter to thy will ? K. Bich. And be a happy mother by the deed. Q. Eliz. I go. Write to me very shortly. And you shall understand from me her mind. K. Rich. Bear her my true love's kiss ; and so, farewell. [Exit Queen Elizabeth. Eelenting fool, and shallow, changing woman ! Enter Ratcliff ; Catesby follovnng. How now ! what news ? Rat. My gracious sovereign, on the western coast Kideth a puissant navy ; to the shore Throng many doubtful hollow-hearted friends, Unarm 'd, and unresolved to beat them back : 'T is thought that Eichmond is their admiral ; And there they hull, expecting but the aid Of Buckingham to welcome them ashore. [Norfolk : K. Rich. Some light-foot friend post to the Duke of Batcliff, thyself, or Catesby ; where is he ? Cate. Here, my lord. K. Rich. Fly to the duke : [To Batcliff] Post thou to Salisbury : When thou comest thither,— [To Catesby] Dull, un- mindful villain. Why stand'st thou still, and go'st not to the duke? Cate. First, mighty sovereign, let me know your mind. What from your grace I shall deliver to him. K. Rich. O, true, good Catesby : bid him levy straight The greatest strength and power he can make. And meet me presently at Salisbury. Cate. I go. [Exit. Rat. What is 't your highness' pleasure I shall do At Salisbury ? [I go ? K. Rich. Why, what wouldst thou do there before Rat. Your highness told me I should post before. K. Rich. My mind is changed, sir, my mind is changed. Enter Lord Stanley. How now, what news with you ? [hearing ; Stan. None good, my lord, to please you with the Nor none so bad, but it may well be told. K. Rich. Hoyday, a riddle ! neither good nor bad ! 31 Why dost thou run so many mile about, When thou mayst tell thy tale a nearer way ? Once more, what news ? Stan. Richmond is on the seas. K. Rich. There let him sink, and be the seas on White-liver'd runagate, what doth he there ? [him ! Stan,. I know not, mighty sovereign, but by guess. K. Rich. Well, sir, as you guess, as you guess ? Stan. Stirr'd up by Dorset, Buckingham, and Ely, He makes for England, there to claim the crown. K. Rich. Is the chair empty ? is the sword un- sway'd ? Is the king dead ? the empire unpossess'd ? What heir of York is there alive but we ? And who is England's king but great York's heir ? Then, tell me, what doth he upon the sea ? Stan. Unless for that, my liege, I cannot guess. K. Rich. Unless for that he comes to be your liege. You cannot guess wherefore the Welshman comes. Thou wilt revolt, and fly to him, I fear. Stan. No, mighty liege; therefore mistrust me not. K. Rich. Where is thy power, then, to beat him Where are thy tenants and thy followers ? [back ? Are they not now upon the western shore. Safe-conducting the rebels from their ships ? Stan. No, my good lord, my friends are in the north. K. Rich. Cold friends to Richard : what do they in the north. When they should serve their sovereign in the west ? Stan. They have not been commanded , mighty sov- Please it your majesty to give me leave, [ereign : I '11 muster up my friends, and meet your grace Where and what time your majesty shall please. K. Rich. Ay, ay, thou wouldst be gone to join with I will not trust you, sir. [Richmond : Stan. Most mighty sovereign. You have no cause to hold my friendship doubtful : I never was nor never will be false. K. Rich. Well, Go muster men ; but, hear you, leave behind Your son, George Stanley : look your faith be firm, Or else his head's assurance is but frail. Stan. So deal with him as I prove true to you. [Exit. Enter a Messenger. Mess. My gracious sovereign, now in Devonshire, As I by friends am well advertised. Sir Edward Courtney, and the haughty prelate Bishop of Exeter, his brother there. With many moe confederates, are in arms. Enter another Messenger. Sec. Mess. Myliege,inKenttheGuildfordsarein And every hour more competitors [arms ; Flock to their aid, and stiU their power increaseth. Enter another Messenger. Tliird Mess. My lord, the army of the Duke of Buckingham — K. Rich. Out on you, owls ! nothing but songs of death ? [He striketh him. Take that, until thou bring me better news. Third Mess. The news I have to tell your majesty Is, that by sudden floods and fall of waters, Buckingham's army is dispersed and scatter'd; And he himself wander 'd away alone. No man knows whither. K. Rich. I cry thee mercy : There is my purse to cure that blow of thine. Hath any well-advised friend proclaim 'd Reward to him that brings the traitor in ? Third Mess. Such proclamation hath been made, my liege. Enter anoti Fourth Mess. Sir Thomas Lovel and Lord Mar- quis Dorset, 481 ACT V. KING RICHARD III SCENE III. 'Tis said, my liege, in Yorkshire are in arms. Yet this good comfort bring I to your grace, The Breton navy is dispersed by tempest : Bichmond, in Dorsetshire, sent out a boat Unto the shore, to ask those on the banlis If they were liis assistants, yea or no ; Who answer'd him, they came from Buckingham Upon liis party : he, mistrusting them, Hoised sail and made away for Brittany. K. Rich. March on, march on, since we are up in If not to fight with foreign enemies, [arms ; Yet to beat down these rebels here at home. Re-enter Catesby. Cate. My liege, the Duke of Buckingham is taken ; That is the best news : that the Earl of Richmond Is with a mighty power landed at Milford, Is colder tidings, yet they must be told. K. Rich. Away towards Salisbury ! while we rea- A royal battle might be won and lost : [son here, Some one take order Buckingham be brought To Salisbury ; the rest march on with me. [Flourish. Exeunt. SCENE v.— Lord Derby ^s house. Enter Derby and Sir Christopher Urswick. Der. Sir Christopher, tell Richmond this from me : That in the sty of this most bloody boar My son George Stanley is f rank'd up in hold : If I revolt, off goes young George's head ; The fear of that withholds my present aid. But, tell me, where is princely Richmond now ? CJiris. At Pembroke, or at Ha'rford-west, in Ber. What men of name resort to him y [Wales. CJiris. Sir Walter Herbert, a renowned soldier ; Sir Gilbert Talbot, Sir William Stanley ; Oxford, redoubted Pembroke, Sir James Blunt, And Rice ap Thomas, with a valiant crew ; And many moe of noble fame and worth : And towards London they do bend their course, If by the way they be not fought withal. Der. Return unto thy lord ; commend me to him : Tell him the queen hath heartily consented He shall espouse Elizabeth her daughter. These letters wiU resolve him of my mind. Farewell. [Exeunt. ^CT V^. SCENE I.— Salisbury. An open place. Enter the Sheriff, and Buckingham, with halberds, led to execution. Buck. WiU not King Richard let me speak with him? Sher. No, my good lord; therefore be patient. Buck. Hastings, and Edward's children. Rivers, Holy King Henry, and thy fair son Edward, [Grey, Vaughan, and all that have miscarried By underhand corrupted foul injustice. If that your moody discontented souls Do through the clouds behold this present hour. Even for revenge mock my destruction ! This is All-Souls' day, fellows, is it not ? Sher. It is, my lord. [doomsday. Buck. Why, then All-Souls' day is my body's This is the day that, in King Edward's time, I wish'd might fall on me, when I was found Ealse to his children or his wife's allies ; This is the day wherein I wish'd to fall By the false faith of him I trusted most ; This, this All-Souls' day to my fearful soul Is the determined respite of my wrongs ; That high All-Seer that I dallied with Hath turn'd my feigned prayer on my head And given in earnest what I begg'd in jest. Thus doth he force the swords of wicked men To turn their own points on their masters' bosoms : Now Margaret's curse is fallen upon my head; ' When he,' quoth she, ' shall split thy heart with Remember Margaret was a prophetess.' [sorrow, Come, sirs, convey me to the block of shame ; Wrong hath but wrong, and blame the due of blame. [Exeunt. SCENE n. — The camp near Tamworth. Enter Richmond, Oxford, Blunt, Herbert, and others, with drum and colours. Richm. Fellows in arms, and my most loving Bruised underneath the yoke of tyranny, [friends, Thus far into the bowels of the land Have we march'd on without impediment ; And here receive we from our father Stanley Lines of fair comfort and encouragement. The v/retched, bloody, and usurping boar. That spoil'd your summer fields and fruitful vines, SwUls your warm blood like wash, and makes his trough In your embowell'd bosoms, this foul swine Lies now even in the centre of this isle, Near to the town of Leicester, as we learn : From Tamworth thither is but one day's march. In God's name, cheerly on, courageous friends. To reap the harvest of perpetual peace By this one bloody trial of sharp war. Oxf. Every man's conscience is a thousand swords, To fight against that bloody homicide. Herb. I doubt not but his friends will fly to us. Blunt. He hath no friends but who are fi'iends for fear. Which in his greatest need will shrink from him. Richm. All for our vantage. Then, in God's name, march : True hope is swift, and flies with swallow's wings; Kings it makes gods, and meaner creatures kings. [Exeunt. SCENE HI. — Bosworth Field. Enter King Richard in arms, with Norfolk, the Earl of Surrey, and others. K. Rich. Here pitch our tents, even here in Bos- My Lord of Surrey , why look you so sad ? [worth field. Sur. My heart is ten times lighter than my looks. K. Rich. My Lord of Norfolk,— Nor. Here, most gracious liege. K. Rich. Norfolk, we must have knocks; ha! must we not ? [lord. Nor. We must both give and take, my gracious jK". Rich. Up with my tent there ! here will I lie to-night ; But where to-morrow ? Well, all 's one for that. Who hath descried the number of the foe ? Nor. Six or seven thousand is their utmost power. K. Rich. Why, our battalion trebles that account: Besides, the king's name is a tower of strength. Which they upon the adverse party want. Up with my tent there ! Valiant gentlemen, Let us survey the vantage of the field ; Call for some men of sound direction : Let 's want no discipline, make no delay ; For, lords, to-morrow is a busy day. [Exeunt. Enter, on the other side of the field, Bichmond, Sir Wil- liam Brandon, Oxford, and others. Some of the Sol- diers pitch Richmond's tent. Richm. The weary sun hath made a golden set, And, by the bright track of his fiery car, ACT V. KING RICHARD III SCENE III. G-ives signal of a goodly day to-morrow. Sir William Brandon, you shall bear my standard. Give me some ink and paper in my tent : I '11 draw the form and model of our battle, Limit each leader to his several charge, And part in just proportion our small strength. My Lord of Oxford, you, Sir William Brandon, And you, Sir Walter Herbert, stay with me. The Earl of Pembroke keeps his regiment : Good Captain Blunt, bear my good-night to him, And by the second hour in the morning Desire the earl to see me in my tent : Yet one thing more, good Blunt, before thou go'st. Where is Lord Stanley quarter 'd, dost thou know ? Blunt. Unless I have mista'en his colours much. Which well I am assured I have not done, His regiment lies half a mile at least South from the mighty power of the king. Bichm. If without peril it be possible. Good Captain Blunt, bear my good-night to him. And give him from me this most needful scroll. Blunt. Upon my life, my lord, I '11 undertake it ; And so, God give you quiet rest to-night ! Bichm. Good-night, good Captain Blunt. Come, gentlemen. Let us consult upon to-morrow's business : In to our tent ; the air is raw and cold. [Tliey withdraw into the tent. Unter, to his tent, King Richard, Norfolk, Rat- cliff, Catesby, and others. K. Bich. What is 't o'clock ? Gate. It 's supper-time, my lord ; It 's nine o'clock. K. Bich. 1 will not sup to-night. Give me some ink and paper. What, is my beaver easier than it was? And all my armour laid into my tent ? [ness. Gate. It is, my liege; and all things are in readi- K. Bich. Good Norfolk, hie thee to thy charge ; Use careful watch, choose trusty sentinels. Nor. I go, my lord. [Norfolk. K. Bich. Stir with the lark to-morrow, gentle Nor. I warrant you, my lord. [Exit. K. Bich. Catesby ! Gate. My lord ? K. Bich. Send out a pursuivant at arms To Stanley's regiment ; bid him bring his power Before sunrising, lest his son George fall Into the blind cave of eternal night. [Exit Gatesby. rill me a bowl of wine. Give me a watch. Saddle white Surrey for the field to-morrow. Look that my staves be sound, and not too heavy. EatclifC ! Bat. My lord ? [umberland ? K. Bich. Saw'st thou the melancholy Lord North- Bat. Thomas the Earl of Surrey, and himseK, Much about cock-shut time, from troop to troop Went through the army, cheering up the soldiers. K. Bich. So, I am satisfied. Give me a bowl of I have not that alacrity of spirit, [wine : Nor cheer of mind, that I was wont to have. Set it down. Is ink and paper ready ? Bat. It is, my lord. K. Bich. Bid my guard watch ; leave me. Eatcliff, about the mid of night come to my tent And help to arm me. Leave me, I say. [Exeunt Batcliff and the other Attendants. Enter Derby to Richmond in his tent, Lords and others attending, Der. Eortune and victory sit on thy helm! Bichm. All comfort that the dark night can afford Be to thy person, noble father-in-law ! Tell me, how fares our loving mother? Der. I, by attorney, bless thee from thy mother, Who prays continually for Richmond's good: So much for that. The silent hours steal on, And flaky darkness breaks within the east. In brief,— for so the season bids us be, — Prepare thy battle early in the morning. And put thy fortune to the arbitrement Of bloody strokes and mortal-staring war. I, as I may— that which I would I cannot,— With best advantage will deceive the time. And aid thee in this doubtful shock of arms : But on thy side I may not be too forward. Lest, being seen, thy brother, tender George, Be executed in his father's sight. Farewell : the leisure and the fearful time Cuts off the ceremonious vows of love And ample interchange of sweet discourse. Which so long sunder'd friends should dwell upon: God give us leisure for these rites of love ! Once more, adieu : be valiant, and speed well! Bichm. Good lords, conduct him to his regiment; I '11 strive, with troubled thoughts, to take a nap. Lest leaden slumber peise me down to-morrow. When I should mount with wings of victory : Once more, good-night, kind lords and gentlemen. [Exeunt all but Bichmond. O Thou, whose captain I account myself. Look on my forces with a gracious eye ; Put in their hands thy bruising irons of wrath, That they may crush down with a hea'V'y fall The usurping helmets of our adversaries ! Make us thy ministers of chastisement. That we may praise thee in the victory ! To thee I do commend my watchful soul. Ere I let fall the windows of mine eyes : Sleeping and waking, O, defend me still ! [Sleeps. Enter the Ghost of Prince Ed-ward, son to Henry the Sixth. Ghost. [To Bichard] Let me sit heavy on thy soul to-morrow ! Think, how thou stab'dst me in my prime of youth At Tewksbury : despair, therefore, and die I [To Bichmond] Be cheerful, Eichmond; for the wronged souls Of butcher 'd princes fight in thy behalf: King Henry's issue, Eichmond, comforts thee. Enter the Ghost of Henry the Sixth. Ghost. [To Bichard] When I was mortal, my anointed body By thee was punched full of deadly holes : Think on the Tower and me : despair, and die ! Harry the Sixth bids thee despair and die ! [queror ! [To Bichmond] Virtuous and holy, be thou con- Harry, that prophesied thou shouldst be king, Doth comfort thee in thy sleep: live, and flourish! Enter the Ghost of Clarence. Ghost. [To Bichard] Let me sit heavy on thy soul to-morrow ! I, that was wash'd to death with fulsome wine, Poor Clarence, by thy guile betrayed to death! To-morrow in the battle think on me. And fall thy edgeless sword : despair, and die ! — [To Bichmond] Thou offspring of the house of Lan- The wronged heirs of York do pray for thee : [caster, Good angels guard thy battle! live, and flourish! Enter the Ghosts of Rivers, Grey, and Vaughan. Ghost of B. [To Bichard] Let me sit heavy on thy soul to-morrow. Elvers, that died at Pomfret ! despair, and die ! of G. [To Bichard] Think upon Grey, and let thy soul despair ! of V. [To Bichard] Think upon Vaughan, and, with guilty fear. Let fall thy lance : despair, and die ! All. [To Bichmond] Awake, and think our wrongs in Eichard's bosom Will conquer him ! awake, and win the day! ACT V. KING RICHARD III SCENE III. Enter the Ghost of Hastings. Ghost. [To Richard] Bloody and guilty, guiltily And in a bloody battle end thy days ! [awake, Think on Lord Hastings : despair, and die ! [To Bichmond] Quiet untroubled soul, awake, awake! Arm, fight, and conquer, for fair England's sake ! Enter the Ghosts of the two young Princes. Ghosts. [To Richard} Dream on thy cousins smother'd in the Tower : Let us be lead within thy bosom, Richard, And weigh thee down to ruin, shame, and death ! Thy nephews' souls bid thee despair and die ! [To Richmond] Sleep, Eichmond, sleep in peace, and wake in joy ; Good angels guard thee from the boar's annoy ! Live, and beget a happy race of kings ! Edward's unhappy sons do bid thee flourish. Enter the Ghost of Lady Anne. Ghost. [To Richard] Richard, thy wife, that wretched Anne thy wife. That never slept a quiet hour with thee, Now fills thy sleep with perturbations : To-morrow in the battle think on me, And fall thy edgeless sword : despair, and die I [To Richmond] Thou quiet soul, sleep thou a quiet JDream of success and happy victory ! [sleep ; Thy adversary's wife doth pray for thee. Enter the Ghost of Buckingham. Ghost. [ To Richard] The first was I that helped thee The last was I that felt thy tyranny: [to the crown ; O, in the battle think on Buckingham, And die in terror of thy guiltiness ! Dream on, dream on, of bloody deeds and death : Fainting, despair; despairing, yield thy breath! [To Richmond] I died for hope ere I could lend thee But cheer thy heart, and be thou not dismay 'd : [aid : God and good angels fight on Richmond's side ; And Richard falls in height of all his pride. [The Ghosts vanish. King Richard starts out of his dream. K. Rich. Give me another horse: bind up my wounds. Have mercy, Jesu ! — Soft ! I did but dream. coward conscience, how dost thou afilict me ! The lights burn blue. It is now dead midnight. Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh. What do I fear v myself ? there 's none else by : Richard loves Richard ; that is, I am I. Is there a murderer here V No. Yes, I am : Then fly. What, from myself ? Great reason why : Lest I revenge. What, myself upon myself ? Alack, I love myself. Wherefore ? for any good That I myself have done unto myself ? O, no ! alas, I rather hate myself For hateful deeds committed by myself ! 1 am a villain : yet I lie, I am not. Fool, of thyself speak well: fool, do not flatter. My conscience hath a thousand several tongues. And every tongue brings in a several tale, And every tale condemns me for a villain. Perjury, perjury, in the high'st degree; Murder, stern murder, in the direst degree ; All several sins, aU used in each degree, Throng to the bar, crying all. Guilty I guilty! I shall despair. There is no creature loves me ; And if I die, no soul shall pity me : Nay, wherefore should they, since that I myself Find in myself no pity to myself ? Methought tlie souls of all that I had murder'd Came to my tent ; and every one did threat To-morrow's vengeance on the head of Richard. Enter Ratcliflf. Bat. My lord ! K. Bich. 'Zounds ! who is there ? 484 Bat. Ratcliff , my lord ; 't is I. The early village- Hath twice done salutation to the morn ; [cock Your friends are up, and buckle on their armour. K. Rich. O Ratcliff, I have dream'd a fearful dream ! What thinkest thou, will our friends prove all true ? Rat. No doubt, my lord ? K. Rich. O Ratclife, I fear, I fear,— Rat. Nay, good my lord, be not afraid of shadows. K. Rich. By the apostle Paul, shadows to-night Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard Than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers Armed in proof, and led by shallow Richmond. It is not yet near day. Come, go with me ; Under our tents I '11 play the eaves-dropper. To see if any mean to shrink from me. (Exeunt. Enter the Lords to Ricliniond, sitting in his tent. Lords. Good morrow, Richmond ! Richm. Cry mercy, lords and watchful gentlemen, That you have ta'en a tardy sluggard here. Lords. How have you slept, my lord ? [dreams Richm. The sweetest sleep, and fairest-boding That ever enter 'd in a drowsy head, Have I since your departure had, my lords, [der'd, Methought their souls, whose bodies Richard mur- Came to my tent, and cried on victory : I promise you, my soul is very jocund In the remembrance of so fair a dream. How far into the morning is it, lords ? Lords. Upon the stroke of four. [tion. Richm. Why, then 't is time to arm and give direc- Sis oration to his soldiers. More than I have said, loving countrymen, The leisure and enforcement of the time Forbids to dwell upon : yet remember this, God and our good cause fight upon our side ; The prayers of holy saints and wronged souls, Like high-rear'd bulwarks, stand before our faces; Richard except, those whom we fight against Had rather have us win than him they follow : For what is he they follow ? truly, gentlemen, A bloody tyrant and a homicide ; One raised in blood, and one in blood establish 'd ; One that made means to come by what he hath, And slaughter'd those that were the means to help A base foul stone, made precious by the foil [him; Of England's chair, where he is falsely set ; One that hath ever been God's enemy : Then, if you fight against God's enemy, God will in justice ward you as his soldiers ; If you do sweat to put a tyrant down. You sleep in peace, the tyrant being slain; If you do fight against your country's foes. Your country's fat shall pay your pains the hire ; If you do fight in safeguard of your wives. Your wives shall welcome home the conquerors ; If you do free your children from the sword. Your children's children quit it in your age. Then, in the name of God and all these rights. Advance your standards, draw your willing swords. For me, the ransom of my bold attempt Shall be this cold corpse on the earth's cold face; But if I thrive, the gain of my attempt The least of you shall share his part thereof. Sound drums and trumpets boldly and cheerfully ; God and Saint George ! Richmond and victory ! [Exeunt. Re-enter King Richard, Ratcliff, Attendants and Forces. K. Rich. What said Northumberland as touching Richmond ? Rat. That he was never trained up in arms. K. Rich. He said the truth : and what said Sur- rey then? [pose.' Bat. He smiled and said ' The better for our pur- ACT V. KING RICHARD III SCENE V. K. Bich. He was in the right ; and so indeed it is. IClock striketh. Tell the clock there. Give me a calendar. Who saw the sun to-day ? Bat. Not I, my lord, [book K. Bich. Then he disdains to shine ; for by the He should have braved the east an hour ago : A black day will it be to somebody. Katclife! Bat. My lord ? K. Bich. The sun will not be seen to-day ; The sky doth frown and lour upon our army. I would these dewy tears were from the ground. Not shine to-day ! Why. what is that to me More than to Richmond r for the selfsame heaven That frowns on me looks sadly upon him. Enter Norfolk. ITor. Arm, arm, my lord ; the foe vaimts in the field. K. Bich. Come, bustle, bustle; caparison my horse. Call up Lord Stanley, bid him bring his power : I will lead forth my soldiers to the plain, And thus my battle shall be ordered : My foreward shall be drawn out all in length, Consisting equally of horse and foot ; Our archers shall be placed in the midst : John Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Earl of Surrey, Shall have the leading of this foot and horse. They thus directed, we will follow In the main battle, whose puissance on either side Shall be well winged with our chiefest horse. This, and Saint George to boot I What think 'st thou, Norfolk ? Nor. A good direction, warlike sovereign. This found I on my tent this morning. [He sheweth him a paper. K. Bich. [Beads] ' Jockey of Norfolk, be not too For Dickon thy master is bought and sold.' [bold, A thing devised by the enemy. Go, gentlemen, every man unto his charge: Let not our babbling dreams affright our souls : Conscience is but a word that cowards use. Devised at first to keep the strong in awe : Our strong arms be our conscience, swords our law. March on, join bravely, let us to 't pell-mell ; If not to heaven, then hand iu hand to hell. Sis oration to his army. What shall I say more than I have inferr'd ? Remember whom you are to cope withal ; A sort of vagabonds, rascals, and runaways, A scum of Bretons, and base lackey peasants. Whom their o'er-cloyed country vomits forth To desperate ventures and assured destruction. You sleeping safe, they bring to you unrest ; You having lands, and blest with beauteous wives, They would restrain the one, distain the other. And who doth lead them but a paltry fellow. Long kept in Bretagne at our mother's cost ? A milk-sop, one that never in his life Felt so much cold as over shoes in snow ? Let 's whip these stragglers o'er the seas again ; Lash hence these overweening rags of France, These famish'd beggars, weary of their lives ; Who, but for dreaming on this fond exploit. For want of means, poor rats, had hang'd them- If we be conquer'd, let men conquer us, [selves : And not these bastard Bretons ; whom our fathers Have in their own land beaten, bobb'd, and thump'd, And in record, left them the heirs of shame. Shall these enjoy our lands ? lie with our wives ? Ravish our daughters? [Drum afar off.] Hark! I hear their drum. Fight, gentlemen of England ! fight, bold yeomen I Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the head ! Spur your proud horses hard, and ride in blood ; Amaze the welkin with your broken staves I Writer a Messenger. What says Lord Stanley ? will he bring his power ? Mess. My lord, he doth deny to come. K. Bich. Off with his son George's head ! Nor. My lord, the enemy is past the marsh : After the battle let George Stanley die. K. Bich. A thousand hearts are great within my Advance our standards, set upon our foes ; [bosom : Our ancient word of courage, fair Saint George, Inspire us with the spleen of fiery dragons ! Upon them ! Victory sits on our helms. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. — Another part of the field. Alarum : excursions. Enter Norfolk and forces fighting ; to him Catesby. Gate. Rescue, my Lord of Norfolk, rescue, rescue 1 The king enacts more wonders than a man, Daring an opposite to every danger : His horse is slain, and all on foot he fights. Seeking for Richmond in the throat of death. Rescue, fair lord, or else the day is lostl Alarums. Enter King Richard. K.Bich. Ahorse! ahorse! my kingdom for a horse! Cate. Withdraw, my lord ; I '11 help you to a horse. K. Bich. Slave, I have set my life upon a cast, And I will stand the hazard of the die : I think there be six Richmonds in the field ; Five have I slain to-day instead of him. A horse I a horse I my kingdom for a horse I [Exeunt. SCENE v.— Another part of the field. Alarum. Enter Eichard and Richmond; they fight. Richard is slain. Retreat and flourish. He-enter Rich- mond, Derby bearing the crown, with divers other Lords. Bichm. God and your arms be praised, victorious The day is ours, the bloody dog is dead, [friends ; Der. Courageous Richmond, well hast thou acquit Lo, here, this long-usurped royalty [thee. From the dead temples of this bloody wretch Have I pluck'd off, to grace thy brows withal : Wear it, enjoy it, and make much of it. Bichm. Great God of heaven, say Amen to all I But, tell me, is young George Stanley living ? Der. He is, my lord, and safe in Leicester town ; Whither, if it please you, we may now withdraw us. Bichm. What men of name are slain on either side ? Der. John Duke of Norfolk, Walter Lord Ferrers, Sir Robert Brakenbury, and Sir William Brandon. Bichm. Inter their bodies as becomes their births : Proclaim a pardon to the soldiers fled That in submission will return to us : And then, as we have ta'en the sacrament, We wiU unite the white rose and the red : Smile heaven upon this fair conjunction. That long have frown 'd upon their enmity! What traitor hears me, and says not amen ? England hath long been mad, and scarr'd herself; The brother blindly shed the brother's blood, The father rashly slaughter'd his own son. The son, compell'd, been butcher to the sire: All this divided York and Lancaster, Divided in their dire division, O, now, let Richmond and Elizabeth, The true succeeders of each royal house. By God's fair ordinance conjoin together! And let their heirs, God, if thy will be so. Enrich the time to come with smooth-faced peace. With smUing plenty and fair prosperous days ! Abate the edge of traitors, gracious Lord, That would reduce these bloody days again, And make poor England weep in streams of blood I Let them not live to taste this land's increase That would with treason wound this fair land 's peace ! Now civil wounds are stopp'd, peace lives again: That she may long live here, God say amen ! [Exeunt. 486 THE FAMOUS HISTORY OF THE LIFE OF KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. BBAMATIS FEB SON JE. King Henry the Eighth. Cardinal Wolsey. Cardinal Campeius. Capucius, Ambassador from the Emperor Charles V. Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury. Duke of Norfolk. Duke of Buckingbam. Duke of Suffolk. Earl of Surrey^ Lord Chamberlain. Lord Chancellor. Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester. Bishop of Lincoln. Lord Abergavenny, Lord Sands. Sir Henry Guildford. Sir Thomas Lovell. Sir Anthony Denny. Sir Nicholas Vaux. Secretaries to Wolsey. Cromwell, Servant to Wolsey. Grifiath, Gentleman-usher to Queen Katharine. Three Gentlemen. Doctor Butts, Physician to the King. Garter King-at-Arms. Surveyor to the Duke of Buckingham. Brandon, and a Sergeant-at-Arms. Door-keeper of the Council-chamber. Porter, and his Man. Page to Gardiner. A Crier. Queen Katharine, wife to King Henry, afterwards divorced. Anne Bullen, her Maid of Honour, 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 ; Scribes, Officers, Guards, and other Attendants. [For SCENE — London ; lysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page LVlll.] Spirits. Westminster ; KimboUon. THE I>IlOLOaUE. I COME no more to make you laugh : things now, That bear a weighty and a serious brow, Sad, high, and working, full of state and woe. Such noble scenes as draw the eye to flow, "We now present. Those that can pity, here May, if they think it well, let fall a tear; The subject will deserve it. Such as give Their money out of hope they may believe. May here find truth too. Those that come to see Only a show or two, and so agree The play may pass, if they be still and willing, I '11 undertake may see away their shilling Bichly in two short hours. Only they That come to hear a merry bawdy play, A noise of targets, or to see a fellow In a long motley coat guarded with yellow, "Will be deceived ; for, gentle hearers, know, To rank our chosen truth with such a show As fool and fight is, beside forfeiting Our own brains, and the opinion that we bring, To make that only true we now intend, "Will leave us never an understanding friend. Therefore, for goodness' sake, and as you are known The first and happiest hearers of the town. Be sad, as we would make ye : think ye see The very persons of our noble story As they were living ; think you see them great. And foUow'd with the general throng and sweat Of thousand friends ; then in a moment, see How soon this mightiness meets misery : And, if you can be merry then, I '11 say A man may weep upon his wedding-day. .ACT I. SCENE I. — London. An antechamber in the palace. Enter the Duke of Norfolk at one door ; at the other, the Duke of Buckingham and the Lord Abergavenny. B-mk. Good morrow, and well met. How have Since last we saw in France r" [ye done Nor. I thank yom: grace, Healthful ; and ever since a fresh admirer Of what I saw there. Buck. An untimely ague Stay'd me a prisoner in my chamber when Those suns of glory, those two lights of men. Met in the vale of Andren. Nor. 'Twixt Guynes and Arde: I was then present, saw them salute on horseback; Beheld them, when they lighted, how they clung In their embracement, as they grew together; "Which had they, what four throned ones could Such a compounded one ? [have weigh 'd ACT I. KING HENRY VI I L SCENE I. Buck. All the whole time I was my chamber's prisoner. Nor. Then you lost The view of earthly glory : men might say, Till this time pomp was single, but now married To one above itself. Each following day Became the next day's master, till the last Made former wonders its. To-day the French, All clinquant, all in gold, like heathen gods. Shone down the English; and, to-morrow, they Made Britain India : every man that stood Show'd like a mine. Their dwarfish pages were As cherubins, all gilt : the madams too, Not used to toil, did almost sweat to bear The pride upon them, that their very labour "Was to them as a painting : now this masque Was cried incomparable ; and the ensuing night Made it a fool and beggar. The two kings, Equal in lustre, were now best, now worst, As presence did present them ; him in eye. Still him in praise : and, being present both, 'T was said they saw but one ; and no discerner Durst wag his tongue in censure. When these suns — For so they phrase 'em — by their heralds challenged The noble spirits to arms, they did perform Beyond thought's compass; that former fabulous Being now seen possible enough, got credit, [story, That Bevis was believed. Buck. O, you go far. Nor. As I belong to worship and affect In honour honesty, the tract of every thing Would by a good discourser lose some life, Which action's self was tongue to. All was royal ; To the disposing of it nought rebell'd, Order gave each thing view ; the office did Distinctly his full function. Buck. Who did guide, I mean, who set the body and the limbs Of this great sport together, as you guess ? Nor. One, certes, that promises no element In such a business. Buck. I pray you, who, my lord ? Nor. All this was order'd by the good discretion Of the right reverend Cardinal of York. Buck. The devil speed him ! no man's pie is freed From his ambitious finger. What had he To do in these fierce vanities ? I wonder That such a keech can with his very bulk Take up the rays o' the beneficial sun And keep it from the earth. Not. Surely, sir, There 's in him stuff that puts him to these ends ; For, being not propp'd by ancestry, whose grace Chalks successors their way, nor call'd upon For high feats done to the crown ; neither allied To eminent assistants ; but, spider-like. Out of his self -drawing web, he gives us note, The force of his own merit makes his way ; A gift that heaven gives for him, which buys A place next to the king. Aber. I cannot tell What heaven hath given him, — let some graver eye Pierce into that ; but I can see his pride [that. Peep through each part of him: whence has he If not from hell y the devil is a niggard. Or has given all before, and he begins A new hell in himself. Buck. Why the devil. Upon this French going out, took he upon him, Without the privity o' the king, to appoint Who should attend on him ? He makes up the file Of all the gentry ; for the most part such To whom as great a charge as little honour He meant to lay upon : and his own letter, The honourable board of council out. Must fetch him in the papers. Aber. I do know Kinsmen of mine, three at the least, that have By this so sicken'd their estates, that never They shall abound as formerly. Buck. O, many Have broke their backs with laying manors on 'em For this great journey. What did this vanity But minister communication of A most poor issue ? Nor. Grievingly I think, The peace between the French and us not values The cost that did conclude it. Buck. Every man. After the hideous storm that follow 'd, was A thing inspired ; and, not consulting, broke Into a general prophecy ; That this tempest. Dashing the garment of this peace, aboded The sudden breach on 't. Nor. Which is budded out ; For France hath flaw'd the league, and hath at- Our merchants' goods at Bourdeaux. [tach'd Aher. Is it therefore The ambassador is silenced ? Nor. Marry, is 't. Aber. A proper title of a peace ; and purchased At a superfluous rate ! Buck. Why, all this business Our reverend cardinal carried. Nor. Like it your grace, The state takes notice of the private difference Betwixt you and the cardinal. I advise you — And take it from a heart that wishes towards you Honour and plenteous safety — that you read The cardinal's malice and his potency Together ; to consider further that What his high hatred would effect wants not A minister in his power. You know his nature, That he 's revengeful, and I know his sword Hath a sharp edge : it 's long and, 't may be said, It reaches far, and where 'twill not extend. Thither he darts it. Bosom up my counsel, [rock You '11 find it wholesome. Lo, where comes that That I advise your shunning. Enter Cardinal Wolsey, the purse home before him, cer- tain of the Guard, and two Secretaries with papers. The Cardinal in his passage fixelh his eye on Bucking- ham, and Buckingham on him, both full of disdain. Wol. The Duke of Buckingham's surveyor, ha? Where 's his examination ? First Seer. Here, so please you. Wol. Is he in person ready ? First Seer. Ay, please your grace, Wol. Well, we shall then know more ; and Buck- Shall lessen this big look. [ingham [Exeunt Wolsey and his Train. Buck. This butcher's cur is venom-mouth 'd, and I Have not the power to muzzle him ; therefore best Not wake him in his slumber. A beggar's book Outworths a noble's blood. Nor. What, are you chafed ? Ask God for temperance ; that 's the appliance only Which your disease requires. Buck. 1 read in 's looks Matter against me ; and his eye reviled Me, as his abject object : at this instant He bores me with some trick ; he 's gone to the king; I '11 follow and outstare him. Nor. Stay, my lord. And let your reason with your choler question What 'tis you go about : to climb steep hills Kequires slow pace at first : anger is like A full-hot horse, who being allow'd his way, Self-mettle tires him. Not a man in England Can advise me like you : be to yourself As you would to your friend. Bu£k. I '11 to the king ; And from a mouth of honour quite cry down 487 ACT I. KING HENRY VIII. SCENE II. This Ipswich fellow's insolence ; or proclaim There 's difference in no persons. Nor. Be advised ; Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot That it do singe yourself: we may outrun, By violent swiftness, that which we run at, And lose by over-running. Know you not, The fire that mounts the liquor till 't run o'er. In seeming to augment it wastes it ? Be advised : I say again, there is no English soul More stronger to direct you than yourself. If with the sap of reason you would quench, Or but allay, the fire of passion. Buck. Sir, I am thankful to you ; and I '11 go along By your prescription : but this top-proud fellow, Whom from the flow of gall I name not but Erom sincere motions, by intelligence, And proofs as clear as founts in July when We see each grain of gravel, I do know To be corrupt and treasonous. Nor. Say not ' treasonous.' Buck. To the king I'll say 't; and make my vouch as strong As shore of rock. Attend. This holy fox, Or wolf, or both,— for he is equal ravenous As he is subtle, and as prone to mischief As able to perform 't ; his mind and place Infecting one another, yea, reciprocally — Only to show his pomp as well in Erance As here at home, suggests the king our master To this last costly treaty, the interview. That swallow'd so much treasure, and like a glass Did break i' the rinsing. Nor. Eaith, and so it did. Buck. Pray, give me favour, sir. This cunning The articles o' the combination drew [cardinal As himself pleased ; and they were ratified As he cried ' Thus let be ' : to as much end As give a crutch to the dead : but our count-cardinal • Has done this, and 't is well; for worthy Wolsey, Who cannot err, he did it. Now this follows, — Which, as I take it, is a kind of puppy To the old dam, treason, — Charles the emperor, Under pretence to see the queen his aunt, — For 't was indeed his colour, but he came To whisper Wolsey, — here makes visitation : His fears were, that the interview betwixt England and Erance might, through their amity, Breed him some prejudice; for from this league Peep'd harms that menaced him : he privily Deals with our cardinal ; and, as I trow, — Which I do well ; for I am sure the emperor Paid ere he promised ; whereby his suit was granted Ere it was ask'd ; but when the way was made. And paved with gold, the emperor thus desired, That he would please to alter the king's course. And break the foresaid peace. Let the king know, As soon he shall by me, that thus the cardinal Does buy and sell his honour as he pleases, And for his own advantage. Nor. I am sorry To hear this of him ; and could wish he were Something mistaken in 't. Buck. No, not a syllable : I do pronounce him in that very shape He shall appear in proof. Enter Brandon, a Sergeant-at-arms before him, and two or three of the Guard. Bran. Your office, sergeant ; execute it. Berg. Sir, My lord the Duke of Buckingham, and Earl Of Hereford, Stafford, and JSTorthampton, I Arrest thee of high treason, in the name Of our most sovereign king. Buck. Lo, you, my lord, 488 The net has f aU'n upon me ! I shall perish Under device and practice. Bran. 1 am sorry To see you ta'en from liberty, to look on The business present : 't is his highness' pleasure You shall to the Tower. Bu£k. It will help me nothing To plead mine innocence ; for that dye is on me Which makes my whitest part black. The wiU of Be done in this and all things ! I obey. [heaven my Lord Abergavenny, fare you well ! Bran. Nay, he must bear you company. The king [To Abergavenny. Is pleased you shall to the Tower, tUl you know How he determines further. Aber. As the duke said, The will of heaven be done, and the king's pleasure By me obey'd ! Bran. Here is a warrant from The king to attach Lord Montacute ; and the bodies Of the duke's confessor, John de la Car, One Gilbert Peck, his chancellor,— Buck. So, so; These are the limbs o' the plot ; no more, I hope. Bran. A monk o' the Chartreux. Buck. O, Nicholas Hopkins ? Bran. He. Bu£k. My surveyor is false ; the o'er-great cardinal Hath show'd him gold ; my life is spann'd already : 1 am the shadow of poor Buckingham, Whose figure even this instant cloud puts on. By darkening my clear sun. My lord, farewell. [Exeunt. SCENE II. — The same. The council-chamber. Cornets. Miter the E3iig, leaning on the Cardinal's shoul' der, the Nobles, and Sir Thomas Lovell ; the Cardinal places himself under the King's feet on his right side. King. 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 choked it. Let be call'd before us That gentleman of Buckingham's ; in person I '11 hear him his confessions justify ; And point by point the treasons of his master He shall again relate. A noise within, crying ' Room for the Queen ! ' Enter Queen Katharine, ushered by the Duke of Norfolk, and the Duke of Suffolk : she kneels. The King risethfrom his state, takes her up, kisses and placeth her by him. Q.Kath. Nay, we must longer kneel: I am a suitor. King. 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. Q. Kath. Thank your majesty. That you would love yourself, and in that love Not unconsider'd leave your honour, nor The dignity of your office, is the point Of my petition. King. Lady mine, proceed. Q. Kath. 1 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 'em, which hath flaw'd 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 honour 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, ACT I. KING HENRY VII I. SCENE II. It doth appear; for, upon these taxations, The clothiers all, not able to maintain The many to them longing, have put ofE 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 aU in uproar, And danger serves among them. King. Taxation ! Wherein ? and what taxation ? My lord cardinal. You that are blamed 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 teU steps with me. Q. Kath. No, my lord. You know no more than others ; but you frame [some Things that are known alike ; which are not whole- 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 'em, The back is sacrifice to the load. They say They are devised by you ; or else you suffer Too hard an exclamation. King. Still exaction ! The nature of it ? in what kind, let 's know. Is this exaction ? Q. Kath. I am much too venturous In tempting of your patience ; but am bolden'd Under your promised pardon. The subjects' grief Comes through commissions, which compel from The sixth part of his substance, to be levied [each Without delay ; and the pretence for this [mouths : Is named, your wars in Prance: this makes bold 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, This tractable obedience is a slave To each incensed wiU. I would your highness Would give it quick consideration, for There is no primer business. King. 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 Traduced by ignorant tongues, which neither know My faculties nor person, yet will be The chronicles of my doing, let me say 'T is 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. King. 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 ? I believe, not any. We must not rend our subjects from our laws. And stick them in our will. Sixth part of each ? A trembling contribution ! Why, we take Prom 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. 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 be letters writ to every shire. Of the king's grace and pardon. The grieved corn- Hardly conceive of me ; let it be noised [mons That through our intercession this revokement And pardon comes : I shall anon advise you Further in the proceeding. [Mcit Secretary. Enter Surveyor. Q. Kath. 1 am sorry that the Duke of Bucking- Is run in your displeasure. [ham King. It grieves many : The gentleman is learn'd, and a most rare speaker; To nature none more bound ; his training such. That he may furnish and instruct great teachers, And never seek for aid out of himself. Yet see. When these so noble benefits shall prove Not well disposed, the mind growing once corrupt, They turn to vicious forms, ten times more ugly Than ever they were fair. This man so complete. Who was enroU'd 'mongst wonders, and when we. Almost with ravish 'd listening, could not find His hour of speech a minute ; he, my lady. Hath into monstrous habits put the graces That once were his, and is become as black As if besmear'd in hell. Sit by us ; you shall hear — This was his gentleman in trust — of him Things to strike honour sad. Bid him recount The fore-recited practices ; whereof We cannot feel too little, hear too much. Wol. Stand forth, and with bold spirit relate what Most like a careful subject, have collected [you, Out of the Duke of Buckingham. King. Speak freely. Surv. First, it was usual with him, every day It would infect his speech, that if the king Should without issue die, he '11 carry it so To make the sceptre his : these very words I 've heard him utter to his son-in-law, Lord Abergavenny ; to whom by oath he menaced Revenge upon the cardinal. Wol. Please your highness, note This dangerous conception in this point. Not friended by his wish, to your high person His will is most malignant ; and it stretches Beyond you, to your friends. Q. Kath. My learn'd lord cardinal, Deliver all with charity. King. Speak on : How grounded he his title to the crown. Upon our fail ? to this point hast thou heard Mm At any time speak aught i" Surv. He was brought to this By a vain prophecy of Nicholas Hopkins. King. What was that Hopkins ? Surv. Sir, a Chartreux friar, His confessor ; who fed him every minute With words of sovereignty. King. How know'st thou this ? Surv. Not long before your highness sped to France, The duke being at the Rose, within the parish Saint Lawrence Poultney, did of me demand What was the speech among the Londoners Concerning the French journey : I replied. Men fear'd the French would prove perfidious, To the king's danger. Presently the duke Said, 't was the fear, indeed ; and that he doubted 'T would prove the verity of certain words Spoke by a holy monk ; 'that oft,' says he, ' Hath sent to me, wishing me to permit John de la Car, my chaplain, a choice hour To hear from him a matter of some moment : ACT I. KING HENRY VIIL SCENE III, Whom after under the confession's seal He solemnly had sworn, that what he spoke My chaplain to no creature living, but To me, should utter, with demure confidence This pausingly ensued : Neither the king nor 's heirs, Tell you the duke, shall prosper : bid him strive To gain the love o' the commonalty : the duke Shall govern England.' Q. Kath. If I know you well, You were the duke's surveyor, and lost your office On the complaint o' the tenants : take good heed You charge not in your spleen a noble person And spoil your nobler soul : I say, take heed ; Yes, heartily beseech you. King. Let him on. Go forward. Surv. On my soul, I '11 speak but truth, I told my lord the duke, by the devil's illusions The monk might be deceived ; and that 't was dan- gerous tor him To ruminate on this so far, until It forged him some design, which, being believed, It was much like to do : he answer'd, ' Tush, It can do me no damage ; ' adding further, That, had the king in his last sickness fail'd, The cardinal's and Sir Thomas Lo veil's heads Should have gone off. King. Ha ! what, so rank ? Ah ha ! There 's mischief in this man : canst thou say fur- Proceed, [ther? Surv. I can, my liege. King. Surv. Being at Greenwich, After your highness had reproved the duke About Sir William Blomer,— King. I remember Of such a time : being my sworn servant. The duke retain'd him his. But on ; what hence ? Surv. 'If,' quoth he, 'I for this had been com- mitted, As, to the Tower, I thought, I would have play'd The part my father meant to act upon The usurper Richard ; who, being at Salisbury, Made suit to come in 's presence ; which if granted, As he made semblance of his duty, would Have put his knife into him.' King. A giant traitor ! Wol. Now, madam, may his highness live in free- And this man out of prison ? [dom, Q. Kath. God mend all ! King. There 's something more would out of thee ; what say 'st ? [kn if e , ' Surv. After 'the duke his father,' with 'the He stretch'd him, and, with one hand on his dagger. Another spread on 's breast, mounting his eyes. He did discharge a horrible oath ; whose tenour Was,— were he evil used, he would outgo His father by as much as a performance Does an irresolute purpose. King. There 's his period. To sheathe his knife in us. He is attach'd ; Call him to present trial : if he may Find mercy in the law, 't is his ; if none. Let him not seek 't of us : by day and night, He 's traitor to the height. [Eoixunt. SCENE III. — An antechamber in the palace. Enter the Lord Chamberlain and Lord Sands. Cham. Is 't possible the spells of France should Men into such strange mysteries ? [juggle Sands. New customs. Though they be never so ridiculous, Nay, let 'em be unmanly, yet are follow'd. Cham. As far as I see, all the good our English Have got by the late voyage is but merely A fit or two o' the face ; but they are shrewd ones ; For when they hold 'em, you would swear directly Their very noses had been counsellors To Pepin or Clotharius, they keep state so. Sands. They have all new legs, and lame ones, one would take it. That never saw 'em pace before, the spavin Or springhalt reign'd among 'em. Cham. Death! my lord. Their clothes are after such a pagan cut too, That, sure, they've worn out Christendom. Enter Sir Thomas Lovell. How now I What news. Sir Thomas Lovell ? Lov. Faith, my lord, I hear of none, but the new proclamation That 's clapp'd upon the comrt-gate. Cham. What is 't for? Lov. The reformation of our travell'd gallants. That fill the court with quarrels, talk, and tailors. Cham. I 'm glad 't is there : now I would pray our monsieurs To think an English courtier may be wise. And never see the Louvre. Lov. They must either, For so run the conditions, leave those remnants Of fool and feather that they got in France, With all their honourable points of ignorance Pertaining thereunto, as fights and fireworks, Abusing better men than they can be. Out of a foreign wisdom, renouncing clean The faith they have in tennis, and tall stockings. Short blister'd breeches, and those types of travel, And understand again like honest men ; Or pack to their old playfellows ; there, I take it, They may, ' cum privilegio,' wear away The lag end of their lewdness and be laugh 'd at. Sands. 'T is time to give 'em physic, their dis- Are grown so catching. [eases Cham. What a loss our ladies Will have of these trim vanities ! Lov. Ay, marry. There will be woe indeed, lords : the sly whoresons Have got a speeding trick to lay down ladies ; A French song and a fiddle has no fellow. Sands. The devil fiddle 'em ! I am glad they are going. For, sure, there 's no converting of 'em : now An honest country lord, as I am, beaten A long time out of play, may bring his plain-song And have an hour of hearing ; and, by 'r lady. Held current music too. Cham. Well said. Lord Sands; Your colt's tooth is not cast yet. Sands. No, my lord ; Nor shall not, while I have a stump. Cliam. Sir Thomas, Whither were you a-going ? Lov. To the cardinal's : Your lordship is a guest too. Cham. O, 't is true : This night he makes a supper, and a great one. To many lords and ladies ; there will be The beauty of this kingdom, I '11 assure you. Lov. That churchman bears a bounteous mind indeed, A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us ; His dews fall every where. Cham. No doubt he 's noble ; He had a black mouth that said other of him. Sands. He may, my lord; has wherewithal: in him Sparing would show a worse sin than ill doctrine : Men of his way should be most liberal ; They are set here for examples. CJiam. True, they are so ; But few now give so great ones. My barge stays ; Your lordship shall along. Come, good Sir Thomas, ACT I. KING HENRY VIII SCENE IV. "We shall be late else ; which I would not be, For I was spoke to, with Sir Henry Guildford This night to be comptrollers. Sands. I am-your lordship's. [Exeunt. SCENE IV.— J. Hall in York Place. Hautboys. A small table under a state for the Cardinal, a longer table for the guests. Then enter Anne BuUen and divers other Ladies and Gentlemen as guests, at one door; at another door, enter Sir Henry Guildford. " Guild. Ladies, a general welcome from his grace Salutes ye all ; this night he dedicates To fair content and you : none here, he hopes, In all this noble bevy, has brought with her One care abroad ; he would have all as merry As, first, good company, good wine, good welcome, Can make good people. O, my lord, you 're tardy : Muter Lord Chamberlain, Lord Sands, and Sir Thomas Lovell. The very thought of this fair company Clapp'd wings to me. Cham. You are young, Sir Harry Guildford. Sands. Sir Thomas Lovell, had the cardinal But half my lay thoughts in him, some of these Should find a running banquet ere they rested, I think would better please 'em : by my life, They are a sweet society of fair ones. Lov. O, that your lordship were but now confessor To one or two of these ! Sands. I would I were ; They should find easy penance. Lov. Faith, how easy ? Sands. As easy as a down-bed would afford it. Cham. Sweet ladies, will it please you sit ? Sir Harry, Place you that side ; I '11 take the charge of this : His grace is entering. JSTay, you must not freeze ; Two women placed together makes cold weather : My Lord Sands, you are one wiU keep 'em waking ; Pray, sit between these ladies. Sands. By my faith. And thank your lordship. By your leave,sweet ladies: If I chance to talk a little wild, forgive me; I had it from my father. Anne. Was he mad, sir ? Sands. O, very mad, exceeding mad, in love too : But he would bite none ; just as I do now, He would kiss you twenty with a breath. [Kisses her. Cham. Well said, my lord. So, now you 're fairly seated. Gentlemen, The penance lies on you, if these fair ladies Pass away frowning. Sands. For my little cure. Let me alone. Hautboys. Enter Cardinal "Wolsey, and takes his state. Wol. You 're welcome, my fair guests : that noble Or gentleman, that is not freely merry, [lady, Is not my friend : this, to confirm my welcome ; And to you all, good health. [Drinlcs. Sands. Your grace is noble : Let me have such a bowl may hold my thanks. And save me so much talking. Wol. My Lord Sands, I am beholding to you : cheer your neighbours. Ladies, you are not merry : gentlemen, Whose fault is this ? Sands. The red wine first must rise In their fair cheeks, my lord; then we shall have Talk us to silence. ['em Anne. You are a merry gamester, My Lord Sands. Sands. Yes, if I make my play. Here 's to your ladyship : and pledge it, madam, For 't is to such a thing,— Anne. You cannot show me. Sands. I told your grace they would talk anon. [Drum and trumpet, chambers discharged. Wol. What 's that ? Cham. Look out there, some of ye. [Exit Servant. Wol. What warlike voice, And to what end, is this ? Nay, ladies, fear not ; By all the laws of war you 're privileged. Re-enter Servant. Cham. How now ! what is 't ? Serv. A noble troop of strangers ; For so they seem : they 've left their barge and landed; And hither make, as great ambassadors From foreign princes. Wol. Good lord chamberlain. Go, give 'em welcome ; you can speak the French tongue ; And, pray, receive 'em nobly, and conduct 'em Into our presence, where this heaven of beauty Shall shine at full upon them. Some attend him. [Exit Chamberlain, attended. All rise, and tables removed. You have now a broken banquet ; but we '11 mend it. A good digestion to you all : and once more I shower a welcome on ye ; welcome all. Hautboys. Enter the King and others, as masquers, habited like shepherds, ushered by the Lord Chamberlain. They pass directly before the Cardinal, and gracefully salute him. A noble company! what are their pleasures? [pray'd Cham. Because they speak no English, thus they To tell your grace, that, having heard by fame Of this so noble and so fair assembly This night to meet here, they could do no less, Out of the great respect they bear to beauty, But leave their flocks ; and, under your fair conduct, Crave leave to view these ladies and entreat An hour of revels with 'em. Wol. Say, lord chamberlain, They have done my poor house grace ; for which I pay 'em [ures. A thousand thanks, and pray 'em take their pleas- [They choose Ladies for the dance. The King cliooses Anne Bullen. King. The fairest hand I ever touch 'd ! O beauty. Till now I never knew thee ! [Music. Dance. Wol. My lord! Cham. Your grace ? Wol. Pray, tell 'em thus much from me : There should be one amongst 'em, by his person, More worthy this place than myself ; to whom. If I but knew him, with my love and duty I would surrender it. Cliam. I will, my lord. [ Wliispers the Masquersi Wol. What say they? Cham. Such a one, they all confess, There is indeed ; which they would have your grace Find out, and he will take it. Wol. Let me see, then. By all your good leaves, gentlemen ; here I 'U make My royal choice. King. Ye have found him. cardinal : [Unmasking, You hold a fair assembly ; you do well, lord: You are a churchman, or, I '11 tell you, cardinal, I should judge now unhappily. Wol. I am glad Your grace is grown so pleasant. King. My lord chamberlain. Prithee, come hither : what fair lady 's that ? Cham. An 't please your grace. Sir Thomas Bul- len's daughter,— 491 ACT II. KING HENRY VIII. SCEITE I. The Viscount Eochf ord,— one of her highness' women. King. By heaven , she is a dainty one. Sweet-heart , 1 were unmannerly, to take you out, And not to kiss you. A health, gentlemen ! Let it go round. Wol. Sir Thomas Lovell, is the banquet ready I' the privy chamber ? Lcm. Yes, my lord. Wol. Your grace, I fear, with dancing is a little heated. King. I fear, too much. Wot. There 's fresher air, my lord, In the next chamber. King. Lead in your ladies, every one : sweet part- ner, I must not yet forsake you : let 's be merry : Good my lord cardinal, I have half a dozen healths To drink to these fair ladies, and a measure To lead 'em once again ; and then let 's dream "Who 's best in favour. Let the music knock it. [Exeunt with trumpets. ^CT II. SC'R'N'E 1.— Westminster. A street. Enter two Gentlemen, meeting. First Gent. Whither away so fast ? Sec. Gent. O, God save ye! Even to the hall, to hear what shall become Of the great Duke of Buckingham. First Gent. I '11 save you That labour, sir. All 's now done, but the ceremony Of bringing back the prisoner. Sec. Gent. Were you there ? First Gent. Yes, indeed, was I. Sec. Gent. Pray, speak what has happen'd. First Gent. You may guess quickly what. Sec. Gent. Is he found guilty ? First Gent. Yes, truly is he, and condemn 'd upon 't. Sec. Gent. I am sorry for 't. First Gent. So are a number more. Sec. Gent. But, pray, how pass'd it ? First Gent. I '11 tell you in a little. The great duke Came to the bar ; where to his accusations He pleaded still not guilty and alleged Many sharp reasons to defeat the law. The king's attorney on the contrary Urged on the examinations, proofs, confessions Of divers witnesses ; which the duke desired To have brought viva voce to his face : At which appear 'd against him his surveyor ; Sir Gilbert Peck his chancellor ; and John Car, Confessor to him ; with that devil-monk, Hopkins, that made this mischief. Sec. Gent. That was he That fed him with his prophecies ? First Gent. The same. All these accused him strongly ; which he fain Would have flung from him, but, indeed, he could And so his peers, upon this evidence, [not : Have found him guilty of high treason. Much He spoke, and learnedly, for life ; but all Was either pitied in him or forgotten. Sec. Gent. After all this, how did he bear himself ? First Gent. When he was brought again to the bar, to hear His knell rung out, his judgment, he was stirr'd With such an agony, he sweat extremely, And something spoke in choler, ill, and hasty : But he fell to himself again, and sweetly In all the rest show'd a most noble patience. Sec. Gent. I do not think he fears death. First Gent. Sure, he does not : He never was so womanish ; the cause He may a little grieve at. Sec. Gent. Certainly The cardinal is the end of this. First Gent. 'T is likely. By all conjectures: first, Kildare's attainder. Then deputy of Ireland; who removed. Earl Surrey was sent thither, and in haste too. Lest he should help his father. Sec. Gent. That trick of state Was a deep envious one. 492 First Gent. At his return No doubt he will requite it. This is noted, And generally, whoever the king favours. The cardinal instantly wiU find employment. And far enough from court too. Sec. Gent. All the commoiw Hate him perniciously, and, o' my conscience, Wish him ten fathom deep : this duke as much They love and dote on ; call him bounteous Buck- The mirror of aU courtesy ; — [ingham, First Gent. Stay there, sir, And see the noble ruin'd man you speak of. Enter Buckingham from his arraignment ; tipstaves before him ; the axe with the edge towards him ; halberds on each side : accompanied with Sir Thomas Lovell, Sir Nich- olas Vaux, Sir William Sands, and common people. Sec. Gent. Let 's stand close, and behold him. Buck. All good people, You that thus far have come to pity me. Hear what I say, and then go home and lose me. I have this day received a traitor's judgment, [ness. And by that name must die : yet, heaven bear wit- And if I have a conscience, let it sink me. Even as the axe falls, if I be not faithful ! The law I bear no malice for my death ; 'Thas done, upon the premises, but justice: But those that sought it I could wish more Chris- Be what they will, I heartily forgive 'em : [tians : Yet let 'em look they glory not in mischief, Nor build their evils on the graves of great men ; For then my guiltless blood must cry against 'em. For further life in this world I ne'er hope, Nor will I sue, although the king have mercies More than I dare make faults. You few that loved And dare be bold to weep for Buckingham, [me, His noble friends and fellows, whom to leave Is only bitter to him, only dying. Go with me, like good angels, to my end ; And, as the long divorce of steel falls on me, Make of your prayers one sweet sacrifice, And lift my soul to heaven. Lead on, o' God's name. Lov. I do beseech your grace, for charity. If ever any malice in your heart Were hid against me, now to forgive me frankly. Buck. Sir Thomas Lovell, I as free forgive you As I would be forgiven : I forgive all ; There cannot be those numberless offences [envy 'Gainst me, that I cannot take peace with : no black Shall mark my grave. Commend me to his grace ; And, if he speak of Buckingham, pray, tell him You met him half in heaven : my vows and prayers Yet are the king's ; and, till my soul forsake, Shall cry for blessings on him : may he live Longer than I have time to tell his years ! Ever beloved and loving may his rule be ! And when old time shall lead liim to his end. Goodness and he fill up one monument ! Lov. To the water side I must conduct your grace; Then give my charge up to Sir Nicholas Vaux» Who undertakes you to your end. ACT II. KING HENRY VIII. SCENE II. Vaiix. Prepare there, The duke is coming : see the barge be ready ; And fit it with such furniture as suits The greatness of his person. Buck. Nay, Sir jSTicholas, Let it alone ; my state now will but mock me. When I came hither, I was lord high constable And Duke of Buckingham; now, poor Edward Yet I am richer than my base accusers, [Bohun : That never knew what truth meant : I now seal it ; And with that blood will make 'em one day groan My noble father, Henry of Buckingham, [for 't. Who first raised head against usurping Kichard, Flying for succour to his servant Banister, Being distress'd, was by that vsretch betray'd, And without trial fell ; God's peace be with him ! Henry the Seventh succeeding, truly pitying My father's loss, like a most royal prince, Restored me to my honours, and, out of ruins. Made my name once more noble. Now his son, Henry the Eighth, life, honour, name and all That made me happy at one stroke has taken Eor ever from the world. I had my trial. And, must needs say, a noble one ; which makes me A little happier than my wretched father : Yet thus far we are one in fortunes : both Fell by our servants, by those men we loved most ; A most unnatural and faithless service ! Heaven has an end in all : yet, you that hear me, This from a dying man receive as certain : Where you are liberal of your loves and counsels Be sure you be not loose ; for those you make friends And give your hearts to, when they once perceive The least rub in your fortunes, fall away Like water fromVe, never found again But where they mean to sink ye. All good people. Pray for me ! I must now forsake ye : the last hour Of my long weary life is come upon me. Farewell : And when you would say something that is sad, Speak how I fell. I have done ; and God forgive me ! [Exeunt Duke and Train. First Gent. O, this is full of pity ! Sir, it calls, I fear, too many curses on their heads That were the authors. Sec. Gent. If the duke be guiltless, 'T is full of woe : yet I can give you inkling Of an ensuing evil, if it fall. Greater than this. First Gent. Good angels keep it from us ! What may it be ? You do not doubt my faith, sir ? Sec. Gent. This secret is so weighty, 'twill require A strong faith to conceal it. -First Gent. Let me have it ; I do not talk much. Sec. Gent. I am confident ; You shall, sir : did you not of late days hear A buzzing of a separation Between the king and Katharine ? First Gent. Yes, but it held not : For when the king once heard it, out of anger He sent command to the lord mayor straight To stop the rumour, and allay those tongues That durst disperse it. Sec. Gent. But that slander, sir, Is found a truth now : for it grows again Fresher than e'er it was ; and held for certain The king will venture at it. Either the cardinal, Or some about him near, have, out of malice To the good queen, possess'd him mth a scruple That wiU undo her : to confirm this too. Cardinal Campeius is arrived, and lately ; As aU think, for this business. First Gent. 'T is the cardinal ; And merely to revenge him on the emperor For not bestowing on him, at his asking. The archbishopric of Toledo, this is purposed. Sec. Gent. 1 think you have hit the mark : but is 't not cruel That she should feel the smart of this? The cardinal Will have his will, and she must fall. First Gent. 'T is woful. We are too open here to argue this ; Let 's think in private more. [Exeunt. SCENE II. — An antechamber in the palace. Enter the Lord Chamberlain, reading a letter. Cham. 'My lord, the horses your lordship sent for, with all the care I had, I saw well chosen, rid- den, and furnished. They were young and hand- some, and of the best breed in the north. When they were ready to set out for London, a man of my lord cardinal's, by commission and main power, took 'em from me; with this reason: His master would be served before a subject, if not before the king; which stopped our mouths, sir.' I fear he will indeed : well, let him have them : He wiU have aU, I think. Enter, to the Lord Chamberlain, the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk. Nor. Well met, my lord chamberlain. Cham. Good day to both your graces. Suf. How is the king employ 'd ? Cham. I left him private, FuU of sad thoughts and troubles. JSTor. What 's the cause ? Cham. It seems the marriage with his brother's Has crept too near his conscience. [wife Suf. No, his conscience Has crept too near another lady. Nor. 'T is so : This is the cardinal's doing, the king-cardinal : That blind priest, like the eldest son of fortune. Turns what he list. The king will know him one day. Suf. Pray God he do ! he '11 never know himself else. Nor. HoV holily he works In all his business! And with what zeal ! for, now he has crack'd the league [nephew, Between us and the emperor, the queen's great He dives into the king's soul, and there scatters Dangers, doubts, wringing of the conscience. Fears, and despairs ; and aU these for his marriage : And out of aU these to restore the king, He counsels a divorce ; a loss of her That, like a jewel, has hung twenty years About his neck, yet never lost her lustre ; Of her that loves him with that excellence That angels love good men with ; even of her That, when the greatest stroke of fortune falls, Will bless the king : and is not this course pious ? Cham. Heaven keep me from such counsel ! 'T is most true ['em, These news are every where ; every tongue speaks And every true heart weeps for 't : all that dare Look into these affairs see this main end, The French king's sister. Heaven will one day open The king's eyes, that so long have slept upon This bold bad man. Suf. And free us from his slavery. Nor. We had need pray. And heartily, for our deliverance ; Or this imperious man will work us all From princes uito pages : all men's honours Lie like one lump before him, to be fashion 'd Into what pitch he please. Suf. For me, my lords, I love him not, nor fear him ; there 's my creed: As I am made without him, so I '11 stand. If the king please ; his curses and his blessings Touch me alike, they 're breath I not believe in. I knew him, and I know him ; so I leave him To him that made him proud, the pope. ACT II. KING HENRY VIII. SCENE III. Nor. Let 's in ; And with some other business put the king From these sad thoughts, that work too much upon My lord, you '11 bear us company ? [him : Cham. Excuse me ; The king has sent me otherwhere: besides. You '11 find a most unfit time to disturb him : Health to your lordships. Mor. Thanks, my good lord chamberlain. [Exit Lord CJiamberlain; and the King draws the curtain, and sits reading pensively . Suf. How sad he looks ! sure, he is much afflicted. King. "Who 's there, ha ? Ifor. Pray God he be not angry. King. Who 's there, I say ? How dare you thrust Into my private meditations ? [yourselves Who am I ? ha ? JS'or. A gracious king that pardons all offences Malice ne'er meant : our breach of duty this way Is business of estate ; in which we come To know your royal pleasure. King. Te are too bold : Go to ; I '11 make ye know your times of business : Is this an hour for temporal affairs, ha ? Enter "Wolsey and Campeius, with a commission. Who 's there ? my good lord cardinal ? O my Wol- The quiet of my wounded conscience ; [sey, Thou art a cure fit for a king. [To Camp.'] You 're welcome. Most learned reverend sir, into our kingdom : Use us and it. [To Wol.] My good lord, have great I be not found a talker. [care Wol. Sir, you cannot. I would your grace would give us but an hour Of private conference. King. [To Nor. and Suf.] We are busy; go. Nor. [Aside to Suf.] This priest has no pride in Suf. [Aside to Nor.] Not to speak of: [him ? I would not be so sick though for his place : But this cannot continue. Nor. [Aside to Suf.] If it do, I '11 venture one have-at-him. Suf. [Aside to Nor.] I another. [Exeunt Nor. and Suf. Wol. Your grace has given a precedent of wisdom Above all princes, in committing freely Your scruple to the voice of Christendom : Who can be angry now ? what envy reach you ? The Spaniard, tied by blood and favour to her, Must now confess, if they have any goodness, The trial just and noble. All the clerks, I mean the learned ones, in Christian kingdoms Have their free voices : Eome, the nurse of judg- Invited by your noble self, hath sent [ment. One general tongue unto us, this good man. This just and learned priest, Cardinal Campeius ; Whom once more I present unto your highness. King. And once more in mine arms I bid him welcome. And thank the holy conclave for their loves : [for. They have sent me such a man I would have wish'd Cam. Your grace must needs deserve all strangers' You are so noble. To your highness' hand [loves, I tender my commission ; by whose virtue. The court of Rome commanding, you, my lord Cardinal of York, are join'd with me their servant In the unpartial judging of this business. King. Two equal men. The queen shall be ac- quainted Forthwith for what you come. Where 's Gardiner ? Wol. I know your majesty has always loved her So dear in heart, not to deny her that A woman of less place might ask by law : Scholars allow'd freely to argue for her. [favour King. Ay, and the best she shall have ; and my To him that does best : God forbid else. Cardinal, Prithee, call Gardiner to me, my new secretary : I find him a fit fellow. [Exit Wolsey. Be-enter Wolsey, with Gardiner. Wol. [Aside to Gard.] Give me your hand : much joy and favour to you •, You are the king's now. Gard. [Aside to Wol.] But to be commanded For ever by your grace, whose hand has raised me. King. Come hither, Gardiner. [ Walks and whispers. Cam. My Lord of York, was not one Doctor Pace In this man's place before him ? Wol. Yes, he was. Cam. Was he not held a learned man ? Wol. Yes, surely. Cam. Believe me, there 's an iU opinion spread Even of yourself, lord cardinal. [then Wol. Howl of mev Cam. They will not stick to say you envied him, And fearing he would rise, he was so virtuous. Kept him a foreign man still ; which so grieved him, That he ran mad and died. Wol. Heaven's peace be with him ! That 's Christian care enough : for living murmurers There 's places of rebuke. He was a fool ; For he would needs be virtuous : that good fellow, If I command him, follows my appointment : I will have none so near else. Learn this, brother, We live not to be grip'd by meaner persons. King. Deliver this with modesty to the queen. [Exit Gardiner. The most convenient place that I can think of For such receipt of learning is Black-Friars ; There ye shall meet about this weighty business. My Wolsey, see it furnish'd. O, my lord. Would it not grieve an able man to leave So sweet a bedfellow ? But, conscience, conscience 1 O, 't is a tender place ; and I must leave her. [Exeunt. SCENE m. — An antechamber of the Queen's apart- ments. Enter Anne Bullen and an Old Lady. Anne. Not for that neither : here 's the pang that pinches : His highness having lived so long with her, and she So good a lady that no tongue could ever Pronounce dishonour of her; by my life, She never knew harm-doing : O, now, after So many courses of the sun enthroned. Still growing in a majesty and pomp, the which To leave a thousand-fold more bitter than 'T is sweet at first to acquire,— after this process, To give her the avaunt ! it is a pity Would move a monster. Old L. Hearts of most hard temper Melt and lament for her. Anne. O, God's will ! much better She ne'er had known pomp : though 't be temporal, Yet, if that quarrel, fortune, do divorce It from the bearer, 't is a sufferance panging As soul and body's severing. Old L. Alas, poor lady ! She 's a stranger now again. Anne. So much the more Must pity drop upon her. Verily, I swear, 't is better to be lowly born. And range with humble livers in content. Than to be perk'd up in a glistering grief, And wear a golden sorrow. Old L. Our content Is our best having. Anne. By my troth and maidenhead, I would not be a queen. Old L. Beshrew me, I would, ACT II. KING HENRY VIII. SCENE IV. And ventiire maidenhead for 't ; and so would you, For all this spice of your hypocrisy : You, that have so fair parts of woman on you, Have too a woman's heart ; which ever yet Affected eminence, wealth, sovereignty; Which, to say sooth, are blessings ; and which gifts. Saving your mincing, the capacity Of your soft cheveril conscience would receive, V If you might please to stretch it. \ Anne. Nay, good troth. Old L. Yes, troth, and troth; you would not be a queen ? Anne. No, not for all the riches under heaven. Old L. "T is strange : a three-pence bow'd would Old as I am, to queen it : but, I pray you, [hire me, What think you of a duchess ? have you limbs To bear that load of title ? Anne. No, in truth. Old L. Then you are weakly made : pluck off a I would not be a young count in your way, [little ; For more than blushing comes to : if your back Cannot vouchsafe this burthen, 't is too weak Ever to get a boy. Anne. How you do talk ! ^ I swear again, I would not be a queen ': For all the world. Old L. In faith, for little England You 'Id venture an emballing : I myself Would for Carnarvonshire, although there long'd No more to the crown but that. Lo, who comes here ? Enter the Lord Chamberlain. Cham. Good morrow, ladies. What were 't worth The secret of your conference ? [to know Anne. My good lord, Not your demand ; it values not your asking : Our mistress' sorrows we were pitying. Cham. It was a gentle business, and becoming The action of good women : there is hope All will be well. Anne. Now, I pray God, amen ! Cham. You bear a gentle mind, and heavenly blessings Follow such creatures. That you may, fair lady, Perceive I speak sincerely, and high note 's Ta'en of your many virtues, the kmg's majesty Commends his good opinion of you, and Does purpose honour to you no less flowing Than Marchioness of Pembroke ; to which title A thousand pound a year, annual support, Out of his grace he adds. Anne. 1 do not know What kind of my obedience I should tender ; More than my all is nothing : nor my prayers Are not words duly hallow'd, nor my wishes More worth than empty vanities ; yet prayers and wishes Are all I can return. Beseech your lordship. Vouchsafe to speak my thanks and my obedience, As from a blushing handmaid, to his highness; Whose health and royalty I pray for. Cham. Lady, I shall not fail to approve the fair conceit The king hath of you. [Aside] I have perused her Beauty and honour in her are so mingled [well ; That they have caught the king : and who knows But from this lady may proceed a gem [yet To lighten all this isle ? I '11 to the king. And say I spoke with you. [Exit Lord Chamberlain. Anne. My honour'd lord. Old L. Why, this it is ; see, see ! I have been begging sixteen years in court, Am yet a courtier beggarly, nor could Come pat betwixt too early and too late For any suit of pounds ; and you, O fate ! A very fresh-fish here— fie, fie, fie upon This compell'd fortune ! —have your mouth fill'd up Before you open it. Anne. This is strange to me. Old, L. How tastes it ? is it bitter ? forty pence, There was a lady once, 't is an old story, [no. That would not be a queen, that would she not, For all the mud in Egypt : have you heard it ? Anne. Come, you are pleasant. Old L. With your theme, I could O'ermount the lark. The Marchioness of Pembroke I A thousand pounds a year for pure respect ! No other obligation ! By my life, That promises moe thousands : honour's train Is longer than his foreskirt. By this time I know your back will bear a duchess : say, Ai'e you not stronger than you were ? Anne. Good lady, Make yourself mirth with your particular fancy, And leave me out on 't. Would I had no being, If this salute my blood a jot : it faints me. To think what follows. The queen is comfortless, and we forgetful In our long absence : pray, do not deliver What here you 've heard to her. Old L. What do you think me ? [Exeunt. SCENE IV.— J. hall in Black-Friars, Trumpets, sennet, and cornets. Enter two Vergers, vnth short silver wands ; next them, two Scribes, in the habit of doctors; after them, the Archbishop of Canterbury alone ; after him, the Bishops of Lincoln, Ely, Roches- ter, and Saint Asaph ; next them, with some small dis- tance, follows a Gentleman bearing the purse, with the great seal, and a cardinal's hat; then two Priests, hear- ing each a silver cross; then a Gentleman-usher bare- headed, accompanied with a Sergeant-at-arms bearing a silver mace; then two Gentlemen bearing two great silver pillars ; after them, side by side, the tvio Cardinals ; two Noblemen with the sword and mace. The Kiag takes place under the cloth of state ; the two Cardinals sit under him as judges. The Queen takes place some dis- tance from the Kling. The Bishops place themselves on each side the court, in manner of a consistory ; below them, the Scribes. The Lords sit next the Bishops. The rest of the Attendants stand in convenient order about the stage. Wol. Whilst our commission from Eome is read, Let silence be commanded. King. 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, &c. King. Here. Scribe. Say, Katharine Queen of England, come into the court. Crier. Katharine Queen of England, &c. [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 : for I am a most poor woman, and a stranger. Born out of your dominions ; having here No judge indifferent, nor no more assurance Of equal friendship and proceeding. Alas, sir, In what have I offended you ? what cause Hath my behaviour given to your displeasure. That thus you should proceed to put me off, [ness, And take your good grace from me ? Heaven wit- I have been to you a true and humble wife, At all times to your will conformable ; Ever in fear to kindle your dislike. Yea, subject to your countenance, glad or sorry 495 KING HENRY VII I. SCENE IV. As I saw it inclined : when was the hour I ever contradicted your desire, Or made it not mine too ? 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 derived your anger, did I Continue in my liking ? nay, gave notice He was from thence discharged ? Sir, call to mind That I have been your wife, in this obedience, Upward of twenty years, and have been blest "With many children by you : if, in the course And process of this time, you can report. And prove it too, against mine honour 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 sharp 'st 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 Beseech you, sir, to spare me, till I may [humbly Be by my friends in Spain advised ; whose counsel I will implore : if not, i' the name of God, Your pleasure be fulfill'd ! Wol. You have here, lady, And of your choice, these reverend fathers ; men Of singular integrity and learning, Yea, the elect o' 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, their arguments Be now produced and heard. Q. Kath. Lord cardinal, To you I speak. Wol. Your pleasure, madam ? Q. Kath. Sir, I am about to weep; but, thinking that We are a queen, or long have dream'd so, certain The daughter of a king, my drops of tears I '11 turn to sparks of fire. Wol. Be patient yet. [fore, Q. Kath. i will, when you are humble; nay, be- Or God will punish me. I do believe, Induced 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 ; Which God's dew quench ! 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 [wrong : O'ertopping woman's power. Madam, you do me 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, [me Yea, the whole consistory of Rome. You charge 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. 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 so no more. Q. Kath. My lord, my lord, I am a simple woman, much too weak [mouth 'd; To oppose your cunning. You 're meek and humble- 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' favours, Gone slightly o'er low steps and now are mounted Where powers are your retainers, and your words. Domestics to you, serve your will as 't please Yourself pronounce their office. I must tell you. You tender more your person's honour than Your 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 judged by him. \_She curtsies to the King, and offers to depart. Cam. The queen is obstinate, Stubborn to justice, apt to accuse it, and Disdainful to be tried by 't : 't is not well. She 's going away. King. Call her again. [the court. Crier. Katharine Queen of England, come into Grif. Madam, you are call 'd back. [your way: Q. Kath. What need you note it ? pray you, keep 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 Queen, and her Attendants. King. Go thy ways, Kate : That man i' the world who shall report he 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 's noble born ; And, like her true nobility, she has Carried herself towards me. Wol. Most gracious sir, In humblest manner I require your highness. That it shall please you to declare, in hearing Of all these ears, — for where I am robb'd and bounds There must I be unloosed, although not there At once and fully satisfied, — whether ever I Did broach this business to your highness ; or Laid any scruple in your way, which might Induce you to the question on 't ? or ever Have to you, but with thanks to God for such A royal lady, spake one the least word that might Be to the prejudice of her present state, Or touch of her good person ? King. My lord cardinal, I do excuse you ; yea, upon mine honour, I free you from 't. You are not to be taught That you have many enemies, that know not Why they are so, but, like to village-curs, Bark when their fellows do : by some of these The queen is put in anger. You 're excused : But wUl you be more justified ? you ever [sired Have wish'd the sleeping of this business ; never d&. It to be stirr'd ; but oft have hinder'd, oft. The passages made toward it : on my honour, I speak my good lord cardinal to this point, ACT III. KING HENRY VI 11. SCENE I. And thus far clear him. Now, what moved me to 't, I will be bold with time and your attention : Then mark the inducement. Thus it came; give heed I^Iy conscience first received a tenderness, [to 't : .Scruple, and prick, on certain speeches utter'd By the Bishop of Bayonne, then French ambassador; Who had been hither sent on the debating A marriage 'twixt the Duke of Orleans and Our daughter Mary : i' the progress of this business, Ere a determinate resolution, he, I mean the bishop, did require a respite; Wherein he might the king his lord advertise Whether our daughter were legitimate. Respecting this our marriage with the dowager, Sometimes our brother's wife. This respite shook The bosom of my conscience, enter'd me. Yea, with a splitting power, and made to tremble The region of my breast ; which forced such way, That many mazed considerings did throng And press 'd in with this caution. First, methought I stood not in the smile of heaven ; who had Commanded nature, that my lady's womb. If it conceived a male child by me, should Do no more offices of life to 't than The grave does to the dead ; for her male issue Or died where they were made, or shortly after This world had air'd them : hence I took a thought, This was a judgment on me; that my kingdom, Well worthy tlie best heir o' the world, should not Be gladded m 't by me : then follows, that I weigh 'd the danger which my realms stood in By this my issue's fail ; and that gave to me Many a groaning throe. Thus hulling in The wild sea of my conscience, I did steer Toward this remedy, whereupon we are Now present here together ; that 's to say, I meant to rectify my conscience, — which I then did feel full sick, and yet not well, — By all the reverend fathers of the land And doctors learn'd : first I began in private With you, my Lord of Lincoln ; you remember How under my oppression I did reek, When I first moved you. Lin. Yery well, my liege, [say King. I have spoke long : be pleased yourself to How far you satisfied me. Lin. So please your highness, The question did at first so stagger me. Bearing a state of mighty moment in 't And consequence of dread, that I committed The daring'st counsel which I had to doubt ; And did entreat your highness to this course Which you are running here. King. I then moved you, My Lord of Canterbury ; and got your leave To make this present summons : unsolicited I left no reverend person in this court ; But by particular consent proceeded Under your hands and seals : therefore, go on ; For no dislike i' the world against the person Of the good queen, but the sharp thorny points Of my alleged reasons, drive this forward : Prove but our marriage lawful, by my life And kingly dignity, we are contented To wear our mortal state to come with her, Katharine our queen, before the primest creature That 's paragon'd o' the world. Cam. So please your highness, The queen being absent, 'tis a needful fitness Tliat we adjourn this court till further day : Meanwhile must be an earnest motion Made to the queen, to call back her appeal She intends unto his holiness. King. [Aside] I may perceive These cardinals trifle with me : I abhor This dilatory sloth and tricks of Rome. My learn'd and well-beloved servant, Cranmer, Prithee, return : with thy approach, I know. My comfort comes along. Break up the court : I say, set on. [Exeunt in manner as they entered. JlCT III. SCENE I. — London. The Queen''s apartments. Enter the Queen and her Women, as at work. Q. Kath. Take thy lute, wench : my soul grows sad with troubles ; Sing, and disperse 'em, if thou canst : leave working. SONG. Orpheus with his lute made trees, And the mountain tops that freeze, Bow themselves when he did sing : To his music plants and flowers Ever sprung ; as sun and showers There had made a lasting spring. Every thing that heard him play. Even the billows of the sea. Hung their heads, and then lay by. In sweet music is such art. Killing care and grief of heart Fall asleep, or hearing, die. Enter a Gentleman. Q. Kath. How now ! [dinals Gent. An 't please your grace, the two great car- W ait in the presence. Q. Kath. Would they speak with me ? Qemt. They wiU'd me say so, madam. Q. Kath. Pray their graces To come near. [Exit Gent.] What can be their 32 With me, a poor weak woman, fall'n from favour? I do not like their coming. Now I think on 't, They should be good men ; their alf airs as righteous : But all hoods make not monks. Eiter the two Cardinals, "Wolsey and Campeius. Wol. Peace to your highness ! Q. Kath. Your graces find me here part of a house- I would be all, against the worst may happen, [wife. What are your pleasures with me, reverend lords i* Wol. May it please you, noble madam, to withdraw Into your private chamber, we shall give you The full cause of our coming. Q. Kath. Speak it here ; There 's nothing I have done yet, o' my conscience, Deserves a corner : would alL other women Could speak this with as free a soul as I do ! My lords, I care not, so much I am happy Above a number, if my actions Were tried by every tongue, every eye saw 'em, Envy and base opinion set against 'em, I know my life so even. If your business Seek me out, and that way I am wife in, Out with it boldly : truth loves open dealing. Wol. Tanta est erga te mentis integritas, regina serenissima, — Q. Kath. O, good my lord, no Latin ; I am not such a truant since my coming. As not to know the language I have lived in : A strange tongue makes my cause more strange, suspicious ; ACT II] KING HENRY VIII. SCENE I. Pray, speak in English : here are some will thank you, If you speak truth, for their poor mistress' sake; Believe me, she has had much wrong : lord cardinal, The willing'st sin I ever yet committed May be absolved in English. Wol. Noble lady, I am sorry my integrity should breed, And service to his majesty and you, So deep suspicion, where all faith was meant. We come not by the way of accusation, To taint that honour every good tongue blesses, Nor to betray you any way to sorrow. You have too much, good lady; but to know How you stand minded in the weighty difference Between the king and you ; and to deliver. Like free and honest men, our just opinions And comforts to your cause. Gam. Most honour 'd madam, My Lord of York, out of his noble nature, Zeal and obedience he still bore your grace. Forgetting, like a good man, your late censure Both of his truth and him, which was too far, Offers, as I do, in a sign of peace. His service and his counsel. ^. Kaih. \Asi(le\ To betray me. — My lords, I thank you both for your good wills; Ye speak like honest men ; pray God, ye prove so ! But how to make ye suddenly an answer, In such a point of weight, so near mine honour, — More near my life, I fear, — with my weak wit, And to such men of gravity and learning. In truth, I know not. I was set at work Among my maids; full little, God knows, looking Either for such men or such business. Eor her sake that I have been, — for I feel The last fit of my greatness, — good your graces. Let me have time and counsel for my cause : Alas, I am a woman, friendless, hopeless ! Wol. Madam, you wrong the king's love with these Your hopes and friends are infinite. [fears : Q. Katli. In England But little for my profit : can you think, lords, That any Englishman dare give me counsel ? Or be a known friend, 'gainst his highness' pleasure. Though he be grown so desperate to be honest, And live a subject ? Nay, forsooth, my friends, They that must weigh out my afflictions, They that my trust must grow to, live not here : They are, as all my other comforts, far hence In mine own comitry, lords. Cam. I would your grace Would leave your griefs, and take my counsel. Q. Kath. How, sir ? Cam. Put your main cause into the king's pro- tection ; He 's loving and most gracious : 't will be much Both for your honour better and your cause ; For if the trial of the law o'ertake ye, You '11 part away disgraced. Wol. He tells you rightly. Q. Kath. Ye tell me what ye wish for both, — my Is this your Christian counsel ? out upon ye ! [ruin : Heaven is above all yet ; there sits a judge That no king can corrupt. Cam. Your rage mistakes us. Q. Kath. The more shame for ye: holy men I thought ye. Upon my soul, two reverend cardinal virtues ; But cardinal sins and hollow hearts I fear ye : Mend 'em, for shame, my lords. Is this your com- The cordial that ye bring a wretched lady, [fort ? A woman lost among ye, laugh 'd at, scorn'd V I will not wish ye half my I have more charity : but say, I warn'd ye ; Take heed, for heaven's sake, take heed, lest at < Tlie burthen of my sorrows fall upon ye. Wol. Madam, this is a mere distraction; You turn the good we offer into envy. 498 Q. Kath. Ye turn me into nothing : woe upon ye And all such false professors ! would you have me — If you have any justice, any pity ; If ye be anything but churchmen's habits — Put my sick cause into his hands that hates me ? Alas, has banish 'd me his bed already. His love, too long ago ! I am old, my lords, And all the fellowship I hold now with him Is only my obedience. What can happen To me above this vrretchedness ? all your studies Make me a curse like this. Cam. Your fears are worse. Q. Kath. Have I lived thus long — let me speak myself, Since virtue finds no friends — a wife, a true one ? A woman, I dare say without vain-glory, Never yet branded with suspicion ? Have I with all my full affections [him ? Still met the king ? loved him next heaven ? obey'd Been, out of fondness, superstitious to him ? Almost forgot my prayers to content him ? And am I thus rewarded ? 't is not well, lords. Bring me a constant woman to her husband, One that ne'er dream'd a joy beyond his pleasure ; And to that woman, when she has done most. Yet will I add an honour, a great patience. Wol. Madam, you wander from the good we aim at Q. Kath. My lord, I dare not make myself so guilty, To give up willingly that noble title Your master wed me to : nothing but death Shall e'er divorce my dignities. Wol. Pray, hear me. Q. Kath. Would I had never trod this English Or felt the flatteries that grow upon it ! [earth, Ye have angels ' faces , but heaven kno ws your hearts. What will become of me now, wretched lady ! I am the most unhappy woman living. Alas, poor wenches, where are now your fortunes I Shipwreck 'd upon a kingdom, where no pity. No friends, no hope ; no kindred weep for me ; Almost no grave allow 'd me : like the lily. That once was mistress of the field and flourish 'd, I '11 hang my head and perish. Wol. If your grace Could but be brought to know our ends are honest, You 'Id feel more comfort: why should we, good lady, Upon what cause, wrong you ? alas, our places, The way of our profession is against it : We are to cure such sorrows, not to sow 'em. For goodness' sake, consider what you do ; How you may hurt yourself, ay, utterly Grow from the king's acquaintance, by this car- The hearts of princes kiss obedience, [riage. So much they love it ; but to stubborn spirits They swell, and grow as terrible as storms. I know you have a gentle, noble temper, A soul as even as a calm : pray, think us [vants. Those we profess, peace-makers, friends, and ser- Cam. Madam, you '11 find it so. You wrong your virtues With these weak women's fears : a noble spirit. As yours was put into you, ever casts [you ; Such doubts, as false coin, from it. The king loves Beware you lose it not : for us, if you please To trust us in your business, we are ready To use our utmost studies in your service. Q. Kath. Do what ye will, my lords : and, pray, forgive me. If I have used myself unmannerly ; You know I am a woman, lacking wit To make a seemly answer to such persons. Pray, do my service to his majesty : He has my heart yet ; and shall have my prayers While I shall have my life. Come , reverend fathers. Bestow your counsels on me : she now begs. That little thought, when she set footing here, She should have bought her dignities so dear. [Exeunt. KING HENRY VIII. SCENE II. SCENE II. — Antechamber to theKing^s apartment. Enter the Duke of Norfolk, the Duke of Suffolk, the Earl of Surrey, and the Lord Chamberlain. Nor. If you will now unite in your complaints, And force them with a constancy, the cardinal Cannot stand under them : if you omit The offer of this time, I cannot promise But that you shall sustain moe new disgraces, AVith these you bear already. Sur. I am joyful To meet the least occasion that may give me Remembrance of my father-in-law, the duke, To be revenged on him. Suf. Which of the peers Have uncontemn'd gone by him, or at least Strangely neglected Y when did he regard The stamp of nobleness in any person Out of himself ? Cham. ' My lords, you speak your pleasures : What he deserves of you and me I know ; What we can do to him, though now the time Gives way to us, I much fear. If you cannot Bar his access to the king, never attempt Any thing on him ; for he hath a witchcraft Over the king in 's tongue. ISTor. O, fear him not ; His spell in that is out : the king hath found Matter against him that for ever mars The honey of his language. No, he 's settled, Not to come off, in his displeasure. Sur. Sir, I should be glad to hear such news as this Once every hour. JSfor. Believe it, this is true : In the divorce his contrary proceedings Are all unfolded ; wherein he appears As I would wish mine enemy. Sur. How came His practices to light ? Suf. Most strangely. Sur. O, how, how? Suf. The cardinal's letters to the pope miscarried. And came to the eye o' the king : wherein was read, How that the cardinal did entreat his holiness To stay the judgment o' the divorce; for if It did take place, ' I do,' quoth he, ' perceive My king is tangled in affection to A creature of the queen's, Lady Anne BuUen.' Sur. Has the king this ? Suf. Believe it. Sur. Will this work ? Cham.. The king in this perceives him, how he coasts And hedges his own way. But in this point All his tricks founder, and he brings his physic After his patient's death : the king already Hath married the fair lady. Sur. Would he had ! Suf. May you be happy in your wish, my lord 1 For, I profess, you have it. Sur. Now, all my joy Trace the conjunction ! Stif. My amen to 't ! Nor. All men's ! Siof. There 's order given for her coronation : Marry, this is yet but young, and may be left To some ears unrecounted. But, my lords. She is a gallant creature, and complete In mind and feature : I persuade me, from her Will fall some blessing to this land, which shall In it be memorized. Sur. But, will the king Digest this letter of the cardinal's ? The Lord forbid! Nor. Marry, amen ! Suf. No, no ; There be moe wasps that buzz about his nose Will make this sting the sooner. Cardinal Campeius Is stol'n away to Rome ; hath ta'en no leave ; Has left the cause o' the king unhandled ; and Is posted, as the agent of our cardinal. To second all his plot. I do assure you The king cried Ha ! at this. Cham. Now, God incense him. And let him cry Ha ! louder ! Nor. But, my lord, When returns Cranmer V Suf. He is return'd in his opinions ; which Have satisfied the king for his divorce, Together with all famous colleges Almost in Christendom : shortly, I believe. His second marriage shall be publish 'd, and Her coronation. Katharine no more Shall be call'd queen, but princess dowager And widow to Prince Arthur. Nor. This same Cranmer 's A worthy fellow, and hath ta'en much pain In the king's business. Suf. He has ; and we shall see him For it an archbishop. Nor. So I hear. Suf. 'T is so. The cardinal ! Enter 'Wolsey and Cromwell. Nor. Observe, observe, he 's moody. Wol. The packet, Cromwell, Gave 't you the king ? Crom. To his own hand, in 's bedchamber. Wol. Look'd he o' the inside of the paper ? Crom. Presently He did unseal them : and the first he view'd. He did it with a serious mind ; a heed Was in his countenance. You he bade Attend him here this morning. Wol. Is he ready To come abroad ? Crom. I think, by this he is. Wol. Leave me awhile. [Exit Cromwell. [Aside\ It shall be to the Duchess of Alengon, The French king's sister : he shall marry her. Anne Bullen ! No ; I '11 no Anne BuUens for him : There 's more in 't than fair visage. Bullen ! No, we '11 no Bullens. Speedily I wish To hear from Rome. The Marchioness of Pembroke ! Nor. He 's discontented. Suf. May be, he hears the king Does whet his anger to him. Sur. Sharp enough. Lord, for thy justice ! Wol. [Aside] The late queen's gentlewoman, a knight's daughter. To be her mistress' mistress ! the queen's queen ! This candle burns not clear : 't is 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, that she should lie i' the bosom of Our hard-ruled king. Again, there is sprung up An heretic, an arch one, Cranmer ; one Hath crawl'd into the favour of the king, And is his oracle. Nor. He is vex'd at something. Sur. I would 't were something that would fret The master-cord on 's heart ! [the string. Enter the King, reading of a schedule, and Lovell. Suf. The king, the king ! King. 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 ? Nor. My lord, we have Stood here observing him : some strange commotion ACT II] KING HENRY VIII. SCENE II. Is in his brain : lie bites liis lip, and starts ; Stops on a sudden, looks upon the ground, Then lays his finger on his temple ; straight Springs out into fast gait ; then stops again, Strikes his breast hard, and anon he casts PI is eye against the moon : in most strange postures We have seen him set himself. King. It may well be ; There is a mutiny in 's mind. This morning Papers of state he sent me to peruse. As I required : and wot you what I found There, — on my conscience, but 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 Possession of a subject. Not. It 's heaven's will : Some spirit put this paper in the packet, To bless your eye withal. King. If we did think His contemplation were above the earth, And fix'd on spiritual object, he should stiU Dwell in his musings: but I am afraid His thinkings are below the moon, not worth His serious considering. [King takes his seat; whispers Lovell, who goes to the Cardinal. Wol. Heaven forgive me ! Ever God bless your highness ! King. Good my lord. You are full of heavenly stulf , and bear the inven- Of your best graces in your mind ; the which [tory 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 state ; and nature does require Her times of preservation, which perforce I, her frail son, amongst my brethren mortal, Must give my tendence to. King. You have said well. Wot. And ever may your highness yoke together, As I will lend you cause, my doing well With my well saying ! King. 'T is well said again ; And 't is a kind of good deed to say well : And yet words are no deeds. My father loved 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 pared my present havings, to bestow My bounties upon you. Wol. [Aside] What should this mean ? Sur. [Aside] The Lord increase this business ! King. Have I not made you The prime man of the state ? 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 endeavours : my endeavours Have ever come too short of my desires, Yet filed 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, 500 Which ever has and ever shall be growing. Till death, that winter, kill it. King. Fairly answer'd ; A loyal and obedient subject is Therein illustrated : the honour of it Does pay the act of it ; as, i' the contrary, The foulness is the punishment. I presume That, as my hand has open'd boimty to you, My heart dropp'd love, my power rain'd honour, On you than any; so your hand and heart, [more 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 labour'd More than mine own ; that am, have, and will be — Though all the world should crack their duty to you. And throw it from their soul ; though, perils did Abound, as thick as thought could make 'em, and Appear in 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. King. 'T is nobly spoken : Take notice, lords, he has a loyal breast. For you have seen him open 't. Read o'er this ; [Giving him papers. And after, this : and then to breakfast with What appetite^ you have. [JSxit King, frowning upon Cardinal Wolsey: the Nobles throng after him, smiling and whispering. 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. 'T is so ; " This paper has undone me : 't is 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 't will stir him strongly ; yet I know A way, if it take right, in spite of fortune [Pope ! ' Will bring me off again. What 's this ? ' To the The letter, as I live, with all the business I vn-it to 's 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 to Wolsey, the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, the Barl of Surrey, and the Lord Chamberlain. Nor. Hear the king's pleasure, cardinal : who com- To render up the great seal presently [mands you Into our hands ; and to confine yourself To Asher House, my Lord of Winchester's, Till you hear further from his highness. Wol. .Stay: Where 's your commission, lords ? words cannot Authority so weighty. [carry Suf. Who dare cross 'em, 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 ■^ ACT III. KING HENRY VII I. SCENE II. Ye appear in every thing may bring my ruin ! Follow your envious courses, men of malice; You have Christian warrant for 'em, and, no doubt, In time will find their fit rewards. That seal, You ask with such a violence, the king, Mine and your master, with his own liand gave me ; Bade me enjoy it, with the place and honours. During my life; and, to confirm his goodness. Tied it by letters-patents : now, who '11 take it ? Sur. The king, that gave it. Wol. It must be himself, then. Suv. 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. Thy ambition, Thou scarlet sin, robb'd this bewailing land Of noble Buckingham, my father-in-law : The heads of all thy brother cardinals, "With thee and all thy best parts bound together, Weigh'd not a hair of his. Plague of your policy! You sent me deputy for Ireland ; Far from his succour, from the king, from all That might have mercy on the fault thou gavest him ; Whilst your great goodness, out of holy pity. Absolved him with an axe. Wol. This, and all else This talking lord can lay upon my credit, I answer is most false. The duke by law Found his deserts : how innocent I was From any private malice in his end, His noble jury and foul cause can witness. If I loved many words, lord, I should tell you You have as little honesty as honour. That in the way of loyalty and truth Toward the king, my ever royal master, Dare mate a sounder man than Surrey can be. And all that love his follies. Sur. By my soul, [feel Your long coat, priest, protects you ; thou shouldst My sword i' the life-blood of thee else. 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; The goodness of your intercepted packets [ness. You writ to the pope against the king : your good- Since you provoke me, shall be most notorious. My Lord of jSTorfolk, as you are truly noble, As you respect the common good, the state Of our despised nobility, our issues. Who, if he live, will scarce be gentlemen. Produce the grand sum of his sins, the articles Collected from his life. I '11 startle you Worse than the sacring bell, when the brown wench Lay kissing in your arms, lord cardinal. Wol. How much, methinks, I could despise this man. But that I am bound in charity against it ! Nor. Those articles, my lord, are in the king's But, thus much, they are foul ones. [hand : Wol. So much fairer And spotless shall mine innocence arise. When the king knows my truth. Sur. This cannot save you : I thank my memory, I yet remember Some of these articles ; and out they shall. Now, if you can blush and cry ' guilty,' cardinal. You '11 show a little honesty. Wol. Speak on, sir; I dare your worst objections : if I blush, It is to see a nobleman want manners. Sur. I had rather want those than my head. Have at you ! First, that, without the king's assent or knowledge. You wrought to be a legate ; by which power You maim'd the jurisdiction of all bishops. Nor. Then, that in all you writ to Piome, or else To foreign princes, ' Ego et Eex mens ' Was still inscribed ; in which you brought the king To be your servant. Suf. Then that, without the knowledge Either of king or council, when you went Ambassador to the emperor, you made bold To carry into Flanders the great seal. Sur. Item, you sent a large commission To Gregory de Cassado, to conclude, Without the king's will or the state's allowance, A league between his highness and Ferrara. Suf. That, out of mere ambition, you have caused Your holy hat to be stamp'd on the king's coin. Sur. Then that you have sent innumerable sub- stance — By what means got, I leave to your own conscience — To furnish Eome, and to prepare the ways You have for dignities ; to the mere undoing Of all the kingdom. Many more there are ; Which, since they are of you, and odious, I will not taint my mouth with. Cham. O my lord. Press not a falling man too far ! 't is virtue : His faults lie open to the laws ; let them, Not you, correct him. My heart weeps to see him So little of his great self. Sur. I forgive him. 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 praemunire. 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 '11 leave you to your meditations How to live better. For your stubborn answer About the giving back the great seal to us, [you. The king shall know it, and, no doubt, shall thank So fare you well, my little good lord cardinal. [Exeunt all but Wolsey. 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 lie puts forth The tender leaves of hopes ; to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him ; The third day comes a frost, 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 ventured. Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders. This many summers in a sea of glory, But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride 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 open'd. O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours! 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 Cromwell, and stands amazed. Why, how now, Cromwell ! Crom. 1 have no power to speak, sir. Wol. What, amazed At my misfortunes ? can thy spirit wonder A great man should decline ? Nay, an you weep. I am fall'n indeed. 501. ACT IV. KING HENRY VI IL SCENE I. Crom. How does your grace ? Wol. Why, well; Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell. I know myself now ; and I feel within me A peace above all earthly dignities, A still and quiet conscience. The king has cured me, I humbly thank his grace ; and from these shoul- These ruin'd pillars, out of pity, taken [ders, A load would sink a navy, too much honour: O, 't is a burthen, Cromwell, 'tis a burthen Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven ! Crom. I am glad your grace has made that right use of it. Wol. 1 hope I 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' favour, 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 ? Crom. That Cranmer is return 'd with welcome, Install'd lord archbishop of Canterbury. Wol. That 's news indeed. (Jrom. 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 puU'd me down. O Cromwell, The king has gone beyond me : all my glories In that one woman I have lost for ever : No sun shall ever usher forth mine honours. Or gild again the noble troops that waited Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell ; I am a poor fall'n 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 : he will advance thee • 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 forced me. Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. Let 's dry our eyes : and thus far hear me, Crom- And, when I am forgotten, as I shall be, [well ; And sleep in dull 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 honour, 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 it y Love thyself last : cherish those hearts that hate Corruption wins not more than honesty. [thee ; Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace. To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not : Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's. Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fall'st, O Cromwell, Thou fall'st a blessed martyr ! Serve the king ; And, — prithee, lead me in : There take an inventory of all I have, To the last penny ; 't is the king's : my robe, And my integrity to heaven, is all I dare now call mine own, O Cromwell, Cromwell I Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, he would not in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies. Crom. Good sir, have patience. Wol. So I have. Farewell The hopes of court I my hopes in heaven do dwell. [Exeunt. ^OT IV^. SCENE I. — A street in Westminster. Enter two Gentlemen, meeting one another. First Cent. You 're well met once again. (Sec. Gent. So are you. First Gent. You come to take your stand here, and The Lady Anne pass from her coronation ? [behold *Sec. Gent. 'T is all my business. At our last en- counter, The Duke of Buckingham came from his trial. First Gent. 'T is very true : but that time offer'd This, general joy. [sorrow; Sec. Gent. 'T is well : the citizens, I am sure, have shown at full their royal minds — As, let 'em have their rights, they are ever forward — In celebration of this day with shows, Pageants and sights of honour. First Gent. Never greater, Nor, I '11 assure you, better taken, sir. Sec. Gent. May I be bold to ask what that con- That paper in youi hand ? [tains. First Gent. Yes ; 't is the list Of those that claim their offices this day By custom of the coronation. 502 The Duke of Suffolk is the first, and claims To be high-steward ; next, the Duke of Norfolk, He to be earl marshal : you may read the rest. Sec. Gent. I thank you, sir: had I not known those customs, I should have been beholding to your paper. But, I beseech you, what 's become of Katharine, The princess dowager Y how goes her business ? Fi7-st Gent. That I can tell you too. The Arch- Of Canterbury, accompanied with other [bishop Learned and reverend fathers of his order. Held a late court at Dunstable, six miles off From Ampthill where the princess lay ; to which She was often cited by them, but appear'd not : And, to be short, for not appearance and The long's late scruple, by the main assent Of all these learned men she was divorced. And the late marriage made of none effect : Since which she was removed to Kimbolton, Where she remains now sick. Sec. Gent. Alas, good lady ! [Tnimpets. The trumpets sound : stand close, the queen is com- ing. [Hautboys. KING HENRY VIII. SCENE II. THE OKDER OF THE CORONATION. 1. A lively flourish of Trumpets. 2. Then, two Judges. [him. 3. Lord Chancellor, with the purse and mace before 4. Choristers, singing. [Music. 5. Mayor of London, hearing the mace. Then Gar- ter, in his coat of arms, and on his head a gilt copper crown. 6. Marquess Dorset, hearing a sceptre of gold, on his head a demi-coronal of gold. With him, the Earl of Surrey, hearing the rod of silver with the dove^ crowned with an earVs coronet. Col- lars of SS. 7. Duke of Suffolk, in his robe of estate, his coro- net on his head, hearing a long white wand, as high-steward. With him, the Duke of Nor- folk, with the rod of marshalship, a coronet on his head. Collars of S8. 8. A canopy borne by four of the Cinque-ports ; under it, the Queen in her robe; in her hair richly adorned with pearl, crowned. On each side her, the Bishops of London and "Win- chester. • 9. The old Duchess of Norfolk, in a coronal of gold, wrought with flowers, hearing the Queen's train. 10. Certain Ladies or Countesses, wit/ijoZam circlets of gold without flowers. They pass over the stage in order and state. Sec. Gent. A royal train, believe me. These I "Who 's that that bears the sceptre ? [Imow : First Gent. Marquess Dorset : And that the Earl of Surrey, with the rod. Sec. Gent. A bold brave gentleman. That should The Duke of Suffolk? [be First Gent. 'T is the same : high-steward. Sec. Gent. And that my Lord of Norfolk ? First Gent. Yes. Sec. Gent. Heaven bless thee ! [Looking on the Queerh. Thou hast the sweetest face I ever look'd on. Sir, as I have a soul, she is an angel ; Our king has all the Indies in his arms. And more and richer, when he strains that lady ; I cannot blame his conscience. First Gent. They that bear The cloth of honour over her, are four barons Of the Cinque-ports. [near her. Sec. Gent. Those men are happy ; and so are all are I take it, she that carries up the train Is that old noble lady. Duchess of Norfolk. First Gent. It is ; and all the rest are coimtesses. Sec. Gent. Their coronets say so. These are stars And sometimes falling ones. [indeed; First Gent. No more of that. [Exit procession, and then a great flourish „ , . , „ of trumpets. Enter a third Gentleman. First Gent. God save you, sir ! where have you been broiling ? Third Gent. Among the crowd i' the Abbey; where a finger Could not be wedged in more : I am stifled With the mere raukness of their joy. Sec. Gent. You saw The ceremony ? Third Gent. That I did. First Gent. How was it ? Third Gent. Well worth the seeing. Sec. Gent. Good sir, speak it to us. Third Gent. As well as I am able. The rich stream Of lords and ladies, having brought the queen To a prepared place in the choir, fell off A distance from her ; while her grace sat down To rest a while, some half an hour or so. In a rich chair of state, opposing freely The beauty of her person to the people. Believe me, sir, she is the goodliest woman That ever lay by man : which when the people Had the full view of, such a noise arose As the shrouds make at sea in a stiff tempest. As loud, and to as many tunes: hats, cloaks, — Doublets, I think,— flew up; and had their faces Been loose, this day they had been lost. Such joy I never saw before. Great-bellied women. That had not half a week to go, like rams In the old time of war, would shake the press, And make 'em reel before 'em. No man living Could say ' This is my wife ' there ; all were woven So strangely in one piece. Sec. Gent. But, what follow'd ? Third Gent. At length her grace rose, and with modest paces Came to the altar ; where she kneel'd, and saint-like Cast her fair eyes to heaven and pray'd devoutly. Then rose again and bow'd her to the people : When by the Archbishop of Canterbury She had all the royal makings of a queen ; As holy oil, Edward Confessor's crown, The rod, and bird of peace, and all such emblems Laid nobly on her: which perform'd, the choir, With all the choicest music of the kingdom, Together sung ' Te Deum.' So she parted. And with the same full state paced back again To York-place, where the feast is held. First Gent. Sir, You must no more call it York-place, that 's past; For, since the cardinal fell, that title 's lost : 'T is now the king's, and call'd Whitehall. Third Gent. I know it ; But 't is so lately alter'd, that the old name Is fresh about me. Sec. Gent. What two reverend bishops Were those that went on each side of the queen ? Third Gent. Stokesly and Gardiner ; the one of Winchester, Newly preferr'd from the king's secretary, The other, London. Sec. Gent. He of Winchester Is held no great good lover of the archbishop's. The virtuous Cranmer. Third Gent. All the land knows that : However,yet there is no great breach ; when it comes, Cranmer will find a friend will not shrink from him. Sec. Gent. Who may that be, I pray you ? Third Gent. Thomas Cromwell ; A man in much esteem with the king, and truly A worthy friend. The king has made him master O' the jewel house. And one, already, of the privy council. Sec. Gent. He will deserve more. Third Gent. Yes, without all doubt. Come, gentlemen, ye shall go my way, which Is to the court, and there ye shall be my guests : Something I can command. As I walk thither, I '11 tell ye more. Both. You may command us, sir. [Exeunt. SCENE U.—Kimholton. Enter Katharine, Dowager, sick; led between G-rif- flth, her gentleman usher, and Patience, her woman. Grif. How does your grace ? Kath. O Grifiith, sick to death ! My legs, like loaden branches, bow to the earth, Willing to leave their burthen. Reach a chair : So ; now, methinks, I feel a little ease. Didst thou not tell me, Grifiith, as thou led'st me. That the great child of honour. 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. Prithee, good Grifiith, tell me how he died; If well, he stepp'd before me, happily For my example. 503 ACT IV. KING HENRY VIII. SCENE II. 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, Lodged in the abbey; where the reverend abbot. With all his covent, honourably received him ; To whom he gave these words, ' O, father abbot, An old man, broken with the storms of state. Is come to lay his weary bones among ye ; Give him. a little earth for charity ! ' So went to bed ; where eagerly his ; ' _.iess Pursued him still : and, three nights after this, About the hour of eight, which he himself Foretold should be his last, full of repentance, Continual meditations, tears, and sorrows, He gave his honours to the world again, His blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace. Kath. So may he rest ; his faults lie gently on him ! Yet thus far, Griffith, give me leave to speak him, And yet with charity. He was a man Of an unbounded stomach, ever ranking Himself with princes; one that, by suggestion. Tied all the kingdom : simony was fair-play ; His own opinion was his law : i' the presence He would say untruths ; and be ever double Both in his words and meaning : he was never, But where he meant to ruin, 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 olergy 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, Thouo'h from an humble stock, undoubtedly "Was fashion 'd to much honour 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 loved 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 raised 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 : And, to add greater honours to his age Than man could give him, he died fearing God. Kath. After my death I wish no other herald, No other speaker of my living actions, To keep mine honour from corruption. But such an honest chronicler as Griffith. Whom I most hated living, thou hast made me, With thy religious truth and modesty. Now in his ashes honour : 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 named my knell, whilst I sit meditating On that celestial harmony I go to. [Sad and solemn music. Grif. She is asleep: goodwench,let's sit down quiet. For fear we wake her: softly, gentle Patience. 504 ITie vision. Enter, solemnly tripping one after another, six personages, clad in white robes, wearing on their heads garlands of bays, and golden vizards on their faces; branches of bays or palm in their hands. They first con- gee unto her, then dance; and, at certain changes, the first two hold a spare garland over her head ; at which the other four make reverent curtsies; then the two that held the garland deliver the same to the other next two, who observe the same order in their changes, and holding the garland over her head: which done, they deliver the same garland to the last two, who likewise observe the same order : at which, as it were by inspiration, she makes in her sleep signs of rejoicing, and holdeth up her hands to heaven : and so in their dancing vanish, carrying the garland with them. The music continues. Kath. Spirits of peace, where are ye ? are ye all 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 Invite me to a banquet ; whose bright faces [troop Cast thousand beams upon me, like the sun ? They promised me eternal happiness ; And brought me garlands, Griffith, which I feel I 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. [3Iiisic ceases. Pat. Do you note How much her grace is alter'd on the sudden ? How long her face is drawn ? how pale she looks. And of an earthy cold ? Mark her eyes 1 Grif. She is going, wench: pray, pray. Pat. Heaven comfort her I Enter a Messenger. Mess. An 't like your grace, — Kath. You are a saucy fellow : Deserve we no more reverence ? Grif. You are to blame. Knowing she will not lose her wonted greatness. To use so rude behaviour ; go to, kneel. Mess. 1 humbly do entreat your highness' pardon ; My haste made me unmannerly. There is staying A gentleman, sent from the king, to see you. Kath. Admit him entrance, Griffith: but this Let me ne'er see again. [fellow [Exeunt Griffith and Messenger. Be-enter Griffith, with Capucius. If my sight fail not. 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 alter'd strangely With me since first you knew me. But, I pray you. What is your pleasure with me l* 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, [late; Kath. O my good lord, that comfort comes too 'T is like a pardon after execution : That gentle physic, given in time, had cured me; But now I am past all comforts here, but prayers. ELow does his highness ? Cap. Madam, in good health. Kath. So may he ever do ! and ever flourish. When I shall dwell with worms, and my poor name Banish'd the kingdom I Patience, is that letter, I caused you write, yet sent away ? ACT V. KING HENRY VI 11. SCENE I. Fat. No, madam. [Giving it to Katharine. Katli. Sir, I most humbly pray you to deliver This to my lord the king. Cap. Most willing, madam. Kath. In which I have commended to his good- ness 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, — Slie is young, and of a noble modest nature, I hope she will deserve well, — and a little To love her for her mother's sake, that loved 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 followed both my fortunes faithfully: . Of which there is not one, I dare avow. And now I should not lie, but will deserve, Tor virtue and true beauty of the soul. For honesty and decent carriage, A right good husband, let him be a noble : And, sure, those men are happy that shall have 'em. The last is, for my men; they are the poorest, •But poverty could never draw 'em from me ; That they may have their wages duly paid 'em. And something over to remember me by : If heaven had pleased 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. Bemember me In aU humility unto his highness : Say his long trouble now is passing Out of this world; teU him, in death I bless'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 used with honour : 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 Katharine. A.OT ^. SCENE I. — London. A gallery in the palace. Enter Gardiner , Bishop of Winchester, a Page with a torch before him, met by Sir Thomas Lovell. Gar. It 's one o'clock, boy, is 't not ? Boy. It hath struck. Gar. These should be hours for necessities, Not for delights ; times to repair our nature With comforting repose, and not f r us [Thomas ! To waste these times. Good hour of night. Sir Whither so late ? Lov. Came you from the king, my lord ? Gar. I did. Sir Thomas; and left him at primero With the Duke of Suffolk. Lov. I must to him too, Before he go to bed. I '11 take my leave. Gar. Not yet. Sir Thomas Lovell. What 's the matter ? It seems you are in haste : an if there be No great offence belongs to 't, give your friend Some touch of your late business : affairs, that walk. As they say spirits do, at midnight, have In them a wilder nature than the business That seeks dispatch by day. Lov. My lord, I love you ; And durst commend a secret to your ear [labour. Much weightier than this work. The queen 's in They say, in great extremity; and fear'd She '11 with the labour end. Gar. The fruit she goes with I pray for heartily, that it may find Good time, and live : but for the stock. Sir Thomas, I wish it grubb'd up now. Lov. Methinks I could Cry the amen ; and yet my conscience says She 's a good creature, and, sweet lady, does Deserve our better wishes. Gar. But, sir, sir. Hear me, Sir Thomas : you 're a gentleman Of mine own way ; I know you wise, religious ; And, let me tell you, it wUl ne'er be well, 'T will not, Sir Thomas Lovell, take 't of me, TiU Cranmer, Cromwell, her two hands, and she, Sleep in their graves. Lov. Now, sir, you speak of two The most remark'di' the kingdom. As for Cromwell, Beside that of the jewel house, is made master O' the roUs, and the king's secretary; further, sir. Stands in the gap and trade of moe preferments. With which the time wiU load him. The archbishop Is the king's hand and tongue ; and who dare speak One syllable against him ? Gar. Yes, yes. Sir Thomas, There are that dare ; and I myself have ventm-ed To speak my mind of him : and iudeed this day, - Sir, I may tell it you, I think I have Incensed the lords o' the council, that he is. For so I know he is, they know he is, A most arch heretic, a pestilence That does infect the land : with which they moved Have broken with the king ; who hath so far Given ear to our complaint, of his great grace And princely care foreseeing those fell mischiefs Our reasons laid before him, hath commanded To-morrow morning to the council-board He be convented. He 's a rank weed, Sir Thomas, And we must root him out. From your affairs I hinder you too long : good-night. Sir Thomas. Lov. Many good-nights, my lord: I rest your ser- vant. [Exeunt Gardiner and Page. Enter the King and Suffolk. Kin^. Charles, I will play no more to-night ; My mmd 's not on 't ; you are too hard for me. Suf. Sir, I did never win of you before. King. But little, Charles; Nor shall not, when my fancy 's on my play. Now, Lovell, from the queen what is the news ? Lov. I could not personally deliver to her What you commanded me, but by her woman I sent your message ; who return'd her thanks In the great 'st humbleness, and desired your high- Most heartily to pray for her. [ness King. What say'st thou, ha ? To pray for her ? what, is she crying out ? Lov. So said her woman; and that her sufferance Almost each pang a death. [made King. Alas, good lady ! Suf. God safely quit her of her burthen, and With gentle travail, to the gladding of Your highness with an heir ! King. 'T is midnight, Charles ; Prithee, to bed ; and in thy prayers remember The estate of my poor queen. Leave me alone ; 505 ACT V. KING HENRY VIII. SCENE II. For I must think of that which company Would not be friendly to. Suf. I wish your highness A quiet night ; and my good mistress will Remember in my prayers, c: - King. harles, good-night. [Exit Enter Sir Anthony Denny. "Well, sir, what follows ? Ben. Sir, I have brought my lord the archbishop, As you commanded me. King, Ha ! Canterbury ? Den. Ay, my good lord. King. 'T is true : where is he, Denny ? Den. He attends your highness' pleasure. King. Bring him to us. [Exit Denny. Lov. [Aside] This is about that which the bishop I am happily come hither. [spake : Be-enter Denny, with Cranmer. King. Avoid the gallery. [Lovell seems to stay.] Ha ! I have said. Be gone. What ! [Exeunt Lovell and Denny. Cran. [Aside] I am fearful : wherefore frowns he 'T is his aspect of terror. All 's not well. [thus V King. How now, my lord ! you do desire to know Wherefore I sent for you. Cran. [Kneeliiig] It is my duty To attend your highness' pleasure. King. Pray you, arise, My good and gracious Lord of Canterbury. Come, you and 1 must walk a turn together ; [hand. I have news to tell you : come, come, give me your Ah, my good lord, I grieve at what I speak. And am right sorry to repeat what follows : I have, and most unwillingly, of late Heard many grievous, I do say, my lord. Grievous complaints of you; which, being consider'd, Have moved us and our council, that you shall This morning come before us; where, I know. You cannot with such freedom purge yourself. But that, till further trial in those charges Which will require your answer, you must take Your patience to you, and be well contented [us. To make your house our Tower : you a brother of It fits we thus proceed, or else no witness Would come against you. Cran. [Kneemuj] I humbly thank your hi And am right glad to catch this good occasion Most throughly to be winuow'd, where my chaff And corn shall fly asunder : for, I know, There 's none stands under more calumnious tongues Than I myself, poor man. King. Stand up, good Canterbury : Thy truth and thy integrity is rooted In us, thy friend : give me thy hand, stand up : Prithee, let 's walk. Now, by my holidame, What manner of man are you ? My lord, I look'd You would have given me your petition, that I should have ta'en some pains to bring together Yourself and your accusers ; and to have heard you, Without indurance, further. Cran. Most dread liege. The good I stand on is my truth and honesty : If they shall fail, I, with mine enemies, Will triumph o'er my person; which I weigh not. Being of those virtues vacant. I fear nothing What can be said against me. King. Know you not How your state stands i' the world, with the whole world ? [tices Your enemies are many, and not small ; their prac- Must bear the same proportion ; and not ever The justice and the truth o' the question carries The due o' the verdict with it : at what ease Might corrupt minds procure knaves as corrupt To swear against you ? such things have been done, 506 You are potently opposed ; and with a malice Of as great size. Ween you of better luck, I mean, in perjured witness, than your master, Whose minister you are, whiles here he lived Upon this naughty earth V Go to, go to ; You take a precipice for no leap of danger, And woo your own destruction. Cran. God and your majesty Protect mine innocence, or I faU into The trap is laid for me ! King. Be of good cheer ; They shall no more prevail than we give way to. Keep comfort to you ; and this morning see You do appear before them : if they shall chance, In charging you with matters, to commit you, The best persuasions to the contrary Fail not to use, and with what vehemency The occasion shall instruct you : if entreaties Will render you no remedy, this ring Deliver them, and your appeal to us [weeps! There make before them. Look, the good man He 's honest , on mine honour. God's blest mother 1 I swear he is true-hearted ; and a soul None better in my kingdom. Get you gone, And do as I have bid you. [Exit Cranmer.] He His language in his tears. Qias strangled Enter Old Lady, liovell following. Gent. [ Within] Come back : what mean you ? Old L. I '11 not come back ; the tidings that I bring [gels Will make my boldness manners. Now, good an. Fly o'er thy royal head, and shade thy person Under their blessed wings ! King. Now, by thy looks I guess thy message. Is the queen deliver 'd ? Say, ay ; and of a boy. Old L. A.J, ay, my liege ; And of a lovely boy : the God of heaven Both now and ever bless her ! 't is a girl, Promises boys hereafter. Sir, your queen Desires your visitation, and to be Acquainted with this stranger : 't is as like you As cherry is to cherry. King. Lovell ! Lov. Sir ? King. Give her an hundred marks. I'll to the queen. [Exit. OldL. An hundred marks I By this light, I'll An ordinary groom is for such payment, [ha' more. I will have more, or scold it out of him. Said I for this, tlie girl was like to him ? I will have more, or else unsay 't; and now, While it is hot, I '11 put it to the issue. [ExevM. SCENE n. — Before the council-chamber. Pursuivants, Pages, &c., attending. Enter Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury. Cran. I hope I am not too late ; and yet the gen- tleman. That was sent to me from the council, pray'd me To make great haste. All fast ? what means this ? Who waits there ? Sure, you know me ? [Ho ! Enter Keeper. Keep. Yes, my lord; But yet I cannot help you. Cran. Why? Enter Doctor Butts. Keep. Your grace must wait till you be call'd for. Cran. So. Butts. [Aside] This is a piece of malice. I am glad I came this way so happily : the king Shall understand it presently. [Exit. Cran. [Aside] 'T is Butts, The king's physician : as he pass'd along, ACT V. KING HENRY VII I. SCENE III. How earnestly he cast his eyes upon me I [tain, Pray heaven, he sound not my disgrace ! For cer- This is of purpose laid by some that hate me — God turn their hearts ! I never sought their mal- ice — [make me To quench mine honour: they would shame to Wait else at door, a fellow-counsellor, [ures 'Mong boys, grooms, and lackeys. But their pleas- Must be fulfill 'd, and I attend with patience. Enter the King and Butts at a window above. Butts. I '11 show your grace the strangest sight — King. What 's that. Butts ? Butts. I think your highness saw this many a day. King. Body o' me, where is it ? Butts. There, my lord : The high promotion of his grace of Canterbury ; Who holds his state at door, 'mongst pursuivants. Pages, and footboys. King. Ha! 'tis he, indeed: Is this the honour they do one another ? 'T is well there 's one above 'em yet. I had thought They had parted so much honesty among 'em. At least, good manners, as not thus to suffer A man of his place, and so near our favour, To dance attendance on their lordships' pleasures, And at the door too, like a post with packets. By holy Mary, Butts, there 's knavery: Let 'em alone, and draw the curtain close : We shall hear more anon. {Exeunt. SCENE ni.— The Council-Chamber. Enter Lord Chancellor ; places himself at the upper end of the table on the left hand ; a seat being left void above him, as for Canterbury's seat. Duke of Suffolk, Duke of Norfolk, Surrey, Lord Chamberlain, Gar- diner, seat themselves in order on each side. Cromwell at lower end, as secretary. Keeper at the door. Clian. Speak to the business, master secretary : Why are we met in coimcil V Crom. Please your honours, The chief cause concerns his grace of Canterbury. Oar. Has he had knowledge of it ? Crom. Yes. Nor. Who waits there ? Keep. Without, my noble lords ? Gar. Yes. Keep. My lord archbishop ; And has done half an hour, to know your pleasures. Chan. Let him come in. Keep. Your grace may enter now. [Cranmer enters and approaches the council-table. Chan. My good lord archbishop, I 'm very sorry To sit here at this present, and behold That chair stand empty : but we all are men, In our own natures frail, and capable Of our flesh ; few are angels : out of which frailty And want of wisdom, you, that best should teach us. Have misdemean'd yourself, and not a little, Toward the king first, then his laws, in filling The whole realm, by your teaching and your chap- Por so we are inform'd, with new opinions, [lains. Divers and dangerous ; which are heresies. And, not reform 'd, may prove pernicious.' Gar. Which reformation must be sudden too. My noble lords ; for those that tame wild horses Pace 'em not in their hands to make 'em gentle, But stop their mouths with stubborn bits, and spur Till they obey the manage. If we suffer, ['em, Out of our easiness and childish pity To one man's honour, this contagious sickness. Farewell all physic : and what follows then V Commotions, uproars, with a general taint Of the whole state : as, of late days, our neighbours. The upper Germany, can dearly witness. Yet freshly pitied in our memories. Cran. My good lords, hitherto, in all the progress Both of my life and oflice, I have labour'd. And with no little study, that my teaching And the strong course of my authority Might go one way, and safely ; and the end Was ever, to do well : nor is there living, I speak it with a single heart, my lords, A man that more detests, more stirs against, Both in his private conscience and his place, Defacers of a public peace, than I do. Pray heaven, the king may never find a heart With less allegiance in it ! Men that make Envy and crooked malice nourishment Dare bite the best. I do beseech your lordships, That, in this case of justice, my accusers. Be what they will, may stand forth face to face. And freely urge against me. Suf. Nay, my lord. That cannot be : you are a counsellor. And, by that virtue, no man dare accuse you. Gar. My lord, because we have business of more moment, [ure, We will be short with you. 'T is his highness' pleas- And our consent, for better trial of you, From hence you be committed to the Tower ; Where, being but a private man again. You shall know many dare accuse you boldly. More than, I fear, you are provided for. [you; Cran. Ah, my good Lord of Winchester, I thank You are always my good friend ; if your will pass, I shall both find your lordship judge and juror. You are so merciful : I see your end ; 'T is my undoing : love and meekness, lord, Become a churchman better than ambition : Win straying souls with modesty again. Cast none away. That I shall clear myself. Lay all the weight ye can upon my patience, I make as little doubt, as you do conscience In doing daily wrongs. I could say more, But reverence to your calling makes me modest. Gar. My lord, my lord,.you are a sectary, That 's the plain truth : your painted gloss discovers, To men that understand you, words and weakness. Crom. My Lord of Winchester, you are a little, By your good favour, too sharp ; men so noble. However faulty, yet should find respect For what they have been : 't is a cruelty To load a falling man. Gar. Good master secretary, I cry your honour mercy ; you may, worst Of all this table, say so. Crom. Why, my lord ? Gar. Do not I know you for a favourer Of this new sect ? ye are not sound. Crom. Not sound ? Gar. Not sound, I say. Crom. Woudd you were half so honest ! Men's prayers then would seek you, not their fears. Gar. I shall remember this bold language. Crom. Do. Kemember your bold life too. Chan. This is too much ; Forbear, for shame, my lords. Gar. I have done. Crom. And I. Chan. Then thus for you, my lord: it stands I take it, by all voices, that forthwith [agreed. You be convey'd to the Tower a prisoner ; There to remain till the king's further pleasure Be known unto us : are you all agreed, lords Y All. We are. Cran. Is there no other way of mercy. But I must needs to the Tower, my lords ? Gar. What other Would you expect ? you are strangely troublesome. Let some o' the guard be ready there. Miter Guard. Cran. Must I go like a traitor thither ? 507 For me ? ACT V. KING HENRY VIIL SCENE IV. Gar. Eeceive Mm, And see him safe i' the Tower. Cran. Stay, good my lords, I have a httle yet to say. Look there, my lords ; By virtue of that ring, J take my cause Out of the gripes of cruel men, and give it To a most noble judge, the king my master. C/iam. This is the king's ring. Sxw. 'T is no counterfeit. Suf. 'T is the right ring, by heaven : I told ye all. When we first put this dangerous stone a-rolling, 'T would fall upon ourselves. Kor. Do you think, my lords, Tlie king will sufEer but the little finger Of this man to be vex'd ? Chan. 'T is now too certain : How much more is his life in value with him ? Would I were fairly out on 't ! Crom. My mind gave me, In seeking tales and informations Against this man, whose honesty the devil And his disciples only envy at. Ye blew the fire that burns ye : now have at ye ! MfiUr King, frowning on them ; takes his seat. Oar. Dread sovereign, how much are we bound to In daily thanks, that gave ussuchaprince; [lieaven Not only good and wise, but most religious : One that, in all obedience, makes the church The chief aim of his honour ; and, to strengthen That holy duty, out of dear respect. His royal self in judgment comes to hear The cause betwixt her and this great offender. King. You were ever good at sudden commenda- Bishop of Winchester. But know,I come not [tions. To hear such flattery now, and in my presence ; They are too thin and bare to hide offences. To me you cannot reach, you play the spaniel. And think with wagging of your tongue to win me ; But, whatsoe'er thou takest me for, I 'm sure Thou hast a cruel nature and a bloody, [proudest [To Cranmer]Good man,sit down. Now let me see the He, that dares most, but wag his finger at thee : By aU that 's holy, he had better starve Than but once think this place becomes thee not. Sur. May it please your grace, — King. JSTo, sir, it does not please me. I had thought I had had men of some understanding And wisdom of my council ; but I find none. Was it discretion, lords, to let this man. This good man, — few of you deserve that title, — This honest man, wait like a lousy footboy At chamber-door ? and one as great as you are ? Why, what a shame was this ! Did my commission Bid ye so far forget yourselves ? I gave ye Power as he was a counsellor to try him, Not as a groom : there 's some of ye, I see. More out of malice than integrity, Would try him to the utmost, had ye mean ; Which ye shall never have while I live. Glian. Thus far. My most dread sovereign, may it like your grace To let my tongue excuse all. What was purposed Concerning his imprisonment, was rather. If there be faith in men, meant for his trial, And fair purgation to the world, than malice, I 'ni sure, in me. King. Well, well, my lords, respect him ; Take him, and use him well, he 's worthy of it. I will say thus much for him, if a prince May be beholding to a subject, I Am, for his love and service, so to him. Make me no more ado, but all embrace him : [bury. Be friends, for shame, my lords ! My Lord of Canter- I have a suit which you must not deny me ; That is, a fair young maid that yet wants baptism. You must be godfather, and answer for her. Cran. The greatest monarch now alive may glory 508 In such an honour: how may I deserve it. That am a poor and humble subject to you ? King. Come, come, my lord, you 'Id spare your spoons : you shall have two noble partners with you ; the old Duchess of Norfolk, and Lady Marquess Dor- set : will these please you ? Once more, my Lord of Winchester, I charge you. Embrace and love this man. Gar. With a true heart And brother-love I do it. Cran. And let heaven Witness, how dear I hold this confirmation, [lieart : King. Good man, those joyful tears show thy true The common voice, I see, is verified [bury Of thee, which says thus, ' Do my Lord of Canter- A shrewd turn, and he is your friend for ever.' Come, lords, we trifle time away ; I long To have this young one made a Christian. As I have made ye one', lords, one remain; So I grow stronger, you more honour gain. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. — The palace yard. Noise and tumult within. Enter Porter and his Man. Port. You '11 leave your noise anon, ye rascals : do you take the court for Paris-garden? ye rude slaves, leave your gaping. [larder. [WitMn~\ Good master porter, I belong to the Port. Belong to the gallows, and be hanged, ye rogue ! is this a place to roar in ? Petch me a dozen crab-tree staves, and strong ones: these are but switches to 'em. I '11 scratch your heads : you must be seeing christenings? do you look for ale and cakes here, you rude rascals ? [sible — Man. Pray, sir, be patient : 't is as much impos- Unless we sweep 'em from the door with cannons — To scatter 'em, as 't is to make 'em sleep On May-day morning ; which will never be : We may as well push against Powle's, as stir 'em. Port. How got they in, and be hang'd ? Man. Alas, I know not ; how gets the tide in ? As much as one sound cudgel of four foot — You see the poor remainder — could distribute, I made no spare, sir. Port. You did nothing, sir. Man. I am not Samson, nor Sir Guy, nor Colbrand, To mow 'em down before me : but if I spared any That had a head to hit, either young or old. He or she, cuckold or cuckold-maker. Let me ne'er hope to see a chine again ; And that I would not for a cow, God save her ! [Within] Do you hear, master porter ? Port. I shall be with you presently, good master puppy. Keep the door close, sirrah. Man. What would you have me do ? Port. What should you do, but knock 'em down by the dozens ? Is this Moorfields to muster in ? or have we some strange Indian with the great tool come to court, the women so besiege us ? Bless me, what a fry of fornication is at door ! On my Christian con- science, this one christening will beget a thousand ; here will be father, godfather, and all together. Man. The spoons will be the bigger, sir. There is a fellow somewhat near the door, he should be a brazier by his face, for, o' my conscience, twenty of the dog-days now reign in 's nose ; all that stand about him are under the line, they need no other penance: that fire-drake did I hit three times on the head, and three times was his nose discharged against me ; he stands there, like a mortar-piece, to ijiow us. There was a haberdasher's wife of small wit near him, that railed upon me till her pinked porringer fell off her head, for kindling such a com- bustion in the state. I missed the meteor once, and hit that woman ; who cried out ' Clubs ! ' when I miglit see from far some forty truncheoners draw to her succour, which were the hope o' the Strand, where she was quartered. They fell on; I made ACT V. KING HENRY VIII. SCENE V. good my place : at length they came to the broom- staff to me ; I defied 'em still : when suddenly a file of boys behind 'em, loose shot, delivered such a shower of pebbles, that I was fain to draw mine honour in, and let 'em win the work : the devil was amongst 'em, I think, surely. Port. These are the youths that thunder at a play- house, and fight for bitten apples ; that no audience, but the tribulation of Tower-hill, or the limbs of Limehouse, their dear brothers, are able to endure. I have some of 'em in Limbo Patrum, and there they are like to dance these three days ; besides the running banquet of two beadles that is to come. Enter Lord Chamberlain. Cham. Mercy o' me, what a multitude are here ! They grow still too ; from all parts they are coming, As if we kept a fair here ! Where are these porters, These lazy knaves ? Ye have made a fine hand, f el- There 's a trim rabble let in : are all these [lows : Your faithful friends o' the suburbs ? We shall have Great store of room, no doubt, left for the ladies. When they pass back from the christening. Port. An 't please your honour. We are but men ; and what so many may do, Not being torn a-pieces, we have done : An army cannot rule 'em. Cham. As I live, If the king blame me for 't, I '11 lay ye all By the heels, and suddenly; and on your heads Clap round fines for neglect : ye are lazy knaves ; And here ye lie baiting of bombards, when Ye should do service. Hark ! the trumpets sound ; They 're come already from the christening : Go, break among the press, and find a way out To let the troop pass fairly ; or I '11 find A Marshalsea shall hold ye play these two months. Port. Make way there for the princess. Man. You great fellow, Stand close up, or I '11 make your head ache. Port. You i' the camlet, get up o' the rail ; I '11 peck you o'er the pales else. [Exeunt. SCENE v. — The palace. Enter trumpets, sounding; then two Aldermen, Lord Mayor, Garter, Cranmer, Duke of Norfolk with his marshal's staff, Duke of Suffolk, two Noblemen bear- ing great standing-howls for the christening -gifts ; then four Noblemen bearing a canopy, under which the Duchess of Norfolk, godmother, bearing the child richly ■ habited in a mantle, &c., train borne by a Lady ; then fol- lows the Marchioness Dorset, the other godmother, aiid Ladies. The ti-ooppass once about the stage, and Garter ROLOGXJE In Troy, there lies the scene. From isles of Greece The princes orgulous, their high blood chafed, Have to the port of Athens sent their ships, Fraught with the ministers and instruments Of cruel war: sixty and nine, that wore Their crownets regal, from the Athenian bay Put forth toward Phrygia ; and their vow is made To ransack Troy, within whose strong immures The ravish'd Helen, Menelaus' queen. With wanton Paris sleeps ; and that 's the quarrel. To Tenedos they come ; And the deep-drawing barks do there disgorge Their warlike f raughtage : now on Dardan plains The fresh and yet unbruised Greeks do pitch Their brave pavilions : Priam's six-gated city, Dardan, and Tymbria, Helias, Chetas, Troien, And Antenorides, vsdth massy staples And corresponsive and fulfilling bolts, Sperr up the sons of Troy. Now expectation, tickling skittish spirits, On one and other side, Trojan and Greek, Sets all on hazard : and hither am I come A prologue arm'd, but not in confidence Of author's pen or actor's voice, but suited In like conditions as our argument. To tell you, fair beholders, that our play Leaps o'er the vaunt and firstlings of those broils, Beginning in the middle, starting thence away To what may be digested in a play. Like or find fault ; do as your pleasures are ; Now good or bad, 't is but the chance of war. ^CT I. SCENE l.—Troy. Before Priam^s palace. Enter Troilus armed, and Pandarus. Tro. Call here my varlet ; I '11 unarm again : Why should I war without the walls of Troy, That find such cruel battle here within V Each Trojan that is master of his heart. Let him to field; Troilus, alas! hath none. Pan. Will this gear ne'er be mended ? [strength, Tro. The Greeks are strong and skilful to their Fierce to their skill and to their fierceness valiant ; But I am weaker than a woman's tear. Tamer than sleep, fonder than ignorance. Less valiant than the virgin in the night. And skilless as unpractised infancy. Pan. Well, I have told you enough of this : for my part, I '11 not meddle nor make no further. He that will have a cake out of the wheat must needs tarry the grinding. 510 Tro. Have I not tarried ? [bolting. Pan. Ay, the grinding; but you must tarry the Tro. Have I not tarried ? [leavening. Pan. Ay, the bolting, but you must tarry the Tro. Still have I tarried. Pan. Ay, to the leavening ; but here 's yet in the word ' hereafter ' the kneading, the making of the cake, the heating of the oven and the baking; nay, you must stay the cooling too, or you may chance to bum your lips. Tro. Patience herself, what goddess e'er she be, Doth lesser blench at sufferance than I do. At Priam's royal table do I sit ; And when fair Cressid comes into my thoughts, — So, traitor ! ' When she comes ! ' When is she thence ? Pan. Well, she looked yesternight fairer than ever I saw her look, or any woman else. Tro. 1 was about to tell thee : — when my heart. A.CT I. TROILUS AND CRESS IDA. SCENE II. As wedged with a sigh, would rive in twain, Lest Hector or my father should perceive me, I have, as when the sun doth light a storm, Buried this sigh in wrinkle of a smile : But sorrow, that is couch 'd in seeming gladness, Is like that mirth fate turns to sudden sadness. Pan. An her hair were not somewhat darker than Helen's — well, go to — there were no more com- parison between the women: but, for my part, she is my kinswoman; I would not, as they term it, praise her: but I would somebody had heard her talk yesterday, as I did. I will not dispraise your sister Cassandra's wit, but — Tro. OPandarus! I tell thee, Pandarus, — When I do tell thee, there my hopes lie drown'd, Eeply not in how many fathoms deep They lie indrench'd. I tell thee I am mad . In Cressid's love : thou answer'st ' she is fair; ' Pour'st in the open ulcer of my heart Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice, Handiest in thy discourse, O, that her hand. In whose comparison all whites are ink. Writing their own reproach, to whose soft seizure The cygnet's down is harsh and spirit of sense Hard as the palm of ploughman : this thou tell'st As true thou tell'st me, when I say I love her ; [me. But, saying thus, instead of oil and balm, Thou lay'st in every gash that love hath given me The knife that made it. Pan. I speak no more than truth. Tro. Tht)u dost not speak so much. Pan. Faith, I '11 not meddle in 't. Let her be as she is : if she be fair, 't is the better for her; an she be not, she has the mends in her own hands. Tro. Good Pandarus, how now, Pandarus ! Pan. I have had my labour for my travail ; ill- thought on of her and ill-thought on of you ; gone between and between, but small thanks for my labour. [me ? Tro. What, art thou angry, Pandarus? what, with Pan. Because she 's kin to me, therefore she 's not so fair as Helen : an she were not kin to me, she would be as fair on Friday as Helen is on Smiday. But what care I ? I care not an she were a black- a-moor ; 't is all one to me. Tro. Say I she is not fair ? Pan. I do not care whether you do or no. She 's a fool to stay behind her father; let her to the Greeks ; and so I '11 tell her the next time I see her : for my part, I '11 meddle nor make no more i' the Tro. Pandarus, — [matter. Pan. Not I. Tro. Sweet Pandarus, — aU 9l fouhdit, and there an end, \_Exit Pandarus. An alarum, Tro. Peace, you ungracious clamours! peace, rude sounds ! Fools on both sides ! Helen must needs be fair, When with your blood you daily paint her thus. I cannot fight upon this argument ; It is too starved a subject for my sword. But Pandarus,— O gods, how do you plague me ! I cannot come to Cressid but by Pandar ; And he 's as tetchy to be woo'd to woo. As she is stubborn-chaste against all suit. Tell me, Apollo, for thy Daphne's love. What Cressid is, what Pandar, and what we ? Her bed is India ; there she lies, a pearl : Between our Ilium and where she resides. Let it be call'd the wild and wandering flood, OurseLf the merchant, and this sailing Pandar Our doubtful hope, our convoy and our bark. Alarum. Enter .fflneas. ,Mne. How now, Prince Troilus ! wherefore not afield V Tro. Because not there: this woman's answer For womanish it is to be from thence. [sorts. What news, ^neas, from the field to-day ? ^ne. That Paris is returned home and hurt. Tro. By whom, ^neas ? ^ne. Troilus, by Menelaus. Tro. Let Paris bleed : 't is but a scar to scorn ; Paris is gored with Menelaus' horn. [Alarum. ^ne. Hark, what good sport is out of town to- day ! [' may.' Tro. Better at home, if ' would I might ' were But to the sport abroad : are you bound thither ? ^ne. In all swift haste. Tro. Come, go we then together. [Exeunt. SCENE 11.— The same. A street. Enter Cressida and Alexander. Ores. Who were those went by ? Alex. Queen Hecuba and Helen. Cres. And whither go they ? Alex. Up to the eastern tower, Whose height commands as subject all the vale, To see the battle. Hector, whose patience Is, as a virtue, fix'd, to-day was moved: He chid Andromache and struck his armourer. And, like as there were husbandry in war. Before the sun rose he was harness'd light. And to the field goes he ; where every flower Did, as a prophet, weep what it foresaw In Hector's wrath. Cres. What was his cause of anger ? Alex. The noise goes, this: there is among the Greeks A lord of Trojan blood, nephew to Hector; They call him Ajax. Cres. Good ; and what of him ? Alex. They say he is a very man per se. And stands alone. Cres. So do all men, unless they are drunk, sick, or have no legs. Alex. This man, lady, hath robbed many beasts of their particular additions ; he is as valiant as the lion, churlish as the bear, slow as the elephant: a man into whom nature hath so crowded humours that his valour is crushed into folly, his folly sauced with discretion : there is no man hath a virtue that he hath not a glimpse of, nor any man an attaint but he carries some stain of it : he is melancholy without cause, and merry against the hair : he hath, the joints of every thing, but every thing so out of joint that he is a gouty Briareus, many hands and no use, or purblind Argus, all eyes and no sight. Cres. But how should this man, that makes me smile, make Hector angry ? Alex. They say he yesterday coped Hector in the battle and struck him down, the disdain and shame whereof hath ever since kept Hector fasting and waking. Cres. Who comes here ? Alex. Madam, your uncle Pandarus. Enter Pandarus. Cres. Hector 's a gallant man. Alex. As may be in the world, lady. Pan. What 's that ? what 's that ? Cres. Good morrow, uncle Pandarus. Pan. Good morrow, cousin Cressid: what do j^ou talk of? Good morrow, Alexander. How do you, cousin ? When were you at Ilium ? Cres. This morning, uncle. Pan. What were you talking of when I came ? Was Hector armed and gone ere ye came to Ilium? Helen was not up, was she ? Cres. Hector was gone, but Helen was not up. Pan. Even so : Hector was stirring early. Cres. That were we talking of, and of his anger. ACT I. TROILUS AND CRESS IDA. SCENE II. Pan. "Was he angry ? Cres. So he says here. Pan. True, he was so: I know the cause too he '11 lay about him to-day, I can tell them that and there 's Troilus will not come far behind him let them take heed of Troilus, I can tell them that Cres. What, is he angry too ? [too. Pan. Who, Troilus 'i Troilus is the better man of the two. Ores. O Jupiter ! there 's no comparison. Pan. What, not between Troilus and Hector? Do you know a man if you see him ? Cres. Ay, if I ever saw him before and knew him. Pan. Well, I say Troilus is Troilus. Cres. Then you say as I say ; for, I am sure, he is not Hector. Pan. No, nor Hector is not Troilus in some de- grees. Cres. 'T is just to each of them ; he is himself. Pan. Himself ! Alas, poor Troilus ! I would he Cres. So he is. [were. Pan. Condition, I had gone barefoot to India. Cres. He is not Hector. Pan. Himself! no, he's not himself: would a' were himself ! Well, the gods are above ; time must friend or end: well, Troilus, well: I would my heart were in her body. No, Hector is not a better man than Troilus. Cres. Excuse me. Pan. He is elder. Cres. Pardon me, pardon me. Pan. Th' other's not come to't; you shall tell me another tale, when th' other 's come to't. Hector shall not have his wit this year. Cres. He shall not need it, if he have his own. Pan. Nor his qualities. Cres. No matter. Pan. Nor his beauty. Cres. 'T would not become him ; his ovra 's better. Pan. You have no judgment, niece : Helen her- self swore th' other day, that Troilus, for a brown favour — for so 'tis, I must confess, — not brown neither, — Cres. No, but brown. Pan. 'Faith, to say truth, brown and not brown. Cres. To say the truth, true and not true. Pan. She praised his complexion above Paris. Cres. Why, Paris hath colour enough. Pan. So he has. Cres. Then Troilus should have too much : if she praised him above, his complexion is higher than his ; he having colour enough, and the other higher, is too flaming a praise for a good complexion. I had as lief Helen's golden tongue had commended Troilus for a copper nose. Pan. I swear to you, I think Helen loves him better than Paris. Cres. Then she 's a merry Greek indeed. Pan. Nay, I am sure she does. She came to him th' other day into the compassed window,— and, you know, he has not past three or four hairs on his chin,— Cres. Indeed, a tapster's arithmetic may soon bring his particulars therein to a total. Pan. Why, he is very young: and yet will he, within three pound, lift as much as his brother Hector. Cres. Is he so young a man and so old a lifter ? Pan. But to prove to you that Helen loves him : she came and puts me her white hand to his cloven chin — Cres. Juno have mercy! how came it cloven ? Pan. Why, you know, 't is dimpled : I think his smiling becomes him better than any man in all Cres. O, he smiles valiantly. [Phrygia. Pan. Does he not ? Cres. O yes, and 't were a cloud in autunm. 512 Pan. Why, go to, then : but to prove to you that Helen loves Troilus, — Cres. Troilus will stand to the proof, if you'll prove it so. Pan. Troilus ! why, he esteems her no more than I esteem an addle egg. Cres. If you love an addle egg as well as you love an idle head, you would eat chickens i' the shell. Pan. I cannot choose but laugh, to think how she tickled his chin: indeed, she has a marvellous white hand, I must needs confess, — Cres. Without the rack. Pan. And she takes upon her to spy a white hair on his chin. Cres. Alas, poor chin! many a wart is richer. Pan. But there was such laughing ! Queen Hec- uba laughed that her eyes ran o'er. Cres. With mill-stones. Pan. And Cassandra laughed. Cres. But there was more temperate fire under the pot of her eyes : did her eyes run o'er too ? Pan. And Hector laughed. Cres. At what was all this laughing ? Pan. Marry, at the white hair that Helen spied on Troilus' chin. [laughed too. Cres. An 't had been a green hair, I should have Pan. They laughed not so much at the hair as at his pretty answer. Cres. What was his answer ? Pan. Quoth she, ' Here 's but two and fifty hairs on your chin, and one of them is white.' Cres. This is her question. Pan. That 's true ; make no question of that. 'Two and fifty hairs,' quoth he, 'and one white: that white hair is my father, and all the rest are his sons.' ' Jupiter 1 ' quoth she, ' which of these hairs is Paris my husband?' 'The forked one,' quoth he, ' pluck 't out, and give it him.' But there was such laughing ! and Helen so blushed, and Paris so chafed, and all the rest so laughed, that it passed. Cres. So let it now ; for it has been a great while going by. [think on 't. Pan. Well, cousin, I told you a thing yesterday; Cres. So I do. Pan. I '11 be sworn 't is true ; he will weep you, an 't were a man born in April. Cres. And I '11 spring up in his tears, an 't were a nettle against May. [A retreat sounded. Pan. Hark ! they are coming from the field : shall we stand up here, and see them as they pass toward Ilium ? good niece, do, sweet niece Cressida. Cres. At your pleasure. Pan. Here, here, here 's an excellent place we may see most bravely : I '11 tell you them their names as they pass by ; but mark Troili Speak not so loud. here 11 by Dove [the rest. -tineas passes. Pan. That 's ^neas : is not that a brave man ? he 's one of the fiowers of Troy, I can tell you : but mark Troilus ; you shall see anon. Antenor passes. Cres. Who 's that ? Pan. That 's Antenor : he has a shrewd wit, I can tell you ; and he 's a man good enough : he 's one o' the soundest judgments in Troy, whosoever, and a proper man of person. When comes Troilus ? I '11 show you Troilus anon : if he see me, you shall see him nod at me. Ores. Will he give you the nod ? Pan. You shall see. CVes. If he do, the rich shall have more. Hector passes. Pan. That's Hector, that, that, look you, that; there 's a fellow ! Go thy way, Hector ! There 's a ACT I. TBOILUS AND CRESS IDA. SCENE III, brave man, niece. O brave Hector ! Look how he looks ! there 's a countenance ! is 't not a brave man? Cres. O, a brave man ! Pan. Is a' not ? it does a man's heart good. Look you what hacks are on his helmet ! look you yonder, do you see ? look you there : there 's no jesting ; there 's laying on, take 't off who will, as they say : there be hacks I Cres. Be those with swords ? Fan. Swords! any thing, he cares not; an the devil come to him, it 's all one : by God's lid, it does one's heart good. Yonder comes Paris, yonder comes Paris. _ . Paris passes. Look ye yonder, niece ; is 't not a gallant man too, is 't not ? Why, this is brave now. Who said he came hurt home to-day ? he 's not hurt : why, this will do Helen's heart good now, ha ! Would I could see Troilus now ! You shall see Troilus anon. Helenus passes. Cres. Who 's that ? Pan. That 's Helenus. I marvel where Troilus is. That's Helenus. I think he went not forth to-day. That 's Helenus. Cres. Can Helenus fight, uncle ? Pan. Helenus ? no. Yes, he '11 fight indifferent weU. I marvel where Troilus is. Hark ! do you not hear the people cry ' Troilus ' ? Helenus is a priest. Cres. What sneaking fellow comes yonder ? Troilus jjosses. Pan. Where ? yonder ? that 's Deiphobus. 'T is TroUus! there's a man, niece! Hem! Brave Troilus! the prince of chivalry! Cres. Peace, for shame, peace ! Pan. Mark him; note him. O brave Troilus! Look well upon him, niece : look you how his sword is bloodied, and his helm more hacked than Hector's, and how he looks, and how he goes ! O admirable youth ! he ne'er saw three and twenty. Go thy way, Troilus, go thy way ! Had I a sister were a grace, or a daughter a goddess, he should take his choice. O admirable man ! Paris ? Paris is dirt to him ; and, I warrant, Helen, to change, would give an eye Cres. Here come more. [to boot. Forces pass. Pan. Asses, fools, dolts! chaff and bran, chaff and bran ! porridge after meat ! I could live and die i' the eyes of Troilus. Ne'er look, ne'er look ; the eagles are gone: crows and daws, crows and daws ! I had rather be such a man as Troilus than Agamemnon and all Greece. Cres. There is among the Greeks AchiUes, a bet- ter man than Troilus. Pan. Achilles ! a drayman, a porter, a very camel. Cres. Well, well. Pan. ' Well, well I ' Why, have you any discre- tion ? have you any eyes ? do you know what a man is? Is not birth, beauty, good shape, discourse, manhood, learning, gentleness, virtue, youth, lib- erality, and such like, the spice and salt that sea- son a man ? Cres. Ay, a minced man : and then to be baked with no date in the pie, for then the man's date 's out. Pan. You are such a woman ! one knows not at what ward you lie. Cres. Upon my back, to defend my belly ; upon my wit, to defend my wiles ; upon my secrecy, to defend mine honesty; my mask, to defend my beauty; and you, to defend all these: and at aU these wards I lie, at a thousand watches. Pan. Say one of your watches. Cres. Nay, I 'U watch you for that ; and that 's one of the chief est of them too : if I cannot ward what I would not have hit, I can watcli you for telling how I took the blow; imless it swell past hiding, and then it 's past watching. Pan. You are such another I Enter Troilvis's Boy. Boy. Sir, my lord would instantly speak with you. Pan. Where? Boy. At your own house ; there he unarms him. Pan. Good boy, tell him I come. [Exit Boy.] I doubt he be hurt. Fare ye well, good niece. Cres. Adieu, uncle. Pan. 1 '11 be with you, niece, by and by. Cres. To bring, uncle ? Pan. Ay, a token from Troilus. Cres. By the same token, you are a bawd. [Exit Pandarus. Words, vows, gifts, tears, and love's full sacrifice. He offers in another's enterprise : But more in Troilus thousand-fold I see Than in the glass of Pandar's praise may be ; Yet hold I off. Women are angels, wooing : Things won are done ; joy's soul lies in the doing. That she beloved knows nought that knows not this : Men prize the thing ungain'd more than it is : That she was never yet that ever knew Love got so sweet as when desire did sue. Therefore this maxim out of love I teach : Achievement is command; ungain'd, beseech: Then though my heart's content firm love doth bear, Nothing of that shall from mine eyes appear. [Exeunt. SCENE ni.— T^ Grecian camp. Before Agamemnon'' s tent. Sennet. Enter Agamemnon, Nestor, Ulysses, Menelaus, and others. Agam. Princes, What grief hath set the jaundice on your cheeks ? The ample proposition that hope makes In all designs begun on earth below Fails in the promised largeness : checks and disasters Grow in the veins of actions highest rear'd, As knots, by the conflux of meeting sap. Infect the sound pine and divert his grain Tortive and errant from his course of growth. Nor, princes, is it matter new to us That we come short of our suppose so far That after seven years' siege yet Troy walls stand; Sith every action that hath gone before. Whereof we have record, trial did draw Bias and thwart, not answering the aim. And that mibodied figure of the thought That gave 't surmised shape. Why then, you princes, Do you with cheeks abash'd behold our works. And call them shames ? which are indeed nought else But the protractive trials of great Jove To find persistive constancy m men : The fineness of which metal is not found In fortune's love ; for then the bold and coward, The wise and fool, the artist and unread. The hard and soft, seem all affined and kin: But, in the wind and tempest of her frown. Distinction, with a broad and powerful fan. Puffing at all, wkmows the light away : And what hath mass or matter, by itself Lies rich in virtue and unmingled. Nest. With due observance of thy godlike seat, Great Agamemnon, Nestor shall apply Thy latest words. In the reproof of chance Lies the true proof of men : the sea being smooth, How many shallow bauble boats dare sail Upon her patient breast, making their way With those of nobler bulk ! But let the ruffian Boreas once enrage The gentle Thetis, and anon behold [cut. The strong- ribb'd bark through liquid moimtains 513 ACT I. TROILUS AND CRESS IDA. SCENE III. Bounding between the two moist elements, Like Perseus' horse : where 's then the saucy boat Whose weak untimber'd sides but even now Co-rivall'd greatness ? Either to harbour fled, Or made a toast for IS'eptune. Even so Doth valour's show and valour's worth divide In storms of fortune ; for in her ray and brightness The herd hath more annoyance by the breeze Than by the tiger ; but when the splitting wind Makes flexible the knees of knotted oaks, [courage And flies fled under shade, why, then the thing of As roused with rage with rage doth sympathize. And with an accent tuned in selfsame key Eetorts to chiding fortune. TJlyss. Agamemnon, Thou great commander, nerve and bone of Greece, Heart of our numbers, soul and only spirit, In whom the tempers and the minds of all Should be shut up, hear Avhat Ulysses speaks. Besides the applause and approbation The which, [To Agamemnon] most mighty for thy place and sway, [out life [To Nest.'] And thou most reverend for thy stretch 'd- I give to both your speeches, which were such As Agamemnon and the hand of Greece Should hold up high in brass, and such again As venerable Nestor, hatch 'd in silver, Should with a bond of air, strong as the axletree On which heaven rides, knit all the Greekish ears To his experienced tongue, yet let it please both, Thou great, and wise, to hear Ulysses speak. Agam. Speak, Prince of Ithaca ; and be 't of less That matter needless, of importless burden, [expect Divide thy lips, than we are confident. When rank Thersites opes his mastic jaws. We shall hear music, wit and oracle. TJlyss. Troy, yet upon his basis, had been down, And the great Hector's sword had lack'd a master, But for these instances. The specialty of rule hath been neglected : And, look, how many Grecian tents do stand Hollow upon this plain, so many hollow factions. When that the general is not like the hive To whom the foragers shall all repair. What honey is expected ? Degree being vizarded, The unworthiest shows as fairly in the mask. The heavens themselves, the planets and this centre Observe degree, priority and place, Insisture, course, proportion, season, form, Office and custom, in all line of order; And therefore is the glorious planet Sol In noble eminence enthroned and sphered Amidst the other ; whose medicinable eye Corrects the ill aspects of planets evil, And posts, like the commandment of a king. Sans check to good and bad : but when the planets In evil mixture to disorder wander. What plagues and what portents ! what mutiny ! What raging of the sea ! shaking of earth ! Commotion in the winds ! frights, changes, horrors, Divert and crack, rend and deracinate The unity and married calm of states Quite from their fixure ! O, when degree is shaked. Which is the ladder to all high designs. Then enterprise is sick ! How could communities. Degrees in schools and brotherhoods in cities, Peaceful commerce from dividable shores. The primogenitive and due of birth. Prerogative of age, crowns, sceptres, laurels. But by degree, stand in authentic place ? Take but degree away, untune that string. And, hark, what discord follows ! each thing meets In mere oppugnancy : the bounded waters Should lift their bosoms higher than the shores And make a sop of all this solid globe : Strength should be lord of imbecility. And the rude son should strike his father dead : 514 Force should be right ; or rather, right and wrong, Between whose endless jar justice resides. Should lose their names, and so should justice too. Then every thing includes itself in power, Power into will, will into appetite; And appetite, an universal wolf. So doubly seconded with will and power. Must make perforce an universal prey. And last eat up himself. Great Agamemnon, This chaos, when degree is suffocate. Follows the choking. And this neglection of degree it is That by a pace goes backward, with a purpose It hath to climb. The general 's disdain 'd By him one step below, he by the next, That next by him beneath ; so every step, Exampled by the first pace that is sick Of his superior, grows to an envious fever Of pale and bloodless emulation : And 't is this fever that keeps Troy on foot. Not her own sinews. To end a tale of length, Troy in our weakness stands, not in her strength. Nest. Most wisely hath Ulysses here discover'd The fever whereof all our power is sick. Agam. The nature of the sickness foimd, Ulysses, What is the remedy ? TJlyss. The great Achilles, whom opinion crowns The sinew and the forehand of our host. Having his ear full of his airy fame. Grows dainty of his worth and in his tent Lies mocking our designs : with him Patroclus Upon a lazy bed the livelong day Breaks scurril jests. And with ridiculous and awkward action, Which, slanderer, he imitation caUs, He pageants us. Sometime, great Agamemnon, Thy topless deputation he puts on. And, like a strutting player, whose conceit Lies in his hamstring, and doth think it rich To hear the wooden dialogue and sound 'Twixt his stretch 'd footing and the scaffoldage, — Such to-be-pitied and o'er-wrested seeming He acts thy greatness in : and when he speaks, 'T is like a chime a-mending ; with terms unsquared, Which, from the tongue of roaring Typhon dropp'd, Would seem hyperboles. At this fusty stuff The large Achilles, on his press 'd bed lolling. From his deep chest laughs out a loud applause ; Cries ' Excellent ! 't is Agamemnon just. Now play me Nestor; hem, and stroke thy beard. As he being drest to some oration.' That 's done, as near as the extremest ends Of parallels, as like as Vulcan and his wife : Yet god Achilles still cries ' Excellent ! 'T is Nestor right. Now play him me, Patroclus, Arming to answer in a night alarm.' And then, forsooth, the faint defects of age Must be the scene of mirth ; to cough and spit, And, with a palsy-fumbling on his gorget. Shake in and out the rivet : and at this sport Sir Valour dies; cries 'O, enough, Patroclus; Or give me ribs of steel ! I shall split all In pleasure of my spleen.' And in this fashion, All our abilities, gifts, natures, shapes, Severals and generals of grace exact, Achievements, plots, orders, preventions. Excitements to the field, or speech for truce. Success or loss, what is or is not, serves As stuff for these two to make paradoxes. Nest. And in the imitation of these twain — Who, as Ulysses says, opinion crovras With an imperial voice— many are infect. Ajax is grown self-will'd, and bears his head In such a rein, in full as proud a place As broad Achilles ; keeps his tent like him ; Makes factious feasts ; rails on our state of war, I Bold as an oracle, and sets Thersites, ACT I. TROILUS AND CRESS IDA. SCENE III. A slave whose gall coins slanders like a mint, To match us in comparisons with dirt, To weaken and discredit our exposure, How rank soever rounded in with danger. TJlyss. They tax our policy, and call it cowardice. Count wisdom as no member of the war, Forestall prescience and esteem no act But that of hand : the still and mental parts. That do contrive how many hands shall strike. When fitness calls them on, and know by measure Of their observant toil the enemies' weight,— Why, this hath not a finger's dignity : They call this bed- work, mappery, closet-Avar; So that the ram that batters down the wall, Tor the great swing and rudeness of his poise, They place before his hand that made the engine, Or those that with the fineness of their souls. JBy reason guide his execution. Nest. Let this be granted, and Achilles' horse Makes many Thetis' sons. [A tucket. Agam. What trumpet ? look, Menelaus. Men. From Troy. Enter .^neas. • Aaam. What would you 'fore our tent ? ^ne. Is this great Agamemnon's tent, I pray you ? Agam. Even this. ^ne. May one, that is a herald and a prince. Do a fair message to his kingly ears ? Agam. With surety stronger than Achilles' arm Tore all the Greekish heads, which with one voice Call Agamemnon head and general. JEne. Fair leave and large security. How may A stranger to those most imperial looks Know them from eyes of other mortals ? Aqam. How! ^ne. Ay; I ask, that I might waken reverence, And bid the cheek be ready with a blush Modest as morning when she coldly eyes The youthful Phoebus : Which is that god in office, guiding men ? Which is the high and mighty Agamemnon ? Agam. This Trojan scorns us ; or the men of Troy Are ceremonious courtiers. JEne. Courtiers as free, as debonair, unarm'd. As bending angels ; that 's their fame in peace : But when they would seem soldiers, they have galls, Oood arms, strong joints, true swords ; and, Jove's accord, Nothing so full of heart. But peace, ^neas. Peace, Trojan; lay thy finger on thy lips ! The worthiness of praise distains his worth. If that the praised himself bring the praise forth : But what the repining enemy commends, That breath fame blows; that praise, sole pure, transcends. Agam. Sir, you of Troy, call you yourself JEneas ? .^Ene. Ay, Greek, that is my name. Agam. What 's your aif air, I pray you ? ; .^Ene. Sir, pardon; 't is for Agamemnon's ears. ■ Agam. He hears nought privately that comes from Troy. JEne. Nor I from Troy come not to whisper him : I bring a trumpet to awake his ear, To set his sense on the attentive bent, And then to speak. Agam. Speak frankly as the wind ; It is not Agamemnon's sleeping hour : That thou shalt know, Trojan, he is awake. He tells thee so himseK. ^^Ene. Trumpet, blow loud. Send thy brass voice through all these lazy tents ; And every Greek of mettle, let him know. What Troy means fairly shall be spoke aloud. [irumpet sounds. We have, great Agamemnon, here in Troy A prince call'd Hector, — Priam is his father, — Who in this dull and long-continued truce Is rusty grown : he bade me take a trumpet, And to this purpose speak. Kings, princes, lords! If there be one among the fair'st of Greece That holds his honour higher than his ease, That seeks his praise more tlian he fears his peril, That knows his valour, and knows not his fear. That loves his mistress more than in confession, With truant vows to her own lips he loves, And dare avow her beauty and her worth In other arms than hers, — to him this challenge. Hector, in view of Trojans and of Greeks, Shall make it good, or do his best to do it. He hath a lady, wiser, fairer, truer. Than ever Greek did compass in his arms. And will to-morrow with his trumpet call Midway between your tents and walls of Troy, To rouse a Grecian that is true in love : If any come, Hector shall honour him; If none, he '11 say in Troy when he retires, The Grecian dames are sunburnt and not worth The splinter of a lance. Even so much. Agam. This shall be told our lovers, Lord ^neas ; If none of them have soul in such a kind, We left them all at home : but we are soldiers ; And may that soldier a mere recreant prove. That means not, hath not, or is not in love ! If then one is, or hath, or means to be. That one meets Hector ; if none else, I am he. Nest. Tell him of Nestor, one that was a man When Hector's grandsire suck'd : he is old now; But if there be not in our Grecian host One noble man that hath one spark of fire, To answer for his love, tell him from me I '11 hide my silver beard in a gold beaver And in my vantbrace put this wither'd brawn, And meeting him will teU him that my lady Was fairer than his grandam and as chaste As may be in the world: his youth in flood, I '11 prove this truth with my three drops of blood. JEne. Now heavens forbid such scarcity of youth ! Ulyss. Amen. Ag'a7n. Fair Lord ^neas, let me touch your hand ; To our pavilion shall I lead you, sir. Achilles shall have word of this intent ; So shall each lord of Greece, from tent to tent : Yourself shall feast with us before you go And find the welcome of a noble foe. [Exeunt all but Ulysses and Nestor. Ulyss. Nestor! Nest. What says TJlysses ? Ulyss. I have a young conception in my brain; Be you my time to bring it to some shape. Nest. What is 't? Ulyss. This 'tis: Blunt wedges rive hard knots : the seeded pride That hath to this maturity blown up In rank Achilles must or now be cropp'd. Or, shedding, breed a nursery of like evil, To overbulk us all. JVesJ. Well, and how ? Ulyss. This challenge that the gallant Hector However it is spread in general name, [sends, Eelates in purpose only to Achilles. [stance. Nest. The purpose is perspicuous even as sub- Whose grossness little characters sum up : And, in the publication, make no strain, But that Achilles, were his brain as barren As banks of Libya,— though, Apollo knows, 'T is dry enough, — will, with great speed of judg- Ay, with celerity, find Hector's purpose [ment. Pointing on him. Ulyss. And wake him to the answer, think you ? Nest. Yes, 't is most meet : whom may you else op- That can from Hector bring his honour off, [pose, If not Achilles ? Though 't be a sportful combat, 515 ACT II. TROILUS AND CRES8IDA. SCENE L Yet in the trial much opinion dwells ; For here the Trojans taste our dear'st repute With their finest palate : and trust to me, Ulysses, Our imputation shall be oddly poised In this wild action ; for the success, Although particular, shall give a scantling Of good or bad unto the general ; And in such indexes, although small pricks To their subsequent volumes, there is seen The baby figure of the giant mass Of things to come at large. It is supposed He that meets Hector issues from our choice ; And choice, being mutual act of all our souls. Makes merit her election, and doth boil. As 'twere from forth us all, a man distill 'd Out of our virtues ; who miscarrying, [part, What heart receives from hence the conquertag To steel a strong opinion to themselves ? Which entertain'd, limbs are his instruments, In no less working than are swords and bows Directive by the limbs. Ulyss. Give pardon to my speech : Therefore 't is meet Achilles meet not Hector. Let us, like merchants, show our foulest wares. And think, pierchance, they '11 sell ; if not, The lustre of the better yet to show. Shall show the better. Do not consent That ever Hector and Achilles meet ; For both our honour and our shame in this Are dogg'd with two strange followers. Nest. I see them not with my old eyes : what are they? Ulyss. What glory our AchUles shares from Hec- tor, Were he not proud, we all should share with him : But he already is too insolent ; And we were better parch in Afric sun Than in the pride and salt scorn of his eyes, Should he 'scape Hector fair : if he were f oil'd, Why then, we did our main opinion crush In taint or our best man. No, make a lottery; And, by device, let blockish Ajax draw The sort to fight with Hector : among ourselves Give him allowance for the better man : For that will physic the great Myrmidon Who broils in loud applause, and make him fall His crest that prouder than blue Iris bends. If the dull brainless Ajax come safe off. We 'U dress him up in voices : if he fail. Yet go we under our opinion still That we have better men. But, hit or miss. Our project's life this shape of sense assumes: Ajax employ'd plucks down Achilles' plumes. " ;. Ul Nest. Now I begin to relish thy advice; And I wiU give a taste of it forthwith To Agamemnon : go we to him straight. Two curs shall tame each other : pride alone Must tarre the mastiffs on, as 't were their bone. lExeunt. ^OT II. l.—A part of the Gfredan camp. Enter Ajax and Thersites. ■^ax. Thersites! Ther. Agamemnon, how if he had boils? full, all over, generally ? Ajax. Thersites I Ther. And those boils did run ? say so : did not the general run then ? were not that a botchy core ? Ajax. Dog! Ther. Then would come some matter from him ; I see none now. Ajax. Thou bitch-wolf's son, canst thou not hear ? [Beating him] Feel, then. Ther. The plague of Greece upon thee, thou mon- grel beef-witted lord ! Ajax. Speak then, thou vinewedst leaven, speak : I will beat thee into handsomeness. Ther. I shall sooner rail thee into wit and holi- ness : but, I think, thy horse will sooner con an ora- tion than thou learn a prayer without book. Thou canst strike, canst thou ? a red murrain o' thy jade's tricks I Aiax. Toadstool, learn me the proclamation. Ther. Dost thou think I have no sense, thou strikest me thus ? Ajax. The proclamation ! Ther. Thou art proclaimed a fool, I thiuk. Ajax. Do not, porpentine, do not : myfingers itch. Titer. I would thou didst itch from head to foot and I had the scratching of thee ; I would make thee the loathsomest scab in Greece. When thou art forth in the incursions, thou strikest as slow as another. Ajax. I say, the proclamation 1 Ther. Thou grumblest and railest every hour on Achilles, and thou art as full of envy at his great- ness as Cerberus is at Proserpina's beauty, ay, that thou barkest at him. Ajax. Mistress Thersites I Ther. Thou shouldst strike him. Ajax. Cobloaf! 516 Ther. He would pun thee into shivers with his fist, as a sailor breaks a biscuit. Ajax. [Beating him] You whoreson cur ! Ther. Do, do. Ajax. Thou stool for a witch 1 Ther. Ay, do, do; thou sodden-witted lord! thou hast no more brain than I have in mine elbows ; an assinego may tutor thee ; thou scurvyvaliant ass ! thou art here but to thrash Trojans ; and thou art bought and sold among those of any wit, like a barbarian slave. If thou use to beat me, I will begin at thy heel, and tell what thou art by inches, thou thing of no bowels, thou! Ajax. You dog ! T/ier. You scurvy lord ! Ajax. [Beating him] You cur ! [do, do. Ther. Mars his idiot! do, rudeness; do, camel; Enter Achilles and Patroclus. Achil. Why, how now, Ajax ! wherefore do you thus ? How now, Thersites ! what 's the matter, Ther. You see him there, do you ? [man ? Achil. Ay ; what 's the matter ? Tlier. Nay, look upon him. Achil. So I do : what 's the matter ? Ther. Nay, but regard him well. Achil. ' Well ! ' why, I do so. Ther. But yet you look not well upon him ; for, whosoever you take him to be, he is Ajax. Achil. I know that, fool. Ther. Ay, but that fool knows not himself. Ajax. Therefore I beat thee. T^her. Lo, lo, lo, lo, what modicums of wit he ut- ters! his evasions have ears thus long. I have bobbed his brain more than he has beat my bones : I win buy nine sparrows for a penny, and his pia mater is not worth the ninth part of a sparrow. This lord, Achilles, Ajax, who wears his wit in his belly and his guts in his head, I '11 tell you what I say of him. Achil. What? Ther. I say, this Ajax— [Ajax offers to heat him. ACT TROILUS AND CRESS IDA. SCENE II. Achil. Nay, good Ajax. Ther. Has not so much wit — Achil. Nay, I must hold you. Ther. As will stop the eye of Helen's needle, for whom he comes to fight. Achil. Peace, fool! Ther. I would have peace and quietness, but the fool will not : he there : that he : look you there. Ajax. O thou damned cur ! I shall — Achil. Will you set your wit to a fool's? [it. Ther. No, I warrant you 5 for a fool's will shame Patr. Good words, Thersites. Achil. "What 's the quarrel? Ajax. I bade the vile owl go learn me the tenour of the proclamation, and he rails upon me. Ther. I serve thee not. Ajax. Well, go to, go to. Ther. I serve here voluntary. Achil. Your last service was sufferance, 't was not voluntary : no man is beaten voluntary : Ajax was here the voluntary, and you as under an impress. Ther. E'en so ; a great deal of your wit, too, lies in your sinews, or else there be liars. Hector shall have a great catch, if he knock out either of your brains : a' were as good crack a fusty nut with no Achil. What, with me too, Thersites ? [kernel. Ther. There 's Ulysses and old Nestor, whose "wit was mouldy ere your grandsires had nails on their toes, yoke you like draught-oxen and make you plough up the wars. Achil. What, what? Ther. Yes, good sooth : to, Achilles ! to, Ajax! to! Ajax. I shall cut out your tongue. Ther. 'T is no matter ; I shall speak as much as thou afterwards. Patr. No more words, Thersites; peace! Ther. I will hold my peace when Achilles' brach laids me, shall I ? Achil. There 's for you, Patroclus. Ther. I will see you hanged, like clotpoles, ere I come any more to your tents : I will keep where there is wit stirring and leave the faction of fools. [Exit. Patr. A good riddance. [our host : Achil. Marry, this, sir, is proclaim'd through all That Hector, by the fifth hour of the sun. Will with a trumpet 'twixt our tents and Troy To-morrow morning call some knight to arms That hath a stomach ; and such a one that dare Maintaia — I know not what : 'tis trash. Farewell. Ajax. Farewell. Who shall answer him ? Achil. I know not : 't is put to lottery ; otherwise He knew his man. Ajax. O, meaning you. I will go learn more of it. [Exeunt. SCENE II. — Troy. A room in Priam'' s palace. Enter Priam, Hector, Troilus, Paris, and Helenas. Pri. After so many hours, lives, speeches spent, Thus once again says Nestor from the Greeks: * Deliver Helen, and all damage else — As honour, loss of time, travail, expense, [sumed Wotmds, friends, and what else dear that is con- In hot digestion of this cormorant war— Shall be struck off.' Hector, what say you to 't ? Hect. Though no man lesser fears the Greeks than As far as toucheth my particular, [I Yet, dread Priam, There is no lady of more softer bowels. More spongy to suck in the sense of fear, More ready to cry out ' Who knows what follows ?' Than Hector is : the wound of peace is surety. Surety secure ; but modest doubt is call'd The beacon of the wise, the tent that searches To the bottom of the worst. Let Helen go : Since the first sword was drawn about this question, Every tithe soul, 'mongst many thousand dismes, Hath been as dear as Helen ; I mean, of ours : If we have lost so many tenths of ours. To guard a thing not ours nor worth to us. Had it our name, the value of one ten. What merit 's in that reason which denies The yielding of her up ? Tro. Fie, fie, my brother ! Weigh you the worth and honour of a king So great as our dread father in a scale Of common ounces ? will you with counters sum The past proportion of his infinite ? And buckle in a waist most fathomless With spans and inches so diminutive As fears and reasons ? fie, for godly shame ! [sons, Hel. No marvel, though you bite so sharp at rea- You are so empty of them. Should not our father Bear the great sway of his affairs with reasons. Because your speech hath none that tells him so ? Tro. You are for dreams and slumbers, brother priest ; [reasons : You fur your gloves with reason. Here are your You know an enemy intends you harm ; You know a sword employ'd is perilous, And reason flies the object of all harm : Who marvels then, when Helenus beholds A Grecian and his sword, if he do set The very wings of reason to his heels And fly like chidden Mercury from Jove, Or like a star disorb'd ? Nay, if we talk of reason, Let 's shut our gates and sleep : manhood and honour Should have hare-hearts, would they but fat their thoughts With this cramm'd reason: reason and respect Make livers pale and lustihood deject. Hect. Brother, she is not worth what she doth cost The holding. Tro. What is aught, but as 't is valued ? Hect. But value dwells not in particular will ; It holds his estimate and dignity As well wherein 't is precious of itself As in the prizer : 't is mad idolatry To make the service greater than the god ; And the will dotes that is attributive To what infectiously itself affects, Without some image of the affected merit. Tro. 1 take to-day a wife, and my election Is led on in the conduct of my will ; My will enkindled by mine eyes and ears. Two traded pilots 'twixt the dangerous shores Of will and judgment : how may I avoid. Although my will distaste what it elected. The wife I chose ? there can be no evasion To blench from this and to stand firm by honour : We turn not back the silks upon the merchant, When we have soil'd them, nor the remainder viands We do not throw in unrespective sieve. Because we now are full. It was thought meet Paris should do some vengeance on the Greeks : Your breath of full consent bellied his sails ; The seas and winds, old wranglers, took a truce And did him service : he touch'd the ports desired. And for an old aunt whom the Greeks held captive. He brought a Grecian queen, whose youth and Wrinkles Apollo's, and makes stale the morning. Why keep we her ? the Grecians keep our aunt : Is she worth keeping ? why, she is a pearl. Whose price hath launch 'd above a thousand ships. And turn'd crown'd kings to merchants. If you '11 avouch 't was wisdom Paris went — As you must needs, for you all cried ' Go, go,'— If you '11 confess he brought home noble prize — As you must needs, for you all clapp'd your hands, And cried ' Inestimable I '—why do you now The issue of your proper wisdoms rate, And do a deed that fortune never did, 517 ACT II. TROILUS AND CRESS IDA. SCENE III. Beggar the estimation which you prized Richer than sea and land ? O, theft most base, That we have stol'n what we do fear to keep ! But, thieves, unworthy of a thing so stol'n. That in their country did them that disgrace, We fear to warrant in our native place ! Cos. [Within] Cry, Trojans, cry! Pri. What noise ? what shriek is this ? Tro. 'T is our mad sister, I do know her voice. Cas. \Witliin'\ Cry, Trojans! Hect. It is Cassandra. Enter Cassandra, raving. Cas. Cry, Trojans, cry ! lend me ten thousand eyes, And I will fill them with prophetic tears. Hect. Peace, sister, peace ! Cas. Virgins and boys, mid-age and wrinkled eld, Soft infancy, that nothing canst but cry, Add to my clamours ! let us pay betimes A moiety of that mass of moan to come. Cry, Trojans, cry ! practise your eyes with tears ! Troy must not be, nor goodly Ilion stand ; Our firebrand brother, Paris, burns us all. Cry, Trojans, cry ! a Helen and a woe : Cry, cry ! Troy burns, or else let Helen go. [Exit. Hect. Now, youthful Troilus, do not these high Of divination in our sister work [strains Some touches of remorse ? or is your blood So madly hot that no discourse of reason, ISTor fear of bad success in a bad cause. Can qualify the same ? Tro. Why, brother Hector, We may not think the justness of each act Such and no other than event doth form it, Nor once deject the courage of our minds. Because Cassandra 's mad : her brain-sick raptures Cannot distaste the goodness of a quarrel Which hath our several honours all engaged To make it gracious. For my private part, I am no more touch'd than all Priam's sons : And Jove forbid there should be done amongst us Such things as might offend the weakest spleen To fight for and maintain! Par. Else might the world convince of levity As well my undertakings as your counsels : But I attest the gods, your full consent Gave wings to my propension and cut off All fears attending on so dire a project. Por what, alas, can these my single arms ? What propugnation is in one man's valour, To stand the push and enmity of those This quarrel would excite ? Yet, I protest, Were I alone to pass the difficulties And had as ample power as I have will, Paris should ne'er retract what he hath done, Nor faint in the pursuit. Pri. Paris, you speak Like one besotted on your sweet delights : You have the honey still, but these the gall ; So to be valiant is no praise at all. Par. Sir, I propose not merely to myself The pleasures such a beauty brings with it ; But I would have the soil of her fair rape Wiped off, in honourable keeping her. What treason were it to the ransack 'd queen. Disgrace to your great worths and shame to me, Now to deliver her possession up On terms of base compulsion ! Can it be That so degenerate a strain as this Should once set footing in your generous bosoms ? There 's not the meanest spirit on om- party Without a heart to dare or sword to draw When Helen is defended, nor none so noble Whose life were ill bestow'd or death unfamed Where Helen is the subject ; then, I say. Well may we fight for her whom, we know well. The world's large spaces cannot parallel. 518 Hect. Paris and Troilus, you have both said well. And on the cause and question now in hand Have glozed, but superficially ; not much Unlike young men, whom Aristotle thought Unfit to hear moral philosophy : The reasons you allege do more conduce To the hot passion of distemper 'd blood Than to make up a free determination 'Twixt right and wrong, for pleasure and revenge Have ears more deaf than adders to the voice Of any true decision. Nature craves All dues be render'd to their owners: now. What nearer debt in all humanity Than wife is to the husband ? If this law Of nature be corrupted through affection. And that great minds, of partial indulgence To their benumbed wills, resist the same. There is a law in each well-order'd nation To curb those raging appetites that are Most disobedient and refractory. If Helen then be wife to Sparta's king, As it is known she is, these moral laws Of nature and of nations speak aloud To have her back return'd : thus to persist In doing wrong extenuates not wrong. But makes it much more heavy. Hector's opinion Is this in way of truth ; yet ne'ertheless. My spritely brethren, I propend to you In resolution to keep Helen still, For 't is a cause that hath no mean dependence Upon our joint and several dignities. [sign: Tro. Why, there you touch'd the life of our de- Were it not glory that we more affected Than the performance of our heaving spleens, I would not wish a drop of Trojan blood Spent more in her defence. But, worthy Hector, She is a theme of honour and renown, A spur to valiant and magnanimous deeds, Whose present courage may beat down our foes. And fame in time to come canonize us ; For, I presume, brave Hector would not lose So rich advantage of a promised glory As smiles upon the forehead of this action For the wide world's revenue. Hect. I am yours. You valiant offspring of great Priamus. I have a roisting challenge sent amongst The dull and factious nobles of the Greeks Will strike amazement to their drowsy spirits : I was advertised their great general slept. Whilst emulation in the army crept : This, I presume, will wake him. [Exeunt, SCENE III.— The Grecian camp. Before Achilles* tent. Enter Thersites, solus. Ther. How now, Thersites! what, lost in the labyrinth of thy fury! Shall the elephant Ajax carry it thus? he beats me, and I rail at him: O, worthy satisfaction ! would it were otherwise ; that I could beat him, whilst he railed at me. 'Sfoot, I '11 learn to conjure and raise devils, but I '11 see some issue of my spiteful execrations. Then there 's. Achilles, a rare enginer! If Troy be not taken till these two undermine it, the walls will stand till they fall of themselves. O thou great thunder- darter of Olympus, forget that thou art Jove, the king of gods, and. Mercury, lose all the serpentine craft of thy caduceus, if ye take not that little little less than little wit from them that they have ! which short-armed ignorance itself knows is so abundant scarce, it will not in circumvention deliver a fly from a spider, without drawing their massy irons and cut- ting the web. After this, the vengeance on the whole camp ! or rather, the bone-ache ! for that, methinks, is the curse dependent on those that war for a ACT II. TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. SCENE III. placket. I have said my prayers and devil Envy say Amen. What ho ! my Lord Achilles ! Enter Patroclus. Patr. "Who 's there ? Thersites ! Good Thersites, come in and rail. Ther. If I could have remembered a gilt comiter- feit, thou wouldst not have slipped out of my con- templation : but it is no matter ; thyself upon thy- self ! The common curse of mankind , folly and igno- rance, be thine in great revenue ! heaven bless thee from a tutor, and discipline come not near thee! Let thy blood be thy direction till thy death ! then if she that lays thee out says thou art a fair corse, I '11 be sworn and sworn upon 't she never shrouded any but lazars. Amen. "Where 's Achilles ? Patr. "What, art thou devout ? wast thou in prayer ? Tlier. Ay : the heavens hear me ! Enter Achilles. Achil. "Who 's there ? Patr. Thersites, my lord. Achil. "Where, where ? Art thou come ? why, my cheese, my digestion, why hast thou not served thyself in to my table so many meals? Come, what 's Agamemnon ? Tlier. Thy commander, Achilles. Then tell me, Patroclus, what 's Achilles ? Patr. Thy lord, Thersites: then tell me, I pray thee, what 's thyself ? Ther. Thy knower, Patroclus: then tell me, Patroclus, what art thou? Patr. Thou mayst tell that knowest. Achil. O, tell, tell. Ther. I '11 decline the whole question. Agamem- non commands Achilles ; Achilles is my lord ; I am Patroclus' knower, and Patroclus is a fool. Pair. You rascal ! Ther. Peace, fool ! I have not done. [sites. Achil. He is a privileged man. Proceed, Ther- Ther. Agamemnon is a fool ; Achilles is a fool ; Thersites is a fool, and, as aforesaid, Patroclus is a Achil. Derive this; come. [fool. Ther. Agamemnon is a fool to offer to command Achilles; Achilles is a fool to be commanded of Agamemnon; Thersites is a fool to serve such a fool, and Patroclus is a fool positive. Patr. "Why am I a fool ? Ther. Make that demand of the prover. It suf- fices me thou art. Look you, who comes here ? Achil. Patroclus, I '11 speak with nobody. Come in with me, Thersites. " [Exit. Ther. Here is such patchery, such juggling and such knavery ! all the argument is a cuckold and a whore; a good quarrel to draw emulous factions and bleed to death upon. Now, the dry serpigo on the subject! and war and lechery confound all! [Exit. Enter Agamemnon, Ulysses, Nestor, Dio- medes, and Ajax. Agam. Where is Achilles ? Patr. Within his tent ; but ill disposed, my lord. Agam. Let it be known to him that we are here. He shent our messengers ; and we lay by Our appertainments, visiting of him : Let him be told so ; lest perchance he think We dare not move the question of our place. Or know not what we are. Patr. I shall say so to him. {Exit. JJlyss. We saw him at the opening of his tent : He is not sick. Ajax. Yes, lion-sick, sick of proud heart: you may call it melancholy, if you will favour the man ; but, by my head, 't is pride : but why, why ? let hitn show us the cause. A word, my lord. [Takes Agamemnon aside. j^est. What moves Ajax thus to bay at him ? Ulyss. Achilles hath inveigled his fool from him. Nest. Who, Thersites ? Ulyss. He. JSfest. Then will Ajax lack matter, if he have lost his argument. Ulyss. No, you see, he is his argument that has his argument, Achilles. Nest. All the better ; their fraction is more our wish than their faction: but it was a strong com- posure a fool could disunite. Ulyss. The amity that wisdom knits not, folly may easily untie. Here comes Patroclus. Re-enter Patroclus. Nest. No Achilles with him. Ulyss. The elephant hath joints, but none for cour- tesy :' his legs are legs for necessity, not for flexure. Patr. Achilles bids me say, he is much sorry, If anything more than your sport and pleasure Did move your greatness and this noble state To call upon him ; he hopes it is no other But for your health and your digestion sake. An after-dinner's breath. Agam. Hear you, Patroclus : We are too well acquainted with these answers : But his evasion, wing'd thus swift with scorn, Cannot outfly our apprehensions. Much attribute he hath, and much the reason Why we ascribe it to him ; yet all his virtues, Not virtuously on his own part beheld. Do in our eyes begin to lose their gloss. Yea, like fair fruit in an unwholesome dish, Are like to rot untasted. Go and tell him. We come to speak with him ; and you shall not sin. If you do say we think him over-proud And under-honest, in self-assumption greater Than in the note of judgment ; and worthier than himself Here tend the savage strangeness he puts on, Disguise the holy strength of their command. And underwrite in an observing kind His humorous predominance ; yea, watch His pettish lunes, his ebbs, his flows, as if The passage and whole carriage of this action Rode on his tide. Go tell him this, and add. That if he overbold his price so much. We '11 none of him ; but let him, like an engine Not portable, lie under this report : ' Bring action hither, this cannot go to war : A stirring dwarf we do allowance give Before a sleeping giant.' Tell him so. Patr. I shall ; and bring his answer presently. [Exit. Agam. In second voice we '11 not be satisfied ; We come to speak with him. Ulysses, enter you. [Exit Ulysses. Ajax. What is he more than another ? Agam. No more than what he thinks he is. A.jax. Is he so much ? Do you not think he thinks himself a better man than I am ? Agam. No question. [is ? Ajax. Will you subscribe his thought, and say he Agam. No, noble Ajax; you are as strong, as valiant, as wise, no less noble, much more gentle, and altogether more tractable. Ajax. Why should a man be proud? How doth pride grow ? I know not what pride is. Agam. Your mind is the clearer, Ajax, and your virtues the fairer. He that is proud eats up him- self : pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle ; and whatever praises itself but in the deed, devours the deed in the praise. Ajax. I do hate a proud man, as I hate the en- gendering of toads. Nest. Yet he loves himself : is 't not strange ? [Aside. 519 TROILUS AND CRESS ID A. SCENE 1. Be-enter Ulysses. Ulyss. Achilles will not to the field to-morrow. Agam. What 's his excuse ? Znyss. He doth rely on none, But carries on the stream of his dispose Without observance or respect of any, In will peculiar and in self -admission. Agam. Why will he not upon our fair request Untent his person and share the air with us ? Ulyss. Things small as nothing, for request's sake only, He makes important : possess 'd he is with greatness, And speaks not to himself but with a pride That quarrels at self -breath : imagined worth Holds in his blood such swoln and hot discourse That 'twixt his mental and his active parts Kingdom'd Achilles in commotion rages And batters down himself : what should I say ? He is so plaguy proud that the death-tokens of it Cry 'No recovery.' Agam. Let Ajax go to him. Dear lord, go you and greet him in his tent : 'T is said he holds you well, and will be led At your request a little from himself. Tllyss. O Agamemnon, let it not be so ! We '11 consecrate the steps that Ajax makes When they go from Achilles : shall the proud lord That bastes his arrogance with his own seam And never suffers matter of the world Enter his thoughts, save such as do revolve And ruminate himself, shall he be worshipp'd Of that we hold an idol more than he ? No, this thrice worthy and right valiant lord Must not so stale his palm, nobly acquired ; Nor, by my will, assubjugate his merit, As amply titled as Achilles is, By going to Achilles : That were to enlard his fat already pride And add more coals to Cancer when he burns With entertaining great Hyperion. This lord go to him ! Jupiter forbid. And say in thmider ' Achilles go to him.' JVesi. [Aside to Dio.] O, this is well; he rubs the vein of him. Bio. [Aside to JSFest.] And how his silence drinks up this applause ! Ajax. If I go to him, with my armed fist I 'll'pash him o'er the face. Agam. O, no, you shall not go. Ajax. An a' be proud with me, I '11 pheeze his Let me go to him. [pride : Ulyss. Not for the worth that hangs upon our Ajax. A paltry, insolent fellow I [quarrel. Jyest. How he describes himself ! Ajax. Can he not be sociable ? Ulyss. The raven chides blackness. Ajax. I '11 let his humours blood. Agam. He will be the physician that should be the patient. Ajax. An all men were o' my mind, — Ulyss. Wit would be out of fashion. Ajax. A' should not bear it so, a' should eat swords first : shall pride carry it ? JVest. An 't would, you 'Id carry half. Ulyss. A' would have ten shares. Ajax. I will knead him ; I '11 make him supple. Nest. He 's not yet through warm : force him with praises : pour in, pour in ; his ambition is dry. Ulyss. [To Agam.] My lord, you feed too much on this dislike. Nest. Our noble general, do not do so. Dio. You must prepare to fight without Achilles. Ulyss. Why, 'tis this naming of him does him Here is a man — but 't is before his face ; [harm. I will be silent. Nest. Wherefore should you so ? He is not emulous, as Achilles is. Ulyss. Know the whole world, he is as valiant. Ajax. A whoreson dog, that shall palter thus Would he were a Trojan I [with us I Nest. What a vice were it in Ajax now,— Ulyss. If he were proudj — Bio. Or covetous of praise, — Ulyss. Ay, or surly borne, — Bio. Or strange, or self-aflCected ! [composure ; Ulyss. Thank the heavens, lord, thou art of sweet Praise him that got thee, she that gave thee suck: Famed be thy tutor, and thy parts of nature Thrice famed, beyond all erudition: But he that disciplined thy arms to fight, Let Mars divide eternity in twain. And give him half : and, for thy vigour, Bull-bearing Milo his addition yield To sinewy Ajax. I will not praise thy wisdom, Which, like a bourn, a pale, a shore, confines Thy spacious and dilated parts : here 's Nestor ; Instructed by the antiquary times. He must, he is, he cannot but be wise : But pardon, father Nestor, were your days As green as Ajax' and your brain so temper'd, You should not have the eminence of him, But be as Ajax. Ajax. Shall I call you father ? Nest, Ay, my good son. Bio. Be ruled by him. Lord Ajax. There is no tarrying here ; the hart Achilles thicket. Please it our great general To call together all his state of war ; Fresh kings are come to Troy : to-morrow We must with all our main of power stand fast : And here 's a lord, — come knights from east to west, And cull their flower, Ajax shall cope the best. Agam. Go we to council. Let Achilles sleep : Light boats sail swift, though greater hulks draw deep. [Exeunt. .ACT III. SCENE I. — Troy. Priam'' s palace. Enter a Servant and Pandarus. Fan. Friend, you! pray you, a word: do not you follow the young Lord Paris ? Serv. Ay, sir, when he goes before me. Pan. You depend upon him, I mean ? Serv. Sir, I do depend upon the lord. Pan. You depend upon a noble gentleman; I must needs praise him. Serv. The lord be praised ! Pan. Y ou know me, do you not ? Serv. Faith, sir, superficially. 520 Pan. Friend, know me better; I am the Lord Pandarus. Serv. I hope I shall know your honour better. Pan. I do desire it. Serv. You are in the state of grace. Pan. Grace! not so, friend; honour and lordship are my titles. [Music within.'] What music is this ? Serv. I do but partly know, sir: it is music in parts. Pan. Know you the musicians ? Serv. Wholly, sir. Pan. Who play they to ? Serv. To the hearers, sir. Pan. At whose pleasure, friend? ACT III. TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. SCENE II. Serv. At mine, sir, and theirs that love music. Pan. Command, I mean, friend. Serv. Who shall I command, sir ? Pan. Friend, we understand not one another : I am too courtly and thou art too cunning. At whose request do these men play ? Serv. That 's to 't indeed, sir : marry, sir, at the request of Paris my lord, who 's there in person ; with him, the mortal Yenus, the heart-blood of beauty, love's invisible soul, — Pan. Who, my cousin Cressida? Serv. No, sir, Helen : could you not find out that by her attributes ? Pan. It should seem, fellow, that thou hast not seen the Lady Cressida. I come to speak with Paris from the Prince Troilus : I will make a com- plimental assault upon him, for my business seethes. Serv. Sodden business! there's a stewed phrase Enter Paris and Helen, attended. Pan. Pau- be to you, my lord, and to all this fair company ! fair desires, in all fair measure, fairly guide them ! especially to you, fair queen ! fair thoughts be your fair pillow ! . Helen. Dear lord, you are full of fair words. Pan. You speak your fair pleasure, sweet queen. Fair prince, here is good broken music. Par. You have broke it, cousta : and, by my life, you shall make it whole again ; you shall piece it out with a piece of your performance. Nell, he is full of harmony. Pan. Truly, lady, no. Helen. O, sir. — Pan. Rude, in sooth ; in good sooth, very rude. Par. Well said, my lord ! well, you say so in fits. Pan. I have business to my lord, dear queen. My lord, will you vouchsafe me a word ? Helen. Nay, this shall not hedge us out: we 'U hear you sing, certainly. Pan. Well, sweet queen, you are pleasant with me. But, marry, thus, my lord : my dear lord and most esteemed friend, your brother Troilus, — Helen. My Lord Pandarus ; honey-sweet lord, — Pan. Go to, sweet queen, go to: — commends himself most affectionately to you, — Helen. You shall not bob us out of our melody : if you do, our melancholy upon your head ! Pan. Sweet queen, sweet queen ! that 's a sweet queen, i' faith. [offence. Helen. And to make a sweet lady sad is a sour Pan. Nay, that shall not serve your turn ; that shall it not, in truth, la. Nay, I care not for such words ; no, no. And, my lord, he desires you, that if the king call for him at supper, you will make his excuse. Helen. My Lord Pandarus,— Pan. What says my sweet queen, my very very sweet queen ? [night ? Par. What exploit 's in hand ? where sups he to- Helen. Nay, but, my lord,— Pan. What says my sweet queen? My cousin will fall out with you. You must not know where he sups. Par. I '11 lay my life, with my disposer Cressida. Pan. No, no, no such matter; you are wide: come, your disposer is sick. Par. Well, I '11 make excuse. Pan. Ay, good my lord. Why should you say ■Cressida ? no, your poor disposer 's sick. Par. I spy. Pan. You spy! what do you spy? Come, give me an instrument. Now, sweet queen. Helen. Why, this is kindly done. Pan. My niece is horribly in love with a thing you have, sweet queen. [lord Paris. Helen. She shall have it, my lord, if it be not my Pan. He! no, she'll none of him; they two are twain. Helen. Falling in, after falling out, may make them three. Pan. Come, come, I '11 hear no more of this ; I '11 sing you a song now. Helen. Ay, ay, prithee now. By my troth, sweet lord, thou hast a fine forehead. Pan. Ay, you may, you may. Helen. Let thy soug be love : this love wUl Undo us all. O Cupid, Cupid, Cupid ! Pan. Love ! ay, that it shall, i' faith. Par, Ay, good now, love, love, nothing but love Pan. In good troth, it begins so. [Sings. Love, love, nothing but love, still more ! For, O, love's bow Shoots buck and doe : The shaft confounds, Not that it wounds. But tickles still the sore. These lovers cry Oh ! oh I they die I Yet that which seems the wound to kill, Doth turn oh ! oh ! to ha ! ha ! he ! So dying love lives still : Oh ! oh ! a whUe, but ha ! ha ! ha ! Oh I oh ! groans out for ha ! ha ! ha ! He^h-ho ! Helen. In love, i' faith, to the very tip of the nose. Par. He eats nothing but doves, love, and that breeds hot blood, and hot blood begets hot thoughts, and hot thoughts beget hot deeds, and hot deeds is love. Pan. Is this the generation of love ? hot blood, hot thoughts, and hot deeds? Why, they are vipers: is love a generation of vipers ? Sweet lord, who 's a-field to-day? Par. Hector, Deiphobus, Helenus, Antenor, and all the gallantry of Troy : I would fain have armed to-day, but my Nell would not have it so. How chance my brother Troilus went not ? Helen. He hangs the lip at something : you know all. Lord Pandarus. Pan. Not I, honey-sweet queen. I long to hear how they sped to-day. You '11 remember your broth- Par. To a hair. [er's excuse ? Pan. Farewell, sweet queen. Helen. Commend me to your niece. Pan. 1 will, sweet queen. [Exit. [A retreat sounded. Far. They 're come from field : let us to Priam's hall, [you To greet the warriors. Sweet Helen, I must woo To help unarm our Hector : his stubborn buckles; With these your white enchanting fingers touch 'd. Shall more obey than to the edge of steel Or force of Greekish sinews ; you shall do more Than all the island kings,— disarm great Hector. Helen. 'T will make us proud to be his servant, Yea, what he shall receive of us in duty [Paris ; Gives us more pahn in beauty than we have. Yea, overshtnes ourself . Par. Sweet, above thought I love thee. [Exeunt. SCENE n. — The same. Pandarus^ orchard. Enter Pandarus and Troilus' Boy, meeting. Pan. How now ! where 's thy master ? at my cousin Cressida 's ? [thither. Boy. No, sir; he stays for you to conduct him Pan. O, here he comes. Enter Troilus. How now, how now ! Tro. Sirrah, walk off. [Exit Btj. Pan. Have you seen my cousin ? Tro. No, Pandarus; I stalk about her door. Like a strange soul upon the Stygian banks Staying for waftage. O, be thou my Charon, And give me swift transportance to those fields 521 ACT III. TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. SCENE II. Where I may wallow in the lily-beds Proposed for the deserver ! O gentle Pandarus, Prom Cupid's shoulder pluck his painted wings, And fly with me to Cressid ! Pan. Walk here i' the orchard, I '11 bring her straight. yExit. Tro. I am giddy ; expectation whirls me round. The imaginary relish is so sweet That it enchants my sense : what will it be. When that the watery palate tastes indeed Love's thrice repured nectar ? death, I fear me, Swooning destruction, or some joy too fine. Too subtle-potent, tuned too sharp in sweetness, Por the capacity of my ruder powers : I fear it much ; and I do fear besides, That I shall lose distinction in my joys ; As doth a battle, when they charge on heaps The enemy flying. Be-enter Pandarus. Pan. She 's making her ready, she '11 come straight: you must be witty now. She does so blush, and I fetches her wind so short, as if she were frayed with a sprite : I '11 fetch her. It is the prettiest villain : she fetches her breath as short as a new-ta'en spar- row. [Exit. Tro. Even such a passion doth embrace my bosom : My heart beats thicker than a feverous pulse ; And all my powers do their bestowing lose, Like vassalage at tmawares encountering The eye of majesty. Be-enter Pandarus with Cressida. Pan. Come, come, what need you blush ? shame 's a baby. Here she is now : swear the oaths now to her that you have sworn to me. What, are you gone again ? you must be watched ere you be made tame, must you? Come your ways, come your ways; an you draw backward, we '11 put you i' the fills. Why do you not speak to her? Come, draw this curtain, and let 's see your picture. Alas the day, how loath you are to offend daylight ! an 't were dark, you 'Id close sooner. So, so ; rub on, and kiss the mistress. How now ! a kiss in fee-farm ! build there, carpenter; the air is sweet. Nay, you shall fight your hearts out ere I part you. The falcon as the tercel, for all the ducks i' the river: go to, goto. Tro. You have bereft me of all words, lady. Pan. Words pay no debts, give her deeds: but she '11 bereave you o' the deeds too, if she call your activity in question . What , billing again ? Here 's ' In witness whereof the parties interchangeably ' — Come in, come in : I '11 go get a fire. [Mcit. Cres. Willyou walkin, my lord? [thus! Tro. O Cressida, how often have I wished me Cres. Wished, my lord ! The gods grant, — O my lord! Tro. What should they grant ? what makes this pretty abruption? What too curious dreg espies my sweet lady in the fountain of our love ? Cres. More dregs than water, if my fears have eyes. Tro. Pears make devils of cherubins; they never see truly. Cres. Blind fear, that seeing reason leads, finds safer footing than blind reason stumbling without fear : to fear the worst oft cures the worse. Tro. O, let my lady apprehend no fear: in all Cupid's pageant there is presented no monster. Cres. Nor nothing monstrous neither ? Tro. Nothing, but our rmdertakings ; when we vow to weep seas, live in fire, eat rocks, tame tigers ; thinking it harder for our mistress to devise impo- sition enough than for us to undergo any difficulty imposed. This is the monstruosity in love, lady, that the will is infinite and the execution confined, 522 that the desire is boundless and the act a slave to limit. Cres. They say all lovers swear more performance than they are able and yet reserve an ability that they never perform, vowing more than the perfection of ten and discharging less than the tenth part of one. They that have the voice of lions and the act of hareSj are they not monsters ? Tro. Are there such ? such are not we : praise us as we are tasted, allow us as we prove; our head, shall go bare till merit crovra it : no perfection in reversion shall have a praise in present : we will not name desert before his birth, and, being born, his addition shall be humble. Pew words to fair faith : Troilus shaU be such to Cressid as what envy can say worst shall be a mock for his truth, and what truth can speak truest not truer than Troilus. Cres. Will you walk in, my lord ? Be-enter Pandarus. Pa,n. What, blushing still? have you not done talking yet ? Cres. Well, uncle, what foUy I commit, I dedi- cate to you. Pan. I thank you for that : if my lord get a boy of you, you '11 give him me. Be true to my lord : tx he flinch, chide me for it. Tro. You know now your hostages ; your uncle's word and my firm faith. Pan. Nay, I '11 give my word for her too: our kin- dred, though they be long ere they are wooed, they are constant being won : they are burs, I can tell you ; they '11 stick where they are thrown, [heart. Cres. Boldness comes to me now, and brings me Prince Troilus, I have loved you night and day Por many weary months. Tro. Why was my Cressid then so hard to win? Cres. Hard to seem won : but I was won, my lord, With the first glance that ever— pardon me— If I confess much, you will play the tyrant. I love you now ; but not, till now, so much But I might master it : in faith, I lie ; My thoughts were like unbridled children, grown Too headstrong for their mother. See, we fools I Why have I blabb'd ? who shall be true to us. When we are so unsecret to ourselves ? But, though I loved you well, I woo'd you not ; And yet, good faith, I wish'd myself a man, Or that we women had men's privilege Of speaking first. Sweet, bid me hold my tongue. For in this rapture I shall surely speak The thing I shall repent. See, see, your silence, Cunning in dumbness, from my weakness draws My very soul of counsel ! stop my mouth. Tro. And shall, albeit sweet music issues thence. Pan. Pretty, i' faith. Cres. My lord, I do beseech you, pardon me ; 'T was not my purpose, thus to beg a kiss : I am ashamed. O heavens ! what have I done ? Por this time will I take my leave, my lord. Tro. Your leave, sweet Cressid ! Pan. Leave I an you take leave till to-morrow morning, — Cres. Pray you, content you. Tro. What offends you, lady ? Cres. Sir, mine own company. T7-0. You cannot shun Yourself. Cres. Let me go and try : I have a kind of self resides with you ; But an unkind self, that itself will leave, To be another's fool. I would be gone : Where is my wit ? I know not what I speak. Tro. Well know they what they speak that speak so wisely. Qove ; Cres. Perchance, my lord, I show more craft than And fell so roundly to a large confession, ACT III. TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. SCENE III. To angle for your thoughts : but you are wise, Or else you love not, for to be wise and love Exceeds man's might ; that dwells with gods above. Tro. that I thought it could be in a woman — As, if it can, I will presume in you— To feed for aye her lamp and flames of love ; To keep her constancy in plight and youth. Outliving beauty's outward, with a mind That doth renew swifter than blood decays ! Or that persuasion coiUd but thus convince me, That my integrity and truth to you Might be affronted with the match and weight Of such a winnow 'd purity in love; How were I then uplifted ! but, alas ! I am as true as truth's simplicity And simpler than the infancy of truth. Cres. In that I 'U war with you. Tro. O virtuous fight. When right with right wars who shall be most right ! True swains in love shall m the world to come Approve their truths by Troilus : when their rhymes. Full of protest, of oath and big compare, Want similes, truth tired with iteration. As true as steel, as plautage to the moon, As Sim to day, as turtle to her mate, As iron to adamant, as earth to the centre, Yet, after all comparisons of truth. As truth's authentic author to be cited, ' As true as Troilus ' shall crown up the verse, And sanctify the numbers. Cres Prophet may you be ! If I be false, or swerve a hair from truth, When time is old and hath forgot itself. When waterdrops have worn the stones of Troy, And blind oblivion swallow'd cities up. And mighty states characterless are grated To dusty nothing, yet let memory, From false to false, among false maids in love. Upbraid my falsehood ! when they 've said ' as false As air, as water, wind, or sandy earth. As fox to lamb, as wolf to heifer's calf, Pard to the hind, or stepdame to her son,' ' Yea,' let them say, to stick the heart of falsehood, ' As false as Cressid. ' Pan. Go to, a bargain made : seal it, seal it ; I '11 be the witness. Here I hold your hand, here my cousin's. If ever you prove false one to another, since I have taken such pains to bring you together, let all pitiful goers-between be called to the world's end after my name ; call them all Pandars ; let all constant men be Troiluses, all false women Cressids, and all brokers-between Pandars ! say, amen. Tro. Amen. Cres. Amen. Pan. Amen. Whereupon I will show you a cham- ber with a bed ; which bed, because it shall not speak of your pretty encounters, press it to death: away! And Cupid grant all tongue-tied maidens here Bed, chamber, Pandar to provide this gear ! [Exeunt. SCENE HI.— The Grecian camp. Befme Achilles^ tent. Enter Agameninon, Ulysses, Diomedes, Nestor, Ajax, Menelaus, and Calchas. Cal. Xow, princes, for the service I have done you, The advantage of the time prompts me aloud To call for recompense. Appear it to your mind That, through the sight I bear in things to love, I have abandon'd Troy, left my possession, Incurr'd a traitor's name ; exposed myself, From certain and possess 'd conveniences. To doubtful fortunes ; sequestering from me all That time, acquaintance, custom and condition Made tame and most familiar to my nature. And here, to do you service, am become As new into the world, strange, unacquainted: I do beseech you, as in way of taste. To give me now a little benefit, Out of those many register'd in promise. Which, you say, live to come in my behalf. Agam. What wouldst thou of us, Trojan? make demand. Cal. You have a Trojan prisoner, call'd Antenor, Yesterday took : Troy holds him very dear. Oft have you — often have you thanks therefore — Desired my Cressid in right great exchange, Whom Troy hath still denied : but this Antenor, I know, is such a wrest in their affairs That their negotiations all must slack. Wanting his manage ; and they will almost Give us a prince of blood, a son of Priam, In change of him : let him be sent, great princes. And he shall buy my daughter ; and her presence Shall quite strike off aU service I have done. In most accepted pain. Agam. Let Diomedes bear him. And bring us Cressid hither : Calchas shall have What he requests of us. Good Diomed, Furnish you fairly for this interchange : Withal bring word if Hector will to-morrow Be answer'd in his challenge : Ajax is ready. Dio. This shaU I undertake ; and 't is a bui-den Which I am proud to bear. [Exeunt Diomedes and Calchas. Enter Achilles and Patroclus, before their tent. JJlyss. Achilles stands i' the entrance of his tent : Please it our general to pass strangely by him, As if he were forgot ; and, princes all, Lay negligent and loose regard upon him : I wiU come last. 'T is like he '11 question me Why such unplausive eyes are bent on him : If so, I have derision medicinable. To use between your strangeness and his pride, Which his own will shall have desire to drink : It may do good : pride hath no other glass To show itself but pride, for supple knees Feed arrogance and are the proud man's fees. Agam. We '11 execute your purpose, and put on A form of strangeness as we pass along : So do each lord, and either greet him not, Or else disdainfully, which shall shake him more Than if not look'd on. I will lead the way. Achil. What, comes the general to speak with me ? You know my mind, I '11 fight no more 'gainst Troy. Agam. What says Achilles? would he aught with us ? Nest. Would you, my lord, aught with the general ? Achil. No. Nest. Nothing, my lord. Agam. The better. [Exeunt Agamemnon and Nestor. Achil. Good day, good day. Men. How do you ? how do you ? [Exit. Achil. What, does the cuckold scorn me ? Ajax. How now, Patroclus ! Achil. Good morrow, Ajax. Ajax. Ha? Achil. Good morrow. Ajax. Ay, and good next day too. [Exit. Achil. What mean these fellows? Know they not Achilles ? [bend, Patr. They pass by strangely : they were used to To send their smiles before them to Achilles ; To come as humbly as they used to creep To holy altars. Achil. What, am I poor of late ? 'T is certain, greatness, once fall'n out with fortune, Must fall out with men too : what the declined is He shall as soon read in the eyes of others As feel in his own fall; for men, like butterflies, Show not their mealy wings but to the summer, And not a man, for being simply man, 523 ACT III. TROILUS AND CRE8SIDA. SCENE III. Hath any honour, but honour for those honours That are without him, as place, riches, favour, Prizes of accident as oft as merit : Which when they fall, as being slippery standers, The love that lean'd on them as slippery too, Do one pluck down another and together Die in the fall. But 't is not so with me : Portune and I are friends: I do enjoy At ample point all that I did possess, Save these men's looks ; who do, methinks, find out Something not worth in me such rich beholding As they have often given. Here is Ulysses : I '11 interrupt his reading. How now, Ulysses 1 JJlyss. Now, great Thetis' son ! AcMl. What are you reading ? TJlyss. A strange fellow here Writes me : ' That man, how dearly ever parted, How much in having, or without or in, Caimot make boast to have that which he hath, 'Sox feels not what he owes, but by reflection ; As when his virtues shining upon others Heat them and they retort that heat again To the first giver.' Achil. This is not strange, Ulysses. The beauty that is borne here in the face The bearer knows not, but commends itself To others' eyes ; nor doth the eye itself. That most pure spirit of sense, behold itself, I^ot going from itself ; but eye to eye opposed Salutes each other with each other's form ; Por speculation turns not to itself. Till it hath travell'd and is mirror'd there Where it may see itself. This is not strange at all. TJlyss. I do not strain at the position , — It is familiar,— but at the author's drift; Who, in his circumstance, expressly proves That no man is the lord of any thing. Though in and of him there be much consisting, Till he communicate his parts to others ; :N'or doth he of himself know them for aught Till he behold them form'd in the applause Where they're extended; who, like an arch, re- verberates The voice again, or, like a gate of steel fronting the sun, receives and renders back His figure and his heat. I was much wrapt in this ; And apprehended here immediately The unknown Ajax. Heavens, what a man is there I a very horse. That has he knows not what. Nature, what things Most abject in regard and dear in use ! [there are What things again most dear in the esteem And poor in worth ! Now shall we see to-morrow — An act that very chance doth throw upon him — Ajax renown'd. O heavens, what some men do, While some men leave to do ! How some men creep in skittish fortune's hall. Whiles others play the idiots in her eyes ! How one man eats into another's pride, While pride is fasting in his wantonness ! To see these Grecian lords ! —why, even already They clap the lubber Ajax on the shoulder. As if his foot were on brave Hector's breast And great Troy shrieking. Achil. I do believe it ; for they pass'd by me As misers do by beggars, neither gave to me Oood word nor look : what, are my deeds forgot ? TJlyss. Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, A great-sized monster of ingratitudes : [vour'd Those scraps are good deeds past; which are de- As fast as they are made, forgot as soon As done : perseverance, dear my lord. Keeps honour bright : to have done is to hang <^uite out of fashion, like a rusty mail In monumental mockery. Take the instant way ; 524 For honour travels in a strait so narrow, Where one but goes abreast : keep then the path ; For emulation hath a thousand sons That one by one pursue : if you give way. Or hedge aside from the direct forthright, Like to an enter 'd tide, they all rush by And leave you hindmost ; Or, like a gallant horse fall'n in first rank. Lie there for pavement to the abject rear, [present, O'er-run and trampled on: then what they do in Though less than yours in past, must o'ertop yours ; For time is like a fashionable host That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand, And with his arms outstretch'd, as he would fly, Grasps in the comer : welcome ever smiles, [seek And farewell goes out sighing. O, let not virtue Remuneration for the thing it was ; For beauty, wit. High birth, vigour of bone, desert in service, Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all To envious and calvmmiating time. One touch of nature makes the whole world kin. That all with one consent praise new-born gawds. Though they are made and moulded of things past. And give to dust that is a little gilt More laud than gilt o'er-dusted. The present eye praises the present object : Then marvel not, thou great and complete man, That all the Greeks begin to worship Ajax; Since things in motion sooner catch the eye Than what not stirs. The cry went once on thee. And still it might, and yet it may again. If thou wouldst not entomb thyself alive And case thy reputation in thy tent ; Whose glorious deeds, but in these fields of late. Made emidous missions 'mongst the gods themselves And drave great Mars to faction. Achil. Of this my priracy I have strong reasons. TJlyss. But 'gainst your privacy The reasons are more potent and heroical : 'T is known, Achilles, that you are in love With one of Priam's daughters. Achil. Hal known! TJlyss. Is that a wonder ? The providence that 's in a watchful state Knows almost every grain of Plutus' gold. Finds bottom in the uncomprehensive deeps. Keeps place with thought and ahnost, like the gods, Does thoughts unveil in their dumb cradles. There is a mystery — with whom relation Durst never meddle — in the soul of state ; Which hath an operation more divine Than breath or pen can give expressure to : All the commerce that you have had with Troy As perfectly is ours as yours, my lord ; And better would it fit Achilles much To throw down Hector than Polyxena : But it must grieve young Pyrrhus now at home. When fame shall in our islands sound her trump. And all the Greekish girls shall tripping sing, ' Great Hector's sister did Achilles win. But our great Ajax bravely beat down him.' Farewell, my lord: I as your lover speak; The fool slides o'er the ice that you should break. [Exit. Pair. To this effect, Achilles, have I moved you : A woman impudent and mannish grown Is not more loathed than an effeminate man In time of action. I stand condemn'd for this ; They think my little stomach to the war And your great love to me restrains you thus : Sweet, rouse yourself; and the weak wanton Cupid Shall from your neck unloose his amorous fold, And, like a dew-drop from the lion's mane. Be shook to air. Achil. ShaU Ajax fight with Hector ? ACT IV. TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. SCENE I. Pair. Ay, and perhaps receive much honour by Achil. I see my reputation is at stake ; [him. My fame is shrewdly gored. Patr. O, then, beware ; Those wounds heal HI that men do give themselves : Omission to do what is necessary Seals a commission to a blank of danger ; And danger, like an ague, subtly taints Even then when we sit idly in the sun. Achil. Go call Thersites hither, sweet Patroclus : I 'U send the fool to Ajax and desire him To invite the Trojan lords after the combat To see us here unarmed : I have a woman's longing, An appetite that I am sick withal. To see great Hector in his weeds of peace, To talk vfith him and to behold his visage, Even to my full of view. Enter Thersites. A labour saved I Ther. A wonder! Achil. What? [himseK. Ther. Ajax goes up and down the field, asking for Achil. How so ? - Ther. He must fight singly to-morrow with Hec- tor, and is so prophetically proud of an heroical cud- gelling that he raves in saying nothing. Achil. How can that be ? Ther. Why, he stalks up and down like a pea- cock,— a stride and a stand: ruminates like an hostess that' hath no arithmetic but her brain to set down her reckoniag : bites his Up with a politic re- gard, as who should say ' There were wit in this head, an 'twould out; ' and so there is, but it lies zis coldly in him as fire in a flint, which will not show without knocking. The man 's rnidone for eyer ; for i£ Hector break not his neck i' the com- bat, he 'U break 't himself iu vain-glory. He knows not me : I said ' Good morrow, Ajax ; ' and he re- plies ' Thanks, Agamenmon.' What think you of this man that takes me for the general? He's grown a very land-fish, languageless, a monster. A plague of opinion I a man may wear it on both sides, like a leather jerkin. [Thersites. Achil. Thou must be my ambassador to him, Ther. Who, I ? why, he '11 answer nobody : he professes not answering: speaking is for beggars; he wears his tongue in 's arms. I will put on his. presence : let Patroclus make demands to me, you shall see the pageant of Ajax. Achil. To him, Patroclus: teU him I humbly de- sire the valiant Ajax to invite the most valorous Hector to come unarmed to my tent, and to pro- cure safe-conduct for his person of the magnani- mous and most illustrious six-or-seven-times-hon- oured captain-general of the Grecian army, Aga- memnon, et cetera. Do this. Patr. Jove bless great Ajax! Ther. Hum! Patr. I come from the worthy Achilles, — Ther. Ha! Patr. Who most humbly desires you to invite Hector to his tent, — Ther. Hum! Patr. And to procure safe-conduct from Agamem- Ther. Agamemnon! [non. Patr. Ay, my lord. Ther. Ha! Patr. What say you to 't ? Ther. God b' wi' you, with all my heart. Patr. Your answer, sir. Ther. If to-morrow be a fair day, by eleven o'clock it will go one way or other: howsoever, he shall pay for me ere he has me. Patr. Your answer, sir. Ther. Fare you well, with all my heart. Achil. Why, but he is not in this tune, is he ? Ther. No, but he 's out o' time thus. What music will be ia him when Hector has knocked out his brains, I know not; but, I am sure, none, un- less the fiddler ApoUo get his sinews to make cat- lings on. [straight. Achil. Come, thou shalt bear a letter to him Ther. Let me bear another to his horse ; for that 's the more capable creature. Achil. My mind is troubled, like a fountain stirr'd ; And I myself see not the bottom of it. {Exeunt Achilles and Patroclus. Ther. Would the fountain of your miud were clear again, that I might water an ass at it ! I had rather be a tick in a sheep than such a valiant ig- norance. [Exit. A.CT IV. SCENE I.— Troy. A street. Bnter, from one side, Mae&s, and Servant toith a torch ; from the other, Paris, Deiphobus, Antenor, Dio- medes, and others, loith torches. Par. See, ho ! who is that there ? Bei. It is the Lord ^neas. .Mne. Is the prince there in person ? Had I so good occasion to lie long [ness As you, Prince Paris, nothing but heavenly busi- Should rob my bed-mate of my company, [^neas. Dio. That 's my mind too. Good morrow. Lord Par. A valiant Greek, ^neas, — take his hand, — Witness the process of your speech, wherein You told how Diomed, a whole week by days. Did haunt you in the field. ^ne. Health to you, valiant sir. During all question of the gentle truce ; But when I meet you arm'd, as black defiance As heart can think or courage execute. Dio. The one and other Diomed embraces. Our bloods are now in calm ; and, so long, health I But when contention and occasion meet, By Jove, I '11 play the hunter for thy. life With all my force, piu:suit and policy. Mm. And thou shall hunt a lion, that will fly With his face backward. In humane gentleness. Welcome to Troy! now, by Anchises' life, Welcome, indeed ! By Venus' hand I swear, No man alive can love in such a sort The thing he means to kill more excellently. Dio. We sympathize : Jove, let ^neas live. If to my sword his fate be not the glory, A thousand complete courses of the sun ! But, in mine emulous honour, let him die. With every joint a wound, and that to-morrow ! JEhie. We know each other well. Dio. We do ; and long to know each other worse. Par. This is the most despiteful gentle greeting, The noblest hateful love, that e'er I heard of. What business, lord, so early ? Mae. I was sent for to the king; but why, I know not. [this Greek Par. His purpose meets you: 'twas to bring To Calchas' house, and there to render him, For the enfreed Antenor, the fair Cressid : Let 's have your company, or, i£ you please, Haste there before us : I constantly do think — Or rather, caU my thought a certain knowledge — My brother TroUus lodges there to-night : ACT IV. TBOILUS AND CRESSIDA. SCENE II. Eouse him and give liim note of our approach, With the whole quality wherefore : I fear "We shall he much unwelcome. jEne. That I assure you : Troilus had rather Troy were borne to Greece Than Cressid borne from Troy. Par. There is no help ; The bitter disposition of the time Will have it so. On, lord ; we '11 follow you. jEne. Good morrow, all. [_Exit with Servant. Par. And tell me, noble Diomed, faith, tellme true, Even in the soul of sound good-fellowship. Who, in your thoughts, merits fair Helen best, Myself or Menelaus ? Dio. Both alike : He merits well to have her, that doth seek her, Not making any scruple of her soilure. With such a hell of pain and world of charge, And you as well to keep her, that defend her, Not palatiag the taste of her dishonour. With such a costly loss of wealth and friends : He, like a puling cuckold, would drink up The lees and dregs of a flat tamed piece ; You, like a lecher, out of whorish loins Are pleased to breed out your inheritors : Both merits poised, each weighs nor less nor more ; But he as he, the heavier for a whore. Par. You are too bitter to your comitry woman. Bio. She 's bitter to her country: hear me, Paris: For every false drop in her bawdy veins A Grecian's life hath sunk; for every scruple Of her contaminated carrion weight, A Trojan hath been slain : since she could speak, She hath not given so many good words breath As for her Greeks and Trojans sufCer'd death. Par. Fair Diomed, you do as chapmen do. Dispraise the thing that you desire to buy : But we in silence hold this virtue well. We '11 but commend what we intend to sell. Here lies our way. [Exeunt. SCENE II. — The same. Court of Pandarus^ house. Enter Troilus and Cressida. Tro. Dear, trouble not yourself : the morn is cold. Cres. Then, sweet my lord, I '11 call mine uncle He shall unbolt the gates. [down ; Tro. Trouble him not ; To bed, to bed: sleep kill those pretty eyes, And give as soft attachment to thy senses As infants' empty of all thought I Cres. Good morrow, then. Tro. I prithee now, to bed. Cres. Are you a-weary of me ? Tro. O Cressida ! but that the busy day. Waked by the lark, hath roused the ribald crows. And dreaming night will hide our joys no longer, I would not from thee. Cres. Night hath been too brief. Tro. Beshrew the witch ! with venomous wights she stays As tediously as hell, but flies the grasps of love With wings more momentary-swift than thought. You will catch cold, and curse me. Cres. Prithee, tarry : You men will never tarry. foolish Cressid ! I might have still held off. And then you would have tanied. Hark ! there 's one up. Pan. [Within] What, 's all the doors open here ? Tro. It is your uncle. Cres. A pestilence on him I now win he be mocking: 1 shall have such a life ! Enter Pandarus. Pan. How now, how now ! how go maidenheads? Here, you maid ! where 's my cousin Cressid ? 526 Cres. Go hang yourself, you naughty mocking uncle ! You bring me to do, and then you flout me too. Pan. To do what ? to do what ? let her say what : what have I brought you to do ? Cres. Come, come, beshrew your heart I you '11 ne'er Nor suffer others. [be good, Pan. Ha, ha 1 Alas, poor wretch ! ah, poor ca- pocchia ! hast not slept to-night ? would he not, a naughty man, let it sleep ? a bugbear take him ! Cres. Did not I tell you ? Would he were knock 'd i' the head I [Knocking within. Who 's that at door ? good uncle, go and see. My lord, come you again into my chamber : You smile and mock me, as if I meant naughtily. Tro. Ha, ha ! Cres. Come, you are deceived, I think of no such thing. [Knocking within. How earnestly they knock ! Pray you, come in : I would not for half Troy have you seen here. [Exeunt Troilus and Cressida. Pan. Who 's there ? what 's the matter ? will you beat dovra. the door ? How now ! what 's the mat- ter? „ _ Enter iBneas. u^lne. Good morrow, lord, good morrow. Pan. Who 's there? my Lord JSneas ! By my troth, I knew you not : what news with you so early ? ^ne. Is not Prince Troilus here ? Pan. Here ! what should he do here ? uEne. Come, he is here, my lord ; do not deny him: It doth import him much to speak with me. Pan. Is he here, say you ? 'tis more than I know, I'll be sworn: for my own part, I came in late. What should he do here ? JEne. Who! — nay, then: come, come, you '11 do him wrong ere you 're ware : you '11 be so true to him, to be false to him: do not you know of him, but yet go fetch him hither; go. Be-enter Troilus. Tro. How now ! what 's the matter ? uEne. My lord, I scarce have leisure to salute you, My matter is so rash : there is at hand Paris your brother, and Deiphobus, The Grecian Diomed, and om- Antenor Deliver'd to us ; and for him forthwith, Ere the first sacrifice, within this hour. We must give up to Diomedes' hand The Lady Cressida. Tro. Is it so concluded ? JEne. By Priam and the general state of Troy: They are at hand and ready to elfect it. Tro. How my achievements mock me ! I will go meet them : and, my Lord ^neas, We met by chance ; you did not find me here. JEne. Good, good, my lord ; the secrets of nature Have not more gift in taciturnity. [Exeunt Troilus and .^Eneas. Pan. Is 't possible ? no sooner got but lost ? The devil take Antenor ! the young prince will go mad : a plague upon Antenor I I would they had broke 's neck! Be-enter Cressida. Cres. How now I what 's the matter ? who was Pan. Ah, ha I [here ? Cre^. Why sigh you so profoundly ? where 's my lord? gone! TeU me, sweet uncle, what's the matter? Pan. Would I were as deep under the earth as I am above ! Cres. O the gods ! what 's the matter ? Pan. Prithee, get thee in: would thou hadst ne'er been born ! I knew thou wouldst be his death, O, poor gentleman ! A plague upon Antenor ! Cres. Good uncle, I beseech you, on my knees I beseech you, what 's the matter ? ACT IV. TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. SCENE IV. Fan. Thou must be gone, wench, thou must be gone ; thou art changed for Antenor : thou must to thy father, and be gone from Troilus : 't will be his death ; 't will be his bane ; he cannot bear it. Cres. O you immoii;al gods ! I wiU not go. Pan. Thou must. Cres. I will not, uncle : I have forgot my father; I know no touch of consanguinity; No kin, no love, no blood, no soul so near me As the sweet Troilus. O you gods divine ! Make Cressid's name the very crown of falsehood. If ever she leave Troilus ! Time, force, and death. Do to this body what extremes you can ; But the strong base and building of my love Is as the very centre of the earth. Drawing all things to it. I '11 go in and weep, — Pan. Do, do. [cheeks, Cres. Tear my bright hair and scratch my praised Crack my clear voice with sobs and break my heart With sounding Troilus. I will not go from Troy. [Exeunt. SCENE 111.— The same. Street before Pandarus^ house. Enter Paris, Troilus, ^neas, Deiphobus, An- tenor, and Diomedes. Par. It is great morning, and the hour prefixed Of her delivery to this valiant Greek Comes fast upon. Good my brother Troilus, Tell you the lady what she is to do. And haste her to the purpose. Tro. Walk into her house ; I '11 bring her to the Grecian presently : And to his hand when I deliver her, Think it an altar, and thy brother Troilus A priest there offering to it his own heart. [Exit. Par. I know what 'tis to love; And would, as I shall pity, I could help ! Please you walk in, my lords. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. — The same. Pandarus^ house. Enter Pandarus and Cressida. Pan. Be moderate, be moderate. Cres. Why teU you me of moderation ? The grief is fine, full, perfect, that I taste, And violenteth in a sense as strong As that which causeth it : how can I moderate it ? If I could temporize with my affection, Or brew it to a weak and colder palate, The like allayment could I give my grief : My love admits no qualifying dross ; ^0 more my grief, in such a precious loss. Pan. Here, here, here he comes. Enter Troilus. Ah, sweet ducks ! Cres. O Troilus ! Troilus ! [Embracing him. Pan. What a pair of spectacles is here ! Let me embrace too. ' O heart,' as the goodly saying is, ' O heart, heavy heart. Why sigh'st thou without breaking?' where he answers again, ' Because thou canst not ease thy smart By friendship nor by speaking.' There was never a truer rhyme. Let us cast away nothing, for we may live to have need of such a verse : we see it, we see it. How now, lambs ? Tro. Cressid, I love thee in so strain'd a purity, That the bless'd gods, as angry with my fancy. More bright in zeal than the devotion which Cold lips blow to their deities, take thee from me. Cres. Have the gods envy ? Pan. Ay, ay, ay, ay ; 'tis too plain a case. Cres. And is it true that I must go from Troy ? Tro. A hateful truth. Cres. What, and from Troilus too ? Tro. From Troy and Troilus. Cres. Is it possible ? T\-o. And suddenly; where injury of chance Puts back leave-taking, justles roughly by All time of pause, rudely beguiles our lips Of all rejoindure, forcibly prevents Our lock'd embrasures, strangles our dear vows Even in the birth of om- own labouring breath : We two, that with so many thousand sighs Did buy each other, must poorly sell ourselves With the rude brevity and discharge of one. Injurious time now with a robber's haste Crams his rich thievery up, he knows not how: As many farewells as be stars in heaven. With distinct breath and consign'd kisses to them, He fumbles up into a loose adieu. And scants us with a single famish 'd kiss. Distasted with the salt of broken tears. jEne. [Within] My lord, is the lady ready ? Tro. Hark ! you are call'd : some say the Genius so Cries ' come ' to him that instantly must die. Bid them have patience ; she shall come anon. Pan. Where are my tears ? rain, to lay this wind, or my heart wall be blown up by the root. [Exit. Cres. I must then to the Grecians ? Tro. No remedy. Cres. A wof ul Cressid 'mongst the meny Greeks ! When shall we see again ? Qieart, — Tro. Hear me, my love: be thou but true of Cres. I true! how now! what wicked deem is this ? Tro. Nay, we must use expostulation kindly, For it is parting from us : I speak not ' be thou true,' as fearing thee, For I win throw my glove to Death himself. That there 's no maculation in thy heart : But ' be thou true,' say I, to fashion in My sequent protestation ; be thou true, And I win see thee. Cres. O, you shall be exposed, my lord, to dangers As infinite as imminent ! but I '11 be true. Tro. And I '11 grow friend with danger. Wear this sleeve. Cres. And you this glove. When shan I see you ? Tro. 1 will corrupt the Grecian sentinels. To give thee nightly visitation. But yet be true. Cres. O heavens ! ' be true ' again ! Tro. Hear why I speak it, love : The Grecian youths are full of quality ; They 're loving, weU composed with gifts of nature. Flowing and swelling o'er with arts and exercise: How novelty may move, and parts with person, Alas, a kind of godly jealousy — Which, I beseech you, call a virtuous sin — Makes me afeard. Cres. O heavens ! you love me not. Tro. Die I a viUain, then ! In this I do not call your faith in question So mainly as my merit : I cannot sing, Nor heel the high lavolt, nor sweeten talk. Nor play at subtle games ; fair virtues all, [nant : To which the Grecians are most prompt and preg- But I can tell that in each grace of these There lurks a still and dumb-discoiu'sive devil That tempts most cunningly : but be not tempted. Cres. Do you think I will ? Tro. No. But something may be done that w^e will not : And sometimes we are devUs to ourselves, When we will tempt the frailty of our powers, Presuming on their changeful potency. JEne. [Within] Nay, good my lord,— Tro. Come, kiss ; and let us part. Par. [Within] Brother Troilus ! Tro. Good brother, come you hither ; And bring .^neas and the Grecian with you. 527 ACT IV. TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. SCENE V. Cres. My lord, will you be true ? Tro. Who, I ? alas, it is my vice, my fault : "Whiles others fish with craft for great opinion, I with great truth catch mere simplicity ; "Whilst some with cunning gild their copper crowns, "With truth and plainness I do wear mine bare. Fear not my truth : the moral of my wit Is ' plain and true ; ' there 's all the reach of it. Enter .fflneas, Paris, Anterior, Deiphobus, and Diomedes. "Welcome, Sir Diomed ! here is the lady Which for Antenor we deliver you : At the port, lord, I '11 give her to thy hand; And by the way possess thee what she is. Entreat her fair ; and, by my soul, fair Greek, If e'er thou stand at mercy of my sword, Name Cressid, and thy life shall be as safe As Priam is in Ilion. Dio. Fair Lady Cressid, So please you, save the thanks this prince expects : The lustre in your eye, heaven in your cheek. Pleads your fair usage ; and to Diomed You shall be mistress, and command him wholly. Tro. Grecian, thou dost not use me courteously, To shame the zeal of my petition to thee In praising her: I tell thee, lord of Greece, She is as far high-soaring o'er thy praises As thou unworthy to be call'd her servant. I charge thee use her well, even for my charge ; For, by the dreadful Pluto, if thou dost not, Though the great bulk Achilles be thy guard, I '11 cut thy throat. Dio. O, be not moved. Prince Troilus : Let me be privileged by my place and message, To be a speaker free ; when I am hence, I '11 answer to my lust : and know you, lord, I '11 nothing do on charge : to her own worth She shall be prized; but that you say 'be 't so,' I '11 speak it in my spirit and honour, ' no.' Tro. Come, to the port. I 'U tell thee, Diomed, This brave shall oft make thee to hide thy head. Lady, give me your hand, and, as we walk. To our own selves bend we our needful talk. \_Exeunt Troilus, Cressida, and Diomedes. [Trumpet within. Far. Hark ! Hector's trumpet. ^ne. How have we spent this morning ! The prince must think me tardy and remiss, That swore to ride before him to the field. Par. 'T is Troilus 'fault: come, come, to field with Dei. Let us make ready straight. [him. jEne. Yea, with a bridegroom's fresh alacrity, Let us address to tend on Hector's heels : The glory of our Troy doth this day lie On his fair worth and single chivalry. [Exeunt. SCENE V. — The Grecian camp. Lists set out. Enter Ajax, armed; Agamemnon, Achilles, Pa- troclus, Menelaus, Ulysses, Nestor, and others. Aqam. Here art thou in appointment fresh and Anticipating time with starting courage. [fair. Give with thy trumpet a loud note to Troy, Thou dreadful Ajax; that the appalled air May pierce the head of the great combatant And hale him hither. Ajax. Thou, trumpet, there 's my purse. Now crack thy lungs, and split thy brazen pipe ; Blow, villain, till thy sphered bias cheek Outswell the colic of puff 'd Aquilon : [blood ; Come, stretch thy chest, and let thy eyes spout Thou blow'st for Hector. [Trumpet sounds. Ifl.yss. No trumpet answers. Achil. 'T is but early days. Agam. Is not yond Diomed, with Calchas' daugh- Iflyss. 'T is he, I ken the manner of his gait ; [ter ? 528 He rises on the toe : that spirit of his In aspiration lifts him from the earth. Enter Diomedes, with Cressida. Agam. Is this the Lady Cressid ? Dio. Even she. Agam. Most dearly welcome to the Greeks, sweet lady. JV"est. Our general doth salute you with a kiss. Ulyss. Yet is the kindness but particular ; 'Twere better she were kiss'd in general. Ifest. And very courtly counsel : I '11 begin. So much for Nestor. Achil. I 'U take that winter from your lips, fair Achilles bids you welcome. [lady : Men. I had good argument for kissing once. Patr. But that 's no argument for kissing now ; For thus popp'd Paris in his hardiment, And parted thus you and your argument. Ulyss. O deadly gall, and theme of all our scorns ! For which we lose our heads to gild his horns. Patr. The first was Menelaus' kiss ; this, mine: Patroclus kisses you. Men. O, this is trim ! Patr. Paris and I kiss evermore for him. Men. 1 '11 have my kiss, sir. Lady, by your leave* Cres. In kissing, do you render or receive ? Patr. Both take and give. Cres. I 'U make my match to live. The kiss you take is better than you give ; Therefore no kiss. Men. 1 'U give you boot, I '11 give you three for one. Cres. You 're an odd man ; give even, or give none. Men. An odd man, lady I every man is odd. Cres. No, Paris is not ; for you know 't is true, That you are odd, and he is even with you. Men. You fillip me o' the head. Cres. No, I '11 be sworn. Ulyss. It were no match, your nail against his horn. May I, sweet lady, beg a kiss of you? Cres. You may. Ulyss. I do desire it. Cres. Why, beg, then. Ulyss. Why then for Venus' sake, give me a kiss. When Helen is a maid again, and his. Cres. I am your debtor, claim it when 't is due. Ulyss. Never 's my day, and then a kiss of you. Dio. Lady, a word : I '11 bring you to your father. [Exit with Cressida. Nest. A woman of quick sense. Ulyss. Fie, fie upon her I There 's language in her eye, her cheek, her lip. Nay, her foot speaks ; her wanton spirits look out At every joint and motive of her body. O, these encounterers, so glib of tongue. That give accosting welcome ere it comes. And wide unclasp the tables of their thoughts To every ticklish reader 1 set them dovra For sluttish spoils of opportunity And daughters of the game. [Trumpet within. All. The Trojans' trumpet. Agam. Yonder comes the troop. Enter Hector, armed; .ffineas, Troilus, and other Trojans, with Attendants. .Mne. Hail, all you state of Greece ! what shall be done To him that victory commands ? or do you purpose A victor shall be known ? will you the knights Shall to the edge of all extremity Pursue each other, or shall be divided By any voice or order of the field ? Hector bade ask. Agam. Which way would Hector have it ? ^ne. He cares not ; he '11 obey conditions. Achil. T is done like Hector ; but securely done. ACT IV. TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. SCENE V. A little proudly, and great deal misprizing The knight opposed. .Mne. If not Achilles, sir, What is your name ? Achil. If not Achilles, nothing. ^ne. Therefore AchiUes: but, whate'er, know In the extremity of great and little, [this : Valour and pride excel themselves in Hector ; The one almost as iufinite as all, The other blank as nothing. Weigh him well, And that which looks like pride is courtesy. This Ajax is half made of Hector's blood : In love whereof, haK Hector stays at home ; Half heart, half hand, half Hector comes to seek This blended knight, half Trojan and half Greek. Achil. A maiden battle, then ? O, I perceive you. Be-enter Diomedes. Agam. Here is Sir Diomed. Go, gentle knight, Stand by our Ajax : as you and Lord ^neas Consent upon the order of their fight, So be it ; either to the uttermost. Or else a breath : the combatants being kin Half stints their strife before their strokes begin. [Ajax and Hector enter the lists. TJlyss. They are opposed already. Agam. What Trojan is that same that looks so heavy ? Ulyss. The youngest son of Priam, a true knight, Not yet mature, yet matchless, firm of word, Speaking in deeds and deedless in his tongue ; Not soon provoked nor being provoked soon calm'd ; His heart and hand both open and both free ; For what he has he gives, what thinks he shows ; Yet gives he not till judgment guide his bounty, Nor dignifies an impure thought with breath ; Manly as Hector, but more dangerous ; Tor Hector in his blaze of wrath subscribes To tender objects, but he in heat of action Is more vindicative than jealous love : They call him Troilus, and on him erect A second hope, as fairly built as Hector. Thus says ^neas ; one that knows the youth Even to his inches, and with private soul Did in great Ilion thus translate him to me. [Alarum. Hector and Ajax fight. Agam. They are in action. JVesf . Now, Ajax, hold thine own ! Tro. Hector, thou sleep'st ; Awake thee ! Agam. His blows are well disposed : there, Ajax ! Dio. You must no more. [Trumpets cease. u^hie. Princes, enough, so please you. Ajax. I am not warm yet ; let us fight again. Bio. As Hector pleases. Hect. Why, then will I no more : Thou art, great lord, my father's sister's son, A cousm-german to great Priam's seed ; The obligation of our blood forbids A gory emulation 'twixt us twain : Were thy commixtion Greek and Trojan so That thou couldst say ' This hand is Grecian all. And this is Trojan ; the sinews of this leg All Greek, and this all Troy; my mother's blood Runs on the dexter cheek, and this sinister Bounds in my father's ; ' by Jove multipotent. Thou shouldst not bear from me a Greekish member Wherein my sword had not impressure made Of our rank feud : but the just gods gainsay That any drop thou borrow'dst from thy mothesr, My sacred aunt, should by my mortal sword Be drain'd ! Let me embrace thee, Ajax : By him that thimders, thou hast lusty arms; Hector would have them fall upon him thus : Cousin, all honour to thee ! Ajax. I thank thee, Hector : Thou art too gentle and too free a man : 34 I came to kill thee, cousin, and bear hence A great addition earned in thy death. Hect. Not Neoptolemus so mirable, On whose bright crest Fame with her loud'st Oyes Cries ' This is he,' could promise to himself A thought of added honour torn from Hector. .dK?ie. There is expectance here from both the sides. What further you will do. Hect. We '11 answer it ; The issue is embracement : Ajax, farewell. Ajax. If I might in entreaties find success — As seld I have the chance — I would desire My famous cousin to our Grecian tents. Dio. 'T is Agameumon's wish, and great Achilles Doth long to see unarm'd the valiant Hector. Hect. -^neas, call my brother Troilus to me, And signify this loving interview To the expecters of our Trojan part; Desire them home. Give me thy hand, my cousin; I will go eat with thee and see your knights. Ajax. Great Agamenmon comes to meet us here. Itect. The worthiest of them tell me name by name; But for Achilles, mine own searching eyes Shall find him by his large and portly size. Agam. Worthy of arms ! as welcome as to one That would be rid of such an enemy ; But that 's no welcome : understand more clear, What 's past and what 's to come is strew'd with And formless ruin of oblivion ; [husks But in this extant moment, faith and troth, Strain'd purely from all hollow bias-drawing. Bids thee, with most divine integrity, From heart of very heart, great Hector, welcome. Hect. I thank thee, most imperious Agamemnon. Agam. [To Troilvs] My well-famed lord of Troy, no less to you. [mg : Men. Let me confirm my princely brother's greet- You brace of warlike brothers, welcome hither. Hect. Who must we answer ? JE?n.e. The noble Menelaus. Hect. O, you, my lord? by Mars his gauntlet. Mock not, that I affect the untraded oath; [thanks! Your quondam wife swears stiU by Venus' glove ; She 's well, but bade me not commend her to you. Men. Name her not now, sir; she 's a deadly theme. Hect. O, pardon; I offend. Nest. I have, thou gallant Trojan, seen thee oft Labouring for destiny make cruel way [thee, Through ranks of Greekish youth, and I have seen As hot as Perseus, spur thy Phrygian steed. Despising many forfeits and subduements. When thou hast hung thy advanced sword i' the air, Not letting it decline on the declined, That I have said to some my standers by ' Lo, Jupiter is yonder, dealing life ! ' And I have seen thee pause and take thy breath, When that a ring of Greeks have hemm'd thee ta, Like an Olympian wrestling : this have I seen ; But this thy countenance, still lock'd in steel, I never saw till now. I knew thy grandsire. And once fought with him : he was a soldier good ; But. by great Mars, the captain of us all. Never like thee. Let an old man embrace thee ; And, worthy warrior, welcome to our tents. JSne. 'T is the old Nestor. Hect. Let me embrace thee, good old chronicle. That hast so long walk'd hand in hand with time : Most reverend Nestor, I am glad to clasp thee. Nest. 1 would my arms could match thee in con- As they contend with thee in courtesy. [tention, Hect. 1 would they could. Nest. Ha! By this white beard, I 'Id fight with thee to-morrow. Well, welcome, welcome ! — I have seen the time. Ulyss. I wonder now how yonder city stands When we have here her base and pillar by us. Hect. I know your favour, Lord Ulysses, well. 529 ACT V. TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. SCENE I, Ah, sir, there 's many a Greek and Trojan dead. Since first I saw yourself and Diomed In Ilion, on your Greekish embassy. Ulyss. Sir, I foretold you then what would ensue : My prophecy is but half his journey yet ; For yonder walls, that pertly front your town, Yond towers, whose wanton tops do buss the clouds. Must kiss their own feet. Hect. I must not believe you : There they stand yet, and modestly I think. The faU of every Phrygian stone wiU cost A drop of Grecian blood : the end crowns all, And that old common arbitrator, Time, Will one day end it. Ulyss. So to him we leave it. Most gentle and most valiant Hector, welcome : After the general, I beseech you next To feast with me and see me at my tent. Achil. I shall forestall thee. Lord Ulysses, thou I Now, Hector, I have fed mine eyes on thee ; I have with exact view perused thee, Hector, And quoted joint by joint. Hect. Is this AchUles ? Achil. I am Achilles. Sect. Stand fair, I pray thee : let me look on thee. Achil. Behold thy fill. Hect. Nay, I have done already. Achil. Thou art too brief : I will the second time, As I would buy thee, view thee limb by limb. Hect. O, like a book of sport thou 'It read me o'er ; But there 's more in me than thou understand'st. Why dost thou so oppress me with thine eye ? Achil. TeU me, you heavens, in which part of his body [there ? Shall I destroy him? whether there, or there, or That I may give the local wound a name And make distinct the very breach whereout Hector's great spirit flew: answer me, heavens! Hect. It would discredit the blest gods, proud man. To answer suoh a question : stand again : Think'st thou to catch my life so pleasantly As to prenominate in nice conjecture Where thou wilt hit me dead ? Achil. I tell thee, yea. Hect. Wert thou an oracle to tell me so, I 'Id not believe thee. Henceforth guard thee well ; For I '11 not kill thee there, nor there, nor there ; But, by the forge that stithied Mars his helm, I '11 kill thee every where, yea, o'er and o'er. You wisest Grecians, pardon me this brag ; His insolence draws folly from my lips ; But I 'U endeavour deeds to match these words, Or may I never — Ajax. Do not chafe thee, cousin : And you, Achilles, let these threats alone, TiU accident or purpose bring you to 't : You may have every day enough of Hector, If you have stomach ; the general state, I fear. Can scarce entreat you to be odd with him. Hect. I pray you, let us see you in the field : We have had pelting wars, since you refused The Grecians' cause. Achil. Dost thou entreat me. Hector? To-morrow do I meet thee, fell as death; To-night all friends. Hect. Thy hand upon that match. Agam. First, aU you peers of Greece, go to my There in the full convive we : afterwards, [tent ; As Hector's leisure and your boimties shall Concur together, severally entreat him. Beat loud the tabourines, let the trumpets blow, That this great soldier may his welcome know. [Exeunt all except Troilus and Ulysses. Tro. My Lord Ulysses, tell me, I beseech you. In what place of the field doth Calchas keep ? Ulyss. At Menelaus' tentj most princely Troilus : There Diomed doth feast with him to-night ; Who neither looks upon the heaven nor earth, But gives all gaze and bent of amorous view On the fair Cressid. Tro. ShaU I, sweet lord, be boimd to you so much, After we part from Agamemnon's tent, To bring me thither ? Ulyss. You shall command me, sir. As gentle tell me, of what honour was . This Cressida in Troy ? Had she no lover there That wails her absence ? Tro. O, sir, to such as boasting show their scars A mock is due. Will you walk on, my lord ? She was beloved, she loved ; she is, and doth : But still sweet love is food for fortune's tooth. [Exeunt. .ACT V. SCENE I. — The Grecian camp. Before Achilles'' tent. Enter Achilles and Patroclus. Achil. I'll heat his blood with Greekish wine to-night, Which with my scimitar I '11 cool to-morrow. Patroclus, let us feast him to the height. Patr. Here comes Thersites. Enter Thersites. Achil. How now, thou core of envy ! Thou crusty batch of nature, what 's the news ? Ther. Why, thou picture of what thou seemest, and idol of idiot-worshippers, here 's a letter for Achil. From whence, fragment ? [thee. Ther. Why, thou full dish of fool, from Troy. Patr. Who keeps the tent now ? Ther. The surgeon's box, or the patient's wound. Patr. Well said, adversity ! and what need these tricks ? Ther. Prithee, be silent, boy, I profit not by thy talk : thou art thought to be Achilles' male varlet. Patr. Male varlet, you rogue ! what 's that ? Ther. Why, his masculine whore. Now, the rot- 530 ten diseases of the south, the guts-griping, ruptures, catarrhs, loads o' gravel i' the back, lethargies, cold palsies, raw eyes, dirt-rotten livers, wheezing lungs, bladders full of impost-hume, sciaticas, limekilns i' the palm, incurable bone-ache, and the rivelled fee- simple of the tetter, take and take again such pre- posterous discoveries ! Patr. Why, thou damnable box of envy, thou, what meanest thou to curse thus ? Ther. Do I curse thee ? Patr. Why, no, you ruinous butt, you whoreson indistinguishable cur, no. I'her. No! why art thou then exasperate, thou idle immaterial skein of sleave-silk, thou green sar- cenet flap for a sore eye, thou tassel of a prodigal's purse, thou? Ah, how the poor world is pestered with such waterflies, diminutives of nature ! Patr. Out, gall ! Ther. Finch-egg! Achil. My sweet Patroclus, I am thwarted quite From my great purpose in to-morrow's battle. Here is a letter from Queen Hecuba, A token from her daughter, my fair love, Both taxing me and gaging me to keep An oath that I have sworn. I will not break it : ACT V. TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. SCENE II. Fall Greeks ; fail fame ; honour or go or stay ; My major vow lies here, this I '11 obey. Come, come, Thersites, help to trim my tent : This night in banqueting must all be spent. Away, Patroclus ! [Exeunt Achilles and Patroclus. Ther. With too much blood and too little brain, these two may run mad; but, if with too much brain and too little blood they do, I '11 be a curer of madmen. Here 's Agamemnon, an honest fel- low enough, and one that loves quails; but he has not so much brain as ear-wax: and the goodly transformation of Jupiter there, his brother, the bull, — the primitive statue, and oblique memorial of cuckolds; a thrifty shoeing-horn in a chain, hanging at his brother's leg, — to what form but that he is, should wit larded with malice and malice forced with wit turn him to ? To an ass, were nothing ; he is both ass and ox : to an ox, were nothing ; he is both ox and ass. To be a dog, a mule, a cat, a fitchew, a toad, a lizard, an owl, a puttock, or a herring without a roe, I would not care ; but to be Menelaus ! I would conspire against destiny. Ask me not what I would be, if I were not Thersites ; for I care not to be the louse of a lazar, so I were not Menelaus. Hoy-day I spirits and fires! MUer Hector, Troilus, Ajax, Agramemnon, Ulysses, Nestor, Menelaus, and Diomedes, with lights. Agam. We go wrong, we go wrong. Ajax. Ko, yonder 't is ; There, where we see the lights. Hect. I trouble you. 4;cKC. No, not a whit. JJlyss. Here comes himself to guide you. Be-enter Achilles. Achil. Welcome, brave Hector : welcome, princes all. Agam. So now, fair Prince of Troy, I bid good night. Ajax commands the guard to tend on you. [eral. Hect. Thanks and good night to the Greeks' gen- Men. Good night, my lord. Hect. Good night, sweet Lord Menelaus. Ther. Sweet draught : 'sweet ' quoth 'a ! sweet sink, sweet sewer. Achil. Good night and welcome, both at once, to That go or tarry. Agam. Good nig^ht. [Exeunt Agam,emnon and Menelaus. Achil. Old Nestor tarries ; and you too, Diomed, Keep Hector company an hour or two. Bio. I cannot, lord; I have important business, The tide whereof is now. Good night, great Hec- Hect. Give me your hand. [tor. Ulyss. [Aside to Troilus] Follow his torch; he goes to Calchas' tent : I '11 keep you company. Tro. Sweet sir, you honour me. Hect. And so, good night. [Mcit Diomedes; Ulysses and Troilus following. Achil. Come, come, enter my tent. [Exeunt Achilles, Hector, Ajax, and Nestor. Ther. That same Diomed 's a false-hearted rogue, a most unjust knave; I wiU no more trust him when he leers than I will a serpent when he hisses : he will spend his mouth, and promise, like Brab- bler the hound ; but when he performs, astronomers foretell it; it is prodigious, there will come some change ; the sun borrows of the moon, when Dio- med keeps his word. I will rather leave to see Hector, than not to dog him : they say he keeps a Trojan drab, and uses the traitor Calchas' tent : I'll after. Nothing but lechery! all incontinent varlets ! [Exit. SCENE ll.—TIie same. Before Calchas^ tent. Enter Diomedes. Bio. What, are you up here, ho ? speak. Cal. [Within] WhocaUsV Bio. Diomed. Calchas, I think. Where 's your Cal. [ Within} She comes to you. [daughter ? Enter Troilus and Ulysses, at a distance; after them, Thersites. TJlyss. Stand where the torch may not discover us. Enter Cressida. Tro. Cressid comes forth to him. Bio. How now, my charge ! Ores. Now, my sweet guardian ! Hark, a word with you. [Whispers. Tro. Yea, so familiar f TJlyss. She wiU sing any man at first sight. Ther. And any man may sing her, if he can take her cliff ; she 's noted. Bio. Will you remember ? Cres. Remember! yes. Bio. Nay, but do, then ; And let your mind be coupled with your words. Tro. What should she remember ? XTlyss. List. Cres. Sweet honey Greek, tempt me no more to Ther. Roguery! [folly. Bio. Nay, then,— Cres. I '11 tell you what, — Bio. Foh, foh ! come, tell a pin : you are forsworn. Cres. In faith, I cannot : what would you have me do? Ther. A juggling trick, — to be secretly open. Bio. What did you swear you would bestow on me? Cres. I prithee, do not hold me to mine oath; Bid me do anything but that, sweet Greek. Bio. Good night. Tro. Hold, patience ! TJlyss. How now, Trojan ! Cres. Diomed,— Bio. No, no, good-night: I '11 be your fool no more. Tro. Thy better must. Cres. Hark, one word in your ear. Tro. O plague and madness ! [pray you, TJlyss. You are moved, prince; let us depart, I Lest your displeasure should enlarge itself To wrathful terms : this place is dangerous ; The time right deadly; I beseech you, go. Tro. Behold, I pray you ! TJlyss. Nay, good my lord, go off : You flow to great distraction ; come, my lord. Tro. I pray thee, stay. TJlyss. You have not patience; come. Tro. I pray you, stay ; by hell and all hell's tor» I will not speak a word ! [ments. Bio. And so, good night. Cres. Nay, but you part in anger. Tro. Doth that grieve thee ? wither'd truth ! TJlyss. Why, how now, lord ! Tro. By Jove, 1 will be patient. Cres. Guardian ! — why, Greek ! Bio. Foh, foh ! adieu ; you palter. Cres. In faith, I do not : come hither once again. TJlyss. You shake, my lord, at something : will You will break out. [you go ? Tro. She strokes his cheek ! TJlyss. Come, come. Tro. Nay, stay ; by Jove, I will not speak a word ; There is between my wiU and all offences A guard of patience : stay a little while. Ther. How the devil Luxury, with his fat rump and potato-finger, tickles these together! Fry, lechery, fry 1 531 ACT V. TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. SCENE II. Dio. But will you, then? Cres. In faith, I will, la ; never trust me else. Bia. Give me some token for the surety of it. Cres. I '11 fetch you one. [Exit. Ulyss. You have sworn patience. Tro. Fear me not, sweet lord ; I will not be myself, nor have cognition Of what I feel : I am all patience. Be-enter Cressida. Ther. Now the pledge ; now, now, now ! Cres. Here, Diomed, keep this sleeve. Tro. O beauty 1 where is thy faith ? Ulyss. My lord,— Tro. I will be patient ; outwardly I will. Cres. You look upon that sleeve ; behold it well. He loved me — O false wench ! — Give 't me again. Bio. Whose was 't ? Cres. It is no matter, now I have 't again. I will not meet with you to-morrow night : I prithee, Diomed, visit me no more. Ther. Now she sharpens : weU said, whetstone ! Bio. I shall have it. Cres. What, this? Bio. Ay, that. Cres. O, all you godsl O pretty, pretty pledge! Thy master now lies thinking in his bed Of thee and me, and sighs, and takes my glove, And gives memorial dainty kisses to it, As I kiss thee. Nay, do not snatch it from me ; He that takes that doth take my heart withal. Bio. I had your heart before, this foUows it. Tro. I did swear patience. Cres. You shall not have it, Diomed ; faith, you I '11 give you something else. [shall not ; Bio. I will have this : whose was it ? Cres. It is no matter. Bio. Come, tell me whose it was. Cres. 'T was one 's that loved me better than you But, now you have it, take it. [will. Bio. Whose was it ? Cres. By all Diana's waiting-women yond, And by herself, I will not tell you whose. Bio. To-morrow will I wear it on my hehn. And grieve his spirit that dares not challenge it. Tro. Wert thou the devil, and worest it on thy It should be challenged. [horn, Cres. Well, well, 'tis done, 'tis past: and yet it I will not keep my word. [is"^ not ; Bio. Why, then, farewell; Thou never shalt mock Diomed again. Cres. You shall not go : one cannot speak a word. But it straights starts you. Bio. I do not like this fooling. Ther. Nor I, by Pluto : but that that likes not you pleases me best. Bio. What, shall I come ? the hour ? Cres. Ay, come : — O Jove ! — do come : — I shall Bio. Farewell till then. [be plagued. Cres. Good night : I prithee, come. [Exit Biomedes. f roilus, farewell ! one eye yet looks on thee; But with my heart the other eye doth see. Ah, poor our sex ! this fault in us I find, The error of our eye directs our mind : What error leads must err; O, then conclude Minds sway'd by eyes are full of turpitude. [Exit. Ther. A proof of strength she could not publish more, Unless she said ' My mind is now tum'd whore.' Ulyss. All 's done, my lord. Tro. It is. Ulyss. Why stay we, then ? Tro. To make a recordation to my soul Of every syllable that here was spoke. But if I tell how these two did co-act, Shall I not lie in publishing a truth ? 532 Sith yet there is a credence in my heart, An esperance so obstinately strong, That doth invert the attest of eyes and ears. As if those organs had deceptions functions, Created only to calumniate. Was Cressid here ? Ulyss. I cannot conjure, Trojan. Tro. She was not, sure. Ulyss. Most sure she was. Tro. Why, my negation hath no taste of madness. Ulyss. Nor mine, my lord : Cressid was here but Tro. Let it not be believed for womanhood ! [now. Think, we had mothers ; do not give advantage To stubborn critics, apt, without a theme, For depravation, to square the general sex By Cressid 's rule: rather think this not Cressid. Ulyss. What hath she done, prince, that can soil our mothers ? Tro. Nothing at all, unless that this were she. Ther. WiU he swagger himself out on 's owti eyes ? Tro. This she ? no, this is Diomed's Cressida: If beauty have a soul, this is not she ; If souls guide vows, if vows be sanctimonies, If sanctimony be the gods' delight. If there be rule in unity itself. This is not she. O madness of discourse. That cause sets up with and against itself! Bi-f old authority I where reason can revolt Without perdition, and loss assume all reason Without revolt : this is, and is not, Cressid. Within my soul there doth conduce a fight Of this strange nature that a thing inseparate Divides more wider than the sky and earth. And yet the spacious breadth of this division Admits no ortfex for a point as subtle As Ariachne's broken woof to enter. Instance, O instance ! strong as Pluto's gates ; Cressid is mine, tied with the bonds of heaven : Instance, O instance! strong as heaven itself; The bonds of heaven are slipp'd, dissolved, and And with another knot, five-finger-tied, " [loosed; The fractions of her faith, orts of her love, The fragments, scraps, the bits and greasy relics Of her o'er-eaten faith, are bound to Diomed. Ulyss. May worthy Troilus be half attach 'd With that which here his passion doth express ? Tro. Ay, Greek ; and that shall be divulged well In characters as red as Mars his heart Inflamed with Venus : never did young man fancy With so eternal and so fix'd a soul. Hark, Greek : as much as I do Cressid love. So much by weight hate I her Diomed : That sleeve is mine that he 'U bear on his helm ; Were it a casque composed by Yulcan's skill, My sword should bite it : not the dreadful spout Which shipmen do the hurricano call, Constringed in mass by the almighty sun. Shall dizzy vsdth more clamour Neptune's ear In his descent than shall my prompted sword Falling on Diomed. Ther. He '11 tickle it for his concupy. [false ! Tro. O Cressid! O false Cressid! false, false, Let all untruths stand by thy stained name. And they '11 seem glorious. Ulyss. O, contain yourself; Your passion draws ears hither. Enter .ffineas. .^hie. I have been seeking you this hour, my lord : Hector, by this, is arming him in Troy ; Ajax, your guard, stays to conduct you home. Tro. Have with you, prince. My courteous lord, Farewell, revolted fair ! and, Diomed, [adieu. Stand fast, and wear a castle on thy head ! Ulyss. I'll bring you to the gates. Tro. Accept distracted thanks. [Exeunt Troilus, ^neas, and Ulysses. ACT V. TROILUS AND ORES SID A. SCENE III. Ther. AVould I could meet that rogue Diomed ! I would croak like a raven ; I would bode , 1 would bode. Patroclus will give me any thing for the in- telligence of this whore: the parrot will not do more for an almond than he for a commodious drab. Lechery, lechery; still, wars and lechery; nothing else holds fashion: a burning devil take them ! {Exit. SCENE m. — Troy. Before Priam^s palace. Enter Hector and Andromache. And. When was my lord so much ungently tem- To stop his ears against admonishment V [per'd, Unarm, unarm, and do not fight to-day. Hect. You train me to offend you ; get you in : By all the everlasting gods, I '11 go ! And. My dreams will, sure, prove ominous to the Hect. No more, I say. [day. Enter Cassandra. Cas. Where is my brother Hector ? And. Here, sister ; arm'd, and bloody in intent. Consort with me in loud and dear petition, Pui'sue we him on knees ; for I have dream 'd Of bloody tm-bulence, and this whole night Hath nothing been but shapes and forms of slaugh- Cas. O, 'tis true. [ter. Hect. Ho ! bid my trumpet sound ! Cas. No notes of sally, for the heavens, sweet brother. [swear. Hect. Be gone, I say : the gods have heard me Cas. The gods are deaf to hot and peevish vows : They are polluted offerings, more abhorr'd Than spotted livers in the sacrifice. And. O, be persuaded! do not count it holy To hurt by being just : it is as lawful. For we would give much, to use violent thefts. And rob in the behalf of charity. Cas. It is the purpose that makes strong the vow ; But vows to every purpose must not hold : Unarm, sweet Hector. Hect. Hold you still, I say ; Mine honour keeps the weather of my fate : Life every man holds dear ; but the brave man Holds honour far more precious-dear than life. Enter Troilus. How now, young man ! mean'st thou to fight to-day ? And. Cassandra, call my father to persuade. [Exit Cassandra. Hect. No, faith, young Troilus; doff thy harness, I am to-day i' the vein of chivalry : [youth ; Let grow thy sinews till their knots be strong, And tempt not yet the brushes of the war. Unarm thee, go, and doubt thou not, brave boy, I '11 stand to-day for thee and me and Troy. Tro. Brother, you have a vice of mercy in you, Which better fits a lion than a man. Hect. What vice is that, good Troilus ? chide me for it. Tro. When many times the captive Grecian faUs, Even in the fan and wind of your fair sword, You bid them rise, and live. Hect. O, 't is fair play. Tro. Fool's play, by heaven. Hector. Hect. How now ! how now ! Tro. For the love of all the gods, Let 's leave the hermit pity with our mothers. And when we have our armours buckled on, The venom'd vengeance ride upon our swords, Spur them to ruthful work, rein them from ruth. Hect. Fie, savage, fie ! Tro. Hector, then 'tis wars. Hect. Troilus, I would not have you fight to-day. Tro. Who should withhold me i* Not fate, obedience, nor the hand of Mars Beckoning with fiery truncheon my retire ; Not Priamus and Hecuba on knees, Their eyes o'er galled with recourse of tears; Nor you, my brother, with your true sword drawn. Opposed to hinder me, should stop my way. But by my ruin. He-enter Cassandra, with Priam. Cos. Lay hold upon him, Priam, hold him fast; He is thy crutch ; now if thou lose thy stay. Thou on him leaning, and all Troy on thee. Fall all together. Pri. Come, Hector, come, go back: Thy wife hath dream 'd; thy mother hath had visions ; Cassandra doth foresee ; and I myself Am like a prophet suddenly enrapt To tell thee that this day is ominous : Therefore, come back. Hect. ^neasis a-field; And I do stand engaged to many Greeks, Even in the faith of valour, to appear This morning to them. Pri. Ay, but thou shalt not go. Hect. I must not break my faith. You know me dutiful ; therefore, dear sir. Let me not shame respect ; but give me leave To take that course by your consent and voice, Which you do here forbid me, royal Priam. Cas. O Priam, yield not to him ! And. Do not, dear father. Hect. Andromache, I am offended with you : Upon the love you bear me, get you in. [Exit Andromache. Tro. This foolish, dreaming, superstitious girl Makes aU these bodements. Cas. O, farewell, dear Hector! Look, how thou diest ! look, how thy eye turns pale I Look, how thy wounds do bleed at many vents! Hark, how Troy roars ! how Hecuba cries out ! How poor Andromache shrills her dolours forth 1 Behold, distraction, frenzy and amazement, Like witless antics, one another meet, And all cry, Hector! Hector 's dead! O Hector! Tro. Away! away! Cas. Farewell : yet, soft ! Hector, I take my leave : Thou dost thyself and all our Troy deceive. [Exit. Hect. You are amazed, my liege, at her exclaim : Go in and cheer the town : we '11 forth and fight, Do deeds worth praise and tell you them at night. Pri. Farewell : the gods with safety stand about thee! [Exeunt severally Priam and Hector. Alarums. Tro. They are at it, hark ! Proud Diomed, be- lieve, I come to lose my arm, or win my sleeve. Enter Pandarus. Pan. Do you hear, my lord ? do you hear ? Tro. What now? Pan. Here 's a letter come from yond poor girl. Tro. Let me read. Pan. A whoreson tisick, a whoreson rascally tisick so troubles me, and the foolish fortune of this girl ; and what one thing, what another, that I shall leave you one o' these days : and I have a rheum in mine eyes too, and such an ache in my bones that, unless a man were cursed, I cannot tell what to think on 't. What says she there ? Tro. Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart ; The effect doth operate another way. [Tearing the letter. Go, wind, to wind, there turn and change together. My love with words and errors still she feeds ; But edifies another with her deeds. [Exeunt severallji- 533 TROILUS AND ORES 8 ID A. SCENE VI. SCENE IV. — Plains between Troy and the Grecian camp. Alarums : excursions. Enter Thersites. Ther. Now they are clapper-clawing one another; I '11 go look on. That dissembling abominable var- let, Diomed, has got that same scurvy doting fool- ish young knave's sleeve of Troy there in his helm : I would fain see them meet ; that that same young Trojan ass, that loves the whore there, might send that Greekish whoremasterly villain, with the sleeve, back to the dissembling luxurious drab, of a sleeveless errand. O' the t' other side, the policy of those crafty swearing rascals, that stale old mouse-eaten dry cheese, Nestor, and that same dog- fox, Ulysses, is not proved worth a blackberry : they set me up, in policy, that mongrel cur, Ajax, against that dog of as bad a kind, Achilles : and now is the cur Ajax prouder than the cur Achilles, and will not arm to-day ; whereupon the Grecians begin to proclaim barbarism, and policy grows into an ill opinion. Soft ! here comes sleeve, and t' other. Miter Diomedes, Troilus folloiving. Tro. Fly not ; for shouldst thou take the river I would swim after. [Styx, Dio. Thou dost miscall retire : I do not fly, but advantageous care Withdrew me from the odds of multitude : Have at thee ! Ther. Hold thy' whore, Grecian!— now for thy whore, Trojan ! — now the sleeve, now the sleeve! [Exeunt Troilus and Diomedes, fighting. Enter Hector. Hect. "What art thou, Greek ? art thou for Hec- Art thou of blood and honour ? [tor's match ? Ther. No, no, I am a rascal; a scurvy railing knave : a very filthy rogue. Hect. I do believe thee : live. [Exit. Ther. God-a-mercy, that thou wilt believe me: but a plague break thy neck for frighting me! What 's become of the wenching rogues ? I think they have swallowed one another ; I would laugh at that miracle : yet, in a sort, lechery eats itself. I '11 seek them. [Exit. SCENE V. — Another part of the plains. Enter Diomedes and a Servant. Dio. Go, go, my servant, take thou Troilus' horse; Present the fair steed to my lady Cressid : Fellow, commend my service to her beauty : Tell her I have chastised the amorous Trojan, And am her knight by proof. Serv. I go, my lord. [Exit. Enter Agamemnon. Agam. Renew, renew ! The fierce Polydamas Hath beat down Menon : bastard Margarelon Hath Doreus prisoner, And stands colossus-wise, waving his beam, Upon the pashed corses of the kings Epistrophus and Cedius : Polyxenes is slain, Amphimachus and Thoas deadly hurt, Patroclus ta'en or slain, and Palamedes Sore hurt and bruised : the dreadful Sagittary Appals our numbers : haste we, Diomed, To reinforcement, or we perish all. Enter Nestor. Nest. Go, bear Patroclus' body to Achilles; And bid the snail-paced Ajax arm for shame. There is a thousand Hectors in the field : Now here he fights on Galathe his horse, And there lacks work ; anon he 's there afoot, And there they fly or die, like scaled sculls Before the belching whale ; then is he yonder, 534 And there the strawy Greeks, ripe for his edge. Fall down before him, like the mower's swath : Here, there, and every where, he leaves and takes, Dexterity so obeying appetite That what he will he does, and does so much That proof is call'd impossibility. Enter Ulysses. Vlyss. O, courage, courage, princes ! great Achillea Is arming, weeping, cursing, vowiug vengeance : Patroclus' wounds have roused his drowsy blood, Together with his mangled Myrmidons, That noseless, handless, hack'd and chipp'd, come to him, Crying on Hector. Ajax hath lost a friend And foams at mouth, and he is arm'd and at it. Roaring for Troilus, who hath done to-day Mad and fantastic execution. Engaging and redeeming of himself With such a careless force and forceless care As if that luck, in very spite of cunning, Bade him win all. „ Enter Ajax. Ajax. Troilus ! thou coward Troilus ! [Exit. Dio. Ay, there, there. Nest. So, so, we draw together. Enter Achilles. Achil. Where is this Hector ? Come, come, thou boy-queller^ show thy face ; Know what it is to meet Achilles angry : Hector I where 's Hector ? I wiU none but Hector. [Exeunt. SCENE VI. — Another part of the plains. Enter Ajax. Ajax. Troilus, thou coward Troilus, show thy head! „ Enter Diomedes. Dio. Troilus, I say 1 where 's Troilus ? Ajax. What wouldst thou ? Dio. I would correct him. [oflice Ajax. Were I the general, thou shouldst have my Ere that correction. Troilus, I say ! what, TroUus ! Enter Troilus. Tro. O traitor Diomed! turn thy false face, thou traitor. And pay thy life thou owest me for my horse ! Dio. Ha, art thou there ? Ajax. I '11 fight with him alone : stand, Diomed. Dio. He is my prize; I will not look upon. Tro. Come, both you cogging Greeks; have at you both ! [Exeunt, fighting. Enter Hector. Hect. Yea, Troilus ? O, well fought, my young- est brother ! Enter Achilles. Achil. Now do I see thee, ha! have at thee. Hector! Hect. Pause, if thou wilt. Achil. I do disdain thy courtesy, proud Trojan : Be happy that my arms are out of use : My rest and negligence befriends thee now, But thou anon shalt hear of me again ; Till when, go seek thy fortune. [Exit. Hect. Fare thee well : I would have been much more a fresher man, Had I expected thee. How now, my brother ! Be-entsr Troilus. Tro. Ajax hath ta'en ^neas : shall it be ? No, by the flame of yonder glorious heaven, He shall not carry him : I '11 be ta'en too, Or bring him off: fate, hear me what I say! I reck not though I end my life to-day. [Exit. ACT V. TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. SCENE X. Enter one in sumptuous armour, met. Stand, stand, thou Greek; thou art a goodly No ? wilt thou nolf ? I like thy armour well ; [raark : I '11 frush it and unlock the rivets all, But I '11 be master of it : wilt thou not, beast, abide? Why , then fly on,I 'llhunt thee for thy hide. [Exeunt. SCENE VII. — Another part of the plains. Enter Achilles, with Myrmidons, Achil. Come here about me, you my Myrmidons; Mark what I say. Attend me where I wheel : Strike not a stroke, but keep yourselves in breath: And when I have the bloody Hector found. Empale him with your weapons round about ; In fellest manner execute your aims. Follow me, sirs, and my proceedings eye : It is decreed Hector the great must die. [Eaxunt. Enter Menelaus and FaTiB, fighting: then Thersites. Ther. The cuckold and the cuckold-maker are at it. Now, buUI now, dog! 'Loo, Paris, 'loo ! now my double-henned sparrow ! 'loo, Paris, 'loo ! The biill has the game : ware horns, ho ! [Exeunt Paris and Menelaus. Enter Margarelon. Mar. Turn, slave, and fight. Ther. "What art thou ? Mar. A bastard son of Priam's. Ther. I am a bastard too ; I love bastards : I am a bastard begot, bastard instructed, bastard in mind, bastard in valour, in every thing illegitimate. One bear will not bite another, and wherefore should one bastard ? Take heed, the quarrel 's most ominous to us : if the son of a whore fight for a whore, he tempts judgment : farewell, bastard. [Exit. Mar. The devil take thee, coward ! [Exit. SCENE Vm. — Another part of the plains. Enter Hector. Sect. Most putrefied core, so fair without, Thy goodly armour thus hath cost thy life. Now is my day's work done ; I '11 take good breath : Eest, sword ; thou hast thy fill of blood and death. [Puts off his helmet and hangs his shield behind him. Enter Achilles and Myrmidons. Achil. Look, Hector, how the sun begins to set ; How ugly night comes breathing at his heels : Even with the vail and darking of the sun, To close the day up, Hector's life is done. Beet. I am unarm 'd ; forego this vantage, Greek. Achil. Strike, fellows, strike; this is the man I seek. [Hector falls. So, nion, fall thou next ! now, Troy, sink down ! Here lies thy heart, thy sinews, and thy bone. On, Myrmidons, and cry you all amain, ' AchiUes hath the mighty Hector slain.' [A retreat sounded. Hark ! a retire upon our Grecian part. [lord. Myr. The Trojan trumpets sound the like, my Achil. The dragon wing of night o'erspreads the And, stickler-like, the- armies separates. [earth. My half-supp'd sword, that frankly would have fed, Pleased with this dainty bait, thus goes to bed. [Sheathes his sword. Come, tie his body to my horse's tail ; Along the field I will the Trojan trail. [Exeunt. SCENE IX. — Another part of the plains. Enter Agamemnon, Ajax, Menelaus, Nestor, Diomedes, and others, marching. Shouts within. Agam. Hark ! hark ! what shout is that ? JSest. Peace, drums ! [ Within] Achilles ! Achilles ! Hector 's slain ! Achil' les! Dio. The bruit is, Hector 's slain, and by Achilles. Ajax. If it be so, yet bragless let it be ; Great Hector was a man as good as he. Agam. March patiently along : let one be sent To pray Achilles see us at our tent. If in his death the gods have us befriended. Great Troy is ours, and our sharp wars are ended. [Exeunt, marching. SCENE X. — Another part of the plains. Enter -fflneas and Trojans. ^ne. Stand, ho ! yet are we masters of the field: Never go home ; here starve we out the night. Enter Troilus. Tro. Hector is slain. All. Hector ! the gods forbid ! Tro. He 's dead : and at the murderer's horse 's tail, In beastly sort, dragg'd through the shameful field. Frown on, you heavens, effect your rage with speed I Sit, gods, upon your thrones, and smile at Troy ! I say, at once let your brief plagues be mercy, And linger not our sure destructions on ! ^ne. My lord, you do discomfort all the host. Tro. You understand me not that tell me so : I do not speak of flight, of fear, of death. But dare all imminence that gods and men Address their dangers in. Hector is gone : Who shall tell Priam so, or Hecuba ? Let him that will a screech-owl aye be call'd, Go in to Troy, and say there. Hector 's dead: There is a word will Priam turn to stone ; Make wells and Niobes of the maids and wives, Cold statues of the youth, and, in a word. Scare Troy out of itseK. But, march away: Hector is dead : there is no more to say. Stay yet. You vile abominable tents. Thus proudly pight upon our Phrygian plains. Let Titan rise as early as he dare. [coward, I '11 through and through you ! and, thou great-sized No space of earth shall sunder our two hates : I '11 haunt thee like a wicked conscience still. That mouldeth goblins swift as frenzy's thoughts. Strike a free march to Troy ! with comfort go : Hope of revenge shall hide our inward woe. [Exeunt .^Eneas and Trojans. As Troilus is going out, enter, from the other side, Pandarus. Pan. But hear you, hear you ! Tro. Hence, broker-lackey ! ignomy and shame Pursue thy life , and live aye with thy name ! [Exit. Pan. A goodly medicine for my aching bones ! O world! world! world! thus is the poor agent de- spised ! O traitors and bawds, how earnestly are you set a-work, and how ill requited ! why should our en- deavour be so loved and the performance so loathed ? what verse for it ? what instance for it ? Let me see : Full merrily the humble-bee doth sing, Till he hath lost his honey and his sting ; And being once subdued in armed tail. Sweet honey and sweet notes together fail. Good traders in the flesh, set this in your painted As many as be here of pander's hall, [cloths. Your eyes, half out, weep out at Pandar's fall; Or if you cannot weep, yet give some groans, Though not for me, yet for your aching bones. Brethren and sisters of the hold-door trade, Some two months hence my will shall here be made : It should be now, but that my fear is this. Some galled goose of Winchester would hiss : Till then I '11 sweat and seek about for eases. And at that time bequeathe you my diseases. [Exit. 535 COEIOLANUS. BBAMATIS FEB SON JE. Caius Marcius, afterwards Oaius Marcius Co- riolanus. Titus Lartius, | Generals against the Volscians. Cominius, J Menenius Agrippa, friend to Coriolanus. Sicinius Velutus, | tribunes of the people. Junius Brutus, J Young Marcius, son to Coriolanus. A Eoman Herald. Tullus AufldiuB, General of the Volscians. Lieutenant to Aufidius. Conspirators with Aufidius. A citizen of Antium. Two Volscian Guards. Volumnia, mother to Coriolanus. Virgilia, wife to Coriolanus. Valeria, friend to Virgilia. Gentlewoman, attending on Virgilia. Eoman and Volscian Senators, Patricians, iEdiles, Lie- tors, Soldiers, Citizens, Messengers, Servants to Au- fidius, and other Attendants. ■ Rome and the neighbourhood ; Corioli and the neighbourhood ; Antium. [ For an Analys SCENE I. — Borne. A street. Play, see Page A.GT I. Enter a company of mutinous Citizens, with staves, clubi, and other weapons. First Cit. Before we proceed any further, hear me All. Speak, speak. [speak. First Cit. You are all resolved rather to die than to famish ? All. Eesolved, resolved. First Cit. First, you know Caius Marcius is chief enemy to the people. All. We know 't, we know 't. First Cit. Let us kill him, and we '11 have corn at our own price. Is 't a verdict ? All. No more talking on 't ; let it be done : away. See. Cit. One word, good citizens. [away ! First Cit. We are accounted poor citizens, the patricians good. What authority surfeits on would relieve us: if they would yield us but the super- fluity, while it were wholesome, we might guess they relieved us humanely; but they think we are too dear: the leanness that afflicts us, the object of our misery, is as an inventory to particularize their abundance ; our sufferance is a gain to them. Let us revenge this with our pikes, ere we become rakes : for the gods know I speak this in hunger for bread, not in thirst for revenge. Sec. Cit. Would you proceed especially against Caius Marcius ? All. Against him first : he 's a very dog to the commonalty. Sec. Cit. Consider you what services he has done for his country ? First Cit. Very well; and could be content to give him good report for 't, but that he pays him- self with being proud. Sec. Cit. Nay, but speak not maliciously. First Cit. I say unto you, what he hath done fa- mously, he did it to that end: though soft-con- scienced men can be content to say it was for his country, he did it to please his mother, and to be partly proud ; which he is, even to the altitude of his virtite. Sec. Cit. What he cannot help in his nature, you account a vice in him. You must in no way say he is covetous. First Cit. If I must not, I need not be barren of accusations ; he hath faults, with surplus, to tire in repetition. [Shouts within.] What shouts are these ? The other side o' the city is risen : why stay we prating here ? to the Capitol ! All. Come, come. First Cit. Soft ! who comes here ? Miter Menenius Agrippa. Sec. Cit. Worthy Menenius Agrippa; one that hath always loved the people. First Cit. He 's one honest enough : would all the rest were so ! Me7i. What work 's, my countrymen, in hand ? where go you With bats and clubs ? The matter ? speak, I pray you. First Cit. Our business is not unknown to the senate ; they have had inkling this fortnight what we intend to do, which now we '11 show 'em in deeds. They say poor suitors have strong breaths , they shall know we have strong arms too. Men. Why, masters, my good friends, mine honest neighbours. Will you undo yourselves ? First Cit. We cannot, sir, we are undone already. Men. 1 tell you, friends, most charitable care Have the patricians of you. For your wants, Your suffering in this dearth, you may as well Strike at the heaven with your staves as lift them Against the Eoman state, whose course will on The way it takes, cracking ten thousand curbs Of more strong link asunder than can ever Appear in your impediment. For the dearth. The gods, not the patricians, make it, and Your knees to them, not arms, must help. Alack, You are transported by calamity Thither where more attends you, and you slander The helms o' the state, who care for you like fathers, When you curse them as enemies. First Cit. Care for us! True, indeed! They ne'er cared for us yet: suffer us to famish, and their store-houses crammed with grain; make edicts for usury, to support usurers; repeal daily any wholesome act established against the rich, and provide more piercing statutes daily, to chain up ACT I. CORIOLANUS. SCENE I. and restrain the poor. If the wars eat us not up, they will ; and there 's all the love they bear us. Men. Either you must Confess yourselves wondrous malicious, Or be accused of folly. I shall tell you A pretty tale : it may be you have heard it ; But, since it serves my purpose, I will venture To stale 't a little more. First at. Well, I '11 hear it, sir : yet you must not think to fob off our disgrace with a tale : but, an 't please you, deliver. [bers Men. There was a time when all the body's mem- Eebell'd against the belly, thus accused it : That only like a gulf it did remain I' the midst o' the body, idle and imactive. Still cupboarding the viand, never bearing Like labour with the rest, where the other instru- ments Did see and hear, devise, instruct, walk, feel. And, mutually participate, did minister Unto the appetite and affection common Of the whole body. The belly answer 'd — First Cit. Well, sir, what answer made the belly ? Men. Sir, I shall tell you. With a kind of smile. Which ne'er came from the lungs, but even thus — For, look you, I may make the belly smile As well as speak — it tauntingly replied To the discontented members, the mutinous parts That envied his receipt ; even so most fitly As you malign our senators for that They are not such as you. First Cit. Your belly's answer ? What ! The kingly-crowned head, the vigilant eye. The counsellor heart, the arm our soldier. Our steed the leg, the tongue our trumpeter. With other muniments and petty helps In this om' fabric, if that they — Men. What then ? Tore me, this fellow speaks ! What then ? what then ? First Cit. Should by the cormorant belly be re- Who is the sink o' the body, — [strain'd, Men. Well, what then ? First Cit. The former agents, if they did com- What could the belly answer ? [plain. Men. - 1 will tell you ; If you 'U bestow a small — of what you have little — Patience awhile, you '11 hear the belly's answer. First Cit. Ye 're long about it. Meji. Note me this, good frieiid ; Your most grave belly was deliberate, Not rash like his accusers, and thus answer'd: ' True is it, my incorporate friends,' quoth he, ' That I receive the general food at first, AVhich you do live upon ; and fit it is. Because I am the store-house and the shop Of the whole body: but, if you do remember, I send it through the rivers of your blood, Even to tlie court , the heart, to the seat o ' the brain ; And, through the cranks and offices of man. The strongest nerves and small inferior veins From me receive that natural competency Whereby they live : and though that all at once. You, my good friends,'— this says the belly, mark First Cit. Ay, sir ; well, well. [me,— 3fen. ' Though aU at once cannot See what I do deliver out to each. Yet I can make my audit up, that all From me do back receive the flour of all, And leave me but the bran.' What say you to 't ? First Cit. It was an answer : how apply you this ? Men. The senators of Eome are this good belly. And you the mutinous members ; for examine Their counsels and their cares, digest things rightly Touching the weal o' the common, you shall find No public benefit which you receive But it proceeds or comes from them to you And no way from yourselves. What do you think, You, the great toe of this assembly ? First Cit. I the great toe ! why the great toe ? Men. For that, being one o' the lowest, basest, poorest. Of this most wise rebellion, thou go'st foremost: Thou rascal, that art worst in blood to run, Lead'st first to win some vantage. But make you ready your stiff bats and clubs : Eome and her rats are at the point of battle ; The one side must have bale. Enter Oaius Marcius. Hail, noble Marcius ! Mar. Thanks. What 's the matter, you dissen- tious rogues. That, rubbing the poor itch of your opinion, Make yourselves scabs ? First Cit. We have ever your good word. Mar. He that will give good words to thee will flatter Beneath abhoiTing. What would you have, you curs. That like nor peace nor war ? the one affrights you. The other makes you proud. Pie that trusts to you, Where he should find you lions, finds you hares ; Where foxes, geese : you are no surer, no, Than is the coal of fire upon the ice. Or hailstone in the sun. Your virtue is To make him worthy whose offence subdues him And curse that justice did it. Who deserves great- ness Deserves your hate ; and your affections are A sick man's appetite, who desires most that Which would increase his evil. He that depends Upon your favours swims with fins of lead And hews down oaks with rushes. Hang ye! Trust With every minute you do change a mind, [ye ? And call him noble that was now your hate. Him vile that was your garland. What 's the matter, That in these several places of the city You cry against the noble senate, who. Under the gods, keep you in awe, which else Would feed on one another ? What 's their seeking ? Men. For corn at their ovra rates ; whereof, they The city is well stored. [say, Mar. Hang 'em! They say I They '11 sit by the fire, and presume to know What 's done i' the Capitol ; who 's like to rise. Who thrives and who declines; side factions and give out Conjectural marriages ; making parties strong And feebling such as stand not in their liking Below their cobbled shoes. They say there 's grain Would the nobility lay aside their ruth, [enough ! And let me use my sword, I 'Id make a quarry With thousands of these quarter'd slaves, as high As I could pick my lance. , Men. Nay, these are almost thoroughly persuaded ; For though abundantly they lack discretion, Yet are they passing cowardly. But, I beseech you, What says the other troop ? Mar. They are dissolved : hang 'em I They said they were an-hungry; sigh'd forth prov- erbs. That hunger broke stone walls, that dogs must eat. That meat was made for mouths, that the gods sent Corn for the rich men only : with these shreds [not They vented their complainings ; which being an- swer'd. And a petition granted them, a strange one — To break the heart of generosity, [caps And make bold power look pale— they threw their As they would hang them on the horns o' the moon. Shouting their emulation. Men. What is granted them ? Mar. Five tribunes to defend their vulgar wis- doms, 537 ACT I. CORIOLANUS. SCENE III. Of their own choice : one 's Junius Brutus, Sicinius Velutus, and I know not — 'Sdeath ! The rabble should have first unroof d the city, Ere so prevail'd with me : it will in time Win upon power and throw forth greater themes For insurrection's arguing. Men. This is strange. Mar. Go, get you home, you fi'agments ! .Braver a Messenger, hastily. Mess. Where 's Caius Marcius ? Mar. Here : what 's the matter ? Mess. The news is, sir, the Volsces are in arms. Mar. I am glad on 't : then we shall ha' means to Our musty superfluity. See, our best elders, [vent Miter Oominius, Titus Lartius, and other Sen- ators ; Junius Brutus and Sicinius Velutus. First Sen. Marcius, 't is true that you have lately The Yolsces are in arms. [told us ; Mar . They have a leader , TuUus Aufidius, that will put you to 't. I sin in envying his nobility. And were I any thing but what I am, I would wish me only he. Com. You have fought together. Mar. Were half to haK the world by the ears and Upon my party, I 'Id revolt, to make [he Only my wars with him : he is a lion That I am proud to hunt. First Sen. Then, worthy Marcius, Attend upon Cominius to these wars. Com. It is your former promise. Mar. Sir, it is ; And I am constant. Titus Lartius, thou Shalt see me once more strike at TuUus' face. What, art thou stiff ? stand 'st out ? Tit. No, Caius Marcius; I '11 lean upon one crutch and fight with t' other, Ere stay behind this business. Men. O, true-bred ! First Sen. Your company to the Capitol; where. Our greatest friends attend us. [I know. Tit. [To Com.] Lead you on. [To Mar.] Follow Cominius ; we must follow you ; Kight worthy you priority. Com. Noble Marcius ! First Sen. [To the Citizens] Hence to your homes ; Mar. Nay, let them follow: [be gone ! The Volsces have much com ; take these rats thither To gnaw their gamers. Worshipful mutiners, Your valour puts well forth : pray, follow. [Citizens steal away. Exeunt all but Sicinius and Brutus. Sic. Was ever man so proud as is this Marcius ? Bru. He has no equal. [people,— Sic. When we were chosen tribunes for the Bru. Mark'd you his lip and eyes ? Sic. Nay, but his taunts. Bru. Being moved, he will not spare to gird the Sic. Be-mock the modest moon. [gods. Bru. The present wars devour him : he is grown 'Too proud to be so valiant. Sic. Such a nature. Tickled with good success, disdains the shadow Which he treads on at noon : but I do wonder His insolence can brook to be commanded Under Cominius. Bru. Fame, at the which he aims. In whom already he 's well graced, can not Better be held nor more attain 'd than by A place below the first : for what miscarries Shall be the general's fault, though he perform To the utmost of a man, and giddy censure Will then cry out of Marcius ' O, if he Had borne the business ! ' Sic. Besides, if things go well, 538 Opinion that so sticks on Marcius shall Of his demerits rob Cominius. Bru. Come : Half all Cominius' honours are to Marcius, Though Marcius earn'd them not, and all his faults To Marcius shall be honours, though indeed In aught he merit not. Sic. Let 's hence, and hear How the dispatch is made, and in what fashion, More than his singularity, he goes Upon this present action. Bru. Let 's along. [Exeunt. SCEINE n. —Corioli. The Senate-house. Enter Tullus Aufidius and certain Senators. First Sen. So, your opinion is, Aufidius, That they of Kome are enter'd in our counsels And know how we proceed. Auf. Is it not yours ? What ever have been thought on in this state. That could be brought to bodily act ere Rome Had circumvention ? 'T is not four days gone Since I heard thence ; these are the words : I think I have the letter here ; yes, here it is. [known [-Reads] ' They have press'd a power, but it is not Whether for east or west : the dearth is great ; The people mutinous ; and it is rumour'd, Cominius, Marcius your old enemy. Who is of Rome worse hated than of you. And Titus Lartius, a most valiant Roman, These three lead on this preparation Whither 't is bent : most likely 't is for you : Consider of it.' First Sen. Our army 's in the field : We never yet made doubt but Rome was ready To answer us. Auf. Nor did you think it folly To keep your great pretences veil'd till when They needs must show themselves; which in the' hatching, It seem'd, appear'd to Rome. By the discovery We shall be shorten 'd in our aim, which was To take in many towns ere almost Rome Should know we were afoot. Sec. Sen. Noble Aufidius, Take your commission ; hie you to your bands : Let us alone to guard Corioli: If they set down before 's, for the remove Bring up your army ; but, I think, you 'U find They 've not prepared for us. Auf. O, doubt not that ; I speak from certainties. Nay, more. Some parcels of their power are forth already. And only hitherward. I leave your honours. If we and Caius Marcius chance to meet, 'T is sworn between us we shall ever strike Till one can do no more. All. The gods assist you ! Auf. And keep your honours safe ! First Sen. Farewell. Sec. Sen. Farewell. All. Farewell. [Exeunt. SCENE m. — Eom£. A room in Marcius^ house. Enter Volumnia and Virgilia : they set them down on two low stools, and sew. Vol. 1 pray you, daughter, sing ; or express your- self in a more comfortable sort : if my son were my husband, I should freelier rejoice in that absence wherein he won honour than in the embracements of his bed where he would show most love. When yet he was but tender-bodied and the only son of my womb, when youth with comeliness plucked all gaze his way, when for a day of kings' entreaties a mother should not sell him an hour from her behold- ACT I. CORIOLANUS. SCENE IV. ing, I, considering how honour wonld become such a person, that it was no better than picture-like to hang by the wall, if renown made it not stir, was pleased to let him seek danger where he was like to find fame. To a cruel war I sent him ; from whence he returned, his brows bound with oak. I tell thee, daughter, I sprang not more in joy at first hearing he was a man-child than now in first seeing he had proved himself a man. [how then ? Vir. But had he died in the business, madam ; Vol. Then his good report should have been my son ; I therein would have found issue. Hear me profess sincerely : had I a dozen sons, each in my love alike and none less dear than thine and my good Marcius, I had rather had eleven die nobly for their country than one voluptuously surfeit out of action. Enter a Gentlewoman. Gent. Madam,the Lady Valeria is come to visit you. Vir. Beseech you, give me leave to retire myself. Vol. Indeed, you shall not. Methinks I hear hither your husband's drum, See him pluck Aufidius down by the hair, As children from a bear, the Volsces shunning him : Methinks I see him stamp thus, and call thus : ' Come on, you cowards! you were got in fear. Though you were bom in Rome : ' his bloody brow "With his mail'd hand then wiping, forth he goes, Like to a harvest-man that 's task'd to mow Or all or lose his hire. Vir. His bloody brow ! O Jupiter, no blood ! Vol. Away, you fool ! it more becomes a man Than gilt his trophy : the breasts of Hecuba, When she did suckle Hector, look'd not lovelier Than Hector's forehead when it spit forth blood At Grecian sword, contemning. Tell Valeria, We are fit to bid her welcome. [_Exit Gent. Vir. Heavens bless my lord from fell Aufidius ! Vol. He '11 beat Aufidius' head below his knee And tread upon his neck. Miter Valeria, with an Usher and Gentlewoman. Val. My ladies both, good day to you. Vol. Sweet madam. Vir. I am glad to see your ladyship. Val. How do you both ? you are manifest house- keepers. What are you sewing here ? A fine spot, in good faith. How does your little son ? Vir. I thank your ladyship ; well, good madam. Vol. He had rather see the swords, and hear a drum, than look upon his schoolmaster. Vat. O' my word, the father's son : I '11 swear, 't is a very pretty boy. O' my troth, I looked upon him o' Wednesday half an hour together: has such a confirmed countenance. I saw him run after a gilded butterfly ; and when he caught it, he let it go again ; and after it again ; and over and over he comes, and up again ; catched it again ; or whether his fall enraged him, or how 'twas, he did so set his teeth and tear it ; O, I warrant, how he mammocked Vol. One on 's father's moods. [it ! Val. Indeed, la, 'tis a noble child. Vir. A crack, madam. Val. Come, lay aside your stitchery; I must have you play the idle huswife with me this afternoon. Vir. No, good madam ; I will not out of doors. Val. Not out of doors ! Vol. She shall, she shall. Vir. Indeed, no, by your patience : I '11 not over the threshold till my lord return from the wars. Val. Fie, you confine yourself most unreasonably : come, you must go visit the good lady that lies in. Vir. I will wish her speedy strength, and visit her with my prayers ; but I cannot go thither. Vol. Why, I pray you ? Vir. 'T is not to save labour, nor that I want love. Val. You would be another Penelope : yet, they say, all the yarn she spun in Ulysses' absence did but fill Ithaca full of moths. Come ; I would your cam- bric were sensible as your finger, that you might leave pricking it for pity. Come, you shall go with us. Vir. No, good madam, pardon me ; indeed, I will not forth. Val. In truth, la, go with me; and I '11 tell you excellent news of your husband. Vir. O, good madam, there can be none yet. Val. Verily, I do not jest with you ; there came news from him last night. Vir. Indeed, madam? Val. In earnest, it 's true ; I heard a senator speak it. Thus it is: the Volsces have an army forth ; against whom Cominius the general is gone, with one part of our Roman power : your lord and Titus Lartius are set down before their city Corioli ; they nothing doubt prevailing and to make it brief wars. This is true, on mine honour; and so, I pray, go with us. Vir. Give me excuse, good madam : I will obey you in every thing hereafter. Vol. Let her alone, lady : as she is now, she wiU but disease our better mirth. Val. In troth, I think she would. Fare you well, then. Come, good sweet lady. Prithee, Virgilia, turn thy solemness out o' door, and go along with us. Vir. No, at a word, madam ; indeed, I must not. I wish you much mirth. Val. WeU, then, farewell. [Exeunt. SCENE IV.— Before Corioli. Enter, with drum and colours, Marcius, Titus Lartius, Captains and Soldiers. To them a Messenger. Mar. Yonder comes news. A wager they have Lart. My horse to yours, no. [met. Mar. 'T is done. Lart. Agreed. Mar. Say, has our general met the enemy ? Mess. They lie in view ; but have not spoke as yet. Lart. So, the good horse is mine. Mar. I '11 buy him of you. Lart. No, I 'U nor sell nor give him : lend you him I will For half a hundred years. Summon the town. Mar. How far off lie these armies ? Mess. Within this mile and half. Mar. Then shall we hear their 'larum, and they ours. Now, Mars, I prithee, make us quick in work. That we with smoking swords may march from To help our 'fielded friends ! Come, blow thy blast. They sound a parley. Enter two Senators luith others on the walls. Tullus Aufidius, is he withih your walls ? [he, First Sen. No, nor a man that fears you less than That 's lesser than a little. [Brums afar off.] Hark ! our drums Are bringing forth our youth. We '11 break our walls, Rather than they shall pound us up : our gates. Which yet seem shut, we have but pinn'd with rushes ; They '11 open of themselves. [Alarum afar off.] Hark you, far off ! There is Aufidius ; list, what work he makes Amongst your cloven army. Mar. O, they are at it ! Lart. Their noise be our instruction. Ladders, ho! Enter the army of the Volsces. Mar. They fear us not, but issue forth their city. Now put your shields before your hearts, and fight With hearts more proof than shields. Advance, brave Titus : 539 ACT I. C0RI0LANU8. SCENE VI. They do disdain us much beyond our thoughts, Which makes me sweat with wrath. Come on, my fellows : He that retires, I '11 take him for a Volsce, And he shall feel mine edge. Alarum. The Romans are heat back to their trenches. Be-enter Marcius, cursing. Mar. All the contagion of the south light on you, You shames of Rome! you herd of — Boils and plagues Plaster you o'er, that you may be abhorr'd Further than seen and one infect another Against the wind a mile ! You souls of geese, That bear the shapes of men, how have you run From slaves that apes would beat ! Pluto and hell ! All hurt behind; backs red, and faces pale With flight and agued fear ! Mend and charge home, Or, by the fires of heaven, I '11 leave the foe And inake my wars on you : look to 't : come on ; If you '11 stand fast, we '11 beat them to their wives. As they us to our trenches followed. Another alarum. The Volsces fly, and Marcius follows them to the gates. So, now the gates are ope : now prove good seconds : 'T is for the followers fortune widens them, Not for the fliers : mark me, and do the like. [Enters the gates. First Sol. Fool-hardiness : not I. Sec. Sol. Nor I. [Marcius is shut in. First Sol. See, they have shut him in. All. To the pot, I warrant him. [Alarum continu£S. Be-enter Titus Lartius. Lart. What is become of Marcius ? All. Slain, sir, doubtless. First Sol. Following the fliers at the very heels. With them he enters; who, upon the sudden, Clapp'd to their gates: he is himself alone. To answer all the city. Lart. O noble fellow ! Who sensibly outdares his senseless sword, And, when it bows, stands up. Thou art left, Mar- A carbimcle entire, as big as thou art, [cius : Were not so rich a jewel. Thou wast a soldier Even to Cato's wish, not fierce and terrible Only in strokes ; but, with thy grim looks and The thunder-like percussion of thy sounds. Thou madest thine enemies shake, as if the world Were feverous and did tremble. Be-enter Marcius, bleeding, assaulted by the enemy. First Sol. Look, sir. Lart. O, 't is Marcius ! Let 's fetch him off, or make remain alike. [They fight, and all enter the city. SCENE V.—Corioli. A street. Miter certain Romans, with spoils. First Bom. This will I carry to Rome. Sec. Bom. And I this. Third Bom. A murrain on 't ! I took this for silver. [Alarum continues still afar off. Enter Marcius and Titus Lartius with a trumpet. Mar. See here these movers that do prize their hours At a crack'd drachm ! Cushions, leaden spoons. Irons of a doit, doublets that hangmen would Bury with those that wore them, these base slaves. Ere yet the fight be done, pack up : down with them ! And hark, what noise the general makes ! To him ! There is the man of my soul's hate, Aufidius, 540 Piercing our Romans: then, valiant Titus, take Convenient numbers to make good the city ; Whilst I, with those that have the spirit, will haste To help Cominius. Lart. Worthy sir, thou bleed 'st ; Thy exercise hath been too violent for A second course of fight. Mar. Sir, praise me not ; My work hath yet not warm'd me : fare you well : The blood I drop is rather physical Than dangerous to me : to Aufidius thus I will appear, and fight. Lart. Now the fair goddess. Fortune, Fall deep in love with thee ; and her great charms Misguide thy opposers' swords ! Bold gentleman, Prosperity be thy page ! Mar. Thy friend no less Than those she placeth highest ! So, farewell. Lart. Thou worthiest Marcius ! [Exit Marcius. Go, sound thy trumpet in the market-place ; Call thither all the officers o' the town. Where they shall know our mind : away ! [Exeunt. SCENE VI. — Near tlie camp of Cominius. Enter Cominius, as it were in retire, with soldiers. Com. Breathe you, my friends : well fought ; we are come oft Like Romans, neither foolish in our stands. Nor cowardly in retire: believe me, sirs. We shall be charged again. Whiles we have struck. By interims and conveying gusts we have heard The charges of our friends. Ye Roman gods ! Lead their successes as we wish our own. That both our powers, with smiling fronts encoun- May give you thankful sacrifice. [tering. Miter a Messenger. Thy news ? Mess. The citizens of Corioli have issued. And given to Lartius and to Marcius battle : I saw our party to their trenches driven. And then I came away. Com. Though thou speak'st truth, Methinks thou speak'st not well. How long is 't Mess. Above an hour, my lord. [since ? Com. 'T isnotamile; briefly we heard their drums: How couldst thou in a mile confound an hour. And bring thy news so late ? Mess. Spies of the Volsces Held me in chase, that I was forced to wheel Three or four miles about, else had I, sir. Half an hour since brought my report. Com. Who 's yonder, That does appear as he were flay'd ? O gods ! He has the stamp of Marcius ; and I have Before-time seen him thus. Mar. [ Within] Come I too late ? Com. The shepherd knows not thunder from a tabor More than I know the sound of Marcius' tongue From every meaner man. Enter Marcius. Mar. Come I too late ? Com. Ay, if you come not in the blood of others, But mantled in your own. Mar. O, let me clip ye In arms as soimd as when I woo'd, in heart As merry as when our nuptial day was done. And tapers burn'd to bedward ! Com. Flower of warriors, How is 't with Titus Lartius ? Mar. As with a man busied about decrees : Condemning some to death, and some to exile ; Ransommg him, or pitying, threatening the other; Holding Corioli in the name of Rome, ACT I. CORIOLANUS. SCENE IX. Even like a fawning greyhound in the leash, To let him slip at will. Com. Where is that slave Which told me they had beat you to your trenches ? Where is he ? call him hither. Mar. Let him alone ; He did inform the truth : but for our gentlemen, The common file — a plague! tribunes for them ! — The mouse ne'er shunn'd the cat as they did budge From rascals worse than they. Com. But how prevail'd you ? Mar. Will the time serve to tell ? I do not think. Where is the enemy ? are you lords o' the field ? If not, why cease you till you are so ? Com. Marcius, We have at disadvantage fought and did Eetire to win our purpose. Mar. How lies their battle ? know you on which They have placed their men of trust ? [side Com. As I guess, Marcius, Their bands i' the vaward are the Antiates, Of their best trust ; o'er them Aufidius, Their very heart of hope. Mar. I do beseech you, By all the battles wherein we have fought, -By the blood we have shed together, by the vows We have made to endure friends, that you directly Set me against Aufidius and his Antiates ; And that you not delay the present, but. Filling the air with swords advanced and darts. We prove this very hour. Com. Though I could wish You were conducted to a gentle bath And balms applied to you, yet dare I never Deny your asking : take your choice of those That best can aid your action. Mar. Those are they That most are willing. If any such be here — As it were sin to doubt— that love this painting Wherein you see me smear'd ; if any fear Lesser his person than an ill report ; If any think brave death outweighs bad life And that his country 's dearer than himself ; Let him alone, or so many so minded. Wave thus, to express his disposition. And follow Marcius. [_They all shout and wave their swords, take him up in their arms, and cast up their caps, O, me alone ! make you a sword of me ? If these shows be not outward, which of you But is four Volsces ? none of you but is Able to bear against the great Aufidius A shield as hard as his. A certain number. Though thanks to all, must I select from all : the Shall bear the business in some other fight, [rest As cause will be obey'd. Please you to march ; And four shall quickly draw out my command, Which men are best inclined. Com. March on, my fellows : Make good this ostentation, and you shall Divide in all with us. [Exeunt. SCENE vn.— 27ie gates of Corioli. Titus Lartius, having set a guard upon Corioli, going with drum and trumpet toward Cominius and Caius Marcius, enters with a Lieutenant, other Soldiers, and a Scout. Lart. So,lettheportsbeguarded: keep your duties. As I have set them down. If I do send, dispatch Those centuries to our aid ; the rest will serve For a short holding : if we lose the field. We cannot keep the town. Lieu. Fear not our care, sir,' Lart. Hence, and shut your gates upon 's. Our guider, come ; to the Roman camp conduct us. [Exeunt. SCENE Till.— Afield of battle. Alarum as in battle. Enter, from opposite sides, Marcius and Aufidius. Mar. I '11 fight with none but thee ; for I do hate Worse than a promise-breaker. [thee Auf. We hate alike : Not Afric owns a serpent I abhor More than thy fame and envy. Fix thy foot. Mar. Let the first budger die the other's slave. And the gods doom him after ! Auf. If I fly, Marcius, Holloa me like a hare. Mar. Within these three hours, TuUus, Alone I fought in your Corioli walls. And made what work I pleased : 't is not my blood Wherein thou seest me mask'd ; for thy revenge Wrench up thy power to the highest. Auf. Wert thou the Hector That was the whip of your bragg'd progeny, Thou shouldst not scape me here. [They fight, and certain Volsces come to the aid of Aufidius. Marcius fights till they be driven in breathless. Officious, and not valiant, you have shamed me In your condemned seconds. [Exeunt, SCENE IX. —The Eoman camp. Flourish. Alarum. A retreat is sounded. Flourish. Enter, from one side, Cominius with the Bomans ; from the other side, Marcius, with his arm in a scarf. Com. If I should tell thee o'er this thy day's work. Thou 'Idst not believe thy deeds : but I '11 report it Where senators shall mingle tears with smiles. Where great patricians shall attend and shrug, I' the end admire, where ladies shall be frighted. And, gladly quaked, hear more; where the dull tribunes, That, with the fusty plebeians, hate thine honours. Shall say against their hearts ' We thank the gods Our Rome hath such a soldier.' Yet camest thou to a morsel of this feast, Having fully dined before. Enter Titus Lartius, with his power, from the pursuit. Lart. O general. Here is the steed, we the caparison : Hadst thou beheld — Mar. Pray now, no more : my mother. Who has a charter to extol her blood. When she does praise me grieves me. I have done As you have done : that 's what I can ; induced As you have been ; that 's for my country : He that has but effected his good will Hath overta'en mine act. Com. You shall not be The grave of your deserving ; Rome must know The value of her own : 't were a concealment Worse than a theft, no less than a traducement. To hide your doings; and to silence that, WTiich, to the spire and top of praises vouch 'd. Would seem but modest : therefore, I beseech you — In sign of what you are, not to reward What you have done — before our army hear me. Mar. I have some wounds upon me, and they To hear themselves remember'd. [smart Com. Should they not, Well might they fester 'gainst ingratitude, And tent themselves with death. Of all the horses, Whereof we have ta'en good and good store, of all The treasure in this field achieved and city. We render you the tenth, to be ta'en forth. Before the common distribution, at Your only choice. 541 ACT II. CORIOLANUS. SCENE I. Mar. I thank you, general ; But cannot make my heart consent to take A bribe to pay my sword : I do refuse it ; And stand upon my common part with those That have beheld the doing. [A long flourish. They all cry ' Marcius ! Mar- cius ! ' cast up their caps and lances : Comin- ius and Lartius stand bare. Mar. May these same instruments, which you profane, Never sound more ! when drums and trumpets shall I' the field prove flatterers, let courts and cities be Made all of false-faced soothing ! When steel grows soft as the parasite's silk, Let him be made a coverture for the wars ! No more, I say ! For that I have not wash'd My nose that bled, or foil'd some debile wretch,— Which, without note, here 's many else have done, — You shout me forth In acclamations hyperbolical ; As if I loved my little should be dieted In praises sauced with lies. Com. Too modest are you; More cruel to your good report than grateful To us that give you truly : by your patience. If 'gainst yourself you be incensed, we '11 put you. Like one that means his proper harm, in manacles. Then reason safely with you. Therefore, be it known. As to us, to all the world, that Caius Marcius Wears this war's garland : in token of the which. My noble steed, known to the camp, I give him, With all his trim belonging ; and from this time, For what he did before Corioli, call him. With all the applause and clamour of the host, Caius Marcius Coriolanus ! Bear The addition nobly ever ! [Flourish. Trumpets sound, and drums. All. Caius Marcius Coriolanus ! Cor. I will go wash; And when my face is fair, you shall perceive Whether I blush or no : howbeit, I thank you. I mean to stride your steed, and at all times To undercrest your good addition To the fairness of my power. Com. So, to our tent ; Where, ere we do repose us, we will write To Rome of our success. You, Titus Lartius, Must to Corioli back : send us to Rome The best, with whom we may articulate, For their own good and ours. Lart. I shall, my lord. Cor. The gods begin to mock me. I, that now Refused most princely gifts, am bound to beg Of my lord general. Com. Take 't; 'tis yours. What is 't? Cor. I sometime lay here in Corioli At a poor man's house ; he used me kindly : He cried to me ; I saw him prisoner ; But then Aufidius was within my view. And wrath o'erwhelm'd my pity: I request you To give my poor host freedom. Com. O, well begg'd ! Were he the butcher of my son, he should Be free as is the wind. Deliver him, Titus. Lart. Marcius, his name ? Cor. By Jupiter ! forgot. I am weary ; yea, my memory is tired. Have we no wine here ? Com. Go we to our tent : The blood upon your visage dries ; 't is time It should be look'd to : come. [Exeunt SCENE :S..—The camp of the Volsces. A flourish. Cornets. Enter TuUus Aufidius, bloody, with two or three Soldiers. Auf. The town is ta'en ! First Sol. 'T will be deliver'd back on good con. Auf. Condition! [dition. I would I were a Roman ; for I cannotj Being a Volsce, be that I am. Condition ! What good condition can a treaty find I' the part that is at mercy ? Five times, Marcius, I have fought with thee ; so often hast thou beat me; And wouldst do so, I think, should we encounter As often as we eat. By the elements, If e'er again I meet him beard to beard, He 's mine, or I am his : mine emulation Hath not that honour in 't it had ; for where I thought to crush him in an equal force, True sword to sword, I '11 potch at him some way Or wrath or craft may get him. First Sol. He 's the devil. Auf. Bolder, though not so subtle. My valour 's poison'd With only suffering stain by him ; for him Shall fly out of itself : nor sleep nor sanctuary, Being naked, sick, nor fane nor Capitol, The prayers of priests nor times of sacrifice, Embarquements all of fury, shall lift up Their rotten privilege and custom 'gainst My hate to Marcius : where I find him, were it At home, upon my brother's guard, even there, Against the hospitable canon, would I Wash my fierce hand in 's heart. Go you to the city ; Learn how 't is held ; and what they are that must Be hostages for Rome. First Sol. Will not you go ? [you— Auf. I am attended at the cypress grove : I pray 'T is south the city mills — bring me word thither How the world goes, that to the pace of it I may spur on my journey. First Sol. I shall, sir. [Exeunt. ^CT II. SCENE I. — Borne. A public place. Enter Menenius with the two Tribunes of the people, Sicinius and Brutus. Men. The augurer tells me we shall have news Bru. Good or bad ? [to-night. Men. Not according to the prayer of the people, for they love not Marcius. Sic. Nature teaches beasts to know their friends. Men. Pray you, who does the wolf love ? Sic. The lamb. Men. Ay, to devour him ; as the hungry plebeians would the noble Marcius. Bru. He 's a lamb indeed, that baes like a bear. 542 Men. He 's a bear indeed, that lives like a lamb. You two are old men : tell me one thing that I shall Both. Well, sir. [ask you. Men. In what enormity is Marcius poor in, that you two have not in abundance ? [all. Bru. He 's poor in no one fault, but stored with Sic. Especially in pride. Bru. And topping all others in boasting. Men. This is strange now : do you two know how you are censured here in the city, I mean of us o' the right-hand file ? do you ? Both. Why, how are we censured ? Men. Because you talk of pride now,— will you not be angry ? ACT II. CORIOLANUS. SCENE I. Both. Well, well, sir, well. Men. "Why, 't is no great matter ; for a very little thief of occasion will rob you of a great deal of patience : give your dispositions the reins, and be angry at your pleasures ; at the least, if you take it as a pleasure to you in being so. You blame Mar- cius for being proud ? Bru. We do it not alone, sir. Men. I know you can do very little alone; for your helps are many, or else yoirr actions would grow wondrous single : your abilities are too infant- like for doing much alone. You talk of pride : O that you could turn your eyes toward the napes of your necks, and make but an interior survey of your good selves ! O that you could I Bru. What then, sir ? Men. Why, then you should discover a brace of unmeriting, proud, violent, testy magistrates, alias fools, as any in Kome. Sic. Menenius, you are known well enough too. Men. I am known to be a humorous patrician, and one that loves a cup of hot wine with not a drop of allaying Tiber in 't ; said to be something imper- fect in favouring the first complaint; hasty and tinder-like upon too trivial motion ; one that con- verses more with the buttock of the night than with the forehead of the morning : what I think 1 utter, and spend my malice in my breath. Meeting two such wealsmen as you are — I cannot call you Lycur- guses — if the drink you give me touch my palate adversely, I make a crooked face at it. I can't say your worships have delivered the matter well, when I find the ass in compound with the major part of your syllables: and though I must be content to bear with those that say you are reverend grave men, yet they lie deadly that tell you you have good faces. If you see this in the map of my microcosm, follows it that I am known well enough too ? what harm can your bisson conspectuities glean out of this character, if I be known well enough too ? Bru. Come, sir, come, we know you well enough. Men. You know neither me, yourselves, nor any thing. You are ambitious for poor knaves' caps and legs : you wear out a good wholesome forenoon in hearing a cause between an orange-wife and a f osset-seller ; and then rejourn the controversy of three pence to a second day of audience. When you are hearing a matter between party and party, if you chance to be pinched with the colic, you make faces like mummers ; set up the bloody flag against all patience ; and, in roaring for a chamber- pot, dismiss the controversy bleeding, the more en- tangled by your hearing : all the peace you make in their cause is, calling both the parties knaves. You are a pair of strange ones. Bru. Come, come, you are well understood to be a perfecter giber for the table than a necessary bencher in the Capitol. Men. Our very priests must become mockers, if they shall encounter such ridiculous subjects as you are. When you speak best unto the purpose, it is not worth the wagging of your beards ; and your beards deserve not so honourable a grave as to stuff a botcher's cushion, or to be entombed in an ass's pack-saddle. Yet you must be saying, Marcius is proud ; who, in a cheap estimation, is worth all your predecessors since Deucalion, though peradA^enture some of the best of 'em were hereditary hangmen. God-den to your worships : more of your conversa- tion would infect my brain, being the herdsmen of the beastly plebeians : I will be bold to take my leave of you. {Brutus and Sicinius go aside. Enter Volumnia, Virgilia, and Valeria. How now, my as fair as noble ladies, — and the moon, were she earthly, no nobler, — whither do you follow your eyes so fast? Vol. Honourable Menenius, my boy Marcius ap. proaches ; for the love of Juno, let 's go. Men. Ha ! Marcius coming home ! Vol. Ay, worthy Menenius ; and with most pros- perous approbation. Men. Take my cap, Jupiter, and I thank thee. Hoo ! Marcius coming home ! Vol. Vir. Nay, 't is true. Vol. Look, here 's a letter from him : the state hath another, his wife another ; and, I think, there 's one at home for you. Men. I will make my very house reel to-night : a letter for me ! [saw 't. Vir. Yes, certain, there's a letter for you; I Men. A letter for me ! it gives me an estate of seven years' health ; in which time I will make a lip at the physician : the most sovereign prescription in Galen is but empiricutic, and, to this preservative, of no better report than a horse-drench. Is he not woimded ? he was wont to come home wounded. Vir. O, no, no, no. Vol. O, he is wounded ; I thank the gods for 't. Men. So do I too, if it be not too much : brings a' victory in his pocket ? the wounds become him. Vol. On 's brows : Menenius, he comes the third time home with the oaken garland. Men. Has he disciplined Aufidius soundly ? Vol. Titus Lartius writes, they fought together, but Aufidius got off. Men. And 'twas time for him too, I '11 warrant him that : an he had stayed by him, I would not have been so fidiused for all the chests in Corioli, and the gold that 's in them. Is the senate pos- sessed of this ? Vol. Good ladies, let's go. Yes, yes, yes; the senate has letters from the general, wherein he gives my son the whole name of the war : he hath m this action outdone his former deeds doubly. Val. In troth,there 's wondrous things spokeof him. Men. Wondrous ! ay, I warrant you, and not with- out his true purchasing. Vir. The gods grant them true ! Vol. True 1 pow, wow. Men. True ! I '11 be sworn they are true. Where is he wounded? [To the Tribunes] God save your good worships ! Marcius is coming home : he has more cause to be proud. Where is he wounded ? Vol. I' the shoulder and i' the left arm : there will be large cicatrices to show the people, when he shall stand for his place. He received in the repulse of Tarqutn seven hurts i' the body. Men. One i' the neck, and two i' the thigh, — there 's nine that I know. Vol. He had, before this last expedition, twenty- five wounds upon him. Men. Now it 's twenty-seven : every gash was an enemy's grave. [A shout and flourish.] Hark! the trumpets. Vol. These are the ushers of Marcius : before him he carries noise, and behind him he leaves tears : Death, that dark spirit, in 's nervy arm doth lie; Which, being advanced, declines, and then men die. A sennet. Trumpets sound. Miter CominiuB the general, and Titus Lartius ; between them, Corlolanus, crovmed vjith an oaken garland ; with Captains and Soldiers, and a Herald. Her. Know, Eome, that all alone Marcius did fight Within Corioli gates : where he hath won. With fame, a name to Caius Marcius; these In honour follows Coriolanus. Welcome to Rome,renowned Coriolanus ! [Flourish. All. Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus ! Cor. No more of this ; it does offend my heart : Pray now, no more, (fom. Look, sir, your mother ! Cor. O, 543 CT II. CORIOLANUS. SCENE II. You have, I know, petition'd all the gods For my prosperity ! [Kneels. Vol. Nay, iny good soldier, up ; My gentle Marcius, worthy Caius, and By deed-achieving honour newly named, — What is it ? — Coriolanus must I call thee ? — But, O, thy wife! Cor. My gracious silence, hail ! Wouldst thou have laugh 'd had I come cofRn'd home. That weep'st to see me triumph ? Ah, my dear, Such eyes the widows in Corioli wear, And mothers that lack sons. Men. Now, the gods crown thee I Cor. And live you yet ? \_To Valeria] O my sweet lady, pardon. [home : Vol. I know not where to turn: O, welcome And welcome, general : and ye 're welcome all. Men. A hundred thousand welcomes. I could weep And I could laugh, I am light and heavy. Welcome. A curse begin at very root on 's heart. That is not glad to see thee 1 You are three That Eome should dote on: yet, by the faith of men, [not We have some old crab-trees here at home that will Be grafted to your relish. Yet welcome, warriors : We call a nettle but a nettle and The faults of fools but f oUy. Com. Ever right. Cor. Menenius ever, ever. Herald. Give way there, and go on ! Cor. [To Volumnia and Virgilia] Your hand, and yours : Ere in our own house I do shade my head. The good patricians must be visited ; Erom whom I have received not only greetings. But with them change of honours. Vol. I have lived To see inherited my very wishes And the buildings of my fancy : only There 's one thing wanting, which I doubt not but Our Rome wUl cast upon thee. Cor. KJiow, good mother, I had rather be their servant in my way Than sway with them in theirs. Com. On, to the Capitol ! [Flourish. Cornets. Exeunt in state, as before. Brutus and Sicinius come forward. Bru. All tongues speak of him, and the bleared sights Are spectacled to see him : your prattling nurse Into a rapture lets her baby cry While she chats him : the kitchen- malkin pins Her richest lockram 'bout her reechy neck, [dows. Clambering the walls to eye him : stalls, bulks, win- Are smother'd up, leads fiU'd, and ridges horsed With variable complexions, all agreeing In earnestness to see him : seld-shown flamens Do press among the popular throngs and puff To win a vulgar station : our veil'd dames Commit the war of white and damask in Their nicely-gawded cheeks to the wanton spoil Of PhcBbus' burning kisses : such a pother As if that whatsoever god who leads him Were slily crept into his human powers And gave him graceful posture. Sic. On the sudden, I warrant him consul. Bru. Then our office may. During his power, go sleep. Sic. He cannot temperately transport his honours Erom where he should begin and end, but will Lose those he hath won. Bru. In that there 's comfort. Sic. Doubt not The commoners, for whom we stand, but they Upon their ancient malice will forget With the least cause these his new honours, which 544 That he will give them make I as little question As he is proud to do 't. Bru. 1 heard him swear, Were he to stand for consul, never would he Appear i' the market-place nor on him put The napless vesture of humility ; Nor, showing, as the manner is, his wounds To the people, beg their stinking breaths. Sic. 'T is right. Bru. It was his word : O, he would miss it rather Than carry it but by the suit of the gentry to him And the desire of the nobles. Sic. I wish no better Than have him hold that purpose and to put it In execution. Bru. 'T is most like he will. Sic. It shall be to him then as our good wills, A sure destruction. Bru. So it must fall out To him or our authorities. For an end. We must suggest the people in what hatred He still hath held them ; that to 's power he would Have made them mules, silenced their pleaders and Dispropertied their freedoms, holding them. In human action and capacity. Of no more soul nor fitness for the world Than camels in the war, who have their provand Only for bearing burdens, and sore blows For sinking under them. Sic. This, as you say, suggested At some time when his soaring insolence Shall touch the people — which time shall not want, If he be put upon 't ; and that 's as easy As to set dogs on sheep— will be his fire To kindle their dry stubble ; and their blaze Shall darken him for ever. Enter a Messenger. Bru. What 's the matter ? Mess. You are sent for to the Capitol. 'Tis thought That Marcius shall be consul : I have seen the dumb men throng to see him and The blind to hear him speak : matrons flimg gloves. Ladies and maids their scarfs and handkerchers, Upon him as he pass'd : the nobles bended, As to Jove's statue, and the commons made A shower and thunder with their caps and shouts : I never saw the like. Bru. Let 's to the Capitol ; And carry with us ears and eyes for the time. But hearts for the event. Sic. Have with you. [Exeunt. SCENE II. — Tfee same. The Capitol Enter two OfQcers, to lay cushions. First Off. Come, come, they are almost here. How many stand for consulships ? Sec. Off. Three, they say: but 'tis thought of every one Coriolanus will carry it. First Off. That's a brave fellow; but he's ven- geance proud, and loves not the common people. Sec. Off. Faith, there have been many great men that have flattered the people, who ne'er loved them ; and there be many that they have loved, they know not wherefore : so that, if they love they know not why, they hate upon no better a ground : therefore, for Coriolanus neither to care whether they love or hate him manifests the true knowledge he has in their disposition; and out of his noble carelessness lets them plainly see 't. First Off. If he did not care whether he had their love or no, he waved indifferently 'twixt doing them neither good nor harm: but he seeks their hate with greater devotion than they can render it him ; and leaves nothing undone that may fully discover him their opposite. Now, to seem to affect the ACT II. CORIOLANUS. SCENE ir. malice and displeasure of the people is as bad as that which he dislikes, to flatter them for their love. Sec. Of. He hath deserved worthily of his coun- try : and his ascent is not by such easy degrees as those who, having been supple and courteous to the people, bonneted, without any further deed to have them at all into their estimation and report : but he hath so planted his honours in their eyes, and his actions in their hearts, that for their tongues to be silent, and not confess so much, were a kind of ingratef ul injury ; to report otherwise, were a malice, that, giving itself the lie, would pluck reproof and rebuke from every ear that heard it. First Off. No more of him ; he 's a worthy man : way, they are coming. A sennet. Enter, with Lictors before them, Cominius the consul. Menenius, Coriolanus, Senators, Sicinius and Brutus. The Senators take their places; the Tribunes take their places by themselves. Coriolanus stands. Men. Having determined of the Volsces and To send for Titus Lartius, it remains, As the main point of this our after-meeting, To gratify his noble service that Hath thus stood for his country : therefore, please Most reverend and grave elders, to desire [you, The present consul, and last general In our well-found successes, to report A little of that worthy work perform'd By Cains Marcius Coriolanus, whom We met here both to thank and to remember With honours like himself. First Sen. Speak, good Cominius : lieave nothing out for length, and make us think Rather our state 's defective for requital Than we to stretch it out. [To the Tribunes] Mas- ters o' the people. We do request your kindest ears, and after, Your loving motion toward the common body, To yield what passes here. Sic. We are convented Upon a pleasing treaty, and have hearts Inclinable to honour and advance The theme of our assembly. Bru. Which the rather We shall be blest to do, if he remember A kinder value of the people than He hath hereto prized them at. Men. That 's off, that 's off ; I would you rather had been silent. Please you To hear Cominius speak ? Bru. Most willingly ; But yet my caution was more pertinent Than the rebuke you give it. Men. He loves your people ; But tie him not to be their bedfellow. Worthy Cominius, speak. [Coriolanus offers to go away.] Nay, keep your place. First Sen. Sit, Coriolanus ; never shame to hear What you have nobly done. Cor. Your honours' pardon : I had rather have my wounds to heal again Than hear say how I got them. Bru. Sir, I hope My words disbench'd you not. Cor. No, sir: yet oft. When blows have made me stay, I fled from words. You soothed not, therefore hurt not: but your I love them as they weigh. [people, Men. Pray now, sit down. Cor. I had rather have one scratch my head i' the sun When the alarum were struck than idly sit To hear my nothings monster'd. [Exit. Men. Masters of the people. Your multiplying spawn how can he flatter— 35 That 's thousand to one good one — when you now He had rather venture all his limbs for honour [see Than one on 's ears to hear it ? Proceed, Cominius. Com. I shall lack voice : the deeds of Coriolanus Should not be utter'd feebly. It is held That valour is the chiefest virtue, and Most dignifies the haver : if it be, The man I speak of cannot in the world Be singly counterpoised. At sixteen years. When Tarquin made a head for Rome, he fought Beyond the mark of others : our then dictator. Whom with all praise I point at, saw him fight, When with his Amazonian chin he drove The bristled lips before him : he bestrid An o'er-press'd Roman and i' the consul's view Slew three opposers: Tarquin 's self he met. And struck him on his knee : in that day's feats. When he might act the woman in the scene. He proved best man i' the field, and for his meed Was brow-bound with the oak. His pupil age Man-enter'd thus, he waxed like a sea. And in the brunt of seventeen battles since He lurch 'd all swords of the garland. For this last, Before and in Corioli, let me say, I cannot speak him home : he stopp'd the fliers ; And by his rare example made the coward Turn terror into sport : as weeds before A vessel under sail, so men obey'd And fell below his stem : his sword, death's stamp, Where it did mark, it took ; from face to foot He was a thing of blood, whose every motion Was timed with dying cries : alone he enter'd The mortal gate of the city, which he painted With shunless destiny ; aidless came off. And with a sudden re-inforcement struck Corioli like a planet : now all 's his : When, by and by, the din of war gan pierce His ready sense ; then straight his doubled spirit Re-quicken 'd what in flesh was fatigate. And to the battle came he ; where he did Run reeking o'er the lives of men, as if 'T were a perpetual spoil : and till we call'd Both field and city ours, he never stood To ease his breast with panting. Men. Worthy man ! First Sen. He cannot but with measure fit the Which we devise him. [honours Com. Our spoils he kick 'd at, And look'd upon things precious as they were The common muck of the world : he covets less Than misery itself would give ; rewards His deeds with doing them, and is content To spend the time to end it. Men. He 's right noble : Let him be call'd for. First Sen. Call Coriolanus. Off. He doth appear. He-enter Coriolanus. Men. The senate, Coriolanus, are well pleased To make thee consul. Cor. I do owe them still My life and services. Men. It then remains That you do speak to the people. Cor., I do beseech you. Let me o'erleap that custom, for I cannot Put on the gown, stand naked and entreat them. For my wounds' sake, to give their suffrage : please That I may pass this doing. [you Sic. Sir, the people Must have their voices ; neither will they bate One jot of ceremony. Men. Put them not to 't : Pray you, go fit you to the custom and Take to you, as your predecessors have. Your honour with your form. 545 ACT II. CORIOLANUS. SCENE III. Cor. It is a part That I shall kl'^sli m acting, and might well Be taken from the people. Bru. Mark you that ? Cor. To brag unto them, thus I did, and thus ; Show them the unaching scars which I should hide, As if I had received them for the hire 'Of their breath only I Men. Do not stand upon 't. We recommend to you, tribunes of the people. Our purpose to them : and to our noble consul Wish we all joy and honour. Senators. To Coriolanus come all joy and hon- our ! [Flourish of cornets. Exeunt all but Si- cinius and Brutus. Bru. You see how he intends to use the people. Sic. May they perceive 's intent I He will require As if he did contemn what he requested [them, Should be in them to give. Bru. Come, we '11 inform them Of our proceedings here : on the market-place, I know, they do attend us. [Exeunt. SCENE lU.—The same. The F(yrum. Enter seven or eight Citizens. First Cit. Once, if he do require our voices, we ought not to deny him. Sec. Cit. We may, sir, if we will. Third Cit. We have power in ourselves to do it, but it is a power that we have no power to do ; for if he show us his wounds and tell us his deeds, we are to put our tongues into those wounds and speak for them; so, if he tell us his noble deeds, we must also tell him our noble acceptance of them. In- gratitude is monstrous, and for the multitude to be ingrateful, were to make a monster of the multitude ; of the which we being members, should bring our- selves to be monstrous members. First Cit. And to make us no better thought of, a little help will serve ; for once we stood up about the corn, he himself stuck not to call us the many- headed multitude. Third Cit. We have been called so of many ; not that our heads are some brown, some black, some auburn, some bald, but that our wits are so diversely coloured : and truly I think if all our wits were to issue out of one skull, they would fly east, west, north, south, and their consent of one direct way should be at once to all the points o' the compass. Sec. Cit. Think you so ? Which way do you judge my wit would fly? Third Cit. Nay, your wit wUl not so soon out as another man's will ; 't is strongly wedged up in a block-head, but if it were at liberty, 't would, sure. Sec. Cit. Why that way ? [southward. Third Cit. To lose itself in a fog, where being three parts melted away with rotten dews, the fourth would return for conscience sake, to help to get thee a wife. Sec. Cit. You are never without your tricks : you may, you may. Third Cit. Are you all resolved to give your voices? But that's no matter, the greater part carries it. I say, if he would incline to the people, there was never a worthier man. Enter Coriolanus in a gown of humility, with Menenius. Kere he comes, and in the gown of humility : mark his behaviour. We are not to stay all together, but to come by him where he stands, by ones, by twos, and by threes. He 's to make his requests by par- ticulars ; wherein every one of us has a single hon- our, in giving him our own voices with our own tongues : therefore follow me, and I '11 direct you how you shall go by him. 546 All. Content, content. [Exeunt Citizens. Men. O sir, you are not right: have you not known The worthiest men have done 't ? Cor. What must I say ? ' I pray, sir,' — Plague upon 't ! I cannot bring My tongue to such a pace : — ' Look, sir, my wounds ! I got them in my country's service, when Some certain of your brethren roar'd and ran From the noise of our own di-ums.' Men. O me, the gods ! You must not speak of that : you must desire them To think upon you. Cor. Think upon me ! hang 'em I I would they would forget me, like the virtues Which our divines lose by 'em. Men. You '11 mar all : I '11 leave you: pray you, speak to 'em, I pray you. In wholesome manner. [Exit. Cor. Bid them wash their faces And keep their teeth clean. [Rer-enter two of the Citizens.'] So, here comes a brace. [Be-enter a third Citizen.] You know the cause, sir, of my standing here. Third Cit. We do, sir ; teU us what hath brought Cor. Mine own desert. [you to 't. Sec. Cit. Y-our own desert I Cor. Ay, but not mine own desire. Third Cit. How not your own desire ? Cor. No, sir, 't was never my desire yet to trouble the poor with begging. Third Cit. You must think, if we give you any thing, we hope to gain by you. [ship ? Cor. Well then, I pray, your price o' the consul- First Cit. The price is to ask it kindly. Cor. Kindly I Sir, I pray, let me ha 't : I have wounds to show you, which shall be yours in pri- vate. Your good voice, sir; what say you ? Sec. Cit. You shall ha 't, worthy sir. Cor. A match, sir. There 's in all two worthy voices begged. I have your alms : adieu. Third Cit. But this is something odd. Sec. Cit. An 'twere to give again, — but 'tis no matter. [Exeunt the three Citizens. Be-enter two other Citizens. Cor. Pray you now, if it may stand with the tune of your voices that I may be consul, I have here the customary gown. Fourth Cit. You have deserved nobly of your country, and you have not deserved nobly. Cor. Your enigma ? Fourth Cit. You have been a scourge to her ene- mies, you have been a rod to her friends; you have not indeed loved the common people. Cor. You should account me the more virtuous that I have not been common in my love. I will, sir, flatter my sworn brother, the people, to earn a dearer estimation of them; 'tis a condition they account gentle: and since the wisdom of their choice is rather to have my hat than my heart, I will practise the insinuating nod and be ofE to them most counterfeitly ; that is, sir, I will counterfeit the bewitchment of some popular man and give it bountiful to the desirers. Therefore, beseech you, I may be consul. Fifth Git. We hope to find you our friend; and therefore give you our voices heartily. Fourth Cit. You have received many wounds for your country. Cor. I wUl not seal your knowledge with show- ing them. I will make much of your voices, and so trouble you no further. Both Cit. The gods give you joy, sir, heartily ! [Exeunt. Cor. Most sweet voices ! Better it is to die, better to starve. Than crave the hire which first we do deserve. ACT II. CORIOLANUS. SCENE III. Why in this woolvish toge should I stand here, To beg of Hob and Dick, that do appear. Their needless vouches ? Custom calls me to 't : "What custom wills, in all things should we do 't, The dust on antique time would lie unswept. And mountainous error be too highly heapt Por truth to o'er-peer. Rather than fool it so, Let the high office and the honour go To one that would do thus. I am half through ; The one part suffer 'd, the other will I do. Re-enter three Citizens more. Here come moe voices. Your voices : for your voices I have fought ; Watch 'd for your voices ; for your voices bear Of wounds two dozen odd ; battles thrice six I have seen and heard of ; for your voices have Done many things, some less, some more: your Indeed, I would be consul. [voices : Sixth Cit. He has done nobly, and cannot go without any honest man's voice. Seventh Cit. Therefore let him be consul : the gods give him joy , and make him good friend to the people ! All Cit. Amen, amen. God save thee, noble consul ! [Exeunt. Cor. Worthy voices ! Be-enter Menenius, with Brutus and Sicinius. Men. You have stood your limitation ; and the tribunes Endue you with the people's voice : remains That, in the official marks invested, you Anon do meet the senate. Cor. Is this done ? Sic. The custom of request you have discharged : The people do admit you, and are summon 'd To meet anon, upon your approbation. Cor. Where ? at the senate-house ? Sic. There, Coriolanus. Cor. May I change these garments ? Sic. You may, sir. Cor. That I '11 straight do ; and, knowing myself Eepair to the senate-house. [again, Men. I '11 keep you company. Will you along ? Bru. We stay here for the people. Sic. Fare you well. [Exeunt Coriolanus and Menenius. He has it now, and by his looks methinks 'T is warm at 's heart. [weeds. Bru. With a proud heart he wore his humble Will you dismiss the people ? Re-enter Citizens. Sic. How now, my masters ! have you chose this First Cit. He has our voices, sir. [man ? Bru. We pray the gods he may deserve your loves. Sec. Cit. Amen, sir: to my poor unworthy notice. He mock'd us when he begg'd our voices. Third Cit. Certainly He flouted us downright. First Cit. No, 't is his kind of speech : he did not mock us. [says Sec. Cit. Not one amongst us, save yourself, but He used us scornfully : he should have show'd us His marks of merit, wounds received for 's country. Sic. Why, so he did, I am sure. Citizens. No, no ; no man saw 'em. Third Cit. He said he had wounds, which he could show in private ; And with his hat, thus waving it in scorn, ' I would be consul,' says he : '^aged custom. But by your voices, will not so permit me ; Your voices therefore.' When we granted that. Here was ' I thank you for your voices : thank you : Your most sweet voices : now you have left your voices, I have no further with you. ' Was not this mockery? Sic. Why either were you ignorant to see 't, Or, seeing it, of such childish friendliness To yield your voices ? Bru. Could you not have told him As you were lesson'd, when he had no power, But was a petty servant to the state, He was your enemy, ever spake against Your liberties and the charters that you bear I' the body of the weal ; and now, arriving A place of potency and sway o' the state. If he should still malignantly remain Fast foe to the plebeii, your voices might Be curses to yourselves ? You should have said That as his worthy deeds did claim no less Than what he stood for, so his gracious nature Would think upon you for your voices and Translate his malice towards you into love. Standing your friendly lord. Sic. Thus to have said, As you were fore-advised, had touch'd his spirit And tried his inclination ; from him pluck 'd Either his gracious promise, which you might. As cause had call'd you up, have held him to ; Or else it would have gall'd his surly nature. Which easily endures not article Tying him to aught ; so putting him to rage. You should have ta'en the advantage of his choler And pass'd him unelected. Bru. Did you perceive He did solicit you in free contempt When he did need your loves, and do you think That his contempt shall not be bruising to you. When he hath power to crush? Why, had your bodies No heart among you ? or had you tongues to cry Against the rectorship of judgment ? Sic. Have you Ere now denied the asker ? and now again Of him that did not ask, but mock, bestow Your sued-f or tongues ? Third Cit. He 's not confirm'd ; we may deny him Sec. Cit. And will deny him : [yet. I '11 have five hundred voices of that sound. First Cit. I twice five hundred and their friends to piece 'em. [friends, Bru. Get you hence instantly, and tell those They have chose a consul that will from them take Their liberties : make them of no more voice Than dogs that are as often beat for barking As therefore kept to do so. Sic. Let them assemble. And on a safer judgment all revoke Your ignorant election ; enforce his pride. And his old hate unto you ; besides, forget not With what contempt he wore the humble weed. How in his suit he scorn 'd you ; but your loves, Thinking upon his services, took from you The apprehension of his present portance. Which most gibingly, ungravely, he did fashion After the inveterate hate he bears you. Bru. Lay A fault on us, your tribunes ; that we labour'd, No impediment between, but that you must Cast your election on him. Sic. Say, you chose him More after our commandment than as guided By your own true affections, and that your minds,. Pre-occupied with what you rather must do Than what you should, made you against the grain To voice him consul : lay the fault on us. Bru. Ay, spare us not. Say we read lectures to you. How youngly he began to serve his country. How long continued, and what stock he springs of, The noble house o' the Marcians, from whence cam© That Ancus Marcius, Numa's daughter's son, Who, after great Hostilius, here was king ; 547 ACT III. CORIOLANUS. SCENE I. Of the same house Publius and Quintus were, That our best water brought by conduits hither ; And [Censorinus,] nobly named so, Twice being [by the people chosen] censor, Was his great ancestor. Sic. One thus descended, That hath beside well in his person wrought To be set high in place, we did commend To your remembrances : but you have found, Scaling his present bearing with his past. That he 's your fixed enemy, and revoke Your sudden approbation. Bru. Say, you ne'er had done 't — Harp on that still— but by oiir putting on: And presently, when you have drawn your number, Repair to the Capitol. All. "We will so : almost all Repent in their election. [Exeunt Citizens, Bru. Let them go on ; This mutiny were better put in hazard, Than stay, past doubt, for greater ; If, as his nature is, he fall in rage With their refusal, both observe and answer The vantage of his anger. Sic. To the Capitol, come. We will be there before the stream o' the people; And this shaU seem, as partly 'tis, their own. Which we have goaded onward. [Exeunt, ^CT III. SCENE I. — JBoTwe. A street. Cornets. Enter Coriolanus, Menenius, all the Gentry, Cominius, Titus Lartius, and other Senators. Cor. Tullus Aufidius then had made new head ? Lart. He had, my lord; and that it was which Our swifter composition. [caused Cor. So then the Yolsces stand but as at first, Ready when time shall prompt them, to make road Upon 's again. Com. They are worn, lord consul, so, That we shall hardly in our ages see Theii' banners wave again. Cor. Saw you Aufidius ? Lart. On safe-guard he came to me ; and did curse Against the Volsces, for they had so vilely Yielded the town : he is retired to Antium. Cor. Spoke he of me ? Lart. He did, my lord. Cor. How? what? Lart. How often he had met you, sword to sword ; That of all things upon the earth he hated Your person most, that he would pawn his fortunes To hopeless restitution, so he might Be call'd your vanquisher. Cor. At Antium lives he ? Lart. At Antium. Cor. I wish I had a cause to seek him there. To oppose his hatred fully. Welcome home. Enter Sicinius and Brutus. Behold , these are the tribunes of the people , [them ; The tongues o' the common mouth: I do despise For they do prank them in authority, Against all noble sufferance. Sic. Pass no further. Cor. Ha ! what is that ? Bru. It will be dangerous to go on : no further. Cor. What makes this change ? Men. The matter ? [mon ? Com. Hath he not pass'd the noble and the com- Bru. Cominius, no. Cor. Have I had children's voices ? First Sen. Tribunes, give way; he shall to the market-place. Brii. The people are incensed against him. Sic. Stop, Or all will fall in broil. Cor. Are these your herd ? Must these have voices, that can yield them now And straight disclaim their tongues? What are your offices ? [teeth ? You being their mouths, why rule you not their Have you not set them on ? Men. Be cahn, be calm. Cor. It is a purposed thing, and grows by plot, To curb the will of the nobility : 548 Suffer 't, and live with such as cannot rule Nor ever wHl be ruled. Bru. CaU 't not a plot : The people cry you mock'd them, and of late, When com was given them gratis, you repined ; Scandal'd the suppliants for the people, call'd them Time-pleasers, flatterers, foes to nobleness. Cor. Why, this was known before. Bru. Not to them all. Cor. Have you inform 'd them sithence ? Bru. How ! I inform them I Com. You are like to do such busmess. Bru. Not unlike, Each way, to better yours. [clouds, Cor. Why then should I be consul? By yond Let me deserve so ill as you, and make me Your fellow tribune. Sic. You show too much of that For which the people stir : if you will pass To where you are bound, you must inquireyour way, Which you are out of, with a gentler spirit, Or never be so noble as a consul. Nor yoke with him for tribune. Men. Let 's be calm. Com. The people are abused ; set on. This pal- Becomes not Rome, nor has Coriolanus [tering Deserved this so dishonour'd rub, laid falsely I' the plain way of his merit. Cor. Tell me of com ! This was my speech, and I will speak 't again — Men. Not now, not now. First Sen. Not in this heat, sir, now. Cor. Now, as I live, I will. My nobler friends, I crave their pardons : For the mutable, rank-scented many, let them Regard me as I do not flatter, and Therein behold themselves : I say again, In soothing them, we nourish 'gainst our senate The cockle of rebellion, insolence, sedition, Which we ourselves have plough 'd for, sow'd, and scatter 'd. By mingling them with us, the honour'd number, Who lack not virtue, no, nor power, but that Which they have given to beggars. Men. Well, no mora First Sen. No more words, we beseech you. Cor. How ! no more ! As for my country I have shed my blood, Not fearing outward force, so shall my lungs Coin words till their decay against those measles. Which we disdain should tetter us, yet sought The very way to catch them. Bru. You speak o' the people, As if you were a god to punish, not A man of their infirmity. Sic. 'T were well We let the people know 't. ,4.CT III. CORIOLANUS. SCENE I. Men. What, what ? his choler ? Cor. Choler! Were I as patient as the midnight sleep, By Jove, 't would be my mind! Sic. It is a mind That shall remain a poison where it is, Not poison any further. Cor. Shall remain ! Hear you this Triton of the minnows ? mark you His absolute ' shall ' ? Com. 'T was from the canon. Cor. 'Shall'! good but most unwise patricians ! why, You grave but reckless senators, have you thus Given Hydra here to choose an officer. That with his peremptory ' shall,' being but The horn and noise o' the monster's, wants not spirit To say he '11 turn your current in a ditch. And make your channel his ? If he have power. Then vail your ignorance ; if none, awake Your dangerous lenity. If you are learn'd, Be not as common fools ; if you are not. Let them have cushions by you. You are plebeians. If they be senators : and they are no less, -When, both your voices blended, the great 'st taste Most palates theirs. They choose their magistrate, And such a one as he, who puts his ' shall,' His popular ' shall,' against a graver bench Than ever frown 'd in Greece. By Jove himself I It makes the consuls base : and my soul aches To know, when two authorities are up, Neither supreme, how soon confusion May enter 'twixt the gap of both and take The one by the other. Com. Well, on to the market-place. Cor. Whoever gave that counsel, to give forth The corn o' the storehouse gratis, as 't was used Sometime in Greece, — Men. Well, well, no more of that. Cor. Though there the people had more absolute 1 say, they nourish'd disobedience, fed [power. The ruin of the state. Bru. Why, shall the people give One that speaks thus their voice ? Cor. I 'U give my reasons, More worthier than their voices. They know the corn Was not our recompense, resting well assured [war. That ne'er did service for't: being press'd to the Even when the navel of the state was touch 'd. They would not thread the gates. This kindof service Did not deserve corn gratis. Being i' the war, Their mutinies and revolts, wherein they show'd Most valour, spoke not for them : the accusation Which they have often made against the senate, AH cause unborn, could never be the motive Of our so frank donation. Well, what then ? How shall this bisson multitude digest The senate's courtesy ? Let deeds express Wiiat 's like to be their words : ' We did request it ; AYe are the greater poll, and in true fear They gave us our demands.' Thus we debase The nature of our seats and make the rabble Call our cares fears ; which will in time Break ope the locks o' the senate and bring in The crows to peck the eagles. Men. Come, enough. Bru. Enough, with over-measure. Cor. No, take more: What may be sworn by, both divine and human, Seal what I end withal ! This double worship. Where one part does disdain with cause, the other Insult without all reason, where gentry, title, wis- Cannot conclude but by the yea and no [dom, Of general ignorance,— it must omit Beal necessities, and give way the while [lows. To unstable slightness: purpose so barr'd, it fol- Nothing is done to purpose. Therefore, beseech You that will be less fearful than discreet, [you, — That love tlie fundamental part of state More than you doubt the change on 't, that prefer A noble life before a long, and wish To jump a body with a dangerous physic That 's sure of death without it, at once pluck out The multitudinous tongue ; let them not lick The sweet which is their poison : your dishonour Mangles true judgment and bereaves the state Of that integrity which should become 't, Not having the power to do the good it would. For the ill which doth control 't. Bru. Has said enough. Sic. Has spoken like a traitor, and shall answer As traitors do. Cor. Thou wretch, despite o'erwhelm thee ! What should the people do with these bald tribunes? On whom depending, their obedience fails To the greater bench : in a rebellion, When what 's not meet, but what must be, was law, Then were they chosen : in a better hour, Let what is meet be said it must be meet. And throw their power i' the dust. Bru. Manifest treason ! Sic. This a consul ? no. Bru. The sediles, ho ! Enter an .ffldile. Let him be apprehended. Sic. Go, call the people: [Exit ^dile] in whose name myself Attach thee as a traitorous innovator, A foe to the public weal : obey, I charge thee, And follow to thine answer. Cor. Hence, old goat ! Senators, &c. We '11 surety him. Com. Aged sir, hands off. Cor. Hence, rotten thing! or I shall shake thy Out of thy garments. [bones Sic. Help, ye citizens ! Miter a rabble of Citizens (Plebeians), with the .ffldiles. Men. On both sides more respect. Sic. Here 's he that would take from you all youri Bru. Seize him, sediles ! [power. ' Citizens. Down with him ! dovni with him ! Senators, &c. Weapons, weapons, weapons! [They all bustle about Coriolanus, crying ' Tribunes ! ' ' Patricians ! ' Citizens ! ' ' What, ho ! ' ' Sicinius ! ' ' Brutus ! ' ' Coriolanus ! ' ' Citizens ! ' ' Peace, peace, peace ! ' ' Stay, hold, peace ! ' Men. What is about to be ? I am out of breath ; Confusion 's near ; I cannot speak. You, tribunes To the people ! Coriolanus, patience ! Speak, good Sicinius. Sic. Hear me, people; peace ! Citizens. Let 's hear our tribune : peace ! Speak, speak, speak. Sic. You are at point to lose your liberties : Marcius would have all from you; Marcius, Whom late you have named for consul. Men. Fie, fie, fie ! This is the way to kindle, not to quench. First Sen. To unbuUd the city and to lay all flat. Sic. What is the city but the people ? Citizens. True, The people are the city. Bru. By the consent of all, we were establish'd The people's magistrates. Citizens. You so remain. Men. And so are like to do. Com.. That is the way to lay the city flat ; To bring the roof to the foundation. And bury aU, which yet distinctly ranges, In heaps and piles of ruin. Sic. This deserves death- 549 ACT III. CORIOLANUS. SCENE I. Bru. Or let us stand to our authority, Or let us lose it. We do here pronouiace, Upon the part o' the people, in whose power We were elected theirs, Marcius is worthy Of present death. Sic. Therefore lay hold of him ; Bear him to the rock Tarpeian, and from thence Into destruction cast him. Bru. uS^diles, seize him! Citizens. Yield, Marcius, yield ! Men. Hear me one word ; Beseech you, tribunes, hear me but a word. ^d. Peace, peace ! Men. [To Brutus\ Be that you seem, truly your country's friend. And temperately proceed to what you would Thus violently redress. Bru. Sir, those cold ways. That seem like prudent helps, are very poisonous Where the disease is violent. Lay hands upon him, And bear him to the rock. Cor. No, I '11 die here. [Drawing his sword. There 's some among you have beheld me fighting : Come, try upon yourselves what you have seen me. Men. Down with that sword! Tribunes, with- Bru. Lay hands upon him. [draw awhile. Com. Help Marcius^, help, You that be noble ; help him, young and old ! Citizens. Down with him, down with him ! [In this mutiny, the Tribunes, the JEdiles, and the People, are beat in. Men. Go, get you to your house; be gone, away ! All will be naught else. Sec. Sen. Get you gone. Com. Stand fast ; We have as many friends as enemies. Men. Shall it be put to that ? First Sen. The gods forbid I I prithee, noble friend, home to thy house ; Leave us to cure this cause. Men. For 't is a sore upon us, You cannot tent yourself: be gone, beseech you. Com. Come, sir, along with us. Cor. I would they were barbarians— as they are, Though in Rome litter 'd — not Romans — as they are not. Though calved i' the porch o' the Capitol — Men. Be gone ; Put not your worthy rage into your tongue ; One time will owe another. Cor. On fair groimd I could beat forty of them. Com. I could myself Take up a brace o' the best of them ; yea, the two But now 't is odds beyond arithmetic ; [tribunes : And manhood is call'd foolery, when it stands Against a falling fabric. WiU you hence. Before the tag return ? whose rage doth rend Like interrupted waters and o'erbear What they are used to bear. Men. Pray you, be gone : I '11 try whether my old wit be in request With those that have but little : this must be patch 'd With cloth of any colour. Com. Nay, come away. [Exeunt Goriolanus, Cominius, and others. A Patrician. This man has marr'd his fortune. Ifen. His nature is too noble for the world : He would not flatter Neptune for his trident. Or Jove for 's power to thunder. His heart 's his mouth : What his breast forges, that his tongue must vent; And, being angry, does forget that ever He heard the name of death. [A noise within. Here 's goodly work ! Sec. Pat. I would they were a-bed ! 550 Men. I would they were in Tiber! What the Could he not speak 'em fair ? [vengeance I Re-enter Brutus and Sicinius, with the rabble. Sic. Where is this viper That would depopulate the city and Be every man himself ? Men. You worthy tribunes,— Sic. He shall be thrown down the Tarpeian rock With rigorous hands : he hath resisted law, And therefore law shall scorn him further trial Than the severity of the public power Which he so sets at nought. First Cit. He shall well know The noble tribunes are the people's mouths. And we their hands. Citizens. He shall, sure on 't. Men. Sir, sir, — Sic. Peace! Men. Do not cry havoc, where you should but With modest warrant. [hunt Sic. Sir, how comes 't that you Have holp to make this rescue ? Men. Hear me speak : As I do know the consul's worthiness. So can I name his faults, — Sic. Consul ! what consul ? Men. The consul Coriolanus. Bru. He consul ! Citizens. No, no, no, no, no. Men. If, by the tribunes' leave, and yours, good people, I may be heard, I would crave a word or two ; The which shall turn you to no further harm Than so much loss of time. Sic. Speak briefly then ; For we are peremptory to dispatch This viperous traitor: to eject him hence Were but one danger, and to keep him here Our certain death : therefore it is decreed He dies to-night. Men. Now the good gods forbid That our renowned Rome, whose gratitude Towards her deserved children is enroU'd In Jove's own book, like an unnatural dam Should now eat up her own ! Sic. He 's a disease that must be cut away. Men. O, he 's a limb that has but a disease; Mortal, to cut it off; to cure it, easy. What has he done to Rome that 's worthy death ? Killing our enemies, the blood he hath lost — Which, I dare vouch, is more than that he hath, By many an ounce — he dropp'd it for his country; And what is left, to lose it by his country. Were to us all, that do 't and sufEer it, A brand to the end o' the world. Sic. This is clean kam. Bru. Merely awry : when he did love his coimtry, It honour'd him. Men. The service of the foot Being once gangrened, is not then respected For what before it w^as. Bru. We '11 hear no more. Pursue him to his house, and pluck him thence ; Lest his infection, being of catching nature. Spread further. Men. One word more, one word. This tiger-footed rage, when it shall flnd The harm of unscann'd swiftness, will too late Tie leaden pounds to 's heels. Proceed by process; Lest parties, as he is beloved, break out, And sack great Rome with Romans. Bru. If it were so,-- Sic. What do ye talk? Have we not had a taste of his obedience '? Our sediles smote ? ourselves resisted ? Come. Men. Consider this : he has been bred i' the wars ACT III. CORIOLANUS. SCENE II Since he could draw a sword, and is ill school'd In bolted language ; meal and bran together He throws without distinction. Give me leave, I '11 go to him, and undertake to bring him Where he shall answer, by a lawful form, In peace, to his utmost peril. First Sen. Noble tribunes, It is the humane way : the other com'se Will prove too bloody, and the end of it Unknown to the beginning. Sic. Noble Menenius, Be you then as the people's officer. Masters, lay down your weapons. Bru. Go not home. Sic. Meet on the market-place. We'll attend you there : Where, if you bring not Marcius,we '11 proceed In our first way. Men. I '11 bring him to you. [To the Senators] Let me desire your company: he must come, Or what is worst will follow. First Sen. Pray you, let 's to him. [Exeunt. SCENE II. — A room in Coriolanus''s house. Enter Coriolanus with Patricians. Cor. Let them pull all about mine ears, present Death on the wheel or at wild horses' heels, [me Or pile ten hills on the Tarpeian rock, That the precipitation might down stretch Below the beam of sight, yet will I still Be thus to them. A Patrician. You do the nobler. Cor. I muse my mother Does not approve me further, who was wont To call them woollen vassals, things created To buy and sell with groats, to show bare heads In congregations, to yawn, be still and wonder, When one but of my ordinance stood up To speak of peace or war. Enter Volumnia. I talk of you : Why did you wish me milder ? would you have me False to my nature ? Kather say I play The man I am. Vol. O, sir, sir, sir, I would have had you put your power well on. Before you had worn it out. Cor. Let go. Vol. You might have been enough the man you With striving less to be so: lesser had been [are, The thwartings of your dispositions, if You had not show'd them how ye were disposed Ere they lack'd power to cross you. Cor. Let them hang. A Patrician. Ay, and bum too. Ihiter Menenius and Senators. Men. Come, come, you have been too rough, something too rough : You must return and mend it. First Sen. There 's no remedy ; Unless, by not so doing, our good city Cleave in the midst, and perish. Vol. Pray, be coimsell'd : I have a heart as little apt as yours. But yet a brain that leads my use of anger To better vantage. Men. Well said, noble woman ! Before he should thus stoop to the herd, but that The violent fit o' the time craves it as physic For the whole state, I would put mine armour on, Which I can scarcely bear. Cor. What must I do? Men. Return to the tribunes. Cor . Well , what then ? what then ? Men. Repent what you have spoke. Cor. For them ! I cannot do it to the gods ; Must I then do 't to them ? Vol. You are too absolute ; Though therein you can never be too noble, But when extremities speak. I have heard you say, Honour and policy, like unsever'd friends, I' the war do grow together : grant that, and tell me, In peace what each of them by the other lose. That they combine not there. Cor. Tush, tush! Men. A good demand. Vol. If it be honour in your wars to seem The same you are not, which, for your best ends, You adopt your policy, how is it less or worse, That it shall hold companionship in peace With honourj as in war, since that to both It stands in like request ? Cor. Why force you this ? Vol. Because that now it lies you on to speak To the people ; not by your own instruction, Nor by the matter which your heart prompts you, But with such words that are but rooted in Your tongue, though but bastards and syllables Of no allowance to your bosom's truth. Now, this no more dishonours you at all Than to take in a town with gentle words, Which else would put you to your fortune and The hazard of much blood. I would dissemble with my nature where My fortunes and my friends at stake required I should do so in honour : I am in this. Your wife, your son, these senators, the nobles ; And you will rather show our general louts How you can frown than spend a fawn upon 'em, For the inheritance of their loves and safeguard Of what that want might ruin. Men. Noble lady I Come, go with us; speak fair: you may salve so, Not what is dangerous present, but the loss Of what is past. Vol. I prithee now, my son. Go to them, with this bonnet in thy hand ; And thus far having stretch 'd it — here be with them — Thy knee bussing the stones— for in such business Action is eloquence, and the eyes of the ignorant More learned than the ears — waving thy head. Which often, thus, correcting thy stout heart. Now humble as the ripest mulberry That will not hold the handling : or say to them, Thou art their soldier, and being bred in broils Hast not the soft way which, thou dost confess. Were fit for thee to use as they to claim. In asking their good loves, but thou wilt frame Thyself, forsooth, hereafter theirs, so far As thou hast power and person. Men. This but done, Even as she speaks, why, their hearts were yours; For they have pardons, being ask'd, as free As words to little purpose. Vol. Prithee now. Go, and be ruled : although I know thou hadst rather Follow thine enemy in a fiery gulf Than flatter him in a bower. Here is Cominius. Enter Cominius. Com. I have been i' the market-place ; and, sir, You make strong party, or defend yo urself ['t is fit By calmness or by absence : all 's in anger. Men. Only fair speech. Com. I think 't will serve, if he Can thereto frame his spirit. Vol. He must, and will. Prithee now, say you will, and go about it. 551 ACT III. CORIOLANUS. SCENE III. Cor. Must I go show tbem my unbarbed sconce ? Must I with base tongue give my noble heart A lie that it must bear ? "Well, I will do 't : Yet, were there but this single plot to lose. This mould of Marcius, they to dust should grind it And throw 't against the wind. To the market- place ! You have put me now to such a part which never I shall discharge to the life. Com. Come, come, we '11 prompt you. Vol. I prithee now, sweet son, as thou hast said My praises made thee first a soldier, so, To have my praise for this, perform a part Thou hast not done before. Cor. Well, I must do 't : Away, my disposition, and possess me Some harlot's spirit ! my throat of war be turn'd. Which quired with my drum, into a pipe Small as an eunuch, or the virgin voice That babies lulls asleep ! the smiles of knaves Tent in my cheeks, and schoolboy's tears take up The glasses of my sight ! a beggar's tongue Make motion through my lips, and my arm'd knees, Who bow'd but in my stirrup, bend like his That hath received an alms ! I will not do 't, Lest I surcease to honour mine own truth And by my body's action teach my mind A most inherent baseness. Vol. At thy choice, then : To beg of thee, it is mv more dishonour Than thou of them. Come all to ruin; let Thy mother rather feel thy pride than fear Thy dangerous stoutness, for I mock at death With as big heart as thou. Do as thou list. Thy valiantness was mine, thou suck'dst it from me, But owe thy pride thyself. Cor. Pray, be content : Mother, I am going to the market-place ; Chide me no more. I'll mountebank their loves, Cog their hearts from them, and come home beloved Of all the trades in Rome. Look, I am going : Commend me to my wife. I '11 return consul ; Or never trust to what my tongue can do I' the way of flattery further. Vol. Do your will. [JExit. Com. Away! the tribunes do attend you: arm To answer mildly ; for they are prepared [yourself With accusations, as I hear, more strong Than are upon you yet. Cor. The word is ' mildly.' Pray you, let us go : Let them accuse me by invention, I Will answer in mine honour. Men. Ay, but mildly. Cor. Well, mildly be it then. Mildly ! [Exeunt. SCENE III. — The same. The Forum. Enter Sicinius and Brutus. Bru. In this point charge him home, that he affects Tyrannical power : if he evade us there, Enforce him with his envy to the people. And that the spoil got on the Antiates Was ne'er distributed. Miter an JEdile. What, will he come ? ^d. He 's coming. Bru. How accompanied ? ^d. With old Menenius, and those senators That always favour'd him. Sic. Have you a catalogue Of all the voices that we have procured Set down by the poll ? j^d. I have ; 't is ready. Sic. Have you collected them by tribes ? ^d. I have. Sic. Assemble presently the people hither ; 552 And when they hear me say ' It shall be so I' the right and strength o' the commons,' be it either For death, for fine, or banishment, then let them, If I say fine, cry ' Pine ; ' if death, cry ' Death.' Insisting on the old prerogative And power i' the truth o' the cause. ^d. 1 shall inform them. Bru. And when such time they have begun to cry, Let them not cease, but with a din confused Enforce the present execution Of what we chance to sentence. ^d. Very well. Sic. Make them be strong and ready for this hint, When we shall hap to give 't them. Bru. Go about it. [Exit Mdile. Put him to choler straight : he hath been used Ever to conquer, and to have his worth Of contradiction: being once chafed, he cannot Be rein'd again to temperance ; then he speaks What 's in his heart ; and that is there which looks With us to break his neck. Sic. Well, here he comes. Enter Ooriolanus, Menenius, and Oominius, with Senators and Patricians. Men. Calmly, I do beseech you. Cor. Ay, as an ostler, that for the poorest piece Will bear the knave by the volume. The honour'd gods Keep Eome in safety, and the chairs of justice Supplied with worthy men ! plant love among 's I Throng our large temples with the shows of peace. And not our streets with war ! First Sen. Amen, amen. Men. A noble wish. Re-enter .aSdile, with Citizens. Sic. Draw near, ye people. P say ! JEd. List to your tribunes. Audience! peace, Cor. First, hear me speak. Both Tri. Well, say. Peace, ho I Cor. Shall I be charged no further than this Must all determine here r [present f Sic. I do demand. If you submit you to the people's voices. Allow their officers and are content To suffer lawful censure for such faults As shall be proved upon you ? Cor. I am content. Men. Lo, citizens, he says he is content : The warlike service he has done, consider; think Upon the wounds his body bears, which show Like graves i' the holy churchyard. Cor. Scratches with briers, Scars to move laughter only. Men. Consider further, That when he speaks not like a citizen. You find him like a soldier : do not take His rougher accents for malicious sounds, But, as I say, such as become a soldier. Bather than envy you. Com. Well, well, no more. Cor. What is the matter That being pass'd for consul with full voice, I am so dishonour 'd that the very hour You take it off again ? Sic. Answer to us. Cor. Say, then: 't is true, I ought so. [take Sic. We charge you, that you have contrived to From Eome all season'd office and to wind Yourself into a power tyrannical ; For which you are a traitor to the people. Cor. How! traitor! Men. Nay, temperately; your promise. Cor. The fires i' the lowest hell fold-in the people I Call me their traitor ! Thou injurious tribune ! ACT IV. CORIOLANUS. SCENE I, Witbin thine eyes sat twenty thousand deaths, In thy hands clutch 'd as many millions, in Thy lying tongue both numbers, I would say * Thou liest ' unto thee with a voice as free As I do pray the gods. Sic. Mark you this, people ? Citizens. To the rock, to the rock with him ! Sic. Peace ! We need not put new matter to his charge : What you have seen him do and heard him speak, Beating your officers, cursing yourselves. Opposing laws with strokes and here defying Those whose great power must try him; even this, So criminal and in such capital kind, Deserves the extremest death. Bru. But since he hath Served well for Eome, — Cm-. What do you prate of service ? Bru. I talk of that, that know it. Cor. You? Me^i- Is this the promise that you made your Com. Know, I pray you, — [mother ? Cor. I '11 know no further : Let them pronounce the steep Tarpeian death, Yagabond exile, flaying, pent to linger But with a grain a day, I would not buy Their mercy at the price of one fair word ; Nor check my courage for what they can give, To have 't with saying ' Good morrow.' Sic. Tor that he has. As much as in him lies, from time to time Envied against the people, seeking means To pluck away their power, as now at last Given hostile strokes, and that not in the presence Of dreaded justice, but on the ministers That do distribute it; in the name o' the people And in the power of us the tribunes, we, Even from this instant, banish him our city. In peril of precipitation From off the rock Tarpeian never more To enter our Rome gates: i' the people's name, I say it shall be so. Citizens. It shall be so, it shall be so ; let him away : He 's banish 'd, and it shall be so. Com. Hear me, my masters, and my common friends, — Sic. He 's sentenced ; no more hearing. Com. Let me speak : I have been consul, and can show for Rome Her enemies' marks upon me. I do love My country's good with a respect more tender, More holy and profound, than mine own life. My dear wife's estimate, her womb's increase. And treasure of my loins ; then if I would Speak that, — Sic. We know your drift : speak what ? Bru. There 's no more to be said, but he is ban- As enemy to the people and his country: [ish'd. It shall be so. Citizens. It shall be so, it shall be so. [hate Cor. You common cry of curs ! whose breath I As reek o' the rotten fens, whose loves I prize As the dead carcasses of unburied men That do corrupt my air, I banish you ; And here remain with your uncertainty ! Let every feeble rumour shake your hearts ! Your enemies, with nodding of their plumes, Fan you into despair ! Have the power still To banish your defenders ; till at length Your ignorance, which finds not till it feels, Making not reservation of yourselves. Still your own foes, deliver you as most Abated captives to some nation That won you without blows ! Despising, For you, the city, thus I turn my back : There is a world elsewhere. [Exeunt Coriolanus, Cominius, Menenius, Senators, and Patricians. ^d. The people's enemy is gone, is gone ! Citizens. Our enemy is banish'd ! he is gone ! Hoo ! hoo ! [Shouting, and throwing up their caps. Sic. Go, see him out at gates, and follow him, As he hath follow 'd you, with all despite ; Give him deserved vexation. Let a guard Attend us through the city. [come. Citizens. Come, come ; let 's see him out at gates ; The gods preserve our noble tribunes ! Come. [Exeunt. A.CT I^. SCENE I. — Borne. Before a gate of the city. Enter Coriolanus, Volumnia, Virgilia, Mene- nius, Cominius, with the young Nobility of Borne. Cor. Come, leave your tears : a brief farewell : the beast With many heads butts me away. Nay, mother. Where is your ancient courage ? you were used To say extremity was the trier of spirits ; That common chances common men could bear ; That when the sea was calm all boats alike Show'd mastership in floating; fortune's blows, When most struck home, being gentle wounded, craves A noble cunning : you were used to load me With precepts that would make invincible The heart that conn'd them. Vir. O heavens ! O heavens ! Cor. Nay, I prithee, woman,— Vol. Now the red pestilence strike all trades in And occupations perish ! [Rome, Cor. What, what, what ! I shall be loved when I am lack'd. Nay, mother. Resume that spirit, when you were wont to say, If you had been the wife of Hercules, Six of his labours you 'Id have done, and saved Your husband so much sweat. Cominius, Droop not ; adieu. Farewell, my wife, my mother : I '11 do well yet. Thou old and true Menenius, Thy tears are salter than a younger man's, And venomous to thine eyes. My sometime general, I have seen thee stern, and thou hast oft beheld Heart-hardening spectacles ; tell these sad women 'T is fond to wail inevitable strokes. As 'tis to laugh at 'em. My mother, you wot wel/ My hazards still have been your solace : and Believe 't not lightly— though I go alone. Like to a lonely dragon, that his fen Makes fear 'd and talk 'd of more than seen — your Will or exceed the common or be caught [son With cautelous baits and practice. Vol. My first son, Whither wilt thou go ? Take good Cominius With thee awhile : determine on some course, More than a wild exposture to each chance That starts i' the way before thee. Cor. O the gods ! Com. 1 '11 follow thee a month, devise with thee Where thou shalt rest, that thou mayst hear of us And we of thee : so if the time thrust forth A cause for thy repeal, we shall not send O'er the vast world to seek a single man, And lose advantage, which doth ever cool I' the absence of the needer. Cor. Fare ye well : Thou hast years upon thee ; and thou art too full 553 ACT IV. CORIOLANUS. SCENE III. Of the wars' surfeits, to go rove with one That 's yet unbruised : bring me but out at gate. Come, my sweet wife, my dearest mother, and My friends of noble toucli, when I am forth. Bid me farewell, and smile. I pray you, come. While I remain above the ground, you shall Hear from me still, and never of me aught But what is like me formerly. Men. That 's worthily As any ear can hear. Come, let 's not weep. If I could shake off but one seven years From these old arms and legs, by the good gods, I 'Id with thee every foot. Cor. Give me thy hand : Come. [Exeunt. SCENE n. — The same. A street near the gate. Enter Sicinius, Brutus, and an ^dile. Sic. Bid them all home ; he 's gone, and we '11 no further. The nobility are vex'd, whom we see have sided In his behalf. Bru. Now we have shown our power, Let us seem humbler after it is done Than when it was a-doing. Sic. Bid them home : Say their great enemy is gone, and they Stand in their ancient strength. Bru. Dismiss them home. [Exit Mdile. Here comes his mother. Sic. Let 's not meet her. Bru. Why? Sic. They say she 's mad. [way. Bru. They have ta'en note of us : keep on your Enter Volumnia, Virgilia, and Menenius. Vol. O, ye 're well met : the hoarded plague o' the Eequite your love ! [gods Men. Peace, peace ; be not so loud. Vol.lt that I could for weeping, you should hear ,— Kay, and you shall hear some. [To Brutus] Will you be gone ? Vir. [To Sicinius] You shall stay too : I would I had the power To say so to my husband. Sic. Are you mankind ? Vol. Ay, fool; is that a shame ? Note but this fool. Was not a man my father ? Hadst thou f oxship To banish him that struck more blows for Kome Than thou hast spoken words ? Sic. O blessed heavens ! Vol. More noble blows than ever thou wise words ; And for Rome's good. I '11 tell thee what ; yet go : Nay, but thou shalt stay too : I would my son Were in Arabia, and thy tribe before him, His good sword in his hand. Sic. What then? Vir. What then I He 'Id make an end of thy posterity. Vol. Bastards and all. Good man, the wounds that he does bear for Rome ! Men. Come, come, peace. Sic. I would he had continued to his country As he began, and not unknit himself The noble knot he made. Bru. I would he had. Vol. ' I would he had ' ! 'T was you incensed the rabble : Cats, that can judge as fitly of his worth As I can of those mysteries which heaven Will not have earth to know. Bru. Pray, let us go. Vol. Now, pray, sir, get you gone : [this : — You have done a brave deed. Ere you go, hear As far as doth the Capitol exceed The meanest house in Rome, so far my son — 554 This lady's husband here, this, do you see — Whom you have banish 'd, does exceed you all. Bru. WeU, well, we 'U leave you. Sic. Why stay we to be baited With one that wants her wits ? Vol. Take my prayers with you. [Exeunt Tribunes. I would the gods had nothing else to do But to confirm my curses ! Could I meet 'em But once a-day, it would unclog my heart Of what lies heavy to 't. Men. You have told them home ; And, by my troth, you have cause. You'll sup with me? Vol. Anger 's my meat ; I sup upon myself, And so shall starve with feeding. Come, let 's go : Leave this faint puling and lament as I do. In anger, Juno-like. Come, come, come. Men. Pie, fie, fie ! [Exeunt. SCENE ni. — A highway between Borne and Antium. Enter a Roman and a Volsce, meeting. Bom. I know you well, sir, and you know me : your namej I think, is Adrian. Vols. It IS so, sir : truly, I have forgot you. Bom. I am a Roman ; and my services are, as you are, against 'em : know you me yet ? Vols. Nicanor? no. Bom. The same, sir. Vols. You had more beard when I last saw you ; but your favour is well approved by your tongue. What 's the news in Rome ? I have a note from the Volscian state, to find you out there : you have well saved me a day's journey. Bora. There hath been in Rome strange insur- rections; the people against the senators, patri- cians, and nobles. Vols. Hath been ! is it ended, then ? Our state thinks not so : they are in a most warlike prepara- tion, and hope to come upon them in the heat of their division. Bom. The main blaze of it is past, but a small thing would make it flame again: for the nobles receive so to heart the banishment of that worthy Coriolanus, that they are in a ripe aptness to take all power from the people and to pluck from them their tribunes for ever. This lies glowing, I can tell you, and is almost mature for the violent break- ing out. Vols. Coriolanus banished ! Bom. Banished, sir. [Nicanor. Vols. You will be welcome with this intelligence, Bom. The day serves well for them now. I have heard it said, the fittest time to corrupt a man's wife is when she 's fallen out with her husband. Your noble Tullus Aufidius will appear well in these wars, his great opposer, Coriolanus, being now in no request of his country. Vols. He cannot choose. I am most fortunate, thus accidentally to encounter you : you have ended my business, and I will merrily accompany you home. Bom. I shall, between this and supper, tell you most strange things from Rome ; all tending to the good of their adversaries. Have you an army ready, say you ? Vols. A most royal one ; the centurions and their charges, distinctly billeted, already in the enter- tainment, and to be on foot at an hour's warning. Bom. I am joyful to hear of their readiness, and am the man, I think, that shall set them in present action. So, sir, heartUy well met, and most glad of your company. Vols. You take my part from me, sir; I have the most cause to be glad of yours. Bom. WeU, let us go together. [Exeunt. CORIOLANUS. SCENE V. SCENE IV. — Antium. Before Aufidius''s house. Miter Coriolanus in mean apparel, disguised and muffled. Cor. A goodly city is this Antiuxru City, 'T is I that made thy widows : many an heir Of these fair edifices 'fore my wars Have I heard groan and drop : then know me not, Lest that thy wives with spits and boys with stones In prmy battle slay me. JEhiter a Citizen. Save you, sir. Cit. And you. Cor. Direct me, if it be your will, Where great Aufidius lies : is he in Antium ? Cit. He is, and feasts the nobles of the state At his house this night. Cor. "Which is his house, beseech you ? Cit. This, here before you. Cor. Thank you, sir : farewell. [Exit Citizen. world,thy slippery turns ! Friends now fast sworn, Whose double bosoms seem to wear one heart, Whose house, whose bed, whose meal, and exercise, Are still together, who twin, as 't were, in love "[Inseparable, shall within this hour, On a dissension of a doit, break out To bitterest enmity : so, f ellest foes, Whose passions and whose plots have broke their To take the one the other, by some chance, [sleep Some trick not worth an egg, shall grow dear And interjoin their issues. So with me : [friends My birth-place hate I, and my love 's upon This enemy town. I '11 enter : if he slay me, He does fair justice; if he give me way, 1 '11 do his country service. [Exit. SCENE V. — The same. A hall in Aufidius^ s house. Music within. Enter a Servingman. First Serv. Wine, wine, vrine ! What service is here ! I think our rellows are asleep. [Exit. Enter a second Servingnnan. Sec. Serv. Where 's Cotus ? my master calls for him. Cotus! „ ^ . [Exit. Enter Coriolanus. Cor. A goodly house: the feast smells well; Appear not like a guest. [But I He-enter the first Servingrman, First Serv. What would you have, friend ? whence are you ? Here 's no place for you : pray, go to the door. [Exit. Cor. I have deserved no better entertainment, In "being Coriolanus. He-enter second Servingman, Sec. Serv. "WTience are you, sir ? Has the porter his eyes in his head, that he gives entrance to such companions ? Pray, get you out. Cor. Away! Sec. Serv. Away ! get you away. Cor. Now thou 'rt troublesome. Sec. Serv. Are you so brave ? I '11 have you talked with anon. Enter a third Servingman. The first meets him. Tliird Serv. What fellow 's this ? First Serv. A strange one as ever I looked on : I cannot get him out o' the house : prithee, call my master to him. [Betires. Third Serv. What have you to do here, fellow? Pray you, avoid the house. [hearth. Cor. Let me but stand; I will not hurt your Third Serv. What are you ? Cor. A gentleman. Third Serv. A marvellous poor one. Cor. True, so I am. Third Serv. Pray you, poor gentleman, take up some other station ; here 's no place for you ; pray you, avoid : come. Cor. Follow your function, go, and batten on cold bits. [Pushes him away. Third Serv. What, you will not ? Prithee, tell my master what a strange guest he has here. Sec. Serv. And I shall. [Exit. TJiird Serv. Where dwellest thou? Cor. "Under the canopy. Third Serv. Under the canopy ! Cor. Ay. Third Serv. Where 's that ? Cor. V the city of kites and crows. Third Serv. I' the city of kites and crows ! What an ass it is ! Then thou dwellest with daws too ? Cor. No, I serve not thy master. [master ? Third Serv. How, sir! do you meddle with my Cor. Ay ; 't is an honester service than to meddle with thy mistress. [hence ! Thou pratest, and pratest ; serve with thy trencher, him away. Exit third Servingman. Enter Aufidius with the second Servingman. Auf. Where is this fellow ? Sec. Serv. Here, sir : I 'Id have beaten him like a dog, but for disturbing the lords within. [Betires. Auf. Whence comest thou ? what wouldst thou ? thy name ? Why speak 'st not ? speak, man : what 's thy name ? Cor. If, TuUus, [Unnmffling. Not yet thou knowest me, and, seeing me, dost not Think me for the man I am, necessity Commands me name myself. Auf. What is thy name ? Cor. A name unmusical to the Yolscians' ears, And harsh in sound to thine. Auf. Say, what 's thy name ? Thou hast a grim appearance, and thy face Bears a command in 't ; though thy tackle 's torn, Thou show'st a noble vessel : what 's thy name ? Cor. Prepare thy brow to frown : know'st thou Auf. 1 know thee not : thy name ? [me yet ? Cor. My name is Caius Marcius, who hath done To thee particularly and to all the Volsces Great hurt and mischief ; thereto witness may My surname, Coriolanus : the painful service, The extreme dangers and the drops of blood Shed for my thankless country are requited But with that surname ; a good memory. And witness of the malice and displeasure Which thou shouldst bear me : only that name re- The cruelty and envy of the people, [mains: Permitted by our dastard nobles, who Have all forsook me, hath devour'd the rest ; And suffer'd me by the voice of slaves to be Whoop'd out of Eome. Now this extremity Hath brought me to thy hearth ; not out of hope — Mistake me not — to save my life, for if I had fear'd death, of aU the men i' the world I would have 'voided thee, but in mere spite. To be full quit of those my banishers. Stand I before thee here. Then if thou hast A heart of wreak in thee, that wilt revenge Thine own particular wrongs and stop those maims Of shame seen through thy country, speed thee straight. And make my misery serve thy turn : so use it That my revengeful services may prove As benefits to thee, for I will fight Against my canker'd country with the spleen Of all the under fiends. But if so be Thou darest not this and that to prove more fortunes Thou 'rt tired, then, in a word, I also am 555 ACT IV. CORIOLANUS. SCEjSE v. Longer to live most weary, and present My throat to thee and to thy ancient malice ; Which not to cut would show thee but a fool, Since I have ever foUow'd thee with hate, Drawn tuns of blood out of thy country's breast, And cannot live but to thy shame, unless It be to do thee service. Auf. O Marcius, Marcius ! Each word thou hast spoke hath weeded from my A root of ancient envy. If Jupiter [heart Should from yond cloud speak divine things. And say ' 'T is true,' I 'Id not believe them more Than thee, all noble Marcius. Let me twine Mine arms about that body, where against My grained ash an hundred times hath broke. And scarr'd the moon with splinters : here I clip The anvil of my sword, and do contest As hotly and as nobly with thy love As ever in ambitious strength I did Contend against thy valour. Know thou first, I loved the maid I married ; never man Sigh'd truer breath ; but that I see thee here. Thou noble thing ! more dances my rapt heart Than when I first my wedded mistress saw Bestride my threshold. Why, thou Mars ! I tell thee, We have a power on foot ; and I had purpose Once more to hew thy target from thy brawn. Or lose mine arm for 't : thou hast beat me out Twelve several times, and I have nightly since Dreamt of encounters 'twixt thyself and me ; We have been down together in my sleep, Unbuckling helms, fisting each other's throat. And waked half dead with nothing. Worthy Mar- Had we no quarrel else to Eome, but that [cius, Thou art thence banish'd, we would muster all From twelve to seventy, and pouring war Into the bowels of ungrateful Kome, Like a bold flood o'er-bear. O, come, go in. And take our friendly senators by the hands ; Who now are here, taking their leaves of me, Who am prepared against your territories, Though not for Kome itself. Cor. You bless me, gods ! Auf. Therefore, most absolute sir, if thou wilt The leading of thine own revenges, take [have The one half of my commission ; and set down — As best thou art experienced, since thou know'st Thy country's strength and weakness,— thine own ways; Whether to knock against the gates of Eome, Or rudely visit them in parts remote. To fright them, ere destroy. But come in : Let me commend thee first to those that shall Say yea to tliy desires. A thousand welcomes ! And more a friend than e'er an enemy; Yet, Marcius, that was much. Your hand : most welcome ! {Exeunt Coriolanus and Aufidius. Tlie two Servingmen cotne forward. First Serv. Here 's a strange alteration ! Sec. Serv. By my hand, I had thought to have strucken him with a cudgel ; and yet my mind gave me his clothes made a false report of him. First Serv. What an arm he has ! he turned me about with his finger and his thumb, as one would set up a top. Sec. Serv. N'ay, I knew by his face that there was something in him : he had, sir, a kind of face, me- thought, — I cannot tell how to term it. First Serv. He had so ; looking as it were — would I were hanged, but I thought there was more in him than I could think. Sec. Serv. So did I, I '11 be sworn : he is simply the rarest man i' the world. First Serv. I think he is: but a greater soldier than he you wot on. Sec. Serv. Who, my master? 556 First Serv. Nay, it 's no matter for that. Sec. Serv. Worth six on him. First Serv. Nay, not so neither : but I take him to be the greater soldier. iSec. Serv. Faith, look you, one cannot tell how- to say that : for the defence of a town, our general is excellent. First Serv. Ay, and for an assault too. Re-enter third Servingman. Third Serv. O slaves, I can tell you news, — news, you rascals ! [take. First and Sec. Serv. What, what, what ? let 's par- Third Serv. I would not be a Eoman, of all na- tions ; I had as lieve be a condemned man. First and Sec. Serv. Wherefore ? wherefore ? Third Serv. Why, here 's he that was wont to thwack our general, Caius Marcius. First Serv. Why do you say 'thwack our general ' ? Tliird Serv. I do not say 'thwack our general;' but he was always good enough for him. Sec. Serv. Come, we are fellows and friends : he was ever too hard for him ; I have heard him say so himself. First Serv. He was too hard for him directly, to say the troth on 't : before Corioli he scotched him and notched him like a carbonado. Sec. Serv. An he had been cannibally given, he might have broiled and eaten him too. First Serv. But, more of thy news ? Third Serv. Why, he is so made on here within, as if he were son and heir to Mars ; set at upper end o' the table; no question asked him by any of the senators, but they stand bald before him : our gen- eral himself makes a mistress of him; sanctifies himself with 's hand and turns up the white o' the eye to his discourse. But the bottom of the news is, our general is cut i' the middle and but one half of what he was yesterday ; for the other has half, by the entreaty and grant pf the whole table. He '11 go, he says, and sowl the porter of Eome gates by the ears: he will mow all down before htm, and leave his passage polled. Sec. Serv. And he 's as like to do 't as any man I can imagine. Third Serv. Do 't ! he will do 't ; for, look you, sir, he has as many friends as enemies; which friends, sir, as it were, durst not, look you, sir, show themselves, as we term it, his friends whilst he 's in directitude. First Serv. Directitude ! what 's that ? Third Serv. But when they shall see, sir, his crest up again, and the man in blood, they will out of their burrows, like conies after rain, and revel all with him. First Serv. But when goes this forward ? Third Serv. To-morrow; to-day; presently; you shall have the drum struck up this afternoon : 't is, as it were, a parcel of their feast, and to be executed ere they wipe their lips. Sec. Serv. Why, then we shaU have a stirring world again. This peace is nothing, but to rust iron, increase tailors, and breed baUad-makers. First Serv. Let me have war, say I ; it exceeds peace as far as day does night ; it 's spritely, waking, audible, and full of vent. Peace is a very apoplexy, lethargy; mulled, deaf, sleepy, insensible; a getter of more bastard children than war 's a destroyer of men. *Sec. Serv. 'T is so : and as war, in some sort, may be said to be a ravisher, so it cannot be denied but peace is a great maker of cuckolds. First Serv. Ay, and it makes men hate one another. Third Serv. Eeason ; because they then less need one another. The wars for my money. I hope to see Eomans as cheap as Yolscians. They are rising, they are rising. All. In, in, in, in I [Exeunt. ACT IV. CORIOLANUS. SCENE VI. SCENE VI. — Borne, A public place. Enter Sicinius and Brutus. Sic. We hear not of him, neither need we fear him ; His remedies are tame i' the present peace And quietness of the people, which before Were in wild hiu-ry. Here do we make his friends Blush that the world goes well, who rather had, Though they themselves did suffer by 't, behold Dissentious numbers pestering streets than see Our tradesmen singing in their shops and going About their functions friendly. Bru. We stood to 't in good time. [Enter Mene- nius.] Is this Menenius Y Sic. 'T is he, 't is he : O, he is grown most kind of Both Tri. Hail, sir ! [late. Me7i. Hail to you both ! Sic. Your Coriolanus Is not much miss'd, but with his friends : The commonwealth doth stand, and so would do, Were he more angry at it. Hen. All 's well ; and might have been much bet- He could have temporized. [ter, if Sic. Where is he, hear you ? Men. Kay, I hear nothing: his mother and his Hear nothing from him. [wife Enter three or four Citizens. Citizens. The gods preserve you both ! Sic. God-den, our neighbours. Bru. God-den to you all, god-den to you all. First Cit. Ourselves, our wives and children, on Are bound to pray for you both. [our kneeSj Sic. Live, and thrive ! Bru. Farewell, kind neighbours: we wish'd Co- Had loved you as we did. [riolanus Citizens. Now the gods keep you ! Both Tri. Farewell, farewell. [Exeunt Citizens. Sic. This is a happier and more comely time Than when these fellows ran about the streets, Crying confusion. Bru. Caius Marcius was A worthy officer i' the war; but insolent, O'ercome with pride, ambitious past all thinking, Sel£-loving,— Sic. And affecting one sole throne, Without assistance. Men. I think not so. Sic. We should by this, to all our lamentation, If he had gone forth consul, found it so. Bru. The gods have well prevented it, and Kome Sits safe and still without him. Enter an .^dile. ^d. Worthy tribunes, There is a slave, whom we have put in prison, Beports, the Volsces with two several powers Are enter'd in the Boman territories. And with the deepest malice of the war Destroy what lies before 'em. Men. 'T is Aufidius, Who, hearing of our Marcius' banishment, Thrusts forth his horns again into the world ; Which were insheU'd when Marcius stood for Kome, And durst not once peep out. Sic. Come, what talk you Of Marcius ? Bru. Go see this rumourer whipped. It The Volsces dare break with us. [cannot be Men. Cannot be ! We have record that very well it can, And three examples of the like have been Within my age. But reason with the fellow, Before you punish him, where he heard this, Lest you shall chance to whip your information And beat the messenger who bids beware Of what is to be dreaded. Tell not me : Not possible. Sic. 1 know this cannot be. Bru. Enter a Messenger. Mess. The nobles in great earnestness are going All to the senate-house : some news is come That turns their countenances. Sic. 'T is this slave ; — Go whip him 'fore the people's eyes : — his raising ; Nothing but his report. Mess. Yes, worthy sir. The slave's report is seconded ; and more, More fearful, is deliver'd. Sic. What more fearful ? Mess. It is spoke freely out of many mouths — How probable I do not know —that Marcius, Join'd with Aufidius, leads a power 'gainst Rome, And vows revenge as spacious as between The young'st and oldest thing. Sic. This is most likely ! Bru. Raised only, that the weaker sort may wish Good Marcius home again. Sic. The very trick on 't. Men. This is unlikely: He and Aufidius can no more atone Than violentest contrariety. Enter a second Messenger. Sec. Mess. You are sent for to the senate : A fearful army, led by Caius Marcius Associated with Aufidius, rages Upon our territories ; and have already O'erborne their way, consumed with fire, and took What lay before them. Enter Cominius. Com. O, you have made good work ! Men. What news ? what news ? Com. You have holp to ravish your own daugh- To melt the city leads upon your pates, [ters and To see your wives dishonoured to your noses, — Men. What 's the news ? what 's the news i' Com. Your temples burned in their cement, and Your franchises, whereon you stood, confined Into an auger's bore. Men. Pray now, your news ? You have made fair work, I fear me. — Pray, your news ? — If Marcius should be joined with Volscians, — Com. If! He is their god : he leads them like a thing Made by some other deity than nature, That shapes man better ; and they follow him, Against us brats, with no less confidence Than boys pursuing summer butterflies. Or butchers killing flies. Men. You have made good work, You and your apron-men ; you that stood so much Upon the voice of occupation and The breath of garlic-eaters ! Com. Your Rome about your ears. Men. Did shake down mellow fruit. Bru. But is this true, sir ? Com. A5 Before you find it other. Al Do smilingly revolt ; and who resist Are mock'd for valiant ignorance, piim ? And perish constant fools. Who is 't can blame Your enemies and his find something in him. Men. We are all undone, unless The noble man have mercy. Com. Who shall ask it ? The tribunes cannot do 't for shame ; the people Deserve such pity of him as the wolf 557 He will shake As Hercules You have made fair [work ! ; and you '11 look pale the regions ACT V. CORIOLANUS. SCENE I. Does of the shepherds : for his best friends, if they Should saj- ' Be good to Rome,' they charged him even As those should do that had deserved his hate, And therein show'd like enemies. Men. 'T is true: If he were putting to my house the brand That should consume it, I have not the face To say ' Beseech you, cease.' You have made fair hands. You and your crafts ! you have crafted fair ! Com. You have brought A trembling upon Rome, such as v*ras never So incapable of help. Both Tri. Say not we brought it. Men. How! Was it we? we loved him; but, like beasts And cowardly nobles, gave way unto your clusters, Who did hoot him out o' the city. Com. But I fear They '11 roar him in again. Tullus Aufidius, The second name of men, obeys his points As if he were his officer : desperation Is all the policy, strength and defence, That Rome can make against them. Enter a troop of Citizens. Men. Here come the clusters. And is Aufidius with him ? You are they That made the air unwholesome, when you cast Your stinking greasy caps in hooting at Coriolanus' exile. Now he 's coming ; And not a hair upon a soldier's head Which will not prove a whip : as many coxcombs As you threw caps up will he tumble down. And pay you for your voices. 'T is no matter ; If he could burn us all into one coal, We have deserved it. Citizens. Faith, we hear fearful news. First Git. For mine own part, When I said, banish him, I said, 't was pity. Sec. Cit. And so did I. Third Cit. And so did I ; and, to say the truth, so did very many of us: that we did, we did for the best ; and though we willingly consented to his banishment, yet it was against our will. Com. Ye 're goodly things, you voices ! Men. You have made Good work, you and your cry ! Shall 's to the Cap- Corn. O, ay, what else ? [itol ? [Exeunt Cominius and Menenius. Sic. Go, masters, get you home ; be not dismay'd : These are a side that would be glad to have This true which they so seem to fear. Go home, And show no sign of fear. First Cit. The gods be good to us ! Come, mas- ters, let 's home. I ever said we were i' the wrong when we banished him. Sec. Cit. So did we all. But, come, let 's home. [Exeunt Citizens. Bru. I do not like this news. Sic. Nor I. Bru. Let 's to the Capitol. Would half my wealth Would buy this for a lie ! Sic. Pray, let us go. [Exeunt. SCENE VII. — A camp, at a small distance from Borne. Enter Aufidius and his Lieutenant. Auf. Do they still fly to the Roman ? Lieu. I do not know what witchcraft's in him, but Your soldiers use him as the grace 'fore meat, Their talk at table, and their thanks at end; And you are darken'd in this action, sir. Even by your own. Auf. I cannot help it now. Unless, by using means, I lame the foot Of our design. He bears himself more proudlier, Even to my person, than I thought he would When first I did embrace him : yet his nature In that 's no changeling ; and I must excuse What cannot be amended. Lieu. Yet I wish, sir,— I mean for your particular, — you had not Join'd in commission with him ; but either Had borne the action of yourself, or else To him had left it solely. Auf. I understand thee well ; and be thou sure, When he shall come to his account, he knows not What I can urge against him. Although it seems, And so he thinks, and is no less apparent To the vulgar eye, that he bears all things fairly, And shows good husbandry for the Volscian state. Fights dragon-like, and does achieve as soon As draw his sword ; yet he hath left undone That which shall break his neck or hazard mine, Whene'er we come to our account. [Rome ? Lieu. Sir, I beseech you, think you he'U carry Auf. All places yield to him ere he sits down ; And the nobility of Rome are his : The senators and patricians love him too : The tribunes are no soldiers ; and their people Will be as rash in the repeal, as hasty To expel him thence. I think he '11 be to Rome As is the osprey to the fish, who takes it • By sovereignty of nature. First he was A noble servant to them ; but he could not Carry his honours even : whether 't was pride. Which out of daily fortune ever taints The happy man ; whether defect of judgment. To fail in the disposing of those chances Which he was lord of; or whether nature. Not to be other than one thing, not moving From the casque to the cushion, but commanding Even with the same austerity and garb [peace As he controU'd the war; but one of these — As he hath spices of them all, not all. For I dare so far free him— made him fear'd, So hated, and so banish 'd : but he has a merit. To choke it in the utterance. So our virtues Lie in the interpretation of the time : And power, unto itself most commendable, Hath not a tomb so evident as a chair To extol what it hath done. One fire drives out one fire ; one naU, one nail ; Rights by rights falter , strengths by strengths do fail. Come, let 's away. When, Caius, Rome is thine. Thou art poor'st of all ; then shortly art thou mine. [Exeunt. SCENE I. — Eome. A public ^ A.CT ^. Enter Menenius, Cominius, Sicinius, Brutus, and others. Men. No, I '11 not go : you hear what he hath said Which was sometime his general ; who loved him In a most dear particular. He call'd me father: 558 But what o' that ? Go, you that banish 'd him ; A mile before his tent fall down, and knee The way into his mercy; nay, if he coy'd To hear Cominius speak, I '11 keep at home. Com. He would not seem to know me. Men. Do you hear ? Com. Yet one time he did call me by my name : ACT V. CORIOLANUS. SCENE II. I urged our old acquaintance, and the drops That we have bled together. Coriolanus He would not answer to : forbad all names ; He was a kind of nothing, titleless, Till he had forged himselr a name o' the fire Of burning Rome. Men. Why, so : you have made good work ! A pair of tribunes that have rack'd for Rome, To make coals cheap,— a noble memory ! Com. I minded him how royal 't was to pardon "When it was less expected : he replied. It was a bare petition of a state To one whom they had punish'd. Men. Very well: Could he say less ? Com. I offer'd to awaken his regard For 's private friends : his answer to me was, He could not stay to pick them in a pile Of noisome musty chaff: he said 'twas folly, For one poor grain or two, to leave unbumt, And still to nose the offence. Men. For one poor grain or two ! I am one of those ; his mother, wife, his child, And this brave fellow too, we are the grains : -You are the musty chaff ; and you are smelt Above the moon : we must be burnt for you. Sic. Nay, pray, be patient : if you refuse your aid In this so never-needed help, yet do not Upbraid 's with our distress. But, sure, if you "Would be your country's pleader, your good tongue, More than the instant army we can make. Might stop our countryman. Men. No, I 'U not meddle. Sic. Pray you, go to him. Men. What should I do ? Bru. Only make trial what your love can do For Rome, towards Marcius. Mm. Well, and say that Marcius Return me, as Cominius is return'd. Unheard ; what then ? But as a discontented friend, grief-shot With his unkindness ? say 't be so ? Sic. Yet your good wiU Must have that thanks from Rome, after the measure As you intended well. Men. I '11 undertake 't : I think he 'U hear me. Yet, to bite his lip And hum at good Cominius, much unhearts me. He was not taken well ; he had not dined : The veins unfill'd, our blood is cold, and then We pout upon the morning, are unapt To give or to forgive ; but when we have stuff 'd These pipes and these conveyances of our blood With wine and feeding, we have suppler souls Than in our priest-like fasts : therefore I '11 watch Till he be dieted to my request, [him And then I 'U set upon him. Bru. You know the very road into his kindness, And cannot lose your way. Men. Good faith, I '11 prove him, Speed how it will. I shall ere long have knowledge Of my success. [Exit. Com. He 'U never hear him. Sic. Not? Com. I tell you, he does sit in gold, his eye Red as 't would bum Rome ; and his injury The gaoler to his pity. I kneel'd before him ; 'T was very faintly he said ' Rise ; ' dismiss'd me Thus, with his speechless hand : what he would do, He sent in writing after me; what he would not, Bound with an oath to yield to his conditions : So that all hope is vain. Unless his noble mother, and his wife ; Who, as I hear, mean to solicit him For mercy to his country. Therefore, let 's hence. And with oiir fair entreaties haste them on. {Exeunt. SCENE II. — Entrance of the Volscian camp before Borne. Two Sentinels on guard. Enter to them, Menenius. First Sen. Stay : whence are you ? Sec. Sen. Stand, and go back. Men. You guard like men; 'tis well: but, by your I am an oflScer of state, and come [leave, To speak with Coriolanus. First Sen. From whence ? Men. From Rome. First Sen. You may not pass, you must return: our general Will no more hear from thence. Sec. Sen. You 'U see your Rome embraced with fire before You '11 speak with Coriolanus. Men. Good my friends, If you have heard your general talk of Rome, And of his friends there, it is lots to blanks. My name hath touch 'd your ears : it is Menenius. First Sen. Be it so ; go back : the virtue of joxa Is not here passable. Men. I tell thee, fellow, Thy general is my lover : I have been The book of his good acts, whence men have read His fame unparallel'd, haply amplified; For I have ever verified my friends, Of whom he 's chief, with all the size that verity Would without lapsing suffer : nay, sometimes. Like to a bowl upon a subtle ground, 1 have tumbled past the throw ; and in his praise Have almost stamp'd the leasing : therefore, fellow, I must have leave to pass. First Sen. Faith, sir, if you had told as many lies in his behalf as you have uttered words in your own, you should not pass here ; no, though it were as vir- tuous to lie as to live chastely. Therefore, go back. Men, Prithee, fellow, remember my name is Mene- nius, always f actionary on the party of your general. Sec. Sen. Howsoever you have been his liar, as you say you have, I am one that, telling true under him, must say, you cannot pass. Therefore, go back. Men. Has he dined, canst thou tell ? for I would not speak with him till after dinner. First Sen. You are a Roman, are you ? Men. I am, as thy general is. First Sen. Then you should hate Rome, as he does. Can you, when you have pushed out your gates the very defender of them, and, in a violent popular ig- norance, given your enemy your shield,think to front his revenges with the easy groans of old women, the virginal palms of your daughters, or with the palsied intercession of such a decayed dotant as you seem to be ? Can you think to blow out the intended fire your city is ready to flame in, with such weak breath as this ? No, you are deceived ; therefore, back to Rome, and prepare for your execution : you are con- demned, our general has sworn you out of reprieve and pardon. Men. Sirrah, if thy captain knew I were here, he would use me with estimation. Sec. Sen. Come, my captain knows you not. Men. I mean, thy general. FHrst Sen. My general cares not for you. Back, I say, go ; lest I let forth your half -pint of blood ; back, — that 's the utmost of your having : back. Men. Nay, but, fellow, fellow,— Fhiter Coriolanus and Aufldius. Cor. What 's the matter ? Men. Now, you companion, I '11 say an errand for you : you shall know now that I am in estimation ; you shall perceive that a Jack guardant cannot oflBce me from my son Coriolanus : guess, but by my entertainment with him, if thou standest not i' the 559 ACT V. CORIOLANUS. SCENE III. state of hanging, or of some death more long in spectatorship, and crueller in suffering; behold now presently, and swoon for what 's to come upon thee. [To Cor.'\ The glorious gods sit in hourly synod about thy particular prosperity, and love thee no worse than thy old father Menenius does ! O my son, my son ! thou art preparing fire for us ; look thee, here 's water to quench it. I was hardly moved to come to thee ; but being assured none but myself could move thee, I have been blown out of your gates with sighs ; and conjure thee to pardon Eome, and thy petitionary countrymen. The good gods assuage thy wrath, and turn the dregs of it upon this varlet here, — this, who, like a block, hath denied my access to thee. Cor. Away! Men. How! away! Cor. Wife, mother, child, I know not. My affairs Are servanted to others : though I owe My revenge properly, my remission lies In Volscian breasts. That we have been familiar, Ingrate forgetfulness shall poison, rather Than pity note how much. Therefore, be gone. Mine ears against your suits are stronger than Your gates against my force. Yet, for I loved thee, Take this along ; I writ it for thy sake, [(orives a letter. And would have sent it. Another word, Menenius, I will not hear thee speak. This man, Aufidius, Was my beloved in Eome : yet thou behold'st ! Auf. You keep a constant temper. [Exeunt Coriolanus and Aufidius. ■ First Sen. Now, sir, is your name Menenius ? Sec. Sen. 'T is a spell, you see, of much power : you know the way home again. First Sen. Do you hear how we are shent for keeping your greatness back ? Sec. Sen. What cause, do you think, I have to swoon V Men. I neither care for the world nor your gen- eral : for such things as you, I can scarce think there 's any, ye 're so slight. He that hath a will to die by himself fears it not from another: let your general do his worst. For you, be that you are, long ; and your misery increase with your age ! I say to you, as I was said to, Away ! [Exit. First Sen. A noble fellow, I warrant him. Sec. Sen. The worthy fellow is our general : he 's the rock, the oak not to be wind-shaken. [Exeunt. SCENE m.—Tke tent of Coriolanus. Enter Coriolanus, Aufidius, and others. Cor. We will before the walls of Eome to-morrow Set down our host. My partner in this action, You must report to the Volscian lords, how plainly I have borne this business. Auf. Only their ends You have respected ; stopped your ears against The general suit of Eome ; never admitted A private whisper, no, not with such friends That thought them sure of you. Cor. This last old man, Whom with a crack 'd heart I have sent to Eome, Loved me above the measure of a father ; Nay, godded me, indeed. Their latest refuge Was to send him ; for whose old love I have, Though I show'd sourly to him, once more offer'd The first conditions, which they did refuse And cannot now accept ; to grace him only That thought he could do more, a very little I have yielded to : fresh embassies and suits. Nor from the state nor private friends, hereafter Will I lend ear to. Ha ! what shout is this ? [Shout within. Shall I be tempted to infringe my vow In the same time 't is made ? I will not. 560 Enter, inmourninghdbits^Yirgilia.'Voluxnma., lead- ing young Marcius, Valeria, and Attendants. My wife comes foremost ; then the honour'd mould Wherein this trunk was framed, and in her hand The grandchild to her blood. But, out, affection ! All bond and privilege of nature, break ! Let it be virtuous to be obstinate. What is that curt'sy worth ? or those doves' eye>s. Which can make gods forsworn ? I melt, and am not Of stronger earth than others. My mother bows ; As if Olympus to a molehill should In supplication nod : and my young boy Hath an aspect of intercession, which Great nature cries ' Deny not.' Let the Volsces Plough Eome, and harrow Italy : I '11 never Be such a gosling to obey instinct, but stand, As if a man were author of himself And knew no other kin. Vir. My lord and husband ! Cor. These eyes are not the same I wore in Eome. Vir. The sorrow that delivers us thus changed Makes you think so. Cor. Like a dull actor now, I have forgot my part, and I am out. Even to a full disgrace. Best of my flesh, Forgive my tyranny; but do not say For that ' Forgive our Eomans.' O, a kiss Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge ! Now, by the jealous queen of heaven, that kiss I carried from thee, dear; and my true lip Hath virgin 'd it e'er since. You gods ! I prate, And the most noble mother of the world Leave unsaluted: sink,myknee,i' the earth; [Kneels, Of thy deep duty more impression show Than that of common sons. Vol. O, stand up blest ! Whilst, with no softer cushion than the flint, I kneel before thee ; and unproperly Show duty, as mistaken all this while Between the child and parent. [Kneels. Cor. What is this ? Your knees to me ? to your corrected son ? Then let the pebbles on the hungry beach Fillip the stars ; then let the mutinous winds Strike the proud cedars 'gainst the fiery sun ; Murdering impossibility, to make What cannot be, slight work. Vol. Thou art my warrior ; I holp to frame thee. Do you know this lady ? Cor. The noble sister of Publicola, The moon of Eome, chaste as the icicle That 's curdled by the frost from purest snow And hangs on Dian's temple : dear Valeria I Vol. This is a poor epitome of yours, Which by the interpretation of full time May show like all yourself. Cor. The god of soldiers, With the consent of supreme Jove, inform Thy thoughts with nobleness; that thou mayst prove To shame unvulnerable, and stick i' the wars Like a great sea-mark, standing every flaw, And saving those that eye thee ! Vol. Your knee, sirrah. Cor. That 's my brave boy I Vol. Even he, your wife, this lady, and myself, Are suitors to you. Cor. I beseech you, peace : Or, if you 'Id ask, remember this before : The thing I have forsworn to grant may never Be held by your denials. Do not bid me Dismiss my soldiers, or capitulate Again with Eome's mechanics : tell me not Wherein I seem unnatural : desire not To allay my rages and revenges with Your colder reasons. ACT V, CORIOLANUS. SCENE IV. Vol. O, no more, no more ! You have said you will not grant us any thing ; For we have nothing else to ask, but that Which you deny ah-eady : yet we will ask ; That, if you fail in our request, the blame May hang upon your hardness: therefore hear us. Cor. Aufidius, and you Yolsces, mark ; for we '11 Hear nought from Rome in private. Your request ? Vol. Should we be silent and not speak, our raiment And state of bodies would bewray what life We have led since thy exile. Think with thyself How more unfortunate than all living women Are we come hither: since that thy sight, which should [comforts. Make our eyes flow with joy, hearts dance with Constrains them weep and shake with fear and sor- Making the mother, wife and child to see [row ; The son, the husband and the father tearing His country's bowels out. And to poor we Thine enmity's most capital : thou barr'st us Our prayers to the gods, which is a comfort That all but we enjoy ; for how can we, Alas, how can we for our country pray. Whereto we are bound, together with thy victory, Whereto we are bound ? alack, or we must lose The country, our dear nurse, or else thy person, Our comfort in the country. We must find An evident calamity, though we had Our wish, which side should win : for either thou Must, as a foreign recreant, be led With manacles thorough our streets, or else Triumphantly tread on thy country's ruin. And bear the palm for having bravely shed Thy wife and children's blood. For myself, son, I purpose not to wait on fortune till These wars determine : if I cannot persuade thee Eather to show a noble grace to both parts Than seek the end of one, thou shalt no sooner March to assault thy country than to tread — Trust to 't, thou shalt not— on thy mother's womb, That brought thee to this world. Vir. Ay, and mine. That brought you forth this boy, to keep your name Living to time. Young Mar. A' shall not tread on me ; I '11 run away till I am bigger, but then I '11 fight. Cor. Not of a woman's tenderness to be, Eequires nor child nor woman's face to £ I have sat too long. Vol. Kay, go not from u If it were so that our request did tend To save the Romans, thereby to destroy The Volsces whom you serve, you might condemn As poisonous of your honour : no ; our suit Is, that you reconcile them : while the Volsces May say ' This mercy we have show'd ; ' the Romans, ' This we received ; ' and each in either side Give the all-hail to thee, and cry ' Be blest [son, For making up this peace ! ' Thou know'st, great The end of war 's uncertain, but this certain, That, if thou conquer Rome, the benefit Which thou shalt thereby reap is such a name. Whose repetition will be dogg'd with curses; Whose chronicle thus writ : ' The man was noble, But with his last attempt he wiped it out ; Destroy'd his country, and his name remains To the ensuing age abhorr'd.' Speak to me, son: Thou hast affected the fine strains of honour, To imitate the graces of the gods ; To tear with thunder the wide cheeks o' the air. And yet to charge thy sulphur with a bolt That should but rive an oak. Why dost not speak ? Think'st thou it honourable for a noble man Still to remember wrongs ? Daughter, speak you : He cares not for your weeping. Speak thou, boy : Perhaps thy childishness will move him more Than can our reasons. There 's no man in the world Bising. [Rii thus [us, More bound to 's mother ; yet here he lets me prate Like one i' the stocks. Thou hast never in thy life Show'd thy dear mother any courtesy. When she, poor hen, fond of no second brood, Has cluck'd thee to the wars and safely home, Loaden with honour. Say my request 's unjust, And spurn me back : but if it be not so, Thou art not honest ; and the gods will plague thee. That thou restrain'st from me the duty which To a mother's part belongs. He turns aM^ay: Down, ladies ; let us shame him with our knees To his surname Coriolanus 'longs more pride Than pity to our prayers. Down : an end ; This is the last : so we will home to Rome, And die among our neighbours. Nay, behold 's ; This boy, that cannot tell what he would have, But kneels and holds up hands for fellowship. Does reason our petition with more strength Than thou hast to deny 't. Come, let us go : This fellow had a Volscian to liis mother ; His wife is in Corioli and his child Like him by chance. Yet give us our dispatch : I am hush'd until our city be a-fire. And then I '11 speak a little. [He holds her by the hand, silent. Cor. O mother, mother ! What have you done ? Behold, the heavens do ope, The gods look down, and this unnatural scene They laugh at. my mother, mother ! O ! You have won a happy victory to Rome ; But, for your son, — believe it, O, believe it. Most dangerously you have with him prevail'd, If not most mortal to him. But, let it come. Aufidius, though I cannot make true wars, I '11 frame convenient peace. Now, good Aufidius, Were you in my stead, would you have heard A mother less ? or granted less, Aufidius ? Auf. 1 was moved withal. Cor. I dare be sworn you were : And, sir, it is no little thing to make Mine eyes to sweat compassion. But, good sir. What peace you '11 make, advise me : for my part, I 'U not to Rome, I '11 back with you ; and pray you, Stand to me in this cause. O mother ! wife ! Auf. [Aside] I am glad thou hast set thy mercy and thy honour At difference in thee : out of that I '11 work Myself a former fortune. [The Ladies make signs to Coriolanus- Cor. Ay, by and by ; [To Volumnia, Virgilia, &c. But we will drink together ; and you shall bear A better witness back than words, which we. On like conditions, will have counter-seal'd. Come, enter with us. Ladies, you deserve To have a temple built you : all the swords In Italy, and her confederate arms, Could not have made this peace. [Exeunt. SCENE IV.— Rome. A public place. Unter Menenius and Sicinius. Men. See you yond coign o' the Capitol, yond corner-stone ? Sic. Why, what of that ? Men. If it be possible for you to displace it with your little finger, there is some hope the ladies of Rome, especially his mother, may prevail with him. But I say there is no hope in 't : our throats are sen- tenced and stay upon execution. Sic. Is 't possible that so short a time can alter the condition of a man ? Men. There is differency between a grub and a butterfly ; yet your butterfly was a grub. This Mar- cius is grown from man to dragon : he has wings ; he 's more than a creeping thing. Sic. He loved his mother dearly. 561 ACT V. CORIOLANUS. SCENE VI. Men. So did he me : and he no more remembers his mother now than an eight-year-old horse. The tartness of his face sours ripe grapes : when he walks, he moves like an engine, and the ground shrinks before his treading: he is able to pierce a corslet with his eye ; talks like a knell, and his hum is a battery. He sits in his state, as a thing made for Alexander. What he bids be done is finished with his bidding. He wants nothing of a god but eter- nity and a heaven to throne in. bic. Yes, mercy, if you report him truly. Men. I paint him in the character. Mark what mercy his mother shall bring from him : there is no more mercy in him than there is milk in a male tiger ; that shall our poor city find : and all this is long of Sic. The gods be good unto us ! [you. Men. No, in such a case the gods will not be good unto us. When we banished him, we respected not them ; and, he returning to break our necks, they respect not us. Enter a Messenger. Jfess. Sir, if you 'Id save your life, fly to your house ; The plebeians have got your fellow-tribune And hale him up and down, all swearing, if The Koman ladies bring not comfort home, They '11 give him death by inches. Enter a second Messenger. Sic. What 's the news ? Sec. Mess. Good news, good news ; the ladies have prevail'd. The Volscians are dislodged, and Marcius gone: A merrier day did never yet greet Eome, No, not the expulsion of the Tarquins. - Sic. Friend, Art thou certain this is true ? is it most certain ? Sec. Mess. As certain as I know the sun is fire : Where have you lurk'd, that you make doubt of it ? Ne'er through an arch so hurried the blown tide, As the recomforted through the gates. Why, hark you! [Trumpets; hautboys; drums beat; all together. The trumpets, sackbuts, psalteries and fifes, Tabors and cymbals and the shouting Komans, Make the sun dance. Hark you ! [A shout within. Men. This is good news : I will go meet the ladies. This Yolumnia Is worth of consuls, senators, patricians, A city full ; of tribunes, such as you, A sea and land full. You have pray 'd well to-day : This morning for ten thousand of your throats I 'Id not have given a doit. Hark, how they joy ! [Music still, with shouts. Sic. First, the gods bless you for your tidings; Accept my thankfulness. [next. Sec. Mess. Sir, we have all Great cause to give great thanks. Sic. They are near the city ? Sec. Mess. Almost at point to enter. Sic. We will meet them, And help the joy. [Exeunt. SCENE v.— The same. A street near the gate. Enter two Senators rmth Volumnia, Virgilia, Valeria, &c., passing over the stage, followed by Patricians, and others. First Sen. Behold our patroness, the life of Eome ! Call all your tribes together, praise the gods. And make triumphant fires; strew flowers before Unshout the noise that banish 'd Marcius, [them : Bepeal him with the welcome of his mother ; Cry ' Welcome, ladies, welcome ! ' All. Welcome, ladies. Welcome ! [A flourish with drums and trumpets. [JExeunt. 562 SCENE VI. — Antium. A public place. Enter TuUus Aufldius, with Attendants. Auf. Go tell the lords o' the city I am here : Deliver them this paper: having read it. Bid them repair to the market-place ; where I, Even in theirs and in the commons' ears. Will vouch the truth of it. Him I accuse The city ports by this hath enter'd and Intends to appear before the people, hoping To purge himself with words : dispatch. [Exeunt Attendants. Enter three or four Conspirators of Aufldius' faction. Most welcome ! First Con. How is it with our general ? Auf. Even so As with a man by his own alms empoison 'd, And with his charity slain. Sec. Con. Most noble sir, If you do hold the same intent wherein You wish'd us parties, we '11 deliver you Of your great danger. Auf. Sir, I cannot tell : We must proceed as we do find the people. Third Con. The people will remain uncertain whiM 'T wixt you there 's difference ; but the fall of either Makes the survivor heir of all. Auf. I know it ; And my pretext to strike at him admits A good construction. I raised him, and I pawn'd Mme honour for his truth : who being so heighten 'd, He water'd his new plants with dews of flattery, Seducing so my friends ; and, to this end, He bow'd his nature, never known before But to be rough, unswayable and free. Third Con. Sir, his stoutness When he did stand for consul, which he lost By lack of stooping,— Aif. That I would have spoke of : Being banish 'd for 't. he came unto my hearth ; Presented to my knite his throat : I took him ; Made him joint-servant with me ; gave him way In all his own desires : nay, let him choose Out of my files, his projects to accomplish, My best and freshest men ; served his designments In mine own person ; holp to reap the fame Which he did end all his ; and took some pride To do myself this wrong : till, at the last, I seem'd his follower, not partner, and He waged me with his countenance, as if I had been mercenary. First Con. So he did, my lord: The army marvell'd at it, and, in the last, When he had carried Rome and that we look'd For no less spoil than glory,— Aif. There was it : For which my sinews shall be stretch'd upon him. At a few drops of women's rheum, which are As cheap as lies, he sold the blood and labour Of our great action : therefore shall he die. And I '11 renew me in his fall. But, hark ! [Drums and trumpets sound, ivith great shouts of the People. First Con. Your native town you enter'd like a And had no welcomes home ; but he returns, [post. Splitting the air with noise. Sec. Con. And patient fools, Whose children he hath slain, their base throats tear With giving him glory. Third Con. Therefore, at your vantage, Ere he express himself, or move the people With what he would say, let him feel your sword. Which we will second. When he lies along. After your way his tale pronounced shall bury His reasons with his body. ACT V. CORIOLANUS. SCENE VI. Auf. Here come the lords. Say no more : Enter the Lords of the city. All the Lords. You are most welcome home. Auf. I have not deserved it. But, worthy lords, have you with heed perused What I have written to you ? Lords. "We have. First Lord. And grieve to hear 't. What faults he made before the last, I think Might have found easy fines : but there to end Where he was to begin and give away The benefit of our levies, answering us With our own charge, making a treaty where There was a yielding,— this admits no excuse. Auf. He approaches : you shall hear him. Enter Ooriolanus, marching with drum and colours^ Commoners being with him. Cor. Hail, lords! I am return'd your soldier, No more infected with my country's love Than when I parted hence, but still subsisting Under your great command. You are to know That prosperously I have attempted and With bloody passage led your wars even to The gates of Eome. Our spoils we have brought home Do more than counterpoise a full third part The charges of the action. We have made peace With no less honour to the Antiates Than shame to the Eomans : and we here deliver. Subscribed by the consuls and patricians, Together with the seal o' the senate, what We have compounded on. Auf. Eead it not, noble lords ; But tell the traitor, in the high'st degree He hath abused your powers. Cor. Traitor ! how now ! Atif. Ay, traitor, Marcius ! Cor. Marcius ! Auf. Ay, Marcius, Caius Marcius : dost thou think I '11 grace thee with that robbery, thy stol'n name Coriolanus in Corioli ? You lords and heads o' the state, perfidiously He has betray 'd your business, and given up. For certain drops of salt, your city Rome, I say ' your city,' to his wife and mother ; Breaking his oath and resolution like A twist of rotten silk, never admitting Counsel o' the war, but at his nurse's tears He whined and roar'd away your victory. That pages blush'd at him and men of heart Look'd wondering each at other. Cor. Hear'st thou, Mars? Auf. Name not the god, thou boy of tears ! Cor. Ha ! Auf. No more. Cor. Measureless liar, thou hast made my heart Too great for what contains it. Boy ! O slave ! Pardon me, lords, 't is the first time that ever I was forced to scold. Your judgments, my grave lords. Must give this cur the lie : and his own notion— Who wears my stripes impress 'd upon him ; that Must bear my beating to his grave — shall join To thrust the lie unto him. First Lord. Peace, both, and hear me speak. Cor. Cut me to pieces, Volsces : men and lads, Stain all your edges on me. Boy ! false hound 1 If you have writ your annals true, 't is there. That, like an eagle in a dove-cote, I Plutter'd your Volscians in Corioli : Alone I did it. Boy ! Auf. Why, noble lords. Will you be put in mind of his blind fortune. Which was your shame, by this miholy braggart, 'Fore your own eyes and ears ? All Consp. Let him die for 't. All the people. ' Tear him to pieces. ' ' Do it pres- ently.' 'He killed my son.' 'My daughter.' 'He killed my cousin Marcus.' ' He killed my father.' Sec. Lord. Peace, ho ! no outrage : peace ! The man is noble and his fame folds-in This orb o' the earth. His last offences to us Shall have judicious hearing. Stand, Aufidius, And trouble not the peace. Cor. O that I had him, With six Aufidiuses, or more, his tribe. To use my lawful sword ! Auf. Insolent villain ! All Consp. Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill him! [The Conspiratoi's draw, and kill Coriolanus: Aufidius stands on his body. Lords. Hold, hold, hold, hold ! Auf. My noble masters, hear me speak. First Lord. O TuUus,— Sec. Lord. Thou hast done a deed whereat valour will weep. Third Lord. Tread not upon him. Masters aU, be quiet ; Put up your swords. [rage, Auf. My lords, when you shall know — as in this Provoked by him, you cannot — the great danger Which this man's life did owe you, you '11 rejoice That he is thus cut off. Please it your honours To call me to your senate, I '11 deliver Myself your loyal servant, or endure Your heaviest censure. First Lord. Bear from hence his body ; And mourn you for him : let him be regarded As the most noble corse that ever herald Did follow to his urn. Sec. Lord. His own impatience Takes from Aufidius a great part of blame. Let 's make the best of it. Auf. My rage is gone ; And I am struck with sorrow. Take him up. Help, three o' the chiefest soldiers ; I '11 be one. Beat thou the drum, that it speak mournfully : Trail your steel pikes. Though in this city he Hath widow'd and unchilded many a one. Which to this hour bewail the injury. Yet he shall have a noble memory. Assist. [Fxeunt, bearing the body of Corio- lanus. A dead march sounded. 563 TITUS ANDEONICUS. BBAMATIS PEBSON^. Saturninus, son to the late Emperor of Rome, and afterwards declared Emperor. Bassianus, brother to Saturninus ; in love with Lavinia. Titus Andronicus, a noble Roman, General against the Goths. Marcus Andronicus, tribune of the people, and brother to Titus. Lucius, Quintus, Martius, Mutius, Young Lucius, a boy, son to Lucius. Publius, son to Marcus the Tribune. Sempronius, Caius, )■ kinsmen to Titus. Valentine, sons to Titus Andronicus. .ajmilius, a noble Roman. Alarbus, 1 Demetrius, I sons to Tamora, Chiron, ] Aaron, a Moor, beloved by Tamora. A Captain, Tribune, Messenger, and Clown; Ro- mans. Goths and Romans. Tamora, Queen of the Goths. Lavinia, daughter to Titus Andronicus. A Nurse. Senators, Tribunes, Officers, Soldiers, and Attendants, SCENE — Rome, and the country near it. [F»r an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page LX.] ^OT I. SCENE I. — Borne. Before the Capitol. The tomb of the Andronici appearing ; the Tribunes and Senators aloft. Enter, below, from one side,_ Saturni- nus a7i,d his Followers ; and, from the other side, Bassi- anus and his Followers ; with drum and colours. Sat. Noble patricians, patrons of my right, Defend the justice of my cause with arms, And, countrymen, my loving followers, Plead my successive title with your swords : I am his first-born son, that was the last That wore the imperial diadem of Rome ; Then let my father's honours live in me, Nor wrong mine age with this indignity. Bas. Eomans, friends, followers, favourers of my If ever Bassianus, Caesar's son, [right, Were gracious in the eyes of royal Eome, Keep then this passage to the Capitol And suffer not dishonour to approach The imperial seat, to virtue consecrate. To justice, continence and nobility ; But let desert in pure election shine, And, Romans, fight for freedom in your choice. Enter Marcus Andronicus, aloft, with the crown. Marc. Princes, that strive by factions and by Ambitiously for rule and empery, [friends Know that the people of Rome, for whom we stand A special party, have, by common voice. In election for the Roman empery. Chosen Andronicus, surnamed Pius For many good and great deserts to Rome : A nobler man, a braver warrior, Lives not this day within the city walls : He by the senate is accited home Prom weary wars against the barbarous Goths ; That, with his sons, a terror to our foes, Hath yoked a nation strong, train'd up in arms. Ten years are spent since first he undertook This cause of Rome and chastised with arms Our enemies' pride : five times he hath return'd 564 Bleeding to Rome, bearing his valiant sons In coffins from the field ; And now at last, laden with honour's spoils, Returns the good Andronicus to Rome, Reno\Aaied Titus, flourishing in arms. Let us entreat, by honour of his name. Whom worthily you would have now succeed, And in the Capitol and senate's right. Whom you pretend to honour and adore, That you withdraw you and abate your strength; Dismiss your followers and, as suitors should, Plead your deserts in peace and humbleness. Sat. How fair the tribune speaks to calm my Bas. Marcus Andronicus, so I do affy [thoughts ! In thy uprightness and integrity. And so 1 love and honour thee and thine. Thy noble brother Titus and his sons. And her to whom my thoughts are humbled all, Gracious Lavinia, Rome's rich ornament. That I will here dismiss my loving friends. And to my fortunes and the people's favour Commit my cause in balance to be weigh'd. [Exeunt the Followers of Bassianus. Sat. Friends, that have been thus forward in my I thank you all and here dismiss you all, [right, And to the love and favour of my comitry Commit myself, my person and the cause. [Exeunt the Followers of Saturninus. Rome, be as just and gracious unto me As I am confident and kind to thee. Open the gates, and let me in. Bas. Tribunes, and me, a poor competitor. [Flourish. Saturninus and Bassianus go up into the Capitol. Enter a Captain. Cap. Eomans, make way : the good Andronicus, Patron of virtue, Rome's best champion, Successful in the battles that he fights, With honour and with fortune is return'd From Avhere he circumscribed Avith his sword. And brought to yoke, the enemies of Rome. TITOS ANDRONICUS. SCENE I. Drums and trumpets sounded. Enter Martius and Mu- tius ; after them, two Men hearing a coffin covered with black; then Lucius and Quintus. After them, Titus Andronicus; and then Tamora, with Alarbus, De- metrius, Chiron, Aaron, and other Goths, prisoners; Soldiers and People following. The Bearers set down the coffin, and Titus speaks. Tit. Hail, Eouie, victorious in tliy mourning weeds ! Lo, as the bark, that hath discharged her fraught, Eeturns with precious lading to the bay From whence at first she weigh'd her anchorage, Cometh Andronicus, bound with laurel boughs. To re-salute his country with his tears, Tears of true joy for his return to Eome. Thou great defender of this Capitol, Stand gracious to the rites that we intend ! Komans, of five and twenty valiant sons. Half of the number that King Priam had, Behold the poor remains, alive and dead ! These that survive let Rome reward with love ; These that I bring unto their latest home. With burial amongst their ancestors : Here Goths have given me leave to sheathe my sword. .Titus, unkind and careless of thine own, "Why sufCer'st thou thy sons, unburied yet, To hover on the dreadful shore of Styx ? Make way to lay them by their brethren. \_Tlie tomb is opened. There greet in silence, as the dead are wont, And sleep in peace, slain in your country's wars ! O sacred receptacle of my joys. Sweet cell of virtue and nobility. How many sons of mine hast thou in store, That thou wilt never render to me more ! Luc. Give us the proudest prisoner of the Goths, That we may hew his limbs, and on a pile Ad manes fratrum sacrifice his flesh. Before this earthy prison of their bones ; That so the shadows be not unappeased, iSTor we disturb'd with prodigies on earth. Tit. I give him you, the noblest that survives. The eldest son of this distressed queen. Tarn. Stay, Roman brethren! Gracious con- Victorious Titus, rue the tears I shed, [queror, A mother's tears in passion for her son : And if thy sons were ever dear to thee, O, think my son to be as dear to me ! Sufficeth not that we are brought to Rome, To beautify thy triumphs and return. Captive to thee and to thy Roman yoke. But must my sons be slaughter'd in the streets. For valiant doings in their country's cause ? O, if to fight for king and commonweal Were piety in thine, it is in these. Andronicus, stain not thy tomb with blood : Wilt thou draw near the nature of the gods ? Draw near them then in being merciful : Sweet mercy is nobility's true badge: Thrice noble Titus, spare my first-born son. Tit. Patient yourself, madam, and pardon me. These are their brethren, whom you Goths beheld Alive and dead, and for their brethren slain Religiously they ask a sacrifice : To this your son is mark'd, and die he must. To appease their groaning shadows that are gone. Luc. Away with him ! and make a fire straight ; And with our swords, upon a pile of wood, Let 's hew his limbs till they be clean consumed. [Exeunt Lucius, Quintus, Martius, and Mutius, with Alarbus. Tarn. O cruel, irreligious piety! Chi. Was ever Scythia half so barbarous ? Dem. Oppose not Scythia to ambitious Rome. Alarbus goes to rest ; and we survive To tremble under Titus' threatening looks. Then, madam, stand resolved, but hope withal The self-same gods that arm'd the Queen of Troy With opportunity of sharp revenge Upon the Thracian tyrant in his tent, May favour Tamora, the Queen of Goths — When Goths were Goths and Tamora was queen — To quit the bloody wrongs upon her foes. He-enter Lucius, Quintus, Martius, and Mutius, loith their swords bloody. Luc. See, lord and father, how we have perform'd Our Roman rites: Alarbus' limbs are lopp'd, And entrails feed the sacrificing fire. Whose smoke, like incense, doth perfume the sky. Remaineth nought, but to inter our brethren, And with loud 'larums welcome them to Rome. Tit. Let it be so ; and let Andronicus Make this his latest farewell to their souls. [Trumpets sounded, and the coffin laid in the tomb. In peace and honour rest you here, my sons ; Rome's readiest champions, repose you here in rest, Secure from worldly chances and mishaps ! Here lurks no treason, here no envy swells. Here grow no damned grudges ; here are no storms, No noise, but silence and eternal sleep : In peace and honour rest you here, my sons ! Enter Lavinia. Lav. In peace and honour live Lord Titus long ; My noble lord and father, live in fame ! Lo, at this tomb my tributary tears I render, for my brethren's obsequies ; And at thy feet I kneel, with tears of joy. Shed on the earth, for thy retiu'n to Rome: O, bless me here with thy victorious hand, Whose fortunes Rome's best citizens applaud! Tit. Kind Rome, that hast thus lovingly reserved The cordial of mine age to glad my heart ! Lavinia, live ; outlive thy father's days. And fame's eternal date, for virtue' Enter, below, Marcus Andronicus and Tribunes ; re-enter Saturninus and Bassianus, attended. Marc. Long live Lord Titus, my beloved brother. Gracious triumpher in the eyes of Rome ! Tit. Thanks, gentle tribune, noble brother Maiv cus. [wars, Marc. And welcome, nephews, from successful You that survive, and you that sleep in fame ! Fair lords, your fortunes are alike in all. That in your country's service drew your swords: But safer triumph is this funeral pomp, That hath aspired to Solon's happiness And triumphs over chance in honour's bed. Titus Andronicus, the people of Rome, Whose friend in justice thou hast ever been. Send thee by me, their tribune and their trust, This palliament of white and spotless hue ; And name thee in election for the empire. With these our late-deceased emperor's sons : Be candidatus tlien, and put it on. And help to set a head on headless Rome. Tit. A better head her glorious body fits Than his that shakes for age and feebleness : What should I don this robe, and trouble you? Be chosen with proclamations to-day. To-morrow yield up rule, resign my life. And set abroad new business for you all ? Rome, I have been thy soldier forty years. And led my country's strength successfully. And buried one and twenty valiant sons. Knighted in field, slain manfully in arms, In right and service of their noble country : Give me a staff of honour for mine age. But not a sceptre to control the world : Upright he held it, lords, that held it last. [pery. Marc. Titus, thou shalt obtain and ask the em- Sat. Proud and ambitious tribune, canst thou tell 'r* 565 ACT I. TITUS ANDRONICUS. SCENE I. Tit. Patience, Prince Saturniniis. Sat. Romans, do me riglit : Patricians, draw your swords, and slieatlie them not Till Saturninus be Rome's emperor. Andronicus, would thou wert shipp'd to hell. Rather than rob me of the people's hearts ! Jjiic. Proud Saturnine, interrupter of the good That noble-minded Titus means to thee ! Tit. Content thee, prince ; I will restore to thee The people's hearts , and wean them from themselves. Bas. Andronicus, I do not flatter thee. But honour thee, and will do till I die : My faction if thou strengthen with thy friends, I will most thankful be ; and thanks to men Of noble minds is honourable meed. Tit. People of Rome, and people's tribunes here, I ask your voices and your suffrages : Will you bestow them friendly on Andronicus ? Tribunes. To gratify the good Andronicus, And gratulate his safe return to Rome, The people will accept whom he admits. Tit. Tribunes, I thank you : and this suit I make. That you create your emperor's eldest son, Lord Saturnine ; whose virtues will, I hope, Reflect on Rome as Titan's rays on earth, And ripen justice in this commonweal: Then, if you will elect by my advice. Crown him, and say ' Long live our emperor! ' Marc. With voices and applause of every sort, Patricians and plebeians, we create Lord Saturninus Rome's great emperor. And say ' Long live our Emperor Saturnine ! ' \_A long flourish till they come down. Sat. Titus Andronicus, for thy favours done To us in our election this day, I give thee thanks in part of thy deserts. And will with deeds requite thy gentleness : And, for an onset, Titus, to advance Thy name and honourable family, Lavinia will I make my empress, Rome's royal mistress, mistress of my heart,' And in the sacred Pantheon her espouse : Tell me, Andronicus, doth this motion please thee ? Tit. It doth, my worthy lord; and in this match I hold me highly honour'd of your grace : And here in sight of Rome to Saturnine, King and commander of our commonweal, The wide world's emperor, do I consecrate My sword, my chariot and my prisoners ; Presents well worthy Rome's imperial lord : Receive them then, the tribute that I owe, .Mine honour's ensigns humbled at thy feet. Sat. Thanks, noble Titus, father of my lifel How proud I am of thee and of thy gifts Rome shall record, and when I do forget The least of these unspeakable deserts, Romans, forget your fealty to me. Tit. [To I'amora] Now, madam, are you prisoner to an emperor ; To him that, for your honour and your state, Will use you nobly and your followers. Sat. A goodly lady, trust me ; of the hue That I would choose, were I to choose anew. Clear up, fair queen, that cloudy countenance: Though chance of war hath wrought this change of cheer. Thou comest not to be made a scorn in Rome : Princely shall be thy usage every way. Rest on my word, and let not discontent Daunt all your hopes : madam, he comforts you Can make you greater than the Queen of Goths. Lavinia, you are not displeased with this ? Lav. Not I, my lord ; sith true nobility Warrants these words in princely courtesy. Sat. Thanks, sweet Lavinia. Romans, let us go : Ransomless here we set our prisoners free : 566 Proclaim our honours, lords, with trump and drum. [Flourish. Saturninus courts Tamora in dumb show. Bas. Lord Titus, by your leave, this maid is mine. [Seizing Lavinia. Tit. How, sir! are you in earnest then, my lord? Bas. Ay, noble Titus; and resolved withal To do myself this reason and this right. Marc. ' Suum cuique' is our Roman justice : This prince in justice seizeth but his own. Luc. And that he will, and shall, if Lucius live. Tit. Traitors, avauntl Where is the emperor's Treason, my lord ! Lavinia is surprised ! [guard ? Sat. Surprised ! by whom ? Bas. By him that justly may Bear his betroth'd from all the world away. [Exeunt Bassianus and Marcus with Lavinia. Mut. Brothers, help to convey her hence away, And with my sword I '11 keep this door safe. [Exeunt Lucius., Quintus, and Martius. Tit. Follow, my lord, and I '11 soon bring her back. Mut. My lord, you pass not here. Tit. What, villain boy ! Barr'st me my way in Rome ? [Stabbing Mutius. Mut. Help, Lucius, help! [Dies. [Diiring the fray, Saturninus, Tamora, Deme- trius, Chiron and Aaron go out and re-enter, above. „ , ^ • lie-enter Lucius. Luc. My lord, you are unjust, and, more than so, In wrongful quarrel you have slain your son. Tit. Nor thou, nor he, are any sons of mine ; My sons would never so dishonour me : Traitor, restore Lavinia to the emperor. Lm. Dead, if you will ; but not to be his wife. That is another's lawful promised love. [Exit. Sat. No, Titus, no ; the emperor needs her not, Nor her, nor thee, nor any of thy stock : I '11 trust, by leisure, him that mocks me once ; Thee never, nor thy traitorous haughty sons. Confederates all thus to dishonour me. • Was there none else in Rome to make a stale. But Saturnine ? Full well, Andronicus, Agree these deeds with that proud brag of thine, That said'st I begg'd the empire at thy hands. Tit. O monstrous! what reproachful words are these ? [piece Sat. But go thy ways; go, give that changing To him that flourish 'd for her with his sword: A valiant son-in-law thou shalt enjoy; One fit to bandy with thy lawless sons, To ruffle in the commonwealth of Rome. Tit. These words are razors to my wounded heart. Sat. And theref ore,lovely Tamora,Queen of Goths, That like the stately Phcebe 'mongst her nymphs Dost overshine the gallant 'st dames of Rome, If thou be pleased with this my sudden choice. Behold, I choose thee, Tamora, for my bride. And will create thee empress of Rome. Speak , Queen of Goths , dost thou applaud my choice ? And here I swear by all the Roman gods, Sith priest and holy water are so near And tapers biu'n so bright and every thing In readiness for Hymenseus stand, I will not re-salute the streets of Rome, Or climb my palace, till from forth this place I lead espoused my bride along with me. Tarn. And here, in sight of heaven, to Rome I If Saturnine advance the Queen of Goths, [swear, She will a handmaid be to his desires, A loving nurse, a mother to his youth, [company Sat. Ascend, fair queen. Pantheon. Lords, ac- Your noble emperor and his lovely bride, Sent by the heavens for Prince Saturnine, Whose wisdom hath her fortune conquered : There shall we consummate our spousal rites. [Exeunt all hut Titus. Tit. I am not bid to wait upon this bride. TITUS ANDRONICUS. SCENE I. Titus, when wert thou wont to walk alone, Dishonour'd thus, and challenged of wrongs ? He-enter Marcus, Lucius, Quintus, and Martius. Marc. O Titus, see, O, see what thou hast done ! In a bad quarrel slain a virtuous son. Tit. No, foolish tribune, no ; no son of mine, Nor thou, nor these, confederates in the deed That hath dishonour'd all our family ; Unworthy brother, and unworthy sons ! Luc. But let us give him burial, as becomes ; Give Mutius burial with our brethren. Tit. Traitors, away ! he rests not in this tomb : This monument five hundred years hath stood, Which I have sumptuously re-edified : Here none but soldiers and Rome's servitors Repose in fame ; none basely slain in brawls : Bury him where you can ; he comes not here-. Marc. My lord, this is impiety in you : My nephew Mutius' deeds do plead for him ; He must be buried with his brethren. Mart \ ^^^ shall, or him we will accompany. Tit. ' And shall ! ' what villain was it spake that word ? [here. Quin. He that would vouch it in any place but 2\t. What, would you bury him in my despite ? Marc. JSTo, noble Titus, but entreat of thee To pardon Mutius and to bury him. Tit. Marcus, even thou hast struck upon my crest, And, with these boys, mine honour thou hast My foes I do repute you every one ; [wounded : So, trouble me no more, but get you gone. Mart. He is not with himself ; let us withdraw. Quin. Not I, till Mutius' bones be buried. [Marcus and the Sons of Titus Tcneel. Marc. Brother, for in that name doth nature plead, — [speak, — Quin. Father, and in that name doth nature Tit. Speak thou no more, if all the rest will speed. Marc. Renowned Titus, more than half my soul, — Luc. Dear father, soul and substance of us all, — Marc. Suffer thy brother Marcus to inter His noble nephew here in virtue's nest, That died in honour and Lavinia's cause. Thou art a Roman ; be not barbarous : The Greeks upon advice did bury Ajax That slew himself; and wise Laertes' son Did graciously plead for his funerals : Let not young Mutius, then, that was thy joy, Be barr'd his entrance here. Tit. Rise, Marcus, rise. The dismall'st day is this that e'er I saw, To be dishonour'd by my sons in Rome ! Well, bury him, and bury me the next. [Mutius is put into the tomh. Lite. There lie thy bones, sweet Mutius, with thy friends. Till we with trophies do adorn thy tomb. All. [Kneeling] No man shed tears for noble Mu- He lives in fame that died in virtue's cause, [tius ; Marc. My lord, to step out of these dreary dumps. How comes it that the subtle Queen of Goths Is of a sudden thus advanced in Rome ? Tit. I know not, Marcus ; but I know it is : Whether by device or no, the heavens can tell : Is she not then beholding to the man That brought her for this high good turn so far ? Yes, and will nobly him remunerate. Flourish. Re-enter, from one side, Saturninus attended, Tamora, Demetrius, Chiron, and Aaron; from the other, Bassianus, Lavinia, and others. Sat. So, Bassianus, you have play'd your prize : God give you joy, sir, of your gallant bride ! Bas. And you of yours, my lord ! I say no more, Nor wish no less ; and so, I take my leave. Sat. Traitor, if Rome have law or we have power, Thou and thy faction shall repent this rape. Bas. Rape, call you it, my lord, to seize my own. My truth-betrothed love and now my wife ? But let the laws of Rome determine all ; Meanwhile I am possess'd of that is mine. Sat. 'T is good, sir : you are very short with us ; But, if we live, we '11 be as sharp with you. Bas. My lord, what I have done, as best I may, Answer I must and shall do with my life. Only thus much I give your grace to know : By all the duties that I owe to Rome, This noble gentleman. Lord Titus here, Is in opinion and in honour wrong 'd; That in the rescue of Lavinia With his own hand did slay his youngest son, In zeal to you and highly moved to wrath To be controU'd in that he frankly gave : Receive him, then, to favour. Saturnine, That hath express'd himself in all his deeds A father and a friend to thee and Rome. Tit. Prince Bassianus, leave to plead my deeds: 'T is thou and those that have dishonour'd me. Rome and the righteous heavens be my judge, How I have loved and honour'd Saturnine ! Tarn. My worthy lord, if ever Tamora Were gracious in those princely eyes of thine, Then hear me speak indifferently for all ; And at my suit, sweet, pardon what is past. Sat. What, madam! be dishonour'd openly, And basely put it up without revenge ? Tarn. Not so, my lord ; the gods of Rome forfend I should be author to dishonour you ! But on mine honour dare I undertake For good Lord Titus' innocence in all ; Whose fury not dissembled speaks his griefs : Then, at my suit, look graciously on him; Lose not so noble a friend on vain suppose, Nor with sour looks afflict his gentle heart. [Aside to Sat.] My lord, be ruled by me, be won at Dissemble all your griefs and discontents : [last ; You are but newly planted in your throne ; Lest, then, the people, and patricians too, Upon a just survey, take Titus' part. And so supplant you for ingratitude. Which Rome reputes to be a heinous sin, Yield at entreats ; and then let me alone : I '11 find a day to massacre them all And raze their faction and their family. The cruel father and his traitorous sons. To whom I sued for my dear son's life. And make them know what 't is to let a queen Kneel in the streets and beg for grace in vain. Come, come, sweet emperor ; come, Andronicus ; Take up this good old man, and cheer the heart That dies in tempest of thy angry frown. Sat. Rise, Titus, rise ; my empress hath prevail'd. Tit. 1 thank your majesty, and her, my lord: These words, these looks, infuse new life in me. Tarn. Titus, I am incorporate in Rome, A Roman now adopted happily. And must advise the emperor for his good. This day all quarrels die, Andronicus ; And let it be mine honour, good my lord. That I have reconciled your friends and you. For you. Prince Bassianus, I have pass'd- My word and promise to the emperor. That you will be more mild and tractable. And fear not, lords, and you, Lavinia; By my advice, all humbled on your knees. You shall ask pardon of his majesty. Luc. We do, and vow to heaven and to his high* ness. That what we did was mildly as we might. Tendering our sister's honour and our own. Marc. That, on mine honour, here I do protest. 567 ACT II. TITUS ANDRONICUS. SCENE 1 = Sat. Away, and talk not; trouble us no more. Tarn. Nay, nay, sweet emperor, we must all be friends : The tribune and his nephews kneel for grace ; I will not be denied : sweet heart, look back. Sat. Marcus, for thy sake and thy brother's here, And at my lovely Tamora's entreats, I do remit these young men's heinous faults : Stand up. Lavinia, though you left me like a churl, I found a friend, and sure as death I swore I would not part a bachelor from the priest. Come, if the emperor's court can feast two brides, You are my guest, Lavinia, and your friends. This day shall be a love-day, Tamora. Tit. To-morrow, an it please your majesty To hunt the panther and the hart with me. With horn and hound we '11 give your grace bonj our. Sat. Be it so, Titus, and gramercy too. [Flourish. Exeunt. iS.CT II. SCENE I.— Borne. Before the palace. Enter Aaron. Aar. Now climbeth Tamora Olympus' top, Safe out of fortune's shot ; and sits aloft. Secure of thunder's crack or lightning flash ; Advanced above pale envy's threatening reach. As when the golden sun salutes the morn. And, having gilt the ocean with his beams, Gallops the zodiac in his glistering coach, And overlooks the highest peering hills ; So Tamora : Upon her wit doth earthly honour wait, And virtue stoops and trembles at her frovra. Then, Aaron, arm thy heart, and fit thy thoughts, To mount aloft with thy imperial mistress. And mount her pitch, whom thou in triumph long Hast prisoner held, fetter'd in amorous chains And faster bound to Aaron's charming eyes Than is Prometheus tied to Caucasus. Away with slavish weeds and servile thoughts I I will be bright, and shine in pearl and gold, To wait upon this new-made empress. To wait, said I ? to wanton with this queen, This goddess, this Semiramis, this nymph, This siren, that will charm Eome's Saturnine, And see his shipwreck and his commonweal's. Holloa ! what storm is this ? Enter Demetrius and Chiron, braving. Bern. Chiron, thy years want wit, thy wit wants edge. And manners, to intrude where I am graced ; And may, for aught thou know'st, affected be. Chi. Demetrius, thou dost over-ween in all ; And so in this, to bear me down with braves. 'T is not the difference of a year or two Makes me less gracious or thee more fortunate : I am as able and as fit as thou To serve, and to deserve my mistress' grace ; And that my sword upon thee shall approve. And plead my passions for Lavinia's love. Aar. [Aside] Clubs, clubs ! these lovers will not keep the peace. Bern. Why, boy, although our mother, unadvised, Gave you a dancing rapier by your side, Are you so desperate grown, to threat your friends ? Go to ; have your lath glued within your sheath Till you know better how to handle it. Clii. Meanwhile, sir, with the little skill I have. Full well Shalt thou perceive how much I dare. Bern. Ay, boy, grow ye so brave ? [They draw. Aar. [Coming forward] Why, how now, lords ! So near the emperor's palace dare you draw. And maintain such a quarrel openly ? Full well I wot the ground of all this grudge : I would not for a million of gold The cause were known to them it most concerns ; Nor would your noble mother for much more Be so dishonour'd in the court of Rome. For shame, put up. 568 Bern. Not I, till I have sheathed My rapier in his bosom and withal Thrust these reproachful speeches down his throat That he hath breathed in my dishonour here. Chi. For that I am prepared and full resolved. Foul-spoken coward, that thunder'st with thy tongue. And with thy weapon nothing darest perform ! Aar. Away, I say ! Now, by the gods that warlike Goths adore, This petty brabble will undo us all. Why, lords, and think you not how dangerous It is to jet upon a prince's right ? What, is Lavinia then become so loose, Or Bassianus so degenerate. That for her love such quarrels may be broach 'd Without controlment, justice, or revenge? Young lords, beware ! an should the empress know This discord's ground, the music would not please. Chi. I care not, I, knew she and all the world : I love Lavinia more than all the world. [choice : Bern. Youngling, learn thou to make some meaner Lavinia is thine elder brother's hope. Aar. Why, are ye mad ? or know ye not, in Rome How furious and impatient they be. And cannot brook competitors in love ? I tell you, lords, you do but plot your deaths By this device. Clii. Aaron, a thousand deaths Would I propose to achieve her whom I love. Aar. To achieve her I how? Dem. Why makest thou it so strange ? She is a woman, therefore may be woo'd ; She is a woman, therefore may be won; She is Lavinia, therefore must be loved. What, man! more water glideth by the mill Than wots the miller of ; and easy it is Of a cut loaf to steal a shive, we know : Though Bassianus be the emperor's brother. Better than he have worn Vulcan's badge. Aar. [Aside] Ay, and as good as Saturninus may. Bern. Then why should he despair that knows to With words, fair looks and liberality ? [court it What, hast not thou full often struck a doe. And borne her cleanly by the keeper's nose ? [so Aar. Why, then, it seems, some certain snatch or Would serve yom* turns. Chi. Ay, so the turn were served. Bern. Aaron, thou hast hit it. Aar. Would you had hit it too ! Then should not we be tired with this ado. Why, hark ye, hark ye ! and are you such fools To square for this ? would it offend you, then. That both should speed? Chi. Faith, not me. Bern. Nor me, so I were one. Aar. For shame, be friends, and join for that you 'T is policy and stratagem must do [jar : That you affect ; and so must you resolve, That what you cannot as you would achieve, You must perforce accomplish as you may. ACT II. TITUS ANDRONICUS. SCENE III. Take this of me : Lucrece was not more chaste Than this Lavinia, Bassianus' love. A speedier course than lingering languishment Must we pursue, and I have found the path. My lords, a solemn hunting is in hand ; There will the lovely Eoman ladies troop : The forest walks are wide and spacious ; And many mifrequented plots there are Fitted by kind for rape and villany : Single you thither then this dainty doe, And strike her home by force, if not by words: This way, or not at all, stand you in hope. Come, come, our empress, with her sacred wit To villany and vengeance consecrate. Will we acquaint with all that we intend : And she shall file our engines with advice. That will not suffer you to square yourselves, But to your wislies' height advance you both. The emperor's court is like the house of Fame, The palace full of tongues, of eyes, and ears : The woods are ruthless, dreadful, deaf, and dull ; There speak, and strike, brave boys, and take your turns ; There serve your lusts, shadow'd from heaven's eye, And revel in Lavinia's treasury. Chi. Thy counsel, lad, smells of no cowardice. Dem. Sit fas aut nefas, till I find the stream To cool this heat, a charm to calm these fits. Per Styga, per manes vehor. [Exeunt. SCENE II. — A forest near Borne. Horns and cry of hounds heard. Enter Titus Andronicus, with Hunters, &c., Mar- cus, Lucius, Quintus, and Martius. Tit. The hunt is up, the mom is bright and grey, The fields are fragrant and the woods are green : Uncouple here and let us make a bay And wake the emperor and his lovely bride And rouse the prince and ring a hunter's peal. That all the court may echo with the noise. Sons, let it be your charge, as it is ours. To attend the emperor's person carefully : I have been troubled in my sleep this night. But dawning day new comfort hath inspired. A cry of hounds, and horns toinded in a peal. Enter Sat- iiminus, Tamora, Bassianus, Lavinia, Demetrius, Chiron, and Attendants. Many good morrows to your majesty; Madam, to you as many and as good: I promised your grace a hunter's peal. Sat. And you have rung it lustily, my lord; Somewhat too early for new-married ladies. Bas. Lavinia, how say you ? Lav. I say, no ; I have been broad awake two hours and more. Sat. Come on, then; horse and chariots let us have, And to our sport. [To Tamora] Madam, now shall Our Eoman hunting. [ye see Marc. I have dogs, my lord, Will rouse the proudest panther in the chase, And climb the highest promontory top. Tit. And I have horse will follow where the game Makes way, and run like swallows o'er the plain. Bern. Chiron, we hunt not, we, with horse nor hound. But hope to pluck a dainty doe to ground. [Exeunt. SCENE III. — A lonely part of the forest. Enter Aaron, with a bag of gold. Aar. He that had wit would think that I had none. To bury so much gold under a tree. And never after to inherit it. Let him that thinks of me so abjectly Know that this gold must coin a stratagem, Which, cunningly effected, will beget A very excellent piece of villany : And so repose, sweet gold, for their unrest [Hides the gold. That have their alms out of the empress' chest. Enter Tamora. Tarn. My lovely Aaron , wherefore look'st thou sad, When everything doth make a gleeful boast ? The birds chant melody on every bush, The snake lies rolled in the cheerful sun. The green leaves quiver with the cooling wind And make a chequer'd shadow on the ground : Under their sweet shade, Aaron, let us sit. And, whilst the babbling echo mocks the hounds, Eeplying shrilly to the well-tuned horns, As if a double hunt were heard at once. Let us sit down and mark their yelping noise ; And, after conflict such as was supposed The wandering prince and Dido once enjoy'd, When with a happy storm they were surprised And curtain'd with a counsel-keeping cave. We may, each wreathed in the other's arms. Our pastimes done, possess a golden slumber; Whiles hounds and horns and sweet melodious birds Be unto us as is a nurse's song Of lullaby to bring her babe asleep. Aar. Madam, though Venus govern your desires, Saturn is dominator over mine : What signifies my deadly-standing eye, My silence and my cloudy melancholy, My fleece of woolly hair that now uncurls Even as an adder when she doth unroll To do some fatal execution ? No, madam, these are no venereal signs : Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand, Blood and revenge are hammering in my head. Hark, Tamora, the empress of my soul. Which never hopes more heaven than rests in thee, This is the day of doom for Bassianus : His Philomel must lose her tongue to-day, Thy sons make pillage of her chastity And wash their hands in Bassianus' blood. Seest thou this letter ? take it up, I pray thee, And give the king this fatal-plotted scroll. Now question me no more ; we are espied ; Here comes a parcel of our hopeful booty. Which dreads not yet their lives' destruction. Tarn. Ah, my sweet Moor, sweeter to me than life! Aar. No more, great empress; Bassianus comes: Be cross with him ; and I '11 go fetch thy sons To back thy quarrels, whatsoe'er they be. [Exit. Enter Bassianus and Lavinia. Bas. Who have we here ? Eome's royal empress, Unfurnish'd of her well -beseeming troop '? Or is it Dian, habited like her. Who hath abandoned her holy groves To see the general hunting in this forest ? Tam. Saucy controller of our private steps ! Had I the power that some say Dian had. Thy temples should be planted presently With horns, as was Actseon's; and the hounds Should drive upon thy new-transformed limbs. Unmannerly intruder as thou art ! Lav. Under your patience, gentle empress, 'T is thought you have a goodly gift in horning ; And to be doubted that your Moor and you Are singled forth to try experiments : Jove shield your husband from his hounds to-day! 'T is pity they should take him for a stag. -Bas. Believe me, queen, your swarth Cimmerian Doth make your honour of his body's hue. Spotted, detested, and abominable. Why are you sequester'd from all your train, Dismounted from your snow-white goodly steed, And wander 'd hither to an obscure plot, 569 ACT II. TITUS ANDRONICUS. SCENE III. Accompanied but with a barbarous Moor, If foul desire had not conducted you ? Lav. And, being intercepted in your sport, Great reason that my noble lord be rated For sauciness. I pray you, let us hence. And let her joy her raven-colour 'd love ; This valley fits the purpose passing well. Bas. The king my brother shall have note of this. Lav. Ay, for these slips have made him noted long : Good king, to be so mightily abused ! Tarn. Why have I patience to endure all this ? Enter Demetrius and Chiron. Bern. How now, dear sovereign, and our gracious mother ! "Why doth your highness look so pale and wan ? Tarn. Have I not reason, think you, to look pale ? These two have 'ticed me hither to this place : A barren detested vale, you see it is ; The trees, though summer, yet forlorn and lean, O'ercome with moss and baleful mistletoe : Here never shines the sun ; here nothing breeds, Unless the nightly owl or fatal raven : And when they show'd me this abhorred pit, They told me, here, at dead time of the night, A thousand fiends, a thousand hissing snakes. Ten thousand swelling toads, as many urchins, Would make such fearful and confused cries As any mortal body hearing it Should straight fall mad, or else die suddenly. No sooner had they told this hellish tale. But straight they told me they would bind me here Unto the body of a dismal yew. And leave me to this miserable death : And then they call'd me foul adulteress. Lascivious Goth, and all the bitterest terms That ever ear did hear to such effect : And, had you not by wondrous fortune come, This vengeance on me had they executed. Revenge it, as you love your mother's life, Or be ye not henceforth call'd my children. Dem. This is a witness that I am thy son. IStabs Bassianus. Chi. And this for me, struck home to show my strength. [Also stabs Bassianus, who dies. Lav. Ay, come, Semiramis, nay, barbarous Ta- Tor no name fits thy nature but thy own ! [mora. Tarn. Give me thy poniard ; you shall know, my boys. Your mother's hand shall right your mother's wrong. Bern. Stay, madam; here is more belongs to her ; First thrash the corn, then after burn the straw : This minion stood upon her chastity. Upon her nuptial vow, her loyalty. And with that painted hope braves your mightiness : And shall she carry this unto her grave ? Chi. An if she do, I would I were an eunuch. Drag hence her husband to some secret hole. And make his dead trunk pillow to our lust. Tarn. But when ye have the honey ye desire, Let not this wasp outlive, us both to sting. Chi. I warrant you, madam, we will make that Come, mistress, now perforce we will enjoy [sure. That nice-preserved honesty of yours. Lav. O Tamora ! thou bear'st a woman's face, — Tarn. I will not hear her speak ; away with her ! Lav. Sweet lords, entreat her hear me but a word. -Dem. Listen, fair madam: let it be your glory To see her tears ; but be your heart to them As unrelenting flint to drops of rain. [dam ? Lav. When did the tiger's young ones teach the O, do not learn her wrath ; she taught it thee ; The milk thou suck'dst from her did turn to marble ; Even at thy teat thou hadst thy tyranny. Yet every mother breeds not sons alike : [To Chiron] Do thou entreat her show a woman pity. 570 Chi. What, wouldst thou have me prove myself a bastard ? Lav. 'T is true; the raven doth not hatch a lark: Yet have I heard, — O, could 1 find it now ! — The lion moved with pity did endure To have his princely paws pared all away : Some say that ravens foster forlorn children, The whilst their own birds famish in their nests: O, be to me, though thy hard heart say no, Nothing so kind, but something pitiful ! Tarn. I know not what it means ; away with her ! Lav. O, let me teach thee ! for my father's sake, That gave thee life, when well he might have slain Be not obdurate, open thy deaf ears. [thee, Tarn. Hadst thou in person ne'er offended me, Even for his sake am I pitiless. Eemember, boys, I pour'd forth tears in vain, To save your brother from the sacrifice ; But fierce Andronicus would not relent : Therefore, away with her, and use her as you will. The worse to her, the better loved of me. Lav. O Tamora, be call'd a gentle queen. And with thine own hands kill me in this place ! For 'tis not life that I have begg'd so long; Poor I was slain when Bassianus died. [me go. Tarn. What begg'st thou, then ? fond woman, let Lav. 'Tis present death I beg; and one thing That womanhood denies my tongue to tell : [more O, keep me from their worse than killing lust. And tumble me into some loathsome pit. Where never man 's eye may behold my body: Do this, and be a charitable murderer. Tarn. So should I rob my sweet sons of their fee : No, let them satisfy their lust on thee. Bern. Away ! for thou hast stay'd us here too long. Lav. No grace? no womanhood? Ah, beastly crea- The blot and enemy to our general name ! [ture ! Confusion fall — Chi. Nay, then I '11 stop your mouth. Bring thou her husband : This is the hole where Aaron bid us hide him. [Bemetrius throws the body of Bassianus into the pit; then exeunt Bemetrius and CJiiron, drag- ging off Lavinia. Tarn. Farewell, my sons : see that you make her Ne'er let my heart know merry cheer indeed, [sure. Till aU the Andronici be made away. Now win I hence to seek my lovely Moor, And let my spleenful sons this trull deflour. [Exit. Be-enter Aaron, with Quintus and Martins. Aar. Come on, my lords, the better foot before : Straight will I bring you to the loathsome pit Where I espied the panther fast asleep. Quin. My sight is very dull, whate'er it bodes. Mart. And mine, I promise you ; were 't not for Well could I leave our sport to sleep awhile, [shame, [Falls into the pit. Quin. What, art thou fall'n? What subtle hole is this. Whose mouth is cover'd with rude-growing briers, Upon whose leaves are drops of new-shed blood As fresh as morning's dew distill'd on flowers ? A very fatal place it seems to me. Speak, brother, hast thou hurt thee with the fall ? Mart. O brother, with the dismall'st object hurt That ever eye with sight made heart lament ! Aar. [Aside] Now will I fetch the kkig to find them here. That he thereby may give a likely guess How these were they that made away his brother. [Exit. Mart. Why dost not comfort me, and help me out From this unhallowed and blood-stained hole ? Quin. I am surprised -with an uncouth fear : A chilling sweat o'er-runs my trembling joints : My heart suspects more than mine eye can see. ACT TITUS ANDRONICUS. SCENE IV. Mart. To prove tliou hast a true-divining heart, Aaron and thou look down into tins den, And see a fearful sight of blood and death. Quin. Aaron is gone; and my compassionate Will not permit mine eyes once to behold [lieart The thing whereat it trembles by surmise : O, tell me how it is; for ne'er till now Was I a child to fear I know not what. Mart. Lord Bassianus lies embrewed here, All on a heap, like to a slaughter'd lamb, In this detested, dark, blood-drinking pit. Qitin. If it be dark, how dost thou know 't is he ? Mart. Upon his bloody finger he doth wear A precious ring, that lightens all the hole. Which, like a taper in some monument. Doth shine upon the dead man's earthy cheeks, And shows the ragged entrails of the pit : So pale did shine the moon on Pyramus When he by night lay bathed in maiden blood. brother, help me with thy fainting hand — If fear hath made thee faint, as me it hath — Out of this fell devouring receptacle, As hateful as Cocytus' misty mouth. [out ; Q,uin. Keach me thy hand, that 1 may help thee Or, wanting strength to do thee so much good, 1 may be pluck 'd into the swallowing womb Of this deep pit, poor Bassianus' grave. I have no strength to pluck thee to the brink. Mart. Nor I no strength to climb without thy help. Quin. Thy hand once more ; I will not loose again. Till thou art here aloft, or I below ; Thou canst not come to me : I come to thee. „ „ . . , [Falls in. Enter Saturnmus with Aaron. Sat. Along with me : I '11 see what hole is here, And what he is that now is leap'd into it. Say, who art thou that lately didst descend Into this gaping hollow of the earth ? Mart. The unhappy son of old Andronicus ; Brought hither in a most unlucky hour, To find thy brother Bassianus dead. Sat. My brother dead ! I know thou dost but jest : He and his lady both are at the lodge Upon the north side of this pleasant chase ; 'T is not an hour since I left him there. Mart. We know not where you left him all alive ; But, out, alas ! here have we found him dead. He-enter Tamora, with, Attendants; Titus An- dronicus, and Lucius. Tarn. Where is my lord the king ? [grief. Sat. Here, Tamora, though grieved with killing Ta7n. Where is thy brother Bassianus ? Sat. jSTow to the bottom dost thou search my Poor Bassianus here lies murdered. [wound : Tarn. Then all too late I bring this fatal writ, The complot of this timeless tragedy; And wonder greatly that man's face can fold In pleasing smiles such murderous tyranny. [She giveth Saturnine a letter. Sat. [Beads] ' An if we miss to meet him hand- somely — Sweet huntsman, Bassianus 't is we mean- Do thou so much as dig the grave for him : Thou know'st our meaning. Look for thy reward Among the nettles at the elder-tree Which overshades the mouth of that same pit Where we decreed to bury Bassianus. Do this, and piu'chase us thy lasting friends.' O Tamora ! was ever heard the like ? This is the pit, and this the elder-tree. Look, sirs, if you can find the huntsman out That should have murder'd Bassianus here. Aar. My gracious lord, here is the bag of gold. Sat. [To Titus] Two of thy whelps, fell curs of bloody kind. Have here bereft my brother of his life. Sirs, drag them from the pit unto the prison : There let them bide until Ave have devised Some never-heard-of torturing pain for them. Tarn. What, are they in this pit ? O wondrous How easily murder is discovered ! [thing ! Tit. High emperor, upon my feeble knee I beg this boon, with tears not lightly shed, That this fell fault of my accursed sons, Accursed, if the fault be proved in them, — Sat. If it be proved ! you see it is apparent. Who found this letter ? Tamora, was it you ? Tarn. Andronicus himself did take it up. Tit. I did, my lord : yet let me be their bail; For, by my father's reverend tomb, I vow They shall be ready at your highness' will To answer their suspicion with their lives. Sat. Thou Shalt not bail them: see thou follow me. Some bring the murder'd body, some the murderers : Let them not speak a word ; the guilt is plain ; For, by my soul, were there worse end than death. That end upon them should be executed. Tarn. Andronicus, I will entreat the king : Fear not thy sons ; they shall do well enough. Tit. Come, Lucius, come ; stay not to talk with them. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. — Another ijart of the forest. Enter Demetrius and Cliiron, with Lavinia, ravished; her hands cut off, and her tongue cut out. Dem. So, now go tell, an if thy tongue can speak, Who 'twas that cut thy tongue and ravish'd thee ! Chi. Write down thy mind, bewray thy meaning An if thy stumps will let thee play the scribe, [so, Bern. See, how with signs and tokens she can scrowl. [hands. Chi. Go home, call for sweet water, wash thy Dem. She hath no tongue to call, nor hands to And so let 's leave her to her silent walks, [wash ; Chi. An 't were my case, I should go hang myself. Bern. If thou hadst hands to help thee knit the cord. [Exeunt Demetrius and Chiron. Enter Marcus. Mar. Wlio is this? my niece, that flies away so Cousin, a word : where is your husband ? [fast ! If I do dream, would all my wealth would wake me I If I do wake, some planet strike me down, That I may slumber in eternal sleep ! Speak, gentle niece, what stern ungentle hands Have lopp'd and hew'd and made thy body bare Of her two branches, those sweet ornaments. Whose circling shadows kings have sought to sleep And might not gain so great a happiness [in, As have thy love ? Why dost not speak to me V Alas, a crimson river of warm blood. Like to a bubbling fountain stirr'd with wind. Doth rise and fall between thy rosed lips. Coming and going with thy honey breath. But, sure, some Tereus hath deflowered thee. And, lest thou shouldst detect him, cut thy tongue. Ah, now thou turn'st away thy face for shame! And, notwithstanding all this loss of blood. As from a conduit with three issuing spouts. Yet do thy cheeks look red as Titan's face Blushing to be encounter'd with a cloud. Shall I speak for thee ? shall I say 't is so ? O, that I knew thy heart ; and knew the beast, That I might rail at him, to ease my mind ! Sorrow concealed, like an oven stopp'd, Doth burn the heart to cinders where it is. Fair Philomela, she but lost her tongue, And in a tedious sampler sew'd her mind : But, lovely niece, that mean is cut from thee; A craftier Tereus, cousin, hast thou met, And he hath cut those pretty fingers off, That could have better sew'd than Philomel. 571 ACT III. TITUS ANDRONICUS. SCENE I; O, had the monster seen those lily hands Tremble, like aspen-leaves, upon a lute, And make the silken strings delight to kiss them, He would not then have touch 'd them for his life! Or, had he heard the heavenly harmony "Which that sweet tongue hath made, He would have dropp'd his knife, and fell asleep As Cerberus at the Thracian poet's feet. Come, let us go, and make thy father blind ; For such a sight will blind a father's eye : One hour's storm will drown the fragrant meads ; What wUl whole months of tears thy father's eyes ? Do not draw back, for we will mourn with thee : O, could our mourning ease thy misery ! {Exeunt. A.OT III. SCENE l.~Bome. A street. Enter Judges, Senators and Tribunes, with Martins and Quintus, hound, passing on to the place of execution ; Titus going before, pleading. Tit. Hear me, grave fathers ! noble tribunes, stay ! For pity of mine age, whose youth was spent In dangerous wars, whilst you securely slept ; For all my blood in Rome's great quarrel shed ; For all the frosty nights that I have watch 'd ; And for these bitter tears, which now you see Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheeks ; Be pitiful to my condemned sons. Whose souls are not corrupted as 't is thought. For two and twenty sous I never wept, Because they died in honour's lofty bed. [Lieth down; the Judges, &c. pass by him, and Exeunt. For these, these, tribunes, in the dust I write My heart's deep languor and my soul's sad tears : Let my tears stanch the earth's dry appetite ; My sons' sweet blood will make it shame and blush. O earth, I will befriend thee more with rain, That shall distil from these two ancient urns, Than youthful April shall with all his showers : In summer's drought I '11 drop upon thee still ; In winter with warm tears I '11 melt tlie snow, And keep eternal spring-time on thy face. So thou refuse to drink my dear sons' blood. Enter Lucius, with his sword drawn. O reverend tribunes ! O gentle, aged men ! Unbind my sons, reverse the doom of death; And let me say, that never wept before, My tears are now prevailing orators. Lite. O noble father, you lament in vain : The tribunes hear you not ; no man is by ; And you recount your sorrows to a stone. Tit. Ah, Lucius, for thy brothers let me plead. Grave tribunes, once more I entreat of you, — Luc. My gracious lord, no tribune hears you speak. Tit. Why, 'tis no matter, man : if they did hear, They would not mark me, or if they did mark, They would not pity me, yet plead I must ; And bootless unto them . . . Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones ; Who, though they cannot answer my distress. Yet in some sort they are better than the tribunes, For that they will not intercept my tale : When I do weep, they humbly at my feet Receive my tears and seem to weep with me ; And, were they but attired in grave weeds, Rome could afford no tribune like to these. A stone is soft as wax, — tribunes more hard than A stone is silent, and offendeth not, [stones ; And tribunes with their tongues doom men to death. [Bises. But wherefore stand'st thou with thy weapon drawn ? Luc. To rescue my two brothers from their death : For which attempt the judges have pronounced My everlasting doom of banishment. Tit. O happy man ! they have befriended thee. Why, foolish Lucius, dost thou not perceive 572 That Rome is but a wilderness of tigers ? Tigers must prey, and Rome affords no prey B\it me and mine : how happy art thou, then, From these devourers to be banished ! But who comes with our brother Marcus here ? Enter Marcus and Lavinia. Marc. Titus, prepare thy aged eyes to weep; Or, if not so, thy noble heart to break : I bring consuming sorrow to thine age. Tit. Will it consume me ? let me see it, then. Marc. This was thy daughter. Tit. Why, Marcus, so she is. Luc. Ay me, this object kills me ! Tit. Faint-hearted boy, arise, and look upon her. Speak, Lavinia, what accursed hand Hath made thee handless in thy father's sight ? What fool hath added water to the sea, Or brought a faggot to bright-burning Troy ? My grief was at the height before thou camest, And now, like Nilus, it disdaineth bounds. Give me a sword, I '11 chop off my hands too ; For they have fought for Rome, and all in vain ; And they have nursed this woe, in feeding life; In bootless pi-ayer have they been held up. And they have served me to effectless use : Now all the service I require of them Is that the one will help to cut the other. 'Tis well, Lavinia, that thou hast no hands; For hands, to do Rome service, are but vain. Luc. Speak, gentle sister, who hath martyr'd thee ? Marc. O, that delightful engine of her thoughts, That blabb'd them with such pleasing eloquence. Is torn from forth that pretty hollow cage, Where, like a sweet melodious bird, it sung Sweet varied notes, enchanting every ear ! Jjuc. O, say thou for her, who hath done this deed ? Marc. O, thus I found her, straying in the park, Seeking to hide herself, as doth the deer That hath received some unrecuring wound. Tit. It was my deer ; and he that wounded her Hath hurt me more than had he kill'd me dead : For now I stand as one upon a rock Environ'd with a wilderness of sea. Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave, Expecting ever when some envious surge Will in his brinish bowels swallow him. This way to death my wretched sons are gone; Here stands my other son, a banish'd man. And here my brother, weeping at my woes : But that which gives my soul the greatest spurn. Is dear Lavinia, dearer than my soul. Had I but seen thy picture in this plight. It would have madded me : what shall I do Now I behold thy lively body so i* Thou hast no hands, to wipe away thy tears ; Nor tongue, to tell me who hath martyr'd thee : Thy husband he is dead ; and for his death Thy brothers are condemn'd, and dead by this. Look, Marcus ! ah, son Lucius, look on her ! When I did name her brothers, then fresh tears Stood on her cheeks, as doth the honey-dew Upon a gather'd lily almost wither'd. ACT III. TITUS ANDR0NICU8. SCENE I. Marc. Perchance she weeps because they kill'd her husband ; Perchance because she Imows them innocent. Tit. If they did kill thy husband, then be joyful, Because the law hath ta'en revenge on them. No, no, they would not do so foul a deed ; Witness the sorrow that their sister makes. Gentle Lavinia, let me kiss thy lips ; Or make some sign how I may do thee ease : Shall thy good uncle, and thy brother Lucius, And thou, and I, sit round about some fountain, Looking all downwards, to behold our cheeks How they are stain 'd, as meadows, yet not dry, With miry slime left on them by a flood ? And in the fountain shall we gaze so long Till the fresh taste be taken from that clearness. And made a brine-pit with our bitter tears ? Or shall we cut away our hands, like thine ? Or shall we bite our tongues, and in dumb shows Pass the remainder of our hateful days V What shall we do ? let us, that have our tongues. Plot some device of further misery. To make us wonder'd at in time to come. [grief, Luc. Sweet father, cease your tears ; for, at your See how my wretched sister sobs and weeps. . Ifarc. Patience, dear niece. Good Titus, dry thine eyes. Tit. Ah, Marcus, Marcus ! brother, well I wot Thy napkin cannot drink a tear of mine. For thou, poor man, hast drown 'd it with thine own. Luc. Ah, my Lavinia, I will wipe thy cheeks. Tit. Mark, Marcus, mark! I understand her signs: Had she a tongue to speak, now would she say That to her brother which I said to thee : His napkin, with his true tears all bewet. Can do no service on her sorrowful cheeks. O, what a sympathy of woe is this. As far from help as Limbo is from bliss ! Enter Aaron. Aar. Titus Andronicus, my lord the emperor Sends thee this word,— that, if thou love thy sons, Let Marcus, Lucius, or thyself, old Titus, Or any one of you, chop off your hand, And send it to the king : he for the same Will send thee hither both thy sons alive ; And that shall be the ransom for their fault. Tit. O gracious emperor ! O gentle Aaron ! Did ever raven sing so like a lark. That gives sweet tidings of the sun's uprise? With all my heart, I '11 send the emperor My hand : Good Aaron, wilt thou help to chop it off ? Luc. Stay, father ! for that noble hand of thine. That hath thrown down so many enemies, Shall not be sent : my hand will serve the turn : My youth can better spare my blood than you ; And therefore mine shall save my brothers' lives. Marc. Which of your hands hath not defended And rear'd aloft the bloody battle-axe, [Kome, Writing destruction on the enemy's castle V O, none of both but are of high desert : My hand hath been but idle ; let it serve To ransom my two nephews from their death ; Then have I kept it to a worthy end. Aar. Nay, come, agree whose hand shall go along, Por fear they die before their pardon come. Marc. My hand shall go. Imc. By heaven, it shall not go ! Tit. Sirs, strive no more : such wither 'd herbs as these Are meet for plucking up, and therefore mine. Luc. Sweet father, if I shall be thought thy son. Let me redeem my brothers both from death. Marc. And, for our father's sake and mother's care, Now let me show a brother's love to thee. Tit. Agree between you ; I will spare my hand. Luc. Then I '11 go fetch an axe. Marc. But I will use the axe. [Exeunt Lucius and Marcus. Tit. Come hither, Aaron; I '11 deceive them both: Lend me thy hand, and I will give thee mine. Aar. [Aside] If that be call'd deceit, I will be honest. And never, whilst I live, deceive men so : But I '11 deceive you in another sort. And that you '11 say, ere half an hour pass. [Cuts off Titus^s hand. He-enter Lucius and Marcus. Tit. Now stay your strife : what shall be is dis- Good Aaron, give his majesty my hand : [patch'd. Tell him it was a hand that warded him From thousand dangers ; bid him bury it ; More hath it merited ; that let it have. As for my sons, say I account of them As jewels purchased at an easy price ; And yet dear too, because I bought mine own. Aar. I go, Andronicus: and for thy hand Look by and by to have thy sons with thee. [Aside] Their heads, I mean. O, how this villany Doth fat me with the very thoughts of it ! Let fools do good, and fair men call for grace, Aaron will have his soul black like his face. [Exit. Tit. O, here I lift this one hand up to heaven, And bow this feeble ruin to the earth : If any power pities wretched tears, [me ? To that I call! [To Lav.] What, wilt thou kneel with Do, then, dear heart; for heaven shall hear our prayers ; Or with our sighs we '11 breathe the welkin dim. And stain the sun with fog, as sometime clouds When they do hug him in their melting bosoms. Marc. O brother, speak with possibilities. And do not break into these deep extremes. Tit. Is not my sorrow deep, having no bottom ? Then be my passions bottomless with them. Marc. But yet let reason govern thy lament. Tit. If there were reason for these miseries, Then into limits could I bind my woes : When heaven doth weep, doth not the earth o'erflow? If the winds rage, doth not the sea wax mad. Threatening the welkin with his big-swoln face ? And wilt thou have a reason for this coil ? I am the sea ; hark, how her sighs do blow! She is the weeping welkin, I the earth : Then must my sea be moved with her sighs ; Then must my earth with her continual tears Become a deluge, overflow 'd and drown 'd ; For why my bowels cannot hide her woes. But like a drunkard must I vomit them. Then give me leave, for losers will have leave To ease their stomachs with their bitter tongues. Enter a Messenger, with two heads and a hand. Mess. Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repaid For that good hand thou sent'st the emperor. Here are the heads of thy two noble sons ; And here 's thy hand, in scorn to thee sent back ; Thy griefs their sports, thy resolution mock'd; That woe is me to think upon thy woes More than remembrance of my father's death. [Exit. Marc. Now let hot ^tna cool in Sicily, And be my heart an ever-burning hell ! These miseries are more than may be borne. To weep with them that weep doth ease some deal ; But sorrow flouted at is double death. Luc. Ah, that this sight should make so deep a wound. And yet detested life not shrink thereat ! That ever death should let life bear his name, Where life hath no more interest but to breathe ! [Lavinia kisses Titus- 573 ACT III. TITUS ANDRONICUS. SCENE i: Marc. Alas, poor heart, that kiss is comfortless As frozen water to a starved snake. Tit. When will this fearful slumber have an end ? Marc. Now, farewell, flattery: die, Andronicus ; Thou dost not slumber: see, thy two sons' heads, Thy warlike hand, thy mangled daughter here ; Thy other banish'd son, with this dear sight Struck pale and bloodless ; and thy brother, I, Even like a stony image, cold and numb. Ah, now no more will I control thy griefs: Kend off thy silver hair, thy other hand Gnawing with thy teeth ; and be this dismal sight The closing up of our most wretched eyes : Now is a time to storm ; why art thou still ? Tit. Ha, ha, ha ! Marc. "Why dost thou laugh? it fits not with this hour. Tit. Why, I have not another tear to shed : Besides, this sorrow is an enemy, And would usurp upon my watery eyes, And make them blind with tributary tears : Then which way shall I find Revenge's cave ? For these two heads do seem to speak to me, And threat me I shall never come to bliss Till all these mischiefs be return 'd again Even in their throats that have committed them. Come, let me see what task I have to do. You heavy people, circle me about, That I may turn me to each one of you. And swear unto my soul to right your wrongs. The vow is made. Come, brother, take a head; And in this hand the other will I bear. Lavinia, thou shalt be employ 'd : these arms ! Bear thou my hand, sweet wench, between thy teeth. As for thee, boy, go get thee from my sight ; Thou art an exile, and thou must not stay : Hie to the Goths, and raise an army there : And, if you love me, as I think you do, Let 's kiss and part, for we have much to do. [Exeunt Titus, Marcus, and Lavinia. Luc. Farewell, Andronicus, my noble father, The wofuU'st man that ever lived in Kome : Farewell, proud Rome ; till Lucius come again, He leaves his pledges dearer than his life : Farewell, Lavinia, my noble sister; O, would thou wert as thou tofore hast been! But now nor Lucius nor Lavinia lives But in oblivion and hateful griefs. If Lucius live, he will requite your wrongs ; And make proud Saturnine and his empress Beg at the gates, like Tarquin and his queen. Now will I to the Goths, and raise a power. To be revenged on Rome and Saturnine. [Exit. SCENE II. — A room in Titus'' s house. A banquet set out. Enter Titus, Marcus, Lavinia, and young Lucius, a Boy. Tit. So, so ; now sit : and look you eat no more Than will preserve just so much strength in us As will revenge these bitter woes of ours. Marcus, unknit that sorrow- vn-eathen knot : Thy niece and I, poor creatures, want our hands. And cannot passionate our tenfold grief With folded arms. This poor right hand of mine Is left to tyrannize upon my breast ; Who, when my heart, all mad with misery. Beats in this hollow prison of my flesh. Then thus I thump it down. [To Lavinia.] Thou map of woe, that thus dost talk in signs ! When thy poor heartbeats with outrageous beating. Thou canst not strike it thus to make it still. Wound it with sighing, girl, kill it with groans ; 574 Or get some little knife between thy teeth. And just against thy heart make thou a holev That all the tears that thy poor eyes let fall May run into that sink, and soaking in Drown the lamenting fool in sea-salt tears. Marc. Fie, brother, fie ! teach her not thus to lay Such violent hands upon her tender life. Tit. How now! has sorrow made thee dote already? Why, Marcus, no man should be mad but I. What violent hands can she lay on her life ? Ah, wherefore dost thou urge the name of hands; To bid ^neas tell the tale twice o'er. How Troy was burnt and he made miserable ? O, handle not the theme, to talk of hands. Lest we remember still that we have none. Fie, fie, how franticly I square my talk. As if we should forget we had no hands, If Marcus did not name the word of hands ! Come, let 's fall to ; and, gentle girl, eat this : Here is no drink ! Hark, Marcus, what she says ; I can interpret all her martyr'd signs ; She says she drinks no other drink but tears, Brew'd with her sorrow, mesh'd upon her cheeks : Speechless complainer, I will learn thy thought ; In thy dumb action will I be as perfect As begging hermits in their holy prayers : Thou shalt not sigh, nor hold thy stumps to heaven, Nor wink, nor nod, nor kneel, nor make a sign. But I of these will wrest an alphabet And by still practice learn to know thy meaning. Boy. Good grandsire, leave these bitter deep laments : Make my aunt merry with some pleasing tale. Marc. Alas, the tender boy, in passion moved. Doth weep to see his grandsire's heaviness. Tit. Peace, tender sapling ; thou art made of tears, And tears will quickly melt thy life away. [Marcus strikes the dish with a knife. What dost thou strike at, Marcus, with thy knife ? Marc. At that that I have kill'd, my lord ; a fly. Tit. Out on thee, murderer! thou kill'st my heart ; Mine eyes are cloy'd with view of tyranny : A deed of death done on the innocent Becomes not Titus' brother: get thee gone; I see thou art not for my company. Marc. Alas, my lord, I have but kill'd a fly. Tit. But how, if that fly had a father and mother ? How would he hang his slender gilded wings. And buzz lamenting doings in the air ! Poor harmless fly. That, with his pretty buzzing melody. Came here to make us merry ! and thou hast kill'd him. Marc. Pardon me, sir ; it was a black ill-favour'd fly, Like to the empress' Moor; therefore I kill'd him. Tit. O, O, O, Then pardon me for reprehending thee, For thou hast done a charitable deed. Give me thy knife, I will insult on him; Flattering myself, as if it were the Moor Come hither purposely to poison me. — There 's for thyself, and that 's for Tamora. Ah, sirrah ! Yet, I think, we are not brought so low. But that between us we can kill a fly That comes in likeness of a coal-black Moor. Marc. Alas, poor man ! grief has so wrought on him, He takes false shadows for true substances. Tit. Come, take away. Lavinia, go with me : I '11 to thy closet ; and go read with thee Sad stories chanced in the times of old. Come, boy, and go with me : thy sight is young. And thou shalt read when mine begin to dazzle. [Exeunt. TITUS ANDRONICUS. SCENE I. ^OT IV. SCENE I. — Bcrnie. Titus^s garden. Enter young Lucius, and Lavinia running after him, and the hoy flies from her, with books under his arm. Then enter Titus and Marcus. Young Luc. Help, grandsire, help! my aunt Lavinia ToUows me every where, I know not why : Good uncle Marcus, see how swift she comes. Alas, sweet aunt, I know not what you mean. Marc. Stand by me, Lucius; do not fear thine aunt. Tit. She loves thee, boy, too well to do thee harm. Young Luc. Ay, wlien my father was in Eome she did. {signs ? Marc. What means my niece Lavinia by these Tit. Fear her not, Lucius: somewhat doth she mean: See, Lucius, see how much she makes of thee : Somewhither would she have thee go with her. Ah, boy, Cornelia never with more care Read to her sons than she hath read to thee 'Sweet poetry and TuUy's Orator. Marc. Canst thou not guess wherefore she plies thee thus ? [guess. Young Luc. My lord, I know not, I, nor can I Unless some fit or frenzy do possess her : For I have heard my grandsire say full oft. Extremity of griefs would make men mad ; And I have read that Hecuba of Troy Ran mad through sorrow : that made me to fear ; Although, my lord, I know my noble aunt Loves me as dear as e'er my mother did. And would not, but in fury, fright my youth : "Which made me down to throw my books, and fly ,— Causeless, perhaps. But pardon me, sweet aunt : And, madam, if my uncle Marcus go, I will most willingly attend your ladyship. Marc. Lucius, I will. [Lavinia turns over with her stumps the books which Lucius has let fall. Tit. How now, Lavinia! Marcus, what means Some book there is that she desires to see. [this ? Which is it, girl, of these ? Open them, boy. But thou art deeper read, and better skill'd: Come, and take choice of all my library. And so beguile thy sorrow, till the heavens Reveal the damn'd contriver of this deed. Why lifts she up her arms in sequence thus ? Marc. I think she means that there was more than one Confederate in the fact : ay, more there was ; Or else to heaven she heaves them for revenge. Tit. Lucius, what book is that she tosseth so ? Young Luc. Grandsire, 't is Ovid's Metamorpho- My mother gave it me. [ses ; Marc. For love of her that 's gone, Perhaps she cuU'd it from among the rest. Tit. Soft ! see how busily she turns the leaves ! [Heljnng her. What would she find ? Lavinia, shall I read ? This is the tragic tale of Philomel, And treats of Tereus' treason and his rape; And rape, I fear, was root of thine annoy. Marc. See, brother, see ; note how she quotes the leaves. [girl, Tit. Lavinia, wert thou thus surprised, sweet Ravish 'd and wrong 'd, as Philomela was. Forced in the ruthless, vast, and gloomy woods ? See, see ! Ay, such a place there is, where we did hunt — O, had we never, never hunted there ! — Pattern 'd by that the poet here describes, By nature made for murders and for rapes. Marc. O, why should nature build so foul a den, Unless the gods delight in tragedies ? [friends. Tit. Give signs, sweet girl, for here are none but What Roman lord it was durst do the deed : Or slunk not Saturnine, as Tarquin erst. That left the camp to sin in Lucrece' bed ? Marc. Sit down, sweet niece: brother, sit down Apollo, Pallas, Jove, or Mercury, [by me. Inspire me, that I may this treason find ! My lord, look here : look here, Lavinia : This sandy plot is plain ; guide, if thou canst. This after me, when I have writ my name Without the help of any hand at all. [He writes his name with his stajf, and guides it with feet and mouth. Cursed be that heart that forced us to this shift ! Write thou, good niece; and here display, at last, What God will have discover'd for revenge : Heaven guide thy pen to print thy sorrows plain. That we may know the traitors and the truth ! [She takes the staff in her mouth, and guides it with her stumps, and writes. Tit. O, do ye read, my lord, what she hath writ ? 'Stuprum. Chiron. Demetrius.' Marc. What, what ! the lustful sons of Tamora Performers of this heinous, bloody deed ? Tit. Magni Dominator poll, Tam lentus audis scelera ? tam lentus vides ? Marc. O, calm thee, gentle lord : although I know There is enough written upon this earth To stir a mutiny in the mildest thoughts And arm the minds of infants to exclaims. My lord, kneel down with me ; Lavinia, kneel ; And kneel, sweet boy, the Roman Hector's hope; And swear with me, as, with the woful fere And father of that chaste dishonour'd dame, Lord Junius Brutus sware for Lucrece' rape, That we will prosecute by good advice Mortal revenge upon these traitorous Goths, And see their blood, or die with this reproach. Tit. 'T is sure enough, an you knew how. But if you hunt these bear-whelps, then beware: The dam will wake ; and, if she wind you once. She 's with the lion deeply still in league. And lulls him whilst she playeth on her back. And when he sleeps will she do what she list. You are a young huntsman, Marcus ; let it alone ; And, come, I will go get a leaf of brass. And with a gad of steel will write these words, And lay it by : the angry northern wind Will blow these sands, like Sibyl's leaves, abroad. And where 's your lesson, then ? Boy, what say you? Young Lu/i. I say, my lord, that if I were a man. Their mother's bed-chamber should not be safe For these bad bondmen to the yoke of Rome. Marc. Ay, that's my boy! thy father hath full oft For his ungrateful country done the like. Young Luc. And, uncle, so will I, an if I live. Tit. Come, go with me into mine armoury ; Lucius, I '11 fit thee ; and withal, my boy, Shalt carry from me to the empress' sons Presents that I intend to send them both ; Come, come ; thou 'It do thy message, wilt thou not ? Young Luc. Ay, with my dagger in their bosoms, grandsire. [course. Tit. No, boy, not so; I'll teach thee another Lavinia, come. Marcus, look to my house : Lucius and I '11 go brave it at the court ; Ay, marry, will we, sir ; and we '11 be waited on. [Exeunt Titus, Lavinia, and Young Luc. Marc. O heavens, can you hear a good man groan, And not relent, or not compassion him V Marcus, attend him in his ecstasy, 575 ACT lY. TITUS ANDRONICUS. SCENE II. That hath more scars of sorrow in his heart Than f oemen's marks upon his batter'd shield ; But yet so just tliat he will not revenge. Revenge, ye heavens, for old Audronicus ! [Exit. SCENE II. — The same. A room in theimlace. Enter, from one side, Aaron, Demetrius, and Chiron ; from the other side, young Lucius, and an Attendant, with a bundle of weapons, and verses writ upon them. Chi. Demetrius, here 's the son of Lucius ; He hath some message to deliver us. Aar. Ay, some mad message from his mad grand- father, [may, Young Luc. My lords, with all the humbleness I I greet your honours from Andronicus. [both ! [Aside] And pray the Roman gods confound you Dem. Gramercy, lovely Lucius : what 's the news ? Toung Luc. [Aside] That you are both decipher'd, that 's the news, Tor villains mark'd with rape.— May it please you, My grandsire, well advised, hath sent by me The goodliest weapons of his armoury To gratify your honourable youth. The hope of Rome ; for so he bade me say ; And so I do, and with his gifts present Your lordships, that, whenever you have need, You may be armed and appointed well: And so I leave you both : [Aside] like bloody villains. [Exeunt young Lucius and Attendant. Bern. What's here? A scroll; and written round about ? Let 's see : [Beads] ' Integer vitse, scelerisque purus, ISTon eget Mauri jaculis, nee arcu.' Chi. O, 't is a verse in Horace ; I know it well : I read it in the grammar long ago. Aar. Ay, just ; a verse in Horace ; right, you have [Aside] Now, what a thing it is to be an ass ! [it. Here 's no sound jest I the old man hath found their guilt ; And sends them weapons wrapp'd about with lines, That wound, beyond their feeling, to the quick. But were our witty empress well afoot, She would applaud Andronicus' conceit : But let her rest in her unrest awhile. And now, young lords, was 't not a happy star Led us to Rome, strangers, and more than so, Captives, to be advanced to this height ? It did me good, before the palace gate To brave the tribune in his brother's hearing. Dem. But me more good, to see so great a lord Basely insinuate and send us gifts. Aar. Had he not reason. Lord Demetrius ? Did you not use his daughter very friendly ? Dem. I would we had a thousand Roman At such a bay, by turn to serve our lust. Chi. A charitable wish and full of love. Aar. Here lacks but your mother for to say amen. Chi. And that would she for twenty thousand more. Dem. Come, let us go ; and pray to all the gods For our beloved mother in her pains. Aar. [Aside] Pray to the devils; the gods have given us over. [Trumpets sound within. Dem. Why do the emperor'strumpets flourish thus? Chi. Belike, for joy the emperor hath a son. Dem. Soft ! who comes here ? JEnter a Nurse, wth a blackamoor Child in her arms. Nur. Good morrow, lords : O, tell me, did you see Aaron the Moor ? Aar. Well, more or less, or ne'er a whit at all, Here Aaron is ; and what with Aaron now ? Nur. O gentle Aaron, we are all undone ! Now help, or woe betide thee evermore ! 576 Aar. Why, what a caterwauling dost thou keep I What dost thou wrap and fumble in thine arms ? Nur. O, that which I would hide from heaven's eye. Our empress' shame, and stately Rome's disgrace! She is deliver'd, lords ; she is deliver'd. Aar. To whom ? Nur. I mean, she is brought a-bed. Aar. Well, God give her good rest I What hath he sent her ? Nur. A devil. [issue. Aar. Why, then she is the devil's dam; a joyful Nur. A joyless, dismal, black, and sorrowful issue: Here is the babe, as loathsome as a toad Amongst the fairest breeders of our clime : The empress sends it thee, thy stamp, thy seal. And bids thee christen it with thy dagger's point. Aar. 'Zounds, ye whore ! is black so base a hue ? Sweet blowse, you are a beauteous blossom, sure. Dem. Villain, what hast thou done ? Aar. That which thou canst not undo. Chi. Thou hast undone our mother. Aar. Villain, I have done thy mother. Dem. And therein, hellish dog, thou hast undone. Woe to her chance, and damn'd her loathed choice! Accursed the olf spring of so foul a fiend ! Clii. It shall not live. Aar. It shall not die. Nur. Aaron, it must ; the mother wills it so. Aar. What, must it, nurse ? then let no man but I Do execution on my flesh and blood. Dem. I '11 broach the tadpole on my rapier's point : Nurse, give it me ; my sword shall soon dispatch it. Aar. Sooner this sword shall plough thy bowels up. [Takes the child from the Nurse, and dravjs. Stay, murderous villains ! will you kill your brother? Now, by the burning tapers of the sky. That shone so brightly when this boy was got, He dies upon my scimitar's sharp point That touches this my first-born son and heir ! I tell you, younglings, not Enceladus, With all his threatening band of Typhon's brood, Nor great Alcides, nor the god of war. Shall seize this prey out of his father's hands. What, what, ye sanguine, shallow-hearted boys! Ye white-limed walls ! ye alehouse painted signs I Coal-black is better than another hue, In that it scorns to bear another hue ; For all the water in the ocean Can never turn the swan's black legs to white, Although she lave them hourly in the flood. Tell the empress from me, I am of age To keep mine own, excuse it how she can. Dem. Wilt thou betray thy noble mistress thus ? Aar. My mistress is my mistress ; this myself, The vigour and the picture of my youth : This before all the world do I prefer ; This maugre all the world will I keep safe. Or some of you shall smoke for it in Rome. Dem. By this our mother is for ever shamed. Chi. Rome will despise her for this foul escape. Nur. The emperor , in his rage, will doom her death. Chi. 1 blush to think upon this ignomy. Aar. Why , there 's the privilege your beauty bears: Fie, treacherous hue, that will betray with blushing The close enacts and counsels of the heart ! Here 's a young lad framed of another leer : Look, how the black slave smiles upon the father, As who should say ' Old lad, I am thine own.' He is your brother, lords, sensibly fed Of that self -blood that first gave life to you, And from that womb where you imprison 'd were He is enfranchised and come to light : Nay, he is your brother by the surer side, Although my seal be stamped in his face. Nur. Aaron, what shall I say unto the empress ? Dem. Advise thee, Aaron, what is to be done, ACT IV. TITUS ANDRONICUS. SCENE III. And we will all subscribe to thy advice : Save thou the child, so we may all be safe. Aar. Then sit we down, and let us all consult. My son and I will have the wind of you : Keep there : now talk at pleasure of your safety. [They sit. Dem. How many women saw this child of his ? Aar. Why, so, brave lords! whenwejoinin" I am a lamb : but if you brave the Moor, The chafed boar, the mountain lioness, The ocean swells not so as Aaron storms. But say, again^ how many saw the child ? Nur. Cornelia the midwife and myself; And no one else but the deliver'd empress. Aar. The empress, the midwife, and yourself Two may keep counsel when the third 's away : Go to the empress, tell her this I said. [He kills the Weke, weke ! so cries a pig prepared to the spit. Bern. What mean'st thou, Aaron? wherefore didst thou this ? Aar. O Lord, sir, 't is a deed of policy : Shall she live to betray this guilt of ours, A long-tongued babbling gossip ? no, lords, no : And now be it known to you my full intent. Not far, one Muli lives, my countryman; His wife but yesternight was brought to bed ; His child is like to her, fair as you are : Go pack with him, and give the mother gold, And tell them both the circumstance of all ; And how by this their child shall be advanced, And be received for the emperor's heir, And substituted in the place of mine. To calm this tempest whirling in the court ; And let the emperor dandle him for his own. Hark ye, lords ; ye see I have given her physic, [Pointing to the nurse. And you must needs bestow her funeral ; The fields are near, and you are gallant grooms : This done, see that you take no longer days, But send the midwife presently to me. The midwife and the nurse well made away, Then let the ladies tattle what they please. Chi. Aaron, I see thou wilt not trust the air With secrets. Bern. For this care of Tamora, Herself and hers are highly bound to thee. [Exeunt Dem. and Chi. bearing off the Nurse^s body. Aar. Now to the Goths, as swift as swallow flies ; There to dispose this treasure in mine arms. And secretly to greet the empress' friends. Come on, you thick-lipp'd slave, I '11 bear you hence ; Fca: it is you that puts us to our shifts : I '11 make you feed on berries and on roots, And feed on curds and whey, and suck the goat. And cabin in a cave, and bring you up To be a warrior, and command a camp. [Exit. SCENE III.— The same. A public place. Enter Titus, hearing arrows with letters at the ends of them; with him, Marcus, young Lucius, Publius, Sempro- nius, Caius, and other Gentlemen, with bows. Tit. Come, Marcus ; come, kinsmen ; this is the Sir boy, now let me see your archery ; [way. Look ye draw home enough, and 't is there straight. Terras Astrsea reliquit : Be you remember'd, Marcus, she 's gone, she 's fled. Sirs, take you to your tools. You, cousins, shall Go sound the ocean, and cast your nets ; Happily you may catch her in the sea ; Yet there 's as little justice as at land : No ; Publius and Sempronius, you must do it ; 'T is you must dig with mattock and with And pierce the inmost centre of the earth : Then, when you come to Pluto's region, I pray you, deliver him this petition ; 37 Tell him, it is for justice and for aid, And that it comes from old Andronicus, Shaken with sorrows in ungrateful Eome. Ah, Eome ! Well, well ; I made thee miserable What time I threw the people's suffrages On him that thus doth tyrannize o'er me. Go, get you gone ; and pray be careful all. And leave you not a man-of-war unsearch'd : This wicked emperor may have shipp'd her hence ; And, kinsmen, then we may go pipe for justice. Marc. O Publius, is not this a heavy case, To see thy noble uncle thus distract ? Pub. Therefore, my lord, it highly us concerns By day and night to attend him carefully. And feed his humour kindly as we may. Till time beget some careful remedy. Marc. Kinsmen, his sorrows are past remedy. Join with the Goths ; and with revengeful war Take wreak on Rome for this ingratitude. And vengeance on the traitor Saturnine. Tit. Publius, how now ! how now, my masters! What, have you met with her ? [word, Pub. No, my good lord; but Pluto sends you If you will have Eevenge from hell, you shall: Marry, for Justice, she is so employ'd. He thinks, with Jove in heaven, or somewhere else, So that perforce you must needs stay a time. Tit. He doth me wrong to feed me with delays. I '11 dive into the burning lake below. And pull her out of Acheron by the heels. Marcus, we are but shrubs, no cedars we. No big-boned men framed of the Cyclops' size ; But metal, Marcus, steel to the very back, [bear : Yet wrung with wrongs more than our backs can And, sith there 's no justice in earth nor hell. We will solicit heaven and move the gods To send down Justice for to wreak our wrongs. Come, to this gear. You are a good archer, Marcus ; [He gives them the arrows. 'Ad Jovem,' that 's for you : here, ' Ad ApoUinem : ' ' Ad Martem,' that 's for myself : Here, boy, to Pallas : here, to Mercury: To Saturn, Caius, not to Saturnine ; You were as good to shoot against the wind. To it, boy ! Marcus, loose wlien I bid. Of my word, I have written to effect ; There 's not a god left unsolicited. [court : Marc. Kinsmen, shoot all your shafts into the We will afflict the emperor in his pride. Tii. Now, masters, draw. [They shoot.] O, well said, Lucius ! Good boy, in Virgo's lap ; give it Pallas. Marc. My lord, I aim a mile beyond the moon; Your letter is with Jupiter by this. Tit. Ha, ha! Publius, Publius, what hast thou done ? See, see, thou hast shot off one of Taurus' horns. Marc. This was the sport, my lord: when Pub- lius shot. The Bull, being gall'd, gave Aries such a knock That down fell both the Eam's horns in the court ; And who should find them but the empress' villain ? She laugh 'd, and told the Moor he should not choose But give them to his master for a present. [joy I Tit. Why, there it goes : God give his lordship Enter a Clown, with a basket, and two pigeons in it. News, news from heaven ! Marcus, the post is come. Sirrah, what tidings ? have you any letters ? Shall I have justice ? what says Jupiter ? do. O, the gibbet-maker! he says that he hath taken them down again, for the man must not be hanged till the next week. Tit. But what says Jupiter, I ask thee ? Clo. Alas, sir, I know not Jupiter ; I never drank with him in all my life. Jtt. Why, vUlaiQ, art not thou the carrier ? 577 ACT IV. TITUS ANDRONICUS. SCENE IV. Clo. Ay, of my pigeons, sir ; notliing else. Tit. Why, didst tliou not come from lieaven ? Clo. From heaven ! alas, sir, I never came there : God forbid I should be so bold to press to heaven in my young days. Why, I am going with my pigeons to the tribunal plebs, to take up a matter of brawl betwixt my uncle and one of the emperial's men. Marc. Why, sir, that is as fit as can be to serve for your oration ; and let him deliver the pigeons to the emperor from you. Tit. Tell me, can you deliver an oration to the emperor with a grace ? Clo. Nay, truly, sir, I could never say grace in all my life. Tit. Sirrah, come hither: make no more ado. But give your pigeons to the emperor : By me thou shalt have justice at his hands. Hold, hold; meanwhile here's money for thy charges. Give me pen and ink. Sirrah, can you with a grace deliver a supplication ? Clo. Ay, sir. Tit. Then here is a supplication for you. And when you come to him, at the first approach you must kneel, then kiss his foot, then deliver up your pigeons, and then look for your reward. I '11 be at hand, sir ; see you do it bravely. Clo. I warrant you, sir, let me alone. Tit. Sirrah, hast thou a knife? come, let me see Here, Marcus, fold it in the oration ; [it. For thou hast made it like an humble suppliant. And when thou hast given it the emperor. Knock at my door, and tell me what he says. Clo. God be with you, sir; I will. Tit. Come, Marcus, let us go. Publius, follow SCENE IV.— T/ie same. Before the palace. Enter Saturninus, Tamora, Demetrius, Chiron, Lords, and others; Saturninus with the arrows in his hand that Titus shot. Sat. Why, lords, what wrongs are these! was ever seen An emperor in Eome thus overborne. Troubled, confronted thus ; and, for the extent Of egal justice, used in such contempt V My lords, you know, as know the mightful gods. However these disturbers of our peace Buz in the people's ears, there nought hath pass'd, But even with law, against the wilful sons Of old Andronicus. And what an if His sorrows have so overwhelm'd his wits. Shall we be thus afflicted in his wreaks, His fits, his frenzy, and his bitterness ? And now he writes to heaven for his redress : See, here 's to Jove, and this to Mercury; This to Apollo ; this to the god of war ; Sweet scrolls to fly about the streets of Eome ! What 's this but libelling against the senate. And blazoning our injustice every where ? A goodly humour, is it not, my lords ? As who would say, in Rome no justice were. But if I live, his feigned ecstasies Shall be no shelter to these outrages : But he and his shall know that justice lives In Saturninus' health, whom, if she sleep. He '11 so awake as she in fury shall Cut off the proud 'st conspirator that lives. Tarn. My gracious lord, my lovely Saturnine, Lord of my life, commander of my thoughts. Calm thee, and bear the faults of Titus' age. The effects of sorrow for his valiant sons. Whose loss hath pierced him deep and scarr'd his And rather comfort his distressed plight [heart ; Than prosecute the meanest or the best 578 For these contempts. [Aside] Why, thus it shall High-witted Tamora to gloze with all : [become But, Titus, I have touched thee to the quick, Thy life-blood out : if Aaron now be wise. Then is all safe, the anchor 's in the port. Unter Clown. How now, good fellow ! wouldst thou speak with us ? Clo. Yea, forsooth, an your mistership be em- perial. Tarn. Empress I am, but yonder sits the emperor. Clo. 'T is he. God and Saint Stephen give you good-den : I have brought you a letter and a couple of pigeons here. [Saturninus reads the letter. Sat. Go, take him away, and hang him presently. Clo. How much money must I have ? Tarn. Come, sirrah, you must be hanged. Clo. Hanged ! by 'r lady, then I have brought up a neck to a fair end. [Exit, guarded. Sat. Despiteful and intolerable wrongs ! Shall I endure this monstrous villany ? I know from whence this same device proceeds : May this be borne ? — as if his traitorous sons. That died by law for murder of our brother. Have by my means been butcher'd wrongfully ! Go, drag the villain hither by the hair; Nor age nor honour shall shape privilege : For this proud mock I '11 be thy slaughterman ; Sly frantic wretch, that holp'st to make me great. In hope thyself should govern Rome and me. Enter -ffimilius. What news with thee, ^milius? JEmil. Arm, arm, my lord;— Rome never had more cause. The Goths have gather 'd head ; and with a power Of high-resolved men, bent to the spoil. They hither march amain, under conduct Of Lucius, son to old Andronicus ; Who threats, in course of this revenge, to do As much as ever Coriolanus did. Sat. Is warlike Lucius general of the Goths ? These tidings nip me, and I hang the head As flowers with frost or grass beat down with Ay, now begin our sorrows to approach : [storms : 'T is he the common people love so much ; Myself hath often over-heard them say. When I have walked like a private man, That Lucius' banishment was wrongfully, And they have wish'd that Lucius were their em- peror. Tarn. Why should you fear? is not your city strong? Sat. Ay, but the citizens favour Lucius, And will revolt from me to succour him. [name. Tarn. King, be thy thoughts imperious, like thy Is the sun dimm'd, that gnats do fly in it ? The eagle suffers little birds to sing. And is not careful what they mean thereby, Knowing that with the shadow of his wings He can at pleasure stint their melody : Even so mayst thou the giddy men of Rome. Then cheer thy spirit : for know, thou emperor, I will enchant the old Andronicus With words more sweet, and yet more dangerous, Than baits to fish, or honey-stalks to sheep. When as the one is wounded with the bait. The other rotted with delicious feed. Sat. But he will not entreat his son for us. Tarn. If Tamora entreat him, then he will : For I can smooth and fill his aged ear With golden promises ; that, were his heart Almost impregnable, his old ears deaf. Yet should both ear and heart obey my tongue. [To ^milius] Go thou before, be our ambassador: Say that the emperor requests a parley Of warlike Lucius, and appoint the meeting Even at his father's house, the old Andronicus. TITUS ANDRONICUS. SCENE I. Sat. YEmilius, do this message honourably : And if he stand on hostage for his safety, Bid him demand what pledge will please him best. Mmil. Your bidding shall I do effectually. Tarn. Now will I to that old Andronicus, [Exit. And temper him with all the art I have. To pluck proud Lucius from the warlike Goths. And now, sweet emperor, be blithe again, And bury all thy fear in my devices. Sat. Then go successantly, and plead to him. {Exeunt. ^CT ^ SCENE I. — Plains near Borne. Enter Lucius with an army of Goths, with drum and colours. Luc. Approved warriors, and my faithful friends, r have received letters from great Rome, Which signify what hate they bear their emperor And how desirous of our sight they are. Therefore, great lords, be, as your titles witness. Imperious and impatient of your wrongs, And wherein Rome hath done you any scath. Let him make treble satisfaction. ■ First Goth. Brave slip, sprung from the great Andronicus, Whose name was once our terror, now our comfort ; Whose high exploits and honourable deeds Ingrateful Rome requites with foul contempt. Be bold in us : we '11 follow where thou lead'st, Like stinging bees in hottest summer's day Led by their master to the flowered fields. And be avenged on cursed Tamora. [him. All the Goths And as he saith, so say we all vrith Luc. I humbly thank him, and I thank you all. But who comes here, led by a lusty Goth ? Enter a Goth, leading Aaron with his Child in his arms. Sec. Goth. Renowned Lucius, from our troops I To gaze upon a ruinous monastery ; [stray 'd And, as I earnestly did fix mine eye Upon the wasted building, suddenly I heard a child cry underneath a w^all. I made imto the noise ; when soon I heard The crying babe controU'd with this discourse : ' Peace, tawny slave, half me and half thy dam ! Did not thy hue bewray whose brat thou art, Had nature lent thee but thy mother's look. Villain, thou mightst have been an emperor : But where the bull and cow are both milk-white. They never do beget a coal-black calf. Peace , villain , peace! ' — even thus he rates the babe, — ' For I must bear thee to a trusty Goth ; Who, when he knows thou art the empress' babe. Will hold thee dearly for thy mother's sake.' With this, my weapon drawn, I rush'd upon him. Surprised him suddenly, and brought him hither. To use as you think needful of the man. Luc. O worthy Goth, this is the incarnate devil That robb'd Andronicus of his good hand; This is the pearl that pleased your empress' eye. And here 's the base fruit of his burning lust. Say, wall-eyed slave, whither wouldst thou convey This growing image of thy fiend-like face ? Why dost not speak ? what, deaf ? not a word ? A halter, soldiers ! hang him on this tree, And by his side his fruit of bastardy. Aar. Touch not the boy ; he is of royal blood. Luc. Too like the sire for ever being good. First hang the child, that he may see it sprawl; A sight to vex the father's soul withal. Get me a ladder. [A ladder brought, which Aaron is made to ascend. Aar. Lucius, save the child. And bear it from me to the empress. If thou do this, I '11 show thee wondrous things, That highly may advantage thee to hear : If thou wilt not, befall what may befall, I '11 speak no more but ' Vengeance rot you all ! ' Luc. Say on : an if it please me which thou speak 'st, Thy child shall live, and I will see it nourish 'd. Aar. An if it please thee ! why, assure thee, Lu- cius, 'T will vex thy soul to hear what I shall speak ; For I must talk of murders, rapes and massacres, Acts of black night, abominable deeds, Complots of mischief, treason, villanies Ruthful to hear, yet piteously perform'd: And this shall all be buried by my death, Unless thou swear to me my child shall live. Luc. Tell on thy mind ; I say thy child shall live. Aar. Swear that he shall, and then I will begin. Luc. Who should I swear by ? thou belie vest no god: That granted, how canst thou believe an oath ? Aar. What if I do not V as, indeed, I do not ; Yet, for I know thou art religious And hast a thing within thee called conscience. With twenty popish tricks and ceremonies. Which I have seen thee careful to observe. Therefore I urge thy oath ; for that I know An idiot holds his bauble for a god And keeps the oath which by that god he sweara, To that I '11 urge him : therefore thou shalt vow By that same god, what god soe'er it be, That thou adorest and hast in reverence, To save my boy, to nourish and bring him up ; Or else I will discover nought to thee. Luc. Even by my god I swear to thee I will. Aar. First know thou, I begot him on the em- press. Luc. O most insatiate and luxurious woman ! Aar. Tut, Lucius, this was but a deed of charity To that which thou shalt hear of me anon. • 'T was her two sons that murder'd Bassianus ; They cut thy sister's tongue and ravish 'd her And cut her hands and trimm'd her as thou saw'st. Luc. O detestable villain ! call'st thou that trim- ming? Aar. Why, she was wash'd and cut and trimm'd, and 't was Trim sport for them that had the doing of it. Luc. O barbarous, beastly villains, like thyself! Aar. Indeed, I was their tutor to instruct them: That codding spirit had they from their mother, As sure a card as ever won the set ; That bloody mind, I think, they learn'd of me. As true a dog as ever fought at head. Well, let my deeds be witness of my worth. I train 'd thy brethren to that guileful hole Where the dead corpse of Bassianus lay : I wrote the letter that thy father found And hid the gold within the letter mention'd, Confederate with the queen and her t\\'o sons : And what not done, that thou hast cause to rue, Wherein I had no stroke of mischief in it ? I play'd the cheater for thy father's hand. And, when I had it, drew myself apart And almost broke my heart with extreme laughter: I pry'd me through the crevice of a wall When, for his hand, he had his two sons' heads; 579 ACT V. TITUS ANDRONICUS. SCENE II. Beheld his tears, and laugh 'd so heartily, That both mine eyes were rainy like to his : And when I told the empress of this sport, She swooned almost at my pleasing tale. And for my tidings gave me twenty kisses. First Goth. What, canst thou say all this, and never blush ? Aar. Ay, like a black dog, as the saying is. Luc. Art thou not sorry for these heinous deeds ? Aar. Ay, that I had not done a thousand more. Even now I curse the day — and yet, I think, Few come within the compass of my curse — Wherein I did not some notorious ill. As kill a man, or else devise his death, Ravish a maid, or plot the way to do it. Accuse some innocent and forswear myself, Set deadly enmity between two friends, Make poor men's cattle break their necks; Set fire on barns and hay-stacks in the night. And bid the owners quench them with their tears. Oft have I digg'd up dead men from their graves, And set them upright at their dear friends' doors, Even when their sorrows almost were forgot ; And on their skins, as on the bark of trees. Have with my knife carved in Roman letters, ' Let not your sorrow die, though I am dead.' Tut, I have done a thousand dreadful things As willingly as one would kill a tly. And nothing grieves me heartily indeed But that I cannot do ten thousand more. Luc. Bring down the devil : for he must not die So sweet a death as hanging presently. Aar. If there be devils, would I were a devil, To live and burn in everlasting fire, So I might have your company in hell. But to torment you with my bitter tongue ! [more. Luc. Sirs, stop his mouth, and let him speak no Unter a Goth. Third Goth. My lord, there is a messenger from Desires to be admitted to your presence. [Rome Luc. Let him come near. Enter -ffimilius. Welcome, ^milius : what 's the news from Rome ? .Mmil. Lord Lucius, and you princes of the Goths, The Roman emperor greets you all by me ; And, for he understands you are in arms, He craves a parley at your father's house. Willing you to demand your hostages. And they shall be immediately deliver'd. First Goth. What says our general ? iw. ^milius, let the emperor give his pledges Unto my father and my uncle Marcus, And we will come. March away. [Exeunt. SCENE ll.~Rome. Before Titus^s house. Enter Tamora, Demetrius, and Chiron, disguised. Tarn. Thus, in this strange and sad habiliment, I will encounter with Andronicus, And say I am Revenge, sent from below To join with him and right his heinous wrongs. Knock at his study, where, they say, he " To ruminate strange plots of dire revenge ; Tell him Revenge is come to join with him, And work confusion on his enemies. [They knock. Enter Titus, above. Tit. Who doth molest my contemplation ? Is it your trick to make me ope the door, That so my sad decrees may fly away. And all my study be to no effect ? You are deceived : for what I mean to do See here in bloody lines I have set down ; And what is written shall be executed. Tarn. Titus, I am come to talk with thee. 580 Tit. No, not a word; how can I grace my talk, Wanting a hand to give it action ? Thou hast the odds of me ; therefore no more. Tarn. If thou didst know me, thou wouldest talk with me. Tit. I am not mad ; I know thee well enough : Witness this wretched stump, witness these crim- son lines ; Witness these trenches made by grief and care ; Witness the tiring day and heavy night ; Witness all sorrow, that I know thee well For our proud empress, mighty Tamora : Is not thy coming for my other hand ? Tarn. Know, thou sad man, I am not Tamora; She is thy enemy, and I thy friend : I am Revenge ; sent from the infernal kingdom. To ease the gnawing vulture of thy mind. By working wreakf ul vengeance on thy foes. Come down, and welcome me to this world's light; Confer with me of murder and of death : There 's not a hollow cave or lurking-place. No vast obscurity or misty vale, Where bloody murder or detested rape Can couch for fear, but I will find them out ; And in their ears tell them my dreadful name. Revenge, which makes the foul offender quake. Tit. Art thou Revenge ? and art thou sent to me. To be a torment to mine enemies ? [me. Tarn. I am ; therefore come down, and welcome Tit. Do me some service, ere I come to thee. Lo, by thy side where Rape and Murder stands ; Now give some surance that thou art Revenge, Stab them, or tear them on thy chariot-wheels; And then I '11 come and be thy waggoner, And whirl along with thee about the globe. Provide thee two proper palfreys, black as jet, To hale thy vengeful waggon swift away. And find out murderers in their guilty caves : And when thy car is loaden with their heads, I will dismount, and by the waggon-wheel Trot, like a servile footman, all day long, Even from Hyperion's rising in the east Until his very downfall in the sea : And day by day I '11 do this heavy task. So thou destroy Rapine and Mm-der there. Tarn. These are my ministers, and come with me. Tit. Are these thy ministers ? what are they call'd? Tarn. Rapine and Murder ; therefore called so. Cause they take vengeance of such kind of men. Tit. Good Lord, how like the empress' sons they And you, the empress ! but we worldly men [are f Have miserable, mad, mistaking eyes. sweet Revenge, now do I come to thee ; And, if one arm's embracement will content thee, 1 will embrace thee in it by and by. [Exit above. Tarn. This closing with him fits his lunacy: Whate'er I forge to feed his brain-sick fits. Do you uphold and maintain in your speeches, For now he firmly takes me for Revenge ; And, being credulous in this mad tliought, I '11 make him send for Lucius his son ; And, whilst I at a banquet hold him sure, I 'U find some cunning practice out of hand, To scatter and disperse the giddy Goths, Or, at the least, make them his enemies. See, here he comes, and I must ply my theme. Enter Titus below. Tit. Long have I been forlorn, and all for thee: Welcome, dread Fury, to my woful house : Rapine and Murder, you are welcome too. How like the empress and her sons you are? Well are you fitted, had you but a Moor : Could not all hell afford you such a devil ? For well I wot the empress never wags But in her company there is a Moor ; ACT V TITUS ANDRONICUS. 5CENE III. And, would you represent our queen aright, It were convenient you had such a devil : But welcome, as you are. What shall we do ? Tarn. What wouldst thouhave us do, Andronicus ? Dem. Show me a murderer, I '11 deal with him. Chi. Show me a villain that hath done a rape. And I am sent to be revenged on him. [wrong, Tarn. Show me a thousand that have done thee And I will be revenged on them all. [Rome ; Tit. Look round about the wicked streets of And when thou find'st a man that 's like thyself, Good Murder, stab him ; he 's a murderer. Go thou with him ; and when it is thy hap To find another that is like to thee, Good Rapine, stab him ; he 's a ravisher. Go thou with them ; and in the emperor's court There is a queen, attended by a Moor ; Well mayst thou know her by thy own proportion, For up and down she doth resemble thee : I pray thee, do on them some violent death ; They have been violent to me and mine. [do. Tam. Well hast thou lesson 'd us ; this shall we But would it please thee, good Andronicus, To send for Lucius, thy thrice-valiant son, Who leads towards Rome a band of warlike Goths, And bid him come and banquet at thy house ; When he is here, even at thy solemn feast, I will bring in the empress and her sons, The emperor himself and all thy foes ; And at thy mercy shall they stoop and kneel, And on them shalt thou ease thy angry heart. What says Andronicus to this device ? Tit. Marcus, my brother ! 't is sad Titus calls. Enter Marcus. Go, gentle Marcus, to thy nephew Lucius; Thou Shalt inquire him out among the Goths : Bid him repair to me, and bring with him Some of the chiefest princes of the Goths ; Bid him encamp his soldiers where they are : Tell him the emperor and the empress too Feast at my house, and he shall feast with them. This do thou for my love ; and so let him. As he regards his aged father's life. Marc. This will I do, and soon return again. [Exit. Tam. Now will I hence about thy business, And take my ministers along with me. Tit. Nay, nay, let Rape and Murder stay with me ; Or else I '11 call my brother back again. And cleave to no revenge but Lucius. Tam. [Aside to her sons] What say you, boys ? will you bide with him. Whiles I go tell my lord the emperor How I have govern 'd our determined jest ? Yield to his humour, smooth and speak him fair, And tarry with him till I turn again. Tit. \_Aside~\ I know them all, though they sup- pose me mad. And will o'erreach them in their own devices : A pair of cursed hell-hounds and their dam ! Bern. Madam, depart at pleasure ; leave us here. Tam. Farewell, Andronicus : Revenge now goes To lay a complot to betray thy foes. Tit. I know thou dost ; and, sweet Revenge, fare- well. [Exit Tamora. Chi. Tell us, old man, how shall we be employ'd ? Tit. Tut, I have work enough for you to do. Publius, come hither, Caius, and Valentine ! Enter Publius and others. Pub. What is your will ? Tit. Know you these two ? Pub. The empress' sons, I take them, Chiron and Demetrius. Tit. Fie, Publius, fie ! thou art too much deceived ; The one is Murder, Rape is the other's name ; And therefore bind them, gentle Publius. Caius and Valentine, lay hands on them. Oft have you heard me wish for such an hour, And now I find it ; therefore bind them sure. And stop their mouths, if they begin to cry. [Exit. [Publius, &c. lat/ hold on Chiron and Demetrius. Chi. Villains, forbear! we are the empress' sons. Pub. And therefore do we what we are com- manded. Stop close their mouths, let them not speak a word. Is he sure bound ? look that you bind them fast. Be-enter Titus, with Lavinia ; he bearing a knife, and she a basin. Tit. Come, come, Lavinia; look, thy foes are bound. Sirs, stop their mouths, let them not speak to me ; But let them hear what fearful words I utter. villains, Chiron and Demetrius ! [mud, Here stands the spring whom you have stain 'd with This goodly summer voth your winter mix'd. You kill'd her husband, and for that vile fault Two of her brothers were condemn 'd to death, My hand cut off and made a merry jest ; [dear Both her sweet hands, her tongue, and that more Than hands or tongue, her spotless chastity. Inhuman traitors, you constrain 'd and forced. What would you say, if I should let you speak ? Villains, for shame you could not beg for grace. Hark, wretches ! how I mean to martyr you. This one hand yet is left to cut your throats. Whilst that Lavinia 'tween her stumps doth hold The basin that receives your guilty blood. You know your mother means to feast with me, And calls herself Revenge, and thinks me mad : Hark, villains ! I will grind your bones to dust And with your blood and it I '11 make a paste, And of the paste a coffin I will rear And make two pasties of your shameful heads, And bid that strumpet, your unhallow'd dam, Like to the earth swallow her own increase. This is the feast that I have bid her to. And this the banquet she shaU surfeit on ; For worse than Philomel you used my daughter, And worse than Progne I will be revenged : And now prepare your throats. Lavinia, come, [He cuts their throats. Receive the blood : and when that they are dead. Let me go grind their bones to powder small And with this hateful liquor temper it ; And in that paste let their vile heads be baked. Come, come, be every one oflScious To make this banquet ; which I wish may prove More stem and bloody than the Centaurs' feast. So, now bring them in, for I '11 play the cook. And see them ready 'gainst their mother comes. [Exeunt, bearing the dead bodies. SCENE m. — Cmrt of Titus's house. A banquet set out. Enter Lucius, Marcus, and Goths, with Aaron prisoner. Imc. Uncle Marcus, since it is my father's mind That I repair to Rome, I am content. First Groth. And ours with thine, befall what fortune will. [Moor, Luc. Good uncle, take you in this barbarous This ravenous tiger, this accursed devil ; Let him receive no sustenance, fetter him. Till he be brought unto the empress' face. For testimony of her foul proceedings : And see the ambush of our friends be strong ; 1 fear the emperor means no good to us. Aar. Some devil whisper curses in mine ear. And prompt me, that my tongue may utter forth The venomous malice of my swelling heart ! 581 ACT V, TITUS ANDRONICUS. SCENE III. Luc. Away, inhuman dog! unhallow'd slave ! Sirs, help our uncle to convey him in. {Exeunt Goths, icith Aaron. Flourish ivithin. The trumpets show the emperor is at hand. Enter Saturninus and Tamora, with ^nailius, Tribunes, Senators, and others. Sat. What, hath the firmament more suns than one? Luc. What boots it thee to call thyself a sun ? Marc. Rome's emperor, and nephew, break the These quarrels must be quietly debated. [parle ; The feast is ready, which the careful Titus Hath ordain'd to an honourable end, For peace, for love, for league, and good to Eome : Please you, therefore, draw nigh, and take your Sat. Marcus, we will. [places. [Hautboys sound. The Company sit down at table. Enter Titus dressed like a Cook, Lavinia veiled, young Lu- cius, and others. Titus places the dishes on the table. Tit. Welcome, my gracious lord; welcome, dread queen ; Welcome, ye warlike Goths •, welcome, Lucius ; And welcome, all : although the cheer be poor, 'T will fill your stomachs : please you eat of it. Sat. Why art thou thus attired, Andronicus ? Tit. Because I would be sure to have all well, To entertain your highness and your empress. Tarn. We are beholding to you, good Andronicus. Tit. An if your highness knew my heart, you were. My lord the emperor, resolve me this : Was it well done of rash Virginius To slay his daughter with his own right hand. Because she was enforced, stain 'd, and deflower'd ? Sat. It was, Andronicus. Tit. Your reason, mighty lord? [shame. Sat. Because the girl should not survive her And by her presence still renew his sorrows. Tit. A reason mighty, strong, and effectual ; A pattern, precedent, and lively warrant, For me, most wretched, to perform the like. Die, die, Lavinia, and thy shame with thee : [Kills Lavinia. And, with thy shame, thy father's sorrow die ! Sat. What hast thou done, unnatural and unkind ? Tit. Kill'd her, for whom my tears have made me I am as woful as Virginius was, [blind. And have a thousand times more cause than he To do this outrage : and it now is done. Sat. What, was she ravish 'd? tell who did the deed. Tit. Will 't please you eat ? will 't please your highness feed ? [thus ? Tarn. Why hast thou slain thine only daughter Tit. Not I ; 't was Chiron and Demetrius : They ravish 'd her, and cut away her tongue : And they, 'twas they, that did her all this wrong. Sat. Go fetch them hither to us presently. Tit. Why, there they are both, baked in that pie ; Whereof their mother daintily hath fed, Eating the flesh that she herself hath bred. 'T is true, 't is true ; witness my knife's sharp point. [Kills Tamora. Sat. Die, frantic wretch, for this accursed deed ! [Kills Titus. Luc. Can the son's eye behold his father bleed ? There 's meed for meed, death for a deadly deed ! [Kills Saturninus. A great tumult. Lucius, Marcus, and others' yo up into the balcony. Marc. You sad-faced men, people and sons of By uproar sever'd, like a flight of fowl [Rome, Scatter'd by winds and high tempestuous gusts, O, let me teach you how to knit again This scatter'd corn into one mutual sheaf, These broken limbs again into one body ; Lest Rome herself be bane unto herself, And she whom mighty kingdoms court 'sy to, 582 Like a forlorn and desperate castaway. Do shameful execution on herself. But if my frosty signs and chaps of age. Grave witnesses of true experience. Cannot induce you to attend my words, [ancestor, [To Lucius'] Speak, Rome's dear friend, as erst our When with his solemn tongue he did discourse To love-sick Dido's sad attending ear The story of that baleful burning night When subtle Greeks surprised King Priam's Troy, Tell us what Sinon hath bewitch 'd our ears. Or who hath broiight the fatal engine in That gives our Troy, our Rome, the civil wound. My heart is not compact of flint nor steel ; Nor can I utter all our bitter grief. But floods of tears will drown my oratory. And break my utterance, even in the time When it should move you to attend me most. Lending your kind commiseration. Here is a captain, let him tell tlie tale ; Your hearts will throb and weep to hear him speak. Luc. Then, noble auditory, be it known to you, That cursed Chiron and Demetrius Were they that murdered our emperor's brother; And they it were that ravished our sister : For their fell faults our brothers were beheaded ; Our father's tears despised, and basely cozen'd Of that true hand that fought Rome's quarrel out. And sent her enemies unto the grave. Lastly, myself unkindly banished. The gates shut on me, and turn'd weeping out, To beg relief among Rome's enemies ; Who drown'd their enmity in my true tears. And oped their arms to embrace me as a friend, i' am the turned forth, be it known to you. That have preserved her welfare in my blood ; And from her bosom took the enemy's point, Sheathing the steel in my adventurous body. Alas, you know I am no vaunter, I ; My scars can witness, dumb altliough they are, That my report is just and full of truth. But, soft ! methinks I do digress too much, Citing my worthless praise: O, pardon me; For when no friends are by, men praise themselves. Marc. Now is my turn to speak. Behold this child : [Pointing to the Cliild in the arms of an Attendant. Of this was Tamora delivered ; The issue of an irreligious Moor, Chief architect and plotter of these woes : The villain is alive in Titus' house. And as he is, to witness this is true. Now judge what cause had Titus to revenge These wrongs, unspeakable, past patience. Or more than any living man could bear, [mans ? Now you have heard the truth, what say you, Ro- Have we done aught amiss, — show us wherein, And, from the place where you behold us now. The poor remainder of Andronici Will, hand in hand, all headlong cast us down. And on the ragged stones beat forth our brains, And make a mutual closure of our house. Speak, Romans, speak ; and if you say we shall, Lo, hand in hand, Lucius and I will fall. JEmil. Come, come, thou reverend man of Rome, And bring our emperor gently in thy hand, Lucius our emperor ; for well I know The common voice do cry it shall be so. All. Lucius, all hail, Rome's royal emperor! Marc. Go, go into old Titus' sorrowful house, [To Attendants. And hither hale that misbelieving Moor, To be adjudged some direful slaughtering death, As punishment for his most wicked life. [Exeunt Attendants. Lucius, Marcus, and the others descend. All. Lucius, all hail, Rome's gracious governor I ACT V. TITUS ANDRONICUS. SCENE III. iwc. Thanks, gentle Romans: may I govern so, To heal Rome's harms, and wipe awaj' her woe ! But, gentle people, give me aim awhile, For nature puts me to a heavy task : Stand all aloof: but, uncle, draw you near, To shed obsequious tears upon this trunk. O, take this warm kiss on thy pale cold lips, [Kissing Titus. These soiTowful drops upon thy blood-stain'd face, The last true duties of thy noble son ! Marc. Tear for tear, and loving kiss for kiss, Thy brother Marcus tenders on thy lips : O, were the sum of these that I should pay Countless and infinite, yet would I pay them ! Ltic. Come hither, boy; come, come, and learn of us To melt in showers : thy grandsire loved thee well : Many a time he danced thee on his knee. Sung thee asleep, his loving breast thy pillow ; Many a matter hath he told to thee. Meet and agreeing with thine infancy ; In that respect, then, like a loving child. Shed yet some small drops from thy tender spring, Because kind nature doth require it so : Friends should associate friends in grief and woe : Bid him farewell ; commit him to the grave ; Do him that kindness, and take leave of him. Young Luc. O grandsire, grandsire! even with all my heart Would I were dead, so you did live again ! O Lord, I cannot speak to him for weeping : My tears will choke me, if I ope my mouth. Be-enter Attendants with Aaron. ^m. You sad Andronici, have done with woes: Give sentence on this execrable wretch. That hath been breeder of these dire events. Luc. Set him breast-deep in earth, and famish him: There let him stand, and rave, and cry for food : If any one relieves or pities him. For the offence he dies. This is our doom : Some stay to see him fasten'd in the earth. Aar. O, why should wrath be mute, and fury I am no baby, I, that with base prayers [dumb ? I should repent the evils I have done : Ten thousand worse than ever yet I did Would I perform, if I might have my will: If one good deed in all my life I did, I do repent it from my very soul. [hence, Luc. Some loving friends convey the emperor And give him burial in his father's grave : My father and Lavinia shall forthwith Be closed in our household's monument. As for that heinous tiger, Tamora, No funeral rite, nor man in mourning weeds, No mournful bell shall ring her burial ; But throw her forth to beasts and birds of prey: Her life was beast-like, and devoid of pity ; And, being so, shall have like want of pity. See justice done on Aaron, that damn'd Moor, By whom our heavy haps had their beginning : Then, afterwards, to order well the state, That like events may ne'er it ruinate. [JExeunt. Titm.—When will this fearful slumber have an end? Marcus.— Novf, farewell, flattery: die, Andronicus; Thou dost not slumber : see, thy two sons' heads, Thy warlike hand, thy mangled daughter here ; Thy other banish'd son, with this dear sight Struck pale and bloodless ; and thy brother, 1, Even like a stony image, cold and numb. Ah, now no more will I control thy griefs : Kend off thy silver hair, thy other hand Gnawing with thy teeth ; and be this dismal sight The closing up of our most wretched eyes : Now is a time to storm ; why art thou still ? TUus.—Ra., ha, ha ! Marcus.— Why dost thou laugh ? it fits not with this hour. Act III., Scene L EOMEO AND JULIET. DBAMATIS PEBSONM. Escalus, Prince of Verona. Paris, a young nobleman, kinsman to the prince. Montague, j heads of two houses at variance with Capulet, I each other. An old man, cousin to Capulet. Borneo, son to Montague. Mercutio, kinsman to the prince, and friend to Benvolio, nephew to Montague, and friend to Tybalt, nephew to Lady Capulet. Friar Laiirence, ) ^ Friar John, j Franciscans. Baltbasar, servant to Bomeo. Gregory, | servants to Capulet. Peter, servant to Juliet's nurse. Abraham, servant to Montague. An Apothecary. Three Musicians. Page to Paris ; another Page ; 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, re- lations to both houses ; Maskers, Guards, Watch- men, and Attendants. Chorus. SCENE — Ferowa ; Mantua, [For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page LX.J I^HOLOaXJE. Two households, both alike in dignity, In fair Verona, where we lay our scene, From ancient grudge break to new mutiny. Where civil blood makes civil hands luiclean. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes A pair of star-cross 'd lovers take their life ; Whose misadventured piteous overthrows Do with their death bury their parents' strife. The fearful passage of their death-mark'd love, And the continuance of their parents' rage. Which, but their children's end, nought could r&. move. Is now the two hours' traflBc of our stage ; The which i£ you with patient ears attend. What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to'mend. ^OT I. SCENE I. — Verona. A public place. Enter Sampson and Gregory, of the house of Cap- ulet, armed with swords and bucklers. Sam. Gregory, o' my word, we 'U not carry coals. Ore. No, for then we should be colliers. Sam. I mean, an we be in choler, we 'II draw. Gre. Ay, while you live, draw your neck out o' the collar. Sam. I strike quickly, being moved. Gre. But thou art not quickly moved to strike. Sam. A dog of the house of Montague moves me. Gre. To move is to stir ; and to be valiant is to stand : therefore, if thou art moved, thou runn'st Sam. A dog of that house shall move me to stand : I will take the wall of any man or maid of Mon- tague's. Gre. That shows thee a weak slave; for the weakest goes to the wall. Sam. True; and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to the wall : there- fore I will push Montague's men from the wall, and thrust his maids to the wall. Gre. The quarrel is between our masters and us their men. Sam. 'T is all one, I will show myself a tyrant : 584 when I have fought with the men, I will be cruel with the maids, and cut off their heads. Gre. The heads of the maids ? Sam. Ay, the heads of the maids, or their maiden- heads ; take it in what sense thou wilt. Gre. They must take it in sense that feel it. Sam. Me they shall feel while I am able to stand : and 't is known I am a pretty piece of flesh. Ore. 'T is well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been poor John. Draw thy tool ; here comes two of the house of the Montagues. Sam. My naked weapon is out: quarrel, I will Ore. How! turn thy back and run ? Sam. Fear me not. Ch-e. No, marry; I fear thee ! Sam. Let us take the law of our sides ; let them begin. Ore. I will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list. Sam. Nay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them ; which is a disgrace to them, if they bear it. Enter Abraham and Balthasar. Abr. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir? Sam. I do bite my thumb, sir. Abr. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir ? ACT I. ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE I. Sam. [Aside to Gre.'\ Is the law of oiir side, if I say ay ? Gre. No. Sam. Ko, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir, but I bite my thumb, sir. Gre. Do you quarrel, sir ? Ahr. Quarrel, sir ! no, sir. Sam. If you do, sir, I am for ; you : I serve as good a man as you. Ah\ No better. Sam. "Well, sir. Gre. Say ' better : ' here comes one of my master's Sam. Yes, better, sir. [kinsmen. Ahr. You lie. Sam. Draw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy swashing blow. [They fight. Enter Benvolio. Ben. Part, fools ! Put up your swords ; you know not what you do, [Beats down their swords. Enter Tybalt. Tyh. What, art thou drawn among these heart- less hinds ? Turn thee, Benvolio, look upon thy death. Ben. I do but keep the peace: put up thy sword, Or manage it to part these men with me. I)jb. What, drawn, and talk of peace I I hate the word. As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee : Have at thee, coward ! [They fight. Miter several of both houses, who join the fray ; then enter Citizens, tvith clubs. First Git. Clubs^ bills, and partisans ! strike I beat them down ! [tagues ! Down with the Capulets! down with the Mon- Enter Capulet in his gown, and Lady Capulet. Cap. What noise is this ? Give me my long sword, ho! [sword? La. Cap. A crutch, a crutch I why call you for a Cap. My sword, I say ! Old Montague is come, And flourishes his blade in spite of me. Enter Montague and Lady Montague. Mon. Thou vUlain Capulet,— Hold me not, let me go. La. Mon. Thou shalt not stir a foot to seek a foe. Enter Prince, with Attendants. Prin. Eebellious subjects, enemies to peace. Prof aners of this neighbour-stained steel,— [beasts. Will they not hear? What, ho! you men, you That quench the fire of your pernicious rage With purple fountains issuing from your veins, On pain of torture, from those bloody hands Throw your mistemper'd weapons to the ground, And hear the sentence of your moved prince. Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word. By thee, old Capulet, and Montague, Have thrice disturb'd the quiet of om' streets, And made Verona's ancient citizens Cast by their grave beseeming ornaments. To wield old partisans, in hands as old, Canker'd with peace, to part your canker'd hate: If ever you disturb our streets again. Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace. For this time, all the rest depart away : You, Capulet, shall go along with me : And, Montague, come you this afternoon. To know our further pleasure in this case, To old Free-town, our common judgment-place. Once more, on pain of death, all men depart. [Exeunt all but Montague, Lady Montague, and Benvolio, Mon. Who set this ancient quarrel new 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 prepared, Which, as he breathed defiance to my ears. He swung abotit his head and cut the winds. Who nothing hurt withal hiss'd him in scorn : 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. Mon. O, where is Romeo ? saw you him to- Eight glad I am he was not at this fray. [day ? 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 're most alone, Pursued my humour not pursuing his. And gladly shunn'd who gladly fled from me. Mon. 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 furthest 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 And makes himself an artificial night : Black and portentous must this humour prove, Unless good counsel may the cause remove. Ben. My noble uncle, do you know the cause ? Mon. I neither know it nor can learn of him. Ben. Have you importuned him by any means ? 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 the sun. Could we but learn from whence his sorrows grow, We would as willingly give cure as know. Enter Romeo. Ben. See,where he comes: so please you, step aside; I '11 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. Bom. Is the day so young ? Ben. But new struck nine. Bom. Ay me ! sad hours seem long. Was that my father that went hence so fast ? Ben. It was. What sadness lengthens Eomeo's hours ? [them short. Bom. Not having that, which, having, makes Ben. In love ? -Bom. Out — Ben. Of love? Bom. Out of her favour, where I am in love. Ben. 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 wiU ! Where shall we dine ? Ome! 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. 585 ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE II, Why, then, O brawling love ! O loving hate ! O anything, of nothing first create! O heavy lightness ! serious vanity ! Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms ! Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health ! Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is ! This love feel I, that feel no love in this. Dost thou not laugh ? Ben. No, coz, I rather weep. Bom. Good heart, at what ? Ben. At thy good heart's oppression. Bom. Why, such is love's transgression. Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast, Which thou wilt propagate, to have it prest With more of thine : this love that thou hast shown Doth add more grief to too much of mine own. Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs ; Being purged, 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. Ben. Soft ! I will go along ; An if you leave me so, you do me wrong. Bom. Tut, I have lost myself; I am not here ; This is not Romeo, he 's some other where. Ben. Tell me in sadness, who is that you love. Bom. What, shall I groan and tell thee? Ben. Groan ! why, no ; But sadly tell me who. Bom. Bid a sick man in sadness make his will : Ah, word ill urged to one that is so ill! In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman. Ben. I aim'd so near, when I supposed you loved. Bom. A right good mark-man ! And she 's fair I love. Ben. A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit. Bom. Well, in that hit you miss : she '11 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. Ben. Then she hath sworn that she will still live chaste ? [waste ? Bom. She hath, and in that sparing makes huge For beauty starved with her severity Cuts beauty off from all posterity. 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 tha,t live to tell it now. Ben. Be ruled by me, forget to think of her. Bom. O, teach me how I should forget to think, Ben. By giving liberty unto thine eyes ; Examine other beauties. Bom. 'T is the way To call hers exquisite, in question more: Thest; happy masks that kiss fair ladies' brows Being black put us in mind they hide the fair ; He that is strucken 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 forget. Ben. I '11 pay that doctrine, or else die in debt. [Exeunt. SCENE 11. — A street. Mater Capulet, Paris, and Servant. Ca'p. But Montague is bound as well as I, In penalty alike ; and 't is not hard, I think. For men so old as we to keep the peace. Bar. Of honourable reckoning are you both ; And pity 'tis you lived at odds so long. But now, my lord, what say you to my suit ? Cap. But saying o'er what I have said before: My child is yet a stranger in the world ; She hath not seen the change of fourteen years ; Let two more summers wither in their pride, Ere we may think her ripe to be a bride. Bar. Younger than she are happy mothers made. Gap. And too soon marr'd are those so early made- The earth hath swallow'd all my hopes but she, She is the hopeful lady of my earth : But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart. My will to her consent is but a part; An she agree, within her scope of choice Lies my consent and fair according voice. This night I hold an old accustonvd feast, Whereto I have invited many a guest, Such as I love ; and you, among the store. One more, most welcome, makes my number more. At my poor house look to behold this night Earth -treading stars that make dark heaven light: Such comfort as do lusty young men feel When well-apparell'd April on the heel Of limping winter treads, even such delight Among fresh female buds shall you this night Inherit at my house ; hear all, all see. And like her most whose merit most shall be : Which on more view, of many mine being one May stand in number, though in reckoning none. Come, go with me. [To Sero., giving a paper.] Go, sirrah, trudge about Through fair Yerona ; find those persons out Whose names are written there, and to them say, My house and welcome on their pleasure stay. [Exeunt Capulet and Baris. Serv. Find them out whose names are written here ! It is written, that the shoemaker should med- dle with his yard, and the tailor with his last, the fisher with his pencil, and the painter with his nets ; but I am sent to find those persons whose names are here writ, and can never find what names the writing person hath here writ. I must to the learned. — In good time. Enter Benvolio and Romeo. Ben. Tut, man, one fire burns out another's burning, One pain is lessen 'd by another's anguish ; Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning ; One desperate grief cures with another's languish : Take thou some new infection to thy eye, And the rank poison of the old will die. Bom. Your plaintain-leaf is excellent for that. Be7i. For what, I pray thee ? Bom. For your broken shin. Ben. Why, Eomeo, art thou mad ? [is; Bom. Not mad, but bound more than a mad-man Shut up in prison, kept without my food, Whipp'd and tormented and— God-den, good fellow. Serv. God gi' god-den. I pray, sir, can you read ? Bom. Ay, mine own fortune in my misery. Serv. Perhaps you have learned it without book : but, I pray, can you read any thing you see ? Bom. Ay, if I know the letters and the language. Serv. Ye say honestly: rest you merry! Bom. Stay, fellow ; I can read. [Beads. 'Signior Martino and his wife and daughters; County Anselme and his beauteous sisters ; the lady widow of Vitruvio ; Signior Placentio and his lovely nieces ; Mercutio and his brother Valentine ; mine uncle Capulet, his wife, and daughters; my fair niece Rosaline; Livia; Signior Valentio and his cousin Tybalt ; Lucio and the lively Helena.' A fair assembly : whither should they come ? Serv. Up. Bom. Whither? Serv. To supper ; to our house. ACT I. ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE III. Bom. Whose house ? Serv. My master's. Bom. Indeed, I should have ask'd you that before. Serv. Now I '11 tell you without asking: my master is the great rich Capulet ; and if you be not of the house of Montagues, I pray, come and crush a cup of wine. Rest you merry ! [Exit. Ben. At tliis same ancient feast of Capulet 's Sups the fair Rosaline whom thou so lovest, With all the admired beauties of Verona : Go thither ; and, with unattainted eye, Compare her face with some that I shall show, And I will make thee think thy swan a crow. Bom. When the devout religion of mine eye Maintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fires ; And these, who often drown'd could never die, Transparent heretics, be burnt for liars! One fairer than my love ! the all-seeing sun Ne'er saw her match since first the world begun. Ben. Tut, you saw her fair, none else being by, Herself poised witli herself in either eye : But in til at crystal scales let there be weigh'd Your lady's love against some other maid That I will show you shining at this feast, • And she shall scant show well that now shows best. Bom. I '11 go along, no such sight to be shown, But to rejoice in splendour of mine own. [Exeunt. SCENE III. — A room in CapuleVs hoxise. Enter Lady Capulet and Nurse. La. Cap. Nurse, where 's my daughter ? call her forth to me. [old, Nurse. Now, by my maidenhead, at twelve year I bade her come. What, lamb ! what, lady-bird ! God forbid ! Where 's this girl ? What, Juliet I Enter Juliet. Jul. How now ! who calls ? Nurse. Your mother. Jul. Madam, I am here. 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 's 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 '11 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 fourteen. Susan and she — God rest all Christian souls ! — Were of an age : well, Susan is with God ; She was too good for me : but, as I said. On Lammas-eve at night shall she be fourteen ; That shall she, marry ; I remember it well. 'T is since the earthquake now eleven years ; And she was wean'd, — I never shall forget it, — Of all the days of the year, upon that day : For I had then laid wormwood to my dug, Sitting in the sun under the dove-house wall ; My lord and you were then at Mantua : — Nay, I do bear a brain : — but, as I said, When it did taste the wormwood on the nipple Of my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool. To see it tetchy and fall out with the dug ! Shake quoth the dove-house : 't was no need, I trow, To bid me trudge : And since that time it is eleven years ; For then she could stand alone ; nay, by the rood, She could have run and waddled all about ; For even the day before, she broke her brow : And then my husband — God be with his soul ! A' was a merry man — took up the child : ' Yea,' quoth he, ' dost thou fall upon thy face ? Thou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit; Wilt thou not, Jule ? ' and, by my holidame, The pretty wretch left crying and said ' Ay. ' To see, now, how a jest shall come about ! I warrant, an I should live a thousand years, I never should forget it: 'Wilt thou not, Jule?' quoth he ; And, pretty fool, it stinted and said 'Ay.' La. Cap. Enough of this ; I pray thee, hold thy peace. Nurse. Yes, madam: yet I cannot choose but laugh. To think it should leave crying and say ' Ay.' And yet, I warrant, it had iipon its brow A bump as big as a young cockerel's stone; A parlous knock ; and it cried bitterly : ' Yea,' quoth my husband, ' fall'st upon thy face ? Thou wilt fall backward when thou comest to age ; Wilt thou not, Jule ? ' it stinted and said ' Ay.' Jul. And stint thou too, I pray thee, nurse, say I. Nurse. Peace, I have done. God mark thee to his grace ! Thou wast the prettiest babe that e'er I nursed : An I might 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 disposition to be married ? Jul. It is an honour that I dream not of. Nurse. An honour ! were not I thine only nurse, I would say thou hadst suck'd wisdom from thy teat. La. Cap. Well, think of marriage now; younger than you. Here in Yerona, ladies of esteem. Are made already mothers : by my count, I was your mother much upon these years That you are now a maid. Thus then in brief : The valiant Paris seeks you for his love. Nurse. A man, young lady ! lady, such a man As all the world — why, he 's a man of wax. La. Cap. Yerona'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 gen- tleman ? This night you shall behold him at our feast ; Read o'er the volume of young Paris' face And find delight writ there with beauty's pen; Examine every married lineament And see how one another lends content, And what obscured in this fair volume lies Find written in the margent of his eyes. This precious book of love, this unbound lover, To beautify him, only lacks a cover : The fish lives in the sea, and 't is much pride For fair without the fair within to hide : That book in many's eyes doth share the glory, That in gold clasps locks in the golden story ; So shall you share all that he doth possess. By having him, making yourself no less. Nurse. No less ! nay, bigger ; women grow by men. La. Cap. Speak briefly, can you like of Paris' love ? Jul. I '11 look to like, if looking liking move : But no more deep will I endart mine eye Than your consent gives strength to make it fly. Miter a Servant. Serv. Madam, the guests are come, supper served up, you called, my young lady asked for, the nurse cursed in the pantry, and every thing in extremity. I must hence to wait ; I beseech you, follow straight. La. Cap. We follow thee. [Exit Servant.] Juliet, the county stays. Nurse. Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days. [Exeunt. 587 ACT I. ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE V. SCENE IV.— J. street. Enter Romeo, Mercutio, Benvolio, with five or six Maskers, Torch-bearers, and others. Bom. What, shall this speech be spoke for our ex- Or shall we on without apology ? [cuse ? Ben. The date is out of such prolixity: We '11 have no Cupid hoodwink'd 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 '11 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. Bcmi. Not I, 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 them above a common bound. Bom. 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. Bom. Is love a tender thing ? it is too rough. Too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn. Mer. If love be rough with you, be rough with love ; Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down. Give me a case to put my visage in : 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. Bom. 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 '11 be a candle-holder, and look on. The game was ne'er so fair, and I am done. Mer. Tut, dun 's the mouse, the constable's own word: If thou art dun, we '11 draw thee from the mire Of this sir-reverence love, wherein thou stick'st Up to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, ho ! Bom. Nay, that 's not so. Mer. 1 mean, sir, in delay AVe waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day. Take our good meaning, for our judgment sits Five times in that ere once in our five wits. Bom. And we mean well in going to this mask ; But 't is no wit to go. Mer. Why, may one ask ? Bom. I dream'd a dream to-night. Mer. And so did I. Bom. Well, what was yours ? Mer. That dreamers often lie. Bom. In bed asleep, while they do dream things true. [you. Mer. O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes In shape no bigger than an agate-stone On the fore-finger of an alderman. Drawn with a team of little atomies Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep ; Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners' legs. The cover of the wings of grasshoppers. The traces of the smallest spider's web. The collars of the moonshine's watery beams. Her whip of cricket's bone, the lash of film. Her waggoner a small grey-coated gnat. Not half so big as a round little worm Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid ; Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub, Time out o' mind the fairies' coachmakers. And in this state she gallops night by night Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love ; [straight, O'er courtiers' knees, that dream on court'sies O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees, O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream, Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues. Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are; Sometime she gallops o'er a courtier's nose. And then dreams he of smelling out a suit ; And sometime 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. This is that very Mab That plats the manes of horses in the night. And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs. Which once untangled much misfortune bodes : This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs, That presses them and learns them first to bear, Making them women of good carriage : This is she — Bom. Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace ! Thou talk'st of nothing. Mer. True, I talk of dreama, 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 our- selves ; Supper is done, and we shall come too late. Bom. I fear, too early : for my mind misgives 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 closed in my breast By some vile forfeit of untimely death. But He, that hath the steerage of my course, Direct my sail 1 On, lusty gentlemen. Ben. Strike, drum. [Exeunt. SCENE V. — A hall in CapuleVs house. Musicians waiting. Enter Servingmen, with napkins. First Serv. Where 's Potpan, that he helps not to take away? He shift a trencher! he scrape a trencher ! Sec. Serv. When good manners shall lie aU in one or two men's hands and they unwashed too, 't is a foul thing. First Serv. Away with the joint-stools, remove the court-cupboard, look to the plate. Good thou, save me a piece of marchpane; and, as thou lovest me, let the porter let in Susan Grindstone and Nell. Antony, and Potpan! Sec. Serv. Ay, boy, ready. First Serv. You are looked for and called for, asked for and sought for, in the great chamber. Sec. Serv. We cannot be here and there too. Cheer ly, boys ; be brisk awhile, and the longer liver take all. Enter Capulet, with Juliet and others of his house, meeting the Guests and Maskers. Cap. Welcome, gentlemen ! ladies that have their ACT I. ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE V. Unplagued with corns will have a bout with you. Ah ha, my mistresses! which of you all Will now deny to dance ? she that makes dainty, She, I '11 swear, hath corns ; am I come near ye now ? 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 : 't is gone, 't is gone, 't is gone : You are welcome, gentlemen! Come, musicians, play. A hall, a hall ! give room ! and foot it, girls. [Music plays, and they dance. More light, you knaves ; and turn the tables up. And quench the fire, the room is grown too hot. Ah, sirrah, this unlook'd-for sport comes well. Nay, sit, nay, sit, good cousin Capulet ; For you and I are past our dancing days : How long is 't now since last yourself and I Were in a mask ? Sec. Cap. By 'r lady, thirty years. Cap. What, man! 'tis not so much, 'tis not so much: T is since the nuptial of Lucentio, Come pentecost as quickly as it will. Some five and twenty years ; and then we mask'd. Sec. Cap. 'T is more, 't is more : his son is elder, sir; His son is thirty. Cap. Will you tell me that ? His son was but a ward two years ago. Eom. [To a Servingman] What lady is that, which doth enrich the hand Of yonder knight ? Serv. I know not, sir. Bcrni. O , she doth teach the torches to burn bright ! It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope's ear ; Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear ! So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows, As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows. The measure done, I '11 watch her place of stand. And, touching hers, make blessed 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 be a Montague. Fetch me my rapier, boy. What dares the slave Come hither, cover'd with an antic face, To fleer and scorn at our solemnity ? Now, by the stock and honour of my kin. To strike him dead I hold it not a sin. ^ Cap. Why, how now, kinsman ! wherefore storm you so ? Tyh. 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 it ? Tyb. 'T is he, that villain Romeo. Cap. Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone; He bears him like a portly gentleman ; And, to say truth, Verona brags of him To be a virtuous and well govern'd youth : I would not for the wealth of all the town Here in my house do him disparagement : Therefore be patient, take no note of him : It is my will, the which if thou respect. Show a fair presence and put off these frowns, An ill-beseeming semblance for a feast. Tyb. It fits, when such a villain is a guest : I '11 not endure him. Cap. He shall be endured : What, goodman boy ! I say, he shall : go to ; Am I the master here, or you ? go to. You '11 not endure him ! God shaU mend my soul ! You '11 make a mutiny among my guests ! You will set cock-a-hoop ! you '11 be the man I Tyb. Why, uncle, 't is a shame. Cap. Goto, goto; You are a saucy boy : is 't so, indeed ? This trick may chance to scathe you, I know what: You must contrary me ! marry, 't is time. Well said, my hearts ! You are a princox ; go : Be quiet, or— More light, more light ! For shame ! I '11 make you quiet. What, cheerly, my liearts ! Tyb. 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 bitter gall. [Exit. Bom. [To Juliet] If I profane with my un wor- thiest hand This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this : My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss. Jul. Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much. Which mannerly devotion shows in this ; For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss. Bom. Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too ? Jul. Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer. Bom. O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do; They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair. Jul. Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake. Bom. Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take. Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged. Jul. Then have my lips the sin that they have took. Bom. Sin from my lips ? O trespass s weetly urged ! Give me my sin again. Jul. You kiss by the book. Nurse. Madam, your mother craves a word with Bom. What is her mother ? [you. Nurse. Marry, bachelor, Her mother is the lady of the house, And a good lady, and a wise and virtuous : I nursed her daughter, that you talk'd withal; I tell you, he that can lay hold of her Shall have the chinks. Bom. Is she a Capulet ? dear account ! my life is my foe's debt. Ben. Away, be gone ; the sport is at the best. Bom. 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. More torches here ! Come on then, let 's to bed. Ah, sirrah, by my fay, it waxes late : I '11 to my rest. [Exeunt all but Juliet and Nurse. Jul. Come hither, nurse. What is yond gentle- man? 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 Petrucio. 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 love sprung from my only hate 1 Too early seen unknown, and known too late! Prodigious birth of love it is to me. That I must love a loathed enemy. Nurse. What 's this ? what 's this ? Jul. A rhyme I leam'd even now Of one I danced vrithal. [One calls mthin ' Juliet.' Nurse. Anon, anon! Come, let 's away ; the strangers all are gone. [Exeunt. 589 ACT II. ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE II. A.CT II. PROLOGUE. Entei- Chorus. Clior. Now old desire doth in his death-bed lie, And young affection gapes to be his heir ; That fair for which love groan 'd for and would die, With tender Juliet match 'd, is now not fair. Now Romeo is beloved and loves again, Alike bewitched by the charm of looks, But to his foe supposed he must complain, And she steal love's sweet bait from fearful hooks : Being held a foe, he may not have access To breathe such vows as lovers use to swear ; And she as much in love, her means much less To meet her new-beloved any where : But passion lends them power, time means, to meet, Tempering extremities with extreme sweet. {Exit. SCENE I. — A lane by the wall of GapulePs orchard. Enter Romeo. Bom. Can I go forward when my heart is here ? Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out, [He climbs the wall, and leaps down within it. Enter Benvolio and Mercutio. Ben. Romeo ! my cousin Romeo I Mer. He is wise; And, on my life, hath stol'n him home to bed. Ben. He ran this way, and leap'd this orchard wall : Call, good Mercutio. Mer. Nay, I '11 conjure too. Romeo ! humours ! madman ! passion ! lover I Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh : Speak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied; Cry but 'Ay me ! ' pronounce but ' love ' and ' dove ;' Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word. One nick-name for her purblind son and heir, Young Adam Cupid, he that shot so trim. When King Cophetua loved the beggar-maid ! He heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not ; The ape is dead, and I must conjure him. I conjure thee by Rosaline's bright eyes. By her high forehead and her scarlet lip. By her fine foot, straight leg and quivering thigh And the demesnes that there adjacent lie, That in thy likeness thou appear to us ! Ben. An if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him. Mer. This cannot anger him: 'twould anger him To raise a spirit in his mistress' circle Of some strange nature, letting it there stand Till she had laid it and conjured it down ; That were some spite : my invocation Is fair and honest, and in his mistress' name I conjure only but to raise up him. Ben. Come, he hath hid himself among these trees. To be consorted with the humorous night : Blind is his love and best befits the dark. Mer. If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark. Now will he sit under a medlar tree. And wish his mistress were that kind of fruit As maids call medlars, when they laugh alone. O, Romeo, that she were, O, that she were An open et caetera, thou a poperin pear ! Romeo, good night : I '11 to my truckle-bed ; This field-bed is too cold for me to sleep : Come, shall we go ? Ben. Go, then ; for 't is in vain To seek him here that means not to be found. [Exeunt. 590 SCENE II. —CapuleVs orchard. ^^^ Enter Roraeo. Bom. He jests at scars that never felt a wound. [Juliet appears above at a wine But ,soft ! what light through yonder window breaks' It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon. Who is already sick and pale with grief. That thou her maid art far more fair than she : Be not her maid, since she is envious ; Her vestal livery is but sick and green And none but fools do wear it ; cast it ofE. It is my lady, O, it is my love ! O, that she knew she were ! She speaks, yet she says nothing : what of that ? Her eye discourses ; I will answer it. I am too bold, 't is 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 would shame those stars, As daylight doth a lamp ; her eyes 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. Ay me ! Bom. 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 wondering eyes Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds . And sails upon the bosom of the air. [Romeo ? f^Jul. O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Deny thy father and refuse thy name ; Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, And I '11 no long'er be a Capulet. [this ? Bom. [Aside] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at Jul. 'T is but thy name that is my enemy ; Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. What 's Montague ? it isnor hand, nor foot. Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part Belonging to a man. O, be some other name ! ^'i'^hat 's in a name V that which we call a rose — -^ By any other name would smell as sweet ; So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd, Retain 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. Bom. I take thee at thy word : Call me but love, and I '11 be new baptized; Henceforth I never will be Romeo. [night Jul. What man art thou that thus bescreen'd in So stumblest on my counsel ? Bom. 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 : Had I it written, I would tear the word. 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 ? Bom. Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike. Jul. How camest thou hither, tell me, and where- fore? The orchard walls are high and hard to climb, And the place death, considering who thou art. If any of my kinsmen find thee here. ACT II, ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE III. Bom. With love's light wings did I o'erperch these For stony limits cannot hold love out, [walls ; 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 mirrder thee. Bcmi. 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. Bom. I have night's cloak to hide me from their sight ; And but thou love me, let them find me here : My life were better ended by their hate. Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love. Jul. By whose direction found'st thou out this place ? Bom. By love, who first did prompt me to inquire ; He lent me counsel and I lent him eyes. I am no pilot ; yet, wert thou as far As that vast shore wash'd with the farthest sea, I would adventure for such merchandise. [face, Jul. Thou know'st the mask of night is on my 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 ? I know thou wilt say ' Ay,' And I will take thy word : yet, if thou swear'st, Thou mayst prove false ; at lovers' perjuries, 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 '11 frown and be perverse and say thee nay. So thou wilt woo ; but else, not for the world. In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond. And therefore thou mayst think my 'haviour light : But trust me, gentlemen, I '11 prove more true Than those that have more cunning to be strange. I should have been more strange, I must confess, But that thou overheard'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. Bom. 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 That monthly changes in her circled orb, [moon, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable. Bom. 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 'U believe thee. Bom. If my heart's dear love — Jul. Well, do not swear: although I joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract to-night : It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden ; Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be Ere one can say ' It lightens.' Sweet, good 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 ! Bom. O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied ? Jul. What satisfaction canst thou have to-night ? Bom. The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine. [it : Jul. I gave thee mine before thou didst request And yet I would it were to give again. Bom. Wouldst thou withdraw it ? for what pur- pose, 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, above. Bom. O blessed, blessed night I I am afeard, Being in night, all this is but a dream. Too flattering-sweet to be substantial. Be-enter Juliet, ahove. Jul. Three words, dear Romeo, and good night in- If that thy bent of love be honourable, [deed. Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow, By one that I '11 procure to come to thee, Where and what time thoa wilt perform the rite ; And all my fortunes at thy foot I '11 lay And follow thee my lord throughout the world. 'Nurse. [Within] Madam! Jul. I come, anon.— But if thou mean'st not weU, I do beseech thee — Nurse. [Within] Madam! Jul. By and by, I come : — To cease thy suit, and leave me to my grief: To-morrow wiU I send. Bom. So thrive my soul — Jul. A thousand times good night ! [Exit, above. Bom. A thousand times the worse, to want thy light. [books. Love goes toward love, as schoolboys from their But love from love, toward school with heavy looks. [Betiring. Be-enter Juliet, above. Jul. Hist! Romeo, hist! O, for a falconer's To lure this tassel-gentle back again I [voice. 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. Bom. 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 1 Bom. My dear ? Jul. At what o' clock to-morrow Shall I send to thee ? Bom. At the hour of nine. Jul. I will not fail : 't is twenty years till then. I have forgot why I did call thee back. Bom. Let me stand here till thou remember it. Jul. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, Remembering how I love thy company. Bom. And I '11 still stay, to have thee still forget. Forgetting any other home but this. Jul. 'Tis almost morning; I would have thee And yet no further than a wanton's bird ; [gone : 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. Bom. I would I were thy bird. Jul. Sweet, so would I : Yet I should kUl thee witjrinuch cherishing. Good night, good night imparting is such sweet sor, That I shall say good night till it be morrow, [row, [Exit, above. Bom. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast ! Would I 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. [Exit. SCENE III. — Friar Laurence^s cell. Enter Friar La\irence, with a basket. Fri. L. The gray-eyed mom smiles on the frown- ing night, Chequering the eastern clouds with streaks of light And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels From forth day's path and Titan's fiery wheels : 591 ACT II, ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE lY. Now, ere the sun advance his burning eye, The day to cheer and night's dank dew to dry, I must up-fill this osier cage of ours With baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers. The earth that 's nature's mother is her tomb ; What is her burying grave that is her womb, And from her womb children of divers kind We sucking on her natural bosom find, Many for many vu'tues excellent, None but for some and yet all different. O, mickle 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 ought so good but strain'd from that fair us^ Eevolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse : Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied ; And vice sometimes by action dignified. Within the infant rind of this small flower Poison hath residence and medicine power : [part ; For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart. Two such opposed kings encamp them still In man as well as herbs, grace and rude wiU; And where the worser is predominant. Full soon the canker death eats up that plant. Enter Romeo. I Bom. Good morrow, father. Fri. L. Benedicite I \ What early tongue so sweet saluteth me ? 1 Young son, it argues a distemper'd head '. So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed : I Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye, ( And where care lodges, sleep will never lie ; ; But where unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign : Therefore thy earliness doth me assure Thou art up-roused by some distemperature ; Or if not so, then here I hit it right. Our Eomeo hath not been in bed to-night. Bom. That last is true; the sweeter rest was mine. [line ? Fri. L. God pardon sin ! wast thou with Eosa- Bom. With Eosaline, my ghostly father ? no ; I have forgot that name, and that name 's woe. Fri. L. That 's my good son : but where hast thou been, then ? Bom. I '11 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 : I bear no hatred, blessed man, for, lo. My intercession likewise steads my foe. Fri. L. Be plain , good son, and homely in thy drift ; Eiddling confession finds but riddling shrift. Bom. Then plainly know roy heart's dear love is On the fair daughter of rich (Japulet : [set As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine ; And all combined, save what thou must combine By holy marriage : when and where and how We met, we woo'd and made exchange of vow, I '11 tell thee as we pass ; but this I pray. That thou consent to marry us to-day. Fri. L. Holy Saint Francis, what a change is Is Eosaline, whom thou didst love so dear, [here ! So soon forsaken ? young men's love then lies Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes. Jesu Maria, what a deal of brine Hath wash'd thy sallow cheeks for Eosaline ! 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 : 592 If e'er thou wast thyself and these woes thine, Thou and these woes were all for Eosaline : [then, And art thou changed? pronounce this sentence Women may fall, when there 's no strength in men. Bom. Thou chid'st me oft for loving Eosaline. Fri. L. For doting, not for loving, pupil mine. Bom. And bad'st me bury love. Fri. L. Not in a grave, To lay one in, another out to have. -Bom. I pray thee, chide not : she whom I love now Doth grace for grace and love for love allow ; The other did not so. Fri. L. O, she knew well. Thy love did read by rote and could not spell. But come, young waverer, come, go with me, In one respect I '11 thy assistant be ; For this alliance may so happy prove. To turn your households' rancour to pure love. Bom. O, let us hence ; I stand on sudden haste. Fri. L. Wisely and slow ; they stumble that run fast. {Exeunt. SCENE IV.— A street. Enter Benvolio and Mercutio. Mer. Where the devil should this Eomeo 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 wench, that Eosaline, Torments him so, that he will sure run mado Ben. Tybalt, the kinsman of old Capulet, Hath sent a letter to his father's house. Mer. A challenge, on my life. Ben. Eomeo vrill answer it. Mer . Any man that can write may answer a letter. Ben. Nay, he will answer the letter's master, how he dares, being dared. Mer. Alas, poor Eomeo ! he is already dead ; stab- bed with a white wench's black eye ; shot through 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 courageous captain of complements. He fights as you sing prick-song, 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 duellist ; a gentleman of the very first house, of the first and second cause : ah. the immortal passado ! the punto reverso ! the Ben. The what ? [hai ! Mer. The pox of such antic, lisping, affecting fan- tasticoes ; these new tuners of accents ! ' By Jesu, a very good blade! a very tall man! a very good whore !^ Why, is not this a lamentable thing, grandsire, that we should be thus afilicted with these strange flies, these fashion-mongers, these perdona-mi's, who stand so much on the new form, that they cannot sit at ease on the old bench ? O, their bones, their bones I Enter Romeo. Ben. Here comes Eomeo, here comes Eomeo. Mer. Without his roe, like a dried herring: O flesh, flesh, how art thou fishifled! Now is he for the numbers that Petrarch flowed in : Laura to his lady was but a kitchen-wench; marry, she had a better love to be-rhyme her; Dido a dowdy; Cleo- patra a gypsy ; Helen and Hero hildings and har- lots; Thisbe a gray eye or so, but not to the pur- pose. Signior Eomeo, bon jour! there 's a French salutation to your French slop. You gave us the counterfeit fairly last night. Bom. Good morrow to you both. What counter- feit did I give you ? Mer. The slip, sir, the slip ; can you not conceive ? ACT II. ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE IV. Bom. Pardon, good Mercutio, my business was great ; and in suck a case as mine a man may strain courtesy. Mer. That 's as much as to say, such a case as yours constrains a man to bow in the hams. Bom. Meaning, to court 'sy. Mer. Thou hast most kindly hit it. Bom. A most courteous exposition. Mer. Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy. Bom. Pink for flower. Mer. Eight. Bom. Why, then is my pump well flowered. Mer. Well said : follow me this jest now till thou hast worn out thy pump, that when the single sole of it is worn, the jest may remain after the wearing sole singular. Bom. O single-soled jest, solely singular for the singleness ! [faint. Mer. Come between us, good Benvolio ; my wits Bom. Switch and spurs, switch and spurs ; or I '11 cry a match. Mer. Nay, if thy wits run the wild-goose chase, I have done, for thou hast more of the wild-goose in one of thy wits than, I am sure, I have in my whole five : was I with you there for the goose ? Bom. Thou wast never with me for any thing when thou was not there for the goose. Mer. I will bite thee by the ear for that jest. Bom. Nay, good goose, bite not. Mer. Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting; it is a most sharp sauce. Bom. And is it not well served in to a sweet goose ? Mer. O, here 's a wit of cheveril, that stretches from an inch narrow to an ell broad ! Bom. I stretch it out for that word ' broad ; ' which added to the goose, proves thee far and wide a broad goose. Mer. Why, is not this better now than groaning for love ? now art thou sociable, now art thou Ro- meo ; now art thou what thou art, by art as well as by nature : for this drivelling love is like a great natural, that runs loUing up and down to hide his bauble in a hole. Beyi. Stop there, stop there. [the hair. Mer. Thou desirest me to stop in my tale against Ben. Thou wouldst else have made thy tale large. Mer. O, thou art deceived ; I would have made it short : for I was come to the whole depth of my tale ; and meant, indeed, to occupy the argument no Bom. Here 's goodly gear. [longer. Enter Nurse and Peter. Mer. A sail, a sail ! Ben. Two, two ; a shirt and a smock. Nurse. Peter! Peter. Anon! Nurse. My fan, Peter. Mer. Good Peter, to hide her face ; for her fan 's the fairer face. Nurse. God ye good morrow, gentlemen. Mer. God ye good-den, fair gentlewoman. Nurse. Is it good-den ? Mer. 'T is no less, I tell you, for the bawdy hand of the dial is now upon the prick of noon. Nurse. Out upon you ! what a man are you ! Bom. One, gentlewoman, that God hath made for himself to mar. Nurse. By my troth, it is well said ; ' for himself to mar,' quoth a' ? Gentlemen, can any of you tell me where I may find the young- Eomeo ? -Bom. I can tell you ; but young Romeo will be older when you have found him than he was when you sought him : I am the youngest of that name, for fault of a worse. Nurse. You say well. Mer. Yea, is the worst well? very well took, i' faith ; wisely, wisely. 38 Nurse. If you be he, sir, I desire some confidence with you. Ben. She will indite him to some supper, Mer. A bawd, a bawd, a bawd ! So ho ! Bom. What hast thou found i* Mer. No hare, sir; unless a hare, sir, in a lenten pie, that is something stale and hoar ere it be spent. [Sings. An old hare hoar. And an old hare hoar. Is very good meat in lent : But a hare that is hoar Is too much for a score, When it hoars ere it be spent Romeo, will you come to your father's ? we '11 to dinner, thither. Bom. I will follow you. Mer. Parewell, ancient lady ; farewell, [singing] ' lady, ladyj lady. ' [Exeunt Mercutio and Benvolio. Nurse. Marry, farewell ! I pray you, sir , what saucy merchant was this, that was so full of his ropery > Bom. A gentleman, nurse, that loves to hear him- self 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 '11 take him down, an a' were lustier than he is, and twenty such Jacks ; and if I cannot, I '11 find those that shall. Scurvy knave ! I am none of his flirt-gUls ; I am none of his skains-mates. And thou must stand by too, and suffer every knave to use me at his pleasure ? Peter. 1 saw no man use you at his pleasure ; if I had, my weapon should quickly have been out, I warrant you : I dare draw as soon as another man, if I see occasion in a good quarrel, and the law on my side. Nurse. Now, afore God, I am so vexed, that every part about me quivers. Scurvy knave ! Pray you, sir, a word : and as I told you, my young lady bade me inquire you out ; what she bade me say, I will keep to myself; but flrst let me tell ye, if ye should lead her into a fool's paradise, as they say, it were a very gross kind of behaviour, as they say : for the gentlewoman 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 weakdealiug. Bom. Nurse, commend me to thy lady and mis- tress. I protest unto thee — Nurse. Good heart, and, i' faith, I wiU tell her as much : Lord, Lord, she will be a joyful woman. Bom. What wilt thou tell her, nurse ? thou dost not mark me. Nurse. 1 will tell her, sir, that you do protest -. which, as I take it, is a gentlemanlike offer. Bom. Bid her devise Some means to come to shrift this afternoon ; And there she shall at Priar Lam-ence' cell Be shrived and married. Here is for thy pains. Nurse. No, truly, sir; not a penny. Bom. Go to ; I say you shall. [there. Nurse. This afternoon, sir? well, she shall be Bom. And stay, good nurse, behind the abbey wall : Within this hour my man shall be with thee. And bring thee cords made like a tackled stair; Which to the high top-gallant of my joy Must be my convoy in the secret night. Farewell ; be trusty, and I '11 quit thy paios : Farewell ; commend me to thy mistress. Nurse. Now God in heaven bless thee ! Hark you, sir. Bom. What say'st thou, my dear nurse ? Nurse. Is your man secret ? Did you ne'er hear Two may keep counsel, putting one away ? [say. Bom. I warrant thee, my man 's as true as steel. Nurse. Well, sir; my mistress is the sweetest lady — Lord, Lord! when 'twas a little prating thing : — O, there is a nobleman in town, one Paris, ACT I] ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE Vic that would fain lay knife aboard ; but she, good soul, had as lief see a toad, a very toad, as see him. I anger her sometimes and tell her that Paris is the properer man ; but, I '11 warrant you, when I say so, she looks as pale as any clout in the versal world. Doth not rosemary and Eomeo begin both with a letter ? Bom. Ay, nurse ; what of that ? both with an E. Nurse. Ah, mocker! that's the dog's name; E is for the — No; I know it begins with some other letter :— and she hath the prettiest sententious of it, of you and rosemary, that it would do you good to hear it. Bom. Commend me to thy lady. Nurse. Ay, a thousand times. [Exit Bomeo.l Peter ! Pet. Anon! Nurse. Peter, take my fan, and go before, and apace. [Exeunt. SCENE v. — CapuleVs orchard. Enter Juliet. Jul. The clock struck nine when I did send the In half an hour she promised to return. [nurse ; 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. Driving back shadows over louring hills : Therefore do nimble-pinion'd doves draw love. And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings. 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 would be as swift in motion as a ball ; My words would bandy her to my sweet love, And his to me : But old folks, many feign as they were dead ; Unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead. O God, she comes ! Enter Nurse and Peter. O honey nurse, what news ? Hast thou met with him ? Send thy man away. Nurse. Peter, stay at the gate. [Exit Peter. Jul. Now, good sweet nurse, — O Lord, why look'st thou sad ? Though news be sad, yet tell them merrily; If good, thou shamest the music of sweet news By playing it to me with so sour a face. Nurse. I am a-weary, give me leave awhile : Pie, how my bones ache! what 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. Nurse. Jesu,what haste ? can you not stay awhile ? Do you not see that I am out of breath ? Jul. How art thou out of breath, when thou hast To say to me that thou art out of breath ? [breath The excuse that thou dost make in this delay Is longer than the tale thou dost excuse. Is thy news good, or bad ? answer to that ; Say either, and I '11 stay the circiimstance : 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 : Eomeo ! no, not he ; though his face be better than any man's, yet his leg excels all men's ; and for a hand, and a foot, and a body, though they be not to be talked on, yet they art past compare : he is not the flower of cour- tesy, but, I '11 warrant him, as gentle as a lamb. Go thy ways, wench; serve God. 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. Lord, how my head aches! what a head have 1 1 694 It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces. My back o' t' other side, — O, my back, my back! Beshrew your heart for sending me about. To catch my death with jaunting up and down ! 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 ! why, she is within; Where should she be ? How oddly thou repliest ! ' Your love says, like an honest gentleman. Where is your mother ? ' Nurse. O God's lady dear ! Are you so hot ? marry, come up, I trow; Is this the poultice for my aching bones ? Henceforward do your messages yourself. Jul. Here 's such a coil ! come, what says Eomeo ? Nurse. Have you got leave to go to shrift to-day ? Jul. I have. [cell; Nurse. Then hie you hence to Friar Laurence' There stays a husband to make you a wife : Now comes the wanton blood up in your cheeks, They '11 be in scarlet straight at any news. Hie you to church ; I must another way, To fetch a ladder, by the which your love Must climb a bird's nest soon when it is dark: I am the drudge and toil in your delight. But you shall bear the burden soon at night. Go • I '11 to dinner ; hie you to the cell. Jul. Hie to high fortune ! Honest nurSe, farewell. [Exeunt. SCENE Tl.— Friar Laurence's cell. Enter Friar Laurence and Romeo. Fri. L. So smile the heavens upon this holy act. That after hours with sorrow chide us not ! Bom. 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. L. 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 deliciousness And in the taste confounds the appetite : Therefore love moderately; long love doth so; Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow, FMer Juliet. Here comes the lady : O, so light a foot Will ne'er wear out the everlastmg flint: A lover may bestride the gossamer That idles in the wanton summer air, And yet not fall ; so light is vanity. Jul. Good even to my ghostly confessor, [both. Fri. L. Eomeo shall thank thee, daughter, for u* Jul. As much to him, else is his thanks too much. Bom. Ah, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy Be heap'd like mine and that thy skill be more To blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath This neighbour air, and let rich music's tongue Unfold the imagined happiness that both Eeceive in either by this dear encounter. Jul. Conceit, more rich in matter than in words. Brags 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 sum of half my wealth. Fri. L. 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. [Exeunt. ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE ^OT III. SCENE I. — A public place. Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, Page, and Servants. en. I pray thee, good Mercutio, let 's retire : The day is hot, the Capulets abroad, And, if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl ; For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring. Mer. Thou art like one of those fellows that when he enters the confines of a tavern claps me his sword upon the table and says ' G-od send me no need of thee ! ' and by the operation of the second cup draws it on the drawer, when indeed there is no need. Ben. Am I like such a fellow ? Mer. Come, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy mood as any in Italy, and as soon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be moved. Ben. And what to ? Her. Nay, an there were two such , we should have none shortly, for one would kill the other. Thou ! why, thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a hair more, or a hair less, in his beard, than thou hast: thou wilt quarrel with a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou hast hazel eyes : what eye but such an eye would spy out such a quarrel y Thy head is as full of quarrels as an egg if full of meat, and yet thy head hath been beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling : thou hast quar- relled with a man for coughing in the street, because he hath wakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the Sim : didst thou not fall out with a tailor for wearing his new doublet before Easter ? with an- other, for tying his new shoes with old riband ? and yet thou wilt tutor me from quarrelling ! Ben. An I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any man should buy the fee-simple of my life for an hour and a quarter. Her. The fee-simple ! O simple ! Ben. By my head, here come the Capulets. Mer. By my heel, I care not. Enter Tybalt and others. Tyb. Follow me close, for I will speak to them. Gentlemen, good den : a word with one of you. Mer. And but one word with one of us ? couple it with something ; make it a word and a blow. Tyb. You shall find me apt enough to that, sir, an you will give me occasion. [giving r Mer. Could you not take some occasion without Tyb. Mercutio, thou consort'st with Eomeo, — Mer. Consort! what, dost thou make us minstrels? an thou make minstrels of us, look to hear nothing but discords : here 's my fiddlestick ; here 's that shall make you dance. 'Zounds, consort ! Ben. We talk here in the public haunt of men : Either withdraw unto some private place, And reason coldly of your grievances. Or else depart ; here all eyes gaze on us. [gaze ; Mer. Men's eyes were made to look, and let them I will not budge for no man's pleasure, I. Enter Romeo. Tyb. Well, peace be with you, sir: here comes my man. [ery : Mer. But I '11 be hang'd, sir, if he wear your liv- Marry, go before to field, he '11 be your follower ; Your worship in that sense may call him 'man.' Tub. Komeo, the hate I bear thee can afford No better term than this, — thou art a vUlain. Bom. Tybalt, the reason that I have to love thee Doth much excuse the appertaining rage To such a greeting : villain am I none ; Therefore farewell ; I see thou know'st me not. Tyb. Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries That thou hast done me ; therefore turn and draw. Bom. I do protest, I never injured thee. But love thee better than thou canst devise, Till thou Shalt know the reason of my love : And so, good Capulet, — which name I tender As dearly as my o-\Aai, — be satisfied. Mer. O calm, dishonourable, vile submission! Alia stoccata carries it away. [JDraws, Tybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk? Tyb. What wouldst thou have with me ? Mer. Good king of cats, nothing but one of your nine lives; that I mean to make bold withal, and, as you shall use me hereafter, dry-beat the rest of the eight. Will you pluck yom- sword out of his pilcher by the ears ? make haste, lest mine be about your ears ere it be out. Tyb. I am for you. [Drawing. Rom. Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up. Mer. Come, sir, your passado. [They fight. Bom. Draw, Benvolio ; beat down their weapons. Gentlemen, for shame, forbear this outrage ! Tybalt, Mercutio, the prince expressly hath Forbidden bandying in Verona streets : Hold, Tybalt ! good Mercutio ! [Tybalt under Bomeo^s arm stabs Mercutio, and flies with his followers. Mer. I am hurt. A plague o' both your houses ! I am sped. Is he gone, and hath nothing ? Ben. What, art thou hurt ? Mer. Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch; marry, 'tis enough Where is my page ? Go, villain, fetch a surgeon. [Exit Bage. Bom. Courage, man; the hurt cannot be much. Mer. No, 't is not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church-door; but 'tis enough, 'twill serve: ask for me to-morrow, and you shall find me a grave man. I am peppered, I warrant, for this world. A plague o' both your houses ! 'Zounds, a dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat, to scratch a man to death ! a brag- gart, a rogue, a villain, that fights by the book of arithmetic ! Why the devil came you between us ? I was hurt under your arm. Bom. I thought all for the best. Mer. Help me into some house, Benvolio, Or I shall faint. A plague o' both your houses ! They have made worms' meat of me : I have it, And soundly too : your houses ! [Exeunt Mercutio and Benvolio, Bom. This gentleman, the prince's near ally, My very friend, hath got his mortal hurt In my behalf ; my reputation stain'd With Tybalt's slander,— Tybalt, that an hour Hath been my kinsman ! O sweet Juliet, Thy beauty hath made me effeminate And in my temper sof ten'd valour's steel ! Be-enter Benvolio. Ben. O Komeo, Eomeo, brave Mercutio 's dead I That gaUant spirit hath aspired the clouds. Which too untimely here did scorn the earth. Bom. This day's black fate on more days doth de- This but begins the woe, others must end. [pend; Ben. Here comes the furious Tybalt back again. Bom. Alive, in triumph ! and Mercutio slain ! Away to heaven, respective lenity. And fire-eyed fury be my conduct now ! Be-enter Tybalt. Now, Tybalt, take the villain back again. That late thou gavest me ; for Mercutio 's soul Is but a little way above our heads. Staying for thine to keep him company : Either thou, or I, or both, must go "wdth him- ^CT III. ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE II, Tuh. Thou, wretched boy, that didst consort him Shalt with him hence. [here, Bom. This shall determine that. [They fight; Tyhalt falls. Ben. Romeo, away, be gone! The citizens are up, and Tybalt slain. Stand not amazed : the prince will doom thee death, If thou art taken: hence, be gone, away! Bom. O, I am fortune's fool ! Ben. Why dost thou stay ? „ _ [Exit Borneo. Enter Citizens, &c. First Git. Which way ran he that kill'd Mercutio ? Tybalt, that murderer, which way ran he ? Ben. There lies that Tybalt. First Cit. Up, sir, go with me ; I charge thee in the prince's name, obey. Enter Prince, attended ; Montague, Capulet, their "Wives, and others. Prin. Where are the vile beginners of this fray ? Ben. O noble prince, I can discover all The unlucky manage of this fatal brawl : There lies the man, slain by young Romeo, That slew thy kinsman, brave Mercutio. La. Cap. Tybalt, my cousin ! O my brother's child ! O prince 1 O cousin ! husband ! O, the blood is spilt Of my dear kinsman ! Prince, as thou art true, For blood of ours, shed blood of Montague. cousin, cousin ! Prin. Benvolio, who began this bloody fray ? Ben. Tybalt, here slain, whom Romeo's hand did slay: Romeo that spoke him fair, bade him bethink How nice the quarrel was, and urged withal Your high displeasure : all this uttered With gentle breath, calm look, knees humbly bow'd, Could not take truce with the imruly spleen Of Tybalt deaf to peace, but that he tilts With piercing steel at bold Mercutio's breast, Who, all as hot, turns deadly point to point. And, with a martial scorn, with one hand beats Cold death aside, and with the other sends It back to Tybalt, whose dexterity Retorts it : Romeo he cries aloud, [tongue, ' Hold, friends ! friends, part ! ' and, swifter than his His agile arm beats down their fatal points. And 'twixt them rushes ; underneath whose arm An envious thrust from Tybalt hit the life Of stout Mercutio, and then Tybalt fled ; But by and by comes back to Romeo, Who had but newly entertain'd revenge. And to 't they go like lightning, for, ere I Could draw to part them, was stout Tybalt slain, And, as he fell, did Romeo turn and fly. This is the truth, or let Benvolio die. La. Gap. He is a kinsman to the Montague; Affection makes him false ; he speaks not true : Some twenty of them fought in this black strife, And all those twenty could but kill one life. 1 beg for justice, which thou, prince, must give; Romeo slew Tybalt, Romeo must not live. Prin. Romeo slew him, he slew Mercutio ; Who now the price of his dear blood doth owe ? Mon. Not Romeo, prince, he was Mercutio's friend ; His fault concludes but what the law should end, The life of Tybalt. Prin. And for that offence Immediately we do exile him hence : I have an interest in your hate's proceeding. My blood for your rude brawls doth lie a-bleeding ; But I '11 amerce you with so strong a fine That you sliall all repent the loss of mine : I will be deaf to pleading and excuses ; Nor tears nor prayers shall purchase our abuses : Therefore use none : let Romeo hence in haste, 596 Else, when he 's found, that hour is his last., Bear hence this body and attend our will : Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill. [Exeunt. SCENE II. — GapuleVs orchard. Enter Juliet. Jul. Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds, Towards Phoebus' lodging : such a waggoner As Phaethon would whip you to the west. And bring in cloudy night immediately. Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night. That runaway's eyes may wink, and Romeo Leap to these arms, untalk'd of and imseen. Lovers can see to do their amorous rites By their own beauties ; or, if love be blind, It best agrees with night. Come, civil night, Thou sober-suited matron, all in black, And learn me how to lose a winning match, Play'd for a pair of stainless maidenhoods : Hood my immann'd blood, bating in my cheeks, With thy black mantle ; till strange love , grown bold , Think true love acted simple modesty. Come, night ; come, Romeo ; come, thou day in night ; For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night Whiter than new snow on a raven's back, [night, Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-brow'cl 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, I have bought the mansion of a love, But not possess'd it, and, though I am sold, Not yet enjoy 'd: so tedious is this day As is the night before some festival To an impatient child that hath new robes And may not wear them. O, here comes my nurse. And she brings news ; and every tongue that speaks But Romeo's name speaks heavenly eloquence. Enter Nurse, with cords. Now, nurse, what news ? What hast thou there ? the cords That Romeo bid thee fetch ? Nurse. Ay, ay, the cords. [Throws them down. Jul. Ay me I what news ? why dost thou wring thy hands ? [dead ! Nurse. Ah, well-a-day ! he 's dead, he 's dead, he 's We are midone, lady, we are undone ! Alack the day! he 's gone, he 's kill'd, he 's deadl Jul. Can heaven be so envious ? Nurse. Romeo can. Though heaven cannot : O Romeo, Romeo ! Who ever would have thought it ? Romeo ! Jul. What devil art thou, that dost torment me This torture should be roar'd in dismal hell, [thus ? Hath Romeo slain himself ? say thou but ' I,' And that bare vowel ' I ' shall poison more Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice ; I am not I, if there be such an I ; Or those eyes shut^ that make thee answer ' I.' If he be slain, say ' I ' ; or if not, no : Brief soimds determine of my weal or woe. [eyes,— Nurse. I saw the wound, I saw it with mine God save the mark ! — here on his manly breast : A piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse ; Pale, pale as ashes, all bedaub'd in blood. All in gore-blood; I swounded at the sight. Jul. O, break, my heart ! poor bankrupt, break at To prison, eyes, ne'er look on liberty ! [once! Vile earth, to earth resign ; end motion here : And thou and Romeo press one heavy bier ! Nurse. O Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I hadl O courteous Tybalt ! honest gentleman ! That ever I should live to see thee dead ! ACT III. ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE III. Jul. What storm is this that blows so contrary ? Is Eomeo slaughter'd, and is Tybalt dead ? My dear-loved cousin, and my dearer lord ? Then, dreadful trumpet, sound the general doom ! For who is living, if those two are gone ? Nurse. Tybalt is gone, and Romeo banish 'd; Eomeo that kill'd him, he is banished. [blood ? Jul. O God! did Romeo's hand shed Tybalt's Nurse. It did, it did ; alas the day, it did ! Jul. O serpent heart, hid with a flowering face! Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave ? Beautiful tyrant ! fiend angelical ! Dove-feather 'd raven! wolvish-ravening lamb! Despised substance of divinest show ! Just opposite to what thou justly seem'st, A damned saint, an honourable villain ! O nature, what hadst thou to do in hell, "When thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend In mortal paradise of such sweet flesh ? Was ever book containing such vile matter So fairly bound ? O, that deceit should dwell In such a gorgeous palace ! Nurse. There 's no trust, If o faith, no honesty in men ; all perjured, All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers. Ah, where 's my man ? give me some aqua vitse : These griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old. 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 ashamed to sit ; For 't is a throne where honour may be crown 'd Sole monarch of the universal earth. O, what a beast was I to chide at him ! Nurse. Will you speak well of him that kiU'd your cousin ? 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 ? But, wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin ? That villain cousin would have kiU'd my husband : 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 hus- band: All this is comfort : wherefore weep I then ? 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, Like damned guilty deeds to siimers' minds : ' Tybalt is dead, and Romeo— banished ; ' That ' banished,' that one word ' banished,' Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt's death Was woe enough, if it had ended there : Or, if sour woe delights in fellowship And needly will be rank'd with other griefs, Why f ollow'd not, when she said ' Tybalt 's dead,' Thy father, or thy mother, nay, or both. Which modern lamentation might have moved ? But with a rear-ward following Tybalt's death, ' Eomeo is banished,' to speak that word. Is father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet^ All slain, all dead. ' Romeo is banished ! ' There is no end, no limit, measure, bound. In that word's death ; no words can that woe sound. Where is my father, and my mother, nurse ? Nurse. Weeping and wailing over Tybalt's corse : Will you go to them ? I will bring you thither. Jul. Wash they his wounds with tears : mine shall be spent. When theirs are dry, for Romeo's banishment. Take up those cords : poor ropes, you are beguiled, Both you and I ; for Romeo is exiled : He made you for a highway to my bed ; But I, a maid, die maiden-widowed. Come, cords, come, nurse ; I '11 to my wedding-bed; And death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead! Nurse. Hie to your chamber : I '11 find Romeo To comfort you : I wot well where he is. Hark ye, your Romeo will be here at night : I '11 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 HI.— Friar Laurence^s cell. Enter Friar Laurence. Fri. L. Romeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful man : Affliction is enamour'd of thy parts. And thou art wedded to calamity. Enter Romeo. Bom. Father, what news ? what is the prince's doom? What sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand, That I yet know not ? Fri. L. Too familiar Is my dear son with such sour company : I bring thee tidings of the prince's doom. Bom. What less than dooms-day is the prince's doom ? [lips, Fri. L. A gentler judgment vanish'd from his Not body's death, but body's banishment. . Bom. Ha, banishment ! be merciful, say 'death; ' For exile hath more terror in his look. Much more than death : do not say ' banishment.' Fri. L. Hence from Yerona art thou banished : Be patient, for the world is broad and wide. Bom. There is no world without Verona walls. But purgatory, torture, hell itself. Hence-banished is banish 'd from the world. And world's exile is death : then banished, Is death mis-term 'd: calling death banishment, Thou cutt'st my head off with a golden axe. And smilest upon the stroke that murders me. Fri. L. O deadly sin ! O rude unthankf ulness ! 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. Bom. 'T is torture, and not mercy : heaven is here, Where Juliet lives ; and every cat and dog And little mouse, every unworthy thing, Live here in heaven and may look on her ; But Romeo may not : more validity. More honourable state, more courtship lives In carrion-flies than Romeo : they may seize On the white wonder of dear Juliet's hand And steal immortal blessing from her lips, Who, even in pure and vestal modesty. Still blush, as thinking their ovra kisses sin; But Romeo maj^ not ; he is banished : Flies may do this, but I from this must fly: They are free men, but I am banished. And say'st thou yet that exile is not death ? Hadst thou no poison mix'd, no sharp-ground knife, No sudden mean of death, though ne'er so mean. But ' banished ' to kill me ? — ' banished ' ? O friar, the damned use that word in hell; Howlings attend it : how hast thou the heart. Being a divine, a ghostly confessor, A sin-absolver, and my friend profess'd. To mangle me with that word ' banished ' ? Fri. L. Thou fond mad man, hear me but speak a word. Bom. O, thou wilt speak again of banishment. Fri. L. I '11 give thee armour to keep off that Adversity's sweet milk, philosophy, [word; To comfort thee, though thou art banished. 597 ACT III. ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE IV. Bom. Yet ' banished ' ? Hang up philosophy ! Unless philosophy can make a Juliet, Displant a town, reverse a prince's doom, It helps not, it prevails not : talk no more. Fri. L. O, then I see that madmen have no ears. Rom. How should they, when that wise men have no eyes ? Fri. L. Let me dispute with thee of thy estate. Rom. Thou canst not speak of that thou dost not Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love, [feel : An hour but married, Tybalt murdered, Doting like me and like me banished, [thy hair, Then mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear And fall upon the ground, as I do now, Taking the measure of an unmade grave. [Knocking within. Fri. L. Arise; one knocks; good Eomeo, hide thyself. Rom. NotI ; unless the breath of heart-sick groans. Mist-like, infold me from the search of eyes. {Knocking. Fri. L. Hark, how they knock I Who 's there i* Eomeo, arise; Thou wilt be taken. Stay awhile ! Stand up ; [Knocking. Run to my study. By and by ! God's will, What simpleness is this ! I 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 errand ; I come from Lady Juliet. Fri. L. Welcome, then. Enter Nurse. Nxi^rse. O holy friar, O, tell me, holy friar, Where is my lady's lord, where 's Romeo ? Fri. L. There on the ground, with his own tears made drunk. Nurse. O, he is even in my mistress' case. Just in her case ! O woful sympathy ! Piteous predicament ! Even so lies she. Blubbering and weeping, weeping and blubbering. Stand up, stand up ; stand, an you be a man : For Juliet's sake, for her sake, rise and stand ; Why should you fall into so deep an O ? Rom. Nurse ! [of all. Nurse. Ah sir ! ah sir ! Well, death 's the end Rom. Spakest thou of Juliet ? how is it with her V Doth she not think me an old murderer, Now I have stain'd the childhood of our joy With blood removed but little from her own ? AVhere is she ? and how doth she ? and what says My conceal'd lady to our cancell'd love ? [weeps ; Nurse. O, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and 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, Sliot 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, that I may sack Tlie hateful mansion. [Drawing his sword. Fri. L. Hold thy desperate hand : Art thou a man ? thy form cries out thou art : Thy tears are womanish ; thy wild acts denote The unreasonable fury of a beast : Unseemly woman in a seeming man ! Or ill-beseeming beast in seeming both ! Thou hast amazed me : by my holy order, I thought thy disposition better temper'd. Hast thou slain Tybalt ? wilt thou slay thyself ? And slay thy lady too that lives in thee, By doing damned hate upon thyself ? 598 Why rail'st thou on thy birth , the heaven , and earth? Since birth, and heaven, and earth, all three do meet In thee at once ; which thou at once wouldst lose. Fie, fie, thou shamest thy shape, thy love, thy wit; Which, like a usurer, abound'st in all. And usest none in that true use indeed Which should bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy wit : Thy noble shape is but a form of wax. Digressing from the valour of a man ; Thy dear love sworn but hollow perj ury, Killing that love which thou hast vow'd to cherish ; Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love, Mis-shapen in the conduct of them both, Like powder in a skilless soldier's flask. Is set a-fire by thine own ignorauce. And thou dismember'd with thine own defence. What, rouse thee, man ! thy Juliet is alive. For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead; There art thou happy : Tybalt would kill thee. But thou slew'st Tybalt ; there art thou happy too: The law that threaten'd death becomes thy friend And turns it to exile ; there art thou happy : A pack of blessings lights upon thy back; Happiness courts thee in her best array ; But, like a misbehaved and sullen wench, Thou pout'st upon thy fortune and thy love : Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable. 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 shalt live, till we can find a time 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 bed. Which heavy sorrow makes them apt unto : Romeo is coming. . [night Nurse. O Lord, I could have stay'd here all the To hear good counsel: O, what learning is ! My lord, I '11 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. Rom. How well my comfort is revived by this I Fri. L. Go hence ; good night ; and here stands all your state : Either be gone before the watch be set. Or by the break of day disguised from hence : Sojourn in Mantua; I '11 find out your man, And he shall signify from time to time Every good hap to you that chances here : Give me thy hand ; 't is late : farewell ; good night. Ro7n. But that a joy past joy calls out on me, It were a grief, so brief to part with thee : Farewell. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. — A room in CapuleVs house. Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, and Paris. Ca-p. Things have fall'n out, sir, so unluckily. That we have had no time to move our daughter : Look you, she loved her kinsman Tybalt dearly, And so did I : — Well, we were born to die. 'T is very late, she '11 not come down to-night : I promise you, but for your company, I would have been a-bed an hour ago. Par. These times of woe afford no time to woo. Madam, good night : commend me to your daugh- ter, [morrow ; La. Cap. I will, and know her mind early to- To-night she is mew'd up to her heaviness. Cap. Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender Of my child's love : I think she will be ruled In all respects by me ; nay, more, I doubt it not. ACT III. ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE V. "Wife, go you to her ere you go to bed ; Acquaint her here of my son Paris' love ; And bid her, mark you me, on Wednesday next — But, soft ! what day is this ? Par. Monday, my lord. Cap. Monday ! ha, ha ! "Well, "Wednesday is too O' Thursday let it be : o' Thursday, tell her, [soon, She shall be married to this noble earl. "\Vill you be ready ? do you like this haste ? We 11 keep no great ado,— a friend or two ; For, hark you, Tybalt being slain so late, It may be thought we held him carelessly, Being our kinsman, if we revel much : Therefore we '11 have some half a dozen friends, And there an end.- But what say you to Thursday? Par. My lord, I would that Thursday were to- morrow. Cap. Well, get you gone : o' Thursday be it, then. Go you to Juliet ere you go to bed, Prepare her, wife, against this wedding-day. Farewell, my lord. Light to my chamber, ho ! Afore me ! it is so very very late. That we may call it early by and by. Good night. [Exeunt. SCENE 'V.—CapuleVs orchard. Enter Romeo and Juliet alove, at the window. Jul. Wilt thou be gone ? it is not yet near day : It was the nightingale, and not the lark. That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear ; Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate-tree : Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. Bom. It was the lark, the herald of the morn, 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: It is 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. Bom. Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death ; I am content, so thou wilt have it so. I '11 say yon grey is not the morning's eye, 'T is 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 J 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. Some say the lark makes sweet division ; This doth not so, for she divideth us : Some say the lark and loathed toad change eyes ; O, now I would they had changed voices too! Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray, Hunting thee hence with hunt's-up to the day. O, now be gone ; more light and light it grows. Bom. More light and light ; more dark and dark cm' woes ! Enter Nurse, to the chamber. Nurse. Madam! Jul. Nurse? PDer: Nurse. Your lady mother is coming to your cham- The day is broke ; be wary, look about. [Exit. Jul. Then, window, let day in, and let life out. Bom. Farewell, farewell! one kiss, and I'll de- scend. [He goeth down. Jul. Art thou gone so ? love, lord, ay, husband, friend ! I must hear from thee every day in 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 Eomeo ! Bom. Farewell! I will omit no opportunity That may convey my greetings, love, to thee. Jul. O, think 'st thou we shall ever meet again? Bom. I doubt it not; and all these woes shall For sweet discourses in our time to come. [serve Jul. O God, 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 eyesight fails, or thou look'st pale. Bom. And trust me, love, in my eye so do you : Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu! [Exit, Jul. O fortune, fortune ! all men call thee fickle : If thou 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. La. Cap. ["FRi/wn] Ho, daughter! are you up? Jul. "Who is 't that calls ? is it my lady mother ? Is she not down so late, or up so early ? What unaccustom'd cause procures her hither? Enter Lady Oapulet. La. Cap. Why, how now, Juliet ! Jul. Madam, I am not well. La. Cap. Evermore weeping for your cousin's death ? What,wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears? An if thou couldst, thou couldst not make him live ; Therefore, have done: some grief shows much of love; But much of grief shows still some want of wit. Jul. Yet let me weep for such a feeling loss. La. Gap. So shall you feel the loss, but not the Which you weep for. [friend Jul. Feeling so the loss, I cannot choose but ever weep the friend. La. Cap. Well, girl, thou weep'st not so much for his death. As that the villain lives which slaughter'd him. Jul. What villain, madam ? La. Cap. That same villain, Eomeo. Jul. [Aside] Villain and he be many miles asun- God pardon him ! I do, with all my heart ; [der.^ And yet no man like he doth grieve my heart. La. Cap. That is, because the traitor murderer lives. [hands : Jul. Ay, madam, from the reach of these my Would none but I might venge my cousin's death ! La. Cap. We will have vengeance for it, fear thou not : Then weep no more. I '11 send to one in Mantua, Where that same banish'd runagate doth live, Shall give him, such an unaccustom'd dram. That he shall soon keep Tybalt company : And then, I hope, thou wilt be satisfied. . Jul. Indeed, I never shall be satisfied With Eomeo, till I behold him — dead — Is my poor heart so for a kinsman vex'd : Madam, if you could find out but a man To bear a poison, I would temper it; That Eomeo should, upon receipt thereof. Soon sleep in quiet. O, how my heart abhors To hear him named, and cannot come to him. To wreak the love I bore my cousin Upon his body that hath slaughter'd him ! [a man- ia. Cap. Find thou the means, and I '11 find such But now I '11 tell thee joyful tidifigs, girl. Jid. And joy comes well in such a needy time : What are they, I beseech your ladyship ? La. Cap. "Well, well, thou hast a careful father, One who, to put thee from thy heaviness, [child; Hath sorted out a sudden day of joy. That thou expect 'st not nor I look'd not for. 599 A.CT III. ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE V, Jul. Madam, in happy time, what day is that ? La. Cap. Marry, my child, early next Thursday morn, The gallant, young and noble gentleman. The County Paris, at Saint Peter's Church, Shall happily make thee there a joyful bride. Jul. Now, by Saint Peter's Church and Peter too, He shall not make me there a joyful bride. I wonder at this haste ; that I must wed Ere he, that should be husband, comes to woo. I pray you, tell my lord and father, madam, I will not marry yet ; and, when I do, I swear, It shall be Eomeo, whom you know I hate, Rather than Paris. These are news indeed ! La. Cap. Here comes your father; tell him so yourself, And see how he will take it at your hands. Enter Capulet and Nurse. Cap. When the sun sets, the air doth drizzle dew ; But for the sunset of my brother's son It rains downright. How now ! a conduit, girl ? what, still in tears ? Evermore showering .-' In one little body Thou counterfeit 'st a bark, a sea, a wind ; Por still thy eyes, which I may call the sea, Do ebb and flow with tears ; the bark thy body is, Sailing in this salt flood ; the winds, thy sighs ; "Who, raging with thy tears, and they with them, Without a sudden calm, will overset Thy tempest-tossed body. How now, wife I Have you deliver'd to her our decree ? La. Cap. Ay, sir ; but she will none, she gives you thanks. I would the fool were married to her grave ! Cap. Soft ! take me with you, take me with you, wife. How ! will she none ? doth she not give us thanks ? Is she not proud ? doth she not count her blest. Unworthy as she is, that we have wrought So worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom ? Jul. Not proud, you have; but thankful, that you have : Proud can I never be of what I hate ; But thankful even for hate, that is meant love. Cap. How now, how now, chop-logic ! What is this? ' Proud,' and ' I thank you,' and ' I thank you not ;' And yet ' not proud,' mistress minion, you. Thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds, But fettle your fine joints 'gainst Thursday next. To go with Paris to Saint Peter's Church, Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither. .y _ You tallow-face ! La. Cap. Pie, fie ! what, are you mad ? Jul. Good father, I beseech you on my knees. Hear me with patience but to speak a word. Cap. Hang thee, young baggage! disobedient wretch ! I tell thee what : get thee to church o' Thursday, Or never after look me in the face : Speak not, reply not, do not answer me ; My fingers itch. Wife, we scarce thought us blest That God had lent us but this only child ; But now I see this one is one too much. And that we have a curse in having her : Out on her, hilding ! Nurse. God in heaven bless her ! You are to blame, my lord, to rate her so. Cap. And why,, my lady wisdom ? hold your tongue, Good prudence ; smatter with your gossips, go. Nurse. I speak no treason. Cap. O, God ye god-den. Nurse. May not one speak ? Cap. Peace, you mumbling fool ! 600 Utter your gravity o'er a gossip's bowl ; For here we need it not. La. Cap. You are too hot. Cap. God's bread ! it makes me mad : Day, night, hour, tide, time, work, play. Alone, in company, still my care hath been To have her match 'd : and having now provided A gentleman of noble parentage, Of fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly train 'd, StufC'd,as they say, with honourable parts, Proportion'd as one's thought would wish a man ; And then to have a wretched puling fool, A whining mammet, in her fortune's tender, To answer ' I '11 not wed ; I cannot love, I am too young ; I pray you, pardon me.' But, an you will not wed, I '11 pardon you : Graze where you will, you shall not house with me: Look to 't, think on 't, I do not use to jest. Thursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise; An you be mine, I '11 give you to my friend ; An you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets, Por, by my soul, I '11 ne'er acknowledge thee, Nor what is mine shall never do thee good: Trust to 't, bethink you: I '11 not be forsworn. [Exit. Jul. Is there no pity sitting in the clouds, That sees into the bottom of my grief i* O, sweet my mother, cast me not away! Delay this marriage for a month, a week ; Or, if you do not, make the bridal bed ' In that dim monument were Tybalt lies. La. Cap. Talk not to me, for I '11 not speak a word: Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee. [Exit. Jul. O God !— O nurse, how shall this be prevented? My husband is on earth, my faith in heaven ; How shall that faith return again to earth, Unless that husband send it me from heaven By leaving earth ? comfort me, counsel me. Alack, alack, that heaven should practise strata- gems Upon so soft a subject as myself ! What say'st thou ? hast thou not a word of joy ? Some comfort, nurse. Nurse. Faith, here it is. Romeo is banish'd ; and all the world to nothing. That he dares ne'er come back to challenge you ; Or, if he do, it needs must be by stealth. Then, since the case so stands as now it doth, I think it best you married with the county. O, he 's a lovely gentleman ! Romeo 's a dishclout to him : an eagle, madam, Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye As Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart. I think you are happy in this second match. For it excels your first : or if it did not. Your first is dead ; or 't were as good he were, As living here and you no use of him. Jul. Speakest thou from thy heart ? Nurse. And from my soul too ; Or else beshrew them both. Jul. Amen ! Nurse. What ? Jul. Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much. Go in ; and tell my lady I am gone, Having displeased my father, to Laurence' cell. To make confession and to be absolved. Nurse. Marry, I will ; and this is wisely done. [Exit. Jul. Ancient damnation ! O most wicked fiend ! Is it more sin to wish me thus forsworn. Or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue Which she hath praised him with above compare So many thousand times ? Go, counsellor ; Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain. I '11 to the friar, to know his remedy : If all else fail, myself have power to die. [Exit. ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE II. ^OT IV. SCENE I. — Friar Laurence^s cell. Enter Friar Laurence and Paris. Fri. L. 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. L. You say you do not know the lady's Uneven is the course, I like it not. [mind : Par. Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt's death, And therefore have 1 little talk'd of love ; For Venus smiles not in a house of tears. IS'ow, 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. Fri. L. [_Aside'\ I would I knew not why it should be slow'd. 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. L. That 's a certain text. Par. Come you to make confession to this father ? Jul. To answer that, I should confess to you. Par. Do not deny to him that you love me. Jul. I will confess to yon that I love him. Par. So will ye, I am sure, that you love me. Jul. If 1 do so, it will be of more price. Being spoke behind your back, than to your face. Par. Poor soul, thy face is much abused with tears. Jul. The tears have got small victory by that ; For it was bad enough before their spite, [report. Par. Thou wrong'st it, more than tears, with that Jul. That is no slander, sir, which is a truth ; And what I spake, I spake it to my face. [it. Par. Thy face is mine, and thou hast slander'd Jul. It may be so, for it is not mine own. Are you at leisure, holy father, now ; Or shall I come to you at evening mass ? [now. Fri. L. My leisure serves me, pensive daughter. My lord, we must entreat the time alone. Par. God shield I should disturb devotion ! Juliet, on Thursday early will I rouse ye: Till then, adieu ; and keep this holy kiss. [Exit. Jul. O, shut the door! and when thou hast done so j Come weep with me ; past hope, past cure, past help ! Fri. L. Ah, Juliet, I already know thy grief ; It strains me past the compass of my wits : I hear thou must, and nothing may 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 : If, in thy wisdom, thou canst give no help. Do thou but call my resolution wise. And with this knife I '11 help it presently. God join'd 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 treacherous revolt Turn to another, this shall slay them both : Therefore, out of thy long-experienced time. Give me some present counsel, or, behold, 'Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife Shall play the umpire, arbitrating that Which the commission of thy years and art Could to no issue of true honour bring. Be not so long to speak ; I long to die, If what thou speak'st speak not of remedy. Fri. L. Hold, daughter : I do spy a kind of hope. Which craves as desperate an execution As that 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 copest with death himself to scape from it ; And, if thou darest, I '11 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-cover'd quite with dead men's rattling bones. With reeky shanks and yellow chapless skulls ; 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 trem- And I wiU do it without fear or doubt, [ble ; To live an unstain'd wife to my sweet love. Fri. L. Hold, then; go home, be merry, give con- To marry Paris : Wednesday is to-morrow : [sent To-morrow night look that thou lie alone ; Let not thy nurse lie with thee in thy chamber : Take thou this vial, being then in bed, And this distilled liquor drink thou off ; When presently through all thy veins shaU run A cold and drowsy humour, for no pulse ShaU keep his native progress, but surcease : No warmth, no breath, shall testify thou livest ; The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade To paly ashes, thy eyes' windows fall, Like death, when he shuts up the day of life ; Each part, deprived of supple government, Shall, stiff and stark and cold, appear like death: And in this borrow'd likeness of shrunk death Thou Shalt continue two and forty hours, And then awake as from a pleasant sleep. Now, when the bridegroom in the morning comes To rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead : Then, as the manner of our country is. In thy best robes uncover'd on the bier Thou Shalt be borne to that same ancient vault Where all the kindred of the Capulets lie. In the mean time, against thou shalt 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 shaU free thee from this present shame ; If no inconstant toy, nor womanish fear. Abate thy valour in the acting it. Jul. Give me, give me ! O, tell not me of fear ! Fri. L. Hold ; get you gone, be strong and pros- In this resolve : I '11 send a friar with speed [perous To Mantua, with my letters to thy lord. Jul. Love give me strength ! and strength shall help afford. Farewell, dear father ! [Exeunt. SCENE 11.— Hall in CapuleVs house. Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, Nurse, and two Servingmen. Cap. So many guests invite as here are writ, [Exit First Servant. Sirrah, go hire me twenty cunning cooks. Sec. Serv. You shall have none ill, sir ; for I' U try if they can lick their fingers. Cap. How canst thou try them so ? Sec. Serv. Marry, sir, 't is an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers : therefore he that cannot lick his fingers goes not with me. 601 ACT IV. ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE IV. Cap. Go, be gone. [Exit Sec. Servant. "We shall be much unfurnish'd for this time. What, is my daughter gone to Friar Lam'ence ? Nurse. Ay, forsooth. Cap. Well, he may chance to do some good on her : A peevish self-will'd harlotry it is. Nurse. See where she comes from shrift with merry look. t n- a. Enter Juliet. Cap. How now, my headstrong ! where have you been gadding y Jul. Where I have learn'd me to repent the sin Of disobedient opposition To you and your behests, and am enjoin 'd By holy Laurence to fall prostrate here, And beg your pardon : pardon, I beseech you ! Henceforward I am ever ruled by you. Cap. Send for the county ; go tell him of this : I '11 have this knot knit up to-morrow morning. Jul. I met the youthful lord at Laurence' cell ; And gave him what becomed love I might, Not stepping o'er the bounds of modesty. Cap. Why, I am glad on 't ; this is well : stand up : This is as 't should be. Let me see the county; Ay, marry, go, I say, and fetch him hither. Now, afore God ! this reverend holy friar. All our whole city is much bound to him. Jul. Nurse, will you go with me into my closet, To help me sort such needful ornaments As you think fit to furnish me to-morrow ? La. Cap. No, not till Thursday; there is time enough. [to-morrow. Cap. Go, mu-se, go with her: we'll to church [Exeunt Juliet and Nurse. La. Cap. We shall be short in our provision : 'T is now near night. Cap. Tush, I will stir about. And all things shall be well, I warrant thee, wife: Go thou to Juliet, help to deck up her ; I '11 not to bed to-night ; let me alone ; I '11 play the housewife for this once. What, ho 1 They are all forth. Well, I will walk myself To County Paris, to prepare him up Against to-morrow : my heart is wondrous light, Since this same wayward girl is so reclaim 'd. [Exeunt. SCENE III. — JulieVs chamber. Enter Juliet and Nvirse. Jul. Ay, those attires are best : but, gentle nurse, 1 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 Oapulet. La. Cap. What, are you busy, ho ? need you my help? Jul. No, madam; we have cull'd such necessaries As are behovef ul for our state to-morrow : So please you, let me now be left alone. And let the nurse this night sit up with you : For, I am sure, you have your hands full all, In this so sudden business. La. Cap. Goodnight: Get thee to bed, and rest ; for thou hast need. [Exeunt Lady Capidet and Nurse. Jul. Farewell! God knows when we shall meet again. I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins. That almost freezes up the heat of life : I '11 call them back again to comfort me : Nurse ! What should she do here ? My dismal scene I needs must act alone. Come, vial. What if this mixture do not work at all ? Shall I be married then to-morrow morning ? No, no : this shall forbid it : lie thou there. [Laying down her 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 dishonour'd, Because he married me before to Romeo ? I fear it is : and yet, methinks, it should not, For he hath still been tried a holy man. 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 festering in his shroud ; where, as they say, At some hours in the night spirits resort ; — Alack, alack, is it not like that I, So early waking, what with loathsome smells. And shrieks like mandrakes' torn out of the earth, That living mortals, hearing them, run mad : — 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, that did spit his body Upon a rapier's point : stay, Tybalt, stay I Romeo, I come ! this do I drink to thee. [She falls upon tier bed, within the curtains, SCENE IV. — Ball in CapuleVs house. Enter Lady Capulet and Nurse. La. Cap. Hold, take these keys, and fetch more spices, nurse. Nurse. They call for dates and quinces in the pastry. Enter Capulet. Cap. Come, stir, stir, stir ! the second cock hath crow'd, The curfew-bell hath rung, 'tis three o'clock: Look to the baked meats, good Angelica : Spare not for cost. Nurse. Go, you cot-quean, go. Get you to bed ; faith, you '11 be sick to-morrow For this night's watching. Cap. No, not a whit : what ! I have watch'd ere now All night for lesser cause, and ne'er been sick. La. Cap. Ay, you have been a mouse-hunt in your time ; But I will watch you from such watching now. [Exeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse. Cap. A jealous-hood, a jealous-hood ! Enter three or four Servingmen, wiiA spits, logs, and baskets. Now, fellow. What 's there ? First Serv. Things for the cook, sir ; but I know not what. Cap. Make haste, make haste. [Exit First Serv,] Sirrah, fetch drier logs: Call Peter, he will show thee where they are. Sec. Serv. I have a head, sir, that will find out logs, And never trouble Peter for the matter. [Exit. Cap. Mass, and well said ; a merry whoreson, ha ! Thou Shalt be logger-head. Good faith, 't is day: The county will be here with music straight. ACT IV. ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE V, For so he said he would : I hear him near. \_Music within. Nurse ! Wife ! What, ho! What, nurse, I say! Re-enter Nurse. Go waken Juliet, go and trim her up ; I '11 go and chat with Paris: hie, make haste. Make haste ; the bridegroom he is come already : Make haste, I say. [Exeunt. SCENE 'V.—JuHeVschamher. Enter Nurse. Nurse. Mistress! what, mistress! Juliet! fast, I warrant her, she : Why, lamb ! why, lady ! fie, you slug-a-bed ! Why, love, I say ! madam! sweetheart! why, bride! What, not a word ? you take your pennyworths now ; Sleep for a week ; for the next night, I warrant. The County Paris hath set up his rest, That you shall rest but little. God forgive me, Marry, and amen, how sound is she asleep! I must needs wake her. Madam, madam, madam ! Ay, let the county take you in your bed ; He '11 fright you up, i' faith. Will it not be ? [Undraws the curtains. What , dress 'd ! and in your clo thes ! and down again ! I must needs wake you : Lady ! lady ! lady ! Alas, alas ! Help, help ! my lady 's dead ! O, well-a-day, that ever I was born ! Some aqua vitse, ho ! My lord ! my lady ! Enter Lady Capulet. La. Cap. What noise is here ? Nurse. O lamentable day ! La. Cap. What is the matter ? Nurse. Look, look ! O heavy day! La. Cap. O me, O me ! My child, my only life, jSevive, look up, or I will die with thee ! Help, help! Call help. Enter Capulet. Cap. For shame, bring Juliet forth; her lord is come. [the day ! Nurse. She 's dead, deceased, she 's dead ; alack La. Cap. Alack the day, she 's dead, she 's dead, she 's dead ! Cap. Ha! let me see her: out, alas! she 'scold; dev blood is settled, and her joints are stiff ; Life and these lips have long been separated : Death lies on her like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field. Nurse. O lamentable day ! La. Cap. O woful time ! Cap. Death, that hath ta'en her hence to make me wail, ■fies up my tongue, and will not let me speak. Enter Friar Laurence and Paris, with Musi- cians. Fri. L. Come, is the bride ready to go to church ? Cap. Eeady to go, but never to return. O son ! the night before thy wedding-day Hath Death lain with thy wife. There she lies, Flower as she was, deflowered by him. Death is my son-in-law. Death is my heir ; My daughter he hath wedded : I will die. And leave him all ; life, living, all is Death's. Par. Have I thought long to see this morning's And doth it give me such a sight as this ? [face. La. Cap. Accursed, unhappy, wretched, hateful Most miserable hour that e'er time saw [day ! In lasting labour of his pilgrimage ! But one, poor one, one poor and loving child, But one thing to rejoice and solace in, And cruel death hath catch'd it from my sight ! Nurse. O woe ! O woful, woful, woful day ! Most lamentable day, most woful day. That ever, ever, I did yet behold ! O day! O day! O day! O hateful day! Never was seen so black a day as this : O woful day, O woful day ! Par. Beguiled, divorced, wronged, spited, slain! Most detestable death, by thee beguil'd. By cruel cruel thee quite overthrown ! O love ! O life ! not life, but love in death ! Cap. Despised, distressed, hated, martyr'd, kill'd'. Uncomfortable time, why earnest thou now To murder, murder our solemnity ? O child I O child ! my soul, and not my child ! Dead art thou ! Alack ! my child is dead ; And with my child my joys are buried. Fri.L. Peace, ho, for shame! confusion's cure lives In these confusions. Heaven and yourself [not Had part in this fair maid ; now heaven hath all. And all the better is it for the maid : Your part in her you could not keep from death. But heaven keeps his part in eternal life. The most you sought was her promotion : For 't was your heaven she should be advanced : And weep ye now, seeing she is advanced Above the clouds, as high as heaven itself? O, in this love, you love your child so ill. That you run mad, seeing that she is well: She 's not well married that lives married long ; But she 's best married that dies married young. Dry up your tears, and stick your rosemary On this fair corse ; and, as the custom is. In all her best array bear her to church : For though fond nature bids us all lament. Yet nature's tears are reason's merriment. Cap. All things that we ordained festival, Turn from their office to black funeral ; Our instruments to melancholy bells. Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast. Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change, Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse. And all things change them to the contrary. Fri.L. Sir, go you in; and, madam, go with him; And go. Sir Paris; every one prepare To follow this fair corse unto her grave : The heavens do lour upon you for some ill ; Move them no more by crossing their high will. [Exeunt Capulet, Lady Capulet, Paris, amd Friar. First Mus. Faith, we may put up our pipes, and be gone. Nurse. Honest good fellows, ah, put up, put up; For, well you know, this is a pitiful case. [Exit. First Mus. Ay, by my troth, the case may be amended. ^ „ Enter Peter. Pet. Musicians, O, musicians, 'Heart's ease. Heart's ease : ' O, an you will have me live, play ' Heart's ease.' First Mus. Why ' Heart's ease ' ? Pet. O, musicians, because my heart itself plays ' My heart is full of woe : ' O, play me some merry dump, to comfort me. First Mus. Not a dump we ; 't is no time to play Pet. You will not, then ? [now. First Mus. No. Pet. I will then give it you soundly. First Mus. What will you give us ? Pet. No money, on my faith, but the gleek; I will give you the minstrel. First Mus. Then will I give you the serving- creature. Pet. Then will I lay the serving-creature's dagger on your pate. I will carry no crotchets : I '11 re you, I '11 fa you ; do you note me ? First Mus. An you re us and fa us, you note us. Sec. Mus. Pray you, put up your dagger, and put out your wit. Pet. Then have at you with my wit ! I will dry- 603 ACT V. ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE II. beat you with an iron wit, and put up my iron dag- ger. Answer me like men : ' When griping grief the heart doth wound, And doleful dumps the mind oppress, Then music with her silver sound '— why ' silver sound ' ? why ' music with her silver sound ' ? "What say you, Simon Catling ? First Mus. Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound. Pet. Pretty ! "What say you, Hugh Kebeck ? Sec. Mus. I say ' silver sound,' because musicians sound for silver. Pet. Pretty too! "What say you, James Sound- post? Tkird Mies. Faith, I know not what to say. Pet. O, I cry you mercy ; you are the singer : I will say for you. It is 'music with her silver sound,' because musicians have no gold for sound- ing: ' Then music with her silver sound "With speedy help doth lend redress.' [Exit. First Mus. "What a pestilent knave is this same ! Sec. Mus. Hang him. Jack ! Come, we '11 in here ; tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner. [Fxeunt. ^OT V^. SCENE I. — Mantua. A i Enter Romeo. Bom. If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep. My dreams presage some joyful news at hand : My bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne ; And all this day an unaccustom'd spirit Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts. X dreamt my lady came and found me dead — Strange dream, that gives a dead man leave to think ! — And breathed such life with kisses in my lips. That I revived, and was an emperor. Ah me ! how sweet is love itself possess'd. When but love's shadows are so rich in joy ! Enter Balthasar, hooted. News from Verona ! — How now, Balthasar! Dost thou not bring me letters from the friar ? How doth my lady ? Is my father well ? How fares my Juliet ? 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 Capel'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 : O, pardon me for bringing these ill news, Since you did leave it for my office, sir. Bom. Is it even so ? then I defy you, stars ! Thou know'st my lodging: get me ink and paper. And hire post-horses ; I will hence to-night. Bal. I do beseech you, sir, have patience: Your looks are pale and wild, and do import Some misadventure. Bom. Tush, thou art deceived : Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do. Hast thou no letters to me from the friar ? Bal. No, my good lord. Bom. No matter : get thee gone, And hire those horses ; I '11 be with thee straight. [Exit Balthasar. Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee to-night. Let 's see for means : O mischief, thou art swift To enter in the thoughts of desperate men I I do remember an apothecary, — And hereabouts he dwells,— which late I noted In tatter'd weeds, with overwhelming brows, Culling of simples ; meagre were his looks. Sharp misery had worn him to the bones : And in his needy shop a tortoise hung. An alligator stuff'd, and other skins Of ill-shaped 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 this penury, to myself I said ' An if a man did need a poison now, 604 Whose sale is present death in Mantua, Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.' O, this same thought did but forerun my need ; And this same needy man must seU it me. As I remember, this should be the house. Being holiday, the beggar's shop is shut. What, ho! apothecary! Enter Apothecary. Ap. Who calls so loud ? -Rom. Come hither, man. I see that thou art poor : 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 And that the trunk may be discharged of breath As violently as hasty powder fired Doth hurry from the fatal cannon's womb. Ap. Such mortal drugs I have ; but Mantua's law Is death to any he that utters them. Bom. Art thou so bare and full of wretchedness, And fear'st to die ? famine is in thy cheeks. Need and oppression starveth in thine eyes. Contempt and beggary hangs upon thy back; 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. Ap. My poverty, but not my will, consents. Bom. 1 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 mayst 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. SCENE II. — Friar Laurence^s cell. Enter Friar John. Fri. J. Holy Franciscan friar! brother, ho ! Enter Friar Laurence. Fri. L. This same should be the voice of Friar Welcome from Mantua : what says Romeo ? [John. Or, if his mind be writ, give me his lettter. Fri. J. Going to find a bare-foot brother out. One of our order, to associate me. Here in this city visiting the sick. And finding him, the searchers of the town, Suspecting that we both were in a house Where the infectious pestilence did reign, Seal'd up the doors, and would not let us forth; So that my speed to Mantua there was stay'd. Fri. L. Who bare my letter, then, to Romeo? Fri. J. I could not send it,— here it is again, — ACT y ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE III. Nor get a messenger to bring it tliee, So fearful were they of infection. Fri. L. Unhappy fortune ! by my brotherhood, The letter was not nice but full of charge Of dear import, and the neglecting it May do much danger. Friar John, go hence ; Oet me an iron crow, and bring it straight Unto my cell. Fri. J. Brother, I '11 go and bring it thee. [Fxit. Fri. L. Now must I to the monument alone ; Within this three hours will fair Juliet wake : She will beshrew me much that Komeo Hath had no notice of these accidents ; But I will write again to Mantua, And keep her at my cell till Eomeo come ; Poor living corse, closed in a dead man's tomb ! ilkit. SCENE III. — A churchyard ; in it a tomb helonging to the Capulets. Enter Paris, and his Page bearing flowers and a torch. Par. Give me thy torch, boy ; hence, and stand Yet put it out, for I would not be seen. [aloof : Under yond yew-trees lay thee all along, Holding thine ear close to the hollow ground ; So shall no foot upon the churchyard tread. Being loose, unfirm, with digging up of graves, But thou Shalt hear it : whistle then to me, As signal that thou hear'st something approach. Give me those flowers. Do as I bid thee, go. Page. [Aside] I am almost afraid to stand alone Here in the churchyard ; yet I will adventure. [Betires. Par. Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew, — O woe ! thy canopy is dust and stones ; — "Which with sweet water nightly I will dew, Or, wanting that, with tears distill'd by moans : The obsequies that I for thee will keep Nightly shall be to strew thy grave and weep. [TJie Page whistles. The boy gives warning something doth approach. What cursed foot wanders this way to-night, To cross my obsequies and true love's rite ? What, with a torch ! muffle me, night, awhile. [Betires. Enter Romeo and Balthasar, with a torch, mat" tock, &c. Bom. Give me that mattock and the wrenching Hold, take this letter; early in the morning [iron. See thou deliver it to my lord and father. Give me the light : upon thy life, I charge thee, Whate'er thou hear'st or seest, stand aU 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 sliall intend to do. By heaven, I will tear thee joint by joint And strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs : The time and my intents are savage-wild, More fierce and more inexorable far Than empty tigers or the roaring sea. Bal. I will be gone, sir, and not trouble you. Bom. So Shalt thou show me friendship. Take thou that : Live, and be prosperous : and farewell, good fellow. Bal. [Aside] For all this same, I '11 hide me here- His looks I fear, and his intents I doubt, [about : [Betires. Bom. Thou detestable maw., thou womb of death, Gorged with the dearest morsel of the earth. Thus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open. And, in despite, 1 11 cram thee with more food ! [Opens the tomb. Par. This is that banish'd haughty Montague, That murder'd my love's cousin, with which grief, It is supposed, the fair creature died; And here is come to do some villanous shame To the dead bodies : I will apprehend him. [ Comes forward. Stop thy unhallow'd toil, vile Montague ! Can vengeance be pursued further than death ? Condemned villain, I do apprehend thee : Obey, and go with me ; for thou must die. Bom. 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 affright thee. I beseech thee, youth. Put 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. I do defy thy conjurations, And apprehend thee for a felon here. Bom. Wilt thou provoke me ? then have at thee, boy! [They fight. Page. O Lord, they fight! I will go call the watch. [Exit. Par. O, I am slain! [Falls.] If thou be merciful, Open the tomb, lay me with Juliet. [Dies. Bom. In faith, I will. Let me peruse this face. Mercutio's kinsman, noble County Paris! What said my man, when my betossed soul Did not attend him as we rode ? I think He told me Paris should have married Juliet : Said he not so ? or did I dream it so ? Or am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet, To think it was so ? O, give me thy hand, One writ with me in sour misfortune's book ! I '11 bury thee in a triumphant grave ; A grave ? O, no ! a lantern, slaughter'd youth, For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes This vault a feasting presence full of light. Death, lie thou there, by a dead man interr'd. [Laying Paris in the tomb. How oft when men are at the point of death Have they been merry ! which their keepers call A lightning before death : O, how may I ^ Call this a lightning ? - O my love ! my wife ! Death, that hath suck'd the honey of 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. Tybalt, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet ? O, what more favour can I do to thee. Than with that hand that cut thy youth in twain To sunder his that was thine enemy ? Forgive me, cousin ! Ah, dear Juliet, Why art thou yet so fair ? shall I believe That unsubstantial death is amorous. And that the lean abhorred monster keeps Thee here in dark to be his paramour ? For fear of that, I still will stay with thee: And never from this palace of dim night Depart again : here, here will I remain With worms that are thy chamber-maids ; O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest, And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars [last ! From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your Arms, take your last embrace ! and, lips, O you The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss A dateless bargain to engrossing death ! Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide! Thou desperate pUot, now at once run on 605 ACT V, ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE 113 , The dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark ! Here 's to my love ! IDrinks.'l O true apothecary ! Thy drugs are quick. Tluiswithakissldie. [Dies. Enter^ at the other end of the churchyard, Friar Laurence, with a lantern, crow, and spade. Fri. L. Saint Francis be my speed ! how oft to- night Have my old feet stumbled at graves ! Who 's there ? Bal. Here 's one, a friend, and one that knows you well. [friend, Fri. L. Bliss be upon you! Tell me, good my What torch is yond, that vainly lends his light To grubs and eyeless skulls ? as I discern, It burneth in the Capels' monument. [ter, Bal. It doth so, holy sir; and there's my mas- One that you love. Fri. L. Who is it ? Bal. Romeo. Fri. L. How long hath he been there ? Bal. Full half an hour. Fri. L. Go 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. [upon me : Fri. L. Stay, then; I'll go alone. Fear comes O, much I fear some ill unlucky thing. Bal. As I did sleep under this yew-tree here, I dreamt my master and anotlier fought. And that my master slew him. Fri. L. Romeo ! {Advances. Alack, alack, what blood is this, which stains The stony entrance of this sepulchre ? What mean these masterless and gory swords To lie discolour'd by this place of peace ? [Enters the tomb. Romeo ! O, pale ! Who else ? what, Paris too ? And steep'd in blood ? Ah, what an unkind hour Is guilty of this lamentable chance ! The lady stirs. [Juliet wakes. Jid. O comfortable friar ! where is my lord ? I do remember well where I should be. And there I am. Where is my Romeo ? [Noise within. Fri.L. I hear some noise. Lady, come from that Of death, contagion, and unnatural sleep : [nest 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 '11 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 no longer stay. Jid. Go, get thee hence, for I will not awav. [Exit Fri. L. What 's here ? a cup, closed in my true love's hand ? Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end: O churl ! drunk all, and left no friendly drop To help me after ? I will kiss thy lips ; Haply some poison yet doth hang on them. To make me die with a restorative. [Kisses him. Thy lips are warm. First Watch. [Within] Lead, boy: which way? Jul. Yea, noise ? then I '11 be brief. O happy dagger! [Snatching Romeo'' s dagger. This is thy sheath [Stabs herself] ; there rust, and let me die. [Falls on Bomeo''s body, and dies. Enter Watch, with the Page of Paris. Page. This is the place ; there, where the torch doth bm-n. First Watch. The ground is bloody ; search about the churchyard : Go, some of you, whoe'er you find attach. Pitiful sight ! here lies the county slain ; And Juliet bleeding, warm, and newly dead, Who here hath lain these two days buried. Go, tell the prince : run to the Capulets : Raise up the Montagues : some others search : We see the ground whereon these woes do lie; But the true ground of all these piteous woes We cannot without circumstance descry. Ee-enter some of the Watcli, with Balthasar. Sec. Watch. Here 's Romeo's man ; we found him in the churcliyard. First Watch. Hold him in safety, till the prince come hither. Be-enter others of the Watch, with Friar Laurence. Third Watch. Here is a friar, that trembles, sighs, We took this mattock and this spade from him. As he was coming from this churchyard side. First Watch. A great suspicion : stay the friar too. Enter the Prince and Attendants. Prince. What misadventure is so early up, That calls our person from our morning's rest ? Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, and others. Cap. What should it be, that they so shriek La. Cap. The people in the street cry Romeo, Some Juliet, and some Paris ; and all run, With open outcry, toward our monument, [ears ? Prince. What fear is this which startles in our First Watch. Sovereign, here lies the County Paris slain ; And Romeo dead ; and Juliet, dead before. Warm and new kill'd. Prince. Search, seek, and know how this foul murder comes. First Watch. Here is a friar, and slaughter'd Romeo's man; With instruments upon them, fit to open These dead men's tombs. [bleeds ! Cap. O heaven ! O wife, look how our daughter This dagger hath mista'en, — for, lo, his house Is empty on the back of Montague, — And is mis-sheathed in my daughter's bosom ! La. Cap. O me ! this sight of death is as a bell, That warns my old age to a sepulchre. Enter Montague and others. Prince. Come, Montague ; for thou art early up, To see thy son and heir more early down. Mon. Alas, my liege, my wife is dead to-night ; Grief of my son's exile hath stopp'd her breath : What further woe conspires against my age ? Prince. Look, and thou shalt see. Mon. O thou untaught ! what manners is in this, To press before thy father to a grave ? Prince. Seal up the mouth of outrage for a while. Till we can clear these ambiguities. And know their spring ,their head, their true descent; And then will I be general of your woes. And lead you even to death : meantime forbear. And let mischance be slave to patience. Bring forth the parties of suspicion. Fri. L. I am the greatest, able to do least, Yet most suspected, as the time and place Doth make against me, of this direful murder; And here I stand, both to impeach and purge Myself condemned and myself excused. Prince. Then say at once what thou dost know in this. [breath Fri. L. I will be brief, for my short date of Is not so long as is a tedious tale. Romeo, there dead, was husband to that Juliet ; And she, there dead, that Romeo's faithful wife: ACT V. ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENE III. I married them ; and their stol'n marriage-day Was Tybalt's dooms-day, whose untimely death Banish'd the new-made bridegroom from this city, For whom, and not for Tybalt, Juliet pined. You, to remove that siege of grief from her, Betroth'd and would have married her perforce To County Paris ; then comes she to me, And, with wild looks, bid me devise some means To rid her from this second marriage, Or in my cell there would she kill herself. Then gave I her, so tutor'd by my art, A sleeping potion ; which so took effect As I intended, for it wrought on her The form of death : meantime I writ to Eomeo, That he should hither come as this dire night, To laelp to take her from her borrowed grave. Being the time the potion's force should cease. But he which bore my letter. Friar John, Was stay'd by accident, and yesternight Eeturn'd my letter back. Then all alone At the prefixed hour of her waking, Came I to take her from her kindred's vault; Meaning to keep her closely at my cell, TiU I conveniently could send to Romeo : But when I came, some minute ere the time Of her awaking, here untimely lay The noble Paris and true Romeo dead. She wakes ; and I entreated her come forth, And bear this work of heaven with patience : But then a noise did scare me from the tomb ; And she, too desperate, would not go with me, But, as it seems, did violence on herself. All this I know ; and to the marriage Her nurse is privy : and, if aught in this Miscarried by my fault, let my old life Be sacrificed, some hour before his time. Unto the rigour of severest law. Prince. We still have known thee for a holy man. Where 's Romeo's man ? what can he say in this ? Bal. I brought my master news of Juliet's death ; And then in post he came from Mantua To this same place, to this same monument. This letter he early bid me give his father. And threateu'd me with death, going in the vault, If I departed not and left him there. Prince. Give me the letter ; I will look on it. Where is the county's page, that raised the watch ? Sirrah, wliat made your master in this place? Page. He came with flowers to strew his lady's And bid me stand aloof, and so I did : [grave ; Anon comes one with light to ope the tomb ; And by and by my master drew on him ; And then I ran away to call the watch. [words, Prince. This letter doth make good the friar's Their course of love, the tidings of her death : And here he writes that he did buy a poison Of a poor 'pothecary, and therewithal Came to this vault to die, and lie with Juliet. Where be these enemies ? Capulet ! Montague ! See, what a scourge is laid upon your hate. That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love. And I for winking at your discords too Have lost a brace of kinsmen : all are punish'd. Caj). O brother Montague, give me thy hand: This is my daughter's jointure, for no more Can I demand. Mon. But I can give thee more : For I will raise her statue in pure gold •, That while Verona by that name is known, There shall no figure at such rate be set As that of true and faithful Juliet. Cap. As rich shall Romeo by his lady lie ; Poor sacrifices of our enmity ! Prince. A glooming peace this morning with it brings ; The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head : Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things \ Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished : For never was a story of more woe Than this of Juliet and her Romeo. [Exeunt BenvoUo.—Kere comes the furious Tybalt back again. JJoroeo.— Alive, in triumph ! and Mercutio slain I Away to heaven, respective lenity, And fire-ey'd fury be my conduct now ! — Now, Tybalt, take the villain back again, That late thou gav'st me ; for Mercutio's soul Is but a little way above our heads, Staying for thine to keep him company : Either thou, or I, or both, must go with him. TyhalL—ThoM, wretched boy, that didst consort him here, Shalt with him hence. This shaU determine that.— Act III., Scene L m TIMON OF ATHENS. DEAMATIS PEBSON^. Timon, of Athens. Lucius, ~) Lucullus, y flattering lords. Sempronlus, J Ventidius, one of Timon's false friends. Alcibiades, an Athenian captain. Apemantus, a churlish philosopher. Flavius, steward to Timon. Poet, Painter, Jeweller, and Merchant. An old Athenian. Flaminius, ") Lucilius, V servants to Timon. Servilius, J servants to Timon's creditors. Caphis, Philotus, Titus, Lucius, Hortensius, And others, A Page. A Fool. Three Strangers. Phrynia, "| Timandra, / mistresses to Alcibiades. Cupid and Amazons in the mask. Other Lords, Senators, OflSeers, Soldiers, Banditti, Attendants. SCENE — Athens, and the neighbouring woodt. [For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page LXI.] SCENE I.- A.C -Athens. A hall in Timon^s house. fhiter Poet, Painter, Jeweller, Merchant, and others, at several doors. Poet. Good day, sir. Pain. I am glad you 're well. Poet. I have not seen you long : how goes the Pain. It wears, sir, as it grows. [world ? Poet. Ay, that 's well known : But what particular rarity ? what strange, Which manifold record not matches ? See, Magic of bounty ! all these spirits thy power Hath conjured to attend. I know the merchant. Pain. I know them both ; th' other 's a jeweller. Mer. O, 't is a worthy lord. Jew. Nay, that 's most fix'd. Mer. A most incomparable man, breathed, as it To an untirable and continuate goodness : [were. He passes. Jew. I have a jewel here — Mer. O, pray, let 's see 't : for the Lord Timon, sir ? Jew. If he will touch the estimate : but, for that — Poet. [Eeciting to himself] ' When we for recom- pense have praised the vile. It stains the glory in that happy verse Which aptly sings the good.' Mer. 'T is a good form. [Looking at the jewel. Jew. And rich : here is a water, look ye. Pain. You are rapt, sir, in some work, some dedi- To the great lord. [cation Poet. A thing slipp'd idly from me. Our poesy is as a gum, which oozes From whence 't is nourish'd: the fire i' the flint Shows not till it be struck ; our gentle flame Provokes itself and like the current flies Each bound it chafes. What have you there ? Pain. A picture, sir. When comes your book forth ? Poet. Upon the heels of my presentment, sir. Let 's see your piece. Pain. 'T is a good piece. Poet. So 'tis: this comes oft well and excellent. Pain. Indifferent. 608 T I. Poet. Admirable : how this grace Speaks his own standing ! what a mental power This eye shoots forth I how big imagination Moves in this lip ! to the dumbness of the gesture One might interpret. Pain. It is a pretty mocking of the life. Here is a touch ; is 't good ? Poet. I will say of it, It tutors nature : artificial strife Lives iu these touches, livelier than life. JSnter certain Senators, and pass over. Pain. How this lord is foUow'dl Poet. The senators of Athens : happy man ! Pain. Look, more ! [visitors. Poet. You see this confluence, this great flood of I have, in this rough work, shaped out a man. Whom this beneath world doth embrace and hug With amplest entertainment : my free drift Halts not particularly, but moves itself In a wide sea of wax ; no levell'd malice Infects one comma in the course I hold ; But flies an eagle flight, bold and forth on, Leaving no tract behind. Pain. How shaU I understand you ? Poet. I will unbolt to you. You see how all conditions, how all minds, As well of glib and slippery creatm-es as Of grave and austere quality, tender down Their services to Lord Timon : his large fortune Upon his good and gracious nature hanging Subdues and properties to his love and tendance All sorts of hearts ; yea, from the glass-faced flatterer To Apemantus, that few things loves better Than to abhor himself : even he drops down The knee before him and returns in peace Most rich in Timon's nod. Pain. 1 saw them speak together. Poet. Sir, I have upon a high and pleasant hiU Feign'd Fortune to be throned: the base o' the mount Is rank'd with all deserts, all kind of natures. That labour on the bosom of this sphere To propagate their states : amongst them all, ACT I. TI3I0N OF ATHENS. SCENE I. Whose eyes are on this sovereign lady fix'd, One do I personate of Lord Timon's frame, "Wliom Fortmie with her ivory hand wafts to her; Whose present grace to present slaves and servants Translates his rivals. Pain. 'T is conceived to scope. This throne, this Fortmie, and this hill, niethinks, With one man beckon'd from the rest below, Bowing his head against the steepy mount To climb his happiness, would be well express 'd In our condition. Poet. jS'ay, sir, but hear me on. All those which were his fellows but of late, Some better than his value, on the moment Follow his strides, his lobbies fill with tendance, Kain sacrificial whisperings in his ear, Make sacred even his stirrup, and through him Drink the free air. Pain. Ay, marry, what of these ? Poet. When Fortune in her shift and change of mood Spurns down her late beloved, all his dependants Which labour'd after him to the mountain's top Even on their knees and hands, let him slip down, Not one accompanying his declining foot. Pain. 'T is common : A thousand moral paintings I can show [tune's That shall demonstrate these quick blows of For- More pregnantly than words. Yet you do well To show Lord Timon that mean eyes have seen The foot above the head. Trumpets sound. Enter Lord Timon, addressing himself courteously to every suitor; a Messenger from Ven- tidius talking tuiih him; Lucilius and other servants following. Tim. Imprison 'd is he, say you ? Mess. Ay, my good lord : five talents is his debt, His means most short, his creditors most strait : Your honourable letter he desires To those have shut him up ; which failing, Periods his comfort. Tim. Noble Ventidius ! Well; I am not of that feather to shake off My friend when he must need me. I do know him A gentleman that weU deserves a help : Which he shall have : I '11 pay the debt, and free him. Mess. Your lordship ever binds him. [som ; Tim. Commend me to him : I will send his ran- And being enfranchised, bid him come to me. 'T is not enough to help the feeble up. But to support him after. Fare you well. Mess. AU happiness to your honour ! [JExit. Enter an old Athenian. Old Ath. Lord Timon, hear me speak. Tim. , Freely, good father. Old Ath. Thou hast a servant named Lucilius. Tim. I have so : what of him ? [thee. Old Ath. Most noble Timon, call the man before Tim. Attends he here, or no ? Lucilius ! Imc. Here, at your lordship's service, [creature. Old Ath. This fellow here. Lord Timon, this thy By night frequents my house. I am a man That from my first have been inclined to thrift ; And my estate deserves an heir more raised Than one which holds a trencher. Tim. Well ; what further ? Old Ath. One only daughter have I, no kin else, On whom I may confer what I have got : The maid is fair, o' the youngest for a bride, And I have bred her at my dearest cost In qualities of the best. This man of thine Attempts her love : I prithee, noble lord. Join with me to forbid him her resort ; MyseK have spoke in vain. Tim. The man is honest. Old Ath. Therefore he will be, Timon : His honesty rewards him in itself ; It must not bear my daughter. Tim. Does she love him ? Old Ath. She is young and apt : Our own precedent passions do instruct us What levity 's in youth. Tim. [To Lucilius.'] Love you the maid ? Luc. Ay, my good lord, and she accepts of it. Old Ath. If in her marriage my consent be miss- I call the gods to witness, I will choose [ing. Mine heir from forth the beggars of the world, And dispossess her all. Tirn. How shall she be endow'd. If she be mated with an equal husband ? [all. Old Ath. Three talents on the present ; in future, Tim. This gentleman of mine hath served me long : To build his fortune I will strain a little. For 't is a bond in men. Give him thy daughter : What you bestow, in him I '11 counterpoise. And make him weigh with her. Old Ath. Most noble lord. Pawn me to this your honour, she is his. [promise. Tim. My hand to thee; mine honour on my Luc. Humbly I thank your lordship : never may That state or fortune fall into my keeping, Which is not owed to you ! [Exeunt Lucilius and Old Athenian. Poet. Vouchsafe my labour, and long live your lordship ! Tim. I thank you ; you shall hear from me anon : Go not away. What have you there, my friend ? Pain. A piece of painting, which I do beseech Your lordship to accept. Tim. Painting is welcome. The painting is almost the natural man ; For since dishonoitr traflics with man's nature. He is but outside : these pencill'd figures are Even such as they give out. I like your work ; And you shall find I like it : wait attendance Till you hear further from me. Pain. The gods preserve ye ! Tim. Well fare you, gentleman: give me your hand; We must needs dine together. Sir, your jewel Hath suffer'd under praise. Jew. What, my lord ! dispraise V Tim. A mere satiety of commendations. If I should pay you for 't as 't is extoU'd, It would unclew me quite. Jew. My lord, 't is rated As those which sell would give : but you well know, Things of like value differing in the owners Are prized by their masters: believe 't, dear lord, You mend the jewel by the wearing it. Tim. Well mock'd. [tongue, Mer. No, my good lord; he speaks the common Which aU men speak with him. Tim. Look, who comes here : will you be chid ? Enter Apemantus. Jew. We '11 bear, with yom- lordship. Mer. He '11 spare none. Tim. Good morrow to thee, gentle Apemantus ! Apem. Till I be gentle, stay thou for thy good morrow ; [honest. When thou art Timon's dog, and these knaves Tim. Why dost thou call them knaves? thou know'st them not. Apem. Are they not Athenians ? Tim. Yes. Apem. Then I repent not. Jew. You know me, Apemantus ? [name. Apem. Thou know'st I do : I caU'd thee by thy Tim. Thou art proud, Apemantus. [Timon. Apem. Of nothing so much as that I am not like lim. Whither art going V Apem. To knock out an honest Athenian's brains. ACT I. TIM ON OF ATHENS. SCENE II. Tim. That 's a deed thou 'It die for. [law. Apem. Eight, if doing nothmg be deatli by the Tim. How likest thou this picture, Apemantus ? Apem. The best, for tlie innocence. Tim. Wrought he not well that painted it ? Apevi. Pie wrought better that made the painter ; and yet he 's but a filthy piece of work. Pain. You 're a dog. Apem. Thy mother 's of my generation : what 's she, if I be a dog ? Tim. Wilt dine with me, Apemantus ? Apem. No ; I eat not lords. Tim. An thou shouldst, thou 'Idst anger ladies. Apem. O, they eat lords ; so they come by great Tim. That 's a lascivious apprehension, [bellies. Apem. So thou apprehendest it : take it for thy labour. Tim. How dost thou like this jewel, Apemantus? Apem. Not so well as plain-dealing, which will not cost a man a doit. Tim. What dost thou think 't is worth ? Apem. Not worth my thinking. How now, poet ! Poet. How now, philosopher ! Apem. Thou liest. Poet. Art not one ? Apem. Yes. Poet. Then I lie not. Apem. Art not a poet ? Poet. Yes. Apem. Then thou liest: look in thy last work, where thou hast feigned him a worthy fellow. Poet. That 's not feigned ; he is so. Apem. Yes, he is worthy of thee, and to pay thee for thy labour : he that loves to be flattered is worthy o' the flatterer. Heavens, that I were a lord I Tim. What wouldst do then, Apemantus ? Apem. E'en as Apemantus does now; hate a lord with my heart. Tim. What, thyself? Apem. Ay. Tim. Wherefore? Apem. That I had no angry wit to be a lord. Art not thou a merchant ? Mer. Ay, Apemantus. Apem. Traffic confound thee, if the gods will not ! Mer. If traffic do it, the gods do it. [thee ! Apem. Traffic 's thy god ; and thy god confound Trumpet sounds. Enter a Messenger. Tim. What trumpet 's that ? Mess. 'T is Alcibiades, and some twenty horse, All of companionship. Tim. Pray, entertain them ; give them guide to us. {Exeunt some Attendants. You must needs dine with me : go not you hence Till I have thank'd you: when dinner 's done. Show me this piece. I am joyful of your sights. Enter Alcibiades, with the rest. Most welcome, sir ! Apem. So, so, there ! Aches contract and starve your supple joints ! That there should be small love 'mongst these sweet knaves. And all this courtesy ! The strain of man 's bred out Into baboon and monkey. Alcih. Sir, you have saved my longing, and I feed Most hungerly on your sight. Tim. Eight welcome, sir ! Ere we depart, we '11 share a bounteous time In different pleasures. Pray you, let us in. [Exeunt all except Apemantus. Enter two Lords. First Lord. What time o' day is 't, Apemantus ? Apem. Time to be honest. First Lord. Tiiat time serves still. 610 Apem. The more accursed thou, that still omitt'st it. Sec. Lord. Thou art going to Lord Timon's feast ? Apem. Ay, to see meat fill knaves and wine heat Sec. Lord. Fare thee well, fare thee well, [fools. Apem. Thou art a fool to bid me farewell twice. Sec. Lord. Why, Apemantus ? Apem. Shouldst have kept one to thyself, for I mean to give thee none. First Lord. Hang thyself ! Apem. No, I will do nothing at thy bidding: make thy requests to thy friend. Sec. Lord. Away, unpeaceable dog, or I '11 spurn thee hence ! Apem. I will fly, like a dog, the heels o' the ass. [Exit. First Lord. He 's opposite to humanity. Come, shall we in. And taste Lord Timon's bounty ? he outgoes The very heart of kindness. [gold, Sec. Lord. He pours it out; Plutus, the god of Is but his steward : no meed, but he repays Sevenfold above itself ; no gift to him. But breeds the giver a return exceeding All use of quittance. First Lord. The noblest mind he carries That ever govern'd man. [we in ? Sec. Lord. Long may he live in fortunes ! Shall First Lord. I '11 keep you company. {Exeunt. SCENE II. — A banqueting-room in Timon's house. Hautboys playing loud music. A great banquet served in ; Plavius and others attending; then enter Lord Timon, Alcibiades, Lords, Senators, and Ventidius. I'hen comes, dropping after all, Apemantus, discontentedly, like himself. Ven. Most honour'd Timon, It hath pleased the gods to remember my father's And call him to long peace. ■ [age, He is gone happy, and has left me rich : Then, as in grateful virtue I am bound To your free heart, I do return those talents. Doubled with thanks and service, from whose help I derived Liberty. Tim. O, by no means. Honest Ventidius ; you mistake my love : I gave it freely ever ; and there 's none Can truly say he gives, if he receives: If our betters play at that game, we must not dare To imitate them ; faults that are rich are fair. Ven. A noble spirit ! Tim. Nay, my lords, {They all stand ceremoniously looking on Timon. Ceremony was but devised at first To set a gloss on faint deeds, hollow welcomes, Eecanting goodness, sorry ere 't is shown ; [none. But where there is true friendship, there needs Pray, sit ; more welcome are ye to my fortunes Than my fortunes to me. {They sit. First Lord. My lord, we always have confess'd it. Apem. Ho, ho, confess'd it! hang'd it, have you Tim. O, Apemantus, you are welcome. [not ? Apem,. No ; You shall not make me welcome : I come to have thee thrust me out of doors, [there Tim. Fie, thou 'rt a churl ; ye 've got a humour Does not become a man ; 't is much to blame. They say, my lords, ' ira furor brevis est ; ' but yond man is ever angry. Go , let him have a table by him- self, for he does neither affect company, nor is he fit for 't, indeed. Apem. Let me stay at thine apperil, Timon: I come to observe ; I give thee warning on 't. Tim. I take no heed of thee ; thou 'rt an Athe- nian, therefore welcome : I myself would have no power; prithee, let my meat make thee sUent. ACT I. TIN ON OF ATHENS. SCENE II. Apem. I scorn thy meat ; 'twould choke me, for I should ne'er flatter thee. O you gods, what a number of men eat Timon, and he sees 'em not I It grieves me to see so many dip their meat in one man's blood ; and all the madness is, he cheers them up too. I wonder men dare trust themselves with men : Methinks they should invite them without knives ; Good for their meat, and safer for their lives. There 's much example for 't ; the fellow that sits next him now, parts bread with him, pledges the breath of him in a divided draught, is the readiest man to kill him : 't has been proved. If I were a huge man, I should fear to drink at meals; Lest they should spy my windpipe's dangerous notes : Great men should drink with harness on their throats. [round. Tim. My lord, in heart; and let the health go Sec. Lord. Let it flow this way, my good lord. Apem. Flow this way ! A brave fellow ! he keeps his tides well. Those healths will make thee and thy state look ill, Timon. Here 's that which is too weak to be a sinner, honest water, which ne'er left man i' the mire : This and my food are equals ; there 's no odds : Feasts are too proud to give thanks to the gods. APEMANTUS' GRACE. Immortal gods, I crave no pelf ; I pray for no man but myself : Grant I may never prove so fond, To trust man on his oath or bond ; Or a harlot, for her weeping; Or a dog, that seems a-sleeping ; Or a keeper with my freedom ; Or my friends, if I should need 'em. Amen. So fall to 't: Eich men sin, and I eat root. {Eats and drinks. Much good dich thy good heart, Apemantus ! Tim. Captain Alcibiades, your heart 's in the field now. A leib. My heart is ever at your service, my lord. Tim. You had rather be at a breakfast of enemies than a dinner of friends. Alcib. So they were bleeding-new, my lord, there 's no meat like 'em : I could wish my best friend at such a feast. Apem. Would all those flatterers were thine ene- mies then, that then thou mightst kill 'em and bid me to 'em ! First Lord. Might we but have that happiness, my lord, that you would once use our hearts, whereby we might express some part of our zeals, we should think ourselves for ever perfect. Tim. O, no doubt, my good friends, but the gods themselves have provided that I shall have much help from you : how had you been my friends else ? why have you that charitable title from thousands, did not you chiefly belong to my heart ? I have told more of you to myself than you can with modesty speak in your own behalf ; and thus far I confirm you. O you gods, think I, what need we have any friends, if we should ne'er have need of 'em ? they were the most needless creatures living, should we ne'er have use for 'em, and would most resemble sweet instruments hung up in cases that keep their sounds to themselves. Why, I have often wished myself poorer, that I might come nearer to you. We are born to do benefits : and what better or properer can we call our own than the riches of our friends ? O, what a precious comfort 't is, to have so many, like brothers, commanding one another's fortunes ! O joy, e'en made away ere 't can be born ! Mine eyes cannot hold out water, methinks : to for- get their faults, I drink to you. Ajpem. Thou weepest to make them drink, Timon. Sec. Lord. Joy had the like conception in our eyes And at that instant like a babe sprung up. [tarii. Apem. Ho, ho ! I laugh to think that babe a bas- Third Lord. I promise you, my lord, you moveil me much, ^jjem. Much! [Tucket, within Tim. What means that trump ? Enter a Servant. How now ? Serv. Please you, my lord, there are certain ladies most desirous of admittance. Tim. Ladies ! what are their wills ? Serv. There comes with them a forerunner, my lord, which bears that ofiice, to signify their pleas- ures. Tim. I pray, let them be admitted. Enter Cupid. Cwp. Hail to thee, worthy Timon, and to all That of his bounties taste ! The five best senses Acknowledge thee their patron ; and come freely To gratulate thy plenteous bosom : tli' ear, Taste, touch and smell, pleased from thy table rise •, They only now come but to feast thine eyes. Tim. They 're welcome all ; let 'em have kind ad- mittance : Music, make their welcome ! [Exit Cupid. First Lord. You see, my lord, how ample you 're beloved. Music. Re-enter Cupid, with a mask of Ladies as Ama- zons, with lutes in their hands, dancing and playing. Apem. Hoy-day, what a sweep of vanity comes They dance ! they are mad women. [this way ! Like madness is the glory of this life, As this pomp shows to a little oil and root. We make ourselves fools, to disport ourselves ; And spend our flatteries, to drink those men Upon whose age we void it up again. With poisonous spite and envy. Who lives that 's not depraved or depraves ? Who dies, that bears not one spurn to their graves Of their friends' gift ? I should fear those that dance before me now Would one day stamp upon me : 't has been done ; Men shut their doors against a setting sun. The Lords rise from table, with much adoring of Timon ; and to show their loves, each singles out an Amazon, and all dance, men with women, a lofty strain or two to the hautboys, and cease. Tim. You have done our pleasures much grace, fair ladies. Set a fair fashion on our entertainment. Which was not half so beautiful and kind ; You have added worth unto 't and lustre, And entertain 'd me with mine own device; I am to thank you for 't. First Lady. My lord, you take us even at the best. Apem. 'Faith, for the worst is filthy ; and would not hold taking, I doubt me. Tim. Ladies, there is an idle banquet attends you : Please you to dispose yourselves. All Ladies. Most thankfully, my lord. [Exeunt Cupid and Ladies: Tim. Flavins. Flav. My lord ? Tim. The little casket bring me hither. Flav. Yes, my lord. More jewels yet ! [Aside. There is no crossing him in 's humour ; Else I should tell him,— well, i' faith, I should, When all 's spent, he 'Id be cross 'd then, an he could. 'T is pity bounty had not eyes behind. That man might ne'er be wretched for his mind. [Exit. First Lord. Where be our men ? 611 ACT II. TIM ON OF ATHENS. SCENE I. Serv. Here, my lord, in readiness. Sec. Lord. Our horses ! Be-enter Flavius, with the casket. Tim. O my friends, [lord, I have one word to say to you : look you, my good I must entreat you, honour me so much As to advance this jewel ; accept it and wear it. Kind my lord. First Lord. I am so far already in your gifts,— All. So are we all. Enter a Servant. Serv. My lord, there are certain nobles of the senate Newly alighted, and come to visit you. Tim. They are fairly welcome. Flav. I beseech your honour, Vouchsafe me a word ; it does concern you near. Tim. iJs'ear! why then, another time I '11 hear thee: I prithee, let 's be provided to show them entertain- Flav. [Aside] I scarce know how. [ment. Enter a second Servant. Sec. Serv. May it please your honour. Lord Lucius, Out of his free love, hath presented to you I'our milk-white horses, trapp'd in silver. Tim. I shall accept them fairly ; let the presents Be worthily entertain'd. Enter a third Servant. How now, what news ? Third Serv. Please you, my lord, that honourable gentleman. Lord LucuUus, entreats your company to-morrow to hunt with him, and has sent your honour two brace of greyhounds. Tim. I '11 hunt with him ; and let them be received. Not without fair reward. Flav. [A side] What will this come to ? He commands us to provide, and give great gifts, And all out of an empty coffer : Nor will he know his purse, or yield me this, To show him what a beggar his heart is, Being of no power to make his wishes good : His promises fly so beyond his state That what he speaks is all in debt ; he owes For every word : he is so kind that he now Pays interest for 't ; his land 's put to their books. Well, would I were gently put out of office Before I were forced out ! Happier is he that has no friend to feed Than such that do e'en enemies exceed. I bleed inwardly for my lord. [Exit. Tim. You do yourselves Much viTong, you bate too much of your own merits: Here, my lord, a trifle of our love. [receive it. Sec. Lord. With more than common thanks I will Third Lord. O, he 's the very soul of bounty ! Tim. And now I remember, my lord, you gave G-ood words the other day of a bay courser I rode on : it is yours, because you liked it. [that. Sec. Lord. 0,1 beseech you, pardon me, my lord, in Tim. You may take my word, my lord ; I know, no Can justly praise but what he does affect : [man I weigh my friend's affection with mine own ; I '11 tell you true. I '11 call to you. All Lords. O, none so welcome. Tim. I take all and your several visitations So kind to heart, 't is not enough to give ; Methinks, I could deal kingdoms to my friends, And ne'er be weary. Alcibiades, Thou art a soldier, therefore seldom rich ; It comes in charity to thee : for all thy living Is 'mongst the dead, and all the lands thou hast Lie in a pitch'd field. Alcib. Ay, defiled land, my lord. First Lord. We are so virtuously bound— Tim. And so Am I to you. Sec. Lord. So infinitely endear'd— Tim. All to you. Lights, more lights! First Lord. The best of happiness. Honour and fortunes, keep with you. Lord Timon ! Tim. Eeady for his friends. [Exeunt all but Apemantus and Timon, Apem. What a coil 's here I Serving of becks and jutting-out of bums ! I doubt whether their legs be worth the sums That are given for 'em. Friendship 's full of dregs : Methinks, false hearts should never have sound legs. Thus honest fools lay out their wealth on court 'sies. Tim. Now, Apemantus, if thou wert not sullen, I would be good to thee. Apem. No, I '11 nothing : for if I should be bribed too, there would be none left to rail upon thee, and then thou wouldst sin the faster. Thou givest so long, Timon, I fear me thou wilt give away thyself in paper shortly: what need these feasts, pomps, and vain-glories ? Tim. Nay, an you begin to rail on society once, I am sworn not to give regard to you. Farewell; and come with better music. [Exit, Apem. So: Thou wilt not hear me now ; thou shalt not then : I '11 lock thy heaven from thee. O, that men's ears should be To counsel deaf, but not to flattery I [Exit. A.OT II. SCENE I. — A Senator^s house. Enter Senator, with papers in his hand. Sen. And late, five thousand: to Varro and to Isidore He owes nine thousand ; besides my former sum. Which makes it five and twenty. Still in motion Of raging waste ? It cannot hold ; it will not. If I want gold, steal but a beggar's dog. And give it Timon, why, the dog coins gold. If I would sell my horse, and buy twenty more Better than he, why, give my horse to Timon, Ask nothing, give it him, it foals me, straight. And able horses. No porter at his gate. But rather one that smiles and still invites All that pass by. It cannot hold ; no reason Can found his state in safety. Caphis, ho I Caphis, I say ! 612 Enter Caphis. Caph. Here, sir ; what is your pleasure ? Sen. Get on your cloak, and haste you to Lord Timon ; Importune him for my moneys ; be not ceased With slight denial, nor then silenced when — ' Commend me to your master ' — and the cap Plays in the right hand, thus ; but teU him. My uses cry to me, I must serve my turn Out of mme own ; his days and times are past And my reliances on his t'racted dates Have smit my credit : I love and honour liim. But must not break my back to heal his finger; Immediate are my needs, and my relief Must not be toss'd and turn'd to me in words, But find supply immediate. Get you gone: Put on a most importunate aspect, ACT II. TIM ON OF ATHENS. SCENE II A visage of demand ; for, I do fear, Wheu every feather sticks in liis own wing, Lord Timon will be left a naked gull. Which flashes now a phoenix. Get you gone. Caph. I go, sir. Sen. ' I go, sir ! ' — Take the bonds along with you, And have the dates in compt. Caph. I will, sir. Sen. Go. \_Exevm,t. SCENE II. — The same. A hall in Timon^s house. Enter Plavius, loith many Mils in his hand. Flavins. No care, no stop! so senseless of expense. That he will neither know how to maintain it, Nor cease his flow of riot : takes no accoimt How things go from him, nor resumes no care Of what is to continue : never mind Was to be so unwise, to be so kind. What shall be done ? he will not hear, till feel : I must be round with him, now he comes from hunt- Fie, fie, fie, fie ! [ing. - Enter Oaphis, and the Servants of Isidore and Varro. Caph. Good even, Varro : what, You come for money ? Var. Serv. Is 't not your business too ? Caph. It is : and yours too, Isidore ? Isid. Serv. It is so. Caph. Would we were aU discharged I Var. Serv. I fear it. Caph. Here comes the lord. Enter Timon, Alcibiad.es, and Lords, &c. Tim. So soon as dinner 's done, we '11 forth again, My Alcibiades. With me ? what is your will ? Caph. My lord, here is a note of certain dues. Tim. Dues ! Whence are you ? Caj)h. Of Athens here, my lord. Tim. Go to my steward. Caph. Please it your lordship, he hath put me off To the succession of new days this month : My master is awaked by great occasion To call upon his own, and humbly prays you That with your other noble parts you '11 suit In giving him his right. Tim. Mine honest friend, I prithee, but repair to me next morning. Caph. Nay, good my lord,— Tim. Contain thyself, good friend. Var. Serv. One Varro 's servant, my good lord, — Isid. Serv. From Isidore ; He humbly prays your speedy payment, [wants — Caph. If you did know, my lord, my master's Var. Serv. 'Twas due on forfeiture, my lord, six And past. [weeks Isid. Serv. Your steward puts me off, my lord ; And I am sent expressly to your lordship. Tim. Give me breath. I do beseech you, good my lords, keep on ; I '11 wait upon you instantly. [Exeunt Alcibiades and Lords. [To Flav.] Come hither : pray you, How goes the world, that I am thus encounter'd With clamorous demands of date-broke bonds. And the detention of long-since-due debts. Against my honour ? Flav. Please you, gentlemen, The time is unagreeable to this business : Your importunacy cease till after dinner. That I may make his lordship understand Wherefore you are not paid. Tim. Do so, my friends. See them well enter- tain'd. [Exit. Flav. Pray, draw near. [Exit. Enter Apemantus and Fool. Caph. Stay, stay, here comes the fool with Ape- mantus : let 's ha' some sport with 'em. Var. Serv. Hang him, he '11 abuse us. Isid. Serv. A plague upon him, dog ! Var. Serv. How dost, fool? Apem. Dost dialogue with thy shadow ? Var. Serv. I speak not to thee. Apem. No, 'tis to thyself. [To the FooT] Come away. Isid. Serv. There 's the fool hangs on your back already. Apem. No, thou stand'st single, thou 'rt not on Caph. Where 's the fool now V [him yet. Apem. He last asked the question. Poor rogues, and usurers' men ! bawds between gold and want ! All Serv. What are we, Apemantus ? Apem. Asses. All Serv. Why? Apem. That you ask me what you are, and do not know yourselves. Speak to 'em, fool. Fool. How do you, gentlemen? All Serv. Gramercies, good fool: how does your mistress ? Fool. She 's e'en setting on water to scald such chickens as you are. Would we could see you at Apem. Good! gramercy. [Corinth! Fool. Look you, here comes my mistress' page. Page. [To the Fool] Why, how now, captain I what do you in this wise company? How dost thou, Apemantus ? Apem. Would I had a rod in my mouth, that I might answer thee profitably. Page. Prithee, Apemantus, read me the super- scription of these letters: I know not which is which. Apem. Canst not read ? Page. No. Apem. There will little learning die then, that day thou art hanged. This is to Lord Timon ; this to Alcibiades. Go ; thou wast born a bastard, and thou 'It die a bawd. Pa.ge. Thou wast whelped a dog, and thou shalt famish a dog's death. Answer not ; I am gone. [Exit. Apem. E'en so thou outnmnest grace. Fool, 1 will go with you to Lord Timon 's. Fool. Will you leave me there ? Apem. If Timon stay at home. You three serve three usurers ? All Serv. Ay, would they served us ! Apem. So would I,— as good a trick as ever hang- man served thief. Fool. Are you three usurers' men ? All Serv. Ay, fool. Fool. I think no usurer but has a fool to his ser- vant: my mistress is one, and I am her fool. When men come to borrow of your masters, they approach sadly, and go away merry ; but they enter my mis- tress' house merrily, and go away sadly : the reason of this ? Var. Serv. I could render one. Apem. Do it then, that we may account thee a whore-master and a knave ; which notwithstanding, thou shalt be no less esteemed. Var. Serv. What is a whoremaster, fool ? Fool. A fool in good clothes, and something like thee. 'T is a spirit : sometime 't appears like a lord ; sometime like a lawyer ; sometime like a philoso- pher, with two stones moe than 's artificial one : he is very often like a knight ; and, generally, in all shapes that man goes up and down in from four- score to thirteen, this spirit walks in. Var. Serv. Thou art not altogether a fool. 613 ACT II. TIM ON OF ATHENS. SCENE II. Fool. K'or thou altogether a wise man : as much foolery as I have, so much wit thou lackest. Apem. That answer might have become Apeman- tus. All Serv. Aside, aside; here comes Lord Timon. Be-enter Timon and Flavius. Apeyn. Come with me, fool, come. Fool. I do not always follow lover, elder brother and woman ; sometime the philosopher. [Exeunt ApemanUis and Fool. Flav. Pray you, walk near : 1 '11 speak with you anon. [Fxeunt Servants. Tim. You make me marvel : wherefore ere this time Had you not fully laid my state before me, That I might so have rated my expense, As I had leave of means ? Flav. You would not hear me, At many leisures I proposed. Tim. Go to : Perchance some single vantages you took, "When my indisposition put you back ; And that unaptness made your minister, Thus to excuse yourself. Flav. O my good lord. At many times I brought in my accounts, Laid them before you ; you would throw them off, And say, you found them in mine honesty. "When, for some trifling present, you have bid me Return so much, I have shook my head and wept ; Yea, 'gainst the authority of manners, pray'd you To hold your hand more close : I did endure Not seldom, nor no slight checks, when I have Prompted you in the ebb of your estate And your great flow of debts. My loved lord. Though you hear now, too late — yet now 's a time — The greatest of your having lacks a half To pay your present debts. Tim. Let all my land be sold. Flav. 'T is all engaged, some forfeited and gone ; And what remains will hardly stop the mouth Of present dues : the future comes apace : "What shall defend the interim V and at length How goes our reckoning ? Tim. To Lacedsemon did my land extend. Flav. O my good lord, the world is but a word : Were it all yours to give it in a breath, How quickly were it gone ! I'im. You tell me true. Flav. If you suspect my husbandry or falsehood. Call me before the exactest auditors And set me on the proof. So the gods bless me. When all our ofiices have been oppress'd With riotous feeders, when our vaults have wept With drunken spilth of wine, when every room Hath blazed with lights and bray'd with minstrelsy, I have retired me to a wasteful cock. And set mine eyes at flow. Tim. Prithee, no more. Flav. Heavens, have I said, the bounty of this lord! How many prodigal bits have slaves and peasants This night englutted ! Who is not Timon 's ? What heart, head, sword, force, means, but is Lord Timon's ? Great Timon, noble, worthy, royal Timon ! Ah, when the means are gone that buy this praise, The breath is gone whereof this praise is made : Peast-won, fast-lost; one cloud of winter showers, These flies are couch 'd. Tim. Come, sermon me no further : No villanous bounty yet hath pass'd my heart ; 614 Unwisely, not ignobly, have I given. Why dost thou weep ? Canst thou the conscience lack. To think I shall lack friends ? Secure thy heart ; If I would broach the vessels of my love. And try the argument of hearts by borrowing, Men and men's fortunes could I frankly use As I can bid thee speak. Flav. Assurance bless your thoughts ! I'im. And, in some sort, these wants of mine are crown 'd. That I account them blessings ; for by these Shall I try friends : you shall perceive how you Mistake my fortunes ; I am wealthy in my friends. Within there ! Plaminius ! Servilius I Enter Flaminius, Servilius, and other Servants. Servants. My lord ? my lord Y Tim. I will dispatch you severally : you to Lord Lucius; to Lord Lucullus you : I hunted with his honour to-day : you, to Sempronius : commend me to their loves, and, I am proud, say, that my occa- sions have found time to use 'em toward a supply of money : let the request be fifty talents. Flam. As you have said, my lord. Flav. [Aside] Lord Lucius and Lucullus ? hum ! Tim. Go you, sir, to the senators— Of whom, even to the state's best health, I have Deserved this hearing — bid 'em send o' the instant A thousand talents to me. Flav. I have been bold — For that I knew it the most general way — To them to use your signet and your name ; But they do shake their heads, and I am here No richer in return. Tim. Is 't true ? can 't be ? Flav. They answer, in a joint and corporate voice, That now they are at fall, want treasure, cannot Do what they would ; are sorry — you are honour- able,— But yet they could have wish 'd — they know not — Something hath been amiss — a noble nature May catch a wrench — would all were well — 'tis pity ; — And so, intending other serious matters. After distasteful looks and these hard fractions. With certain half-caps and cold-moving nods They froze me into silence. Tim. You gods, reward them! Prithee, man, look cheerly. These old fellows Have their ingratitude in them hereditary : Their blood is caked, 't is cold, it seldom flows ; 'T is lack of kindly warmth they are not kind ; And nature, as it grows again toward earth, Is fashion'd for the journey, dull and heavy. [To a Serv.] Go to Ventidius. [To Flav.] Prithee, be not sad, Thou art true and honest ; ingeniously I speak. No blame belongs to thee. [2b Ser.] Ventidius lately Buried his father ; by whose death he 's stepp'd Into a great estate : when he was poor. Imprison 'd and in scarcity of friends, I clear'd him with five talents : greet him from me ; Bid him suppose some good necessity Touches his friend, which craves to be remember'd With those five talents [Exit Ser.]. [To Flav.] That had, give 't these fellows To whom 't is instant due. Ne'er speak, or think, That Timon's fortunes 'mong his friends can sink. Flav. 1 would I could not think it : that thought is bounty's foe ; Being free itself, it thinks all others so. [Exeunt. ACT III. TIM ON OF ATHENS. 5CENE ir. A^OT III. SCENE I. — A room, in Lucidlus^ Plaminius waiting. Enter a Servant to him. Serv. I have told my lord of you ; he is coming down to you. Flam. I thank you, sir. Enter Lucullus. my Lticul. [Aside] One of Lord Timon's men ? a gift, Serv. Here 's my lord, Lticul. [Aside] One of I warrant. Why, this hits right; I dreamt of a silver basin and ewer to-night. Plaminius, honest Flaminius ; you are very respectively welcome, sir. Fill me some wine. [Exit Servant.] And how does that honourable, complete, free-hearted gentleman of Athens, thy very bountiful good lord and mas- Flam. His health is well, sir. [ter ? Lucul. I am right glad that his health is well, sir: and what hast thou there under thy cloak, pretty Flaminius ? Flam. 'Faith, nothing but an empty box, sir; •which, in my lord's behalf, I come to entreat your honour to supply ; who, having great and instant occasion to use fifty talents, hath sent to your lord- ship to furnish him, nothing doubting your present assistance therein. Lucul. La, la, la, la ! ' nothing doubting,' says he ? Alas, good lord! a noble gentleman 'tis, if he would not keep so good a house. Many a time and often I ha' dined with him, and told him on 't, and come again to supper to him, of purpose to have him spend less, and yet he would embrace no coun- sel, take no warning by my coming. Every man has his fault, and honesty is his: I ha' told him on 't, but I could ne'er get him from 't. Re-enter Servant, with wine. Serv. Please your lordship, here is the wine. Lucul. Flaminius, I have noted thee always wise. Here 's to thee. Flam. Your lordship speaks your pleasure. Lucul. I have observed thee always for a towardly prompt spirit — give thee thy due — and one that knows what belongs to reason ; and canst use the time well, if the time use thee well : good parts in thee. [To Serv.] Get you gone, sirrah [Exit Serv.]. Draw nearer, honest Flaminius. Thy lord 's a boun- tiful gentleman: but thou art wise; and thou knowest well enough, although thou comest to me, that this is no time to lend money, especially upon bare friendship, without security. Here 's three solidares for thee : good boy, wink at me, and say thou sawest me not. Fare thee well. Flam. Is 't possible the world should so much differ, And we alive that lived ? Fly, damned baseness, To him that worships thee ! [Throwing the money hack. Lucul. Ha ! now I see thou art a fool, and fit for thy master. [Exit. Flam. May these add to the number that may scald thee ! Let molten coin be thy damnation, Thou disease of a friend, and not himself! Has friendship such a faint and milky heart. It turns in less than two nights ? O you gods, I feel my master's passion ! this slave, Unto his honour, has my lord's meat in him : AVhy should it thrive and turn to nutriment. When he is turn'd to poison ? O, may diseases only work upon't ! And, when he 's sick to death, let not that part of Which my lord paid for, be of any power [nature To expel sickness, but prolong his hour ! [Exit. SCENE 11.— A public place. Enter Lucius, with three Strangers. Luc. Wlio, the Lord Timon ? he is my very good friend, and an honourable gentleman. First Stra7i. We know him for no less, though we are but strangers to him. But I can tell you one thing, my lord, and which I hear from common rumours : now Lord Timon's happy hours are done and past, and his estate shrinks from him. Luc. Fie, no, do not believe it; he cannot want for money. Sec. Stran. But believe you this, my lord, that, not long ago, one of his men was with the Lord Lu- cullus to borrow so many talents, nay, urged ex- tremely for 't and showed what necessity belonged to 't, and yet was denied. Luc. How! Sec. Stran. I tell you, denied, my lord. Luc. What a strange case was that ! now, before the gods, I am ashamed on 't. Denied that honour- able man ! there was very little honour showed in 't. For my own part, I must needs confess, I have re- ceived some small kindnesses from him, as money, plate, jewels and such-like trifles, nothing com- paring to his; yet, had he mistook him and sent to me, I should ne'er have denied his occasion so many talents. Enter Servilius. Ser. See, by good hap, yonder 's my lord ; I have sweat to see his honour. My honoured lord,— [To Lucius. Luc. Servilius! you are kindly met, sir. Fare thee well : commend me to thy honourable virtuous lord, my very exquisite friend. Ser. May it please your honour, my lord hath sent — Lu^. Ha ! what has he sent ':" I am so much en- deared to that lord ; he 's ever sending : how shall I thank him, thinkest thou? And what has he sent now ? Ser. Has only sent his present occasion now, my lord ; requesting your lordship to supply his instant use with so many talents. irw;. I know his lordship is but merry with me ; He cannot want fifty-five hundred talents. Ser. But in the mean time he wants less, my lord. If his occasion were not virtuous, I should not urge it half so faithiully. Luc. Dost thou speak seriously, Servilius ? Ser. Upon my soul, 'tis true, sir. Luc. What a wicked beast was I to disfurnish myself against such a good time, when I might ha' shown myself honourable! how unluckily it hap- pened, that I should purchase the day before for a little part, and undo a great deal of honour ! Ser- vilius, now, before the gods, I am not able to do,— the more beast, I say : — I was sending to use Lord Timon myself, these gentlemen can witness ; but I would not, for the wealth of Athens, I had done 't now. Commend me bountifully to his good lord- ship ; and I hope his honour will conceive the fairest of me, because I have no power to be kind : and tell him this from me, I count it one of my greatest af- flictions, say, that I cannot pleasure such an honour- able gentleman. Good Servilius, will you befriend me so far, as to use mine own words to him ? Ser. Yes, sir, I shall. Lite. I '11 look you out a good turn, Servilius. [Exit Servilius. True, as you said, Timon is shrunk indeed ; And he that 's once denied will hardly speed. [Exit. First Stran. Do you observe this, Hostilius ? Sec. Stran, Ay, too well. 615 ACT III. TIM ON OF ATHENS. SCENE IV. First Stran. Why, this is the world's soul; and just of the same pi^e Is every flatterer's spirit. Who can call him His friend that dips in the same dish ? for, in My knowing, Timon has been this lord's father, And kept his credit with his purse, Supported his estate ; nay, Timon 's money Has paid his men their wages : he ne'er drinks, But Timon 's silver treads upon his lip ; And yet — O, see the monstrousness of man When he looks out in an ungrateful shape ! — He does deny him, in respect of his, What charitable men afford to beggars. Third Stran. Eeligion groans at it. First Stran. Tor mine own part, I never tasted Timon in my life, Nor came any of his bounties over me. To mark me for his friend ; yet, I protest, Tor his right noble mind, illustrious virtue And honourable carriage. Had his necessity made use of me, I would have put my wealth into donation. And the best half should have return 'd to him. So much I love his heart : but, I perceive. Men must learn now with pity to dispense ; For policy sits above conscience. [Exeunt. SCENE in. — A room in Sempronius^ house. Enter Semproniiis, and a Servant of Timon's. Sem. Must he needs trouble me in't, — hum! — 'bove all others ? He might have tried Lord Lucius or Lucullus ; And now Yentidius is wealthy too. Whom he redeem'd from prison : all these Owe their estates unto him. Serv. My lord. They have all been touch'd and found base metal, for They have all denied him. Sem. How ! have they denied him ? Has Ventidius and Lucullus denied him ? And does he send to me ? Three ? hum ! It shows but little love or judgment in him : Must I be his last refuge ? His friends, like physi- cians, [me ? Thrive, give him over: must I take the cure upon Has much disgraced me in 't ; I 'm angry at him, That might have known my place: I see no sense f or 't. But his occasions might have woo'd me first; For, in my conscience, I was the first man That e'er received gift from him : And does he think so backwardly of me now, That I '11 requite it last ? No : So it may prove an argument of laughter To the rest, and 'mongst lords I be thought a fool. I 'Id rather than the worth of thrice the sum, Had sent to me first, but for my mind's sake ; I 'd such a courage to do him good. But now return. And with their faint reply this answer join ; Who bates mine honour shall not know my coin. [Exit. Serv. Excellent! Yom- lordship 's a goodly villain. The devil knew not what he did when he made man politic ; he crossed himself by 't : and I cannot think but, in the end, the villanies of man will set him clear. How fairly this lord strives to appear foul ! takes virtuous copies tobe wicked,like those that un- der hot ardent zeal would set whole realms on fire : Of such a nature is his politic love. This was my lord's best hope : now all are fled. Save only the gods : now his friends are dead, Doors, that were ne'er acquainted with their wards Many a bounteous year, must be employ'd Now to guard sure their master. And this is all a liberal course allows ; Who cannot keep his wealth must keep his house. [Exit. 616 SCENE IV.— The same. A hall in Timon's house. Enter two Servants of Varro, and the Servant of Lu- cius, meeting Titus, Hortensius, and other Servants of Timon's creditors, waiting his coming out. First Var. Serv. Well met ; good morrow, Titus and Hortensius. Tit. The like to you, kind Varro. Hor. Lucius ! What, do we meet together ? Luc. Serv. Ay, and I think One business does command us all ; for mine Is money. Tit. So is theirs and ours. Enter Philotus. Luc. Serv. And Sir Philotus too ! Phi. Good day at once. Luc. Serv. Welcome, good brother. What do you think the hour ? Phi. Labouring for nine. Imc. Serv. So much ? Phi. Is not my lord seen yet ? Luc. Serv. Not yet. Phi. I wonder on 't ; he was wont to shine at seven. Luc. Serv. Ay, but the days are wax'd shorter with You must consider that a prodigal course [him : Is like the sun's ; but not, like his, recoverable. I fear 't is deepest winter in Lord Timon's purse ; That is, one may reach deep enough, and yet Find little. Phi. I am of yoru: fear for that. Tit. 1 '11 show you how to observe a strange event. Your lord sends now for money. Hor. Most true, he does. Tit. And he wears jewels now of Timon's gift, For which I wait for money. Hor. It is against my heart. Luc. Serv. Mark, how strange it shows, Timon in this should pay more than he owes : And e'en as if your lord should wear rich jewels. And send for money for 'em. [ness : Hor. I 'm weary of this charge, the gods can wit- I know my lord hath spent of Timon's wealth. And now ingratitude makes it worse than stealth. First Var. Serv. Yes, mine 's three thousand crowns: what's yours? Luc. Serv. Five thousand mine. First Var. Serv. 'T is much deep : and it should seem by the sum. Your master's confidence was above mine ; Else, surely, his had equall'd. Enter Flaminius. Tit. One of Lord Timon's men. Luc. Serv. Flaminius ! Sir, a word : pray, is my lord ready to come forth ? Flam. No, indeed, he is not. Tit. We attend his lordship ; pray, signify so much. Flam. I need not tell him that; he knows you are too diligent. [Exit. Enter Plavius in a cloah, muffled. Luc. Serv. Ha ! is not that his steward muffled so ? He goes away in a cloud : call him, call him. Tit. Do you hear, sir ? Sec. Var. Serv. By your leave, sir,— Flav. What do ye ask of me, my friend ? Tit. We wait for certain money here, sir. Flav. Ay, If money were as certain as your waiting, 'T were sure enough. Why then preferr'd you not your sums and bills, When your false masters eat of my lord's meat ? Then they could smile and fawn upon his debts And take down the interest into their gluttonous You do yourselves but wrong to stir me up ; [maws. T 131 ON OF ATHENS. SCENE V. Let me pass quietly : Believe 't, my lord and I have made an end ; I have no more to reckon, he to spend. Lu£. Serv. Ay, but this answer will not serve. Flav. If 'twiU not serve, 'tis not so base as you; For you serve knaves. [JExit. First Var. Serv. How! what does his cashiered worship mutter ? Sec. Var. Serv. No matter what; he 's poor, and that 's revenge enough. "Who can speak broader than he that has no house to put his head in ? such may rail against great buildings. Enter Servilius. Tit. O, here 's Servilius ; now we shall know some answer. Ser. If I might beseech you, gentlemen, to repair some other hour, I should derive much from ^t ; for, take 't of my soul, my lord leans wondrously to dis- content : his comfortable temper has forsook him ; he 's much out of health, and keeps his chamber. Luc. Serv. Many do keep their chambers are not And, if it be so far beyond his health, [sick : Methinks he should the sooner pay his debts. And make a clear way to the gods. Ser. Good gods ! Tit. We cannot take this for answer, sir. [lord ! Mam. [Within] Servilius, help! My lord! my Enter Timon, in a rage ; Flaminius following. Tim. What, are my doors opposed against my pas- Have I been ever free, and must my house [sage ? Be my retentive enemy, my gaol ? The place which I have feasted, does it now, Like all mankind, show me an iron heart ? Luc. Serv. Put in now, Titus. Tit. My lord, here is my biU. Luc. Serv. Here 's mine. Hor. And mine, my lord. £oth Var. Serv. And ours, my lord. Phi. All our bills. [girdle. Tim. Knock me dov/n with 'em : cleave me to the Luc. Serv. Alas, my lord, — Tim. Cut my heart in sums. Tit. Mine, fifty talents. Tim. Tell out my blood. iitc. Serv. Five thousand crowns, my lord. Tim. Five thousand drops pays that. What yours? — and yours? First Var. Serv. My lord, — Sec. Var. Serv. My lord, — Tim. Tear me, take me, and the gods fall upon you ! [Exit. Hor. 'Faith, I perceive oirr masters may throw their caps at their money : these debts may well be called desperate ones, for a madman owes 'em. ^ , „ . [Exeunt. Be-enter Timon and Flavius. Tim. They have e'en put my breath from me, the Creditors? devils! [slaves. Flav. My dear lord,— Tim. What if it should be so ? Flav. My lord,— T^m. I '11 have it so. My steward! Flav. Here, my lord. Tim. So fitly ? G-o, bid all my friends again, Lucius, LucuUus, and Sempronius : All, sirrah, all: I '11 once more feast the rascals. Flav. O my lord, You only speak from your distracted soul ; There is not so much left, to furnish out A moderate table. Tim. Be 't not in thy care ; go, I charge thee, invite them all : let in the tide Of knaves once more ; my cook and I '11 provide. [Exeunt. SCENE v.— The same. Tlie senate-house. The Senate sitting. First Sen. My lord, you have my voice to it ; the Bloody ; 't is necessary he should die : [fault 's Nothing emboldens sin so much as mercy. Sec. Sen. Most true ; the law shall bruise him. Enter Alcibiad.es, with Attendants. Alcib. Honour, health, and compassion to the First Sen. Now, captain ? [senate ! Alcib. I am an humble suitor to your virtues ; For pity is the virtue of the law. And none but tyrants use it cruelly. It pleases time and fortune to lie heavy Upon a friend of mine, who, in hot blood, Hath stepp'd into the law, which is past depth To those that, without heed, do plunge into 't. He is a man, setting his fate aside. Of comely virtues : Nor did he soil the fact with cowardice — An honour in him which buys out his fault — But with a noble fury and fair spirit, Seeing his reputation touch'd to death, He did oppose his foe : And with such sober and unnoted passion He did behave his anger, ere 't was spent, As if he had but proved an argument. First Sen. You undergo too strict a paradox, Striving to make an ugly deed look fair : Your words have took such pains as if they labour 'd To bring manslaughter into form and set quarrelling Upon the head of valour ; which indeed Is valour misbegot and came into the world When sects and factions were newly born : He 's truly valiant that can wisely suffer The worst that man can breathe, and make his wrongs [lessly. His outsides, to wear them like his raiment, care- And ne'er prefer his injuries to his heart. To bring it into danger. If wrongs be evils and enforce us kill, What folly 't is to hazard life for ill ! Alcib. My lord,— [look clear: First Sen. You cannot make gross sins To revenge is no valour, but to bear. Alcib. My lords, then, under favour, pardon me. If I speak like a captain. Why do fond men expose themselves to battle. And not endure all threats ? sleep upon 't, And let the foes quietly cut their throats. Without repugnancy ? If there be Such valour in the bearing, what make we Abroad ? why then, women are more valiant That stay at home, if bearing carry it. And the ass more captain than the lion, the felon Loaden with irons wiser than the judge, If wisdom be in suffering. O my lords. As you are great, be pitifully good : Who cannot condemn rashness in cold blood ? To kill, I grant, is sin's extremest gust ; But, in defence, by mercy, 'tis most just. To be in anger is impiety ; But who is man that is not angry ? Weigh but the crime with this. Sec. Sen. You breathe in vain. Alcib. In vain ! his service done At Lacedsemon and Byzantium Were a suSicient briber for his life. First Sen. What 's that ? Alcib. I say, my lords, he has done fair service, And slain in fight many of your enemies : How full of valour did he bear himself In the last conflict, and made plenteous wounds! Sec. Sen. He has made too much plenty with 'em ; He 's a sworn rioter : he has a sin that often Drowns him, and takes his valour prisoner : 617 ACT III. TIM ON OF ATHENS. (SCENE VI. If there were no foes, that were enough To overcome him : in that beastly fury He has been known to commit outrages, And cherish factions : 't is inferr'd to us, His days are foul and his drink dangerous. First Sen. He dies. Alcib. Hard fate ! he might have died in war. My lords, if not for any parts in him — Though his right arm might purchase his own time And be in debt to none — yet, more to move you, Take my deserts to his, and join 'em both : And, for I know your reverend ages love Security, I '11 pawn my victories, all My honours to you, upon his good returns. If by this crime he owes the law his life, "Why, let the war receive 't in valiant gore ; For law is strict, and war is nothing more, [more, First Sen. We are for law : he dies ; urge it no On height of our displeasure : friend or brother, He forfeits his own blood that spills another. Alcib. Must it be so ? it must not be. My lords, I do beseech you, know me. Sec. Sen. How! Alcib. Call me to your remembrances. Tkird Sen. What ! Alcib. I cannot think but your age has forgot me ; It could not else be, I should prove so base. To sue, and be denied such common grace : My wounds ache at you. First Sen. Do you dare our anger ? 'T is in few words, but spacious in effect ; We banish thee for ever. Alcib. Banish me! Banish your dotage ; banish usury. That makes the senate ugly. [tain thee, First Sen. If, after two days' shine, Athens con- Attend our weightier judgment. And, not to swell He shall be executed presently. [our spirit. [Exeunt Senators. old I Alcib. Now the gods keep you old enough ; that you may live Only in bone, that none may look on you ! I 'm worse than mad : I have kept back their foes, While they have told their money and let out Their coin upon large interest, I myself Rich only in large hurts. All those for this ? Is this the balsam that the usuring senate Pours into captains' wounds ? Banishment ! It comes not ill ; I hate not to be banish 'd ; It is a cause worthy my spleen and fury. That I may strike at Athens. I '11 cheer up My discontented troops, and lay for hearts. 'T is honour with most lands to be at odds ; Soldiers should brook as little wrongs as gods. [Exit. SCENE VI. — The same. A banqueting-room in Timon''s house. Music. Tables set out : Servants attending. Enter divers Lords, Senators and others, at several doors. First Lord. The good time of day to you, sir. Sec. Lord. I also wish it to you. I think this hon- ourable lord did but try us this other day. First Lord. Upon that were my thoughts tiring, when we encountered : I hope it is not so low with him as he made it seem in the trial of his several friends. Sec. Lord. It should not be, by the persuasion of his new feasting. First Lord. I should think so : he hath sent me an earnest inviting, which many my near occasions did \irge me to put off ; but he hath conjured me beyond them, and I must needs appear. See. Lord. In like manner was I in debt to my im- portunate business, but he would not hear my excuse. I am sorry, when he sent to borrow of me, that my provision was out. 618 First Lord. I am sick of that grief too, as I un- derstand how all things go. Sec. Lord. Every man here 's so. What would he have borrowed of you ? First Lord. A thousand pieces. Sec. Lord. A thousand pieces ! First Lord. What of you ? Sec. Lord. He sent to me, sir, — Here he comes. Enter Timon and Attendants. Tim. With aU my heart, gentlemen both; and how fare you ? First Lord. Ever at the best, hearing well of your lordship. Sec. Lord. The swallow follows not summer more willing than we your lordship. Tim. [Aside] Nor more willingly leaves winter ; such summer-birds are men. Gentlemen , our dinner will not recompense this long stay : feast your ears with the music awhile, if they will fare so harshly o' the trumpet's sound ; we shall to 't presently. First Lord. I hoi)e it remains not unkindly with your lordship that I returned you an empty mes- Tim. O, sir, let it not trouble you. [senger. Sec. Lord. My noble lord, — Tim. Ah, my good friend, what cheer ? Sec. Lord. My most honourable lord, I am e'en sick of shame, that, when your lordship this other day sent to me, I was so unfortunate a beggar. Tim. Think not on 't, sir. Sec. Lord. If you had sent but two hours before, — Tim. Let it not cumber your better remembrance. [ The banqy£t brought in.] Come, bring in all together. Sec. Lord. All covered dishes ! First Lord. Royal cheer, I warrant you. Third Lord. Doubt not that, if money and the season can yield it. First Lord. How do you ? What 's the news ? Third Lord. Alcibiades is banished : hear you of First and Sec. Lord. Alcibiades banished ! [it ? Third Lord. 'T is so, be sure of it. First Lord. How ! how ! Sec. Lord. I pray you, upon what ? Tim. My worthy friends, will you draw near ? Third Lord. I '11 tell you more anon. Here 's a noble feast toward. Sec. Lord. This is the old man still. Third Lord. Will 't hold ? will 't hold ? Sec. Lord. It does: but time will — and so — Third Lord. I do conceive. Tim. Each man to his stool, with that spur as he would to the lip of his mistress : your diet shall be in all places alike. Make not a city feast of it, to let the meat cool ere we can agree upon the first place : sit, sit. The gods require our thanks. You great benefactors, sprinkle our society with thankfulness. For your own gifts, make your- selves praised: but reserve still to give, lest your deities be despised. Lend to each man enough, that one need not lend to another ; for, were your godheads to borrow of men, men would forsake the gods. Make the meat be beloved more than the man that gives it. Let no assembly of twenty be without a score of villains: if there sit twelve women at the table, let a dozen of them be — as they are. The rest of your fees, O gods— the sena- tors of Athens, together with the common lag of people — what is amiss in them, you gods, make suitable for destruction. For these my present friends, as they are to me nothing, so in nothing bless them, and to nothing are they welcome. Uncover, dogs, and lap. [The dishes are uncovered and seen to be full of warm water. Some speak. What does his lordship meaa ? ACT IV. TIM ON OF ATHENS. SCENE II. Some other. I know not. Tim. May you a better feast never behold, You knot of mouth-friends ! smoke and luke-warm Is your perfection. This is Timon's last ; [water Who, stuck and spangled with your flatteries, Washes it off, and sprinkles in your faces Your reeking villany. YTJir owing the water in their faces. Live loathed and long, Most smiling, smooth, detested parasites. Courteous destroyers, affable wolves, meek bears. You fools of fortune, trencher-friends, time's flies. Cap and knee slaves, vapours, and minute-jacks ! Of man and beast the infinite malady Crust you quite o'er ! What, dost thou go ? Soft ! take thy physic first — thou too — and thou ; — Stay, I will lend thee money, borrow none. . [Throws the dishes at them, and drives them out. What, all in motion ? Henceforth be no feast, Whereat a villain 's not a welcome guest. Burn, house! sink, Athens! henceforth hated be Of Timon, man and all humanity ! [Exit. He-enter the Lords, Senators, &c. First Lord. How now, my lords ! [fury ? Sec. Lord. Know you the quality of Lord Timon's Third Lord. Push ! did you see my cap ? Fourth Lord. I have lost my gown. First Lord. He 's but a mad lord, and nought but humour sways him. He gave me a jewel th' other day, and now he has beat it out of my hat : did you see my jewel ;* Third Lord. Did you see my cap ? Sec. Lord. Here 't is. Fourth Lord. Here lies my gown. First Lord. Let 's make no stay. Sec. Lord. Lord Timon 's mad. Third Lord. I feel 't upon my bones. Fourth Lord. One day he gives us diamonds, next day stones. [Exeunt. ^OT lAT. SCENE I. — Without the walls of Athens. Enter Timon. Tim. Let me look back upon thee. O thou wall, That grrdlest in those wolves, dive in the earth. And fence not Athens ! Matrons, turn incontinent ! Obedience fail in children ! slaves and fools. Pluck the grave wrinkled senate from the bench, And minister in their steads ! to general filths Convert o' the instant, green virginity. Do 't in your parents' eyes ! bankrupts, hold fast ; Rather than render back, out with your knives, And cut your trusters' throats! bound servants, steal! Large-handed robbers your grave masters are, And pill by law. Maid, to thy master's bed ; Thy mistress is o' the brothel ! Son of sixteen. Pluck the lined crutch from thy old limping sire, With it beat out his brains ! Piety, and fear, Religion to the gods, peace, justice, truth. Domestic awe, night-rest, and neighbourhood, Instruction, manners, mysteries, and trades. Degrees, observances, customs, and laws. Decline to your confounding contraries. And let confusion live ! Plagues, incident to men, Your potent and infectious fevers heap On Athens, ripe for stroke ! Thou cold sciatica, Cripple our senators, that their limbs may halt As lamely as their manners ! Lust and liberty Creep in the minds and marrows of our youth. That 'gainst the stream of virtue they may strive. And drown themselves in riot ! Itches, blains, Sow all the Athenian bosoms ; and their crop Be general leprosy ! Breath infect breath. That their society, as their friendship, may Be merely poison ! Nothing I '11 bear from thee, But nakedness, thou detestable town ! Take thou that too, with multiplying bans ! Timon will to the woods ; where he shall find The unkindest beast more kinder than mankind. The gods confound — hear me, you good gods all — The Athenians both within and out that wall ! And grant, as Timon grows, his hate may grow To the whole race of mankind, high and low I Amen. [Exit. SCENE II. — Athens. A room in Timon^s house. Enter Flavius, with two or three Servants. First Serv. Hear you, master steward, where 's our master ? Are we undone ? cast off ? nothing remaining ? Flav. Alack, my fellows, what should I say to Let me be recorded by the righteous gods, [you ? I am as poor as you. First Serv. Such a house broke ! So noble a master fall'n ! All gone ! and not One friend to take his fortune by the arm. And go along with him ! Sec. Serv. As we do turn our backs From our companion throvm into his grave. So his familiars to his buried fortunes Slink all away, leave their false vows with him, Like empty purses pick'd ; and his poor self, A dedicated beggar to the air. With his disease of all-shunn'd poverty. Walks, like contempt, alone. More of our fellows. JEnter other Servants. Flav. AH broken implements of a ruin'd house. Third Serv. Yet do our hearts wear Timon's livery ; That see I by our faces ; we are fellows still. Serving alike in sorrow : leak'd is our bark. And we, poor mates, stand on the dying deck, Hearing the surges threat : we must all part Into this sea of air. Flav. Good fellows all, The latest of my wealth I '11 share amongst you. Wherever we shall meet, for Timon's sake. Let 's yet be fellows ; let 's shake our heads, and say, As 't were a knell unto our master's fortunes, ' We have seen better days.' Let each take some ; i^ay, put out all your hands. Not one word more: Thus part we rich in sorrow, parting poor. [Servants embrace, and part several ways, O, the fierce wretchedness that glory brings us ! Who would not wish to be from wealth exempt, Since riches point to misery and contempt ? Who would be so mock'd with glory ? or to live But in a dream of friendship ? To have his pomp and all what state compounds But only painted, like his varnish'd friends ? Poor honest lord, brought low by his own heart. Undone by goodness ! Strange, unusual blood. When man's worst sin is, he does too much good! Who, then, dares to be half so kind again ? For bounty, that makes gods, does still mar men. My dearest lord, bless'd, to be most accursed. Rich, only to be wretched, thy great fortimes Are made thy chief afflictions. Alas, kind lord ! He 's flung in rage from this ingrateful seat Of monstrous friends, nor has he with him to 619 ACT IV. TIM ON OF ATHENS. SCENE III. Supply his life, or that which can command it. I '11 follow and inquire him out : I '11 ever serve his mind with my best will ; "Whilst I have gold, 1 '11 be his steward still. [Exit. SCENE III. — Woods and cave, near the sea-shore. Enter Timon, from the cave. Tim. O blessed breeding sun, draw from the earth Eotten humidity ; below thy sister's orb Infect the air ! Twinn'd brothers of one womb, Whose procreation, residence, and birth. Scarce is dividant, touch them with several fortunes ; The greater scorns the lesser: not nature, To whom all sores lay siege, can bear great fortune, But by contempt of nature. Raise me this beggar, and deny 't that lord ; The senator shall bear contempt hereditary, The beggar native honour. It is the pasture lards the rother's sides, The want that makes him lean. Who dares, who In purity of manhood stand upright, [dares, And say ' This man 's a flatterer ' ? if one be, So are they all ; for every grise of fortune Is smooth 'd by that below: the learned pate Ducks to the golden fool : all is oblique ; There 's nothing level in our cursed natures, But direct villany. Therefore, be abhorr'd All feasts, societies, and throngs of men ! His semblable, yea, himself, Timon disdains : Destruction fang mankind ! Earth, yield me roots ! [Digging. Who seeks for better of thee, sauce his palate With thy most operant poison ! What is here ? Gold ? yellow, glittering, precious gold ? No, gods, I am no idle votarist : roots, you clear heavens ! Thus much of this will make black white, foul fair, Wrong right, base noble, old young, coward valiant. Ha, you gods! why this? what this, you gods? Why, this Will lug your priests and servants from your sides, Pluck stout men's pillows from below their heads : This yellow slave Will knit and break religions, bless the accursed, Make the hoar leprosy adored, place thieves And give them title, knee and approbation With senators on the bench : this is it That makes the wappen'd widow wed again ; She, whom the spital-house and ulcerous sores Would cast the gorge at, this embalms and spices To the April day again. Come, damned earth. Thou common whore of mankind, that put'st odds Among the rout of nations, I will make thee Do thy right nature. [March afar off.^ Ha ! a drum ? Thou 'rt quick. But yet I '11 bury thee : thou 'It go, strong thief, When gouty keepers of thee cannot stand. Nay, stay thou out for earnest. [Keeping some gold. Enter Aloibiades, with drum and fife, in warlike manner ; Phrynia and Timandra. Alcib. AVhat art thou there ? speak. Tim. A beast, as thou art. The canker gnaw thy For showing me again the eyes of man ! Qieart, Alcib. What is thy name ? Is man so hateful to That art thyself a man ? [thee, Tim. I am Misanthropes, and hate mankind. For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog, That I might love thee something. Alcib. I know thee well ; But in thy fortunes am unlearn'd and strange. Tim. I know thee too; and more than that I know thee, I not desire to know. Follow thy drum ; With man's blood paint the ground, gules, gules: Religious canons, civil laws are cruel ; Then what should war be ? This fell whore of thine 620 Hath in her more destruction than thy sword, For all her cherubin look. Phry. Thy lips rot off! Tim. I will not kiss thee ; then the rot returns To thine own lips again. Alcib. How came the noble Timon to this change ? Tim. As the moon does, by wanting light to give: But then renew I could not, like the moon; There were no suns to borrow of. Alcib. Noble Timon, What friendship may I do thee ? Tim. None, but to Maintain my opinion. Alcib. What is it, Timon ? Tim. Promise me friendship, but perform none : if thou wilt not promise, the gods plague thee, for thou art a man! if thou dost perform, confound thee, for thou art a man ! Alcib. I have heard in some sort of thy miseries. Tim. Thou saw'st them, when I had prosperity. Alcib. 1 see them now; then was a blessed time. Tim. As thine is now, held with a brace of harlots. Timan. Is this the Athenian minion, whom the Voiced so regardfully ? [world Tim. Art thou Timandra ? Timan. Yes. [use thee ; Tim. Be a whore still: they love thee not that Give them diseases, leaving with thee their lust. Make use of thy salt hours : season the slaves For tubs and baths ; bring down rose-cheeked youth To the tub-fast and the diet. Timan. Hang thee, monster! Alcib. Pardon him, sweet Timandra; for his wits Are drown'd and lost in his calamities. I have but little gold of late, brave Timon, The want whereof doth daily make revolt In my penurious band : I have heard, and grieved, How cursed Athens, mindless of thy worth. Forgetting thy great deeds, when neighbour states, But for thy sword and fortune, trod upon them, — Tim. 1 prithee, beat thy drum, and get thee gone. Alcib. I am thy friend, and pity thee, dear Timon. Tim. How dost thou pity him whom thou dost I had rather be alone. [trouble ? Alcib. Why, fare thee well : Here is some gold for thee. Tim. Keep it, I cannot eat it. Alcib. When I have laid proud Athens on a heap, — Tim. Warr'st thou 'gainst Athens ? Alcib. Ay, Timon, and have cause. Tim. The gods confound them all in thy conquest ; And thee after, when thou hast conquer'd I Alcib. Why me, Timon ? Tim. That, by killing of villains, Thou wast born to conquer my country. Put up thy gold: go on,— here 's gold,— go on; Be as a planetary plague, when Jove Will o'er some high-viced city hang his poison In the sick air : let not thy sword skip one : Pity not honour'd age for his white beard ; He is an usxirer : strike me the counterfeit matron ; It is her habit only that is honest, Herself 's a bawd : let not the virgin's cheek Make soft thy trenchant sword ; for those milk-paps, That through the window-bars bore at men's eyes, Are not within the leaf of pity writ, [babe, But set them down horrible traitors : spare not the Whose dimpled smiles from fools exhaust their Think it a bastard, whom the oracle [mercy ; Hath doubtfully pronounced thy throat shall cut, And mince it sans remorse : swear against objects ; Put armour on thine ears and on thine eyes ; Whose proof, nor yells of mothers, maids, nor babes, Nor sight of priests in holy vestments bleeding, Sliall pierce a jot. There 's gold to pay thy soldiers ; Make large confusion; and, thy fury spent. Confounded be thyself I Speak not, be gone. ACT IV. TIM ON OF ATHENS. SCENE III. Alcib. Hast thou gold yet ? I 'U take the gold thou givest me, Not all thy counsel. [upon thee ! Tim. Dost thou, or dost thou not, heaven's curse Phr. and Timan. Give us some gold, good Timon : hast thou more ? Tim. Enough to make a whore forswear her trade. And to make whores, a bawd. Hold up, you sluts, Your aprons mountant: you are not oathable, — Although, I know, you '11 swear, terribly swear Into strong shudders and to heavenly agues The immortal gods that hear you, — spare your oaths , I '11 trust to your conditions : be whores still ; And he whose pious breath seeks to convert you, Be strong in whore, allure him, burn him up ; Let your close fire predominate his smoke. And be no turncoats : yet may your pains,six months. Be quite contrary : and thatch your poor thin roofs With burthens of the dead; — some that were hang'd, [still ; No matter : — wear them, betray with them : whore Paint till a horse may mire upon your face : A pox of wrinkles ! Pkr. and Timan. Well, more gold: what then? .Believe 't, that we '11 do any thing for gold. Tim. Consumptions sow In hollow bones of man; strike their sharp shins. And mar men's spurring. Crack the lawyer's voice, That he may never more false title plead, Nor sound his quillets shrilly : hoar the flamen, That scolds against the quality of flesh, And not believes himself : dovm with the nose, Down with it flat ; take the bridge quite away Of him that, his particular to foresee. Smells from the general weal: make curl'd-pate ruflians bald ; And let the unscarr'd braggarts of the war Derive some pain from you : plague all ; That your activity may defeat and quell The som-ce of all erection. There 's more gold : Do you damn others, and let this damn you, And ditches grave you all ! Phr. and Timan. More counsel with more money, bounteous Timon. Tim. More whore, more mischief first; I have given you earnest. Alcib. Strike up the drum towards Athens! Fare- well, Timon: If I thrive well, I '11 visit thee again. Tim. If I hope well, I '11 never see thee more. Alcib. I never did thee harm. Tim. Yes, thou spokest well of me. Alcib. Call'st thou that harm ? Tim. Men daily find it. Get thee away, and take Thy beagles with thee. Alcib. We but offend him. Strike! [Drum beats. Exeunt Alcibiades, Pkrynia, and Timandra. Tim. That nature, being sick of man's unkindness, Should yet be hungry ! Common mother, thou, [Digging. Whose womb unmeasurable, and infinite breast. Teems, and feeds all ; whose self -same mettle, Whereof thy proud child, arrogant man, is puff'd. Engenders the black toad and adder blue. The gilded newt and eyeless venom 'd worm. With all the abhorred births below crisp heaven Whereon Hyperion's quickening fire doth shine; Yield him, who all thy human sons doth hate. From forth thy plenteous bosom, one poor root ! Ensear thy fertile and conceptions womb, Let it no more bring out ingrateful man ! Go great with tigers, dragons, wolves, and bears; Teem with new monsters, whom thy upward face Hath to the marbled mansion all above Never presented! — O, a root, — dear thanks! — Dry up thy marrows, vines, and plough-torn leas ; Whereof ingrateful man, with liquorish draughts And morsels unctuous, greases his pure mind. That from it all consideration slips ! Enter Apemantus. More man ? plague, plague ! Apem. I was directed hither : men report Thou dost affect my manners, and dost use them. Tim. 'T is, then, because thou dost not keep a dog, Whom I would imitate : consumption catch thee f Apem. This is in thee a nature but infected; A poor unmanly melancholy sprung From change of fortune. Why this spade ? this place? This slave-like habit ? and these looks of care ? Thy flatterers yet wear silk, drink wine, lie soft; Hug their diseased perfumes, and have forgot That ever Timon was. Shame not these woods, By putting on the cunning of a carper. Be thou a flatterer now, and seek to thrive By that which has undone thee : hinge thy knee, And let his very breath, whom thou 'It observe. Blow off thy cap ; praise his most vicious strain. And call it excellent : thou wast told thus ; Thou gavest thine ears like tapsters that bid welcome To knaves and all approachers : 't is most just That thou turn rascal ; hadst thou wealth again, Eascals should have 't. Do not assume my likeness. Tim. Were I like thee, I 'Id throw away myself. Apem. Thou hast cast away thyself, being like thyself ; A madman so long, now a fool. What, think'st That the bleak air, thy boisterous chamberlain. Will put thy shirt on warm ? will these moss'd trees, That have outlived the eagle, page thy heels. And skip where thou point 'st out? will the cold brook. Candied with ice, caudle thy morning taste. To cure thy o'er-night's surfeit ? Call the creatures Whose naked natures live in all the spite Of wreakful heaven, whose bare unhoused trunks, To the conflicting elements exposed. Answer mere nature ; bid them flatter thee ; O, thou Shalt find — Tim. A fool of thee : depart. Apem. I love thee better now than e'er I did. Tim. I hate thee worse. Apem. Why ? Tim. Thou flatter'st misery. Apem. I flatter not ; but say thou art a caitiff. Jim. Why dost thou seek me out ? Apem. To vex thee. Tim. Always a villain's office or a fool's. Dost please thyself in 't ? Apem. Ay. Tim. What ! a knave too ? Apem. If thou didst put this sour-cold habit on To castigate thy pride, 'twere well: but thou Dost it enforcedly ; thou 'Idst comtier be again, Wert thou not beggar. Willing misery Outlives incertain pomp, is crown'd before : The one is filling still, never complete ; The other, at high wish : best state, contentless, Hath a distracted and most wretched being, Worse than the worst, content. Thou shouldst desire to die, being miserable. Tim. Not by his breath that is more miserable. Thou art a slave, whom Fortmie's tender arm With favour never clasp'd ; but bred a dog. Hadst thou, like us from our first swath, pr< The sweet degrees that this brief world affords To such as may the passive drugs of it Freely command, thou wouldst have plunged thyself In general riot ; melted down thy youth In different beds of lust ; and never learn 'd The icy precepts of respect, but follow'd The sugar 'd game before thee. But myself. Who had the world as my confectionary, 621 ACT IV. TIM ON OF ATHENS. SCENE III. The mouths, the tongues, the eyes and liearts of men At duty, more than I could frame employment, That numberless upon me stuck as leaves Do on the oak, have with one winter's brush JFell from their boughs and left me open, bare For every storm that blows: I, to bear this, That never knew but better, is some bmxlen: Thy nature did commence in sufferance, time Hath made thee hard in 't. Why shouldst thou hate men? They never flatter'd thee : what hast thou given ? If thou wilt curse, thy father, that poor rag, Must be thy subject, who in spite put stuff To some she beggar and compounded thee Poor rogue hereditary. Hence, be gone ! If thou hadst not been born the worst of men, Thou hadst been a knave and flatterer. Apem. Art thou proud yet ? Tim. Ay, that I am not thee. Apem. I, that I was No prodigal. Tim. I, that I am one now : Were all the wealth I have shut up in thee, I 'Id give thee leave to hang it. Get thee gone. That the whole life of Athens were in this ! Thus would I eat it. [Eating a root. Apem. Here ; I will mend thy feast. \_Ojfering him a root. Tim. First mend my company, take away thyself. Apem. So I shall mend mine own, by the lack of thine. Tim. 'T is not well mended so, it is but botch 'd ; If not, I would it were. Apem. What wouldst thou have to Athens ? Tim. Thee thither in a whirlwind. If thou wilt, Tell them there I have gold; look, so I have. Apem. Here is no use for gold. Tim. The best and truest ; For here it sleeps, and does no hired harm. Apem. Where liest o' nights, Timon ? Tim. Under that 's above me. Where feed'st thou o' days, Apemantus ? Apem. Where my stomach finds meat ; or, rather^ where I eat it. [mind ! Tim. Would poison were obedient and knew my Apem. Where wouldst thou send it ? Tim. To sauce thy dishes, Apem. The middle of humanity thou never knew- est, but the extremity of both ends: when thou wast in thy gilt and thy perfume, they mocked thee for too much curiosity ; in thy rags thou know- est none, but art despised for the contrary. There 's a medlar for thee, eat it. Tim. On what I hate I feed not. Apem. Dost hate a medlar ? Tim. Ay, though it look like thee. Apem. An thou hadst hated meddlers sooner, thou shouldst have loved thyself better now. What man didst thou ever know unthrift that was be- loved after his means ? Tim. Who, without those means thou talkest of, didst thou ever know beloved ? Apem. Myself. Tim. I understand thee ; thou hadst some means to keep a dog. Apem. What things in the world canst thou nearest compare to thy flatterers ? Tim. Women nearest; but men, men are the things themselves. What wouldst thou do with the world, Apemantus, if it lay in thy power ? Apem. Give it the beasts, to be rid of the men. Tim. Wouldst tliou have thyself fall in the con- fusion of men, and remain a beast with the beasts ? Apem. Ay, Timon. Tim. A beastly ambition, which the gods grant thee t' attain to! If thou wert the lion, the fox would beguile thee : if thou wert the lamb, the fox 622 would eat thee : if thou wert the fox, the lion would suspect thee, when peradventure thou wert accused by the ass: if thou wert the ass, thy dulness would torment thee, and still thou livedst but as a breakfast to the wolf : if thou wert the wolf, thy greediness would afflict thee, and oft thou shouldst hazard thy life for thy dinner : \\'ert thou the uni- corn, pride and wrath would confound thee and make thine own self the conquest of thy fury : wert thou a bear, thou wouldst be killed by the horse : wert thou a horse, thou wouldst be seized by the leopard: wert thou a leopard, thou wert german to the lion and the spots of thy kindred were jurors on thy life : all thy safety were remotion and thy defence absence. What beast couldst thou be, that were not subject to a beast? and what a beast art thou already, that seest not thy loss in transforma- tion! Apem. If thou couldst please me with speaking to me, thou mightst have hit upon it here: the com- monwealth of Athens is become a forest of beasts. Tim. How has the ass broke the wall, that thou art out of the city ? Apem. Yonder comes a poet and a painter : the plague of company light upon thee ! I will fear to catch it and give way : when I know not what else to do, I '11 see thee again. Tim. When there is nothing living but thee, thou Shalt be welcome. I had rather be a beggar's dog than Apemantus. Apem. Thou art the cap of all the fools alive. Tim. Would thou wert clean enough to spit upon ! Apem. A plague on thee ! thou art too bad to curse. Tim. All villains that do stand by thee are pure. Apem. There is no leprosy but what thou speak'st. Tim. If I name thee, I '11 beat thee, but I should infect my hands. Apem. I would my tongue could rot them off ! Tim. Away, thou issue of a mangy dog ! Choler does kiU me that thou art alive ; • I swound to see thee. Apevi. Would thou wouldst burst I Tim. Away, Thou tedious rogue ! I am sorry I shall lose A stone by thee. [Throws a stone at him. Apem. Beast ! Ti7n. Slave ! Apem. Toad ! Tim. Eogue, rogue, rogue 1 I am sick of this false world, and will love nought But even the mere necessities upon 't. Then, Timon, presently prepare thy grave ; Lie where the light foam of the sea may beat Thy grave-stone daily: make thine epitaph. That death in me at others' lives may laugh, [vorce [To the gold] O thou sweet king-killer, and dear di- 'Twixt natural son and sire ! thou bright defiler Of Hymen's purest bed ! thou valiant Mars ! Thou ever yomig, fresh, loved and delicate wooer, Whose blush doth thaw the consecrated snow That lies on Dian's lap! thou visible god. That solder'st close impossibilities, [tongue, And makest them kiss ! that speak'st with every To every purpose ! O thou touch of hearts ! Think, thy slave man rebels, and by thy virtue Set them into confounding odds, that beasts May have the world in empire ! Apem. Would 't were so ! But not till I am dead. I '11 say thou 'st gold : Thou wilt be throng'd to shortly. Tim. Throng'd to I Apem. Ay. Tim. Thy back, I prithee. Apein. Live, and love thy misery. Tim. Long live so, and so die. [Exit Apemantus.] I am quit. Moe things like men I Eat, Timon, and abhor them. TI3I0N OF ATHENS. SCENE III. Enter Banditti. First Ban. "Where should he have this gold ? It is some poor fragment, some slendor ort of his remainder: the mere want of gold, and the falling- from of his friends, drove him into this melancholy. Sec. Ban. It is noised he hath a mass of treasure. Third Ban. Let us make the assay upon him : if he care not for 't, he will supply us easily ; if he covetously reserve it, how shall 's get it ? Sec. Ban. True; for he bears it not about him, First Ban. Is not this he ? ['t is hid. Banditti. Where? Sec. Ban. 'T is his description. Third Ban. He ; I know him. Banditti. Save thee, Timon. Tim. Now, thieves ? Banditti. Soldiers, not thieves. Tim. Both too ; and women's sons. Banditti. We are not thieves, but men that much do want. [meat. Tim. Your greatest want is, you want much of Why should you want ? Behold, the earth hath roots ; Within this mile break forth a hundred springs ; The oaks bear mast, the briars scarlet hips ; The bounteous housewife, nature, on each bush Lays her full mess before you. Want ! why want ? First Ban. We cannot live on grass, on berries. As beasts and birds and fishes. [water, Tim. Nor on the beasts themselves, the birds, and fishes ; You must eat men. Yet thanks I must you con That you are thieves profess'd, that you work not In holier shapes : for there is boundless theft In limited professions. Rascal thieves. Here 's gold. Go, suck the subtle blood o' the grape, Till the high fever seethe your blood to froth, And so 'scape hanging : trust not the physician ; His antidotes are poison, and he slays More than you rob : take wealth and lives together : Do villany, do, since you protest to do 't. Like workmen. I '11 example you with thievery : The sun 's a thief, and with his great attraction Eobs the vast sea ; the moon 's an arrant thief, And her pale fire she snatches from the sun : The sea 's a thief, whose liquid surge resolves The moon into salt tears : the earth 's a thief, That feeds and breeds by a composture stolen From general excrement : each thing 's a thief : The laws, your curb and whip, in their rough power Have uncheck'd theft. Love not yourselves : away, Eob one another. There 's more gold. Cut throats : All that you meet are thieves : to Athens go, Break open shops ; nothing can you steal. But thieves do lose it : steal no less for this I give you ; and gold confound you howsoe'er ! Amen. Third Ban. Has almost charmed me from my profession, by persuading me to it. First Ban. 'T is in the malice of mankind that he thus advises us ; not to have us thrive in our mystery. Sec. Ban. I 'U believe him as an enemy, and give over my trade. First Ban. Let us first see peace in Athens : there is no time so miserable but a man may be true. -r, ^, . [Exeunt Banditti. Enter Flavius. Flav. O you gods ! Is yond despised and ruinous man my lord ? Full of decay and failing V O monument And wonder of good deeds evilly bestow'd ! What an alteration of honour Has desperate want made ! What viler thing upon the earth than friends Who can bring noblest minds to basest ends ! How rarely does it meet with this time's guise, When man was wish'd to love Ms enemies ! Grant I may ever love, and rather woo Those that would mischief me than those that do ! Has caught me in his eye : I will present My honest grief unto him ; and, as my lord, Still serve him with my life. My dearest master ! Tim. Away ! what art thou ? Flav. Have you forgot me, sir ? Tim. Why dost ask that ? I have forgot all men ; Then, if thou grant 'st thou 'rt a man, I have forgot Flav. An honest poor servant of yours. [thee. Tim. Then I know thee not : I never had honest man about me, I ; all I kept were knaves, to serve in meat to villains. Flav. The gods are witness. Ne'er did poor steward wear a truer grief For his imdone lord than mine eyes for you. Tim. What, dost thou weep ? Come nearer. Then I love thee. Because thou art a woman, and disclaim'st Flinty mankind ; whose eyes do never give But thorough lust and laughter. Pity 's sleeping , Strange times, that weep with laughing, not with weeping ! Flav. I beg of you to know me, good my lord. To accept my grief and whilst this poor wealth lasts To entertain me as your steward still. Tim. Had 1 a steward So true, so just, and now so comfortable ? It almost turns my dangerous nature mild. Let me behold thy face. Surely, this man Was born of woman. Forgive my general and exceptless rashness. You perpetual-sober gods ! I do proclaim One honest man — mistake me not — but one; No more, I pray, — and he 's a steward. How fain would I have hated all mankind 1 And thou redeem'st thyself : but all, save thee, I fell with curses. Methinks thou art more honest now than wise ; For, by oppressing and betraying me. Thou mightst have sooner got another service : For many so arrive at second masters, Upon their first lord's neck. But tell me true — For I must ever doubt, though ne'er so sure — Is not thy kindness subtle, covetous. If not a usuring kindness, and, as rich men deal gifts, Expecting in return twenty for one ? Flav. No, my most worthy master ; in whose breast Doubt and suspect, alas, are placed too late : You should have fear'd false times when you did Suspect still comes where an estate is least, [feast : That which I show, heaven knows, is merely love. Duty and zeal to your unmatched mind. Care of your food and living ; and, believe it, My most honour'd lord. For any benefit that points to me. Either in hope or present, I 'Id exchange For this one wish, that you had power and wealth To requite me, by making rich yourself. Tim. Look thee, 't is so ! Thou singly honest man, Here, take : the gods out of my misery Have sent thee treasure. Go, live rich and happy ; But thus condition'd : thou shalt build from men ; Hate all, curse all, show charity to none. But let the famish 'd flesh slide from tlie bone. Ere thou relieve the beggar ; give to dogs What thou deny 'st to men ; let prisons swallow 'em. Debts wither 'em to nothing ; be men like blasted woods, And may diseases lick up their false bloods 1 And so farewell and thrive. Flav. O, let me stay, And comfort you, my master. Tim. If thou hatest curses, Stay not ; fly, whilst thou art blest and free : Ne'er see thou man, and let me ne'er see thee. [Exit Flavius. Timon retires to his cave. ACT V. TIM ON OF ATHENS. ^CT ^. I. — The woods. Before Timon's cave. EnUr Poet and Painter; Timon watching them from his caw. Pain. As I took note of the place, it cannot be far where he abides. Poet. What 's to be thought of him ? does the rumour hold for true, that he 's so full of gold ? Pain. Certain : Alcibiades reports it ; Phrynia and Timandra had gold of him: he likewise enriched poor straggling soldiers with great quantity : 't is said he gave unto his steward a mighty sum. Poet. Then this breaking of his has been but a try for his friends. Pain. Nothing else : you shall see him a palm in Athens again, and flourish with the highest. There- fore 't is not amiss we tender our loves to him, in this supposed distress of his : it will show honestly in us ; and is very likely to load our purposes with what they travail for, if it be a just and true report that goes of his having. Poet. What have you now to present unto him ? Pain. Nothing at this time but my visitation: only I will promise him an excellent piece. Poet. I must serve him so too, tell him of an in- tent that 's coming toward him. Pain. Good as the best. Promising is the very air o' the time: it opens the eyes of expectation: performance is ever the duller for his act ; and, but in the plainer and simpler kind of people, the deed of saying is quite out of use. To promise is most courtly and fashionable : performance is a kind of will or testament which argues a great sickness in his judgment that makes it. [Timon comes from his cave, behind. Tim. [Aside] Excellent workman ! thou canst not paint a man so bad as is thyself. Poet. I am thinking what I shall say I have pro- vided for him : it must be a personating of himself ; a satire against the softness of prosperity, with a discovery of the infinite flatteries that follow youth and opulency. Tim. [Aside] Must thou needs stand for a villain in thine own work ? wilt thou whip thine own faults in other men ? Do so, I have gold for thee. PoeL Nay, let 's seek him : Then do we sin against our own estate. When we may profit meet, and come too late. Pain. True; When the day serves, before black-corner'd night, Find what thou want'st by free and ofEer'd light. Come. Tim. [Aside] I '11 meet you at the turn. What a god's gold, That he is worshipp'd in a baser temple Than where swine feed ! [foam, 'T is thou that rigg'st the bark and plough'st the Settlest admired reverence in a slave : To thee be worship ! and thy saints for aye Be crown'd with plagues that thee alone obey ! Pit I meet them. [Coming forward. Poet. HaU, worthy Timon ! Pam. Our late noble master I Tim. Have I once lived to see two honest men ? Poet. Sir, Having often of your open bounty tasted. Hearing you were retired, your friends fall'n off, Whose thankless natures — O abhorred spirits ! — Not all the whips of heaven are large enough : What! to you. Whose star-like nobleness gave life and influence To their whole being ! I am rapt and cannot cover The monstrous bulk of this ingratitude With any size of words. 624 Tim. Let it go naked, men may see 't the better: You that are honest, by being what you are, Make them best seen and known. Pain. He and myself Have travail'd in the great shower of your gifts. And sweetly felt it. Tim. Aye, you are honest men. Pain. We are hither come to offer you our service. Tim. Most honest men! Why, how shall I re- quite you ? Can you eat roots, and drink cold water ? no. Both. What we can do, we'll do, to do you ser- ' old; f1£ I am sure you have : speak truth ; ye 're honest men. Pain. So it is said, my noble lord; but therefore Came not my friend nor I. [terfeit Tim. Good honest men ! Thou draw'st a coun- Best in all Athens: thou 'rt, indeed, the best ; Thou counterfeit 'st most lively. Pain. So, so, my lord. Tim. E'en so, sir, as I say. And, for thy fiction. Why, thy verse swells with stuff so fine and smooth That thou art even natural in thine art. But, for all this, my honest-natured friends, I must needs say you have a little fault : Marry, 'tis not monstrous in you, neither wish I You take much pains to mend. Both. Beseech your honour To make it known to us, Tim. You '11 take it ill. Both. Most thankfully, my lord. Tim. Will you, indeed ? Both. Doubt it not, worthy lord. Tim. There's never a one of you but trusts a That mightily deceives you. Psnave, Both. Do we, my lord ? T^m. Ay, and you hear him cog, see him dis- semble. Know his gross patehery, love him, feed him, Keep in your bosom : yet remain assured That he 's a made-up villain. Pain. I know none such, my lord. Poet. Nor I. Tim. Look you, I love you well ; I '11 give you gold. Eid me these villains from your companies : Hang them or stab them, drown them in a draught. Confound them by some course, and come to me, I '11 give you gold enough. Both. Name them, my lord, let 's know them. Tim. You that way and you this, but two in corn- Each man apart, all single and alone, [pany ; Yet an arch-villain keeps him company. If where thou art two villains shall not be. Come not near him. If thou wouldst not reside But where one villain is, then him abandon. Hence, pack ! there 's gold ; you came for gold, ye [To Painter] You have work'd for me ; there 's pay- ment for you : hence ! [To Poet] You are an alchemist ; make gold of that. Out, rascal dogs ! [Beats them out, and then retires to his cave. Miter Flavius and two Senators. Flav. It is in vain that you would speak with For he is set so only to himself [Timon; That nothing but himself which looks like man Is friendly with him. First Sen. Bring us to his cave : It is our part and promise to the Athenians To speak with Timon. Sec. Sen. At all times alike Men are not still the same : 't was time and griefs- ACT V, TI3I0N OF ATHENS. SCENE I] That framed him thus : time, with his fairer hand, Offering the fortunes of his former days, The former man may make him. Bring us to him, And chance it as it may. Flav. Here is his cave. Peace and content be here ! Lord Timon ! Timon ! Look out, and speak to friends: the Athenians, By two of their most reverend senate, greet thee: Speak to them, noble Timon. Timon comes from his cave. Tim. Thou sun, that comfort 'st, burn! Speak, and be hang'd : For eacli true word, a blister ! and each false Be as a cauterizing to the root o' the tongue, Consuming it with speaking ! First Sen. Worthy Timon,— Tim. Of none but such as you, and you of Timon. First Sen. The senators of Athens greet thee, Timon. Tim. I thank them ; and would send them back the plague, Could I but catch it for them. First Sen. O, forget What we are sorry for ourselves in thee. The senators with one consent of love Entreat thee back to Athens ; who have thought On special dignities, which vacant lie For thy best use and wearing. Sec. Sen. They confess Toward thee forgetfulness too general, gross : Which now the public body, which doth seldom Play the recanter, feeling in itself A lack of Timon's aid, hath sense withal Of its own fail, restraining aid to Timon ; And send forth us, to make their sorrow'd render. Together with a recompense more fruitful Than their offence can weigh down by the dram ; Ay, even such heaps and sums of love and wealth As shall to thee blot out what wrongs were theirs And write in thee the figures of their love. Even to read them thine. Tim. You witch me in it ; Surprise me to the very brink of tears : Lend me a fool's heart and a woman's eyes, And I '11 beweep these comforts, worthy senators. First Sen. Therefore, so please thee to return with And of our Athens, thine and ours, to take [us The captainship, thou shalt be met with thanks. Allow 'd with absolute power and thy good name Live with authority : so soon we shall drive back Of Alcibiades the approaches wild. Who, like a boar too savage, doth root up His country's peace. Sec. Sen. And shakes his threatening sword Against the walls of Athens. First Sen. Therefore, Timon, — Tim. Well, sir, I will ; therefore, I wiU, sir ; thus : If Alcibiades kill my countrymen, Let Alcibiades know this of Timon, That Timon cares not. But if he sack fair Athens, And take our goodly aged men by the beards, Giving our holy virgins to the stain Of contumelious, beastly, mad-brain'd war. Then let him know, and tell him Timon speaks it. In pity of our aged and our youth, I cannot choose but tell him, that I care not. And let him take 't at worst ; for their knives care not. While you have throats to answer : for myself. There 's not a whittle in the unruly camp But I do prize it at my love before The reverend'st throat in Athens. So I leave you To the protection of the prosperous gods, As thieves to keepers. Flav. Stay not, aU 's in vain. Tim. Why, I w^as writing of my epitaph ; 40 It will be seen to-morrow : my long sickness Of health and living now begins to mend. And nothing brings me all things. Go, live still ; Be Alcibiades your plague, you his. And last so long enough ! First Sen. We speak in vain. Tim. But yet I love my country, and am not One that rejoices in the common wreck, As common bruit doth put it. First Sen. That 's well spoke. Tim. Commend me to my loving coimtrymen, — First Sen. These words become your lips as they pass thorough them. [ers Sec. Sen. And enter in our ears like great triumph- In their applauding gates. Tim'. Commend me to them, And tell them that, to ease them of their griefs, Their fears of hostile strokes, their aches, losses. Their pangs of love, with other incident throes That nature's fragile vessel doth sustain In life's uncertain voyage, I will some kindness do them: I '11 teach them to prevent wild Alcibiades' wrath. First Sen. I like this weU ; he will return again. Tim. I have a tree, which grows here in my close, That mine own use invites me to cut down. And shortly must I fell it : tell my friends. Tell Athens, in the sequence of degree From high to low throughout, that whoso please To stop affliction, let him take his haste. Come hither, ere my tree hath felt the axe. And hang himself. I pray you, do my greeting. Flav. Trouble him no further ; thus you still shall find him. Tim. Come not to me again : but say to Athens, Timon hath made his everlasting mansion Upon the beached verge of the salt flood ; Who once a day with his embossed froth The turbulent surge shall cover : thither come, And let my grave-stone be your oracle. Lips, let sour words go by and language end: What is amiss plague and infection mend ! Graves only be men's works and death their gain ! Sun, hide thy beams ! Timon hath done his reign. [Betires to his cave. First Sen. His discontents are unremoveably Coupled to nature. Sec. Sen. Our hope in him is dead ; let us return, And strain what other means is left unto us In our dear peril. First Sen. It requires swift foot. [Fxeunt. SCENE II. — Before the walls of Athens. Miter two Senators and a Messenger. First Sen. Thou hast painfully discover'd : are his As full as thy report ? [files Mess. I have spoke the least : Besides, his expedition promises Present approach [Timon. Sec. Sen. We stand much hazard, if they bring not Mess. I met a courier, one mine ancient friend ; Whom, though in general part we were opposed. Yet our old love made a particular force. And made us speak like friends : this man was riding From Alcibiades to Timon's cave. With letters of entreaty, which imported His fellowship i' the cause against your city, In part for his sake moved. First Sen. Here come our brothers. Fnter the Senators /rom Timon. Third Sen. No talk of Timon, nothing of him expect. The enemies' drum is heard, and fearful scouring Doth choke the air with dust : in, and prepare : Ours is the fall, I fear; our foes the snare. {Exeunt. 625 TIM ON OF ATHENS. SCENE IV. SCENE in. — The woods. Timon''s cave, and a rude tomb seen. Enter a Soldier, seeking Timon. Sold. By all description this should be the place. Who 's here ? speak, lio ! No answer ! What is this ? Timon is dead, who hath outstretch'd his span : Some beast rear'd this ; there does not live a man. Dead, sure ; and this liis grave. What 's on this tomb I cannot read ; the character I '11 take with wax : Our captain hath in every figure skill, An aged interpreter, though young in days : Before proud Athens he 's set down by this, Whose fall the mark of his ambition is. [Exit. SCENE IV.— Before the walls of Athens. Trumpets sound. Miter Alcibiad.es with his powers. Alcib. Sound to this coward and lascivious town Our terrible approach. [A parley sounded. Miter Senators on the walls. Till now you have gone on and fill'd the time With all licentious measure, making your wills The scope of justice ; till now myself and such As slept within the shadow of your power Have wander 'd with our traversed arms and breathed Our sufferance vainly: now the time is flush, When crouching marrow in the bearer strong Cries of itself ' No more : ' now breathless wrong Shall sit and pant in your great chairs of ease. And pursy insolence shall break his wind With fear and horrid flight. First Sen. Noble and young, When thy first griefs were but a mere conceit, Ere thou hadst power or we had cause of fear, We sent to thee, to give thy rages balm. To wipe out our ingratitude with loves Above their quantity. Sec. Sen. So did we woo Transformed Timon to our city's love By humble message and by promised means : We were not all unkind, nor all deserve The common stroke of war. First Sen. These walls of ours Were not erected by their hands from whom You have received your griefs ; nor are they such That these great towers, trophies and schools should Tor private faults in them. [fall Sec. Sen. Nor are they living Who were the motives that you first went out ; Shame that they wanted cunning, in excess Hath broke their hearts. March, noble lord. Into our city with thy banners spread : By decimation, and a tithed death— If thy revenges hunger for that food Which nature loathes — take thou the destined tenth. And by the hazard of the spotted die Let die the spotted. First Sen. All have not offended ; For those that were, it is not square to take On those that are, revenges : crimes, like lands. Are not inherited. Then, dear countryman, Bring in thy ranks, but leave without thy rage : Spare thy Athenian cradle and those kin Which in the bluster of thy wrath must fall With those that have offended: like a shepherd, Approach the fold and cull the infected forth, But kill not all together. Sec. Sen. What thou wilt. Thou rather shalt enforce it with thy smile Than hew to 't with thy sword. First Sen. Set but thy foot Against our rampired gates, and they shall ope ; So thou wilt send thy gentle heart before. To say thou 'It enter friendly. Sec. Sen. Tlirow thy glove, Or any token of thine honour else. That thou wilt use the wars as thy redress And not as our confusion, all thy powers Shall make their harbour in our town, till we Have seal'd thy full desire. Alcib. Then there 's my glove ; Descend, and open your uncharged ports : Those enemies of Timon 's and mine own Whom you yourselves shall set out for reproof Fall and no more : and, to atone your fears With my more noble meaning, not a man Shall pass his quarter, or offend the stream Of regular justice in your city's bounds. But shall be render'd to your public laws At heaviest answer. Both. 'T is most nobly spoken. Alcib. Descend, and keep your words. [llie Senators descend, and open the gates. Enter Soldier. Sold. My noble general, Timon is dead; Entomb'd upon the very hem o' the sea; And on his grave-stone this insculpture, which With wax I brought away, whose soft impression Interprets for my poor ignorance. Alcib. [Beads the -epitaph} 'Here lies a wretched corse, of wretched soul bereft : Seek not my name : a plague consume you wicked caitiffs left ! [hate : Here lie I, Timon; who, alive, all living men did Pass by and curse thy fill, but pass and stay not here thy gait.' These well express in thee thy latter spirits : Though thou abhorr'dst in us our human griefs, Scorn'dst our brain's flow and those our droplets which From niggard nature fall, yet rich conceit Taught thee to make vast Neptune weep for aye On thy low grave, on faults forgiven. Dead Is noble Timon : of whose memory Hereafter more. Bring me into your city, And I will use the olive with my sword. Make war breed peace, make peace stint war, make Prescribe to other as each other's leech. [each Let our drums strike, [Exeunt. 626 assay upon him.— Act IV., Scene iiL JULIUS C^SAE. BBAMATIS PEBSON^. Julius Csesar. Octavius Csesar, | triumvirs after the death Marcus Antonius, V of Julius Cssar. M.^miliusLepidus, J Cicero, Publius, Popilius Lena. Marcus Brutus, Cassius, Casca, Trebonius, Ligarius, Decius Brutus, Metellus Cimber, Cinna, Flavius and Marullus, tribunes. Axtemidorus of Cnidos, a teacher of Rhetoric, A Soothsayer. Cinna, a poet. Another Poet. conspirators against Julius Caesar. friends to Brutus and Cassius. servants to Brutus. Lucilius, Titinius, Messala, Young Cato, Volumnius, Varro, Clitus, Claudius, Strato, Lucius, Dardanius, Pindarus, servant to Cassius. Calpumia, wife to Caesar. Portia, wife to Brutus. Senators, Citizens, Guards, Attendants, &c. SCENE — iJome .- the Tieighbourhood of Sardis: the. neighbourhood of Philippi, [F»r an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page ^OT I. SCENE l.—Rome. A street. Enter Flavius, Marullus, and certain Com- moners. Flav. Hence ! home, you idle creatures, get you Is this a holiday ? what ! know you not, [home : Being mechanical, you ought not walk Upon a labouring day without the sign Of your profession ? Speak, what trade art thou ? First Com. Why, sir, a carpenter. Mar. Where is thy leather apron and thy rule ? What dost thou with thy best apparel on V You, sir, what trade are you ? Sec. Com. Truly, sir, in respect of a fine work- man, I am but, as you would say, a cobbler. Mar. But what trade art thou? answer me directly. Sec. Com. A trade, sir, that, I hope, I may use with a safe conscience; which is, indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles. Mar. What trade, thou knave? thou naughty knave, what trade ? Sec. Com. Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me : yet, if you be out, sir, I can mend you. Mar. What meanest thou by that? mend me, thou saucy fellow ! Sec. Com. Why, sir, cobble you. Flav. Thou art a cobbler, art thou ? Sec. Com. Truly, sir, all that I live by is with the awl: I meddle with no tradesman's matters, nor women's matters, but with awl. I am, indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes ; when they are in great danger, I recover them. As proper men as ever trod upon neat's leather have gone upon my handi- work. Flav. But wherefore art not in thy shop to-day ? Why dost thou lead these men about the streets ? Sec. Com. Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself into more work. But, indeed, sir, we make holiday, to see Csesar and to rejoice in his triumph. [he home ? Mar. Wherefore rejoice ? What conquest brings What tributaries follow him to Kome, 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 Eome, Knew you not Pompey ? Many a time and oft Have you climbed up to walls and battlements. To towers and 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. 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 ! Emi 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, good 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. [Exeunt all the Commonets, See, whether their basest metal be not moved ; 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. 627 ACT I. JULIUS C^SAR. SCENE II. 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 '11 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 ordinary pitch. Who else would soar above the view of men And keep us all in servile tearfulness. [Exeunt. SCENE U.—ApuUicplace. Flourish. Enter CsBsar; Antony, for the course; Cal- purnia, Portia, Decius, Cicero, Brutus, Cassius, and Gasca ; a great crowd following, among them, a Sootli- sayer. C(Bs. Calpurnia! Casca. Peace, ho ! Caesar speaks. Cces. Calpurnia ! Cal. Here, my lord. Cces. Stand you directly in Antonius' way, When he doth run his course. Antonius ! Ant. Caesar, my lord ? Cces. Forget not, in your speed, Antonius, To touch Calpurnia ; for our elders say, The barren, touched in this holy chase, . ohake off their sterile curse. A7it. I shall remember : When Caesar says ' do this,' it is perform'd. Cces. Set on ; and leave no ceremony out. [Flourish. Sooth. Caesar! Cces. Ha ! who calls ? Casca. Bid every noise be still : peace yet again ! Cces. Who is it in the press that calls on me ? I hear a tongue, shriller than all the music, Cry ' Caesar ! ' Speak ; Caesar is turn'd to hear. Sooth. Beware the ides of March. Cces. What man is that ? Bru. A soothsayer bids you beware the ides of March. Cces. Set him before me ; let me see his face. Cas. Fellow, come from the throng; look upon Caesar. [again. Cces. What say'st thou to me now ? speak once Sooth. Beware the ides of March. Cces. He is a dreamer ; let us leave him : pass. [Sennet. Exeunt all except Brutus and Cassius. Cas. Will you go see the order of the course ? Bru. Not I. Cas. I pray you, do. Bru. I am not gamesome : I do lack some part Of that quick spirit that is in Antony. Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires ; I '11 leave you. Cas. Brutus, I do observe you now of late : I have not from your eyes 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 deceived : if I have veil'd my look, ^ turn the trouble of my countenance Merely upon myself. Vexed I am Of late with passions of some difference, Conceptions only proper to myself, Which give some soil perhaps to my behaviours ; But let not therefore my good friends be grieved — 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 628 Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations. Tell me, good Brutus, can you see yoiir face ? Bru. No, Cassius ; for the eye sees not itself. But by reflection, by some other things. Cas. 'T is just: And it is very much lamented, Brutus, That you have no such mirrors as will 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, speaking of Brutus And groaning underneath this age's yoke. Have wish'd that noble Brutus had his eyes. Bru. Into what dangers would you lead me, Cas- That you would have me seek into myself [sius. For that which is not in me ? Cas. Therefore, good Brutus, be prepared to hear ; And since you know you cannot see yourself So well as by reflection, I, your glass. Will modestly discover to yourself That of yourself which you yet know not of. And be not jealous on 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 shout. Bru. What means this shouting ? I do fear, the Choose Caesar for their king. [people 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 honour 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 honour more than I fear death. Cas. I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus^ As well as I do know your outward favour. Well, honour is the subject of my story. I cannot tell what you and other men Think of this life ; but, 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 ' Barest thou, Cassius, now Leap in with me into this angry flood. And swim to yonder point ? ' Upon the word. Accoutred 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 proposed, Caesar cried ' Help me, Cassius, or I sink ! ' I, as ^neas, our great ancestor. Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder The old Anchises bear, so from the waves of Tiber Did I the tired Caesar. And this man Is now become a god, and Cassius is A wretched creature and must bend his body. If Caesar carelessly but nod on him. He had a fever when he was in Spain, And when the fit was on him, I did mark How he did shake : 't is true, this god did shake : His coward lips did from their colour fly. And that same eye whose bend doth awe the world Did lose his lustre : I did hear him groan : ACT I. JULIUS C^SAR. SCENE II. Ay, and that tongue of his that bade the Eomans Mark 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. [Shout, Flourish. Bru. Another general shout ! I do believe that these applauses are For some new honours that are heap'd on Caesar. 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 dishonourable graves. 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 Caesar : what should be in that ' Caesar ' ? 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 'em, Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Caesar. Now, in the names of all the gods at once. Upon what meat doth this our Caesar feed, That he is grown so great V Age, thou art shamed ! Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods ! When went there by an age, since the great flood, But it was famed with more than with one man ? When could they say till now, that talk'd of B,ome, That her wide walls encompass'd but one man ? Now is it Rome indeed and room enough, When there is in it but one only man. O, 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 : Howl 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 moved. What you have said I will consider ; what you have to say I will with patience hear, and find a time 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. Gas. I am glad that my weak words Have struck but thus much showof fire from Brutus. Bru. The games are done and Caesar is returning. Cas. As they pass by, pluck Casca by the sleeve : And he will, after his sour fashion, tell you What hath proceeded worthy note to-day. Be-enter Caesar and his Train. Bru. I will do so. But, look you, Cassius, The angry spot doth glow on Caesar^s brow, And all the rest look like a chidden train : Calpurnia'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? Cces. 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. Ant. Fear him not, Caesar; he 's not dangerous ; He is a noble Roman and well given. Cces. 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 and scorn'd his spirit That could be moved 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. [Sennet. Exeunt Ccesar and all his Train, hut Casca. Casca. You puU'd me by the cloak ; would you speak with me ? [day, Bru. Ay, Casca; tell us what hath chanced to- That Caesar looks so sad. Casca. Why, you were with him, were you not ? Bru. I should not then ask Casca what had chanced. 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 ? Casca. Why, for that too. Cas. They shouted thrice : what was the last cry Casca. Why, for that too. [for ? Bru. Was the croAvn offered him thrice ? Casca. Ay, marry, was 't, and he put it by thrice, every time gentler than other, and at every putting- by mine honest neighbours shouted. Cas. Who offered him the crown ? Casca. Why, Antony. Bru. Tell us the manner of it, gentle Casca. Casca. I can as well be hanged as tell the manner of it : it was mere foolery ; I did not mark it. I saw Mark Antony offer him a crown ; — yet 't was not a crown neither, 'twas one of these coronets; — and, as I told you, he put it by once : but, for all that, to my thinking, he would fain have had it. Then he offered it to him again ; then he put it byagain : but, to my thinking, he was very loath to lay his fingers off" it. And then he offered it the 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 and uttered such a deal of stinking breath because Caesar refused the crown that it had almost choked Caesar ; for he swounded and fell down at it : and for mine own part, I durst not laugh, for fear of opening my lips and receiving the bad air. Cas. But, soft, I pray you: what, did Caesar swound ? Casca. He fell down in the market-place, and foamed at mouth, and was speechless. Bru. 'T is very like : he hath the falling sickness. Cas. No, Caesar hath it not; but you and I And honest Casca, we have the falling sickness. Casca. I know not what you mean oy 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 ? Casca. Marry, before he fell down, when he per- ceived the common herd was glad he refused the crown, he plucked me ope his doublet and offered them his throat to cut. An I had been a man of any occupation, if I would not have taken him at a word, I would I might go to hell among the rogues. And so he fell. When 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. Three 629 ACT I. JULIUS C^SAR. SCENE III. or four wenches, where I stood, cried 'Alas, good soul ! ' and forgave him with all their hearts : but there 's no heed to be taken of them ; if Csesar had stabbed their mothers, they would have done no less. Bru. And after that, he came, thus sad, away ? Casca. Ay. Cas. Did Cicero say anything ? Casca. Ay, he spoke Greek. Cas. To what effect ? Casca. Nay, an I tell you that, I '11 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. I could tell you more news too : MaruUus and Flavins, for pull- ing scarfs off Caesar'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. [Exit. Bru. What a blunt fellow is this grown 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 Brutus. Well, Brutus, thou art noble ; yet, I see, Thy honourable metal may be wrought From that it is disposed : therefore it is meet That noble minds keep ever with their likes ; For who so firm that cannot be seduced ? Csesar 'doth bear me hard; but he loves Brutus: If I were Brutus now and he were Cassius, He should not humour 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 glanced at : And after this let Csesar seat him sure ; For we will shake him, or worse days endure. [Exit. SCENE III.— TTie, A street. Thunder and lightning. Enter, from opposite sides, Casca, with his sword drawn, and Cicero. Cic. Good even, Casca ; brought you Csesar home ? Why are you breathless ? and why stare you so ? Casca. Are not you moved, when all the sway of Shakes like a thing unflrm ? O Cicero, [earth I have seen tempests, when the scolding winds Have rived the knotty oaks, and I have seen The ambitious ocean swell and rage and foam, To be exalted with the threatening clouds : But never till to-night, never till now, Did I go through a tempest dropping fire. Either there is a civil strife in heaven, Or else the world, too saucy with the gods. Incenses them to send destruction. Cic. Why, saw you any thing more wonderful ? Casca. A common slave — you know him well by sight— Held up his left hand, which did flame and burn Like twenty torches jom'd, and yet his hand, 630 Not sensible of fire, remain 'd unscorch'd. Besides — I ha' not since put up my sword — Against the Capitol I met a lion, Who glared upon me, and went surly by, Without annoying me : and there were drawn Upon a heap a hundred ghastly women. Transformed with their fear : who swore they saw Men all in fire walk up and down the streets. And yesterday the bird of night did sit Even at noon-day upon the market-place. Hooting and shrieking. When these prodigies Do so conjointly meet, let not men say ' These are their reasons ; they are natural ; ' For, I believe, they are portentous things Unto the climate that they point upon. Cic. Indeed, it is a strange-disposed time : But men may construe things after their fashion, Clean from the purpose of the things themselves. Comes Csesar to the Capitol to-morrow ? Casca. He doth ; for he did bid Antonius Send word to you he would be there to-morrow. Cic. Good-night then, Casca: this disturbed sky Is not to walk in. Casca. Farewell, Cicero. [Exit Cicero. Enter Cassius. Cas. Who 's there ? Casca. A Eoman. Cas. Casca, by your voice. Casca. Your ear is good. Cassius, what night is Cas. A very pleasing night to honest men. [this ! Casca. Who ever knew the heavens menace so ? Cas. Those that have known the earth so full of For my part, I have walk'd about the streets, [faults. Submitting me unto the perilous night. And, thus unbraced, Casca, as you see, Have bared my bosom to the thunder-stone ; And when the cross blue lightning seem'd to open The breast of heaven, I did present myself Even in the aim and very flash of it. [heavens ? Casca. But wherefore did you so much tempt the It is the part of men to fear and tremble, When the most mighty gods by tokens send Such dreadful heralds to astonish us. [life Cas. You are dull, Casca, and those sparks of That should be in a Roman you do want. Or else you use not. You look pale and gaze And put on fear and cast yourself in wonder. To see the strange impatience of the heavens : But if you would consider the true cause Why all these fires, why all these gliding ghosts. Why birds and beasts from quality and kind. Why old men fool and children calculate. Why all these things change from their ordinance Their natures and preformed faculties To monstrous quality,— why, you shall find That heaven hath infused them with these spirits, To make them instruments of fear and warning Unto some monstrous state. Now could I, Casca, name to thee a man Most like this dreadful night. That thunders, lightens, opens graves, and roars As doth the lion in the Capitol, A man no mightier than thyself or me In personal action, yet prodigious grown And fearful, as these strange eruptions are. Casca. 'T is Csesar that you mean; is it not, Cassius ? Cas. Let it be who it is : for Romans now Have thews and limbs like to their ancestors ; But, woe the while ! our fathers' minds are dead. And we are govern 'd with our mothers' spirits ; Our yoke and sufferance show us womanish. Casca. Indeed, they say the senators to-morrow Mean to establish Csesar as a king ; And he shall wear his crown by sea and land. In every place, save liere in Italy. Cas. I know where I will wear this dagger then ACT ir. JULIUS C^SAR. SCENE I. Cassins from bondage will deliver Cassius : Therein, ye gods, you make the weak most strong ; Therein, ye gods, yon tyrants do defeat : Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass, JSTor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron, Can be retentive to the strength of spirit ; But life, being weary of these worldly bars, jSTever lacks power to dismiss itself. If I know this, know all the world besides, That part of tyranny that I do bear I can shake oil at pleasure. [Thunder still. Casca. So can I : So every bondman in his own hand bears The power to cancel his captivity. Cas. And why should Csesar be a tyrant then ? Poor man ! I know he would not be a wolf. But that he sees the Eomans are but sheep : He were no lion, were not Romans hinds. Those that with haste will make a mighty fire Begin it with weak straws : what trash is Rome, What rubbish and what offal, when it serves For the base matter to illuminate So vile a thing as Caesar ! But, O grief, Where hast thou led me ? I perhaps speak this . Before a willing bondman ; then I know My answer must be made. But I am arm'd, And dangers are to me indifferent. Casca. You speak to Casca, and to such a man That is no fleering tell-tale. Hold, my hand : Be factious for redress of all these griefs, And I will set this foot of mine as far As who goes farthest. Cas. There 's a bargain made. Now know you, Casca, I have moved already Some certain of the noblest-minded Eomans To undergo with me an enterprise Of honourable-dangerous consequence ; And I do know, by this, they stay for me In Pompey's porch : for now, this fearful night, There is no stir or walking in the streets ; And the complexion of the element In favour 's like the work we have in hand. Most bloody, fiery, and most terrible. [haste. Casca. Stand close awhile, for here comes one in Cas. 'T is Cinna ; I do know him by his gait ; He is a friend. „ Jmter Cmna. Cinna, where haste you so ? Cin. To find out you. Who's that? Metellus Cimber ? Cas. JSTo, it is Casca; one incorporate To our attempts. Am I not stay'd for, Cinna ? Cin. I am glad on 't. What a fearful night is this ! There 's two or three of us have seen strange sights. Cas. Am I not stay'd for? tell me. Cin. Yes, you are. O Cassius, if you could But win the noble Brutus to our party — Cas. Be you content : good Cinna, take this paper, And look you lay it in the praetor's chair. Where Brutus may but find it : and throw this In at his window ; set this up with wax Upon old Brutus' statue : all this done. Repair to Pompey's porch, where you shall find us. Is Decius Brutus and Trebonius there ? Cin. All but Metellus Cimber ; and he 's gone To seek you at your house. WeU, I will hie, And so bestow these papers as you bade me. Cos. That done, repair to Pompey's theatre. [Exit Cinna. Come, Casca, you and I will yet ere day See Brutus at his house : three parts of him Is ours already, and the man entire Upon the next encounter yields him ours. Casca. O, he sits high in all the people's hearts: And that which would appear oifence in us. His countenance, like richest alchemy. Will change to virtue and to worthiness. Cas. Him and his worth and our great need of You have right well conceited. Let us go, piim For it is after midnight ; and ere day We wUl awake him and be sure of him. [Mceunt. A.CT II. SCENE I.— J2ome. Brutus^ s orchard. Enter Brutus. Bru. What, Lucius, ho ! I cannot, by the progress of the stars. Give guess how near to day. Lucius, I say ! I would 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 my study, Lucius : When it is lighted, come and call me here. Imc. 1 will, my lord. [Exit. 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 crown'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? — And then , I grant , we put a sting in him , [that ;— That at his wiU he may do danger with. The abuse of greatness is, when it disjoins Remorse from power : and, to speak truth of Caesar, I have not known when his affections sway'd More than his reason. But 't is a common proof, That lowliness is young ambition's ladder. Whereto the climber-upward turns his face ; But when he once attains the upmost 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 colour for the thing he is, Fashion it thus ; that what he is, augmented, Would rim to these and these extremities : And therefore think him as a serpent's egg Which, hatch'd, would, as his kind, grow mischiev- And kill him in the shell. [ous, Ee-enter Lucius. Luc. The taper burneth in your closet, sir. Searching the window for a flint, I found This paper, thus seal'd up ; and, I am sure. It did not lie there when I went to bed. [Gives him the letter, Bru. Get you to bed again ; it is not day. Is not to-morrow, boy, the ides of March ? Luc. I know not, sir. Bru. Look in the calendar, and bring me word. Luc. I vpill, sir. [Exit. Bru. The exhalations whizzing in the air Give so much light that I may read by them. [Opens the letter and reads ' Brutus, thou sleep'st : awake, and see thyseK. Shall Rome, &c. Speak, strike, redress ! Brutus, thou sleep'st : awake ! ' Such instigations have been often dropp'd Where I have took them up. 631 ACT II. JULIUS CJESAR. SCENE I. ' Shall Kome, &c.' Thus must I piece it out : Shall Rome stand under one man's awe ? What, Eome ? My ancestors did from the streets of Eome The Tarquin drive, when he was call'd a king. ' Speak, strike, redress ! ' Am I entreated To speak and strike ? O Eome, I make thee prom- If the redress will follow, thou receivest [ise ; Thy full petition at the hand of Brutus ! Be-enter Lucius. Luc. Sir, March is wasted fourteen days. [Knocking within. J3ru. 'Tis good. Go to the gate; somebody knocks. [Uxit Lucius. Since Cassius first did whet me against Csesar, I have not slept. Between the acting of a dreadful thing And the first motion, all the interim is liike a phantasma, or a hideous dream : The Genius and the mortal instruments Are then in council ; and the state of man, Like to a little kingdom, suffers then The nature of an insurrection. Be-enter Lucius. Luc. Sir, 't is your brother Cassius at the door, Who doth desire to see you. Bru. Is he alone ? Liic. Ko, sir, there are moe with him. Bru. Do you know them ? Luc. No, sir; their hats are pluck'd about their And half their faces buried in their cloaks, [ears. That by no means I may discover them By any mark of favour. Bru. Let 'em enter. [Exit Lucius. They are the faction. O conspiracy, Shamest thou to show thy dangerous brow by night. When evils are most free ? O, then by day Where wilt thou find a cavern dark enough To mask thy monstrous visage ? Seek none, con- Hide it in smiles and affability : [spiracy ; For if thou path, thy native semblance on, Not Erebus itself were dim enough To hide thee from prevention. Enter the conspirators, Cassius, Oasca, Decius, Cinna, Metellus Oimber, and Trebonius. Cas. I think we are too bold upon your rest : Good morrow, Brutus ; do we trouble you ? Bru. I have been up this hour, awake all night. Know I these men that come along with you ? Cas. Yes, every man of them, and no man here But honours you ; and every one doth wish You had but that opinion of yourself Which every noble Eoman bears 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 Bru. They are all welcome. [Cimber. What watchful cares do interpose themselves Betwixt your eyes and night ? Cas. Shall I entreat a word ? [Brutus and Cassius whisper. Bee. Here lies the east : doth not the day break Casca. No. phere? Cin. O, pardon, sir, it doth ; and yon gray lines That fret the clouds are messengers of day. Casca. You shall confess that you are both de- Here, as I point my sword, the sun arises, [ceived. Which is a great way growing on the south. Weighing the youthful season of the year. Some two months hence up higher toward the north He first presents his fire ; and the high east Stands, as the Capitol, directly here. 632 Bru. 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 sufferance of our souls, tlie 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 valour The melting spirits of women, then, countrymen, What need we any spur but our own cause. To prick us to redress ? what other bond Than secret Eomans, that have spoke the word, And will not palter ? and what other oath Than honesty to honesty engaged, That this shall be, or we will fall for it ? Swear priests and cowards and men cautelous, Old feeble carrions and such suffering souls That welcome wrongs ; unto bad causes swear Such creatures as men doubt ; but do not stain The even virtue of our enterprise, Nor the insuppressive mettle of our spirits. To think that or our cause or our performance Did need an oath ; when every drop of blood That every Roman bears, and nobly bears. Is guilty of a several bastardy. If he do break the smallest particle Of any promise that hath pass'd from him. 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. Cin. 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: It shall be said, his judgment ruled our hands ; Our youths and wildness shall no whit appear, But all be buried in his gravity. Bru. O, name him not : let us not break with him ; For he will never follow any thing That other men begin. Cas. Then leave him out. Casca. Indeed he is not fit. Dec. Shall no man else be touch'd but only Caesar ? Cas. Decius, well urged: I think it is not meet, Mark Antony, so well beloved of Caesar, 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 annoy us all : which to prevent, Let Antony and Caesar fall together. [sius, Bru. Our course will seem too bloody j Caius Cas* 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 not butchers, Caius. We all stand up against the spirit of Caesar ; And in 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 wrathf ully ; 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 'em. This shall make Our purpose necessary and not envious : Which so appearing to the common eyes. We shall be call'd purgers, not murderers. And for Mark Antony, think not of him ; For he can do no more than Caesar's arm When Caesar's head is off. Cas. Yet I fear him ; For in the ingrafted love he bears to Caesar — Bru. Alas, good Cassius, do not think of him; ACT II. JULIUS C^SAK SCENE I. If he love Csesar, all that he can do Is to himself, take thought and die for Csesar: And that were much he should ; for he is given To sports, to wildness and much company. Treh. There is no fear in him ; let him not die ; For he will live, and laugh at this hereafter. {^Clock strikes. Bru. Peace ! count the clock. Cas. The clock hath stricken three. Treb. 'T is time to part. Cas. But it is doubtful yet, Whether Csesar will come forth to-day, or no ; For he is superstitious grown of late. Quite from the main opinion he held once Of fantasy, of dreams and ceremonies : It may be, these apparent prodigies. The unaccustomed terror of this night, And the persuasion of his augurers, May hold him from the Capitol to-day. Bee. Never fear that : if he be so resolved, I can o'ersway him ; for he loves to hear That miicorns 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 humour the true bent, And I will bring him to the Capitol. Cas. iSTay, we will all of us be there to fetch him. JBru. By the eighth hour : is that the uttermost ? Cin. Be that the uttermost, and fail not then. Met. Cains Ligarius doth bear Csesar hard, "Who rated him for speaking well of Pompey : I wonder none of you have thought of him. Bru. Now, good Metellus, go along by him: He loves me well, and I have given him reasons; Send him but hither, and I '11 fashion him. Cas. The morning comes upon 's : we '11 leave you, Brutus. And, friends, disperse yourselves ; but all remember "What you have said, and show yourselves true Ro- Bru. Good gentlemen, look fresh and merrily; Let not our looks put on our purposes. But bear it as our Roman actors do, "With untired spirits and formal constancy : And so good morrow to you every one. [Exewit all but Brutus. 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. Pot. Brutus, my lord! Bru. Portia, what mean you ? wherefore rise you It is not for your health thus to commit [now ? Your weak condition to the raw cold morning. For. Nor for yours neither. You 've ungently, Brutus, Stole from my bed: and yesternight, at supper, You suddenly arose, and walk'd about. Musing and sighing, with your arms across. And when I ask'd you what the matter was, You stared upon me with ungentle looks ; I urged 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 humour. Which sometime 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. 1 am not well in health, and that is all. For. 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, go to bed. For. Is Brutus sick ? and is it physical To walk unbraced and suck up the humours 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 ? 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 Which did incorporate and make us one. That you unfold to me, yourself, your half. Why you are heavy, and what men to-night Have had resort to you : for here have been Some six or seven, who did hide their faces Even from darkness. Bru. Kneel not, gentle Portia. For. I should not need, if you were gentle Brutus. Within the bond of marriage, teU 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. To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed. And talk to you sometimes ? Dwell I but in the suburbs Of your good pleasure ? If it be no more, Portia is Brutus' harlot, not his wife. Bru. You are my true and honourable wife, As dear to me as are the ruddy drops That visit my sad heart. [secret. For. If this were true, then should I know this I grant I am a woman ; but withal A woman that Lord Brutus took to wife : I grant I am a woman ; but withal A woman weU-reputed, Cato's daughter. Think you I am no stronger than my sex, Being so father'd and so husbanded ? Tell me your counsels, I will not disclose 'em : I have made strong proof of my constancy, Giving myself a voluntary wound Here, in the thigh: can I bear that with patience, And not my husband's secrets ? Bru. O ye gods, Render me worthy of this noble wife ! [Knocking witJiin. Hark, hark! one knocks: Portia, go in awhile; And by and by thy bosom shall partake The secrets of my heart. AU my engagements I wiU construe to thee, AU the charactery of my sad brows : Leave me with haste. [Exit Fortia.] Lucius, who 's that knocks ? Be-enter Lucius with Ligarius. Imc. Here is a sick man that would speak with you. Bru. Cains Ligarius, that Metellus spake of. Boy, stand aside. Caius Ligarius ! how ? iifir. Vouchsafe good morrow from a feeble tongue. Bru. O, what a time have you chose out, brave Caius, To wear a kerchief ! Would you were not sick I Lig. 1 am not sick, if Brutus have in hand Any exploit worthy the name of honour. Bru. Such an exploit have I in hand, Ligarius, Had you a healthful ear to hear of it. Lig. By all the gods that Romans bow before, I here discard my sickness. Soul of Rome ! ACT II. JULIUS C^SAR. SCENE II. Brave son, derived from honourable loins ! Thou, like an exorcist, hast conjured up My mortified spirit. Now bid me run. And I will strive with things impossible ; Yea, get the better of them. What 's to do ? Bru. A piece of work that will make sick men whole. [sick ? Hg. But are not some whole that we must make Bru. That must we also. What it is, my Caius, I shall unfold to thee, as we are going To whom it must be done. Lig. Set on your foot, And with a heart new-fired I follow you, To do I know not what : but it sufficeth That Brutus leads me on. Bru. Follow me, then, [Eooeunt. SCENE U.—Cmsar^s house. TJiunder and lightning. Enter Caesar, in his night-gown. Goes. Nov heaven nor earth have been at peace to- night : Thrice hath Calpurnia in her sleep cried out, ' Help, ho ! they murder Caesar ! ' Who 's within ? Enter a Servant. Serv. My lord ? Cces. Go bid the priests do present sacrifice And bring me their opinions of success Serv. I will, my lord. [Exit. , Enter Calpurnia. CoX. What mean you, Caesar ? think you to walk You shall not stir out of your house to-day. [forth ? Coes. Caesar shall forth: the things that threat- en 'd me Ne'er look'd but on my back; when they shall see The face of Caesar, they are vanished. Cal. Caesar, I never stood on ceremonies, Yet now they fright me. There is one within. Besides the things that we have heard and seen, Recounts most horrid sights seen by the watch. A lioness hath whelped in the streets ; And graves have yawn'd, and yielded up their dead : Fierce fiery warriors fought upon the clouds, In ranks and squadrons and right form of war. Which drizzled blood upon the Capitol : The noise of battle hurtled in the air. Horses did neigh, and dying men did groan, And ghosts did shriek and squeal about the streets. O Caesar ! these things are beyond all use, And I do fear them. Cces. What can be avoided Whose end is purposed by the mighty gods ? Yet Caesar shall go forth ; for these predictions Are to the world in general as to Caesar. Cal. When beggars die, there are no comets seen ; The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes. C(Rs. Cowards die many times before their deaths ; The valiant never taste of death but once. Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, It seems to me most strange that men should fear ; Seeing that death, a necessary end, Will come when it will come. Re-enter Servant. What say the augurers ? Serv. They would not have you to stir forth to- Plucking the entrails of an offering forth, [day. They could not find a heart within the beast. Cces. The gods do this in shame of cowardice : Caesar should be a beast without a heart. If he should stay at home to-day for fear. No, Caesar shall not : danger knows full well That Caesar is more dangerous than he : 634 We are two lions litter 'd in one day. And I the elder and more terrible : And Caesar shall go forth. Cal. Alas, my lord, Your wisdom is consumed in confidence. Do not go forth to-day : call it my fear That keeps you in the house, and not your own. We '11 send Mark Antony to the senate-house : And he shall say you are not well to-day : Let me, upon my knee, prevail in this. G(x,s. Mark Antony shall say I am not well ; And, for thy humour, I will stay at home. Enter Decius. Here 's Decius Brutus, he shall tell them so. Dec. Caesar, aU hail ! good morrow, worthy Caesar : I come to fetch you to the senate-house. C(zs. And you are come in very happy time, To bear my greeting to the senators And tell them that I will not come to-day : Cannot, is false, and that I dare not, falser : I will not come to-day : tell them so, Decius. Cal. Say he is sick. C(Rs. Shall Caesar send a lie ? Have I in conquest stretch 'd mine arm so far, To be af eard to tell graybeards the truth r" Decius, go tell them Caesar will not come. Bee. Most mighty Caesar, let me know some cause, Lest I be laugh 'd at when I tell them so. G(Rs. The cause is in my will : I will not come ; That is enough to satisfy the senate. But for your private satisfaction. Because I love you, I will let you know: Calpurnia here, my wife, stays me at home : She dreamt to-night she saw my statua. Which, like a foimtain with an hundred spouts, Did run pure blood ; and many lusty Romans Came smiling, and did bathe their hands in it : And these does she apply for warnings, and portents, And evils imminent ; and on her knee - Hath begg'd that I will stay at home to-day. Dec. This dream is all amiss interpreted ; It was a vision fair and fortunate : Your statue spouting blood in many pipes. In which so many smiling Romans bathed. Signifies that from you great Rome shall suck Reviving blood, and that great men shall press For tinctures, stains, relics and cognizance. This by Calpurnia's dream is signified. C(RS. And this way have you well expounded it. Dec. I have, when you have heard what I can say : And know it now : the senate have concluded To give this day a crown to mighty Caesar. If you shall send them word you will not come, Their minds may change. Besides, it were a mock Apt to be render 'd, for some one to say ' Break up the senate till another time, When Caesar's wife shall meet with better dreams.' If Caesar hide himself, shaU they not whisper ' Lo, Caesar is afraid ' ? Pardon me, Caesar ; for my dear dear love To your proceeding bids me tell you this ; And reason to my love is liable. Goes. How foolish do your fears seem now, Cal- I am ashamed I did yield to them. [pumia ! Give me my robe, for I will go. Ent&r Publius, Brutus, Ligarius, Metellus, Casca, Trebonius, and Cinna. And look where Publius is come to fetch me. Pm&. Good morrow, Caesar. Cms. Welcome, Publius. What, Brutus, are you stirr'd so early too ? Good morrow, Casca. Caius Ligarius, Caesar was ne'er so much your enemy As that same ague which hath made you lean. What is 't o'clock? ACT III. JULIUS C^SAE. SCENE I. Bru. Caesar, 't is strucken eight. Coes. I thank you for your pains and courtesy. Enter Antony. See ! Antony, that revels long o' nights, Is notwithstanding up. Good morrow, Antony. Ant. So to most noble Caesar. Cces. Bid them prepare within : I am to blame to be thus waited for. Now, Cinna : now, Metellus : what, Trebonius ! I have an hour's talk in store for you; Eemember that you call on me to-day : Be near me, that I may remember you. Treb. Csesar, I will : [Aside] and so near will I be, That your best friends shall wish I had been further. Cces. Good friends, go in, and taste some wine with me ; And we, like friends, will straightway go together. Bru. [Aside] That every like is not the same, O Csesar, The heart of Brutus yearns to think upon ! [Exeunt. SCENE III.— A street near the Capitol. Enter Artemidorus, reading a paper. Art. 'Caesar, beware of Brutus; take heed of Cassius ; come not near Casca ; have an eye to Cinna ; trust not Trebonius ; mark well Metellus Cimber ; Decius Brutus loves thee not : thou hast wronged Caius Ligarius. There is but one mind in all these men, and it is bent against Caesar. If thou beest not immortal, look about you: security gives way to conspiracy. The mighty gods defend thee ! Thy lover, Artemidokus.' Here will I stand till Caesar pass along. And as a suitor will I give him this. My heart laments that virtue cannot live Out of the teeth of emulation. If thou read this, O Caesar, thou mayst live ; If not, the Fates with traitors do contrive. [Exit. SCENE IV. — Another part of the same street, before the house of Brutus. Enter Portia and Lucius. For. I prithee, boy, run to the senate-house ; Stay not to answer me, but get thee gone : Why dost thou stay ? Jjuc. To know my errand, madam. For. I would have had thee there, and here again. Ere I can tell thee what thou shouldst do there. constancy, be strong upon my side, Set a huge mountain 'tween my heart and tongue ! 1 have a man's mind, but a woman's might. How hard it is for women to keep counsel ! Art thou here yet ? Luc. Madam, what should I do ? Kun to the Capitol, and nothing else ? And so return to you, and nothing else ? [well, For. Yes, bring me word, boy, if thy lord look For he went sickly forth : and take good note What Caesar doth, what suitors press to him. Hark, boy ! what noise is that ? Luc. I hear none, madam. For. Prithee, listen well ; I heard a bustling rumour, like a fray. And the wind brings it from the Capitol. Luc. Sooth, madam, 1 hear nothing. Enter the Soothsayer. For. Come hither, fellow : which way hast thou Sooth. At mine own house, good lady. [been ? For. What is 't o'clock ? Sooth. About the ninth hour, lady. For. Is Caesar yet gone to the Capitol ? Sooth. Madam, not yet : I go to take my stand. To see him pass on to the Capitol. For. Thou hast some suit to Caesar, hast thou not ? Sooth. That I have, lady : if it will please Caesar To be so good to Caesar as to hear me, I shall beseech him to befriend himself. For. Why, know'st thou any harm 's intended towards him ? Sooth. None that I know will be, much that I fear may chance. Good morrow to you. Here the street is narrow: The throng that follows Caesar at the heels, Of senators, of praetors, common suitors, WiU crowd a feeble man almost to death : I '11 get me to a place more void, and there Speak to great Caesar as he comes along. [Exit. For. I must go in. Ay me, how weak a thing The heart of woman is ! O Brutus, The heavens speed thee in thine enterprise ! Sure, the boy heard me : Brutus hath a suit That Caesar will not grant. O, I grow faint. Run, Lucius, and commend me to my lord; Say I am merry : come to me again. And bring me word what he doth say to thee. [Exeunt severally. A.CT III. SCENE 1.— Borne. Before the Capitol; the Senate sitting above. A crowd of people ; among them, Artemidorus and the Soothsayer. Flourish. Enter Csesar, Brutus, Cas- sius, Casca, Decius, Metellus, Trebonius, Cinna, Antony, Lepidus, PopUius, Puhlius, and others. Cces. [To the Soothsayer] The ides of March are come. Sooth. Ay, Caesar ; but not gone. Art. Hail, Caesar ! read this schedule. Dec. Trebonius doth desire you to o'er-read. At your best leisure, this his humble suit. Art. O Caesar, read mhie first ; for mine 's a suit That touches Caesar nearer : read it, great Caesar. CcBs. What touches us ourself shall be last served. Art. Delay not, Caesar ; read it instantly. , Cces. What, is the feUow mad ? Fub. Sirrah, give place. Cas. What, urge you your petitions in the street ? Come to the Capitol. Csesar goes up to the Senate-House, the restfollowing. Fop. I wish your enterprise to-day may thrive. Cos. What enterprise, Popilius ? Fop. Fare you well. [Advances to Caesar. Bru. What said Popilius Lena ? Cas. He wish'd to-day our enterprise might thrive. I fear oiir 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 ? If this be known, Cassius 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, Brutus, He draws Mark Antony out of the way. [Exeunt Antony and Trebonius. 635 ACT III. JULIUS CJESAR. SCENE I. Dec. AVhere is Metellus Cimber ? Let him go, And presently prefer his suit to Caesar. Bru. He is acldress'd : press near and second him. Cin. Casca, you are the first that rears your hand. CcBs. Are we all ready ? What is now amiss That Caesar and his senate must redress ? Met. Most high, most mighty, and most puissant Metellus Cimber throws before thy seat An humble heart, — [Kneeling. Cces. I must prevent thee, Cimber. These couchings and these lowly courtesies Might fire the blood of ordinary men, And turn pre-ordinance 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 court '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 ovm. To sound more sweetly in great Caesar's ear I'or the repealing of my banish 'd brother ? Brii» 1 kiss thy hand, but not in flattery, Caesar ; Desiring thee that Publius Cimber may Have an immediate freedom of repeal. Cces. What, Brutus ! Cas. Pardon, Caesar ; Caesar, pardon : As low as to thy foot doth Cassius fall. To beg enfranchisement for Publius Cimber. Cces. I could be well moved, if I were as you ; If I could pray to move, prayers would move me: But I am constant as the northern star, Of whose true-fix'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 ; 't is furnish '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, Unshaked 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, — Cces. Hence ! wilt thou lift up Olympus ? Bee. Great Caesar, — Cces. Doth not Brutus bootless kneel ? Casca. Speak, hands, for me! [Casca fir St, then the other Conspirators and Marcus Brutus stab Caesar. Cces. Et tu. Brute ! Then fall, Caesar ! [Dies. Cin. Liberty! Freedom! Tyranny is dead ! Kun hence, proclaim, cry it about the streets. Cas. Some to the common pulpits, and cry out * Liberty, freedom, and enfranchisement ! ' Bru. People and senators, be not affrighted: Fly not; stand still: ambition's debt is paid. Casca. Go to the pulpit, Brutus. Bee. And Cassius too. Bru. Where 's Publius ? Cin. Here, quite confounded with this mutiny. Met. Stand fast together, lest some friend of Should chance— [Caesar's 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. Bnt. Do so : and let no man abide this deed. But we the doers. Be-enter Trebonius. Cas. Where is Antony ? Tre. Fled to his house amazed : Men, wives and children stare, cry out and run As it were doomsday. Bru. Fates, we will know your pleasures: That we shall die, we know ; 't is but the time And drawing days out, that men stand upon. Cas. 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 Caesar's friends, that have abridged His time of fearing death. Stoop, Eomans, stoop. And let us bathe our hands in Caesar'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. Let 's all cry ' Peace, freedom and liberty ! ' Cas. Stoop, then, and wash. How many ages Shall this our lofty scene be acted over [hence In states unborn and accents yet unknown ! Bru. How many times shall Caesar bleed in sport. That now on Pompey's basis lies along No worthier than the dust ! Cas. So oft as that shall be, So often shall the knot of us be call'd The men that gave their country liberty. Bee. 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 ? Afriendof 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 ; Caesar was mighty, bold, royal, and loving : Say I love Brutus, and I honour him; Say I fear'd Caesar, honour'd him and loved him. If Brutus will vouchsafe that Antony May safely come to him, and be resolved How Caesar hath deserved to lie in death, Mark Antony shall not love Caesar 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 him come unto this place, He shall be satisfied ; and, by my honour. Depart untouch'd. Serv. I '11 fetch him presently. [Exit. 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. Bru. But here comes Antony. Be-enter Antony. Welcome, Mark Antony. Ant. O mighty Caesar ! dost thou lie so low ? Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils. Shrunk to this little measure ? 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 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 you bear me hard. Now, whilst your purpled hands do reek and smoke. Fulfil your pleasure. Live a thousand years, I shaU not find myself so apt to die : ACT III. JULIUS CjESAR SCENE II. No place will please me so, no mean of death, As here by Caesar, and by you cut off, 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 Eome — As fire drives out fire, so pity pity — Hath done this deed on Caesar. For 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 shall be as strong as any man's In the disposing of new dignities. Bru. Only be patient till we have appeased The multitude, beside themselves with fear, And then we will deliver you the cause. Why I, that did love Cgesar when I struck him. Have thus proceeded. Ant. I doubt not of your wisdom. Let each man render me his bloody hand : Eirst, Marcus Brutus, will I shake with you; Next, Caius Cassius, do I take your hand ; Now, Decius Brutus, yours; now yours, Metellus ; Yours, Cinna; and, my valiant Casca, yours; Though last, not least in love,yours, good Trebonius. Gentlemen all, — 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 stream forth thy blood, It would become me better than to close In terms of friendship with thine enemies, [hart ; Pardon me, Julius ! Here wast thou bay'd, brave Here didst thou fall ; and here thy hunters stand, Sign'd in thy spoil, and crimson'd in thy lethe. O world, thou wast the forest to this hart ; And this, indeed, O world, the heart of thee. How like a deer, strucken by many princes. Dost thou here lie ! Cas. Mark Antony,— Ant. Pardon me, Caius Cassius : The enemies of Caesar shall say this ; Then, in a friend, it is cold modesty. Cas. I blame you not for praising Caesar so ; But what compact mean you to have with us ? Will you be prick'd in number of our friends ; Or shall we on, and not depend on you ? Ant. Therefore I took your hands, but was, Sway'd from the point, by looking down on Eriends 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. Ot 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. Ant. That 'saU 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 with you. [Aside to Bru.] You know not what you do : do not That Antony speak in his funeral : [consent Know you how much the people may be moved 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 you Caesar's body. You shall not in your funeral speech blame us, But speak all good you can devise of Caesar, 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. A7it. Be it so ; I do desire no more. Bru. Prepare the body then, and follow us. [Exeunt all but Antony, Ant. O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, That I am meek and gentle with these butchers I 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 Shall cumber all 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 choked with custom of fell deeds : And Caesar's spirit, ranging for revenge, With Ate by his side come hot from heU, Shall in these confines with a monarch's voice Cry ' Havoc,' and let slip the dogs of war; That this foul deed shall smell above the earth With carrion men, groaning for burial. Enter a Servant. You serve Octavius Caesar, do you not ? Serv. I do, Mark Antony. Ant. Caesar did write for him to come to Eome. Serv. He did receive his letters, and is coming; And bid me say to you by word of mouth — O Caesar ! — [Seeing the body. Ant. Thy heart is big, get thee apart and weep. Passion, I see, is catching ; for mine ej^es. Seeing those beads of sorrow stand in thine, Began to water. Is thy master coming ? Serv. He lies to-night within seven leagues of Eome. [chanced : Ant. Post back with speed, and tell him what hath Here is a mourning Eome, a dangerous Eome, No Eome of safety for Octavius yet ; Hie hence, and tell him so. Yet, stay awhile; 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 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. [Uxeunt with Ccesar''s body. SCENE II. — The Forum. Enter Brutus and Cassius, and a throng of Citizens. Citizens. We will be satisfied ; let us be satisfied. Bru. Then follow me, and gij^me audience, Cassius, go you into the other strj^^ [friends. 637 ACT i: JULIUS CjESAB. SCENE II. And part the numbers. Those that will hear me speak, let 'em stay here ; Those that will follow Cassius, go with him ; And public reasons shall be rendered Of Caesar's death. First Cit. I will hear Brutus speak, [reasons, Sec. Cit. I will hear Cassius ; and compare their When severally we hear them rendered. [Exit Cassius, with some of the Citizens. Brutus goes into the pulpit. Third Cit. The noble Brutus is ascended : silence ! Bru. Be patient till the last. Komans, countrymen, and lovers ! hear me for my cause, and be silent, that you may hear : believe me for mine honour, and have respect to mine honour, 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 Caesar's, to him I say, that Brutus' love to Caesar was no less than his. If then that friend de- mand why Brutus rose against Caesar, this is my answer:— jSTot that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Kome 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 honour him : but, as he was ambi- tious, I slew him. There is tears for his love; joy for his fortune ; honour for his valour ; and death for his ambition. Who is here so base that would be a bondman? If any, speak; for him have I of- fended. Who is here so rude that would not be a Koman ? 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. All. JSTone, Brutus, none. Bru. Then none have I offended. I have done no more to Caesar than you shall do to Brutus. The question of his death is enrolled in the Capitol ; his glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy, nor his offences enforced, for which he suffered death. Enter Antony and others, with Caesar's body. Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony : who, though he had no hand in his death, shall re- ceive the benefit of his dying, a place in the com- monwealth ; as which of you shall not ? With this I depart, — that, as I slew my best lover for the good of Eome, I have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please my country to need my death. All. Live, Brutus! live, live! [house. First Cit. Bring him with triumph home unto his Sec. Cit. Give him a statue with his ancestors. Third Cit. Let him be Caesar. Fourth Cit. Caesar's better parts Shall be crown'd in Brutus. First Cit. We '11 bring him to his house With shouts and clamours. Bru. My countrymen, — Sec. Cit. Peace, silence ! Brutus speaks. First Cit. Peace, ho 1 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. First Cit. Stay, ho! and let us hear Mark Antony. Third Cit. Let him go up into the public chair ; We '11 hear him. Noble Antony, go up. Ant. For Brutus' sake, I am beholding to you. [Goes into the pulpit. Fourth Cit. What does he say of Brutus ? Third Cit. He says, for Brutus' sake. He finds himself beholding to us all. Fourth Cit. 'Twere best he speak no harm of Brutus here. First Cit. This Caesar was a tyrant. Third Cit. Nay, that 's certain : We are blest that Kome is rid of him. [say. Sec. Cit. Peace! let us hear what Antony can Ant. You gentle Komans, — Citizens. Peace, ho ! let us hear him. Ant. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears ; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them ; The good is oft interred with their bones ; So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus Hath told you Caesar was ambitious : If it were so, it was a grievous fault, And grievously hath Caesar answer'd it. Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest — For Brutus is an honourable man ; So are they all, all honourable men — Come I to speak in Caesar's fmieral. He was my friend, faithful and just to me : But Brutus says he was ambitious ; And Brutus is an honourable man. He hath brought many captives home to Rome, Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill : Did this in Caesar seem ambitious V When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept : Ambition should be made of sterner stuff : Yet Brutus says he was ambitious ; And Brutus is an honourable man. You all did see that on the Lupercal I thrice presented him a kingly crown, Which he did thrice refuse : was this ambition ? Yet Brutus says he was ambitious ; And, sure, he is an honourable man. I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke. But here I am to speak what I do know. You all did love him once, not without cause: What cause withholds you then, to mourn for him ? judgment ! thou art fled to brutish beasts, And men have lost their reason. Bear with me ; My heart is in the cofiin there with Caesar, And I must pause till it come back to me. First Cit. Methinks there is much reason in his sayings. Sec. Cit. If thou consider rightly of the matter, Caesar has had great wrong. Third Cit. Has he, masters ? 1 fear there will a worse come in his place. Fourth Cit. Mark'd ye his words ? He would not take the crown ; Therefore 't is certain he was not ambitious. First Cit. If it be found so, some will dear abide it. Sec. Cit. Poor soul ! his eyes are red as fire with weeping. [Antony. Third Cit. There 's not a nobler man in Rome than Fourth Cit. Now mark him, he begins again to speak. Ant. But yesterday the word of Caesar might Have stood against the world ; now lies he there, And none so poor to do him reverence. masters, if I were disposed to stir Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, 1 should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius MTong, Who, you all know, are honourable men: I will not do them wrong ; I rather choose To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you, Than I will wrong such honourable men. But here 's a parchment with the seal of Caesar; I found it in his closet, 't is 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. And, dying, mention it within their wills, ACT III. JULIUS C^SAR. SCENE III. Bequeathing it as a rich legacy Unto their issue. [AntonJ^ Fourth Cit. We 'II hear the will : read it, Mark All. The will, the will ! we will hear Caesar's will. Ant. Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it ; It is not meet you know how Csesar loved you. You are not wood, you are not stones, but men ; And, being men, hearing the will of Caesar, It will inflame you, it will make you mad : 'T is good you know not that you are his heirs ; For, if you should, O, what would come of it ! Fourth Cit. Read the will ; we '11 hear it, Antony ; You shall read us the will, Caesar's will. Ant. Will you be patient ? will you stay awhile ? I have o'ershot myself to tell you of it : I fear I wrong the honourable men Whose daggers have stabb'd Caesar; I do fear it. Fourth Cit. They were traitors : honourable men I All. The will ! the testament ! Sec. Cit. They were villains, murderers: the will! read the wiU. Ant. You will compel me, then, to read the will ? Then make a ring about the corpse of Caesar, And let me show you him that made the will. Shall I descend ? and will you give me leave ? Several Cit. Come down. Sec. Cit. Descend. Third Git. You shall have leave. [Antony comes down. Fourth Cit. A ring ; stand round. [body. First Cit. Stand from the hearse, stand from the Sec. Cit. Room for Antony, most noble Antony. Ant. Nay, press not so upon me ; stand far off. Several 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 Caesar put it on ; 'T was on a summer'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 made : Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb'd ; And as he pluck 'd his cursed steel away, Mark how the blood of Caesar follow 'd it, As rushing out of doors, to be resolved If Brutus so unkindly knock 'd, or no ; For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel : Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him ! This was the most unkindest cut of all ; For when the noble Caesar saw him stab, Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms. Quite vanquish'd him : then burst his mighty heart ; And, in his mantle muffling up his face. Even at the base of Pompey's statua. Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar 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. First Cit. O piteous spectacle ! Sec. Cit. O noble Caesar ! Third Cit. O wof ul day ! Fourth Cit. O traitors, villains ! First Cit. O most bloody sight ! Sec. Cit. We will be revenged. All. Revenge! About! .Seek! Burn! Fire! Kill ! Slay ! Let not a traitor live ! Ant. Stay, countrymen. First Cit. Peace there ! hear the noble Antony. Sec. Cit. We '11 hear him, we '11 follow him, we '11 die with him. [you up Ant. Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir To such a sudden flood of mutiny. They that have done this deed are honourable : What private griefs they have, alas, I know not. That made them do it : they are wise and honourable, 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 neither 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 do know ; Show you sweet Caesar's wounds, poor poor dumb mouths. And bid them speak for me : but were I Brutus, And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony Would rutfle up your spirits and put a tongue In every wound of Caesar that should move The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny. All. We '11 mutiny. First Cit. We '11 burn the house of Brutus. Third Cit. Away, then! come, seek the con- spirators. Ant. Yet hear me, countrymen ; yet hear me speak. All. Peace, ho ! Hear Antony. Most noble Antony ' Ant. Why, friepds, you go to do you know not what: Wherein hath Caesar thus deserved your loves ? Alas, you know not : I must tell you, then : You have forgot the will I told you of. [the will. All. Most true. The wiU ! Let 's stay and hear Ant. Here is the will, and under Caesar's seal. To every Roman citizen he gives. To every several man, seventy-five drachmas. Sec. Git. Most noble Caesar ! We '11 revenge his Third Git. O royal Caesar ! [death, Ant. Hear me with patience. All. Peace, ho ! Ant. Moreover, he hath left you all his walks, His private arbours 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 ? First Cit. Never, never. Come, away, away! We '11 burn his body in the holy place. And with the brands fire the traitors' houses. Take up the body. Sec. Cit. Go fetch fire. Hiird Cit. Pluck down benches. Fourth Cit. Pluck down forms, windows, any- thing. [Exeunt Citizens with the body. Anl. Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot. Take thou what course thou wilt ! Miter a Servant. How now, fellow! 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 give us anything. Serv. I heard him say, Brutus and Oassius 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. [Fxeunt. SCENE III.— A street. Enter Oinna the poet. Gin. I dreamt to-night that I did feast with Caesar, And things unlucky charge my fantasy : I have no will to wander forth of doors, Yet something leads me forth. 639 ACT IV. JULIUS C^SAR. SCENE II. Enter Citizens. First Cit. "What is your name ? Sec. Cit. Whither are you going ? TTiird Cit. Where do you dwell ? Fourth Cit. Are you a married man or a bachelor ? Sec. Cit. Answer every man directly. First Cit. Ay, and briefly. Fourth Cit. Ay, and wisely. Third Cit. Ay, and truly, you were best, Cin. What is my name ? Whither am I going ? Where do I dwell ? Am I a married man or a bachelor? Then, to answer every man directly and briefly, wisely and truly: wisely I say, I am a bachelor. Sec. Cit. That 's as much as to say, they are fools that marry : you '11 t)ear me a bang for that, I fear. Proceed; directly. Cin. Directly, I am going to Caesar's funeral. First Cit. As a friend or an enemy ? Cin. As a friend. Sec. Cit. That matter is answered directly. Fourth Cit. Tor your dwelling, — briefly. Cin. Briefly, I dwell by the Capitol. Third Cit. Your name, sir, truly. Cin. Truly, my name is Cinna. First Cit. Tear him to pieces ; he 's a conspirator. Cin. I am Cinna the poet, I am Cinna the poet. Fourth Cit. Tear him for his bad verses, tear him for his bad verses. Cin. I am not Cinna the conspirator. Fourth Cit. It is no matter, his name 's Cinna ; pluck but his name out of his heart, and turn him going. Third Cit. Tear him, tear him! Come, brands, ho ! fire-brands : to Brutus', to Cassius' ; burn all : some to Decius' house, and some to Casca's ; some to Ligarius' : away, go 1 [Exeunt. ^OT IV. SCENE l.—A house in Borne. Antony, Octavius,an(Z Lepidus, seated at a table. Ant. These many, then, shall die; their names are prick'd. [pidus ? Oct. Your brother too must die ; consent you, Le- Lep, I do consent, — Oct. Prick him down, Antony. Lep. Upon condition Publius shall not live, Who is your sister's son, Mark Antony. piim. Ant. He shall not live; look, with a spot I damn But, Lepidus, go you to Csesar's house; Fetch the will hither, and we shall determine How to cut off some charge in legacies. Lep. What, shall I find you here ? Oct. Or here, or at the Capitol. [Exit Lepidus. Ant. This is a slight unmeritable man. Meet to be sent on errands : is it fit, The three-fold world divided, he should stand One of the three to share it ? Oct. So you thought him ; And took his voice who should be prick'd to die, In our black sentence and proscription. Ant. Octavius, I have seen more days than you : And though we lay these honours on this man, To ease ourselves of divers slanderous loads. He shall but bear them as the ass bears gold, To groan and sweat under the business. Either led or driven, as we point the way ; And having brought our treasure where we will. Then take we down his load, and turn him off, Like to the empty ass, to shake his ears. And graze in commons. Oct. You may do your will ; But he 's a tried and valiant soldier. Ant. So is my horse, Octavius ; and for that I do appoint him store of provender : It is a creature that I teach to fight, To wind, to stop, to run directly on. His corporal motion govern 'd by my spirit. And, in some taste, is Lepidus but so ; He must be taught and train 'd and bid go forth ; A barren-spirited fellow ; one that feeds On abjects, orts and imitations. Which, out of use and staled by other men. Begin his fashion : do not talk of him, But as a property. And now, Octavius, Listen great things :— Brutus and Cassius Are levying powers : we must straight make head : Therefore let our alliance be combined, Our best friends made, our means stretch 'd; And let us presently go sit in council, 640 How covert matters may be best disclosed. And open perils surest answered. Oct. Let us do so : for we are at the stake, And bay'd about with many enemies ; And some that smile have in their hearts, I fear. Millions of mischiefs. [Exeunt. SCENE II. — Camp near Sardis. Before Brutus''s tent. Drum. Enter Brutus, Lucilius, Lucius, a^id Sol- diers ; Titinius and Pindarus meeting them. Bru. Stand, ho ! Lucil. Give the word, ho ! and stand. Bru. What now, Lucilius ! is Cassius near ? Lucil. He is at hand ; and Pindarus is come To do you salutation from his master. Bru. He greets me well. Your master, Pindarus, In his own change, or by ill officers. Hath given me some worthy cause to wish Things done, undone: but, if he be at hand, I shall be satisfied. Pin. I do not doubt But that my noble master will appear Such as he is, full of regard and honour. B7-U. He is not doubted. A word, Lucilius ; How he received you, let me be resolved. Litcil. 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 described 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 faith ; 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 ? [ter'd ; Lucil. They mean this night in Sardis to be quar- The greater part, the horse in general. Are come with Cassius. Bru. Hark! he is arrived. [Low march within. March gently on to meet him. Enter Cassius and his powers. Cas. Stand, ho ! Bru. Stand, ho ! Speak the word along. First Sol. Standi ACT IT. JULIUS CjESAE. SCENE III. Sec. Sol. Stand ! Tliird Sol. Stand ! Cas. Most noble brother, you have done me wrong. Bru. Judge me, you gods ! wrong I mine enemies ? And, if not so, how should I wrong a brother ? Cas. Brutus , th is sober form of yours hides wrongs ; And when you do them — Bru. Cassius, be content ; Speak your griefs softly : I do know you well. Before the eyes of both our armies here. Which should perceive nothing but love from us, Let us not wrangle : bid them move away ; Then in my tent, Cassius, enlarge your griefs, 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. [Miceunt. SCENE III.— Brutus' s tent. Enter Brutus and Cassius. Cas. That you have wrong 'd me doth appear in You have condemn'd and noted Lucius Pella [this : For taking bribes here of the Sardians ; Wherein my letters, praying on his side, Because I knew the man, were slighted off. 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 ! You know that you are Brutus that speak this, Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last. Bru. The name of Cassius honours this corruption, And chastisement doth therefore hide his head. Cas. Chastisement! Bru. Eemember March, the ides of March re- member : Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake ? What villain touch'd his body, that did stab, And not for justice ? 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, And sell the mighty space of our large honours For so much trash as may be grasped thus ? I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, Than such a Koman. Cas. Brutus, bay not me ; I '11 not endure it : you forget yourself, To hedge me in ; I am a soldier, I, Older in practice, abler than yourself To make conditions. Bru. Go to ; you are not, Cassius. Cas. 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 ye gods, ye gods ! must I endure all this ? Bru. All this! ay, more: fret till your proud heart break ; Go show your slaves how choleric you are. And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge ? Must I observe you ? must I stand and crouch Under your testy humour ? By the gods, You shall digest the venom of your spleen, 41 Though it do split you ; for, from this day forth, I '11 use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter. When you are waspish. Cas. Is it come to this ? 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 learn of noble men. Cas. You wrong me every way ; you wrong me, I said, an elder soldier, not a better : [Brutus ; Did I say ' better ' ? Bru. If you did, I care not. Cas. When Csesar lived, he durst not thus have moved me. [him. Bru. Peace, peace! you durst not so have tempted Cas. I durst not ! Bru. No. Cas. What, durst not tempt him ! Bru. Por 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 denied 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 trash By any indirection : I did send To you for gold to pay my legions, Which you denied me : was that done like Cassius ? Should I have answer 'd Caius Cassius so ? When Marcus Brutus grows so covetouSj 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. Cas. I did not : he was but a fool that brought My answer back. Brutus hath rived 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. Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults. Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they do As huge as high Olympus. [appear Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come, Eevenge yourselves alone on Cassius, For Cassius is aweary of the world ; Hated by one he loves ; braved by his brother ; Check 'd like a bondman ; all his faults observed. Set in a note-book, learn '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 Eoman, take it forth ; I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart : Strike, as thou didst at Csesar ; for, I know, When thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him Than ever thou lovedst Cassius. [better Bru. Sheathe your dagger : Be angry when you will, it shall have scope ; Do what you will, dishonour shall be humour. 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 lived To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, When grief, and blood ill-temper'd, vexeth him ? Bru. When I spoke that, I was Ill-temper'd too. 641 ACT IV. JULIUS CJESAR. SCENE III. Cas. Do you confess so much? Give me your Bru. And my heart too. [hand. Cas. O Brutus! Bru. What 's the matter ? Cas. Have not you love enough to bear with me, "When that rash humour which my mother gave me Makes me forgetful ? Bru. Yes, Cassius; and, from henceforth, When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, He '11 think your mother chides, and leave you so. Poet. [ Within] Let me go in to see the generals ; There is some grudge between 'em, 't is not meet They be alone. Lucil. [Within] You shall not come to them. Poet. [ Within] Nothing but death shall stay me. Enter Foet, followed by Lucilius, Titinius, and Lucius. Cas. How now ! What 's the matter ? [mean ? Poet. For shame, you generals! what do you Love, and be friends, as two such men should be ; For I have seen more years, I 'm sure, than ye. Cas. Ha, ha ! how vilely doth this cynic rhyme ! Bru. Get you hence, sirrah ; saucy fellow, hence ! Cas. Bear with him, Brutus; 'tis his fashion. Bru. I '11 know his humour, when he knows his time: What should the wars do with these jigging fools ? Companion, hence ! Cas. Away, away, be gone ! [JExit Poet. Bru. Lucilius and Titinius, bid the commanders Prepare to lodge their companies to-night. Cas. And come yourselves, and bring Messala Immediately to us. [with you [Exeunt Lucilius and Titinius. Bru. Lucius, a bowl of wine ! [Exit Lucius. 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. -Brw. No man bears sorrow better. Portia is dead. Cas. Ha! Portia! Bru. She is dead. Cas. How 'scaped I killing when I cross'd you so ? 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 ! Pe-enter Lucius with ivine and taper. Bru. Speak no more of her. Give me a bowl of In this I bury all unkindness, Cassius. [wine. Cas. My heart is thirsty for that noble pledge. Fill, Lucius, till the wine o'erswell the cup ; 1 cannot drink too much of Brutus' love. Bru. Come in, Titinius ! [Exit Laicius. Ee-enter Titinius, with Messala. 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 selfsame tenour. Bru. With what addition ? 642 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. Cas. Cicero one ! Mes. 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 ? Bru. Nothing, Messala. Mes. That, methinks, is strange. Bru. Why ask you? hear you aught of her in Mes. No, my lord. [yours ? Bru. Now, as you are a Koman, tell me true. Mes. Then like a Roman bear the truth I tell : For certain she is dead, and by strange manner. Bru. Why, farewell, Portia. We must die, Mes- With meditating that she must die once, [sala : I have the patience to endure it now. [dure. Mes. Even so great men great losses should en- Cas. I have as much of this in art as you, But yet my nature could not bear it so. Bru. Well, to our work alive. What do you think Of marching to Philippi presently ? Cas. I do not think it good. Bru. Your reason ? Cas. This it is : 'T is better that the enemy seek us : So shall he waste his means, weary his soldiers, Doing himself offence ; whilst we, lying stOl, Are full of rest, defence, and nimbleness. Bru. Good reasons must, of force, give place to better. The people 'twixt Philippi and this ground Do stand but in a forced affection ; For they have grudged us contribution : The enemy, marching along by them, • By them shall make a fuller number up, Come on ref resh'd, new-added, and encouraged ; From which advantage shall we cut him off. If at Philippi we do face him there. These people at our back. Cas. 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 ; And we must take the current when it serves, Or lose our ventures. Cas. Then, with your will, go on; We '11 along ourselves, and meet them at Philippi. Bru. The deep of night is crept upon our talk, 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 ! [Enter Lucius.] My gown. [Exit Lucius.] Farewell, good Messala : 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. Bru. Every thing is weU. Cas. Good night, my lord. Bru. Good night, good brother. 11 \l ||||||j|K|pi(|ivii L i^M'i 1 \ ^:-^-^^^ .%^ --±- ^S^^^S^^^ Mil illi'l lip 'i ji "''» iiffilllMiittrtlnll 1 * llfllliil ' ^ •'. ^^ ^^^^^i£^^''^ kwmi " _-- J^— ^--s^'* -«'— ^— --,__^^; _/r^v l/!jM ^ ' ^\'}-- c r ?Ws. '-' ' '^ G K o f iR^^ - 1 ^^^^Z^^^^S^/i"^ > 1 1 ]^^^^ \ '^^■^" < p|^\ ' 1^^^^^^ . ' ''^ -^Su^ B M ll^^^j^^^^^^y* /^ f^^ a •1 MP#-om - i li 88 /LOT V. JULIUS C^SAR. SCENE I. , Tit. Mes. Good night, Lord Brutus. Bru. Farewell, every one. [Exeunt all but Brutus. Be-enter Lucius, with the gown. Give me the gown. Where is thy instrument ? Buc. Here in the tent. Bru. What, thou speak'st drowsily ? Poor knave, I blame thee not : thou art o'erwatch'd. Call Claudius and some other of my men ; I '11 have them sleep on cushions ki my tent. Luc. Varro and Claudius ! Enter Varro 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 sii-s ; 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. [Var. and Clau. lie down. Luc. I was sure your lordship did not give it me. Bru. Bear with me, good boy, I am much forget- Canst thou hold up thy heavy eyes awhile, [fui. And touch thy instrument a strain or two ? Luc. Ay, my lord, an 't please you. Bru. It does, my boy : I trouble thee too much, but thou art willing. Luc. It is my duty, sir. Bru. 1 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 was well done ; and thou shalt sleep again ; I will not hold thee long : if I do live, I will be good to thee. [3fusic, and a song. This is a sleepy tune. O murderous 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 \^Tong to wake thee : If thou dost nod, thou break'st thy instrument ; I 'U take it from thee ; and, good boy, good night. Let me see, let me see ; is not the leaf turn'd down Where I left reading ? Here it is, I think. Enter the Ghost of Csesar. How ill this taper burns ! 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 makest my blood cold and my hair to stare ? Speak to me what thou art. Ghost. Thy evil spirit, Brutus. Bru. Why comest thou ? Ghost. To tell thee thou shalt see me at Philippi. Bru. Well ; then I shall see thee again ? Ghost. Ay, at Philippi. Bru. Why, I will see thee at Philippi, then. [Exit Ghost. Now I have taken heart thou vanishest : 111 spirit, I would hold more talk with thee. Boy, Lucius! Varro! Claudius! Sirs, awake! Clau- Luc. The strings, my lord, are false. [dius ! Bru. He thinks he still is at his instrument. Lucius, awake ! Luc. My lord ? Bru. Didst thou dream, Lucius, that thou so criedst out ? Imc. My lord, I do not know that I did cry. Bru. Yes, that thou didst : didst thou see any thing ? Lv£. Nothing, my lord. Bru. Sleep again, Lucius. Sirrah Claudius ! [To Var.] Fellow thou, awake ! Var. My lord ? Clau. My lord ? Bru. Why did you so cry out, sirs, in your sleep ? Var. Clau. Did we, my lord ? Bru. Ay : saw you any thing ? Var. No, my lord, I saw nothing. Clau. Nor I, my lord. Bru. Go and commend me to my brother Cassius ; Bid him set on his powers betimes before, And we will foUow. Var. Clau. It shaU be done, my lord. [Exeunt. A.CT ^. SCENE 1.— The plains of Philippi. Enter Octavius, Antony, and their Army. Oct. Now, Antony, our hopes are answered : You said the enemy would not come down. But keep the hiUs and upper regions ; It proves not so : their battles are at hand ; Tliey mean to warn us at Philippi here. Answering before we do demand of them. Ant. Tut, I am in their bosoms, and I know Wherefore they do it : they could be content To visit other places ; and come down With fearful bravery, thinking by this face To fasten in our thoughts that they have courage ; But 't is not so. „ Enter a Messenger. Mess. Prepare, you, generals: The enemy comes on in gallant show ; Their bloody sign of battle is hung out, And something to be done immediately. Ant. Octavius, lead your battle softly on, Upon the left hand of the even field. Oct. Upon the right hand I ; keep thou the left. Ant. Why do you cross me in this exigent ? Oct. I do not cross you ; but I will do so. [March. Drum. Enter Brutus, Cassius, and their Army ; Lucilius, Titinius, Messala, and others. Bru. They stand, and would have parley. Cas. Stand fast, Titinius : we must out and talk. Oct. Mark Antony, shall we give sign of battle ? Ant. No, Csesar, we will answer on their charge. Make forth ; the generals would have some words. Oct. Stir not until the signal. Bru. Words before blows : is it so, countrymen ? Oct. Not that we love words better, as you do. Bru. Good words are better than bad strokes, Octavius. [words : Ant. In your bad strokes, Brutus, you give good Witness the hole you made in Caesar's heart, Crying ' Long live ! hail, Csesar ! ' Cas. Antony, The posture of your blows are yet unknown ; But for your words, they rob the Hybla bees, And leave them honeyless. Ant. Not stingless too. Bru. O, yes, and soundless too; For you have stol'n their buzzing, Antony, And very wisely threat before you sting. [gers Ant. Villains, you did not so, when your vile dag- Hack 'd one another in the sides of Csesar : 643 ACT V. JULIUS C^SAR. SCENE III. You show'd your teeth like apes, and fa wn'd like hounds, And bow'd like bondmen, kissing Caesar's feet; Whilst damn'd Casca, like a cur, behind Struck Caesar on the neck. O you flatterers! Cas. Flatterers! Now, Brutus, thank yourself : This tongue had not offended so to-day, If Cassius might have ruled. Oct. Come, come, the cause : if arguing make us sweat. The proof of it will turn to redder drops. Look ; I draw a sword against conspirators ; When think you that the sword goes up again ? Never, till Caesar's three and thirty wounds Be well avenged ; or till another Caesar Have added slaughter to the sword of traitors. Bru. Caesar, thou canst not die by traitors' hands. Unless thou bring 'st them with thee. Oct. So I hope ; I was not born to die on Brutus' sword. Bru. O, if thou wert the noblest of thy strain. Young man, thou couldst not die more honourable. Cas. A peevish schoolboy, worthless of such hon- Join'd with a masker and a reveller ! [our, Ant. Old Cassius still ! Oct. Come, Antony, away ! Defiance, traitors, hurl we in your teeth: If you dare fight to-day, come to the field ; If not, when you have stomachs. [Exeunt Octavius, Antony, and their army. Cas. Why, now, blow wind, swell billow aiid. swim bark ! The storm is up, and all is on the hazard. Bru. Ho, Lucilius ! hark, a word with you. Lucil. [Standing forth] My lord ? [Brutus and Lucilius converse apart. Cas. Messala ! Mes. [Standing forth] What says my general ? Cas. Messala, This is my birth-day ; as this very day Was Cassius born. Give me thy hand, Messala : Be thou my witness that against my will. As Pompey was, am I compell'd to set Upon one battle all our liberties. You know that I held Epicurus strong And his opinion : now I change my mind, And partly credit things that do presage. Coming from Sardis, on our former ensign Two mighty eagles fell, and there they perch'd, Gorging and feeding from our soldiers' hands ; Who to Philippi here consorted us : This morning are they fled away and gone ; And in their steads do ravens, crows and kites, Fly o'er our heads and downward look on us, As we were sickly prey : their shadows seem A canopy most fatal, under which Our army lies, ready to give up the ghost. Mes. Believe not so. Cas. I but believe it partly ; For I am fresh of spirit and resolved To meet all perils very constantly. Bru. Even so, Lucilius. Cas. Now, most noble Brutus, The gods to-day stand friendly, that we may. Lovers in peace, lead on our days to age ! But since the affairs of men rest still incertain, Let 's reason with the worst that may befall. If we do lose this battle, then is this The very last time we shall speak together : What are you then determined to do ? Bru. Even by the rule of that philosophy By which I did blame Cato for the death Which he did give himself, I know not how, But I do find it cowardly and vile, For fear of what might fall, so to prevent The time of life : arming myself with patience 644 To stay the providence of some high powers That govern us below. Cas. Then, if we lose this battle, You are contented to be led in triumph Thorough the streets of Bome ? [man, Bru. No, Cassius, no : think not, thou noble Eo- That ever Brutus will go bound to Rome ; He bears too great a mind. But this same day Must end that work the ides of March begun ; And whether we shall meet again I know not. Therefore our everlasting farewell take : For ever, and for ever, farewell, Cassius ! If we do meet again, why, we shall smile ; If not, why then, this parting was well made. Cas. For ever, and for ever, farewell, Brutus ! If we do meet again, we '11 smile indeed ; If not, 't is true this parting was well made. Bru. Why, then, lead on. O, that a man might The end of this day's business ere it come ! [know But it sufficeth that the day will end. And then the end is known. Come, ho ! away ! [Exeunt. SCENE II. — Tlie same. The field of battle. Alarum. Enter Brutus and Messala. Bru. Eide, ride, Messala, ride, and give these bills Unto the legions on the other side. [Loud alarum. Let them set on at once ; for I perceive But cold demeanour in Octavius' wing. And sudden push gives them the overthrow. Eide, ride, Messala: let them all come down. [Exeunt. SCENE III. — Another part of the field. Alarums. Enter Cassius and Titinius. Cas. O, look, Titinius, look, the villains fly! Myself have to mine own turn'd enemy : This ensign here of mine was turning back ; I slew the coward, and did take it from him. Tit. O Cassius, Brutus gave the word too early ; Who, having some advantage on Octavius, Took it too eagerly : his soldiers fell to spoil. Whilst we by Antony are all enclosed. Eiiter Pindarus. Pin. Fly further off, my lord, fly further off ; Mark Antony is in your tents, my lord : Fly, therefore, noble Cassius, fly far off. Cas. This hill is far enough. Look, look, Titinius •, Are those my tents where I perceive the fire ? Tit. They are, my lord. Cas. Titinius, if thou lovest me, Mount thou my horse, and hide thy spurs in him, 'Till he have brought thee up to yonder troops. And here again ; that I may rest assured Whether yond troops are friend or enemy. Tit. I will be here again, even with a thought. [Exit. Cas. Go, Pindarus, get higher on that hill ; My sight was ever thick; regard Titinius, And tell me what thou notest about the field. [Pindarus ascends the hill. This day I breathed first : time is come round. And where I did begin, there shall I end ; My life is run his compass. Sirrah, what news ? Pin. [Above] O my lord ! Cas. What news? Pin. [Above] Titinius is enclosed round about With horsemen, that make to him on the spur ; Yet he spurs on. Now they are almost on him. Now, Titinius I Now some light. O. he lights too. He 's ta'en. [Shout.] And, hark ! they shout for joy. Cas. Come down, behold no more. O, coward that I am, to live so long, To see my best friend ta'en before my face ! ACT V. JULIUS C^SAR. SCENE V. Pindarus descends. Come hither, sirrah : In Parthia did I take thee prisoner ; And then I swore thee, saving of thy life, That whatsoever I did bid tliee do, [oath ; Thou shouldst attempt it. Come now, keep tliiiie Now be a freeman : and with this good sword, That ran tlirough Caesar's bowels, search this bosom. Stand not to answer : here, take thou the hilts ; And, when my face is cover'd, as 't is now. Guide thou the sword. [Pindarus stabs him.] Caesar, thou art revenged. Even with the sword that kill'd thee. [Dies. Pin. So, I am free ; yet would not so have been, Durst I have done my will. O Cassius, Tar from this country Pindarus shall run, "Where never Koman shall take note of him." [Exit. Be-enter Titinius icith Messala. Mes. It is but change, Titinius ; for Octavius Is overthrown by noble Brutus' power, As Cassius' legions are by Antony. Tit. These tidings will well comfort Cassius. ■ Mes. Where did you leave him ? Tit. AU disconsolate, "With Pindarus his bondman, on this hill. Mes. Is not that he that lies upon the ground ? Tit. He lies not like the living. O my heart ! Mes. Is not that he ? Tit. No, this was he, Messala, But Cassius is no more. O setting sun. As in thy red rays thou dost sink to-night, So in his red blood Cassius' day is set ; The sun of Eome is set ! Cm- day is gone ; Clouds, dews, and dangers come ; our deeds are done ! Mistrust of my success hath done this deed. Mes. Mistrust of good success hath done this deed. O hateful error, melancholy's child, Why dost thoii show to the apt thoughts of men The things that are not ? O error, soon conceived, Thou never comest unto a happy birth. But kill'st the mother that engender 'd thee ! Tit. What, Pindarus ! vi^here art thou, Pindarus ? Mes. Seek him, Titinius, whilst I go to meet The noble Brutus, thrusting this report Into his ears ; I may say, thrusting it ; Por piercing steel and darts envenomed Shall be as welcome to the ears of Brutus As tidings of this sight. Tit. Hie you, Messala, And I will seek for Pindarus the whUe. [Exit Messala. Why didst thou send me forth, brave Cassius ? Did I not meet thy friends ? and did not they Put on my brows this wreath of victory, [shouts ? And bid me give it thee ? Didst thou not hear their Alas, thou hast misconstrued everything ! But, hold thee, take this garland on thy brow ; Thy Brutus bid me give it thee, and I Will do his bidding. Brutus, come apace. And see how I regarded Cains Cassius. By your leave, gods: — this is a Soman's part : Come, Cassius' sword, and find Titinius' heart. [Kills himself. Alarum. Be-enter Messala, with Brutus, young Cato, Strato, Volumnius, and Lucilius. Bru. Where, where, Messala, doth his body lie ? Mes. Lo, yonder, and Titinius mourning it. Bru. Titinius' face is upward. Cato. He is slain. Bru. O Julius Caesar, thou art mighty yet ! Thy spirit walks abroad, and turns our swords In our own proper entrails. [Low alarums. Cato. Brave Titinius ! Look, whether he have not crown 'd dead Cassius ! Briu Are yet two Eomans living such as these ? The last of all the Eomans, fare thee well ! It is impossible that ever Eome Should breed thy fellow. Friends, I owe more tears To this dead man than you shall see me pay. I shall find time, Cassius, I shall find time. Come, therefore, and to Thasos send his body: His funerals shall not be in our camp. Lest it discomfort us. Lucilius, come ; And come, young Cato ; let us to the field. Labeo and Plavius, set our battles on : 'T is three o'clock; and, Eomans, yet ere night We shall try fortune in a second fight. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. — Another part of the field. Alarum. Enter fighting, Soldiers of both armies; then Brutus, young Oato, Lucilius, and others. Bru. Yet, countrymen, O, yet hold up your heads ! Cato. What bastard doth not? Who will go with me ? I will proclaim my name about the field : I am the son of Marcus Cato, ho ! A foe to tyrants, and my country's friend ; I am the son of Marcus Cato, ho ! Bru. And I am Brutus, Marcus Brutus, I ; Brutus, my country's friend; know me for Brutus! [Exit. Lucil. O young and noble Cato, art thou down? Why, now thou diest as bravely as Titinius ; And mayst be honour'd, being Cato's son. First Sold. Yield, or thou diest. Lucil. Only I yield to die : There is so much that thou wilt kill me straight ; [Offering money. Kill Brutus, and be honour'd in his death. First Sold. We must not. A noble prisoner ! Sec. Sold. Eoom, ho! Tell Antony, Brutus is ta'en. [general. First Sold. I 'U tell the news. Here comes the Enter Antony. Brutus is ta'en, Brutus is ta'en, my lord. Ant. Where is he ? Lucil. Safe, Antony; Brutus is safe enough: I dare assure thee that no enemy Shall ever take alive the noble Brutus : The gods defend him from so great a shame ! When you do find him, or alive or dead, He will be found like Brutus, like himself. Ant. This is not Brutus, friend ; but, I assure you, A prize no less in worth : keep this man safe ; Give him all kindness : I had rather have Such men my friends than enemies. Go on. And see whether Brutus be alive or dead ; And bring us word unto Octavius' tent How evej^hing is chanced. [Exeunt. SCENE V. Inother part of the field. Enter Brutus, Dardanius, Clitus, Strato, and Volumnius. Bru. Come, poor remains of friends, rest on this rock. Cli. Statilius show'd the torch-light, but, my lord, He came not back : he is or ta'en or slain. Bru. Sit thee down, Clitus: slaying is the word; It is a deed in fashion. Hark thee, Clitus. [ Whispers. Cli. What, I, my lord ? No, not for all the world. Bru. Peace then ! no words. Cli. 1 '11 rather kill myself. Bru. Hark thee, Dardanius. [Whispers. Bar. Shall I do such a deed ? Cli. O Dardanius ! Bar. O Clitus I Cli. What ill request did Brutus make to thee ? 645 ACT V. JULIUS C^SAR. SCENE V. Bar. To kill him, Clitus. Look, he meditates. Cli. Now is that noble vessel full of grief. That it runs over even at his eyes. Bru. Come hither, good Volumnius ; list a word. Vol. What says my lord ? Bru. "Why, this, Volunmius : The ghost of Caesar hath appear 'd to me Two several times by night ; at Sardis once, And, this last night, here in Philippi fields : I know my hour is come. Vol. Not so, my lord. Bru. Nay, I am sure it is, Volumnius. Thou seest the world, Volumnius, how it goes ; Our enemies have beat us to the pit : [Low alarums. It is more worthy to leap in ourselves, Than tarry till they push us. Good Volumnius, Thou know'st that we two went to school together : Even for that our love of old, I prithee, Hold thou my sword-hilts, whilst I run on it. Vol. That 's not an office for a friend, my lord. [Alarum still. Cli. Fly, fly, my lord ; there is no tarrying here. Bru. Farewell to you; and you; and you, Vo- lumnius. Strato, thou hast been all this while asleep ; Farewell to thee too, Strato. Countrymen, My heart doth joy that yet in all my life I found no man but he was true to me. I shall have glory by this losing day More than Octavius and Mark Antony By this vile conquest shall attain unto. So fare you well at once; for Brutus' tongue Hath almost ended his life's history : Night hangs upon mine eyes ; my bones would rest. That have but labour'd to attain this hour. [Alarum. Cry within, ' Fly, fly, fly ! ' Cli. Fly, my lord, fly. Bru. Hence ! I will follow. [Exeunt Clitus., Dardanius, and Volumnius. I prithee, Strato, stay thou by thy lord : Thou art a fellow of a good respect ; Thy life hath had some smatch of honour in it : Hold then my sword, and turn away thy face. While I do run upon it. Wilt thou, Strato ? Stra. Give me your hand first. Fare you well, my lord. Bru. Farewell, good Strato. [Buns on his sword.] Caesar, now be still : I kill'd not thee with half so good a will. [Dies. Alarum. Retreat. Enter Octavius, Antony, Messala, Lucilius, and the Army. Oct. What man is that ? [master ? Mes. My master's man. Strato, where is thy Stra. Free from the bondage you are in, Messala : The conquerors can but make a fire of him ; For Brutus only overcame himself. And no man else hath honour by his death. Lixcil. So Brutus should be found. I thank thee, Brutus, That thou hast proved Lucilius' saying true. Oct. All that served Brutus, I will entertain them. Fellow, wilt thou bestow thy time with me ? Stra. Ay, if Messala will prefer me to you. Oct. Do so, good Messala. Mes. How died my master, Strato ? Stra. I held the sword, and he did run on it. Mes. Octavius, then take him to follow thee, That did the latest service to my master. Ant. This was the noblest Koman 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 world ' 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 honourably. So call the field to rest ; and let 's away. To part the glories of this happy day. [Exeunt. 646 JULIUS C-.4ESAR REFUSING THE PERIAL CROWN. MACBETH. BBAMATIS PEBSON^. Duncan, King of Scotland. Malcolm, "i , . Donalbain, | ^^^ «°'^^' Macbetb, 1 Banquo, / generals of the king's army. Macduflf, Lennox, -.» L -J.,, i- noblemen of Scotland. Menteitn, Angus, Caithness, Fleance, son to Banquo. Siward, Earl of Northumberland, general of the English forces. Young Siward, his son. Seyton, an officer attending on Macbeth. Boy, son to Macduff. An English Doctor. A Scotch Doctor. A Soldier. A Porter. An Old Man. Lady Mactoeth. Lady Macduff. Gentlewoman attending on Lady Macbeth. Three Witches. Apparitions. Lords, Gentlemen, Officers, Soldiers, Murderers, At- tendants, and Messengers. QCEiH^ — Scotland : England. [For SCENE l.—A desert place. of the Plot of this Play, see Page ^CT I. !•] Thunder and lightning. Enter three Witches. First Witch. When shall we three meet again In thunder, lightning, or in rain ? Sec. Witch. When the hurlyburly 's done, When the battle 's lost and won. Third Witch. That will be ere the set of sun. First Witch. Where the place ? Sec. Witch. Upon the heath. Third Witch. There to meet with Macbeth. First Witch. I come, Graymalkin ! Sec. Witch. Paddock calls. Third Witch. Anon. All. Fair is foul, and foul is fair : Hover through the fog and filthy air. [Exeunt. SCENE II. — A camp near Forres. Alarum within. Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donal- bain, Lennox, with Attendants, meeting a bleeding Sergeant. Dun. What bloody man is that ? He can report, As seemeth 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 broil As thou didst leave it. Ser. Doubtful it stood : As two spent swimmers, that do cling together And choke their art. The merciless Macdonwald — Worthy to be a rebel, for to that The multiplying villanies of nature Do swarm upon him— from the western isles Of kerns and gallowglasses is supplied ; And fortune, on his damned quarrel smiling, Show'd like a rebel's whore : but all 's too weak : Tor brave Macbeth — well he deserves that name — Disdaining fortune, with his brandish 'd steel, Which smoked with bloody execution, Like valour's minion carved out his passage Till he faced the slave ; Which ne'er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him, Till he unseam'd him from the nave to the chaps, And fix'd his head upon our battlements. Dun. O valiant cousin ! worthy gentleman ! Ser. As whence the sun 'gins his reflection Shipwrecking storms and direful thunders break. So from that spring whence comfort seem'd to come Discomfort swells. Mark, king of Scotland, mark: No sooner justice had with valour arm'd Compell'd these skipping kerns 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 ? Ser. Yes ; As sparrows eagles, or the hare the lion. If I say sooth, I must report they were As cannons overcharged with double cracks, so they Doubly redoubled strokes upon the foe : Except they meant to bathe in reeking wounds. Or memorize another Golgotha, I cannot tell. But I am faint, my gashes cry for help, [wounds ; Dun. So well thy words become thee as thy They smack of honour both. Go get him surgeons. [Exit Sergeant., attended. Who comes here ? „ Enter Ross. Mai. The worthy thane of Eoss. Len. What a haste looks through his eyes ! So should he look That seems to speak things strange. Boss. God save the king ! Dun. Whence camest thou, worthy thane ? Boss. From Fife, great king; Where the Norweyan banners flout the sky And fan our people cold. Norway himself, 647 MACBETH. SCENE III. With terrible numbers, Assisted by that most disloyal traitor The thane of Cawdor j began a dismal conflict ; Till that Bellona's bridegroom, lapp'd in proof, Confronted him with self -comparisons, Point against point rebellious, arm 'gainst arm, Cm-bing his lavish spirit : and, to conclude, The victory fell on us. Dun. Great happiness ! Boss. That now Sweno, the Norways' king, craves composition; Nor would we deign him burial of his men Till he disbursed at Saint Colme's inch Ten thousand dollars to our general use. Dun. No more that thane of Cawdor shall deceive Our bosom interest : go pronounce his present death, And with his former title greet Macbeth. Boss. I '11 see it done. Dun. What he hath lost noble Macbeth hath SCENE III.— ^ heath near Forres. Thunder. Enter the three Witches. First Witch. Where hast thou been, sister ? Sec. Witch. Killing swine. Third Witch. Sister, where thou ? [lap, First Witch. A sailor's wife had chestnuts in her And munch'd, and munch'd, and munch'd : — ' Give me,' quoth I : 'Aroint thee, witch ! ' the rump-fed ronyon cries. Her husband 's to Aleppo gone, master o' the Tiger : But in a sieve I '11 thither sail, And, like a rat without a tail, I '11 do, I '11 do, and I '11 do. Sec. Witch. I '11 give thee a wind. First Witch. Thou 'rt kind. Third Witch. And I another. First 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 se'nnights nine times nine Shall he dwindle, peak and pine : Though his bark cannot be lost, Yet it shall be tempest-tost. Look what I have. Sec. Witch. Show me, show me. First Witch. Here I have a pilot's thumb, Wreck'd as homeward he did come. {Drum within. Third 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. Mach. So foul and fair a day I have not seen. Ban. How far is 't call'd to Forres ? What are So wither'd and so wild in their attire, [these 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 By each at once her chappy finger laying [me. Upon her skinny lips : you should be women. And yet your beards forbid me to interpret That you are so. Mach. Speak, if you can : what are you ? First Witch. All hail, Macbeth ! hail to thee, thane of Glamis ! Sec. Witch. All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, thane of Cawdor ! Third Witch. All hail, Macbeth, thou 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 V My noble partner You greet with present grace and great prediction Of noble having and of royal hope. That he seems rapt withal : to me you speak not. If you can look into the seeds of time. And say which grain will grow and which vdll not, Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear Your favours nor your hate. First Witch. Hail ! Sec. Witch. Hail! Third Witch. Hail ! First Witch. Lesser than Macbeth, and greater. Sec. Witch. Not so happy, yet much happier. ThirdWitch. Thou shalt get kings, though thou So all hail, Macbeth and Banquo ! [be none : First Witch. Banquo and Macbeth, all hail! Macb. Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more: By Sihel'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 eai-th 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 As breath into the wind. Would they had stay'd ! Ban. Were such things here as we do speak about ? Or have we eaten on 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 ? [liere ? Ban. To the selfsame tune and words. Who 's Fnter Ross and Angus. Boss. The king hath happily received, Macbeth, The news of thy success ; and when he reads Thy personal venture in the rebels' fight. His wonders and his praises do contend Which should be thine or his: silenced with that. In viewing o'er the rest o' the selfsame day, He finds thee in the stout Norweyan ranks, Nothing afeard of what thyself didst make. Strange images of death. As thick as hail Came 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 ; Only to herald thee into his sight. Not pay thee. Boss. And, for an earnest of a greater honour, 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 ? Macb. The thane of Cawdor lives : why do you In borrow 'd robes ? [dress me Ang. Who was the thane lives yet ; But under heavy judgment bears that life Which he deserves to lose. Whether he was combined With those of Norway, or did line the rebel With hidden help and vantage, or that with both He labour'd in his country's wreck, I know not ; • daughters to Lear. ^ Cordelia, I Knights of Lear's train, Captains, and Attendants, SCENE — Britain. [For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Pago LXV. A^CT I. SCENE 1.— King Learns palace. Enter Kent, Gloucester, and Edmund. Kent. I thought the king had more affected the Duke of Albany than Cornwall. Glou. It did always seem so to us : but now, in the division of the kingdom, it appears not which of the dukes he values most ; for equalities are so weighed, that curiosity in neither can make choice of either's moiety. Kent. Is not this your son, my lord ? Glou. His breeding, sir, hath been at my charge : I have so often blushed to acknowledge him, that now I am brazed to it. Kent. I cannot conceive you. Olou. Sir, this young fellow's mother could: whereupon she grew round-wombed, and had,indeed, sir, a son for her cradle ere she had a husband for her bed. Do you smell a fault ? Kent. I cannot wish the fault undone, the issue of it being so proper. Olou. But I have, sir, a son by order of law, some year elder than this, who yet is no dearer in my ac- count : though this knave came something saucily into the world before he was sent for, yet was his mother fair ; there was good sport at his making, and the whoreson must be acknowledged. Do you know this noble gentleman, Edmund ? Edm. No, my lord. Olou. My lord of Kent : remember him hereafter as my honourable friend. Edm. My services to your lordship. Kent. I must love you, and sue to know you better. Edm. Sir, I shall study deserving. Olou. He hath been out nine years, and away he shall again. The king is coming. Sennet. Enter King Lear, Corn-wall, Albany, Goneril, Regan, Cordelia, and Attendants. Lear. Attend the lords of France and Burgundy, Olou. I shall, my liege. [Gloucester. [Exeunt Oloucester and Edmund. Lear. Meantime we shall express our darker pur- pose. 696 Give me the map there. Know 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, while we Unburthen'd crawl toward death. Our so^ of Com- And you, oiu: no less loving son of Albany, [wall, We have this hour a constant will to puHish Our daughters' several dowers, that future strife May be prevented now. The princes, France and Burgundy, Great rivals in oiir youngest daughter's love, Long in our court have made their amorous sojourn, And here are to be answer'd. Tell me, my daugh- Since now we will divest us, both of rule, [ters, — Interest of territory, cares of state, — Which of you shall we say doth love us most ? That we our largest bounty may extend Where nature doth with merit challenge. Goneril, Our eldest-born, speak first. Gon. Sir, I love you more than words can wield the matter ; Dearer than eye-sight, space, and liberty; Beyond what can be valued, rich or rare ; jSTo less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honour ; As much as child e'er loved, or father found; A love that makes breath poor, and speech unable ; Beyond all manner of so much I love you. Cor. [Aside] What shall Cordelia do? Love, and be silent. [this, Lear. Of all these bounds, even from this line to 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 Began, wife to Cornwall? Speak. Beg. Sir, I am made Of the self -same metal that my sister is, 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 possess^ And find I am alone felicitate In your dear highness' lo/e. ACT I, KING LEAR. SCENE 1. Cor. [Aside\ Then poor Cordelia ! And yet not so ; since, I am sure, my love 's More richer than my tongue. Lear. To thee and thine hereditary ever Eemain this ample third of our fair kingdom ; No less in space, validity, and pleasure, Than that conferr'd on Goneril. Now, our joy, Although the last, not least ; to whose young love The vines of Trance and milk of Burgundy Strive to be interess'd ; what can you say to draw A third more opulent than yom- sisters ? Speak, Cor. Nothing, my lord. Lear. Nothing! Cot. Nothing. Lear. Nothing will 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 Lest it may mar your fortunes. [little, Cor. Good my lord, You have begot me, bred me, loved me : I Keturn those duties back as are right fit, Obey you, love you, and most honour you. "Why have my sisters husbands, if they say They love you all ? Haply, when I shall wed. That lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry Half my love with him, half my care and duty: Sure, I shall never marry like my sisters. To love my father all. Lear. But goes thy heart with this ? 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 operation of the orbs From whom we do exist, and cease to be; Here I disclaim all my paternal care, Propinquity and property of blood. And as a stranger to my heart and me [Scythian, Hold thee, from this, for ever. The barbarous Or he that makes his generation messes To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom Be as well neighbour'd, pitied, and relieved, As thou my sometime daughter. Kent. Good my liege,— Lear. Peace, Kent ! Come not between the dragon and his wrath. I loved her most, and thought to set my rest On her kind nursery. Hence, and avoid my sight ! So be my grave my peace, as here I give [stirs ? Her father's heart from her ! Call France ; who 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 [course, That troop with majesty. Ourself, by monthly With reservation of an hundred knights. By you to be sustain'd, shall our abode Make 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. This coronet part betwixt you. [Giving the crown. Kent. Eoyal Lear, Whom I have ever honour'd as my king. Loved 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 region of my heart : be Kent unmannerly, When Lear is mad. What wilt thou do, old man ? Think'st thou that duty shall have dread to speak. When power to flattery bows ? To plainness hon- our 's bound. When majesty falls to folly. Keverse thy doom; And, in thy best consideration, check [ment, This hideous rashness: answer my life my judg- Thy youngest daughter does not love thee least ; Nor are those empty-hearted whose low sound Keverbs no hoUowness. Lear. Kent, on thy life, no more. Kent. My life I never held but as a pawn To wage against thine enemies; nor fear to lose it, Thy safety being the motive. Lear. Out of my sight ! Kerit. See better, Lear ; and let me still remain The true blank of thine eye. Lear. Now, by Apollo, — Kent. Now, by Apollo, king, Thou swear'st thy gods In vain. Lear. O, vassal! miscreant! [Laying his hand on his sword. cll'n. } ^^^^ ^^^' forbear. Kent. Do; Kill thy physician, and the fee bestow Upon thy foul disease. Revoke thy doom ; Or, whilst I can vent clamour from my throat, I '11 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 between our sentence and our power, Which nor our nature nor our place can bear, Our potency made good, take thy reward. Five days we do 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 I by Jupiter, This shall not be revoked. [appear, Kent. Fare thee well, king : sith thus thou wilt Freedom lives hence, and banishment is here. [To Cordelia] The gods to their dear shelter take thee, maid. That justly think'st, and hast most rightly said! [To Began and Goneril] And your large speeches may your deeds approve. That good effects may spring trom words of love. Thus Kent, O princes, bids you all adieu ; He '11 shape his old course in a country new. [Kxit. Flourish. Be-enter Gloucester, with France, Burgundy, and Attendants. Glou. 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 will you tender less. Lear. Eight noble Burgundy, When she was dear to us, we did 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 pieced. And nothing more, may fitly like your grace. She 's there, and she is yours. Bur. I know no answer. Lear. Will you, with those infirmities she owes, Unfriended, new-adopted to our hate, [oath, Dower 'd with our curse, and stranger 'd with our Take her, or leave her ? Bur. Pardon me, royal sir ; Election makes not up on such conditions. ACT I. KING LEAR. SCENE II. liear. Then leave her, sir ; for, by the power that made me, I tell you all her wealth. \To FranQ.€\ For you, great king, I would 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 ashamed 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 favouLT. Sure, her offence Must be of such unnatural degree. That monsters it, or your fore-vouch'd affection Pall'n into taint : which to believe of her. Must be a faith that reason without 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, I 'U do 't before I speak,— that you make known It is no vicious blot, murder, or foulness. No unchaste action, or dishonour'd step, That hath deprived me of your grace and favour ; But even for want of that for which I am richer, A still-soliciting eye, and such a tongue As I am glad I have not, though not to have it Hath lost me in your liking. Lear. Better thou [better. Hadst not been born than not to have pleased me France. Is it but this, — a tardiness in nature "Which often leaves the history imspoke That it intends to do ? My lord of Burgundy, "What say you to the lady ? Love 's not love "When it is mingled with regards that stand Aloof from the entire point. Will you have her ? She is herself a dowry. Bur. Eoyal Lear, Give but that portion which yourself proposed, 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 ! 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 loved, despised ! Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon : Be it lawful I take up what 's cast away, [neglect Gods, gods ! 't is strange that from their cold'st My love should kindle to inflamed 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 Can buy this unprized precious maid of me. Bid them farewell, Cordelia, though unkind : Thou losest here, a better where to find. [for we Lear. Thou hast her, France: let her be thine; 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. [Flourish. Exeunt all hut France^ Goneril, Itegan., and Cordelia. 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 named. 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. Beg. Prescribe not us our duties. Oon. Let your study Be to content your lord, who hath received you At fortune's alms. You have obedience scanted, And well are worth the want that you have wanted. Cor. Time shall unfold what plaited cunning hides : "Wbo cover faults, at last shame them derides. "WeU may you prosper ! France. Come, my fair Cordelia. [Exeunt France and Cordelia. Gon. Sister, it is not a little I have to say of what most nearly appertains to us both. I think our father will hence to-night. Beg. That's most certain, and with you; next month with us. Gon. You see how full of changes his age is ; the observation we have made of it hath not been little : he always loved our sister most; and with what poor judgment he hath now cast her off appears too grossly. Beg. 'T is the infirmity of his age : yet he hath ever but slenderly known himself. Gon. The best and soundest of his time hath been but rash ; then must we look to receive from his age, not alone the imperfections of long-engraffed condition, but therewithal the unruly waywardness that infirm and choleric years bring with them. Beg. Such unconstant starts are we like to have from him as this of Kent's banishment. Gon. There is further compliment of leave-taking between France and him. Pray you, let 's hit together : if our father carry authority with such dispositions as he bears, this last surrender of his will but offend us. Beg. "We shall further think on 't. Gon. We must do something, and i' the heat. [Exeunt. SCENE II. — Tlie Earl of Gloucester'' s castle. Enter Edmund, with a letter. Edm. Thou, nature, art my goddess ; to thy law My services are bound. Wherefore should I Stand in the plague of custom, and permit The curiosity of nations to deprive me. For that I am some twelve or fourteen moonshines Lag of a brother ? Why bastard ? wherefore base ? When my dimensions are as well compact. My mind as generous, and my shape as true, As honest madam's issue ? Why brand they us With base ? with baseness ? bagtardy ? base, base ? Who, in the lusty stealth of nature, take More composition and fierce quality Than doth, within a dull, stale, tired bed, Go to the creating a whole tribe of fops. Got 'tween asleep and wake ? WeU, then. Legitimate Edgar, I must have your land: Our father's love is to the bastard Edmund As to the legitimate : fine word,— legitimate! Well, my legitimate, if this letter speed. And my invention thrive, Edmund the base Shall top the legitimate. I grow : I prosper : Now, gods, stand up for bastards! Enter Gloucester. Glou. Kent banish 'd thus I and France in choler parted ! And the king gone to-night ! subscribed his power I Confined to exhibition ! All this done Upon the gad ! Edmund, how now ! what news j* Edm. So please your lordship, none. [Putting v.p the letter. Glou. Why so earnestly seek you to put up that Edm. 1 know no news, my lord. [letter f ACT I. KING LEAR. SCENE II. Glou. What paper were you reading ? Edm. Nothing, my lord. Glou. No ? What needed, then, that terrible dis- patch of it into your pocket ? the quality of noth- ing hath not such need to hide itself. Let 's see : come, if it be nothing, I shaU not need spectacles. Edm.. I beseech you, sir, pardon me : it is a letter from my brother, that I have not all o'erread; and for so much as I have perused, I find it not fit for your o'er-looking. GUm. Give me the letter, sir. Edm. I shall offend, either to detain or give it. The contents, as in part I understand them, are to Glou. Let 's see, let 's see. [blame. Edm. I hope, for my brother's justification, he wrote this but as an essay or taste of my virtue. Glo. [Beads] ' This policy and reverence of age makes the world bitter to the best of our times ; keeps our fortunes from us till our oldness cannot relish them. I begin to find an idle and fond bond- age in the oppression of aged tyranny ; who sways, not as it hath power, but as it is sulfered. Come to me, that of this I may speak more. If our father would sleep till I waked him, you should enjoy half his revenue for ever, and live the beloved of your brother, Edgar.' Hum — conspiracy! — 'Sleep till I waked him, — you should enjoy half his revenue,' — My son Edgar I Had he a hand to write this ? a heart and brain to breed it in ? — When came this to you ? who brought it? Edm. It was not brought me, my lord ; there 's the cunning of it ; I found it throvvm in at the case- ment of my closet. Glou. You know the character to be your brother's? Edm. If the matter were good, my lord, I durst swear it were his; but, in respect of that, I would fain think it were not. Glou. It is his. Edm. It is his hand, my lord; but I hope his heairt is not in the contents. Glou. Hath he never heretofore sounded you in this business ? Edm. Never, my lord : but I have heard him oft maintain it to be fit, that, sons at perfect age, and fathers declining, the father should be as ward to the son, and the son manage his revenue. Glou. O villain, villain! His very opinion in the letter ! Abhorred villain ! Unnatural, detested, brutish villain! worse than brutish! GrO, sirrah, seek him ; I '11 apprehend him : abominable villain ! Where is he ? Edm. I do not well know, my lord. If it shall E lease you to suspend your indignation against my rother till you can derive from him better testi- mony of his intent, you shall run a certain course ; where, if you violently proceed against him, mis- taking his purpose, it would make a great gap in your own honour, and shake in pieces the heart of his obedience. I dare pawn down my life for him, that he hath wrote this to feel my affection to your honour, and to no further pretence of danger. Glou. Thiuk you so ? Edm. If your honour judge it meet, I will place you where you shall hear us confer of this, and by an auricular assurance have your satisfaction ; and that without any further delay than this very Glou. He cannot be such a monster — [evening. Edm. Nor is not, sure. Glou. To his father, that so tenderly and entirely loves him. Heaven and earth! Edmund, seek him out: wind me into him, I pray you: frame the business after your own wisdom. I would unstate myself, to be in a due resolution. Edm. I will seek him, sir, presently : convey the business as I shall find means, and acquaint you withal. Glou. These late eclipses in the sun and moon por- tend no good to us : though the wisdom of nature can reason it thus and thus, yet nature finds itself scourged by the sequent effects : love cools, friend- ship falls off , brothers divide: in cities, mutinies ; in countries, discord; in palaces, treason; and the bond cracked 'twixt son and father. This villain of mine comes under the prediction ; there 's son against father : the king falls from bias of nature ; there's father against child. We have seen the best of our time : machinations, hollo wness, treach- ery, and aU ruinous disorders, follow us disquietly to our graves. Find out this villain, Edmund ; it shall lose thee nothing ; do it carefully. And the noble and true-hearted Kent banished ! his offence, hon- esty ! 'T is strange. [Exit. Edm. This is the excellent foppery of the world, that, when we are sick in fortune,— often the surfeit of our own behaviour, — we make guilty of our dis- asters the sun, the moon, and the stars: as if we were villains by necessity ; fools by heavenly com- pulsion ; knaves, thieves, and treachers, by spherical predominance ; drunkards, liars, and adulterers, by an enforced obedience of planetary influence ; and all that we are evil in, by a divizae thrusting on : an admirable evasion of whoremaster man, to lay his goatish disposition to the charge of a star! My father compounded with my mother under the dragon's tail; and my nativity was under Ursa major; so that it follows, I am rough and lech- erous. Tut, I should have been that I am, had the maidenliest star in the firmament twinkled on my bastardizing. Edgar — Enter Edgar, and pat he comes like the catastrophe of the old comedy: my cue is villanous melancholy, with a. sigh like Tom o' Bedlam. O, these eclipses do por- tend these divisions ! fa, sol, la, mi. Edg. How now, brother Edmund ! what serious conten^lation are you in ? Edm. I am thinking, brother, of a prediction I read this other day, what should follow these eclipses. Edg. Do you busy yourself about that ? Edm. I promise you, the effects he writes of succeed unhappily ; as of unnaturalness between the child and the parent; death, dearth, dissolutions of ancient amities; divisions in state, menaces and maledic- tions against king and nobles; needless dilfidences, banishment of friends, dissipation of cohorts, nup- tial breaches, and I know not what. Edg. How long have you been a sectary astro- nomical ? Edm. Come, come; when saw you my father last ? Edg. Why, the night gone by. Edm. Spake you with him ? Edg. Ay, two hours together. Edm. Parted you in good terms ? Found you no displeasure in him by word or countenance ? Edg. None at aU. Edm. Bethink yourself wherein you may have offended him : and at my entreaty forbear his pres- ence till some little time hath qualified the heat of his displeasure ; which at this instant so rageth in him, that with the mischief of your person it would scarcely allay. Edg. Some villain hath done me wrong. Edm. That 's my fear. I pray you, have a conti- nent forbearance till the speed of his rage goes slower ; and, as I say, retire with me to my lodging, from whence I will fitly bring you to hear my lord speak : pray ye, go ; there 's my key : if you do stir abroad, go armed. Edg. Armed, brother ! Edm. Brother, I advise you to the best ; go armed : 4.CT I. KING LEAR. SCENE IV. I am no honest man if there be any good meaning towards you : I have told you what I have seen and heard : but faintly, nothing like the image and hor- ror of it : pray you, away. Edg. Shall I hear from you anon ? Edm. I do serve you in this business. [jErii Edgar. A credulous father ! and a brother noble, "Whose nature is so far from doing harms, That he suspects none ; on whose foolish honesty My practices ride easy ! I see the business. Let me, if not by birth, have lands by wit : All with me 's meet that I can fashion fit. [Exit. SCENE III. — The Duke of Albany'' s palace. Enter Goneril, and Os-wald, Tier steward. Oon. Did my father strike my gentleman for chiding of his fool ? Osw. Yes, madam. Gon. By day and night he wrongs me ; every hour He flashes into one gross crime or other, That sets us all at odds : I '11 not endure it : His knights grow riotous, and himself upbraids us On every trifle. When he returns from hunting, I will not speak with him ; say I am sick : If you come slack of former services. You shaU do well ; the fault of it I '11 answer. Osw. He 's coming, madam ; I hear him. [Horns within. Oon. Put on what weary negligence you please, You and your fellows ; I 'Id have it come to ques- If he dislike it, let him to our sister, [tion : "Whose mind and mine, I know, in that are one, iSTot to be over-ruled. Idle old man. That still would manage those authorities That he hath given away ! Now, by my life, Old fools are babes again ; and must be used With checks as flatteries,— when they are seen Kemember what I tell you. [abused. Osw. Well, madam, [you ; Gon. And let his knights have colder look» among What grows of it, no matter; advise your fellows so : I would breed from hence occasions, and I shall. That I may speak : I '11 write straight to my sister, To hold my very course. Prepare for dinner. [Exeunt. SCENE IV.— A hall in the same. Enter Kent, disguised. Kent. If but as well I other accents borrow, That can my speech defuse, my good intent May carry through itself to that full issue For which I razed my likeness. Now, banish'd Kent, If thou canst serve where thou dost stand condemn 'd, So may it come, thy master, whom thou lovest. Shall find thee fuU of labours. Horns within. Enter Lear, Knights, and Attendants. Lear. Let me not stay a jot for dinner; go get it ready. [Exit an Attendant.] How now 1 what art Kent. A man, sir. [thou ? Lear. What dost thou profess? what wouldst thou with us ? Kent. I do profess to be no less than I seem ; to serve liim 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 wouldst thou ? Kent. Service. Lear. Who wouldst thou serve ? Kent. You. 700 Lear. Dost thou know me, fellow ? Kent. No, sir ; but you have that in your count© nance 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 mes- sage bluntly : that which ordinary men are fit for, I am qualified 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. [Exit an Attendant. Enter Oswald. You, you, sirrah, where 's my daughter ? Osw. So please you, — [Exit. Lear. What says the fellow there? Call the clotpoU back. [Exit a Knight.] Where 's my fool, ho ? I think the world 's asleep. Re-enter Knight. How" now ! where 's that mongrel ? [well. . Knight. He says, my lord, your daughter is not Lear. Why came not the slave back to me when I called him. Knight. Sir, he answered me in the roundest manner, he would not. iear. He would not ! Knight. My lord, I know not what the matter is ; but, to my judgment, your highness is not enter- tained with that ceremonious affection as you were wont ; there 's a great abatement of kindness ap- pears as well in the general dependants as in the duke himself also and yoiu* daughter. Lear. Ha ! sayest 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 wronged. Lear. Thou but rememberest 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 pur- pose of unkindiiess: I will look 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. [Exit an Attendant^ Go you, call hither my fool. [Exit an Attendant. Be-enter Oswald. O, you sir, you, come you hither, sir: who am I, sir? Osio. My lady's father. Lear. ' My lady's father ' ! my lord's knave: you whoreson dog ! you slave ! you cur ! Osiv. I am none of these, my lord; I beseech « your pardon. 1 Lear. Do you bandy looks with me, you rascal ? f [Striking him. Osw. I '11 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 '11 love thee. Kent. Come, sir, arise, away ! I '11 teach you dif- ferences : away, away ! If you will measure your lubber's length a^ain, tarry: but away! go to; have you wisdom f so. [Pushes Oswald out. ACT I. KING LEAR. SCENE IV. Lear. Now, my friendly knave, I thank thee: there 's earnest of thy service. \_Giving Kent money. Enter Pool. Fool. Let me hire him too : here 's my coxcomb. {Offering Kent his 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 's out of favour : nay, an thou canst not smile as the wind sits, thou 'It catch cold shortly : there, take my cox- comb : why, this fellow has banished two on 's daughters, and did the third a blessing against his will ; if thou follow him, thou must needs wear my coxcomb. How now, nuncle ! Would I had two coxcombs and two daughters ! Lear. Why, my boy ? Fool. If I gave them all my living, I 'Id keep my coxcombs myself. There's mine; beg another of thy daughters. Lear. Take heed, sirrah ; the whip. Fool. Truth 's a dog must to kennel ; he must be whipped out, when Lady the brach may stand by the fire and stink. Lear. A pestilent gall to me ! Fool. Sirrah, I '11 teach thee a speech. Lear. Do. Fool. Mark it, nuncle : Have more than thou showest, Speak less than thou knowest, Lend less than thou owest, Eide more than thou goest, Learn more than thou trowest, Set less than thou throwest: Leave thy drink and thy whore, And keep in-a-door. And thou shalt have more Than two tens to a score. Kent. 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 ? Lear. Why, no, boy; nothing can be made out of nothing. Fool. [To Kenf] Prithee, tell him, so much the rent of his land comes to : he will not believe a fool. Lear. A bitter fool ! Fool. Dost thou know the difference, my boy, be- tween a bitter fool and a sweet fool ? Lear. No, lad; teach me. Fool. That lord that counsell'd thee To give away thy land. Come place him here by me, Do thou for him stand: The sweet and bitter fool Will presently appear; The one in motley here. The other found out there. Lear. Dost thou call me fool, boy ? Fool. All thy other titles thou hast given away ; that thou wast born with. Kent. This is not altogether fool, my lord. Fool. No, faith, lords and great men will not let me ; if I had a monopoly out, they would have part on 't : and ladies too, they will not let me have all fool to myself ; they '11 be snatching. Give me an egg, nuncle, and I '11 give thee two crowns. Lear. What two crowns shall they be ? Fool. Why, after I have cut the egg i' the middle, and eat up the meat, the two crowns of the egg. When thou clovest thy crown i' the middle, and gavest away both parts, thou borest thy ass on thy back o'er the dirt: thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown, when thou gavest thy golden one away. If I speak like myself in this, let him be whipped that first finds it so. \_Singing'] Fools had ne'er less wit in a year; For wise men are grown foppisia. They know not how their wits to wear, Their manners are so apish. Lear. When Avere you wont to be so full of songs, sirrah ? Fool. I have used it, nuncle, ever since thou madest thy daughters thy mothers : for when thou gavest them the rod, and put'st down thine own breeches, [Singing'\ Then they for sudden joy did weep, And I for sorrow sung. That such a king should play bo-peep. And go the fools among. Prithee, nmicle, keep a schoolmaster that can teach thy fool to lie : I would fain learn to lie. Lear. An you lie, sirrah, we '11 have you whipped. Fool. I marvel what kin thou and thy daughters are : they '11 haA^e me whipped for speaking true, thou 'It have me whipped for lying ; and sometimes I am whipped for holding my peace. I had rather be any kind o' thing than a fool: and yet I Avould not be thee, nuncle ; thou hast pared thy wit o' both sides, and left nothing i' the middle: here comes one o' the parings. Fhxter Goneril. Lear. How now, daughter! what makes that frontlet on ? Methinks you are too much of late i' the frown. Fool. Thou wast a pretty fellow when thou hadst no need to care for her frowning ; now thou art an without a figure : I am better than thou art now ; 1 am a fool, thou art nothing. [To Gon.] Yes, for- sooth, I will hold my tongue ; so your face bids me, though you say nothing. Mum, mum. He that keeps nor crust nor crum, Weary of all, shall want some. [Pointing to Lear] That 's a shealed peascod. Gon. Not only, sir, this your all-licensed 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 redress ; 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 offence, Which else were shame, that then necessity Will call discreet proceeding. Fool. For, you trow, nuncle. The hedge-sparrow fed the cuckoo so long. That it 's had it head bit off by it young. So, out went the candle, and we were left darkling. Lear. Are you our daughter ? Gon. Come, sir, I would you would make use of that good wisdom, Whereof I know you are fraught ; and put away These dispositions, that of late transform you From what you rightly are. Fool. May not an ass know when the cart draws the horse ? Whoop, Jug ! I love thee. Lear. Doth any here know me ? This is not Lear : Doth Lear walk thus ? speak thus ? Where are his Either his notion weakens, his discernings [eyes ? Are lethargied — Ha ! waking ? 't is not so. Who is it that can tell me who I am ? Fool. Lear's shadow. Lear. I would learn that ; for, by the marks of sovereignty, knowledge, and reason, I should be false persuaded I had daughters. Fool. Which they will make an obedient father. Lear. Your name, fair gentlewoman '? Gon. This admiration, sir, is much o' the favour 701 ACT I. KING LEAR. SCENE V. Of other your new pranks. I do beseech you To understand my purposes aright : As you are old and reverend, you should be wise. Here do you keep a hundred knights and squires ; Men so disorder'd, so debosh'd and bold, That this our court, infected with their manners, Shows like a riotous inn : epicurism and lust Make it more like a tavern or a brothel Than a graced palace. The shame itself doth speak Tor instant remedy : be then desired 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 bastard ! I '11 not trouble thee : Yet have I left a daughter. Qon. You strike my people ; and your disorder'd Make servants of their betters. [rabble Enter Albany. Lear. Woe, that too late repents,— [To ^Z6.] O, sir, are you come ? Is it your will ? Speak, sir. Prepare my horses. 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. [To 6ron.] Detested kite! thouliest: 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 thou in Cordelia show I That, like an engine, wrench'd my frame of nature Prom the flx'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 moved you. Lear. It may be so, my lord. Hear, nature, hear ; dear goddess, hear ! Suspend thy purpose, if thou didst intend To make this creature fruitful ! Into her womb convey sterility ! Dry up in her the organs of increase ; And from her derogate body never spring A babe to honour her ! If she must teem. Create her child of spleen ; that it may live, And be a thwart disnatured torment to her ! Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth ; "With cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks ; Turn all her mother's pains and benefits To laughter and contempt ; that she may feel How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is To have a thankless child ! Away, away ! [Exit. Alb. Now, gods that we adore, whereof comes this? Qon. Never afflict yourself to know the cause ; But let his disposition have that scope That dotage gives it. Be-enter Lear. Lear. "What, fifty of my followers at a clap! "Within a fortnight ! Alb. What 's the matter, sir ? Lear. I '11 tell thee: [To Gon.] Life and death! I am ashamed That thou hast power to shake my manhood thus ; That these hot tears, which break from me per- force, [thee ! Should make thee worth them. Blasts and fogs upon The untented woundings of a father's curse 702 Pierce every sense about thee ! Old fond eyes, Beweep this cause again, I '11 pluck ye out. And cast you, with the waters that you lose, To temper clay. Yea, 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 '11 flay thy wolvish visage. Thou shalt find That I '11 resume the shape which thou dost think I have cast off for ever : thou shalt, I warrant thee. [Exeunt Lear. Kent, and Attendants. Gon. Do you mark that, niy lord ? Alb. I cannot be so partial, Goneril, To the great love I bear you,— Gon. Pray you, content. What, Oswald, ho! [To the Fool] You, sir, more knave than fool, after your master. Fool. Nuncle Lear, nuncle Lear, tarry and take the fool with thee. A fox, when one has caught her, And such a daughter. Should sure to the slaughter, If my cap would buy a halter : So the fool follows after. [Exit. Gon. This man hath had good counsel : — a hun- - dred knights ! 'T is politic and safe to let him keep [dream, At point a hundred knights: yes, that, on every Each buzz, each fancy, each complaint, dislike. He may enguard his dotage with their powers, And hold our lives in mercy. Oswald, I say ! Alb. Well, you may fear too far. Gon. Safer than trust too far : Let me still take away the harms I fear, Not fear stiU to be taken : I know his heart. What he hath utter'd I have viTit my sister : If she sustain him and his hundred knights, When I have show'd the unfitness, — Be-enter Os'w&ld. How now, Oswald I What, have you writ that letter to my sister ? Osw. Yes, madam. Gon. Take you some company, and away to horse : Inform her full of my particular fear ; And thereto add such reasons of your own As may compact it more. Get you gone ; And hasten your return. [Exit Oswald.] No, no, my lord. This milky gentleness and course of yours Though I condemn not, yet, under pardon, You are much more attask'd for want of wisdom Than praised for harmful mildness. Alb. How far your eyes may pierce I cannot teU: Striving to better, oft we mar what 's well. Gon. Nay, then— Alb. Well, well ; the event. [Exeunt. SCENE v.— Court before the same. Enter Lear, Kent, and Fool. Lear. Go you before to Gloucester with these let- ters. Acquaint my daughter no further with any thing you know than comes from her demand out of the letter. If your diligence be not speedy, I shall be there afore you. Kent. I will not sleep, my lord, till I have deliv- ered your letter. [Exit. Fool. If a man's brains were in 's heels, were 't not in danger of kibes ? Lear. Ay, boy. Fool. Then, I prithee, be merry; thy wit shall ne'er go slip-shod. Lear. Ha, ha, ha! Fool. Shalt see thy other daughter will use thee kindly ; for though she 's as like this as a crab 'S like an apple, yet I can tell what I can teU. ACT II. KING LEAR. SCENE I. Lear. Why, what canst thou tell, my boy ? Fool. She will taste as like this as a crab does to a crab. Thou canst tell why one's nose stands i' the middle on 's face ? Lear. No. Fool. Why , to keep one's eyes of either side 's nose ; that what a man cannot smell out, he may spy into. Lear. I did her wrong — Fool. Canst tell how an oyster makes his shell ? Lear. No. Fool. Nor I neither ; but I can tell why a snail has a Lear. Why? [house. Fool. Why, to put his head in ; not to give it away to his daughters, and leave his horns without a case. Lear. I will forget my nature. So kind a father ! Be my horses ready ? Fool. Thy asses are gone about 'em. The reason wlw the seven stars are no more than seven is a pretty Lear. Because they are not eight ? [reason. Fool. Yes, indeed: thou wouldst make a good fool. Lear. To take 't again perforce ! Monster uagrati- tude! Fool. If thou wert my fool, nuncle, I 'Id have thee beaten for being old before thy time. Lear. How 's that V Fool. Thou shouldst not have been old till thou hadst been wise. Lear . O , let me not be mad , not mad, sweet heaven ! Keep me in temper : I would not be mad ! Enter Gentleman. How now ! are the horses ready ? Gent. Eeady, my lord. Lear. Come, boy. [departure, Fool. She that 's a maid now, and laughs at my Shall not be a maid long, imless things be cut shorter. [Exeunt. ^OT II. SCENE I.— The Earl of Gloucester's castle. Enter Edmund, and Ouran meets him. Edm. Save thee, Curan. Cur. And you, sir. I have been with your father, and given him notice that the Duke of Cornwall and Eegan his duchess will be here with him this night. Edm. How comes that ? Our. Nay, I know not. You have heard of the news abroad ; I mean the whispered ones, for they are yet but ear-kissing arguments ? Edm. Not I : pray you, what are they ? Cur. Have you heard of no likely wars toward, 'twixt the Dukes of Cornwall and Albany ? Edm. Not a word. Cur. You may do, then, in time. Fare you well, sir. [Exit. Edm. The duke be here to-night ? The better ! This weaves itself perforce into my business, [best ! My father hath set guard to take my brother ; And I have one thing, of a queasy question, Which I must act : briefness and fortune, work ! Brother, a word ; descend : brother, I say ! Enter Edgar. My father watches ; O sir, fly this place ; Intelligence is given where you are hid ; You have now the good advantage of the night : Have you not spoken 'gainst the Duke of Cornwall ? He 's coming hither ; now, i' the night, i' the haste. And Regan with him ; have you nothing said Upon his party 'gainst the Duke of Albany ? Advise yourself. Edg. 1 am sure on 't, not a word. Edm. I hear my father coming : pardon me ; In cunning I must draw my sword upon you : Draw ; seem to defend yourself ; now quit you well. Yield : come before my father. Light, ho, here ! Fly, brother. Torches, torches ! So, farewell. [Exit Edgar. Some blood drawn on me would beget opinion [Wounds his arm. Of my more fierce endeavour : I have seen drunkards Do more than this in sport. Father, father ! Stop, stop ! No help ? Enter Gloucester, and Servants with torches. Glou. Now, Edmund, where 's the villain ? [out, Edm. Here stood he in the dark, his sharp sword Mumbling of wicked charms, conjuring the moon To stand auspicious mistress, — Glou. But where is he ? Edm. Look, sir, I bleed. Glou. Where is the villain , Edmund ? Edm. Fled this way, sir. When by no means he could — Glou. Pursue him, ho ! Go after. [Exeunt some Servants.] By no means what ? Edm. Persuade me to the murder of your lord- But that I told him, the revenging gods [ship ; 'Gainst parricides did all their thunders bend; Spoke, with how manifold and strong a bond The child was bound to the father ; sir, in fine. Seeing how loathly opposite I stood To his unnatural purpose, in fell motion. With his prepared sword, he charges home My unprovided body, lanced mine arm : But when he saw my best alarum'd spirits. Bold in the quarrel's right, roused to the encounter, Or whether gasted by the noise I made, Full suddenly he fled. Glou. Let him fly far : Not in this land shall he remain uncaught ; And found — dispatch. The noble duke my master, My worthy arch and patron, comes to-night : By his authority I will proclaim it, That he which finds him shall deserve our thanks, Bringing the murderous coward to the stake ; He that conceals him, death. Edm. When I dissuaded him from his intent. And found him pight to do it, with curst speech I threaten'd to discover him : he replied, ' Thou unpossessing bastard ! dost thou think, If I would stand against thee, would the reposal Of any trust, virtue, or worth in thee [deny, — Make thy words faith'd ? No : what I should As this I would; ay, though thou didst produce My very character, — I 'Id turn it all To thy suggestion, plot, and damned practice: And thou must make a dullard of the world. If they not thought the profits of my death Were very pregnant and potential spurs To make thee seek it.' Glou. Strong and fasten'd villain ! Would he deny his letter ? I never got him. [Tucket within. Hark, the duke's trumpets! I know not why he comes. All ports I '11 bar ; the villain shall not 'scape; The duke must grant me that: besides, his picture I will send far and near, that all the kingdom May have due note of him ; and of my land. Loyal and natural boy, I '11 work the means To make thee capable. 703 KING LEAR. SCENE II, Enter Corn-wall, Regan, and Attendants. Corn. How now, my noble friend ! since I came hither, "Which I can call but now, I have heard strange news. Beg. If it be true, all vengeance comes too short Which can pursue the offender. How dost, my lord '? Glou. O, madam, my old heart is crack'd, it 's crack 'd ! Meg. What, did my father's godson seek your life ? He whom my father named ? your Edgar ? Glou. O, lady, lady, shame would have it hid ! Beg. Was he not companion with the riotous That tend upon my father ? [knights Glou. I know not, madam : 't is too bad, too bad. Edm. Yes, madam, he was of that consort. Beg. No marvel, then, though he were ill affected : 'T is they have put him on the old man's death, To have the expense and waste of his revenues. I have this present evening from my sister Been well inform'd of them; and with such cautions, That if they come to sojourn at my house, I '11 not be there. Corn. Nor I, assure thee. Began. Edmund, I hear that you have shown your father A child-like office. Edm. 'Twas my duty, sir. Glou. He did bewray his practice ; and received This hurt you see, striving to apprehend him. Corn. Is he pursued ? Glou. Ay, my good lord. Corn. If he be taken, he shall never more Be fear'd of doing harm : make your own purpose. How in my strength you please. For you, Edmund, Whose virtue and obedience doth this instant So much commend itself, you shall be ours : Natures of such deep trust we shall much need ; You we first seize on. Edm. I shall serve you, sir. Truly, however else. Glou. For him I thank your grace. Corn. You know not why we came to visit you, — Beg. Thus out of season, threading dark-eyed night : Occasions, noble Gloucester, of some poise. Wherein we must have use of your advice : Our father he hath writ, so hath our sister. Of differences, which I best thought it fit To answer from our home ; the several messengers From hence attend dispatch. Our good old friend, Lay comforts to your bosom ; and bestow Your needful counsel to our business, Which craves the instant use. Glou. I serve you, madam : Your graces are right welcome. [Exeunt. SCENE 11. — Before Gloucester'' s castle. Enter Kent and Oswald., severally. Osw. Good dawning to thee, friend : art of this house ? Kent. Ay. Osw. Where may we set our horses ? Kent. I' the mire. Osw. Prithee, if thou lovest me, tell me. Kent. I love thee not. Osw. Why, then, I care not for thee. Kent. If I had thee in Lipsbury pinfold, I would make thee care for me. Osw. Why dost thou use me thus ? I know thee Kent. Fellow, I know thee. [not. Osw. What dost thou know me for ? Kent. A knave; a rascal; an eater of broken meats; a base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suit- ed, hundred-pound, filthy, worsted-stocking knave ; a lily-livered, action-taking knave, a whoreson, glass-gazing, superserviceable, finical rogue; one- 704 trunk-inheriting slave ; one that wouldst be a bawd, in way of good service, and art nothing but the composition of a knave, beggar, coward, pandar, and the son and heir of a mongrel bitch : one whom I will beat into clamorous whining, if thou de- niest the least syllable of thy addition. Osw. Why, what a monstrous fellow art thou, thus to rail on one that is neither known of thee nor knows thee ! Kent. What a brazen-faced varlet art thou, to deny thou knowest me ! Is it two days ago since I tripped up thy heels, and beat thee before the king ? Draw, you rogue : for, though it be night, yet the moon shines; I '11 make a sop o' the moon- shine of you : draw, you whoreson cullionly barber- monger, draw. [Drawing his svjord. Osw. Away ! I have nothing to do with thee. Kent. Draw, you rascal: you come with letters against the king; and take vanity the puppet's part against the royalty of her father : draw, you rogue, or I '11 so carbonado your shanks : draw, you rascal ; come your ways. Osw. Help, ho ! murder ! help ! Kent. Strike, you slave; stand, rogue, stand; you neat slave, strike. [Beating him. Osw. Help, ho! murder! murder 1 Enter Edmund, with his rapier drawn, Corn-wall, Regan, Gloucester, and Servants. Edm. How now ! What 's the matter ? Kent. With you, goodman boy, an you please : come, I '11 flesh ye ; come on, young master. Glou. Weapons ! arms ! What 's the matter here ? Corn. Keep peace, upon your lives : He dies that strikes again. What is the matter ? Beg. The messengers from our sister and the Corn. What is your difference ? speak. [king. Osw. I am scarce in breath, my lord. Kent. No marvel, you have so bestirred your valour. You cowardly rascal, nature "disclaims in thee : a tailor made thee. [a man ? Corn. Thou art a strange fellow : a tailor make Kent. Ay, a tailor, sir: a stone-cutter or a painter could not have made him so iU, though he had been but two hours at the trade. Corn. Speak yet, how grew your quarrel ? Osw. This ancient ruffian, sir, whose life I have spared at suit of his gray beard,— Kent. Thou whoreson zed! thou unnecessary letter! My lord, if you will give me leave, I will tread this unbolted villain into mortar, and daub the wall of a jakes with him. Spare my gray beard. Corn. Peace, sirrah ! [you wagtail ? You beastly knave, know you no reverence ? Kent. Yes, sir; but anger hath a privilege. Corn. Why art thou angry ? [sword, Kent. That such a slave as this should wear a Who wears no honesty. Such smiling rogues as Like rats, oft bite the holy cords a-twain [these. Which are too intrinse t' lonloose ; smooth every That in the natures of their lords rebel ; [passion. Bring oil to fire, snow to their colder moods ; Renege, affirm, and turn their halcyon beaks With every gale and vary of their masters, Knowing nought, like dogs^ but following. A plague upon your epileptic visage ! Smile you my speeches, as I were a fool ? Goose, if I had you upon Sarum plain, I '11 drive ye cackling home to Camelot. Corn. What, art thou mad, old fellow ? Glou. How fell you out ? say that. Kent. No contraries hold more antipathy Than I and such a knave. [his offence ? Corn. Why dost thou call him knave ? What '» Kent. His countenance likes me not. [nor hers. Corn. No more, perchance, does mine, nor his, Kent. Sir, 'tis my occupation to be plain: ACT II. KING LEAR, SCENE IV. I have seen better faces in my time Than stands on any shoulder that I see Before me at this instant. Corn. This is some fellow, Who, having been praised for bluntness, doth affect A saucy roughness, and constrains the garb Quite from his nature : he cannot flatter, he, An honest mind and plain, he must speak truth ! An they will take it, so ; if not, he 's plain. [ness These kind of knaves I know, which in this plain- Harbour more craft and more corrupter ends Than twenty silly ducking observants That stretch their duties nicely. Kent. Sir, in good sooth, in sincere verity, Under the allowance of your great aspect. Whose influence, like the wreath of radiant fire On flickering Phoebus' front,— Corn. What mean'st by this ? Kent. To go out of my dialect, which you discom- mend so much. I know, sir, I am no flatterer : he that beguiled you in a plain accent was a plain knave ; which for my part I will not be, though I should win your displeasure to entreat me to 't. Corn. What was the offence you gave him ? Osw. I never gave him any : It pleased the king his master very late To strike at me, upon his misconstruction; When he, conjunct, and flattering his displeasure, Tripp'd me behind ; being down, insulted, rail'd, And put upon him such a deal of man, That worthied him, got praises of the king For him attempting who was self -subdued ; And, in the fleshment of this dread exploit. Drew on me here again. Kent. None of these rogues and cowards But Ajax is their fool. Corn. Fetch forth the stocks ! You stubborn ancient knave, you reverend braggart, We '11 teach you— Kent. Sir, I am too old to learn : Call not your stocks for me : I serve the king; On whose employment I was sent to you : You shall do small respect, show too bold malice Against the grace and person of my master, Stocking his messenger. Corn. Fetch forth the stocks! As I have life and honour, There shall he sit till noon. [too. Beg. Till noon ! till night, my lord ; and all night Kent. Why, madam, if I were your father's dog, You should not use me so. Beg. Sir, being his knave, I will. Corn. This is a fellow of the self -same colour Our sister speaks of. Come, bring away the stocks ! ^Stocks brought out. Glou. Let me beseech your grace not to do so : His fault is much, and the good king his master Will check him for 't : your purposed low correction Is such as basest and contemned 'st wretches For pilferings and most common trespasses Are punish 'd with : the king must take it ill, That he 's so slightly valued in his messenger, Should have him thus restrain 'd. Corn. I '11 answer that. Beg. My sister may receive it much more worse, To have her gentleman abused, assaulted, For following her aifairs. Put in his legs. [Kent is put in the stocks. Come, my good lord, away. [Exeunt all but Gloucester and Kent. Glou. 1 am sorry for thee, friend ; 't is the duke's pleasure. Whose disposition, all the world well knows. Will not be rubb'd nor stopp'd : I 'U entreat for thee. Kent. Pray, do not, sir: I have watched and travell'd hard ; Some time I shall sleep out, the rest I '11 whistle, 45 A good man's fortune may grow out at heels: Give you good morrow ! Glou. The duke 's to blame in this : 'twill be ill taken. [Kxit. Kent. Good king, that must approve the common Thou out of heaven's benediction comest . [saw, To the warm sun ! Approach, thou beacon to this under globe. That by thy comfortable beams I may Peruse this letter ! Nothing almost sees miracles But misery : I know 't is from Cordelia, Who hath most fortunately been inform'd Of my obscured course ; and sliall find time From this enormous state, seeking to give Losses their remedies. All weary and o'erwatch'd, Take vantage, heavy eyes, not to behold This shameful lodging. Fortune, good night : smile once more; turn thy wheel I [Slee;ps. SCENE III.— J. wood. Enter Edgar. Kdg. I heard myself proclaim'd ; And by the happy hollow of a tree Escaped the hunt. No port is free ; no place, That guard, and most unusual vigilance, Does not attend my taking. Whiles I may 'scape, I will preserve myself : and am bethought To take the basest and most poorest shape That ever penury, in contempt of man. Brought near to beast : my face I '11 grime with filth ; Blanket my loins ; elf all my hair in knots ; And with presented nakedness out-face The winds and persecutions of the sky. The country gives me proof and precedent Of Bedlam beggars, who, with roaring voices. Strike in their numb'd and mortified bare arms Pins, wooden pricks, nails, sprigs of rosemary; And with this horrible object, from low farms, Poor pelting villages, sheep-cotes, and mills, Sometime with lunatic bans, sometime with prayers, Enforce their charity. Poor Turlygod ! poor Tom ! That 's something yet : Edgar I nothing am. [Exit. SCENE IV.—Before Gloucester's castle. Kent in the stocks. Enter Lear, Fool, and Gentleman. Lear. 'T is strange that they should so depart from home, And not send back my messenger. Gent. As I learn 'd, The night before there was no purpose in them Of this remove. Kent. Hail to thee, noble master ! Lear. Ha! Makest thou this shame thy pastime ? Kent. No, my lord. Fool. Ha, ha ! he wears cruel garters. Horses are tied by the heads, dogs and bears by the neck, monkeys by the loins, and men by the legs : when a man 's over-lusty at legs, then he wears wooden nether-stocks. [took Lear. What 's he that hath so much thy place mis- 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 ; 705 ACT II. KING LEAR. SCENE IV. They could not, would not do 't ; 't is worse than murder, To do upon respect such violent outrage : Eesolve me, with all modest haste, which way Thou mightst 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 liaste, 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 follow, and attend The leisure of their answer ; gave me cold looks : And meeting here the other messenger, Whose welcome, I perceived, 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 raised 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 wild-geese fly that way. Fathers that wear rags Do make their children blind ; But fathers that bear bags Shall see their children kind. Fortune, that arrant whore, Ne'er turns the key to the poor. But, for all this, thou shalt have as many dolours for thy daughters as thou canst tell in a year. jLear. O, how this mother swells up toward my heart ! Hysterica passio, down, thou climbing sorrow. Thy element 's below ! Where is this daughter ? Kent. With the earl, sir, here within. l,e.ar. Follow me not ; Stay here. {Ihit. Gent. Made you no more offence but 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 '11 set thee to school to an ant, to teach thee there 's no labouring i' the winter. All that follow their noses are led by their eyes but blind men ; and there 's not a nose among twenty but can smell him that 's stinking. 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 gives 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, 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. Kent. Where learned you this, fool ? Fool. Not i' the stocks, fool. Re-enter Lear, loith Gloucester. Lear. Deny to speak with me ? They are sick ? they are weary ? They have travell'd all the night ? Mere fetches ; The images of revolt and flying off. Fetch me a better answer. 706 Glou. My dear lord, You know the fiery quality of the duke ; How unremoveable and fix'd he is In his own course. Lear. Vengeance ! plague! death! confusion! Fiery? what quality? Why, Gloucester, Glou- cester, I 'Id speak with the Duke of Cornwall and his vs^ife. Qlou. Well, my good lord, I have inform'd them so. [man ? Lear. Inform'd them ! Dost thou understand me, Glou. Ay, my good lord. Lear. The king would speak with Cornwall ; the dear father [vice : Would with his daughter speak, commands her ser- Are they inform'd of this ? My breath and blood ! Fiery ? the fiery duke ? 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 inind To suffer with the body : I '11 forbear ; And am fall'n out with my more headier will, To take the indisposed and sickly fit For the sound man. Death on my state ! wherefore [Looking on Kent. Should he sit here ? 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 's wife I 'Id speak with them, Now, presently : bid them come forth and hear me, Or at their chamber-door I '11 beat the drum Till it cry sleep to death. Glou. I would have all well betwixt you. [Fxit. Lear. O me, my heart, my rising heart! but, down! Fool. Cry to it, nuncle, as the cockney did to the eels when she put 'em i' the paste alive ; she knap- ped 'em o' the coxcombs with a stick, and cried ' Down, wantons, down 1 ' 'T was her brother that, in pure kindness to his horse, buttered his hay. Miter Cornwall, Began, Gloucester, and Ser- vants. Lear. Good morrow to you both. Corn. Hail to your grace ! [Kent is set at liberty. Beg. I am glad to see your highness. Lear. Began, I think you are; I know what I have to think so : if thou shouldst not be glad, I would divorce me from thy mother's tomb. Sepulchring an adultress. [To Kent] O, are you Some other time for that. Beloved Regan, [free ? Thy sister 's naught : O Regan, she hath tied Sharp-tooth 'd unkindness, like a vulture, here : [Points to liis heart. I can scarce speak to thee ; thou 'It not believe With how depraved a quality — O Regan ! Beg. 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 ? Beg. 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 ! Beg. O, sir, you are old ; Nature in you stands on the very verge Of her confine : you should be ruled 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. Lear. Ask her forgiveness ? CT II. KING LEAR. SCENE IV. Do you but mark how this becomes the house : ' Dear daughter, I confess that I am old ; {Kneeling. Age is unnecessary : on my knees I beg That you '11 vouchsafe me raiment, bed, and food.' Beg. Good sir, no more ; these are unsightly tricks : Return you to my sister. Lear. [Rising] Never, Regan : She hath abated me of half my train ; Look'd black upon me ; struck me v^^ith her tongue, Most serpent-like, upon the very heart : All the stored vengeances of heaven fall On her ingrateful top ! Strike her young bones. You taking airs, with lameness ! Corn. Fie, sir, fie ! Lear. You nimble lightnings, dart your blinding Into her scornful eyes ! Infect her beauty, [flames You fen-suck 'd fogs, drawn by the powerful sun, To fall and blast her pride ! Beg. O the blest gods I so will you wish on me, When the rash mood is on. [curse : Lear. No, Regan, thou shalt never have my Thy tender-hefted nature shall not give Thee o'er to harshness : her eyes are fierce ; but thine Do comfort and not burn. '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 ofiices 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. Beg. Good sir, to the purpose. Lear. Who put my man i' the stocks ? [Tuchet loitliin. Corn. What trumpet 's that ? Beg. I know't, my sister's: this approves her That she would soon be here. [letter. Enter Oswald. 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 ! Corn. What means your grace ? Lear. Who stock'd my servant ? Regan, I have good hope [heavens. Thou didst not know on 't. Who comes here ? O Enter Goneril. 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 ! [To 6?on.] Art not ashamed to look upon this beard? Regan, wilt thou take her by the hand ? Gon. Why not by the hand, sir? How have I All 's not offence that indiscretion finds [offended? And dotage terms so. Lear. O sides, you are too tough ; Will you yet hold? How came my man i' the stocks? Corn. I set him there, sir: but his own disorders Deserved much less advancement. Lear. You ! did you ? Beg. I pray you, father, bemg 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 : 1 am now from home, and out of that provision Which shall be needful for your entertainment. Lear. Return to her, and fifty men dismiss'd ? No, rather I 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 be slave and sumpter To this detested groom. [Pointing at Oswald. Gon. At your choice, sir. Lear. I prithee, daughter, do not make me mad : I will not trouble thee, my child ; farewell : We '11 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 '11 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. Beg. Not altogether so : 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 ? Beg. I dare avouch it, sir: what, fifty followers ? Is it not well ? What should you need of more ? Yea, or so many, sith that both charge and danger Speak 'gainst so great a number? How, in one Should many people , under two commands , [house , Hold amity ? 'T is hard : almost impossible. Gon. Why might not you, my lord, receive at- tendance From those that she calls servants or from mine ? Beg. Why not, my lord? If then they chanced to slack you. 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 Will I give place or notice. Lear. I gave you all — Beg. And in good time you gave it. Lear. Made you my guardians, my depositaries ; But kept a reservation to be follow'd With such a number. What, must I come to you With five and twenty, Regan ? said you so ? Beg. And speak 't again, my lord; no more with me. [favour'd, Lear. Those wicked creatures yet do look well- When others are more wicked ; not being the worst Stands in some rank of praise. [To Gon.] I '11 go with thee ; 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 ? Beg. What need one ? Lear. O, reason not the need : our basest beggars Are in the poorest thing superfluous : Allow not nature more than nature needs, Man's life 's as cheap as beast's : thou art a lady ; If only to go warm were gorgeous. Why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear'st, Which scarcely keeps thee warm. But, for true need,— [need ! You heavens, give me that patience, patience I 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. And let not women's weapons, water-drops, Stain my man's cheeks ! No, you unnatural hags, I will have such revenges on you both, , That all the word shall — I will do such things, — 707 KING LEAR. SCENE II. What they are, yet I know not ; but they shall be The terrors of the earth. You think I '11 weep ; No, I '11 not weep : I have full cause of weeping ; but this heart Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws. Or ere I '11 weep. O fool, I shall go mad ! [Exeunt Lear, Gloucester, Kent, and Fool. Storm and tempest. Corn. Let us withdraw ; 'twill be a storm. Beg. This house is little : the old man and his people Cannot be well bestow 'd. Gon. 'T is his own blame ; hath put himself from rest, And must needs taste his folly. Reg. For his particular, I '11 receive him gladly, But not one follower. Gon. So am I purposed. Where is my lord of Gloucester ? Corn. Follow'd the old man forth : he is return'd. Be-enter Gloucester. Glou. The king is in high rage. Corn. Whither is he going ? Glou. He calls to horse ; but will I know not whither. [self. Corn. 'T is best to give him way ; he leads him- Gon. My lord, entreat him by no means to stay. Glou. Alack, the night comes on, and the bleak Do sorely ruffle ; for many miles about [winds There 's scarce a bush. Beg. O, sir, to wilful men, The mjuries 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 abused, wisdom bids fear, [night : Corn. Shut up your doors, my lord; 'tis a wild My Regan counsels well : come out o' the storm. [Exeunt, .ACT III. SCENE 1. — A heath. Storm still. Enter Kent and a Gentleman, meeting. Kent. Who 's there, besides foul weather ? Gent. One minded like the weather, most unqui- Kent. I know you. Where 's the king ? [etly. Gent. Contending with the fretful element ; Bids the wind blow the earth into the sea, Or swell the curled waters 'bove the main, [hair, That things might change or cease ; tears his white Which the impetuous blasts, with eyeless rage, Catch in their fury, and make nothing of; Strives in his little world of man to out-scorn The to-and-fro-conflicting wind and rain, [couch, This night, wherein the cub-drawn bear would The lion and the belly-pinched wolf Keep their fur dry, unbonneted he runs, And bids what will take all. Kent. But who is with him ? Gent. None but the fool; who labours to outjest His heart-struck injuries. Kent. Sir, I do know you ; And dare, upon the warrant of my note, Commend a dear thing to you. There is division. Although as yet the face of it be cover'd With mutual cunning, 'twixt Albany and Cornwall; Who have — as who have not, that their great stars Throned and set high ? — servants, who seem no less. Which are to France the spies and speculations Intelligent of our state ; what hath been seen. Either in snuffs and packings of the dukes. Or the hard rein which both of them have borne Against the old kind king ; or something deeper, Whereof perchance these are but furnishings ; But, true it is, from France there comes a power Into this scatter'd kingdom ; who already. Wise in our negligence, have secret feet In some of our best ports, and are at point To show their open banner. Now to you : If on my credit you dare build so far To make your speed to Dover, you shall find Some that will thank you, making just report Of how unnatural and bemadding sorrow The king hath cause to plain. I am a gentleman of blood and breeding ; And, from some knowledge and assurance, offer This office to you. Gent. I will talk further with you. Kent. No, do not. For confirmation that I am much more 708 Than my out-wall, open this purse, and take What it contains. If you shall see Cordelia, — As fear not but you shall, — show her this ring; And she will tell you who your fellow is That yet you do not know. Fie on this storm ! I will go seek the king. [say ? Gent. Give me your hand : have you no more to Kent. Few words, but, to effect, more than all yet ; [your pain That, when we have found the king, — in which That way, I '11 this,— he that first lights on him Holla the other. [Exeunt severally.. SCENE H.— Another part of the heath. Storm still. Enter Lear and Fool. Lear. Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks ! rage ! Tou cataracts and hurricanoes, spout [blow ! Till you have drench'd our steeples, drown'd the cocks ! You sulphurous and thought-executing fires, Yaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts. Singe my white head ! And thou, all-shaking thun- Smite fiat the thick rotundity o' the world ! [der. Crack nature's moulds, all germens spill at once. That make ingratef ul man ! Fool. O nuncle, court holy-water in a dry house is better than this rain-water out o' door. Good nimcle, in, and ask thy daughters' blessing : here 's a night pities neither wise man nor fool. [rain I Lear. Bumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout. 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 : then let fall Your horrible pleasure ; here I stand, your slave, A poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man : But yet I call you servile ministers. That have with two pernicious daughters join'd Your high-engender'd battles 'gainst a head So old and white as this. O ! O ! 't is foul ! Fool. He that has a house to put 's head in has a good head-piece. The cod-piece that will house Before the head has any. The head and he shall louse ; So beggars marry many. The man that makes his toe What he his heart should make, Shall of a corn cry woe. And turn lais sleep to wake. ACT III. KING LEAR. SCENE IV. For there was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass. Lenr. No, I will be the pattern of all patience ; I will say nothing. „ ^ •^ ^ Writer Kent. Kent. Who 's there ? Fool. Marry, here 's grace and a cod-piece ; that 's a wise man and a fool. [night Kent. Alas, sir, are you here ? things that love 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. Lear. Let the great gods. That keep this dreadful pother o'er our heads. Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch, That hast within thee uiidivulged crimes, Unwhipp'd of justice : hide thee, thou bloody hand ; Thou perjured, and thou simular man of virtue That art incestuous : caitiff, to pieces shake, That under covert and convenient seeming Hast practised on man's life : close pent-up guilts, Hive your concealing continents, and cry These dreadful summoners grace. I am a man More sinn'd against than sinning. Kent. Alack, bare-headed ! Oracious 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 harder than the stones whereof 'tis raised ; 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, [hovel. That can make vile things precious. Come, your Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart That 's sorry yet for thee. Fool. [Sinning] He that has and a little tiny wit, — With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, — Must make content with his fortunes fit, For the rain it raineth every day. Lear. True, my good boy. Come, bring us to this hovel. [Exeunt Lear and Kent. Fool. This is a brave night to cool a courtezan. I '11 speak a prophecy ere I go : When priests are more in word than matter ; When brewers mar their malt with water ; When nobles are their tailors' tutors ; No heretics burn'd, but wenches' suitors; When every case in law- is right ; No squire in debt, nor no poor knight ; When slanders do not live in tongues ; Nor cutpurses come not to throngs ; When usurers tell their gold i' the field ; And bawds and whores do churches buM ; Then shall the realm of Albion Come to great confusion : Then comes the time, who lives to see 't. That going shall be used with feet. This prophecy Merlin shall make ; for I live before his time. [Exit. SCENE III.— (JZoMcester's castle. Enter Gloucester and Edmund. Glou. Alack, alack, Edmund, I like not this un- natural dealing. When I desired their leave that I might pity him, they took from me the use of mine own house; charged me, on pain of their perpetual displeasure, neither to speak of him, entreat for him, nor any way sustain him. Edm. Most savage and unnatural ! Glou. Go to ; say you nothing. There 's a divi- sion betwixt the dukes ; and a worse matter than that : I have received a letter this night ; 't is dan- gerous to be spoken ; I have locked the letter in my closet : these injuries the king now bears will be re- venged home ; there 's part of a power already foot- ed: we must incline to the king. I will seek him, and privily relieve him : go you and maintain talk with the duke, that my charity be not of him per- ceived: if he ask for me, I am ill, and gone to bed. Though I die for it, as no less is threatened me, the king my old master must be relieved. There is some strange thing toward, Edmund ; pray you, be careful. [Exit. Edm. This courtesy, forbid thee, shall the duke Instantly know ; and of that letter too : This seems a fair deservmg, and must draw me That which my father loses ; no less than all : The younger rises when the old doth fall. [Exit. SCENE TV.— The heath. Before a hovel. Enter Lear, Kent, and Fool. Kent. Here is the place, my lord; good my lord, The tyranny of the open night's too rough [enter : For nature to endure. [Storm still, Lear. Let me alone. Kent. Good my lord, enter here. Lear. Wilt break my heart ? Kent. 1 had rather break mine own. Good my lord, enter. [tious storm Lear. Thou think'st 't is much that this conten- Invades us to the skin : so 't is to thee ; But where the greater malady is fix'd. The lesser is scarce felt. Thou 'Idst shun a bear ; But if thy flight lay toward the raging sea. Thou 'Idst 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. Prithee, go in thyself ; seek thine own ease : This tempest will not give me leave to ponder On things would hurt me more. But I '11 go in. [To the FooT] In, boy; go first. You houseless poverty, — Nay, get thee in. I '11 pray, and then I '11 sleep. [Fool goes in. 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 V 0,1 have ta'en Too little care of this ! Take physic, pomp ; Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel, That thou mayst shake the superflux to them. And show the heavens more just. Edg. [Within] Fathom and half, fathom and half ! Poor Tom ! [The Fool runs out from the hovel. Fool. Come not in here, nuncle, 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 i the straw ? Come forth. 709 ACT III. KING LEAR. Enter Edgar disguised as a madman. Edg. Away ! the foul fiend follows me ! Through the sharp hawthorn blows the cold wind. Hum I 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 fee foul fiend hath led through fire and through flame, and through ford and whirlipool, o'er 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-inched bridges, to course his own shadow for a traitor. Bless thy five wits I Tom 's a-cold,— O, do de, do de, do de. Bless thee from whirlwinds, star-blasting, and taking 1 Do poor Tom some charity, whom the foul fiend vexes: there could I have him now, — and there, — and there again, and there. [Storm still. Lear. What, have his daughters brought him to this pass ? [all ? Couldst thou save nothing ? Didst thou give them Fool. Nay, he reserved a blanket, else we had been all shamed. [air Lear. Now, all the plagues that in the pendulous Hang fated o'er men's faults light on thy daughters ! Kent. He hath no daughters, sir. [nature Lear. Death, traitor! nothing could have subdued To such a lowness but his unkind daughters. Is it the fashion, that discarded fathers Should have thus little mercy on their flesh ? Judicious punishment ! 't was this flesh begot Those pelican daughters. Edg. Pillicock sat on Pillicock-hill : Halloo, halloo, loo, loo ! Fool. This cold night will turn us all to fools and madmen. Edg. Take heed o' the foul fiend: obey thy pa- rents ; keep thy word justly ; swear not ; commit not with man's sworn spouse ; 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 ; served the lust of my mistress' heart, and did the act of darkness with her ; swore as many oaths as I spake words, and broke them in the sweet face of heaven : one that slept in the contriving of lust, and waked to do it : wine loved I deeply, dice dearly : and in woman out-paramoured the Turk: false of heart, light of ear, bloody of hand ; hog in sloth, fox in stealth, wolf in greediness, dog in madness, lion in prey. Let not the creaking of shoes nor the rustling of silks betray thy poor heart to woman : keep thy foot out of brothels, thy hand out of plackets, thy pen from lenders' books, and defy the foul fiend. Still through the hawthorn blows the cold wind : Says suum, mun, ha, no, nonny. Dolphin my boy, my boy, sessa ! let him trot by. [Storm still. Lear. Why, thou wert better in thy grave than to answer with thy imcovered 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 on 's are sophisticated ! Thou art the thing itself : unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou art. Off, off, you lendings ! come, unbutton here. [Tearing of his clothes. Fool. Prithee, nuncle, be contented; 'tisanaughty night to swim in. Now a little fire in a wild field were like an old lecher's heart ; a small spark, all the rest on 's body cold. Look, here comes a walk- ing fire. 710 Enter Gloucester, with a torch. Edg. This is the foul fiend Plibbertigibbet : he begins at curfew, and walks till the first cock ; he gives the web and the pin, squints the eye, and makes the hare-lip ; mildews the white wheat, and hurts the poor creature of earth. S. Withold footed thrice the old ; He met the night-mare, and her nine-fold ; Bid her alight. And her troth plight. And, aroiut thee, witch, aroint thee ! Kent. How fares your grace ? Lear. What 's he? Kent. Who 's there ? What is 't you seek ? Gloio. What are you there ? Your names ? Edg. Poor Tom ; that eats the swimming frog, the toad, the tadpole, the wall-newt and the water; that in the fury of his heart, when the foul fiend rages, eats cow-dung for sallets ; swallows the old rat and the ditch-dog ; drinks the green mantle of the standing pool; who is whipped from tithing to tithing, and stock-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, Smulkin ; peace, thou fiend! Glou. What, hath your grace no better company ? Edg. The prince of darkness is a gentleman : Modo he 's call'd, and Mahu. [lord, Glou. Our flesh and blood is grown so vile, my That it doth hate what gets it. Edg. Poor Tom 's a-cold. Glou. Go in with me : my duty cannot suffer To obey in all your daughters' hard commands : Though their injunction be to bar my doors. And let this tyrannous night take hold upon you, Yet have I ventured to come seek you out. And bring you where both fire and food is ready. Lear. First let me talk with this philosopher. What is the cause of thunder ? [liouse. Kent. Good my lord, take his offer; go into the Lear. I '11 talk a word with this same learned What is your study ? [Theban. 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. Glou. Canst thou blame him ? [Storra still. 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 '11 tell thee, friend, I am almost mad myself : I had a son, Now outlaw'd from my blood ; he sought my life, But lately, very late : I loved him, friend ; No father his son dearer : truth to tell thee, The grief hath crazed my wits. What a night 's this ? I do beseech your grace,— Lear. O, cry you mercy, sir. Noble philosopher, your company, Edg. Tom 's a-cold. [warm. Glou. In, fellow, there, into the hovel : keep thee Lear. Come, let 's in all. Kent. This way, my lord. Lear. With him ; I will keep still with my philosopher. Kent. Good my lord, soothe him; let him take the fellow. Glou. Take him you on. Kent. Sirrah, come on ; go along with us. Lear. Come, good Athenian. Glou. No words, no words : hush. Edg. Child Kowland to the dark tower came. His word was still, — Fie, fob, and fum, I smell the blood of a British man. [Exeunt. •^ ACT III. KING LEAR. SCENE VI. SCENE V. — Gloucester'' s castle. Muter Corn-wall and Edmund. Corn. I will have my revenge ere I depart his house. Edm. Hovi^, my lord, I may be censured, that nature thus gives way to loyalty, something fears me to think of. Corn. I now perceive, it was not altogether your brother's evil disposition made him seek his death ; but a provoking merit, set a-work by a reproveable badness in himself. Edm. How malicious is my fortune, that I must repent to be just ! This is the letter he spoke of, which approves him an intelligent party to the ad- vantages of France. O heavens ! that this treason were not, or not I the detector! Corn. Go with me to the duchess. Edm. If the matter of this paper be certain, you have mighty business in hand. Corn. True or false, it hath made thee earl of Gloucester. Seek out where thy father is, that he may be ready for our apprehension. Edm. [_Aside'\ If I find him comforting the king, it will stuff his suspicion more fully. — I will per- severe in my course of loyalty, though the conflict be sore between that and my blood. Corn. I will lay trust upon thee ; and thou shalt find a dearer father in my love. [Exeunt. SCENE VI. — A chamber in a farmhouse adjoining the castle. Enter Gloucester, Lear, Kent, Fool, and Edgar. Glou. 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 have given way to his impatience : the gods reward your kindness ! [Exit Gloucester. Edg. Frateretto calls me ; and tells me Nero is an angler in the lake of darkness. Pray, innocent, and beware the foul fiend. Fool. Prithee, nuncle, tell me whether a madman be a gentleman 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 that sees his son a gentleman before him. Lear. To have a thousand with red burning spits Come hissing in upon 'em, — Edg. The foul fiend bites my back. Fool. He 's mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf, a horse's health, a boy's love, or a whore's oath. Lear. It shall be done ; I will arraign them straight. [To Edgar] Come, sit thou here, most learned jus- ticer ; [she foxes ! [To the Foot] Thou, sapient sir, sit here. Now, you Edg. Look, where he stands and glares ! Want- est thou eyes at trial, madam ? Come o'er the bourn, Bessy, to me, — Fool. Her boat hath a leak. And she must not speak "Why she dares not come over to thee. Edg. The foul fiend haunts poor Tom in the voice of a nightingale. Hopdance cries in Tom's belly for two white herring. Croak not, black angel ; I have no food for thee. Kent. How do you, sir ? Stand you not so amazed : "Will you lie down and rest upon the cushions ? Lear. 1 '11 see their trial first. Bring in the evi- dence, [place ; [To Edgar] Thou robed man of justice, take thy [To the Fool] And thou, his yoke-fellow of equity. Bench by his side: [To Kent] you are o' the com- Sit you too. [mission, i Edg. Let us deal justly. Sleepest or wakest tliou, jolly shepherd ? Thy sheep be in the corn ; And for one blast of thy minikin mouth, Thy sheep shall take no harm. Pur ! the cat is gray. Lear. Arraign her first; 'tis Goneril. I here take my oath before this honourable assembly, she kiclied the poor king her father. Fool. Come hither, mistress. Is you name Gon- Lear. She cannot deny it. [eril ? 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 on. 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. [Aside] My tears begin to take his part so They '11 mar my counterfeiting. [much, 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 spaniel, 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 all 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 Began ; see what breeds about her heart. Is there any cause in nature that makes these hard hearts? [To Edgar] You, sir, I entertain for one of my hundred; only I do not like the fashion of your garments : you will say they are Persian attire ; but let them be changed. Kent. Now, good my lord, lie here and rest awhile. Lear. Make no noise, make no noise ; draw the curtains : so, so, so. We '11 go to supper i' the morn- ing. So. so, so. Fool. And I '11 go to bed at noon. Be-enter G-loucester. Glou. Come hither, friend : where is the king my master ? [gone. K^ent. Here, sir; but trouble him not, his wits are Glou. Good friend, I prithee, take him in thy arms ; I have o'erheard a plot of death upon him : There is a litter ready ; lay him in 't, [meet And drive towards Dover, friend, where thou shalt Both welcome and protection. Take up thy master : If thou shouldst 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. Oppressed nature sleeps : This rest might yet have balm'd thy broken senses, "Which, if convenience will not allow, Stand in hard cure. [To the Fool] Come, help to bear thy master ; Thou must not stay behind. Glou. Come, come, away. [Exeunt all but Edgar. 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, AVhen grief hath mates, and bearing fellowship. 711 ACT III. KING LEAR. SCENE VII. How light and portable my pain seems now, When that which makes me bend makes the king lie childed as I father'd ! Tom, away ! [bow, 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 hap more to-night, safe 'scape the king ! Lurk, lurk. {Exit. SCENE VII. — Gloucester'' s castle. Enter Corn-wall, Regan, Goneril, Edmund, and Servants. Corn. Post speedily to my lord your husband ; show him this letter : the army of France is landed. Seek out the villain Gloucester. [Exeunt some of the Servants. Beg. Hang him instantly. Gon. Pluck out his eyes. Corn. Leave him to my displeasure. -Edmund, keep you our sister company : the revenges we are bound to take upon your traitorous father are not fit for your beholding. Advise the duke, where you are going, to a most festinate preparation : we are bound to the like. Our posts shall be swift and in- telligent betwixt us. Farewell, dear sister: fare- well, my lord of Gloucester. Enter Os-wald. How now ! where 's the king ? [hence : Osw. My lord of Gloucester hath convey'd him Some five or six and thirty of his knights, Hot questrists after him, met him at gate; Who, with some other of the lords dependants. Are gone with him towards Dover ; where they boast To have well-armed friends. Corn. Get horses for your mistress. Gon. Farewell, sweet lord, and sister. Corn. Edmund, farewell. [Exeunt Goneril, Edmund, and Oswald. Go seek the traitor Gloucester, Pinion him like a thief, bring him before us. [Exeunt other Servants. Though well we may not pass upon his life Without the form of justice, yet our power Shall do a courtesy to our wrath, which men May blame, but not control. Who 's there ? the traitor ? Enter Gloucester, brought in by two or three. Beg. Ingratef ul fox ! 't is he. Corn. Bind fast his corky arms. Glou. What mean your graces ? Good my friends, consider You are my guests : do me no foul play, friends. Corn. Bind him, I say. [Servants bind him. Beg. Hard, hard. O filthy traitor ! Glou. Unmerciful lady as you are, I 'm none. Corn. To this chair bind him. Villain, thou sh alt find — [Began plucks his beard. Glou. By the kind gods, 't is most ignobly done To pluck me by the beard. Beg. So white, and such a traitor ! Glou. E'aughty lady, These hairs, which thou dost ravish from my chin. Will quicken, and accuse thee : I am your host : With robbers' hands my hospitable favours You should not ruffle thus. What will you do ? Corn. Come, sir, what letters had you late from France ? Beg. Be simple answerer, for we know the truth. Corn. And what confederacy have you with the traitors Late footed in the kingdom ? Beg. To whose hands have you sent the lunatic Speak. [king ? 712 Glou. I have a letter guessingly set down, Wliich came from one that 's of a neutral heart, And not from one opposed. Corn. Cunning. Beg. And false. Corn. Where hast thou sent the king ? Glou. To Dover. Beg. Wherefore to Dover ? Wast thou not charged at peril — Corn. Wherefore to Dover ? Let him first answer that. Glou. I am tied to the stake, and I must stand the course. Beg. Wherefore to Dover, sir ? Glou. Because I would not see thy cruel nails Pluck out his poor old eyes ; nor thy fierce sister In his anointed flesh stick bearish fangs. The sea, with such a storm as his bare head In hell-black night endured, would have buoy'd up. And quench 'd the stelled fires : Yet, poor old heart, he holp the heavens to rain. If wolves had at thy gate howl'd that stern time, Thou shouldst have said ' Good porter, turn the key,' All cruels else subscribed : but I shall see The winged vengeance overtake such children. Corn. See 't shalt thou never. Fellows, hold the Upon these eyes of thine I '11 set my foot. [chair. Glou. He that will think to live till he be old, Give me some help ! O cruel ! O you gods ! Beg. One side will mock another ; the other too. Corn. If you see vengeance, — First Serv. Hold your hand, my lord • I have served you ever since I was a child ; But better service have I never done you Than now to bid you hold. Beg. How now, you dog ! First Serv. If you did wear abeard upon your chin, I 'd shake it on this quarrel. What do you mean ? Corn. My villain ! [T]iey draw and fight. First Serv. Nay, then, come on, and take the chance of anger. . [thus ! Beg. Give me thy sword. A peasant stand up [Takes a sword, and runs at him behind. First Serv. O, I am slain ! My lord, you have one eye left To see some mischief on him. O ! [Dies. Corn. Lest it see more, prevent it. Out, vile jelly ! Where is thy lustre now ? [Edmund ? Glou. All dark and comfortless. Where 's my son Edmund, enkindle all the sparks of nature, To quit this horrid act. Beg. Out, treacherous villain ! Thou call'st on him that hates thee : it was he That made the overture of thy treasons to us ; Who is too good to pity thee. Glou. O my follies ! then Edgar was abused. Kind gods, forgive me that, and prosper him ! Beg. Go thrust him out at gates, and let him smell His way to Dover. [Exit one with Gloucester.] How is 't, my lord ? how look you ? Corn. I have received a hurt : follow me, lady. Turn out that eyeless villain ; throw this slave Upon the dunghill. Regan, I bleed apace : Untimely comes this hurt : give me your arm. [Exit Cornwall, led by Began. Sec. Serv. I '11 never care what wickedness I do, If this man come to good. Tliird Serv. If she live long. And in the end meet the old course of death. Women will all turn monsters. [Bedlam Sec. Serv. Let 's follow the old earl, and get the To lead him where he would : his roguish madness Allows itself to any thing. Third Serv. Go thou : I '11 fetch some flax and whites of eggs To apply to his bleeding face. Now, heaven help him ! [Exeunt severally. ACT IV. KING LEAR. SCENE II. ^OT IV^. SCENE 1.— The heath. Enter Edgar. Edg. Yet better thus, and known to be contemn'd, Than still contemn'd and flatter'd. To be worst, 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 laughter. Welcome, then, Tliou unsubstantial air that I embrace ! The wretch that thou hast blown unto the worst Owes nothing to thy blasts. But who comes here ? Enter Gloucester, led by 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 your father's tenant, these fourscore years. Glou. Away, get thee away ; good friend, be gone : Thy comforts can do me no good at all ; Thee they may hurt. Old Man. Alack, sir, you cannot see your way. Glou. I have no way, and therefore want no eyes ; I stumbled when I saw : full oft 't is seen. Our means secure us, and our mere defects Prove our commodities. O dear son Edgar, The food of thy abused father's wrath ! Might I but live to see thee in my touch, I 'Id say I had eyes again ! Old Man. How now ! Who 's there ? Edg. [Aside] O gods ! Who is 't can say ' I am at I am worse than e'er I was. [the worst ' ? Old Man. 'T is poor mad Tom. Edg. [Aside'\ And worse I may be yet : the worst So lon^ as we can say ' This is the worst.' [is not Old Man. Fellow, where goest ? Qlou. Is it a beggar-man ? Old Man. Madman and beggar too. Glou. He has some reason, else he could not beg. I' the last night's storm I such 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; I have heard more since. As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods, They kill us for their sport. Edg. [Aside'] How should this be ? Bad is the trade that must play fool to sorrow. Angering itself and others. — Bless thee, master! Glou. Is that the naked fellow ? Old Man. Ay, my lord. Glou. Then, prithee, get thee gone : if, for my sake, Thou wilt o'ertake us, hence a mile or twain, I' the way toward Dover, do it for ancient love ; And bring some covering for this naked soul. Who I '11 entreat to lead me. Old Man. Alack, sir, he is mad. Glou. 'T is 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 '11 bring him the best 'parel that I have, Come on 't what will. [Exit. Glou. Sirrah, naked fellow, — Edg. Poor Tom's a-cold. [Aside] 1 cannot daub it further. Glou. Come hither, fellow. Edg. [Aside] And yet I must. — Bless thy sweet eyes, they bleed. Glou. Know'st thou the way to Dover ? Edg. Both stile and gate, horse-way and foot- path. Poor Tom hath been scared out of his good wits : bless thee, good man's son, from the foul fiend ! five fiends have been in poor Tom at once ; of lust, as Obidicut ; Hobbididance, prince of dumbness ; Mahu, of stealing; Modo, of murder; Flibberti- gibbet, of mopping and mowing, who since pos- sesses chambermaids and waiting-women. So, bless thee, master ! Glou. Here, take this purse, thou whom the heavens' plagues Have humbled to all strokes : that I am wretched Makes thee the happier : heavens, deal so still! Let the superfluous and lust-dieted man. That slaves your ordinance, that will not see Because he doth not feel, feel your power quickly ; So distribution should undo excess. And each man have enough. Dost thou know Edg. Ay, master. [Dover ? Glou. There is a cliff, whose high and bending head Looks fearfully in the confined deep : Bring me but to the very brim of it, And I '11 repair the misery thou dost bear With something rich about me : from that place I shall no leading need. Edg. Give me thy arm : Poor Tom shall lead thee. [Exeunt. SCENE II. — Before the Duke of Albany'' s palace. Enter Goneril and Edmund. Gon. Welcome, my lord : I marvel our mild hus- Not met us on the way. [band Enter Oswald. Now, where 's your master ? Osw. Madam, within ; but never man so changed. I told him of the army that was landed ; He smiled at it : I told him you were coming ; His answer was ' The worse : ' of Gloucester's And of the loyal service of his son, [treachery. When I inform'd him, then he call'd me sot. And told me I had turn'd the wrong side out : What most he should dislike seems pleasant to him ; What like, offensive. Gon. [To Edm.] Then shall you go no further. It is the cowish terror of his spirit, That dares not undertake : he '11 not feel wrongs Which tie him to an answer. Our wishes on the way May prove eif ects. Back, Edmund, to my brother ; Hasten his musters and conduct his powers : I must change arms at home, and give the distaff Into my husband's hands. This trusty servant Shall pass between us : ere long you are like to hear, If you dare venture in your own behalf, A mistress's command. Wear this ; spare speech ; [Giving a favour. Decline your head : this kiss, if it durst speak. Would stretch thy spirits up into the air : Conceive, and fare thee well. Edm. Yours in the ranks of death. Gon. My most dear Gloucester ! [Exit Edmund. O, the difference of man and man ! To thee a woman's services are due : My fool usurps my body. Osio. Madam, here comes my lord. [Exit. Enter the Duke of Albany, Gon. I have been worth the whistle. Alb. O Goneril ! You are not worth the dust which the rude wind Blows in your face. I fear your disposition : That nature, which contemns its origin. Cannot be border'd certain in itself ; She that herself will sliver and disbranch 713 ACT IV. KING LEAR. SCENE IV From her material sap, perforce must wither And come to deadly use. Gon. No more; the text is foolish. Alh. Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile : Filths savour but themselves. What have you done ? Tigers, not daughters, what have you perform 'd ? ■ A father, and a gracious aged man, [lick, Whose reverence even the head-lugg'd bear would Most barbarous, most degenerate ! have you madded. Could my good brother suffer you to do it ? A man, a prince, by him so benefited ! If that the heavens do not their visible spirits Send quickly down to tame these vile offences, It will come. Humanity must perforce prey on itself, Like monsters of the deep. Gon. Milk-liver'd man ! That bear'st a cheek for blows, a head for wrongs ; Who hast not in thy brows an eye discerning Thine honour from thy suffering ; that not know'st Fools do those villains pity who are punish'd Ere they have done their mischief. Where 's thy drum V France spreads his banners in our noiseless land ; With plumed helm thy slayer begins threats ; Whiles thou, a moral fool, sit'st still, and criest 'Alack, why does he so ? ' Alh. See thyself, devil I Proper deformity seems not in the fiend So horrid as in woman. Gon. O vain fool ! [shame, ATb. Thou changed and self-cover'd thing, for Be-monster not thy feature. Were 't my fitness To let these hands obey my blood. They are apt enough to dislocate and tear Thy flesh and bones : howe'er thou art a fiend, A woman's shape doth shield thee. Gon. Marry, your manhood now — Enter a Messenger. Alb. What news ? [dead ; Mess. O, my good lord, the Duke of Cornwall 's Slain by his servant, going to put out The other eye of Gloucester. Alb. Gloucester's eyes ! Mess. A servant that he bred, thrill'd with re- morse, Opposed against the act, bending his sword To his great master; who, thereat enraged. Flew on him, and amongst them fell 'd him dead ; But not without that harmful stroke, which since Hath pluck 'd him after. Alb. This shows you are above, You justicers, that these our nether crimes So speedily can venge ! But, O poor Gloucester ! Lost he his other eye ? Mess. Both, both, my lord. This letter, madam, craves a speedy answer ; 'T is from your sister. Gon. [Aside] One way I like this well ; But being widow, and my Gloucester with her. May all the building in my fancy pluck Upon my hateful life : another way, The news is not so tart. — I '11 read, and answer. [Exit. Alb. Where was his son when they did take his Mess. Come with my lady hither. [eyes ? Alb. He is not here. Mess. 'No, my good lord ; I met him back again. Alb. Knows, he the wickedness ? [him; Mess. Ay, my good lord ; 'twas he inform 'd against And quit the house on purpose, that their punish- Might have the freer course. [ment Alb. ' Gloucester, I live To thank thee for the love thou show'dst the king. And to revenge thine eyes. Come hither, friend : Tell me what more thou know'st. [Exeunt. 714 SCENE III.— T7ie French camp Dover. Enter Kent and a Gentleman. Kent. Why the King of France is so suddenly gone back know you the reason ? Gent. Something he left imperfect in the state, which since his coming forth is thought of; which imports to the kingdom so much fear and danger, that his personal return was most required and necessary. Kent. Who hath he left behind him general ? Gent. The Marshal of France, Monsieur La Far. Kent. Did your letters pierce the queen to any demonstration of grief ? [presence ; Gent. Ay, sir; she took them, read them in my And now and then an ample tear trill'd down Her delicate cheek: it seem'd she was a queen Over her passion ; who, most rebel-like, Sought to be king o'er her. Kent. O, then it moved her. Gent. Not to a rage ; patience and sorrow strove Who should express her goodliest. You have seen Sunshine and rain at once : her smiles and tears Were like a better way : those happy smilets. That play'd on her ripe lip, seem'd not to know What guests were in her eyes ; which parted thence, As pearls from diamonds dropp'd. In brief, Sorrow would be a rarity most beloved. If all could so become it. Kent. Made she no verbal question ? Gent. 'Faith, once or twice she heaved the name of ' father ' Pantingly forth, as if it press'd her heart : Cried ' Sisters ! sisters ! Shame of ladies ! sisters ! Kent! father! sisters! What, i' the storm? i' the Let pity not be believed ! ' There she shook [night? The holy water from her heavenly eyes, And clamour moisten 'd : then away she started To deal with grief alone. Kent. It is the stars, The stars above us, govern our conditions ; Else one self mate and mate could not beget Such different issues. You spoke not with her since? Gent. No. Kent. Was this before the king return 'd ? Gent. No, since. Kent. Well, sir, the poor distressed Lear 's i' the Who sometime, in his better tune, remembers [town; What we are come about, and by no means Will yield to see his daughter. Gent. Why, good sir? Kent. A sovereign shame so elbows him : his own unkindness, That stripp'd her from his benediction, turn'd her To foreign casualties, gave her dear rights To his dog-hearted daughters, these things sting His mind so venomously, that burning shame Detains him from Cordelia. Gent. Alack, poor gentleman ! Kent. Of Albany's and Cornwall's powers you Gent. 'T is so, they are afoot. [heard not ? Kent. Well, sir, I '11 bring you to our master Lear, And leave you to attend him : some dear cause Will in concealment wrap me up awhile ; When I am known aright, you shall not grieve Lending me this acquaintance. I pray you, go Along with me. [Exeunt SCENE IV. — The same. A tent. Enter, with drum and colours, Cordelia, Doctor; and Soldiers. Cor. Alack, 't is he : why, he was met even now As mad as the vex'd sea ; singing aloud ; Crown 'd with rank fumitcr and furrow- weeds, With bur-docks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers, Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow ACT IV. KING LEAR. SCENE VI. In our sustaining corn. A century send forth ; Search every acre in the high-grown field, And bring him to our eye. [_Exit an Officer.'] "What can man's wisdom In the restoring his bereaved sense ? He that helps him take all my outward worth. Doct. There is means, madam : Our foster-nurse of nature is repose, The which he lacks ; that to provoke in him, Are many simples operative, whose power Will close the eye of anguish. Cor. All blest secrets, All you unpublish'd virtues of the earth. Spring with my tears ! be aidant and remediate In the good man's distress ! Seek, seek for him ; Lest his ungovern'd rage dissolvethe life That wants the means to lead it. Enier a Messenger. Mes. News, madam; The British powers are marching hitherward. Cor. 'T is known before • our preparation stands In expectation of them. O dear father, It is thy business that I go about ; Therefore great France My mourning and important tears hath pitied. No blown ambition doth our arms incite. But love, dear love, and our aged father's right : Soon may I hear and see him ! [Exeunt. SCENE V. — Gloucester''s castle. Enter Regan and Os-wald. Beg. But are my brother's powers set forth ? Osw. Ay, madam. Reg. Himself in person there ? Osw. Madam, with much ado : Your sister is the better soldier. Beg. Lord Edmund spake not with your lord at home? Osic. No, madam. [him ? . Beg. What might import my sister's letter to Osw. I know not, lady. Beg. 'Faith, he is posted hence on serious matter. It was great ignorance, Gloucester's eyes being out. To let him live : where he arrives he moves All hearts against us : Edmund, I think, is gone, In pity of his misery, to dispatch His nighted life ; moreover, to descry The strength o' the enemy. Petter. Osw. I must needs after him, madam, with my Beg. Our troops set forth to-morrow : stay with The ways are dangerous. [us ; Osiv. I may not, madam : My lady charged my duty in this business. Beg. Why should she write to Edmund ? Might not you Transport her purposes by word ? Belike, Something — I know not what : I '11 love thee much. Let me unseal the letter. Osw. Madam, I had rather— Beg. I know your lady does not love her husband; I am sure of that : and at her late being here She gave strange oeillades and most speaking looks To noble Edmund. I know you are of her bosom. Osw. I, madam ? Beg. I speak in understanding ; you are, I know 't : Therefore I do advise you, take this note : My lord is dead ; Edmund and I have talk'd ; And more convenient is he for my hand Than for your lady's : you may gather more. If you do find him, pray you, give him this ; And when your mistress hears thus much from you, I pray, desire her call her wisdom to her. So, fare you well. If you do chance to hear of that blind traitor. Preferment falls on him that cuts him off. Osw. Would I could meet him, madam ! I should What party I do follow. [show Beg. Fare thee well. [Exeunt. SCENE VI. — Fields near Dover. Enter Gloucester, and Edgar dressed like a peasant. Qlou. When shall we come to the top of that same hill ? [hour. Edg. You do climb up it now: look, how we la- Glou. Methinks the ground is even. Edg. Horrible steep. Hark, do you hear the sea ? Glou. No, truly. Edg. Why, then, your other senses grow imperfect By your eyes' anguish. Glou. So may it be, indeed : Methinks thy voice is alter'd ; and thou speak 'st In better phrase and matter than thou didst. Edg. You 're much deceived : in nothing am I But in my garments. [changed, Glou. Methinks you 're better spoken. Edg. Come on, sir ; here 's the place : stand still. How fearful And dizzy 't is, 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! Methinks he seems no bigger than his head : The fishermen, that walk upon the beach. Appear like mice ; and yond tall anchoring bark, Diminish 'd to her cock ; her cock, a buoy Almost too small for sight : the murmuring surge, That on the unnumber'd idle pebbles chafes. Cannot be heard so high. I '11 look no more ; Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight Topple down headlong. Glou. 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. Glou. Let go my hand. Here, friend, 's another purse ; in it a jewel Well worth a poor man's taking : fairies and gods Prosper it with thee ! Go thou farther off ; Bid me farewell, and let me hear thee going. Edg. Now fare you well, good sir. Glou. With all my heart. Edg. Why I do trifle thus with his despair Is done to cure it. Glou. [Kneelingl 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 Burn itself out. If Edgar live, O, bless him ! Now, fellow, fare thee well. [He falls forward. 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 thought been past. Alive or dead ? Ho, you sir ! friend ! Here you, sir ! speak ! Thus might he pass indeed : yet he revives. What are you, sir ? Glou. Away, and let me die. Edg. Hadst thou been aught but gossamer, feath- So many fathom down precipitating, [ers, air, Thou 'dst shiver'd like an egg : but thou dost breathe ; Hast heavy substance ; bleed 'st not; speak 'st; art Ten masts at each make not the altitude [sound. Which thou hast perpendicularly fell : Thy life 's a miracle. Speak yet again 715 ACT IV. KING LEAR. SCENE VI, Glou. But have I fall'n, or no ? Edg. From the dread summit of this chalky bourn. Look up a-height ; the shrill-gorged lark so far Cannot be seen or heard : do but look up. Glou. Alack, I have no eyes. Is wretchedness deprived that benefit, To end itself by death ? 'T was yet some comfort, When misery could beguile the tyrant's rage, And frustrate his proud will. Edg. Give me your arm : Up : so. How is 't ? Feel you your legs ? You Glou. Too well, too well. [stand. Edg. This is above all strangeness. Upon the crown o' the cliff, what thing was that "Which parted from you ? Glou. 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 waved like the enridged sea : It was some fiend ; therefore, thou happy father, Think that the clearest gods, who make them hon- Of men's impossibilities, have preserved thee, [ours Glou. I do remember now: henceforth I '11 bear Affliction till it do cry out itself ' Enough, enough,' and die. That thing you speak I took it for a man ; often 't would say [of, * The fiend, the fiend :' he led me to that place. Edg. Bear free and patient thoughts. But who comes here ? Enter Ijear , fantastically dressed with wild 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. There 's your press-money. That fellow handles his bow like a crow-keeper: draw me a clothier's yard. Look, look, a mouse! Peace, peace; this piece of toasted cheese will do 't. There 's my gauntlet ; I '11 prove it on a giant. Bring up the brown bills. O, well flown, bird! i' the clout, i' the clout: hewgh! Give the word. Edg. Sweet marjoram. Lear. Pass. Glou. I know that voice. Lear. Ha ! Goneril, with a white beard ! They flattered me 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 that I said ! — ' Ay ' and ' no ' too was no good divinity. When the rain came to wet me once, and the wind to make me chatter; when the thunder woixld not peace at my bidding; there I found 'em, there I smelt 'em out. Go to, they are not men o' their words : they told me I was every thing ; 't is a lie, I am not ague-proof. Glou. The trick of that voice I do well remem- Is 't not the king ? [ber : Lear. Ay, every inch a king : When I do stare, see how the subject quakes. I pardon that man's life. What was thy cause ? Adultery ? Thou Shalt not die : die for adultery ! No : The wren goes to 't, and the small gilded fly Does lecher in my sight. Let copulation thrive ; for Gloucester's bastard son Was kinder to his father than my daughters Got 'tween the lawful sheets. To 't, luxury, pell-mell ! for I lack soldiers. Behold yond simpering dame. Whose face between her forks presages snow ; That minces virtue, and does shake the head To hear of pleasure's name ; The fitchew, nor the soiled horse, goes to 't With a more riotous appetite. 716 Down from the waist they are Centaurs, Though women all above : But to the girdle do the gods inherit. Beneath is all the fiends, There 's hell, there 's darkness, there 's the sulphur- ous pit, Burning, scaldiiig, stench, consumption; fie, fie, fie! pah, pah! Give me an ounce of civet, good apothecary, to sweeten my imagination : there 's money for thee. Glou. O, let me kiss that hand ! Lear. Let me wipe it first ; it smells of mortality. Glou. 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. Dost thou squiny at me? No, do thy worst, blind Cupid ; I '11 not love. Read thou this challenge ; mark but the penning of it. [one. Glou. Were all the letters suns, I could not see Edg. I would not take this from report ; it is, And my heart breaks at it. Lear. Read. Glou. What, with the case of eyes? Lear. O, ho, are you there with me? No eyes in your head, 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. Glou. 1 see it feelingly. Lear. What, art mad ? A man may see how this world goes with no eyes. Look with thine ears: see how yond justice rails upon yond 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 ? Glou. Ay, sir. Lear. And the creature run from the cur ? There thou mightst behold the great image of authority : a dog 's obeyed in ofiice. Thou rascal beadle, hold thy bloody hand ! [back ; Why dost thou lash that whore ? Strip thine own. Thou hotly lust 'st to use her in that kind .[cozener. For which thou whipp'st her. The usurer hangs the Through tatter'd clothes small vices do appear ; Robes and f urr'd gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold, And the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks; Arm it in rags, a pigmy's straw does pierce it. None does offend, none, I say, none ; I '11 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 [now : To see the things thou dost not. 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. I know thee well enough ; thy name is Gloucester : 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. Glou. Alack, alack the day ! [come Lear. When we are born, we cry that we are To this great stage of fools : this a good block ; It were a delicate stratagem, to shoe A troop of horse with felt : I '11 put 't in proof ; And when I have stol'n upon these sons-in-law, Then, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill! Ihiter a Gentleman, vnth 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 surgeons ; 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, ACT IV. KING LEAR. SCENE VII. To use his eyes for garden water-pots, Ay, and laying autumn's dust. Gtnt. Good sir,— Jjtar. I will die bravely, like a bridegroom. What ! I will be jovial : come, come ; I am a king, My masters, know you that. Gtni. You are a royal one, and we obey you. iear. Then there 's life in 't. Nay, if you get it, you shall get it with running. Sa, sa, sa, sa. [-Exit running; Attendants follow. Gent. A sight most pitiful in the meanest wretch. Past speaking of in a king ! Thou hast one daughter, Who redeems nature from the general curse Which twain have brought her to. Edg. Hail, gentle sir. Gent. Sir, speed you : what 's your will ? Edg. Do you hear aught, sir, of a battle toward? Gent. Most sure and vulgar : every one hears that, Which can distinguish sound. Edg. But, by your favour, How near 's the other army ? Gent. Near and on speedy foot ; the main descry Stands on the hourly thought. Edg. I thank you, sir : that 's all. Gent. Though that the queen on special cause is Her army is moved on. [here, Edg. I thank you, sir. [Exit Gent. Glou. You ever-gentle gods, take my breath from Let not my worser spirit tempt me again [me ; To die before you please ! Edg. Well pray you, father. Glou. Now, good sir, what are you ? [blows ; Edg. A most poor man, made tame to fortune's Who, by the art of known and feeling sorrows, Am pregnant to good pity. Give me your hand, I '11 lead you to some biding. Glou. Hearty thanks : The bounty and the benison of heaven To boot, and boot ! Enter Oswald. Osw. A proclaim'd prize ! Most happy ! That eyeless head of thine was first framed flesh To raise my fortunes. Thou old unhappy traitor, Briefly thyself remember : the sword is out That must destroy thee. Glou. Now let thy friendly hand Put strength enough to 't. [Edgar interposes. Osw. Wherefore, bold peasant, Barest thou support a publish 'd traitor ? Hence ; Lest that the infection of his fortune take Like hold on thge. Let go his arm. Edg. Chill not let go, zir, without vurther 'casion. Osw. Let go, slave, or thou diest ! Edg. Good gentleman, go your gait, and let poor volk pass. An chud ha' bin zwaggered out of my life, 't would not ha' bin zo long as 't is by a vort- night. Nay, come not near th' old man ; keep out, che vor ye, or ise try whether your costard or my ballow be the harder : chill be plain with you. Osw. Out, dunghill! Edg. Chill pick your teeth, zir : come ; no matter vor your foins. [Tliey fight, and Edgar Jcnochs him down. Osw. Slave, thou hast slain me : villain, take my If ever thou wilt thrive, bury my body ; [purse : And give the letters which thou find'st about me To Edmund earl of Gloucester ; seek him out Upon the British party : O, untimely death ! [Dies. Edg. I know thee well : a serviceable villain; As duteous to the vices of thy mistress As badness would desire. Glou. What, is he dead ? Edg. Sit you down, father ; rest you. Let 's see these pockets : the letters that he speaks of May be my friends. He 's dead ; I am only sorry He had no other death's-man. Let us see : Leave, gentle wax ; and, manners, blame us not : To know our enemies' minds, we 'Id rip their hearts ; Their papers, is more lawful. [Beads] ' Let our reciprocal vows be remembered. You have many opportunities to cut him off: if your will want not, time and place will be fruitfully offered. There is nothing done, if he return the conqueror : then am I the prisoner, and his bed my gaol ; from the loathed warmth whereof deliver me, and supply the place for your labour. ' Your — wife, so I would say — 'Affectionate servant, 'GONERIL.' undistinguish'd space of woman's will ! A plot upon her virtuous husband's life ; And the exchange my brother ! Here, in the sands, Thee I '11 rake up, the post unsanctified Of murderous lechers : and in the mature time With this ungracious paper strike the sight Of the death-practised duke ; for him 't is well That of thy death and business I can tell. Glou. The king is mad : how stiff is my vile sense. That I stand up, and have ingenious feeling Of my huge sorrows ! Better I were distract : So should my thoughts be sever'd from my griefs, And woes by wrong imaginations lose The knowledge of themselves. Edg. Give me your hand : [Drum afar off. Far off, methinks, I hear the beaten drum : Come, father, I '11 bestow you with a friend. [Exeunt. SCENE Vn. — ^ tent in the French camp. Lear on a, bed asleep, soft music playing ; Gentleman, and others attending. Enter Cordelia, Kent, and Doctor. Cor. O thou good Kent, how shall I live and work, To match thy goodness ? My life will be too short. And every measure fail me. Kent. To be acknowledged, madam, is o'erpaid. All my reports go with the modest truth ; Nor more nor clipp'd, but so. Cor. Be better suited : These weeds are memories of those worser hours : 1 prithee, put them off. Kent. Pardon me, dear madam ; 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 't so, my good lord. [To the Doctor} How does the king ? Doct. Madam, sleeps still. Cor. O you kind gods. Cure this great breach in his abused nature 1 The untuned and jarring senses, O, wind up Of this child-changed father 1 Doct. So please your majesty That we may wake the king : he hath slept long. Cor. Be govern'd by your knowledge, and proceed I' 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. Doct. Be by, good madam, when we do awake him ; I doubt not of his temperance. Cor. Very well, [there I Doct. Please you, draw near. Louder the music Cor. O my dear father ! Kestoration 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 Had challenged pity of them. Was this a face 717 ACT V. KING LEAR. SCENE I To be opposed against the warring winds ? To stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder ? In the most terrible and nimble stroke Of quick, cross lightning V to watch— poor perdu !— With this thin helm ? Mine enemy's dog, Though he had bit me, should have stood that night Against my fire ; and wast thou fain, poor father, To hovel thee with swine, and rogues forlorn, In short and musty straw ? Alack, alack ! 'T is wonder that thy life and wits at once Had not concluded all. He wakes ; speak to him. Doct. Madam, do you ; 't is fittest. [majesty ? Cor. How does my royal lord ? How fares your Lear. You do me wrong to take me out o' the Thou art a soul in bliss ; but I am bound [grave : Upon a wheel of fire, that 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 ! Doct. He 's scarce awake : let him alone awhile. Lear. Where have I been ? Where am I ? Fair daylight ? I am mightily abused. I should e'en die with pity, To see another thus. I know not what to say. I will not swear these are my hands : let 's see ; 1 feel this pin prick. Would I were assured 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, not an hour more nor less ; And, to deal plainly, I fear I am not in my perfect mind. Methinks I should know you, and know this man ; Yet I am doubtful : for I am mainly ignorant What place this is ; and all the skill I hare Kemembers 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 l* yes, 'faith. I pray, weep If you have poison for me, I will drink it. [not : 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 cause. Lear. Am I in France ? Kent. In your own kingdom, sir. Lear. Do not abuse me. Boct. Be comforted, good madam : the great rage, You see, is kill'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 you now, forget and forgive : I am old and foolish. [Exeunt all but Kent and Gentleman. Gent. Holds it true, sir, that the Duke of Cornwall was so slain ? Kent. Most certain, sir. Gent. Who is conductor of his people V Kent. As 't is said, the bastard son of Gloucester. Gent. They say Edgar, his banished son, is with the Earl of Kent in Germany. Kent. Eeport is changeable. 'T is time to look about ; the powers of the kingdom approach apace. Gent. The arbitrement is like to be bloody. Fare you well, sir. [-Exit. Kent. My point and period will be throughly wrought, Or well or ill, as this day's battle 's fought. [JEktit. ^OT ^. SCENE I. — The British camp, near Dover. Enter, with drum and colours, Edmund, Regan, Gentlemen, and Soldiers. Edm. Know of the duke if his last purpose hold. Or whether since he is advised by aught To change the course : he 's full of alteration And self -reproving : bring his constant pleasure. [To a Gentleman, who goes out. Beg. Our sister's man is certainly miscarried. Edm. 'T is to be doubted, madam. Beg. Now, sweet lord, You know the goodness I intend uix)n you : Tell me — but truly — but then speak the truth. Do you not love my sister ? Edm. In honour'd love. Beg. But have you never found my brother's way To the forf ended place ? Edm. That thought abuses you. Beg. I am doubtful that you have been conjunct And bosom'd with her, as far as we call hers. Edm. No, by mine honour, madam. Beg. I never shall endure her : dear my lord, Be not familiar with her. Edm. Fear me not : She and the duke her husband ! Enter, with drum and colours, Albany, Goneril, and Soldiers. Gon. [Aside] I had rather lose the battle than that Should loosen him and me. [sister Alb. Our very loving sister, well be-met. Sir, this I hear; the king is come to his daughter, With others whom the rigour of our state 718 Forced to cry out. Where I could not be honest, I never yet was valiant : for this business. It toucheth us, as France invades our land, Not holds the king, with others, whom, I fear, Most just and heavy causes make oppose. Edm. Sir, you speak nobly. Beg. Why is this reason'd ? Gon. Combine together 'gainst the enemy ; For these domestic and particular ^roils Are not the question here. Alb. Let 's then determine With the ancient of war on our proceedings. Edm. I shall attend you presently at your tent. Beg. Sister, you '11 go with us ? Gon. No. Beg. 'T is most convenient ; pray you, go with us. Gon. [Aside} O, ho, I know the riddle.— I will go. As they are going out, enter Edgar disguised. Edg. If e'er your grace had speech with man so Hear me one word. [poor. Alb. 1 '11 overtake you. Speak. [Exeunt all but Albany and Edgar. Edg. Before you fight the battle, ope this letter. If you have victory, "let the trumpet sound For him that brought it : wretched though I seem, I can produce a champion that will prove What is avouched there. If you miscarry. Your business of the world hath so an end. And machination ceases. Fortune love you I Alb. Stay till I have read the letter. Edg. I was forbid it. When time shall serve, let but the herald cry, And I '11 appear again. A.CT V. KING LEAR. SCEN] II. Alh. Why, fare thee well: I will o'erlook thy paper. „ , ^^ ^ {Exit Edgar. He-enter Edmund. Edm. The enemy 's in view; draw up your powers. Here is the guess of their true strength and forces By diligent discovery ; but your haste Is now urged on you. Alb. We will greet the time. [Exit. Edm. To both these sisters have I sworn my love ; Each jealous of the other, as the stung Are of the adder. Which of them sliall I take ? Both y one V or neither ? Neither can be enjoy 'd. If both remain alive : to take the widow Exasperates, makes mad her sister Goneril ; And hardly shall I carry out my side, Her husband being alive. Now then we '11 use His countenance tor the battle ; which being done. Let her who would be rid of him devise His speedy taking off. As for the mercy Which he intends to Lear and to Cordelia, The battle done, and they within our power, Shall never see his pardon ; for my state Stands on me to defend, not to debate. [Exit. SCENE II. — A field between the two camps. ' Alarum within. Enter, with drum and colours, Lear, Cordelia, and Soldiers, over the stage; and exeunt. Enter Edgar and Gloucester. Eclg. Here, father, take the shadow of this tree For your good host ; pray that the right may thrive : If ever I return to you again, I 'U bring you comfort. Glou. Grace go with you, sir! [Exit Edgar. Alarum and retreat within. Be-enter Edgar. Edg. Away, old man ; give me thy hand ; away ! King Lear hath lost, he and his daughter ta'en : Give me thy hand ; come on. Glou. No farther, sir ; a man may rot even here. Edg. What, in ill thoughts again? Men must ' endure Their going hence, even as their coming hither: Ripeness is all : come on. Glou. And that 's true too. [Exeunt. SCENE III. — T7ie British camp near Dover. Enter, in conquest, with drum and colours, Edmund; Lear and CoT6.elia,, prisoners ; Captain, Soldiers, &c. Edm. Some officers take them away : good guard. Until their greatfer pleasures first be known That are to censure them. Cor. We are not the first Who, with best meaning, have incurr'd the worst. For thee, oppressed king, am 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 '11 kneel down. And ask of thee forgiveness : so we '11 live. And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues Talk of court news; and we '11 talk with them too. Who loses and who wins ; who 's in, who 's out ; And take upon 's the mystery of things, As if we were God's spies : and we '11 wear out. In a wall'd prison, packs and sects of great ones. That ebb and flow by the moon. Edm. Take them away. Lear. Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia, [thee ? The gods themselves throw incense. Have I caught He that parts us shall bring a brand from heaven, And fire us hence like foxes. Wipe thine ej'es ; The good-years shall devour them, flesh and fell. Ere they shall make us weep: we '11 see 'em starve first. Come. [Exeunt Lear and Cordelia, guarded. Edm. Come hither, captain; hark. Take thou this note [giving a paper] ; go follow them to prison : One step I have advanced thee ; if thou dost As this instructs thee, thou dost make thy way To noble fortunes : know thou this, that men Are as the time is : to be tender-minded Does not become a sword : thy great employment Will not bear question ; either say thou 'It do 't. Or thrive by other means. Capt. I '11 do 't, my lord. Edm. About it ; and write happy when thou hast Mark, I say, instantly; and carry it so [done. As I have set it down. Capt. 1 cannot draw a cart, nor eat dried oats ; If it be man's work, I '11 do 't. [Exit. Flourish. Enter Albany, Goneril, Regan, another Captain, and Soldiers. Alb. Sir, you have shown to-day your valiant strain, And fortune led you well : you have the captives That were the opposites of this day's strife : We do require them of you, so to use them As we shall find their merits and our safety May equally determine. Edm. Sir, I thought it fit To send the old and miserable king To some retention and appointed guard ; Whose age has charms in it, whose title more, To pluck the common bosom on his side, And turn our impress'd lances in our eyes [queen; Which do command them. With him I sent the My reason all the same ; and they are ready To-morrow, or at further space, to appear Where you shall hold your session. At this time We sweat and bleed : the friend hath lost his friend ; And the best quarrels, in the heat, are cursed By those that feel their sharpness : The question of Cordelia and her father Requires a fitter place. Alb. Sir, by your patience, I hold you but a subject of this war, Not as a brother. Beg. That 's as we list to grace him. Methinks our pleasure might have been demanded, Ere you had spoke so far. He led our powers ; Bore the commission of my place and person ; The which immediacy may well stand up. And call itself your brother. Gon. Not so hot: In his own grace he doth exalt himself. More than in your addition. Beg. In my rights. By me invested, he compeers the best. [you. Gon. That were the most, if he should husband Beg. Jesters do oft prove prophets. Gon. Holla, holla! That eye that told you so look'd but a-squint. Beg. Lady, I am not well ; else I should answer From a full-flowing stomach. General, Take thou my soldiers, prisoners, patrimony; Dispose of them, of me ; the walls are thine : Witness the world, that I create thee here My lord and master. Gon. Mean you to enjoy him ? Alb. The let-alone lies not in your good will. Edm. Nor in thine, lord. Alb. Half -blooded fellow, yes. Beg. [To Edmund] Let the drum strike, and prove my title thine. Alb. Stay yet; hear reason. Edmund, I arrest thee On capital treason ; and, in thine attaint. This gilded seT:pent[2winting to Gon.]. Foryourclaim, I bar it in the interest of my wife ; [fair sister, 'Tis she is sub-contracted to this lord. And I, her husband, contradict your bans. 719 ACT V. KING LEAR. SCENE III. If you will marry, make your loves to me, My lady is bespoke. Gon. An interlude ! [pet sound : Alh. Tliou art arm'd, Gloucester: let the trum- If none appear to prove upon thy head Thy heinous, manifest, and many treasons. There is my pledge [throwing down a glove\ ; I '11 prove it on thy heart, Ere I taste bread, thou art in nothing less Than I have here proclaim 'd thee. Beg. Sick, O, sick! Gon. [Aside] If not, I '11 ne'er trust medicine. Edm. There's my exchange [throwing down a glove] ; what in the world he is That names me traitor, villain-like he lies : Call by thy trumpet : he that dares approach, On him, on you, who not ? I will maintain My truth and honour firmly. Alb. A herald, ho ! Edm. A herald, ho, a herald! Alh. Trust to thy single virtue; for thy soldiers, All levied in my name, have in my name Took their discharge. Beg. My sickness grows upon me. Alh. She is not well; convey her to my tent. „ [Exit Began, led. .E^ier a Herald, Come hither, herald, — Let the trumpet sound, — And read out this. Capt. Sound, trumpet ! [A trumpet sounds. Her. [Beads] 'If any man of quality or degree within the lists of the army will maintain upon Edmund, supposed Earl of Gloucester, that he is a manifold traitor, let him appear by the third sound of the trumpet : he is bold in his defence.' Edm. Sound! [First Trumpet. Her. Again! [Second Trumpet. Her. Again! [Third Trurnpet. [Trumpet answers within. Enter Edgar, at the third soimd, armed, with a trumpet before him. Alb. Ask him his purposes, why he appears Upon this call o' the trumpet. Her. What are you ? Your name, your quality ? and why you answer This present summons ? Edg. Know, my name is lost ; By treason's tooth bare-gnawn and canker-bit : Yet am I noble as the adversary I come to cope. Alh. "Which is that adversary ? Edg. What 's he that speaks for Edmund Earl of Gloucester ? Edm. Himself : what say'st thou to him ? Edg. Draw thy sword, That, if my speech oifend a noble heart, Thy arm may do thee justice : here is mine. Behold, it is the privilege of mine honours, My oath, and my profession : I protest, Maugre thy strength, youth, place, and eminence, Despite thy victor sword and fire-new fortune, Thy valour and thy heart, thou art a traitor; Ealse to thy gods, thy brother, and thy father; Conspirant 'gainst this high-illustrious prince; And, from the extremest upward of thy head To the descent and dust below thy foot, A most toad-spotted traitor. Say thou ' No,' This sword, this arm, and my best spirits, are bent To prove upon thy heart, whereto I speak, Thou liest. Edm. In wisdom I should ask thy name ; But, since thy outside looks so fair and warlike And that thy tongue some say of breeding ' What safe and nicely I might well delay By rule of knighthood, I disdain and spurn: Back do I toss these treasons to thy head ; With the hell-hated lie o'erwhelm thy heart; 720 Which, for they yet glance by and scarcely bruise. This sword of mine shall give them instant way, Where they shall rest for ever. Trumpets, speak 5 [Alarwns. Tliey fight. Edmundfalls. Alb. Save him, save him! Gon. This is practice, Gloucester: By the law of arms thou wast not bound to answei An unknown opposite ; thou art not vanquish 'd, But cozen'd and beguiled. Alb. Shut your mouth, dame, Or with this paper shall I stop it : Hold, sir : Thou worse than any name, read thine own evil : No tearing, lady ; I perceive you know it. [Gives the letter to Edmund. Gon. Say, if I do, the laws are mine, not thine : Who can arraign me for 't ? Alh. Most monstrous ! oh I Know'st thou this paper ? Gon. Ask me not what I know. [Exit. Alh. Go after her : she 's desperate ; govern her. Edm. What you have charged me with, that have I done ; And more, much more; the time will bring it out: 'T is past, and so am I. But what art thou That hast this fortune on me ? If thou 'rt noble, I do forgive thee. Edg. Let 's exchange charity. I am no less in blood than thou art. Edmund; If more, the more thou hast wrong'd me. My name is Edgar, and thy father's son. The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices Make instruments to plague us : The dark and vicious place where thee he got Cost him his eyes. Edm. Thou hast spoken right, 't is true ; The wheel is come full circle; I am here. Alh. Methought thy very gait did prophesy A royal nobleness : I must embrace thee : Let sorrow split my heart, if ever I Did hate thee or thy father ! Edg. Worthy prince, I know 't. Alh. Where have you hid yourself ? How have you known the miseries of your father ? Edg. By nursing them, my lord. List a brief tale ; And when 't is told, O, that my heart would burst i The bloody proclamation to escape. That follow'd me so near, — O, our lives' sweetness! That we the pain of death would hourly die Bather than die at once ! —taught me to shift Into a madman's rags ; to assume a semblance That very dogs disdain 'd : and in this habit Met I my father with his bleeding rings. Their precious stones new lost : became his guide, Led him, begg'd for him, saved him from despair; Never,— O fault ! — reveal'd myself unto him, Until some half -hour past, when I was arm'd : Not sure, though hoping, of this good success, I ask'd his blessing, and from first to last Told him my pilgrimage : but his flaw'd heart, Alack, too weak the conflict to support ! 'Twixt two extremes of passion, joy and grief, Burst smilingly. Edm. This speech of yours hath moved me. And shall perchance do good : but speak you on ; You look as you had something more to say. Alh. If there be more, more woeful, hold it in ; For I am almost ready to dissolve. Hearing of this. Edg. This would have seem'd a period To such as love not sorrow ; but another, To amplify too much, would make much more. And top extremity. Whilst I was big in clamour came there in a man. Who, having seen me in my worst estate, Shunn'd my abhorr'd society ; but then, finding Who 't was that so endured, with his strong arms He fasten 'd on my neck, and bellow 'd out As he 'Id burst heaven ; threw him on my father ; ACT V. KING LEAR. SCENE III. Told the most piteous tale of Lear and him That ever ear received : which in recounting His grief grew puissant, and the strings of life 33egan to crack : twice then the trumpets sounded, And there I left him tranced. Alb. But who was this ? Eclg. Kent, sir, the banish'd Kent ; who in disguise Follow'd his enemy king, and did him service Improper for a slave. Enter a Gentleman, with a bloody knife. Gent. Help, help, O, help I Edg. "What kind of help ? Alb. Speak, man. Edg. What means that bloody knife ? Gent. 'T is hot, it smokes ; It came even from the heart of — O, she 's dead ! Alb. Who dead ? speak, man. Gent. Your lady, sir, your lady : and her sister By her is poisoned ; she hath confess'd it. Edm. I was contracted to them both : all three Now marry in an instant. Edg. Here comes Kent. Alb. Produce their bodies, be they alive or dead : This j udgment of the heavens, that makes us tremble, Touches us not with pity. [Exit Gentleman. Enter Kent. O, is this he ? The time will not allow the compliment Which very manners urges. Kent. I am come To bid my king and master aye good night : Is he not here ? Alb. Great thing of us forgot ! Speak, Edmund, where 's the king ? and where 's See'st thou this object, Kent ? [Cordelia ? [The bodies of Goner il and Hegan are brought in. Kent. Alack, why thus ? Edm. Yet Edmund was beloved : The one the other poison 'd for my sake. And after slew herself. Alb. Even so. Cover their faces. Edm. I pant for life : some good I mean to do, Despite of mine own nature. Quickly send, Be brief in it, to the castle ; for my writ Is on the life of Lear and on Cordelia : Nay, send in time. Alb. Eun, run, O, run ! Edg. To who, my lord? Who hath the office? send Thy token of reprieve. Edm. Well thought on : take my sword, Give it the captain. Alb. Haste thee, for thy life. [Exit Edgar. Edm. He hath commission from thy wife and me To hang Cordelia in the prison, and To lay the blame upon her own despair, That she fordid herself. Alb. The gods defend her! Bear him hence awhile. [Edmund is borne off. He-enter Lear, with Cordelia dead in his arms; Edgar, Captain, and others following. Lear. Howl, howl, howl, howl I O, you are men of stones : Had I your tongues and eyes, I 'Id use them so That heaven's vault should crack. She 's gone for I know when one is dead, and when one lives ; [ever! She 's dead as earth. Lend me a looking-glass ; If that her breath will mist or stain the stone, Why, then she lives. Kent. Is this the promised end ? Edg. Or image of that horror ? Alb. Eall, and cease ! Lear. This feather stirs ; she lives ! if it be so, It is a chance which does redeem all sorrows That ever I have felt. 46 Kent. [Kneeling] O my good master ! Lear. Prithee,"away. Edg. 'T is noble Kent, your friend. Lear. A plague upon you, murderers, traitors all ! I might have saved 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. ' Capt. 'T is true, my lords, he did. Lear. Did I not, fellow ? 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 ? Mine eyes are not o' the best : I '11 tell you straight. Kent. If fortune brag of two she loved 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 '11 strike, and quickly too : he 's dead and rotten. Kent. No, my good lord ; I am the very man,— Lear. I '11 see that straight. Kent. That, from your first of difference and de- Have foUow'd your sad steps. [cay, Lear. You are welcome hither. Kent. Nor no man else ; all's cheerless, dark, and deadly. Your eldest daughters have fordone themselves, And desperately are dead. Lear. Ay, so I think. Alb. He knows not what he says : and vain it is That we present us to him. Edg. Very bootless. Miter a Captain. Capt. Edmund is dead, my lord. Alb. That 's but a trifle here. You lords and noble friends, know our intent. What comfort to this great decay may come Shall be applied : for us, we will resign. During the life of this old majesty, To him our absolute power: [To Edgar and Kent] you, to your rights ; With boot, and such addition as your honours Have more than merited. All friends shall taste The wages of their virtue, and all foes The cup of their deservings. O, see, see ! Lear. And my poor fool is hang'd ! No, no, no Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, [life ! And thou no breath at all ? Thou 'It 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 ! [Dies. Edg. He faints ! My lord, my lord! Kent. Break, heart ; I prithee, break ! Edg. Look up, my lord. Kent. Vex not his ghost : O, let him pass ! he hates him much That would upon the rack of this tough world Stretch him out longer. Edg. He is gone, indeed. Kent. The wonder is, he hath endured so long : He but usurp'd his life. Alb. Bear them from hence. Our present business Is general woe. [To Kent and Edgar] Friends of my soul, you twain Rule in this realm, and the gored state sustain. Kent. I have a journey, sir, shortly to go ; My master calls me, I must not say no. Alb. The weight of this sad time we must obey; Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say. The oldest hath borne most : we that are young Shall never see so much, nor live so long. [Exeunt, luith a dead march. 721 OTHELLO, THE MOOE OF VENICE. DBAMATIS PEBSONM. Duke of Venice. Brabantio, Other Senators. Gratiano, brother to Brabantio. liOdovico, kinsman to Brabantio. Othello, a noble Moor in the service of the Vene- tian state. C'assio, his lieutenant. lago, his ancient. Boderigo, a Venetian gentleman. Montano, Othello's predecessor in the govemm«it of Cyprus. Clown, servant to Othello. Desdemona, daughter to Brabantio and wife to Othello. Emilia, wife to lago. Bianca, mistress to Cassio. Sailor, Messenger, Herald, Officers, Gentlemen, Musi- cians, and Attendants. SCENE — Venice : a Sea-port in Cyprus. [For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see page Lxv.; ^OT I. SCENE I.— Fentce. A street. Enter Roderigo and lago. Mod. Tush ! never tell me ; I take it much un- kindly That thou, lago, who hast had my purse As if the strings were thine, shouldst know of this. lago. 'Sblood, but you will not hear me : If ever I did dream of such a matter, Abhor me. [hate. Rod. Thou told'st me thou didst hold him in thy lago. Despise me, if I do not. Three great ones of the city, In personal suit to make me his lieutenant, Off-capp'd to him : and, by the faith of man, I know my price, I am worth no worse a place : But he, as loving his own pride and purposes, Evades them, with a bombast circumstance Horribly stufE'd with epithets of war; And, in conclusion, Nonsuits my mediators; for, ' Certes,' says he, ' I have already chose my officer.' And what was he ? Forsooth, a great arithmetician. One Michael Cassio, a Florentine, A fellow almost damn'd in a fair wife; That never set a squadron in the field. Nor the division of a battle knows More than a spinster; unless the bookish theoric. Wherein the toged consuls can propose As masterly as he: mere prattle, without practice, Is all his soldiership. But he, sir, had the election : And I, of whom his eyes had seen the proof At Rhodes, at Cyprus and on other grounds Christian and heathen, must be be-lee'd and calm'd By debitor and creditor: this counter-caster. He, in good time, must his lieutenant be, [cient. And I — God bless the mark! — his Moorship's an- Bod. By heaven, I rather would have been his hangman. [service, lago. Why, there 's no remedy; 'tis the curse of Preferment goes by letter and affection, And not by old gradation, where each second Stood heir to the first. Now, sir, be judge yourself, 722 Whether I in any just term am affined To love the' Moor. Bod. I would not follow him then. lago. O, sir, content you ; I follow him to serve my turn upon him : We cannot all be masters, nor all masters Cannot be truly foUow'd. You shall mark Many a duteous and knee-crooking knave, That, doting on his own obsequious bondage. Wears out his time, much like his master's ass, For nought but provender, and when he's old, cashier'd : Whip me such honest knaves. Others there are Who, trimm'd in forms and visages of duty. Keep yet their hearts attending on themselves. And, throwing but shows of service on their lords. Do well thrive by them and when they have liaea their coats [soul ; Do themselves homage: these fellows have some And such a one do I profess myself. For, sir, It is as sure as you are Roderigo, Were I the Moor, I would not be lago : In following him, I follow but myself; Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty, But seeming so, for my peculiar end : For when my outward action doth demonstrate The native act and figure of my heart In compliment extern, 'tis not long after But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at : I am not what I am. Bod. What a full fortune does the thick-lips owe, If he can carry 't thus ! lago. Call up her father, Rouse him : make after him, poison his delight. Proclaim him in the streets ; incense her kinsmen. And, though he in a fertile climate dwell. Plague him with flies : though that his joy be joy, Yet throw such changes of vexation on 't, As it may lose some colour. Bod. Here is her father's house ; I '11 call aloud. lago. Do, with like timorous accent and dire yell As when, by night and negligence, the fire Is spied in populous cities. Bod. What, ho, Brabantio ! Signior Brabantio, ho I ACT I. OTHELLO. SCENE II lago. Awake ! what, ho, Brabantio ! thieves ! thieves ! thieves ! Look to your house, your daughter and your bags ! Thieves! thieves! Brabantio appears above, at a window. Bra. What is the reason of this terrible summons ? What is the matter there ? Bod. Signior, is all your family within ? lago. Are your doors lock'd ? Bra. Why, wherefore ask you this ? lago. 'Zormds, sir, you 're robb'd ; for shame, put on your gown ; Your heart is burst, you have lost half your soul ; Even now, now, very now, an old black ram Is tupping your white ewe. Arise, arise ; Awake the snorting citizens with the bell. Or else the devil will make a grandsire of you : Arise, I say. Bra. What, have you lost your wits ? Bod. Most reverend signior, do you know my Bra. Not I : what are you V [voice ? Bod. My name is Koderigo. Bra. The worser welcome : I have charged thee not to haunt about my doors : -In honest plainness thou hast heard me say My daughter is not for thee ; and now, in madness. Being full of supper and distempering draughts. Upon malicious bravery, dost thou come To start my quiet. ■ Bod. Sir, sir, sir, — -Bra. But thou must needs be sure My spirit and my place have in them power To make this bitter to thee. Bod. Patience, good sir. Bra. What tell'st thou me of robbing ? this is My house is not a grange. [Venice ; Bod. Most grave Brabantio, In simple and pure soul I come to you. lago. 'Zounds, sir, you are one of those that will not serve God, if the devil bid you. Because we come to do you service and you think we are ruf- fians, you'll have your daughter covered with a Barbary horse ; you '11 have your nephews neigh to you ; you '11 have coursers for cousins and gennets for germans. Bra. What profane wretch art thou ? lago. I am one, sir, that comes to tell you your daughter and the Moor are now making the beast with two backs. Bra. Thou art a villain. lago. You are — a senator. Bra. This thou shalt answer ; I know thee, Eod- erigo. [you. Bod. Sir, I will answer any thing. But, I beseech If 't be your pleasure and most wise consent. As partly I fiiiid it is, that your fair daughter. At this odd-even and dull watch o' the night. Transported, with no worse nor better guard But with a knave of common hire, a gondolier. To the gross clasps of a lascivious Moor, — If this be known to you and your allowance, We then have done you bold and saucy wrongs ; But if you know not this, my manners tell me We have your wrong rebuke. Do not believe That, from the sense of all civility, I thus would play and trifle with your reverence : Your daughter, if you have not given her leave, I say again, hath made a gross revolt ; Tying her duty, beauty, wit and fortunes In an extravagant and wheeling stranger Of here and every where. Straight satisfy yourself : If she be in her chamber or your house, -Let loose on me the justice of the state For thus deluding you. Bra. Strike on the tinder, ho ! Give me a taper I call up all my people ! This accident is not unlike my di-eam : Belief of it oppresses me already. Light, I say ! light ! [^Exit above- lago. Farewell; for I must leave you . It seems not meet, nor wholesome to my place, To be produced — as, if I stay, I shall — Against the Moor : for, I do know, the state. However this may gall him with some check. Cannot with safety cast him, for he 's embark 'd With such loud reason to the Cyprus wars, Which even now stand in act, that, for their souls, Another of his fathom they have none. To lead their business : in which regard, Though I do hate him as I do hell-pains. Yet, for necessity of present life, I must show out a flag and sign of love, [find him, Which is indeed but sign. That you shall surely Lead to the Sagittary the raised search ; And there will I be with him. So, fareweU. [JExit. Enter, below, Brabantio, and Servants with torches. Bra. It is too true an evil : gone she is ; And what 's to come of my despised time Is nought but bitterness. Now, Roderigo, Where didst thou see her ? O unhappy girl I With the Moor, say 'st thou ? Who would be a father ! How didst thou know 't was she ? O, she deceives me Past thought ! What said she to you ? Get more tapers ; Raise all my kindred. Are they married, think you ? Bod. Truly, I think they are. [the blood I Bra.. O heaven ! How got she out ? O treason of Fathers, from hence trust not your daughters' minds By what you see them act. Is there not charms By which the property of youth and maidhood May be abused ? Have you not read, Roderigo, Of some such thing ? Bod. Yes, sir, I have indeed. Bra. Call up my brother. O, would you had had her 1 Some one way, some another. Do you know Where we may apprehend her and the Moor ? Bod. I think I can discover him, if you please To get good guard and go along with me. [call; Bra. Pray you, lead on. At every house I '11 I may command at most. Get weapons, ho I And raise some special ofiicers of night. On, good Roderigo : I '11 deserve your pains. lExeunt. SCENE H.— Another street. Enter Othello, lago, and Attendants withtorches. lago. Though in the trade of war I have slain Yet do I hold it very stuff o' the conscience [men, To do no contrived murder : I lack iniquity Sometimes to do me service : nine or ten times I had thought to have yerk'd him here under the 0th. 'T is better as it is. [ribs. lago. Nay, but he prated, And spoke such scm'vy and provoking terms Against your honour That, with the little godliness I have, I did fuU hard forbear him. But, I pray j'ou, sir, Are you fast married ? Be assured of this, That the magnifico is much beloved. And hath in his effect a voice potential As double as the 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. 'T is yet to know,— Which, when I know that boasting is an honour, I shall promulgate — I fetch my lite and being From men of royal siege, and my demerits 723 ACT I. OTHELLO. SCENE III. May speak unbonneted to as proud a fortune As this that I liave reach'd: for know, lago, But that I love the gentle Desdemona, I would not my unhoused free condition Put into circumscription and confine [yond ? For the sea's worth. But, look ! what lights come lago. Those 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 ? lago. By Janus, I think no. Enter Cassio, and certain Oflacers with torches. 0th. The servants of the duke, and my lieutenant. The goodness of the night upon you, friends ! "What is the news ? Gas. The duke does greet you, general. And he requires your haste-post-haste appearance. Even on the instant. 0th. What is the matter, think you ? Cas. Something from Cyprus, as I may divine : It is a business of some heat : the galleys Have sent a dozen sequent messengers This very night at one another's heels, And many oi the consuls, raised and met. Are at the duke's already: you have been hotly call'd for; When, being not at your lodging to be found. The senate hath sent about three several quests To search you out. 0th. 'T is 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. 'Paith, he to-night hath boarded a land carack : If it prove lawful prize, he 's made for ever. Cas. I do not understand. lago. He 's married. Cas. „ ^ , To who ? Be-enter Othello. lago. Marry, to— Come, captain, will you go ? 0th. Have with you. Cas. Here comes another troop to seek for you. lago. It is Brabantio. General, be advised ; He comes to bad intent. Enter Brabantio, Roderigo, and OfBcers with torches and weapons. 0th. Holla! stand there! Bod. Signior, it is the Moor. Bra. Down with him, thief ! [They draw on both sides. lago. You, Roderigo ! come, sir, I am for you. 0th. Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them. Good signior, you shall more command with years Than with your weapons. Bra. O thou foul thief, where hast thou stow'd my daughter ? Damn'd as thou art, thou hast enchanted her; For I '11 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. Bun from her guardage to the sooty bosom Of such a thing as thou, to fear, not to delight. Judge me the world, if 'tis not gross in sense That thou hast practised on her with foul charms. Abused her delicate youth with drugs or minerals That weaken motion : I '11 have 't disputed on ; 'T is probable and palpable to thinking. I therefore apprehend and do attach thee For an abuser of the world, a practiser 724 Of arts inhibited and out of warrant. Lay hold upon him : if he do resist, Subdue him at his peril. 0th. Hold your hands. Both you of my inclining, and the rest : Were it my cue to fight, I should have known it Without a prompter. Where will you that I go To answer this your charge ? Sra. To prison, till fit time Of law and course of direct session Call thee to answer. 0th. 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 ? First Off. 'T is true, most worthy signior; The duke 's in council, and your noble self, I am sure, is sent for. Bra. How ! the duke in councill In this time of the night I 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 't were their own ; For if such actions may have passage free. Bond-slaves and pagans shall our statesmen be. [Exeunt. SCENE III.— J. council-chamber. The Duke and Senators sitting at a table; OflBcera attending. Buke. There is no composition in these news That gives them credit. First Sen. Indeed, they are disproportion 'd ; My letters say a hundred and seven galleys. Buke. And mine, a hundred and forty. Sec. 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. Buke. Nay, it is possible enough to judgment: I do not so secure me in the error, But the main article I do approve In fearful sense. Sailor. [Within] What, ho! what, ho! what, ho! First Off. A messenger from the galleys. Miter a Sailor, Buke. Now, what 's the business ? Sail. The Turkish preparation makes for Rhodes; So was I bid report here to the state By Signior Angelo. Buke. How say you by this change ? lirst Sen. This cannot be» By no assay of reason : 't is a pageant. To keep us in false gaze. When we consider The importancy of Cyprus to the Turk, And let ourselves again but understand. That as it more concerns the Turk than Rhodes, So may he with more facile question bear it, For that it stands not in such warlike brace, But altogether lacks the abilities [this^ That Rhodes is dress'd in : if we make thought of We must not think the Turk is so unskilful To leave that latest which concerns him first, Neglecting an attempt of ease and gain. To wake and wage a danger profitless. Buke. Nay, in all confidence, he 's not for Rhodes. First Off. Here is more news. Mess. The Ottomites, reverend and gracious. Steering with due course towards the isle of Rhod3S, Have there injointed them with an after fleet. First Sen. Ay, so I thought. How many, as you guess ? ACT I. OTHELLO. SCENE III. Mess. Of thirty sail : and now they do re-stem Their backward course, bearing with frank appear- ance Their purposes toward Cyprus. Signior Montano, Your trusty and most valiant servitor. With his free duty recommends you thus, And prays you to believe him. Buke. 'Tis certain, then, for Cyprus. Marcus Luccicos, is not he in town ? First Sen. He 's now in Florence. BuJce. Write from us to him; post-post-haste dis- patch. [Moor. First Sen. Here comes Brabantio and the valiant Fnter Brabantio, Othello, lago, Roderigo, and Officers. DuTce. Valiant Othello, we must straight employ Against the general enemy Ottoman. [you [To Brabantio] I did not see you; welcome, gentle signior ; We lack'd your counsel and your help to-night. Bra. So did I yours. Good your grace, pardon me; Neither my place nor aught I heard of business Hath raised me from my bed, nor doth the general Take hold on me, for my particular grief [care Is of so flood-gate and o'erbearing nature That it engluts and swallows other sorrows And it is still itself. Buke. Why, what 's the matter ? Bra. My daughter ! O, my daughter ! Buke and Sen. Dead ? Bra. Ay, to me ; She is abused, 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. Buke. Whoe'er he be that in this foul proceeding Hath thus beguiled 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-affairs Hath hither brought. Buke and Sen. We are very sorry for 't. Buke. [To Othello] What, in your own part, can you say to this ? Bra. j^othing, but this is so. 0th. Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors, My very noble and approved 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 Hath this extent, no more. Eude am I in my speech. And little bless 'd with the soft phrase of peace : For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith. Till now some nine moons wasted, they have used 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 youj gracious I will a round unvarnish'd tale deliver [patience. Of my whole com'se of love; what drugs, what charms, What conjuration and what mighty magic. For such proceeding I am charged withal, I won his daughter. Bra. A maiden never bold ; Of spirit so still and quiet, that her motion Bliish'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, and must be driven To find out practices of cunning hell. Why this should be. I therefore vouch again That with some mixtures powerful o'er the blood. Or with some dram conjured to this effect. He wrought upon her. Buke. To vouch this, is no proof. Without more wider and more overt test Than these thin habits and poor likelihoods Of modern seeming do prefer against him. First Sen. But, Othello, speak: Did you by indirect and forced courses Subdue and poison this young maid's affections ? Or came it by request and such fair question As soul to soul affordeth ? 0th. 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. Buke. Fetch Desdemona hither. 0th. Ancient, conduct them ; you best know the place. [Fxeunt lago 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 '11 present How I did thrive in this fair lady's love, And she in mine. Buke. Say it, Othello. 0th. Her father loved me ; oft invited me ; Still question'd me the story of my life, From 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 spake of most disastrous chances. Of moving accidents by flood and field, [breach, Of hair-breadth scapes i' the imminent deadly Of being taken by the insolent foe And sold to slavery, of my redemption thence And portance in my travels' history : Wherein of antres vast and deserts idle, [heaven. Bough quarries, rocks and hills whose heads touch 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 grow beneath their shoulders. This to hear Would Desdemona seriously incline : But still the house-affairs would draw her thence : Which ever as she could with haste dispatch. She 'Id 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 'T was pitiful, 't was wondrous pitiful : [strange, 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 loved her, I should but teach him how to tell my story. And that would woo her. Upon this hint I spake : She loved me for the dangers I had pass'd. And I loved her that she did pity them. This only is the witchcraft I have used : Here comes tlie lady ; let her witness it. ACT I. OTHELLO. SCENE III. Enter Desdemona, lago, and Attendants. Buke. I think this tale would win my daughter Good Brabantio, [too. 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, Destruction on my head, if my bad blame Light on the man ! Come hither, gentle mistress : Do you perceive in all this noble company Wliere most you owe obedience ? 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 hus- And so much duty as my mother show'd [band, To you, preferring you before her father. So much I challenge that I may profess Due to the Moor my lord. Bra. God be wi' you ! I have done. Please it your grace, on to the state-alf airs : I had rather to adopt a child than get it. Come hither. Moor : I here do give thee that with all my heart Which, but thou hast already, with all my heart I would keep from thee. For your sake, jewel, I am glad at soul I have no other child ; For thy escape would teach me tyranny. To hang clogs on them. I have done, my lord. Dvke. Let me speak like yourself, and lay a sen- tence, Which, as a grise or step, may help these lovers Into your favour. When remedies are past, the griefs are ended By seeing the worst, which late on hopes depended. To mourn a mischief that is past and gone Is the next way to draw new mischief on. What cannot be preserved when fortune takes Patience her injury a mockery makes. [thief ; The robb'd that smiles steals something from the He robs himself that spends a bootless grief. Bra. So let the Turk of Cyprus us beguile ; We lose it not, so long as we can smile. He bears the sentence well that nothing bears But the free comfort which from thence he hears, But he bears both the sentence and the sorrow That, to pay grief, must of poor patience borrow. These sentences, to sugar, or t'o gall. Being strong on both sides, are equivocal : But words are words ; I never yet did hear That the bruised heart was pierced through the ear. I humbly beseech you, proceed to the affairs of state. Duke. The Turk with a most mighty preparation makes for Cyprus. Othello, the fortitude of the place is best known to you ; and though we have there a substitute of most allowed sufficiency, yet opinion, a sovereign mistress of effects, throws a more safer voice on 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 accommodation and besort As levels with her breeding. Duke. If you please, Be 't at her father's. Bra. I '11 not have it so. Oth. :tfor 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 my unfolding lend your 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 storm of fortunes May trumpet to the world : my heart 's subdued Even to the very quality of my lord : I saw Othello's visage in his mind. And to his honours 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. The rites for which I love him are bereft me, And I a heavy interim shall support By his dear absence. Let me go with him. Oth. Let her have your voices. Vouch with me, heaven, I therefore beg it not, To please the palate of my appetite. Nor to comply with heat — the young affects In me defunct — and proper satisfaction. But to be free and bounteous to her mind : And heaven defend your good souls, that you think I will your serious and great business scant For she is with me: no, when light-wing 'd toys Of feather'd Cupid seel with wanton dullness My speculative and officed instruments. That my disports corrupt and taint my business. Let housewives make a skillet of my helm, And all indign and base adversities Make head against my estimation ! Duke. Be it as you shall privately determine. Either for her stay or going : the affair cries haste, And speed must answer it. First Sen. You must away to-night. Oth. With all my heart. Duke. At nine i' the morning here we '11 meet Othello, leave some officer behind, [again. And he shall our commission bring to you ; With such things else of quality and respect As doth import you. Oth. So 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. [To Brdb.] And, noble If virtue no delighted beauty lack, [signior, Your son-in-law is far more fair than black, [well. First Sen. Adieu, brave Moor; use Desdemona Bra. Look to her. Moor, if thou hast eyes to see : She has deceived her father, and may thee. [Exeunt Duke, Senators, Officers, &c. Oth. My life upon her faith ! Honest lago, My Desdemona must I leave to thee : I prithee, 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 and Desdemona. Bod. Tago,— lago. What say'st thou, noble heart ? Rod. What will I do, thinkest thou ? lago. AVhy, go to bed, and sleep. Bod. I will incontinently drown myself. lago. If thou dost, I shall never love thee after. Why, thou silly gentleman ! Bod. It is silliness to live when to live is tor- ment ; and then have we a prescription to die when death is our physician. ACT II. OTHELLO. SCENE I. lago. O villanous ! I have looked upon the world for tour times seven years ; and since I could dis- tinguish betwixt a benefit and an injury, I never found man that knew how to love himself. Ere I would say, I would drown myself for the love of a fuinea-hen, I would change my humanity with a aboon. Bod. What should I do ? I confess it is my shame to be so fond ; but it is not in my virtue to amend it. lago. Virtue ! a fig ! 't is in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are our gardens, to the which our Avills are gardeners ; so that if we will plant nettles, or sow lettuce, set hyssop and weed up thyme, supply it with one gender of herbs, or dis- tract it with many, either to have it sterile with idleness, or manured with industry, why, the power and corrigible authority of this lies in our wills. If the balance of our lives had not one scale of reason to poise another of sensuality, the blood and base- ness of our natures would conduct us to most pre- posterous conclusions : but we have reason to cool our raging motions, our carnal stings, our unbitted lusts, whereof I take this that you call love to be a sect or scion. Bod. It cannot be. lago. It is merely a lust of the blood and a per- mission of the will. Come, be a man. Drown thy- self ! drown cats and blind puppies. I have pro- fessed me thy friend and I confess me knit to thy deserving with cables of perdurable toughness ; I could never better stead thee than now. Put money in thy purse ; follow thou the wars ; defeat thy fa- vour with an usurped beard ; I say, put money in thy purse. It cannot be that Desdemona should long continue her love to the Moor, — put money in thy purse, — nor he his to her: it was a violent com- mencement, and thou shalt see an answerable se- questration : — put but money in thy purse. These Moors are changeable in their wills : — fill thy purse with money : — the food that to him now is as lus- cious as locusts, shall be to him shortly as bitter as coloquintida. She must change for youth : when she is sated with his body, she will find the error of her choice : she must have change, she must : there- fore put money in thy purse. If thou wilt needs damn thyself, do it a more delicate way than drown- ing. Make all the money thou canst : if sanctimony and a frail vow betwixt an erring barbarian and a supersubtle Venetian be not too hard for my wits and all the tribe of hell, thou shalt enjoy her ; there- fore make money. A pox of drowning thyself ! it is clean out of the way : seek thou rather to be hanged in compassing thy joy than to be drowned and go without her. Bod. Wilt thou be fast to my hopes, if I depend on the issue ? lago. Thou art sure of me : — go, make money :— I have told thee often, and I re-tell thee again and again, I hate the Moor : my cause is hearted ; thine hath no less reason. Let us be conjunctive in our revenge against him ; if thou canst cuckold him, thou dost thyself a pleasure, me a sport. There are many events in the womb of time which will be de- livered. Traverse ! go, provide thy money. We will have more of this to-morrow. Adieu. Bod. Where shall we meet i' the morning ? lago. At my lodging. Bod. I '11 be with thee betimes. lago. Go to ; farewell. Do you hear, Roderigo ? Bod. What say you ? lago. No more of drowning, do you hear ? Bod. I am changed : I '11 go seU all my land. [Exit. lago. Thus do I ever make my fool my purse; For I mine own gain'd knowledge should profane, If I would time expend with such a snipe. But for my sport and profit. I hate the Moor ; And it is thought abroad, that 'twixt my sheets He has done my oflflce : I know not if 't be true ; But I, for mere suspicion in that kind, Will do as if for surety. He holds me well ; The better shall my purpose work on him. Cassio 's a proper man : let me see now : To get his place and to plume up my will In double knavery — How, how ? — Let 's see : — After some time, to abuse Othello's ear That he is too familiar with his wife. He hath a person and a smooth dispose To be suspected, framed to make women false. The Moor is of a free and open nature. That thinks men honest that but seem to be so, And will as tenderly be led by the nose As asses are. I have 't. It is engender'd. HeU and night Must bring this monstrous birth to the world's light. {Exit. ^CT II. SCENE I. — A Sea-port in Cyprus. An open place near the quay. Enter Montano and two Gentlemen. Man. What from the cape can you discern at sea ? First Gent. Nothing at all : it is a high-wrought I cannot, 'twixt the heaven and the main, [flood ; Descry a sail. Mon. Methinks the wind hath spoke aloud at land ; A fuller blast ne'er shook our battlements : If it hath ruffian'd so upon the sea, What ribs of oak, when mountains melt on them. Can hold the mortise ? What shall we hear of this ? Sec. Oent. A segregation of the Turkish fleet : For do but stand upon the foaming shore, The chidden billow seems to pelt the clouds ; The wind-shaked surge, with high and monstrous Seems to cast water on the burning bear, And quench the guards of the ever-fixed pole : I never did like molestation view On the enchafed flood. Mon. If that the Turkish fleet Be not enshelter'd and embay 'd, they are drown'd ; It is impossible they bear it out. Miter a third Gentleman. Third Gent. News, lads ! our wars are done. The desperate tempest hath so bang'd the Turks, That their designment halts : a noble ship of Venice Hath seen a grievous wreck and sufferance On most part of their fleet. Mon. How ! is this true ? Tliird Gent. The ship is here put in, A Veronesa; Michael Cassio, Lieutenant to the warlike Moor Othello, Is come on shore : the Moor himself at sea, And is in full commission here for Cyprus. Mon. I am glad on 't ; 't is a worthy governor. Third Gent. But this same Cassio, though he speak of comfort Touching the Turkish loss, yet he looks sadly. And prays the Moor be safe ; for they were parted With foul and violent tempest. Mon. Pray heavens he be ; For I have served him, and the man commands 727 ACT II. OTHELLO. SCENE I. Like a full soldier. Let 's to the seaside, ho ! As well to see the vessel that 's come in As to throw out our eyes for brave Othello, Even till we make the main and the aerial blue An indistinct regard. TJiird Gent. Come, let 's do so ; For every minute is expectancy Of more arrivance. Enter Cassio. Gas. Thanks, you the valiant of this warlike isle, That so approve the Moor ! O, let the heavens Give him defence against the elements, For I have lost him on a dangerous sea. Mon. Is he well shipp'd ? Gas. His bark is stoutly timber'd, and his pilot Of very expert and approved allowance ; Therefore my hopes, not surfeited to death, Stand in bold cure. \_A cry within ' A sail, a sail, a sail ! ' Enter a fourth Gentleman. Gas. What noise ? Fourth Gent. The town is empty; on the brow o' the sea Stand ranks of people, and they cry ' A sail ! ' Gas. My hopes do shape him for the governor, [Guns heard. Sec. Gent. They do discharge their shot of cour- Our friends at least. [tesy : Gas. I pray you, sir, go forth, And give us truth who 't is that is arrived. Sec. Gent. I shall. [Exit. Mon. But, good lieutenant, is your general wived ? Gas. Most fortunately : he hath achieved a maid That paragons description and wild fame ; One that excels the quirks of blazoning pens, And in the essential vesture of creation Does tire the ingener. Be-enter second Gentleman. How now ! who has put in ? Sec. Gent. 'Tis one lago, ancient to the general. Gas. Has had most favourable 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 ? Gas. She that I spake of, our great captain's cap- Left in the conduct of the bold lago, [tain, Whose footing here anticipates our thoughts A se'nnight's speed. Great Jove, Othello guard. And swell his sail with thine ovra powerful breath, That he may bless this bay with his tall ship, Make love's quick pants in Desdemona 's arms, Give renew'd fire to our extincted spirits. And bring all Cyprus comfort ! Enter Desdemona, Emilia, lago, Roderigo, and Attendants. O, behold, The riches of the ship is come on shore ! Ye men of Cyprus, let her have your knees. Hail to thee, lady ! and the grace of heaven, Before, behind thee and on every hand, Enwheel thee round I Des. I thank you, valiant Cassio. What tidings can you tell me of my lord ? Gas. He is not yet arrived : nor know I aught But that he 's well and will be shortly here. Des. O, but I fear — How lost you company ? Gas. The great contention of the sea and skies Parted our fellowship — But, hark! a sail. [Within 'A sail, a sail! ' Guns heard. 728 Sec. Gent. They give their greeting to the citadel : This likewise is a friend. Gas. See for the news. [Exit Gentleman, Good ancient, you are welcome. [To Emilia] Wel- come, mistress: Let it not gall your patience, good lago. That I extend my manners ; 't is 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 me, You 'Id 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. [doors, lago. Come on, come on; you are pictures out of Bells in your parlours, wild-cats in your kitchens. Saints in your injuries, devils being offended, Players in your housewifery, and housewives in your JDes. O, fie upon thee, slanderer! [beds. lago. Nay, it is true, or else I am a Turk : You rise to play and go to bed to work. Emil. You shall not write my praise. lago. No, let me not. Des. What wouldst thou write of me, if thou shouldst praise me ? lago. O gentle lady, do not put me to 't ; For I am nothing, if not critical. Des. Come on, assay. There 's one gone to the /agio. Ay, madam. [harbour? Des. I am not merry ; but I do beguile The thing I am, by seeming otherwise. Come, how wouldst 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 : but my Muse labours, And thus she is deliver'd. If she be fair and wise, fairness and wit. The one 's for use, the other useth it. [witty ? Des. Well praised! How if she be black and lago. If she be black, and thereto have a wit. She '11 find a white that shall her blackness fit. Des. Worse and worse. Emil. How if fair and foolish ? lago. She never yet was foolish that was fair; For even her folly help'd her to an heir. Des. These are old fond paradoxes to make fools laugh i' the alehouse. What miserable praise hast thou for her that 's foul and foolish ? lago. There 's none so foul and foolish thereimto, But does foul pranks which fair and wise ones do. Des. O heavy ignorance ! thou praisest the worst best. But what praise couldst thou bestow on a deserving woman indeed, one that, in the authority of her merit, did justly put on the vouch of very malice itself ? lago. 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 in wisdom never was so frail To change the cod's head for the salmon's tail. 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 suckle fools and chronicle small beer. Des. O most lame and impotent conclusion ! Do not learn of him, Emilia, though he be thy hus- band. How say you, Cassio ? is he not a most pro- fane and liberal counsellor ? ACT II. OTHELLO. SCENE 1. Gas. 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, whisper: with as little a web as this will I ensnare as great a fly as Cassio. Ay, smile upon her, do ; I will gyve thee in thine own courtship. You say true; 'tis so, indeed: if such tricks as these strip you out of your lieutenantry, it had been better you had not kissed your three lingers so oft, 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 ? would they were clyster-pipes for your sake ! {Trumpet tvithin.] The Moor ! I know his trumpet. Cas. 'T is truly so. Bes. Let 's meet him and receive him. Cas. Lo, where he comes! Enter Othello and Attendants. . 0th. O my fair warrior ! Bes. My dear Othello ! 0th. 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 I And let the labouring bark climb hills of seas Olympus-high and duck again as low As hell 's from heaven ! If it were now to die, 'T were 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 ! 0th. 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. [Aside] O, you are well timed now ! But I '11 set down the pegs that make this music, As honest as I am. 0th. Come, let us to the castle. News, friends ; our wars are done, the Turks are drown'd. How does my old acquaintance of this isle ? Honey, you shall be well desired in Cyprus; I have found great love amongst them. O my I prattle out of fashion, and I dote [sweet. In mine own comforts. I prithee, good lago, Go to the bay and disembark my coif ers : Bring thou the master to the citadel ; He is a good one, and his worthiness Does challenge much respect. Come, Desdemona, Once more, well met at Cyprus. [Exeunt Othello, Desdemona, and Attendants. lago. Do thou meet me presently at the harbour. Come hither. If thou be'st valiant,— as, they say, base men being in love have then a nobility in their natures more than is native to them,— list me. The lieutenant to-night watches on the court of guard : — first, I must tell thee this — Desdemona is directly in love with him. Bod. With him! why, 'tis not possible. lago. Lay thy finger thus, and let thy soul be in- structed. Mark me with what violence she first loved the Moor, but for bragging and telling her fantastical lies: and will she love him still for prating ? let not thy discreet heart think it. Her eye must be fed ; and what delight shall she have to look on the devil? When the blood is made dull with the act of sport, there should be, again to inflame it and to give satiety a fresh appetite, love- liness in favour, sympathy in years, manners and beauties ; all which the Moor is defective in ; now, for want of these required conveniences, her del- icate tenderness will find itself abused, begin to heave the gorge, disrelish and abhor the Moor; very nature will instruct her in it and compel her to some second choice. Now, sir, this granted, — as it is a most pregnant and unforced position, — who stands so eminent in the degree of this for- tune as Cassio does ? a knave very voluble ; no further conscionable than in putting on the mere form of civil and humane seeming, for the better compassing of his salt and most hidden loose affec- tion ? why, none ; why, none : a slipper and subtle knave, a finder of occasions, that has an eye can stamp and counterfeit advantages, though true advantage never present itself; a devilish knave. Besides, the knave is handsome, young, and hath all those requisites in him that folly and green minds look after : a pestilent complete knave ; and the woman hath found him already. Bod. I cannot believe that in her ; she 's full of most blessed condition. lago. Blessed fig's-end! the wine she drinks is made of grapes: if she had been blessed, she would never have loved the Moor! Blessed pudding! Didst thou not see her paddle with the palm of his hand ? didst not mark that ? Bod. Yes, that I did; but that was but courtesy. lago. Lechery, by this hand; an index and obscure prologue to the history of lust and foul thoughts. They met so near with their lips that their breaths embraced together. Villanous thoughts, Koderigo ! when these mutualities so marshal the way, hard at hand comes the master and main exercise, the in- corporate conclusion, Pish ! But, sir, be you ruled by me : I have brought you from Venice. Watch you to-night ; for the command, I '11 lay 't upon you. Cassio knows you not. I '11 not be far from you : do you find some occasion to anger Cassio, either by speaking too loud, or tainting his discipline; or from what other course you please, which the time shall more favourably minister. Bod. Well. lago. Sir, he is rash and very sudden in choler, and haply may strike at you : provoke him, that he may ; for even out of that will I cause these of Cyprus to mutiny ; whose qualification shall come into no true taste again but by the displanting of Cassio. So shall you have a shorter journey to yoar desires by the means I shall then have to prefer them ; and the impediment most profitably removed, without the which there were no expectation of our prosperity. Bod. I will do this, if I can bring it to any op- portunity. lago. I warrant thee. Meet me by and by at the citadel : I must fetch his necessaries ashore. Fare- well. Bod. Adieu. [Exit. lago. That Cassio loves her, I do well believe it ; That she loves him, 't is apt and of great credit : The Moor, howbeit that I endure him not, Is of a constant, loving, noble nature. And I dare think he '11 prove to Desdemona A most dear husband. Now, I do love her too; Not out of absolute lust, though peradventure I stand accountant for as great a sin. But partly led to diet my revenge, For that I do suspect the lusty Moor Hath leap'd into my seat ; the thought whereof Doth, like a poisonous mineral, gnaw^ my inwards; And nothing can or shall content my soul Till I am even'd with him, wife for wife, Or failing so, yet that I put the Moor At least into a jealousy so strong That judgment cannot cure. Which thing to do, If this poor trash of Venice, whom I trash For his quick hunting, stand the putting on, I '11 have our Michael Cassio on the hip, 729 ACT II. OTHELLO. SCENE III. Abuse him to the Moor in the rank garb — For I fear Cassio with my night-cap too — Make the Moor thank me, love me and reward me, For making him egregiously an ass And practising upon his peace and quiet Even to madness. 'T is liere, but yet confused : Knavery's plain face is never seen till used. [Exit. SCENE IL.—A street. Enter a Herald vnth a proclamation ; People following. Her. It is Othello's pleasure, our noble and valiant general, that, upon certain tidings now arrived, im- porting the mere perdition of the Turkish fleet , every man put himself into triumph ; some to dance, some to make bonfires, each man to what sport and revels his addiction leads him : for, besides these beneficial news, it is the celebration of his nuptial. So much was his pleasure should be proclaimed. All offices are open, and there is full liberty of feasting from this present hour of five till the bell have told eleven. Heaven bless the isle of Cyprus and our noble gen- eral Othello ! [Exeunt. SCENE III.— A hall in the castle. Enter Othello, Desdemona, Cassio, and Attendants. 0th. Good Michael , look you to the guard to-night : Let 's teach ourselves that honourable stop, Not to outsport discretion. Cas. lago hath direction what to do ; But, notwithstanding, with my personal eye Will I look to 't. 0th. lago is most honest. Michael, good night : to-morrow with your earliest Let me have speech with you. [To Desdemona] Come, my dear love. The purchase made, the fruits are to ensue ; That profit 's yet to come 'tween me and you. Good night. [Exeunt Othello, Desdemona, and Attendants. Enter lago. Cas. "Welcome, lago ; we must to the watch. lago. N"ot this hour, lieutenant; 't is not yet ten o' the clock. Our general cast us thus early for the love of his Desdemona : who let us not therefore blame: he hath not yet made wanton the night with her ; and she is sport for Jove. Cas. She 's a most exquisite lady. lago. And, I '11 warrant her, full of game. [ture. Cas. Indeed, she 's a most fresh and delicate crea- lago. "What an eye she has ! methinks it sounds a parley of provocation. [modest. Cas. An inviting eye; and yet methinks right lago. And when she speaks, is it not an alarum Gas. She is indeed perfection. [to love ? lago. "Well, happiness to their sheets ! Come, lieu- tenant, I have a stoup of wine ; and here without are a brace of Cyprus gallants that would fain have a measure to the health of black Othello. Cas. i^ot to-night, good lago : I have very poor and unhappy brains for drinking : I could well wish courtesy would invent some other custom of enter- tainment. lago. O, they are our friends ; but one cup : I '11 drink for you. Cas. I have drunk but one cup to-night, and that was craftily qualified too, and, behold, what inno- vation it makes here : I am unfortunate in the in- firmity, and dare not task my weakness with any more. lago. "What, man ! 't is a night of revels : the gallants desire it. Cas. "Where are they ? lago. Here at the door ; I pray you, call them in. 730 Cas. I '11 do 't ; but it dislikes me. [Exit. lago. If I can fasten but one cup upon him, "With that which he hath drunk to-night already, He '11 be as full of quarrel and offence As my young mistress' dog. Now, my sick fool Roderigo, "Whom love hath turn'd almost the wrong side out. To Desdemona hath to-night caroused Potations pottle-deep ; and he 's to watch : Three lads of Cyprus, noble swelling spirits, That hold their honours in a wary distance. The very elements of this warlike isle. Have I to-night fluster'd with flowing cups. And they watch too. Now, 'mongst this flock of drunkards. Am I to put our Cassio in some action That may oflEend the isle.— But here they come : If consequence do but approve my dream. My boat sails freely, both with wind and stream. Be-enter Cassio ; with him Montano and Gentle- men ; Servants follomng with vnne. Cas. 'Fore God, they have given me a rouse already. Mon. Good faith, a little one ; not past a pint, as I am a soldier. lago. Some wine, ho ! [Sings] And let me the canakin clink, clink ; And let me the canakin clink : A soldier 's a man ; A life 's but a span ; Why, then, let a soldier drink. Some wine, boys ! Cas. 'Fore God, an excellent song. lago. I learned it in England, where, indeed, they are most potent in potting : your Dane , your German, and your swag-bellied Hollander — Drink, ho ! — are nothing to yoiu- English. [ing ? Cas. Is your Englishman so expert in his drink- lago. Why, he drinks you, with facility, your Dane dead drunk ; he sweats not to overthrow your Almain; he gives your Hollander a vomit, ere the next pottle can be filled. Cas. To the health of our general ! [tice. Mon. I am for it, lieutenant; and I'll do you jus- lago. O sweet England ! King Stephen was a worthy peer. His breeches cost him but a crown ; He held them sixpence all too dear. With that he call'd the tailor lown. He was a wight of high renown, And thou art but of low degree : 'T is pride that pulls the country down ; Then take thine auld cloak about thee. Some wine, ho ! < [other. Cas. Why, this is a more exquisite song than the lago. Will you hear 't again t* Cas. No : for I hold him to be unworthy of his place that does those things. Well, God 's above all ; and there be souls must be saved, and there be souls must not be saved. lago. It 's true, good lieutenant. Cas. For mine own part, — no offence to the gen- eral, nor any man of quality, — I hope to be saved. lago. And so do I too, lieutenant. Cas. Ay, but, by your leave, not before me; the lieutenant is to be saved before the ancient. Let 's have no more of this ; let 's to our affairs.— Forgive us our sins ! — Gentlemen, let 's look to our business. Do not think, gentlemen, I am drunk : this is my ancient ; this is my right hand, and this is my left : I am not drunk now ; I can stand well enough, and speak well enough. All. Excellent well. Cas. Why, very well then; you must not think then that I am drunk. [Exit. Mon. To the platform, masters; come, let 's set the watch. ACT II. OTHELLO. SCENE III. lago. You see this fellow that is gone before ; He is a soldier fit to stand by Caesar And give direction : and do but see his vice ; 'T is to his virtue a just equinox, The one as long as the other : 't is pity of him. I fear the trust Othello puts him in, On some odd time of his infirmity, Will shake this island. Mon. But is he often thus ? lago. 'T is evermore the prologue to his sleep: He '11 watch the horologe a double set, If drink rock not his cradle. Mon. It were weU The general were put in mind of it. Perhaps he sees it not ; or his good nature Prizes the virtue that appears in Cassio, And looks not on his evils : is not this true ? Enter Roderigo. lago. [Aside to him] How now, Roderigo ! I pray you, after the lieutenant ; go. [Exit Roderigo. Mon. And 't is great pity that the noble Moor Should hazard such a place as his own second With one of an ingraft infirmity : It were an honest action to say So to the Moor. lago. Not I, for this fair island : I do love Cassio well ; and would do much To cure him of this evU — But, hark ! what noise ? [Cry within : ' Help ! help ! ' Re-enter Cassio, driving in Roderigo. Cas. You rogue ! you rascal ! Mon. What 's the matter, lieutenant ? Cas. A knave teach me my duty ! I '11 beat the knave into a twiggen bottle. Eod. Beat me ! Cas. Dost thou prate, rogue ? [Striking Boderigo. Mon. Nay, good lieutenant ; [Staying him. I pray you, sir, hold your hand. Cas. Let me go, sir, Or I '11 knock you o'er the mazzard. Mon. Come, come, you 're drunk. Cas. Drunk! [Tliey fight, lago. [Aside to Boderigo] Away, I say ; go out, and cry a mutiny. [Exit Boderigo. Nay, good lieutenant, — alas, gentlemen; — Help, ho! — Lieutenant, — sir, — Montano, — sir; — Help, masters !— Here 's a goodly watch indeed ! [Bell rings. Who 's that which rings the bell ?— Diablo, ho ! The town will rise : God's wiU, lieutenant, hold ! You will be shamed for ever. Be-enter Othello and Attendants. 0th. What is the matter here ? J/on. 'Zounds, I bleed still; I am hurt to the death. [Faints. 0th. Hold, for your lives ! [gentlemen, — lago. Hold, ho! Lieutenant, — sir, — Montano, — Have you forgot all sense of place and duty ? Hold! the general speaks to you; hold, hold, for shame ! [this ? 0th. Why, how now, ho ! from whence ariseth 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 lago, that look'st dead with grieving. Speak, who began this ? on thy love, I charge thee. lago. I do not know : friends all but now, even In quarter, and in terms like bride and groom [now, Devesting them for bed ; and then, but now — As if some planet had miwitted 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 Those legs that brought me to a part of it ! 0th. How comes it, Michael, you are thus forgot ? Cas. I pray you, pardon me; I cannot speak. 0th. Worthy 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 V give me answer to it. Mon. Worthy Othello, I am hurt to danger : Your olficer, lago, can inform you, — [me,— • While I spare speech, which something now offends Of all that I do know : nor know I aught By me that 's said or done amiss this night ; Unless self -charity be sometimes a vice. And to defend ourselves it be a sin When violence assails us. 0th. 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 approved in this offence. Though he had twinn'd with me, both at a birth, Shall lose me. What ! in a town of war. Yet wild, the people's hearts brimful of fear, To manage private and domestic quarrel. In night, and on the com't and guard of safety I 'T is monstrous. lago, who began 't ? Mon. If partially affined, or leagued in office, Thou dost deliver more or less than truth. Thou art no soldier. lago. Touch me not so near : I had rather 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 determined 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 clamour — as it so fell out — The town might fall in fright : he, swift of foot, Outran my purpose; and I 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. AVhen 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 cannot I 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, received From him that fled some strange indignity, Which patience could not pass. 0th. I know, lago, Thy honesty and love doth mince this matter. Making it light to Cassio. Cassio, I love thee ; But never more be officer of mine. Be-enter Desdemona, attended^ Look, if my gentle love be not raised up ! I '11 make thee an example. Des. What 's the matter ? 731 ACT II. OTHELLO. SCENE III, 0th. All 's well now, sweeting : come away to bed. Sir, for your hurts, myself will be your surgeon : Lead him off. [To Montana, who is led off. lago, look with care about the town, And silence those whom this vile brawl distracted. Come, Desdemona : 't is the soldiers' life To have their balmy slumbers waked with strife. [Exeunt all hut lago and Cassia. lago. "What, are you hurt, lieutenant ? Cas. Ay, past all surgery. lago. Marry, heaven forbid ! Cas. Eeputation, reputation, reputation! O, I have lost my reputation ! I have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial. My reputation, lago, my reputation ! lago. As I am an honest man, I thought you had received some bodily wound ; there is more sense in that than in reputation. Eeputation is an idle and most false imposition : oft got without merit, and lost without deserving : you have lost no rep- utation at all, unless you repute yourself such a loser. What, man ! there are ways to recover the general again : you are but now cast in his mood, a punishment more in policy than in malice ; even so as one would beat his ofCenceless dog to affright an imperious lion : sue to him again, and he 's yours. Cas. I will rather sue to be despised than to de- ceive so good a commander with so slight, so drunken, and so indiscreet an officer. Drunk ? and speak parrot ? and squabble ? swagger ? swear ? and discourse fustian with one's own shadow? O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil ! lago. What was he that you followed with your sword y What had he done to you ? Cas. I know not. lago. Is 't possible ? Cas. I remember a mass of things, but nothing distinctly; a quarrel, but nothing wherefore. O God, that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains ! that we should, with joy, pleasance, revel and applause, transform our- selves into beasts ! lago. Why, but you are now well enough : how came you thus recovered ? Cas. It hath pleased the devil drunkenness to give place to the devil wrath: one unperfectness shows me another, to make me frankly despise myself. lago. Come, you are too severe a moraler: as the time, the place, and the condition of this coun- try stands, I could heartily wish this had not be- fallen ; 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 presently a beast! O strange! Every inordinate cup is unblessed and the ingredient is a devil. 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 thmk I love you. Cas. I have well approved it, sir. I drunk ! lago. You or any man living may be drunk at a time, man. I '11 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 denote- ment of her parts and graces: confess yourself freely to her; importune her help to put you in your place again : she is of so free, so kind, so apt, 732 so blessed a disposition, she holds it a vice in her goodness not to do more than she is requested: this broken joint between you and her husband en- treat her to splinter ; and, my fortunes against any lay worth naming, this crack of your love shall grow stronger than it was before. Cas. You advise me well. lago. I protest, in the sincerity of love and hon- est kindness. Cas. I think it freely; and betimes in the morn- ing I will beseech the virtuous Desdemona to un- dertake for me : I am desperate of my fortunes if they check me here. lago. You are in the right. Good night, lieu- tenant ; I must to the watch. Cas. Good night, honest lago. [Exit. lago. And what 's he then that says I play the When this advice is free I give and honest, [villain i Probal to thinking and indeed the course To win the Moor again ? For 't is most easy The inclining Desdemona to subdue In any honest suit : she 's framed as fruitful As the free elements. And then for her To win the Moor — were 't to renounce his baptism, All seals and symbols of redeemed sin. His soul is so enfetter'd to her love. That she may make, unmake, do what she list, Even as her appetite shall play the god With his weak function. How am I then a villain To counsel Cassio to this parallel course, Directly to his good ? Divinity of hell ! When devils will the blackest sins put on, They do suggest at first with heavenly shows, As i do now : for whiles this honest fool Plies Desdemona to repair his fortunes And she for him pleads strongly to the Moor, I '11 pour this pestilence into his ear. That she repeals him for her body's lust; And by how much she strives to do him good, She shall undo her credit with the Moor. So will I turn her virtue into pitch. And out of her own goodness make the net That shall enmesh them all. Be-enter Roderigo. How now, Roderigo ! Rod. I do follow here in the chase, not like a hound that hunts, but one that fills up the cry. My money is almost spent; I have been to-night exceedingly w^ell cudgelled ; and I think the issue will be, I shall have so much experience for my pains, and so, with no money at all and a little more wit, return again to Venice. lago. How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees '/ Thou know'st we work by wit, and not by witch- craft ; And wit depends on dilatory time. Does 't not go well ? Cassio hath beaten thee, And thou, by that small hurt, hast cashier 'd Cassio : Though other things grow fair against the sun, Yet fruits that blossom first will first be ripe : Content thyself awhile. By the mass , 't is morning ; Pleasure and action make the hours seem short. Retire thee ; go where thou art billeted : Away, I say ; thou shalt know more hereafter : Nay, get thee gone. [Exit Roderigo.'] Two things are to be done : My wife must move for Cassio to her mistress ; I '11 set her on ; Myself the while to draw the Moor apart. And bring him jump when he may Cassio find Soliciting his wife : ay, that 's the way : Dull not device by coldness and delay. [Exit ACT III. OTHELLO. SCENE III. A.CT III. SCENE 1.— Before the castle. Enter Oassio and some Musicians. Cos. Masters, play here ; I will content your pains ; Something that 's brief ; and bid ' Good morrow, general.' „ [Music. ^ Enter Clown. Clo. Why, masters, have your instruments been in Naples, that they speak i' the nose thus ? First Mus. How, sk, how ! Clo. Are these, I pray you, wind-instruments ? First Mus. Ay, marry, are they, sir. Clo. O, thereby hangs a tail. First Mus. Whereby hangs a tale, sir ? Clo. Marry, sir, by many a wind-instrument that I know. But, masters, here 's money for you : and the general so likes your music, that he desires you, for love's sake, to make no more noise with it. First Mus. Well, sir, we will not. Clo. If you have any music that may not be heard, to 't again : but, as they say, to hear music the gen- eral does not greatly care. - First Mus. We have none such, sir. Clo. Then put up your pipes in your bag, for I '11 away : go ; vanish rdto air ; away ! [Exeunt Musicians. Cas. Dost thou hear, my honest friend ? Clo. No, I hear not your honest friend; I hear you. Cas. Prithee, keep up thy quillets. There 's a poor piece of gold for thee : if the gentlewoman that at- tends the general's wife be stirring, tell her there 's one Cassio entreats her a little favour of speech : wilt thou do this ? Clo. She is stirring, sir : if she will stir hither, I shall seem to notify unto her. Cas. Do, good my friend. [Exit Clown. Enter lago. In happy time, lago. lago. You have not been a-bed, then ? Cas. Why, no ; the day had broke Before we parted. I have made bold, lago, To send in to your wife : my suit to her Is, that she will to virtuous Desdemona Procure me some access. lago. I '11 send her to you presently ; And I '11 devise a mean to draw the Moor Out of the way, that your converse and business May be more free. Cas. I humbly thank you for 't. [Exit lago.] 1 never knew A Florentine more kind and honest. Enter Emilia. Emil. Good morrow, good lieutenant : I am sorry For your displeasure ; but all will sure be well. The general and his wife are talking of it ; And she speaks for you stoutly : the Moor replies, That he you hurt is of great fame in Cyprus And great affinity and that in wholesome wisdom He might not but refuse you, but he protests he loves you And needs no other suitor but his likings To take the safest occasion by the front To bring you in again. Cas. Yet, I beseech you. If you think fit, or that it may be done, Give me advantage of some brief discourse With Desdemona alone. Emil. Pray you, come in : I will bestow you where you shall have time To speak your bosom freely. Cas. I am much bound to you. [Exeunt. SCENE n. — A room in the castle. Enter Othello, lago, and Gentlemen. 0th. These letters give, lago, to the pilot ; And by him do my duties to the senate : That done, I will be walking on the works ; Repair there to me. lago. Well, my good lord, I '11 do 't. 0th. This fortification, gentlemen, shall we see 't ? Gent. We '11 wait upon your lordship. [Exeunt, SCENE in. — The garden of the castle. Enter Desdemona, Cassio, and Emilia. JDes. Be thou assured, good Cassio, I will do All my abilities in thy behalf. Emil. Good madam, do : I warrant it grieves my husband. As if the case were his. Des. O, that 's an honest fellow. Do not doubt, But I will have my lord and you again [Cassio, As friendly as you were. Cas. Bounteous madam, Whatever shall become of Michael Cassio, He 's never any thing but your true servant. Des. I know 't ; I thank you. You do love my lord : You have known him long ; and be you well assured He shall in strangeness stand no further off Than in a politic distance. Cas. Ay, but, 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, My general will forget my love and service. Ees. Do not doubt that ; before Emilia here I give thee warrant of thy place : assure thee, If I do vow a friendship, I '11 perform it To the last article : my lord shall never rest ; I '11 watch him tame and talk him out of patience; His bed shall seem a school, his board a shrift ; I '11 intermingle every thing he does With Cassio's suit: therefore be merry, Cassio; For thy solicitor shall rather die Than give thy cause away. Emit. Madam, here comes my lord. Cas. Madam, I '11 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, do your discretion. [Exit Cassio. Enter Othello and lago. lago. Ha ! I like not that. 0th. What dost thou say ? lago. Nothing, my lord : or if — I know not what. 0th. Was not that Cassio parted from my wife ? lago. Cassio, my lord ! No, sure, I cannot think it, That he would steal away so guilty-like, Seeing you coming. 0th. 1 do believe 't was he. Bes. How now, my lord ! I have been talking with a suitor here, A man that languishes in your displeasure. 0th. 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 that truly loves you, That errs in ignorance and not in cunning, I have no judgment in an honest face : I prithee, call him back. 0th. Went he hence now ? Des. Ay, sooth ; so humbled 733 ACT III. OTHELLO. SCENE III. That he hath left part of his grief with me, To suffer with him. Good love, call him back. 0th. Not now, sweet Desdemona ; some other time. Des. But shall 't be shortly ? 0th. The sooner, sweet, for you. Des. Shall 't be to-night at supper? 0th. No, not to-night. Des. To-morrow dinner, then ? 0th. I shall not dine at home ; I meet the captains at the citadel. [morn ; Des. Why, then, to-morrow night ; or Tuesday On Tuesday noon, or night ; on Wednesday morn : I prithee, name the time, but let it not Exceed three days : in faith, he 's penitent ; And yet his trespass, in our common reason — Save that, they say, the wars must make examples Out of their best — is not almost a fault To incur a private check. When shall he come ? Tell me, Othello: I wonder in my soul. What you would ask me, that I should deny, Orstandsomammeringon. What! Michael Cassio, That came a-wooing with you, and so 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 ! Trust me, I could do much, — Oth. Prithee, no more : let him come when he will ; I will deny thee nothing. Des. Why, this is not a boon ; 'T is as I should entreat you wear your gloves. Or feed on nourishing dishes, or keep you warm, Or sue to you to do a peculiar profit To your own person : nay, when I have a suit Wherein I mean to touch your love indeed, It shall be full of poise and difficult weight And fearful to be granted. Oth. I 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 V no : farewell, my lord. Oth. Farewell, my Desdemona : I '11 come to thee straight. Des. Emilia, come. Be as your fancies teach you ; Whate'er you be, I am obedient. [Exeunt Desdemona and Emilia. Oth. Excellent wretch ! Perdition catch my soul. But I do love thee ! and when I love thee not, Chaos is come again. - lago. My noble lord, — Oth. What dost thou say, lago ? lago. Did Michael Cassio, when you woo 'd my lady, , Know of your love ? Oth. He did, from first to last : why dost thou ask ? lago. But for a satisfaction of my thought ; No further harm. Oth. Why of thy thought, lago ? lago. I did not think he had been acquainted with her. Oth. O, yes ; and went between us very oft. lago. Indeed ! [in that ? Oth. Indeed ! ay, indeed : discern 'st thou aught Is he not honest ? lago. Honest, my lord ! Oth. Honest! ay, honest. lago. My lord, for aught I know. Oth. What dost thou think ? lago. Think, my lord ! 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 some- thing : I heard thee say even now, thou likedst not that. When Cassio left my wife : what didst not like ? And when I told thee he was of my counsel In my whole course of wooing, thou criedst ' Indeed ! ' And didst contract and purse tliy brow together. As if thou then hadst shut up in thy brain 734 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 'rt full of love and honesty. And weigh'st thy words before thou givest 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 They are close delations, working from the heart That passion cannot rule. lago. For Michael Cassio, I dare be sworn I think that he is honest. Oth. I think so too. lago. Men should be what they seem ; Or those that be not, would they might seem none I Oth. Certain, men should be what they seem. lago. Why, then, I think Cassio 's an honest man. Oth. Nay, yet there 's more in this : I prithee, speak to me as to thy thinkings, As thou dost ruminate, and give thy worst of The worst of words. [thoughts 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. [false ; Utter my thoughts ? Why, say they are vile and As where 's that palace whereinto foul things Sometimes intrude not ? who has a breast so pure, But some uncleanly apprehensions Keep leets and law-days and in session sit With meditations lawful ? Oth. Thou dost conspire against thy friend, lago, If thou but think'st him wrong'd and makest 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 — that your wisdom yet, From one that so imperfectly conceits, • Would 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 Is the immediate jewel of their souls : [lord, '^Who steals my purse steals trash ; 't is something, nothing ; 'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thou- But he that filches from me my good name [sands ; Eobs me of that which not enriches him And makes me poor indeed. .^^ Oth. By heaven, I '11 know thy thoughts. lago. You cannot, if my heart were in your hand ; Nor shall not, whilst 'tis in my custody. Oth. Ha! lago. O, beware, my lord, of jealousy; It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock The meat it feeds on : that cuckold liA^es in bliss Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger; But, O, what damned minutes tells he o'er Who dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet strongly loves ! Oth. O misery 1 lago. Poor and content is rich and rich enough, But riches fineless 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 ! Oth. Why , why is this ? Think'st thou I 'Id make a life of jealousy. To follow still the changes of the moon With fresh suspicions ? No ; to be once in doubt Is once to be resolved : exchange me for a goat, When I shall turn the business of my soul ACT III, OTHELLO. SCENE III. To such exsufflicate and blown surmises, [ous Matching thy inference. 'T is not to malce me jeal- 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 miiie own weak merits will I draw The smallest fear or doubt of her revolt ; For she had eyes, and chose me. No, lago ; I '11 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 it ; for now I shall have reason To show 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. Look 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 abused; look to 't : I know our country disposition well ; In Venice they do let heaven see the pranks They dare not show their husbands ; their best con- science Is not to leave 't undone, but keep 't unknown. 0th. Dost thou say so ? • lago. She did deceive her father, marrying you ; And when she seem'd to shake and fear your looks, She loved them most. 0th. And so she did. lago. Why, go to then ; She that, so young, could give out such a seeming, To seel her father's eyes up close as oak — He thought 'twas witchcraft— but I am much to I humbly do beseech you of your pardon [blame ; Tor too much loving you. 0th. I am bound to thee for ever. lago. I see this hath a little dash'd your spirits. 0th. Not a jot, not a jot. lago. V. faith, I fear it has. I hope you will consider what is spoke Comes from my love. But I do see you 're moved : I am to pray you not to strain my speech To grosser issues nor to larger reach Than to suspicion. 0th. 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 My lord, I see you 're moved. [friend — Oth. No, not much moved : I do not think but Desdemona's honest, [think so ! lago. Long live she so ! and long live you to Oih. And yet, how nature erring from itself, — lago. Ay, there 's the point: as — to be bold with Not to affect many proposed matches [you — 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. [Going'] My lord, I take my leave, [doubtless Oth. Why did I marry? This honest creature Sees and knows more, much more, than he unfolds. lago. [Beturning'] My lord, I would I might en- treat your honour To scan this thing no further ; leave it to time : Though it be iit 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 mean time, 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 honour. Oth. Fear not my government. lago. I once more take my leave. [Exit, 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 'Id 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 That chamberers have, or for I am declined Into the vale of years, — yet that 's not much — She 's gone. I am abused ; and my relief Must be to loathe her. O curse of marriage. That we can call these delicate creatures ours, And not their appetites ! I had rather be a toad, And live upon the vapour of a dungeon, Than keep a corner in the thing I love For others' uses. Yet,'t is the plague of great ones ; Prerogatived are they less than the base; 'T is destiny unshunnable, like death : Even then this forked plague is fated to us When we do quicken. Desdemona comes : Be-enter Desdemona and Emilia. If she be false, O, then heaven mocks itself! I '11 not believe 't. Des. How now, my dear Othello I Your dinner, and the generous islanders By you invited, do attend your presence. Oth. I am to blame. Bes. Why do you speak so faintly ? Are you not well ? Oth. I have a pain upon my forehead here. Des. 'Faith, that's with watching; 'twill away Let me but bind it hard, within this hour [again: It will be well. Oth. Your napkin is too little : [He puts the handkerchief from him; and it drops. Let it alone. Come, I '11 go in with you. Bes. I am very sorry that you are not well. [Exeunt Othello and Desdemona. Emil. I am glad I have found this napkin : This was her first remembrance from the Moor : My wayTvard husband hath a hundred times Woo'd me to steal it ; but she so loves the token. For he conjured her she should ever keep it. That she reserves it evermore about her To kiss and talk to. I '11 have the work ta'eo. out. And give 't lago : what he will do with it Heaven knows, not I ; I nothing but to please his fantasy. Be-enter lago. lago. How now! what do you here alone ? Emil. Do not you chide ; I have a thing for you. lago. A thing for me ? it is a common thing — Emil. Ha! lago. To have a foolish wife. Emil. O, is that all ? What will you give me now For that same handkerchief ? lago. What handkerchief ? Emil. What handkerchief ! Why, that the Moor first gave to Desdemona ; That which so often you did bid me steal. la^o. Hast stol'n it from her ? Emil. No, 'faith ; she let it drop by negligence, And, to the advantage, I, being here, took 't up. Look, here it is. lago. A good wench ; give it me. Emil. What will you do with 't, that you have been To have me filch it ? [so earnest 735 ACT III. OTHELLO. SCENE III. lago. [Snatching it] Why, what 's that to you ? Emil. If it be not for some purpose of import, Give 't me again : poor lady, she '11 run mad When she shall lack it. lago. Be not acknown on 't ; I have use for it. Go, leave me. [Exit Emilia. I will in Cassio's lodging lose this napkin, And let him find it. Trifles light as air Are to the jealous confirmations strong -As proofs of holy writ : this may do something. The Moor already changes with my poison : Dangerous conceits are, in their natures, poisons, Wliich at the first are scarce found to distaste. But with a little act upon the blood, Burn like the mines of sulphur. I did say so : Look, where he comes! Ee-enter Othello. Not poppy, nor mandragora, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world. Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep Which thou owedst yesterday. 0th. Ha ! ha ! false to me ? logo. Why, how now, general ! no more of that. Oih. Avaunt ! be gone ! thou hast set me on the I swear 't is better to be much abused [rack : Than but to know 't a little. lago. How now, my lord ! Oih. What sense had I of her stol'n hours of lust ? I saw 't not, thought it not, it harm'd not me : I slept the next night well, was free and merry ; I found not Cassio's kisses on her lips : He that is robb'd, not wanting what is stol'n. Let him not know 't, and he 's not robb'd at all. lago. I am sorry to hear this. 0th. I had been happy, if the general camp, Pioners and all, had tasted her sweet body. So I had nothing known. 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 clamours counterfeit, Farewell ! Othello's occupation 's gone ! lago. Is 't possible, my lord ? 0th. Villain, be sure thou prove my love a whore, Be sure of it ; give me the ocular proof ; Or, by the worth of man's eternal soul. Thou hadst been better have been born a dog Than answer my waked vsrrath ! lago. Is 't come to this ? Oili. Make me to see 't ; or, at the least, so prove That the probation bear no hinge nor loop [it. To hang a doubt on ; or woe upon thy life ! lago. My noble lord, — 0th. If thou dost slander her and torture me, Never pray more ; abandon all remorse ; On horror's head horrors accumulate ; Do deeds to make heaven weep, all earth amazed; For nothing canst thou to damnation add Greater than that. lago. O grace ! O heaven forgive me ! Are you a man ? have you a soul or sense ? God be wi' you ; take mine office. O wretched fool. That livest to make thine honesty a vice ! monstrous world ! Take note, take note, O world, To be direct and honest is not safe. 1 thank you for this profit ; and from hence I '11 love no friend, sith love breeds such offence. 0th. Nay, stay : thou shouldst be honest. lago. I should be wise, for honesty 's a fool And loses that it works for. 0th. By the world, I think my wife be honest and think she is not ; I think that thou are just and think thou art not. I '11 have some proof. Her name, that was as fresh As Dian's visage, is now begrimed and black As mine own face. If there be cords, or knives, Poison, or fire, or suffocating streams, I '11 not endure it. Would I were satisfied ! lago. I see, sir, you are eaten up with passion : I do repent me that I put it to you. You would be satisfied ? 0th. Would ! nay, I will, [lord ? lago. And may: but, how? how satisfied, my Would you, the supervisor, grossly gape on — Behold her topp'd ? 0th. Death and damnation ! O ! lago. It were a tedious difficulty, I think. To bring them to that prospect : damn them then. If ever mortal eyes do see them bolster More than their own ! What then ? how then ? What shall I say ? Where 's satisfaction ? It is impossible you should see this, Were they as prime as goats, as hot as monkeys. As salt as wolves in pride, and fools as gross As ignorance made drunk. But yet, I say, If imputation and strong circumstances, Which lead directly to the door of truth, Will give you satisfaction, you may have 't. 0th. Give me a living reason she 's disloyal. lago. I do not like the office : But, sith I am enter'd in this cause so far. Prick 'd to 't by foolish honesty and love, I will go on. I lay with Cassio lately ; And, being troubled with a raging tooth, I could not sleep. There are a kmd of men so loose of soul. That in their sleeps will mutter their affairs : One of this kind is Cassio : In sleep I heard him say ' Sweet Desdemona, Let us be wary, let us hide our loves ; ' And then, sir, would he gripe and wring my hand. Cry ' O sweet creature ! ' and then kiss me hard, As if he pluck'd up kisses by the roots That grew upon my lips : then laid his leg Over my thigh, and sigh'd, and kiss'd ; and then Cried ' Cursed fate that gave thee to the Moor ! ' 0th. O monstrous ! monstrous 1 lago. Nay, this was but his dream. 0th. But this denoted a foregone conclusion : 'Tis a shrewd doubt, though it be but a dream. lago. And this may help to thicken other proofs That do demonstrate thinly. 0th. I '11 tear her all to pieces. lago. Nay, but be wise : yet we see nothing done; She may be honest yet. Tell me but this. Have you not sometimes seen a handkerchief Spotted with strawberries in your wife's hand ? 0th. 1 gave her such a one ; 't was my first gift. lago. 1 know not that : but such a handkerchief — I am sure it was your wife's — did I to-day See Cassio wipe his beard with. 0th. If it be that,— lago. If it be that, or any that was hers. It speaks against her with the other proofs. 0th. 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 do I blow to heaven. 'T is gone. 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 aspics' tongues! lago. Yet be content. 0th. O, blood, blood, blood! [change. lago. Patience, I say; your mind perhaps may Oih. Never, lago. Like to the Pontic sea. Whose icy current and compulsive course ACT III. OTHELLO. SCENE IV Ne'er feels retiring ebb, but keeps due on To the Propontic 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, Xou 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 Mm command, And to obey shall be in me remorse. What bloody business ever. 0th. I greet thy love, Not with vain thanks, but with acceptance boun- And will upon the instant put thee to 't : [teous, Within these three days let me hear thee say That Cassio 's not alive. lago. My friend is dead ; 't is done at your request : But let her live. 0th. Damn her, lewd minx ! O, damn her ! Come, go with me apart ; I will withdraw. To furnish me with some swift means of death For the fair devil. Now art thou my lieutenant. lago. I am your own for ever. [Exeunt. SCENE IV.— Before the castle. Enter Desdemona, Emilia, and Clown. Des. Do you know, sirrah, where Lieutenant Cassio lies ? Clo. I dare not say he lies any where. Des. Why, man ? Clo. He 's a soldier, and for one to say a soldier lies, is stabbing. Des. Go to : where lodges he ? Clo. To tell you where he lodges, is to tell you where I lie. Des. Can any thing be made of this ? Clo. I know not where he lodges, and for me to devise a lodging and say he lies here or he lies there, were to lie in mine own throat. Des. Can you inquire him out, and be edified by report ? Clo. I will catechize the world for him ; that is, make questions, and by them answer. Des. Seek him, bid him come hither : tell him I have moved my lord on his behalf, and hope all will be well. Clo. To do this is within the compass of man's wit ; and therefore I will attempt the doing it. [Exit. Des. Where should I lose that handkerchief, Emil. I know not, madam. [Emilia ? Des. Believe me, I had rather have lost my purse Full of crusadoes : 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 Drew all such humours from him. [born Emil. Look, where he comes. Des. I will not leave him now till Cassio Be call'd to him. ^ ^ , Enter Othello. How is 't with you, my lord ? 0th. WeU, my good lady. [Aside] O, hardness to dissemble ! — How do you, Desdemona? Des. Well, my good lord. 0th. Give me your hand: this hand is moist, my lady. Des. It yet hath felt no age nor known no sorrow. 0th. This argues fruitf ulness and liberal heart : 47 Hot, hot, and moist : this hand of yours requires A sequester from liberty, fasting and prayer. Much castigation, exercise devout; For here 's a young and sweating devil here. That commonly rebels. 'T is a good hand, A frank one. Des. You may, indeed, say so ; For 't was that hand that gave away my heart. 0th. A liberal hand: the hearts of old gave But our new heraldry is hands, not hearts, [hands ; Des. I cannot speak of this. Come now, your 0th. What promise, chuck ? [promise. Des. I have sent to bid Cassio come speak with you. 0th. I have a salt and sorry rheum offends me ; Lend me thy handkerchief. Des. Here, my lord. 0th. That which I gave you. Des. I have it not about me. 0th. Not? Des. No, indeed, my lord. 0th. That is a fault. That handkerchief Did an Egyptian to my mother give ; She was a charmer, and could almost read [kept it, The thoughts of people: she told her, while she 'T would 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 loathed and his spirits should hunt After new fancies: she, dying, gave it me; And bid me, when my fate would have me wive, To give it her. I did so : and take heed on 't ; Make it a darling like your precious eye ; To lose 't or give 't away were such perdition As nothing else could match. Des. Is 't possible ? 0th. 'T is true : there 's magic in the web of it : A sibyl, that had number'd in the world The sun to course two hundred compasses. In her prophetic fury sew'd the work ; The worms were hallow'd that did breed the silk ; And it was dyed in mummy which the skilful Conserved of maidens' hearts. Des. Indeed ! is 't true ? 0th. Most veritable; therefore look to 't well. Des. Then would to God that I had never seen 't ! 0th. Ha! wherefore? Des. Why do you speak so startingly and rash ? 0th. Is 't lost i' is 't gone ? speak, is it out o' the Des. Heaven bless us ! [way? 0th. Say you? Des. It is not lost ; but what an if it were ? 0th. How! Des. I say, it is not lost. 0th. Fetch 't, let me see 't. Des. Why, so I can, sir, but I will not now. This is a trick to put me from my suit : Pray you, let Cassio be received again. 0th. Fetch me the handkerchief : my mind mis- Des. Come, come ; [gives. You '11 never meet a more sufficient man. 0th. The handkerchief ! Des. I pray, talk me of Cassio. 0th. The handkerchief ! Des. A man that all his time Hath founded his good fortunes on your love, Shared dangers with you, — 0th. The handkerchief ! Des. In sooth, you are to blame. 0th. Away! [Exit. Emil. Is not this man jealous ? Des. I ne'er saw this before. Sure, there 's some wonder in this handkerchief : I am most unhappy in the loss of it. Emil. 'T is not a year or two shows us a man : They are all but stomachs, and we all but food ; 737 ACT IV. OTHELLO. SCENE I. They eat us hungerly, and when they are full, They belch us. Look you, Cassio and my husband ! Enter Cassio and lago. lago. There is no other way ; 't is 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 Whom I with all the office of my heart Entirely honour : I would not be delay 'd. If my offence be of such mortal kind That nor my service past, nor present sorrows, Nor purposed merit in futurity. Can ransom me into his love again. But to know so must be my benefit ; So shall I clothe me in a forced content, And shut myself up in some other course, To fortune's alms. Bes. Alas, thrice-gentle Cassio ! My advocation is not now in tune ; My lord is not my lord ; nor should I know him. Were he in favour as in humour 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 Eor my free speech ! you must awhile be patient : What I can do I will ; and more I will Than for myself I dare : let that suffice you. lago. Is my lord angry ? Emil. He went hence but now, And certainly in strange unquietness. lago. Can he be angry ? I have seen the cannon, When it hath blown his ranks into the air, And, like the devil, from his very arm Puff 'd his own brother : — and can he be angry ? Something of moment then : I will go meet him : There 's matter in 't indeed, if he be angry. Bes. I prithee, do so. {Exit lago. Something, sure, of state, 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 natiures wTangle with inferior things, Though great ones are their object. 'T is even so ; For let our finger ache, and it indues Our other healthful members even to that sense Of pain : nay, we must think men are not gods, Nor of them look for such observances As fit the bridal. Beshrew me much, Emilia I was, unhandsome warrior as I am. Arraigning his unkiudness with my soul ; But now I find I had suborn'd the witness, And he 's indicted falsely. 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 : 't is a monster Begot upon itself, born on itself. Des. Heaven keep that monster from Othello's Emil. Lady, amen. [mind I Des. I will go seek him. Cassio, walk hereabout: If I do find him fit, I 'U move your suit And seek to effect it to my uttermost. Cas. I humbly thank your ladyship. [Exeunt Desdemona and Emilia. Enter Bianca. Bian. Save you, friend Cassio ! Cas. What make you from home ? How is it with you, my most fair Bianca ? I' faith, sweet love, I was coming to your house. Bian. And I was going to your lodging, Cassio. What, keep a week away ? seven days and nights ? Eight score eight hours ? and lovers' absent hours, More tedious than the dial eight score times ? weary reckoning ! Cas. Pardon me, Bianca : 1 have this while with leaden thoughts been press'd ; But I shall, in a more continuate time. Strike off this score of absence. Sweet Bianca, [Giving her Desdemona^s handkerchief. Take me this work out. Bian. O Cassio, whence came this ? This is some token from a newer friend : To the felt absence now I feel a cause : Is 't come to this ? Well, well. Cas. Goto, woman! Throw your vile guesses in the devil's teeth, From whence you have them. You are jealous now That this is from some mistress, some remembrance : No, in good troth, Bianca. Bian. Why, whos.e is it ? Cas. I know not, sweet : I found it in my cham- I like the work well : ere it be demanded — [ber. As like enough it will — I 'Id have it copied : Take it, and do 't ; and leave me for this time. Bian. Leave you ! wherefore ? Cas. I do attend here on the general ; And think it no addition, nor my wish, To have him see me woman 'd. Bian. Why, I pray you ? Cas. Not that I love you not. Bian. But that you do not love me. I pray you, bring me on the way a little, And say if I shall see you soon at night. Cas. 'T is but a little way that I can bring you ; For I attend here : but I '11 see you soon. Bian. 'T is very good ; I must be circumstanced. [Exeunt. A.OT IV. SCENE I.— Cyprus. Before the castle. Enter Othello and lago. lago. WiU you think so ? 0th. Think so, lago! lago. What, To kiss in private ? 0th. An unauthorized kiss. lago. Or to be naked with her friend in bed An hour or more, not meaning any harm ? 0th. Naked in bed, lago, and not mean harm! It is hypocrisy against the devil : They that mean virtuously, and yet do so, [heaven. The devil their virtue tempts, and they tempt 738 lago. So they do nothing, 't is a venial slip : But if I give my wife a handkerchief, — 0th. What then? lago. Why, then, 't is hers, my lord ; and, being She may, I think, bestow 't on any man. [hers' 0th. She is protectress of her honour too : May she give that ? lago. Her honour is an essence that 's not seen ; They have it very oft that have it not : But, for the handkerchief, — 0th. By heaven, I would most gladly have forgot Thou said'st — O, it comes o'er my memory, [it. As doth the raven o'er the infected house, Boding to all— he had my handkerchief. ACT IV, OTHELLO. SCENE I. liKjo. Ay, what of that ? 0th. That 's not so good now. lago. What, If I had said I had seen him do you wrong ? Or heard him say, — as knaves be such abroad. Who having, by theii- own importunate suit, Or voluntary dotage of some mistress, Convinced or supplied them, cannot choose But they must blab— 0th. Hath he said any thing ? lago. He hath, my lord ; but be you well assured, No more than he '11 unswear. 0th. What hath he said ? laqo. 'Faith, that he did — I know not what he Oik. What ? what ? [did. lago. Lie — 0th. With her? lago. With her, on her ; what you will. 0th. Lie with her! lie on her! We say lie on her, when they belie her. Lie with her ! that 's fulsome. — Handkerchief — confessions — handker- chief ! —To confess, and be hanged for his labour; — first, to be hanged, and then to confess. — I trem- ble at it. Nature would not invest herself in such shadowing passion without some instruction. It is not words that shake me thus. Pish! Noses, ears, and lips. — Is 't possible? — Confess — hand- kerchief ! — O devil ! {Falls in a trance. lago. Work on, [caught ; My medicine, work! Thus credulous fools are And many worthy and chaste dames even thus. All guiltless, meet reproach. What, ho I my lord! My lord, I say ! Othello ! Enter Oassio. How now, Cassio 1 Gas. What 's the matter ? lago. My lord is fall'n into an epilepsy : This is his second fit ; he had one yesterday. Gas. Rub him about the temples. lago. No, forbear; The lethargy must have his quiet course : If not, he foams at mouth and by and by Breaks out to savage madness. Look, he stirs : Do you withdraw yourself a little while. He will recover straight : when he is gone, I would on great occasion speak with you. [Exit Gassio. How is it, general ? have you not hurt your head ? 0th. Dost thou mock me ? lago. I mock you ! no, by heaven. Would you would bear your fortune like a man ! 0th. A horned man 's a monster and a beast. lago. There 's many a beast then in a populous And many a civil monster. [city, 0th. Did he confess it ? lago. Good sir, be a man ; Think every bearded feUow that 's but yoked May draw with you : there 's millions now alive That nightly lie in those unproper beds [ter. Which they dare swear peculiar : your case is bet- O, 'tis the spite of hell, the fiend's arch-mock. To lip a wanton in a secure couch. And to suppose her chaste ! No, let me know ; And knowing what I am, I know what she shall be. 0th. O, thou art wise ; 'tis certain. laqo. Stand you awhile apart ; Confine yourself but in a patient list. Whilst you were here o'erwhelmed with your grief — A passion most imsuiting such a man — Cassio came hither : I shifted him away, And laid good 'scuse upon your ecstasy, Bade him anon return and here speak with me ; The which he promised. Do but encave yourself. And mark the fleers, the gibes, and notable scorns. That dwell in every region of his face ; For I will make him tell the tale anew, Where, how, how oft, how long ago, and when He hath, and is again to cope your wife : I say, but mark his gesture. Marry, patience ; Or I shall say you are all in all in spleen. And nothing of a man. 0th. Dost thou hear, lago ? I will be found most cunning in my patience ; But — dost thou hear ? — most bloody. lago. That 's not ami But yet keep time in all. Will you withdraw ? [Othello retires. Now will I question Cassio of Bianca, A housewife that by selling her desires Buys herself bread and clothes : it is a creature That dotes on Cassio; as 'tis the strumpet's plague To beguile many and be beguiled by one : He, when he hears of her, cannot refrain From the excess of laughter. Here he comes : As he shall smUe, Othello shall go mad; And his unbookish jealousy must construe Poor Cassio's smiles, gestures and light behaviour, Quite in the viTong. How do you now, lieutenant ? Gas. The worser that you give me the addition Whose want even kills me. lago. Ply Desdemona well, and you are sure on 't. [Speaking lower'] Now, if this suit lay in Bianca's How quickly should you speed ! [power, Gas. Alas, poor caitiff ! 0th. Look, how he laughs already ! lago. I never knew woman love man so. [me. Gas. Alas, poor rogue ! I think, i' faith, she loves 0th. Now he denies it faintly, and laughs it out. lago. Do you hear, Cassio ? 0th. Now he importunes him To tell it o'er : go to ; well said, well said. lago. She gives it out that you shaU marry her: Do you intend it ? Gas. Ha, ha, ha! 0th. Do you triumph, Eoman ? do you triumph? Gas. I marry her ! what ? a customer ! Prithee, bear some charity to my wit; do not think it so unwholesome. Ha, ha, ha ! 0th. So, so, so, so : they laugh that win. lago. 'Faith, the cry goes that you shall marry Gas. Prithee, say true. [her. lago. I am a very villain else. 0th. Have you scored me ? Well. Gas. This is the monkey's own giving out : she is persuaded I will marry her, out of her own love and flattery, not out of my promise. 0th. lago beckons me ; now he begins the story. Gas. She was here even now ; she haunts me in every place. I was the other day talking on the sea-bank with certain Venetians ; and thither comes the bauble, and, by this hand, she falls me thus about my neck — 0th. Crying ' O dear Cassio ! ' as it were : his ges- ture imports it. Gas. So hangs, and lolls, and weeps upon me; so hales, and pulls me : ha, ha, ha ! 0th. Now he teUs how she plucked him to my chamber. O, I see that nose of yours, but not that dog I shall throw it to. Gas. Well, I must leave her company. lago. Before me ! look, where she comes. Gas. 'T is such another fitchew I marry, a per- fumed one. ^ Enter Bianca. What do you mean by this haunting of me ? Bian. Let the devil and his dam haunt you! What did you mean by that same handkerchief you gave me even now ? I was a fine fool to take it. I must take out the work ? — A likely piece of work, that you should find it in your chamber, and not know who left it there ! This is some minx's token. ACT IV. OTHELLO. SCENE I. and I must take out the work? There; give it your hobby-horse; wheresoever you had it, I'll take out no work on 't. Cas. How now, my sweet Bianca! how now! how now ! 0th. By heaven, that should be my handkerchief! Bian. An you '11 come to supper to-night, you may; an you will not, come when you are next prepared for. {Exit. lago. After her, after her. Cas. 'Faith, I must ; she '11 rail in the street else. lago. Will you sup there ? Cas. 'Faith, I intend so. lago. Well, I may chance to see you; for I would very fain speak with you. Cas. Prithee, come ; will you ? lago. Go to ; say no more. [Exit Cassia. 0th. \Advancing] How shall I murder him, lago ? lago. Bid you perceive how he laughed at his Oih. O lago! [vice? lago. And did you see the handkerchief ? Oih. Was that mine ? lago. Yours, by this hand: and to see how he prizes the foolish woman your wife! she gave it him, and he hath given it his whore. 0th. I would have him nine years a-killing. A fine woman ! a fair woman ! a sweet woman ! lago. Nay, you must forget that. 0th. ■ ■ - Ay, let her rot, and perish, and be damned to-night ; for she shall not live : no, my heart is turned to stone ; I strike it, and it hurts my hand. 0,the world hath not a sweeter creature : she might lie by an emperor's side and command him tasks. laqo. Nay, that 's not your way. 0th. Hang her! I do but say what she is: so delicate with her needle : an admirable musician : O ! she will sing the savageness out of a bear : of so high and plenteous wit and invention : — lago. She 's the worse for all this. 0th. O, a thousand thousand times: and then, of so gentle a condition ! lago. Ay, too gentle. Otli. Nay, that 's certain : but yet the pity of it, lago ! O lago, the pity of it, lago ! lago. If you are so fond over her iniquity, give her patent to offend; for, if it touch not you, it comes near nobody. Oth. 1 will chop her into messes : cuckold me ! lago. O, 't is foul in her. Oth. With mine officer ! lago. That 's fouler. Oih. Get me some poison, lago ; this night : I 'U not expostulate with her, lest her body and beauty unprovide my mind again : this night, lago. lago. Do it not with poison, strangle her in her bed, even the bed she hath contaminated. Oth. Good, good : the justice of it pleases : very good. lago. And for Cassio, let me be his undertaker : you shall hear more by midnight. Oth. Excellent good. [A trumpet within.] What trumpet is that same ? lago. Something from Venice, sure. 'T is Lodo- vico [him. Come from the duke : and, see, your wife is with Enter Lodovioo, Desdemona, and Attendants. Lod. Save you, worthy general ! Oth. With all my heart, sir. Lod. The duke and senators of Venice greet you. [Gives him a letter. Oth. I kiss the instrument of their pleasures. [Opens the letter, and reads. Des. And what 's the news, good cousin Lodovico? lago. 1 am very glad to see you, signior ; Welcome to Cyprus. Lod. I thank you. How does Lieutenant Cassio ? 740 lago. Lives, sir. [lord Des. Cousin, there 's fall'n between him and my An unkind breach : but you shall make all well. Oth. Are you sure of that ? Des. My lord? [will—' Oth. [Eeads] ' This fail you not to do, as you Lod. He did not call ; he 's busy in the paper. Is there division 'twixt my lord and Cassio ? Des. A most unhappy one : I would do much To atone them, for the love I bear to Cassio. Oth. Fire and brimstone ! Des. My lord ? Oth. Are you wise ? Des. What, is he angry? Lod. May be the letter moved him ; For, as I think, they do command him home. Deputing Cassio in his government. Des. Trust me, I am glad on 't. Oth. Indeed! Des. My lord ? Oth. I am glad to see you mad. Des. Why, sweet Othello, — Oth. [Striking her] Devil ! Des. I have not deserved this. [Venice, Lod. My lord, this would not be believed in Though I should swear I saw 't : 't is very much : Make her amends ; she weeps. Oth. O devil, devil ! If that the earth could teem with woman's tears, Each drop she falls would prove a crocodile. Out of my sight ! Des. I will not stay to offend you. [Going. Lod. Truly, an obedient lady : I do beseech your lordship, call her back. Oth. Mistress! Des. My lord ? Oth. What would you with her, sir ? Lod. Who, I, my lord ? Oth. Ay; you did wish that I would make her Sir, she can turn, and turn, and yet go on, [turn : And turn again ; and she can weep, sir, .weep ; And she 's obedient, as you say, obedient. Very obedient. Proceed you in your tears. Concerning this, sir, — O well-painted passion ! — I am commanded home. Get you away ; I '11 send for you anon. Sir, I obey the mandate. And will return to Venice. Hence, avaunt ! [Exit Desdemona. Cassio shall have my place. And, sir, to-night, I do entreat that we may sup together : You are welcome, sir, to Cyprus. — Goats and monkeys ! [Exit. Lod. Is this the noble Moor whom our full senate Call all in all sufficient ? Is this the nature Whom passion could not shake ? whose solid vir- The shot of accident, nor dart of chance, [tue Could neither graze nor pierce ? lago. He is much changed. Lod. Are his wits safe ? is he not light of brain ? lago. He 's that he is : I may not breathe my cen- sure. What he might be,— if what he might he is not— I would to heaven he were ! Lod. What, strike his wife I lago. 'Faith, that was not so well ; yet would I That stroke would prove the worst ! [knew Lod. Is it his use ? Or did the letters work upon his blood. And new-create this fault ? lago. Alas, alas ! It is not honesty in me to speak What I have seen and known. You shall observe And his own courses will denote him so [liim, That I may save my speech : do but go after. And mark how he continues. Lod. I am sorry that I am deceived in him. [Exeunt. OTHELLO. SCENE II. SCENE II. — A room in the castle. Enter Othello and Emilia. 0th. You have seen nothing then ? Mnil. Nor ever heard, nor ever did suspect. 0th. Yes, you have seen Cassio and she to- gether. Emu. But then I saw no harm, and then I heard Each syllable that breath made up between them. 0th. What, did they never whisper ? Emil. Never, my lord. 0th. ISTor send you out o' the way ? Emil. Never. 0th. To fetch her fan, her gloves, her mask, nor Emil. Never, my lord. [nothing ? 0th. That 's strange. E^nil. I durst, my lord, to wager she is honest, Lay down my soul at stake : if you think other, Kemove your thought ; it doth abuse your bosom. If any wretch have put this in your head, Let heaven requite it with the serpent's curse ! For, if she be not honest, chaste, and true. There 's no man happy ; the purest of their wives Is foul as slander. 0th. Bid her come hither : go. [Exit Emilia. She says enough ; yet she 's a simple bawd That cannot say as much. This is a subtle whore, A closet lock and key of villanous secrets : And yet she '11 kneel and pray ; I have seen her do't. Enter Desdenaona with Emilia. Bes. My lord, what is your will ? 0th. Prayj chuck, come hither. Bes. What is your pleasure .-' 0th. Let me see your eyes ; Look in my face. Des. What horrible fancy 's this ? 0th. [To Emilia] Some of your function, mistress ; Leave procreants alone and shut the door ; Cough, or cry ' hem,' if any body come: Your mystery, your mystery : nay, dispatch. [Exit Emilia. Des. Upon my knees, what doth your speech I understand a fury in your words, [import ? But not the words. 0th. Why, what art thou ? Bes. Your wife, my lord ; your true And loyal wife. 0th. Come, swear it, damn thyself ; Lest, being like one of heaven, the devils themselves Should fear to seize thee: therefore be double Swear thou art honest. [damn'd : Bes. Heaven doth truly know it. 0th. Heaven truly knows that thou art false as hell. [I false ? Bes. To whom, my lord? with whom? how am 0th. ODesdemona! away! away! away! Bes. Alas the heavy day ! Why do you weep ? Am I the motive of these tears, my lord ? If haply you my father do suspect An instrument of this your calling back. Lay not your blame on me : if you have lost him. Why, I have lost him too. 0th. Had it pleased heaven To try me with affliction ; had they rain'd All kinds of sores and shames on my bare head, Steep 'd me in poverty to the very lips, Oiven to captivity me and my utmost hopes, I should have found in some place of my soul A drop of patience : but, alas, to make me A fixed figure for the time of scorn To point his slow unmoving finger at ! Yet could I bear that too ; well, very well : But there, where I have garner'd up my heart, Where either I must live, or bear no life ; The fountain from the which my current runs, Or else dries up ; to be discarded thence ! Or keep it as a cistern for foul toads [there. To knot and gender in! Turn thy complexion Patience, thou young and rose-lipp'd cherubin, — Ay, there, look grim as hell ! Bes. I hope my noble lord esteems me -honest. 0th. O, ay ; as summer flies are in the shambles. That quicken even with blowing. O thou weed, Who art so lovely fair and smell'st so sweet That the sense aches at thee, would thou hadst ne'er been born ! Bes. Alas, what ignorant sin have I committed ? 0th. Was this fair paper, this most goodly book. Made to write ' whore ' upon ? What committed ! Committed ! O thou public commoner ! I should make very forges of my cheeks. That would to cinders burn up modesty. Did I but speak thy deeds. What committed ! Heaven stops the nose at it and the moon winks, The bawdy wind that kisses all it meets Is hush'd within the hollow mine of earth, And will not hear it. What committed 1 Impudent strumpet ! Bes. By heaven, you do me wrong. Oth. Are not you a strumpet ? Bes. No, as I am a Christian : If to preserve this vessel for my lord From any other foul unlawful touch Be not to be a strumpet, I am none. Oth. What, not a whore ? Bes. No, as I shall be saved. Oth. Is 't possible ? Bes. O, heaven forgive us ! Oth. 1 cry you mercy, then : I took you for that cunning whore of Venice That married with Othello. [Baising his voice] You, mistress, That have the office opposite to Saint Peter, And keep the gate of hell ! Ee-enter Emilia. You, you, ay, you! We have done our coirrse ; there 's money for your pains : I pray you, turn the key and keep our counseh [Exit. Emil. Alas, what does this gentleman conceive ? How do you, madam ? how do you, my good lady ? Bes. 'Faith, half asleep. Emil. Good madam, what 's the matter with my Bes. With who ? [lord ? Emil. Why, with my lord, madam. Bes. Who is thy lord ? Emil. He that is yours, sweet lady. Des. I have none : do not talk to me, Emilia ; I cannot weep ; nor answer have I none. But what should go by water. Prithee, to-night Lay on my bed my wedding sheets : remember ; And call thy husband hither. Emil. Here 's a change indeed ! [Exit. Bes. 'Tis meet I should be used so, very meet. How have I been behaved, that he might stick The small 'st opinion on my least misuse ? Re-enter Emilia with lago. lago. What is your pleasure, madam ? How is 't with you ? Bes. I cannot tell. Those that do teach young Do it with gentle means and easy tasks : [babes He might have chid me so ; for, in good faith, I am a child to chiding. Ia(jo. What 's the matter, lady ? Emil. Alas, lago, my lord hath so bewhored her, Thrown such despite and heavy terms upon her, As true hearts cannot bear. Bes. Am I that name, lago ? What name, fair lady ? lago. 741 ACT IV. OTHELLO. SCENE III. Bes. Such as she says my lord did say I was. Emil. He call'd her whore : a beggar in his drink Could not have laid such terms upon his callat. lago. "Why did he so ? Bes. I do not know ; I am sure I am none such. lago. Do not weep, do not weep. Alas the day ! Emil. Hath she forsook so many noble matches, Her father and her country and her friends, To be call'd whore ? would it not make one weep ? Bes. It is my wretched fortune. lago. Beshrew him for 't ! How comes this trick upon him ? Bes. Nay, heaven doth know. Emil. I will be hang'd, if some eternal villain. Some busy and insinuating rogue, Some cogging, cozening slave, to get some office. Have not devised this slander; I '11 be hang'd else. lago. Fie, there is no such man ; it is impossible. Bes. If any such there be, heaven pardon him ! Emil. A halter pardon him ! and hell gnaw his bones ! [pany ? Why should he call her whore ? who keeps her com- "What place ? what time ? what form ? what likeli- hood ? The Moor 's abused by some most villanous knave, Some base notorious knave, some scurvy fellow. heaven, that such companions thou'ldst unfold, And put in every honest hand a whip To lash the rascals naked through the world Even from the east to the west ! lago. Speak within door. Emil. O, fie upon them ! Some such squire he was That turn'd your wit the seamy side without, And made you to suspect me with the Moor. lago. You are a fool ; go to. Bes. O good lago, What shall I do to win my lord again ? Good friend, go to him ; for, by this light of heaven, 1 know not how I lost him. Here I kneel : If e'er my will did trespass 'gainst his love, Either in discourse of thought or actual deed, Or that mine eyes, mine ears, or any sense, Delighted them in any other form ; Or that I do not yet, and ever did, And ever will — though he do shake me off To beggarly divorcement — love him dearly. Comfort forswear me ! Unkindness may do much ; And his unkindness may defeat my life, But never taint my love. I cannot say ' whore : ' It does abhor me now I speak the word ; To do the act that might the addition earn Not the world's mass of vanity could make me. lago. I pray you, be content ; 't is but his humour : The business of the state does him offence, And he does chide with you. Bes. If 't were no other,— lago. 'T is but so, I warrant. [Trum.pets within. Hark, how these instruments summon to supper ! The messengers of Venice stay the meat : Go in, and weep not ; all things shall be well. [Exeunt Besdemona and Emilia. Enter Roderigo. How now, Koderigo ! Bod. I do not find that thou dealest justly with me. lago. What in the contrary ? Bod. Every day thou daffest me with some de- vice, lago; and rather, as it seems to me now, keepest from me all conveniency than suppliest me with the least advantage of hope. I will indeed no longer endure it, nor am I yet persuaded to put up in peace what already I have foolishly suffered. lago. Will you hear me, Roderigo? Bod. 'Faith, I have heard too much, for your words and performances are no kin together. lago. You charge me most unjustly. 742 Bod. With nought but truth. I have wasted myself out of my means. The jewels you have had from me to deliver to Desdemona would half have corrupted a votarist: you have told me she hath received them and returned me expectations and comforts of sudden respect and acquaintance, but I find none. lago. Well; goto; very well. Bod. Very well! go to! I cannot go to, man; nor 't is not very well : nay, I think it is scurvy, and begin to find myself fobbed in it. lago. Very well. Bod. I tell you 't is not very well. I will make myself known to Desdemona : if she will return me my jewels, I will give over my suit and repent my unlawful solicitation ; if not, assure yourself I will seek satisfaction of you. lago. You have said now. Bod. Ay, and said nothing but what I protest intendment of doing. lago. Why, now I see there 's mettle in thee, and even from this instant do build on thee a better opinion than ever before. Give me thy hand, Rod- erigo : thou hast taken against me a most just ex- ception ; but yet, I protest, I have dealt most di- rectly in thy affair. Bod. It hath not appeared. lago. I grant indeed it hath not appeared, and your suspicion is not without wit and judgment. But, Roderigo, if thou hast that in thee indeed, which I have greater reason to believe now than ever, I mean purpose, courage and valour, this night show it : if thou the next night following en- joy not Desdemona, take me from this world with treachery and devise engines for my life. Bod. Well, what is it ? is it within reason and compass ? lago. Sir, there is especial commission come from Venice to depute Cassio in Othello's place. Bod. Is that true? why, then Othello. and Des- demona return again to Venice. lago. O, no; he goes into Mauritania and takes away with him the fair Desdemona, unless his abode be Imgered here by some accident : wherein none can be so determinate as the removing of Cassio. Bod. How do you mean, removing of him ? lago. Why, by making him uncapable of Othello's place : knocking out his brains. Bod. And that you would have me to do ? lago. Ay, if you dare do yourself a profit and a right. He' sups to-night with a harlotry, and thither will I go to him : he knows not yet of his honour- able fortune. If you will watch his going thence, which I will fashion to fall out between twelve and one, you may take him at your pleasure : I will be near to second your attempt, and he shall fall be- tween us. Come, stand not amazed at it, but go along with me ; I will show you such a necessity in his death that you shall think yourself bound to put it on him. It is now high supper-time, and the night grows to waste : about it. Bod. I will hear further reason for this. lago. And you shall be satisfied. [Exeunt. SCENE m. — Another room in the castle. Enter Othello, Lodovico, Desdemona, Emilia, and Attendants. Lod. I do beseech you, sir, trouble yourself no further. 0th. O, pardon me ; 't will do me good to walk. Lod. Madam, good-night; I humbly thank your ladyship. Bes. Your honour is most welcome. 0th. Will you walk, sir ? O, — Desdemona, — Bes. My lord? ACT V. OTHELLO. SCENE I. Otli. Get you to bed on the instant ; I will be re- turned forthwith: dismiss your attendant there: look it be done. Des. I will, my lord. [^Exeunt Othello, Lodovico, and Attendants. Emil. How goes it now ? he looks gentler than he Des. He says he will return incontinent ; [did. He hath commanded me to go to bed, And bade me to dismiss you. Emil. Dismiss me ! Des. It was his bidding ; therefore, good Emilia, Give me my nightly wearing, and adieu: We must not now displease him. Emil. I would you had never seen him ! Des. So would not I: my love doth so approve him, That even his stubbornness, his checks, hisfrovras, — Prithee, unpin me,— have grace and favour in them. Emil. I have laid those sheets you bade me on the bed. Des. All 's one. Good faith, how foolish are our If I do die before thee, prithee, shroud me [minds ! In one of those same sheets. Emil. Come, come, you talk. Des. My mother had a maid call'd Barbara : She was in love, and he she loved proved mad And did forsake her : she had a song of ' willow ; ' An old thing 'twas, but it express 'd her fortune, And she died singing it : that song to-night "Will not go from my mind ; I have much to do, But to go hang my head all at one side, And sing it like poor Barbara. Prithee, dispatch. Emil. Shall I go fetch your night-gown ? Des. No, unpin me here. This Lodovico is a proper man. Emil. A very handsome man. Des. He speaks well. Emil. 1 know a lady in Venice would have walked barefoot to Palestine for a touch of his nether lip. Des. [Singing] The poor soul sat sighing by a syc- amore tree. Sing all a green vdllow ; Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee, Sing willow, willow, willow ; The fresh streams ran by her, and murmur'd her Sing willow, willow, willow ; [moans ; Her salt tears fell from her, and soften 'd the Lay by these : — [stones ; — [Singing] Sing willow, willow, willow ; Prithee, hie thee ; he '11 come anou :— [land. [Singing] Sing all a green willow must be my gar- Let nobody blame him ; his scorn I approve, — Nay, that 's not next.— Hark ! who is 't that knocks? Emil. It 's the wind. Des. [Singing] 1 call'd my love false love ; but what said he then ? Sing willow, willow, willow : If I court moe women, you '11 couch with moe men. — So, get thee gone ; good-night. Mine eyes do itch ; Doth that bode weeping ? Emil. 'T is neither here nor there. Des. I have heard it said so. O, these men, these men! Dost thou in conscience think,— tell me, Emilia,— That there be women do abuse their husbands In such gross kind ? Emil. There be some such, no question. Des. Wouldst thou do such a deed for all the Emil. Why, would not you ? [world ? Des. No, by this heavenly light ! Emil. Nor I neither by this heavenly light ; I might do 't as well i' the dark. " [world ? Des. Wouldst thou do such a deed for all the Emil. The world's a huge thing: it is a great For a small vice. [price Des. In troth, I think thou wouldst not. Emil. In troth, I think I should ; and undo 't when I had done. Marry, I would not do such a thing for a joint-ring, nor for measures of lawn, nor for gowns, petticoats, nor caps, nor any petty exhibition; but, for the whole world, — why, who would not make her husband a cuckold to make him a monarch ? I should venture purgatory for 't. Des. Beshrew me, if I would do such a wrong For the whole world. Emil. Why, the virrong is but a vsTong i' the world ; and having the world for your labour, 't is a wrong in your own world, and you might quickly make it right. Des. I do not think there is any such woman. Emil. Yes, a dozen ; and as many to the vantage as would store the world they played for. But I do think it is their husbands' faults If wives do fall : say that they slack their duties, And pour our treasures into foreign laps. Or else break out in peevish jealousies. Throwing restraint upon us ; or say they strike us, Or scant our former having in despite ; Why, we have galls, and though we have some grace, Yet have we some revenge. Let husbands know Their wives have sense like them : they see and smell And have their palates both for sweet and sour, As husbands have. What is it that they do When they change us for others ? Is it sport ? I think it is : and doth affection breed it ? I think it doth : is 't frailty that thus errs ? It is so too : and have not we affections. Desires for sport, and frailty, as men have ? Then let them use us well : else let them know. The ills we do, their ills instruct us so. [send, Des. Good night, good night : heaven me such uses Not to pick bad from bad , but by bad mend ! [Exeunt, ^CT ^r. SCENE I.— Cyprus. A stre< Enter lago and Roderigo. lago. Here, stand behind this bulk; straight will he come : Wear thy good rapier bare, and put it home : Quick, quick ; fear nothing ; I '11 be at thy elbow : It makes us, or it mars us ; think on that. And fix most firm thy resolution. Rod. Be near at hand ; I may miscarry in 't. lago. Here, at thy hand : be bold, and take thy stand. [Retires. Rod. 1 have no great devotion to the deed ; And yet he hath given me satisfying reasons : 'T is but a man gone. Forth, my sword : he dies. lago. I have rubb'd this young quat almost to the sense. And he grows angry. Now, whether he kill Cassio, Or Cassio him, or each do kill the other. Every way makes my gain : live Koderigo, He calls me to a restitution large Of gold and jewels that I bobb'd from him, As gifts to Desdemona ; It must not be : if Cassio do remain. He hath a daily beauty in his life That makes me ugly ; and, besides, the Moor May unfold me to him; there stand I in much peril : No, he must die. But so : I hear him coming. 743 OTHELLO. SCENE II. Enter Cassio. Bod. I know his gait, 'tis he. — Villain, thou diest ! [ilfafces a pass at Cassio. Cas. That thrust had been mine enemy indeed, ' But that my coat is better than thou know'st : I will make proof of thine. [Draws, and wounds Boderigo. Bod. O, I am slain ! {tagofrom behind wounds Cassio in the leg, and exit. Cas. 1 am maim'd for ever. Help, ho ! murder ! murder I „ ^^, „ [Falls. Enter Othello. 0th. The voice of Cassio : lago keeps his word. Bod. O, villain that I am! 0th. It is even so. Cas. O, help, ho ! light ! a surgeon ! 0th. 'T is he : — O brave lago, honest and just, That hast such noble sense of thy friend's wrong ! Thou teachest me. Minion, your dear lies dead, And your unblest fate hies : strumpet, I come. Forth of my heart those charms, thine eyes, are blotted ; Thy bed, lust-stain'd, shall with lust's blood be spotted. [Exit. Enter Lodovico and Gratiano. Cas. What, hoi no watch? no passage? murder! murder ! [ful. Gra. 'T is some mischance ; the cry is very dire- Cas. O, help 1 Lod. Hark! Bod. O wretched villain ! Lod. Two or three groan : it is a heavy night : These may be counterfeits : let 's think 't unsafe To come in to the cry without more help. Bod. Nobody come ? then shall I bleed to death. Lod. Hark! Be-enter lago, with a light. Gra. Here 's one comes in his shirt, with light and weapons. lago. Whose 's there ? whose noise is this that cries on murder ? Lod. We do not know. lago. Did not you hear a cry ? Cas. Here, here ! for heaven's sake, help me ! la^o. What 's the matter ? Gra. This is Othello's ancient, as I take it. Lod. The same indeed ; a very valiant fellow. lago. What are you here that cry so grievously ? Cas. lago ? O, I am spoU'd, undone by villains ! Give me some help. [this ? lago. O me, lieutenant ! what villains have done Cas. I think that one of them is hereabout, And caimot make away. lago. O treacherous villains ! What are you there ? come in, and give some help. [To Lodovico and Gratiano. Bod. O, help me here ! Cas. That 's one of them. lago. O murderous slave ! O villain ! [Stabs Boderigo. Bod. O damn'd lago ! O inhuman dog ! lago. Kill men i' the dark ! — Where be these bloody thieves ? — How silent is this town ! — Ho ! murder ! murder !— What may you be ? are you of good or evil ? Lod. As you shall prove us, praise us. lago. Signior Lodovico ? Lod. He, sir. [villains. lago. I cry you mercy. Here 's Cassio hurt by Gra. Cassio ! lago. How is 't, brother ! Cas. My leg is cut in two. lago. Marry, heaven forbid ! Light, gentlemen : I 'U bind it with my shirt. 744 Enter Bianca. Bian. What is the matter, ho ? who is 't that cried P lago. Who is 't that cried ! Bian. O my dear Cassio ! my sweet Cassio ! Cassio, Cassio, Cassio ! [pect lago. O notable strumpet ! Cassio, may you sus- Who they should be that have thus mangled you? Cas. No. [seek you. Gra. I am sorry to find you thus : I have been to lago. Lend me a garter. So. O, for a chair, To bear him easily hence ! Bian. Alas, he faints ! O Cassio, Cassio, Cassio ! lago. Gentlemen all, I do suspect this trash To be a party in this injury. Patience awhile, good Cassio. Come, come; Lend me a light. Know we this face or no ? Alas, my friend and my dear countryman Eoderigo ! no : — yes, sure : — O heaven ! Roderigo. Gra. What, of Venice ? lago. Even he, sir : did you know him ? G^-a. Know him! ay. lago. Signior Gratiano ? I cry you gentle pardon ; These bloody accidents must excuse my manners, That so neglected you. Gra. I am glad to see you. lago. How do you, Cassio ? O, a chair, a chair! Gra. Eoderigo! lago. He, he, 't is he. [A chair brought in.] O, that 's well said ; the chair. Some good man bear him carefully from hence ; 1 '11 fetch the general's surgeon. [To Bianca] For you, mistress, ^io. Save you your labour. He that lies slain here, Cas- Was my dear friend : what malice was between you ? Cas. None in the world ; nor do I know the man. lago. [To Bian.] What, look you pale? O, bear him out o' the air. [Cassio and Boderigo are borne off. Stay you , good gentlemen. Look you pale, mistress ? Do you perceive the gastness of her eye ? " Nay, if you stare, we shall hear more anon. Behold her well ; I pray you, look upon her: Do you see, gentlemen ? nay, guiltiness will speak, Though tongues were out of use. Enter Emilia. Emil. 'Las, what 's the matter ? what 's the matter, husband ? lago. Cassio hath here been set on in the dark By Eoderigo and fellows that are scaped : He 's almost slain, and Eoderigo dead. Emil. Alas, good gentleman ! alas, good Cassio ! lago. This is the fi-uit of whoring. Prithee, Emilia, Go know of Cassio where he supp'd to-night. [To Bianca] What, do you shake at that ? Bian. He supp'd at my house; but I therefore shake not. lago. O, did he so ? I charge you, go with me. Emil. Fie, fie upon thee, strumpet! Bian. I am no strumpet ; but of life as honest As you that thus abuse me. Emil. As I ! fob ! fie upon thee ! lago. Kind gentlemen, let 's go see poor Cassio dress'd. Come, mistress, you must tell 's another tale. Emilia, run you to the citadel, And tell my lord and lady what hath happ'd. Will you go on ? I pray. [Aside] This is the night That either makes me or fordoes me quite. [Exeunt. SCENE II.— J. bedchamber in the castle: Besdermna in bed asleep ; a light burning. Enter Othello. 0th. It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul,— Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars I — ACT V. OTHELLO. SCENE II. It is the cause. Yet I '11 not shed her blood ; Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow, And smooth as monumental alabaster. Yet she must die, else she '11 betray more men. Put out the light, and then put out the light: If I quench thee, thou flaming minister, I can again thy former light restore, Should I repent me : but once put out thy light, Thou cunning 'st pattern of excelling nature, I know not where is that Promethean heat [rose, That can thy light relume. When I have pluck 'd the I cannot give it vital growth again. It must needs wither : I '11 smell it on the tree. [Kissing her. Ah, balmy breath, that dost almost persuade Justice to break her sword ! One more, one more. Be thus Avhen thou art dead, and I will kill thee. And love thee after. One more, and this the last : So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep, But they are cruel tears : this sorrow 's heavenly ; It strikes where it doth love. She wakes. Bes. Who 's there ? Othello ? 0th. Ay, Desdemona. Bes. Will you come to bed, my lord ? 0th. Have you pray'd to-night, Desdemona ? - Bes. Ay, my lord. 0th. If you bethink yourself of any crime Unreconciled as yet to heaven and grace, Solicit for it straight. Bes. Alas, my lord, what do you mean by that ? 0th. Well, do it, and be brief ; I will walk by : I would not kill thy unprepared spirit ; No ; heaven f orf end ! I would not kill thy soul. Bes. Talk you of killing ? Oth. Ay, I do. Bes. Then heaven Have mercy on me ! Oth. Amen, with aU my heart ! Bes. If you say so, I hope you will not kill me. Oth. Hum! Bes. And yet I fear you ; for you are fatal then When your eyes roll so: why I should fear I know not. Since guiltiness I know not; but yet I feel I fear. Oth. Think on thy sins. Bes. They are loves I bear to you. Oth. Ay, and for that thou diest. Bes. That death 's unnatural that kills for loving. Alas, why gnaw you so your nether lip ? Some bloody passion shakes your very frame : These are portents; but yet I hope, I hope, They do not point on me. Oth. Peace, and be still ! Bes. I -will so. What 's the matter ? [thee Oth. That handkerchief which I so loved and gave Thou gavest to Cassio. Bes. No, by my life and soul ! Send for the man, and ask him. Oth. Sweet soul, take heed, Take heed of perjury; thou art on thy death-bed. Bes. Ay, but not yet to die. Oth. Yes, presently : Therefore confess thee freely of thy sm ; For to deny each article with oath Cannot remove nor choke the strong conception That I do groan withal. Thou art to die. Bes. Then Lord have mercy on me ! Oth. I say, amen. Bes. And have you mercy too ! I never did Offend you in my life ; never loved Cassio But with such general warranty of heaven As I might love ; I never gave him token. Oth. By heaven, I saw my handkerchief in 's hand. perjured woman ! thou dost stone my heart, And makest me call what I intend to do A mxirder, which I thought a sacrifice : 1 saw the handkerchief. Bes. He found it then ; I never gave it him : send for him hither ; Let him confess a truth. Oth. He hath confess'd. Bes. What, my lord ? Oth. That he hath used thee. Bes. How? unlawfully? Oth. Ay. Bes. He will not say so. Oth. No, his mouth is stopp'd ; Honest lago hath ta'en order for 't. Bes. O ! my fear interprets : what, is he dead ? Oth. Had all his hairs been lives, my great revenge Had stomach for them all. Bes. Alas ! he is betray'd and I undone, [face ? Oth. Out, strumpet! weep'st thou for him to my Bes. O, banish me, my lord, but kill me not ! Oth. Down, strumpet ! Bes. Kill me to-morrow : let me live to-night ! Oth. Nay, if you strive, — Bes. But half an hour ! Oth. Being done, there is no pause. Bes. But while I say one prayer ! Oth. It is too late. [He stifles her. Emil. {Within] My lord, my lord ! what, ho ! my lord, my lord ! [dead ? Oth. What noise is this ? Not dead ? not yet quite I that am cruel am yet merciful ; I would not have thee linger in thy pain : So, so. Mtiil. {Within} What, ho ! my lord, my lord ! Oth. Who 's there ? Emil. [Within] O, good my lord, I would speak a word with you! Oth. Yes : 't is Emilia. By and by. She 's dead. 'Tis like she comes to speak of Cassio 's death. — The noise was here. Ha ! no more moving ? Still as the grave. Shall she come in? were 't good?— I think she stii's again : — no. What 's best to do ? If she come in, she '11 sure speak to my wife : My wife ! my wife ! what wife ? I have no wife. O, insupportable ! O heavy hour ! Methinks it should be now a huge eclipse Of sun and moon, and that the affrighted globe Should yawn at alteration. Emil. [ Within] I do beseech you That I may speak with you, O, good my lord! Oth. I had forgot thee: O, come in, Emilia: Soft ; by and by. Let me the curtains draw. Where art thou ? [Unlocks the door. Enter Emilia. What 's the matter with thee now ? Emil. O, my good lord, yonder 's foul murders Oth. What, now ? [done ! Emil. But now, my lord. Oth. It is the very error of the moon ; She comes more nearer earth than she was wont, And makes men mad. Emil. Cassio, my lord,hath kill'd a young Venetian Call'd Roderigo. Oth. Roderigo kill'd ! And Cassio kill'd ! Emil. No, Cassio is not kill'd. Oth. Not Cassio kill'd ! then murder 's out of tune. And sweet revenge grows harsh. Bes. O, falsely, falsely murder'd ! Emil. Alas, what cry is that ? Oth. That! what? Emil. Out, and alas ! that was my lady's voice. Help ! help, ho ! help ! O lady, speak again ! Sweet Desdemona ! O sweet mistress, speak ! Bes. A guiltless death I die. Emil. O, who hath done this deed ? Bes. Nobody ; I myself. Earewell : Commend me to my kind lord : O, farewell! [Bies. Oth. Why, how should she be murder'd ? 745 ACT V. OTHELLO. SCENE II, Emil. Alas, who knows ? 0th. You heard her say herself, it was not I. Emit. She said so : I must needs report the truth. 0th. She's, like a liar, gone to burning hell : T was I that kill'd her. Emil. O, the more angel she, And you the blacker devil ! 0th. She turn'd to folly, and she was a whore. Emil. Thou dost belie her, and thou art a devil. 0th. She was false as water. Emil. Thou art rash as fire, to say That she was false : O, she was heavenly true ! 0th. Cassio did top her ; ask thy husband else. O, I were damn'd beneath all depth in hell. But that I did proceed upon just grounds To this extremity. Thy husband knew it all. Emil. My husband I 0th. Thy husband. Emil. That she was false to wedlock ? 0th. Ay, with Cassio. Nay, had she been true, If heaven would make me such another world Of one entire and perfect chrysolite, I 'Id not have sold her for it. Emil. My husband ! 0th. Ay, 't was he that told me first : An honest man he is, and hates the slime That sticks on filthy deeds. Emil. My husband ! 0th. What needs this iteration, woman? I say thy husband. [love ! Emil. O mistress, villany hath made mocks with My husband say that she was false ! 0th. He, woman; I say thy husband : dost understand the word ? My friend, thy husband, honest, honest lago. Emil. If he say so, may his pernicious soul Hot half a grain a day ! he lies to the heart : She was too fond of her most filthy bargain. 0th. Ha! Emil. Do thy worst : This deed of thine is no more worthy heaven Than thou wast worthy her. 0th. Peace, you were best. Emil. Thou hast not half that power to do me As I have to be hurt. O gull ! O dolt ! [harm As ignorant as dirt ! thou hast done a deed — I care not for thy sword ; I '11 make thee known, Though I lost twenty lives. — Help ! help, ho ! help ! The Moor hath kill'd my mistress ! Murder ! murder ! Enter Montano, Gratiano, lago, and others. Mon. "What is the matter ? How now, general ! Emil. O, are you come, lago ? you have done well, That men must lay their murders on your neck. Gra. What is the matter ? Emil. Disprove this villain, if thou be'st a man : He says thou told'st him that his wife was false : I know thou didst not, thou 'rt not such a villain : Speak, for my heart is fuU. lago. I told him what I thought, and told no more Than what he found himself was apt and true. Emil. But did you ever tell him she was false ? lago. I did. Emil. You told a lie ; an odious, damned lie : Upon my soul, a lie, a wicked lie. She false with Cassio !— did you say with Cassio ? lago. With Cassio, mistress. Go to, charm your tongue. [to speak : Emil. I will not charm my tongue ; I am boimd My mistress here lies murder 'd in her bed, — All. O heavens f orf end ! Emil. And your reports have set the murder on. 0th. Nay, stare not, masters: it is true, indeed. Gra. 'T is a strange truth. Mon. O monstrous act ! Emil. Villany, villany, villany ! I think upon 't, I think : I smell 't : O villany !— 746 I thought so then : — I '11 kill myself for grief : — villany, villany ! [home. lago. What, are you mad ? I charge you, get you Emil. Good gentlemen, let me have leave to speak : 'T is proper I obey him, but not now. Perchance, lago, I will ne'er go home. 0th. O ! O ! O ! [He falls on the bed. Emil. Nay, lay thee down and roar; For thou hast kill'd the sweetest innocent That e'er did lift up eye. 0th. [Bising] O, she was foul! 1 scarce did know you, uncle : there lies your niece, Whose breath, indeed, these hands have newly I know this act shows horrible and grim, [stopp'd : Gra. Poor Desdemona ! I am glad thy father 's dead: Thy match was mortal to him, and pure grief Shore his old thread in twain : did he live now. This sight would make him do a desperate turn, Yea, curse his better angel from his side, And fall to reprobation. 0th. 'T is pitiful ; but yet lago knows That she with Cassio hath the act of shame A thousand times committed ; Cassio confess 'd it : And she did gratify his amorous works With that recognizance and pledge of love Which I first gave her : I saw it m his hand : It was a handkerchief, an antique token My father gave my mother. Emil. O heaven ! O heavenly powers ! lago. Come, hold your peace. Emil. 'T will out, 't will out : I peace ! No, I will speak as liberal as the north : Let heaven and men and devils, let them all. All, all, cry shame against me, yet I 'U speak. lago. Be wise, and get you home. Emil. I will not. [lago offers to stab Emilia, Gra. Fie ! Your sword upon a woman ? [speak 'st of Emil. O thou dull Moor ! that handkerchief thou I found by fortune and did give my husband ; For often, with a solemn earnestness, More than indeed belong 'd to such a trifle, He begg'd of me to steal it. lago. Villanous whore ! Emil. She give it Cassio ! no, alas ! I found it, And I did give 't my husband. logo. Filth, thou liest 1 Emil. By heaven, I do not, I do not, gentlemen. O murderous coxcomb ! what should such a fool Do with so good a woman ? Oth. Are there no stones in heaven But what serve for the thunder ? — ^Precious villain ! [He runs at lago: lago, from behind, stabs Emilia, and exit. Gra. The woman falls; sure, he hath kill'd his wife. Emil. Ay, ay : O, lay me by my mistress' side. Gra. He 's gone, but his wife 's kill'd. [weapon, Mon. 'Tis a notorious villain. Take you this Which I have here recover'd from the Moor : Come, guard the door without ; let him not pasa, But kill him rather. I '11 after that same villain, For 't is a damned slave. [Exeunt Montano and Gratiano. Oth. 1 am not valiant neither, But every puny whipster gets my sword : But why should honour outlive honesty ? Let it go all. Emit. What did thy song bode, lady ? Hark, canst thou hear me ? I will play the swan, And die in music. [Singing] Willow, willow, willow. — Moor, she was chaste; she loved thee, cruel Moor; So come my soul to bliss, as I speak true ; So speaking as I think, I die, I die. [Dies. ACT V. OTHELLO. SCENE II. Otii. I have another weapon in this chamber ; It is a sword of Spain, the ice-brook's temper : — O, here it is. Uncle, I must come forth. [dear : Gra. [Within] If thou attempt it, it will cost thee Thou hast no weapon, and perforce must suffer. 0th. Look in upon me then and speak with me, Or, naked as I am, I will assault thee. Be-enter Gratiano. Gra. What is the matter ? 0th. Behold, I have a weapon ; A better never did itseK sustain Upon a soldier's thigh : I have seen the day. That, with this little arm and this good sword, I have made my way through more impediments Than twenty times your stop : but, O vain boast ! "Who can control his fate ? 't is not so now. Be not afraid, though you do see me weapon !d ; Here is my journey's end, here is my butt, And very sea-mark of my utmost sail. Do you go back dismay 'd ? 't is a lost fear ; Man but a rush against Othello's breast, And he retires. Where should Othello go ? Now, how dost thou look now ? O ill-starr'd wench ! Pale as thy smock ! when we shall meet at compt, This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven. And fiends Avill snatch at it. Cold, cold, my girl ! Even like thy chastity. O cursed slave ! Whip me, ye devils, From the possession of this heavenly sight ! Blow me about in winds ! roast me in sulphur ! Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire ! O Desdemona ! Desdemona ! dead ! Oh! Oh! Oh! Enter Lodovico, Montano, Cassio carried in a chair, and OflBcers with lago, prisoner. Lod. Where is this rash and most unfortunate man? 0th. That 's he that was Othello : here I am. Lod. Where is that viper ? bring the villain forth. 0th. I look down towards his feet ; but that 's a If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee, [fable. [ Wounds lago. Lod. Wrench his sword from him. lago. I bleed sir ; but not kill'd. 0th. I am not sorry neither ; I 'Id have thee live ; For, in my sense, 't is happiness to die. Lod. O thou Othello, that wert once so good, Fall'n in the practice of a damned slave, What shall be said to thee ? 0th. Why, any thing : An honourable murderer, if you will ; For nought I did in hate, but all in honour. Lod. This wretch hath part confess 'd his villany : Did you and he consent in Cassio 's death ? 0th. Ay. Cas. Dear general, I never gave you cause. 0th. I do believe it, and I ask you pardon. Will you, I pray, demand that demi-devil Why he hath thus ensnared my soul and body ? lago. Demand me nothing : what you know, you know: From this time forth I never will speak word. Lod. What, not to pray ? Gra. Torments wiU ope your lips. 0th. Well, thou dost best. Lod. Sir, you shall understand what hath befall 'n, Which, as I think, you know not. Here is a letter Foimd in the pocket of the slain Eoderigo ; And here another : the one of them imports The death of Cassio to be undertook By Eoderigo. 0th. O villain ! Cas. Most heathenish and most gross I Lod. Now here 's another discontented paper, Found in his pocket too ; and this, it seemSj Eoderigo meant to have sent this damned villam ; But that belike lago in the interim Came in and satisfied him. 0th. O the pernicious caitiff ! How came you, Cassio, by that handkerchief That was my wife's ? Cas. I found it in my chamber : And he himself confess 'd but even now That there he dropp'd it for a special purpose Which wrought to his desire. 0th. O fool! fool! fool! Cas. There is besides in Eoderigo 's letter. How he upbraids lago, that he made him Brave me upon the watch ; whereon it came That I was cast : and even but now he spake, After long seeming dead, lago hurt him, lago set him on. Lod. You must forsake this room, and go with us : Your power and your command is taken off. And Cassio rules in Cyprus. For this slave, If there be any cunning cruelty That can torment him much and hold him long, It shall be his. You shall close prisoner rest, Till that the nature of your fault be known To the Venetian state. Come, bring him away. 0th. Soft you ; a word or two before you go. I have done the state some service, and they know 't. No more of that. I pray you, in your letters. When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, Nor set down aught in malice: then must you Of one that loved not wisely but too well ; Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought Perplex'd in the extreme ; of one whose hand, Like the base Indian, threw a pearl away [eyes, Eicher than all his tribe; of one whose subdued Albeit unused to the melting mood, Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees Their medicinal gum. Set you down this ; And say besides, that in Aleppo once. Where a malignant and a turban 'd Turk Beat a Venetian and traduced the state, I took by the throat the circumcised dog. And smote him, thus. [Stabs himself. Lod. O bloody period ! Gra. All that 's spoke is marr'd. Oth. I kiss'd thee ere I kill'd thee : no way but Killing mysehC, to die upon a kiss. [this ; [Falls on the bed, and dies. Cas. This did I fear, but thought he had no For he was great of heart. [weapon ; Lod. [To lago] O Spartan dog. More fell than anguish, hunger, or the sea I Look on the tragic loading of this bed ; This is thy work : the object poisons sight ; Let it be hid. Gratiano, keep the house. And seize upon the fortunes of the Moor, For they succeed on you. To you, lord governor, Eemains the censure of this hellish villain ; The time, the place, the torture : O, enforce it! Myself will straight aboard ; and to the state This heavy act with heavy heart relate. [Exeunt. 747 »1 ANTONY AND CLEOPATEA. BBAMATIS PEE SOW JE. Mark Antony, "] Octavius Caesar, M. ^milius Lepidus, J Sextus Pompeius. Domitius Enobarbus, Ventidius, Eros, Scarus, Dercetas, Demetrius, PMlo, friends to Antony. Agrippa, DolabeUa, Proculeius, Thyreus, Gallus, friends to Csesar. Menecrates, y friends to Pompey. Varrius, Taurus, lieutenant-general to Csesar, Canidius, lieutenant-general to Antony, Silius, an officer in Ventidius's army. Euphronius, an ambassador from Antony to Csesar. attendants on Cleopatra. Mardian, a Eunuch, Seleucus, Diomedes, A Soothsayer. A Clown. Cleopatra, queen of Egypt. Octavla, sister to Caesar and wife to Antony. Charmian, | attendants on Cleopatra. Officers, Soldiers, Messengers, and other Attendants. SCENE — In several parts of the Roman empire. [For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see page LXVI.] A.CT I. SCKNB I.- Alexandria. A room in Cleopatra^s palace. Enter Demetrius and Philo. Phi. Nay, but this dotage of our general's O'erflows the measure : those his goodly eyes, That o'er the files and musters of the war Have glow'd like plated Mars, now bend, now turn. The office and devotion of their view Upon a tawny front : his captain's heart, "Which in the scuffles of great fights hath burst The buckles on his breast, reneges all temper. And is become the bellows and the fan To cool a gipsy's lust. Flourish. Enter Antony, Cleopatra, her Ladies, the Train, with Eunuchs fanning her. Look, where they come : Take but good note, and you shall see in him The triple pillar of the world transform 'd Into a strumpet's fool : behold and see. Cleo. If it be love indeed, tell me how much. Ant. There's beggary in the love that can be reckon 'd. Cleo. I '11 set a bourn how far to be beloved. Ant. Then must thou needs find out new heaven, new earth. JEhter an Attendant. Att. News, my good lord, from Rome. Ant. Grates me : the sum. Cleo. Nay, hear them, Antony : Fulvia perchance is angry ; or, who knows If the scarce-bearded Csesar have not sent His powerful mandate to you, ' Do this, or this ; Take in that kingdom, and enfranchise that ; Perform 't, or else we damn thee.' 748 Ant. How, my love ! Cleo. Perchance ! nay, and most like : You must not stay here longer, your dismission Is come from Csesar; therefore hear it, Antony. Where 's Fulvia 's process ? Caesar's I would say ? both? Call in the messengers. As I am Egypt's queen, Thou blushest, Antony, and that blood of thine Is Csesar's homager : else so thy cheek pays shame When shrill-tongued Fulvia scolds. The messen- gers! Ant. Let Eome in Tiber melt, and the wide arch Of the ranged empire fall ! Here is my space. Kingdoms are clay : our dungy earth alike Feeds beast as man : the nobleness of life Is to do thus ; when such a mutual pair [Embracing. And such a twain can do 't, in which I bind, On pain of punishment, the world to weet We stand up peerless. Cleo. Excellent falsehood ! Why did he marry Fulvia, and not love her? I '11 seem the fool I am not ; Antony Will be himself. Ant. But stirr'd by Cleopatra. Now, for the love of Love and her soft hours, Let 's not confound the time with conference harsh; There 's not a minute of our lives should stretch Without some pleasure now. What sport to-night ? Cleo. Hear the ambassadors. Ant. Fie, wrangling queen I Whom every thing becomes, to chide, to laugh, To weep ; whose every passion fully strives To make itself, in thee, fair and admired ! No messenger, but thine ; and all alone To-night we '11 wander through the streets and note ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. SCENE II. The qualities of people. Come, my queen ; Last night you did desire it : speak not to us. [Exeunt Ant. and Cleo. with their train. Dem. Is Csesar with Antonius prized so slight ? Phi. Sir, sometimes, when he is not Antony, He comes too short of that great property "Which still should go with Antony. Bern. I am full sorry That he approves the common liar, who Thus speaks of him at Rome : but I will hope Of better deeds to-morrow. Eest you happy ! [Uxeunt. SCENE II. — The same. Another room. Enter Oharmian, Iras, Alexas, and a ScxJth- sayer. Char. Lord Alexas, sweet Alexas, most anything Alexas, almost most absolute Alexas, where 's the soothsayer that you praised so to the queen ? O, that I knew this husband, which, you say, must charge his horns with garlands 1 Alex. Soothsayer! Sooth. Your will ? [things ? Char. Is this the man ? Is 't you, sir, that know . Sooth. In nature's infinite book of secrecy A little I can read. Alex. Show him your hand. Enter Enobarbus. Eno. Bring in the banquet quickly ; wine enough Cleopatra's health to drink. Char. Good sir, give me good fortune. Sooth. I make not, but foresee. Char. Pray, then, foresee me one. Sooth. You shall be yet far fairer than you are. Char. He means in flesh. Iras. No, you shall paint when you are old. Char. Wrinkles forbid ! Alex. Vex not his prescience ; be attentive. Char. Hush! Sooth. You shall be more beloving than beloved. Char. 1 had rather heat my liver with drinking. Alex. Nay, hear him. Char. Good now, some excellent fortune ! Let me be married to three kings in a forenoon, and widow them all : let me have a child at fifty, to whom Herod of Jewry may do homage : find me to marry me with Octavius Caesar, and companion me with my mis- tress. Sooth. You shall outlive the lady whom you serve. Char. O excellent! I love long life better than figs. [fortune Sooth. You have seen and proved a fairer former Than that which is to approach. Char. Then belike my children shall have no names : prithee, how many boys and wenches must I have ? Sooth. If every of your wishes had a womb. And fertile every wish, a million. Char. Out, fool! I forgive thee for a witch. Alex. You think none but your sheets are privy to yoiu: wishes. Char. ISTay, come, tell Iras hers. Alex. We '11 know all our fortunes. Eno. Mine, and most of our fortunes, to-night, shall be — drunk to bed. [else. Iras. There 's a palm presages chastity, if nothing Char. E'en as the o'erflowing Nilus presageth famine. Iras. Go, you wild bedfellow, you cannot soothsay. Char. Nay, if an oily palm be not a fruitful prog- nostication, I cannot scratch mine ear. Prithee, teU her but a worky-day fortune. Sooth. Your fortunes are alike. Iras. But how, but how ? give me particulars. Sooth. I have said. Iras. Am I not an inch of fortune better than she ? Char. Well, if you were but an inch of fortune better than I, where would you choose it V Iras. Not in my husband's nose. Char. Our worser thoughts heavens mend ! Alexas, — come, his fortune, his fortune! O, let him marry a woman that cannot go, sweet Isis, I beseech thee ! and let her die too, and give him a worse ! and let worse follow worse, till the worst of all follow him laughing to his grave, fifty-fold a cuckold ! Good Isis, hear me this prayer, though thou deny me a matter of more weight ; good Isis, I beseech thee ! Iras. Amen. Dear goddess, hear that prayer of the people ! for, as it is a heart-breaking to see a handsome man loose-wived, so it is a deadly sorrow to behold a foul knave uncuckolded : therefore, dear Isis, keep decorum, and fortune him accordingly ! Char. Amen. Alex. Lo,now, if it lay in their hands to make me a cuckold, they would make themselves whores, but they 'Id do 't ! Eno. Hush ! here comes Antony. CJiar. Not he ; the queen. Enter Cleopatra. Cleo. Saw you my lord ? Eno. No, lady. Cleo. Was he not here ? Char. No, madam. Cleo. He was disposed to mirth ; but on the sudden A Roman thought hath struck him. Enobarbus ! Eno. Madam? Cleo. Seek him, and bring him hither. Where 's Alexas ? Alex. Here, at your service. My lord approaches. Cleo. We wiU not look upon him : go with us. [Exeunt. Enter Antony with a Messenger and Attendants. Mess. Fiilvia thy wife first came into the field. Ant. Against my brother Lucius ? Mess. Ay: But soon that war had end, and the time 's state Made friends of them, jointing their force 'gainst Caesar ; Whose better issue in the war, from Italy, Upon the first encoimter, drave them. A7it. Well, what worst ? Mess. The natm-e of bad news infects the teller. Ant. When it concerns the fool or coward. On: Things that are past are done with me. 'T is thus ; Who tells me true, though in his tale lie death, I hear him as he flatter'd. Mess. Labienus — This is stiff news— hath, with his Parthian force, Extended Asia from Euphrates ; His conquering banner shook from Syria To Lydia and to Ionia; Whilst — Ant. Antony, thou wouldst say,— Mess. O, my lord ! Ant. Speak to me home, mince not the general tongue : Name Cleopatra as she is caU'd in Rome ; Rail thou in Fulvia's phrase ; and taunt my faults With such full license as both truth and malice Have power to utter. O, then we bring forth weeds. When our quick minds lie still ; and our ills told us Is as our earing. Fare thee well awhile. Mess. At your noble pleasure. [Exit. Ant. From Sicyon, ho, the news ! Speak there ! First Att. The man from Sicyon,— is there such an Sec. Att. He stays upon your will. [one ? Ant. Let him appear. These strong Egyptian fetters I must break. Or lose myself in dotage. 749 ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. SCENE III. Enter another Messenger. What are you ? Sec. Mess. Fulvia thy wife is dead. Ant. Where died she ? Sec. Mess. In Sicyon : Her length of sickness, with what else more serious Importeth thee to know, this bears. [Gives a letter. Ant. Forbear me. [Uxit Sec. Messenger. There 's a great spirit gone ! Thus did I desire it : What our contempt doth often hurl from us, We wish it ours again ; the present pleasure. By revolution lowering, does become The opposite of itself: she 's good, being gone; The hand could pluck her back that shoved her on. I must from this enchanting queen break off : Ten thousand harms, more than the ills I know, My idleness doth hatch. How now ! Enobarbus ! Ee-enter Enobarbus. Eno. What 's your pleasure, sir ? Ant. I must with haste from hence. Eno. Why, then, we kill all our women: we see how mortal an unkindness is to them ; if they suffer our departure, death 's the word. Ant. I must be gone. Uno. Under a compelling occasion, let women die: it were pity to cast them away for nothing : though, between them and a great cause, they should be es- teemed nothing. Cleopatra, catching but the least noise of this, dies instantly, I have seen her die twenty times upon far poorer moment : I do think there is mettle in death, which commits some lov- ing act upon her, she hath such a celerity in dying. Ant. She is cunning past man's thought. jEiio. Alack, sir, no; her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love : we can- not call her winds and waters sighs and tears ; they are greater storms and tempests than almanacs can report : this cannot be cunning in her ; if it be, she makes a shower of rain as well as Jove. Ant. Would I had never seen her ! Mio. O, sir, you had then left unseen a wonderful piece of work ; which not to have been blest withal would have discredited your travel. Ant. Tulvia is dead. JSno. Sir? Ant. Fulvia is dead. Mio. Fulvia! Ant. Dead. JEno. Why, sir, give the gods a thankful sacrifice. When it pleaseth their deities to take the wife of a man from him, it shows to man the tailors of the earth ; comforting therein, that when old robes are worn out, there are members to make new. If there were no more women but Fulvia, then had you in- deed a cut, and the case to be lamented : this grief is crowned with consolation ; your old smock brings forth a new petticoat : and indeed the tears live in an onion that should water this sorrow. Ant. The business she hath broached in the state Cannot endure my absence. JSno. And the business you have broached here cannot be without you ; especially that of Cleopa- tra's, which wholly depends on your abode. Ant. No more light answers. Let our officers Have notice what we purpose. I shall break The cause of our expedience to the queen. And get her leave to part. For not alone The death of Fulvia, with more urgent touches. Do strongly speak to us ; but the letters too Of many our contriving friends in Rome Petition us at home : Sextus Pompeius Hath given the dare to Caesar, and commands The empire of the sea : our slippery people. Whose love is never link'd to the deserver 750 Till his deserts are past, begin to throw Pompey the Great and all his dignities Upon his son ; who, high in name and power, Higher than both in blood and life, stands up For the main soldier: whose quality, going on, The sides o' the world may danger: much is breedings Which, like the courser's hair, hath yet but life, And not a serpent's poison. Say, our pleasure, To such whose place is under us, requires Our quick remove from hence. Uno. I shall do 't. [Exeunt. SCENE in.— 27ie , Another room. Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras, and Alexas. Cleo. Where is he ? Giar. 1 did not see him since. Cleo. See where he is, who 's with him, what he I did not send you : if you find him sad, [does : Say I am dancing ; if in mirth, report That I am sudden sick: quick, and return. [Exit Alexas. Char. Madam, methinks, if you did love him You do not hold the method to enforce [dearly, The like from him. Cleo. What should I do, I do not ? Char. In each thing give him way, cross him in nothing. Cleo. Thou teachest like a fool; the way to lose him. Char. Tempt him not so too far; I wish, forbear : In time we hate that which we often fear. But here comes Antony. Cleo. Enter Antony. I am sick and suUen. Ant. I am sorry to give breathing to my purpose,— Cleo. Help me away, dear Charmian ; I shall fall : It cannot be thus long, the sides of nature Will not sustain it. Ant. Now, my dearest queen, — Cleo. Pray you, stand farther from me. Ant. What 's the matter ? Cleo. 1 know, by that same eye, there 's some good news. What says the married woman ? You may go : Would she had never given you leave to come I Let her not say 't is I that keep you here : I have no power upon you ; hers you are. Ant. The gods best know,— Cleo. O, never was there queen So mightily betray 'd ! yet at the first I saw the treasons planted. Ant. Cleopatra, — [true, Cleo. Why should I think you can be mine and Though you in swearing shake the throned gods. Who have been false to Fulvia ? Eiotous madness, To be entangled with those mouth-made vows. Which break themselves in swearing ! Ant. Most sweet queen,— Cleo. Nay, pray you, seek nocolourfor your going, But bid farewell, and go : when you sued staying, Then was the time for words : no going then ; Eternity was in our lips and eyes. Bliss in our brows' bent ; none our parts so poor, But was a race of heaven : they are so still, Or thou, the greatest soldier of the world, Art turn'd the greatest liar. Ant. How now, lady I Cleo. I would I had thy inches ; thou shouldst know There were a heart in Egypt. Ant. Hear me, queen : The strong necessity of time commands Our services awhile ; but my full heart Remains in use with you. Our Italy Shines o'er with civil swords : Sextus Pompeius Makes his approaches to the port of Rome : Equality of two domestic powers ACT I. ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. SCENE IV. Breed scrupulous faction: the hated, grown to strength, Are newly grown to love : the condemn'd Pompey, Rich in his father's honour, creeps apace Into the hearts of such as have not thrived Upon the present state, whose numbers threaten ; And quietness, grown sick of rest, would purge By any desperate change : my more particular, And that which most with you should safe my going, Is Fulvia's death. [freedom, Cleo. Though age from folly could not give me It does from childislmess : can Fulvia die ? Ant. She 's dead, my queen : Look here, and at thy sovereign leisure read The garboils she awaked ; at the last, best : See when and where she died. Cleo. O most false love ! "Where be the sacred vials thou shouldst fill With sorrowful water ? Now I see, I see, . In Fulvia's death, how mine received shall be. Ant. Quarrel no more, but be prepared to know The purposes I bear ; which are, or cease. As you shall give the advice. By the fire That quickens Nilus' slime, I go from hence Thy soldier, servant ; making peace or war As thou afCect'st. Cleo. Cut my lace, Charmian, come ; But let it be : I am quickly ill, and well, So Antony loves. Ant. My precious queen, forbear ; And give true evidence to his love, which stands An honourable trial. Cleo. So Fulvia told me. I prithee, turn aside and weep for her ; Then bid adieu to me, and say tie tears Belong to Egypt : good now, play one scene Of excellent dissembling ; and let it look Like perfect honour. Ant. You '11 heat my blood : no more. Cleo. You can do better yet ; but this is meetly. Ant. Now, by my sword,— Cleo." And target. Still he mends ; But this is not the best. Look, prithee, Charmian, How this Herculean Roman does become The carriage of his chafe. Ant. I '11 leave you, lady. Cleo. Courteous lord, one word. Sir, you and I must part, but that 's not it : Sir, you and I have loved, but there 's not it ; That you know well: something it is I would, — O, my oblivion is a very Antony, And I am all forgotten. Ant. But that your royalty Holds idleness your subject, I should take you For idleness itself. Cleo. 'T is sweating labour To bear such idleness so near the heart As Cleopatra this. But, sir, forgive me ; Since my becomings kill me, when they do not Eye well to yoii : your honour calls you hence ; Therefore be deaf to my unpitied folly. And all the gods go with you ! upon your sword Sit laurel victory ! and smooth success Be strew'd before your feet ! Ant. Let us go. Come ; Our separation so abides, and flies, That thou, residing here, go'st yet with me, And I, hence fleeting, here remain with thee. Away ! [Exeunt. SCENE IV. —Borne. Coesar'>s house. Enter Octavius Caesar, reading a letter, Lep- idus, and their Train. Cms. You may see, Lepidus, and henceforth It is not Caesar's natural vice to hate [know, Our great competitor : from Alexandria This is tlie news : he fishes, drinks, and wastes The lamps of night in revel ; is not more manlike Than Cleopatra ; nor the queen of Ptolemy More womanly than he ; hardly gave audience, or Vouchsafed to think he had partners: you shall A man who is the abstract of aU faults [find there That aU men follow. Lep. I must not think there are Evils enow to darken all his goodness : His faults in him seem as the spots of heaven, More fiery by night's blackness; hereditary, Rather than purchased ; what he cannot change, Than what he chooses. Cces. You are too indulgent. Let us grant, it is Amiss to tumble on the bed of Ptolemy ; [not To give a kingdom for a mirth ; to sit And keep the turn of tippling with a slave ; To reel the streets at noon, and stand the buffet With knaves that smell of sweat: say this becomes As his composure must be rare indeed [liim,— Whom these things cannot blemish, — yet must No way excuse his soils, when we do bear [Antony So great weight in his lightness. If he fiU'd His vacancy with his voluptuousness. Full surfeits, and the dryness of his bones. Call on him for 't : but to confound such time, That drums him from his sport, and speaks as loud As his own state and ours, — 'tis to be chid As we rate boys, who, being mature in knowledge, Pawn their experience to their present pleasure, And so rebel to judgment. Miier a Messenger. Lep. Here 's more news. Mess. Thy biddings have been done ; and every Most noble Csesar, shalt thou have report [hour. How 't is abroad. Pompey is strong at sea ; And it appears he is beloved of those That only have fear'd Csesar: to the ports The discontents repair, and men's reports Give him much wrong'd. Cces. I should have known no less. It hath been taught us from the primal state, That he which is was wish'd until he were ; [love, And the ebb'd man, ne'er loved till ne'er worth Comes dear'd by being lack'd. This common body, Like to a vagabond flag upon the stream, Goes to and back, lackeying the varying tide, To rot itself with motion. Mess. Csesar, I bring thee word, Menecrates and Menas, famous pirates, [wound Make the sea serve them, which they ear and With keels of every kind : many hot inroads They make in Italy ; the borders maritime Lack blood to think on 't, and flush youth revolt : No vessel can peep forth, but 't is as soon Taken as seen ; for Pompey 's name strikes more Than could his war resisted. Cces. Antony, Leave thy lascivious wassails. When thou once Wast beaten from Modena, where thou slew'st Hirtius and Pansa, consuls, at thy heel Did famine follow ; whom thou fought 'st against, Though daintily brought up, with patience more Than savages could suffer : thou didst drink The stale of horses, and the gilded puddle Which beasts would cough at : thy palate then did The roughest berry on the rudest hedge ; [deign Yea, like the stag, when snow the pasture sheets, The barks of trees thou browsed'st ; on the Alps It is reported thou didst eat strange flesh. Which some did die to look on : and all this — It wounds thine honour that I speak it now — Was borne so like a soldier, that thy cheek So much as lank'd not. Lep. 'T is pity of him. Cces. Let his shames quickly 751 ACT II. ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. SCENE I. Drive him to Rome : 't is time we twain Did show ourselves i' the field; and to that end Assemble we immediate council : Pompey Thrives in our idleness. Lep. To-morrow, Caesar, I shall be furnish 'd to inform you rightly Both what by sea and land I can be able To front this pj:esent time. CcRs. Till which encounter. It is my business too. Farewell. Lep. Farewell, my lord: what you shall know Of stirs abroad, I shall beseech you, sir, [meantime To let me be partaker. Goes. Doubt not, sir; I knew it for my bond. \_Exeunt. SCENE V. — Alexandria. Cleopatra'' s palace. Enter Cleopatra, Charraiau, Iras, and Mardian. Cleo. Charmian! Char. Madam? Cleo. Ha, ha! Give me to drink mandragora. Char. "Why, madam ? Cleo. That I might sleep out this great gap of My Antony is away. [time Char. You think of him too much. Cleo. O, 't is treason ! Char. Madam, I trust, not so. Cleo. Thou, eunuch Mardian ! Mar. "What 's your highness' pleasure ? Cleo. Not now to hear thee sing ; I take no pleas- In aught an eimuch has : 't is well for thee, [ure That, being unseminar'd, thy freer thoughts May not fly forth of Egypt. Hast thou affections ? Mar. Yes, gracious madam. Cleo. Indeed! Mar. Not in deed, madam ; for I can do nothing But what indeed is honest to be done : Yet have I fierce affections, and think "What Venus did with Mars. Cleo. O Charmian, Where think'st thou he is now ? Stands he, or sits Or does he walk ? or is he on his horse ? [he ? O happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony! Do bravely, horse! for wot'st thou whom thou The demi-Atlas of this earth, the arm [movest? And burgonet of men. He 's speaking now. Or murmuring ' Where 's my serpent of old Nile ? ' For so he calls me : now I feed myself With most delicious poison. Think on me. That am with Phoebus' amorous pinches black. And wrinkled deep in time ? Broad-fronted Csesar, When thou wast here above the ground, I was A morsel for a monarch : and great Pompey Would stand and make his eyes grow in my brow ; There would he anchor his aspect and die With looking on his life. Enter Alexas, from Caesar. Alex. Sovereign of Egypt, hail' Cleo. How much unlike art thou Mark Antony 1 Yet, coming from him, that great medicine hath With his tinct gilded thee. How goes it with my brave Mark Antony ? Alex. Last thing he did, dear queen, He kiss'd,— the last of many doubled kisses,— This orient pearl. His speech sticks in my heart, Cleo. Mine ear must pluck it thence. Alex. ' Good friend,' quoth he, ' Say, the firm Eoman to great Egypt sends This treasure of an oyster; at whose foot, To mend the petty present, I will piece Her opulent throne with kingdoms ; all the east, Say thou, shall call her mistress.' So he nodded, And soberly did mount an arm-gaunt steed, Who neigh 'd so high, that what I would have spoke Was beastly dumb'd by him. Cleo. What, was he sad or merry ? Alex. Like to the time o' the year between the ex- Of hot and cold, he was nor sad nor merry, [tremes Cleo. O well-divided disposition ! Note him. Note him, good Charmian, 't is the man ; but note He was not sad, for he would shine on those [him : That make their looks by his ; he was not merry, Which seem'd to tell them his remembrance lay In Egypt with his joy ; but between both : heavenly mingle ! Be'st thou sad or merry, The violence of either thee becomes. So does it no man else. Met'st thou my posts ? Alex. Ay, madam, twenty several messengers : Why do you send so thick ? Cleo. Who 's bom that day When I forget to send to Antony, Shall die a beggar. Ink and paper, Charmian. Welcome, my good Alexas. Did I, Charmian, Ever love Csesar so ? Char. O that brave Csesar ! Cleo. Be choked with such another emphasis ! Say, the brave Antony. Char. The valiant Csesar ! Cleo. By Isis, I will give thee bloody teeth. If thou with Csesar paragon again My man of men. Char. By your most gracious pardon, 1 sing but after you. Cleo. My salad days, When I was green in judgment : cold in blood, To say as I said then ! But, come, away ; Get me ink and paper : He shall have every day a several greeting, Or I '11 unpeople Egypt. [Exewnt. ^CT II. SCENE I. — Messina. Pompey''s house. Enter Pompey, Menecrates, and Menas, in war- like manner. Pom. If the great gods be just, they shall assist The deeds of justest men. Mene. Know, worthy Pompey, That what they do delay, they not deny. [cays Pom. Whiles we are suitors to their throne, de- The thing we sue for. Mene. We, ignorant of ourselves. Beg often our own harms, which the wise powers Deny us for our good ; so find we profit By losing of our prayers. Pom. I shall do well : 752 The people love me, and the sea is mine ; My powers are crescent, and my auguring hope Says it will come to the full. Mark Antony In Egypt sits at dinner, and will make No wars without doors : Csesar gets money where He loses hearts : Lepidus fiatters both, Of both is flatter'd ; but he neither loves, Nor either cares for him. Men. Csesar and Lepidus Are in the field : a mighty strength they carry. Pom. Where have you this ? 't is false. Men. From Silvius, sir. Pom. He dreams : I know they are in Rome to- gether. Looking for Antony. But all the charms of love, ACT II. ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. iCENE II, Salt Cleopatra, soften thy waned lip ! Let witchcraft join with beauty, lust with both! Tie up the libertine in a field of feasts, Keep his brain fuming ; Epicurean cooks Sharpen with cloyless sauce his appetite ; That sleep and feeding may prorogue his honour Even till a Lethe'd dulness ! Enter Varrius. How now, Yarrius ? Var. This is most certain that I shall deliver: Mark Antony is every hour in Rome Expected: since he went from Egypt 'tis A space for further travel. Pom. I could have given less matter A better ear. Menas, I did not think This amorous surf eiter would have donn'd his helm For such a petty war : his soldiership Is twice the other twain : but let us rear The higher our opinion, that our stirring Can from the lap of Egypt's widow pluck The ne'er-lust-wearied Antony. Men. I cannot hope Csesar and Antony shall well greet together : His wife that 's dead did trespasses to Csesar ; His brother warr'd upon him ; although, I think, Not moved by Antony. Fom. I know not, Menas, How lesser enmities may give way to greater. "Were 't not that we stand up against them all, 'T were pregnant they should square between them- Eor they have entertained cause enough To draw their swords : but how the fear of us May cement their divisions and bind up The petty difference, we yet not know. Be 't as our gods will have 't ! It only stands Our lives upon to use our strongest hands. Come, Menas. [Exevmt. SCENE II.— Boine. TJie house of Lepidus. Miter Bnobarbus and Lepidus. Lep. Good Enobarbus, 't is a worthy deed, And shall become you well, to entreat your captain To soft and gentle speech. Eno. 1 shall entreat him To answer like himself: if Csesar move him, Let Antony look over Csesar's head And speak as loud as Mars. By Jupiter, "Were I the wearer of Antonius' beard, I would not shave 't to-day. Lep. 'T is not a time For private stomaching. Eno. Every time Serves for the matter that is then born in 't. Lep. But small to greater matters must give way. Eno. Not if the small come first. Lep. Your speech is passion : But, pray you, stir no embers up. Here comes The noble Antony. Enter Antony and Ventidius. Eno. And yonder, Csesar. Enter Csesar, Mecsenas, and Agrippa. Ant. If we compose well here, to Parthia: Hark, Ventidius. Cces. I do not know, Mecsenas ; ask Agrippa. Lep. Noble friends, That which combined us was most great, and let not A leaner action rend lis. "What 's amiss. May it be gently heard : when we debate Our trivial difference loud, we do commit Murder in healing wounds: then, noble partners. The rather, for I earnestly beseech, Touch you the sourest points with sweetest terms, Nor curstness grow to the matter. Ant. 'T is spoken well. "Were we before our armies, and to fight, I should do thus. [Flourish. Cces. Welcome to Bome. A7it. Thank you. Cms. Sit. Ant. Sit, sir, Cces. Nay, then. Ant. 1 learn, you take things ill which are not so, Or being, concern you not. CcBs. I must be laugh'd at. If, or for nothing or a little, I Should say myself offended, and with you Chiefly i' the world ; more laugh'd at, that I should Once name you derogately , when to sound your name It not concern'd me. Ant. My being in Egypt, Csesar, "What was 't to you ? Cces. No more than my residing here at Rome Might be to you in Egypt : yet, if you there Did practise on my state, your being in Egypt Might be my question. Ant. How intend you, practised ? Gees. You may be pleased to catch at mine intent By what did here bef al me. Your wife and brother Made wars upon me ; and their contestation "Was theme for you, you were the word of war. Ant. You do mistake your business ; my brother Did urge me in his act : I did inquire it ; [never And have my learning from some true reports, That drew their swords with you. Did he not rather Discredit my authority with yours : And make the wars alike against my stomach. Having alike your cause ? Of this my letters Before did satisfy you. If you '11 patch a quarrel, As matter whole you have not to make it with. It must not be with this. Coes. You praise yourself By laying defects of judgment to n^ ; but You patch'd up your excuses. Ant. Not so, not so ; I know you could not lack, I am certain on 't, Very necessity of this thought, that I, Your partner in the cause 'gainst which he fought. Could not with graceful eyes attend those wars Which fronted mine own peace. As for my wife, I would you had her spirit in such another: The third o' the world is yours ; which with a snaffle You may pace easy, but not such a wife. Eno. "Would we had all such wives, that the men might go to wars with the women ! Ant. So much uncurbable, her garboils, Csesar, Made out of her impatience, which not wanted Shrewdness of policy too, I grieving grant Did you too much disquiet : for that you must But say, I could not help it. Cces. I wrote to you When rioting in Alexandria ; you Did pocket up my letters, and with taunts Did gibe my missive out of audience. Ant. Sir, He fell upon me ere admitted : then Three kings I had newly feasted, and did want Of what I was i' the morning : but next day I told him of myself; which was as much As to have ask'd him pardon. Let this feUow Be nothing of our strife ; if we contend. Out of our question wipe him. Cces. You have broken The article of your oath ; which you shall never Have tongue to charge me with. Lep. Soft, Csesar ! Ant. No, Lepidus, let him speak : The honour is sacred which he talks on now, 753 ACT II. ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. SCENE II. Supposing that I lack'd it. But, on, Caesar; The article of my oath. Cms. Tolend me arms and aid when I required The which you both denied. [them ; Ant. Neglected, rather; And then when poison'd hours had bound me up Trom mine own knowledge. As nearly as I may, I 'U play the penitent to you : but mine honesty Shall not make poor my greatness, nor my power Work without it. Truth is, that Fulvia, To have me out of Egypt, made wars here; For which myself, the ignorant motive, do So far ask pardon as befats mine honour To stoop in such a case. Lep. 'T is noble spoken. Mec. If it might please you, to enforce no further The griefs between ye : to forget them quite Were to remember that the present need Speaks to atone you. Lep. Worthily spoken, Mecsenas. Eno. Or, if you borrow one another's love for the instant, you may, when you hear no more words of Pompey, return it again: you shall have time to wrangle in when you have nothing else to do. Ant. Thou art a soldier only : speak no more. Eno. That truth should be silent I had almost forgot. [no more. Ant. You wrong this presence; therefore speak Eno. Go to, then ; your considerate stone. GcBs. I do not much dislike the matter, but The manner of his speech ; for 't cannot be We shall remain in friendship, our conditions So differing in their acts. Yet, if I knew What hoop should hold us stanch, from edge to O' the world I would pursue it. [edge Agr. Give me leave, Csesar,— CcBs. Speak, Agrippa. Agr. Thou hast a sister by the mother's side, Admired Octavia : great Mark Antony Is now a widower. CcBS. « Say not so, Agrippa : If Cleopatra heard you, your reproof Were well deserved of rashness. Ant. I am not married, Csesar : let me hear Agrippa further speak. Agr. To hold you in perpetual amity, To make you brothers, and to knit your hearts With an unslipping knot, take Antony Octavia to his wife ; whose beauty claims No worse a husband than the best of men ; Whose virtue and whose general graces speak That which none else can utter. By this mai-riage, All little jealousies, which now seem great. And all great fears, which now import their dangers, Would then be nothing : truths would be tales. Where now haK tales be truths : her love to both Would, each to other and all loves to both, Draw after her. Pardon what I have spoke ; Por 't is a studied, not a present thought, By duty ruminated. Ant. Will Csesar speak ? Cobs. Not till he hears how Antony is touch'd With what is spoke already. Ant. What power is in Agrippa, If I would say, ' Agrippa, be it so,' To make this good ? Cms. The power of Csesar, and His power unto Octavia. Ant. May I never To this good purpose, that so fairly shows. Dream of impediment ! Let me have thy hand : Further this act of grace : and from this hour The heart of brothers govern in our loves And sway our great designs ! Cces, There is my hand. A sister I bequeath you, whom no brother Did ever love so dearly : let her live 754 To join our kingdoms and our hearts ; and never Fly off our loves again ! iej). Happily, amen ! Ant. I did not think to draw my sword 'gainst Pompey ; For he hath laid strange coiurtesies and great Of late upon me : I must thank him only, Lest my remembrance suffer ill report ; At heel of that, defy him. Lep. Time calls upon 's: Of us must Pompey presently be sought, Or else he seeks out us. Ant. Where lies he ? CcBs. About the mount Misenum. Ant. What is his strength by land ? Cces. Great and increasing : but by sea He is an absolute master. Ant. So is the fame. Would we had spoke together ! Haste we for it : Yet, ere we put ourselves in arms, dispatch we The business we have talk'd of. Cms. With most gladness; And do invite you to my sister's view. Whither straight I '11 lead you. Ant. Let us, Lepidus,. Not lack your company. Lejp. Noble Antony, Not sickness should detain me. [Flourish. Exeunt Ccesar, Antony, and Lejoidics. Mec. Welcome from Egypt, sir. Eno. Half the heart of Csesar, worthy Mecaenas ! My honourable friend, Agrippa ! Agr. Good Enobarbus ! Mec. We have cause to be glad that matters are so well digested. You stayed well by 't in Egypt. Eno. Ay, sir ; we did sleep day out of counte- nance, and made the night light with drinking. Mec. Eight wild-boars roasted whole at a break- fast, and but twelve persons there ; is this true ? Eno. This was but as a fly by an eagle : we had much more monstrous matter of feast, which wor- thily deserved noting. Mec. She 's a most triumphant lady, if report be square to her. Eno. When she first met Mark Antony, she pursed up his heart, upon the river of Cydnus. Agr. There slie appeared indeed ; or my reporter devised well for her. Eno. I will teU you. The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne, Burn'd on the water: the poop was beaten gold; Purple the sails, and so perfumed that [silver. The winds were love-sick with them ; the oars were Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made The water which they beat to follow faster, As amorous of their strokes. For her own person. It beggar'd all description : she did lie In her pavilion -— cloth-of -gold of tissue — O'er-picturing that Yenus where we see The fancy outwork nature : on each side her Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids, With divers-colour 'd fans, whose wind did seem To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool, And what they undid did. Agr . O , rare for Antony I Eno. Her gentlewomen, like the Nereides, So many mermaids, tended her i' the eyes, And made their bends adornings: at the helm A seeming mermaid steers : the silken tackle Swell with the touches of those flower-soft hands, That yarely frame the office. From the barge A strange invisible perfume hits the sense Of the adjacent wharfs. The city cast Her people out upon her ; and Antony, Enthroned i' the market-place, did sit alone. Whistling to the air ; which, but for vacancy. ACT II. ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. SCENE V. Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too And made a gap in nature. Agr. Eare Egyptian ! Eno. Upon her landing, Antony sent to her, Invited her to supper : she replied, It should he better he became her guest ; Which she entreated : our courteous Antony, "Whom ne'er the word of ' No ' woman heard speak, Being barber'd ten times o'er, goes to the feast, And for his ordinary pays his heart For what his eyes eat only. Agr. Royal wench ! She made great Caesar lay his sword to bed : He plough'd her, and she cropp'd. E)io. I saw her once Hop forty paces through the public street ; And having lost her breath, she spoke, and panted. That she did make defect pei-fection. And, breathless, power breathe forth. Mec. Now Antony must leave her utterly. Eno. Never ; he will not : Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety : other women cloy The appetites they feed : but she makes hungry "Where most she satisfies : for vilest things Become themselves in her; that the holy priests Bless her when she is riggish. Mec. If beauty, wisdom, modesty, can settle The heart of Antony, Octavia is A blessed lottery to him. Agr. Let us go. Good Enobarbus, make yourself my guest "Whilst you abide here. Eno. Humbly, sir, I thank you. [Exeunt. SCENE 111.— The same. Ccesar''s house. Enter Antony, Caesar, Octavia between them, and Attendants. Ant. The world and my great ofiice will some- Divide me from your bosom. [times Octa. All which time Before the gods my knee shall bow my prayers To them for you. Ant. Good night, sir. My Octavia, Read not my blemishes in the world's report : I have not kept my square ; but that to come Shall all be done by the rule. Good night, dear lady. Good night, sir. CcBS. Good night. [Exeunt Ccesar and Octavia. Enter Soothsayer. Ant. Now, sirrah ; you do wish yourself in Egypt ? Sooth. "Would I had never come from thence, nor Thither ! [you Ant. If you can, your reason ? Sooth. 1 see it in My motion, have it not in my tongue: but yet Hie you to Egypt again. Ant. Say to me, "Whose fortunes shaU rise higher, Caesar's or mine ? Sooth. Caesar's. Therefore, O Antony, stay not by his side : Thy demon, that 's thy spirit which keeps thee, is Noble, courageous, high, unmatchable. Where Caesar's is not; but, near him, thy angel Becomes a fear, as being o'erpower'd: therefore Make space enough between you. Ant. Speak this no more. Sooth. To none but thee; no more, but when to If thou dost play with him at any game, [thee. Thou art sure to lose ; and, of that natural luck, He beats thee 'gainst the odds : thy lustre thickens, When he shines by: I say again, thy spirit Is all afraid to govern thee near him ; But, he away, 'tis noble. Ant. Get thee gone : Say to "Ventidius I would speak with him : [Exit Soothsayer He shall to Parthia. Be it art or hap. He hath spoken true : the very dice obey him ; And in our sports my better cunning faints Under his chance : if we draw lots, he i _ His cocks do win the battle still of mine. When it is all to nought ; and his quails ever Beat mine, inhoop'd, at odds. I will to Egypt: And though I make this marriage for my peace, I' the east my pleasure lies. Enter "Ventidius. O, come, Ventidius, You must to Parthia : your commission 's ready ; Follow me, and receive 't. [Exeunt. SCENE IV.— The same. A street. Enter Lepidus, Mecsenas, and Agrippa. Lep. Trouble yourselves no further: pray you, Your generals after. [hasten Agr. Sir, Mark Antony Will e'en but kiss Octavia, and we '11 follow. Lep. Till I shall see you in your soldier's dress. Which will become you both, farewell. Mec. We shall, As I conceive the journey, be at the Mount Before you, Lepidus. Lep. Your way is shorter ; My purposes do draw me much about : You '11 win two days upon me, '^^l' I Sir, good success ! Lep. Farewell. [Exeunt. SCENE V. — Alexandria. Cleopatra'' s palace. Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras, and Alexas. Cleo. Give me some music; music, moody food Of us that trade in love. Attend. The music, ho ! Enter Mardian, the Eunuch. Cleo. Let it alone; let's to billiards: come, Charmian. Char. My arm is sore ; best play with Mardian. Cleo. As well a woman with an eunuch play'd As with a woman. Come, you '11 play with me , sir ? Mar. As well as I can, madam. Cleo. And when good will is show'd, though 't come too short, The actor may plead pardon. I '11 none now : Give me mine angle ; we '11 to the river : there, My music playing far off, I will betray Tawny-finn'd fishes ; my bended hook shall pierce Their slimy jaws ; and, as I draw them up, I '11 think them every one an Antony, And say 'Ah, ha ! you 're caught.' Char. 'T was merry when You wager'd on your angUng ; when yom- diver Did hang a salt-fish on his hook, which he With fervency drew up. Cleo. That time,— O times ! — I laugh 'd him out of patience ; and tnat night I laugh'd him into patience : and next morn, Ere the ninth hom-, I drunk him to his bed ; Then put my tu'es and mantles on him, whilst I wore his sword Philippan. Enter a Messenger. O, from Italy! Ram thou thy fruitful tidings in mine ears I That long time have been barren. Mess. Madam, madam,— Cleo. Antonius dead ! — If thou say so, villain, Thou kill'st thy mistress : but well and free, 755 ACT II. ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. SCENE VI. If thou so yield him, there is gold, and here My bluest veins to kiss ; a hand that kings Have lipp'd, and trembled kissing. Mess. First, madam, he is well. Cleo. Why, there 's more gold. But, sirrah, mark, we use To say the dead are well : bring it to that, The gold I give thee will I melt and pour Down thy ill-uttering throat. Mess. Good madam, hear me. aeo. Well, go to, I will ; But there 's no goodness in thy face : if Antony Be free and healthful, — so tart a favour To trumpet such good tidings ! If not well. Thou shouldst come like a Fury crown 'd with Not like a formal man. [snakes. Mess. Will 't please you hear me ? Oleo. I have a mind to strike thee ere thou speak'st : Yet, if thou say Antony lives, is well, Or friends with Csesar, or not captive to him, I '11 set thee in a shower of gold, and hail Eich pearls upon thee. Mess. Madam, he 's well. Gleo. Well said. Mess. And friends with Csesar. Gleo. Thou 'rt an honest man. Mess. Caesar and he are greater friends than ever. Cleo. Make thee a fortune from me. Mess. But yet, madam,— Cleo. I do not like ' But yet,' it does allay The good precedence ; fie upon ' But yet ' ! ' But yet ' is as a gaoler to bring forth Some monstrous malefactor. Prithee, friend. Pour out the pack of matter to mine ear, [Csesar ; The good and bad together : he 's friends with In state of health thou say'st ; and thou say'st free. Mess. Free, madam ! no ; I made no such report : He 's bound unto Octavia. Cleo. For what good turn ? Mess. For the best turn i' the bed. Cleo. I am pale, Charmian. Jfess. Madam, he 's married to Octavia. Cleo. The most infectious pestilence upon thee ! \_Strikes him down. Mess. Good madam, patience. Cleo. What say you ? Hence, [Strikes him, again. Horrible villain ! or I '11 spurn thine eyes Like balls before me : I '11 imhair thy head : [She hales him up and down. Thou Shalt be whipp'd with wire, and stew'd in brine. Smarting in lingering pickle. Mess. Gracious madam, I that do bring the news made not the match. Cleo. Say 'tis not so, a province I will give thee, And make thy fortunes proud : the blow thou hadst Shall make thy peace for moving me to rage ; And I will boot thee with what gift beside Thy modesty can beg. Mess. He 's married, madam. Cleo. Eogue, thou hast lived too long. [Draws a Tcnife. Mess. Nay, then I '11 nm. What mean you, madam? I have made no fault. [Exit. Char. Good madam, keep yourself within your- The man is innocent. [self : Gleo. Some innocents 'scape not the thunderbolt. Melt Egypt into Nile ! and kindly creatures Turn all to serpents ! Call the slave again : Though I am mad, I will not bite him : call. Char. He is afeard to come. Cleo. I will not hurt him. [Exit Cliarmian. These hands do lack nobility, that they strike A meaner than myself ; since I myself Have given myself the cause. 756 Be-enter Charraian and Messenger. Come hither, sir. Though it be honest, it is never good To bring bad news : give to a gracious message An host of tongues ; but let ill tidiags tell Themselves when they be felt. Mess. I have done my duty. Cleo. Is he married ? I caimot hate thee worser than I do, If thou again say ' Yes.' Mess. He 's married, madam. Cleo. The gods confound thee! dost thou hold there still ? Mess. Should I lie, madam ? Cleo. O, I would thou didst. So half my Egypt were submerged and made A cistern for scaled snakes ! Go, get thee hence : Hadst thou Narcissus in thy face, to me Thou wouldst appear most ugly. He is married ? Mess. I crave your highness' pardon. Gleo. He is married ? Mess. Take no offence that I would not offend you : To punish me for what you make me do Seems much unequal : he 's married to Octavia. Cleo. O, that his fault should make a knave of thee. That art not what thou 'rt sure of ! Get thee hence : The merchandise which thou hast brought from Rome Are all too dear for me : lie they upon thy hand. And be undone by 'em. [Exit Messenger, Char. Good your highness, patience. Cleo. In praising Antony, I have dispraised Csesar. Char. Many times, madam. Cleo. I am paid for 't now. Lead me from hence ; I faint : O Iras, Charmian ! 't is no matter. Go to the fellow, good Alexas ; bid him Report the feature of Octavia, her years, Her inclination, let him not leave out The colour of her hair : bring me word quickly. [Exit Alexas, Let him for ever go :— let him not— Charmian, Though he be painted one way like a Gorgon, The other way 's a Mars. Bid you Alexas [To Mardian. Bring me word howtaU she is. Pity me, Charmian,. But do not speak to me. Lead me to my chamber. [Exeunt. SCENE VI. — Near Misenum. Flourish. Enter Pompey and Menas at one door, with dnrum and trumpet : at another, Caesar, Antony, Lepi- dus, Enobarbus, Mecsenas, with Soldiers marching. Pom. Your hostages I have, so have you mine ; And we shall talk before we fight. CcBs. Most meet That first we come to words; and therefore have we Our written purposes before us sent ; Which, if thou hast consider'd, let us know If 't will tie up thy discontented sword, And carry back to Sicily much tall youth That else must perish here. Pom. To you all three, The senators alone of this great world, Chief factors for the gods, I do not know Wherefore my father should revengers want. Having a son and friends ; since Julius Csesar, Who at Philippi the good Brutus ghosted. There saw you labom-ing for him. What was 't That moved pale Cassius to conspire ; and what Made the all-honour'd, honest Roman, Brutus, With the arm'd rest, courtiers of beauteous freedom, To drench the Capitol ; but that they would Have one man but a man ? And that is it Hath made me rig my navy ; at whose burthen The anger'd ocear. foams ; with which I meant ACT II. ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. SCENE VII. To scourge the ingratitude that despiteful Kome Cast on my noble father. CcEs. Take your time. Ant. Thou canst not fear us, Pompey, with thy "We '11 speak mth thee at sea : at land, thou know'st How much we do o'er-comit thee. Pom. At land, indeed. Thou dost o'er-count me of my father's house : But, since the cuckoo builds not for himself, Eemain in 't as thou mayst. Lep. Be pleased to tell us — For this is from the present— how you take The offers we have sent you. CcBs. There 's the point. Ant. Which do not be entreated to, but weigh "What it is worth embraced. Cms. And what may follow, To try a larger fortune. Pom. You have made me offer Of Sicily, Sardinia ; and I must Rid all the sea of pirates; then, to send Measures of wheat to Rome ; this 'greed upon, To part with unhack'd edges, and bear back Our targes undinted. Cms. Ant. Lep. That 's our offer. Pom. Know, then, I came before you here a man prepared To take this offer : but Mark Antony Put me to some impatience : though I lose The praise of it by telling, you must know, "When Caesar and your brother were at blows, Your mother came to Sicily and did find Her welcome friendly. Ant. 1 have heard it, Pompey ; And am well studied for a liberal thanks "Which I do owe you. Pom. Let me have your hand : I did not think, sir, to have met you here. [you. Ant. The beds i' the east are soft ; and thanks to That call'd me timelier than my purpose hither ; For I have gain'd by 't. Gees. Since I saw you last. There is a change upon you. Pom. Well, I know not What coiints harsh fortune casts upon my face ; But in my bosom shall she never come. To make my heart her vassal. Lejj. Well met here. Pom. 1 hope so, Lepidus. Thus we are agreed : I crave our composition may be written. And seal'd between us. Cces. That 's the next to do. Pom. We'll feast each other ere we part; and Draw lots who shall begin. [let 's Ant. That will I, Pompey. Pom. IsTo, Antony, take the lot: but, first Or last, your fine Egyptian cookery Shall have the fame. I have heard that Julius Grew fat with feasting there. [Csesar Ant. You have heard much. Pom. I have fair meanings, sir. Ant. And fair words to them. Pom. Then so much have I heard: And I have heard, Apollodorus carried — • JEno. No more of that : he did so. Pom. What, I pray you ? Eno. A certain queen to Caesar in a mattress. Pom. I know thee now : how farest thou, soldier ? P>no. WeU ; And well am like to do ; for, I perceive. Four feasts are toward. Pom. Let me shake thy hand ; I never hated thee : I have seen thee fight. When I have envied thy behaviour. IJno. Sir, I never loved you much ; but I ha' praised ye, When you have well deserved ten times as much As I have said you did. Pom. Enjoy thy plainness, It nothing ill becomes thee. Aboard my galley I invite you all : Will you lead, lords ? Cces. Ant. Lep. Show us the way, sir. Pom. Come. [Exeunt all but Ilenas and Enoharhus, Men. \_Aside] Thy father, Pompey, would ne'er have made this treaty. — You and I have known, Eno. At sea, I think. [sir. Men. We have, sir. I>no. You have done well by water. Men. And you by land. Eio. I mil praise any man that will praise me ; though it cannot be denied what I have done by Men. ISTor what I have done by water. Qand. Eno. Yes, something you can deny for your own safety : you have been a great thief by sea. Men. And j^ou by land. Eno. There I deny my land service. But give me your hand, Menas : if our eyes had authority, here they might take two thieves kissing. Men. All men's faces are true, whatsome'er their hands are. Eno. But there is never a fair woman has a true Men. No slander; they steal hearts. [face. Eno. We came hither to fight with you. Men. For my part, I am sorry it is turned to a drinking. Pompey doth this day laugh away his fortune. Eno. If he do, sure, he cannot weep 't back again. Men. You 've said, sir. We looked not for Mark Antony here : pray you, is he married to Cleopatra V Eno. Csesar's sister is called Octavia. [cellus. Men. True, sir; she was the wife of Caius Mar- Eno. But she is now the wife of Marcus Antonius. Men. Pray ye, sir ? -Bno. 'T is true. Men. Then is Caesar and he for ever knit together. Eno. If I were bound to divine of this unity, I would not prophesy so. Men. I think the policy of that purpose made more in the marriage than the love of the parties. Eno. I think so too. But you shall find, the band that seems to tie their friendship together will be the very strangler of their amity : Octavia is of a holy, cold, and still conversation. Men. Who would not have his wife so ? Eno. Not he that himself is not so; which is Mark Antony. He will to his Egyptian dish again : then shall the sighs of Octavia blow the fire up in Csesar; and, as I said before, that which is the strength of their amity shall prove the immediate author of their variance. Antony will use his affection where it is : he married but his occasion here. Men. And thus it may be. Come, sir, will you aboard ? I have a health for you. [in Egypt. Eno. I shall take it, sir : we have used our throats Men. Come, let 's away. \_Exeunt. SCENE VII. -On hoard Pompey'' s galley, Misenum. Musioplays. Enter two or three Servants mth a banquet. First Serv. Here they '11 be, man. Some o' their plants are iU-rooted already ; the least wind i' the world will blow them down. Sec. Serv. Lepidus is high-coloured. First Serv. They have made him drink alms-drink. Sec. Serv. As they pinch one another by the dis- position, he cries out ' No more ; ' reconciles them to his entreaty, and himself to the drink. First Serv. But it raises the greater wai between him and his discretion. 757 ■ A-CT II. ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. SCENE VII- 8tc. Serv. Why, this it is to have a name in great men's fellowship : I had as lief have a reed that will do me no service as a partisan I could not heave. First Serv. To be called into a huge sphere, and not to be seen to move in 't, are the holes where eyes should be, which pitifully disaster the cheeks. A sennet sounded. Enter Csesar, Antony, Lepidus, Pompey, Agrippa, Mecsenas, Enobarbus, Menas, with other captains. Ant. [To Ccesar] Thus do they, sir : they take the flow o' the Nile By certain scales i' the pyramid ; they know, By the height, the lowness, or the mean, if dearth Or foison follow : the higher Nilus swells. The more it promises : as it ebbs, the seedsman Upon the slime and ooze scatters his grain, And shortly comes to harvest. Lep. You 've strange serpents there. Ant, Ay, Lepidus. iep. Your serpent of Egypt is bred now of your mud by the operation of your sun : so is your croco- Afit. They are so. [dile. Pom. Sit ,— and some vdne ! A health to Lepidus ! Lep. I am not so well as I should be, but I '11 ne'er out. Mio. Not till you have slept ; I fear me you '11 be in till then. Lep. Nay, certainly, I have heard the Ptolemies' pyramises are very goodly things ; without contra- diction, I have heard that. Men. [Aside to Pom.] Pompey, a word. Pom. [Aside to Men.] Say in mine ear : what is 't ? Men. [Aside to Pom.] Forsake thy seat, I do beseech thee, captain. And hear me speak a word. Pom. [Aside to Men.] Forbear me till anon. This wine for Lepidus ! Lep. What manner o' thing is your crocodile? Ant. It is shaped, sir, like itself ; and it is as broad as it hath breadth : it is just so high as it is, and moves with it own organs : it lives by that which nourisheth it ; and the elements once out of it, it transmigrates. Lep. What colour is it of ? Ant. Of it own colour too. Lep. 'T is a strange serpent. Ant. 'T is so. And the tears of it are wet. Coes. Will this description satisfy him ? Ant. With the health that Pompey gives him, else he is a very epicure. Pom. [Aside to Men.] Go hang, sir, hang ! Tell me of that ? away ! Do as I bid you. Where 's this cup I call'd for ? Men. [Aside to Pom.] If for the sake of merit thou wilt hear me, Kise from thy stool. Pom. [Aside to Men.] I think thou 'rt mad. The matter ? [Rises, and walks aside. Men. I have ever held my cap off to thy fortunes. Pom. Thou hast served me with much faith. What 's else to say ? Be jolly, lords. Ant. These quick-sands, Lepidus, Keep off them, for you sink. Men. Wilt thou be lord of all the world ? Pom. What say'st thou ? Men. Wilt thou be lord of the whole world? That 's twice. Pom. How should that be ? Men. But entertain it, And, though thou think me poor, I am the man Will give thee all the world. Pom. Hast thou drunk well ? Men. No, Pompey, I have kept me from the cup. Thou art, if thou darest Ise, the earthly Jove : 758 Whate'er the ocean pales, or sky inclips, Is thine, if thou wilt ha 't. Pom. Show me which way. Men. These three world-sharers, these competi- Are in thy vessel : let me cut the cable ; [tors, And, when we are put off, fall to their throats : All there is thine. Pom. Ah, this thou shouldst have done, And not have spoke on 't ! In me 't is villany ; In thee 't had been good service. Thou must know, 'T is not my profit that does lead mine honour ; Mine honour, it. Repent that e'er thy tongue Hath so betray 'd thine act : being done rmknown, I should have found it afterwards well done ; But must condemn it now. Desist, and drink. Men. [Aside] For this, I '11 never follow thy pall'd fortunes more. Who seeks, and will not take when once 't is offer'd, Shall never find it more. Pom. This health to Lepidus ! Ant. Bear him ashore. I '11 pledge it for him, Mio. Here 's to thee, Menas ! [Pompey. Men. Enobarbus, welcome ! Pom. Fill till the cup be hid. Eno. There 's a strong fellow, Menas. [Pointing to the Attendant who carries off Lepidus. Men. Why ? [see'st not ? Eno. A' bears the third part of the world, man ; Men. The third part, then, is drunk: would it That it might go on wheels ! [were all, Uno. Drink thou ; increase the reels. Men. Come. Pom. This is not yet an Alexandrian feast. Ant. It ripens towards it. Strike the vessels, ho 1 Here is to Caesar ! Cces. I could well forbear 't. It 's monstrous labour, when I wash my brain, And it grows fouler. Ant. Be a child o' the time. Cces. Possess it, I 'U make answer : But I had rather fast from all four days Than drink so much in one. Mio. Ha, my brave emperor ! [To Antony. Shall we dance now the Egyptian Bacchanals, And celebrate our drink ? Pom. Let 's ha 't, good soldier. Ant. Come, let 's all take hands. Till that the conquering wine hath steep'd our sense In soft and delicate Lethe. Eno. All take hands. Make battery to our ears with the loud music : The while I '11 place you : then the boy shall sing ; The holding every man shall bear as loud As his strong sides can volley. [Music plays. Lnobarbus places them hand in hand. THE SONG. Come, thou monarch of the vine, Plumpy Bacchus with pink eyne ! In thy fats our cares be drown'd, With thy grapes our hairs be crown 'd : Cup us, till the world go round, Cup us, till the world go round I Cces. What would you more? Pompey, good night. Good brother, Let me request you off : our graver business Frowns at this levity. Gentle lords, let 's part ; You see we have burnt our cheeks : strong Enobarb Is weaker than the wine ; and mine own tongue Splits what it speaks: the wild disguise hath almost Antick'd us all. What needs more words ? Good Good Antony, your hand. [night. Pom. 1 '11 try you on the shore. Ant. And shall, sir: give 's yom: hand. Pom. O Antony, ACT III. ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. SCENE II. You have my father's house, — But, what? we are Come, down into the boat. [friends. Eno. Take heed you fall not. {Exeunt all hut Enobarbus and Menas. Menas, I '11 not on shore. Men. No, to my cabin. These drums ! these trumpets, flutes ! what ! Let Neptune hear we bid a loud farewell To these great fellows : sound and be hang'd, sound out! [Sound a flourish, with drums. Eno. Ho ! says a'. There 's my cap. Men. Ho ! Noble captain, come. [Eooeunt. A.OT III. SCENE I. —A plain in Syria. Entet Ventidius as it were in triumph, with Silius, and other Bomans, Officers, and Soldiers ; the dead body of Pacorus borne before him. Ven. Now, darting Parthia, art thou struck ; and now Pleased fortune does of Marcus Crassus' death Make me revenger. Bear the king's son's body Before our army. Thy Pacorus, Orodes, Pays this for Marcus Crassus. Sil. Noble Yentidius, "Whilst yet with Parthian blood thy sword is warm, The fugitive Parthians follow ; spur through Media, Mesopotamia, and the shelters whither The routed fly : so thy grand captain Antony Shall set thee on triumphant chariots and Put garlands on thy head. Ven. O Silius, Silius, I have done enough ; a lower place, note well. May make too great an act : for learn this, Silius ; Better to leave undone, than by our deed Acquire too high a fame when him we serve's away. Caesar and Antony have ever won More in theix officer than person : Sossius, One of my place in Syria, his lieutenant, For quick accumulation of renown, Which he achieved by the minute, lost his favour. Who does i' the wars more than his captain can Becomes his captain's captain : and ambition. The soldier's virtue, rather makes choice of loss, Than gain which darkens him. I could do more to do Antonius good. But 't would offend him ; and in his offence Should my performance perish. Sil. Thou hast, Ventidius, that Without the which a soldier, and his sword, [tony ? Grants scarce distinction. Thou wilt write to An- Ven. I '11 humbly signify what in his name. That magical word of war, we have effected ; How, with his banners and his well-paid ranks, The ne'er-yet-beaten horse of Parthia We have jaded out o' the field. Sil. Where is he now ? Ven. He purposeth to Athens: whither, with what haste The weight we must convey with 's will permit, We shall appear before him. On, there; pass alono- r [Exeunt. along ! SCENE U.— Borne. An ante-chamber in Col. Assuredly you know me. ^ Cleo. No matter, sir, what I have heard or known. You laugh when boys or women tell their dreams ; Is 't not your trick ? Dol. 1 understand not, madam. Cleo. I dream 'd there was an Emperor Antony : O, such another sleep, that I might see But such another man ! Dol. If it might please ye, — Cleo. His facewas as the heavens; andtherein stuck A sun and moon, which kept their course, and The little O, the earth. [lighted Dol. Most sovereign creature,— Cleo. His legs bestrid the ocean : his rear'd arm Crested the world : his voice was propertied As all the tuned spheres, and that to friends ; But when he meant to quail and shake the orb, He was as rattling thunder. Eor his bomity, There was no winter in 't ; an autumn 't was That grew the more by reaping : his delights Were dolphin-like ; they show'd his back above The element they lived in : in his livery [were Walk'd crowns and crownets; realms and islands As plates dropp'd from his pocket. Dol. Cleopatra ! Cleo. Think you there was, or might be, such a man As this I dream'd of Y Dol. Gentle madam, no. Cleo. You lie, up to the hearing of the gods. But, if there be, or ever were, one such. It 's past the size of dreaming : nature wants stuff To vie strange forms with fancy ; yet, to imagine An Antony, were nature's piece 'gainst fancy, Condenming shadows quite. Dol. Hear me, good madam. Your loss is as yourself, great ; and you bear it As answering to the weight : would I might never O'ertake pursued success, but I do feel. By the rebound of yours, a grief that smites My very heart at root. Cleo. I thank you, sir. Know you what Csesar means to do with me ? Dol. I am loath to tell you what I would you knew. Cleo. Nay, pray you, sir,— Dol. Though he be honourable,— Cleo. He '11 lead me, then, in triumph ? Dol. Madam, he will ; I know 't. [Csesar ! ' [Flourish and shout within, 'Make way there: Enter Osesar, Gallus, Proculeius, Mecsenas, Seleueus, and others of his Train. Coes. Which is the Queen of Egypt ? Dol. It is the emperor, madam. [Cleopatra kneels. CcES. Arise, you shall not kneel : I pray you, rise ; rise, Egypt. Cleo. Sir, the gods Will have it thus ; my master and my lord I must obey. Cois. Take to you no hard thoughts : The record of what injuries you did us, Though written in our flesh, we shall remember As things but done by chance. Cleo. Sole sir o' the world, I cannot project mine own cause so well ACT V. ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. SCENE II, To make it clear ; but do confess I have Been laden with like frailties which before Have often shamed our sex. Cas. Cleopatra, know, We will extenuate rather than enforce : If you apply yourself to our intents. Which towards you are most gentle, you shall find A benefit in this change ; but if you seek To lay on me a cruelty, by taking Antony's course, you shall bereave yourself Of my good purposes, and put your children To that destruction which I '11 guard them from. If thereon you rely. I '11 take my leave, [and we, Cleo. And may, through all the world : 't is yours ; Your scutcheons and your signs of conquest, shall Hang in what place you please. Here, my good lord. Cces. You shall advise me in all for Cleopatra. Cleo. This is the brief of money, plate, and jewels, I am possess'd of : 't is exactly valued ; Not, petty things admitted. Where 's Seleucus ? Sel. Here, madam. [lord, Gleo. This is my treasurer: let him speak, my Upon his peril, that I have reserved To myself nothing. Speak the truth, Seleucus. SeV. Madam, I had rather seal my lips, than, to my peril, Speak that which is not. Cleo. What have I kept back ? Sel. Enough to purchase what you have made known. Cces. Nay, blush not, Cleopatra ; I approve Your wisdom in the deed. Cleo. See, Caesar ! O, behold, How pomp is follow'd ! mine will now be yours ; And, should we shift estates, yours would be mine. The ingratitude of this Seleucus does Even make me wild : O slave, of no more trust Than love that 's hired! What, goest thou back ? thou Shalt Go back, I warrant thee ; but I '11 catch thine eyeSj Though they had wings : slave, soulless villain, dog ! O rarely base ! Cms. Good queen, let us entreat you. Cleo. O Caesar, what a wounding shame is this, That thou, vouchsafing here to visit me, Doing the honour of thy lordliness To one so meek, that mine own servant should Parcel the sum of my disgraces by Addition of his envy ! Say, good Caesar, That I some lady trifles have reserved, Immoment toys, things of such dignity As we greet modern friends withal ; and say. Some nobler token I have kept apart Eor Livia and Octavia, to induce Their mediation ; must I be unfolded [me With one that I have bred ? The gods ! it smites Beneath the fall I have. [To Seleucus] Prithee, go Or I shall show the cinders of my spirits [hence ; Through the ashes of my chance : wert thou a man. Thou wouldst have mercy on me. Coes. Forbear, Seleucus. [Exit Seleucus. Cleo. Be it known, that we, the greatest, are misthought Eor things that others do ; and, when we fall. We answer others' merits in our name, Are therefore to be pitied. Cces. Cleopatra, [edged. Not what you have reserved, nor what acknowl- Put we i' the roll of conquest : still be 't yours. Bestow it at your pleasure ; and believe, Caesar 's no merchant, to make prize with you Of things that merchants sold. Therefore be cheer 'd; Make not your thoughts your prisons: no, dear For we intend so to dispose you as [queen ; Yourseif shall give us counsel. Feed, and sleep : Our care and pity is so much upon you. That we remain your friend ; and so, adieu. Cleo. My master, and my lord ! Coes. Not so. Adieu. [Flourish. Exeunt Ccesar and his Jram. Cleo. He words me, girls, he words me, that I should not Be noble to myself : but, hark thee, Charmian. [Whispers Charmian. Iras. Finish, good lady ; the bright day is done, And we are for the dark. Cleo. Hie thee again : I have spoke already, and it is provided ; Go put it to the haste. Char. Madam, I will. Be-enter Dolabella. Dol. Where is the queen ? Char. Behold, sir. [Exit. Cleo. Dolabella! Dol. Madam, as thereto sworn by your command. Which my love makes religion to obey, I tell you this : Caesar through Syria Intends his journey ; and within three days You with your children will he send before : Make your best use of this : I have perf orm'd Your pleasure and my promise. Cleo. Dolabella, I shall remain your debtor. Dol. I your servant. Adieu, good queen ; I must attend on Caesar. Cleo. Farewell, and thanks. [Exit Dolabella. Now, Iras, what think'st thou ? Thou, an Egyptian puppet, shalt be shown In Eome, as well as I : mechanic slaves With greasy aprons, rules, and hammers, shall Uplift us to the view ; in their thick breaths, Bank of gross diet, shall we be enclouded. And forced to drink their vapour. Iras. The gods forbid ! Cleo. Nay, 't is most certain, Iras : saucy lictors Will catch at us, like strumpets ; and scald rhymers Ballad us out o' tune : the quick comedians, ExtemporaUy will stage us, and present Our Alexandrian revels ; Antony Shall be brought drunken forth, and I shall see Some squeaking Cleopatra boy my greatness I' the posture of a whore. Iras. O the good gods ! Cleo. Nay, that 's certain. Iras. I '11 never see 't ; for, I am sure, my naUs Are stronger than mine eyes. Cleo. Why, that 's the way To fool their preparation, and to conquer Their most absurd intents. Be-enter Charmian. Now, Charmian ! Show me, my women, like a queen : go fetch My best attires : I am again for Cydnus, To meet Mark Antony : sirrah Iras, go. Now, noble Charmian , we '11 dispatch indeed ; [leave And, when thou hast done this chare, I 'U give thee To play till doomsday. Bring our crown and all. Wherefore 's this noise ? [Exit Iras. A noise within. Miter a Guardsman. Guard. Here is a rural fellow That vrill not be denied your highness' presence : He brings you figs. Cleo. Let him come in. [Exit Guardsman. What poor an instrument May do a noble deed ! he brings me liberty. My resolution 's placed, and I have nothing Of woman in me : now from head to foot I am marble-constant •, now the fleeting moon No planet is of mine. Re-enter Guardsman, with Clown bringing m a hatket. Guard. This is the man. 773 ACT V. ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. SCENE II. Cleo. Avoid, and leave him. [Exit Guardsman. Hast thou the pretty v^rorm of Nilus there, That kills and pains not ? Clown. Truly, I have him : but I would not be the party tliat should desire you to touch him, for his biting is immortal ; those that do die of it do seldom or never recover. Cleo. Rememberest thou any that have died on 't ? Clown. Very many, men and women too. I heard of one of them no longer than yesterday: a very honest woman, but something given to lie; as a woman should not do, but in the way of honesty : how she died of the biting of it, what pain she felt : truly, she makes a very good report o' the worm; but he that will believe all that they say, shall never be saved by half that they do : but this is most fal- lible, the worm 's an odd worm. Cleo. Get thee hence ; farewell. Clown. I wish you all joy of the wornj. [Setting down his basket. Cleo. Farewell. Clown. You must think this, look you, that the worm will do his kind. Cleo. Ay, ay ; farewell. Clown. Look you, the worm is not to be trusted but in the keeping of wise people ; for, indeed, there is no goodness in the worm. Cleo. Take thou no care ; it shall be heeded. Clown. Very good. Give it nothing, I pray you, for it is not worth the feeding. Cleo. Will it eat me ? Clown. You must not think I am so simple but I know the devil himself will not eat a woman : I know that a woman is a dish for the gods, if the devil dress her not. But, truly, these same whoreson devils do the gods great harm in their women ; for in every ten that they make, the devils mar five. Cleo. Well, get thee gone; farewell. Clown. Yes, forsooth : I wish you joy o' the worm. [Exit. Be-enter Iras with a robe, crown, &c. Cleo. Give me my robe, put on my crown ; I have Immortal longings in me : now no more The juice of Egypt's grape shall moist this lip : Yare, yare, good Iras ; quick. Methinks I hear Antony call ; I see him rouse himself To praise my noble act ; I hear him mock The luck of Csesar, which the gods give men To excuse their after wrath : husband, I come : Now to that name my courage prove my title I I am fire and air ; my other elements I give to baser life. So ; have you done ? Come then, and take the last warmth of my lips. Parewell, kind Charmian ; Iras, long farewell. [Kisses them. Iras falls and dies. Have I the aspic in my lips ? Dost fall ? If thou and nature can so gently part. The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch. Which hurts, and is desired. Dost thou lie still ? If thus thou vanishest, thou tell'st the world It is not worth leave-taking. [say. Char. Dissolve, thick cloud, and rain ; that I may The gods themselves do weep ! Cleo. This proves me base : If she first meet the curled Antony, He '11 make demand of her, and spend that kiss Which is my heaven to have. Come, thou mortal wretch, [To an asp, which she applies to her breast. With thy sharp teeth this knot intrinsicate Of life at once untie : poor venomous fool, Be angry, and dispatch. O, couldst thou speak, That I might hear thee call great Csesar ass Unpolicied ! Char. O eastern star ! Cleo. Peace, peace ! Dost thou not see my baby at my breast, That sucks the nurse asleep ? 774 Char. O, break! O, break! Cleo. As sweet as balm, as soft as air, as gentle,— Antony !— Nay, I will take thee too : [Applying another asp to her arm. What should I stay, — [Dies. Char. In this vile world ? So, fare thee well. Now boast thee, death, in thy possession lies A lass unparallel'd. Downy windows, close ; And golden Phoebus never be beheld Of eyes again so royal ! Your crown 's awry ; 1 '11 mend it, and then play. Enter the Guard, rushing in. First Guard. Where is the queen ? Char. Speak softly, wake her not. First Guard. Csesar hath sent — Char. Too slow a messenger. [Applies an asp. O, come apace, dispatch! I partly feel thee. First Guard. Approach, ho! All's not well: Caesar 's beguiled. [call him. Sec. Guard. There 's Dolabella sent from Caesar; First Guard. What work is here! Charmian, is this well done ? Char. It is well done, and fitting for a princess Descended of so many royal kings. Ah, soldier! „ [Dies. Be-enter Dolabella. Dol. How goes it here ? Sec. Guard. All dead. Dol. Csesar, thy thoughts Touch their effects in this : thyself art coming To see perform 'd the dreaded act which thou So sought'st to hinder. [ Within ' A way there, a way for Csesar I ' Be-enter Caesar and all his train, marching. Dol. O sir, you are too sure an augurer ; That you did fear is done. Cces. Bravest at the last, She leveU'd at our purposes, and, being royal. Took her own way. The manner of their deaths ? I do not see them bleed. Dol. Who was last with them ? First Guard. A simple countryman, that brought This was his basket. [her figs : Cces. Poison'd, then. First Guard. O Caesar, This Charmian lived but now ; she stood and spake : I found her trimming up the diadem On her dead mistress ; tremblingly she stood And on the sudden dropp'd. Cces. O noble weakness ! If they had swallow'd poison, 'twould appear By external swelling ; but she looks like sleep, As she would catch another Antony In her strong toil of grace. Dol. Here, on her breast, There is a vent of blood and something blown : The like is on her arm. First Guard. This is an aspic's trail : and these Have slime upon them, such as the aspic leaves Upon the caves of Nile. Cces. Most probable That so she died ; for her physician tells me She hath pursued conclusions infinite Of easy ways to die. Take up her bed ; And bear her women from the monument : She shall be bm'ied by her Antony : No grave upon the earth shall clip in it A pair so famous. High events as these Strike those that make them ; and their story is No less in pity than his glory which Brought them to be lamented. Our army shall In solemn show attend this funeral ; And then to Rome. Come, Dolabella, see High order in this great solemnity. [Exeunt. CYMBELINE. DBAMATIS PEBSON^. Cymbeline, King of Britain. Cloten, son to the Queen by a former husband. Posthumus Leonatus, a gentleman, husband to Imogen. Belarius, a banished lord, disguised under the name of Morgan. ( sons to Cymbeline, disguised under Guiderius, I ^j^^ ^^^^^ of Polydore and Cadwal, ■oJ^viragru , ^ supposed sons to Morgan. Philario, friend to Posthumus, ) lachimo, friend to Philario, J Ita"*"^^- Caius Lucius, general of the Roman forces. Pisanio, servant to Posthumus. Cornelius, a physician. A Eoman Caption. Two British Captains. A Frenchman, friend to Philario. Two Lords of Cymbeline's Court. Two Gentlemen of the same. Two Gaolers. Queen, wife to Cymbeline. Imogen, daughter to Cymbeline by a former queen, Helen, a lady attending on Imogen. Lords, Ladies, Eoman Senators, Tribunes, a Soothsayer, A Dutchman, a Spaniard, Musicians, Officers, Cap- tains, Soldiers, Messengers, and other Attendants. Apparitions. SCENE — J?Wf aw; Rome. [For »n Analytit of th«> Plot of this Play, see page LXVII.] ^OT I. SCENE I. — Britain. The garden of Cymbeline^s palace. Enter Two Gentlemen. First Gent. You do not meet a man but frowns : our bloods No more obey the heavens than our courtiers Still seem as does the king. Sec. Oent. But what 's the matter ? First Gent. His daughter, and the heir of 's king- dom, whom He purposed to his wife's sole son — a widow That late he married— hath referr'd herself Unto a poor but worthy gentleman : she 's wedded ; Her husband banish 'd; she imprison 'd : all Is outward sorrow ; though I think the king Be touch'd at very heart. Sec. Gent. None but the king ? First Gent. He that hath lost her too : so is the queen, That most desired the match ; but not a courtier, Although they wear their faces to the bent Of the king's looks, hath a heart that is not Glad at the thing they scowl at. Sec. Gent. And why so ? [thing First Gent. He that hath miss'd the princess is a Too bad for bad report : and he that hath her — I mean, that married her, alack, good man! And therefore banish 'd — is a creature such As, to seek through the regions of the earth For one his like, there would be something failtag In him that should compare. I do not think So fair an outward and such stuff within Endows a man but he. Sec. Gent. You speak him far. First Gent. I do extend him, sir, within himself, Crush him together rather than unfold His measure duly. Sec. Gent. What 's his name and birth ? First Gent. I cannot delve him to the root : his father Was call'd Sicilius, who did join his honour Against the Romans with Cassibelan, But had his titles by Tenantius whom He served with glory and admired success, So gain'd the sur-addition Leonatus ; And had, besides this gentleman in question. Two other sons, who in the wars o' the time Died with their swords in hand ; for which their father, Then old and fond of issue, took such sorrow That he quit being, and his gentle lady, Big of this gentleman our theme, deceased As he was born. The king he takes the babe To his protection, calls him Posthumus Leonatus, Breeds him and makes him of his bed-chamber. Puts to him all the learnings that his time Could make him the receiver of ; which he took, As we do air, fast as 'twas minister'd, And in 's spring became a harvest, lived in court — Which rare it is to do — most praised, most loved, A sample to the youngest, to the more mature A glass that feated them, and to the graver A child that guided dotards ; to his mistress, For whom he now is banish'd, her own price Proclaims how she esteem'd him and his virtue; By her election may be truly read What kind of man he is. Sec. Gent. I honour him Even out of your report. But, pray you, tell me, Is she sole child to the king ? First Gent. His only child. He had two sons : if this be worth your hearing, Mark it : the eldest of them at three years old, I' the swathing-clothes the other, from their nursery Were stol'n, and to this hour no guess in knowledge Which way they went. Sec. Gent. How long is this ago ? First Gent. Some twenty years. [convey 'd. Sec. Gent. That a king's children should be so So slackly guarded, and the search so slow, That could not trace them ! 775 ACT I. CYMBELINE. SCENE I. First Gent. Howsoe'er 't is strange, Or that the negligence may well be laugh'd at, Yet is it true, sir. Sec. Gent. I do well believe you. First Gent. We must forbear: here comes the gentleman, The queen, and princess. [Exeunt. Enter the Queen, Posthumus, and Imogen. Queen. No, be assured you shall not find me. After the slander of most stepmothers, [daughter, Evil-eyed unto you : you 're my prisoner, but Your gaoler shall deliver you the keys That lock up your restraint. For you, Posthumus, So soon as I can win the offended king, I will be known your advocate : marry, yet The fire of rage is in him, and 't were good You lean'd unto his sentence with what patience Tour wisdom may inform you. Post. Please your highness, I will from hence to-day. Queen. You know the peril. I '11 fetch a turn about the garden, pitying The pangs of barr'd affections, though the king Hath charged you should not speak together. [Exit. Imo. O Dissembling courtesy ! How fine this tyrant Can tickle where she wounds ! My dearest husband, I somethtug fear my father's wrath ; but nothing — Always reserved my holy duty— what His rage can do on me : you must be gone ; And I shall here abide the hourly shot Of angry eyes, not comforted to live. But that there is this jewel in the world That I may see again. Post. My queen! my mistress I lady, weep no more, lest I give cause To be suspected of more tenderness Than doth become a man. I will remain The loyal'st husband that did e'er plight troth: My residence in Rome at one Philario's, Who to my father was a friend, to me Known but by letter : thither write, my queen. And with mine eyes I '11 drink the words you send, Though ink be made of gall. Ee-enter Queen. Queen. Be brief, I pray you : If the king come, I shall incur I know not How much of his displeasure. [Aside] Yet I '11 move him To walk this way : I never do him wrong, But he does buy my injuries, to be friends ; Pays dear for my offences. [Exit. Post. Should we be taking leave As long a term as yet we have to live. The loathness to depart would grow. Adieu ! Imo. Nay, stay a little : Were you but riding forth to air yourself. Such parting were too petty. Look here, love ; This diamond was my mother's : take it, heart ; But keep it till you woo another wife. When Imogen is dead. Post. How, how ! another ? You gentle gods, give me but this I have. And sear up my embracements from a next With bonds of death ! [Putting on the ring.] Remain, remain thou here While sense can keep it on. And, sweetest, fairest, As I my poor self did exchange for you. To your so infinite loss, so in our trifles 1 still win of you : for my sake wear this ; It is a manacle of love ; I 'U place it Upon this fairest prisoner. [Putting a bracelet upon her arm. Imo. O the gods I When shall we see again ? 776 Enter Cymbeline and Lords. Post. Alack, the king ! Cym. Thou basest thing, avoid ! hence, from my sight ! If after this command thou fraught the court With thy unworthiness, thou diest : away ! Thou 'rt poison to my blood. Post. The gods protect you I And bless the good remainders of the court ! I am gone. [Exit. Imo. There cannot be a pinch in death More sharp than this is, Cym, O disloyal thing. That shouldst repair my youth, thou heap'st A year's age on me. Imo. I beseech you, sir. Harm not yourself with your vexation : I am senseless of your wrath ; a touch more rare Subdues all pangs, aU fears. Cym. Past grace ? obedience ? Imo. Past hope, and in despair; that way, past grace. [queen I Cym. That mightst have had the sole son of my Imo. O blest, that I might not ! I chose an eagle, And did avoid a puttock. [my throne Cym. Thou took'st a beggar ; wouldst have made A seat for baseness. Imo. No ; I rather added A lustre to it. Cym. O thou vile one ! Imo. Sir, It is your fault that I have loved Posthumus : You bred him as my playfellow, and he is A man worth any woman, overbuys me Almost the sum he pays. Cym. What, art thou mad ? Imo. Almost, sir : heaven restore me ! Would I A neat-herd's daughter, and my Leonatus [were Our neighbour shepherd's son ! Cym. Thou foolish thing ! Be-enter Queen. They were again together : you haA'e done Not after our command. Away with her, And pen her up. Queen. Beseech your patience. Peace, Dear lady daughter, peace ! Sweet sovereign, Leave us to ourselves; and make yourself some Out of your best advice. [comfort Cym. Nay, let her languish A drop of blood a day; and, being aged. Die of this folly ! [Exeunt Cymbeline and Lords. Queen. Pie ! you must give way. Enter Pisanio. Here is your servant. How now, sir! What news? Pis. My lord your son drew on my master. Queen. Ha ! No harm, I trust, is done? Pis. There might have been, But that my master rather play'd than fought And had no help of anger : they were parted By gentlemen at hand. Queen. I am very glad on 't. Imo. Your son 's my father's friend ; he takes his To draw upon an exile ! O brave sir ! [part. I would they were in Af ric both together ; Myself by with a needle, that I might prick The goer-back. Why came you from your master ? Pis. On his command : he would not suffer me To bring him to the haven ; left these notes Of what commands I should be subject to, When 't pleased you to employ me. Queen. This hath been Your faithful servant : I dare lay mine honour He will remain so. ACT CYMBELINE. SCENE IV. Pis. I humbly thank your highness. Queen. Pray, walk awhile. Inw. About some half-hour hence, I pray you, speak with me : you shall at least Go see my lord aboard : for this time leave me. [_Mceunt. SCENE n. — The same. A public place. Enter Cloten and two Lords. First Lord. Sir, I would advise you to shift a shirt ; the violence of action hath made you reek as a sacrifice : where air comes out, air comes in : there 's none abroad so wholesome as that you vent. Clo. If my shirt were bloody, then to shift it. Have I hurt him ? Sec. Lord. [Aside] No, 'faith; not so much as his patience. First Ljord. Hurt him ! his body 's a passable car- cass, if he be not hurt : it is a throughfare for steel, if it be not hurt. Sec. Lord. [Aside] His steel was in debt ; it went o' the backside the town. Clo. The villain would not stand me. Sec. Lord. [Aside] No ; but he fled forward still, toward your face. ' First Lord. Stand you ! You have land enough of your own : but he added to your having ; gave you some ground. Sec. Lord. [Aside] As many inches as you have oceans. Puppies ! Clo. I would they had not come between us. Sec. Lord. [Aside] So would I, till you had meas- ured how long a fool you were upon the ground. Clo. And that she should love this fellow and re- fuse me ! Sec. Lord. [Aside] If it be a sin to make a true election, she is damned. First Lord. Sir, as I told you always, her beauty and her brain go not together : she 's a good sign, but I have seen small reflection of her wit. Sec. Lord. [Aside] She shiues not upon fools, lest the reflection should hurt her. Clo. Come, I '11 to my chamber. Would there had been some hurt done ! Sec. Lord. [Aside] I wish not so ; unless it had been the fall of an ass, which is no great hurt. Clo. You '11 go with us ? First Lord. I 'U attend your lordship. Clo. Nay, come, let 's go together. Sec. Lord. Well, my lord. [Exeunt. SCENE III. — A room in Cymbeline^s palace. Enter Imogen and Pisanio. Lmo. I would thou grew'st imto the shores o' the haven, And question'dst every sail : if he should write, And I not have it, 't were a paper lost, As offer'd mercy is. What was the last That he spake to thee ? Pis. It was his queen, his queen I lmo. Then waved his handkerchief ? Pis. And kiss'd it, madam. lmo. Senseless linen ! happier therein than 1 1 And that was all ? Pis. No, madam ; for so long As he could make me with this eye or ear Distinguish him from others, he did keep The deck, with glove, or hat, or handkerchief. Still waving, as the fits and stirs of 's mind Could best express how slow his soul sail'd on, How swift his ship. Lmo. Thou shouldst have made him As little as a crow, or less, ere left To after-eye him. Pis. Madam, so I did. Lmo. I would have broke mine eye-strings ; crack'd To look upon him, till the diminution [them, but Of space had pointed him sharp as my needle. Nay, foUow'd him, till he had melted from The smallness of a gnat to air, and then Have turn'd mine eye and wept. But, good Pisanio, When shall we hear from him ? Pis. Be assured, madam, With his next vantage. Lmo. I did not take my leave of him, but had Most pretty things to say : ere I could tell him How I would think on him at certain hours Such thoughts and such, or I could make him swear The shes of Italy should not betray Mine interest and his honour, or have charged him, At the sixth hour of morn, at noon, at midnight, To encounter me with orisons, for then I am in heaven for him ; or ere I could Give him that parting kiss which I had set Betwixt two charming words, comes in my father And like the tyrannous breathing of the north Shakes all our buds from growing. Miter a Lady. Lady. The queen, madam, Desires your highness' company. [patch 'd. L7no. Those things I bid you do, get them dis- i will attend the queen. Pis. Madam, I shall. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. —Bome. Philario''s house. Enter Philario, lachimo, a Frenchman, a Dutchman, and a Spaniard. Lach. Believe it, sir, I have seen him in Britain : he was then of a crescent note, expected to prove so worthy as since he hath been allowed the name of ; but I could then have looked on him without the help of admiration, though the catalogue of his endow- ments had been tabled by his side and I to peruse him by items. Phi. You speak of him when he was less furnished than now he is with that which makeshim both with- out and within. French. I have seen him in France : we had very many there could behold the sun with as firm eyes as he. Lach. This matter of marrying his king's daughter, wherein he must be weighed rather by her value than his own, words him, I doubt not, a great deal from the matter. French. And then his banishment. Lach. Ay, and the approbation of those that weep this lamentable divorce under her colours are won- derfully to extend him ; be it but to fortify her judg- ment, which else an easy battery might lay flat, for taking a beggar without less quality. But how comes it he is to sojourn with you ? How creeps acquaint- ance ? Phi. His father and I were soldiers together ; to whom I have been often bound for no less than my life. Here comes the Briton : let him be so enter- tained amongst you as suits, with gentlemen of your knowing, to a stranger of his quality. Enter Posthumus. I beseech you all, be better known to this gentle- man ; whom I commend to you as a noble friend of mine : how worthy he is I will leave to appear here- after, rather than story him in his own hearing. French. Sir, we have known together in Orleans. Post. Since when I have been debtor to you for courtesies, which I wiU be ever to pay and yet pay still. French. Sir, you o'er-rate my poor kindness : I was glad I did atone my countryman and you ; it had been pity you should have Wben put together 777 ACT I, CYMBELINE. SCENE V. with so mortal a purpose as then each bore, upon importance of so slight and trivial a nature. Posit. By your pardon, sir, I was then a young traveller ; rather shunned to go even with what I heard than in my every action to be guided by others' experiences: but upon my mended judg- ment — if I offend not to say it is mended — my quarrel was not altogether slight. French. 'Faith, yes, to be put to the arbitrement of swords, and by such two that would by all likeli- hood have confounded one the other, or have fallen both. lack. Can we, with manners, ask what was the difference ? French. Safely, I think : 't was a contention in public, which may, without contradiction, suffer the report. It was much like an argument that fell out last night, where each of us fell in praise of our country mistresses ; this gentleman at that time vouching — and upon warrant of bloody affirma- tion — his to be more fair, virtuous, wise, chaste, constant-qualified and less attemptable than any the rarest of our ladies in France. lach. That lady is not now living, or this gentle- man's opinion by this worn out. Post. She holds her virtue stiU and I my mind. lach. You must not so far prefer her 'fore ours of Italy. Post. Being so far provoked as I was in France, I would abate her nothing, though I profess myself her adorer, not her friend. lach. As fair and as good — a kind of hand-in- hand comparison— had been something too fair and too good for any lady in Britain. If she went before others I have seen, as that diamond of yom-s out- lustres many I have beheld, I could not but believe she excelled many : but I have not seen the most precious diamond that is, nor you the lady. Post. I praised her as I rated her : so do I my stone. lach. What do you esteem it at ? Post. More than the world enjoys. lach. Either your unparagoned mistress is dead, or she 's outprized by a trifle. Post. You are mistaken : the one may be sold, or given, if there were wealth enough for the purchase, or merit for the gift : the other is not a thing for sale, and only the gift of the gods. lach. Which the gods have given you ? Post. Which, by their graces, I will keep. lach. You may wear her in title yours: but, you know, strange fowl light upon neighbouring ponds. Your ring may be stolen too : so your brace of un- prizable estimations; the one is but frail and the other casual; a cunning thief, or a that way ac- complished courtier, would hazard the winning both of first and last. Post. Your Italy contains none so accomplished a courtier to convince the honour of my mistress, if, in the holding or loss of that, you term her frail. I do nothing doubt you have store of thieves ; not- withstanding, I fear not my ring. Phi. Let us leave here, gentlemen. Post. Sir, with all my heart. This worthy signior, I thank him, makes no stranger of me ; we are fa- miliar at first. lach. With five times so much conversation, I should get ground of your fair mistress, make her go back, even to the yielding, had I admittance and opportunity to friend. Post. No, no. lach. I dare thereupon pawn the moiety of my estate to your ring; which, in my opinion, o'er- values it something : but I make my wager rather against your confidence than her reputation : and, to bar your offence herein too, I durst attempt it against any lady in the world. Post. You are a great deal abused in too bold a 778 persuasion; and I doubt not you sustain what you 're worthy of by your attempt. lach. What 's that ? Post. A repulse: though your attempt, as you call it, deserve more; a punishment too. Phi. Gentlemen, enough of this: it came in too suddenly ; let it die as it was bom, and, I pray you, be better acquainted. lach. Would I had put my estate and my neigh- bour's on the approbation of what I have spoke ! Post. What lady would you choose to assail ? lach. Yours; whom in constancy you think stands so safe. I wiU lay you ten thousand ducats to your ring, that, commend me to the court where your lady is, with no more advantage than the op- portunity of a second conference, and I will bring from thence that honour of hers which you imagine so reserved. Post. I will wage against your gold, gold to it: my ring I hold dear as my finger ; 't is part of it. lach. You are afraid, and therein the wiser. If you buy ladies' flesh at a million a dram, you can- not preserve it from tainting : but I see you have some religion in you, that you fear. Post. This is but a custom in your tongue ; you bear a graver purpose, I hope. lach. I am the master of my speeches, and would undergo what 's spoken, I swear. Post. Will you? I shall but lend my diamond till your return : let there be covenants drawn be- tween 's : my mistress exceeds in goodness the huge- ness of your imworthy thinking : I dare you to this match : here 's my ring. Phi. I will have it no lay. lach. By the gods, it is one. If I bring you no sufficient testimony that I have enjoyed the dearest bodily part of your mistress, my ten thousand ducats are yom-s ; so is your diamond too ; if I come off, and leave her in such honour as you have trust in, she your jewel, this your jewel, and my gold are yours : provided I have your commendation for my more free entertainment. Post. 1 embrace these conditions; let us have articles betwixt us. Only, thus far you shall answer: if you make your voyage upon her and give me directly to understand you have prevailed, I am no further your enemy ; she is not worth our debate : if she remain unseduced, you not making it appear otherwise, for your ill opinion and the assault you have made to her chastity you shall answer me with your sword. lach. Your hand; a covenant: we will have these things set dovra by lawful counsel, and straight away for Britain, lest the bargain should catch cold and starve: I will fetch my gold and have our two wagers recorded. Post. Agreed. [Exeunt Posthumus and lachimo. French. Will this hold, think you ? Phi. Signior lachimo will not from it. Pray, let us f oUow 'em. [Exeunt. SCENE v.— Britain. A room in Cymbeline^s palace. Enter Queen, Ladies, and Cornelius. Queen. Whiles yet the dew 's on ground, gather those flowers ; Make haste : who has the note of them ? First Lady. I, madam. Queen. Dispatch. [Exeunt Ladies, Now, master doctor, have you brought those drugs ? Cor. Pleaseth your highness, ay : here they are, madam: [Presenting a small box. But I beseech your grace, without offence,— My conscience bids me ask — wherefore you have Commanded of me these most poisonous com- pounds, ACT I. CYMBELINE. SCENE VI. "Which are the movers of a languishing death ; But though slow, deadly ? Queen. I wonder, doctor, Thou ask'st me such a question. Have I not been Thy pupil long ? Hast thou not learn'd me how To make perfumes V distil ? preserve Y yea, so That our great king himself doth woo me oft For my confections ? Having thus far proceeded, — Unless thou think'st me devilish — is 't not meet That I did amplify my judgment in Other conclusions ? I will try the forces Of these thy compounds on such creatures as We count not worth the hanging, but none human, To try the vigour of them and apply Allayments to their act, and by them gather Their several virtues and effects. Cor. Your highness Shall from this practice but make hard your heart : Besides, the seeing these effects will be Both noisome and infectious. Queen. O, content thee. Enter Pisanio. [Asidel Here comes a flattering rascal ; upon him Will I first work : he 's for his master. And enemy to my son. How now, Pisanio ! Doctor, your service for this time is ended ; Take your own way. Cor. [Aside] I do suspect you, madam ; But you shall do no harm. Ghieen. [To Pisanio] Hark thee, a word, [she has Cor. [Aside] I do not like her. She doth think Strange lingering poisons : I do know her spirit, And will not trust one of her malice with A drug of such damn'd nature. Those she has Will stupif y and dull the sense awhile ; Which first, perchance, she'll prove on cats and Then afterward up higher : but there is No danger in what show of death it makes. More than the locking-up the spirits a time, To be more fresh, reviving. She is fool'd With a most false effect ; and I the truer. So to be false with her. Queen. No further service, doctor, Until I send for thee. Cor. I humbly take my leave. [Exit. Queen. Weeps she still, say'st thou ? Dost thou think in time She will not quench and let instructions enter Where folly now possesses v Do thou work : When thou shalt bring me word she loves my son, I '11 tell thee on the instant thou art then As great as is thy master, greater, for His fortunes all lie speechless and his name Is at last gasp : retm-n he cannot, nor Continue where he is : to shift his being Is to exchange one misery with another, And every day that comes comes to decay A day's work in him. What shalt thou expect. To be depender on a thing that leans. Who cannot be new built, nor has no friends. So much as but to prop him ? [The Queen drops the box : Pisanio takes it up.] Thou takest up Thou know'st not what ; but take it for thy labour : It is a thing I made, which hath the king Five times redeem'd from death : I do not know What is more cordial. Nay, I prithee, take it; It is an earnest of a further good That I mean to thee. Tell thy mistress how The case stands with her ; do 't as from thyself. Think what a chance thou changest on, biil think Thou hast thy mistress still, to boot, my son, Who shall take notice of thee : I '11 move the king To any shape of thy preferment such As thou 'It desire ; and then myself, I chiefly, That set thee on to this desert, am bound To load thy merit richly. Call my women : Think on my words. [Exit Pisanio. A sly and constant knave, Not to be shaked ; the agent for his master And the remembrancer of her to hold The hand-fast to her lord. I have given him that Which, if he take, shall quite unpeople her Of liegers for her sweet, and which she after. Except she bend her humour, shall be assured To taste of too. Be-enter Pisanio and Ladies. So, so: well done, well done: The violets, cowslips, and the primroses, Bear to my closet. Fare thee well, Pisanio ; Think on my words. [Exeunt Queen and Ladies, Pis. And shall do : But when to my good lord I prove untrue, I '11 choke myself : there 's all I '11 do for you. [Exit. SOBNB VI. — The same. Another room in the palace. Enter Imogen. Imo. A father cruel, and a step-dame false; A foolish suitor to a wedded lady. That hath her husband banish 'd ; — O, that husband ! My supreme crown of grief ! and those repeated Vexations of it ! Had I been thief -stol'n, As my two brothers, happy ! but most miserable Is the desire that 's glorious : blest be those. How mean soe'er, that have their honest wills, Which seasons comfort. Who may this be ? Fie I Enter Pisanio and lachimo. Pis. Madam, a noble gentleman of Eome, Comes from my lord with letters. lach. Change you, madam ? The worthy Leonatus is in safety And greets your highness dearly. [Presents a letter. Imo. Thanks, good sir: You 're kindly welcome. [rich ! lach. [Aside] All of her that is out of door most If she be furnish 'd with a mind so rare. She is alone the Arabian bird, and I Have lost the wager. Boldness be my friend ! Arm me, audacity, from head to foot ! Or, like the Parthian, I shall flying fight; Rather, directly fly. Imo. [Beads] ' He is one of the noblest note, to whose kindnesses I am most infinitely tied. Reflect upon him accordingly, as you value your trust — Leonatus.' So far I read aloud : But even the very middle of my heart Is warm'd by the rest, and takes it thankfully. You are as welcome, worthy sir, as I Have words to bid you, and shall find it so In all that I can do. lach. Thanks, fairest lady. What, are men mad? Hath nature given them eyes To see this vaulted arch, and the rich crop Of sea and land, which can distinguish 'twixt The fiery orbs above and the twinn'd stones Upon the number'd beach ? and can we not Partition make with spectacles so precious 'Twixt fair and foul ? l7no. What makes your admiration ? lach. It cannot be i' the eye, for apes and monkeys 'Twixt two such shes would chatter this way and Contemn with mows the other ; nor i'the judgment, For idiots in this case of favour would Be wisely definite ; nor i' the appetite ; Siuttery to such neat excellence opposed Should make desire vomit emptiness. Not so allured to feed. Imo. What is the matter, trow ? lach. The cloyed will, 779 ACT I. CYMBELINE. SCENE VI. That satiate yet unsatisfied desire, that tub Both fill'd and running, ravening first the lamb Longs after for the garbage. Imo. What, dear sir, Thus raps you ? Are you well ? lach. Thanks, madam : well. [To Pisanio] Be- . seech you, sir, desire My man's abode where I did leave him: he Is strange and peevish. Pis. I was going, sir. To give him welcome. [Exit. Imo. Continues well my lord ? His health, be- seech you ? lack. "Well, madam. Imo. Is he disposed to mirth ? I hope he is. lach. Exceeding pleasant ; none a stranger there So merry and so gamesome : he is call'd The Briton reveller. Imo. When he was here, He did incline to sadness, and oft-times Not knowing why. lach. I never saw him sad. There is a Frenchman his companion, one An eminent Monsieur, that, it seems, much loves A Gallian girl at home ; he furnaces The thick sighs from him, whiles the jolly Briton — Your lord, I mean— laughs from 's free limgs, cries 'O, Can my sides hold, to think that man, who knows By history, report, or his own proof, What woman is, yea, what she cannot choose But must be, will his free hours languish for Assured bondage ? ' Imo. Will my lord say so ? lach. Ay, madam, with his eyes in flood with It is a recreation to be by [laughter : And hear him mock the Frenchman. But, heavens Some men are much to blame. [know, Imo. Not he, I hope. lach. Not he : but yet heaven's bounty towards him might Be used more thankfully. In himself, 't is much ; In you, which I account his beyond all talents. Whilst I am bound to wonder, I am bound To pity too. Imo. What do you pity, sir ? lach. Two creatures heartily. Imo. Am I one, sir ? You look on me : what wreck discern you in me Deserves your pity ? lach. Lamentable ! What, To hide me from the radiant sun and solace I' the dungeon by a snufC ? Imo. 1 pray you, sir, Deliver with more openness your answers To my demands. Why do you pity me ? lach. That others do — I was about to say — enjoy your But It is an office of the gods to venge it. Not mine to speak on 't. Imo. You do seem to know Something of me, or what concerns me : pray you, — Since doubting things go ill often hurts more Than to be sure they do ; for certainties Either are past remedies, or, timely knowing, The remedy then born — discover to me What both you spur and stop. lach. Had I this cheek To bathe my lips upon ; this hand, whose touch, Whose every touch, would force the feeler's soul To the oath of loyalty; this object, which Takes prisoner the wild motion of mine eye. Fixing it only here ; should I, damn'd then. Slaver with lips as common as the stairs That moimt the Capitol ; join gripes with hands Made hard with hourly falsehood— falsehood, as With labour ; then by-peeping in an eye 780 Base and unlustrous as the smoky light That 's fed with stinking tallow ; it were fit That all the plagues of hell should at one time Encounter such revolt. Ino. My lord, I fear. Has forgot Britain. lach. And himself. Not I, Inclined to this intelligence, pronounce The beggary of his change ; but 't is your graces That from my mutest conscience to my tongue Charms this report out. Imo. Let me hear no more. lach. O dearest soul ! your cause doth strike my heart With pity, that doth make me sick. A lady So fair, and fasten 'd to an empery, [ner'd Would make the great 'st king double, — to be part- With tomboys hired with that self-exhibition Which your own coffers yield ! with diseased ven- tures That play with all infirmities for gold Which rottenness can lend nature ! such boil'd stuff As well might poison poison ! Be revenged ; Or she that bore you was no queen, and you Eecoil from your great stock. Imo. Bevenged! How should I be revenged ? If this be true, — As I have such a heart that both mine ears Must not in haste abuse — if it be true. How should I be revenged ? lach. Should he make me Live, like Diana's priest, betwixt cold sheets. Whiles he is vaulting variable ramps. In your despite, upon your purse ? Eevenge it. I dedicate myself to your sweet pleasure. More noble than that runagate to your bed, And will continue fast to your affection. Still close as sure. Imo. What, ho, Pisanio ! lach. Let me my service tender on your lips. Imo. Away ! I do condemn mine ears that have So long attended thee. If thou wert honourable. Thou wouldst have told this tale for virtue, not For such an end thou seek'st, — as base as strange. Thou wrong'st a gentleman, who is as far From thy report as thou from honour, and Solicit 'st here a lady that disdains Thee and the devil alike. What ho, Pisanio ! The king my father shall be made acquainted Of thy assault : if he shall think it fit, A saucy stranger in his court to mart As in a Romish stew and to expound His beastly mind to us, he hath a court He little cares for and a daughter who He not respects at all. What, ho, Pisanio ! lach. O happy Leonatus ! I may say : The credit that thy lady hath of thee Deserves thy trust, and thy most perfect goodness Her assured credit. Blessed live you long ! A lady to the worthiest sir that ever Country call'd his ! and you his mistress, only For the most worthiest fit ! Give me your pardon- I have spoke this, to know if your affiance Were deeply rooted ; and shall make your lord. That which he is, new o'er : and he is one The truest manner'd ; such a holy witch That he enchants societies into him ; Half all men's hearts are his. Imo. You make amends. lach. He sits 'mongst men like a descended god: He hath a kind of honour sets him off. More than a mortal seeming. Be not angry, Most mighty princess, that I have adventured To try your taking of a false report ; which hath Honour'd with confirmation your great judgment In the election of a sir so rare, Which you know cannot err : the love I bear him ACT II. CYMBELINE. SCENE II. Made me to fan you thus, but the gods made you, Unlike all others, chaffless. Pray, your pardon. Imo. All 's well, sir : take my power i' the court for yours. lach. My humble thanks. I had almost forgot To entreat your grace but in a small request. And yet of moment too, for it concerns Your lord ; myself and other noble friends. Are partners in the business. Imo. Pray, what is 't ? lach. Some dozen Eomans of us and your lord — The best feather of our wing — have mingled sums To buy a present for the emperor; Which I, the factor for the rest, have done In France : 't is plate of rare device, and jewels Of rich and exquisite form ; their values great ; And I am something curious, being strange. To have them in safe stowage : may it please you To take them in protection ? Imo. "Willingly ; And pawn mine honour for their safety : since My lord hath interest in them, I will keep them In my bedchamber. lach. They are in a trunk. Attended by my men : I will make bold To send them to you, only for this night : I must aboard to-morrow. Imo. O, no, no. lach. Yes, I beseech ; or I shall short my word By lengthening my return. Prom Gallia I cross 'd the seas on purpose and on promise To see your grace. Imo. I thank you for your pains : But not away to-morrow ! lach. O, I must, madam : Therefore I shall beseech you, if you please To greet your lord with writing, do 't to-night : I have outstood my time ; which is material To the tender of our present. Imx). I will write. Send your trunk to me ; it shall safe be kept. And truly yielded you. You 're very welcome. \_Exeunt. .ACT II. SCE5NB I.— JBrifain. Before Cymieline^s palace. Enter Cloten and two Lords. Clo. "Was there ever man had such luck ! when I kissed the jack, upon an up-cast to be hit away ! I had a hundred pound on 't : and then a whoreson jackanapes must take me up for swearing ; as if I borrowed mine oaths of him and might not spend them at my pleasure. First Lord. What got he by that? You have broke his pate with your bowl. Sec. Lord. [Aside] If his wit had been like him that broke it, it would have run all out. Clo. When a gentleman is disposed to swear, it is not for any standers-by to curtail his oaths, ha ? Sec. Lord. No, my lord; [Aside] nor crop the ears of them. Clo. Whoreson dog! I give him satisfaction? Would he had been one of my rank ! Sec. Lord. [Aside] To have smelt like a fool. Clo. I am not vexed more at any thing in the eaxth : a pox on 't ! I had rather not be so noble as I am ; they dare not fight with me, because of the queen my mother : every Jack-slave hath his belly- ful of fighting, and I must go up and down like a cock that nobody can match. Sec. Lord. [Aside] You are cock and capon too ; and you crow, cock, with your comb on. Clo. Sayest thou ? Sec. Lord. It is not fit your lordship should imder- take every companion that you give oifence to. Clo. No, I know that : but it is fit I should com- mit offence to my inferiors. Sec. Lord. Ay, it is fit for your lordship only. Clo. Why, so I say. First Lord. Did you hear of a stranger that 's come to court to-night ? Clo. A stranger, and I not know on 't ! Sec. Lord. [Aside] He 's a strange fellow himself, and knows it not. First Lord. There 's an Italian come ; and, 't is thought, one of Leonatus' friends. Clo. Leonatus! a banished rascal; and he's another, whatsoever he be. Who told you of this stranger ? First Lord. One of yom: lordship's pages. Clo. Is it fit I went to look upon him ? is there no derogation in 't ? Sec. Lord. You cannot derogate, my lord. Clo. Not easily, I think. Sec. Lord. [Aside] You are a fool granted ; there- fore your issues, being foolish, do not derogate. Clo. Come, I '11 go see this Italian : what I have lost to-day at bowls I '11 win to-night of him. Come, go. Sec. Lord. I '11 attend your lordship. [Exeunt Cloten and First Lord. That such a crafty devil as is his mother Should yield the world this ass ! a woman that Bears all down with her brain ; and this her son Cannot take two from twenty, for his heart. And leave eighteen. Alas, poor princess. Thou divine Imogen, what thou endurest, Betwixt a father by thy step-dame govern'd, A mother hourly coining plots, a wooer More hateful than the foul expulsion is Of thy dear husband, than that horrid act Of the divorce he 'Id make ! The heavens hold firm The walls of thy dear honour, keep unshaked That temple, thy fair mind, that thou mayst stand, To enjoy thy banish 'd lord and this great land ! [Exit. SCENE II. — Imogen^ s bedchamber in Cymheline^s palace : a trunk in one corner of it. Imogen in bed, reading ; a Lady attending. Imo. Who 's there ? my woman Helen ? Lady. Please you, madam. Imo. What hour is it ? Lady. Almost midnight, madam. Imo. I have read three hours then: mine eyee are weak : Fold down the leaf where I have left : to bed : Take not away the taper, leave it burning ; And if thou canst awake by four o' the clock, I prithee, call me. Sleep hath seized me wholly. [Exit Lady. To your protection I commend me, gods. From fairies and the tempters of the night Guard me, beseech ye. [Sleeps. lachimo comes from the trunk. lach. The crickets sing, and man's o'er-labour'd Eepairs itself by rest. Our Tarquin thus [sense Did softly press the rushes, ere he waken'd The chastity he wounded. Cytherea, How bravely thou becomest thy bed, fresh lily. And whiter than the sheets ! That I might touch ! But kiss ; one kiss ! Rubies unparagon'd. How dearly they do 't ! 'T is her breathing that 781 ACT II. CYMBELINE. SCENE II] Perfumes the chamber thus : the flame o' the taper Bows toward her, and would under-peep her lids, To see the enclosed lights, now canopied Under these windows, white and azure laced With blue of heaven's own tinct. But my design. To note the chamber : I will write all down : Such and such pictures ; there the window ; such The adornment of her bed ; the arras ; figures, Why, such and such ; and the contents o' the story. Ah, but some natural notes about her body, Above ten thousand meaner movables Would testify, to enrich mine inventory. sleep, thou ape of death, lie dull upon her ! And be her sense but as a monument. Thus in a chapel lying ! Come off, come off : {Taking off her bracelet. As slippery as the Gordian knot was hard ! 'T is mine ; and this will witness outwardly, As strongly as the conscience does within. To the madding of her lord. On her left breast A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops I' the bottom of a cowslip ; here 's a voucher. Stronger than ever law could make : this secret Will force him think I have pick'd the lock and ta'en The treasure of her honour. No more. To what end ? Why should I write this down, that 's riveted, Screw 'd to my memory ? She hath been reading late The tale of Tereus ; here the leaf 's turn'd down Where Philomel gave up. I have enough : To the trunk again, and shut the spring of it. Swift, swift, you dragons of the night, that dawning May bare the raven's eye ! I lodge in fear ; Though this a heavenly angel, hell is here. [Clock strikes. One, two, three : time, time ! {Goes into the trunk. The scene closes. SCENE III. — An ante-chamber adjoining Imogen's apartments. Enter Oloten and Lords. First Lord. Your lordship is the most patient man in loss, the most coldest that ever turned up Clo. It would make any man cold to lose. [ace. First Lord. But not every man patient after the noble temper of your lordship. You are most hot and furious when you win. Clo. Winning will put any man into courage. If 1 could get this foolish Imogen, I should have gold enough. It 's almost morning, is 't not ? First Lord. Day, my lord. Clo. I would this music would come : I am ad- vised to give her music o' mornings ; they say it wiU penetrate. Enter Musicians. Come on ; tune : if you can penetrate her with your fingering, so ; we '11 try with tongue too : if none will do, let her remain ; bat I '11 never give o'er. First, a very excellent good conceited thing ; after, a wonderful sweet air, with admirable rich words to it : and then let her consider. SONG. Hark, hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise. His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies ; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes : With every thing that pretty is, My lady sweet, arise : Arise, arise. Clo. So, get you gone. If this penetrate, I will consider your music the better : if it do not, it is a vice in her ears, which horse-hairs and calves '-guts, 782 nor the voice of unpaved eunuch to boot, can never amend. [Exeunt Musicians. Sec. Lord. Here comes the king. Clo. I am glad I was up so late ; for that 's the reason I was up so early : he cannot choose but take this service I have done fatherly. Enter Cymbeline and Queen. Good morrow to your majesty and to my gracious mother. Cym. Attend you here the door of our stern Will she not forth ? [daughter ? Clo. I have assailed her with music, but she vouchsafes no notice. Cym. The exile of her minion is too new ; She hath not yet forgot him : some more time Must wear the print of his remembrance out, And then she 's yours. Qiieen. You are most bound to the king, Who lets go by no vantages that may Prefer you to his daughter. Frame yourself To orderly soliciting, and be friended With aptness of the season ; make denials Increase your services ; so seem as if You were inspired to do those duties which You tender to her ; that you in all obey her, Save when command to your dismission tends, And therein you are senseless. Clo. Senseless ! not so. Miter a Messenger. Mess. So like you, sir, ambassadors from Rome ; The one is Caius Lucius. Cym. A worthy fellow. Albeit he comes on angry purpose now ; But that 's no fault of his : we must receive him According to the honour of his sender ; And towards himself, his goodness forespent on us, We must extend our notice. Our dear son, [tress, When you have given good morning to your mis- Attend the queen and us ; we shall have need To employ you towards this Roman. Come, our queen. [Exeunt all but Cloten. Clo. If she be up, I '11 speak with her ; if not. Let her lie still and dream. [Knocks] By your I know her women are about her : what [leave, ho ! If I do line one of their hands ? 'T is gold [makes Which buys admittance; oft it doth; yea, and Diana's rangers false themselves, yield up Their deer to the stand o' the stealer ; and 't is gold Which makes the true man kill'd and saves the thief; Nay, sometime hangs both thief and true man; Can it not do and undo ? I will make [wha? One of her women lawyer to me, for I yet not understand the case myself. [Knocks] By your leave. Enter a Lady. Lady. Who 's there that knocks ? Clo. A gentleman. Lady. No more ? Clo. Yes, and a gentlewoman's son. Lady. That 's more Than some, whose tailors are as dear as yours. Can justly boast of. What 's your lordship's pleas- Clo. Your lady's person : is she ready ? [ure ? Lady. Ay, To keep her chamber. Clo. There is gold for you ; Sell me your good report. Lady. How ! my good name ? or to report of you What I shall think is good ? — The princess ! Enter Imogen. Clo. Good morrow, fairest: sister, your sweet hand. [Exit Lady. ACT II. CYMBELINE. SCENE IV. Imo. Good morrow, sir. You lay out too much pains For purchasing but trouble : the thanks I give Is telling you that I am poor of thanks And scarce can spare them. (Jlo. Still, I swear I love you. Imo. If you but said so, 't were as deep with me : If you swear still, your recompense is still That I regard it not. Clo. This is no answer, [silent, Imo. But that you shall not say I yield being I would not speak. I pray you, spare me : 'faith, I shall unfold equal discourtesy To your best kindness : one of your great knowing Should learn, being taught, forbearance. Clo. To leave you in your madness, 'twere my I will not. [sin : Imo. Fools are not mad folks. Clo. Do you call me fool ? Imo. As I am mad, I do : If you '11 be patient, I '11 no more be mad ; That cures us both. I am much sorry, sir. You put me to forget a lady's manners, By being so verbal : and leani now, for all, That I, which know my heart, do here pronounce, By the very truth of it, I care not for you. Aid am so near the lack of charity — To accuse myself —I hate you ; which I had rather You felt than make 't my boast. Clo. You sin against Obedience, which you owe your father. For The contract you pretend with that base wretch. One bred of alms and foster'd with cold dishes, "With scraps o' the court, it is no contract, none : And though it be allow'd iii meaner parties — Yet who than he more mean ? — to knit their souls. On whom there is no more dependency But brats and beggary, in self-figured knot ; Yet you are curb'd from that enlargement by The consequence o' the crown, and must not soil The precious note of it with a base slave, A hilding for a livery, a squire's cloth, A pantler, not so eminent. Imo. Profane fellow ! "Wert thou the son of Jupiter and no more But what thou art besides, thou wert too base To be his groom : thou wert dignified enough, Even to the point of envy, if 't were made Comparative for your virtues, to be styled The under-hangman of his kingdom, and hated For being preferr'd so weU. Clo. The south-fog rot him ! Imo. He never can meet more mischance than come To be but named of thee. His meanest garment. That ever hath but clipp'd his body, is dearer In my respect than aU the hairs above thee, "Were they all made such men. How now, Pisanio ! EnUr Pisanio. OZo. ' His garment ! ' Now the devil — Imo. To Dorothy my woman hie thee presently — Clo. ' His garment ! ' Imo. I am sprited with a fool. Frighted, and anger'd worse : go bid my woman Search for a jewel that too casually Hath left mine arm : it was thy master's : 'shrew me. If I would lose it for a revenue Of any king's in Europe. I do think I saw 't this morning : confident I am Last night 't was on mine arm ; I kiss'd it : I hope it be not gone to tell my lord That I kiss aught but he. Fis. 'T wm not be lost. Imo. I hope so : go and search. \Ih,it Pisanio. Clo. You have abused me : ' His meanest garment I ' Imo. Ay, I said so, sir: If you will make 't an action, call witness to 't. Clo. I will inform your father. Imo. Your mother too : She 's my good lady, and wiQ conceive, I hope. But the worst of me. So, I leave you, sir. To the worst of discontent. [Exit. Clo. I 'U be revenged : ' His meanest garment ! ' "Well. [Exit. SCENE IV.— -Borne. Philario''s house. Enter Posthumus and PhUario. Post. Fear it not, sir: I would I were so sure To win the king as I am bold her honour "Will remain hers. Phi. "What means do you make to him ? Post. Not any, but abide the change of time. Quake in the present winter's state and wish That warmer days would come: in these sear'd I barely gratify your love ; they failing, [hopes, I must die much your debtor. Phi. Your very goodness and your company O'erpays all I can do. By this, your king Hath heard of great Augustus : Caius Lucius "Will do 's commission throughly : and I think He '11 grant the tribute, send the arrearages. Or look upon our Komans, whose remembrance Is yet fresh in their grief. Post. 1 do believe. Statist though I am none, nor like to be. That this will prove a war ; and you shall hear The legions now in Gallia sooner landed In our not-fearing Britain than have tidings Of any penny tribute paid. Our countrymen Are men more order'd than when Julius Caesar Smiled at their lack of skill, but found their courage "Worthy his frowning at : their discipline, Now mingled with their courage, will make known To their approvers they are people such That mend upon the world. Enter lacbimo. Phi. See! lachimo! Post. The swiftest harts have posted you by land ; And winds of all the corners kiss'd your sails, To make your vessel nimble. Phi. "Welcome, sir. Post. I hope the briefness of your answer made The speediness of your return. lach. Your lady Is one of the fairest that I have look'd upon. Post. And therewithal the best ; or let her beauty Look through a casement to aUure false hearts And be false with them. lach. Here are letters for you. Post. Their tenour good, I trust. lach. 'T is very like. Phi. "Was Caius Lucius in the Britain court "When you were there ? lach. He was expected then, But not approach'd. Post. All is well yet. Sparkles this stone as it was wont ? or is 't not Too dull for your good wearing ? lach. If I had lost it, I should have lost the worth of it in gold. I '11 make a journey twice as far, to enjoy A second night of such sweet shortness which Was mine in Britain, for the ring is won. Post. The stone 's too hard to come by. lach. Not a whit, Your lady being so easy. Post. Make not, sir. Your loss your sport : I hope you know that we Must not continue friends. lach. Good sir, we must, 783 ACT II, CYMBELINE. SCENE V. If you keep covenant. Had I not brought The knowledge of your mistress home, I grant "We were to question further : but I now Profess myself the winner of her honour, Together with your ring ; and not the wronger Of her or you, having proceeded but By both your wills. Post. If you can make 't apparent That you have tasted her in bed, my hand And ring is yours ; if not, the foul opinion You had of her pure honour gains or loses Your sword or mine, or masterless leaves both To who shall find them. lach. Sir, my circumstances, Being so near the truth as I will make them, Must first induce you to believe : whose strength I will confirm with oath ; which, I doubt not. You '11 give me leave to spare, when you shall find You need it not. Post. Proceed. lacli. First, her bedchamber, — Where, I confess, I slept not, but profess Had that was well worth watchtag— it was hang'd With tapestry of silk and silver ; the story Proud Cleopatra, when she met her Eoman, And Cydnus swell'd above the banks, or for The press of boats or pride : a piece of work So bravely done, so rich, that it did strive In workmanship and value ; which I wonder'd Could be so rarely and exactly wrought, Since the true life on 't was — Post. This is true ; And this you might have heard of here, by me, Or by some other. lach. More particulars Must justify my knowledge. Po$t. So they must, Or do your honour injury. lach. The chimney Is south the chamber, and the chimney-piece Chaste Dian bathing : never saw I figures So likely to report themselves : the cutter Was as another nature, dumb; outwent her, Motion and breath left out. Post. This is a thing Which you might from relation likewise reap. Being, as it is, much spoke of. lach. The roof o' the chamber With golden cherubins is fretted : her andirons — I had forgot them— were two winking Cupids Of silver, each on one foot standing, nicely Depending on their brands. Post. This is her honour ! Let it be granted you have seen all this — and praise Be given to your remembrance — the description Of what is in her chamber nothing saves The wager you have laid. lach. Then, if you can, \_Showing the 'bracelet. Be pale : I beg but leave to air this jewel ; see ! And now 'tis up again : it must be married To that your diamond ; I '11 keep them. Post. Jove ! Once more let me behold it : is it that Which I left with her ? lach. Sir — I thank her — that : She stripp'd it from her arm ; I see her yet ; Her pretty action did outsell her gift. And yet enrich 'd it too : she gave it me, and said She prized it once. Post. May be she pluck'd it ofE To send it me. lach. She writes so to you, doth she ? Post. O, no, no, no! 'tis true. Here, take this too ; {Gives the ring. It is a basilisk unto mine eye. Kills me to look on 't. Let there be no honour 784 Where there is beauty; truth, where semblance; love. Where there 's another man : the vows of women Of no more bondage be, to where they are made. Than they are to their virtues ; which is nothing. O, above measure false ! Phi. Have patience, sir. And take your ring again ; 't is not yet won : It may be probable she lost it ; or Who knows if one of her women, being corrupted. Hath stol'n it from her ? Post. Very true ; And so, I hope, he came by 't. Back my ring : Render to me some corporal sign about her. More evident than this ; for this was stolen. lach. By Jupiter, I had it from her arm. Post. Hark you, he swears ; by Jupiter he swears. 'Tis true — nay, keep the ring — 't is true : I am sure She would not lose it : her attendants are [it ! All sworn and honourable: — they induced to steal And by a stranger ! — No, he hath enjoyed her : The cognizance of her incontinency Is this : she hath bought the name of whore thus dearly. There, take thy hire ; and aU the fiends of hell Divide themselves between you ! Phi. Sir, be patient : This is not strong enough to be believed Of one persuaded well of — Post. Kever talk on 't ; She hath been colted by him. lach. If you seek For further satisfying, imder her breast — Worthy the pressing — lies a mole, right proud Of that most delicate lodgiug : by my life, I kiss'd it ; and it gave me present htmger To feed again, though full. You do remember This stain upon her ? Post. Ay, and it doth confirm Another stain, as big as hell can hold, Were there no more but it. lach. Will you hear more ? Post. Spare your arithmetic: never count the Once, and a million ! [turns ; lach. I '11 be sworn— Post. No swearing. If you will swear you have not done 't, you lie ; And I will km thee, if thou dost deny Thou 'st made me cuckold. lach. I '11 deny nothing. Post. O, that I had her here, to tear her limb-meal I I will go there and do 't, i' the court, before Her father. I '11 do something — [Exit. Phi. Quite besides • The government of patience ! You have won : Let 's follow him, and pervert the present wrath He hath against himself. lach. With all my heart. [Exeunt. SCENE V. — Another room in Philario'^s house. Enter Posthumus. Post. Is there no way for men to be but women Must be half -workers ? We are all bastards ; And that most venerable man which I Did call my father, was I know not where When I was stamp 'd; some coiner with his tools Made me a counterfeit : yet my mother seem'd The Dian of that time : so doth my wife The nonpareil of this. O, vengeance, vengeance ! Me of my lawful pleasure she restrain 'd And pray'd me oft forbearance; did it with A pudency so rosy the sweet view on 't [her Might well have warm'd old Saturn ; that I thought As chaste as unsunn'd snow. O, all the devils ! This yellow lachimo, in an hour,— was 't not ? — Or less, — at first ? — perchance he spoke not, but. CYMBELINE. SCENE II. Like a full-acorn 'd boar, a German one, Cried ' O ! ' and mounted ; found no opposition But what he look'd for should oppose and she Should from encounter guard. Could I find out The woman's part in me ! For there 's no motion That tends to vice in man, but I affirm It is the woman's part : be it lying, note it, The woman's ; flattering, hers ; deceiving, hers ; Lust and rank thoughts, hers, hers ; revenges, hers ; Ambitione, covetings, change of prides, disdain, Nice longing, slanders, mutability. All faults that may be named, nay, that hell knows, Why, hers, in part or all ; but rather, all ; For even to vice They are not constant, but are changing still One vice, but of a minute old, for one Not half so old as that. I '11 write against them, Detest them, curse them : yet 'tis greater skill In a true hate, to pray they have their will: The very devils cannot plague them better. [Exit. A.CT III. SCENE I. — Britain. A hall in Cymbeline^s palace. Enter in state, Cymbeline, Queen, Cloten, and Lords at one door, and at another, Caius Lucius and At- tendants. Cym. Now say, what would Augustus Caesar with us ? [yet Luc. When Julius Caesar, whose remembrance Lives in men's eyes and will to ears and tongues Be theme and hearing ever, was in this Britain And conquer'd it, Cassibelan, thine uncle, — Famous in Caesar's praises, no whit less Than m his feats deserving it — for him And his succession granted Eome a tribute. Yearly three thousand pounds, which by thee lately Is left untender'd. Queen. And, to kill the marvel, Shall be so ever. Clo. There be many Caesars, Ere such another Julius. Britain is A world by itself ; and we will nothing pay For wearing our own noses. Queen. That opportunity Which then they had to take from 's, to resume We have again. Kemember, sir, my liege, The kings your ancestors, together with The natural bravery of your isle, which stands As Neptune's park, ribbed and paled in With rocks unscaleable and roaring waters. With sands that will not bear your enemies' boats, But suck them up to the topmast. A kind of con- quest Caesar made here ; but made not here his brag Of ' Came ' and 'saw' and ' overcame : ' with shame— The first that ever touch 'd him — he was carried From ofE our coast, twice beaten ; and his shipping — Poor ignorant baubles!— on our terrible seas. Like e^g-shells moved upon their surges, crack'd As easily 'gainst our rocks : for joy whereof The famed Cassibelan, who was once at point — O giglot fortune!— to master Caesar's sword, Made Lud's town with rejoicing fires bright And Britons strut with courage. Clo. Come, there's no more tribute to be paid: our kingdom is stronger than' it was at that time; and, as I said, there is no moe such Caesars : other of them may have crook'd noses, but to owe siich straight arms, none. Cym. Son, let your mother end. Clo. We have yet many among us can gripe as hard as Cassibelan : I do not say I am one ; but I have a hand. Why tribute i* why should we pay tribute ? If Caesar can hide the sun from us with a blanket, or put the moon in his pocket, we will pay him tribute for light ; else, sir, no more tribute, pray you now. Cym. You must know. Till the injurious Eomans did extort [tion. This tribute from us, we were free: Caesar's ambi- Which swell 'd so much that it did almost stretch The sides o' the world, against all colour here Did put the yoke upon 's ; which to shake off 50 Becomes a warlike people, whom we reckon Ourselves to be. Clo. and Lords. We do. Cym. Say, then, to Caesar, Our ancestor was that Mulmutius which Ordain'd our laws, whose use the sword of Caesar Hath too much mangled ; whose repair and franchise Shall, by the power we hold, be our good deed, Though Kome be therefore angry ; Mulmutius made our laws. Who was the first of Britain which did put His brows within a golden crown and call'd Himself a king. Luc. I am sorry, Cymbeline, That I am to pronounce Augustus Caesar— Caesar, that hath more kings his servants than Thyself domestic ofiicers— thine enemy : Eeceive it from me, then : war and confusion In Caesar's name pronounce I 'gainst thee : look For fury not to be resisted. Thus defied, I thank thee for myself. Cym. Thou art welcome, Caius, Thy Caesar knighted me ; my youth I spent Much under him ; of him I gather'd honour ; Which he to seek of me again, perforce. Behoves me keep at utterance. I am perfect That the Pannonians and Dalmatians for Their liberties are now in arms ; a precedent Which not to read would show the Britons cold : So Caesar shall not find them. Luc. Let proof speak. Clo. His majesty bids you welcome. Make pas- time with us a day or two, or longer : if you seek us afterwards in other terms, you shall find us in our salt-water girdle : if you beat us out of it, it is yours ; if you fall in the adventure, our crows shall fare the better for you ; and there 's an end. Luc. So, sir. Cym. I know your master's pleasure and he mine : All the remain is ' Welcome I ' [Exeunt. SCENE II. — Another room in the palace. Enter Pisanio, with a letter. Pis. How I of adultery ? Wherefore write you not What monster 's her accuser ? Leonatus ! O master I what a strange infection Is fall'n into thy ear ! What false Italian, As poisonous-tongued as handed, hath prevail'd On thy too-ready hearing ? Disloyal ! No : She 's punish'd for her truth, and undergoes. More goddess-like than wife-like, such assaults As would take in some virtue. O my master! Thy mind to her is now as low as were Thy fortunes. How ! that I should murder her ? Upon the love and truth and vows which I Have made to thy command ? I, her ? her blood ? If it be so to do good service, never Let me be counted serviceable. How look I, That I should seem to lack humanity [the letter So much as this fact comes to ? [Beading] ' Do 't : 785 ACT III. CYMBELINE. SCENE III. That I have sent her, by her own command Shall give thee opportunity. ' O damn'd paper ! Black as the ink that 's on thee ! Senseless bauble, Art thou a feodary for this act, and look'st So virgin-like without ? Lo, here she comes. I am ignorant in what I am commanded. Enter Iraogen. Imo. How now, Pisanio ? Fis. Madam, here is a letter from my lord. Imo. Who ? thy lord ? that is my lord, Leonatus I O, learn 'd indeed were that astronomer That knew the stars as I his characters ; He 'Id lay the future open. You good gods, Let what is here contain 'd relish of love, Of my lord's health, of his content, yet not That we two are asunder ; let that grieve him : Some griefs are med'cinable; that is one of them, For it doth physic love : of his content, All but in that ! Good wax, thy leave. Blest be You bees that make these locks of counsel ! Lovers And men in dangerous bonds pray not alike : Though forfeiters you cast in prison, yet You clasp young Cupid's tables. Good news, gods ! [Beads\ 'Justice, and your father's wrath, should he take me in his dominion, could not be so cruel to me, as you, O the dearest of creatures, would even renew me with your eyes. Take notice that I am in Cambria, at Milford-Haven : what your own love will out of this advise you, follow. So he wishes you all happiness, that remains loyal to his vow,and your, increasing in love, Leonatus Posthumxts.' O, for a horse with wings ! Hear'st thou, Pisanio ? He is at Milford-Haven : read, and tell me How far 't is thither. If one of mean affairs May plod it in a week, why may not I Glide thither in a day ? Then, true Pisanio,— Who long'st, like me, to see thy lord ; who long'st, — O, let me bate, — but not like me — yet long'st. But in a fainter kind : — O, not like me ; For mine 's beyond beyond — say, and speak thick ; Love's counsellor should fill the bores of hearing, To the smothering of the sense —how far it is To this same blessed Milford : and by the way Tell me how Wales was made so happy as To inherit such a haven : but first of all. How we may steal from hence, and for the gap That we shall make in time, from our hence-going And our return, to excuse : but first, how get hence : Why should excuse be born or e'er begot ? We '11 talk of that hereafter. Prithee, speak, How many score of miles may we well ride 'Twixt hour and hour ? Pis. One score 'twixt sun and sun. Madam, 's enough for you : [Aside] and too much too. Imo. Why, one that rode to 's execution, man. Could never go so slow : I have heard of riding wagers. Where horses have been nimbler than the sands That run i' the clock's behalf. But this is foolery : Go bid my woman feign a sickness ; say She '11 home to her father : and provide me presently A riding-suit, no costlier than would fit A franklin's housewife. Pis. Madam, you 're best consider. Imo. I see before me, man : nor here, nor here, Nor what ensues, but have a fog in them, That I cannot look through. Away, I prithee ; Do as I bid thee : there 's no more to say ; Accessible is none but Milford way. {Exeunt. SCENE III. — Wales : a mountainous country with a cave. Enter, from the cave, Belarius ; Guiderius and Ar vir agus fo llowing. Bel. A goodly day not to keep house, with such Whose roof 's as low as ours ! Stoop, boys ; this gate Instructs you how to adore the heavens and bows you To a morning's holy office : the gates of monarchs Are arch'd so high that giants may jet through And keep their impious turbans on, without Good-morrow to the sun. Hail, thou fair heaven! We house i' the rock, yet use thee not so hardly As prouder livers do. Gui. Hail, heaven ! Arv. Hail, heaven! Bel. Now for our mountain sport : up to yond hill ; Your legs are young ; I '11 tread these flats. Con- When you above perceive me like a crow, [sider, That it is place which lessens and sets off : And you may then revolve what tales I have told Of courts, of princes, of the tricks in war : [you This service is not service, so being done, But being so allow' d: to apprehend thus, Draws us a profit from all things we see ; And often, to our comfort, shall we find The sharded beetle in a safer hold Than is the full-wing 'd eagle. O, this life Is nobler than attending for a check, Richer than doing nothing for a bauble, Prouder than rustlmg in unpaid-for silk : Such gain the cap of him that makes 'em fine, Yet keeps his book uncross'd : no life to ours. Gui. Out of your proof you speak : we, poor im- fledged, [not Have never wing'd from view o' the nest, nor know What air 's from home. Haply this life is best, If quiet life be best ; sweeter to you That have a sharper known ; well corresponding With your stiff age ; but unto us it is A cell of ignorance ; travelling a-bed ; A prison for a debtor, that not dares To stride a limit. Arv. What should we speak of When we are old as you ? when we shall hear The rain and wind beat dark December, how, In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse The freezing hours away ? We have seen nothing ; We are beastly, subtle as the fox for prey, Like warlike as the wolf for what we eat ; Our valour is to chase what flies ; our cage We make a quire, as doth the prison'd bird, And sing our bondage freely. Bel. How you speak ! Did you but know the city's usuries And felt them knowingly ; the art o' the court, As hard to leave as keep ; whose top to climb Is certain falling, or so slippery that The fear 's as bad as falling ; the toil o' the war, A pain that only seems to seek out danger [search, I' the name of fame and honour ; which dies i' the And hath as oft a slanderous epitaph As record of fair act ; nay, many times. Doth ill deserve by doing well ; what 's worse. Must court'sy at the censure:— O boys, this story The world may read in me : my body 's mark'd With Eoman swords, and my report was once First with the best of note : Cymbeline loved me, And when a soldier was the theme, my name Was not far off : then was I as a tree [night, Whose boughs did bend with fruit: but in one A storm or robbery, call it what you will, Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, And left me bare to weather. G^d. Uncertain favour ! Bel. My fault being nothing — as I have told you oft — But that two villains, whose false oaths prevail'd Before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline I was confederate with the Eomans : so FoUow'd my banishment, and this twenty years This rock and these demesnes have been my world; Where I have lived at honest freedom, paid More pious debts to heaven than in aU ACT III. CYMBELINE. SCENE IV. The fore-end of my time. But up to the mountains ! This is not hunters' language : he that strikes The venison first shall be the lord o' the feast ; To him the other two shall minister ; And we will fear no poison, which attends In place of greater state. I '11 meet you in the val- leys. [Exeunt Guiderius andArviragus. How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature ! These boys know little tliey are sons to the king ; 'Nov Cym'beline dreams that they are alive. They think they are mine ; and though train 'd up thus meanly I' the cave wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit The roofs of palaces, and nature prompts them In simple and low things to prince it much Beyond the trick of others. This Polydore, The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, who The king his father call'd Guiderius, — Jove! When on my three-foot stool I sit and tell The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out Into my story : say ' Thus mine enemy fell. And thus I set my foot on 's neck ; ' even then The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats, Strains his young nerves and puts himself in posture That acts my words. The younger brother, Oadwal, Once Arviragus, in as like a figure. Strikes life into my speech and shows much more His own conceiving. — Hark, the game is roused ! — O Cymbeline ! heaven and my conscience knows Thou didst unjustly banish me : whereon. At three and two years old, I stole these babes ; Thinking to bar thee of succession, as Thou reft'st me of my lands. Euriphile, Thou wast their nurse ; they took thee for their And every day do honour to her grave : [mother, Myself, Belarius, that am Morgan call'd, They take for natural father. The game is up. [Exit. SCENE IV.— Country near Milford-Haven. Enter Pisanio and Imogen. Imo. Thou told'st me, when we came from horse, the place "Was near at hand : ne'er long'd my mother so To see me first, as I have now. Pisanio ! man ! Where is Posthumus ? What is in thy mind. That makes thee stare thus? Wherefore breaks that sigh Prom the inward of thee ? One, but painted thus, Would be interpreted a thing perplex 'd Beyond self -explication : put thyself Into a haviour of less fear, ere wildness Vanquish my staider senses. What 's the matter ? Why tender'st thou that paper to me, with A look untender ? If 't be summer news, Smile to 't before ; if winterly, thou need'st But keep that countenance still. My husband's hand! That drug-damn'd Italy hath out-craftied him, And he 's at some hard point. Speak, man : thy tongue May take off some extremity, which to read Would be even mortal to me. Pis. Please you, read ; And you shall find me, wretched man, a thing The most disdain'd of fortune. Imo. [Beads] ' Thy mistress, Pisanio, hath played the strumpet in my bed ; the testimonies whereof lie bleeding in me. I speak not out of weak sur- mises, but from proof as strong as my grief and as certain as I expect my revenge. That part thou, Pisanio, must act for me, if thy faith be not tainted with the breach of hers. Let thine own hands take away her life : I shall give thee opportunity at Mil- ford-Haven. She hath my letter for the purpose : where, if thou fear to strike and to make me certain it is done, thou art the pandar to her dishonour and equally to me disloyal.' Pis. What shall I need to draw my sword ? the paper Hath cut her throat already. No, 't is slander, Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongue Outvenoms all the worms of Nile, whose breath Kides on the posting winds and doth belie All corners of the world : kings, queens and states, Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave This viperous slander enters. What cheer, madam ? Imo. False to his bed ! What is it to be false ? To lie in watch there and to think on him ? To weep 'twixt clock and clock ? if sleep charge na- To break it with a fearful dream of him [ture^ And cry myself awake ? that 's false to 's bed, is it ? Pis. Alas, good lady ! Imo. I false ! Thy conscience witness : lachimo. Thou didst accuse him of incontinency ; Thou then look'dst like a villain ; now methinks Thy favour 's good enough. Some jay of Italy Whose mother was her painting, hath betray 'd him; Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion ; And, for I am richer than to hang by the walls, I must be ripp'd : — to pieces with me ! — O, Men 's vows are women's traitors ! All good seeming, By thy revolt, O husband, shall be thought Put on for villany; not born where 't grows, But worn a bait for ladies. Pis. Good madam, hear me. Imo. True honest men being heard, like false Were in his time thought false, and Sinon's weeping Did scandal many a holy tear, took pity From most true wretchedness : so thou, Posthumus, Wilt lay the leaven on all proper men ; Goodly and gallant shall be false and perjured Prom thy great fail. Come, fellow, be thou honest : Do thou thy master's bidding: when thou see'st him, A little witness my obedience : look ! I draw the sword myself : take it, and hit The innocent mansion of my love, my heart : Fear not ; 't is empty of all things but grief : Thy master is not there, who was indeed The riches of it : do his bidding ; strike Thou mayst be valiant in a better cause ; But now thou seem'st a coward. Pis. Hence, vile instrument ! Thou shalt not damn my hand. Imo. Why, I must die ; And if I do not by thy hand, thou art No servant of thy master's. Against self-slaughter There is a prohibition so divine [heart. That cravens my weak hand. Come, here 's my Something 's afore 't. Soft, soft ! we '11 no defence ; Obedient as the scabbard. What is here ? The scriptures of the loyal Leonatus, All turn'd to heresy ? Away, away. Corrupters of my faith ! you shall no more Be stomachers to my heart. Thus may poor fools Believe false teachers : though those that are betray 'd Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor Stands in worse case of woe. And thou, Posthumus, thou that didst set up My disobedience 'gainst the king my father And make me put into contempt the suits Of princely fellows, shall hereafter find It is no act of common passage, but A strain of rareness ; and I grieve myself To think, when thou shalt be disedged by her That now thou tirest on, how thy memory Will then be pang'd by me. Prithee, dispatch: The lamb entreats the butcher : where 's thy knife ? Thou art too slow to do thy master's bidding, When I desire it too. Pis. O gracious lady. Since I received command to do this business I have not slept one wink. Imo. Do 't, and to bed then. 787 ACT III. CYMBELINE. SCENE V, Pis. I '11 wake mine eye-balls blind first. Imo. Wherefore then Didst undertake it ? "Why hast thou abused So many miles with a pretence ? this place i* Mine action and thine own ? our horses' labour ? The time inviting thee ? the perturb'd court, For my being absent ? whereunto I never Purpose return. Why hast thou gone so far, To be unbent when thou hast ta'en thy stand, The elected deer before thee ? Pis. But to win time To lose so bad employment ; in the which I have consider'd of a course. Good lady, Hear me with patience. Imo. Talk thy tongue weary ; speak : I have heard I am a strumpet ; and mine ear. Therein false struck, can take no greater wound, Nor tent to bottom that. But speak. Pis. Then, madam, I thought you would not back again. Imo. Most like ; Bringing me here to kill me. Pis. Not so, neither : But if I were as wise as honest, then My purpose would prove well. It cannot be But that my master is abused : Some villain, ay, and singular in his art, Hath done you both this cursed injury. Imo. Some Eoman courtezan. Pis. No, on my life. I '11 give but notice you are dead and send him Some bloody sign of it ; for 't is commanded I should do so : you shall be miss'd at court, And that will well confirm it. Imo. Why, good fellow, What shall I do the while ? where bide ? how live ? Or in my life what comfort, when I am Dead to my husband ? Pis. If you '11 back to the court— Imo. No court, no father ; nor no more ado With that harsh, noble, simple nothing. That Cloten, whose love-suit hatb been to me As fearful as a siege. Pis. If not at court, Then not in Britain must you bide. Imo. Where then ? Hath Britain all the sun that shines ? Day, night. Are they not but in Britain ? I' the world's volume Our Britain seems as of it, but not in 't ; In a great pool a swan's nest : prithee, think There 's livers out of Britain. Pis. I am most glad You think of other place. The ambassador, Lucius the Roman, comes to Milford-Haven To-morrow : now, if you could wear a mind Dark as your fortune is, and but disguise That which, to appear itself, must not yet be But by self -danger, you should tread a course Pretty and full of view; yea, haply, near The residence of Posthumus ; so nigh at least That though his actions were not visible, yet Eeport should render him hourly to your ear As truly as he moves. Imo. O, for such means ! Though peril to my modesty, not death on 't, I would adventure. Pis. Well, then, here 's the point : You must forget to be a woman ; change Command into obedience; fear and niceness — The handmaids of all women, or, more truly, Woman its pretty self — into a waggish courage ; Beady in gibes, quick-answer'd, saucy and As quarrelous as the weasel ; nay, you must Forget that rarest treasure of your cheek. Exposing it — but, O, the harder heart ! Alack, no remedy ! — to the greedy touch Of common-kissing Titan, and forget Your laboursome and dainty trims, wherein You made great Juno angry. Imo. Nay, be brief : I see into thy end, and am almost A man already. Pis. First, make yourself but like one. Fore-thinking this, I have already fit — 'T is in my cloak-bag — doublet, hat, hose, all That answer to them : would you in theii- serving. And with what imitation you can borrow From youth of such a season, 'fore noble Lucius Present yourself, desire his service, tell him [know. Wherein you're happy, — which you'll make him If that his head have ear in music, — doubtless With joy he will embrace you, for he 's honourable And doubling that, most holy. Your means abroad. You have me, rich ; and I wiU never fail Beginning nor supplyment. Imo. Thou art all the comfort The gods wiU diet me with. Prithee, away : There 's more to be consider 'd ; but we '11 even All that good time will give us : this attempt I am soldier to, and will abide it with A prince's courage. Away, I prithee. Pis. Well, madam, we must take a short farewell. Lest, being miss'd, I be suspected of Your carriage from the court. My noble mistress, Here is a box ; I had it from the queen : What 's in 't is precious; if you are sick at sea, Or stomach-qualm'd at land, a dram of this Will drive away distemper. To some shade. And fit you to your manhood. May the gods Direct you to the best ! 7mo. Amen : I thank thee. [Exeunt^ severally, SCENE V. — A room in Cymbeline''s palace. Enter Csnnbeline, Queen, Cloten, Lucius, Lords, and Attendants. Cym. Thus far; and so farewell. Luc. Thanks, royal sir. My emperor hath wrote, I must from hence ; And am right sorry that I must report ye My master^s enemy. Cym. Our subjects, sir. Will not endure his yoke ; and for ourself To show less sovereignty than they, must needs Appear unkinglike. Luc. So, sir: I desire of you A conduct over-land to Milford-Haven. Madam, all joy befal your grace ! Queen. And you ! Cym. My lords, you are appointed for that office ; The due of honour in no point omit. So farewell, noble Lucius. Luc. Your hand, my lord. Clo. Receive it friendly ; but from this time forth I wear it as your enemy. Luc. Sir, the event Is yet to name the winner : fare you well. Cym. Leave not the worthy Lucius, good my lords, Till he have cross'd the Severn. Happiness ! [Exeunt Lucius and Lords. Queen. He goes hence frowning : but it honours That we have given him cause. [us Clo. 'T is all the better ; Your valiant Britons have their wishes in it. Cym. Lucius hath wrote already to the emperor How it goes here. It fits us therefore ripely Our chariots and our horsemen be in readiness : The powers that he already hath in Gallia Will soon be drawn to head, from whence he moves His war for Britain. Queen. 'T is not sleepy business ; But must be look'd to speedily and strongly. Cym. Our expectation that it would be thus Hath made us forward. But, my gentle queen, ACT III. CYMBELINE. SCENE V, Where is our daughter? She hath not appear 'd Before the Koman, nor to us hath tender'd The duty of the day : she looks us like A thing more made of malice than of duty : "VVe have noted it. Call her before us ; for We have been too slight in sufferance. [Exit an Attendant. Queen. Royal sir, Since the exile of Posthumus, most retired Hath her life been ; the cure whereof, my lord, 'T is time must do. Beseech your majesty, Forbear sharp speeches to her : she 's a lady So tender of rebukes that words are strokes And strokes death to her. He-enter Attendant. Cym. Where is she, sir ? How Can her contempt be answer'd ? Atten. Please you, sir, Her chambers are all lock'd ; and there 's no answer That wiU be given to the loudest noise we make. Queen. My lord, when last I went to visit her, She pray'd me to excuse her keeping close, Whereto constrain 'd by her infirmity. She should that duty leave unpaid to you, Which daily she was bound to proffer : this She wish'd me to make known ; but our great court Made me to blame in memory. Cym. Her doors lock'd ? Not seen of late ? Grant, heavens, that which I fear Prove false ! [Exit. Queen. Son, I say, follow the king. Clo. That man of hers, Pisanio, her old servant, I have not seen these two days. Queen. Go, look after. [Exit Cloten. Pisanio, thou that stand 'st so for Posthumus! He hath a drug of mine ; I pray his absence Proceed by swallowing that, for he believes It is a thing most precious. But for her, Where is she gone :* Haply, despair hath seized her. Or, wing'd with fervour of her love, she 's flown To her desired Posthumus: gone she is To death or to dishonour ; and my end Can make good use of either : she being down, I have the placing of the British crown. Be-enter Cloten. How now, my son ! Clo. 'T is certain she is fled. Go in and cheer the king : he rages ; none Dare come about him. Queen. [Aside] All the better : may This night forestall him of the coming day ! [Exit. Clo. 1 love and hate her : for she 's fair and royal, And that she hath all courtly parts more exquisite Than lady, ladies, woman ; from every one The best she hath, and she, of all compounded. Outsells them all ; I love her therefore : but Disdaining me and throwing favours on The low Posthumus slanders so her judgment That what 's else rare is choked ; and in that point I wiU conclude to hate her, nay, indeed. To be revenged upon her. For when fools ShaU— Enter Pisanio. Who is here ? What, are you packing, sirrah ? Come hither : ah, you precious pandar ! V illain. Where is thy lady ? In a word ; or else Thou art straightway with the fiends. Pis. O, good my lord ! Clo. Where is thy lady ? or, by Jupiter,— I will not ask again. Close villain, I '11 have this secret from thy heart, or rip Thy heart to find it. Is she with Posthumus ? From whose so many weights of baseness cannot A dram of worth be drawn. Pis. Alas, my lord. How can she be with him ? When was she miss'd ? He is in Rome. Clo. Where is she, sir ? Come nearer; No further halting : satisfy me home What is become of her. Pis. O, my all-worthy lord ! Clo. All-worthy villain I Discover where thy mistress is at once, At the next word : no more of ' worthy lord ! ' Speak, or thy silence on the instant is Thy condemnation and thy death. Pis. Then, sir. This paper is the history of my knowledge Touching her flight. [Presenting a letter. Clo. Let 's see 't. I will pursue her Even to Augustus' throne. Pis. [Aside] Or this, or perish. She 's far enough ; and what he learns by this May prove his travel, not her danger. ao. Hum! Pis. [Aside] I '11 write to my lord she 's dead. O Imogen, Safe mayst thou wander, safe return again ! Clo. Sirrah, is this letter true ? Pis. Sir, as I think. Clo. It is Posthumus' hand ; I know 't. Sirrah, if thou wouldst not be a villain, but do me true service, imdergo those employments wherein I should have cause to use thee with a serious in- dustry, that is, what villany soe'er I bid thee do, to perform it directly and truly, I would think thee an honest man: thou shouldst neither want my means for thy relief nor my voice for thy pre- Pis. Well, my good lord. [ferment. Clo. Wilt thou serve me ? for since patiently and constantly thou hast stuck to the bare fortune of that beggar Posthumus, thou canst not, in the course of gratitude, but be a diligent follower of mine : wilt thou serve me V Pis. Sir, I will. Clo. Give me thy hand : here 's my purse. Hast any of thy late master's garments in thy possession? Pis. I have, my lord, at my lodging, the same suit he wore when he took leave of my lady and mistress. Clo. The first service thou dost me, fetch that suit hither : let it be thy first service ; go. Pis. I shall, my lord. [Exit. Clo. Meet thee at Milford-Haven!— I forgot to ask him one thing ; I '11 remember 't anon : — even there, thou villain Posthumus, will I kill thee. I would these garments were come. She said upon a time — the bitterness of it I now belch from my heart— that she held the very garment of Post- humus in more respect than my noble and natural person, together with the adornment of my quali- ties. With that suit upon my back, will I ravish her: first kill him, and in her eyes; there shall she see my valour, which will then be a torment to her contempt. He on the ground, my speech of insultment ended on his dead body, and when my lust hath dined,— which, as I say, to vex her I wiU execute in the clothes that she so praised, — to the court I '11 knock her back, foot her home again. She hath despised me rejoicingly, and I 'U be merry in my revenge. Be-enter Pisanio, with the clothes. Be those the garments ? Pis. Ay, my noble lord. [Haven ? Clo. How long is 't since she went to Milford- Pis. She can scarce be there yet. Clo. Bring this apparel to my chamber ; that is the second thing tliat I have commanded thee : the third is, that thou wilt be a voluntary mute to my design. Be but duteous, and true preferment shall tender itself to thee. My revenge is now at Mil- ACT III. CYMBELINE. SCENE VII. ford : would I had wings to follow it ! Come, and be true. [Ex,it. Pis. Thou bid'st me to my loss : for true to thee Were to prove false, which I will never be, To him that is most true. To Milford go, And find not her whom thou pursuest. Flow, flow. You heavenly blessings, on her! This fool's speed Be cross 'd with slowness; labour be his meed ! [Exit. SCENE VI.— Wales. Before the cave of Belarius. Enter Imogen, in boy^s clothes. Imo. I see a man's life is a tedious one : I have tired myself, and for two nights together Have made the ground my bed. I should be sick, But that my resolution helps me. Milford, "When from the mountain-top Pisanio show'd thee, Thou wast within a ken : O Jove ! I think Foundations fly the wretched; such, I mean, [me Where they should be relieved. Two beggars told I could not miss my way: will poor folks lie. That have afflictions on them, knowing 'tis A punishment or trial ? Yes ; no wonder. When rich ones scarce tell true. To lapse in fulness Is sorer than to lie for need, and falsehood Is worse in kings than beggars. My dear lord ! Thou art one o' the false ones. Now I think on thee, My hunger 's gone ; but even before, I was At point to sink for food. But what is this ? Here is a path to 't : 't is some savage hold : I were best not call ; I dare not call : yet famine, Ere clean it o'erthrow nature, makes it valiant. Plenty and peace breeds cowards : hardness ever Of hardiness is mother. Ho ! who 's here ? If any thing that 's civil, speak ; if savage. Take or lend. Ho ! No answer ? Then I '11 enter. Best draw my sword ; and if mine enemy But fear the sword like me, he '11 scarcely look on 't. Such a foe, good heavens ! [Exit, to the cave. Enter Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragns. Bel. You, Polydore, have proved best woodman Are master of the feast : Cadwal and I [and Will play the cook and servant ; 't is our match : The sweat of industry would dry and die. But for the end it works to. Come ; our stomachs Will make what 's homely savoury : weariness Can snore upon the flint, when resty sloth Finds the down pillow hard. Now peace be here. Poor house, that keep'st thyself! Qui. I am throughly weary. Arv. I am weak with toih yet strong in appetite. Gui. There is cold meat iHhe cave : we '11 browse Whilst what we have kill'd be cook'd. [on that, Bel. [Looking into the cave] Stay ; come not in. But that it eats our victuals, I should think Here were a fairy. Gui. What 's the matter, sir ? Bel. By Jupiter, an angel ! or, if not, An earthly paragon. Behold divineness No elder than a boy ! Be-enter Imogen. Imo. Good masters, harm me not : Before I enter'd here, I call'd ; and thought To have begg'd or bought what I have took : good troth, [found I have stol'n nought, nor would not, though I had Gold strew 'd i' the floor. Here 's money for my I would have left it on the board so soon [meat : As I had made my meal, and parted With prayers for the provider. Gui. Money, youth ? Arv. All gold and silver rather turn to dirt ! And 't is no better reckon'd, but of those Who worship dirty gods. 790 Imo. Know, if you kill me for my I see you 're angry : you kill me for my fault, ,^ -'- — ^ ^ Have died had I not made it. I should Whither bound ? Bel. Imo. To Milford-Haven. Bel. What 's your name ? Imo. Fidele, sir. I have a kinsman who Is bound for Italy ; he embark'd at Milford ; To whom being going, almost spent with hunger, I am fall'n in this offence. Bel. Prithee, fair youth, Think us no churls, nor measure our good minds By this rude place we live in. Well encounter'd ! 'T is almost night : you shall have better cheer Ere you depart ; and thanks to stay and eat it. Boys, bid him welcome. Gui. Were you a woman, youth, I should woo hard but be your groom. In honesty, I bid for you as I 'Id buy. Arv. I '11 make 't my comfort He is a man ; I '11 love him as my brother : And such a welcome as I 'Id give to him After long absence, such is yours: most welcome! Be sprightly, for you fall 'mongst friends. Imo. 'Mongst friends. If brothers. [Aside] Would it had been so, that they Had been my father's sons ! then had my prize Been less, and so more equal balla.sting To thee, Posthumus. Bel. He wrings at some distress. Gui. Would I could free 't! Arv. Or I, whate'er it be. What pain it cost, what danger. Gods ! Bel. Hark, boys. [ Whispering. Imo. Great men. That had a court no bigger than this cave. That did attend themselves and had the virtue Which their own conscience seal'd them — ^laying by That nothing-gift of differing multitudes — Could not out-peer these twain. Pardon- me, gods ! I 'Id change my sex to be companion with them. Since Leonatus 's false. Bel. It shall be so. Boys, we '11 go dress our hunt. Fair youth, come in : Discourse is heavy, fasting ; when we have supp'd. We '11 mannerly demand thee of thy story. So far as thou wilt speak it. Gv,i. Pray, draw near. Arv. The night to the owl and morn to the lark less welcome. Imo. Thanks, sir. Arv. I pray, draw near. [Exeunt. SCENE VII.— JBome, A public place. Enter two Senators and Tribunes. First Sen. This is the tenour of the emperor's writ : That since the common men are now in action 'Gainst the Pannonians and Dalmatians, And that the legions now in Gallia are Full weak to undertake our wars against The fall'n-off Britons, that we do incite The gentry to this business. He creates Lucius proconsul : and to you the tribunes, For this immediate levy, he commends His absolute commission. Long live Caesar I First Tri. Is Lucius general of the forces ? Sec. Sen. Ay. First Tri. Eemaining now in Gallia ? First Sen. With those legions Which I have spoke of, whereunto your levy Must be supplyant : the words of yom- commission Will tie you to the numbers and the time Of their dispatch. First Tri. We will discharge our duty. [Exeunt. ACT IV. CYMBELINE. SCENE II. A^GT I^. SCENE I. — Wales : near the cave of Belaritis. Enter Cloten. Clo. I am near to the place where they should meet, if Pisanio have mapped it truly. How fit his garments serve me ! Why should his mistress, who was made by him that made the tailor, not be fit too y the rather — saving reverence of the word — for 't is said a woman's fitness comes by fits. There- in I must play the workman. I dare speak it to myself — for it is not vain-glory for a man and his glass to confer in his own chamber — I mean, the lines of my body are as well drawn as his ; no less young, more strong, not beneath him in fortunes, beyond him in the advantage of the time, above him in birth, alike conversant in general services, and more remarkable in single oppositions : yet this imperceiverant thing loves him in my despite. What mortality is ! Posthumus, thy head, which now is growing upon thy shoulders, shall within this hour be off ; thy mistress enforced ; thy garments cut to pieces before thy face : and all this done, spurn her home to her father; who may haply be a little angry for my so rough usage ; but my mother, having power of his testiness, shall turn all into my com- mendations. My horse is tied up safe : out, sword, and to a sore purpose ! Fortune, put them into my hand ! This is the very description of their meeting- place ; and the fellow dares not deceive me. [Exit. SCENE II. — Before the cave of Belarius. Enter, from the cave, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, and Imogen. Bel. [To Imogen] You are not well : remain here in We '11 come to you after hunting. [the cave ; Arv. [To Imogen] Brother, stay here : Are we not brothers ? Imo. So man and man should be ; But clay and clay differs in dignity, Whose dust is both alike. I am very sick. G-ui. Go you to hunting ; I '11 abide with him. Imo. So sick I am not, yet I am not well ; But not so citizen a wanton as To seem to die ere sick : so please you, leave me ; Stick to your journal course : the breach of custom Is breach of all. I am ill, but your being by me Cannot amend me ; society is no comfort To one not sociable : I am not very sick. Since I can reason of it. Pray you, trust me here : I '11 rob none but myseK ; and let me die, Stealing so poorly. Gui. 1 love thee ; I have spoke it : How much the quantity, the weight as much, As I do love my father. Bel. What! how! how! Arv. If it be sin to say so, sir, I yoke me In my good brother's fault : I know not why I love this youth ; and I have heard you say, Love's reason 's without reason : the bier at door, And a demand who is 't shall die, I 'Id say ' My father, not this youth.' Bel. [Aside] O noble strain ! worthiness of nature ! breed of greatness ! Cowards father cowards and base things sire base : ifature hath meal and bran, contempt and grace. 1 'm not their father ; yet who this should be. Doth miracle itself, loved before me. 'T is the ninth hour o' the morn. Arv. Brother, farewell. Imo. I wish ye sport. Arv. You health. So please you, sir. Imo. [Aside] These are kind creatures. Gods, what lies I have heard ! Our courtiers say all 's savage but at court : Experience, O, thou disprovest report ! The imperious seas breed monsters, for the dish Poor tributary rivers as sweet fish. I am sick still ; heart-sick. Pisanio, I '11 now taste of thy drug. [Swallows some, Gui. I could not stir him : He said he was gentle, but unfortunate ; Dishonestly afflicted, but yet honest. Arv. Thus did he answer me : yet said, hereafter I might know more. Bel. To the field, to the field I We '11 leave you for this time : go in and rest. Arv. We '11 not be long away. Bel. Pray, be not sick, For you must be our housewife. Imo. Well or ill, I am bound to you. Bel. And shalt be ever. [Exit Imogen, to the ca'ue. This youth, howe'er distress 'd, appears he hath had Good ancestors. Arv. How angel-like he sings ! Gui. But his neat cookery ! he cut our roots In characters, And sauced our broths, as Juno had been sick And he her dieter. Arv. Nobly he yokes A smiling with a sigh, as if the sigh Was that it was, for not being such a smile ; The smile mocking the sigh, that it would fly From so divine a temple, to commix With winds that sailors rail at. Gui. I do note That grief and patience, rooted in him both, Mingle their spurs together. Arv. Grow, patience ! And let the stinking elder, grief, untwine His perishing root with the increasing vine ! Bel. It is great morning. Come, away ! — Who 's there? Enter Cloten. Clo. I cannot find those runagates ; that villain Hath mock'd me. I am faint. Bel. Those runagates ! Means he not us ? I partly know him : 't is Cloten, the son o' the queen. I fear some ambush. I saw him not these many years, and yet I know 't is he. We are held as outlaws : hence ! Gui. He is but one : you and my brother search What companies are near: pray you, away; Let me alone with him. [Exeunt Belarius and Arviragus. Clo. Soft! What are you That fly me thus ? some villain mountaineers ? I have heard of such. What slave art thou ? Gui. A thing More slavish did I ne'er than answering A slave without a knock. Clo. Thou art a robber, A law-breaker, a villain : yield thee, thief. Gui. To who ? to thee ? What art thou ? Have not I An arm as big as thine ? a heart as big ? Thy words, I grant, are bigger, for I wear not My dagger in my mouth. Say what thou art. Why I should yield to thee ? Clo. Thou villain base, Know'st me not by my clothes ? Gui. No, nor thy tailor, rascal, Who is thy grandfather : he made those clothes. Which, as it seems, make thee. Clo. Thou precious varlet, My tailor made them not. 791 ACT IV. CYMBELINE. SCENE II. Gui. Hence, then, and thank The man that gave them thee. Thou art some fool ; I am loath to beat thee. Clo. Thou injurious thief, Hear but my name, and tremble. Gui. "What 's thy name ? Clo. Clo ten, thou villain. Gui. Cloten, thou double villain, be thy name, I cannot tremble at it : were it Toad, or Adder, Spi- 'T would move me sooner. [der, Clo. To thy further fear, Kay, to thy mere confusion, thou shalt know I am son to the queen. Gui. I am sorry for 't ; not seeming So worthy as thy birth. Clo. Art not afeard ? Gui. Those that I reverence those I fear, the wise : At fools I laugh, not fear them. Clo. Die the death : When I have slain thee with my proper hand, I '11 follow those that even now fled hence. And on the gates of Lud's-town set your heads : Yield, rustic mountaineer. [Exeunt, fighting. Be-enter Belarius and Arviragus. Bel. No companies abroad ? [sure. Arv. None in the world : you did mistake him, Bel. I cannot tell : long is it since I saw him, But time hath nothing blurr'd those lines of favour Which then he wore ; the snatches in his voice, And burst of speaking, were as his : I am absolute 'T was very Cloten. Arv. In this place we left them : I wish my brother make good time with him, You say he is so fell. Bel. Being scarce made up, I mean, to man, he had not apprehension Of roaring terrors ; for the effect of judgment Is oft the cause of fear. But, see, thy brother. Be-enter Guiderius, with Oloten's head. Gui. This Cloten was a fool, an empty purse; There was no money in 't : not Hercules Could have knock'd out his brains, for he had none : Yet I not doing this, the fool had borne My head as I do his. Bel. What hast thou done ? Gtd. I am perfect what : cut off one Cloten 's head, Son to the queen , after his own report ; Who call'd me traitor, mountaineer, and swore With his own single hand he 'Id take us in, [grow. Displace our heads wliere — thank the gods ! — they And set them on Lud's-town. Bel. We are all imdone. Gui. Why, worthy father, what have Ave to lose. But that he swore to take, our lives ? The law Protects not us : then why should we be tender To let an arrogant piece of flesh threat us. Play judge and executioner all himself. For we do fear the law ? What company Discover you abroad ? Bel. No single soul Can we set eye on ; but in all safe reason He must have some attendants. Though his hmnour Was nothing but mutation, ay, and that Prom one bad thing to worse ; not frenzy, not Absolute madness could so far have raved To bring him here alone ; although perhaps It may be heard at court that such as we Cave here, hunt here, are outlaws, and in time May make some stronger head ; the which he hear- As it is like him — might break out, and swear [ing— He 'Id fetch us in ; yet is 't not probable To come alone, either he so imdertaking. Or they so suffering : then on good ground we fear. If we do fear this body hath a tail More perilous than the head. 792 Arv. Let ordinance Come as the gods foresay it : howsoe'er. My brother hath done well. Bel. I had no mind To hunt this day : the boy Pidele's sickness Did make my way long forth. Gui. With his own sword, Which he did wave against my throat, I have ta'en His head from him : I '11 throw 't into the creek Behind our rock; and let it to the sea. And tell the fishes he 's the queen's son, Cloten : That 's all I reck. [Exit. Bel. I fear 't wUl be revenged : Would, Polydore, thou hadst not done 't ! though valour Becomes thee well enough. Arv. Would I had done 't, So the revenge alone pursued me ! Polydore, I love thee brotherly, but envy much Thou hast robb'd me of this deed : I would revenges, That possible strength might meet, would seek us And put us to our answer. [through Bel. Well, 't is done : We '11 hunt no more to-day, nor seek for danger Where there 's no profit. I prithee, to our rock ; You and Pidele play the cooks: I '11 stay Till hasty Polydore return, and bring him To dinner presently. Arv. Poor sick Pidele ! I '11 willingly to him : to gain his colour I 'Id let a parish of such Clotens' blood, And praise myself for charity. [Exit. Bel. O thou goddess. Thou divine Nature, how thyself thou blazon'st In these two princely boys ! They are as gentle As zephyrs blowing below the violet. Not wagging his sweet head ; and yet as rough, Their royal blood enchafed, as the rudest wind, That by the top doth take the mountain pine. And make him stoop to the vale. 'T is wonder That an invisible instinct should frame them To royalty unlearn 'd, honour untaught, Civility not seen from other, valour That wildly grows in them, but yields a crop As if it had been sow'd. Yet still it 's strange What Cloten's being here to us portends, Or what his death will bring us. Be-enter Guiderius. Gui. Where 's my brother ? I have sent Cloten's clotpoU down the stream, In embassy to his mother : his body's hostage For his return. [Solemn music. Bel. My ingenious instrument ! Hark, Polydore, it sounds ! But what occasion Hath Cadwal now to give it motion ? Hark I Gui. Is he at home ? Bel. He went hence even now. Gui. What does he mean ? since death of my dear'st mother It did not speak before. All solemn things Should answer solemn accidents. The matter ? Triumphs for nothing and lamenting toys Is jollity for apes and grief for boys. Is Cadwal mad ? Bel. Look, here he comes. And brings the dire occasion in his arms Of what we blame him for. Be-enter Arviragus, with Imogen, as dead, bearing her in his arms. Arv. The bird is dead That we have made so much on. I had rather Have skipp'd from sixteen years of age to sixty, To have turn'd my leaping -time into a crutch, Than have seen this. Gui. O sweetest, fairest lily I -18 ACT IV. CYMBELINE. SCENE II. My brother wears thee not the one half so well As when thou grew'st thyself. Bel. O melancholy ! Who ever yet could sound thy bottom ? find The ooze, to show what coast thy sluggish crare Might easiliest harbour in ? Thou blessed thing ! Jove knows what man thou mightst have made; Thou diedst, a most rare boy, of melancholy, [but I, How found you him ? Arv. Stark, as you see : Thus smiling, as some fly had tickled slumber, Notasdeath'sdart, being laugh'dat : his right cheek Eeposing on a cushion. Gui. Where ? Arv. O' the floor; His arms thus leagued : I thought he slept, and put My clouted brogues from off my feet, whose rudeness Answer'd my steps too loud. Gui. Why, he but sleeps : If he be gone, he '11 make his grave a bed ; With female fairies will his tomb be haunted. And worms will not come to thee. Arv. With fairest flowers Whilst summer lasts and I live here, Fidele, I '11 sweeten thy sad grave : thou shalt not lack The flower that 's like thy face, pale primrose, nor The azured harebell, like thy veins, no, nor The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander, Out-sweeten'd not thy breath : the ruddock would. With charitable bill, — O bill, sore shaming Those rich-left heirs that let their fathers lie Without a monument ! — bring thee all this ; Yea, and furr'd moss besides, when flowers are To winter-ground thy corse. [none, Gui. Prithee, have done ; And do not play in wench-like words with that Which is so serious. Let us bury him. And not protract with admiration what Is now due debt. To the grave ! Arv. Say, where shall 's lay him ? Gui. By good Eirriphile, our mother. Arv. Be 't so : And let us, Polydore, though now our voices Have got the mannish crack, sing him to the ground, As once our mother ; use like note and words, Save that Euriphile must be Fidele. Gui. Cadwal, I cannot sing : I '11 weep, and word it with thee; For notes of sorrow out of tune are worse Than priests and fanes that lie. Arv. We '11 speak it, then. Bel. Great griefs, I see, medicine the less; for Cloten Is quite forgot. He was a queen's son, boys ; And though he came our enemy, remember [ting He was paid for that : though mean and mighty, rot- Together, have one dust, yet reverence. That angel of the world, doth make distinction Of place 'tween high and low. Our foe was princely : And though you took his life, as being our foe. Yet bury him as a prince. Gui. Pray you, fetch him hither. Thersites' body is as good as Ajax', When neither are alive. Arv. If you '11 go fetch him, We '11 say our song the whilst. Brother, begin. [Exit Belarius. Gui. Nay, Cadwal, we must lay his head to the My father hath a reason for 't. [east ; Arv. 'T is true. Gui. Come on then, and remove him. Arv. g^^^ So. Begin. Gui. Fear no more the heat o' the sxm, Nor the furious winter's rages ; Thou thy worldly task hast done. Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages : Golden lads and girls all must. As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. Arv. Fear no more the frown o' the great ; Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; Care no more to clothe and eat ; To thee the reed is as the oak : The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust. Gui. Fear no more the lightning-flash, Arv. Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone ; Gui. Fear not slander, censure rash ; Arv. Thou hast finish 'd joy and moan : Both. AU lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust. Gui. No exorciser harm thee ! Arv. Nor no witchcraft charm thee ! Gui. Ghost unlaid forbear thee ! Arv. Nothing ill come near thee ! Both. Quiet consummation have ; And renowned be thy grave ! Ee-enter Belarius, with the body of Cloten. Cfui. We have done our obsequies : come, lay him down. [more : Bel. Here's a few fiowers; but 'bout midnight, The herbs that have on them cold dew o' the night Are strewings fitt'st for graves. Upon their faces You were as flowers, now wither'd : even so These herblets shall, which we upon you strew. Come on, away : apart upon our knees. The ground that gave them first has them again : Their pleasures here are past, so is their pain. [Exeunt Belarius, Guiderius and Arviragus. Imo. [Aioaking] Yes, sir, to Milford-Haven ; which is the way ? — [thither ? I thank you. — By yond bush? — Pray, how far 'Ods pittikins ! can it be six mile yet ? — I have gone all night. 'Faith, I '11 lie down and sleep. But, soft ! no bedfellow ! — O gods and goddesses ! [Seeing the body of Cloten. These flowers are like the pleasures of the world ; This bloody man, the care on 't. I hope I dream ; For so I thought I was a cave-keeper, And cook to honest creatures : but 't is not so ; 'T was but a bolt of nothing, shot at nothing. Which the brain makes of fumes : our very eyes Are sometimes like our judgments, blind. Good I tremble stiU with fear : but if there be [faith, Yet left in heaven as small a drop of pity As a wren's eye, fear'd gods, a part of it ! The dream 's here still : even when I wake, it is Without me, as within me ; not imagined, felt. A headless man ! The garments of Posthumus ! I know the shape of 's leg : this is his hand ; His foot Mercurial ; his Martial thigh ; The brawns of Hercules : but his Jovial face — Murder in heaven ? —How ! — 'T is gone. Pisanio, All curses madded Hecuba gave the Greeks, And mine to boot, be darted on thee ! Thou, Conspired with that irregulous devil, Cloten, Hast here cut off my lord. To write and read Be henceforth treacherous ! Damn'd Pisanio Hath with his forged letters, — damn'd Pisanio — From this most bravest vessel of the world Struck the main-top ! O Posthumus ! alas, [that ? Where is thy head ? where 's that V Ay me ! where 's Pisanio might have kill'd thee at the heart. And left this head on. How should this be? Pisanio? 'T is he and Cloten : malice and lucre in them Have laid this woe here. O, 't is pregnant, pregnant ! The drug he gave me, which he said was precious And cordial to me, have I not found it Murderous to the senses ? That confirms it home.^ This is Pisanio's deed, and Cloten's : O ! 793 ACT IV. CYMBELINE. SCENE III. Give colour to my pale cheek with thy blood, That we the horrider may seem to those "Which chance to find us : O, my lord, my lord ! [Falls on the body. Enter Lucius, a Captain and other OflQcers, and a Soothsayer. Ca.f. To them the legions garrison'd in Gallia, After your will, have cross'd the sea, attending You here at Milford-Haven with your ships : They are in readiness. Luc. But what from Eome ? Cap. The senate hath stirr'd up the conflners And gentlemen of Italy, most willing spirits, That promise noble service : and they come Under the conduct of bold lachimo, Syenna's brother. Luc. "When expect you them ? Cap. With the next benefit o' the wind. Luc. This forwardness Makes our hopes fair. Command our present num- bers Be muster'd ; bid the captains look to 't. Now, sir, "What have you dream 'd of late of this war's purpose? Sooth. Last night the very gods show'd me a vision — I fast and pray'd for their intelligence— thus: I saw Jove's bird, the Koman eagle, wing'd From the spongy south to this part of the west, There vanish 'd in the sunbeams: which portends— Unless my sins abuse my divination — Success to the Eoman host. Luc. Dream often so. And never false. Soft, ho ! what trunk is here "Without his top ? The ruin speaks that sometime It was a worthy building. How ! a page ! Or dead, or sleeping on him ? But dead rather ; For nature doth abhor to make his bed "With the defunct, or sleep upon the dead. Let 's see the boy's face. Cap. He 's alive, my lord. Luc. He '11 then instruct us of this body. Young Inform us of thy fortunes, for it seems [one. They crave to be demanded. Who is this Thou makest thy bloody pillow ? Or who was he That, otherwise than noble nature did. Hath alter'd that good picture ? "What 's thy interest In this sad wreck ? How came it ? Who is it ? What art thou ? Imo. I am nothing : or if not, Nothing to be were better. This was my master, A very valiant Briton and a good. That here by mountaineers lies slain. Alas ! There is no more such masters : I may wander From east to Occident, cry out for service. Try many, all good, serve truly, never Find such another master. Luc. 'Lack, good youth ! Thou movest no less with thy complaining than Thy master in bleeding : say his name, good friend. Imo. Richard du Champ. [Aside'] If I do lie and No harm by it, though the gods hear, I hope [do They '11 pardon it. — Say you, sir ? iwc. Thy name ? Imo. Fidele, sir. Luc. Thou dost approve thyself the very same : Thy name well fits thy faith, thy faith thy name. Wilt take thy chance with me ? I will not say Thou Shalt be so well master'd, but, be sure. No less beloved. The Roman emperor's letters, Sent by a consul to me, should not sooner Than thine own worth prefer thee : go with me. Imo. I '11 follow, sir. But first, an 't please the gods, I '11 hide my master from the flies, as deep As these poor pickaxes can dig ; and when [grave, With wild wood-leaves and weeds I ha' strew'd his 794 And on it said a century of prayers. Such as I can, twice o'er, I '11 weep and sigh; And leaving so his service, follow you. So please you entertain me. Luc. Ay, good youth ; And rather father thee than master thee. My friends, The boy hath taught us manly duties : let us Find out the prettiest daisied plot we can. And make him with our pikes and partisans A grave : come, arm him. Boy, he is preferr'd By thee to us, and he shall be interr'd As soldiers can. Be cheerful ; wipe thine eyes : Some falls are means the happier to arise. [Exeunt. SCENE III. — A room in Cymbeline 's palace. Enter Cymbeline, Ijords, Pisanio, and Attend- ants. Cym. Again ; and bring me word how 't is with her. [Exit an Attendant. A fever with the absence of her son, A madness, of which her life 's in danger. Heavens, How deeply you at once do touch me ! Imogen, The great part of my comfort, gone ; my queen Upon a desperate bed, and in a time When fearful wars point at me ; her son gone, So needful for this present : it strikes me, past The hope of comfort. But for thee, fellow. Who needs must know of her departure and Dost seem so ignorant, we '11 enforce it from thee By a sharp torture. Pis. Sir, my life is yours ; I humbly set it at your will; but, for my mistress, I nothing know where she remains, why gone, Nor when she purposes return. Beseech your high- Hold me your loyal servant. [ness, First Lord. Good my liege. The day that she was missing he was here : I dare be bound he 's true and shaU perform All parts of his subjection loyally. For "Cloten, There wants no diligence in seeking him. And will, no doubt, be found. Cym. The time is troublesome. [To Pisanio.] We'll slip you for a season; but our jealousy Does yet depend. First Lord. So please your majesty. The Roman legions, all from Gallia drawn. Are landed on your coast, with a supply Of Roman gentlemen, by the senate sent. Cym. Now for the counsel of my son and queen ! I am amazed with matter. First Lord. Good my liege. Your preparation can affront no less Than what you hear of: come more, for more you 're ready : The want is but to put those powers in motion That long to move. Cym. I thank you. Let 's withdraw ; And meet the time as it seeks us. We fear not What can from Italy annoy us ; but We grieve at chances here. Away ! [Exemit all hiit Pisanio. Pis. I heard no letter from my master since I wrote him Imogen was slain: 'tis strange : Nor hear I from my mistress, who did promise To yield me often tidings ; neither know I What is betid to Cloten ; but remain Perplex'd in all. The heavens still must work. Wherein I am false I am honest ; not true, to be true. These present wars shall find I love my country. Even to the note o' the king, or I '11 fall in them. All other doubts, by time let them be clear'd ; Fortune brings in some boats that are not steer'd. [ExU. ACT V. CYMBELINE. SCENE II. SCENE IV. — Wales: hefme the caue of Belarius. JEnter Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus. Gui. The noise is round about us. Bel. Let us from it. Arv. What pleasure, sir, find we iu life, to lock it From action and adventure ? Gui. Nay, what hope Have we iu hiding us ? This way, the Komans Must or for Britons slay us, or receive us For barbarous and unnatural revolts During their use, and slay us after. Bel. Sons, We '11 higher to the mountains ; there secure us. To the king's party there 's no going : newness Of Cloten's death— we being not known, not mus- Among the bands — may drive us to a render [ter'd Where we have lived, and so extort from 's that Which we have done, whose answer would be death Drawn on with torture. Gui. This is, sir, a doubt In such a time nothing becoming you, Nor satisfying us. Arv. It is not likely That when they hear the Roman horses neigh, Behold their quarter'd fires, have both their eyes And ears so cloy'd importantly as now, That they will waste their time upon our note, To know from whence we are. Bel. O, I am kno-RTi Of many in the army : many years, [him Though Cloten then but young, you see, not wore From my remembrance. And, besides, the king Hath not deserved my service nor your loves ; Who find in my exile the want of breeding, The certainty of this hard life ; aye hopeless To have the courtesy your cradle promised, But to be still hot summer's tanlings and The shrinking slaves of winter. Gui. Than be so Better to cease to be. Pray, sir, to the army : I and my brother are not known ; yourself So out of thought, and thereto so o'ergrown. Cannot be question'd. Arv. By this sun that shines, I '11 thither : what thing is it that I never Did see man die ! scarce ever look'd on blood. But that of coward hares, hot goats, and venison! Never bestrid a horse, save one that had A rider like myself, who ne'er wore rowel Nor iron on his heel ! I am ashamed To look upon the holy sun, to have The benefit of his blest beams, remaining So long a poor unknown. Gni. By heavens, I '11 go : If you will bless me, sir, and give me leave, I '11 take the better care, but if you vnll not. The hazard therefore due fall on me by The hands of Eomans ! Arv. So say I : amen. Bel. No reason I, since of your lives you set So slight a valuation, should reserve My crack 'd one to more care. Have with you, boys ! If in your country wars you chance to die, That is my bed too, lads, and there I '11 lie : Lead, lead. [Aside] The time seems long; their blood thinks scorn. Till it fly out and show them princes born. [Exeunt. A.CT V^. SCENE 1.— Britain. The Boman camp. Enter Posthumus, with a hloody handkerchief. Post. Yea, bloody cloth, I'll keep thee, for I wish'd Thou shouldst be colour'd thus. You married ones, If each of you should take this course, how many Must murder Avives much better than themselves For wrying but a little ! O Pisanio ! Every good servant does not all commands : No bond but to do just ones. Gods ! if you Should have ta'en vengeance on my faults, I never Had lived to put on this : so had you saved The noble Imogen to repent, and struck Me, wretch more worth your vengeance. But, alack. You snatch some hence for little faults ; that 's love. To have them fall no more : you some permit To second ills with ills, each elder worse. And make them dread it, to the doers' thrift. But Imogen is your own : do your best wills. And make me blest to obey ! I am brought hither Among the Italian gentry, and to fight Against my lady's kingdom : 't is enough That, Britain, I have kill'd thy mistress; peace! I '11 give no wound to thee. Therefore, good heavens. Hear patiently my purpose : I '11 disrobe me Of these Italian weeds and suit myself As does a Briton peasant : so I '11 fight Against the part I come with ; so I '11 die For thee, O Imogen, even for whom my life Is every breath a death ; and thus, unknown. Pitied nor hated, to the face of peril Myself I '11 dedicate. Let me make men know More valour in me than my habits show. Gods, put the strength o' the Leonati in me! To shame the guise o' the world, I will begin The fashion, less without and more within. [Exit. SCENE II.— Field of lattle letween the British and Boman camps. Enter, from one side, Lucius, lachimo, and the Roman Army : from the other side, the British Army ; Leona- tus Posthumus following, like a poor soldier. They march over and go out. Then enter again, in skirmish, lachimo and Posthumus : he vanquisheth and dis- armeth lachimo, and then leaves Mm. lach. The heaviness and guilt within my bosom Takes off my manhood : I have belied a lady, The princess of this country, and the air on 't Eevengingly enfeebles me ; or could this carl, A very drudge of nature's, have subdued me In my profession? Knighthoods and honours, borne As I wear mine, are titles but of scorn. If that thy gentry, Britain, go before This lout as he exceeds our lords, the odds Is that we scarce are men and you are gods. [Exit. The battle continues: the Britons fly; Cymbeline is taken: then enter, to his rescue, Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus. Bel. Stand, stand! We have the advantage of the ground : The lane is guarded : nothing routs us but The villany of our fears. 2"J,- } Stand, stand, and fight ! Re-enter Posthumus, and seconds the Britons: they rescue Cymbeline, and exeunt. Then re-enter Lucius, and lachimo, with Imogen. Luc. Away, boy, from the troops, and save thyself; For friends kill friends, and the disorder 's such As war were hoodwink'd. lach. 'T is their fresh supplies. 795 ACT V. CYMBELINE. SCENE IV. iitc. It is a day turn'd strangely : or betimes Let 's re-inforce, or fly. [Exeunt. SCENE HI.— Another part of the field. Enter Posthumus and a British Lord. Lord. Camest thou from where they made the Post. I did; [stand? Though you, it seems, come from the fliers. Lord. I did. Post. No blame be to you, sir ; for all was lost, But that the heavens fought : the king himself Of his wings destitute, the army broken. And but the backs of Britons seen^ all flying Through a strait lane ; the enemy luU-hearted, Lolling the tongue with slaughtering, having work More plentiful than tools to do 't, struck down Some mortally, some slightly touch'd, some falling Merely through fear ; that the strait pass was damm'd With dead men hurt behind, and cowards living To die with lengthen'd shame. Lord. Where was this lane ? Post. Close by the battle, ditch 'd, and wall'd with Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier, [turf ; An honest one, I warrant ; who deserved So long a breeding as his white beard came to. In doing this for 's country : athwart the lane. He, with two striplings — lads more like to run The country base than to commit such slaughter ; With faces fit for masks, or rather fairer Than those for preservation cased, or shame, — Made good the passage ; cried to those that fled, * Our Britain's harts die flying, not our men : To darkness fleet souls that fly backwards. Stand ; Or we are Eomans and will give you that Like beasts which you shun beastly, and may save. But to lookback in frown: stand, stand.' These Three thousand confident, in act as many— [three, Por three performers are the file when all The rest do nothing — with this word ' Stand, stand,' Accommodated by the place, more charming With their own nobleness, which could have turn'd A distaff to a lance, gilded pale looks, [coward Part shame, part spirit renew'd ; that some, turn'd But by example — O, a sin in war, Damn'd in the first beginners ! — gan to look The way that they did, and to grin like lions Upon the pikes o' the hunters. Then began A stop i' the chaser, a retire, anon A rout, confusion thick; forthwith they fly Chickens, the way which they stoop 'd eagles ; slaves. The strides they victors made : and now our cowards. Like fragments in hard voyages, became The life o' the need : having found the back-door open Of the unguarded hearts, heavens, how they wound ! Some slain before ; some dying ; some their friends O'er-borne i' the former wave : ten, chased by one. Are now each one the slaughter-man of twenty : Those that would die or ere resist are grown The mortal bugs o' the field. Lord. This was strange chance : A narrow lane, an old man, and two boys. Post. Nay, do not wonder at it : you are made liather to wonder at the things you hear Than to work any. Will you rhyme upon 't. And vent it for a mockery ? Here is one : * Two boys, an old man twice a boy, a lane, Preserved the Britons, was the Romans' bane.' Lord. Nay, be not angry, sir. Post. 'Lack, to what end ? Who dares not stand his foe, I '11 be his friend ; For if he '11 do as he is made to do, I know he '11 quickly fly my friendship too. You have put me into rhyme. Lord. Farewell ; you 're angry. Post. Still going ? [Exit Lord.'\ This is a lord ! O noble misery. To be i' the field, and ask ' what news ? ' of me ! To-day how many would have given their honours To have saved their carcases ! took heel to do 't, And yet died too ! I, in mine own woe charm 'd. Could not find death where I did hear him groan. Nor feel him where he struck : being an ugly monster, 'T is strange he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds, Sweet words ; or hath more ministers than we That draw his knives i' the war. Well, I will find For being now a favourer to the Briton, [him : No more a Briton, I have resumed again The part I came in : fight I will no more, But yield me to the veriest hind that shall Once touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is Here made by the Roman ; great the answer be Britons must take. For me, my ransom 's death ; On either side I come to spend my breath ; Which neither here I '11 keep nor bear again, But end it by some means for Imogen. Enter two British Captains and Soldiers. First Cap. Great Jupiter be praised ! Lucius is taken. 'T is thought the old man and his sons were angels. Sec. Cap. There was a fourth man, in a silly habit. That gave the affront with them. First Cap. So t is reported : But none of 'em can be found. Stand ! who 's there ? Post. A Roman, Who had not now been drooping here, if seconds Had answer'd him. Sec. Cap. Lay hands on him ; a dog ! A leg of Rome shall not return to tell [service What crows have peck'd them here. He brags his As if he were of note : bring him to the king. Enter Cymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pisanio, Soldiers, Attendants, and Roman Captives. The Captains present Posthumus to Cymbeline, who delivers him over to a Gaoler : then exeunt omnes. SCENE IV.— A British prison. Enter Posthumus and two Gaolers. First Gaol. You shall not now be stol'n, you have locks upon you ; So graze as you find pasture. Sec. Gaol. Ay, or a stomach. [Exeunt Gaolers. Post. Most welcome, bondage ! for thou art a way, I think, to liberty : yet am I better Than one that 's sick o' the gout ; since he had rather Groan so in perpetuity than be cured By the sure physician, death, who is the key To unbar these locks. My conscience, thou art fetter 'd More than my shanks and wrists : you good gods, give me The penitent instrument to pick that bolt. Then, free for ever ! Is 't enough I am sorry ? So children temporal fathers do appease ; Gods are more full of mercy. Must I repent ? I cannot do it better than in gyves. Desired more than constrain 'd : to satisfy. If of my freedom 't is the main part, take No stricter render of me than my all. I know you are more clement than vile men. Who of their broken debtors take a third, A sixth, a tenth, letting them thrive again On their abatement : that 's not my desire : For Imogen's dear life take mine ; and though 'T is not so dear, yet 't is a life ; you coin'd it : 'Tween man and man they weigh not every stamp; Though lightj take pieces for the figure's sake : You rather mine, being yours : and so, great powers, If you will take this audit, take this life. And cancel these cold bonds. O Imogen ! I '11 speak to thee in silence. ACT V. CYMBELINE. SCENE IV. Solemn music. Enter, as in an apparition, Sicilius Leo- natus, father to Posthicmus, an old man, attired like a warrior ; leading in his hand an ancient matron, his wife, and mother to Posthumus, with music before them : then, after other music, follow the two young Leonati, brothers to Posthumus, with wounds as they died in the wars. They circle Posthumus round, as he lies sleeping. Sid. No more, thou thunder-master, show Thy spite on mortal flies : "With Mars fall out, with Juno chide. That thy adulteries Rates and revenges. Hath my poor boy done aught but well, Whose face I never saw ? I died whilst in the womb he stay'd Attending nature's law : Whose father then, as men report Thou orphans' father art, Thou shouldst have been, and shielded him From this earth-vexing smart. Moth. Lucina lent not me her aid. But took me in my throes ; That from me was Posthumus ript, Came crying 'mongst his foes, A thing of pity ! Sid. Great nature, like his ancestry, Moulded the stuff so fair. That he deserved the praise o' the world, As great Sicilius' heir. First Bro. When once he was mature for man, In Britain where was he That could stand up his parallel ; Or fruitful object be In eye of Imogen, that best Could deem his dignity ? Moth. With marriage wherefore was he mock'd, To be exiled, and thrown From Leonati seat, and cast From her his dearest one. Sweet Imogen ? Sid. Why did you suffer lachimo. Slight thing of Italy, To taint his nobler heart and brain With needless jealousy ; And to become the geek and scorn O' til' other's villany ? Sec. Bro. For this from stiller seats we came, Our parents and us twain. That striking in our country's cause Fell bravely and were slain. Our fealty and Tenantius' right With honour to maintain. First Bro. Like hardiment Posthumus hath To Cymbeline perform 'd : Then, Jupiter, thou king of gods, Why hast thou thus adjourn'd The graces for his merits due. Being all to dolours turn'd ? Sid. Thy crystal window ope ; look out ; No longer exercise Upon a valiant race thy harsh And potent rnjm-ies. Moth. Since, Jupiter, our son is good, Take off his miseries. Sid. Peep through thy marble mansion ; help ; Or we poor ghosts will cry To the shining synod of the rest Against thy deity. Both Bro. Help, Jupiter ; or we appeal. And from thy justice fly. Jupiter descends in thunder and lightning, sitting upon an eagle : he throws a thunder-bolt. The Ghosts fall on their knees. Jup. No more, you petty spirits of region low, Offend our hearing ; hush ! How dare you l" Accuse the thunderer, whose bolt, you know^ Sky-planted batters all rebelling coasts ? Poor shadows of Elysium, hence, and rest Upon your never-withering banks of flowers : Be not with mortal accidents opprest ; No care of yours it is : you know 't is ours. Whom best I love I cross ; to make my gift. The more delay'd, delighted. Be content ; Your low-laid son our godhead will uplift : His comforts thrive, his trials well are spent. Our Jovial star reign'd at his birth, and in Our .temple was he married. Rise, and fade. He shall be lord of lady Imogen, And happier much by his affliction made. This tablet lay upon his breast, wherein Our pleasure his full fortune doth confine : And so, away: no further with your din Express impatience, lest you stir up mine. Mount, eagle, to my palace crystalline. [Ascends. Sid. He came in thunder ; his celestial breath Was sulphurous to smell : the holy i Stoop'd, as to foot us : his ascension is More sweet than our blest fields : his royal bird Prunes the immortal wing and cloys his beak, As when his god is pleased. All. Thanks, Jupiter ! Sid. The marble pavement closes, he is enter'd His radiant roof. Away ! and, to be blest. Let us with care perform his great behest. [The Ghosts vanish. Post. [ Waking] Sleep, thou hast been a grandsire, A father to me ; and thou hast created [and begot A mother and two brothers : but, O scorn ! Gone I they went hence so soon as they were born : And so I am awake. Poor wretches that depend On greatness' favour dream as I have done. Wake and find nothing. But, alas, I swerve : Many dream not to find, neither deserve. And yet are steep'd in favours ; so am I, That have this golden chance and know not why. What fairies haunt this ground ? A book ? O rare Be not, as is our f angled world, a garment [one ! Nobler than that it covers : let thy effects So follow, to be most unlike our courtiers. As good as promise. [Beads] ' When as a lion's whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking find, and be embraced by a piece of tender air ; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopped branches, which, being dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the old stock and freshly grow ; then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britain be fortunate and flourish in peace and plenty.' 'T is still a dream, or else such stuff as madmen Tongue and brain not ; either both or nothing ; Or senseless speaking or a speaking such As sense cannot untie. Be what it is, The action of my life is like it, which I 'U keep, if but for sympathy. Re-enter First Gaoler. First Gaol. Come, sir, are you ready for death ? Post. Over-roasted rather ; ready long ago. First Gaol. Hanging is the word, sir : if you be ready for that, you are well cooked. Post. So, if I prove a good repast to the specta- tors, the dish pays the shot. First Gaol. A heavy reckoning for you, sir. But the comfort is, you shall be called to no more pay- ments, fear no more tavern-bills ; which are often 797 A.CT V. CYMBELINE. SCENE V. tlie sadness of parting, as the procuring of mirtli: you come in faint for want of meat, depart reeling with too much drink ; sorry that you have paid too much, and sorry that you are paid too much ; purse and brain both empty ; the brain the heavier for being too light, the purse too light, being drawn of heavi- ness : of this contradiction you shall now be quit. O, the charity of a penny cord ! it sums up thou- sands in a trice : you have no true debitor and cred- itor but it; of what 's past, is, and to come, the discharge : your neck, sir, is pen, book and coun- ters ; so the acquittance follows. Post. I am merrier to die than thou art to live. First Gaol. Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the tooth-ache : but a man that were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I think he would change places with his oflScer ; for, look you, sir-, you know not which way you shall go. Post. Yes, indeed do I, fellow. First Gaol. Your death has eyes in 's head then; I have not seen him so pictured : you must either be directed by some that take upon them to know, or do take upon yourself that which I am sure you do not know, or jump the after inquiry on your own peril: and how you shall speed in your journey's end, I think you '11 never return to tell one. Post. I tell thee, fellow, there are none want eyes to direct them the way I am going, but such as wink and will not use them. First Gaol. What an infinite mock is this, that a man should have the best use of eyes to see the way of blindness ! I am sure hanging 's the way of wink- ing. Bnier a Messenger. Mess. Knock off his manacles; bring your pris- oner to the king. Post. Thou bring 'st good news; I am called to be made free. First Gaol. I '11 be hang'd then. Post. Thou Shalt be then freer than a gaoler ; no bolts for the dead. [Exeunt Posthumus and Messenger. First Gaol. Unless a man would marry a gallows and beget young gibbets, I never saw one so prone. Yet, on my conscience, there are verier knaves de- sire to live, for all he be a Roman: and there be some of them too that die against their wills ; so should I, if 1 were one. I would we were all of one mind, and one mind good ; O, there were desolation of gaolers and gallowses ! I speak against my pres- ent profit, but my wish hath a preferment in 't. \_Exeunt. SCENE 'V.—Cymbeline^s tent. Enter Cymbeline, Belariiis, Guiderius, Arvira- gus, Pisanio, Lords, OflBcers, and Attendants. Cym. Stand by my side, you whom the gods have Preservers of my throne. Woe is my heart [made That the poor soldier that so richly fought. Whose rags shamed gilded arms, whose naked breast Stepp'd before targes of proof, cannot be found : He shall be happy that can find him, if Our grace can make him so. Bel. I never saw Such noble fury in so poor a thing ; Such precious deeds in one that promised nought But beggary and poor looks. Cym. No tidings of him ? Pis. He hath been search'd among the dead and But no trace of him. [living, Gym. To my grief, I am The heir of his reward; [To Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus^ which I will add To you, the liver, heart and brain of Britain, By whom I grant she lives. 'T is now the time To ask of whence you are. Report it. Bel. Sir, 798 In Cambria are we born, and gentlemen : Further to boast were neither true nor modest, Unless I add, we are honest. Cym. Bow your knees. Arise my knights o' the battle : I create you Companions to our person and will fit you With dignities becoming your estates. Enter Cornelius and Ladies. There 's business in these faces. Why so sadly Greet you our victory ? you look like Romans, And not o' the court of Britain. Coi-. Hail, great king! To sour your happiness, I must report The queen is dead. Cym. Who worse than a physician Would this report become ? But I consider, By medicine life may be prolong 'd, yet death Will seize the doctor too. How ended she ? Cor. With horror, madly dying, like her life. Which, being cruel to the world, concluded Most cruel to herself. What she confess'd I will report, so please you : these her women Can trip me, if I err; who with wet cheeks Were present when she finish 'd. Cym. Prithee, say. Cor. First, she confess'd she never loved you, only Affected greatness got by you, not you : Married your royalty, was wife to your place ; Abhorr'd your person. Cym. She alone knew this ; And, but she spoke it dying, I would not Believe her lips in opening it. Proceed. Cor. Your daughter, whom she bore in hand to With such integrity, she did confess [love Was as a scorpion to her sight; whose life, But that her flight prevented it, she had Ta'en off by poison. Cym. O most delicate fiend ! Who is 't can read a woman ? Is there more ? Cor. More, sir, and worse. She did confess she had For you a mortal mineral ; which, being took. Should by the minute feed on life and lingering By inches waste you : in which time she purposed, By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to O'ercome you with her show, and in time, When she had fitted you with her craft, to work Her son into the adoption of the crown : But, failing of her end by his strange absence, Grew shameless-desperate; open'd, in despite Of heaven and men, her purposes ; repented The evils she hatch'd were not effected ; so Despairing died. Cym. Heard you all this, her women ? First Lady. We did, so please yom* highness. Cym. Mine eyes Were not in fault, for she was beautiful; Mine ears, that heard her flattery ; nor my heart. That thought her like her seeming; it had been vicious To have mistrusted her: yet, O my daughter I That it was folly in me, thou mayst say. And prove it in thy feeling. Heaven mend aU ! Enter Lucius, lachimo, the Soothsayer, and other Roman Prisoners, guarded; Posthumus behind, and Imogen. Thou comest not, Caius, now for tribute ; that The Britons have razed but, though with the loss Of many a bold one ; whose kinsmen have made suit That their good souls may be appeased with slaughter Of you their captives, which ourself have granted: So think of your estate. Luc. Consider, sir, the chance of war : the day Was yours by accident ; had it gone with us. We should not, when the blood was cool, have threaten'd ACT V. CYMBELINE. SCENE V. Our prisoners with the sword. But since the gods Will have it thus, that nothing hut our lives May be call'd ransom, let it come : suffice th A Eoman with a Eoman's heart can suiJer : Augustus lives to think on 't : and so much For mj' peculiar care. This one thing only I will entreat ; my boy, a Briton born, Let him be ransom'd : never master had A page so kind, so duteous, diligent. So tender over his occasions, true, So feat, so nurse-like : let his virtue join [ness With my request, which I '11 make bold your high- Cannot deny ; he hath done no Briton harm. Though he have served a Eoman : save him, sir. And spare no blood beside. Cyni. I have surely seen him : His favour is familiar to me. Boy, Thou hast look'd thyself into my grace. And art mine own. I know not why, wherefore, To say ' live, boy : ' ne'er thank thy master ; live : And ask of Cymbeline what boon thou wilt, Fitting my bounty and thy state, I '11 give it ; Yea, though thou do demand a prisoner, The noblest ta'en. Imo. I humbly thank your highness. Luc. I do not bid thee beg my life, good lad ; And yet I know thou wilt. Imo. No, no : alack, There 's other work in hand : I see a thing Bitter to me as death : your life, good master, Must shuffle for itself. i?-. [To Lords without] Let none disturb us.— Why should this change of thoughts, The sad companion, dull-eyed melancholy, Be my so used a guest as not an hour, In the day's glorious walk, or peaceful night, The tomb where grief should sleep, can breed me quiet ? [them, Here pleasures court mine eyes, and mine eyes shun And danger, which I fear'd, is at Antioch, Whose aim seems far too short to hit me here : Tet neither pleasure's art can joy my spirits, Nor yet the other's distance comfort me. Then it is thus : the passions of the mind. That have their first conception by mis-dread. Have after-nourishment and life by care; And what was first but fear what might be done, Grows elder now and cares it be not done. And so with me : the great Antiochus, 'Gainst whom I am too little to contend, Since he 's so great can make his will his act. Will think me speaking, though I swear to silence; Nor boots it me to say I honour him. If he suspect I may dishonour him : And what may make him blush in being known, He '11 stop the course by which it might be known ; With hostile forces he '11 o'erspread the land. And with the ostent of war will look so huge. Amazement shall drive courage from the state ; Our men be vanquish 'd ere they do resist, And subjects punish'd that ne'er thoiight offence : Which care of them, not pity of myself, Who am no more but as the tops of trees. Which fence the roots they grow by and defend them, Makes both my body pine and soul to languish. And punish that before that he would punish. Enter Helicanus, with other Lords. First Lord. Joy and all comfort in your sacred breast ! [to us. Sec. Lord. And keep your mind, till you return Peaceful and comfortable ! Hel. Peace, peace, and give experience tongue. They do abuse the king that flatter him : For flattery is the bellows blows up sin ; The thing the which is flatter'd, but a spark, To which that blast gives heat and stronger glow- Whereas reproof, obedient and in order, [ing ; Fits kings, as they are men, for they may err. When Signior Sooth here does proclaim a peace. He flatters you, makes war upon your life. Prince, pardon me, or strike me, if you please ; I cannot be much lower than my knees. Per. All leave us else ; but let your cares o'erlook What shipping and what lading 's in our haven. And then return to us. [Exeunt Lords.] Helicanus, thou Hast moved us : what seest thou in our looks ? Hel. An angry brow, dread lord. Per. If there be such a dart in princes' frowns. How durst thy tongue move anger to our face ? Hel. How dare the plants look up to heaven, from They have their nourishment ? [whence Per. Thou know'st I have power To take thy life from thee. Hel. [Kneeling] I have ground the axe myself ; Do you but strike the blow. Per. Else, prithee, rise. Sit down : thou art no flatterer : I thank thee for it ; and heaven forbid That kings should let their ears hear their faults hid! Fit counsellor and servant for a prince, Who by thy wisdom makest a prince thy servant. What wouldst thou have me do ? Hel. To bear with patience Such griefs as you yourself do lay upon yourself. Per. Thou speak'st like a physician, Helicanus, That minister'st a potion unto me That thou wouldst tremble to receive thyself. Attend me, then : I went to Antioch, Where as thou know'st, against the face of death, I sought the purchase of a glorious beauty. From whence an issue I might propagate. Are arms to princes, and bring joys to subjects. Her face was to mine eye beyond all wonder ; The rest — hark in thine ear — as black as incest: Which by my knowledge found, the sinful father Seem'd not to strike, but smooth : but thou know'st 'T is time to fear when tyrants seem to kiss, [this. Which fear so grew in me, I hither fled, Under the covering of a careful night. Who seem'd my good protector ; and, being here. Bethought me what was past, what might succeed. I knew him tyrannous ; and tyrants' fears Decrease not, but grow faster than the years : And should he doubt it, as no doubt he doth, That I should open to the listening air How many worthy princes' bloods were shed, To keep his bed of blackness unlaid ope, To lop that doubt, he '11 fill this land with arms. And make pretence of wrong that I have done him ; When all, for mine, if I may call offence. Must feel war's blow, who spares not innocence : Which love to all, of which thyself art one. Who now reprovest me for it, — Hel. Alas, sir ! Per. Drew sleep out of mine eyes, blood from my cheeks, Musings into my mind, with thousand doubts How I might stop this tempest ere it came ; And finding little comfort to relieve them, I thought it princely charity to grieve them. Hel. Well, my lord, since you have given me leave to speak. Freely will I speak. Antiochus you fear. And justly too, I think, you fear the tyrant, Who either by public war or private treason Will take away your life. Therefore, my lord, go travel for a while. Till that his rage and anger be forgot. Or till the Destinies do cut his thread of life. Your rule direct to any; if to me. Day serves not light more faithful than I '11 be. Per. I do not doubt thy faith ; But should he wrong my liberties in my absence ? Hel. We '11 mingle our bloods together in the earth, From whence we had our being and our birth. Per. Tyre, I now look from thee then, and to Tarsus Intend my travel, where I '11, hear from thee ; And by whose letters I '11 dispose myself. The care I had and have of subjects' good On thee I lay, whose wisdom's strength can bear it. I '11 take thy word for faith, not ask thine oath : Who shuns not to break one will sure crack both : But in our orbs we '11 live so round and safe, That time of both this truth shall ne'er convince. Thou show'dst a subject's shine, I a true prince. [Exeunt SCENE III. — Tyre. An ante-chamber in the palace. Enter Thaliard. Thai. So, this is Tyre, and this the court. Here must I kill King Pericles ; and if I do it not, I am sure to be hanged at home : 't is dangerous. Well, I perceive he was a wise fellow, and had good dis- cretion, that, being bid to ask what he would of the 805 ACT I. PERICLES. SCENE IV. king, desired he might know none of hig secrets : now do I see he had some reason for 't ; for if a king bid a man be a villain, he 's bound by the indenture of his oath to be one. Hush ! here come the lords of Tyre. Enter Helicanus and Escanes, with other Lords of Tyre. Hel. You shall not need, my fellow peers of Tyre, Further to question me of your king's departure : His seal'd commission, left in trust with me, Doth speak sufficiently he 's gone to travel. Thai. [Aside] How! the kmg gone! Hel. If further yet you will be satisfied, Why, as it were unlicensed of your loves. He would depart, I -11 give some light unto you. Being at Antioch Thai. [Aside] What from Antioch ? Hel. Royal Antiochus— on what cause I know not — Took some displeasure at him ; at least he judged so : And doubting lest that he had err'd or sinn'd. To show his sorrow, he 'Id correct himself ; So puts himself unto the shipman's toil, With whom each minute threatens life or death. Thai. [Aside] Well, I perceive I shall not be hang'd now, although I would; But since he 's gone, the king's seas must please: He 'scaped the land, to perish at the sea. I '11 present myself. Peace to the lords of Tyre ! Hel. Lord Thaliard from Antiochus is welcome. Thai. From him I come With message unto princely Pericles ; But since my landing I have understood Your lord has betook himself to unknown travels, My message must retm-n from whence it came. Hel. We have no reason to desire it. Commended to our master, not to us : Yet, ere you shall depart, this we desire. As friends to Antioch, we may feast in Tyre. [Mteunt. SCENE IV. — Tarsus. A room in the Governor's house. Enter Cleon, the governor of Tharsus, with Dionyza, and others. Cle. My Dionyza, shall we rest us here. And by relating tales of others' griefs. See if 't wiU teach us to forget our own ? Bio. That were to blow at fire in hope to quench it ; For who digs hills because they do aspire Throws down one mountain to cast up a higher. my distressed lord, even such our griefs are ; Here they 're but felt, and seen with mischief 's eyes. But like to groves, being topp'd, they higher rise. Cle. O Dionyza, Who wanteth food, and will not say he wants it. Or can conceal his hunger till he famish ? Our tongues and sorrows do sound deep Our woes into the air ; our eyes do weep. Till tongues fetch breath that may proclaim them louder ; That, if heaven slumber while their creatures want, They may awake their helps to comfort them. 1 '11 then discourse our woes, felt several years. And wanting breath to speak help me with tears. Dio. I '11 do my best, sir. Cle. This Tarsus, o'er which I have the govern- ment, A city on whom plenty held full hand. For riches strew'd herself even in the streets ; Whose towers bore heads so high they kiss'd the clouds, And strangers ne'er beheld but wonder'd at ; Whose men and dames so jetted and adorn'd. Like one another's glass to trim them by : 806 Their tables were stored full, to glad the sight. And not so much to feed on as delight ; All poverty was scorn 'd, and pride so great. The name of help grew odious to rei)eat. Dio. O, 't is too true. Cle. But see what heaven can do I By this our change. These mouths, who but of late, earth, sea, and air, Were all too little to content and please. Although they gave their creatures in abundance. As houses are defiled, for want of use. They are now starved for want of exercise : Those palates who, not yet two summers younger, Must have inventions to delight the taste. Would now be glad of bread, and beg for it : Those mothers who, to nousle up their babes, Thought nought too curious, are ready now To eat those little darlings whom they loved. So sharp are hunger's teeth, that man and wife Draw lots who first shall die to lengthen life : Here stands a lord, and there a lady weeping ; Here many sink, yet those' which see them fall Have scarce strength left to give them burial. Is not this true ? Bio. Our cheeks and hollow eyes do witness it. Cle. O, let those cities that of plenty's cup And her prosperities so largely taste. With their superfluous riots, hear these tears! The misery of Tarsus may be theirs. Ihiter a Lord. Lord. Where 's the lord governor ? Cle. Here. Speak out thy sorrows which thou bring'st in haste, For comfort is too far for us to expect. Lord. We have descried, upon our neighbouring shore, A portly sail of ships make hitherward. Cle. I thought as much. One sorrow never comes but brings an heir, That may succeed as his inheritor ; And so in ours : some neighbouriug nation. Taking advantage of our misery. Hath stuff'd these hollow vessels with their power. To beat us down, the which are down already; And make a conquest of unhappy me. Whereas no glory 's got to overcome. Lord. That 's the least fear ; for, by the semblance Of their white flags display 'd, they bring us peace, And come to us as favourers, not as foes. Cle. Thou speak'st like him's untutor'd to repeat : Who makes the fairest show means most deceit. But bring they what they wiU and what they can. What need we fear ? The ground 's the lowest, and we are half way there. Go tell their general we attend him here. To know for what he comes, and whence he comes. And what he craves. Lord. I go, my lord. [Exit. Cle. Welcome is peace, if he on peace consist ; If wars, we are unable to resist. Enter Pericles with Attendants. Per. Lord governor, for so we hear you are, Let not our ships and number of our men Be like a beacon fired to amaze your eyes. We have heard your miseries as far as Tyre, And seen the desolation of your streets : Nor come we to add sorrow to your tears. But to relieve them of their heavy load ; And these our ships, you happily may think Are like the Trojan horse was stuif 'd within With bloody vems, expecting overthrow, Are stored with corn to make your needy bread. And give them life whom hunger starved half dead. All. The gods of Greece protect you 1 And we '11 pray for you. ACT II. PERICLES. SCENE I. Per. Arise, I pray you, rise : We do not look for reverence, but for love, And harbourage for ourself , our ships, and men. CU. The which when any shall not gratify. Or pay you with unthankfulness in thought, Be it our wives, our children, or ourselves. The curse of heaven and men succeed their evils ! Till when,— the which I hope shall ne'er be seen,— Your grace is welcome to our town and us. Per. "^hich welcome we '11 accept ; feast here awhile, Until our stars that frown lend us a smile. [Exeunt. .ACT II. Enter Gower. Gow. Here have you seen a mighty king fiis child, I wis, to incest bring ; A better prince and benign lord. That will prove awful both in deed and word. Be quiet then as men should be. Till he hath pass'd necessity. I '11 show you those in troubles reign. Losing a mite, a mountain gain. The good in conversation, To whom I give my benison, Is still at Tarsus, where each man Thinks all is writ he speken can ; ■ And, to remember what he does, Build his statue to make him glorious : But tidings to the contrary Are brought your eyes ; what need speak I ? Dumb Show. JSnter at one door Pericles talking with Cleon ; all the train with them. Enter at another door a Grentleman, with a letter to Pericles ; Pericles shows the letter to Cleon ; gives the Messenger a reward, and knights him. Exit Pericles at one door, and Cleon at another. Good Helicane, that stay'd at home, Not to eat honey like a drone From others' laboui-s ; for though he strive To killen bad, keep good alive ; And to fulfil his prince' desire. Sends word of all that haps in Tyre : How Thaliard came full bent with sin And had intent to murder him ; And that in Tarsus was not best Longer for him to make his rest. He, doing so, put forth to seas, "Where when men been, there 's seldom ease ; For now the wind begins to blow ; Thunder above and deeps below Make such unquiet, that the ship Should house him safe is vpreck'd and split ; And he, good prince, having all lost, By waves from coast to coast is tost : All perishen of man, of pelf, Ne aught escapen but himself ; Till fortune, tired with doing bad. Threw him ashore, to give him glad : And here he comes. What shall be next. Pardon old Gower,— this longs the text. [Exit. SCENE I. — Pentapolis. An open place hy the sea- Enter Pericles, wet. Per. Yet cease your ire, you angry stars of heaven ! Wind, rain, and thunder, remember, earthly man Is but a substance that must yield to you ; And I, as fits my nature, do obey you : Alas, the sea hath cast me on the rocks, Wash'd me from shore to shore, and left me breath Nothing to think on but ensuing death : Let it suffice the greatness of your powers To have bereft a prince of all his fortunes ; And having thrown him from your watery grave, Here to have death in peace is all he '11 crave. Enter three Fishermen. First Fish. What, ho. Pilch ! Sec. Fish. Ha, come and bring away the netsl First Fish. What, Patch-breech, I say ! Third Fish. What say you, master? First Fish. Look how thou stirrest now ! come away, or I '11 fetch thee with a wanion. Third Fish. 'Faith, master, I am thinking of the poor men that were cast away before us even now. First Fish. Alas, poor souls, it grieved my heart to hear what pitiful cries they made to us to help them, when, well-a-day, we could scarce help our- Third Fish. Nay, master, said not I as much when I saw the porpus how he bounced and tum- bled ? they say they 're half fish, half flesh : a plague on them, they ne'er come but I look to be washed. Master, I marvel how the fishes live in the sea. First Fish. Why, as men do a-land; the great ones eat up the little ones : I can compare our rich misers to nothing so fitly as to a whale ; a' plays and tumbles, driving the poor fry before him, and at last devours them all at a mouthful : such whales have I heard on o' the land, who never leave gap- ing till they 've swallowed the whole parish, church, steeple, bells, and all. Per. [Aside] A pretty moral. Third Fish. But, master, if I had been the sex- ton, I would have been that day in the belfry. Sec. Fish. Why, man ? Third Fish. Because he should have swallowed me too : and when I had been in his belly, I would have kept such a jangling of the bells, that he should never have left, till he cast bells, steeple, church, and parish, up again. But if the good King Simonides were of my mind, — Per. [Aside] Simonides! Third Fish. We would purge the land of these drones, that rob the bee of her honey. Per. [Aside] How from the finny subject of the These fishers tell the infirmities of men ; [sea And from their watery empire recollect All that may men approve or men detect I Peace be at your labour, honest fishermen. Sec. Fish. Honest! good fellow, what's that? If it be a day fits you, search out of the calendar, and nobody look after it. Per. May see the sea hath cast upon your coast. Sec. Fish. What a drunken knave was the sea to cast thee in our way ! Per. A man whom both the waters and the wind, In that vast tennis-court, have made the ball For them to play upon, entreats you pity him; He asks of you, that never used to beg. First Fish. No, friend, cannot you beg ? Here 's them in our country of Greece gets more with begging than we can do with working. Sec. Fish. Canst thou catch any fishes, then ? Per. 1 never practised it. Sec. Fish. Nay, then thou wilt starve, sure ; for here 's nothing to be got now-a-days, unless thou canst fish for 't. 807 ACT II. PERICLES. SCENE II. Per. What I have beeu I have forgot to know ; But what I am, want teaches me to think on : A man throng'd up with cold : my veins are chill, And have no more of life than may suffice To give my tongue that heat to ask your help ; Which if you shall refuse, when I am dead, For that I am a man, pray see me buried. First Fish. Die quoth-a? Now gods forbid! I have a gown here; come, put it on; keep thee warm. Now, afore me, a handsome fellow ! Come, thou Shalt go home, and we '11 have flesh for holi- days, fish for fasting-days, and moreo'er puddings and flap-jacks, and thou shalt be welcome. Per. I thank you, sir. Sec. Fish. Hark you, my friend; you said you could not beg. Per. I did but crave. Sec. Fish. But crave! Then I'll turn craver too, and so I shall 'scape whipping. Per. Why, are all your beggars whipped, then ? Sec. Fish. O, not all, my friend, not all; for if all your beggars were whipped, I would wish no better office than to be beadle. But, master, I '11 go draw up the net. [Exit with Third Fisherman. Per. [Aside] How well this honest mirth becomes their labour ! First Fish. Hark you, sir, do you know where ye are? Per. Not well. First Fish. Why, I'll tell you: this is called Pentapolis, and our king the good Simonides. Per. The good King Simonides, do you call him? First Fish. Ay, sir ; and he deserves so to be called for his peaceable reign and good government. Per. He is a happy king, since he gains from his subjects the name of good by his government. How far is his court distant from this shore ? First Fish. Marry, sir, half a day's journey: and I '11 tell you, he hath a fair daughter, and to-morrow is her birth-day ; and there are princes and knights come from all parts of the world to just and tourney for her love. Per. Were my fortunes equal to my desires, I could wish to make one there. First Fish. O, sir, things must be as they may; and what a man cannot get, he may lawfully deal for — his wife's soul. Be-enter Second and Third Fishermen, drawing up a net. Sec. Fish. Help, master, help! here 's a flsh hangs in the net, like a poor man's right in the law ; 't will hardly come out. Ha ! bots on 't, 't is come at last, and 't is turned to a rusty armour. Per. An armour, friends ! I pray you, let me see it. Thanks, fortune, yet, that, after all my crosses. Thou givest me somewhat to repair myself ; And though it was mine own, part of my heritage, Which my dead father did bequeath to me. With this strict charge, even as he left his life, ' Keep it, my Pericles ; it hath been a shield 'Twixt me and death ; '—and pointed to this brace ;— ' For that it saved me, keep it ; in like necessity — The which the gods protect thee from! — may de- fend thee.' It kept where I kept, I so dearly loved it ; Till the rough seas, that spare not any man. Took it in rage, though calm'd have given 't again : I thank thee for 't : my shipwreck now 's no ill, Since I have here my father's gift in 's will. First Fish. What mean you, sir ? Per. To beg of you, kind friends, this coat of worth, Tor it was sometime target to a king ; I know it by this mark. He loved me dearly. And for his sake I wish the having of it ; And that you 'Id guide me to your sovereign's court. Where with it I may appear a gentleman ; And if that ever my low fortune 's better, I '11 pay your bounties ; till then rest your debtor. First Fish. Why, wilt thou tourney for the lady ? Per. I '11 show the virtue I have borne in arms. First Fish. Why, do 'e take it, and the gods give thee good on 't ! Sec. Fish. Ay, but hark you, my friend; 'twas we that made up this garment through the rough seams of the waters: there are certain condole- meuts, certain vails. I hope, sir, if you thrive, you '11 remember from whence you had it. Per. Believe 't, I will. By your furtherance I am clothed in steel ; And, spite of all the rapture of the sea. This jewel holds his building on my arm: Unto thy value I will mount myself Upon a courser, whose delightful steps Shall make the gazer joy to see him tread. Only, my friend, I yet am unprovided Of a pair of bases. Sec. Fish. We'll sure provide: thou shalt have my best gown to make thee a pair ; and I '11 bring thee to the court myself. Per. Then honour be but a goal to my will, This day I '11 rise, or else add ill to ill. [Exeunt. SCENE II. — The same. A public way or platform leading to the lists. A pavilion hy the side of it for the reception of the King, Princ s, Lords, &c. Enter Simonides, Thaisa, Lords, and At- tendants. Sim. Are the knights ready to begin the triumph ? First Lord. They are, my liege ; And stay your coming to present themselves. Sim. Keturn them, we are ready; and our daughter, In honour of whose birth these triumphs are. Sits here, like beauty's child, whom nature gat For men to see, and seeing wonder at. [Exit a Lord. Thai. It pleaseth you, my royal father ,to express My commendations great, whose merit 's less. Sim. It 's fit it should be so ; for princes are A model, which heaven makes like to itself : As jewels lose their glory if neglected. So princes their renowns if not respected. 'T is now your honour, daughter, to explain The labour of each knight in his device. [form. Thai. Which, to preserve mine honour, I '11 ^&c- Eater a Knight; he passes over, and his Squire presents his shield to the Princess. Sim. Who is the first that doth prefer himself ? Thai. A knight of Sparta, my renowned father; And the device he bears upon his shield Is a black Ethiope reaching at the sim ; The word, ' Lux tua vita mihi.' Sim. He loves you well that holds his life of you. [The Second Knight passes over. Who is the second that presents himself? Thai. A prince of Macedon, my royal father; And the device he bears upon his shield Is an arm'd knight that 's conquer'd by a lady; The motto thus, in Spanish, ' Piu por dulzura que por fuerza.' [The Third Knight passes over. Sim. And what 's the third ? Thai. The third of Antioch ; And his device, a wreath of chivalry; The word, 'Me pompae provexit apex.' [The Fourth Knight passes over. Sim. What is the fourth ? Thai. A burning torch that 's turned upside down; The word, ' Quod me alit, me extinguit.' Sim. Which shows that beauty hath his power and Which can as well inflame as it can kill. [will, [The Fifth Knight passes over. ACT II. PERICLES. SCENE III Thai. The fifth, an hand environed with clouds, Holding out gold that 's by the touchstone tried ; The motto thus, ' Sic spectanda fides.' [Tlie Sixth Knight, Pericles, passes over. Sim. And what 's The sixth and last, the which the knight himself VVith such a graceful courtesy deliver'd ? Thai. He seems to be a stranger ; but his present is A wither 'd branch, that 's only green at top ; The motto, ' In hac spe vivo.' Sim. A pretty moral ; From the dejected state wherein he is, He hopes by you his fortunes yet may flourish, Mrst Lord. He had need mean better than his outward show Can any way speak in his just commend ; For by his rusty outside he appears To have practised more the whipstock than the lance. Sec. Lord. He well may be a stranger, for he comes To an honour'd triumph strangely furnished, [rust Third Lord. And on set purpose let his armour Until this day, to scour it in the dust. Sim. Opinion 's but a fool, that makes us scan The outward habit by the inward man. But stay, the knights are coming : we will withdraw Into the gallery. [Exeunt. [Great shouts within, and all cry ' The mean knight ! ' SCENE III.— TTie same. A hall of state: a ban- quet prepared. Enter Simonides, Thaisa, Lords, Attendants, and Knights, /rom tilting. Sim. Knights, To say you 're welcome were superfluous. To place upon the volume of your deeds, As in a title-page, your worth in arms, "Were more than you expect, or more than 's fit, Since every worth in show commends itself. Prepare for mirth, for mirth becomes a feast : You are princes and my guests. Thai. But you, my knight and guest ; To whom this wreath of victory I give, And crown you king of this day's happiness. Per. 'T is more by fortune, lady, than by merit. Sim. Call it by what you will, the day is jouis ; And here, I hope, is none that envies it. In framing an artist, art hath thus decreed. To make some good, but others to exceed ; And you are her labour'd scholar. Come, queen o' the feast, — For, daughter, so you are, — here take your place : Marshal the rest, as they deserve their grace. Knights.We are honour'd muchbygoodSimonides. Sim. Your presence glads our days : honour we For who hates honour hates the gods above, [love ; Marshal. Sir, yonder is your place. Per. Some other is more fit. First Knight. Contend not, sir ; for we are gentle- That neither in our hearts nor outward eyes [men Envy the great nor do the low despise. Per. You are right courteous knights, Sim. Sit, sir, sit. Per. By Jove, I wonder, that is king of thoughts. These cates resist me, she but thought upon. Thai. By Juno, that is queen of marriage. All viands that I eat do seem unsavoury, [man. Wishing him my meat. Sure, he 's a gallant gentle- Sim. He 's but a country gentleman ; Has done no more than other knights have done ; Has broken a staff or so ; so let it pass. Thai. To me he seems like diamond to glass. Per. Yon king 's to me like to my father's picture, Which tells me in that glory once he was ; Had princes sit, like stars, about his throne, And he the sun, for them to reverence ; None that beheld him, but, like lesser lights. Did vail their crowns to his supremacy : Where now his son 's like a glow-worm in the night, The wliich hath fire in darkness, none in light : Whereby I see that Time 's the king of men. He 's both their parent, and he is their grave. And gives them what he will, not what they crave, Sim. What, are you merry, knights ? ■ Knights. Who can be other in this royal presence ? Sim. Here, with a cup that 's stored imto the brim, — As you do love, fill to your mistress' lips,— We drink this health to you. Knights. We thank your grace. Sim. Yet pause awhile : Yon knight doth sit too melancholy, As if the entertainment in our court Had not a show might countervail his worth. Note it not you, Thaisa ? Thai. What is it To me, my father ? Sim. O, attend, my daughter: • Princes in this should live like gods above, Who freely give to every one that comes To honour them : And princes not doing so are like to gnats. Which make a sound, but kill'd are wonder'd at. Therefore to make his entrance more sweet, Here, say we drink this standing-bowl of wine to him. Thai. Alas, my father, it befits not me Unto a stranger knight to be so bold : He may my proffer take for an offence. Since men take women's gifts for impudence. Sim. How! Do as I bid you, or you '11 move me else. Thai. [Aside] Now, by the gods, he could not please me better. [of him, Sim. And furthermore tell him, we desire to know Of whence he is, his name and parentage. niai. The king my father, sir, has drunk to you. Per. 1 thank him. Thai. Wishing it so much blood unto your life. Per. I thank both him and you, and pledge him freely. Thai. And further he desires to know of you. Of whence you are, your name and parentage. Per. A gentleman of Tyre ; my name, Pericles; My education been in arts and arms ; Who, looking for adventures in the world. Was by the rough seas reft of ships and men, And after shipwreck driven upon this shore. Thai. He thanks your grace; names himself A gentleman of Tyre, [Pericles,. Who only by misfortune of the seas Bereft of ships and men, cast on this shore. Sim. Now, by the gods, I pity his misfortune. And will awake him from his melancholy. Come, gentlemen, we sit too long on trifles. And waste the time, which looks for other revels* Even in your armours, as you are address 'd, Will very well become a soldier's dance, I will not have excuse, with saying this Loud music is too harsh for ladies' heads. Since they love men in arms as well as beds. [The Knights davne. So, this was well ask'd, 'twas so well perform'd. Come, sir ; Here is a lady that wants breathing too : And I have heard, you knights of Tyre Are excellent in making ladies trip ; And that their measures are as excellent, [lord. Per. In those that practise them they are, my Sim. O, that 's as much as you would be denied Of your fair courtesy. [The Knights and Ladies dance. Unclasp, unclasp : Thanks, gentlemen, to all ; all have done well. ACT II, PERICLES. SCENE V. [To Per.] But you the best. Pages and lights, to conduct These knights unto their several lodgings! [To Per.] Yours, sir, "We have given order to be next our own. Per. I am at your grace's pleasure. Sim. Princes, it is too late to talk of love ; And that 's the mark I know you level at : Therefore each one betake him to his rest ; To-morrow all for speeding do their best. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. — Tyre. A room in the Governor's house. Enter Helicanus and Escanes. Hel. No, Escanes, know this of me, Antiochus from incest lived not free : For which, the most high gods not minding longer To withhold the vengeance that they had in store, Due to this heinous capital offence. Even in the height and pride of all his glory, "When he was seated in a chariot Of an inestimable value, and his daughter with him, A fire from heaven came and shrivell'd up Their bodies, even to loathing ; for they so stunk, That all those eyes adored them ere their fall Scorn now their hand should give them burial. Esca. 'T was very strange. Hel. And yet but justice ; for though This king were great, his greatness was no guard To bar heaven's shaft, but sin had his reward. Esca. 'T is very true. Enter two or three Lords. First Lord. See, not a man in private conference Or council has respect with him but he. [proof. Sec. Lord. It shall no longer grieve without re- Tliird Lord. And cursed be he that will not sec- ond it. [word. First Lord. Follow me, then. Lord Helicane, a Hel. With me? and welcome: happy day, my lords. [top, First Lord. Know that our griefs are risen to the And now at length they overflow their banks. Hel. Tour griefs ! for what ? wrong not your prince you love. [Helicane ; First Lord. Wrong not yourself, then, noble But if the prince do live, let us salute him. Or know what ground 's made happy by his breath. If in the world he live, we '11 seek him out ; If in his grave he rest, we '11 find him there ; And be resolved he lives to govern us, Or dead, give 's cause to mourn his funeral. And leave us to our free election. Sec. Lord. Whose death indeed 's the strongest in our censure : And knowing this kingdom is without a head, — Like goodly buildings left without a roof Soon fall to ruin, — your noble self. That best know how to rule and how to reign, We thus submit unto, — our sovereign. All. Live, noble Helicane ! Hel. For honour's cause, forbear your suffrages : If that you love Prince Pericles, forbear. Take I your wish, I leap into the seas. Where 's hourly trouble for a minute's ease. A twelvemonth longer, let me entreat you to Forbear the absence of your king ; If in which time expired, he not return, I shall with aged patience bear your yoke. But if I cannot win you to this love. Go search like nobles, like noble subjects. And in your search spend your adventurous worth; Whom if you find, and win unto return, You shall like diamonds sit about his crown. First Lord. To wisdom he 's a fool that will not And since Lord Helicane enjoineth us, [yield ; "VVtf with our travels will endeavour us. 810 Hel. Then you love us, we you, and we '11 clasp hands : When peers thus knit, a kingdom ever stands. [Exeunt. SCENE V. — Pentapolis. A room in the palace. Enter Simonides, reading a letter, at one door : the Knights meet him. First Knight. Good morrow to the good Simonides. Sim. Knights, from my daughter this I let you know. That for this twelvemonth she '11 not undertake A married life. Her reason to herself is only known, Which yet from her by no means can I get. [lord ? Sec. Knight. May we not get access to her, my Sim. 'Faith, by no means ; she has so strictly tied Her to her chamber, that 't is impossible. One twelve moons more she '11 wear Diana's livery ; This by the eye of Cynthia hath she vow'd, And on her virgin honour will not break it. Third Knight. Loath to bid farewell, we take our leaves. [Exeunt Knights. Sim. So, [letter: They are well dispatch'd; now to my daughter's She teUs me here, she '11 wed the stranger knight, Or never more to view nor day nor light. 'T is well, mistress ; your choice agrees with mine: I like that well : nay, how absolute she 's in 't, Not minding whether I dislike or no ! Well, I do commend her choice; And will no longer have it be delay'd. Soft I here he comes : I must dissemble it. Enter Pericles. Per. All fortune to the good Simonides 1 Sim. To you as much, sir ! I am beholding to you For your sweet music this last night : I do Protest my ears were never better fed With such delightful pleasing harmony. ' Per. It is your grace's pleasure to commend : Not my desert. Sim. Sir, you are music's master. Per. The worst of all her scholars, my good lord. Sim. Let me ask you one thing : What do you think of my daughter, sir ? Per. A most virtuous princess. Sim. And she is fair too, is she not ? Per. As a fair day in summer, wondrous fair. Sim. Sir, my daughter thinks very well of you; Ay, so well, that you must be her master. And she will be your scholar : therefore look to it. Per. I am unworthy for her schoolmaster. Sim. She thinks not so ; peruse this writing else. Per. [Aside] What's here? A letter, that she loves the knight of Tyre I 'T is the king's subtilty to have my life. O, seek not to entrap me, gracious lord, A stranger and distressed gentleman, That never aim'd so high to love your daughter, But bent all offices to honour her. Sim. Thou hast bewitch 'd my daughter, and thou A villain. [art Per. By the gods, I have not : Never did though c of mine levy offence ; Nor never did my actions yet commence A deed might gain her love or your displeasure. Sim. Traitor, thou liest. Per. Traitor ! Sim. Ay, traitor. Per. Even in his throat— unless it be the king— That calls me traitor, I return the lie. Sim. [Aside] Now, by the gods, I do applaud his courage. Per. My actions are as noble as my thoughts, That never relish'd of a base descent. ACT III. PERICLES. SCENE I. I came unto your covu-t for honour's cause, And not to be a rebel to her state ; And he that otherwise accounts of me, This sword shall prove he 's honour's enemy. Sim. No? Here comes my daughter, she can witness it. Enter Thaisa. Per. Then, as you are as virtuous as fair, Resolve your angry father, if my tongue Did e'er solicit, or my hand subscribe To any syllable that made love to you. Thai. Why, sir, say if you had. Who takes offence at that would make me glad ? Sim. Yea, mistress, are you so peremptory ? [Asidel I am glad on 't with all my heart. — I '11 tame you ; I '11 bring you in subjection. Will you, not having my consent. Bestow your love and your affections Upon a stranger? \^Asidt\ who, for aught I know, May be, nor can I think the contrary. As great in blood as I myself. — Therefore hear you, mistress ; either frame Your will to mine, — and you, sir, hear you, Either be ruled by me, or I will make you — Man and wife : Nay, come, your hands and lips must seal it too : And being join'd, I '11 thus your hopes destroy; And for a further grief, — God give you joy I — What, are you both pleased ? Thai. Yes, if you love me, sir. Per. Even as my life, or blood that fosters it. Sim. What, are you both agreed ? Both. Yes, if it please your majesty. Sim, It pleaseth me so well, that I will see you wed; And then with what haste you can get you to bed. [Exeunt, ^OT III. Enter Gower. Gow. Now sleep yslaked hath the rout; No din but snores the house about, Made louder by the o'er-fed breast Of this most pompous marriage-feast. The cat, with eyne of burning coal. Now couches fore the mouse's hole; And crickets sing at the oven's mouth, E'er the blither for their drouth. Hymen hath brought the bride to bed, Where, by the loss of maidenhead, A babe is moulded. Be attent, And time that is so briefly spent With your fine fancies quaintly eche : What 's dumb in show I '11 plain with speech. Dumb Show. Enter, Pericles and Simonides, at one door, with Attend- ants ; a Messenger meets them, kneels, and gives Per- icles a letter : Pericles shows it Simonides : the Lords kneel to him. Then enter Thaisa with child, with Lyctio- rida a nurse. The King shows her the letter ; she rejoices : she and Pericles take leave of her father, and depart with Lychorida and their Attendants. Then exeunt Si- monides and the rest. By many a dem and painful perch Of Pericles the careful search. By the four opposing coigns Which the world together joins. Is made with all due diligence That horse and sail and high expense Can stead the quest. At last from Tyre, Fame answering the most strange inquire, To the court of King Simonides Are letters brought, the tenour these : Antiochus and his daughter dead ; The men of Tyrus on the head Of Helicanus would set on The crown of Tyre, but he will none : The mutiny he there hastes t' oppress ; Says to 'em, if King Pericles Come not home in twice six moons. He, obedient to their dooms. Will take the crown. The sum of this, Brought hither to Pentapolis, Y-ravished the regions round. And every one with claps can sound, ' Our heir-apparent is a king ! Who dream 'd, who thought of such a thing ? ' Brief, he must hence depart to Tyre : His queen with child makes her desire — Which who shall cross ? — along to go : Omit we all their dole and woe : Lychorida, her nurse, she takes. And so to sea. Their vessel shakes On Neptune's billow ; half the flood Hath their keel cut : but fortune's mood Varies again ; the grisly north Disgorges such a tempest forth. That, as a duck for life that dives. So up and down the poor ship drives : The lady shrieks, and well-a-near Does fall in travail with her fear : And what ensues in this fell storm Shall for itself itself perform. I nill relate, action may Conveniently the rest convey ; Which might not what by me is told. In your imagination hold This stage the ship, upon whose deck The sea-tost Pericles appears to speak. [Exit. SCENE I. Enter Pericles, on shipboard. Per. Thou god of this great vast, rebuke these surges, [hast Which wash both heaven and hell; and thou, that Upon the winds command, bind them in brass. Having call'd them from the deep ! O, still Thy deafening, dreadful thunders ; gently quench Thy nimble, sulphurous flashes ! O, how, Lychorida, How does my queen ? Thou stormest venomously ; Wilt thou spit all thyself ? The seaman's whistle Is as a whisper in the ears of death. Unheard. Lychorida! — Lucina, O Divinest patroness, and midwife gentle To those that cry by night, convey thy deity Aboard our dancing boat ; make swift the pangs Of my queen's travails ! Enter Lychorida, with an Infant. Now, Lychorida ! Lye. Here is a thing too young for such a place, Who, if it had conceit, would die, as I Am like to do : take in your arms this piece Of your dead queen. Per. How, how, Lychorida ! Lye. Patience, good sir ; do not assist the storm. Here 's all that is left living of your queen, A little daughter : for the sake of it. Be manly, and take comfort. Per. O you gods ! Why do you make us love yoiu- goodly gifts, 811 ACT III, PERICLES. SCENE II. And snatch them straight away ? "We here below Eecall not what we give, and therein may Use honour with you. Lijc. Patience, good sir, Even for this charge. Per. Now, mild may be thy life ! For a more blustrous birth had never babe : Quiet and gentle thy conditions ! for Thou art the rudeliest welcome to this world That ever was prince's child. Happy what follows ! Thou hast as chiding a nativity As fire, air, water, earth, and heaven can make. To herald thee from the womb : even at the first Thy loss is more than can thy portage quit, "With all thou canst find here. Now, the good gods Throw their best eyes upon 't ! Enter two Sailors. First Sail. "What courage, sir ? God save you ! Per. Courage enough : I do not fear the flaw ; It hath done to me the worst. Yet, for the love Of this poor infant, this fresh-new sea-farer, I would it would be quiet. First Sail. Slack the bolins there! Thou wilt not, wilt thou ? Blow, and split thyself. Sec. Sail. But sea-room, an the brine and cloudy billow kiss the moon, I care not. First Sail. Sir, your queen must overboard : the sea works high, the wind is loud, and will not lie till the ship be cleared of the dead. Per. That 's your superstition. First Sail. Pardon us, sir; with us at sea it hath been still observed : and we are strong in custom. Therefore briefly yield her ; for she must overboard straight. Per. As you think meet. Most wretched queen ! Lye. Here she lies, sir. Per. A terrible childbed hast thou had, my dear ; No light, no fire : the unfriendly elements Forgot thee utterly : nor have I time To give thee hallow'd to thy grave, but straight Must cast thee, scarcely coffin'd, in the ooze ; "Where, for a monument upon thy bones. And e'er-remaining lamps, the belching whale And humming water must o'erwhelm thy corpse. Lying with simple shells. O Lychorida, Bid Nestor bring me spices, ink and paper. My casket and my jewels ; and bid Nicander Bring me the satin coffer : lay the babe "Upon the pillow : hie thee, whiles I say A priestly farewell to her: suddenly, woman. [Exit Lychorida. Sec. Sail. Sir, we have a chest beneath the hatches, caulked and bitumed ready. [this ? Per. I thank thee. Mariner, say what coast is Sec. Sail. We are near Tarsus. Per. Thither, gentle mariner, [it ? Alter thy course for Tyre. "When canst thou reach Sec. Sail. By break of day, if the wind cease. Per. O, make for Tarsus ! There will I visit Cleon, for the babe Cannot hold out to Tyrus : there I '11 leave it At careful nursing. Go thy ways, good mariner : I '11 bring the body presently. [Exeunt. SCENE n. — Ephesms. A room in Cerimon'^s house. Enter Oerimon, with a Servant, and some Persons who have been shipwrecked. Cer. Philemon, ho ! Enter Philemon. Phil. Doth my lord call ? Ger. Get fire and meat for these poor men: 'T has been a turbulent and stormy night. [this, Serv. I have been in many ; but such a night as Till now, I ne'er endured. 812 Ger. Your master will be dead ere you return ; There 's nothing can be minister'd to nature That can recover him. [Tb Philemon'\ Give this to the 'pothecary. And tell me how it works. [Exeunt all hut Cerimon. Miter two Gentlemen. First Gent. Good morrow. Sec. Gent. Good morrow to your lordship. Ger. Gentlemen, "Why do you stir so early ? First Gent. Sir, Our lodgings, standing bleak upon the sea, Shook as the earth did quake ; The very principals did seem to rend. And all-to topple : pure surprise and fear Made me to quit the house. [early ; Sec. Gent. That is the cause we trouble you so 'T is not our husbandry. Ger. O, you say well. First Gent. But I much marvel that your lord- ship, having Rich tire about you, should at these early hours Shake off the golden slumber of repose. 'T is most strange. Nature should be so conversant with pain, Being thereto not compell'd. Cer. I hold it ever. Virtue and cunning were endowments greater Than nobleness and riches : careless heirs May the two latter darken and expend ; But immortality attends the former. Making a man a god. 'T is known, I ever Have studied physic, through which secret art, By turning o'er authorities, I have. Together with my practice, made familiar To me and to my aid the blest infusions That dwell in vegetives, in metals, stones ; And I can speak of the disturbances [give me That nature works, and of her cures ; which doth A more content in course of true delight . Than to be thirsty after tottering honour, Or tie my treasure up in silken bags, To please the fool and death. Sec. Gent. Your honour has through Ephesus pour'd forth Your charity, and hundreds call themselves Your creatures, who by you have been restored : And not your knowledge, your personal pain, but even Your purse, still open, hath built Lord Cerimon Such strong renown as time shall ne'er decay. Unter two or three Servants ^lnth a chest. First Serv. So ; lift there. Cer. "What is that ? First Serv. Sir, even now Did the sea toss upon our shore this chest : 'T is of some vsreck. Cer. Set 't down, let 's look upon 't. Sec. Gent. 'T is like a coffin, sir. Cer. "Whate'er it be, 'T is wondrous heavy. Wrench it open straight : If the sea's stomach be o'ercharged with gold, 'T is a good constraint of fortune it belches upon us. Sec. Gent. 'T is so, my lord. Cer. How close 't is caulk 'd and bitumed I Did the sea cast it up ? First Serv. I never saw so huge a billow, sir, As toss'd it upon shore. Cer. Wrench it open ; Soft I it smells most sweetly in my sense. Sec. Gent. A delicate odour. Cer. As ever hit my nostril. So, up with it. O you most potent gods ! what 's here ? a corse ! First Gent. Most strange ! [treasured Cer. Shrouded in cloth of state! balm'd and en- ACT III. PERICLES. SCENE IV. With full bags of spices ! A passport too ! Apollo, perfect me in the characters ! {Beads from a scroll. 'Here I give to understand, If e'er this coflln drive a-land, I, King Pericles, have lost This queen, worth all our mundane cost. Who finds her, give her burying ; She was the daughter of a king : Besides this treasure for a fee, The gods requite his charity ! ' If thou livest, Pericles, thou hast a heart That even cracks for woe ! This chanced to-night. Sec. Gent. Most likely, sir. Cer. Nay, certainly to-night ; For look how fresh she looks ! They were too rough That threw her in the sea. Make a fire within : Fetch hither aU my boxes in my closet. [Uxit a servant. Death may usurp on nature many hours. And yet the fire of life kindle again The o'erpress'd spkits. I heard of an Egyptian That had nine hours lien dead, Who was by good appliance recovered. He-enter a Servant, with boxes, napkins, and fire. Well said, well said; the fire and cloths. The rough and woeful music that we have, Cause it to sound, beseech you. The viol once more: how thou stirr'st, thou block I The music there ! — I pray you, give her air. Gentlemen, This queen will live : nature awakes ; a warmth Breathes out of her : she hath not been entranced Above five hours : see how she gins to blow Into life's flower again ! First Gent. The heavens, Through you, increase our wonder and set up Your fame for ever. Cer. She is alive; behold, Her eyelids, cases to those heavenly jewels Which Pericles hath lost. Begin to part their fringes of bright gold ; The diamonds of a most praised water Do appear, to make the world twice rich. Live, And make us weep to hear your fate, fair creature, Rare as you seem to be. {She moves. Thai. O dear Diana, Where am I ? Where 's my lord ? What world is this? Sec. Gent. Is not this strange ? First Gent. Most rare. Cer. Hush, my gentle neighbours ! Lend me your hands ; to the next chamber bear her. Get linen : now this matter must be look'd to. For her relapse is mortal. Come, come ; And ^sculapius guide us ! {Exeunt, carrying her away. SCENE in. — Tarsus. A room in Gleon''s liouse. Enter Pericles, Cleon, Dionyza, and Lychorida with Marina in her arms. Per. Most honour'd Cleon, I must needs be gone ; My twelve months are expired, and Tjrrus stands In a litigious peace. You, and your lady. Take from my heart all thankfulness I The gods Make up the rest upon you I Cle. Your shafts of fortune, though they hurt you mortally. Yet glance full wanderingly on us. Dion. O your sweet queen ! That the strict fates had pleased you had brought her hither. To have bless'd mine eyes with her ! Per. We cannot but obey The powers above us. Could I rage and roar As doth the sea she lies in, yet the end Must be as 't is. My gentle babe Marina, whom, For she was born at sea, I have named so, here I charge your charity withal, leaving her The infant of your care ; beseeching you To give her princely training, that she may be Mauner'd as she is born. Cle. Fear not, my lord, but think Your grace, that fed my country with your corn, For which the people's prayers still fall upon you, Must in your child be thought on. If neglection Should therein make me vile, the common body. By you relieved, would force me to my duty : But if to that my nature need a spur. The gods revenge it upon me and mine, To the end of generation ! Per. I believe you : Your honour and your goodness teach me to 't. Without your vows. Till she be married, madam, By bright Diana, whom we honour, all Unscissar'd shall this hair of mine remain. Though I show ill in 't. So I take my leave. Good madam, make me blessed in your care In bringing up my child. Dion. I have one myself. Who shall not be more dear to my respect Than yours, my lord. Per. Madam, my thanks and prayers, Cle. We '11 bring your grace e'en to the edge o' the shore. Then give you up to the mask'd Neptune and The gentlest winds of heaven. Per. I wiU embrace Your offer. Come, dearest madam. O, no tears, Lychorida, no tears : Look to your little mistress, on whose grace You may depend hereafter. Come, my lord. {Exeunt. SCENE IV.—Ephe A room in Cerimon''s house. Enter Cerimon and Thaisa. Cer. Madam, this letter, and some certain jewels, Lay with you in your coffer : which are now At your command. Know you the character ? Thai. It is my lord's. That I was shipp'd at sea, I well remember, Even on my eaning time ; but whether there Deliver'd, by the holy gods, I cannot rightly say. But since King Pericles, My wedded lord, I ne'er shall see again, A vestal livery will I take me to, And never more have joy. Cer. Madam, if this you purpose as ye speak, Diana's temple is not distant far, Where you may abide till your date expire. Moreover, if you please, a niece of mine ShaU there attend you. Thai. My recompense is thanks, that 's all ; Yet my good will is great, though the gift small. {Exeunt, 813 ACT IV. PERICLES. SCENE I. -A.OT IV. Enter Gower. Ocno. Imagine Pericles arrived at Tyre, Welcomed and settled to his own desire. His woeful queen we leave at Ephesus, Unto Diana there a votaress. Now to Marina bend your mind, Whom our fast-growing scene must find At Tarsus, and by Cleon train 'd In music, letters; who hath gain'd Of education all the grace. Which makes her both the heart and place Of general wonder. But, alack. That monster envy, oft the wrack Of earned praise, Marina's life Seeks to take off by treason's knife. And in this kind hath our Cleon One daughter, and a wench full grown, Even ripe for marriage-rite ; this maid Hight Philoten : and it is said For certain in our story, she Would ever with Marina be : Be 't when she weaved the sleided silk With fingers long, small, white as milk; Or when she would with sharp needle wound The cambric, which she made more sound By hurting it ; or when to the lute She sung, and made the night-bird mute, That still records with moan ; or when She would with rich and constant pen Vail to her mistress Dian ; still This Philoten contends in skill With absolute Marina : so With the dove of Paphos might the crow Vie feathers white. Marina gets All praises, which are paid as debts, And not as given. This so darks In Philoten all graceful marks. That Cleon's wife, with envy rare, A present murderer does prepare Eor good Marina, that her daughter Might stand peerless by this slaughter. The sooner her vile thoughts to stead, Lychorida, our nurse, is dead : And cursed Dionyza hath The pregnant instrument of vprath Prest for this blow. The unborn event I do commend to your content : Only I carry winged time Post on the lame feet of my rhyme ; Which never could I so convey. Unless your thoughts went on my way. Dionyza does appear. With Leonine, a murderer. \Exit. SCENE 1.— Tarsus. An open place near the sea- shore. Enter Dionyza and Leonine. Dion. Thy oath remember; thou hast sworn to do 't: 'T is but a blow, which never shall be known. Thou canst not do a thing in the world so soon. To yield thee so much profit. Let not conscience, Which is but cold, inflaming love i' thy bosom. Inflame too nicely ; nor let pity, which Even women have cast off, melt thee, but be A soldier to thy purpose. Leon. I will do 't ; but yet she is a goodly crea- ture. Dion. The fitter, then, the gods should have her. Here she comes weeping for her only mistress' death. Thou art resolved ? Leon. I am resolved. 814 Enter Marina, with a iashet of flowers. Mar. No, I will rob Tellus of her weed. To strew thy green with flowers : the yellows, blues, The purple violets, and marigolds. Shall as a carpet hang upon thy grave. While summer-days do last. Ay me ! poor maid. Born in a tempest, when my mother died. This world to me is like a lasting storm. Whirring me from my friends. Dion. How now, Marina ! why do you keep aloneV How chance my daughter is not with you ? Do not Consume your blood with sorrowing : you have A nurse of me. Lord, how your favour 's changed With this unprofitable woe ! Come, give me your flowers, ere the sea mar it. Walk with Leonine ; the air is quick there. And it pierces and sharpens the stomach. Come, Leonine, take her by the arm, walk with her. Mar. No, I pray you; I '11 not bereave you of your servant. Dion. Come, come; I love the king your father, and yourself. With more than foreign heart. We every day Expect him here : when he shall come and find Our paragon to all reports thus blasted. He will repent the breadth of his great voyage ; Blame both my lord and me, that we have taken No care to your best courses. Go, I pray you, Walk, and be cheerful once again ; reserve That excellent complexion, which did steal The eyes of young and old. Care not for me ; I can go home alone. Mar. Well, I wiU go ; But yet I have no desire to it. Dion. Come, come, I know 'tis good for you. Walk half an hour. Leonine, at the least : Eemember what I have said. Leon. I warrant you, madam. Dion. I '11 leave you, my sweet lady, for a while : Pray, walk softly, do not heat your blood: What ! I must have a care of you. Mar. My thanks, sweet madam. [Exit Dionyza, Is this wind westerly that blows ? Leon. South-west. Mar. When I was born, the wind was north. Leon. Was 't so 1 Mar. My father, as nurse said, did never fear, But cried ' Good seamen ! ' to the sailors, gaUing His kingly hands, haling ropes ; And, clasping to the mast, endured a sea That almost burst the deck. Leon. When was this ? Mar. When I was born : Never was waves nor wind more violent ; And from the ladder-tackle washes off A canvas-climber. ' Ha ! ' says one, ' wilt out ? ' And with a dropping industry they skip From stem to stern : the boatswain whistles, and The master calls, and trebles their confusion. Leon. Come, say your prayers. Mar. What mean you Y Leon. If you require a little space for prayer, I grant it : pray ; but be not tedious. For the gods are quick of ear, and I am sworn To do my work with haste. Mar. Why will you kiU me ? Leon. To satisfy my lady. Mar. Why would she have me kill'd ? Now, as I can remember, by my troth, I never did her hurt in all my life : I never spake bad word, nor did ill turn To any living creature : believe me, la, ACT IV. PERICLES. SCENE II. I never kill'd a mouse, nor hurt a fly : I trod upon a worm against my will, But I wept for it. How have I offended, Wherein my death might yield her any profit, Or my life imply her any danger ? Leon. My commission Is not to reason of the deed, but do it. Mar. You will not do 't for all the world, I hope. Tou are well favour 'd, and your looks foreshow You have a gentle heart. I sa.w you lately. When you caught hurt in parting two that fought : Good sooth, it show'd well in you: do so now: Your lady seeks my life ; come you between. And save poor me, the weaker. Leon. I am sworn. And will dispatch. [He seizes her. Enter Pirates. First Pirate. Hold, villain ! [Leonine runs away. Sec. Pirate. A prize ! a prize ! Third Pirate. Half-part, mates, half-part. Come, let 's have her aboard suddenly. [Exeunt Pirates with Marina. Be-enter Leonine. Leon. These roguing thieves serve the great pirate Valdes ; And they have seized Marina. Let her go : [dead, There 's no hope she will return. I '11 swear she 's And throvm into the sea. But I '11 see further : Perhaps they will but please themselves upon her, Not carry her aboard. If she remain, Whom they have ravish 'd must by me be slain. [Exit. SCENE II. — Mytilene. A room in a irothel. Enter Pandar, Bawd, and Boult. Pand. Boult! Boult. Sir? Pand. Search the market narrowly ; Mytilene is f uU of gallants. We lost too much money this mart by being too wenchless. Bawd. We were never so much out of creatures. We have but poor three, and they can do no more than they can do ; and they with continual action are even as good as rotten. Pand. Therefore let 's have fresh ones, whate'er we pay for them. If there be not a conscience to be used in every trade, we shall never prosper. Bawd. Thou sayest true : 't is not our bringing up of poor bastards, — as, I think, I have brought up some eleven— Boult. Ay, to eleven; and brought them down again. But shall I search the market ? Bawd. What else, man ? The stuff we have, a strong wind wiU blow it to pieces, they are so piti- fully sodden. Pand. Thou sayest true ; they 're too unwhole- some, o' conscience. The poor Transylvanian is dead, that lay with the little baggage. Boult. Ay, she quickly pooped him; she made him roast-meat for worms. But I '11 go search the market. [Exit. Pand. Three or four thousand chequins were as pretty a proportion to live quietly, and so give over. Bawd. Why to give over, I pray you ? is it a shame to get when we are old ? Pand. O, our credit comes not in like the com- modity, nor the commodity wages not with the danger : therefore, if in our youths we could pick up some pretty estate, 't were not amiss to keep our door hatched. Besides, the sore terms we stand upon with the gods will be strong with us for giv- ingover. Bawd. Come, other sorts offend as well as we. Pand. As well as we ! ay, and better too ; we of- fend worse. Neither is our profession any trade ; it 's no calling. But here comes Boult. Be-enter Boult, with the Pirates and Marina. Boult. [To Marina] Come your ways. My masters, you say she 's a virgin ? First Pirate. O, sir, we doubt it not. Boult. Master, I have gone through for this piece, you see : if you like her, so ; if not, I have lost my Bawd. Boult, has she any qualities ? [earnest. Boult. She has a good face, speaks well, and has excellent good clothes : there 's no further necessity of qualities can make her be refused. Bawd. What 's her price, Boult ? [pieces. Boult. I cannot be bated one doit of a thousand Pand. Well, follow me, my masters, you shall have your money presently. Wife, take her in ; in- struct her what she has to do, that she may not be raw in her entertainment. [Exeunt Pandar and Pirates. Bawd. Boult, take you the marks of her, the colour of her hair, complexion, height, age, with warrant of her virginity; and cry 'He that will give most shall have her first.' Such a maidenhead were no cheap thing, if men were as they have been. Get this done as I command you. Boult. Performance shall follow. [Exit. Mar. Alack that Leonine was so slack, so slow ! He should have struck, not spoke; or that these pirates. Not enough barbarous , had not o 'erboard thrown me For to seek my mother ! Bawd. Why lament you, pretty one ? Mar. That I am pretty. [you. Bawd. Come, the gods have done their part in Mar. I accuse them not. Bawd. You are light into my hands, where you are like to live. Mar. The more my fault To scape his hands where I was like to die. Bawd. Ay, and you shall live in pleasure. Mar. No. Bawd. Yes, indeed shall you, and taste gentlemen of all fashions : you shall fare well ; you shall have the difference of all complexions. What ! do you stop yom' ears ? Mar. Are you a woman ? Bawd. What would you have me be, an I be not a woman ? Mar. An honest woman, or not a woman. Bawd. Marry, whip thee, gosling : I think I shall have something to do with you. Come, you 're a young foolish sapling, and must be bowed as I would have you. Mar. The gods defend me ! Bawd. If it please the gods to defend you by men, then men must comfort you, men must feed you, men must stir you up. Boult 's returned. Be-enter Boult. Now, sir, hast thou cried her through the market ? Boult. 1 have cried her almost to the number of her hairs ; I have drawn her pictm-e with my voice. Bawd. And I prithee tell me, how dost thou find the inclination of the people, especially of the younger sort ? Boult. 'Faith, they listened to me as they would have hearkened to their father's testament. There was a Spaniard's mouth so watered, that he went to bed to her very description. Baicd. We shall have him here to-morrow with his best ruff on. Boult. To-night, to-night. But, mistress, do you know the French knight that cowers i' the hams ? Bawd. Who, Monsieur Veroles ? Boult. Ay, he : he offered to cut a caper at the 815 ACT IV. PERICLES. SCENE IV, proclamation ; but he made a groan at it, and swore he would see her to-morrow. Baivd. Well, well; as for him, he brought his disease hither : here he does but repair it. I know he will come in our shadow, to scatter his crowns in the sun. Boult. Well, if we had of every nation a traveller, we should lodge them with this sign. Baxod. [_To Mar.] Pray you, come hither awhile. You have fortunes coming upon you. Mark me: you must seem to do that fearfully which you com- mit willingly, despise profit where you have most gain. To weep that you live as ye do makes pity in your lovers : seldom but that pity begets you a good opinion, and that opinion a mere profit. Mar. I understand you not. Boult. O, take her home, mistress, take her home : these blushes of hers must be quenched with some present practice. Bawd. Thou sayest true, i' faith, so they must ; for your bride goes to that with shame which is her way to go with warrant. Boult. 'Faith, some do, and some do not. But, mistress, if I have bargained for the joint, — Bawd. Thou mayst cut a morsel ofE the spit. Boult. I may so. Bawd. Who should deny it ? Come, young one, I like the manner of your garments well. [yet. Boult. Ay, by my faith, they shall not be changed Bawd. Boult, spend thou that in the town : report what a sojourner we have ; you '11 lose nothing by custom. When nature framed this piece, she meant thee a good turn ; therefore say what a paragon she is, and thou hast the harvest out of thine own re- port. Boult. I warrant you, mistress, thunder shall not so awake the beds of eels as my giving out her beauty stir up the lewdly-inclined. I '11 bring home some to-night. Bawd. Come your ways ; follow me. Mar. If fires be hot, knives sharp, or waters deep, Untied I still my virgin knot will keep. Diana, aid my purpose ! Bawd. What have we to do with Diana ? Pray you, will you go with us ? [Exeunt. SCENE III. — Tarsus. A room in ClemPs house. Enter Oleon and Dionyza. Dion. Why, are you foolish ? Can it be undone ? Cle. O Dionyza, such a piece of slaughter The sun and moon ne'er look'd upon ! Bion. I think You '11 turn a child again. Cle. Were I chief lord of all this spacious world, I 'Id give it to imdo the deed. O lady. Much less in blood than virtue, yet a princess To equal any single crown o' the earth I' the justice of compare ! O villain Leonine ! Whom thou hast poison'd too : If thou hadst drunk to him, 't had been a kindness Becoming well thy fact : what canst thou say When noble Pericles shall demand his child ? Dion. That she is dead. Nurses are not the fates, To foster it, nor ever to preserve. She died at night : I '11 say so. Who can cross it ? Unless you play the pious innocent. And for an honest attribute cry out ' She died by foul play.' Cle. O, go to. Well, well, Of all the faults beneath the heavens, the gods Do like this worst. Dion. Be one of those that think The petty wrens of Tarsus will fly hence. And open this to Pericles. I do shame To think of what a noble strain you are, And of how coward a spirit. 816 Cle. To such proceeding Who ever but his approbation added, Though not his prime consent, he did not flow From honourable sources. Dion. Be it so, then : Yet none does know, but you, how she came dead. Nor none can know, Leonine being gone. She did distain my child, and stood between Her and her fortunes : none would look on her, But cast their gazes on Marina's face ; Whilst ours was blrurted at and held a malkin Not worth the time of day. It pierced me thorough ; And though you call my course unnatural. You not your child well loving, yet I find It greets me as an enterprise of kindness Perform 'd to your sole daughter. Cle. Heavens forgive it I Dion. And as for Pericles, What should he say ? We wept after her hearse, And yet we mourn : her monument Is almost finish'd, and her epitaphs In glittering golden characters express A general praise to her, and care in us At whose expense 't is done. Cle. Thou art like the harpy. Which, to betray, dost, with thine angel's face, Seize with thine eagle's talons. Dion. You are like one that superstitiously Doth swear to the gods that whiter kills the flies : But yet I know you '11 do as I advise. [Exeunt, SCENE IV. Enter Gower, hefore the Monument of Marina at Tarsus. Gow. Thus time we waste, and longest leagues make short ; Sail seas in cockles, have an wish but for 't ; Making, to take your imagination. From bourn to bourn, region to region. By you being pardon'd, we commit no crime To use one language in each several clime Where our scenes seem to live. I do beseech you To learn of me, who stand i' the gaps to teach you. The stages of our story. Pericles Is now again thwarting the wayward seas, Attended on by many a lord and knight, To see his daughter, all his life 's delight. Old Escanes, whom Helicanus late Advanced in time to great and high estate, Is left to govern. Bear you it in mind. Old Helicanus goes along behind. [brought Well-sailing ships and bounteous winds have This king to Tarsus, — think his pilot thought ; So with his steerage shall your thoughts grow on,— To fetch his daughter home, who first is gone. Like motes and shadows see them move awhile ; Your ears unto your eyes I '11 reconcile. Dumb Show. Miter Pericles, at one door, with all his train ; Cleon and Dionyza, at the other. Cleon shows Pericles the tomb ; whereat Pericles makes lamentation, puts on sackcloth, and in a mighty passion departs. Then exeunt Cleon and Dionyza. See how belief may suffer by foul show 1 This borrow 'd passion stands for true old woe ; And Pericles, in sorrow all devour'd, [shower'd, With sighs shot through, and biggest tears o'er- Leaves Tarsus and again embarks. He swears Never to wash his face, nor cut his hairs : He puts on sackcloth, and to sea. He bears A tempest, which his mortal vessel tears, And yet he rides it out. Now please you wit The epitaph is for Marina writ By wicked Dionyza. [Beads the inscription on Marina^s monument. ACT IV. PERICLES. SCENE VI. ' The fairest, sweet 'st, and best lies here, Who wither'd in her spring of year. She was of Tyrus the king's daughter. On whom f oiil death hath made this slaughter ; Marina was she call'd ; and at her birth, [earth : Thetis, being proud, swallow'd some part o' the Therefore the earth, fearing to be o'erflow'd. Hath Thetis' birth-child on the heavens besto w'd : Wherefore she does, and swears she '11 never stint, Make raging battery upon shores of flint.' If o visor does become black villany So well as soft and tender flattery. Let Pericles believe his daughter 's dead, And bear his courses to be ordered By Lady Fortune ; while our scene must play His daughter's woe and heavy well-a-day In her unholy service. Patience, then, And think you now are all in Mytilene. {Exit. SCENE V. — Mytilene. A street before the brothel. Enter, from the brothel, two Gentlemen. First Gent. Did you ever hear the like ? Sec. Gent. No, nor never shall do in such a place as this, she being once gone. First Gent. But to have divinity preached there ! did you ever dream of such a thing ? Sec. Gent. No, no. Come, I am for no more bawdy-houses : shall 's go hear the vestals sing ? First Gent. I '11 do any thing now that is virtuous ; but I am out of the road of rutting for ever. [Exeunt. SCENE VI. — The same. A room in the brothel. Enter Pandar, Bawd, and! Boult, Pand. Well, I had rather than twice the worth of her she had ne'er come here. Baivd. Fie, fie upon her ! she 's able to freeze the god Priapus, and undo a whole generation. We must either get her ravished, or be rid of her. When she should do for clients her fitment, and do me the kindness of our profession, she has me her quirks, her reasons, her master reasons, her prayers, her knees ; that she would make a puritan of the devil, if he should cheapen a kiss of her. Boult. 'Faith, I must ravish her, or she '11 dis- furnish us of all our cavaliers, and make our swearers priests. Pand. Now, the pox upon her green-sickness for me! Bawd. 'Faith, there 's no way to be rid on 't but by the way to the pox. Here comes the Lord Ly- simachus disguised. Boult. We should have both lord and lown, if the peevish baggage would but give way to customers. Enter Lysimachus. Lys. How now ! How a dozen of virginities ? Bawd. Now, the gods to-bless your honour ! Boult. I am glad to see your honour in good health. Lys. You may so ; 't is the better for you that your resorters stand upon sound legs. How now ! wholesome iniquity have you that a man may deal withal, and defy the surgeon ? Bawd. We have here one, sir, if she would — but there never came her like in Mytilene. . Lys. If she 'Id do the deed of darkness, thou wouldst say. [enough. Bawd. Your honour knows what 't is to say well Lys. Well, call forth, call forth. Boult. For flesh and blood, sir, white and red, you shall see a rose ; and she were a rose indeed, if she had but — Lys. What, prithee ? Boult. O, sir, I can be modest. 52 Lys. That dignifies the renown of a bawd, no less than it gives a good report to a number to be chaste. {Exit Boult. Bawd. Here comes that which grows to the stalk ; never plucked yet, I can assure you. Be-enter Boult with Marina. Is she not a fair creature ? Lys. 'Faith, she would serve after a long voyage at sea. Well, there 's for you : leave us. Bawd. 1 beseech your honour, give me leave : a word, and I '11 have done presently. Lys. I beseech you, do. Baiod. [To Marina'] First, I would have you note, this is an honourable man. [note him. Mar. I desire to find him so, that I may worthily Baiud. Next, he 's the governor of this country, and a man whom I am bound to. Mar. If he govern the country, you are bound to him indeed; but how honourable he is in that, I know not. Bawd. Pray you, without any more virginal fenc- ing, will you use him kindly ? He will line your apron with gold. Mar. What he will do graciously, I will thank- Lys. Ha' you done ? [fully receive. Bawd. My lord, she 's not paced yet : you must take some pains to work her to your manage. Come, we will leave his honour and her together. Go thy ways. [Exeunt Bawd, Pandar, and Boult. Lys. Now, pretty one, how long have you been at this trade ? Mar. What trade, sir ? Lys. Why, I cannot name 't but I shall offend. Mar . I cannot be offended with my trade . Please you to name it. Lys. How long have you been of this profession ? Mar. E'er since I can remember. Lys. Did you go to 't so young ? Were you a gamester at five or at seven ? Mar. Earlier too, sir, if now I be one. Lys. Why, the house you dwell in proclaims you to be a creature of sale. Mar. Do you know this house to be a place of such resort, and will come into 't ? I hear say you are of honourable parts, and are the governor of this place. Lys. Why, hath your principal made known unto you who I am ? Mar. Who is my principal ? Lys. Why, your herb-woman ; she that sets seeds and roots of shame and iniquity. O, you have heard something of my power, and so stand aloof for more serious wooing. But I protest to thee, pretty one, my authority shall not see thee, or else look friendly upon thee. Come, bring me to some private place : come, come. Mar. If you were born to honour, show it now; If put upon you, make the judgment good That thought you worthy of it. Lys. How 's this ? how 's this ? Some more ; be Mar. For me, [sage. That am a maid, though most ungentle fortune Have placed me in this sty, where, since I came, Diseases have been sold dearer than physic, O, that the gods Would set me free from this unhallow'd place, Though they did change me to the meanest bird That flies i' the purer air ! Lys. I did not think Thou couldst have spoke so well; ne'er dream 'd thou couldst. Had I brought hither a corrupted mind, Thy speech had alter'd it. Hold, here 's gold for Perse ver in that clear way thou goest, [thee : And the gods strengthen thee ! Mar. The good gods preserve vou ! 817 ACT V. PERICLES. SCENE I. Lys. For me, be you thoughten That I came with no ill intent ; for to me The very doors and windows savour vilely. Fare thee well. Thou art a piece of virtue, and I doubt not but thy training hath been noble. Hold, here 's more gold for thee. A curse upon him, die he like a thief, That robs thee of thy goodness ! If thou dost Hear from me, it shall be for thy good. Be-enter Boult. Boult. I beseech your honour, one piece for me. Lys. Avaunt, thou damned door-keeper ! Your house, but for this virgin that doth prop it, Would sink and overwhelm you. Away! [Exit. Boult. How's this? We must take another course with you. If your peevish chastity, which is not worth a breakfast in the cheapest country under the cope, shall undo a whole household, let me be gelded like a spaniel. Come your ways. Mar. Whither would you have me ? Boult. I must have your maidenhead taken off, or the common hangman shall execute it. Come your ways. We '11 have no more gentlemen driven away. Come your ways, I say. Be-enter Ba-wd. Bawd. How now ! what 's the matter ? Boult. Worse and worse, mistress ; she has here spoken holy words to the Lord Lysimachus. Bawd. O abominable ! Boult. She makes our profession as it were to stink afore the face of the gods. Bawd. Marry, hang her up for ever! Boult. The nobleman would have dealt with her like a nobleman, and she sent him away as cold as a snowball ; saying his prayers too. Bawd. Boult, take her away; use her at thy pleasure: crack the glass of her virginity, and make the rest malleable. Boult. An if she were a thornier piece of ground than she is, she shall be ploughed. Mar. Hark, hark, you gods ! Bawd. She conjures: away with her! Would she had never come within my doors ! Marry, hang you ! She 's born to undo us. Will you not go the way of women-kind? Marry, come up, my dish of chastity with rosemary and bays ! [Exit. Boult. Come, mistress; come your ways with me. Mar. Whither wilt thou have me ? Boult. To take from you the jewel you hold so dear. Mar. Prithee, tell me one thing first. Boult. Come now, your one thing. Mar. What canst thou wish thine enemy to be ? Boult. Why, I could wish him to be my master, or rather, my mistress. Mar. Neither of these are so bad as thou art, Since they do better thee in their command. Thou hold'st a place, for which the pained 'st fiend Of hell would not in reputation change : Thou art the damned doorkeeper to every Coistrel that comes inquiring for his Tib ; To the choleric fisting of every rogue Thy ear is liable ; thy food is such As hath been belch'd on by infected lungs. Boult. What would you have me do .r* go to the wars, would you? where a man may serve seveu years for the loss- of a leg, and have not money enough in the end to buy him a wooden one ? Mar. Do any thing but this thou doest. Empty Old receptacles, or common shores, of filth; Serve by indenture to the common hangman : Any of these ways are yet better than this ; For what thou professest, a baboon, could he speak, Would own a name too dear. O, that the gods Would safely deliver me from this place I Here, here 's gold for thee. If that thy master would gain by me, Proclaim that I can sing, weave, sew, and dance, With other virtues, which I '11 keep from boast; And I will undertake all these to teach. I doubt not but this populous city will Yield many scholars. Boult. But can you teach all this you speak of ? Mar. Prove that I cannot, take me home again, And prostitute me to the basest groom That doth frequent your house. Boult. Well, I will see what I can do for thee : ii I can place thee, I will. Mar. But amongst honest women. Boult. 'Faith, my acquaintance lies little amongst them. But since my master and mistress have bought you, there 's no going but by their consent : therefore I wiU make them acquainted with your purpose, and I doubt not but I shall find them tractable enough. Come, I '11 do for thee what I can ; come your ways. [Exeunt. A.OT V. Enter Gower. Gow. Marina thus the brothel 'scapes, and chances Into an honest house, our story says. She sings like one immortal, and she dances As goddess-like to her admired lays ; Deep clerks she dumbs ; and with her neeld composes Nature's own shape, of bud, bird, branch, or berry, That even her art sisters the natural roses ; Her inkle, silk, twin with the rubied cherry : That pupils lacks she none of noble race, Who pour their bounty on her ; and her gain She gives the cursed bawd. Here we her place : And to her father turn our thoughts again. Where we left him, on the sea. We there him lost ; Whence, driven before the winds, he is arrived Here where his daughter dwells ; and on this coast Suppose him now at anchor. The city strived God Neptune's annual feast to keep : from whence Lysimachus our Tyrian ship espies. His banners sable, trimm'd with rich expense ; And to him in his barge with fervour hies. 818 In your supposing once more put your sight Of heavy Pericles ; think this his bark : Where what is done in action, more, if might, Shall be discover'd ; please you, sit and hark. [Exit. SCENE I. — On board Pericles^ ship, off Mytilene. A close paxnlion on deck, with a curtain before it ; Pericles within it, reclined on a couch. A barge lying beside the Tyrian vessel. Enter two Sailors, one belonging to the Tyrian vessel, the other to the barge ; ,to them Helicanus. Tyr. Sail. [To the Sailor of Mytilene] Where is lord Helicanus ? he can resolve you. O, here he is. Sir, there 's a barge put off from Mytilene, And in it is Lysimachus the governor. Who craves to come aboard. What is your will ? Hel. That he have bis. CaU up some gentle- men. Tyr. Sail. Ho, gentlemen ! my lord calls. ACT V. PERICLES. SCENE I, Enter two or three Gentlemen. First Gent. Doth your lordship call ? Hel. Grentlemen, there's some of worth would come aboard ; I pray ye, greet them fairly. {The Gentlemen and the two Sailors descend, and go on board the barge. Enter, from thence, Lysimachus and Lords ; with " the Gentlemen and the two Sailors. Tyr. Sail. Sir, This is the man that can, in aught you would, Eesolve you. Lys. Hail, reverend sir ! the gods preserve you ! Hel. And you, sir, to outlive the age I am. And die as I would do. Lijs. You wish me well. Being on shore, honouring of Neptune's triumphs, Seeing this goodly vessel ride before us, I made to it, to know of whence you are. Hel. First, what is your place ? Lys. I am the governor of this place you lie be- Hel. Sir, [fore. Our vessel is of Tyre, in it the king ; A man who for this three months hath not spoken To any one, nor taken sustenance But to prorogue his grief. Lys. Upon what ground is his distemperature ? Hel. 'T would be too tedious to repeat ; But the main grief springs from the loss Of a beloved daughter and a wife. Lys. May we not see him ? Hel. You may ; But bootless is your sight : he will not speak To any. Lys. Yet let me obtain my wish. Hel. Behold him. [Pericles discovered.] This was a goodly person, TiU the disaster that, one mortal night, Drove him to this. Lys. Sir king, all hail ! the gods preserve you ! Hail, royal sir ! Hel. It is in vain ; he will not speak to you. First Lord. Sir, We have a maid in Mytilene, I durst wager, Would win some words of him. Lys. 'T is well bethought. She questionless with her sweet harmony And other chosen attractions, would allure, And make a battery through his deafen 'd parts, Which now are midway stopp'd : She is all happy as the fairest of all. And, with her fellow maids, is now upon The leafy shelter that abuts against The island's side. [Whispers a Lord, who goes off in the barge of Lysimachus. Hel. Sure, all 's effectless ; yet nothing we '11 omit That bears recovery's name. But, since your kind- We have stretch'd thus far, let us beseech you [ness That for our gold we may provision have, Wherein we are not destitute for want. But weary for the staleness. Lys. O, sir, a courtesy Which if we should deny, the most just gods For every graff would send a caterpillar. And so afflict our province. Yet once more Let me entreat to know at large the cause Of your king's sorrow. Hel. Sit, sir, I will recount it to you : Biit, see, I am prevented. He-enter, from the barge, Lord, with Marina, and a young Lady. Lys. O, here is The lady that I sent for. Welcome, fair one ! Is 't not a goodly presence ? Hel. She 's a gallant lady. Lys. She 's such a one, that, were I well assured Came of a gentle kind and noble stock, I 'Id wish no better choice , and think me rarely wed Fair one, all goodness that consists in bounty Expect even here, where is a kingly patient : If that thy prosperous and artificial feat Can draw him but to answer thee in aught, Thy sacred physic shall receive such pay As thy desires can wish. Mar. Sir, I will use My utmost skiU in his recovery. Provided That none but I and my companion maid Be suffer 'd to come near him. Lys. Come, let us leave her ; And. the gods make her prosperous ! [Marina sings. Lys. Mark'd he your music V liar. No, nor look'd on us. Lys. See, she will speak to him. Mar. HaU, sir ! my lord, lend ear. Per. Hum, ha ! Mar. I am a maid. My lord, that ne'er before invited eyes, But have been gazed on like a comet : she speaks. My lord, that, may be, hath endured a grief Might equal yours, if both were justly weigh'd. Though wayward fortune did malign my state. My derivation was from ancestors Who stood equivalent with mighty kings : But time hath rooted out my parentage. And to the world and awkward casualties Bound me in servitude. [Aside] I will desist ; But there is something glows upon my cheek, And whispers in mine ear ' Go not till he speak.' Per. My fortunes— parentage— good parentage— To equal mine ! — was it not thus Y what say you ? Mar. I said, my lord, if you did know my parent- You would not do me violence. [age, Per. I do think so. Pray you, turn your eyes upon me. [woman ? You are like something that — What country- Here of these shores ? Mar. No, nor of any shores : Yet I was mortally brought forth, and am No other than I appear. [ing. Per. I am great with woe, and shall deliver weep- My dearest wife was like this maid, and such a one My daughter might have been : my queen's square brows ; Her stature to an inch ; as wand-like straight ; As silver-voiced ; her eyes as jewel-like And cased as richly ; in pace another Jimo ; Who starves the ears she feeds, and makes them hungry, [live ? The more she gives them speech. Where do you Mar. Where I am but a stranger: from the deck You may discern the place. Per. Where were you bred ? And how achieved you these endowments, which You make more rich to owe ? Mar. If I should tell my history, it would seem Like lies disdaiu'd in the reporting. Per. Prithee, speak : Falseness cannot come from thee ; for thou look'st Modest as Justice, and thou seem'st a palace For the crown 'd Truth to dwell in : I will believe And make my senses credit thy relation [thee. To points that seem impossible ; for thou look'st Like one I loved indeed. What were thy friends ? Didst thou not say, when I did push thee back — Which was when I perceived thee— that thou camest From good descending ? Mar. So indeed I did. Per. Eeport thy parentage. I think thou said'st Thou hadst been toss'd from wrong to injury. And that thou thought 'st thy griefs might equal If both were open'd. [mine, 819 ACT V. PERICLES. SCENE I. Mar. Some such thing I said, aud said no more but what my thoughts Did warrant me was likely. Per. Tell thy story ; If thine consider'd prove the thousandth part Of my endurance, thou art a man, and I Have suffer 'd like a girl : yet thou dost look Like Patience gazing on kings' graves, and smiling Extremity out of act. What were thy friends ? How lost thou them ? Thy name, my most kind virgin ? Kecount, I do beseech thee : come, sit by me. Mar. My name is Marina. Per. O, I am mock'd, And thou by some incensed god sent hither To make the world to laugh at me. Mar. Patience, good sir. Or here I '11 cease. Per. Nay, I '11 be patient. Thou little know'st how thou dost startle me, To call thyself Marina. Mar. The name Was given me by one that had some power, My father, and a king. Per. How ! a king's daughter ? And call'd Marina ? Mar. You said you would believe me ; But, not to be a troubler of your peace, I will end here. Per. But are you flesh and blood ? Have you a working pulse ? and are no fairy ? Motion ! Well ; speak on. Where were you born ? And wherefore call'd Marina ? Mar. Call'd Marina, Tor I was born at sea. Per. At sea ! what mother ? Mar. My mother was the daughter of a king ; Who died the minute I was born, As my good nurse Lychorida hath oft Delivered weeping. Per. O, stop there a little ! [Aside'\ This is the rarest dream that e'er dull sleep Did mock sad fools withal : this cannot be : My daughter 's buried. Well : where were you bred ? I '11 hear you more, to the bottom of your story. And never interrupt you. [give o'er. Mar. You scorn: believe me, 'twere best I did Per. I will believe you by the syllable Of what you shall deliver. Yet, give me leave : How came you in these parts? where were you bred ? Mar. The king my father did in Tarsus leave me ; Till cruel Cleon, with his wicked wife, Did seek to murder me : and having woo'd A villain to attempt it, who having drawn to do 't, A crew of pirates came and rescued me ; Brought me to Mytilene. But, good sir, Whither will you have me ? Why do you weep ? It may be. You think me an impostor : no, good faith ; I am the daughter to King Pericles, If good King Pericles be. Per. Ho, Helicanus! mi. Calls my lord ? Per. Thou art a grave and noble counsellor, Most wise in general : tell me, if thou canst, What this maid is, or what is like to be, That thus hath made me weep ? Hel. I know not ; but Here is the regent, sir, of Mytilene Speaks nobly of her. Lys. She would never tell Her parentage; being demanded that, She would sit still and weep. Per. O Helicanus, strike me, honour'd sir ; Give me a gash, put me to present pain; Lest this great sea of joys rushing upon me O'erbear the shores of my mortality, 820 And drown me with their sweetness. O, come hither. Thou that beget 'st him that did thee beget ; Thou that wast born at sea, buried at Tarsus, And found at sea again ! O Helicanus, Down on thy knees, thank the holy gods as loud As thunder threatens us : this is Marina. What was thy mother's name ? tell me but that, For truth can never be confirm'd enough, Though doubts did ever sleep. Mar. First, sir, I pray. What is your title ? Per. I am Pericles of Tyre: but tell me now My drown'd queen's name, as in the rest you said Thou hast been godlike perfect. The heir of kingdoms and another like To Pericles thy father. Mar. Is it no more to be your daughter than To say my mother's name was Thaisa ? Thaisa was my mother, who did end The minute I began. [child. Per. Now, blessing on thee! rise; thou art my Give me fresh garments. Mine own, Helicanus ; She is not dead at Tarsus, as she should have been. By savage Cleon : she shall tell thee all ; When thou shalt kneel, and justify in knowledge She is thy very princess. Who is this ? Hel. Sir, 't is the governor of Mytilene, Who, hearing of your melancholy state, Did come to see you. Per. I embrace you. Give me my robes. I am wild in my beholding. heavens bless my girl ! But, hark, what music ? Tell Helicanus, my Marina, tell him O'er, point by point, for yet he seems to doubt, How sure you are my daughter. But, what music ? Hel. My lord, I hear none. Per. None! The music of the spheres ! List, my Marina. Lys. It is not good to cross him ; give him way. Per. Barest sounds ! Do ye not hear ? Lys. My lord, I hear. [Music. Per. Most heavenly music ! It nips me unto listening, and thick slumber Hangs upon mine eyes : let me rest. [Sleeps. Lys. A pillow for his head : So, leave him all. Well, my companion friends. If this but answer to my just belief, 1 '11 well remember you. [Exeunt all hut Pericles. Diana appears to Pericles as in a vision, Bia. My temple stands in Ephesus: hie thee And do upon mine altar sacrifice. [thither. There, when my maiden priests are met together, Before the people all, Beveal how thou at sea didst lose thy wife : To mourn thy crosses, with thy daughter's, call And give them repetition to the life. Or perform my bidding, or thou livest in woe ; Do it, and happy ; by my silver bow ! Awake, and tell thy dream. [Disappears. Per. Celestial Dian, goddess argentine, I will obey thee. Helicanus ! Re-enter Helicanus, Lysimachus, and Marina. Hel. Sir? Per. My purpose was for Tarsus, there to strike The inhospitable Cleon ; but I am Eor other service first : toward Ephesus Turn our blown sails ; eftsoons I '11 tell thee why. [To Lysimachus'] Shall we refresh us, sir, upon your And give you gold for such provision [shore. As our intents will need ? Lys. Sir, With all my heart; and, when you come ashore, I have another suit. Per. You shall prevail, Were it to woo my daughter ; for it seems You have been noble towards her. PERICLES. SCENE III. Lys. Sir, lend me your arm. Per. Come, my Marina. [Exeunt. SCENE II. — E)iter Gower, before the temple of Di- ana at Ephesus. Goxc. Now our sands are almost run; More a little, and then dumb. This, my last boon, give me, For such kindness must relieve me, That you aptly will suppose "What pageantry, what feats, what shows, What minstrelsy, and pretty din, The regent made in Mytilene To greet the king. So he thrived. That he is promised to be wived To fair Marina ; but in no wise Till. he had done his sacrifice. As Dian bade : whereto being bound, The interim, pray you, all confound. In feather 'd briefness sails are fiU'd, And wishes fall out as they 're will'd. At Ephesus, the temple see. Our king and all his company. That he can hither come so soon. Is by your fancy's thankful doom. {Exit. SCENE III. — Tfte temple of Diana at Ephesus; Thaisa standing near the altar, as high priestess; a number of Virgins on each side; Cerimon and other Inhabitants of Ephesus attending. Enter Pericles, with his train; Lysimachus, Helicanus, Marina, and a Lady. Per. Hail, Dian ! to perform thy just command, I here confess myself the king of Tyre ; Who, frighted from my country, did wed At Pentapolis the fair Thaisa. At sea in childbed died she, but brought forth A maid-child call'd Marina ; who, O goddess, Wears yet thy silver livery. She at Tarsus Was nursed with Cleon ; who at fourteen years He sought to murder ; but her better stars Brought her to Mytilene ; 'gainst whose shore Biding, her fortunes brought the maid aboard us, Where, by her own most clear remembrance, she Made known herself my daughter. Thai. Voice and favour I You are, you are — O royal Pericles ! [Faints. Per. What means the nun V she dies ! help, gen- Cer. Noble sir, [tlemen ! If you have told Diana's altar true, This is your wife. Per. Eeverend appearer, no ; I threw her overboard with these very arms. Cer. Upon this coast, I warrant you. Per. 'T is most certain. Cer. Look to the lady ; O, she 's but o'erjoy'd. Early in blustering morn this lady was Thrown upon this shore. I oped the coffin, Pound there rich jewels; recover'd her, and placed Here in Diana's temple. [her Per. May we see them ? Cer. Great sir, they shall be brought you to my Whither I invite you. Look, Thaisa is [house, Becovered. Thai. O, let me look I If he be none of mine, my sanctity Will to my sense bend no licentious ear. But curb it, spite of seeing. O, my lord, Are you not Pericles ? Like him you spake, Like him you are : did you not name a tempest, A birth, and death ? Per. The voice of dead Thaisa ! Thai. That Thaisa am I, supposed dead And drown 'd. Per. Immortal Dian ! Thai. Now I know you better. When we with tears parted Pentapolis, The king my father gave you such a ring. [Shows a ring. Per. This, this : no more, you gods ! your present kindness Makes my past miseries sports: yoa shall do well, That on the touching of her lips I may Melt and no more be seen. O, come, be buried A second time within these arms. Mar. My heart Leaps to be gone into my mother's bosom. [Kneels to Thaisa. Per. Look, who kneels here ! Flesh of thy flesh. Thy burden at the sea, and call'd Marina, [Thaisa ; For she was yielded there. Thai. Blest, and mine own ! Hel. Hail, madam, and my queen ! Thai. I know you not. Per. You have heard me say, when I did fly from I left behind an ancient substitute : [Tyre, Can you remember what I call'd the man ? I have named him oft. Thai. 'T was Helicanus then. Per. Still confirmation : Embrace him, dear Thaisa ; this is he. Now do I long to hear how you were found ; How possibly preserved ; and who to thank. Besides the gods, for this great miracle. Thai. Lord Cerimon, my lord ; this man. Through whom the gods have shown their power ; From first to last resolve you. [that can Per. Reverend sir. The gods can have no mortal officer More like a god than you. Will you deliver How this dead queen re-lives ? Cer. I will, my lord. Beseech you, first go with me to my house. Where shall be shown you all was found with her ; How she came placed here in the temple ; No needful thing omitted. Per. Pure Dian, bless thee for thy vision ! I Will offer night-oblations to thee. Thaisa, This prince, the fair-betrothed of your daughter, Shall marry her at Pentapolis. And now. This ornament Makes me look dismal will I clip to form ; And what this fourteen years no razor touch'd. To grace thy marriage-day, I '11 beautify. [sir. Thai. Lord Cerimon hath letters of good credit. My father's dead. [my queen, Per. Heavens make a star of him ! Yet there, We '11 celebrate their nuptials, and ourselves Will in that kingdom spend our following days : Our son and daughter shall in Tyrus reign. Lord Cerimon, we do our longing stay To hear the rest untold: sir, lead 's the way. [Exeunt. Enter Gower. Gow. In Antiochus and his daughter you have heard Of monstrous lust the due and just reward: In Pericles, his queen and daughter, seen. Although assail'd with fortune fierce and keen, Virtue preserved from fell destruction's blast. Led on by heaven, and crown'd with joy at last : In Helicanus may you well descry A figure of truth, of faith, of loyalty : In reverend Cerimon there well appears The worth that learned charity aye wears : For wicked Cleon and his wife, when fame Had spread their cursed deed, and honour'd name Of Pericles, to rage the city turn. That him and his they in his palace burn ; The gods for murder seemed so content To punish them ; although not done, but meant. So, on your patience evermore attending, New joy wait on you ! Here our play has ending [Exit 821 VENUS AND ADONIS, ' Vilia mlretur vulgus ; mihi flaTus Apollo Pocula Castalia plena ministret aqua.' TO THE EIGHT HONOURABLE HENRY WEIOTHESLY. Right Honourable, EARL OP SOUTHAMPTON, AND BARON OP TICHPIELD. I KNOW not how I shall offend in dedicating my unpolished lines to your lordship, nor how the world will censure me for choosing so strong a prop to support so weak a burden : only, if your honour seem but pleased, I account myself highly praised, and vow to take advantage of all idle hours, till I have honoured you with some graver labour. But if the first heir of my invention prove deformed, I shall be sorry it had so noble a god-father, and never after ear so barren a land, for fear it yield me still so bad a harvest. I leave it to your honourable survey, and your honour to your heart's content ; which I wish may always answer your own wish and the world's hopeful expectation. Your honour's in all duty. /^v^et4^ ^fjc^y^^'^^ Even as the sun with purple-colour 'd face Had ta'en his last leave of the weeping morn, Eose-cheek'd Adonis hied him to the chase ; Hunting he loved, but love he laugh 'd to scorn ; Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him. And like a bold-faced suitor 'gins to woo him. ' Thrice-fairer than myself,' thus she began, ' The field's chief flower, sweet above compare, Stain to all nymphs, more lovely than a man. More white and red than doves or roses are ; Nature that made thee, with herself at strife, Saith that the world hath ending with thy life. ' Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed. And rein his proud head to the saddle-bow ; If thou wilt deign this favour, for thy meed A thousand honey secrets shalt thou know : Here come and sit, where never serpent hisses. And being set, I '11 smother thee with kisses ; ' And yet not cloy thy lips with loathed satiety, But rather famish them amid their plenty. Making them red and pale with fresh variety. Ten kisses short as one, one long as twenty : A summer's day will seem an hour but short. Being wasted in such time-beguiling sport.' With this she seizeth on his sweating palm. The precedent of pith and livelihood, And trembling in her passion, calls it balm. Earth's sovereign salve to do a goddess good : Being so enraged, desire doth lend her force Courageously to pluck him from his horse. Over one arm the lusty courser's rein, Uiider her other was the tender boy, Who blush 'd and pouted in a dull disdain, With leaden appetite, unapt to toy; She red and hot as coals of glowing fire, He red for shame, but frosty in desire. The studded bridle on a ragged bough Nimbly she fastens : — O, how quick is love ! — The steed is stalled up, and even now To tie the rider she begins to prove : Backward she push'd him, as she would be thrust, And govern 'd him in strength, though not in lust. 822 So soon was she along as he was down. Each leaning on their elbows and their hips : Now doth she stroke his cheek, now doth he frown, And 'gins to chide, but soon she stops his lips ; And kissing speaks, with lustful language broken, ' If thou wilt chide, thy lips shall never open.' He burns with bashful shame ; she with her tears Doth quench the maiden burning of his cheeks ; Then with her windy sighs and golden hairs To fan and blow them dry again she seeks : He saith she is immodest, blames her 'miss ; What follows more she murders with a kiss. Even as an empty eagle, sharp by fast. Tires with her beak on feathers, flesh and bone, Shaking her wings, devouring all in haste, Till either gorge be stuff 'd or prey be gone ; Even so she kissed his brow, his cheek, his chin, And where she ends she doth anew begin. Forced to content, but never to obey. Panting he lies and breatheth in her face ; She feedeth on the steam as on a prey. And calls it heavenly moisture, air of grace ; Wishing her cheeks were gardens full of flowers. So they were dew'd with such distilling showers. Look, how a bird lies tangled in a net, So fasten 'd in her arms Adonis lies ; Pure shame and awed resistance made him fret, Which bred more beauty in his angry eyes : Eain added to a river that is rank Perforce will force it overflow the bank. Still she entreats, and prettily entreats. For to a pretty ear she tunes her tale ; Still is he sullen, still he lours and frets, 'Twixt crimson shame and anger ashy-pale ; Being red, she loves him best ; and being white. Her best is better'd with a more delight. Look how he can, she cannot choose but love ; And by her fair immortal hand she swears, From his soft bosom never to remove. Till he take truce with her contending tears, Which long have rain'd, making her cheeks all wet; And one sweet kiss shall pay this countless debt. VENUS AND ADONIS. Upon this promise did lie raise his chin, Like a dive-dapper peering through a wave, Who, being look'd on, ducks as quickly in; So offers he to give what she did crave ; But when her lips were ready for his pay, He winks, and turns his lips another way. if ever did passenger in summer's heat More thirst for drink than she for this good turn. Her help she sees, but help she cannot get ; She bathes in water, yet her fire must burn : ' O, pity,' 'gan she cry, ' flint-hearted boy! 'T is but a kiss I beg ; why art thou coy ? ' I have been woo'd, as I entreat thee now. Even by the stern and direful god of war. Whose sinewy neck in battle ne'er did bow, Who conquers where he comes in every jar ; Yet hath he been my captive and my slave. And begg'd for that which thou unask'd shalt have. ' Over my altars hath he hung his lance, His batter'd shield, his uncontrolled crest, And for my sake hath learn'd to sport and dance, To toy, to wanton, dally, smile and jest, . Scorning his churlish drum and ensign red, Making my arms his field, his tent my bed. ' Thus he that overruled I oversway'd, Leading him prisoner in a red-rose chain : Strong-tempered steel his stronger strength obey'd, Yet was he servile to my coy disdain. O, be not proud, nor brag not of thy might, Tor mastering her that foil'd the god of fight ! ' Touch but my lips with those fair lips of thine,— Though mine be not so fair, yet are they red — The kiss shall be thine own as well as mine. What seest thou in the ground ? hold up thy head : Look in mine eye-balls, there thy beauty lies : Then why not lips on lips, since eyes in eyes r 'Art thou ashamed to kiss ? then wink again, And I will wink ; so shaU the day seem night ; Love keeps his revels where there are but twain ; Be bold to play, our sport is not in sight : These blue-vein'd violets whereon we lean if ever can blab, nor know not what we mean. ' The tender spring upon thy tempting lip Sho ws thee unripe ; yet mayst thou well be tasted : Make use of time, let not advantage slip ; Beauty within itself should not be wasted : Fair flowers that are not gather'd in their prime Eot and consume themselves in little time. ' Were I hard-favour'd, foul, or wrinkled-old. Ill-nurtured, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice, O'erworn, despised, rheumatic and cold. Thick-sighted, barren, lean and lacking juice, Then mightst thou pause, for then I were not for thee; But having no defects, why dost abhor me ? ' Thou canst not see one wrinkle in my brow ; Mine eyes are gray and bright and quick in turning ; My beauty as the spring doth yearly grow. My flesh is soft and plump, my marrow burning; My smooth moist hand, were it with thy hand felt, Would in thy palm dissolve, or seem to melt. ' Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear. Or, like a fairy, trip upon the green, Or, like a nymph, with long dishevell'd hair. Dance on the sands, and yet no footing seen : Love is a spirit all compact of fire, Not gross to sink, but light, and will aspire. ' Witness this primrose bank whereon I lie ; These forceless flowers like sturdy trees support me; Two strengtliless doves will draw me through thesky, From morn till night, even where I list to sport me : Is love so light, sweet boy, and may it be That thou shouldst think it heavy unto thee ? ' Is thine own heart to thine own face affected ? Can thy right hand seize love upon thy left ? Then woo thyself, be of thyself rejected. Steal thine own freedom and complain on theft. Narcissus so himself himself forsook, And died to kiss his shadow in the brook. ' Torches are made to light, jewels to wear, Dainties to taste, fresh beauty for the use. Herbs for their smell, and sappy plants to bear : Things growing to themselves are growth's abuse: Seeds spring from seeds and beauty breedeth beauty ; Thou wast begot ; to get it is thy duty. ' Upon the earth's increase why shouldst thou feed, Unless the earth with thy increase be fed ? By law of nature thou art bound to breed. That thine may live when thou thyself art dead; And so, in spite of death, thou dost survive. In that thy likeness still is left alive.' By this the love-sick queen began to sweat. For where they lay the shadow had forsook them, And Titan, tired in the mid-day heat. With burning eye did hotly overlook them ; Wishing Adonis had his team to guide. So he were like him and by Venus' side. And now Adonis, with a lazy spright, And with a heavy, dark, disliking eye. His louring brows o'erwheLming his fair sight, Like misty vapours when they blot the sky. Souring his cheeks cries ' Fie, no more of love! The sun doth burn my face ; I must remove.' ' Ay me,' quoth Venus, ' young, and so unkind ? What bare excuses makest thou to be gone ! I '11 sigh celestial breath, whose gentle wind Shall cool the heat of this descending sun : I '11 make a shadow for thee of my hairs ; If they burn too, I '11 quench them with my tears. ' The sun that shines from heaven shines but warm, And, lo, I lie between that sun and thee : The heat I have from thence doth little harm, Thine eye darts forth the fire that bumeth me ; And were I not immortal, life were done Between this heavenly and earthly sun. ' Art thou obdurate, flinty, hard as steel, Nay, more than flint, for stone at rain relenteth ? Art thou a woman's son, and canst not feel What 't is to love ? how want of love tormenteth ? O, had thy mother borne so hard a mind. She had not brought forth thee, but died unkind. ' What am I, that thou shouldst contemn me this ? Or what great danger dwells upon my suit 5^ What were thy lips the worse for one poor kiss ? Speak, fair; but speak fair words, or else be mute: Give me one kiss, I '11 give it thee again, And one for interest, ii thou wilt have twain. ' Fie, lifeless picture, cold and senseless stone. Well-painted idol, image dull and dead. Statue contenting but the eye alone. Thing like a man, but of no woman bred ! Thou art no man, though of a man's complexion, For men will kiss even by their own direction.' VENUS AND ADONIS. This said, impatience chokes her pleading tongue, And swelling passion doth provoke a pause ; Red cheeks and fiery eyes blaze forth her wrong ; Being judge in love, she cannot right her cause: And now she weeps, and now she fain would speak, And now her sobs do her intendments break. Sometimes she shakes her head and then his hand, Now gazeth she on him, now on the ground; Sometimes her arms infold him like a band : She would, he will not in her arms be bound ; And when from thence he struggles to be gone. She locks her lily fingers one in one. ' Fondling, 'she saith,'since I have hemm'd thee here Within the circuit of this ivory pale, I '11 be a park, and thou shalt be my deer ; Feed where thou wilt, on moimtain or in dale : Graze on my lips ; and if those hills be dry, Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie. ' Within this limit is relief enough. Sweet bottom-grass and high delightful plain, Eound rising hillocks, brakes obscure and rough, To shelter thee from tempest and from rain : Then be my deer, since I am such a park; No dog shall rouse thee, though a thousand bark.' At this Adonis smiles as in disdain, That in each cheek appears a pretty dimple : Love made those hollows, if himself were slain, He might be buried in a tomb so simple ; Foreknowing well, if there he came to lie, Why, there Love lived and there he could not die. These lovely caves, these round enchanting pits, Open'd their mouths to swallow Yenus' liking. Being mad before, how doth she now for wits ? Struck dead at first, what needs a second striking ? Poor queen of love, in thine own law forlorn. To love a cheek that smiles at thee in scorn ! Now which way shall she turn ? what shall she say ? Her words are done, her woes the more increasing ; The time is spent, her object will away, And from her twining arms doth urge releasing. ' Pity,' she cries, ' some favour, some remorse! ' Away he springs and hasteth to his horse. But, lo, from forth a copse that neighbours by, A breeding jennet, lusty, young and proud, Adonis' trampliag courser doth espy, And forth she rushes, snorts and neighs aloud : The strong-neck'd steed, being tied unto a tree, Breaketh his rein, and to her straight goes he. Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds. And now his woven girths he breaks asunder ; The bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds. Whose hollow womb resounds like heaven's thun- der; The iron bit he crusheth 'tween his teeth, Controlling what he was controlled with. His ears up-prick'd ; his braided hanging mane Upon his compass'd crest now stand on end ; His nostrils drink the air, and forth again. As from a furnace, vapours doth he send : His eye, which scornfully glisters like fire. Shows his hot courage and his high desire. Sometime he trots, as if he told the steps. With gentle majesty and modest pride ; Anon he rears upright, curvets and leaps. As who should say^Lo, thus my strength is tried. And this I do to captivate the eye Of the fair breeder that is standing by.' 824 His flattering ' Holla,' or his ' Stand, I say ' ? What cares he now for curb or pricking spur ? For rich caparisons or trappmg gay ? He sees his love, and nothing else he sees, For nothing else with his proud sight agrees. Look, when a painter would surpass the life, In limning out a well-proportion 'd steed, His art with nature's workmanship at strife, As if the dead the living should exceed ; So did this horse excel a common one In shape, in courage, colour, pace and bone. Round-hoof 'd, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long, Broad breast, full eye, small head and nostril wide, High crest, short ears, straight legs and passing strong. Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide : Look, what a horse should have he did not lack, Save a proud rider on so proud a back. Sometime he scuds far off and there he stares; Anon he starts at stirring of a feather ; To bid the wind a base he now prepares. And whether he run or fly they know not whether; For through his mane and tail the high wind sings. Fanning the hairs, who wave like feather'd wings. He looks upon his love and neighs unto her ; She answers him as if she knew bis mind : Being proud, as females are, to see him woo her. She puts on outward strangeness, seems rmkind. Spurns at his love and scorns the heat he feels, Beating his kind embracements with her heela. Then, like a melancholy malcontent, He veils his tail that, like a falling plume. Cool shadow to his melting buttock lent : He stamps and bites the poor flies in his fume. His love, perceiving how he is enraged, Grew kinder, and his fury was assuaged. His testy master goeth about to take him ; When, lo, the unback'd breeder, full of fear. Jealous of catching, swiftly doth forsake him, With her the horse, and left Adonis there : As they were mad, unto the wood they hie them. Out-stripping crows that strive to over-fly them. All swoln with chafing, down Adonis sits. Banning his boisterous and unruly beast : And now the happy season once more fits. That love-sick Love by pleading may be blest ; For lovers say, the heart hath treble wrong When it is barr'd the aidance of the tongue. An oven that is stopp'd, or river stay'd, Burneth more hotly, swelleth with more rage : So of concealed sorrow may be said ; Free vent of words love's fire doth assuage ; But when the heart's attorney once is mute, The client breaks, as desperate in his suit. He sees her coming, and begins to glow. Even as a dying coal revives with wind. And with his bonnet hides his angry brow ; Looks on the dull earth with disturbed mind, Taking no notice that she is so nigh. For all askance he holds her in his eye. O, what a sight it was, wistly to view How she came stealing to the wayward boy 1 To note the fighting conflict of her hue. How white and red each other did destroy ! But now her cheek was pale, and by and by It flash 'd forth fire, as lightning from the sky. VENUS AND ADONIS. liTow was she just before him as he sat, And like a lowly lover down she kneels ; With one fair hand she heaveth up his hat, Her other tender hand his fair cheek feels : His tenderer cheek receives her soft hand's print, As apt as new-fall 'n snow takes any dint. O, what a war of looks was then between them! Her eyes petitioners to his eyes suing ; His eyes saw her eyes as they had not seen them ; Her eyes woo'd still, his eyes disdain'd the wooing : And all this dumb play had his acts made plain With tears, which, chorus-like, her eyes did rain. Full gently now she takes him by the hand, A lily prison 'd in a gaol of snow, Or ivory in an alabaster band ; So white a friend engirts so white a foe : This beauteous combat, vidlful and unwilling, Show'd like two silver doves that sit a-billing. Once more the engine of her thoughts began : ' O fairest mover on this mortal round. Would thou wert as I am, and 1 a man. My heart all whole as thine, thy heart my wound ; ■ For one sweet look thy help I would assure thee, Though nothing but my body's bane would cure *Give me my hand,' saith he, ' why dost thou feel it? ' * Give me my heart,' saith she, ' and thou shalt have O, give it me, lest thy hard heart do steel it, [it ; And being steel 'd, soft sighs can never grave it : Then love's deep groans I never shall regard, Because Adonis' heart hath made mine hard.' ' For shame,' he cries, ' let go, and let me go ; My day's delight is past, my horse is gone. And 't is your fault I am bereft him so : I pray you hence, and leave me here alone ; For all my mind, my thought, my busy care, Is how to get my palfrey from the mare. ' Thus she replies : ' Thy palfrey, as he should. Welcomes the warm approach of sweet desire : Affection is a coal that must be cool'd ; Else, suffer'd, it will set the heart on fire: The sea hath bounds, but deep desire hath none ; Therefore no marvel though thy horse be gone. ' How like a jade he stood, tied to the tree. Servilely master 'd with a leathern rein ! But when he saw his love, his youth's fair fee, He held such petty bondage in disdain ; Throwing the base thong from his bending crest. Enfranchising his mouth, his back, his breast. * Who sees his true-love in her naked bed, Teaching the sheets a whiter hue than white, But, when his glutton eye so full hath fed. His other agents aim at like delight ? Who is so faint, that dare not be so bold To touch the fire, the weather being cold ? ' Let me excuse thy courser, gentle boy ; And learn of him, I heartily beseech thee. To take advantage on presented joy ; Though I were dumb, yet his proceedings teach thee : O, learn to love ; the lesson is but plain. And once made perfect, never lost again.' ' I know not love,' quoth he, ' nor will not know it, Unless it be a boar, and then I chase it ; 'T is much to borrow, and I will not owe it ; My love to love is love but to disgrace it ; For I have heard it is a life in death. That laughs and weeps, and all but with a breath. ' Who wears a garment shapeless and unfinish'd Who plucks the bud before one leaf put forth ? If springing things be any jot diminish 'd. They wither in their prime, prove nothing worth : The colt that 's back'd and burden'd being young Loseth his pride and never waxeth strong. ' You hurt my hand with wringing ; let us part, And leave this idle theme, this bootless chat : Kemove your siege from my unyielding heart ; To love's alarms it will not ope the gate : [tery ; Dismiss your vows, your feigned tears, your flat- For where a heart is hard they make no battery.' ' What I canst thou talk ? ' quoth she, ' hast thou a tongue ? O, would thou hadst not, or I had no hearing ! Thy mermaid's voice hath done me double wrong ; I had my load before, now press'd with bearing: Melodious discord, heavenly tune harsh-sounding. Ear's deep-sweet music, and heart's deep-sore wounding. ' Had I no eyes but ears, my ears would love That inward beauty and invisible ; Or were I deaf, thy outward parts would move Each part in me that were but sensible : Though neither eyes nor ears, to hear nor see, Yet should I be in love by touching thee. ' Say, that the sense of feeling were bereft me. And that I could not see, nor hear, nor touch. And nothing but the very smell were left me. Yet would my love to thee be still as much ; For from the stillitory of thy face excelling Comes breath perfumed that breedeth love by- smelling. ' But, O, what banquet wert thou to the taste. Being nurse and feeder of the other four ! Would they not wish the feast might ever last. And bid Suspicion double-lock the door. Lest Jealousy, that sour unwelcome guest. Should, by his stealing in, disturb the feast ? ' Once more the ruby-colour'd portal open'd. Which to his speech did honey passage yield ; Like a red morn, that ever yet betoken 'd Wreck to the seaman, tempest to the field. Sorrow to shepherds, woe unto the birds. Gusts and foul flaws to herdmen and to herds. This ill presage advisedly she marketh : Even as the wind is hush'd before it raineth, Or as the wolf doth grin before he barketh. Or as the berry breaks before it staineth, Or like the deadly bullet of a gun. His meaning struck her ere his words begun. And at his look she flatly falleth down. For looks kill love and love by looks reviveth ; A smile recures the wounding of a frown; But blessed bankrupt, that by love so thriveth! The silly boy, believing she is dead, Claps her pale cheek, till clapping makes it red And all amazed brake off his late intent. For sharply he did think to reprehend her. Which cunning love did wittily prevent : Fair fall the wit that can so well defend her ! ' For on the grass she lies as she were slain. Till his breath breatheth life in her again. He wrings her nose, he strikes her on the cheeks, He bends her fingers, holds her pulses hard. He chafes her lips ; a thousand ways he seeks To mend the hurt that his unkindness marr'd : 825 VENUS AND ADONIS. He kisses her ; and she, by her good will, "Will never rise, so he will kiss her stiU. The night of sorrow now is turn'd to day : Her two blue windows faintly she up-heaveth, Like the fair sun, when in his fresh array He cheers the morn and all the earth relieveth ; And as the bright sun glorifies the sky, So is her face illumined with her eye ; Whose beams upon his hairless face are fix'd. As if from thence they borrow 'd all their shine. "Were never four such lamps together mix'd. Had not his clouded with his brow's repine ; But hers, which through the crystal tears gave light. Shone like the moon in water seen by night. ' O, where am I ? ' quoth she, ' in earth or heaven, Or in the ocean drench 'd, or in the fire ? What hour is this ? or morn or weary even ? Do I delight to die, or life desire ? But now I lived, and life was death's annoy; But now I died, and death was lively joy. ' O, thou didst kill me ; kill me once again : Thy eyes' shrewd tutor, that hard heart of thine. Hath taught them scornful tricks and such disdain That they have murder 'd this poor heart of mine; And these mine eyes, true leaders to their queen. But for thy piteous lips no more had seen. ' Long may they kiss each other, for this cure ! O, never let their crimson liveries wear ! And as they last, their verdure still endure, To drive infection from the dangerous year ! That the star-gazers, having writ on death, May say, the plague is banish'd by thy breath. ' Pure lips, sweet seals in my soft lips imprinted. What bargains may I make, still to be sealing ? To sell myself I can be well contented, So thou wilt buy and pay and use good dealing ; Which purchase if thou make, for fear of slips Set thy seal-manual on my wax-red lips. ' A thousand kisses buys my heart from me ; And pay them at thy leisure, one by one. What is ten hundred touches unto thee ? Are they not quickly told and quickly gone ? Say, for non-payment that the debt should double, Is twenty hundred kisses such a trouble ? ' ' Fair queen,' quoth he, 'if any love you owe me, Measure my strangeness with my unripe years : Before I know myself, seek not to know me ; No fisher but the imgrown fry forbears : The mellow plum doth fall, the green sticks fast. Or being early pluck'd is sour to taste. * Look, the world's comforter, with weary gait, His day's hot task hath ended in the west ; The owl, night's herald, shrieks, " 'Tis very late;" The sheep are gone to fold, birds to their nest. And coal-black clouds that shadow heaven's light Do summon us to part and bid good night. ' Now let me say " Good night," and so say you ; If you will say so, you shall have a kiss.' ' Good night,' quoth she, and, ere he says ' Adieu,' The honey fee of parting tender'd is: Her arms do lend his neck a sweet embrace ; Incorporate then they seem ; face grows to face. Till, breathless, he disjoin'd, and backward drew The heavenly moisture, that sweet coral mouth, 826 Whose precious taste her thirsty lips well knew. Whereon they surfeit, yet complain on drouth : He with her plenty press'd, she faint with dearth, Their lips together glued, fall to the earth. Now quick desire hath caught the yielding prey. And glutton-like she feeds, yet never fiUeth ; Her lips are conquerors, his lips obey. Paying what ransom the insulter willeth ; [high, Whose vulture thought doth pitch the price so That she wiU draw his lips' rich treasure dry: And having felt the sweetness of the spoil. With blindfold fury she begins to forage ; Her face doth reek and smoke, her blood doth boil. And careless lust stirs up a desperate courage ; Planting oblivion, beating reason back. Forgetting shame's pure blush and honour's wrack. Hot, faint, and weary, with her hard embracing. Like a wild bird being tamed with too much hand- ling, Or as the fleet-foot roe that 's tu-ed with chasing, Or like the f reward infant still 'd with dandling. He now obeys, and now no more resisteth. While she takes all she can, not all she listeth. What wax so frozen but dissolves with tempering. And yields at last to every light impression ? Things out of hope are compass 'd oft with venturing, Chiefly in love, whose leave exceeds commission : Affection faints not like a pale-faced coward. But then woos best when most his choice is fro ward. When he did frown, O, had she then gave over, Such nectar from his lips she had not suck'd. Foul words and frowns must not repel a lover ; What though the rose have prickles, yet 't is pluck'd : Were beauty under twenty locks kept fast. Yet love breaks through and picks th6m all at last. For pity now she can no more detain him ; The poor fool prays her that he may depart : She is resolved no longer to restrain him ; Bids him farewell, and look well to her heart. The which, by Cupid's bow she doth protest. He carries thence incaged in his breast. 'Sweet boy,' she says, 'this night I'll waste in sorrow. For my sick heart commands mine eyes to watch. Tell me, Love's master, shall we meet to-morrow? Say, shall we ? shall we ? wilt thou make the match ? ' He tells her, no ; to-morrow he intends To hunt the boar with certain of his friends. ' The boar i ' quoth she ; whereat a sudden pale, Like lawn being spread upon the blushing rose. Usurps her cheek ; she trembles at his tale, And on his neck her yoking arms she throws : She sinketh down, still hanging by his neck, He on her belly falls, she on her back. Now is she in the very lists of love, Her champion momited for the hot encounter : All is imaginary she doth prove. He will not manage her, although he mount her; That worse than Tantalus' is her annoy. To clip Elysium and to lack her joy. Even as poor birds, deceived with painted grapes, Do surfeit by the eye and pine the maw, Even so she languisheth in her mishaps, As those poor birds that helpless berries saw. The warm effects which she in him finds missing Slie seeks to kindle with continual kissing. VENUS AND ADONIS. But all in vain ; good queen, it will not be : She hath assay 'd as much as may be proved ; Her pleading hath deserved a greater fee ; She 's Love, she loves, and yet she is not loved. ' Fie, fie,' he says, ' you crush me ; let me go ; You have no reason to withhold me so.' ' Thou hadst been gone,' quoth she, ' sweet boy, ere this. But that thou told 'st me thou wouldst hunt the boar. O, be advised ! thou know'st not what it is With javelin's point a churlish swine to gore, Whose tushes never sheathed he whetteth still, Like to a mortal butcher bent to kill. ' On his bow-back he hath a battle set Of bristly pikes, that ever threat his foes ; His eyes, like glow-worms, shine when he doth fret ; His snout digs sepulchres where'er he goes ; Being moved, he strikes whate'er is m his wa-y, And whom he strikes his cruel tushes slay. ' His brawny sides, with hairy bristles arm'd, Are better proof than thy spear's point can enter ; His short thick neck cannot be easily harm'd ; Being ireful, on the lion he will venture : The thorny brambles and embracing bushes, As fearful of him, part, through whom he rushes. 'Alas, he nought esteems that face of thine, To which Love's eyes pay tributary gazes; Xor thy soft hands, sweet lips and crystal eyne, Whose full perfection all the world amazes ; But having thee at vantage, — wondrous dread ! — Would root these beauties as he roots the mead. ' O, let him keep his loathsome cabin still ; Beauty hath nought to do with such foul fiends : Come not within his danger by thy will ; They that thrive well take counsel of their friends. When thou didst name the boar, not to dissemble, I fear'd thy fortune, and my joints did tremble. ' Didst thou not mark my face ? was it not white ? Saw'st thou not signs of fear lurk in mine eye ? Grew I not faint ? and fell I not downright ? Withia my bosom, whereon thou dost lie. My boding heart pants, beats, and takes no rest. But, like an earthquake, shakes thee on my breast. ' For where Love reigns, disturbing Jealousy Doth call himself Affection's sentinel ; Gives false alarms, suggesteth mutiny. And in a peaceful hour doth cry " Kill, kill ! " Distempering gentle Love in his desire, As air and water do abate the fire. ' This sour informer, this bate-breeding spy. This canker that eats up Love's tender spring. This carry-tale, dissentious Jealousy, That sometime true news, sometime false doth bring. Knocks at my heart and whispers in mine ear That if I love thee, I thy death should fear: •And more than so, presenteth to mine eye The picture of an angry-chafing boar. Under whose sharp fangs on his back doth lie An image like thyself, all stain 'd with gore ; Whose blood upon the fresh flowers being shed Doth make them droop with grief and hang the ' What should I do, seeing thee so indeed. That tremble at the imagination ? The thought of it doth make my faint heart bleed, And fear doth teach it divination : I prophesy thy death, my living sorrow. If thou encounter with the boar to-morrow. ' But if thou needs wilt hunt, be ruled by me ; Uncouple at the timorous flying hare. Or at the fox which lives by subtlety. Or at the roe which no encounter dare : Pursue these fearful creatures o'er the downs. And on thy well-breathed horse keep with thy hounds. 'And when thou hast on foot the purblind hare, Mark the poor wretch, to overshoot his troubles How he outruns the wind and with what care He cranks and crosses with a thousand doubles : The many musets through the which he goes Are like a labyrinth to amaze his foes. ' Sometime he runs among a flock of sheep. To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell, And sometime where earth-delving conies keep, To stop the loud pursuers in their yell. And sometime sorteth with a herd of deer : Danger deviseth shifts ; wit waits on fear : ' For there his smell with others being mingled. The hot scent-snufiing hounds are driven to doubt, Ceasing their clamorous cry till they have singled With much ado the cold fault cleanly out ; Then do they spend their mouths : Echo replies, As if another chase were in the skies. ' By this, poor Wat, far off upon a hill. Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear, To hearken if his foes pursue him still : Anon their loud alarums he doth hear ; And now his grief may be compared well To one sore sick that hears the passing-bell. ' Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretch Turn, and return, indenting with the way; Each envious brier his weary legs doth scratch. Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay ; For misery is trodden on by many, And being low never relieved by any. ' Lie quietly, and hear a little more ; Nay, do not struggle, for thou shalt not rise: To make thee hate the hunting of the boar, Unlike myself thou hear'st me moralize. Applying this to that, and so to so ; For love can comment upon every woe. ' Where did I leave ? ' ' No matter where ; ' quoth he, ' Leave me, and then the story aptly ends : The night is spent.' ' Why, what of that ? ' quoth she. ' I am,' quoth he, ' expected of my friends ; And now 'tis dark, and going I shall fall.' ' In night,' quoth she, ' desire sees best of aU. ' But if thou fall, O, then imagine this, The earth, in love with thee, thy footing trips, And all is but to rob thee of a kiss. Rich preys make true men thieves ; so do thy lips Make modest Dian cloudy and forlorn. Lest she should steal a kiss and die forsworn. ' Now of this dark night I perceive the reason : Cynthia for shame obscures her silver shine. Till forging Nature be condemn 'd of treason. For stealing moulds from heaven that were divine " Wherein she framed thee in high heaven's despite To shame the sun by day and her by night. ' And therefore hath she bribed the Destinies To cross the curious workmanship of nature^ 827 VENUS AND ADONIS. To mingle beauty with infirmities, And pure perfection with impure defeature, Making it subject to the tyranny Of mad miscliances and much misery ; * As burning fevers, agues pale and faint. Life-poisoning pestilence and frenzies wood, The marrow-eating sickness, whose attaint Disorder breeds by heating of the blood : Surfeits, imposthumes, grief, and damn'd despair, Swear Nature's death for framing thee so fair. *■ And not the least of all these maladies But in one minute's fight brings beauty under : Both favour, savour, hue and qualities, Whereat the impartial gazer late did wonder, Are on the sudden wasted, thaw'd and done, As mountain-snow melts with the midday sun. * Therefore, despite of fruitless chastity, Love-lacking vestals and self-loving nuns, That on the earth would breed a scarcity And barren dearth of daughters and of sons, Be prodigal : the lamp that burns by night Dries up his oil to lend the world his light. * What is thy body but a swallowing grave, Seeming to bury that posterity Which by the rights of time thou needs must have, If thou destroy them not in dark obscurity ? If so, the world will hold thee in disdain, Sith ill thy pride so fair a hope is slain. *■ So in thyself thyself art made away ; A mischief worse than civil home-bred strife, Or theirs whose desperate hands themselves do slay. Or butcher-sire that reaves his son of life. Foul cankering rust the hidden treasure frets, . But gold that 's put to use more gold begets.' '■ Nay, then,' quoth Adon, ' you will fall again Into your idle over-handled theme : The kiss I gave you is bestow 'd ia vain, And all in vain you strive against the stream ; For, by this black-faced night, desire's foul nurse, Your treatise makes me like you worse and worse. * If love have lent you twenty thousand tongues, And every tongue more moving than your own. Bewitching like the wanton mermaid's songs, Yet from mine ear the tempting txine is blown ; For know, my heart stands armed in mine ear, And will not let a false sound enter there ; * Lest the deceiving harmony should run Into the quiet closure of my breast ; And then my little heart were quite undone, In his bedchamber to be barr'd of rest. No, lady, no ; my heart longs not to groan, But soundly sleeps, while now it sleeps alone. ' What have you urged that I cannot reprove ? The path is smooth that leadeth on to danger : I hate not love, but your device in love. That lends embracements unto every stranger. You do it for increase : O strange excuse, When reason is the bawd to lust's abuse ! ' Call it not love, for Love to heaven is fled. Since sweating Lust on earth usurp 'd his name; Under whose simple semblance he hath fed Upon fresh beauty, blotting it with blame ; Which the hot tyrant stains and soon bereaves, As caterpillars do the tender leaves. ' Love comf orteth like sunshine after rain, But Lust's effect is tempest after sun ; 828 Love's gentle spring doth always fresh remain, Lust's winter comes ere summer half: be done ; Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies; Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies. ' More I could tell, but more I dare not say ; The text is old, the orator too green. Therefore, in sadness, now I will away; My face is full of shame, my heart of teen : Mine ears, that to your wanton talk attended, Do burn themselves for having so offended.' With this, he breaketh from the sweet embrace, Of those fair arms which bound him to her breast. And homeward through the dark laund runs apace. Leaves Love upon her back deeply distress'd. Look, how a bright star shooteth from the sky, So glides he in the night from Venus' eye ; Which after him she darts, as one on shore Gazing upon a late-embarked friend, Till the wild waves will have him seen no more, Whose ridges with the meeting clouds contend : So did the merciless and pitchy night Fold in the object that did feed her sight. Whereat amazed, as one that unaware Hath dropp'd a precious jewel in the flood, Or stonish'd as night-wanderers often are. Their light blown out in some mistrustful wood, Even so confounded in the dark she lay. Having lost the fair discovery of her way. And now she beats her heart, whereat it groans, That all the neighbour caves, as seeming troubled, Make verbal repetition of her moans ; Passion on passion deeply is redoubled : 'Ay me ! ' she cries, and twenty times ' Woe,woe 1' And twenty echoes twenty times cry so. She marking them begins a wailing note And sings extemporally a woeful ditty : How love makes young men thrall and old men How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty : [dote ; Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe, And still the choir of echoes answer so. Her song was tedious and outwore the night, For lovers' hours are long, though seeming short : If pleased themselves, others, they think, delight In such-like circumstance, with such-like sport : Their copious stories oftentimes begun End without audience and are never done. For who hath she to spend the night withal But idle sounds resembling parasites. Like shrUl-tongued tapsters answering every call, Soothing the humour of fantastic wits ? She says "T is so : ' they answer all "T is so ; ' , And would say after her, if she said ' No.' Lo, here the gentle lark, weary of rest, From his moist cabinet mounts up on high, And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast The sun ariseth in his majesty; Who doth the world so gloriously behold That cedar-tops and hills seem burnish 'd gold. Venus salutes him with this fair good-morrow : ' O thou clear god, and patron of all light. From whom each lamp and shining star doth borrow The beauteous influence that makes him bright. There lives a son that suck'd an earthly mother. May lend thee light, as thou dost lend to other.' This said, she hasteth to a myrtle grove, Musing the morning is so much o'erworn. VENUS AND ADONIS. And yet she hears no tidings of her love : She hearkens for his hounds and for his horn : Anon she hears them chant it lustily, And all in haste she coasteth to the cry. And as she runs, the bushes in the way Some catch her by the neck, some kiss her face. Some twine about her thigh to make her stay : She wildly breaketh from their strict embrace, Like a milch doe, whose swelling dugs do ache, Hasting to feed her fawn hid in some brake. By this, she hears the hounds are at a bay ; Whereat she starts, like one that spies an adder Wreathed up in fatal folds just in his way. The fear whereof doth make him shake and shudder ; Even so the timorous yelping of the hounds Appals her senses and her spirit confounds. For now she knows it is no gentle chase. But the blunt boar, rough bear, or lion proud. Because the cry remaineth in one place. Where fearfully the dogs exclaim aloud : Finding their enemy to be so curst. They all strain courtesy who shall cope him first. This dismal cry rings sadly in her ear. Through which it enters to surprise her heart ; Who, overcome by doubt and bloodless fear. With cold-pale weakness numbs each feeling part : Like soldiers, when their captain once doth yield, They basely fly and dare not stay the field. Thus stands she in a trembling ecstasy ; Till, cheering up her senses all dismay 'd, She tells them 'tis a causeless fantasy. And childish error, that they are afraid ; Bids them leave quaking,bids them fear no more: — And with that word she spied the hunted boar. Whose frothy mouth, bepainted all with red. Like milk and blood being mingled both together, A second fear through all her sinews spread, Which madly hurries her she knows not whither : This way she runs, and now she will no further, But back retires to rate the boar for murther. A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways ; She treads the path that she untreads again ; Her more than haste is mated with delays, Like the proceedings of a drunken brain. Full of respects, yet nought at all respecting ; In hand with all things, nought at all effecting. Here kennell'd in a brake she finds a hound, And asks the weary caitiff for his master. And there another licking of his wound, 'Gainst venom 'd sores the only sovereign plaster ; And here she meets another sadly scowling. To whom she speaks, and he replies with howling. When he hath ceased his ill-resounding noise. Another flap-mouth 'd mourner, black and grim, Against the welkin volleys out his voice ; Another and another answer him. Clapping their proud tails to the ground below. Shaking their scratch'd ears, bleeding as they go. Look, how the world's poor people are amazed At apparitions, signs and prodigies. Whereon with fearful eyes they long have gazed, Infusing them with dreadful prophecies ; So she at these sad signs draws up her breath And sighing it again, exclaims on Death. ' Hard-favour'd tyrant, ugly, meagre, lean, Hateful divorce of love,'— thus chides she Death,— ' Grim-grinning ghost, earth's worm, what dost thou mean To stifle beauty and to steal his breath. Who when he lived, his breath and beauty set Gloss on the rose, smell to the violet ? ' If he be dead,— O no, it cannot be, Seeing his beauty, thou shouldst strike at it : — O yes, it may ; thou hast no eyes to see. But hatefully at random dost thou hit. Thy mark is feeble age, but thy false dart Mistakes that aim and cleaves an infant's heart. ' Hadst thou but bid beware, then he had spoke, And, hearing him, thy power had lost his power. The Destinies will curse thee for this stroke ; They bid thee crop a weed, thou pluck 'st a flower: Love's golden arrow at him should have fled. And not Death's ebon dart, to strike him dead. ' Dost thou drink tears, that thou provokest such weeping ? What may a heavy groan advantage thee ? Why hast thou cast into eternal sleeping Those eyes that taught all other eyes to see ? Now Nature cares not for thy mortal vigour, Since her best work is ruin'd with thy rigoiir.' Here overcome, as one full of despair, She vail'd her eyelids, who, like sluices, stopt The crystal tide that from her two cheeks fair In the sweet channel of her bosom dropt ; But through the flood-gates breaks the silver rain, And with his strong course opens them again. O, how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow ! Her eyes seen in the tears, tears in her eye ; Both crystals, where they view'd each Other's sor- row. Sorrow that friendly sighs sought still to dry ; But like a stormy day, now wind, now rain. Sighs dry her cheeks, tears make them wet again. Variable passions throng her constant woe, As striving who should best become her grief ; All entertain'd, each passion labours so. That every present sorrow seemeth chief. But none is best : then join they all together, Like many clouds consulting for foul weather. By this, far off she hears some huntsman hollo ; A nurse's song ne'er pleased her babe so well: ' The dire imagination she did follow This sound of hope doth labour to expel ; For now reviving joy bids her rejoice, And flatters her it is Adonis' voice. Whereat her tears began to turn their tide. Being prison 'd in her eye like pearls in glass; Yet sometimes falls an orient drop beside. Which her cheek melts, as scorning it should pass, To wash the foul face of the sluttish ground. Who is but drunken when she seemeth drown'd. O hard-believing love, how strange it seems Not to believe, and yet too credulous ! Thy weal and woe are both of them extremes ; Despair and hope makes thee ridiculous : The one doth flatter thee in thouglits unlikely, In likely thoughts the other kills thee quickly. Now she unweaves the web that she hath wrought ; Adonis lives, and Death is not to blame ; It was not she that call'd him all-to naught : Now she adds honours to his hateful name ; She clepes him king of graves and grave for kings, Imperious supreme of all mortal things. 829 VENUS AND ADONIS. * 2^0, no,' quoth she, ' sweet Death, I did but jest ; Yet pardon me I felt a kind of fear When as I met the boar, that bloody beast, "Which knows no pity, but is still severe ; Then, gentle shadow, — truth I must confess, — I rail'd on thee, fearing my love's decease. ' 'T is not my fault : the boar provoked my tongue ; Be wreak'd on him, invisible commander ; 'T is he, foul creature, that hath done thee wrong; I did but act, he 's author of thy slander : Grief hath two tongues, and never woman yet Could rule them both without ten women's wit.' Thus hoping that Adonis is alive. Her rash suspect she doth extenuate ; And that his beauty may the better thrive, "With Death she humbly doth insinuate ; Tells him of trophies, statues, tombs, and stories His victories, his triumphs and his glories. ' O Jove,' quoth she, 'how much a fool was I To be of such a weak and silly miud To wail his death who lives and must not die Till mutual overthrow of mortal kind ! For he being dead, with him is beauty slain, And, beauty dead, black chaos comes again. ' Fie, fie, fond love, thou art so full of fear As one with treasure laden, hemm'd with thieves ; Trifles, unwitnessed with eye or ear. Thy coward heart with false bethinking grieves.' Even at this word she hears a merry horn, "Whereat she leaps that was but late forlorn. As falcon to the lure, away she flies ; The grass stoops not, she treads on it so light ; And in her haste unfortunately spies The foul boar's conquest on her fair delight ; "Which seen, her eyes, as muxder'd with the view, Like stars ashamed of day, themselves withdrew; Or, as the snail, whose tender horns being hit. Shrinks backward in his shelly cave with pain, And there, all smother'd up, in shade doth sit, Long after fearing to creep forth again ; So, at his bloody view, her eyes are fled Into the deep dark cabins of her head : "Where they resign their ofiice and their light To the disposing of her troubled brain ; "Who bids them still consort with ugly night, And never wound the heart with looks again ; "Who, like a king perplexed in his throne. By their suggestion gives a deadly groan, "Whereat each tributary subject quakes ; As when the wind, imprison'd in the ground. Struggling for passage, earth's foundation shakes, "Which with cold terror doth men's minds confound. This mutiny each part doth so surprise That from their dark beds once more leap her eyes; And, being open'd, threw unwilling light Upon the wide wound that the boar had trench 'd In his soft flank ; whose wonted lily white "With purple tears, that his wound wept, was drench'd : No flower was nigh, no grass, herb, leaf, or weed. But stole his blood and seem'd with him to bleed. This solemn sympathy poor Venus noteth ; Over one shoulder doth she hang her head ; Dumbly she passions, franticly she doteth ; She thinks he could not die, he is not dead : Her voice is stopt, her joints forget to bow; Her eyes are mad that they have wept till now. Upon his hurt she looks so steadfastly. That her sight dazzling makes the wound seem three; And then she reprehends her mangling eye. That makes more gashes where no breach should be; His face seems twain, each several limb is doubled; For oft the eye mistakes, the brain being troubled. ' My tongue cannot express my grief for one, And yet,' quoth she, ' behold two Adons dead! My sighs are blown away, my salt tears gone, Mine eyes are turn'd to fire, my heart to lead : Heavy heart's lead, melt at mine eyes' red fire ! So shall I die by drops of hot desire. ' Alas, poor world, what treasure hast thou lost ! "What face remains alive that 's worth the viewing ? Whose tongue is music now ? what canst thou boast Of things long since, or any thing ensuing ? The flowers are sweet, their colours fresh and trim; But true-sweet beauty lived and died with him. ' Bonnet nor veil henceforth no creature wear ! Nor sun nor wind will ever strive to kiss you : Having no fair to lose, you need not fear ; The sun doth scorn you and the wind doth hiss you : But when Adonis lived, sun and sharp air Lurk'd like two thieves, to rob him of his fair : ' And therefore would he put his bonnet on. Under whose brim the gaudy sun would peep ; The wind would blow it off and, being gone, Play with his locks : then would Adonis weep ; And straight, in pity of his tender years, They both would strive who first should dry his tears. ' To see his face the lion walk'd along Behind some hedge, because he would not fear him ; To recreate himself when he hath sung. The tiger would be tame and gently hear him ; If he had spoke, the wolf would leave his prey And never fright the silly lamb that day. ' When he beheld his shadow in the brook. The fishes spread on it their golden gills ; When he was by, the birds such pleasure took. That some would sing, some other in their biUs Would bring him mulberries and ripe-red cherries; He fed them with his sight, they him with berries. ' But this foul, grim, and urchin-snouted boar, Whose dovniward eye still looketh for a grave, Ne'er saw the beauteous livery that he wore ; Witness the entertainment that he gave : If he did see his face, why then I know He thought to kiss him, and hath kill'd him so. ' 'T is true, 't is true ; thus was Adonis slain : He ran upon the boar with his sharp spear. Who did not whet his teeth at him again. But by a kiss thought to persuade him there ; And nuzzling in his fiank, the loving swine Sheathed unaware the tusk in his soft groin. ' Had I been tooth 'd like him, I must confess. With kissing him I should have kill'd him first ; But he is dead, and never did he bless My youth with his; the more am I accurst.' With this, she falleth in the place she stood. And stains her face with his congealed blood. She looks upon his lips, and they are pale ; She takes him by the hand, and that is cold; She whispers in his ears a heavy tale. As if they heard the woeful words she told ; She lifts the cofEer-lids that close his eyes. Where, lo, two lamps, burnt out, in darkness lies; VENUS AND ADONIS. Two glasses, where herself herself beheld A thousand times, and now no more reflect ; Their virtue lost, wherein they late excell'd. And every beauty robb'd of his effect : ' Wonder of time,' quoth she, ' this is my spite, That, thou being dead, the day should yet be light. ' Since thou art dead, lo, here I prophesy : Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend : It shall be waited on with jealousy, Find sweet beginning, but unsavoury end, JSTe'er settled equally, but high or low. That all love's pleasure shall not match his woe. ' It shall be fickle, false and full of fraud. Bud and be blasted in a breathing-while ; The bottom poison, and the top o'erstraw'd With sweets that shall the truest sight beguile : The strongest body shall it make most weak. Strike the wise dumb and teach the fool to speak. ' It shall be sparing and too full of riot, Teaching decrepit age to tread the measures ; The staring ruffian shall it keep in quiet. Pluck down the rich, enrich the poor with treasures ; It shall be raging-mad and silly-mild, . Make the young old, the old become a child. ' It shall suspect where is no cause of fear ; It shall not tear where it should most mistrust ; It shall be merciful and too severe. And most deceiving when it seems most just ; Perverse it shall be where it shows most toward, Put fear to valour, courage to the coward. ' It shall be cause of war and dire events. And set dissension 'twixt the son and sire ; Subject and servile to all discontents. As dry combustious matter is to fire : Sith in his prime Death doth my love destroy. They that love best their loves shaU not enjoy.' By this, the boy that by her side lay kiU'd Was melted like a vapour from her sight. And in his blood that on the ground lay spill'd, A purple flower sprung up, chequer'd with white, Eesembling well his pale cheeks and the blood Which in round drops upon their whiteness stood. She bows her head, the new-sprung flower to smell. Comparing it to her Adonis' breath. And says, within her bosom it shall dwell. Since he himself is reft from her by death : She crops the stalk, and in the breach appears Green dropping sap, which she compares to tears. ' Poor flower,' quoth she, ' this was thy father's guise — Sweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire — For every little grief to wet his eyes : To grow unto himself was his desire. And so 't is thine ; but know, it is as good To wither in my breast as in his blood. ' Here was thy father's bed, here in my breast ; Thou art the next of blood, and 't is thy right : Lo, in this hollow cradle take thy rest, My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and night : There shall not be one minute in an hour Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love's flower.' Thus weary of the world, away she hies. And yokes her silver doves ; by whose swift aid Their mistress mounted through the empty skies In her light chariot is quickly convey'd ; Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen Means to immure herself and not be seen. THE RAPE OF LUCRECE TO THE EIGHT HONOUEABLE HENEY WEIOTHESLY, EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON, AND BARON OP TICHFIELD. The love I dedicate to your lordship is without end ; whereof this pamphlet, without beginning, is but a superfluous moiety. The warrant I have of your honourable disposition, not the worth of my untutored lines, makes it assured of acceptance. What I have done is yours ; what I have to do is yours ; being part in all I have, devoted yours. Were my worth greater, my duty would show greater ; meantime, as it is, it is bound to your lordship, to whom I wish long life, still lengthened with all happiness. Your lordship's in all duty, M^^^^u^ ^fje^/^y^'^^ THE ABOUMUNT. Lttcius Taequinius, for his excessive pride surnamed Superbus, after he had caused his own father-in-law Servius TuUius to be cruelly murdered, and, contrary to the Eoman laws and customs, not requiring or staying for the people's suffrages, had possessed himself of the kingdom, Went, accompanied with his sons and other noblemen of Eome, to besiege Ardea. During which siege the principal men of the army meeting one evening at the tent of Sextus Tarquinius, the king's son, in their discourses after supper every one commended the virtues of his own wife : among whom Coilatinus extolled the incomparable chastity of his wife Lucretia. In that pleasant humour they all posted to Eome ; and intending, by their secret and sudden arrival, to make trial of that which every one had before avouched, only Coilatinus finds his wife, though it were late in the night, spinning amongst her maids : the other ladies were all found dancing and revelling. wife, though it were late in the night, spinning amongst her maids : the other ladies were all found dancing and revelling, or in several disports. Whereupon the noblemen yielded Coilatinus the victory, and his wife the fame. At that time Sextus Tarquinius being inflamed with Lucrece's beauty, yet smothering his passions for the present, departed with the rest back to the camp ; from whence he shortly after privily withdrew himself, and was, according to his estate, royally entertained and lodged by Lucrece at Collatium. The same night he treacherously stealeth into her chamber, violently ravished her, and early in the morning speedeth away. Lucrece, in this lamentable plight, hastily dispatoheth messengers, one to Eome for her father, another to the camp for CoUatine. They came, the one accompanied with Junius Brutus, the other with Publius Valerius ; and finding Lucrece attired in mourning habit, demanded the cause of her sorrow. She, first taking an oath of them for her revenge, revealed the actor, and whole manner of his dealing, and withal suddenly stabbed herself. Which done, with one consent they all vowed to root out the whole hated family of the Tarquins ; and bearing the dead body to Eome, Brutus acquainted the people with the doer and manner of the vile deed-, with a bitter invective against the tyranny of the king : wherewith the people were so moved, that with one consent and a general acclamation the Tarquins were all exiled, and the state government changed from kings to consuls. From the besieged Ardea all in post, Borne by the trustless wings of false desire, Lust-breathed Tarquin leaves the Eoman host, And to Collatium bears the lightless fire Which, in pale embers hid, lurks to aspire And girdle vrith embracing flames the waist Of CoUatine's fair love, Lucrece the chaste. Haply that name of ' chaste ' unhappily set This bateless edge on his keen appetite ; When CoUatine unwisely did not let To praise the clear unmatched red and white Which triumph'd in that sky of his delight. Where mortal stars, as bright as heaven's beau- ties. With pure aspects did him peculiar duties. For he the night before, in Tarquin's tent, Unlock 'd the treasure of his happy state ; What priceless wealth the heavens had him lent In the possession of his beauteous mate ; Reckoning his fortune at such high-proud rate. That kings might be espoused to more fame, But king nor peer to such a peerless dame. O happiness enjoy 'd but of a few ! And, if possess'd, as soon decay'd and done As is the morning's silver-melting dew Against the golden splendour of the sun ! An expired date, cancell'd ere well begun : Honour and beauty, in the owner's arms, Are weakly fortress'd from a world of harms. 832 Beauty itself doth of itself persuade The eyes of men without an orator ; What needeth then apologies be made. To set forth that which is so singular i* Or why is CoUatine the publisher Of that rich jewel he should keep unknown From thievish ears, because it is his own ? Perchance his boast of Lucrece' soveteignty Suggested this proud issue of a king ; For by our ears our hearts oft tainted be : Perchance that envy of so rich a thing. Braving compare, disdainfully did sting His high-pitch'd thoughts, that meaner men should vaunt That golden hap which their superiors want. But some untimely thought did instigate His all-too-timeless speed, if none of those : His honour, his affairs, his friends, his state, Neglected all, with swift intent he goes To quench the coal which in his liver glows. O rash false heat, wrapp'd in repentant cold, Thy hasty spring still blasts, and ne'er grows old I When at Collatium this false lord arrived, Well was he welcomed by the Roman dame. Within whose face beauty and virtue strived Which of them both should underprop her fame : When virtue bragg'd, beauty would blush for shame; When beauty boasted blushes, in despite Virtue would stain that o'er with silver white. LUCRE CE. But beauty, in that white intituled, From Venus' doves doth challenge that fair field : Then virtue claims from beauty beauty's red, Which virtue gave the golden age to gild Their silver cheeks, and call'd it then their shield ; Teaching them thus to use it in the fight, [white. When shame assail'd, the red should fence the This heraldry in Lucrece' face was seen, Argued by beauty's red and virtue's white: Of either's colour was the other queen, Proving from world's minority their right : Yet their ambition makes them still to fight ; The sovereignty of either being so great. That oft they interchange each other's seat. Their silent war of lilies and of roses, Which Tarquin view'd in her fair face's field, In their pure ranks his traitor eye encloses ; . Where, lest between them both it should be kill'd, The coward captive vanquished doth yield To those two armies that would let him go, Eather than triumph in so false a foe. ]S!'ow thinks he that her husband's shallow tongue,— The niggard prodigal that praised her so, — In that high task hath done her beauty wrong, Which far exceeds his barren skill to show : Therefore that praise which CoUatine doth owe Enchanted Tarquin answers with surmise, In silent wonder of still-gazing eyes. This earthly saint, adored by this devil, Little suspecteth the false worshipper ; For unstain'd thoughts do seldom dream on evil ; Birds never limed no secret bushes fear : So guiltless she securely gives good cheer And reverend welcome to her princely guest. Whose inward ill no outward harm express 'd ; For that he colour'd with his high estate, Hiding base sin in plaits of majesty ; That nothing in him seem'd inordinate, Save sometime too much wonder of his eye, Which, having all, all could not satisfy; But, poorly rich, so wanteth in his store. That, cloy'd with much, he pineth stiU for more. But she, that never coped with stranger eyes. Could pick no meaning from their parling looks, Nor read the subtle-shining secrecies Writ in the glassy margents of such books : She touch'd no unknown baits, nor fear'd no hooks ; !N^or could she moralize his wanton sight. More than his eyes were open'd to the light. He stories to her ears her husband's fame. Won in the fields of fruitful Italy ; And decks with praises Collatine's high name. Made glorious by his manly chivalry With bruised arms and wreaths of victory : Her joy with heaved-up hand she doth express. And, wordless, so greets heaven for his success. Far from the purpose of his coming hither. He makes excuses for his being there : No cloudy show of stormy blustering weather Doth yet in his fair welkin once appear ; Till sable Night, mother of Dread and Fear, Upon the world dim darkness doth display. And in her vanity prison stows the Day. For then is Tarquin brought unto his bed. Intending weariness with heavy spright ; For, after supper, long he questioned With modest Lucrece, and wore out the night : If ow leaden slumber with life's strength doth fight ; 53 And every one to rest themselves betake. Save thieves, and cares, and troubled minds, that wake. As one of which doth Tarquin lie revolving The sundry dangers of his will's obtaining ; Yet ever to obtain his will resolving. Though weak-built hopes persuade him to abstain- ing: Despair to gain doth traffic oft for gaining ; And when great treasure is the meed proposed, Though death be adjunct, there 's no death sup- posed. Those that much covet are with gain so fond, For what they have not, that which they possess They scatter and unloose it from their bond. And so, by hoping more, they have but less ; Or, gaining more, the profit of excess Is but to surfeit, and such griefs sustain. That they prove bankrupt in this poor-rich gain. The aim of all is but to nurse the life With honour, wealth, and ease, in waning age ; And in this aim there is such thwarting strife, That one for all, or all for one we gage; As life for honour in fell battle's rage; Honour for wealth ; and oft that wealth doth cost The death of all, and all together lost. So that in venturing ill we leave to be The things we are for that which we expect ; And this ambitious foul infirmity. In having much, torments us with defect Of that we have : so then we do neglect The thing we have; and, all for want of wit, Make something nothing by augmenting it. Such hazard now must doting Tarquin make, Pawning his honour to obtain his lust ; And for himself himself he must forsake : Then where is truth, if there be no self -trust ? When shall he think to find a stranger just. When he himself himself confounds, betrays To slanderous tongues and wretched hateful days? Now stole upon the time the dead of night, When heavy sleep had closed up mortal eyes: No comfortable star did lend his light. No noise but owls' and wolves' death-boding cries; Now serves the season that they may surprise The silly lambs : pure thoughts are dead and still. While lust and murder wake to stain and kill. And now this lustful lord leap'd from his bed, Throwing his mantle rudely o'er his arm ; Is madly toss'd between desire and dread ; Th' one sweetly flatters, th' other feareth harm; But honest fear, bewitch'd with lust's foul charm, Doth too too oft betake him to retire. Beaten away by brain-sick rude desire. His falchion on a flint he softly smiteth. That from the cold stone sparks of fire do fly ; Whereat a waxen torch forthwith he lighteth. Which must be lode-star to his lustful eye : And to the flame thus speaks advisedly, ' As from this cold flint I enforced this fire, So Lucrece must I force to my desire.' Here pale with fear he doth premeditate The dangers of his loathsome enterprise. And in his inward mind he doth debate What following sorrow may on this arise : Then looking scornfully, he doth despise His naked armour of still-slaughter'd lust, And justly thus controls his thoughts unjust : 833 LUCE EC E. ' Fair torch, burn out thy light, and lend it not To darken her whose light excelleth thine : And die, unhallow'd thoughts, before you blot "With your uncleanness that which is divine ; Offer pure incense to so pure a shrine : Let fair humanity abhor the deed [weed. That spots and stains love's modest snow-white ' O shame to knighthood and to shming arms ! O foul dishonour to my household's grave ! impious act, including all foul harms ! A martial man to be soft fancy's slave ! True valour still a true respect should have ; Then my digression is so vile, so base, That it will live engraven in my face. ' Yea, though I die, the scandal will survive, And be an eye-sore in my golden coat ; Some loathsome dash the herald will contrive, To cipher me how fondly I did dote; That my posterity, shamed with the note, Shall curse my bones, and hold it for no sin To wish that I their father had not bin. ' "What win I, if I gain the thing I seek ? A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy. "Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week ? Or sells eternity to get a toy ? Eor one sweet grape who will the vine destroy ? Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown, "Wo uld with the sceptre straight be strucken down? ' If Collatinus dream of my intent. Will he not wake, and in a desperate rage Post hither, this vile purpose to prevent ? This siege that hath engirt his marriage. This blur to youth, this sorrow to the sage, This dying virtue, this surviving shame. Whose crime will bear an ever-during blame ? ' O, what excuse can my invention make. When thou shalt charge me with so black a deed ? Will not my tongue be mute, my frail joints shake, Mine eyes forego their light, my false heart bleed ? The guilt being great, the fear doth still exceed; And extreme fear can neither fight nor fly. But coward-like with trembling terror die. ' Had Collatinus kill'd my son or sire. Or lain in ambush to betray my life. Or were he not my dear friend, this desire Mi^ht have excuse to work upon his wife, As in revenge or quittal of such strife : But as he is my kinsman, my dear friend. The shame and fault finds no excuse nor end. ' Shameful it is ; ay, if the fact be knovra : Hateful it is ; there is no hate in loving : 1 '11 beg her love ; but she is not her own : The worst is but denial and reproving : My will is strong, past reason's weak removing. Who fears a sentence or an old man's saw Shall by a painted cloth be kept in awe.' Thus, graceless, holds he disputation 'Tween frozen conscience and hot-burning will, And with good thoughts makes dispensation, Urging the worser sense for vantage still ; Which in a moment doth confound and kill All pure effects, and doth so far proceed, That what is vile shows like a virtuous deed. Quoth he, ' She took me kindly by the hand, And gazed for tidings in my eager eyes. Fearing some hard news from the warlike band, Where her beloved Collatinus lies. O, how her fear did make her colour rise ! 834 First red as roses that on lawn we lay. Then white as lawn, the roses took away. 'And how her hand, in my hand being lock'd, Forced it to tremble with her loyal fear ! Which struck her sad, and then it faster rock'd, Until her husband's welfare she did hear; Whereat she smiled with so sweet a cheer. That had Narcissus seen her as she stood. Self-love had never drown 'd him in the flood. ' Why hunt I then for colour or excuses ? All orators are dumb when beauty pleadeth ; Poor wretches have remorse in poor abuses ; Love thrives not in the heart that shadows dreadeth: Affection is my captain, and he leadeth ; And when his gaudy banner is display 'd, The coward fights and will not be dismay'd. ' Then, childish fear, avaunt ! debating, die 1 Eespect and reason, wait on wrinkled age ! My heart shall never countermand mine eye : Sad pause and deep regard beseem the sage ; My part is youth, and beats these from the stage: Desire my pilot is, beauty my prize ; Then who fears sinking where such treasure lies? ' As corn o'ergrown by weeds, so heedful fear Is almost choked by unresisted lust. Away he steals with open listening ear, Full of foul hope and full of fond mistrust ; Both which, as servitors to the unjust, So cross him with their opposite persuasion, That now he vows a league, and now invasion. Within his thought her heavenly image sits, And in the self -same seat sits Collatine : That eye which looks on her confounds his wits ; That eye which him beholds, as more divine, Unto a view so false will not incline ; But with a pure appeal seeks to the heart, Which once corrupted takes the worser part ; And therein heartens up his servile powers. Who, flatter'd by their leader's jocund show, Stuff up his lust, as minutes fill up hours; And as their captain, so their pride doth grow. Paying more slavish tribute than they owe. By reprobate desire thus madly led. The Roman lord marcheth to Lucrece' bed. The locks between her chamber and his will, Each one by him enforced, retires his ward ; But, as they open, they all rate his ill, Which drives the creeping thief to some regard : The threshold grates the door to have him heard ; Night- wandering weasels shriek to see him there; They fright him, yet he still pursues his fear. As each unwilling portal yields him way, Through little vents and crannies of the place The wind wars with his torch to make him stay. And blows the smoke of it into his face. Extinguishing his conduct in this case ; But his hot heart, which fond desire doth scorch. Puffs forth another wind that fires the torch : And being lighted, by the light he spies Lucretia's glove, wherein her needle sticks : He takes it from the rushes where it lies. And griping it, the needle his finger pricks ; As who should say ' This glove to wanton tricks Is not inured ; return again in haste ; Thou seest our mistress' ornaments are chaste.' But all these poor f orbiddings could not stay him ; He in the worst sense construes their denial : LUCRECE. The doors, the wind, the glove, that did delay him, He takes for accidental things of trial ; Or as those bars which stop the hourly dial, Who with a lingering stay his course doth let, Till every minute pays the hour his debt. ' So, so,' quoth he, 'these lets attend the time, Like little frosts that sometime threat the spring, To add a more rejoicing to the prime. And give the sneaped birds more cause to sing. Pain pays the income of each precious thing ; Huge rocks, high winds, strong pirates, shelves and sands. The merchant fears, ere rich at home he lands.' Now is he come unto the chamber-door, That shuts him from the heaven of his thought. Which with a yielding latch, and with no more, Hath barr'd him from the blessed thing he sought. So from himself impiety hath wrought, That for his prey to pray he doth begin, As if the heavens should countenance his sin. But in the midst of his unfruitful prayer, Having solicited th' eternal power That his foul thoughts might compass his fair fair. And they would stand auspicious to the hour. Even there he starts : quoth he, ' I must deflower: The powers to whom I pray abhor this fact, How can they then assist me in the act ? ' Then Love and Fortune be my gods, my guide ! My will is back'd with resolution : Thoughts are but dreams till their effects be tried ; The blackest sin is clear'd with absolution ; Against love's fire fear's frost hath dissolution. The eye of heaven is out, and misty night Covers the shame that follows sweet delight.' This said, his guilty hand pluck'd up the latch, And with his knee the door he opens wide. The dove sleeps fast that this night-owl will catch: Thus treason works ere traitors be espied. Who sees the lurking serpent steps aside ; But she, sound sleeping, fearing no such thing. Lies at the mercy of his mortal sting. Into the chamber wickedly he stalks. And gazeth on her yet unstained bed. The curtains being close, about he walks, EoUing his greedy eyeballs in his head : By their high treason is his heart misled ; Which gives the watch-word to his hand full soon To draw the cloud that hides the silver moon. Look, as the fair and fiery-pointed sun, Eushing from forth a cloud, bereaves our sight ; Even so, the curtain drawn, his eyes begun To wink, being blinded with a greater light : Whether it is that she reflects so bright. That dazzleth them, or else some shame supposed ; But blind they are, and keep themselves enclosed. O, had they in that darksome prison died ! Then had they seen the period of their ill ; Then Collatine again, by Lucrece' side. In his clear bed might have reposed still : But they must ope, this blessed league to kill ; And holy-thoughted Lucrece to their sight Must sell her joy, her life, her world's delight. Her lily hand her rosy cheek lies under. Cozening the pillow of a lawful kiss ; Who, therefore angry, seems to part in sunder. Swelling on either side to want his bliss ; Between whose hills her head entombed is : Where, like a virtuous monument, she lies. To be admired of lewd unhallow'd eyes. Without the bed her other fair hand was, On the green coverlet ; whose perfect white Show'd like an April daisy on the grass. With pearly sweat, resembling dew of night. Her eyes, like marigolds, had sheathed their light, And canopied in darkness sweetly lay. Till they might open to adorn the day. Her hair, like golden threads, play 'd with her breath; O modest wantons ! wanton modesty ! Showing life's triumph in the map of death, And death's dim look in life's mortality : Each in her sleep themselves so beautify, As if between them twain there were no strife, But that Life lived in death, and death in life. Her breasts, like ivory globes circled with blue, A pair of maiden worlds unconquered. Save of their lord no bearing yoke they knew. And him by oath they truly honoured. These worlds in Tarquin new ambition bred ; Who, like a foul usurper, went about From this fair throne to heave the owner out. What could he see but mightily he noted ? What did he note but strongly he desired ? What he beheld, on that he firmly doted, And in his will his wilful eye he tired. With more than admiration he admired Her azure veins, her alabaster skin, Her coral lips, her snow-white dimpled chin. As the grim lion fawneth o'er his prey. Sharp hunger by the conquest satisfied. So o'er this sleeping soul doth Tarquin stay. His rage of lust by gazing qualified ; Slack'd, not suppress'd ; for standing by her side. His eye, which late this mutiny restrains. Unto a greater uproar tempts his veins : And they, like straggling slaves for pillage fighting, Obdurate vassals fell exploits effecting. In bloody death and ravishment delighting, Nor children's tears nor mothers' groans respecting, Swell in their pride, the onset still expecting: Anon his beating heart, alarum striking. Gives the hot charge and bids them do their liking. His drumming heart cheers up his burning eye, His eye commends the leading to his hand ; His hand, as proud of such a dignity, Smoking with pride, march'd on to make his stand On her bare breast, the heart of all her land ; Whose ranks of blue veins, as his hand did scale. Left their round turrets destitute and pale. They, mustering to the quiet cabinet Where their dear governess and lady lies. Do tell her she is dreadfully beset, And fright her with confusion of their cries : She, much amazed, breaks ope her lock'd-up eyes, Who, peeping forth tliis tumult to behold. Are by his flaming torch dimm'd and controll'd. Imagine her as one in dead of night From forth dull sleep by dreadful fancy waking. That thinks she hath beheld some ghastly sprite, Whose grim aspect sets every joint a-shaking ; What terror 't is ! but she, in worser taking. From sleep disturbed, heedfully doth view The sight which makes supposed terror true. Wrapp'd and confounded in a thousand fears, Like to a new-kill'd bird she trembling lies ; 835 LUCRECE. She dares not look; yet, winking, there appears Quick-shifting antics, ugly in her eyes : Such shadows are the weak brain's forgeries ; "Who, angry that the eyes fly from their lights, In darkness daunts them with more dreadful sights. His hand, that yet remains upon her breast, — Rude ram, to batter such an ivory wall ! — May feel her heart — poor citizen ! — distress'd, Wounding itself to death, rise up and fall, Beating her bulk, that his hand shakes withal. This moves in him more rage and lesser pity. To make the breach and enter this sweet city. Pirst, like a trumpet, doth his tongue begin To sound a parley to his heartless foe ; Who o'er the white sheet peers her whiter chin, The reason of this rash alarm to know, Which he by dumb demeanour seeks to show ; But she with vehement prayers urgeth still Under what colour he commits this ill. Thus he replies : ' The colour in thy face, That even for anger makes the lily pale. And the red rose blush at her own disgrace, Shall plead for me and tell my loving tale : Under that colour am I come to scale Thy never-conquer'd fort : the fault is thrae, For those thine eyes betray thee unto mine. ' Thus I forestall thee, if thou mean to chide : Thy beauty hath ensnared thee to this night. Where thou with patience must my will abide ; My will that marks thee for my earth's delight, Which I to conquer sought with all my might ; But as reproof and reason beat it dead. By thy bright beauty was it newly bred. ' I see what crosses my attempt will bring ; I know what thorns the growing rose defends ; I think the honey guarded with a sting : All this beforehand counsel comprehends : But will is deaf and hears no heedful friends ; Only he hath an eye to gaze on beauty, And dotes on what he looks, 'gainst law or duty. ' I have debated, even in my soul, What wrong, what shame, what sorrow I shall breed; But nothing can affection's course control. Or stop the headlong fury of his speed. I know repentant tears ensue the deed, Reproach, disdain, and deadly enmity; Yet strive I to embrace mine infamy.' This said, he shakes aloft his Roman blade, Which, like a falcon towering in the skies, Coucheth the fowl below with his wings' shade, Whose crooked beak threats if he mount he dies : So under his insulting falchion lies Harmless Lucretia, marking what he tells With trembling fear, as fowl hear falcon's bells. ' Lucrece,' quoth he, ' this night I must enjoy thee : If thou deny, then force must work my way, For in thy bed I purpose to destroy thee : That done, some worthless slave of thine I '11 slay, To kill thine honour with thy life's decay ; And in thy dead arms do I mean to place him, Swearing I slew him, seeing thee embrace him. ' So thy surviving husband shall remain The scornful mark of every open eye ; Thy kinsmen hang their heads at this disdain, Thy issue blurr'd with nameless bastardy : And thou, the author of their obloquy, Shalt have thy trespass cited up in rhymes, And sung by children in succeeding times. ' But if thou yield, I rest thy secret friend : The fault unknown is as a thought unacted ; A little harm done to a great good end For lawful policy remains enacted. The poisonous simple sometimes is compacted In a pure compound ; being so applied, His venom in effect is purified. ' Then, for thy husband and thy children's sake. Tender my suit : bequeath not to their lot The shame that from them no device can take, The blemish that will never be forgot ; Worse than a slavish wipe or birth-hour's blot : For marks descried in men's nativity Are nature's faults, not their own infamy.' Here with a cockatrice' dead-killing eye He rouseth up himself and makes a pause ; While she, the picture of pure piety, Like a white hind under the gripe's sharp claws. Pleads, in a wilderness where are no laws. To the rough beast that knows no gentle right, Nor aught obeys but his foul appetite. But when a black-faced cloud the world doth threat,. In his dim mist the aspiring moimtains hiding. Prom earth's dark womb some gentle gust doth get, Which blows these pitchy vapours from their biding, Hindering their present fall by this dividing ; So his unhallow'd haste her words delays. And moody Pluto winks while Orpheus plays. Yet, foul night-waking cat, he doth but dally. While in his hold-fast foot the weak mouse panteth : Her sad behaviour feeds his vulture folly, A swallowing gulf that even in plenty wanteth : His ear her prayers admits, but his heart granteth No penetrable entrance to her plaining : [ing. Tears harden lust, though marble wear with rain- Her pity-pleading eyes are sadly fix'd In the remorseless vnrinkles of his face ; Her modest eloquence with sighs is mix'd, Which to her oratory adds more grace. She puts the period often from his place ; And midst the sentence so her accent breaks, That twice she doth begin ere once she speaks. She conjures him by high almighty Jove, By knighthood, gentry, and sweet friendship's oath, By her untimely tears, her husband's love. By holy human law, and common troth, By heaven and earth, and all the power of both, That to his borrow 'd bed he make retire. And stoop to honour, not to foul desire. Quoth she, ' Reward not hospitality With such black payment as thou hast pretended ; Mud not the fountain that gave drink to thee ; Mar not the thing that cannot be amended ; End thy ill aim before thy shoot be ended ; He is no woodman that doth bend his bow To strike a poor unseasonable doe. ' My husband is thy friend ; for his sake spare me : Thyself art mighty ; for thine own sake leave me : Myself a weakling ; do not then ensnare me : Thou look'st not like deceit ; do not deceive me. , My sighs , like whirlwinds ,labo ur hence to heave thee: ; If ever man were moved with woman's moans, j Be moved with my tears, my sighs, my groans : j 'All which together, like a troubled ocean, Beat at thy rocky and wreck-threatening heart, To soften it with their continual motion ; For stones dissolved to water do convert. O, if no harder than a stone thou art, LUCRE CE. Melt at my tears, and be compassionate ! Soft pity enters at an iron gate. ' In Tarquin's likeness I did entertain thee : Hast thou put on his shape to do him shame ? To all the host of heaven I complain me, [name. Thou wrong'st his honour, wound'st his princely Thou art not what thou seem'st ; and if the same. Thou seem'st not what thou art, a god, a king; For kings like gods should govern every thing. ' How will thy shame be seeded in thine age, When thus thy vices bud before thy spring ! If in thy hope thou darest do such outrage, "What darest thou not when once thou art a king ? O, be remember'd, no outrageous thing From vassal actors can be wiped away ; Then kings' misdeeds cannot be hid in clay, "■ This deed will make thee only loved for fear ; But happy monarchs still are fear'd for love : "With foul offenders thou perforce must bear, When they in thee the like offences prove : If but for fear of this, they will remove ; For princes are the glass, the school, the book, •Where subjects' eyes do learn, do read, do look. * And wilt thou be the school where Lust shall learn? Must he in thee read lectures of such shame ? Wilt thou be glass wherein it shall discern Authority for sin, warrant for blame, To privilege dishonour in thy name ? Thou back'st reproach against long-living laud, And makest fair reputation but a bawd. * Hast thou command ? by him that gave it thee, From a pure heart command thy rebel will : Draw not thy sword to guard iniquity, For it was lent thee all that brood to kill. Thy princely office how canst thou fulfil. When, pattern'd by thy fault, foul sin may say. He learn'd to sin, and thou didst teach the way ? * Think but how vile a spectacle it were, To view thy present trespass in another. Men's faults do seldom to themselves appear; Their own transgressions partially they smother : This guilt would seem death-worthy in thy brother. O, how are they wrapp'd in with infamies That from their own misdeeds askance their eyes ! ' To thee, to thee, my heaved-up hands appeal, Not to seducing lust, thy rash relier: I sue for exiled majesty's repeal ; Let him return, and flattering thoughts retire : His true respect will prison false desire, And wipe the dim mist from thy doting eyne. That thou shalt see thy state and pity mine.' * Have done,' quoth he : ' my uncontrolled tide Turns not, but swells the higher by this let. Small lights are soon blown out, huge fires abide, And with the wind in greater fury &et : The petty streams that pay a daily debt To their salt sovereign, with their fresh falls' Add to his flow, but alter not his taste.' [haste * Thou art,' quoth she, ' a sea, a sovereign king ; And, lo, there falls into thy boundless flood Black lust, dishonour, shame, misgoverning, Who seek to stain the ocean of thy blood. If all these petty ills shall change thy good, Thy sea within a puddle's womb is hearsed. And not the puddle in thy sea dispersed. ' So shall these slaves be king, and thou their slave ; Thou nobly base, they basely dignified ; Thou their fair life, and they thy fouler grave : Thou loathed in their shame, they in thy pride: The lesser thing should not the greater hide ; The cedar stoops not to the base shrub's foot, But low shrubs wither at the cedar's root. ' So let thy thoughts, low vassals to thy state ' — ' No more,' quoth he ; 'by heaven, I will not heat Yield to my love ; if not, enforced hate, [thee: Instead of love's coy touch , shall rudely tear thee : That done, despitefully I mean to bear thee Unto the base bed of some rascal groom. To be thy partner in this shameful doom.' This said, he sets his foot upon the light. For light and lust are deadly enemies : Shame folded up in blind concealing night. When most unseen, then most doth tyrannize. The wolf hath seized his prey, the poor lamb cries; Till with her own white fleece her voice controll'd Entombs her outcry in her lips' sweet fold : For with the nightly linen that she wears He pens her piteous clamours in her head ; Cooling his hot face in the chastest tears That ever modest eyes with sorrow shed. O, that prone lust should stain so pure a bed ! The spots whereof could weeping purify, Her tears should drop on them perpetually. But she hath lost a dearer thing than life. And he hath won what he would lose again : This forced league doth force a further strife ; This momentary joy breeds months of pain ; This hot desire converts to cold disdain : Pure Chastity is rifled of her store. And Lust, the thief, far poorer than before. Look, as the full-fed hound or gorged hawk, Unapt for tender smell or speedy flight. Make slow pursuit, or altogether balk The prey wherein by nature they delight ; So siirfeit-taking Tarquin fares this night : His taste delicious, in digestion souring. Devours his will, that lived by foul devouring, O, deeper sin than bottomless conceit Can comprehend in still imagination ! Drunken Desire must vomit his receipt. Ere he can see his own abomination. While Lust is in his pride, no exclamation Can curb his heat or rein his rash desire, Till like a jade Self-will himself doth tire. And then with lank and lean discolour'd cheek, With heavy eye, knit brow, and strengthless pace. Feeble Desire, all recreant, poor, and meek, Like to a bankrupt beggar wails his case : The flesh being proud. Desire doth fight with Grace, For there it revels; and when that decays. The guilty rebel for remission prays. So fares it with this faultful lord of Kome, Who this accomplishment so hotly chased ; For now against himself he sounds this doom, That through the length of times he stands dis- Besides, his soul's fair temple is defaced ; [graced: To whose weak ruins muster troops of cares. To ask the spotted princess how she fares. She says, her subjects with foul insurrection Have batter'd down her consecrated wall. And by their mortal fault brought in subjection Her immortality, and made her thrall To living death and pain perpetual : Which in her prescience she controlled still. But her foresight could not forestall their will. 837 LUCRECE. Even in this thought through the dark night he A captive victor that hath lost in gain ; [stealeth, Bearing away the wound that nothing healeth, The scar that will, despite of cure, remain ; Leaving his spoil perplex 'd in greater pain. She bears the load of lust he left behind, And he the burden of a guilty mind. He like a thievish dog creeps sadly thence ; She like a wearied lamb lies panting there ; He scowls and hates himself for his offence ; She, desperate, with her nails her flesh doth tear ; He faintly flies, sweating with guilty fear; She stays, exclaiming on the direful night ; He runs, and chides his vanish'd, loathed delight. He thence departs a heavy convertite ; She there remains a hopeless castaway ; He in his speed looks for the morning light; She prays she never may behold the day, ' For day,' quoth she, 'night's scapes doth open lay, And my true eyes have never practised how To cloak offences with a cunning brow. ' They think not but that every eye can see The same disgrace which they themselves behold ; And therefore would they still in darkness be, To have their unseen sin remain untold ; For they their guilt with weeping will unfold, And grave, like water that doth eat in steel. Upon my cheeks what helpless shame I feel.' Here she exclaims against repose and rest, And bids her eyes hereafter still be blind. She wakes her heart by beating on her breast, And bids it leap from thence, where it may find Some purer chest to close so pure a mind. Frantic with grief thus breathes she forth her spite Against the unseen secrecy of night : 'O comfort-killing Night, image of hell ! Dim register and notary of shame ! Black stage for tragedies and murders fell ! Vast sin-concealing chaos ! nurse of blame ! Blind mufiled bawd ! dark harbour for defame ! Grim cave of death ! whispering conspirator "With close-tongued treason and the ravisher ! *0 hateful, vaporous, and foggy Night ! Since thou art guilty of my cureless crime, Muster thy mists to meet the eastern light. Make war against proportion'd course of time ; Or if thou wilt permit the sun to climb His wonted height, yet ere he go to bed. Knit poisonous clouds about his golden head. ' With rotten damps ravish the morning air ; Let their exhaled unwholesome breaths make sick The life of purity, the supreme fair. Ere he arrive his weary noon-tide prick ; And let thy misty vapours march so thick, That in their smoky ranks his smother'd light May set at noon and make perpetual night. ' Were Tarquin Night, as he is but Night's child, The silver-shining queen he would distain ; Her twinkling handmaids too, by him defiled, Through Night's black bosom should not peep again: So should I have co-partners in my pain ; And fellowship in woe doth woe assuage. As palmers' chat makes short their pilgrimage. ' Where now I have no one to blush with me, To cross their arms and hang their heads with mine. To mask their brows and hide their infamy ; But I alone alone must sit and pine, Seasoning the earth with showers of silver brine, Mingling my talk with tears, my grief with groans. Poor wasting monuments of lasting moans. ' O Night, thou furnace of foul-reeking smoke, Let not the jealous Day behold that face Which underneath thy black all-hiding cloak Immodestly lies martyr 'd with disgrace ! Keep still possession of thy gloomy place. That all the faults which in thy reign are made May likewise be sepulchred in thy shade ! ' Make me not object to the tell-tale Day ! The light will show, character'd in my brow, The story of sweet chastity's decay. The impious breach of holy wedlock vow : Yea, the illiterate, that know not how To cipher what is writ in learned books. Will quote my loathsome trespass in my looks. ' The nurse, to still her child, will tell my story, And fright her crying babe with Tarquin 's name: The orator, to deck his oratory, Will couple my reproach to Tarquin 's shame; Feast-finding minstrels, tuning my defame, Will tie the hearers to attend each line, How Tarquin wronged me, I CoUatine, ' Let my good name, that senseless reputation. For Collatine's dear love be kept unspotted : If that be made a theme for disputation, The branches of another root are rotted. And undeserved reproach to him allotted That is as clear from this attaint of mine As I, ere this, was pure to CoUatine. ' O unseen shame ! invisible disgrace ! O unfelt sore ! crest-wounding, private scar I Reproach is stamp'd in CoUatinus' face. And Tarquin 's eye may read the mot afar. How he in peace is wounded, not in war. Alas, how many bear such shameful' blows. Which not themselves, but he that gives them knows ! ' If, CoUatine, thine honour lay in me. From me by strong assault it is bereft. My honey lost, and I, a drone-like bee. Have no perfection of my summer left. But robb'd and ransack 'd by injurious theft : In thy weak hive a wandering wasp hath crept. And suck'd the honey which thy chaste bee kept. ' Yet am I guilty of thy honour's wrack ; Yet for thy honour did I entertain him ; Coming from thee, I could not put him back, For it had been dishonour to disdain him : Besides, of weariness he did complain him. And talk'd of virtue : O unlook'd-for evil. When virtue is profaned in such a devil ! ' Why should the worm intrude the maiden bud ? Or hateful cuckoos hatch in sparrows' nests ? Or toads infect fair founts with venom mud ? Or tyrant folly lurk in gentle breasts ? Or kings be breakers of their own behests ? But no perfection is so absolute. That some impurity doth not pollute. ' The aged man that coffers-up his gold Is plagued with cramps and gouts and painful fits ; And scarce hath eyes his treasure to behold, But like still-pining Tantalus he sits, And useless barns the harvest of his wits ; Having no other pleasure of his gain But torment that it cannot cure his pain. LUCBECE. ' So then he hath it when he cannot use it, And leaves it to be master'd by his young ; Wlio in their pride do presently abuse it : Their father was too weak, and they too strong„ To hold their cursed-blessed fortune long. The sweets we wish for turn to loathed sours Even in the moment that we call them ours. ' Unruly blasts wait on the tender spring ; Unwholesome w^eeds take root with precious flowers ; The adder hisses where the sweet birds sing ; What virtue breeds iniquity devours : We have no good that we can say is ours, But ill-annexed Opportunity Or kills his life or else his quality. ' O Opportunity, thy guilt is great ! 'T is thou that executest the traitor's treason : Thou set'st the wolf where he the lamb may get ; Whoever plots the sin, thou 'point 'st the season ; 'Tis thou that spurn'st at right, at law, at reason ; And in thy shady cell, where none may spy him, Sits Sin, to seize the souls that wander by him. ' Thou makest the vestal violate her oath ; Thou blow'st the fire when temperance is thaw'd ; Thou smother'st honesty, thou murder'st troth ; Thou foul abettor ! thou notorious bawd ! Thou plantest scandal and displacest laud : Thou ravisher, thou traitor, thou false thief, Thy honey turns to gall, thy joy to grief I ' Thy secret pleasure turns to open shame. Thy private feasting to a public fast. Thy smoothing titles to a ragged name. Thy sugar 'd tongue to bitter wormwood taste : Thy violent vanities can never last. How comes it then, vile Opportunity, Being so bad, such numbers seek for thee ? ' When wilt thou be the humble suppliant's friend. And bring him where his suit may be obtain'd ? When wilt thou sort an hour great strifes to end ? Or free that soul which wretchedness hath chain'd ? ^ive physic to the sick, ease to the pain'd ? The poor, lame, blind, halt, creep, cry out for thee ; But they ne'er meet with Opportunity. ' The patient dies while the physician sleeps ; The orphan pines while the oppressor feeds ; Justice is feasting while the widow weeps ; Advice is sporting while infection breeds ; Thou grant 'st no time for charitable deeds : Wrath, envy, treason, rape, and murder's rages, Thy heinous hours wait on them as their pages. * When Truth and Virtue have to do with thee, A thousand crosses keep them from thy aid : They buy thy help ; but Sin ne'er gives a fee. He gratis comes ; and thou art well appaid As well to hear as grant what he hath said. My Collatine would else have come to me When Tarquin did, but he was stay'd by thee. ' Guilty thou art of murder and of theft, Guilty of perjury and subornation, Guilty of treason, forgery, and shift. Guilty of incest, that abomination ; An accessary by thine inclination To all sins past, and all that are to come. From the creation to the general doom. ' Mis-shapen Time, copesmate of ugly Night, Swift subtle post, carrier of grisly care, Eater of youth, false slave to false delight, Basewatch of woes, sin's pack-horse, virtue's snare; Thou nursest all and murder'st all that are : O, hear me then, injurious, shifting Time I Be guilty of my death, since of my crime. ' Why hath thy servant, Opportunity, Betray'd the hours thou gavest me to repose, Cancell'd my fortunes, and enchained me To endless date of never-ending woes ? Time's office is to fine the hate of foes; To eat up errors by opinion bred, Not spend the dowry of a lawful bed. ' Time's glory is to calm contending kings, To unmask falsehood and bring truth to light, To stamp the seal of time in aged things. To wake the morn and sentinel the night, To wrong the wronger till he render right, To ruinate proud buildings with thy hours, And smear with dust their glittering golden towers ; ' To fill with worm-holes stately monuments, To feed oblivion with decay of things. To blot old books and alter their contents, To pluck the quills from ancient ravens' wings. To dry the old oak's sap and cherish sprmgs, To spoil antiquities of hammer'd steel, And turn the giddy round of Fortune's wheel; ' To show the beldam daughters of her daughter, To make the child a man, the man a child. To slay the tiger that doth live by slaughter. To tame the unicorn and lion wild. To mock the subtle in themselves beguiled. To cheer the ploughman with increasef ul crops. And waste huge stones with little water-drops. ' Why work'st thou mischief In thy pilgrimage. Unless thou couldst return to make amends ? One poor retiring minute in an age Would purchase thee a thousand thousand friends, Lending him wit that to bad debtors lends : O, this dread night, wouldst thou one hour come back, I could prevent this storm and shun thy wrack ! ' Thou ceaseless lackey to eternity. With some mischance cross Tarquin in his flight : Devise extremes beyond extremity, To make him curse this cursed crimef ul night : Let ghastly shadows his lewd eyes affright ; And the dire thought of his committed evil Shape every bush a hideous shapeless devil. ' Disturb his hours of rest with restless trances. Afflict him in his bed with bedrid groans ; Let there bechance him pitiful mischances. To make him moan ; but pity not his moans : Stone him with harden'd hearts, harder than stones ; And let mild women to him lose their mildness, Wilder to him than tigers in their wildness. ' Let him have time to tear his curled hair. Let him have time against himself to rave. Let him have time of Time's help to despair, Let him have time to live a loathed slave. Let him have time a beggar's orts to crave, And time to see one that by alms doth live Disdain to him disdained scraps to give. ' Let him have time to see his friends his foes. And merry fools to mock at him resort ; Let him have time to mark how slow time goes In time of sorrow, and how swift and short His time of folly and his time of sport ; And ever let his unrecalling crime Have time to wail th' abusing of his time. LUCRECE. ' O Time, thou tutor both to good and bad, Teach me to curse him that thou taught 'st this ill ! At his own shadow let the thief run mad, Himself himself seek every hour to kill ! [spill ; Such wretched hands such wretched blood should For who so base would such an office have As slanderous death 's-man to so base a slave ? ' The baser is he, coming from a king. To shame his hope with deeds degenerate : The mightier man, the mightier is the thing That makes him honour'd, or begets him hate ; For greatest scandal waits on greatest state. The moon being clouded presently is miss'd, But little stars may hide them when they list. ' The crow may bathe his coal-black wings in mire, And unperceived fly with the filth away ; But if the like the snow-white swan desire, The stain upon his silver down will stay. Poor grooms are sightless night, kings glorious day : Gnats are unnoted wheresoe'er they fly, But eagles gazed upon with every eye. ' Out, idle words, servants to shallow fools ! Unprofitable soimds, weak arbitrators ! Busy yourselves in skill-contending schools ; Debate where leisure serves with dull debaters ; To trembling clients be you mediators : For me, I force not argument a straw, Since that my case is past the help of law. ' In vain I rail at Opportunity, At Time, at Tarquin, and uncheerful Night; In vain I cavil with mine infamy, In vain I spurn at my confirm 'd despite : This helpless smoke of words doth me no right. The remedy indeed to do me good Is to let forth my foul-defiled blood. ' Poor hand, why quiver'st thou at this decree? Honour thyself to rid me of this shame ; For if I die, my honour lives in thee ; But if I live, thou livest in my defame : Since thou couldst not defend thy loyal dame, And wast afeard to scratch her wicked foe, Kill both thyself and her for yielding so.' This said, from her be-tumbled couch she starteth. To find some desperate instrument of death : But this no slaughterhouse no tool imparteth To make more vent for passage of her breath ; Which, thronging through her lips, so vanisheth As smoke from ^tna, that in air consumes. Or that which from discharged cannon fumes. ' In vain,' quoth she, ' I live, and seek in vain Some happy mean to end a hapless life. I fear'd by Tarquin's falchion to be slain. Yet for the self -same purpose seek a knife : But when I fear'd I was a loyal wife : So am I now : O no, that cannot be ; Of that true type hath Tarquin rifled me. ' O, that is gone for which I sought to live, And therefore now I need not fear to die. To clear this spot by death, at least I give A badge of fame to slander's livery ; A dying life to living infamy : Poor helpless help, the treasure stol'n away, To bum the guiltless casket where it lay ! 'Well, well, dear CoUatine, thou shalt not know The stained taste of violated troth ; I will not wrong thy true affection so. To flatter thee with an infringed oath ; This bastard graff shall never come to growth : 840 He shall not boast who did thy stock pollute That thou art doting father of his fruit. 'Nor shall he smile at thee in secret thought, ISTor laugh with his companions at thy state ; But thou shalt know thy interest was not bought Basely with gold, but stol'n from forth thy gate. For me, I am the mistress of my fate. And with my trespass never will dispense. Till life to death acquit my forced offence. ' I will not poison thee with my attaint, Nor fold my fault in cleanly-coin'd excuses ; My sable ground of sin I will not paint, To hide the truth of this false night's abuses : My tongue shall utter all ; mine eyes, like sluices, As from a mountain-spring that feeds a dale, Shall gush pure streams to purge my impure tale. By this, lamenting Philomel had ended The well-tuned warble of her nightly sorrow. And solemn night with slow sad gait descended To ugly hell; when, lo, the blushing morrow Lends light to aU fair eyes that light wiU borrow: But cloudy Lucrece shames herseK to see. And therefore still in night would cloister'd be. Eevealing day through every cranny spies, And seems to point her out where she sits weeping; To whom she sobbing speaks : ' O eye of eyes, Why pry'st thou through my window ? leave thy peeping : Mock with thy tickling beams eyes that are sleep- ing: Brand not my forehead with thy piercing light. For day hath nought to do what 's done by night.' Thus cavils she with every thing she sees : True grief is fond and testy as a child. Who wayward once, his mood with nought agrees : Old woes, not infant sorrows, bear them mild ; Continuance tames the one ; the other wild. Like an unpractised swimmer plunging still. With too much labour drowns for want of skill. So she, deep-drenched in a sea of care. Holds disputation with each thing she views, And to herself all sorrow doth compare ; No object but her passion's strength renews; And as one shifts, another straight ensues: Sometime her grief is dumb and hath no words; Sometime 't is mad and too much talk affords. The little birds that tune their morning's joy Make her moans mad with their sweet melody : For mirth doth search the bottom of annoy ; Sad souls are slain in merry company ; Grief best is pleased with grief's society: True sorrow then is feelingly sufliced When with like semblance it is sympathized. 'T is double death to drown in ken of shore ; He ten times pines that pines beholding food; To see the salve doth make the woimd ache more ; Great grief grieves most at that would do it good ; Deep woes roll forward like a gentle flood. Who, being stopp'd, the bounding banks o'er- flows; Grief daUied with nor lay nor limit knows. ' You mocking birds,' quoth she, 'your tunes entomb Within your hollow-swelling feather'd breasts, And in my hearing be you mute and dumb : My restless discord loves no stops nor rests ; A woeful hostess brooks not merry guests : Eelish your nimble notes to pleasing ears ; Distress likes dumps when time is kept with tears. LUCRECE. ♦Come, Philomel, that sing'st of ravishment, Make thy sad grove in my dishevell'd hair: As the dank earth weeps at thy languishment, So I at each sad strain will strain a tear, And with deep groans the diapason bear ; For burden-wise I '11 hum on Tarquin still. While thou on Tereus descant 'st better skill. *And whiles against a thorn thou bear'st thy part, To keep thy sharp woes waking, wretched I, To imitate thee well, against my heart Will fix a sharp knife to affright mine eye ; Who, if it wink, shall thereon fall and die. These means, as frets upon an instrument. Shall tune our heart-strings to true languishment. 'And for, poor bird, thou sing'st not in the day, As shaming any eye should thee behold. Some dark deep desert, seated from the way. That knows not parching heat nor freezing cold, Will we find out ; and there we will unfold To creatures stern sad tunes, to change their kinds : Since men prove beasts, let beasts bear gentle minds.' As the poor frighted deer, that stands at gaze, Wildly determining which way to fly. Or one encompass 'd with a winding maze, That cannot tread the way out readily ; So with herself is she in mutiny, To live or die which of the twain were better, , When life is shamed, and death reproach's debtor. ' To kill myself,' quoth she, ' alack, what were it, But with my body my poor soul's pollution ? They that lose half with greater patience bear it Than they whose whole is swallow'd in confusion. That mother tries a merciless conclusion Who, having two sweet babes, when death takes one, Will slay the other and be nurse to none. *My body or my soul, which was the dearer, When the one pure, the other made divine ? Whose love of either to myself was nearer. When both were kept for heaven and Collatine ? Ay me ! the bark peel'd from the lofty pine, His leaves will wither and his sap decay ; So must my soul, her bark being peel'd away. ' Her house is sack'd, her quiet interrupted, Her mansion batter'd by the enemy ; Her sacred temple spotted, spoil'd, corrupted, Grossly engirt with daring infamy : Then let it not be call'd impiety. If in this blemish 'd fort I make some hole Through which I may convey this troubled soul. ' Yet die I will not till my Collatine Have heard the cause of my untimely death ; That he may vow, in that sad hour of mine, Kevenge on him that made me stop my breath. My stained blood to Tarquin I '11 bequeath. Which by him tainted shall for him be spent. And as his due writ in my testament. ' My honour I '11 bequeath unto the knife That wounds my body so dishonoured. 'T is honour to deprive dishonour'd life ; The one will live, the other being dead : So of shame's ashes shall my fame be bred ; For in my death I murder shameful scorn : My shame so dead, mine honour is new-born. ' Dear lord of that dear jewel I have lost, What legacy shall I bequeath to thee ? My resolution, love, shall be thy boast, By whose example thou revenged mayst be. How Tarquin must be used, read it in me : Myself, thy friend, will kill myself, thy foe, And for my sake serve thou false Tarquin so. ' This brief abridgment of my will I make : My soul and body to the skies and ground; My resolution, husband, do thou take ; Mine honour be the knife's that makes my wound; My shame be his that did my fame confound ; And all my fame that lives disbursed be To those that live, and think no shame of me. ' Thou, Collatine, shalt oversee this will ; How was I overseen that thou shalt see it ! My blood shall wash the slander of mine ill ; My life's foul deed, my life's fair end shall free it. Faint not, faint heart, but stoutly say " So be it : " Yield to my hand ; my hand shall conquer thee : Thou dead, both die, and both shall victors be.' This plot of death when sadly she had laid. And wiped the brinish pearl from her bright eyes, With untuned tongue she hoarsely calls her maid, Whose swift obedience to her mistress hies : For fleet-wing'd duty with thought's feathers flies. Poor Lucrece' cheeks unto her maid seem so As winter meads when sun doth melt their snow. Her mistress she doth give demure good-morrow, With soft-slow tongue, true mark of modesty. And sorts a sad look to her lady's sorrow, For why her face wore sorrow's livery ; But durst not ask of her audaciously Why her two suns were cloud-eclipsed so, Nor why her fair cheeks over-wash 'd with woe. But as the earth doth weep, the sun being set, Each flower moisten'd like a melting eye ; Even so the maid with swelling drops gan wet Her circled eyne, enforced by sympathy Of those fair suns set in her mistress' sky, Who in a salt-waved ocean quench their light, Which makes the maid weep like the dewy night* A pretty while these pretty creatures stand, Like ivory conduits coral cisterns filling : One justly weeps ; the other takes in hand No cause, but company, of her drops spilling : Their gentle sex to weep are often willing ; Grieving themselves to guess at others' smarts. And then they drown their eyes or break their hearts. For men have marble, women waxen, minds, And therefore are they form'd as marble will : The weak oppress'd, the impression of strange kinds Is form'd in them by force, by fraud, or skill : Then call them not the authors of their ill, No more than wax shall be accounted evil Wherein is stamp'd the semblance of a devil. Then- smoothness, like a goodly champaign plain, Lays open all the little worms that creep ; In men, as in a rough-grown grove, remain Cave-keeping evils that obscurely sleep : Through crystal walls each little mote will peep : Though men can cover crimes with bold stern looks. Poor women's faces are their own faults' books. No man inveigh against the wither'd flower. But chide rough winter that the flower hath kill'd : Not that devour'd, but that which doth devour, Is worthy blame. O, let it not be hild Poor women's faults, that they are so fulfiU'd 841 LUCRECE. With men's abuses: those proud lords, to blame, Make weak-made women tenants to their shame. The precedent whereof in Lucrece view, Assail'd by night with circumstances strong Of present death, and shame that might ensue By that her death, to do her husband wrong : Such danger to resistance did belong. That dying fear through all her body spread ; And who cannot abuse a body dead ? By this, mild patience bid fair Lucrece speak To the poor counterfeit of her complaining : ' My girl,' quoth she, ' on what occasion break Those tears from thee, that down thy cheeks are raining ? If thou dost weep for grief of my sustaining. Know, gentle wench, it small avails my mood : If tears could help, mine own would do me good. ' But tell me, girl, when went '—and there she stay'd Till after a deep groan — ' Tarquin from hence ? ' ' Madam, ere I was up,' replied the maid, ' The more to blame my sluggard negligence : Yet with the fault I thus far can dispense ; Myself was stirring ere the break of day, And, ere I rose, was Tarquin gone away. ' But, lady, if your maid may be so bold, She would request to know your heaviness.' ' O, peace ! ' quoth Lucrece : ' if it should be told, The repetition cannot make it less ; Tor more it is than I can well express : And that deep torture may be call'd a hell "When more is felt than one hath power to tell. ' Go, get me hither paper, ink, and pen : Yet save that labour, for I have them here. What should I say ? One of my husband's men Bid thou be ready, by and by, to bear A letter to my lord, my love, my dear: Bid him with speed prepare to carry it ; The cause craves haste, and it will soon be writ.' Her maid is gone, and she prepares to write. First hovering o'er the paper with her quill : Conceit and grief an eager combat fight ; What wit sets down is blotted straight with will ; This is too curious-good, this blunt and ill: Much like a press of people at a door. Throng her inventions, which shall go before. At last she thus begins : ' Thou worthy lord Of that unworthy wife that greeteth thee. Health to thy person ! next vouchsafe t' afford — If ever, love, thy Lucrece thou wilt see — Some present speed to come and visit me. So, I commend me from our house in grief : My woes are tedious, though my words are brief.' Here folds she up the tenour of her woe. Her certain sorrow writ uncertainly. By this short schedule CoUatine may know Her grief, but not her grief's true quality : She dares not thereof make discovery. Lest he should hold it her own gross abuse. Ere she with blood had stain'd her stain'd excuse. Besides, the life and feeling of her passion She hoards, to spend when he is by to hear her; When sighs and groans and tears may grace the fashion Of her disgrace, the better so to clear her From that suspicion which the world might bear her. To shun this blot, she would not blot the letter With words, till action might become them better. 842 To see sad sights moves more than hear them told ; For then the eye interprets to the ear The heavy motion that it doth behold. When every part a part of woe doth bear. 'T is but a part of sorrow that we hear : Deep sounds make lesser noise than shallow fords. And sorrow ebbs, being blown with wind of words. Her letter now is seal'd, and on it writ ' At Ardea to my lord with more than haste.' The post attends, and she delivers it, Charging the sour-faced groom to hie as fast As lagging fowls before the northern blast : Speed more than speed but dull and slow she deems : Extremity still urgeth such extremes. The homely villain court'sies to her low ; And, blushing on her, with a steadfast eye Receives the scroll without or yea or no, And forth with bashful innocence doth hie. But they whose guilt within their bosoms lie Imagine every eye beholds their blame ; For Lucrece thought he blush'd to see her shame : When, silly groom ! God wot, it was defect Of spirit, life, and bold audacity. Such harmless creatures have a true respect To talk in deeds, while others saucily Promise more speed, but do it leisurely : Even so this pattern of the worn-out age Pawn'd honest looks, but laid no words to gage. His kindled duty kindled her mistrust. That two red fires in both their faces blazed ; She thought he blush'd, as knowing Tarquin 's lust, And, blushing with him, wistly on him gazed ; Her earnest eye did make him more amazed : The more she saw the blood his cheeks replenish, The more she thought he spied in her some blemish. But long she thinks till he return again. And yet the duteous vassal scarce is gone. The weary time she cannot entertain. For now 't is stale to sigh, to weep, and groan : So woe hath wearied woe, moan tired moan, That she her plaints a little while doth stay. Pausing for means to mourn some newer way. At last she calls to mind where hangs a piece Of skilful painting, made for Priam's Troy ; Before the which is drawn the power of Greece, For Helen's rape the city_ to destroy. Threatening cloud-kissing Ilion with annoy ; Which the conceited painter drew so proud. As heaven, it seem'd, to kiss the turrets bow'd. A thousand lamentable objects there. In scorn of nature, art gave lifeless life : Many a dry drop seem'd a weeping tear, Shed for the slaughter'd husband by the wife : The red blood reek'd, to show the painter's strife; And dying eyes gleam 'd forth their ashy lights, Like dying coals burnt out in tedious nights. There might you see the labouring pioner Begrimed with sweat, and smeared all with dust; And from the towers of Troy there would appear The very eyes of men through loop-holes thrust, Gazing upon the Greeks with little lust.: Such sweet observance in this work was had. That one might see those far-off eyes look sad. In great commanders grace and majesty You might behold, triumphing in their faces ; LUCRECE. "Wanting the spring that those shrunk pipes had Show'd life imprison'd in a body dead. [fed, On this sad shadow Lucreoe spends lier eyes, And shapes her sorrow to the beldam's woes, Who nothing wants to answer her but cries. And bitter words to ban her cruel foes : The painter was no god to lend her those ; And therefore Lucrece swears he did her wrong, To give her so much grief and not a tongue. ' Poor instrument,' quoth she, ' without a sound, I '11 tune thy woes with my lamenting tongue ; And drop sweet balm in Priam's painted wound, And rail on Pyrrhus that hath done him wrong ; And with my tears quench Troy that burns so long ; And with my knife scratch out the angry eyes Of all the Greeks that are thine enemies. ' Show me the strumpet that began this stir. That with my nails her beauty I may tear. Thy heat of lust, fond Paris, did incur This load of wrath that burning Troy doth bear: Thy eye kindled the fire that burneth here ; And here in Troy, for trespass of thine eye, The sire, the son, the dame, and daughter die. ' Why should the private pleasure of some one Become the public plague of many moe ? Let sin, alone committed, light alone Upon his head that hath transgressed so ; Let guiltless souls be freed from guilty woe : Por one's offence why should so many fall, To plague a private sin in general ? ' Lo, here weeps Hecuba, here Priam dies, Here manly Hector faints, here Troilus swounds, Here friend by friend in bloody channel lies. And friend to friend gives unadvised wounds. And one man's lust these many lives confounds : Had doting Priam eheck'd his sou's desire, Troy had been bright with fame and not with fire.' Here feelingly she weeps Troy's painted woes : For sorrow, like a heavy-hanging bell. Once set on ringing, with his own weight goes ; Then little strength rings out the doleful knell : So Lucrece, set a-work, sad tales doth tell Topencill'dpensivenessandcolour'dsorrow; [row. She lends them words, and she their looks doth bor- She throws her eyes about the painting round. And whom she finds forlorn she doth lament. At last she sees a wretched image bound, That piteous looks to Phrygian shepherds lent : His face, though full of cares, yet show'd content ; Onward to Troy with the blunt swains he goes, So mild, that Patience seem'd to scorn his woes. In him the painter labour'd with his skill To hide deceit, and give the harmless show An humble gait, calm looks, eyes wailing still, A brow unbent, that seem'd to welcome woe ; Cheeks neither red nor pale, but mingled so That blushing red no guilty instance gave, Nor ashy pale the fear that false hearts have. But, like a constant and confirmed devil, He entertain'd a show so seeming just. And therein so ensconced his secret evil. That jealousy itself could not mistrust Palse-creeping craft and perjury should thrust Into so bright a day such black-faced storms. Or blot with hell-born sin such saint-like forms. The well-skill 'd workman this mild image drew Por perjured Sinon, whose enchanting story 843 In youth, quick bearing and dexterity; And here and there the painter interlaces Pale cowards, marching on with trembling paces ; Which heartless peasants did so well resemble, That one would swear he saw them quake and tremble. In Ajax and Ulysses, O, what art Of physiognomy might one behold ! The face of either cipher 'd either 's heart ; Their face their manners most expressly told : In Ajax' eyes blunt rage and rigour roll'd ; But the mild glance that sly Ulysses lent Show'd deep regard and smiling government. There pleading might you see grave Nestor stand, As 't were encouraging the Greeks to fight ; Making such sober action with his hand, That it beguiled attention, charm'd the sight : In speech, it seem'd, his beard, all silver white, Wagg'd up and down, and from his lips did fly Thin winding breath, which purl'd up to the sky. About him were a press of gaping faces. Which seem'd to swallow up his sound advice ; All jointly listening, but with several graces, As if some mermaid did their ears entice. Some high, some low, the painter was so nice ; The scalps of many, almost hid behind, To jump up higher seem'd, to mock the mind. Here one man's hand lean'd on another's head. His nose being shadow'd by his neighbour's ear ; Here one being throng'd bears back, all boU'n and red ; Another smother 'd seems to pelt and swear ; And in their rage such signs of rage they bear. As, but for loss of Nestor's golden words, It seem'd they would debate with angry swords. For miich imaginary work was there ; Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind, That for Achilles' image stood his spear. Griped in an armed hand ; himself, behind, Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind : A hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head, Stood for the whole to be imagined. And from the walls of strong-besieged Troy When their brave hope, bold Hector, march 'd to Stood many Trojan mothers, sharing joy [field. To see their youthful sons bright weapons wield ; And to their hope they such odd action yield, That through their light joy seemed to appear. Like bright things stain'd, a kind of heavy fear. And from the strand of Dardan, where they fought, To Simois' reedy banks the red blood ran. Whose waves to imitate the battle sought With swelling ridges ; and their ranks began To break upon the galled shore, and than Retire again, till, meeting greater ranks. They join and shoot their foam at Simois' banks. To this well-painted piece is Lucrece come. To find a face where all distress is stell'd. Many she sees where cares have carved some. But none where all distress and dolour dwell'd, Till she despairing Hecuba beheld, Staring on Priam's wounds with her old eyes. Which bleeding under Pyrrhus' proud foot lies. In her the painter had anatomized Time's ruin, beauty's wreck, and grim care's reign : Her cheeks with chaps and wrinkles were disguised ; Of what she was no semblance did remain : Her blue blood changed to black in every vein, LUCRECE. The credulous old Priam after slew ; Whose words like wildfire burnt the shining glory (yt rich-built Ilion, that the skies were sorry, And little stars shot from their fixed places, When their glass fell wherein they view'd their This picture she advisedly perused, And chid the painter for his wondrous skill, Saying, some shape in Sinon's was abused ; So fair a form lodged not a mind so ill : And still on him she gazed ; and gazing still. Such signs of truth in his plain face she spied, That she concludes the picture was belied. * It cannot be,' quoth she, 'that so much guile ' — She would have said ' can lurk in such a look ; ' But Tarquin's shape came in her mind the while. And from her tongue 'can lurk' from 'cannot' took: * It cannot be ' she in that sense forsook, And turn'd it thus, ' It cannot be, I find. But such a face should bear a wicked mind. : * For even as subtle Sinon here is painted, So sober-sad, so weary, and so mild. As if with grief or travail he had fainted. To me came Tarquin armed ; so beguiled "With outward honesty, but yet defiled "With inward vice : as Priam him did cherish, So did I Tarquin ; so my Troy did perish. *Look, look, how listening Priam wets his eyes. To see those borrow'd tears that Sinon sheds ! Priam, why art thou old and yet not wise ? Por every tear he falls a Trojan bleeds : His eye drops fire, no water thence proceeds ; Those round clear pearls of his, that move thy pity, Are balls of quenchless fire to burn thy city. * Such devils steal effects from lightless hell; Por Sinon in his fire doth quake with cold, And in that cold hot-burning fire doth dwell ; These contraries such unity do hold. Only to flatter fools and make them bold : So Priam's trust false Sinon's tears doth flatter. That he finds means to burn his Troy with water.' Here, all enraged, such passion her assails. That patience is quite beaten from her breast. She tears the senseless Sinon with her nails. Comparing him to that unhappy guest "Whose deed hath made herself herself detest : At last she smilingly with this gives o'er ; ' Pool, fool ! ' quoth she, ' his wounds will not be Thus ebbs and flows the current of her sorrow. And time doth weary time with her complaining. She looks for night, and then she longs for morrow, And both she thinks too long with her remaining : Short time seems long in sorrow's sharp sustaining : Though woe be heavy, yet it seldom sleeps ; And they that watch see time how slow it creeps. "Which all this time hath overslipp'd her thought, That she with painted images hath spent ; Being from the feeling of her own grief brought By deep surmise of others' detriment ; Losing her woes in shows of discontent. It easeth some, though none it ever cured, To think their dolour others have endured. But now the mindful messenger, come back. Brings home his lord and other company ; "Who finds his Lucrece clad in mourning black : And romid about her tear-distained eye Blue circles stream'd, like rainbows in the sky: 844 These water-galls in her dim element Foretell new storms to those already spent. "Which when her sad-beholding husband saw, Amazedly in her sad face he stares : Her eyes, though sod in tears, look'd red and raw, Her lively colour kill'd with deadly cares. He hath no power to ask her how she fares : Both stood, like old acquaintance in a trance. Met far from home, wondering each other's chance. At last he takes her by the bloodless hand, And thus begins : ' "What uncouth ill event Hath thee befall'n, that thou dost trembling stand ? Sweet love, what spite hath thy fair colour spent ? "Why art thou thus attired in discontent ? TTnmask, dear dear, this moody heaviness. And tell thy grief, that we may give redress.' Three times with sighs she gives her sorrow fire, Ere once she can discharge one word of woe ; At length address'd to answer his desire. She modestly prepares to let them know Her honour is ta'en prisoner by the foe ; "While CoUatine and his consorted lords With sad attention long to hear her words. And now this pale swan in her watery nest Begins the sad dirge of her certain ending ; ' Few words,' quoth she, ' shall fit the trespass best, Where no excuse can give the fault amending : In me moe woes than words are now depending ; And my laments would be drawn out too long, To tell them all with one poor tired tongue. ' Then be this all the task it hath to say : Dear husband, in the interest of thy bed A stranger came, and on that pillow lay Where thou wast wont to rest thy weary head ; And what wrong else may be imagined By foul enforcement might be done to me, From that, alas, thy Lucrece is not free. ' For in the dreadful dead of dark midnight, With shining falchion in my chamber came A creeping creature, with a flaming light. And softly cried " Awake, thou Roman dame. And entertain my love ; else lasting shame On thee and thine this night I will inflict. If thou my love's desire do contradict. ' "For some hard-favour'd groom of thine," quotb " Unless thou yoke thy liking to my will, [he, I '11 murder straight, and then I '11 slaughter thee And swear I found you where you did fulfil The loathsome act of lust, and so did kiU The lechers in their deed : this act will be My fame and thy perpetual infamy." ' With this, I did begin to start and cry, And then against my heart he sets his sword. Swearing, unless I took all patiently, I should not live to speak another word ; So should my shame still rest upon record, And never be forgot in mighty Eome, Th' adulterate death of Lucrece and her groom, ' Mine enemy was strong, my poor self weak. And far the weaker with so strong a fear : My bloody judge forbade my tongue to speak ; No rightful plea might plead for justice there : His scarlet lust came evidence to swear That my poor beauty had purloin'd his eyes ; And when the judge is robb'd the prisoner dies. ' O, teach me how to make mine own excf dse ! Or at the least this refuge let me find ; LUCRECE. Though my gross blood be stain 'd with this abuse, Immaculate and spotless is my mind ; That was not forced ; that never was inclined To accessary yieldings, but still pure Doth in her poison 'd closet yet endure.' Lo, here, the hopeless merchant of this loss. With head declined, and voice damm'd up with woe, "With sad set eyes, and wretched arms across. From lips new-waxen pale begins to blow The grief away that stops his answer so : But, vsrretched as he is, he strives in vain; "What he breathes out his breath drinks up again. As through an arch the violent roaring tide Outruns the eye that doth behold his haste, Yet id the eddy bomideth in his pride Back to the strait that forced him on so fast ; In rage sent out, recall 'd in rage, being past: Even so his sighs, his sorrows, make a saw. To push grief on, and back the same grief draw. Which speechless woe of his poor she attendeth, And his untimely frenzy thus awaketh : ' Dear lord, thy sorrow to my sorrow lendeth Another power ; no flood by raining slaketh. My woe too sensible thy passion maketh More feeling-painful : let it then suffice To drown one woe, one pair of weeping eyes. ' And for my sake, when I might charm thee so For she that was thy Lucrece, now attend me: Be suddenly revenged on my foe, Thine, mine, his own : suppose thou dost defend me From what is past : the help that thou shalt lend me Comes all too late, yet let the traitor die ; For sparing justice feeds iniquity. * But ere I name him, you fair lords,' quoth she, Speaking to those that came with CoUatine, ' ShaU plight your honourable faiths to me. With swift pursuit to venge this wrong of mine ; For 't is a meritorious fair design To chase injustice with revengeful arms : Knights, by their oaths, should right poor ladies' harms.' At this request, with noble disposition Each present lord began to promise aid, As bound in knighthood to her imposition, Longing to hear the hateful foe bewray 'd. But she, that yet her sad task hath not said. The protestation stops. ' O, speak,' quoth she, ' How may this forced stain be wiped from me ? ' What is the quality of mine offence. Being constrain'd with dreadful circumstance ? May my pure mind with the foul act dispense, My low-declined honour to advance ? May any terms acquit me from this chance ? The poison 'd fountain clears itself again; And why not I from this compelled stain ?' With this, they all at once began to say. Her body's stain her mind untainted clears; While with a joyless smile she turns away The face, that map which deep impression bears Of hard misfortune, carved in it with tears. ' No, no,' quoth she, 'no dame, hereafter living, By my excuse shall claim excuse's giving.' Here with a sigh, as if her heart would break, She throws forth Tarquin's name: 'He, he,' she says. But more than ' he ' her poor tongue could not speak ; Till after many accents and delays, Untimely breathings, sick and short assays, She utters this, ' He, he, fair lords, 't is he, That guides this hand to. give this wound to me.' Even here she sheathed in her harmless breast A harmful knife, that thence her soul unsheathed: That blow did bail it from the deep unrest Of that polluted prison where it breathed : Her contrite sighs unto the clouds bequeath 'd Her winged sprite, and through her womids doth fly Life's lasting date from cancell'd destiny. Stone-still, astonish 'd with this deadly deed. Stood Collatine and all his lordly crew ; Till Lucrece' father, that beholds her bleed. Himself on her self-slaughter'd body threw ; And from the purple fountain Brutus drew The murderous knife, and, as it left the place, Her blood, in poor revenge, held it in chase; And bubbling from her breast, it doth divide In two slow rivers, that the crimson blood Circles her body in on every side. Who, like a late-sack'd island, vastly stood Bare and unpeopled in this fearful flood. Some of her blood still pm-e and red remain'd. And some look'd black, and that false Tarquia stain'd. About the mourning and congealed face Of that black blood a watery rigol goes, Which seems to weep upon the tainted place : And ever since, as pitying Lucrece' woes, Corrupted blood some watery token shows ; And blood untainted still doth red abide, Blushing at that which is so putrified. ' Daughter, dear daughter,' old Lucretius cries, ' That life was mine which thou hast here deprived. If in the child the father's image lies. Where shall I live now Lucrece is unlived ? Thou wast not to this end from me derived. H children pre-decease progenitors, We are their offspring, and they none of ours. ' Poor broken glass, I often did behold In thy sweet semblance my old age new born ; But now that fresh fair mirror, dim and old. Shows me a bare-boned death by time outworn : O, from thy cheeks my image thou hast torn. And shiver 'd all the beauty of my glass, That I no more can see what once I was ! ' O time, cease thou thy course and last no longer. If they surcease to be that should survive. Shall rotten death make conquest of the stronger And leave the faltering feeble souls alive ? The old bees die, the young possess their hive : Then live, sweet Lucrece, live again and see Thy father die, and not thy father thee ! ' By this, starts Collatine as from a dream. And bids Lucretius give his sorrow place ; And then in key-cold Lucrece' bleeding stream He falls, and bathes the pale fear in his face, And counterfeits to die with her a space ; Till manly shame bids him possess his breath And live to be revenged on her death. The deep vexation of his inward soul Hath served a dumb arrest upon his tongue ; "Who, mad that sorrow should his use control, Or keep him from heart-easing words so long. Begins to talk ; but through his lips do throng "Weak words, so thick come in his poor heart's aid. That no man could distinguish what he said. 845 LUCRECE. Yet sometime ' Tarquin ' was pronounced plain, But through his teeth, as if the name he tore. This windy tempest, till it blow up rain, Held back his sorrow's tide, to make it more ; At last it rains, and busy winds give o'er : Then son and father weep with equal strife Who should weep most, for daughter or for wife. The one doth call her his, the other his. Yet neither may possess the claim they lay. The father says ' She 's mine.' ' O, mine she is,' Replies her husband : ' do not take away My sorrow's interest; let no mourner say He weeps for her, for she was only mine, And only must be wail'd by Collatine.' ' O,' quoth Lucretius, ' I did give that life Which she too early and too late hath spill 'd.' ' Woe, woe,' quoth Collatine, ' she was my wife, I owed her, and 't is mine that she hath kill'd.' ' My daughter ' and ' my wife ' with clamours fill'd The dispersed air, who, holding Lucrece' life, Answer'd their cries, ' my daughter ' and ' my wife.' Brutus, who pluck'd the knife from Lucrece' side, Seeing such emulation in their woe. Began to clothe his wit in state and pride. Burying in Lucrece' wound his folly's show. He with the Eomans was esteemed so As silly-jeering idiots are with kings, For sportive words and uttering foolish things : But now he throws that shallow habit by. Wherein deep policy did him disguise ; And arm'd his long-hid wits advisedly. To check the tears in CoUatinus' eyes. ' Thou wronged lord of Rome,' quoth he, 'arise ; Let my unsounded self, supposed a fool, Now set thy long-experienced wit to school. ' Why, Collatine, is woe the cure for woe ? Do wounds help wounds, or grief help grievous Is it revenge to give thyself a blow [deeds i For his foul act by whom thy fair wife bleeds ? Such childish humour from weak minds proceeds: Thy wretched wife mistook the matter so. To slay herself, that should have slain her foe. ' Courageous Roman, do not steep thy heart In such relenting dew of lamentations ; But kneel with me and help to bear thy part, To rouse our Roman gods with invocations, That they will suffer these abominations. Since Rome herself in them doth stand disgraced. By our strong arms from forth her fair streets chased. ' Now, by the Capitol that we adore. And by this chaste blood so unjustly stain 'd, By heaven's fair sun that breeds the fat earth's store, By all our country rights in Rome maintain 'd. And by chaste Lucrece' soul that late complain'd Her wrongs to us, and by this bloody knife. We will revenge the death of this true wife.' This said, he struck his hand upon his breast. And kiss'd the fatal knife, to end his vow; And to his protestation urged the rest. Who, wondering at him, did his words allow: Then jointly to the ground their knees they bow; And that deep vow, which Brutus made before, He doth again repeat, and that they swore. When they had sworn to this advised doom. They did conclude to bear dead Lucrece thence ; To show her bleeding body thorough Rome, And so to publish Tarquin 's foul offence : Which being done with speedy diligence. The Romans plausibly did give consent To Tarquin 's everlasting banishment. SONNETS. TO THE ONLIE BEGETTER OP THESE INSUING SONNETS MR. W. H. ALL HAPPINESSE AND THAT ETERNITIE PROMISED BY OUR EVER-LIVING POET WISHETH THE WELL-WISHING ADVENTURER IN SETTING FORTH T. T. I. From fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease. His tender heir might bear his memory : But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light's flame with self -substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring. Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be. To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. "When forty winters shall besiege thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now. Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held : Then being ask'd where aU thy beauty lies, Where all the treasure of thy lusty days. To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes, Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise. How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use, If thou couldst answer ' This fair child of mine Shall simi my count and make my old excuse,' Proving his beauty by succession thine ! This were to be new made when thou art old. And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold. HI. Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest Now is the time that face should form another ; Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest. Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother. For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry ? Or who is he so fond will be the tomb Of his self-love, to stop posterity ? Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee Calls back the lovely April of her prime : So thou through windows of thine age shalt see Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time. But if thou live, remember'd not to be. Die single, and thine image dies with thee. Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy ? Nature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend, And being frank she lends to those are free. Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse The bounteous largess given thee to give ? Profitless usurer, why dost thou use So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live ? For having traffic with thyself alone, Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive. Then how, when nature calls thee to be gone. What acceptable audit canst thou leave V Thy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee. Which, used, lives th' executor to be. Those hours, that with gentle work did frame The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell, Will play the tyrants to the very same And that unfair which fairly doth excel ; For never-resting time leads summer on To hideous winter and confounds him there ; Sap check 'd with frost and lusty leaves quite gone, Beauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where : Then, were not summer's distillation left, A liquid prisoner pent in waUs of glass, Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft. Nor it nor no remembrance what it was : But fiowers distill 'd,though they with winter meet, Leese but their show ; their substance still lives Then let not winter's ragged hand deface In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd: Make sweet some vial ; treasure thou some place With beauty's treasure, ere it be self -kill 'd. That use is not forbidden usury Which happies those that pay the willing loan ; That 's for thyself to breed another thee, Or ten times happier, be it ten for one ; Ten times thyself were happier than thou art. If ten of thine ten times refigured thee : Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart, Leaving thee living in posterity ? Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir. 847 SONNETS. Lo ! in the orient wlien the gracious light Lifts up his burning head, each under eye Doth homage to liis new-appearing sight, Serving with loolis his sacred majesty ; And having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill, Kesembling strong youth in his middle age. Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still, Attending on his golden pilgrimage ; But when from highmost pitch, with weary car, Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day. The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are From his low tract and look another way : So thou, thyself out-going in thy noon, Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son. Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly? Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy. Why lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly, Or else receivest with pleasure thine annoy ? If the true concord of well-tuned sounds, By unions married, do offend thine ear. They do but sweetly chide thee, who confoimds In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear. Mark how one string, sweet husband to another. Strikes each in each by mutual ordering. Resembling sire and child and happy mother Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing: Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one. Sings this to thee : ' thou single wilt prove none.' Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye That thou consumest thyself in single life ? Ah ! if thou issueless shall hap to die, The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife ; The world will be thy widow and still weep That thou no form of thee hast left behind. When every private widow well may keep By children's eyes her husband's shape in mind. Look, what an unthrift in the world doth spend Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it; But beauty's waste hath in the world an end, And kept unused, the user so destroys it. No love toward others in that bosom sits That on himself such murderous shame commits. For shame ! deny that thou bear'st love to any, Who for thyself art so unprovident. Grant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many, But that thou none lovest is most evident ; For thou art so possess 'd with murderous hate That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire, Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate Which to repair should be thy chief desire. O, change thy thought, that I may change my mind I Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love ? Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind. Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove : Make thee another self, for love of me. That beauty still may live in thine or thee. As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest In one of thine, from that which thou departest ; And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowest Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth con- Herein lives wisdom, beauty and increase ; [vertest. Without this, folly, age and cold decay : If all were minded so, the times should cease And threescore year would make the world away. Let those whom Nature hath not made for store. Harsh featureless and rude, barrenly perish : Look, whom she best endow'd she gave the more ; Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish : She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die* XII. When I do count the clock that tells the time, And see the brave day sunk in hideous night ; When I behold the violet past prime. And sable curls all silver'd o'er with white; When lofty trees I see barren of leaves Which erst from heat did canopy the herd, And summer's green all girded up in sheaves Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard, Then of thy beauty do I question make, That thou among the wastes of time must go, Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake And die as fast as they see others grow ; [fence And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make de- Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence. XIII. O, that you were yourself ! but, love, you are No longer yours than you yourself here live : Against this coming end you should prepare. And your sweet semblance to some other give. So should that beauty which you hold in lease Find no determination ; then you were Yourself again after yourself 's decease. When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear. Who lets so fair a house fall to decay. Which husbandry in honour might uphold Against the stormy gusts of winter's day And barren rage of death's eternal cold ? O, none but unthrifts ! Dear my love, you know You had a father : let your son say so. Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck; And yet methinks I have astronomy. But not to tell of good or evil luck, Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality ; Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell. Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind, Or say with princes if it shall go well, By oft predict that I in heaven find : But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive, And, constant stars, in them I read such art As truth and beauty shall together thrive. If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert ; Or else of thee this I prognosticate : Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date. When I consider every thing that grows Holds in perfection but a little moment. That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows Whereon the stars in secret influence comment ; When I perceive that men as plants increase. Cheered and check'd even by the self-same sky, Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease, And wear their brave state out of memory ; Then the conceit of this inconstant stay Sets you most rich in youth before my sight. Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay, To change your day of youth to sullied night ; And all in war with Time for love of you, As he takes from you, I engraft you new. But wherefore do not you a mightier way Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time ? And fortify yourself in your decay With means more blessed than my barren rhyme ? Now stand you on the top of happy hours, And many maiden gardens yet unset SONNUTS. With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers, Much liker than your painted counterfeit : So should the lines of life that life repair, Which this. Time's pencil, or my pupil pen, 2f either in inward worth nor outward fair, Can make you live yourself in eyes of men. To give away yourself keeps yourself still. And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill. Who will believe my verse in time to come, If it were fill'd with your most high deserts ? Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb Which hides your life and shows not half your parts, If I could write the beauty of your eyes And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say ' This poet lies ; Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.' ,So should my papers yellow'd with their age Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue, And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage And stretched metre of an antique song : But were some child of yours alive that time, You should live twice ; in it and in my rhyme. Shall I compare thee to a summer's day ? Thou art more lovely and more temperate : Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date : Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd ; And every fair from fair sometime declines. By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd : But thy eternal summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest ; Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest : So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this and this gives life to thee. Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws, And make the earth devour her own sweet brood; Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws, And bum the long-lived phoenix in her blood ; Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets. And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time, To the wide world and all her fading sweets ; But I forbid thee one most heinous crime : O, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow, Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen ; Him in thy course untainted do allow For beauty's pattern to succeeding men. Yet, do thy worst, old Time : despite thy wrong, My love shall in my verse ever live yoimg. XX. A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion ; A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted With shifting change, as is false women's fashion ; An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling, Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth ; A man in hue, all ' hues ' in his controlling. Which steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth. And for a woman wert thou first created ; Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting. And by addition me of thee defeated, By adding one thing to my purpose nothing. But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleas- ure. Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure. So is it not with me as with that Muse Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse, 54 Who heaven itself for ornament doth use And every fair with his fair doth reliearse ; Making a couplement of proud compare, With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems. With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems. O, let me, true in love, but truly write. And then believe me, my love is as fair As any mother's child, though not so bright As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air : Let them say more that like of hearsay well ; - I will not praise that purpose not to sell. My glass shall not persuade me I am old. So long as youth and thou are of one date ; But when in thee time's furrows I behold. Then look I death my days should expiate. For all that beauty that doth cover thee Is but the seemly raiment of my heart, Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me : How can I then be elder than thou art ? O, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary As I, not for myself, but for thee will ; Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary As tender nurse her babe from faring ill. Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain ; Thou gavest me thine, not to give back again. As an unperfect actor on the stage Who with his fear is put besides his part. Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage. Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart, So I, for fear of trust, forget to say The perfect ceremony of love's rite. And in mine own love's strength seem to decay, O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might, O, let my books be then the eloquence And dumb presagers of my speaking breast, Who plead for love and look for recompense More than that tongue that more hath more ex- press 'd. O, learn to read what silent love hath writ : To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit. Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd Thy beauty's form in table of my heart ; My body is the frame wherein 't is held. And perspective it is best painter's art. For through the painter must you see his skill, To find where your true image pictured lies ; Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still, That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes. Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done : Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee ; Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art ; They draw but what they see, know not the heart. Let those who are in favour with their stars Of public honour and proud titles boast. Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars, Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most. Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread But as the marigold at the sun's eye. And in themselves their pride lies buried, For at a frown they in their glory die. The painful warrior famoused for fight. After a thousand victories once foil'd, Is from the book of honour razed quite. And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd; Then happy I, that love and am beloved Where I may not remove nor be removed. 849 SONNETS. Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit, To thee I send this written embassage, To witness duty, not to show my wit : Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it, But that I hope some good conceit of thine In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it ; Till whatsoever star that guides my moving Points on me graciously with fair aspect And puts apparel on my tatter'd loving. To show me worthy of thy sweet respect : Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee ; Till then not show my head where thou mayst prove me. xxvn. "Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, The dear repose for limbs with travel tired ; But then begins a journey in my head, To work my mind, when body's work 's expired : Tor then my thoughts, from far where I abide, Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee, And keep my drooping eyelids open wide. Looking on darkness which the blind do see : Save that my soul's imaginary sight Presents thy shadow to my sightless view, "Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night. Makes black night beauteous and her old face new. Lo I thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind, For thee and for myself no quiet find. XXVIII. How can I then return in happy plight. That am debarr'd the benefit of rest ? "When day's oppression is not eased by night, But day by night, and night by day, oppress'd ? And each, though enemies to either's reign, Bo in consent shake hands to torture me ; The one by toil, the other to complain How far I toil, still farther off from thee. I tell the day, to please him thou art bright And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven : So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night, "When sparkling stars twirenot thou gild'st the even. But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer And night doth nightly make grief's strength seem stronger. XXIX. "When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries And look upon myself and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope. Featured like him, like him with friends possess 'd, Desiring this man's art and that man's scope. With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising. Haply I think on thee, and then my state. Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate ; For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings. XXX. When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought. And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste : Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, For precious friends hid in death's dateless night. And weep afresh love's long-since cancell'd woe. And moan the expense of many a vanish 'd sight : Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er 850 The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, Which I new pay as if not paid before. But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored and sorrows end. Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts. Which I by lacking have supposed dead. And there reigns love and all love's loving parts, And all those friends which I thought buried. How many a holy and obsequious tear Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye As interest of the dead, which now appear But things removed that hidden in thee lie ! Thou art the grave where buried love doth live. Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone. Who all their parts of me to thee did give ; That due of many now is thine alone : Their images I loved I view in thee. And thou, all they, hast all the all of me. If thou survive my well-contented day, [cover, When that churl Death my bones w'ith dust shall And Shalt by fortune once more re-survey These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover. Compare them with the bettering of the time. And though they be outstripp'd by every pen, Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme. Exceeded by the height or happier men. O, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought : ' Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age, A dearer birth than this his love had brought. To march in ranks of better equipage : But since he died and poets better prove. Theirs for their style I '11 read, his for his love.' Full many a glorious morning have I .seen Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye. Kissing with golden face the meadows green. Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy ; Anon permit the basest clouds to ride With ugly rack on his celestial face. And from the forlorn world his visage hide, Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace : Even so my sun one early morn did shine With all-triumphant splendour on my brow ; But out, alack ! he was but one hour mine ; The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now. Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth ; Suns of the world may stain when heaven's smi staineth. XXXIV. "Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day And make me travel forth without my cloak. To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way. Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke ? 'T is not enough that through the cloud thou break, To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face, For no man well of such a salve can speak That heals the wound and cures not the disgrace: Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief ; Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss : The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief To him that bears the strong offence's cross. Ah ! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds, And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds. XXXV. No more be grieved at that which thou hast done : Eoses have thorns, and silver fountains mud ; Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun. And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud. All men make faults, and even I in this. Authorizing thy trespass with compare, SONNETS. Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss, Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are ; For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense — Thy adverse party is thy advocate — And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence : Such civil war is in my love and hate That I an accessary needs must be To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me. Let me confess that we two must be twain, Although our undivided loves are one : So shall those blots that do with me remain Without thy help by me be borne alone. In our two loves there is but one respect, Though in oiir lives a separable spite, Which though it alter not love's sole eifect, Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight. I may not evermore acknowledge thee, Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame, Nor thou with public kindness honour me. Unless thou take that honour from thy name : But do not so ; I love thee in such sort As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report. As a decrepit father takes delight To see his active child do deeds of youth, So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite. Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth. For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit, Or any of these all, or all, or more. Entitled in thy parts do crowned sit, I make my love engrafted to this store : So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised, Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give That I in thy abundance am sufficed And by a part of all thy glory live. Look, what is best, that best I wish in thee : This wish I have ; then ten times happy me ! How can my Muse want subject to invent, While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse Thine own sweet argument, too excellent For every vulgar paper to rehearse ? O, give thyself the thanks, if aught in me Worthy perusal stand against thy sight ; For who 's so dumb that cannot write to thee, When thou thyself dost give invention light ? Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth Than those old nine which rhymers invocate ; And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth Eternal numbers to outlive long date. If my slight Muse do please these curious days, The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise. XXXIX. O, how thy worth with manners may I sing, When thou art aU the better part of me ? What can mine own praise to mine own self bring ? And what is 't but mine own when I praise thee ? Even for this let us divided live. And our dear love lose name of single one. That by this separation I may give That due to thee which thou deservest alone. O absence, what a torment wouldst thou prove. Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave To entertain the time with thoughts of love. Which time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive. And that thou teachest how to make one twain, By praising him here who doth hence remain ! Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all ; What hast thou then more than thou hadst be- fore? No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call ; All mine was thine before thou hadst this more. Then if for my love thou my love receivest, I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest ; But yet be blamed, if thou thyself deceivest By wilful taste of what thyself ref usest. I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief. Although thou steal thee all my poverty ; And yet, love knows, it is a greater grief To bear love's wrong than hate's known injury. Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows, Kill me with spites ; yet we must not be foes. Those petty wrongs that liberty commits, When I am sometime absent from thy heart, Thy beauty and thy years full well befits. For still temptation follows where thou art. Gentle thou art and therefore to be won. Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assailed ; And when a woman woos, what woman's son Will sourly leave her till she have prevailed ? Ay me ! but yet thou mightst my seat forbear. And chide thy beauty and thy straying youth. Who lead thee in their riot even there Where thou art forced to break a twofold truth, Hers, by thy beauty tempting her to thee, Thine, by thy beauty being false to me. That thou hast her, it is not all my grief, And yet it may be said I loved her dearly ; That she hath thee, is of my wailing chief, A loss in love that touches me more nearly. Loving offenders, thus I will excuse ye : Thou dost love her, because thou know'st I love her; And for my sake even so doth she abuse me, Suffering my friend for my sake to approve her. If I lose thee, my loss is my love's gain. And losing her, my friend hath found that loss ; Both find each other, and I lose both twain. And both for my sake lay on me this cross : But here 's the joy ; my friend and I are one ; Sweet flattery ! then she loves but me alone. When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see. For all the day they view things unrespected ; But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee. And darkly bright are bright in dark directed. Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright, How would thy shadow's form form happy show To the clear day with thy much clearer light, When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so ! How would, I say, mine eyes be blessed made By looking on thee in the living day. When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay ! All days are nights to see till I see thee, [me. And nights bright days when dreams do show thee If the dull substance of my flesh were thought. Injurious distance should not stop my way ; For then despite of space I would be brought. From limits far remote, where thou dost stay. No matter then although my foot did stand Upon the farthest earth removed from thee ; For nimble thought can jump both sea and land As soon as think the place where he would be. But, ah ! thought kills me that I am not thought, To leap large lengths of miles when thou art gone, But that so much of earth and water wrought I must attend time's leisure with my moan, Keceiving nought by elements so slow But heavy tears, badges of cither's woe. 851 SONNETS. The other two, slight air and purging fire, Are both with thee, wherever I abide : The first my thought, the other my desire. These present-absent with swift motion slide. For when these quicker elements are gone In tender embassy of love to thee, My life, being made of four, with two alone Sinks down to death, oppress'd with melancholy, Until life's composition be recured By those swift messengers return 'd from thee. Who even but now come back again, assured Of thy fair health, recounting it to me : This told, I joy ; but then no longer glad, I send them back again and straight grow sad. XL VI. Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war How to divide the conquest of thy sight ; Mine eye my heart thy picture's sight would bar, My heart mine eye the freedom of that right. My heart doth plead that thou in him dost lie, — A closet never pierced with crystal eyes — But the defendant doth that plea deny And says in him thy fair appearance lies. To 'cide this title is impanneled A quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart, And by their verdict is determined The clear eye's moiety and the dear heart's part : As thus ; mine eye's due is thy outward part, And my heart's right thy inward love of heart. XL VII. Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took, And each doth good turns now unto the other : "When that mine eye is famish 'd for a look. Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother, With my love's picture then my eye doth feast And to the painted banquet bids my heart ; Another time mine eye is my heart's guest And in his thoughts of love doth share a part : So, either by thy picture or my love, Thyself away art present still with me ; Tor thou not farther than my thoughts canst move, And I am still with them and they with thee ; Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight Awakes my heart to heart's and eye's delight. XLVin. How careful was I, when I took my way, Each trifle under truest bars to thrust, That to my use it might unused stay From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust I But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are. Most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief. Thou, best of dearest and mine only care, Art left the prey of every vulgar thief. Thee have I not lock'd up in any chest. Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art, Within the gentle closure of my breast, From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part : And even thence thou wilt be stol'n, I fear. For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear. XLIX. Against that time, if ever that time come, When I shall see thee frown on my defects, When as thy love hath cast his utmost sum, Call'd to that audit by advised respects; Against that time when thou shalt strangely pass And scarcely greet me with that sun, thine eye. When love, converted from the thing it was, Shall reasons find of settled gravity, — Against that time do I ensconce me here Within the knowledge of mine own desert. And this my hand against myself uprear. To guard the lawful reasons on thy part : 852 To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws, Since why to love I can allege no cause. L. How heavy do I journey on the way. When what I seek, my weary travel's end. Doth teach that ease and that repose to say ' Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend I* The beast that bears me, tired with my woe. Plods dully on^ to bear that weight in me, As if by some mstinct the wretch did know His rider loved not speed, being made from thee : The bloody spur cannot provoke him on That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide ; Which heavily he answers with a groan. More sharp to me than spurring to his side ; For that same groan doth put this in my mind; My grief lies onward and my joy behind. LI. Thus can my love excuse the slow offence Of my dull bearer when from thee I speed : From where thou art why should I haste me thence ? Till I return, of posting is no need. O, what excuse will my poor beast then find, When swift extremity can seem but slow ? Then should I spur, though mounted on the wind; In winged speed no motion shall I know : Then can no horse with my desii-e keep pace ; Therefore desire, of perfect 'st love being made, Shall neigh — no dull flesh — in his fiery race ; But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade ; Since from thee going he went wilful-slow. Towards thee I '11 run, and give him leave to go. So am I as the rich, whose blessed key Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure, The which he will not every hour survey. For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure. Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare. Since, seldom coming, in the long year set. Like stones of worth they thinly placed are, Or captain jewels in the carcanet. So is the time that keeps you as my chest. Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide. To make some special instant special blest. By new unfolding his imprison'd pride. Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives scope, Being had, to triumph, being lack'd, to hope. LIU. What is your substance, whereof are you made. That millions of strange shadows on you tend ? Since every one hath, every one, one shade, And you, but one, can every shadow lend. Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit Is poorly imitated after you ; On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set. And you in Grecian tires are painted new : Speak of the spring and foison of the year; The one doth shadow of your beauty show, The other as your bounty doth appear ; And you in every blessed shape we know. In all external grace you have some part. But you like none, none you, for constant heart. O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem By that sweet ornament which truth doth give ! The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odour which doth in it live. The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye As the perfumed tincture of the roses, Hang on such thorns and play .as wantonly When summer's breath their masked buds discloses : But, for their virtue only is their show. They live unwoo'd and unrespected fade. SONNETS. Die to tliemselve& Sweet roses do not so ; Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made : And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, When that shall fade, my verse distills your truth. Not marble, nor the gilded monuments Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme ; But you shall shine more bright in these contents Than unswept stone besmear 'd with sluttish time. When wasteful war shall statues overturn, And broils root out the work of masonry, Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn The living record of your memory. 'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room Even in the eyes of all posterity That wear this world out to the ending doom. So, till the judgment that yourself arise, You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes. Sweet love, renew thy force ; be it not said Thy edge should blunter be than appetite, Which but to-day by feeding is allay'd. To-morrow sharpen 'd in his former might : So, love, be thou ; although to-day thou fill Thy himgry eyes even till they wink with fullness, To-morrow see again, and do not kill The spirit of love with a perpetual dullness. Let this sad interim like the ocean be Which parts the shore, where two contracted new Oome daily to the banks, that, when they see Return of love, more blest may be the view; Else call it winter, which being full of care Makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare. LVII. Being your slave, what should I do but tend Upon the hours and times of your desire ? I have no precious time at all to si)end. Nor services to do, till you require. Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you, Nor think the bitterness of absence sour When you have bid your servant once adieu ; Nor dare I question with my jealous thought Where you may be, or your afEairs suppose. But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought Save, where you are how happy you make those. So true a fool is love that in your will. Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill. LVIII. That god forbid that made me first your slave, I should in thought control your times of pleasure. Or at your hand the account of hours to crave, Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure I O, let me suffer, being at your beck, The imprison 'd absence of your liberty; And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each check, Without accusing you of injury. Be where you list, your charter is so strong That you yourself may privilege your time To what you will ; to you it doth belong Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime. I am to wait, though waiting so be hell ; Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well. If there be nothing new, but that which is Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled, Which, labouring for invention, bear amiss The second burden of a former child ! O, that record could with a backward look, Even of five hundred courses of the sun. Show me your image in some antique book. Since mind at first in character was done ! That I might see what the old world could say To this composed wonder of your frame ; Whether we are mended, or whether better they, Or whether revolution be the same. O, sure I am, the wits of former days To subjects worse have given admiring praise. Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end ; Each changing place with that which goes before, In sequent toil all forwards do contend. Nativity, once in the main of light. Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd, Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight. And Time that gave doth now his gift confound. Time doth transfix the fiourish set on youth And delves the parallels in beauty's brow, Eeeds on the rarities of nature's truth. And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow : And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand, Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand. Is it thy will thy image should keep open My heavy eyelids to the weary night ? Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken, While shadows like to thee do mock my sight ? Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee So far from home into my deeds to pry. To find out shames and idle hoirrs in me, The scope and tenour of thy jealousy ? O, no ! thy love, though much, is not so great : It is my love that keeps mine eye awake ; Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat. To play the watchman ever for thy sake : For thee watch I whilst thou dost wake elsewhere, Erom me far off, with others all too near. LXII. Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye And all my soul and all my every part ; And for this sin there is no remedy. It is so grounded inward in my heart. Me thinks no face so gracious is as mine. No shape so true, no truth of such account; And for myself mine own worth do define. As I aU other in aU worths surmount. But when my glass shows me myself indeed, Beated and chopp'd with taim'd antiquity. Mine own self-love quite contrary I read ; Self so self -loving were iniquity. 'T is thee, myself, that for myself I praise, Painting my age with beauty of thy days. Against my love shall be, as I am now. With Time's injurious hand crush'd and o'erwom; When hours have dratn'd his blood and fiU'd his brow With lines and wrinkles ; when his youthfid mom Hath travell'd on to age's steepy night, And all those beauties whereof now he 's king Are vanishing or vanish 'd out of sight, Stealing away the treasure of his spriug ; For such a time do I now fortify Against confounding age's cruel knife, That he shall never cut from memory My sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life : His beauty shall in these black lines be seen, And they shaU live, and he in them stiU green. LXIV. When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced The rich proud cost of outworn buried age ; 853 SONNETS. When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed And brass eternal slave to mortal rage ; When I have seen the hungry ocean gain Advantage on the kingdom of the shore, And the firm soil win of the watery main, Increasing store with loss and loss with store ; When I have seen such interchange of state, Or state itself confounded to decay ; Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate, That Time will come and take my love away. This thought is as a death, which cannot choose But weep to have that which it fears to lose. Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, But sad mortality o'ersways their power, How with this rage shaU beauty hold a plea, "Whose action is no stronger than a flower ? O, how shall summer's honey breath hold out Against the wxeckful siege of battering days, When rocks impregnable are not so stout, Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays? O fearful meditation ! where, alack, Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid ? Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back ? Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid ? O, none, unless this miracle have might, That in black ink my love may still shine bright. Tired with all these, for restful death I cry, As, to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn. And gilded honour shamefully misplaced, And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted. And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, And strength by limping sway disabled, And art made tongue-tied by authority. And folly doctor-like controlling skill, And simple truth miscall'd simplicity, And captive good attending captain ill : Tired with all these, from these would I be gone, Save that, to die, I leave my love alone. Ah ! wherefore with infection should he live. And with his presence grace impiety. That sin by him advantage should achieve And lace itself with his society ? Why should false painting imitate his cheek And steal dead seeing of his living hue ? Why should poor beauty indirectly seek Roses of shadow, since his rose is true ? Why should he live, now Nature bankrupt is, Beggar'd of blood to blush through lively veins ? For she hath no exchequer now but his, And, proud of many, lives upon his gains. O, him she stores, to show what wealth she had In days long since, before these last so bad. Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn, "When beauty lived and died as flowers do now. Before these bastard signs of fair were born. Or durst inhabit on a living brow ; Before the golden tresses of the dead. The right of sepulchres, were shorn away, To live a second life on second head ; Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay : In him those holy antique hours are seen, "Without all ornament, itself and true. Making no summer of another's green, Kobbing no old to dress his beauty new; And him as for a map doth Nature store. To show false Art what beauty was of yore. 854 Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view "Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend ; All tongues, the voice of souls, give thee that due, Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend. Thy outward thus with outward praise is crown'd ; But those same tongues that give thee so thine own In other accents do this praise confound By seeing farther than the eye hath shown. They look into the beauty of thy mind. And that, in guess, they measure by thy deeds ; Then, churls, their thoughts, although their eyes were kind. To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds : But why thy odour matcheth not thy show, The solve is this, that thou dost common grow. That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect. For slander's mark was ever yet the fair; The ornament of beauty is suspect, A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air. So thou be good, slander doth but approve Thy worth the greater, being woo'd of time ; For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love. And thou present 'st a pure unstained prime. Thou hast pass'd by the ambush of young days, Either not assail'd or victor being charged ; Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise, To tie up envy evermore enlarged : If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show, Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst ( No longer mourn for me when I am dead Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell : Nay, if you read this line, remember not The hand that writ it ; for I love you so That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot If thinking on me then should make you woe. O, if, I say, you look upon this verse "When I perhaps compounded am with clay. Do not so much as my poor name rehearse. But let your love even with my life decay. Lest the wise world should look into your moan And mock you with me after I am gone. O, lest the world should task you to recite "What merit lived in me, that you should love After my death, dear love, forget me quite, For you in me can nothing worthy prove ; Unless you would devise some virtuous lie, To do more for me than mine own desert, And hang mere praise upon deceased I Than niggard truth would willingly impart : O, lest your true love may seem false in this, That you for love speak well of me untrue. My name be buried where my body is, And live no more to shame nor me nor you. For I am shamed by that which I bring forth, And so should you, to love things nothing worth, LXXIII. That time of year thou mayst in me behold "When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold. Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth m the west, "Which by and by black night doth take away. Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou seest the glowing of such fire That on the ashes of his youth doth lie. SONNETS. As the death-bed whereon it must expire Consumed witli that which it was nourish 'd by. This thou perceivest, which makes thy love'more strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long. But be contented : when that fell arrest Without all bail shall carry me away, My life hath in this line some interest, Which for memorial still with thee shall stay. When thou reviewest this, thou dost review The very part was consecrate to thee : The earth can have but earth, which is his due; My spirit is thine, the better part of me : So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life. The prey of worms, my body being dead, The coward conquest of a wretch's knife. Too base of thee to be remembered. The worth of that is that which it contains, And that is this, and this with thee remains. So are you to my thoughts as food to life, Qr as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground ; And for the peace of you I hold such strife As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found ; Now proud as au enjoyer and anon Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure, Now counting best to be with you alone, Then better'd that the world may see my pleasure ; Sometime all full with feasting on your sight And by and by clean starved for a look ; Possessing or pursuing no delight, Save what is had or must from you be took. Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day, Or gluttoning on all, or all away. Why is my verse so barren of new pride, So far from variation or quick change ? Why with the time do I not glance aside To new-found methods and to compounds strange ? Why write I still all one, ever the same, And keep invention in a noted weed. That every word doth almost tell my name, Showing their birth and where they did proceed ? O, know, sweet love, I always write of you. And you and love are still my argument ; So all my best is dressing old words new, Spending again what is already spent : For as the sun is daily new and old. So is my love still telling what is told. Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear, Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste ; The vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear, And of this book this learning mayst thou taste. The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show Of mouthed graves will give thee memory ; Thou by thy dial's shady stealth mayst know Time's thievish progress to eternity. Look, what thy memory can not contain Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find Those children nursed, deliver'd from thy brain. To take a new acquaintance of thy mind. These ofiices, so oft as thou wilt look, Shall profit thee and much enrich thy book. So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse, And found such fair assistance in my verse, As every alien pen hath got my use, And under thee their poesy disperse. Thine eyes that taught the dumb on high to sing, And heavy ignorance aloft to fly, Have added feathers to the learned's wing, And given grace a double majesty. Yet be most proud of that which I compile, Whose influence is thine and born of thee : In others' works thou dost but mend the style, And arts with thy sweet graces graced be ; But thou art all my art and dost advance As high as learning my rude ignorance. Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid. My verse alone had all thy gentle grace, But now my gracious numbers are decay'd And my sick Muse doth give another place. I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument Deserves the travail of a worthier pen. Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent He robs thee of and pays it thee again. He lends thee virtue and he stole that word From thy behaviour ; beauty doth he give And found it in thy cheek ; he can afford No praise to thee but what in thee doth live. Then thank him not for that which he doth say. Since what he owes thee thou thyself dost pay. O, how I faint when I of you do write. Knowing a better spirit doth use your name, And in the praise thereof spends all his might, To make me tongue-tied, speaking of your fame! But since your worth, wide as the ocean is. The humble as the proudest sail doth bear, My saucy bark inferior far to his On yoiu- broad main doth wilfully appear. Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat. Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride ; Or, being wreck'd, I am a worthless boat. He of tall building and of goodly pride : Then if he thrive and 1 be cast away. The worst was this ; my love was my decay. Or I shall live your epitaph to make. Or you survive when I in earth am rotten ; From hence your memory death cannot take, Although in me each part will be forgotten. Your name from hence immortal life shall have, Though I, once gone, to all the world must die : The earth can yield me but a common grave. When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie. Your monument shall be my gentle verse, Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read, And tongues to be your being shall rehearse When all the breathers of this world are dead ; You still shall live — such virtue hath my pen — Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men. LXXXII. I grant thou wert not married to my Muse And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook The dedicated words which vsrriters use Of their fair subject, blessing every book. Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue. Finding thy worth a limit past my praise. And therefore art enforced to seek anew Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days. And do so, love ; yet when they have devised What strained touches rhetoric can lend. Thou truly fair wert truly sympathized In true plain words by thy true-telling friend ; And their gross pamting might be better used Where cheeks need blood ; in thee it is abused. I;XXXIII. I never saw that you did painting need And therefore to your fair no painting set : 855 SONNETS. T found, or thought I found, you did exceed The barren tender of a poet's debt ; And therefore have I slept in your report, That you yourself being extant well might show How far a modern quill doth come too short. Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow. This silence for my sin you did impute, Which shall be most my glory, being dumb ; For I impair not beauty being mute, When others would give life and brtag a tomb. There lives more life in one of your fair eyes Than both your poets can in praise devise. Who is it that says most ? which can say more Than this rich praise, that you alone are you ? In whose confine immured is the store Which should example where your equal grew. Lean penury within that pen doth dwell That to his subject lends not some small glory; But he that writes of you, if he can tell That you are you, so dignifies his story, Let him but copy what in you is writ, Not making worse what nature made so clear, And such a counterpart shall fame his wit, Making his style admired every where. You to your beauteous blessings add a curse, Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse. LXXXV. My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still. While comments of your praise, richly compiled, Reserve their character with golden quill And precious phrase by all the Muses filed. I think good thoughts whilst other write good words, And like unletter'd clerk still cry 'Amen' To every hymn that able spirit affords In polish'd form of well-refined pen. Hearing you praised, I say ' 'T is so, 't is true,' And to the most of praise add something more ; But that is in my thought, whose love to you. Though words come hindmost, holds his rank before. Then others for the breath of words respect. Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect. LXXXVI. Was it the proud full sail of his great verse, Bound for the prize of all too precious you, That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse. Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew ? Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead ? No, neither he, nor his compeers by night Giving him aid, my verse astonished. He, nor that affable familiar ghost Which nightly gulls him with intelligence. As victors of my silence cannot boast ; I was not sick of any fear from thence : But when your countenance fill'd up his line, Then lack'd 1 matter ; that enfeebled mine. Farewell ! thou art too dear for my possessing. And like enough thou know'st thy estimate : The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing ; My bonds in thee are all determinate. For how do I hold thee but by thy granting ? And for that riches where is my deserving ? The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting. And so my patent back again is swerving. Thyself thou gavest, thy own worth then not know- ing, Or me, to whom thou gavest it, else mistaking ; So thy great gift, upon misprision growing. Comes home again, on better judgment making. Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter, In sleep a king, but waking no such matter. 856 When thou shalt be disposed to set me light And place my merit in the eye of scorn. Upon thy side against myself I '11 fight And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn. With mine own weakness being best acquainted, Upon thy part I can set down a story Of faults conceal 'd, wherein I am attainted, That thou in losing me shalt win much glory : And I by this will be a gainer too ; For bending all my loving thoughts on thee, The injuries that to myself I do. Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me. Such is my love, to thee I so belong. That for thy right myself will bear all wrong. Say that thou didst forsake me for some faxdt, And I will comment upon that offence ; Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt. Against thy reasons making no defence. Thou canst not, love, disgrace me half so ill, To set a form upon desired change. As I '11 myself disgrace : knowing thy will, I will acquaintance strangle and look strange, Be absent from thy walks, and in my tongue Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dweU, Lest I, too much profane, should do it wrong And haply of our old acquaintance tell. For thee against myself I '11 vow debate. For I must ne'er love him whom thou dost hat«. Then hate me when thou wilt ; if ever, now ; Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross, Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow. And do not drop in for an after-loss : Ah, do not, when my heart hath 'scaped this sorrow, Come in the rearward of a conquer 'd woe ; Give not a windy night a rainy morrow. To linger out a purposed overthrow. If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last. When other petty griefs have done their spite. But in the onset come ; so shall I taste At first the very worst of fortune's might. And other strains of woe, which now seem woe, Compared with loss of thee will not seem so. Some glory in their birth, some in their skill. Some in their wealth, some in their bodies' force, Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill. Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse ; And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure, Wherein it finds a joy above the rest : But these particulars are not my measure ; All these I better in one general best. Thy love is better than high birth to me, Eicher than wealth, prouder than garments' cost. Of more delight than hawks or horses be ; And having thee, of all men's pride I boast : Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take All this away and me most wretched make. But do thy worst to steal thyself away. For term of life thou art assured mine, And life no longer than thy love will stay. For it depends upon that love of thine. Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs, When in the least of them my life hath end. I see a better state to me belongs Than that which on thy humour doth depend ; Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind. Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie. SONNETS. O, what a happy title do I find, Happy to have thy love, happy to die ! But what 's so blessed-fair that fears no blot ? Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not. So shall I live, supposing thou art true, Like a deceived husband ; so love's face May still seem love to me, though alter'd new ; Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place : Por there can live no hatred in thine eye. Therefore in that I cannot know thy change. In many's looks the false heart's history Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange, But heaven in thy creation did decree That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell ; Whate'er thy thoughts or thy heart's workings be. Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell. How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow, If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show ! They that have power to hurt and will do none, That do not do the thing they most do show, Who, moving others, are themselves as stone, Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow, They rightly do inherit heaven's graces And husband nature's riches from expense ; They are the lords and owners of their faces, Others but stewards of their excellence. The summer's flower is to the summer sweet, Though to itself it only live and die, But if that flower with base infection meet. The basest weed outbraves his dignity : For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds ; Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds. How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose. Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name ! O, in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose I That tongue that tells the story of thy days, Making lascivious comments on thy sport. Cannot dispraise but in a kind of praise ; Naming thy name blesses an ill report. O, what a mansion have those vices got Which for their habitation chose out thee. Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot. And all things turn to fair that eyes can see ! Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege; The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge. xcvi. Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness ; Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport ; Both grace and faults are loved of more and less ; Thou makest faults graces that to thee resort. As on the finger of a throned queen The basest jewel will be well esteem 'd, So are those errors that in thee are seen To truths translated and for true things deem'd. How many lambs might the stern wolf betray, If like a lamb he could his looks translate ! How many gazers mightst thou lead away, If thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state ! But do not so ; I love thee in such sort As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report- How like a winter hath my absence been From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year ! What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen ! What old December's bareness every where ! And yet this time removed was summer's time, The teeming autumn, big with rich increase. Bearing the wanton burden of the prime, Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease: Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me But hope of orphans and unfather'd fruit ; For summer and his pleasures wait on thee, And, thou away, the very birds are mute ; Or, if they sing, 't is with so dull a cheer That leaves look pale, dreading the winter 's near. From you have I been absent in the spring. When proud-pied April dress'd in all his trim Hath put a spirit of youth in every thin§. That heavy Saturn laugh 'd and leap'd with him. Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smeU Of different flowers in odour and in hue Could make me any summer's story tell, [grew ; Or from their proud lap pluck them where they Nor did I wonder at the lily's white. Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose ; They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you, you pattern of aU those. Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away. As with your shadow I with these did play : The forward violet thus did I chide : [smells, Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that If not from my love's breath ? The purple pride Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed. The lily I condemned for thy hand, And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair : The roses fearfuUy on thorns did stand, One blushing shame, another white despair; A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both And to his robbery had annex 'd thy breath ; But, for his theft, in pride of aU his growth A vengeful canker eat him up to death. More flowers I noted, yet I none could see But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee. Where art thou. Muse, that thou forget 'st so long To speak of that which gives thee all thy might ? Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song. Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light ? Eeturn, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem In gentle numbers time so idly spent ; Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem And gives thy pen both skill and argument. Rise, resty Muse, my love's sweet face survey. If Time have any vn:inkle graven there ; If any, be a satire to decay. And make Time's spoils despised every where. Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life \ So thou prevent 'st his scythe and crooked knife. O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed ? Both truth and beauty on my love depends ; So dost thou too, and therein dignified. Make answer. Muse : wilt thou not haply say ' Truth needs no colour, with his colour fix'd ; Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay; But best is best, if never intermix 'd y ' Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb ? Excuse not silence so ; for 't lies in thee To make him much outlive a gilded tomb. And to be praised of ages yet to be. Then do thy office. Muse ; I teach thee how To make him seem long hence as he shows now. My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seem- I love not less, though less the show appear : [ing ; 857 SONNETS. That love is merchandized whose rich esteeming The owner's tongue doth publish every where. Our love was new and then but in the spring "When I was wont to greet it with my lays, As Philomel in summer's front doth sing And stops her pipe in growth of riper days : Not that the summer is less pleasant now Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night, But that wild music burthens every bough And sweets grown common lose their dear delight. Therefore like her I sometime hold my tongue, Because I would not dull you with my song. Alack, what poverty my Muse brings forth, That having such a scope to show her pride, The argument all bare is of more worth Than when it hath my added praise beside ! O, blame me not, if I no more can write ! Look in your glass, and there appears a face That over-goes my blunt invention quite. Dulling my lines and doing me disgrace. Were it not sinful then, striving to mend, To mar the subject that before was well ? For to no other pass my verses tend Than of your graces and your gifts to tell ; And more, much more, than in my verse can sit Your own glass shows you when you look in it. To me, fair friend, you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye I eyed. Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold Have from the forests shook three summers' pride, Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd In process of the seasons have I seen. Three April perfumes in three hot Junes bum'd, Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green. Ah ! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand. Steal from his figure and no pace perceived ; So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand. Hath motion and mine eye may be deceived : For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred ; Ere you were bom was beauty's summer dead. Let not my love be call'd idolatry, Nor my beloved as an idol show. Since all alike my songs and praises be To one, of one, still such, and ever so. Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind, Still constant in a wondrous excellence ; Therefore my verse to constancy confined, One thing expressing, leaves out difference. ' Fair, kind, and true ' is all my argument, ' Fair, kind, and true ' varying to other words ; And in this change is my invention spent. Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords. ' Fair, kind, and true,' have often lived alone, Which three till now never kept seat in one. When in the chronicle of wasted time I see descriptions of the fairest wights. And beauty making beautiful old rhyme In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights. Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best, Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, I see their antique pen would have express'd Even such a beauty as you master now. So all their praises are but prophecies Of this our time, all you prefiguring ; And, for they look'd but with divining eyes. They had not skill enough your worth to sing : For we, which now behold these present days. Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul Of the wide world dreaming on things to come. Can yet the lease of my true love control. Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom. The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured And the sad augurs mock their own presage; Incertainties now crown themselves assured And peace proclaims olives of endless age. Now with the drops of this most balmy time My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes. Since, spite of him, I '11 live in this poor rhyme. While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes: And thou in this shalt find thy monument. When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent CVIII. What 's in the brain that ink may character Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit ? What 's new to speak, what new to register, That may express my love or thy dear merit ? Nothing, sweet boy ; but yet, like prayers divine, I must each day say o'er the very same. Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine, Even as when first I hallow'd thy fair name- So that eternal love in love's fresh case Weighs not the dust and injury of age. Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place. But makes antiquity for aye his page. Finding the first conceit of love there bred Where time and outward form would show it dead. O, never say that I was false of heart, Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify. As easy might I from myself depart As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie : That is my home of love : if I have ranged. Like him that travels I return again. Just to the time, not with the time exchanged, So that myself bring water for my stain. Never believe, though in my nature reign'd All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood, That it could so preposterously be staiu'd, To leave for nothing all thy sum of good ; For nothing this wide imiverse I call, Save thou, my rose ; in it thou art my all. Alas, 'tis true I have gone here and there And made myself a motley to the view. Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear. Made old offences of affections new ; Most true it is that I have look'd on truth Askance and strangely : but, by all above. These blenches gave my heart another youth, And worse essays proved thee my best of love. Now all is done, have what shall have no end: Mine appetite I never more will grind On newer proof, to try an older friend, A god in love, to whom I am confined. Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best, Even to thy pure and most most loving breast. O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide. The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds. That did not better for my life provide Than public means which public manners breeds. Thence comes it that my name receives a brand. And almost thence my nature is subdued To what it works in, like the dyer's hand : Pitv me then and wish I were renew 'd ; Whilst, like a willing patient, I will drink Potions of eisel 'gainst my strong infection ; SONNUTS. Xo bitterness that I will bitter think, Nor double penance, to correct correction. Pity me then, dear friend, and I assure ye Even that your pity is enough to cure me. CXII. Your love and pity doth the impression fill Which vulgar scandal stamp 'd upon my brow ; For what care I who calls me well or ill. So you o'er-green my bad, my good allow? You are my all the world, and I must strive To know my shames and praises from your tongue ; None else to me, nor I to none alive, That my steel 'd sense or changes right or wrong. In so profound abysm I throw all care Of others' voices, that my adder's sense To critic and to flatterer stopped are. Mark how with my neglect I do dispense : You are so strongly in my purpose bred That all the world besides methinks are dead. Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind ; A.nd that which governs me to go about Doth part his function and is partly blind, ■Seems seeing, but effectually is out ; For it no form delivers to the heart Of bird, of flower, or shape, which it doth latch : Of his quick objects hath the mind no part, Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch ; For if it see the rudest or gentlest sight, The most sweet favom- or deformed'st creature, The mountain or the sea, the day or night. The crow or dove, it shapes them to your feature : Incapable of more, replete with you, My most true mind thus makes mine eye untrue. Or whether doth my mind, being crown 'd with you, Drink up the monarch's plague, this flattery ? Or whether shall I say, mine eye saith true, And that your love taught it this alchemy, To make of monsters and things indigest Such cherubins as your sweet self resemble, Creating every bad a perfect best. As fast as objects to his beams assemble ? O, 't is the first ; 't is flattery in my seeing. And my great mind most kingly drinks it up : Mine eye well knows what with his gust is 'greeing, And to his palate doth prepare the cup : If it be poison 'd, 't is the lesser sin That mine eye loves it and doth first begin. Those lines that I before have writ do lie, Even those that said I could not love you dearer : Yet then my judgment knew no reason why My most full flame should afterwards burn clearer. But reckoning time, whose million 'd accidents Creep in 'twixt vows and change decrees of kings, Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp'st intents. Divert strong minds to the course of altering things ; Alas, why, fearing of time's tyranny, Might I not then say ' Now I love you best,' "When I was certain o'er incertainty, Crowning the present, doubting of the rest ? Love is a babe ; then might I not say so, To give full growth to that which still doth grow? Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds. Or bends with the remover to remove : O, no ! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken ; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth 's unknown, although his height be Love 's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come ; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks. But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved. Accuse me thus : that I have scanted all Wherein I should your great deserts repay. Forgot upon your dearest love to call. Whereto all bonds do tie me day by day ; That I have frequent been with unknown minds And given to time your own dear-purchased right; That I have hoisted sail to all the winds Which should transport me farthest from your sight. Book both my wilfulness and errors down And on just proof surmise accumulate ; Bring me within the level of your frown. But shoot not at me in your waken'd hate ; Since my appeal says I did strive to prove The constancy and virtue of your love. Like as, to make our appetites more keen, With eager compounds we our palate urge, As, to prevent our maladies unseen. We sicken to shun sickness when we purge. Even so, being full of your ne'er-cloying sweetness, To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding And, sick of welfare, found a kind of meetness To be diseased ere that there was true needing. Thus policy in love, to anticipate The ills that were not, grew to faults assured And brought to medicine a healthful state Which, rank of goodness, would by ill be cured : But thence I learn, and find the lesson true, Drugs poison him that so fell sick of you. What potions have I drunk of Siren tears, Distill'd from limbecks foul as hell within. Applying fears to hopes and hopes to fears, Still losing when I saw myself to win ! What wretched errors hath my heart committed, Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never ! How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted In the distraction of this madding fever ! O benefit of ill ! now I find true That better is by evil still made better ; And ruin'd love, when it is built anew, Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater. So I return rebuked to my content And gain by ill thrice more than I have spent. That you were once unkind befriends me now, And for that sorrow which I then did feel Needs must I under my transgression bow. Unless my nerves were brass or hammer'd steel. For if you were by my unkindness shaken As I by yours, you 've pass'd a hell of time. And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken To weigh how once I suffer'd in your crime. O, that our night of woe might have remember'd My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits, And soon to you, as you to me, then tender 'd The humble salve which wounded bosoms fits ! But that your trespass now becomes a fee ; Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me cxxi. 'T is better to be vile than vile esteem 'd, When not to be receives reproach of being, 859 SONNETS. And the just pleasure lost which is so deem'd Not by our feeling but by others' seeing : For why should others' false adulterate eyes Give salutation to my sportive blood ? Or on my frailties why are frailer spies, Which in their wills count bad what I think good? No, I am that I am, and they that level At my abuses reckon up their own : I may be straight, though they themselves be bevel ; By their rank thoughts my deeds must not be shown ; Unless this general evil they maintain. All men are bad, and in their badness reign. CXXII. Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain Full character'd with lasting memory, Which shall above that idle rank remain Beyond all date, even to eternity ; Or at the least, so long as brain and heart Have faculty by nature to subsist ; Till each to razed oblivion yield his part Of thee, thy record never can be miss'd. That poor retention could not so much hold, Nor need I tallies thy dear love to score ; Therefore to give them from me was I bold, To trust those tables that receive thee more : To keep an adjunct to remember thee Were to import forgetfulness in me. CXXIII. No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change: Thy pyramids built up with newer might To me are nothing novel, nothing strange ; They are "but dressings of a former sight. Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire What thou dost foist upon us that is old. And rather make them born to our desire Than think that we before have heard them told. Thy registers and thee I both defy. Not wondering at the present nor the past, For thy records and what we see doth lie. Made more or less by thy continual haste. This I do vow and this shall ever be ; I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee. If my dear love were but the child of state, It might for Fortune's bastard be unfather'd, As subject to Time's love or to Time's hate, Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gath- er'd. No, it was builded far from accident ; It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls Under the blow of thralled discontent, Whereto the inviting time our fashion calls : It fears not policy, that heretic. Which works on leases of short-number'd hours. But all alone stands hugely politic, [showers. That it nor grows with heat nor drowns with To this I witness caU the fools of time. Which die for goodness, who have lived for crime. cxxv. Were 't aught to me I bore the canopy, With my extern the outward honouring. Or laid great bases for eternity. Which prove more short than waste or ruining ? Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour Lose all, and more, by paying too much rent. For compound sweet forgoing simple savour. Pitiful thrivers, in their gazing spent ? No, let me be obsequious in thy heart, And take thou my oblation, poor but free. Which is not mix'c? with seconds, knows no art. But mutual render,'only me for thee. Hence, thou suborn'd informer ! a true soul When most impeach'd stands least in thy control. cxxvi. O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle, hour; Who hast by waning grown, and therein show'st Thy lovers withering as thy sweet self grow'st ; If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack. As thou goest onwards, still will pluck thee back, She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill May time disgrace and wretched minutes kill. Yet fear her, O tliou minion of her pleasure ! She may detain, but not still keep, her treasure: Her audit, though delay'd, answer'd must be, And her quietus is to render thee. In the old age black was not counted fair, Or if it were, it bore not beauty's name ; But now is black beauty's successive heir. And beauty slander 'd with a bastard shame : For since each hand hath put on nature's powe^» Fairing the foul with art's false borrow'd face, Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower, But is profaned, if not lives in disgrace. Therefore my mistress' brows are raven black, Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem At such who, not born fair, no beauty lack. Slandering creation with a false esteem : Yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe. That every tongue says beauty should look so How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st. Upon that blessed wood whose motion soimds With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway''?*"- The wiry concord that mine ear confounds, Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap . To kiss the tender inward of thy hand. Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap, At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand 1 To be so tickled, they would change their state And situation with those dancing chips. O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait. Making dead wood more blest than living lips. Since saucy jacks so happy are in this. Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss. The expense of spirit in a waste of shame Is lust in action ; and till action, lust Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame, Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust, Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight. Past reason hunted, and no sooner had Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait On purpose laid to make the taker mad ; Mad in pursuit and in possession so ; Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme ; A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe ; Before, a joy proposed ; behind, a dream. [well All this the world well knows ; yet none knows To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell. My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips' red ; If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damask'd, red and white. But no such roses see I in her cheeks ; And in some perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know That music hath a far more pleasing sound ; SONNETS. I grant I never saw a goddess go ; My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground : And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare. Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art. As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel ; For well tliou know'st to my dear doting heart Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel. Yet, in good faith, some say that thee behold Thy face hath not the power to make love groan : To say they err I dare not be so bold, Although I swear it to myself alone. And, to be sure that is not false I swear, A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face, One on another's neck, do witness bear Thy black is fairest in my judgment's place. In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds. And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds. CXXXII. Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me, Knowing thy heart torments me with disdain, Have put on black and loving mourners be. Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain. And truly not the morning sun of heaven Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east, Nor that full star that ushers in the even Doth half that glory to the sober west, As those two mourning eyes become thy face : O, let it then as well beseem thy heart To mourn for me, since mourning doth thee grace, And suit thy pity like in every part. Then will I swear beauty herself is black And all they foul that thy complexion lack. Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan For that deep wound it gives my friend and me 1 Is 't not enough to torture me alone. But slave to slavery my sweet 'st friend must be ? Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken. And my next seK thou harder hast engross 'd: Of him, myself, and thee, I am forsaken ; A torment thrice threefold thus to be cross'd. Prison my heart in thy steel bosom's ward, But then my friend's heart let my poor heart bail ; "Whoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard; Thou canst not then use rigour in my gaol : And yet thou wilt ; for I, being pent in thee, Perforce am thine, and all that is in me. So, now I have confess'd that he is thine, And I myself am mortgaged to thy will, Myself I '11 forfeit, so that other mine Thou wilt restore, to be my comfort still : But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free. For thou art covetous and he is kind ; He learn 'd but surety-like to write for me Under that bond that him as fast doth bind. The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take. Thou usurer, that put'st forth all to use. And sue a friend came debtor for my sake ; So him I lose through my unkind abuse. Him have I lost ; thou hast both him and me : He pays the whole, and yet am I not free. Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy ' Will,' And ' Will ' to boot, and ' Will ' in overplus ; More than enough am I that vex thee still. To thy sweet will making addition thus. Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious, Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine ? Shall will in others seem right gracious, And in my will no fair acceptance shine ? The sea, all water, yet receives rain still And in abundance addeth to his store ; So thou, being rich in ' Will,' add to thy ' Will ' One will of mine, to make thy large ' Will ' more. Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill ; Think all but one, and me in that one ' Will.' If thy soul check thee that I come so near. Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy ' Will,' And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there ; Thus far for love my love-suit, sweet, fulfil. ' Will ' will fulfil the treasure of thy love. Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one. In things of great receipt with ease we prove Among a number one is reckon 'd none : Then in the number let me pass untold. Though in thy stores' account I one must be ; For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold That nothing me, a something sweet to thee : Make but my name thy love, and love that still, And then thou lovest me, for my name is ' Will.' CXXXVII. Thou blind fool. Love, what dost thou to mine eyes, That they behold, and see not what they see ? They know what beauty is, see where it lies. Yet what the best is take the worst to be. If eyes corrupt by over-partial looks Be anchor'd in the bay where all men ride. Why of eyes' falsehood hast thou forged hooks, Whereto the judgment of my heart is tied ? Why should my heart think that a several plot Which my heart knows the wide world's common Or mine eyes seeing this, say this is not, [place ? To put fair truth upon so foul a face ? In things right true my heart and eyes have erred, And to this false plague are they now transferr'd. CXXXVIII. When my love swears that she is made of truth I do believe her, though I know she lies, That she might think me some untutor'd youth, Unlearned in the world's false subtleties. Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young, Although she knows my days are past the best, Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue : On both sides thus is simple truth suppress 'd. But wherefore says she not she is unjust ? And wherefore say not I that I am old ? O, love's best habit is in seeming trust, And age in love loves not to have years told : Therefore I lie with her and she with me, And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be. O, call not me to justify the wrong That thy unkindness lays upon my heart ; Wound me not with thine eye but with thy tongue ; Use power with power and slay me not by art. Tell me thou lovest elsewhere, but in my sight, Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside : What need'st thou wound with cunning when thy might Is more than my o'er-press'd defence can bide ? Let me excuse thee : ah ! my love well knows Her pretty looks have been mine enemies. And therefore from my face she turns my foes. That they elsewhere might dart their injuries: Yet do not so ; but since I am near slain, Kill me outright with looks and rid my pain. Be wise as thou art cruel ; do not press My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain : bONNETS. Lest sorrow lend me words and words express The manner of my pity-wanting pain. If I might teach thee wit, better it were. Though not to love, yet, love, to tell me so ; As testy sick men, when their deaths be near, No news but health from their physicians know; For if I should despair, I should grow mad, And in my madness might speak ill of thee : Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad, Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be. That I may not be so, nor thou belied. Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide. CXLI. In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes, For they in thee a thousand errors note ; But 't is my heart that loves what they despise, Who in despite of view is pleased to dote ; Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune de- lighted. Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone, Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited To any sensual feast with thee alone : But my five wits nor my five senses can Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee, Who leaves unsway'd the likeness of a man. Thy proud heart's slave and vassal wretch to be: Only my plague thus far I count my gain, That she that makes me sin awards me pain. CXLII. Love is my sin and thy dear virtue hate. Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving : O, but with mine compare thou thine own state, And thou shalt find it merits not reproving ; Or, if it do, not from those lips of thine. That have profaned their scarlet ornaments And seal'd false bonds of love as oft as mine, Kobb'd others' beds' revenues of their rents. Be it lawful I love thee, as thou lovest those Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee : Root pity in thy heart, that when it grows Thy pity may deserve to pitied be. If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide, By self -example mayst thou be denied ! Lo ! as a careful housewife runs to catch One of her feather'd creatures broke away. Sets down her babe and makes all swift dispatch In pursuit of the thing she would have stay. Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase, Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent To follow that which flies before her face. Not prizing her poor infant's discontent ; So runn'st thou after that which flies from thee. Whilst I thy babe chase thee afar behind ; But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me. And play the mother's part, kiss me, be kind : So will I pray that thou mayst have thy ' WUl,' If thou turn Dack, and my loud crying still. Two loves I have of comfort and despair. Which like two spirits do suggest me still : The better angel is a man right fair. The worser spirit a woman colour'd ill. To win me soon to hell, my female evil Tempteth my better angel from my side, And would corrupt my saint to be a devil, Wooing his purity with her foul pride. And whether that my angel be turn'd fiend Suspect I may, yet not directly tell ; But being both from me, both to each friend, I guess one angel in another's hell : Yet this shall I ne'er know, but live in doubt, Till my bad angel fire my good one out. 862 Those lips that Love's own hand did make Breathed forth the sound that said ' I hate ' To me that languish'd for her sake; But when she saw my woeful state. Straight in her heart did mercy come. Chiding that tongue that ever sweet Was used in giving gentle doom. And taught it thus anew to greet ; ' I hate ' she alter'd with an end, That follow 'd it as gentle day Doth follow night, who like a fiend From heaven to hell is flown away ; ' I hate ' from hate away she threw, And saved my life, saying ' not you.' Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, .... these rebel powers that thee array. Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth, Painting thy outward wall so costly gay ? Why so large cost, having so short a lease, Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend ? Shall worms, inheritors of this excess. Eat up thy charge '? is this thy body's end ? Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss, And let that pine to aggravate thy store ; Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross ; Within be fed, without be rich no more: So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men, And Death once dead, there 's no more dying then, My love is as a fever, longing still For that which longer nurseth the disease. Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, The uncertain sickly appetite to please. My reason, the physician to my love, Angry that his prescriptions are not kept. Hath left me, and I desperate now approve Desire is death, which physic did except. Past cure I am, now reason is past care. And frantic-mad with evermore unrest ; My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are. At random from the truth vainly express 'd ; For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright. Who art as black as hell, as dark as night. O me, what eyes hath Love put in my head. Which have no correspondence with true sight ! Or, if they have, where is my judgment fled, That censures falsely what they see aright ? If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote, What means the world to say it is not so ? If it be not, then love doth well denote Love's eye is not so true as all men's 'No.' How can it ? O, how can Love's eye be true, That is so vex'd with watching and with tears ? No marvel then, though I mistake my view; The sun itself sees not till heaven clears. [blind, O cunning Love! with tears thou keep'st me Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find. Canst thou, O cruel ! say I love thee not. When I against myself with thee partake ? Do I not think on thee, when I forgot Am of myself, all tyrant, for thy sake ? Who hateth thee that I do call my friend ? On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon? Nay, if thou lour'st on me, do I not spend Revenge upon myself with present moan ? What merit do I in myself respect. That is so proud thy service to i' A LOVER'S COMPLAINT. When all my best doth worship thy defect, Commanded by the motion of thine eyes ? But, love, hate on, for now I know thy mind ; Those that can see thou lovest, and I am blind. CL. O, from what power hast thou this powerful might With insufiflciency my heart to sway ? To make me give the lie to my true sight. And swear that brightness doth not grace the day ? Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill, That in the very refuse of thy deeds There is such strength and warrantise of skill That, in my mind, thy worst all best exceeds ? Who taught thee how to make me love thee more The more I hear and see just cause of hate ? O, though I love what others do abhor. With others thou shouldst not abhor my state : If thy unworthiness raised love in me, More worthy I to be beloved of thee. Love is too young to know what conscience is : Yet who knows not conscience is born of love ? Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss. Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove : For, thou betraying me, I do betray My nobler part to my gross body's treason ; My soul doth tell my body that he may Triumph in love ; flesh stays no farther reason ; But, rising at thy name, doth point out thee As his triumphant prize. Proud of this pride, He is contented thy poor drudge to be, To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side. No want of conscience hold it that I call Her ' love ' for whose dear love I rise and fall. CLII. In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn, But thou art twice forsworn, to me love swearing, In act thy bed-vow broke and new faith torn In vowing new hate after new love bearing. But why of two oaths' breach do I accuse thee, When I break twenty ? I am perjured most ; For all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee And all my honest faith in thee is lost. For I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness, Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy constancy, And, to enlighten thee, gave eyes to blindness, Or made them swear against the thing they see ; For I have sworn thee fair ; more perjured I, To swear against the truth so foul a lie I CLIII. Cupid laid by his brand, and fell asleep : A maid of Dian's this advantage found, And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep In a cold valley-fountain of that groimd ; Which borrow'd from this holy fire of Love A dateless lively heat, still to endure. And grew a seething bath, which yet men prove Against strange maladies a sovereign cure. But at my mistress' eye Love's brand new-fired, The boy for trial needs would touch my breast ; I, sick withal, the help of bath desired. And thither hied, a sad distemper'd guest. But found no cure : the bath for my help lies Where Cupid got new fire — my mistress' eyes. CLiy. The little Love-god lying once asleep Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand. Whilst many nymphs that vow'd chaste life to keep Came tripping by ; but in her maiden hand The fairest votary took up that fire Which many legions of true hearts had warm'd ; And so the general of hot desire Was sleeping by a virgin hand disarm 'd. This brand she quenched in a cool well by. Which from Love's fire took heat perpetual. Growing a bath and healthful remedy For men diseased ; but I, my mistress' thrall, Came there for cure, and this by that I prove, Love's fire heats water, water cools not love. A LOYER'S COMPLAINT. From off a hiU whose concave womb re-worded A plaintful story from a sistering vale. My spirits to attend this double voice accorded, And down I laid to list the sad-timed tale ; Ere long espied a fickle maid fuU pale. Tearing of papers, breaking rings a-twain. Storming her world with sorrow's wind and rain. Upon her head a platted hive of straw. Which fortified her visage from the sun. Whereon the thought might think sometime it saw The carcass of a beauty spent and done : Time had not scythed all that youth begun, Nor youth all quit ; but, spite of heaven's fell rage, Some beauty peep'd through lattice of sear'd age. Oft did she heave her napkin to her eyne. Which on it had conceited characters, Laundering the silken figures in the brine That season'd woe had pelleted in tears. And often reading what contents it bears ; As often shrieking undistinguish'd woe, In clamours of all size, both high and low. Sometimes her levell'd eyes their carriage ride, As they did battery to the spheres intend ; Sometime diverted their poor balls are tied To the orbed earth ; sometimes they do extend Their view right on ; anon their gazes lend To every place at once, and, nowhere fix'd, The mind and sight distractedly commix'd. Her hair, nor loose nor tied in formal plat, Proclaim'd in her a careless hand of pride For some, untuck'd, descended her sheaved hat, Hanging her pale and pined cheek beside ; Some in her threaden fillet still did bide. And true to bondage would not break from thence, Though slackly braided in loose negligence. A thousand favours from a maund she drew Of amber, crystal, and of beaded jet. Which one by one she in a river threw. Upon whose weeping margent she was set ; Like usury, applying wet to wet. Or monarch's hands that let not bounty fall Where want cries some, but where excess begs aU. A LOVER'S COMPLAINT. Of folded schedules had she many a one, Which she perused, sigh'd, tore, and gave the flood; Crack 'd many a ring of posied gold and bone, Bidding them find their sepulchres in mud ; Pound yet moe letters sadly penn'd in blood, With sleided silk feat and affectedly Enswathed,andseal'd to curious secrecy. These often bathed she in her fluxive eyes, And often kiss'd, and often 'gan to tear; Cried ' O false blood, thou register of lies, What unapproved witness dost thou bear ! Ink would have seem'd more black anddamnedhere ! ' This said, in top of rage the lines she rents, Big discontent so breaking their contents. A reverend man that grazed his cattle nigh— Sometime a blusterer, that the ruffle knew Of court, of city, and had let go by The swiftest hours, observed as they flew — Towards this afflicted fancy fastly drew. And, privileged by age, desires to know In brief the grounds and motives of her woe. •So slides he down upon his grained bat. And comely-distant sits he by her side ; When he again desires her, being sat, Her grievance with his hearing to divide : If that from him there may be aught applied Which may her suffering ecstasy assuage, 'T is promised in the charity of age. ' Father,' she says, ' though in me you behold The injury of many a blasting hour, Let it not tell your judgment I am old ; .■Not age, but sorrow, over me hath power: I might as yet have been a spreading flower. Fresh to myself, if I had self -applied Love to myself and to no love beside. ' But, woe is me ! too early I attended A youthful suit — it was to gain my grace — Of one by nature's outwards so commended, That maidens' eyes stuck over all his face : Love lack'd a dwelling, and made him her place ; And when in his fair parts she did abide. She was new lodged and newly deified. ' His browny locks did hang in crooked cm'ls ; And every light occasion or the wind Upon his lips their silken parcels hurls. What 's sweet to do, to do will aptly find : Each eye that saw him did enchant the mind. For on his visage was in little drawn What largeness thinks in Paradise was sawn. ' Small show of man was yet upon his chin ; His phcenix Aown began but to appear Like unshorn velvet on that termless skin Whose bare out-bragg'd the web it seem'd to wear: Y&i show'd his visage by that cost more dear ; And nice affections wavering stood in doubt If best were as it was, or best without. ' His qualities were beauteous as his form. For maiden-tongued he was, and thereof free ; Yet, if men moved him, was he such a storm As oft 'twixt May and April is to see, When winds breathe sweet, unruly though they be. His rudeness so with his authorized youth Did livery falseness in a pride of truth. ' Well could he ride, and often men would say " That horse his mettle from his rider takes : Proud of subjection, noble by the sway. What rounds,what bounds, what course,whatstophe And controversy hence a question ■ Whether the horse by him became his deed. Or he his manage by the well-doing steed. ' But quickly on this side the verdict went : His real habitude gave life and grace To appertainings and to ornament. Accomplish 'd in himself, not in his case: All aids, themselves made fairer by their place, Came for additions ; yet their purposed trim Pieced not his grace, but were all graced by him. ' So on the tip of his subduing tongue All kind of arguments and question deep, All replication prompt, and reason strong. For his advantage still did wake and sleep : To make the weeper laugh, the laugher weep. He had the dialect and different skill. Catching all passions in his craft of will : ' That he did in the general bosom reign Of young, of old ; and sexes both enchanted. To dwell with him in thoughts, or to remain In personal duty, following where he haunted : Consents bewitch'd, ere he desire, have granted; And dialogued for him what he would say, Ask'd their own wills, and made their wills obey. ' Many there were that did his picture get. To serve their eyes, and in it put their mind; Like fools that in th' imagination set The goodly objects which abroad they find Of lands and mansions, theirs in thought asslgn'd And labouring in moe pleasures to bestow them Than the true gouty landlord which doth owe them : ' So many have, that never touch 'd his hand, Sweetly supposed them mistress of his heart. My woeful self, that did in freedom stand. And was my own fee-simple, not in part. What with his art in youth, and youth in art. Threw my affections in his charmed power, Eeserved the stalk and gave him all my flower. ' Yet did I not, as some my equals did. Demand of him, nor being desired yielded ; Finding myself in honour so forbid. With safest distance I mine honour shielded : Experience for me many bulwarks builded Of proofs new-bleeding, which remain'd the foil Of this false jewel, and his amorous spoil. 'But, ah, who ever shunn'd by precedent The destined ill she must herself assay ? Or forced examples, 'gainst her own content. To put the by-past perils in her way i* Counsel may stop awhile what will not stay ; For when we rage, advice is often seen By blunting us to make our wits more keen. ' Nor gives it satisfaction to our blood, That we must curb it upon others' proof ; To be forbod the sweets that seem so good, For fear of harms that preach in our behoof. O appetite, from judgment stand aloof ! The one a palate hath that needs will taste, Though Reason weep, and cry " It is thy last." ' For further I could say " This man 's untrue," And knew the patterns of his foul beguiling ; Heard where his plants in others' orchards grew, Saw how deceits were gilded in his smiling ; Knew vows were ever brokers to defiling ; Thought characters and words merely but art. And bastards of his foul adulterate heart. ' And long upon these terms I held my city, Till thus he gan besiege me : " Gentle maid. A LOVER'S COMPLAINT. Have of my suffering youth some feeling pity, And be not of my holy vows afraid : That 's to ye sworn to none was ever said ; Fox feasts of love I have been call'd unto, Till now did ne'er invite, nor never woo. * " All my offences that abroad you see Are errors of the blood, none of the mind ; Love made them not : with acture they may be. Where neither party is nor true nor kind : They sought their shame that so their shame did find ; And so much less of shame in me remains, By how much of me their reproach contains. ' "Among the many that mine eyes have seen, Not one w^hose flame my heart so much as warm'd, Or my affection put to the smallest teen. Or any of my leisures ever charm 'd : Harm have I done to them, but ne'er was harm'd ; Kept hearts in liveries, but mine own was free, And reign 'd, commanding in bis monarchy. • " Look here, what tributes wounded fancies sent Of paled pearls and rubies red as blood ; [me, Figuring that they their passions likewise lent me Of grief and blushes, aptly understood In bloodless white and the encrimson'd mood ; Effects of terror and dear modesty, Encamp'd in hearts, but fighting outwardly. ' " And, lo, behold these talents of their hair, With twisted metal amorously impleach'd, I have received from many a several fair. Their kind acceptance weepingly beseech 'd. With the annexions of fair gems enrich 'd. And deep-brain'd sonnets that did amplify Each stone's dear nature, worth, and quality. ' "The diamond, — why, 'twas beautiful and hard, Whereto his invised properties did tend ; The deep-green emerald, in whose fresh regard Weak sights their sickly radiance do amend ; The heaven-hued sapphire and the opal blend With objects manifold : each several stone. With wit well blazon'd, smiled or made some moan. ' " Lo, all these trophies of affections hot. Of pensived and subdued desires the tender. Nature hath charged me that I hoard them not, But yield them up where I myself must render, That is, to you, my origin and ender ; For these, of force, must your oblations be. Since I their altar, you enpatron me. ' "O, then, advance of yours that phraseless hand. Whose white weighs down the airy scale of praise ; Take all these similes to your own command, Hallow'd with sighs that burning lungs did raise ; What me your minister, for you obeys, Works under you ; and to your audit comes Their distract parcels in combined sums. * " Lo, this device was sent me from a nun, Or sister sanctified, of holiest note ; Which late her noble suit in court did shun. Whose rarest havings made the blossoms dote ; Eor she was sought by spirits of richest coat. But kept cold distance, and did thence remove, To spend her living in eternal love. ' " But, O my sweet, what labour is 't to leave The thing we have not, mastering what not strives, Playing the place which did no form receive. Playing patient sports in unconstrained gyves ? She that her fame so to herself contrives. The scars of battle 'scapeth by the flight. And makes her absence valiant, not her might. 55 ' " O, pardon me, in that my boast is true: The accident which brought me to her eye Upon the moment did her force subdue. And now she would the caged cloister fly : Eeligious love put out Religion's eye : Not to be tempted, would she be immured, And now, to tempt, all liberty procured. ' " How mighty then you are, O, hear me tell ! The broken bosoms that to me belong Have emptied all their fountains in my well, And mine I pour your ocean all among : I strong o'er them, and you o'er me being strong, Must for your victory us all congest, As compound love to physic your cold breast. ' " My parts had power to charm a sacred nun, Who, disciplined, ay, dieted in grace, Believed her eyes when they to assail begun. All vows and consecrations giving place : O most potential love ! vow, bond, nor space, In thee hath neither sting, knot, nor confine, For thou art all, and all things else are thine. ' " When thou impressest, what are precepts worth Of stale example ? When thou vdlt inflame. How coldly those impediments stand forth Of wealth, of filial fear, law, kindred, fame ! Love's arms are peace, 'gainst rule, 'gainst sense, 'gainst shame. And sweetens, in the suffering pangs it bears. The aloes of all forces, shocks, and fears. ' " Now all these hearts that do on mine depend, Feeling it break, with bleeding groans they pine ; And supplicant their sighs to you extend, To leave the battery that you make 'gainst mine, Lending soft audience to my sweet design. And credent soul to that strong-bonded oath That shall prefer and undertake my troth." ' This said, his watery eyes he did dismount. Whose sights till then were levell'd on my face ; Each cheek a river running from a fount With brinish current downward flow'd apace : O, how the channel to the stream gave grace! Who glazed with crystal gate the glowing roses That flame through water which their hue en- ' O father, what a hell of witchcraft lies In the small orb of one particular tear ! But with the inimdation of the eyes What rocky heart to water will not wear ? What breast so cold that is not warmed here ? O cleft effect ! cold modesty, hot wrath. Both fire from hence and chill extincture hath. ' For, lo, his passion, but an art of craft, Even there resolved my reason into tears ; There my white stole of chastity I daff'd, Shook off my sober guards and civil fears ; Appear to him, as he to me appears. All melting; though our drops this difference bore. His poison'd me, and mine did him restore. ' In him a plenitude of subtle matter, Applied to cautels, all strange forms receives, Of burning blushes, or of weeping water. Or swooning paleness ; and he takes and leaves, In cither's aptness, as it best deceives. To blush at speeches rank, to weep at woes. Or to turn white and swoon at tragic shows : ' That not a heart which in his level came Could 'scape the hail of his all-hurting aim, THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM. Showing fair nature is both kind and tame ; And, veil'd in them, did win whom he would maim : Against the thing he sought he would exclaim ; When he most burn'd in heart-wish'd luxury, He preach'd pure maid, and praised cold chastity. ' Thus merely with the garment of a Grace The naked and concealed fiend he cover'd ; That th' unexperient gave the tempter place, Which like a cherubin above them hover'd. Who, young and simple, would not be so lover'd ? Ay me ! I fell ; and yet do question make What I should do again for such a sake. ' O, that infected moisture of his eye, O, that false fire which in his cheek so glow'd, O, that forced thunder from his heart did fly, O, that sad breath his spongy lungs bestow'd, O, all that borrow'd motion seeming owed, Would yet again betray the fore-betray 'd, And new pervert a reconciled maid I ' THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM. When my love swears that she is made of truth, I do believe her, though I know she lies, That she might think me some untutor'd youth. Unskilful in the world's false forgeries. Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young. Although I know my years be past the best, I smiling credit her false-speaking tongue. Outfacing faults in love with love's ill rest. But wherefore says my love that she is young ? And wherefore say not 1 that I am old ? O, love's best habit is a soothing tongue, And age, in love, loves not to have years told. Therefore I '11 lie with love, and love with me. Since that our faults in love thus smother'd be. Two loves I have, of comfort and despair, That like two spirits do suggest me still ; My better angel is a man right fair, My worser spirit a woman colour'd ill. To win me soon to hell, my female evil Tempteth my better angel from my side. And would corrupt my saint to be a devil, Wooing his purity with her fair pride. And whether that my angel be turn'd fiend. Suspect I may, yet not directly tell: For being both to me, both to each friend, I guess one angel in another's hell ; The truth I shall not know, but live in doubt. Till my bad angel fire my good one out. Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye, 'Gainst whom the world could not hold argument, Persuade my heart to this false perjury ? Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment. A woman I forswore ; but I will prove, Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee : My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love ; Thy grace being gain'd cures all disgrace in me. My vow was breath, and breath a vapour is ; Then, thou fair sun, that on this earth doth shine, Exhale this vapour vow ; in thee it is : If broken, then it is no fault of mine. If by me broke, what fool is not so wise To break an oath to win a paradise i* Sweet Cytherea, sitting by a brook With young Adonis, lovely, fresh, and green. Did court the lad with many a lovely look, Such looks as none could look but beauty's queen. She told him stories to delight his ear ; She show'd him favours to alliu:e his eye ; To win his heart, she touch 'd him here and there,— Touches so soft still conquer chastity. But whether unripe years did want conceit, Or he refused to take her figured proffer. The tender nibbler woidd not touch the bait, But smile and jest at every gentle offer: Then fell she on her back, fair queen, and toward : He rose and ran away; ah, fool too frowardl If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love? O never faith could hold, if not to beauty vow'd : Though to myself forsworn, to thee I '11 constant prove ; Those thoughts, to me like oaks, to thee like osiers bow'd. Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes, Where all those pleasures live that art can compre- hend. If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suf- fice; WeU learned is that tongue that well can thee com- mend ; All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder ; Which is to me some praise, that I thy parts admire : Thine eye Jove's lightning seems, thy voice his dreadful thunder, Which, not to anger bent, is music and sweet fire. Celestial as thou art, O do not love that wrong, To sing heaven's praise with such an earthly tongue. VI. Scarce had the sun dried up the dewy morn. And scarce the herd gone to the hedge for shade, When Cytherea, all in love forlorn, A longing tarriance for Adonis made Under an osier growing by a brook, A brook where Adon used to cool his spleen : Hot was the day ; she hotter that did look For his approach, that often there had been. Anon he comes, and throws his mantle by. And stood stark naked on the brook's green brim : The sun look'd on the world with glorious eye, Yet not so wistly as this queen on him. He, spying her, bounced in, whereas he stood : ' O Jove,' quoth she, ' why was not I a flood ! ' Fair is my love, but not so fair as fickle ; Mild as a dove, but neither true nor trusty ; THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM. Brighter than glass, and yet, as glass is, brittle ; Softer than wax, and yet, as iron, rusty : A lily pale, with damask dye to grace her, None fairer, nor none falser to deface her. Her lips to mine how often hath she join'd, Between each kiss her oaths of true love swearing! How many tales to please me hath she coin'd. Dreading my love, the loss thereof still fearing ! Yet in the midst of all her pure protestings. Her faith, her oaths, her tears, and all were jestings. She burn'd with love, as straw with fire flameth ; She burn'd out love, as soon as straw out-burneth ; She framed the love, and yet she foil'd the fram- ing; She bade love last, and yet she fell a-turning. "Was this a lover, or a lecher whether ? Bad in the best, though excellent in neither. If music and sweet poetry agree, As they must needs, the sister and the brother. Then must the love be great 'twixt thee and me, Because thou lovest the one, and I the other. Dowland to thee is dear, whose heavenly touch Upon the lute doth ravish human sense; Spenser to me, whose deep conceit is such As, passing all conceit, needs no defence. Thou lovest to hear the sweet melodious sound That Phoebus' lute, the queen of music, makes; And I in deep delight am chiefly drown 'd When as himself to singing he betakes. One god is god of both, as poets feign ; One knight loves both, and both in thee remain. Fair was the morn when the fair queen of love, ******** Paler for sorrow than her milk-white dove. For Aden's sake, a youngster proud and wild ; Her stand she takes upon a steep-up hill : Anon Adonis comes with horn and hounds ; She, silly queen, with more than love's good will, Porbade the boy he should not pass those grounds : *■ Once,' quoth she, ' did I see a fair sweet youth Here in these brakes deep-wounded with a boar. Deep in the thigh, a spectacle of ruth ! See, in my thigh,' quoth she, ' here was the sore.' She showed hers: he saw more wounds than one, And blushing fled, and left her all alone. Sweet rose, fair flower, untimely pluck'd, soon vaded, Pluck'd in the bud, and vaded in the spring ! Bright orient pearl, alack, too timely shaded I Pair creature, kill'd too soon by death's sharp sting ! Like a green plum that hangs upon a tree, And falls, through wind, before the fall should be. I weep for thee, and yet no cause I have; Por why thou left'st me nothing in thy will : And yet thou left'st me more than I did crave ; For why I craved nothing of thee still : O yes, dear friend, I pardon crave of thee. Thy discontent thou didst bequeath to me. Venus, with young Adonis sitting by her Under a myrtle shade, began to woo him: She told the youngling how god Mars did try her, And as he fell to her, so fell she to him. ' Even thus,' quoth she, ' the warlike god embraced me.' And then she clipp'd Adonis in her arms ; ' Even thus,' quoth she,'the warlike god unlaced me,' As if the boy should use like loving charms ; ' Even thus,' quoth she, ' he seized on my lips,' And with her lips on his did act the seizure : And as she fetched breath, away he skips, And would not take her meaning nor her pleasure. Ah, that I had my lady at this bay. To kiss and clip me till I run away 1 Crabbed age and youth cannot live together : \ Youth is full of pleasance, age is full of care ; Youth like summer morn, age like winter weather; \ Youth like summer brave, age like winter bare. ■ Youth is full of sport, age's breath is short; / Youth is nimble, age is lame ; (. Youth is hot and bold, age is weak and cold ; .,--^ Youth is wild, and age is tame, Age, I do abhor thee ; youth, I do adore thee; O, my love, my love is young ! Age, I do defy thee : O, sweet shepherd, hie thee, For methinks thou stay'st too long. Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good ; A shining gloss that vadeth suddenly ; A flower that dies when first it gins to bud ; A brittle glass that 's broken presently : A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower, Lost, vaded, broken, dead within an hour. And as goods lost are seld or never found, As vaded gloss no rubbing will refresh. As flowers dead lie wither'd on the ground, As broken glass no cement can redress. So beauty blemish'd once 's for ever lost. In spite of physic, painting, pain and cost. Good night, good rest. Ah, neither be my share : She bade good night that kept my rest away ; And daff'd me to a cabin hang'd with care, To descant on the doubts of my decay. ' Farewell,' quoth she, ' and come again to-mor- row:' Fare well I could not, for I supp'd with sorrow. Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile, In scorn or friendship, nill I construe whether: 'T may be, she joy'd to jest at my exile, 'T may be, again to make me wander thither: ' Wander,' a word for shadows like myself, As take the pain, but cannot pluck the pelf. Lord, how mine eyes throw gazes to the east ! My heart doth charge the watch ; the morning rise Doth cite each moving sense from idle rest. Not daring trust the ofiice of mine eyes. While Philomela sits and sings, I sit and mark, And wish her lays were tuned like the lark ; For she doth welcome daylight with her ditty. And drives away dark dismal-dreaming night : The night so pack'd, I post unto my pretty ; Heart hath his hope, and eyes their wished sight : Sorrow changed to solace, solace mix'd with sor- row; For why, she sigh'd and bade me come to-morrow. Were I with her, the night would post too soon ; But now are minutes added to the hours ; To spite me now, each minute seems a moon ; Yet not for me, shine sun to succour flowers ! Pack night, peep day; good day, of night now borrow : Short, night, to-night, and length thyself to- morrow. 867 SONNETS TO SUNDKY NOTES OF MUSIC. [XVI.] It was a lording 's daughter, the fairest one of three, That liked of her master as weU as well might be, TiU looking on an Englishman, the fair'st that eye could see, Her fancy fell a-turning. Long was the combat doubtful that love with love did fight, To leave the master loveless, or kill the gallant knight : To put in practice either, alas, it was a spite Unto the silly damsel ! But one must be refused ; more mickle was the pain That nothing could be used to turn th em both to gain , For of the two the trusty knight was wounded with disdain : Alas, she could not help it ! Thus art with arms contending was victor of the day, Which by a gift of learning did bear the maid away : Then, lullaby , the learned man hath got the lady gay ; For now my song is ended. XVII. On a day, alack the day ! Love, whose month was ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair. Playing in the wanton air : Through the velvet leaves the wind, All unseen, gan passage find; That the lover, sick to death, Wish'd himself the heaven's breath, 'Air,' quoth he, 'thy cheeks may blow; Air, would I might triumph so ! But, alas ! my hand hath sworn Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn : Vow, alack ! for youth unmeet : Youth, so apt to pluck a sweet. Thou for whom Jove would swear Juno but an Ethiope were ; And deny himself for Jove, Turning mortal for thy love.' . [xvin.] My flocks feed not. My ewes breed not, My rams speed not, All is amiss : Love 's denying, Eaith 's defying. Heart's renying. Causer of this. All my merry jigs are quite forgot, All my lady's love is lost, God wot : Where her faith was firmly fix'd in love, There a nay is placed without remove. One silly cross Wrought all my loss ; O frowning Fortune, cursed, fickle dame 1 For now I see Inconstancy More in women than in men remain. In black mourn I, All fears scorn I, Love hath forlorn me. Living in thrall: Heart is bleeding. All help needing, O cruel speeding, Fraughted with gall. My shepherd's pipe can sound no deal; My wether's bell rings doleful knell ; My curtail dog, that wont to have play'd, Plays not at all, but seems afraid; My sighs so deep Procure to weep, In howling wise, to see my doleful plight. How sighs resound Through heartless ground. Like a thousand vanquish 'd men in bloody fight ! Clear wells spring not, Sweet birds sing not, Green plants bring not Forth their dye ; Herds stand weeping, Flocks all sleeping, Nymphs back peeping Fearfully : All our pleasure knovsm to us poor swains, All our merry meetings on the plains, All our evening sport from us is fled, AU our love is lost, for Love is dead. Farewell, sweet lass, Thy like ne'er was For a sweet content, the cause of all my moan ' Poor Corydon Must live alone ; Other help for him I see that there is none. When as thine eye hath chose the dame. And stall'd the deer that thou shouldst strike, Let reason rule things worthy blame. As weU as fancy partial might : Take counsel of some wiser head. Neither too young nor yet unwed. And when thou comest thy tale to teU, Smooth not thy tongue with filed talk, Lest she some subtle practice smell, — A cripple soon can find a halt ; — But plainly say thou lovest her well, And set thy person forth to sell. What though her frowning brows be bent, Her cloudy looks will calm ere night : And then too late she will repent That thus dissembled her delight ; And twice desire, ere it be day. That which with scorn she put away. What though she strive to try her strength, And ban and brawl, and say thee nay. Her feeble force will yield at length, When craft hath taught her thus to say, ' Had women been so strong as men, In faith, you had not had it then.' And to her will frame all thy ways ; Spare not to spend, and chiefly there THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM. Where thy desert may merit praise, By ringing in thy lady's ear: The strongest castle, tower, and town, The golden bullet beats it down. Serve always with assured trust, And in thy suit be humble true ; Unless thy lady prove unjust, Press never thou to choose anew : "When time shall serve, be thou not slack To proffer, though she put thee back. The wiles and guiles that women work, Dissembled with an outward show, The tricks and toys that in them lurk. The cock that treads them shall not know. Have you not heard it said full oft, A woman's nay doth stand for nought ? Think women still to strive with men, To sin and never for to saint : There is no heaven, by holy then, When time with age doth them attaint. Were kisses all the joys in bed, One woman would another wed. But, soft! enough, too much, I fear; Lest that my mistress hear my song. She will not stick to round me i' the ear, To teach my tongue to be so long : Yet Tvill she blush, here be it said. To hear her secrets so bewray'd. [XX.] Live with me, and be my love. And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dales and fields, And all the craggy mountains yields. There will we sit ui)on the rocks, And see the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers, by whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. There will I make thee a bed of roses. With a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle. A belt of straw and ivy buds, With coral clasps and amber studs ; And if these pleasures may thee move. Then live with me and be my love. LOVE'S ANSWER. If that the world and love were young. And truth in every shepherd's tongue. These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee and be thy love. [XXI.] As it fell upon a day In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade Which a grove of myrtles made. Beasts did leap, and birds did sing, Trees did grow, and plants did spring; Every thing did banish moan. Save the nightingale alone : She, poor bird, as all forlorn, Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn. And there sung the dolefuU'st ditty, That to hear it was great pity : ' Fie, fie, fie,' now would she cry; ' Tereu, tereu ! ' by and by ; That to hear her so complain. Scarce I could from tears refrain ; For her griefs, so lively shown. Made me think upon mine own. Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vaini None takes pity on thy pain : Senseless trees they cannot hear thee ; Ruthless beasts they will not cheer tnee: King Pandion he is dead ; All thy friends are lapp'd in lead; All thy fellow birds do sing. Careless of thy sorrowing. Even so, poor bird, like thee, None alive will pity me. Whilst as fickle Fortune smiled, Thou and I were both beguiled. Every one that flatters thee Is no friend in misery. Words are easy, like the wind; Faithful friends are hard to find : Every man will be thy friend Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend; But if store of crowns be scant, No man will supply thy want. If that one be prodigal. Bountiful they will him call, And with such-like flattering, ' Pity but he were a king ; ' If he be addict to vice, Quickly him they will entice ; If to women he be bent, They have at commandement : But if Fortune once do frown, Then farewell his great renown ; They that fawn'd on him before Use his company no more. He that is thy friend indeed, He will help thee in thy need : If thou sorrow, he will weep ; If thou wake, he cannot sleep ; Thus of every grief in heart He with thee doth bear a part. These are certain signs to know Faithful friend from flattering foe. ^ THE PHCENIX AND THE TUKTLE. Let the bird of loudest lay, On the sole Arabian tree, Herald sad and trumpet be, To whose sound chaste wings obey. But thou shrieking harbinger, Foul precurrer of the fiend, Augur of the fever's end, To this troop come thou not near I Prom this session interdict Every fowl of tyrant wing. Save the eagle, feather'd king : Keep the obsequy so strict. Let the priest in surplice white, That defunctive music can. Be the death-divining swan. Lest the requiem lack his right. And thou treble-dated crow, That thy sable gender makest With the breath thou givest and takest, 'Mongst our mourners shalt thou go. Here the anthem doth commence : Love and constancy is dead ; Phoenix and the turtle fled Li a mutual flame from hence. So they loved, as love in twain Had the essence but in one ; Two distincts, division none ; Number there in love was slain. Hearts remote, yet not asunder ; Distance, and no space was seen 'Twixt the turtle and his queen ; But in them it were a wonder. So between them love did shine. That the turtle saw his right Flaming in the phoenix' sight ; Either was the other's mine. 870 Property was thus appall'd, That the self was not the same; Single nature's double name Neither two nor one was call'd. Reason, in itseK confounded, Saw division grow together. To themselves yet either neither. Simple were so well compounded, That it cried. How true a twain Seemeth this concordant one I Love hath reason, reason none, If what parts can so remain. Whereupon it made this threne To the phoenix and the dove, Co-supremes and stars of love, As chorus to their tragic scene. Beauty, truth, and rarity, Grace in all simplicity. Here enclosed in cinders lie. Death is now the phoenix' nest; And the turtle's loyal breast To eternity doth rest. Leaving no posterity : 'T was not their infirmity, It was married chastity. Truth may seem, but cannot be; Beauty brag, but 't is not she ; Truth and beauty buried be. To this urn let those repair That are either true or fair ; For these dead birds sigh a prayer. GLOSSAET TO SHAKESPEARE'S WORKS. Abate, v.t. to shorten. M. N's Dr. ni. 2. To cast down. Cor. ui. 3. To blunt. R. III. V. 4. Abatement, 86. diminution. Lear, i. 4. Abide, v.i. to sojourn. Wint. Tale, rv. 3. v.t. to expiate (a corruption of 'Aby'). J. C. in. 1 ; Ibid. in. 2. Able, v.t. to uphold. Lear, iv. 6. Abridgment, sb. a short play. Ham. ii. 2. Abrook, v.t. to brook, abide. 2 H. VI. ll. 4. Absey-Book, sb. a primer. John, 1. 1. Absolute, adj. positive, certain. Cym. iv. 2; Ham. v. 2. Complete. Temp. i. 2. Abttse, v.t. to deceive. Lear. iv. 7. Abuse, sb. deception. M. for M. v. 1. Aby, v.t. to expiate a fault. M. N's Dr. ni. 2. Abysm, sb. abyss. Temp. i. 2. Accite, v.t. to cite, summon. 2 H. IV. v. 2. Accuse, sb. accusation. 2 H. VI. in. 1. Achieve, v. to obtain. H. V. IV. 3. Acknown, p.p. ' to be acknown ' is to ac- knowledge. 0th. in. 3. Acquittance, sb. a receipt or discharge. Ham. IV. 2. Action-taking, adj. litigious. Lear, n. 2. Acture, sb. action. Lover's Com. Addition, sb. title, attribute. All 's Well, n. 3; T. &Cr. I. 2. Address, v.r. to prepare oneself. 2 H. VI. V. 2; Ham. I. 2. Addressed, part, prepared. L's L's L. n. 1. Advance, v.t. to prefer, promote to honour. Tim. I. 2. Advertisement, sb. admonition. Much Ado. &c. V. 1. Advertising, pr. p. attentive. M. for M. V. L Advice, sb. consideration, discretion. Two Gent. II. 4; M. for M. v. 1. Advise, v. sometimes neuter, sometimes re- flective, to consider, reflect. Tw. N. iv. 2. Advised, p.p. considerate. Com. of E. v. 1. Advocation, sb. pleading, advocacy. 0th. in. 4. Afeard, adj. afraid. Merry Wives, in. 4. Affect, v.t. to love. Merry Wives, ii. 1. Affeered, p.p. assessed, confirmed. Mac. IV. 3. Affy, v.t. to affiance. 2 H. VI. iv. 1. To trust. T. A. 1. 1. Afront, adv. in front. 1 H. IV. n. 4. Agased, p.p. looking in amazement. I H. VI. 1. 1. Aglet-baby, sb. the small figure engraved on a jewel. Tam. of S. i. 2. Agnise, v.t. to acknowledge, confess. 0th. A-good, adv. a good deal, plenteously. Two Gent. IV. 4. A-hold, adj. a sea-term. Temp. 1. 1. Aiery, s6. the nest of a bird of prey. R. III. I. 3. Aim, sb. a guess. Two Gent. in. 1. Ald^r-liefest, adj. most loved of all. 2 H. VI. 1. 1. Ale, sb. alehouse. Two Gent. li. 5. Allow, V. to approve. Tw. N. i. 2. Allowance, sb. approval. Cor. in. 2. Ames-ace, sb. two aces, the lowest throw of the dice. All's Well, u. 3. Amort, adj. dead, dejected. Tam. of S. iv. 3. An, conj. if. Much Ado, 1. 1. Anchor, sb. an anchorite, hermit. Ham. in. 2. Ancient, sb. an ensign-bearer. 1 H. IV. iv. 2. Angel, sb. a coin, so called because it bore the image of an angel. Merry Wives, i. 3. Anight, adv. by night. As you Like it, u. 4. Answer, sb. retaliation. Cym. v. 3. Anthropophaginian, sb. a cannibal. Merry Wives, iv. 5. Antick, sb. the fool in the old plays. R. II. III. 2. Antre, sb. a cave. 0th. i. 3. Apparent, sb. heir-apparent. Wint. Tale, Appeal, sb. accusation. M. for M. v. 1. Appeal, v.t. to accuse. R. II. 1. 1. Appeared, p.p. made apparent. Cor. iv. 3. Apple-John, sb. a kind of apple. 1 Hen. IV. HI. 3. Appointment, sb. preparation. M. for M. m. 1. Apprehension, sb. opinion. Much Ado, III. 4. / Apprehensive, adj. apt to apprehend or understand. J. C. in. 1. Approbation, sb. probation. Cym. l. 5. Approof, sb. approbation, proof. All's Well, I. 2; Temp. II. 5. Approve, v.t. to prove. R. II. I. 3. To jus- tify, make good. Lear, ii. 4. Approver, sb. one who proves or tries. Cym. II. 4. Arch, sb. chief. Lear, n. 1. Argal, a ridiculous word intended for the Latin ergo. Ham. v. 1. Argentine, adj. silver. Per. v. 2. Argier, sb. Algiers. Temp. I. 2. Argosy, sb. originally a vessel of Ragusa or Ragosa, a Ragosine ; hence any ship of burden. M. of V. 1. 1. Argument, sb. subject. Mtich Ado, n. 3. Armigero, a mistake for Armiger, the Latin for Esquire. Merry Wives, 1. 1. Aroint, v.r. found only in the imperat. mood, get thee gone. Mac. i. 3 ; Lear, in. 4. A-row, adv. in a row. Com. of E. v. 1. Articulate, v.i. to enter into articles of agreement. Cor. i. 9. v.t. to exhibit in ar- ticles. 1 H. IV. V. 1. Ask, v.t. to require. 2 H. VI. I. 2. Aspect, sb. regard, looks. A. & C. I. 5. Aspersion, sb. sprinkling ; hence blessing, because before the Reformation benedic- tion was generally accompanied by the sprinkling of holy water. Temp. in. 3. Assay, sb. attempt. M. for M. in. 1. Assay, v.i. to attempt, test, make proof of. Merry Wives, ii. 1. Assinego, sb. an ass. T. & Cr. ll. 1. Assutjugate, v.t. to subjugate. T. & Cr. n. S. Assurance, sb. deed of assurance. Tam. of S. IV. 2. Assured, p.p. betrothed. Com. of E. m. 2. Atomy, sb. an atom. As you Like it, in. 2. Used in contempt of a small person. 2 H. IV. V. 4. Atone, V. t. to put people at one, to recon- cile. R. II. 1. 1. v.i. to agree. Cor. iv. 6. Attach, v.t. to seize, lay hold on. Temp, III. 3; Com. of E. IV. 1. Attasked, p.p. taken to task, reprehended, Lear, i. 4. Attend, v.t. to listen to. Temp. i. 2 : M. of V. V. 1. Attent, adj. attentive. Ham. i. 2. Attorney, sb. an agent. R. III. iv. 4. Attorney, v.t. to employ as an agent. M, for M. V. 1. To perform by an agent. Wint. Tale, 1. 1. Audacious, adj. spiritj&A., daring, but with- out any note of blame attached to it. L's L's L. V. 1. Augur, sb. augury. Mac. in. 4. Authentic, adj. clothed with authority. Merry Wives, n. 2. Avaunt, int. be gone, a word of abhorrence. Com. of E. IV. 3. Ave, int. the Latin for hail ; hence accla- mation. M. for M. 1. 1. Ave-Mary, sb. the angelic salutation ad- dressed to the B. Virgin Mary. 2 H. VI. 1.3. Averring, pr.p. confirming. Cym. v. 5. Awful, adj. worshipful. Two Gent. iv. 1. Awkward, adj. contrary. 2 H. VI. in. 2. Baccare, int. keep back. Tam. of S. n. 1. Backward, sb. the hinder part; hence, when applied to time, the past. Temp, l 2. Balked, p.p. heaped, as on a ridge. 1 H. IV. 1. 1. Ballow, sb. a cudgel. Lear, iv. 6. Balm, sb. the oil of consecration. R. II. IV. 1 ; 3 H. VI. m. 1. Ban, v.t. to curse. Lucr. Bank, v.t. to sail by the banks. John, v. 2. Barm, sb. yeast. M. N's Dr. ii. 1. Barn, sb. a child. 1 H. IV. n. 3. Ba/rnacle, sb. a shell-fish, supposed to produce the sea-bird of the same name. Temp. IV. 1. Base, sb. a game, sometimes called PriB- oners' base. Cym. v. 3. Bases, sb. an embroidered mantle worn by knights on horseback, and reaching from the middle to below the knees. Per. n. 1. Basilisk, sb. a kind of ordnance. 1 H. IV. IV. 3. Basta, int. (Italian) enough. Tam. of S. 1. 1. Bastard, sb. raisin wine. M. for M. in. 2. Bat-fowling, part, catching birds with a clap-net by night. Temp. n. 1. 871 GLOSSARY. Sate, v.i. to flutter, as a hawk. 1 H. IV. iv. 1. JBate, v.t. to except. Temp. n. 1. To abate. Much Ado, II. 3. Satlet, sb. a small bat, used for beating clothes. As you Like it, ll. 4. Battle, $b. army. 1 H. IV. IV. 1. JUavin, sb. used as an adj. a piece of waste wood, applied contemptuously to any- thing worthless. 1 H. IV. in. 2. BawcocJi, sb. a fine fellow. Tw. N. in. 4. Bay, sb. the space between the main tim- bers of the roof. M. for M. ii. 1. Beadsman, s6. one who bids bedes, that is, prays prayers for another. Two Gent. 1. 1. Bearitig -cloth, sb. a rich cloth in which children were wrapt at their christen- ing. Wint. Tale, in. 3. Beat, v.i. to flutter as a falcon, to meditate, consider earnestly. Temp. i. 2. Beaver, sb. the lower part of a helmet. 1 H. IV. IV. 1. Beetle, sb. a mallet. 2 H. IV. i. 2. Being, sb. dwelling. Cym. i. 6. Being, conj. since, inasmuch as. A. & C. III. 6. Be-mete, v.t. to measure. Tarn, of S. iv. 3. Be-moiled, p.p. daubed with dirt. Tarn. ofS.iv.l. Bending, pr.p. stooping under a weight. H. V. V. Chorus. Benvenuto, sb. (Italian), welcome. L's L's L. IV. 2. Bergomask, adj. a rustic dance. M. N's Dr. V. 1. Beshrew, int. evil befal. Com. of E. n. 1. Bestraught, p.p. distraught, distracted. Induct, to Tam. of S. Beteem, v.t. to pour out. M. N's Dr. 1. 1. Betid, p.p. happened. Temp. i. 2. Besonian, sb. a beggarly feUow. 2 H. IV. V. 3. Biding, sb. abiding-place. Lear, iv. 6. Biggen, sb. a night-cap. 2 H. IV. iv. 5. Bilberry, sb. the whortleberry. Merry Wives, V. 5. Bilbo, sb. a sword, from BUboa, a town in Spain where they were made. Merry Wives, 1. 1. Bilboes, sb. fetters or stocks. Ham. v. 2. BUI, sb. a bill-hook, a weapon. Much Ado, III. 3. Bin=been, are. Cym. ll. 3. Bird-bolt, sb. a bolt to be shot from a cross- bow at birds. Much Ado, 1. 1. Birding, part, hawking at partridges. Merry Wives, in. 3. Bisson, adj. blind. Cor. ii. 1. Blank, sb. the white mark in the middle of a target ; hence, metaphorically, that which is aimed at. Wint. Tale, n. 3. Blench, v.i. to start aside, flinch. M. for M. IV. 5. Blent, p.p. blended. M. of V. m. 2. Blood-boltered, part, smeared with blood. Mac. IV. 1. Blow, v.t. to inflate. Tw. N. n. 5. Board, v.t. to accost. Tam. of S. I. 2. Bob, sb. a blow, metaph. a sarcasm. As you Like it, n. 7. Bob, v.t. to strike, metaph. to ridicule, or to obtain by raillery. T. & Cr. m. 1. ; 0th. V.I. Bodge, v. to botch, bungle. 3 H. VI. i. 4. Bodikin, sb. a corrupt word used as an oath. 'Od's Bodikin, God's little Body. Ham. n. 2. Boitier vert (French), green box. Merry Wives, I. 4. Bold, v.t. to embolden. Lear, v. 1. Bollen, adj. swollen. Lucr. Bolted, p.p. sifted, refined. H. V. ll. 2. Bolter, sb. a sieve. 1 H. IV. in. 3. 872 Bolting-hutch, sb. a hutch in which meal was sifted. 1 H. IV. n. 4. Bombard, sb. a barrel, a drunkard. Temp. n. 2. Bombast, sb. padding. L's L's L. v. 2. Bona-roba, sb. a harlot. 2 H. IV. III. 2. Bond, sb. that to which one is bound. Lear, 1. 1. Book, sb. a paper of conditions. 1 H. IV. III. 1. Boot, sb. help, use. Tam. of S. v. 2. Boot, v.t. to help, to avail. Two Gent. 1. 1. Bootless, adj. without boot or advantage, useless. Temp. i. 2. Boots, sb. bots, a kind of worm. Two Gent. i.L Bore, sb. calibre of a gun ; hence, metaph. size, weight, importance. Ham. iv. 6. Bosky, adj. covered with underwood. Temp. III. 3. Bosom, sb. wish, heart's desire. M. for M. IV. 3. Bots, sb. worms which infest horses. 1 H. IV. II. 1. Bourn, sb. a boundary. Wint. Tale, i. 2. A brook. Lear, iii. 6. Brace, sb. armour for the arm, state of de- fence. 0th. I. 3; Per. II. 1. Brack, sb. a hound bitch. Indue, to Tam. ofS. Braid, adj. deceitful. All 's Well, iv. 2. Brave, adj. handsome,well-dressed. Temp. 1.2. Brave, sb. boast. John, v. 2. Brat>ejn/, s6. finery. Tam.ofS.rv.3. Boast- fulness. Ham. V. 2. Brawl, sb. a kind of dance. L's L's L. m. 1. Breast, sb. voice. Tw. N. u. 3. Breathe, v.t. to exercise. All 's Well, ii. 3. Breathing, pr.p. exercising. Ham. v. 2. Breeching, adj. liable to be whipt. Tam. ofS. III. 1. Breed-bate, sb. a breeder of debate, a fo- menter of quarrels. Merry Wives, i. 4. Breese, sb. the gadfly. A. & C. in. 8. Bribe-buck, sb. a buck given away in presents. Merry Wives, v. 5. Bring, v.t. to attend one on a journey. M. for M. 1. 1. Brock, sb. a badger, a term of contempt. Tw. N. II. 5. Broke, v.i. to act as a procurer. All 's Well, III. 5. Broken, p.p. having lost some teeth by age. AU'sWell, II. 3. Broken music, the music of stringed in- struments. T. & Cr. III. 1. Broker, sb. an agent. Two Gent. 1. 2. Brotherhood, sb. trading company. T. & Cr. I. 3. Brownist, sb. a sectary, a follower of Brown, the founder of the Independents. Tw. N. III. 2. Bruit, sb. noise, report, rumour. 3 H. VI. IV. 7. Bruit, v.t. to noise abroad. Mac. v. 7. Brush, sb. rude assault. 2 H. VI. v. 3 ; Tim. IV. 3. Buck, sb. suds or lye for washing clothes in. Merry Wives, in. 3 ; 2 H. VI. iv. 2. Buck-basket, sb. the basket in which clothes are carried to the wash. Merry Wives, m. 5. Bucking, sb. washing. Merry Wives, iii. 3. Buck-washing, sb. washing in lye. Merry Wives, III. 3. B%tg, sb. a bugbear, a spectre. 3 H. VI. V. 2; Cym. V. 3. Bully-rook, sb. a bragging cheater. Merry Wives, I. 3. Burgonet, sb. a kind of helmet. 2 H. VI. V.I. Burst, v.t. to break. Ind. to Tam. of S. Busky, adj. bushy. 1 H. IV. v. 1. Butt-shaft, sb. a light arrow for shootiui at a butt. L's L's L. i. 2. Buxom, adj. obedient. H. V. in. 6. By'rlakin, int. by our little Lady : an oath. M. N's Dr. ni. 1. Caddis, sb. worsted galloon, so called because it resembles the caddis-worm. Wint. Tale, iv. 3. Cade, sb. a cask or barrel. 2 H. VI. iv. 2. Cage, sb. a prison. Cym. in. 3. Cain-coloured, adj. red (applied to hair). Merry Wives, i. 4. Caitiff, a captive, a slave ; hence, a witch. All 's Well, in. 2. Calculate, v.t. prophesy. J. C. l. 3. Caliver, sb. a hand-gun. 1 H. IV. IV. 2. Callet, sb. a trull. 0th. iv. 2. Calling, sb. appellation. As you Like it, 1.2. Calm, sb. qualm. 2 H. IV. II. 4. Can, v.t. to know, be skilful in. Ham. IV. 7. Canakin, sb. a little can. 0th. ii. 3. Canary, sb. a wine brought from the Can- ary Islands. Merry Wives, in., 2. Candle-wasters, sb. persons who sit up all night to drink. Much Ado, v. 1. Canker, sb. a caterpillar. Two Gent. 1. 1. The dog-rose. Much Ado, i. 3. Canstick, sb. a candlestick. 1 H. XV. ill. 1. Cantle, sb. a slice, corner. 1 H. IV. in. 1. Canton, sb. a canto. Tw. N. i. 5. Canvas, v.t. to sift; hence, metaphori- cally, to prove. 2 H. IV. il. 4. Capable, adj. subject to. John, ni. 1. In- telligent. T. & Cr. III. 3. Capable of in- heriting. Lear, n. 1. Ample, capacious. 0th. III. 3. Capitulate, v.i. make head. 1 H. IV. in. 2. Capocchia, sb. a simpleton. T. & Cr. IV. 2. Capricio, sb. (Italian) caprice,. All 's Well, II. 3. Capricious, adj. lascivious. As you Like it, ui. 3. Captious, adj. capacious. All 's Well, i. 3. Carack, sb. a large ship of burden. Com. of E. ni. 2. Carbonado, sb. meat scotched for broil- ing. 1 H. IV. V. 3. Carbonado, v.t. to scotch for broiling. Lear, n. 2. Card, sb. the paper on which the points of the compass are marked under the mariner's needle. Ham. v. 1. Careire, sb. the curvetting of a horse. Merry Wives, 1. 1. Carkanet, sb. a necklace. Com. of E. m. 1. Carl, sb. a churl. Cym. v. 2. Carlot, sb. a churl. As you Like it. III. 5. Castilian, sb. a native of Castile; used aa a cant term. Merry Wives, n. 3. Castiliano vulgo, a cant term, meaning, apparently, to use discreet language. Tw. N. I. 3. Cataian, adj. a native of Cathay, a cant word. Tw. N. n. 3. Catling, sb. cat-gut. T. & Cr. m. 3. Cautel, sb. deceit. Ham. i. 3. Cautelous, adj. insidious. Cor. iv. 1. Cavalero, sb. a cavalier, gentleman. 2 H. IV. V. 3. Caviare, sb. the roe of sturgeon pickled; metaph. a delicacy not appreciated by the vulgar. Ham. ii. 2. Cease, sb. decease. Ham. in. 3. Cease,p.p. put off, made to cease. Tim. n. 1. Censure, sb. judgment. 1 H. VI. II. 3. Censure, v.t. to judge, criticise. Two Gent. 1.2. Century, sb. a hundred of anythinj?. GLOSSARY. whether men, prayers, or anything else. Cor. 1. 7 ; Cym. iv. 2. Ceremony, sb. a ceremonial vestment, re- ligious rite, or anything ceremonial. J. C. 1. 1; Mac. m. 4. Certes, adv. certainly. 0th. 1. 1. Cess, sb. rate, reckoning. 1 H. IV. li. 1. Chace, sb. a term at tennis. H. V. i. 2. Chamber, sb. a species of great gun. 2 H. IV. 11. 4. Chamberer, sb. an effeminate man. Oth. III. 3. Chattson, sb. a song. Ham. n. 2. Charact, sb. afTected quality. M. for M. v. 1. Character, sb. a letter, handwriting. Lear, 1.2. Character, v.t. to carve or engrave. Two Gent. u. 7 ; Ham. i. 3. Charaetery, sb. handwriting. Merry Wives, V. 5. That which is written. J. C. II. 1. Chare, sb. a turn of work. A. & C. iv. 13. Charge-house, sb. a free-school. L's L's L. V. 1. Charles' wain, sb. the constellation called also Ursa Major, or the Great Bear. 1 H. IV. 11. 1. Ctmrneco, sb. a species of sweet wine. 2 H. VI. u. 3. Chaudron, sb. entrails. Mac. iv. 1. Cheater, sb. for escheator, an officer who collected the fines to be paid into the Exchequer. Merry Wives, i. 3. A decoy. 2 H. IV. 11. 3. Chech, v.i. a technical term in falconry ; when a falcon flies at a bird which is not her proper game she is said to check at it. Tw. N. 11. 5. Checks, sb. perhaps intended for ethics. Tam. of S. 1. 1. Cheer, sb. fortune, countenance. Temp. 1. 1. Clterry-pit, sb. a game played with cherry- stones. Tw. N. III. 4. C/teveril, sb. kid leather. R. & J. n. 4. Chewit, sb. chough. 1 H. IV. v. 1. Childing, adj. pregnant. M. N's Dr. ii. 2. Ch'in, vulgar for ' I will.' Lear, iv. 6. Chirurgeonly, adv. in a manner becom- ing a surgeon. Temp. ii. 1. Chopin, sb. a high shoe or clog. Ham. n. 2. Christendom, sb. the state of being a Christian. John, iv. 1. Name. All 's Well, 1.1. Christom, adj. clothed with a chrisom, the white garment which used to be put on newly-baptized children. H. V. ii. 3. Chuck, sb. chicken, a term of endearment. Mac. HI. 2. Chuff, sb. a coarse blunt clown. 1 H. IV. II. 2. Cinque pace, sb. a kind of dance. Much Ado, II. 1. Cipher, v.t. to decipher. Lucr. Circum.stance, sb. an argument. Two Gent. 1. 1 ; John, ii. 1. Cital, sb. recital. 1 H. IV. v. 2. Cite, v. to incite. Two Gent. ii. 4; 3 H. VI. II. 1. Cittern, sb. a guitar. L's L's L. v. 2. Clack-dish, sb. a beggar's dish. M. for M. III. 2. Clap V the clout, to shoot an arrow into the bull's eye of the target. 2 H. IV. in. 2. Claw, v.t. to flatter. Much Ado, i. 3. Clepe, v.t. to call. Ham. i. 4. Cliff, sb. clef, the key in music. T. & Cr. v. 2. Cling, v.t. to Starve. Mac. v. 5. Clinquant, adj. glittering. H. VIII. 1. 1. Clip, v.t. to embrace, enclose. 2 H. VI. iv. 1 ; Cor. I. 6 ; Oth. in. 3. Clout, sb. the mark in the middle of a tar- get. L's L's L. IV. 1. Coast, v.i. to advance. V. & A. Cobloaf, sb. a big loaf. T. & Or. II. 1. Cock, sb. a cockboat. Lear, iv. 6. Cock, sb. a euphemism for God. Tam. of S. IV. 1. Cock-and-pie, an oath. Merry Wives, 1. 1. Cockle, sb. tares or darnel. L's L's L. iv. 3. Cockney, sb. a cook. Lear, ii. 4. Cock-shut-time, sb. the twilight, when cocks and hens go to roost. R. III. v. 3. Cog, v.i. to cheat, dissemble. Merry Wives, III. 3. Cognisance, sb. badge, token. 1 H. VI. ii. 4. Coign,sb. projecting corner-stone. Mac. 1. 6. Coil, sb. tumult, turmoil. Temp. i. 2. Collection, sb. drawing a conclusion. Ham. IV. 5. Collied, p.p. blackened. Oth. ii. 3; M. N's Dr. 1. 1. Colour, sb. pretence. L's L's L. iv. 2. Colourable, adj. specious. Ibid. Colt, v.t. to defraud, befool. 1 H. IV. li. 2. Co-mart, sb. a joint bargain. Ham. 1. 1. CombinatCfp.p. betrothed. M. for M. in. 1. Combine, v.t. to bind. M. for M. iv. 3. Commodity, sb. interest, profit. M. of V. III. 3. Commonty, sb. used ludicrously for com- edy. Induction to Tam. of S. Compact, p.p. compacted, composed. M. N's Dr. V. 1. Comparative, adj. drawing comparisons. 1 H. IV. I. 2. Comparative, sb. rival. 1 H. IV. m. 2. Compare, sb. comparison. T. & Cr. ni. 2. Compassionate, adj. moving comparison. R. II. I. 3. Competitor, sb. one who seeks the same thing, an associate in any object. Two Gent. II. 6. Complement, sb. accomplishment. L's L's L. I. 1. Complexion, sb. passion. Ham. i. 4. Com,pose, v.i. to agree. A. & C. u. 2. Composition, sb. composition. Tim. iv. 3. Comptible, adj. tractable. Tw. N. l 5. Con, v.t. to learn by heart. M. N's Dr. i. 2. To acknowledge. All 's Well, rv. 3. Conceit, sb. conception, opinion, fancy. Two Gent. iii. 2. Concupy, sb. concubine. T. & Cr. v. 2. Condition, sb. temper, quality. M. of V. I. 2 ; Lear, 1. 1. Condolement, sb. grief. Ham. i. 2. Conduct, sb. escort. John, 1. 1. Confect, V. to make up into sweetmeats. Much Ado, IV. 1. Confound, v.t. to consume, destroy. 1 H. IV. I. 3 ; Cor. i. 6 ; Cym. I. 5. Conject, sb. conjecture. Oth. in. 3. Consign, v. to sign a common bond, to confederate, 2 H. IV. iv. 1. Consort, sb. company. Two Gent. iv. 1. Consort, v.t. to accompany. L's L's L. n. 1. Constancy, sb. consistency. M. N's Dr. v. 1. Constant, adj. settled, determined. Temp. II. 2 ; Lear, v. 1. Constantly, adv. firmly. M. for M. IV. 1. Conster, v.t. to construe. Tw. N. i. 4. Contemptible, adj. contemptuous. Much Ado, II. 3. Continent, sb. that which contains any- thing. Lear, in. 2 ; M. N's Dr. n. 2. That which is contained. 2 H. IV. ii. 4. Continuate, adj. uninterrupted. Tim. 1. 1. Contraction, sb. the marriage contract. Ham. in. 4. Contrary, v.t. to oppose. R. & J. I. 5. Contrive, v.i. to conspire. J. C. II. 3. v.t. to wear away. Tam. of S. i. 2. Control, v.t. to confute. Temp. i. 2. Convent, v.t. to convene, summon. H. VIII. V. 1. v.i. to be convenient. Tw. N. V.I. Convert, v.i. to change. Tim. iv. 1. Convertite, sb. a convert. As you Like it, v. 4. Convey, v.t. to manage. Lear, i. 2. To filch. Merry Wives, i. 3. Conveyance, sb. theft, fraud. 1 H. VI. I. 3. Convict, p.p. convicted. R. III. I. 4. Convicted, p.p. overpowered, vanquished. John, III. 4. A doubtful word. Convince, v.t. to conquer, subdue. Cym. 1.5. Convive, v.i. to feast together. T. & Cr. iv. 5. Convoy, sb. escort. All 's Well, iv. 3. Cony-catch, v.i. to cheat. Tam. of S. v. 1. Cony-catcJiing, pr.p. poaching, pilfering. Merry Wives, 1. 1. Cooling card, sb. used metaphorically for an insurmountable obstacle. 1 H. VI. v. 3. Copatain hat, a high-crowned hat. Tam. of S. V.I. Cope, v.t. to reward, to give in return. M. ofV. iv.l. Copped, p.p. rising to a cop or head. Per. 1.1. Copy, sb. theme. Com. of E. v. 1. Coragio (Italian), int. courage ! Temp. v. 1. Coram, an ignorant mistake for Quorum. Merry Wives, 1. 1. Coranto, sb. a lively dance. H. V. in. 5. Corinth, sb. a cant term for a brothel. Tim. II. 2. Corinthian, sb. a wencher. 1 H. IV. n. 4. Corky, adj. dry like cork. Lear, in. 7. Cornuto (Italian), sb. a cuckold. Merry Wives, in. 5. Corollary, sb. a surplus. Temp. iv. 1. Corporal, adj. corporeal, bodily. M. for M. III. 1. Corporal of the field, an aide-de-camp. L's L's L. in. 1. Corrival, sb. rival. 1 H. IV. I. 3. Costa/rd, sb. the head. R. III. i. 4. Coster-monger,adj. peddling, mercenary. 2 H. IV. I. 2. Cote, sb. a cottage. As you Like it, in. 2. Cote, v.t. to quote, instance. L's L's L. iv. 3. Cote, v.t. to come alongside, overtake. Ham. n. 2. Cot-quean, sb. an eifeminate man, molly- coddle. R. & J. IV. 4. Couehings, sb. crouchings. J. C. III. 1. Count confect, sb. a nobleman composed of affectation. Much Ado, iv. 1. Countenance, sb. fair shew. M. for M. v. 1. Counterfeit, sb. portrait. M. of V. in. 2. A piece of base coin. 1 H. IV. ii. 4. Counterpoint, sb. a counterpane. Tam. of S. II. 1. Countervail, v.t. to counterpoise, out- weigh. R. & J. II. 6. Country, adj. belonging to one's country. Oth. III. 3 ; Cym. I. 5. County, sb. count, earl. R. & J. I. 3. Couplement, sb. union. L's L's L. V. 2; Son. 19. Court holy-water, sb. flattery. Lear, in. 2. Covent, sb. a convent. M. for M. IV. 3. Cover, v.t. to lay the table for dinner. M. of V. III. 5 ; As you Like it, ll. 5. Cowish, adj. cowardly. Lear, iv. 2. Cowl-staff, sb. the staff on which a vessel is supported between two men. Merry Wives, III. 3. Cox my passion, an oath, a euphemism for " God's Passion." All 's Well, v. 2. Coy, v.t. to stroke, fondle. M. N's Dr. iv. i. D.l to condescend with difficulty. Cor. v.i. Coystril, sb. a kestrel, a cowardly kind of hawk. Tw. N. i. 3. Cozen, v.t. to cheat. M. of V. n. 9. Cozenage, sb. cheating. Merry Wives, iv. 5. 873 GLOSSARY. Cozener, sb. a cheater. 1 H. IV. I. 3. Coxier, sb. a tailor. Tw. N. II. 3. Crack, v.i. to boast. L's L's L. iv. 3. Crack, sb. a loud noise, clap. Mac. lY. 1. A forward boy. 2 H. IV. in. 2. Cracker, sb. boaster. John, ii. 1. Crack-hemp, sb. a gallows-bird. Tarn, of S. V. 1. Crank, sb. a winding passage. Cor. 1. 1. Cranking, pr.p. winding. 1 H. IV. m. 1. Crants, sb. garlands. Ham. v. 1. A doubt- ful word. Crare, sb. a ship of burden. Cym. iv. 2. Craven, sb. a dunghill cock. Tam. of S. n. 1. Create, p.p. formed, compounded. H. V. n. 2. Credent, adj. creditable. M. for M. iv. 4. Credible. Wint. Tale, i. 2. Credulous, Ham. I. 3. Credit, sb. report. Tw. N. iv. 3. Crescive, adj. increasing. H. V. 1. 1. Crestless, adj. not entitled to bear arms, lowborn. 1 H. VI. ii. 4. Crisp, adj. curled, winding. Temp. iv. 1, Cross, sb. a piece of money, so called be- cause coin was formerly stamped with a cross. As you Like it, ii. 4. Crow-keeper, sb. one who scares crows. Lear, xv. 6. Crowner, sb. a coroner. Ham. v. 1. Crownet, sb. a coronet. A. & C. v. 2. Cry, sb. the yelping of hounds. M. ITe Dr. IV. 1. A pack of hounds. Ibid. iv. 1. A company, used contemptuously. Ham. III. 2. Cry aim, v.t. to encourage. John, ii. 1. Cue, sb. the last words of an actor's speech, which is the signal for the next actor to begin. Lear, i. 2. Cuisses, sb. pieces of armour to cover the thighs. 1 H. IV. IV. 1. Cullion, sb. a base fellow. Tam. of S. iv. 2. Cunning, sb. skill. Induction to Tam. of S. Cunning, adj. skilful. Ibid. Curb, v.i. to bend, truckle. Ham. in. 4. Currents, sb. occurrences. 1 H. IV. u. 3. Curst, adj. petulant, shrewish. Tam. of S. 1.2. Curstness, sb. shrewishness. A. &. C. n. 2. Curtail, sb. a cur. Com. of E. in. 2. Curtal, sb. a docked horse. All 's Well, il. 3. Curtal-axe, sb. a cutlass. As you Like it, CustaZorum, a ludicrous mistake for Gus- tos Rotulorum. Merry Wives, 1. 1. Custard-coffin, sb. the crust of a custard- pudding. Tam. of S. IV. 3. Customer, sb. a common woman. Oth.iv.l. Cut, sb. a cheat. Tw. N. ii. 3. ' To draw cuts ' is to draw lots. Com. of E. v. 1. Cypress, sb. a kind of crape. Tw. N. in. 1. Daff, v.t. to befool. Much Ado, iv. 1. To put off; this seems to be a corruption of ' doff.' Ibid. II. 3. Damn, v.t. to condemn. J. C. iv. 1. Danger, sb. reach, control, power. M. of _V. IV. 1. xranshef, sb. a Dane. Ham. II. 1. Dare, v.t. to Challenge. 2 H. VI. III. 2. Darkling, adv. in the dark. M. N's Dr. II. 2. Darraign, v.t. to set in array. 3 H. VI. ii. 2. Daub, v.t. to disguise. Lear, iv. 1. Daubery, sb. imposition. Merry Wives, IV. 2. Day-woman, sb. a dairy-maid. L's L's L. 1.2. Dear, adj. dire. Tim. v. 1. That which has to do with the affections. R. II. 1. 1 ; R. & J. III. 3. Piteous. T. A. ni. 1 Im- portant. Lear, iv. 3. 874 Dearn, adj. lonely. Per. ni. (Gower). Deboshed, p.p. debauched, drunken. Temp. III. 2. Deck, v.t. to bedew. This is probably a form of the verb ' to dag,' now a provin- cial word. Temp. i. 2. Deck, sb. a pack of cards. 3 H. VI. v. 1. Decline, v.i. to enumerate, as in going through the cases of a noun. T. & Cr. ii. 3. Declined, p.p. fallen. T. & Cr. in. 3. Deem, sb. doom, judgment. T. & Cr. iv. 4. Defeat, v.t. to undo, destroy. 0th. i. 3 ; iv. 2. Defeat, sb. destruction. Much Ado, iv. 1. Defeature, sb. disfigurement. Com. of E. 11.1. Defence, sb. art of fencing. Tw. N. ni. 4. Defend, v.t. to forbid. Much Ado, n. 1. Defensible, adj. having the power to de- fend. 2 H. IV. II. 3. Deftly, adv. dexterously. Mac. iv. 1. Defy, v.t. renounce. 1 H. IV. I. 3. Degrees, sb. a step. J. C. 11. 1. Delay, v.t. to let slip by delaying. Cor. 1. 6. Demerit, sb. merit, desert 0th. l. 2. Demurely, adv. solemnly. A. & C. TV. 9. Denay, sb. denial. Tw. N. n. 4. Denier, sb. the 12th part of a French aol. R. III. I. 2. Denotement, sb. -m&TMng. 0th. II. 8. Note or manifestation. Ibid. iii. 3. Deny, v.t. to refuse. Tim. ui. 2. Depart, sb. departure. 2 H. VI. 1. 1. Depart, v.t. to part. L's L's L. ii. 1. Departing, sb. parting, separation. 3 H. VI. n. 6. Depend, v.i. to be in service. Lear, I. 4. Derived, p.p. born, descended. Two Gent. V. 4. Derogate, p.p. degraded. Lear, i. 4. Descant, sb. a variation upon a melody, hence, metaphorically, a comment on a given theme. Two Gent. i. 2. Design, v.t. to draw up articles. Ham. 1. 1. Despatch, v.t. to deprive, bereave. Ham. 1.5. Desperate, adj. determined, bold. R. & J. ni. 4. Detect, v.t. to charge, blame. M. for M. iii. 2. Determine, v.t. to conclude. Cor. in. 3. Dich, v.i. optative mood, perhaps con- tracted for ' do it.' Tim. i. 2. Diet, sb. food regulated by the rules of medicine. Two Gent. ii. 1. Diet, v.t. to have one's food regulated by the rules of medicine. All 's Well, iv. 3. IHffused,p.p. confused. Merry Wives, iv. 4. Digressing, pr.p. transgressing, going out of the right way. R. II. v. 3. Digression, sb. transgression. L's L's L.i.2. Dig-you-good-den, int. give you good evening. L's L's L. iv. 1. Dildo, sb. the chorus or burden of a song. Wint. Tale, iv. 3. IKnt, sb. stroke. J. C. in. 2. Di/rection, sb. judgment, skill. R. III. V. 3. Disable, v.t. to disparage. As you Like it, IV. 1. Disappointed, p.p. unprepared. Ham. i. 5. Disease, v.r. to undress. Wint. Tale, iv. 3. Discontent, sb. a malcontent. A. & C. I. 4. Discourse, sb. power of reasoning. Ham. IV. 4. Disdained, p.p. disdainful. 1 H. IV. i. 3. Dislimn, v.t. to disfigure, transform. A. & C. IV. 12. Disme, sb. a tenth or tithe. T. & Cr. n. 2. Dispark, v.t. to destroy a park. R. II. in. 1. Disponge, v.i. to squeeze out as from a sponge. A. & C. iv. 9. Dispose, sb. disposal. Two Gent. iv. 1. Dispose, v.i. to conspire. A. & C. iv. 12. Disposition, sb. maintenance. 0th. i. 3. IHsputable, adj. disputatious. As you Like it, II. 5. Dispute, v.t. to argue, examine. Oth. i. 2. Dissembly, sb. used ridiculously for as- sembly. Much Ado, IV. 2. Distaste, v.t. to corrupt. T. & Cr. II. 2. Distempered, adj. discontented. John, IV. 3. Distraction, sb. a detached troop or com- pany of soldiers. A. & C. in. 7. ZWatrattgrAt, p.p. distracted, mad. R. III. HI. 5. Diverted, p.p. turned from the natural course. As you Like it, n. 3. Division,, sb. a phrase or passage In a melody. R. & J. iii. 5. Divulged, p.p. published, spoken of. Tw. N. I. 5. Doff, v.t. to do off, strip. Tam. of S. in. 2. To put off with an excuse. 0th. iv. 2. Doit, sb. a small Dutch coin. Temp. n. 2. Dole, sb. portion dealt. Merry Wives, ni. 4 ; 2 H. IV. 1. 1. Grief, lamentation. M. N's Dr. V. 1. Don, v.t. to do on, put on. T. A. i. 2 ; Ham. IV. 5. Done, p.p. ' done to death,' put to death. 2 H. VI. in. 2. Dotant, sb. one who dotes, a dotard. Cor. V.2. Dout, v.t. to do out, quench. Ham. i. 4. Dowlas, sb. a kind of coarse sacking. 1 H. IV. in. 3. Dowle, sb. the swirl of a feather. Temp. III. 3. Down-gyved, adj. hanging down like gyves or fetters. Ham. ii. 1. Drab, sb. a harlot. Wint. Tale, iv. 2. Drubbing, pr.p. whoring. Ham. ll. 1. DraugJU, sb. a privy. T. A. v. 1. Drawn, p.p. having his sword drawn. Temp. n. 1. Drawn, p.p. drunk, having taken a good draught. Ibid. Dribbling, adj. weak. M. for M. I. 4. Drive, v.i. to rush impetuously. T. A. li. 3. Drollery, sb. a puppet-show. Temp. in. 3. Drumble, v.i. to dawdle. Merry Wives, ni. 3. Dry, adj. thirsty. Temp. i. 2. Duc-dame, perhaps the Latin duc-ad-me, bring him to me. As you Like it. Dudgeon, sb. a dagger. Mac. ii. 1. Ihtll, adj. soothing. 2 H. IV. iv. 4. Dullard, sb. a dull person. Cym. v. 5. Dump, sb. complaint. Two Gent. in. 2. Dup, v.t. to do up, lift up. Ham. iv. 5. j. sour. Ham. i. 5. Harsh. 3 H. VI. II. 6. Biting. Ham. 1. 4. Eanling, sb. a yeanling, a lamb. M. of V. JSwr, v.t. to plough. All's Well, i. 3. Hche, v.t. to eke out. Per. in. (Gower). Ecstacy, sb. madness. Temp. in. 3. Eft, adj. ready, convenient. Much Ado, IV. 2. Eisel, sb. vinegar. Ham. v. 1 ; Son, in. Eld, sb. old age. M. for M. ill. 1. Embossed, adj. swollen into protuber- ances. As you Like it, n. 7. Covered with foam. A. & C. iv. 11. Embowelled, p.p. disembowelled, emp- tied. All'sWell, I. 3. Embrasure, sb. embrace. T. & Cr. IV. 4. Eminence, sb. exalted station. Mac. ill. 2. Empery, sb. empire. H. V. i. 2. Emulation, sb. jealousy, mutiny. T. & Cr. II. 2. Emulous, adj. jealous. T. & Cr. iv. 1. Encave, v.r. to place oneself in a cave, 0th. IV. 1. GLOSSARY. End, sb. 'Still an end,' continually for ever. Two Gent. iv. 4. Enfeoff, v.t to place in possession in fee simple. 1 H. IV. m. 2. JEnffine, ib. a machine of war. T. & Cr.ll. 3. Englut, v.t. to swallow speedily. Tim. n. 2. Engross, v.t. to make gross or fat. E. III. III. 7. Engrossment, sb. immoderate acquisi- tion. 2 H. IV. IV. 4. Enkindle, v.t. to make keen. Mac. i. 3. Enmew, v.t. to shut up, as a hawk is shut up in a mew. M. for M. m. 1. Ensconce, v.t. to cover as with a fort. Merry Wives, ii. 2. Enseamed, p.p. fat, rank. Ham. ni. 4. Enshield, p.p. hidden. M. for M. ll. 4. Entertain, v.t. encounter. H. V. l. 2. Ex- Entertaintnent, sb. treatment. Temp. i. 2. A disposition to entertain a proposal. Merry Wives, i. 3. Service. All's Well, IV. 1. Entreatments, sb. interviews. Ham. I. 3. Ephesian, sb. a toper, a cant term. Merry " Wives, IV. 5. Equipage, sb. attendance. Merry Wives, U.2. Erewhile, adv. a short time since. As you Like it, ii. 4. Escot, v.t. to pay a man's reckoning, to maintain. Ham. ii. 2. Esperance, sb. hope, used as a wai-cry. IH. IV. V. 2; T. &Cr. V. 2. Espial, sb. a scout or spy. 1 H. VI. iv. 3. Estimation, sb. conjecture. 1 H. IV. I. 3. Estridge, sb. ostridge. 1 H. IV. IV. 1. Eterne, adj. eternal. Mac. m. 2. Even, adj. coequal. Ham. v. 1. Even, v.t. to equal. All 's Well, I. 3; Cym. ni. 4. Exatnine, v.t. to question. All's Well, in. 5. Excrem-ent, sb. that which grows out- wardly from the body and has no sen- sation, like the hair or nails. L's L's L. V. 1; Ham. in. 4. Any outward show. M. of V. m. 2 ; Wint. Tale, iv. 3. Executor, sb. an executioner. H. V. i. 2. Exempt, adj. excluded. 1 H. VI. n. 4. Exercise, sb. a religious service. E. III. m. 2. Exhale, v.t. to hale or draw out. E. III. i. 2 ; v.i. to draw the sword. H. V. n. 1. Exhibition, sb. allowance, pension. Two Gent. I. 3. Exigent, sb. death, ending. 1 H. VI. n. 5. Exion, sb. ridiculously used for ' action.' 2 H. IV. u. 1. Expect, sb. expectation. T. & Cr. i. 3. Expedience, sb. expedition, undertaking. A. & C. I. 2. Haste. E. II. n. 1. Expedient, adj. expeditious, swift. John, II. 1. Expiate, p.p. completed. E. III. ui. 3. Expostulate, v.t. to expound, discuss. Ham. II. 2. Exposture, sb. exposure. Cor. iv. 1. Express, v.t. to reveal. Wint. Tale, in. 2. Expulse, v.t. to expel. 1 H. VI. in. 3. Exsxifficate, adj. that which has been hissed off, contemptible. Tw. N. in. 3. Extend, v.t. to seize. A. &. C. I. 2. Extent, sb. a seizure. As you Like it, in.l. Extern, adj. outward. 0th. i. 1. Extirp, v.t. to extirpate. M. for M. m. 2. Extracting, adj. distracting. Tw. N. v. L Extraught, part, extracted, descended. SH.VLll. 2. Extravagant, adj. foreign, wandering. 0th. 1. 1. Extremes, sb. extravagance of conduct. Wint. Tale, iv. 3. Extremities. E. & J. IV. 1. Egos, sb. a nestling hawk. Ham. n. 2. Eyas-musket, sb. a nestling of the musket or merlin, the smallest species of British hawk. Merry Wives, iii. 3. Eye, sb. a glance, oeiUad. Temp. i. 2. Eye, sb. a shade of color, as in shot silk. Temp. n. 1. Eyne, sb. pi. eyes. L's L's L. v. 2. Facinorous, adj. wicked. All 's Well, n. 3. Fact, sb. guilt Wint. Tale, in. 2. Factious, adj. instant, importunate. J. C. Faculty, sb. essential virtue or power. H. V. 1. 1. Fadge, v.i. to suit. Tw. N. ll. 2. Fading, sb. a kind of ending to a song. Wint. Tale, iv. 3. Fain, adj. glad. 2 H.VI. n. 1. Fain, adv. gladly. Lear, i. 4. Fair, sb. beauty. As you Like it, m. 2. Faitor, sb. a traitor. 2 H. IV. n. 4. FaU, v.t. to let fall. Temp. n. 1. Fallow, adj. fawn-coloured. Merry Wives, 1. 1. False, sb. falsehood. M. for M. n. 4. Falsing, adj. deceptive. Com. of E. n. 2. Familiar, sb. a familiar spirit. 2 H. VI. IV. 7. Fancy, sb. All's Well, V. 3. Fancy-free, adj. untouched by love. M. N's Dr. n. 2. Fang, v.t. to seize in the teeth. Tim. iv. 3. Fantastic, sb. a fantastical person. E. & J. U. 4. Fap, adj. drunk. Merry Wives, 1. 1. Far, adv. farther. Wint. Tale, iv. 4. Farced, p.p. stuffed. H. V. IV. 1. Fardel, sb. a burden. Wint. Tale, iv. 4. Fartuous, adj. used ridiculously for ' vir- tuous.' Merry Wives, n. 2. Fast, adv. assuredly, unalterably. M. for M.I. 3; 2H.VL V. 2. Fat, adj. dull. 1 H. IV. I. 2. Favour, sb. countenance. M. for M. iv. 2. Complexion. T.&Cr. 1. 2. Quality. Lear, 1.4. Fear, sb. the object of fear. Ham. in. 3. Fear, v.t. to affright. A. & C. II. 6. Fearfttl, adj. subject to fear, timorous. Temp. I. 2. Feat, adj. dexterous. Cym. v. 5. Feat, v.t. to make fine. Cym. 1. 1. Feater, adv. comp. degree, more neatly. Temp. II. 1. Featly, adv. nimbly, daintily. Temp. i. 2. Feature, sb. beauty. Cym. v. 5. Federa/ry, sb. confederate. Wint. Tale, u. 1. Feeder, sb. agent, servant. As you Like it, II. 4. Fee-grief, sb. a grief held, as it were, in fee-simple, or the peculiar property of him who possesses it. Mac. iv. 3. Feere, sb. a companion, husband. T. A. IV. 1. Fehemently, adv. used ridiculously for ' vehemently.' Merry Wives, in. 1. Fell, sb. the hide. As you Like it, in. 2. Fence, sb. art or skill in defence. 2 H. VI. II. 1. Feodary, sb. one who holds an estate by suit or service to a superior lord ; hence one who acts under the direction of an- other. Cym. in. 2. Fester, v.i. to rankle, grow virulent. Cor. Fe.stinately, adv. quickly. L's L's L. in. 1. Fet, p.p. fetched. H. V. in. 1. Flco, sb. a fig. Merry Wives, i. 3. melded, adj. in the field of battle. Cor. i. 4. Fig, v.t. to insult. 2 Hen. IV. v. 3. Fights, sb. clothes hung round a ship to conceal the men from the enemy. Merry Wives, II. 2. File, sb. a Ust or catalogue. Mac. v. 2. File, v.t. to defile. Mac. in. 1. To smooth or polish. L's L's L. To make even. H. VIII. in. 2. Fill-horse, sb. shaft-horse. M. of V. n. 2. Fills, sb. the shafts. T. & Cr. in. 2. Filth, sb. a whore. Tun. iv. 1. Fine, sb. end. Ham. v. i. Fine, v.t. to make fine or specious. H. V. l. 2. Fineless, adj. endless. 0th. in. 3. Firago, sb. ridiculously used for ' Virago.' Tw. N. ni. 4. Fire-drahe, sb. WUl o' the Wisp. H. VIII. V. 3. Fire-neto, adj. with the glitter of novelty on, like newly-forged metal. E. III. i. 3. Firk, v.t. to chastise. H. V. iv. 4. Fit, sb. a canto or division of a song. T. & Cr. m. 1. A trick or habit. H. VIII. i. 3. Fitchew, sb. a polecat. Lear, iv. 6. Fives, sb. a disease incident to horses. Tam. ofS. Flap- dragon, sb. raisins in burning brandy. L's L's L. v. 1. Flap-Jack, sb. a pan-cake. Per. n. 1. Flat, adj. certain. 1 H. IV. IV. 2. Flatness, sb. lowness, depth. Wint. Tale, in. 2. Flaw, sb. a gust of wind. 2 H. IV. iv. 4. Metaph. sudden emotion, or the cause of it. Mac. in. 4 ; A. & C. ni. 10. Flaw, v.t. to make a flaw in, to break. H. VIII. 1. 1. Flecked, p.p. spotted, streaked. E. & J. n. 3. Fleet, v.i. to float. A. & C. ni. 11. To pass away. A. & C. i. 3. v.t. to pass the time. As you Like it, 1. 1. Fleeting, pr.p. inconstant. E. III. I. 4. Fleshment, sb. the act of fleshing the sword, hence the first feat of arms. Lear, II. 2. Flewed, adj. furnished with hanging lips, as hounds are. M. N's Dr. iv. 1. Flight, sb. a particular mode of practising archery. Much Ado, 1. 1. Flirt-gill, sb. a light woman. E. & J. II. 4. Flote, sb. wave, sea. Temp. i. 2. Flourish, sb. an ornament. L's L's L. iv. 3. Flourish, v.t. to ornament, disguise with ornament. M. for M. iv. 1. Flush, adj. fresh, full of vigour. A. & C. 1.4. Foil, sb. defeat, disadvantage. Temp. in. 1. Foin, v.i. to fence, fight. Merry Wives, n. 3. Foison, sb. plenty. Temp. u. 1. Fond, adj. foolish, foolishly affectionate. 0th. I. 3; IV. 1. Foot-cloth, sb. a saddle-cloth hanging down to the ground. 2 H. VI. iv. 7. For, eonj. for that, because. M. for M. ii. 1. Forbid, p.p. accursed, outlawed. Mac. 1. 3. Forbade, p.p. forhidden. Lover's Com. Force, v.i. to stuff, for ' farce.' T. & Cr. v. 5. Forced,p.p. falsely attributed. Wint. Tale, 11.3. Fordo, v.t. to kill, destroy. Lear, v. 3. To weary. M. N's Dr. v. 2. Foreign, adj. obliged to live abroad. H. VIII. n. 2. Forepast, adj. former. All 's Well, v. 3. Foreslow, v.i. to delay. 3 H. VI. Ii. 3. Forfend, v.t. forbid. Wint. Tale, IV. 3. Forgetive, adj. inventive. 2 H. IV. iv. 3. Forked, adj. horned. Wint. Tale, i. 2 : 0th. in. 3. Formal, adj. regular, retaining its proper and essential characteristic. Com. of K. V. 1 ; A. & C. n. 5. 875 GLOSSARY. 4 Forspeak, v.t. to speak against. A. & C. III. 7. forspent, p.p. exhausted, weary. 2 H. IV. Forthright, sb. a straight path; forth- rights and meanders, straight paths and crooked ones. Temp. in. 3. Forweary, v.t. to weary, exhaust. John, U. 1. Fosset-seller, sb. one who sells the pipes inserted into a vessel to give vent to the liquor, and stopped by a spigot. Cor. ii. 1. Fox, sb. a sword ; a cant word. H. V. iv. 4. Fox-ship, sb. the cunning of the fox. Cor. IV. 2. M-ampold, adj. peevish, unquiet. Merry Wives, n. 2. I^anh, sb. the feeding-place of swine. 2 H. IV. n. 2. Pranked, p.p. confined. R. III. i. 3. Franklin, sb. a freeholder, a small squire. Cym. III. 2. Fraught, p.p. freighted. M. of V. ll. 8. Fraughtage, sb. freight. Com. of E. IV. 1. F^atighting, pr. p. of v. to fraught ; load- ing or constituting the cargo of a ship. Temp. I. 2. Fresh, sb. a spring of fresh water. Temp. III. 2. F^et, sb. the stop of a guitar. Tam. of S. ii. 1. Xi-et, v.t. to wear away. R. II. lu. 3 ; Lear, I. 4. To variegate. J. C. il. 1. Friend, v.t. to befriend. H. VIII. i. 2. Foppery, sb. an old-clothes shop. Temp. IV. 1. From, prep, contrary to. Ham. in. 2. Front, v.t. to affront, oppose. A. & C. ll. 2. Frontier, sb. opposition. 1 H. IV. I. 3. Frontlet, sb. that which is worn on the forehead. Lear, i. 4. Frush, v.t. to break or bruise. T. & Cr. v. 6. Frustrate, p.p. frustrated. A. & C. V. 1. Fub off, v.t. to put off. 2 H. IV. n. 1. Fulfill, v.t. to fill full. Prol. to T. & C. Full, adj. complete. 0th. n. 1. Fallani, sb. a loaded die. Merry Wives, i. 3. Fulsome, adj. lustful. M. of V. I. 3. Furnished, p. p. equipjieA. WintTale, iv.3. F^mitor, sb. fumitory, an herb. Lear, iv.4. Gaberdine, sb. a loose outer coat, or smock frock. Temp. ii. 2 ; M. of V. i. 3. Gad, sb. a pointed instrument, a goad. T. A. IV. 1. Upon the gad, with impetuous haste, upon the spur of the moment. Lear, i. 2. Gain-giving, sb. misgiving. Ham. v. 2. Gait, sb. going, steps. Tw. N. i. 4. Galliard, sb. a kind of dance. Tw. N. i. 3. Galliasse, sb. a kind of ship. Tam. of S. Il.l. Gallima-Hfry, sb. a ridiculous medley. Wint. Tale, iv. 4. GallovB, v.t. to scare. Lear, in. 2. Gallou-glass, sb. the irregular infantry of Ireland, and the Highlands of Scotland. Mac. I. 2. Gamester, sb. a frolicsome person. H. VIII. 1. 4. A loose woman. All's Well,v.3. Garboil, sb. disorder, uproar. A. & C. I. 3. Garish, adj. gaudy, staring. R. III. iv. 4. Garner, v.t. to lay by, as corn in a barn. 0th. IV. 2. Gast, p.p. frightened. Lear, ii. 1. Gaudy, adj. festive. A. & C. ill. 13. Gaze, sb. an object of wonder. Mac. V. 7. Gear, sb. matter of business of any kind. M. of V. II. 2. Geek, sb. a fool. Cym. v. 4. General, sb. the generality, common peo- ple. M. for M. II. 4. Generations, sb. children. Wint. Tale,ll. 1. Generosity, sb. noble birth. Cor. 1. 1. 876 Generous, adj. noble. M. for M. 1. 1. Gentility, sb. good manners. L's L's L. 1. 1. Gentle, sb. gentlefolk. L's L's L. iv. 1. Gentle, adj. noble. Temp. I. 2. Gentle, v.t. to ennoble. H. V. iv. 3. Gentry, sb. complaisance, conduct be- coming gentlefolk. Ham. ll. 2. German, adj. akin. Wint. Tale, IV. 4. Ap- propriate. Ham. v. 2. Germen, sb. seed, embryo. Lear, in. 2. Gest, sb. period. Wint. Tale, I. 2. Gib, sb. a he-cat. Ham. in, 4. Gifts, sb. talents, endowment. Merry Wives, 1. 1. Giglot, sb. a wanton girl. M. for M. v. I. Gilder, sb. a coin of the value of Is. 6d. or 2s. Com. of E. IV. 1. Gilt, sb. money. H. V. ii. Ch. State of wealth. Tim. iv. 3. Gimmal, adj. double. H. V. iv. 2. Gimmor, sb. contrivance. 1 H. VI. I. 2. Ging, sb. gang. Merry Wives, IV. 2. Gird, v.i. to gibe. 2 H. IV. I. 2 ; Cor. 1. 1. Gird, sb. a sarcasm or gibe. Tam. of S. v. 2. Gleek, v.i. to scoff'. M. N's Dr. in. 1. Gleek, sb. a scoff. 1 H. VI. in. 2. Glose, v.i. to comment ; hence, to be gar- rulous. R. II. n. 1. Glut, V. to swallow. Temp. 1. 1. Gnarl, v.i. to snarl. R. II. i. 3 ; 2 H. VI. III. 1. Good-deed, adv. indeed. Wint. Tale, L 2. Good-den, int. good-evening, contracted from ' Good-evening.' John, 1. 1. Good-year or Good-Jer, sb. a corruption of the French goujere: the venereal dis- ease. Merry Wives, i. 4. Gorbellied, adj. corpulent. 1 H. IV. n. 2. Gourd, sb. a species of game of chance. Merry Wives, i. 3. Gout, sb. a drop. Mac. li. 1. Government, sb. discretion. 3 H. VI. I. 4. Gracious, adj. abounding in grace Divine. Ham. 1. 1. Grained, adj. engrained. Ham. in. i. Gt-amercy, int. grand mercy, much thanks. M. of V. ii. 2. Grange, sb. the farmstead attached to a monastery, a solitary farm-house. 0th. 1. 1. Gratillity, sb. used ridiculously for ' gra- tuity.' Tw. N. II. 3. G)-atulate, v.t to congratulate. T. A. I. 2. Grave, v.t. to bury. Tim. IV. 3. Greasily, adv. grossly. L's L's L. IV. 4. Greek, sb. a, bawd. Tw. N. IV. 1. Green, adj. immature, fresh, unused. R. III. II. 2; Tam. of S. in. 2. Greenly, adv. foolishly. Ham. IV. 5. Greet, v.i. to weep. T. A. i. 2. Grise, sb. a step. Tw. N. in. 1. Grossly, adv. palpably. H. V. n. 2. Groundling, sb. one who sits in the pit of a theatre. Ham. in. 2. Growing, pr.p. accruing. Com. of E. IV. 1. Guard, sb. decoration. M. for M. in. 1. Guard, v.t. to decorate. M. of V. n. 2. Guardage, sb. guardianship. 0th. I. 2. Guinea-hen, sb. the pintado, a cant term. 0th. I. 3. Gules, adj. red, a term in heraldry. Tim. IV. 3. Gulf, sb. the throat. Mac. iv. 1. Gun-stone, sb. a cannon-ball. Gust, sb. taste, relish. Tw. N. i. 3. Gyve, v.t. to fetter. 0th. n. 1. Hack, v.i. to become common. Merry Wives, II. 1., JXaggard, sb. a Wild or unreclaimed hawk. Tam. of S- iv 1 Sag-seed, sb. seed or offspring of a bag. Temp. I. 2. Hair, sb. course, order, grain. Merry Wives, II. 3. Malidom, sb. holiness, sanctification. Christian fellowship; used as an oath, and analogous to 'By my faith.' Two Gent. IV. 2. Hall, sb. an open space to dance in. R. & J. I. 5. Hallowmas, sb. All Hallows' Day. Two Gent. II. 1. Handsaw, sb. perhaps a corruption of Heronshaw ; a hern. Ham. ii. 2. Hap, sb. chance, fortune. Com. of E. 1. 1. Happily, adv. accidentally. Tam. of S. IV.4. Hardiment, sb. defiance, brave deeds. 1 H. IV. I. 3. Harlock, sb. charlock, wild mustard. Lear, iv. 4. Harry, v.t. to annoy, harass. A. & C. in. 3. Haught, adj. haughty. 3 H. VI. n. 1. Haunt, sb. company. Ham. iv. 1. Having, sb. property, fortune. Tw. N. in. 4. Haviour, sb. behaviour. Merry Wives, 1. 3. Hay, sb. a term in fencing. R. & J. n. 4. Heady, adj. violent, headlong. Com. of E. V.I. Heat, p.p. of v.t. ' to heat,' heated. M. of V. 1.1. Hebenon, sb. henbane. Ham. i. 5. Heft, sb. a heaving. Wint. Tale, n. 1. Heft, p.p. furnished with a handle ; hence, metaphorically, finished off, delicately formed. Lear, ii. 4. Helm, v.t. to steer, manage. M. for M. in. 2. Hence, adv. henceforward. 2 H. IV. v. 5. . Henchman, sb. a page or attendant. M. N's Dr. n. 2. Hent, v.t. to seize, take. M. for M. iv. 6; Wint. Tale, iv. 2. Hermit, sb. a beadsman, one bound to pray for another. Mac. i. 6. Hest, s6. command. Temp. in. 1. High, adv. used in composition with ad- jectives to heighten or emphasize their signification, as, high-fantastical. Tw. N. 1.1. Hight, p.p. called. L's L's L. 1. 1. HUd, p.p. held. Lucr. Hilding, sb. a paltry fellow. Cym. II. 3. Hint, sb. suggestion. Temp. i. 2. Hiren, sb. Qy. a prostitute, with a pun on the word ' iron.' 2 H. IV. ii. 4. Hit, v.i. to agree. Lear, 1. 1. Hoise, v.t. to hoist, heave up on high. 2 H. VI. 1. 1. Hoist, p.p. hoisted. Ham. in. 4. Holp, p.p. of the v. to help ; helped. John, Home, adv. to the utmost. Cor. n. 2 ; Cym. Tii. 5 ; Lear, in. 3. Honest, adj. chaste. 0th. iv. 2. Honesty, sb. chastity. As you Like it, in. 3. Honey-stalks, sb. the red clover. T. A.iv.4. Hoodman-blind, sb. the game now called blindmau's-buff. Ham. in. 4. Horn-mad, adj. probably, 'ham-mad,' that is, brain-mad. • Merry Wives, i. 4. Horologe, sb. a clock. 0th. n. 3. HoUhouse, sb. a brothel. M. for M. n. 1. Hox, v.t. to hamstring. Wint. Tale, i. 2. Hugger-mugger, sb. secresy. Ham. iv. 5. Hull, v.i. to drift on the sea like a wrecked ship. H. VIII. n. 4. Humourous, adj. fitful, or, perhaps, hur- ried. R. & J. II. 1. Hunt-counter, v.i. to follow the scent the wrong way. 2 H. IV. I. 2. Hunts-up, sb. a holla used in hunting when the game was on fool. E. & J. in. 5. Hurly,sb. noise, confusion. Tam.ofS.lv.L Huitle, v.i. to clash. J. C. n. 2. GLOSSARY. Burtling, sb. noise, confusion. As you Like It, IV. 3. husbandry, sb. frugality. Mac. II. 1. Man- agement. M. of V. III. 4. Buswife, sb. a jUt. Cor. i. 3. lee-brook, sb. an icy-cold brook. 0th. v. 2. I'fecks, int. in faith, a euphemism. Wint. Tale, I. 2. Ignotny, sb. ignominy. 1 H. IV. v. 4. Image, sb. representation. Ham. III. 2. Imbare, v.t. to bare, lay open. H. V. I. 2. jrm»iedtacy,sb. close connexion. Lear,v.3. Xmtnoment, adj. unimportant. A. & C. v. 2. Imp, v.t. to graft, to splice a falcon's broken feathers. R. II. ii. 1. Imp, sb. a scion, a child. 2 H. IV. v. 5. Im.paum, v.t. to stake, compromise. H. V. 1.2. Impeach, v.t. to bring into question. M. N's Dr. II. 2. Impeach, sb. impeachment. C. of E. v. 1. Impeachment, sb. cause of censure, hin- drance. Two Gent. i. 3. Im,perceiverant, adj. dull of perception. Cym. IV. 1. Impeticos, v.t. to pocket. Tw. N. ii. 3. Importance, sb. Importunity. Tw. N. v. 1. Important, adj. importunate. C. of E. v. 1 ; Lear, iv. 4. Importing, adj. significant. All's Well, V. 3. Im.pose, sb. impasition, meaning com- mand or task imposed upon any one. Two Gent. iv. 3. Imposition, sb. command. M. of V. i. 2. Imprese, sb. a device with a motto. R. II. III. 1. Im.press, v.t. to compel to serve. Mac. iv. 1. Incapable, adj. unconscious. Ham. iv. 7. Incamardine, v.t. to dye red. Mac. ll. 2. Incensed, p.p. incited, egged on. R. III. III. 1. Inch-meal, sb. by inch-meal, by portions of inches. Temp. ii. 2. Inclining, adj. compliant. Oth. II. 3. Inclining, sb. inclination. Ham. ii. 2. Inclip, v.t. to embrace. A. & C. ii. 7. Include, v.t. conclude. Two Gent. v. 4. Ineony, adj. fine, delicate. L's L's L. iii. 1. Incorrect, adj. ill-regulated. Ham. i. 2. Ind, sb. India. Temp. ii. 2. Indent, v.i. to compound or bargain. 1 H. IV. r. 3. Index, sb. a preface. R. III. iv. 4; Ham. III. 4. Indifferent, adj. ordinary. Ham. ii, 2. Indigest, adj. disordered. Son. 114. Indite, v.t. to invite. R. & J. ii. 4. To con- vict. Ham. II. 2. Induction, sb. introduction, beginning. 1 H. IV. ii:. 1. Indurance, sb. delay. H. VIII. v. 1. Infinite, sb. infinite power. Much Ado, ii.3. Ingraft, part, of v. to engraflf, engrafted. Oth. II. 3. Inhabitable, adj. uninhabitable. R. II. l.l. Inherit, v.t. to possess. Two Gent. III. 2. Inhooped, p.p. penned up in hoops. A. & C. II. 3. Inkhom-mate, sb. a contemptuous term for an ecclesiastic, or man of learning. 1 H. VI. III. 1. Inkle, sb. a kind of narrow fillet or tape. Wint. Tale, iv. 3. Inland, adj. civilized, well-educated. As you Like it, iii. 2. Inly, adj. inward. Two Gent. n. 7. InZy, adv. inwardly. Temp. v. 1. Inquisition, sb. enquiry. Temr). l. 2. Insane, adj. that which causes insanity. Mac. I. 3. Insconce, v.t. to arm, fortify. Com. of E. II. 2. Instance, sb. example. Tw. N. iv. 3. In- formation. 2 H. IV. III. 1. Reason, proof. H. V. n. 2 ; Merry Wives, ll. 2. Intend, v.i. to pretend. Tam. of S. iv. 1. Intending, pr.p. regarding. Tim. ii. 2. Intendment, sb. intention. Oth. iv. 2. Intentively, adv. attentively. Oth. i. 3. Interessed, p.p. allied. Lear, i. 1. Intermission, sb. pause, delay. Mac. iv. 3. IntrencJimeut, adj. not capable of being cut. Mac. v. 7. Intrinse, adj. intricate. Lear, ll. 2. Intrinsicate, adj. intricate. A. & C. v. 2. Invention, sb. imagination. Mac. iii. 1. Inward, sb. an intimate friend. M. for M. III. 2. adj. intimate. R. III. iii. 4. Inwardness, sb. intimacy. Much Ado, IV. 1. IrreguUnis, adj. lawless, licentious. Cym. IV. 2. Iteration, sb. reiteration. 1 H. IV. i. 2. tlack, sb. a mean fellow. R. III. I. 3. Jack-a-lent, sb. a puppet thrown at in Lent. Merry Wives, v. 5. t/acfc guardant, sb. a jack in office. Cor. V.2. Jade, v.t. to whip, to treat with contempt. H. VIII. III. 2; A. &C. lU. L Jar, sb. the ticking of a clock. Wint. Tale, 1.2. Jar, v.i. to tick as a clock. R. II. y. 5. Jaunce, v.i. to prance. R. II. v. 5. Jess, sb. a strap of leather attached to the talons of a hawk, by which it is held on the fist. Oth. III. 3. Jest, v.i. to tilt in a tournament. R. II. 1. 3. Jet, v.i. to strut. Tw. N. ii. 5. Journal, adj. daily. Cym. IV. 2. Jovial, adj. appertaining to Jove. Cym. v. 4. Judicious, adj. critical. Merry Wives, 1. 3. Jum.p, v.i. to agree. 1 H. IV. I. 2. v.t to hazard. Cym. v. 4. Jump, sb. hazard. A. & C. III. 8. Jump, adv. exactly, nicely. Oth. ii. 3. Justicer,sb. a judge, magistrate. Lear, iii. 6. Jut, v.i. to encroach. R. III. li. 4. Jutty, sb. a projection. Mac. I. 6. Jutty, v.i. to jut out beyond. H. V. III. 1. Juvenal, s5. youth, young man. L's L's L. 1.2. Sam, adj. crooked. Cor. iii. 1. Secksy, sb. hemlock. H. V. v. 2. Keech, sb. a lump of tallow. H. VIII. 1. 1. Keel, v.t. to skim. L's L's L. v. 2. Keep, v.r. to restrain. Two Gent. iv. 4. Keep, sb. keeping, custody. Tam. of S. i. 2. Keisar, sb. Caesar, Emperor. Merry Wives, 1.3. Kern, sb. the rude foot soldiers of the Irish. Mac. I. 2. Kibe, s5. a chilblain. Temp. ii. 1. Kickshaw, sb. a made dish. 2 H. IV. V. 1. Kicksy wicksy, sb. a wife, used in dis- dain. All 's Well, II. 3. Kiln-hole, sb. the ash-hole under a kiln. Merry Wives, iv. 2. Kind, s5. nature. A. & C. v. 2; T. A. II. 1. Kindle, v.i. to bring forth young; used only of beasts. As you Like it, iii. 2. Kindless, adj. unnatural. Ham. ii. 2. Kindly, adj. natural. Much Ado, iv. 1. Kirtle, sb. a gown. 2 H. IV. II. 4. Knap, v.t. to snap, crack. M. of V. III. 1. Knave, sb. a boy. J. C. IV. 3. A serving- man. All's Well, II. 4. Knot, sb. a figure in garden beds. R. II. III. 4. Snow., v.t. to acknowledge. Mac. n. 2. labraa, sb. lips. Merry Wives, 1. 1. £ace love, sb. a tune so called. Twe Gent. I. 2. Lightly, adv. easily, generally. Com. of E. IV. 4 ; R. III. in. 1. Like, v.t. to please. R. III. in. 4 : Lear, n. 2. Like, v.t. to liken, compare. 1 H. VI. iv. 6. Like, adj. likely. M. for M. v. i. Likelihood, sb. promise, appearance. R. III. ni. 4. Liking, sb. condition. 1 H. IV. ill. 3. Lirnbeck, sb. an alembick, a still. Mac. 1. 7. Limbo, or Limbo patrtim, sb. the place where good men under the Old Test were believed to be imprisoned till re- leased by Christ after his crucifixion. All 's Well, V. 3 ; H. VIII. v. 3. Lime, sb. bird-lime. Temp. iv. 1. Lime, v.t. to entangle as with 'c:"ri?-lime. Tw. N. III. 4. To smear with biro-Iaae, 877 GLOSSARY. 2 H. VI. 1. 3. To mix lime with beer or other liquor. Merry Wives, i. 3. JArnn, v.t. to draw. As you Like it, ii. 7. Xine,v.t. to cover on the inside. Cym. II. 3. To strengthen by inner works. 1 H. IV. n. 3; 2H. IV. I. 3. Xinstock, sb. a staflf with a match at the end of it, used by gunners in firing can- non. H. V. III. Chorus. lilst, sb. a margin, hence a bound or en- closure. Tw. N. III. 1 ; 1 H. IV. IV. 1. Idther, adj. lazy. 1 H. VI. iv. 7. I/ittle, sb. miniature. Ham. ii. 2. Ziivelihood, sb. appearance of life. AU's Well, 1. 1. I/ivery, sb. a law phrase, signifying the act of delivering a freehold into the pos- session of the heir or purchaser. R. II. ii. 3. JAving, adj. lively, convincing. Oth. iii. 3. Xoach, sb. a fish so called. 1 H. IV. ll. 1. Zob, sb. a looby. M. N's Dr. ii. 1. Xoc&ramjsft.asort of coarse linen. Cor.ii.l. Lode-star, sb. the leading-star, pole-star. M. N's Dr. 1. 1. Xo#e, v.i. to laugh. M. N's Dr. ii. 1. Iioggats, sb. the game called nine-pins. Ham. v. 1. Xongly, adv. longingly. Tam. of S. 1. 1. Xoof, v.t. to luflf, bring a vessel up to the wind. A. & C. in. 8. Xioon, sb. a low contemptible fellow. Mac. V.3. Xot, sb. a prize in a lottery. Cor. v. 2. Lottery, sb. that which falls to a man by lot. A. & C. II. 2. Xowt, sb. a clown. Cor. in. 2. Xowt, v.t. to treat one as a lowt, with con- tempt. 1 H. VI. IV. 3. Xozel, sb. a spendthrift. Wint. Tale, ii. 3. Xubber, sb. a leopard. 2 H. IV. ll. 1. Xuee, n. the pike or jack, a fresh-water fish. Merry Wives, 1. 1. Xumpish, adj. dull, dejected. Two Gent. III. 2. Xunes, sb. fits of lunacy. Wint. Tale, ll. 2. Xurch, v.t. to defeat, to win. Cor. li. 2. Xurch, v.i. to shift, to play tricks. Merry Wives, II. 2. iMre, sb. a thing stuffed to resemble a bird with which the falconer allures a hawk. Tam. ofS. iv. 1. Xush, adj. juicy, luxuriant. Temp. ii. 1. Xustig, adj. lusty, cheerful. All 's Well, ii. 3. lAiMurious, adj. lascivious. Much Ado, IV. 1. iMxury, sb. lust. Lear, iv. 6. Xym, sb. a limer or slow hound. Lear, m. 6. Made, p.p. having his fortune made. Tw. N. III. 4. Magnifico, sb. the chief magistrate at Venice. Oth. i. 2. MagoUpie, sb. a magpie, a pie which feeds on magots. Mac. iii. 4. Mailed, p.p. covered as with a coat of mail. 2 H. VI. ii. 4. Main-course, sb. a sea-term. Temp. 1. 1. Make, v.i. to do up, bar. Com. of E. in. 1. To do. L's L's L. IV. 3; R. III. l. 3. Malkin, sb. a familiar name for Mary; hence a servant wench. Cor. ii. 1. Malleeho, sb. mischief Ham. in. 2. Mammering, pr.p. hesitating. Oth. in. 3. Matnmets, sb. a woman's breasts. 1 H. IV. n. 3. A doll. R. & J. ni. 5. Mammock, v.t. to break, tear. Cor. l. 3. Man, v.t. to tame a hawk. Tam. of S. iv. 1. Manage, sb. management. Temp. i. 2. 1 a plant of soporiferous Mandragora, sb. I quality, supposed to Mandrake, sb. j resemble a man. Oth. J ni. 3;2H. IV. I. 2. 878 Mankind, adj. having a masculine na- ture. Wint. Tale, ll. 3. Marches, sb. frontiers, borders. H. V. I. 2. Marchpane, sb. a kind of sweet biscuit. R. & J. I. 5. Margent, sb. margin. L's L's L. n. 1. Marry trap, int. an oath. Merry Wives, 1. 1. Martlemas, sb. the Feast of St. Martin, which occurs on the 11th of Nov. when the fine weather generally ends ; hence applied to an old man. 2 H. IV. n. 2. Match, sb. an appointment. 1 H. IV. i. 2. Mate, v.t. to confound, dismay. Mac. v. 1. Meacock, adj. tame, cowardly. Tam. of S. II. 1. Mealed, p.p. mingled. M. for M. iv. 2. Mean, sb. instrument used to promote an end. Two Gent. iv. 4. Mean, sb. the tenor part in a harmony. Two Gent. i. 2. Mean, sb. opportunity, power. H. VIII. v. 2. Measure, sb. reach. Two Gent. v. 4. A stately dance. Much Ado, n. 1. Measel, sb. a leper, spoken in contempt of a mean person. Cor. ni. 2. Medal, sb. a portrait in a locket. Wint. Tale, I. 2. Medicine, sb. a physician. All 's Well, il. 1. Meed, sb. reward, hire. Two Gent. n. 4. Merit. 3 H. VI. n. 1. Mehercle, int. by Hercules. L's L's L. iv. 2. Meiny, sb. retinue. Lear, n. 4. Melt, v.i. to mix, to meddle. All 's Well, iv. 3. Mem.orii:e, v.t. to cause to be remembered. Mac. I. 2. Mephistophilus, sb. the name of a familiar spirit. Merry Wives, 1. 1. Mercatante, sb. (Italian), a foreign trader. Tam. of S. IV 2. Merely, adv. simply, absolutely. Temp. 1. 1. Mess, sb. a company of four. L's L's L. iv. 3; V. 2. Metaphysical, adj. supernatural. Mac. 1. 5. Mete-yard, sb. measuring- wand. Tam.. of S. IV. 3. Mew up, v.t. to confine. R. III. 1. 1. Micher, sb. a truant. 1 H. IV. U. 4. Mickle, adj. much. Com. of E. in. 1. Mill-sixpence, sb. a milled sixpence. Merry Wives, i. 1. Mince, v.t. to do anything affectedly. H. V. V. 2. Mincing, adj. affected. 1 H. IV. in. 1. Miscreate, p.p. illegitimate. H. V. i. 2. Misdoubt, v.t. to suspect. 3 H. VI. V. 6. Misery, sb. avarice. Cor. n. 2. Misprise, v.t. to despise. As you Like it, 1. 1. To mistake. M. N's Dr. in. 2. Misprision, sb. mistake. Much Ado, iv.l. Missive, sb. messenger. A. & C. n. 2. Mistempered, adj. angry. John, v. 1. Misthink, v.t. to think ill of 3 H. VI. 5. Mistress, sb. the jack in bowling. T. & Cr. in. 2. Mobled, p.p. muffled. Ham. ii. 2. Modern, adj. commonplace. John, in. 4. Module, sb. a model, image. John, v. 7. Moe, adj. and adv. more. Of frequent oc- currence. Moiety, sb. a portion. Lear, 1. 1. Mome, sb. a stupid person. Com. of E. in. 1. Monientany, adj. momentary. M. N's Dr. I. 1. Months-mind, sb. a monthly commemo- ration of the dead, but used ludicrously to mean a great mind or strong desire. Two Gent. I. 2. Mood, sb. anger. Two Gent. iv. 1. Moon-calf, sb. a nick-name applied to Caliban. Temp. ii. 2 ; in. 2. Moonish, adj. inconstant. As you Like it, III. 2. Mop, sb. nod. Temp. ni. 3. Morisco, sb. a Moor. 2 H. VI. iii. 1. Morris-pike, sb. Moorish-pike. Com. of E. IV. 3. Mort, sb. death, applied to animals of the chase. Wint. Tale, i. 2. Mort-dti-vinaigre, int. (French), a ridic- ulous oath. All's Well, n. 3. Mortal, adj. fatal, deadly. Oth. v. 2. Mur- derous. Mac. I. 5. Mortified, p.p. ascetic. Mac. v. 2. Mose, v.i. a doubtful word, applied to some disease in a horse. Tam. of S. ni. 2. Motion, sb. solicitation. Com. of E. I. 1. Emotion. Oth. i. 2. Motion, sb. a puppet. Two Gent. n. 1. Motive, sb. one who moves. All 's Well, IV. 4. That which moves. T. & Cr. iv. 5. Motley, adj. used as sb. the many-coloured coat of a fool. As you Like it, n. 7. A fool. Ibid. in. 3. Motley-minded, adj. foolish. As you Like it, V. 4. Mouse-hunt, sb. a weasel. R. & J. iv. 4. Morw, v.i. to make grimaces. Temp. ii. 2. Moy, sb. a coin, probably a moidore. H. V. IV. 4. Much, int. significant of contempt. 2 H. IV. II. 4. Much, adj. used ironically. As you Like it, IV. 3. Mure, sb. a wall. 2 H. IV. iv. 4. Must, sb. a scramble. A. & C. m. 11. Mutine, v.i. to mutiny. Ham. in. 4. Mutine, sb. a mutineer. Ham. v. 2. Napkin, sb. a handkerchief. As you Like it, IV. 3. Natural, sb. an idiot. Temp. in. 2. Nayward, adv. towards denial. Wint Tale, II. 1. Nayword, sb. a catch-word, by-word. Merry Wives, n. 2. Neb, sb. the beak. Wint. Tale, I. 2. Neeld, sb. a needle. M. N's Dr. in. 2. Neif, sb. hand. M. N's Dr. iv. 1. Nephew, sb. a grandson. Oth. 1. 1. Nether-stocks, sb. stockings. Lear, n. 4. Next, adj. nearest. 1 H. IV. in. 1. Nice, adj. foolish. Tam. of S. in. 1. Nick, sb. score or reckoning. Two Gent. IV. 2. Nick, v.t. to brand with folly. A. & C. in. 11. Nighted, p.p. black as night. Ham. l. 2. Night-rule, sb. nightly solemnity. M. N'a Dr. III. 2. Nine men's morris, sb. a place set apart for a Moorish dance by nine men. M. N's Dr. II. 2. Ninny, sb. a fool, jester. Temp. in. 2. Nobility, sb. nobleness. Ham. i. 2. Noble, sb. a coin, worth 6s. 8d. R. II. 1. 1. Noddy, sb. a dolt. Two Gent. 1. 1. Nonce, sb. for the nonce, corrupted from ' for then once,' for the occasion. 1 H. IV. 1.2. Nook-shotten, adj. indented with bays and creeks. H. V. in. 5. Nourish, sb. a nurse. 1 H. VI. 1. 1. Novum, sb. a game at dice. L's L's L. v. 2. Nowl, sb. head. M. N's Dr. in. 2. Nuthook, sb. a hook for puUing down nuts, hence a thief. Merry Wives, 1. 1. O, sb. a circle. M. N's Dr. in. 2. Oar, v.t. to row as with oars. Temp. li. 1. Obsequious, adj. behaving as becomes one who attends funeral obsequies. Ham. 1. 2. Obsequiously, adv. funereally. R. III. 1. 2. Obstacle, adj. ridiculously used for 'ob- stinate.' 1 H. VI. V. 4. GLOSSARY. Oeeupation, sb. persons occupied in busi- ness. Cor. IV. 6. Oecurent, sb. an incident. Ham. v. 2. Od's body, interj. 1 H. IV. "1 II. 1. 'Od's in these Od's heartlitigs. Merry and all similar Wives, III. 4. • exclamations Od'spittihins.Cym.i\.2. is a euphem- Od's plesaed will. Merry ism for ' God's.' Wives, 1. 1. J Oeilliad, sb. an amorous glance. Merry Wives, I. 3. (yerparted, p.p. having too important a part to act. L's L's L. v. 2. O'tr-rattght, p.p. overreached. Com. of E. I. 2. Overtasked. Ham. in. 1. Offering, p.p. challenging. 1 H. IV. IV. 1. Office, sb. henefit, kindness. AU 's Well, iv. 4; use, function. H. V. II. 2. Old, adj. a cant term for great, as we say fine, or pretty. Merry Wives, I. 4 ; Mac. II. 3. Once, adv. some time. Merry Wives, m. 4. Oneyer, sb. a banker. 1 H. IV. li. 1. A doubtful word. Ope, adv. open. Com. of E. m. i. Ope, v.i. to open. 3 H. VI. li. 3. v.t. to open. M. ofV. 1. 1. Open, adj. plain. M. for M. ii. 1. Public. H. VIII. u. 1. Open, v.i. to give tongue as a hound. Merry Wives, iv. 2. Operant, adj. active. Tim. iv. 3. Opinioned, p.p. used ridiculously for pin- ioned. Much Ado, IV. 2. Opposite, sb. adversary. Tw. N. ill. 4. Opposition, sb. combat. Cym. IV. 1. Or, adv. before. Mac. iv. 3. Order, sb. measures. Com. of E. v. 1 ; H. V. IV. 5. Ordinance, A. rank, order. Cor. ni. 2. Orgulous, adj. proud. Prol. to T. & Cr. Ort, sb. leaving, refuse. Tim. iv. 3. Ostent, sb. show, appearance. M. of V. ll. 2. Ostentation, sb. show, appearance. Much Ado, IV. 1 ; Cor. i. 6. Ounce, sb. a beast of prey of the tiger kind. M. N's Dr. II. 3. Ouphe, sb. a fairy. Merry Wives, iv. 4. Ousel-cock, s6. the blackbird. M. N's Dr. ni.l. Out, adv. all out, fully. Temp. i. 2. Out-look, v.t. to face down. John, v. 2. Outward, adj. not in the secret of affairs. All'sWell, III. 1. Outward, sb. outside. Cym. 1. 1. Owe, v.t. to own. Temp. 1. 1. JPack, v.t. to practise unlawful confed- eracy. Much Ado, V. 1; Tam. of S. v. 1. JP«M!&,s6. anumberof people confederated. K. III. III. 3. Paddock, sb. a toad. Mac. 1. 1. Paid, p.p. punished. Cym. v. 4. Palabras, sb. words, a cant term, from the Spanish. Much Ado, in. 5. Pale, v.t. to enclose. A. & C. ll. 7; H. V. V. Ch. Pall, v.t. to wrap as with a pall. Mac. i. 5. Palled, p.p. impaired. A. & C. ii. 7. Palmer, sb. one who bears a palm-branch, in token of having made a pilgrimage to Palestine. R. & J. i. 5. Palmy, adj. victorious. Ham. 1. 1. Parcelled, p.p. belonging to individuals. R. III. II. 2. Pard, sb. the leopard. Temp. iv. 1. Paritor, sb. an apparitor. L's L's L. in. 1. Pam-le, sb. talk. Two Gent. i. 2. Parlous, adj. perilous. As you Like it, in. 2 ; keen, shrewd. R. III. III. 1. Parted, p.p. endowed, gifted. T. & Cr. lii. 3. Partizan, sb. a pike. R. & J. 1. 1. Pash, sb. the face. Wint. Tale, I. 2. Pash, v.t. to strike violently, to bruise, crush. T. & Cr. n. 3. Pass, v.i. to practise. Tw. N. in. 1 ; Lear, III. 7. To surpass expectation. Merry Wives, IV. 2. Passant, pr.p. a term of heraldry, applied to animals represented on the shield as passing by at a trot. Merry Wives, 1. 1. Passing, adv. surpassingly, exceedingly. M. N's Dr. n. 1. Passion, v.i. to have feelings. Temp. v. 1. Passionate, v.t. to suffer. T. A. in. 2. Passy-measure, sb. a kind of dance. Tw. N. V. 1. Pastry, sb. the room where pastry was made. R. & J. iv. 4. Patch, sb. a mean fellow. Temp. in. 2. Patched, p.p. dressed in motley. M. N's Dr. IV. 1. Patchery, sb. trickery. T. & Cr. ii. 3. Path, v.i. to walk. J. C. II. 1. Fathetical, adj. affected, hypocritical. As you Like it, iv. 1. Patient, v.r. to make patient, to compose. T. A. I. 2. Patine, sb. the metal disc on which the bread is placed in the administration of the Eucharist. M. of V. V. 1. Pattern, v.t. to give an example of. Wint. Tale, III. 2. Afford a pattern for. M. for M. n. 1. Pauca verba, few words. Merry Wives, 1. 1. Paucas, adj. few, a cant word. Ind. to Tam. of S. Pamn, sb. a dance. Tw. N. v. 1. Pax, sb. a small image of Christ. H. V. in. 6. Pay, v.t. to despatch. 1 H. IV. n. 4. Peat, sb. a term of endearment for a child. Tam. ofS. 1. 1. Pedascule, sb. a pedant, schoolmaster. Tam. of S. III. 1. Peer, v.i. to peep out. R. & J. 1. 1. Peize, v.t. to balance, weigh down. John, II. 2; R. in. V. 3. Pelting, adj. paltry. M. for M. II. 2. Perdu, adj. lost. Lear, iv. 7. Perdurable, adj. durable. H. V. IV. 5. Perdy, int. a euphemism for Par Dieu. Com. of E. IV. 4. Perfect, adj. certain. Wint. Tale, in. 3. Perfect, v.t. to inform perfectly. M. for M. IV. 3. Periapts, sb. charms worn round the neck. 1 H. VI. V. 3. Perjure, sb. a perjured person. L's L's L. IV. 3. Persever, v. to jiersevere. Two Gent. in. 2. Perspective, sb. a telescope, or some sort of optical glass. Tw. N. v. 1. Pew-fellow, sb. a comrade. R. III. IV. 4. Ptieeze, v.t. to comb, fleece, curry. Ind. to Tam. of S. ; T. & Cr. n. 3. Pia-tnater, sb. the membrane covering the brain, the brain itself Tw. N. i. 5. Pick, v.t. to pitch, throw. H. VIII. v. 3. Picked, adj. chosen, selected. John, 1. 1. Pickers (and stealers), sb. the fingers, used ridiculously. Ham. m. 2. Picking, adj. insignificant. 2 H. IV. 1. 1. Pickt-hatch, sb. a place noted for brothels. Merry Wives, ir. 2. Pied, adj. motley-coated, wearing the motley coat of a jester. Temp. in. 2. Pieled, p.p. shaven. 1 H. VI. I. 3. Pight, p.p. pitched. T. & Cr. v. 11. Pilcher, sb. a scabbard. R. & J. in. 1. Pill, v.i. to pillage. Tim. iv. 1. Pin, sb. a malady of the eye. Lear, in. 4. The centre of a target. L's L's L. iv. 1 ; R. & J. II. 4. Pinfold, sb. a pound, a place to confine lost cattle. Two Gent. 1. 1. Pioned, p.p. digged. Temp. in. 3. Placket, sb. a petticoat-front. Wint. Tale, IV. 3. Plain song, sb. a simple air. H. V. III. 2. Plaited, p.p. intricate. Lear, 1. 1. Planched, adj. made of boards. M. for M. IV. 1. Plantation, sb. colonizing, planting a colony. Temp. n. 1. Pla%isive, adj. plausible. All 's Well, I. 2. Pleached, adj. interwoven. Much Ado, i. 2. Point, sb. a lace furnished with a tag by which the breeches were held up. 1 H. IV. II. 4. Point-de-vice, adj. derived from the French, faultless. Tw. N. ii. 5. Poise, sb. balance. M. for M. ii. 4. Doubt. Lear, n. 1. Polled, p.p. bare. Cor. iv. 5. Pomander, sb. a perfumed ball. Wint. Tale, IV. 4. Pomewater, sb. a kind of apple. L's L's L. IV. 2. Poorrjohn, sb. a herring. Temp. u. 2. Popinjay, sb. a parrot. 1 H. IV. I. 3. JPoj't, sb. pomp, state. Tam. of S. 1. 1. Port, sb. a gate. 2 H. IV. iv. 4. Portable, adj. bearable. Mac. iv. 3. Portance,sb. conduct, behaviour. Cor. U.S. Possess, v.t. to inform. Tw. N. ii. 3. Potch, v.i. to push violently. Cor. 1. 10. Potent, sb. a potentate. John, ii. 2. Pouncet-box, sb. a box for holding per- fumes. 1 H. IV. I. 3. Power, sb. forces, army. 2 H. IV. 1. 1. Practice, sb. wicked stratagem. Tw. N. v. 1. Practisant, sb. a confederate. 1 H. VI.iii.2. Prank, v.t. to dress up. Wint. Tale, iv. 3; Cor. III. 1. Precept, sb. a justice's summons. 2 H. IV. v.i. Preciously, adv. in business of great im- portance. Temp. I. 2. Pregnancy, sb. fertility of invention. 2 H. IV. I. 2. Pregnant, adj. fertile of invention. M. for M. I. 1. Ready. Ham. in. 2. Obvious. M. for M. n. 1. Prenominate, v.t. to name beforehand, to prophesy. T. & Cr. iv. 5. Pre-ordinance, sb. old-established law. J. C. m. 1. Presence, sb. the presence-chamber. H. VIII. III. 1. High bearing. M. of V. in. 2. Prest, adj. ready. M. of V. 1. 1. Pretence, sb. design. Wint. Tale, in. 2. Pretend, v.t. to portend. 1 H. VI. IV. 1. To intend. Mac. n. 4. Prevent, v.t. to anticipate. J. C. v. 1. Prick, sb. the mark denoting the hour on a dial. R. & J. ii. 4. Prick, v.t. to incite. Tam. of S. in. 2. To choose by pricking a hole with a pin op- posite the name. J. C. in. 1. Prick-song, sb. music sung in parts by note. R. & J. n. 4. Pricket, sb. a stag of two years. L's L's L. IV. 2. Pride, sb. heat. 0th. in. 3. Prig, v.t. to steal. Wint. Tale, iv. 2. Prime, adj. rank, lecherous. 0th. in. 3. Primer, adj. more-important. H. VIII. 1. 2. Primero, sb. a game at cards. H. VIII. V. 1. Principality, sb. that which holds the highest place. Two Gent. n. 4. Princox, sb. a coxcomb. R. & J. i. 5. Priser, sb. a prize-fighter. As you Like it, II. 3. Procure, v.t, to bring. R, & J. in. 5. 879 GLOSSARY. Proface, interj. much good may it do you. 2 H. IV. V. 3. Profane, adj. outspoken. Oth. ii. 1. Progress, sb. a royal ceremonial journey. Ham. I. 3. Project, v.t. to shape or contrive. A. & C. V. 2. Prompttire, sb. suggestion. M. for M. ll. 4. Prone, adj. ready, willing. Cym. v. 4 ; M. for M. I. 3. Proof, sb. strength of manhood. Much Ado, IV. 1. Propagate, v.t. to advance, to forward. Tim. 1. 1. Propagation, sb. obtaining. M. for M. 1. 3. Proper-false, sb. natural falsehood. Tw. N. II. 2. Propertied, p.p. endowed with the prop- erties of. A. & C. V. 2. Properties, sb. scenes, dresses, &c. used in a theatre. Merry Wives, iv. 4. Property, v.t. to take possession of. John, V. 2. Propose, v.t. to suppose, for the sake of argument. 2 H. IV. v. 2. To converse. Much Ado, III. 1. Propose,s6. conversation. Much Ado, III. 1. Prorogate, v.t. to defer. R. & J. ii. 2. Provand, sb. provender. Cor. ii. 1. Provision, sb. forecast. Temp. i. 2. Pucelle, sb. a virgin, the name given to Joan of Arc. 1 H. VI. v. 4. Pudency, sb. modesty. Cym. ii. 5. Pugging, adj. thieving. Wint. Tale, IV. 2. Pun, v.t. to pound. T. & Or. ll. 1. Purchase, v.t. to acquire, win. As you Like it, in. 2. Purchase, sb. gain, winnings. 1 H. IV. II. 1. Put, v.t. to compel. M. for M. 1. 1. Putter-on^ sb. an Instigator. H. VIII. I. 2. Putter-out, sb. one who lends money at interest. Temp. in. 3. Putting-on, sb. instigation. M. for M. IV. 2. Puttock, sb. a kite. Cym. i. 2. Quail, v.i. to faint, be languid, be afraid. As you Like it, li. 2. v.t. to cause to quail. A. & C. v. 2. Quaint,adj. curiously beautiful. Temp. i. 2. Qualce, v.t. to cause to quake or tremble. Cor. I. 9. Qualify, v.t. to moderate. Much Ado, v. 4. Quality, sb. those of the same nature. Temp. I. 2. Rank or condition. M. for M. II. 1 ; 2 H. IV. v. 2. Quarrel, sb. a suit, cause. 2 H. VI. ill. 2. Qua/rry, sb. game, a heap of game. Ham. v. 2 ; Cor. 1 1. Quart d'4eu, sb. a quarter crown. All 's Well, IV. 3. Quarter, sb. the post allotted to a soldier. Tim. v. 5. Quat, sb. a pimple ; used in contempt of a person. Oth. v. 1. Queasy, adj. squeamish, unsettled. Much Ado, II. 1 ; Lear, ii. 1. Quell, sb. murder. Mac. l. 7. Quench, v.i. to grow cool. Cym. l. 6. Quern, sb. a hand-mill. M. N's Dr. ii. 1. Quest, sb. enquiry, search, inquest, jury. M. for M. IV. 1 ; R. III. i. 4 ; Ham. v. 1. Questrist, sb. one who goes in search of another. Lear, in. 7. Quick, adj. so far gone in pregnancy that the child is alive. L's L's L. v. 2. Quicken, v.i. to come to life. Lear, in. 7. Quiddit, \ sb. a subtle question. Ham. v. Quiddity,]!; 1 H. IV. l. 2. Quillet, sb. quidlibet, a subtle case in law. L's L's L. IV. 3. Quintain, sb. a post for tilting at. As you Like it, i. 2. Quip, sb. sharp jest, a taunt. Much Ado, n. 3. Quire, v.i. to sing in concert. M. of V.V.I. Quit, v.i. to requite, respond. Lear, ni. 7; Ham. V. 2. Qtiit, v.t. past tense of the verb to quit, quitted. Cym. j. 1. Quitanoe, sb. requital. H. V. II. 2. Quiver, adj. active. 2 H. IV. III. 2. Quote, v.t. to note. R. & J. I. 4. Jtabato, sb. a ruff. Much Ado, ill. 4. Rabbit-sucker, sb. a weasel. 1 H. IV. ll. 4. Race, sb. breed ; inherited nature. Temp. 1.2. Rack, sb. wreck. Temp. iv. 1. Rack, v.t. to enhance the price of any- thing. Much Ado, IV. 1 ; Cor. v. 1. v.i. to drive as clouds. 3 H. VI. ii. I. Rag, sb. a term of contempt applied to persons. Tim. iv. 3. Rake, v.t. to cover. Lear, iv. 6. Rapt, p.p. transported with emotion. Mac. Rapture, sb. a fit. Cor. li. 1. Rascal, sb. a lean deer. J. C. iv. 3. Rash, adj. quick, violent. Wint. Tale, i. 2. Rate, sb. opinion, judgment. Temp. ll. 1. Rate, v.t. to assign, to value. A. & C. ill. 6 ; Cym. I. 5. To scold. M. of V. I. 3. Ratolorum, a ludicrous mistake for Ro- tulorum. Merry Wives, 1. 1. RaugJit, p»st tense ofv. to reach. H. V.iv.6. Ravin, adj. ravenous. All 's Well, in. 2. Ravin, v.t. to devour. Mac. II. 4. Rawly, adv. inadequately. H. V. iv. 1. Rawness, sb. unprovided state. Mac. iv. 3. Rayed,p.p. arrayed, served. Tam. of S.iv.l. Razed, p.p. slashed. Ham. in. 2. Rear-mouse, sb. the bat. M. N's Dr. ll. 3. Rebate, v.t. to deprive of keenness. M. for M. I. 5. Rebeck, sb. a three-stringed fiddle. R. & J. IV. 5. Receipt, sb. money received. R. II. 1. 1. Receiving, sb. capacity. Tw. N. in. 1. Recheat, sb. a point of the chase to call back the hounds. Much Ado, 1. 1. Record, v.t. to sing. Two Gent. v. 4. Recorder, sb. a flute. Ham. in. 2. Recure, v.t. to cure, recover. R. III. in. 7. Red-lattice, adj. suitable to an ale-house, because ale-houses had commonly red lattices. Merry Wives, n. 2. Red-plague, sb. erysipelas. Temp. i. 2. Reduce, v.t. to bring back. R. III. v. 4. Reechy, adj. smoky, dirty. Cor. n. 1. Refell, v.t. to refute. M. for M. v. 1. Refer, v.r. to reserve to. M. for M. in. 1. Regiment, sb. government. A. & C. in. 6. Regreet, sb. a salutation. M. of V. II. 9. Regreet, v.t. to salute. R. II. I. 3. Reguerdon, sb. requital. 1 H. VI. III. 1. Relative, adj. applicable. Ham. n. 2. Remember, v.t. to remind. Wint. Tale, III. 2 ; M. for M. n. 1. Remorse, sb. pity. M. for M. v. 1. Remorseful, adj. full of pity, compassion- ate. Two Gent. iv. 3. Remotion, sb. removal. Tim. iv. 3. Removed, adj. sequestered, remote. M. for M. I. 4 : As you Like it. III. 2. Render, v.t. to describe you. As you Like it, IV. 3. Render, sb. account. Cym. iv. 4. Renege, v.t. to renounce, to deny. A. & C. 1. 1 ; Lear, ii. 2. Repair, v.t. to renovate, comfort. All's Well, I. 2. Repeal, v.t. to reverse the sentence of exile. Two Gent. v. 4. Reproof, sb. confutation. 1 H. IV. I. 2. Repugn, v.i. to resist. 1 H. VI. iv. 1. Requiem, sb. mass for the dead, so called because it begins with the words. Re- quiem eternam dona eis, Domlne. Ham. V.I. Resolve, v.t. to satisfy. 3 H. VI. in. 2. To dissolve. Ham. i. 2. Respect, sb. consideration. Much Ado, n. 3. Respective, adj. respectful, thoughtful. M. of V. V. 1. Respective, adj. corresponding. Two Gent. IV. 4. Respectively, adv. respectfully. Tim. ill. 1. Retailed, p.p. handed down. R. III. in. 1. Retire, sb. retreat. 1 H. IV. n. 3. Retire, v.t. to draw back. R. II. ii. 2. Reverb, v.t. to echo. Lear, 1. 1. Revolt, sb. a rebel. John, v. 4. Rib, v.t. to enclose as within ribs. M. of V. II. 7. Rid, v.t. to destroy. Temp. i. 2. Rift, v.i. to split. Wint. Tale, v. 1. v.t. to split. Temp. v. 1. Rift, sb. a split. Temp. i. 2. Riggish, adj. wanton. A. & C. n. 2. Rigol, sb. a circle. 2 H. IV. iv. 4. Ripe, adj. drunk. Temp. v. 1. Rivage, sb. the shore. H. V. in. Chorus. Rival, sb. a partner. Ham. i. 1. Rivality, sb. equal rank. A. & C. IH. 5. Rive, v.t. to fire. 1 H. VI. iv. 2. Road, sb. the high road, applied to a com- mon woman (traviata). 2 H. IV. n. 2. Roisting, adj. roistering, violent. T. & Cr, II. 2. Romage, sb. unusual stir. Ham. 1. 1. Ronyon, sb. a term of contempt applied to a woman. Mac. I. 3. Rood, sb. the crucifix. R. & J. i. 3. Rook, sb. a cheater. Merry Wives, i. 3. Ropery, sb. roguery. R. & J. n. 4. Rope-tricks, sb. tricks such as are played by a rope-dancer. Tam. of S. i. 2. Round, v.i. to whisper. Oth.'i. 3. To be- come great with child. Wint. Tale, ll. 1. v.t. to finish off. Temp. iv. 1. Round, sb. a diadem. Mac. I. 5. Round, adj. unceremonious. Mac. i. 5. Roundel, sb. a dance or song. M. N's Br. n. 3. Roundure, sb. an enclosure. John, ii. 1. Rouse, sb. carousal. Ham. i. 4. Roynish, adj. mangy. As you Like it, 11.2. Rubious, adj. ruddy. Tw. N. l. 4. Ruddock, sb. the redbreast. Cym. iv. 1. Rush, v.t. to push. R. & J. III. 3. Rushling, adj. rustling. Merry Wives, ll. 2. Sacrificial, adj. reverent, as words used in religious worship. Tim. 1. 1. Sacring-bell, sb. the little bell rung at mass to give notice that the elements are consecrated. H. VIII. in. 2. Sad, adj. serious. Two Gent. i. 2. Sadly, adv. seriously. Much Ado, ll. 3. Sadness, sb. seriousness. R. & J. 1. 1. Safe, v.t. to make safe. A. & C. iv. 6. Sag, v.i. to hang down. Mac. v. 3. Salt, adj. lascivious. Oth. ii. 1 ; in. 3. Salt, sb. taste. Merry Wives, ll. 3. Sanded, adj. marked with yeUow spots. M. N's Dr. IV. 1. Sans, prep, without. Temp. i. 2. Saucy, adj. lascivious. All 's Well, iv. 4. Saw, sb, a moral saying. L's L's L. v. 2. Say, adj. silken. 2 H. VI. iv. 7. Say, sb. assay, taste, relish. Lear, v. 3. Scaffoldage, sb. the gallery of a theatre. T. & Cr. I. 3. Scald, adj. scurvy, scabby. Merry Wive^ III. 1. Scale, v.t. to weigh in scales. Cor. ii. 3. GLOSSARY. Seall, sb. a scab, a word of reproach Merry Wives, m. 1. Scamble, v.i. to scramble. H. V. 1. 1. Scnmel, sb. probably a misprint for sea mel, sea-mew. Temp. ii. 2. Scan, v.t. to examine subtly. 0th. in. 3. Scant, v.t. to cut short, to spare. M. of V. III. 2. Scant, adj. scanty, short. Ham. v. 2. adv. scarcely. R. & J. i. 2. Scantling, sb. a small portion. T. & Cr. 1. 3. Scape, v.t. to escape. Much Ado, 1. 1. Scape, sb. a sally. M. for M. 1. 1. Scathe, sb. injury. 2 H. VI. II. 4. Scathe, v.t. to injure. R. & J. 1. 5. ScathftU, adj. destructive. Tw. N. V. 1. Sconce, sb. the head. Ham. v. 1. Scotch, v.t. to bruise or cut slightly. Mac. III. 2. Scrimer, sb. a fencer. Ham. iv. 7. Scroyle, sb. a scabby fellow. John, ii. 3. Scull, sb. a shoal offish. T. & Cr. v. 5. Scurvy, adj. scabby; metaph. mean. Temp. II. 2. Seal, v.t. to set one's seal to a deed ; hence, to confirm. Cor. ii. 3. Seam, sb. fat. T. & Cr. ii. 3. Seamy, adj. showing the seam or sewing. 0th. IV. 2. Sear, adj. scorched, withered. Mac. v. 3. Sear, v.t. to stigmatise. All's Well, ii. 1. Search, v.t. to probe; hence, to apply a healing remedy. Two Gent. i. 2. Seated, adj. fixed, confirmed. Mac. i. 3. Sect, sb. a slip or scion. Oth. i. 3. A polit- ical party. Lear, v. 3. Securely, adv. inconsiderately. T. & Cr. IV. 5. Seel, v.t. to close. Oth. in. 3. Seeling, pr.p. closing, blinding. Mac. in. 2. Seeming, adv. seemly, becomingly. As you Like it, v. 4. Seeming, sb. outward manner and ap- pearance. Wint. Tale, iv. 4. Seen, adj. versed, instructed. Tam. of S. 1. 2. Seld, adv. seldom. T. & Cr. iv. 5. Self'bounty, sb. native goodness. Oth. in. 3. Semhlably, adv. alike. 1 H. IV. V. 3. Seniory, sb. seniority. R. III. IV. 4. Sennet, sb. a flourish of trumpets. Sepulchre, v.t. to bury. Two Gent. rv. 2. Sequestration, sb. separation. Oth. I. 3. Sere, adj. dry. Com. of E. iv. 2. Serjeant, sb. a bailiff. Ham. v. 2. Serpigo, sb. a cutaneous disease. M. for M. ni. 1. SereieeaMe, adj. ' serviceable vows,' vows that you will do her service, or be her servant. Two Gent. in. 2. Setebos, sb. the name of a fiend. Temp. 1. 2. Setter, sb. one who watches travellers to give information to thieves. 1 H. IV. ii. 2. Several, sb. land which is not common but appropriated. L's L's L. ii. 1. Shame, v.i. to be ashamed. Cor. ii. 2. Shame, sb. modesty. Com. of E. in. 2. Shards, sb. shreds, broken fragments of pottery. Ham. v. 1. Shards, sb. the wing cases of beetles; hence ' sharded.' Cym. in. 3 ; and ' shard- borne.' Mac. III. 2. SharUed, p.p. snatched up, as a shark does his prey. Ham. 1. 1. Sheen, sb. brilliancy. M. N's Dr. II. 1. Sheer, adj. pure. R. II. v. 3. Unmixed. Ind. to Tam. of S. 2. Shent, p.p. rebuked, blamed. Cor. v. 2. Hurt. Ham. in. 3. Sheriff >s-post, sb. a post at the door of a sheriff, to which royal proclamations were fixed. Tw. N. i. 5. Shive, sb. slice. T. A. n. 1, 56 Shot, sb. the reckoning at an ale-house. Two Gent. ii. 5. Shoxighs, sb. shaggy dogs. Mac. III. 1. Shouldered, p.p. R. III. ni. 7. A doubtful word. Shovel-board, sb. game played by sliding metal pieces along a board at a mark. Merry Wives, 1. 1. Shrewd, adj. mischievous. All's Well, ni.5. Shrift, sb. confession. R. III. in. 4. Abso- lution. M. for M. IV. 2. Shrive, v.t. to confess. M. of V. I. 2. Shriving-time, sb. time for confession. Ham. V. 2. Shroud, v.r. to enshroud oneself, cover oneself up. Temp. ii. 2. Side-sleeves, sb. loose hanging sleeves. Much Ado, III. 4. Siege, sb. seat. M. for M. iv. 2. Stool. Temp. II. 2. Rank. Ham. iv. 7. Sight, sb. an aperture in a helmet. 2 H. IV. IV. 1. Sightless, adj. invisible. Mac. I. 5. Un- sightly. John, in. 1. Sign, v.i. to give an omen. A. & C. IV. 3. Silly, adj. simple, rustic. Cym. v. 3. Simular, adj. counterfeit, feigned. Cym. V.5. Single, adj. feeble. Mac. I. 3. Sir, sb. a title applied to a bachelor of arts at the Universities. Tw. N. iv. 2. Sith, conj. since. Two Gent. I. 2. Sithence, conj. since. Cor. in. 1. Sizes, sb. allowances. Lear, n. 4. Ska4,ns-m,ates, sb. scapegraces. R. & J. II.4. Skill, v.i. to be of importance. Tam. of S. III. 2. Skilless, adj. ignorant. Temp. in. 1. Skimble-skamble, adj. rambling, dis- jointed. 1 H. IV. III. 1. Skinker, sb. a drawer of liquor. 1 H. IV. II. 4. Skirr, v.i. to scour. Mac. v. 3. Slack, v.t. slacken. Oth. iv. 3. Slave, v.t. to turn to slavish uses. Lear, iv. 1. Sleave, sb. floss-silk. Mac. II. 2. Sledded, p.p. sledged. Ham. 1. 1. Sleided, p.p. untwisted, raw, applied to silk. Per. iv. (Gower). Sleights, sb. artifices. Mac. in. 5. Slice, int. Merry Wives, 1. 1. Slipper, adj. slippery. Oth. n. 1. Slips, sb. a kind of noose, or leash. H. V. iii.l. A piece of base money. R. &J.II.4. Sliver, v.t. to slice. Lear, iv. 2. Sliver, sb. a slice. Ham. iv. 7. Slops, sb. loose breeches. Much Ado, ni. 2. Slubber, v.t. to slur over. M. of V. n. 8. Smirched, p.p. smeared, soiled. Much Ado, IV. 1. Smooth, v.t. to flatter. Per. I. 2. Smoothed, p.p. flattered, fawned upon. Tim. IV. 3. Sneap, sb. taunt, sarcasm. 2 H. IV. n. 1. Sneaped, p.p. pinched. Lucr. Sneaping, adj. nipping. L's L's L. 1. 1. Sneck-up, int. go hang ! Tw. N. n. 3. Snuff, sb. anger. L's L's L. ' To take in snuff' is to take offence. Softly, adv. gently. Wint. Tale, iv. 2 ; Ham. IV. 4. Soil, sb. spot, taint. Ham. i. 3. Solicit, sb. solicitation. Cym. ii. 3. Solidare, sb. a small coin. Tim. ni. 1. Solve, sb. solution. Son. 69. Sometimes, adv. formerly. M. of V. 1. 1. Sooth, sb. truth. Wint. Tale, IV. 3. Con- ciliation. R. II. m. 3. Sooth, adj. true. Mac. v. 5. Sorel, sb. a buck of the third year. L's L's L. IV. 2. Sorriest, adj. most sorrowful. Mac. in. 2. Sorry, adj. sorrowful, dismal. Com. of E. V.I. Sort, sb. a company. M. N's Dr. ni. 2. Rank, condition. R. II. iv. 1. Lot. T. & Cr. I. 3. ' In a sort,' in a manner. Temp. II. L Sort, v.t. to choose. Two Gent. in. 2. v.i. to suit. Much Ado, v. 2. To consort. 2 H. IV. n. 4. Sot, sb. fool. Cym. v. 5. Soul- fearing, adj. soul-terrifying. John, n. 2. Sowl, v.t. to lug, drag. Cor. iv. 5. Sowter, sb. name of a dog. Tw. N. n. 5. Specialty, sb. a special contract. Tam. of S. II. 1. Sped, p.p. settled, done for. R. & J. in. 1. Speed, sb. fortune. Wint. Tale, iii. 2. Sperr, v.t. to bolt, fasten. T. & C. prol. Spial, sb. a spy. 1 H. VI. i. 4. Spill, v.t. to destroy. Lear, in. 2. Spilth, sb. spilling. Tim. n. 2. Spleen, sb. violent haste. John, n. 2; v. 7. Used of the lightning flash. M. N's Dr. 1. 1. Sprag, adj. quick. Merry Wives, iv. 1. Spring, sb. shoot, bud. V. & A. Begin- ning. M. N's Dr. II. 2 ; 2 H. IV. IV. 4. Springhalt, sb. stringhalt, a disease of horses. H. VIII. I. 3. Sprited, p.p. haunted. Cym. n. 3. Spurs, sb. roots of trees. Temp. v. 1 ; Cym. IV. 2. Squandered, p.p. scattered. M. of V. i. 3. Square, v.t. to quarrel. M. N's Dr. il. 1. Square, sb. the front part of a woman's dress, stomacher. Wint. Tale, iv. 3. Square, adj. equitable. Tim. v. 1. Squarer, sb. quarreller. Much Ado, 1. 1. Squash, sb. an unripe peascod. Tw. N. I.S. Squier, sb. a square or rule. L's L's L. v. 2. Squiny, v.i. to squint. Lear, IV. 6. Staggers, sb. a disease in horses, attended with giddiness ; hence any bewildering distress. Cym. v. 5. Stain, v.t. to disfigure. Temp. i. 2. Stale, sb. a decoy. Temp. iv. 1. A gull. Tam. of S. 1. 1. A prostitute. Much Ado, II. 2. Stale, v.t. to make stale, deprive anything of its freshness. T. & Cr. n. 3. Stand upon, to be incumbent on. R. II, IV. 2. Staniel, sb. an inferior kind of hawk. Tw. N. n. 5. Stark, adv. stiff. Cym. IV. 2. Starkly, adv. stifSy. M. for M. rv. 2. State, sb. a canopied chair. Tw. N. ii. 5. Station, sb. attitude. Ham. in. 4. Act of standing. A. & C. in. 3. Statist, sb. a statesman. Cym. n. 4. Statua, sb. a statue. R. III. in. 7. Stattie, sb. image, picture. Two Gent. iv. i. Statute, sb. security, obligation. Son. 134. Statute-caps, sb. woollen caps worn by citizens. L's L's L. v. 2. Stay, sb. a check. John, n. 2. Stead, v.t. to profit. Temp. I. 2. Stelled, p.p. (a doubtful word) set or fixed. Lucr. Son. 24. Sternage, sb. steerage, course. H. V. in. Chorus. Stickler, sb. an arbitrator in combats. T. & Cr. V. 9. Stigmatic, sb. a deformed person. 2 H. VI. V.I. Stigmatical, adj. deformed. Com. of E. IV. 2. Still, adj. constant. T. A. ni. 2. Still, adv. constantly. Temp. i. 2. Stilly, adv. softly. H. V. IV. Chorus. Stint, v.t. to stop. H. VIII. I. 2. v.i. Ta stop. R. & J. I. 3. GLOSSARY. Stithy, sb. a smith's forge. Ham. lu. 2. Stithy, v.t. to forge. T. & Cr. iv. 5. Stoecado, sb. a stoccata, or thrust in fenc- ing. Merry Wives, ii. 1. Stock, sb. a stocking. Tam. of S. in. 3. Stomach, sb. courage, stubbornness. Temp. I. 2. Appetite, inclination. Temp. ii. 1. Stone-bow, sb. a cross-bow for throwing stones. Tw. N. ll. 5. Stoup, sb. a cup. Tw. N. ii. 3. Stout, adj. strong, healthy. Tim. iv. 3. Stover, sb. fodder. Temp. in. 8. Strachy, sb. A word of doubtful meaning. Tw. N. II. 5. Straight, adv. immediately. Ham. v. 1. Strain, sb. lineage. Much Ado, n. 1. Dis- position. Merry Wives, ii. 1. Straited, p.p. straitened. Wint. Talc, iv.4. Strange, adj. foreign. L's L's L. iv. 2. Coy, reserved. R. & J. ii. 2. Marvellous. 0th. V. 2. Strangeness, sb. coyness, reserve. T. & Cr. III. 3. Stranger, sb. foreigner. H. VIII. ll. 3. Strappado, sb. a kind of punishment. 1 H. IV. II. 4. Stricture, sb. strictness. M. for M. i. 4. Strossers, sb. trowsers. H. V. in. 7. Stuck, sb. a thrust of a sword. Ham. iv. 7. Stuck in, sb. corruption of stoccata. Tw. N. in. 4. Stuff, sb. baggage. Com. of E. iv. 4. Ma- ' terial, substance. 0th. 1. 1. Stuffed, p.p. filled, stored. Much Ado, 1. 1. Sty, v.t. to lodge as in a sty. Temp. l. 2. Subscribe, v.t. to yield. Lear, i. 2. v.i. to succumb. T. & Cr. iv. 5. Sticcess, sb. issue, consequence. Much Ado, I. 3. Succession. Wint. Tale, l. 2. Successive, adj. succeeding. 2 H. VI. III. 1. Successively, adv. in succession. 2 H. IV. IV. 4. Sudden, adj. hasty, rash. As you Like it, n. 7. Suddenly, adv. hastily. R. III. iv. 1. Sufferance, sb. suffering. M. for M. in. 1. Suggest, v.t. to tempt, entice. All 's Well, IV. 5. Suggestion, sb. temptation, enticement. Mac. I. 3. Suited, p.p. dressed. All 's Well, 1. 1. Sullen, adj. doleful, melancholy. John, l.l. Sumpter, sb. a horse that carries provisions on a journey. Lear, ii. 4. Suppose, sb. a trick, imposition. Tam. of S. V. 1. Supposed,p.p. counterfeit. Tam. of S. ll. 1. Surcease, v.i. to cease. Cor. ni. 2. Surcease, sb. cessation, end. Mac. i. 7. Surprise, v.t. to capture by surprise. 3 H. VI. IV. 2. Sur-reined, p.p. over-worked. H. V. ill. 5. Suspect, sb. suspicion. R. III. i. 3. Suspire, v.i. to breathe. 2 H. IV. iv. 4. Swabber, sb. a sweeper of the deck of r, ship. Temp, ii 2. Swart, adj. black. John, III. 1. Swarth, adj. black. T. A. n. 3. 'iwarth,sb. quantity of grass cut down by one sweep of the scythe. Tw. N. n. 3. Swasher, sb. swaggerer. H. V. in. 2. Swashing, pr.p, dashing, smashing. R. & J. I. 1. Swath, sb. The same as ' swarth.' T. & Cr. v. 5. Swathling, adj. swaddling. 1 H. IV. in. 2. Sway, v.i. to move on. 2 H. IV. iv. 1. Swear, v.t. to adjure. Lear, 1. 1. Swear over, v.t. to out-swear, Wint. Tale, 1.2. Swift, adj. ready, quick. Much Ado, in. 1. Swinge-buckler, sb. a bully. 2 H. IV. III. 2. 882 Table, sb. a tablet, note-book. Ham. i. 2. Table-book, sb. note-book. Wint. Tale, iv.3. Tables, sb. the game of backgammon. L's L's L. V. 2. A note-book. Ham. i. 5. Tabor, sb. a small side-drum. Temp. iv. i. laborer, sb. a player on the tabor. Temp. III. 2. Tabourine, sb. tambourine, drum. T. & Cr. IV. 5. Tag, sb. the rabble. Cor. in. 1. Taint, p.p. tainted. 1 H. VI. v. 3. Tainture, sb. defilement. 2 H. VI. ll. 1. Take, v.t. to infect, blast, bewitch. Merry Wives, IV. 4; Ham. 1. 1. Take in, v.t. to conquer. A. & C. in. 7 ; Cor. 1.2. Take out, v.t. to copy. 0th. in. 4. Take up, v.t. to borrow money, or buy on credit. 2 H. VI. iv. 7. To make up a quarrel. As you Like it, v. 4. Taking, sb. infection, malignant influ- ence. Lear, iii. 4. Taking up, sb. buying on credit. 2 H. IV. 1.2. Tale, sb. counting, reckoning. Mac. i. 3. Tall, adj. strong, valiant. Tw. N. i. 3. Tallow-catch, sb. a lump of tallow. 1 H. IV. n. 4. Tang, sb. twang, sound. Temp. ll. 2. Tang, v.t. to sound. Tw. N. II. 5. Tanling, sb. anything tanned by the sun. Cym. IV. 4. Tarre, v.t. to excite, urga on. John, iv. 1. Tarriance, sb. delay. Two Gent. ll. 7. Tartar, sb. Tartarus. H. V. ll. 2. Task, v.t. to tax. 1 H. IV. iv. 3. Challenge. R. II. IV. 1. Tasking, sb. challenging. 1 H. IV. v. 2. Taste, v.t. to try. Tw. N. in. 4. Tawdry-lace, sb. a rustic necklace. Wint. Tale, IV. 3. Taxation, sb. satire, sarcasm. As you Like it, 1. 2. Taxing, sb. satire. As you Like it, ll. 7. Teen, sb. grief Temp. I. 2. Tell, v.t. to count. Temp. ii. 1. Temper, v.t. to mix. Cym. v. 5. Temperance, sb. temperature. Temp. ll. 1. Tempered, p.p. mixed. Ham. v. 2. Tend, v.t. to attend to. 2 H. VI. 1. 1. Tender, v.t. to hold, to esteem. Temp. n. 1. To have consideration for. Two Gent. IV. 4. Tent, v.t. to probe as a wound. Cor. in. 1. Tent, sb. a probe for searching a wound. Cym. III. 4. Tercel, sb. the male of the goshawk. T. & Cr. III. 2. Termagant, sb. a ranting character in old plays. Ham. in. 2. Tested, p.p. pure, assayed. M. for M. n. 2. Testern, v.t. to reward with a tester, or sixpence. Two Gent. 1. 1. Tharborotigh, sb. (corrupted from ' third- borough') a constable. L's L's L. l 1. Theorick, sb. theory. All 's Well, iv. 3. Thewes, sb. sinews, muscles. 2 H. IV. in. 2. Thick, adv. rapidly. 2 H. IV. li. 3 ; Cym. in. 2. Thick-pleached, p.p. thickly intertwined. Much Ado, 1. 2. Third-borough, sb. a constable. Ind. to Tam. of S. I. Thought, sb. anxiety, grief. Ham. in. 1; A. & C. IV. 6. So ' to take thought' is to give way to grief. J. C. n. 1. Thrasonical, adj. boastful. As you Like it, V. 2. Three-man beetle, sb. a wooden mallet worked by three men. 2 H. IV. 1. 1. Three-man-song-men, sb. singers of glees in three parts. Wint. Tale, iv. 3. Three-pile, sb. three-piled velvet Wiav Tale, IV. 3. Threne, sb. lament. Ph. & T. Thrid, sb. thread, fibre. Temp, iv. 1. Throe, v.t. to put in agonies. Temp. n. X. Thrum, sb. the tufted end of a thread ir weaving. M. N's Dr. v. 1. Thrummed, p.p. made of coarse ends o» tufts. Merry Wives, iv. 2. tackle, adj. ticklish. M. for M. i. 3. Tight, adj. nimble, active. Tam. of S. it 1; A. & C. IV. 4. Tightly, adv. briskly, promptly. Merij* Wives, I. 3 ; il. 3. Tike, sb. a cur. H. V. II. 1. Tilly-vally, int. an exclamation of con tempt. Tw. N. ii. 3. Tilth, sb. tillage. Temp. ii. 1. Timeless, adj. untimely. R. II. iv. L Tinet, sb. stain, dye. Ham. in. 4. Tire, sb. attire, head-dress. Two Gent. iv. 4. Tire, v.i. to tear as a bird of prey. 3 H. VI. I. 1. Hence, metaphorically, to feed. Cym. III. 4. Tire, v.t. to attire, dress. Com. of E. ii. 2. Tod, v.i. to yield a tod of wool. Wint. Tale, IV. 3. Tokened, p.p. marked with plague spots. A. & C. III. 8. Tokens, sb. plague spots. L's L's L. v. 2. Toll, v.i. to exact toll. 2 H. IV. iv. 4. To pay toll. All 's Well, v. 3. Too too, adv. excessively. Two Gent. i. 4; Ham. I. 2, Topless, adj. supreme, without superior. T. & Cr. I. 3. Touch, sb. touchstone for testing gold. R, III. IV. 2. Trait. As you Like it, m. 2. An acute feeling. Cym. 1. 1. Touched, p.p. pricked. T. A. iv. 4. ToMse, v.t. to pull, drag. M. for M. v. 1. Toward, adv. nearly ready. M. N's Dr. in. 1. Towards, adv. nearly ready. R. & J. i. 5. Toys, sb. trifles, foolish tricks. 2 H. I V. n. 4. Trade, sb. beaten path. H. VIII. v. 1. Tranect, sb. a ferry. M. of V. ill. 4. Translated, p.p. transformed. M. N's Dr. III. 1. Trash, v.t. to check, as a huntsman hia hounds. Temp. i. 2; Oth. n. 1. Travail, sb. labour, toil. 1 H. VI. V. 4. Tray-trip, sb. Ml old game played with dice. Tw. N. n. 5. Treachers, sb. traitors. Lear, i. 2. Treaties, sb. entreaties. A. & C. in. 9. Trenched, p.p. carved. Two Gent. in. 2. Trick, sb. technically, a copy of a coat of arms ; hence, any peculiarity which dis- tinguishes voice or feature. Lear, iv. 6; Wint. Tale, ii. 3. Trick, v.t. to dress up. H. V. in. 6. Tricked, p.p. blazoned. Ham. n. 2. Tricking, sb. ornament. Merry Wives, iv. 4. Tricksy, adj. elegantly quaint. Temp. v. 1. Triple, adj. third. A & C. 1, 1. Trojan, sb. a cant word for a thief. 1 H. IV. II. 1. Trol-my-dam.es, sb. Ft. trou-madame ,■ th« name of a game; also called pigeon- holes. Wint. Tale, iv. 2. Troth-plight, adj. betrothed. H. V. n. 1. Trow, v.i. to trust, think. H. VIII. I. 1. True, adj. honest. Cym. n. 3. Trundle-tail, sb. a long-tailed dog. Lear, in. 6. Tucket-sonance, sb. a flourish on the trumpet. H. V. iv. 2. Tundish, sb. a funnel. M. for M. in. 2. Turlygood, sb. a name adopted by bedlam- beggars, Lear, n. 3. Turn, v.t. to modulate. As you Like it, ll.i Twangling, pr.p. twanging. Temp, in % GLOSSARY. Ttt'iggen, adj. made of twigs, wicker. 0th. II. 3. Twilled, p.p. Temp. in. 3. A doubtful word. Twink, sb. a twinkling. Temp. m. 3. Twire, v.i. to peep, twinkle. Son. 28. Vade, v.i. to fade. P. P. rail, v.i. to lower. M. for M. v. 1. railing, pr.p. lowering. M. of V. 1. 1. Tainness, sb. vanity. H. V. v. Chorus. balanced, p.p. adorned with a valance or fringe ; applied to the beard. Ham. ii. 2. Talidity, sb. value. All 's Well, v. 3. Tantnge, sb. advantage. Two Gent. l. 3. rnntbrnce, sb. armour for the front of the arm. T. & Cr. i. 3. Tnrlet, sb. a servant, valet. T. & Cr. 1. 1. Vast, sb. properly a waste-place, meta- phorically, the dead of night. Temp. i. 2. A gulf. Wint. Tale, 1. 1. Vastidity, sb. immensity. M. for M. iii. 1. Vastly, adv. like a waste. Luc. Vasty, adj. vast, waste. 1 H. IV. in. 1. Vaunt, sb. the van, that which precedes. T. & Cr. Prol. Vaunt'couriers, sb. forerunners. Lear, III. 2. Vatvard, sb. the van, vanguard, advanced guard of an army. H. V. iv. 3. Hence, metaphorically, the first of anything. M. N's Dr. IV. 1. Tegetives, sb. herbs. Per. iii. 2. Velure, sb. velvet. Tam. of S. ill. 2. Velvet-guards, sb. literally, velvet trim- mings; applied metaphorically to the citizens who wore them. 1 H. IV. in. 1. Venetv, sb. a bout in fencing, metaphori- cally applied to repartee and sallies of wit. L's L's L. V. 1. Veney, sb. a bout at fencing. Merry Wives, Venge, v.t. to avenge. H. V. I. 2. Ventages, sb. holes in a flute or flageolet. Ham. III. 2. Verbal, adj. wordy. Cym. ii. 3. Very, adj. true, real. Two Gent. in. 1. Via, int. off with you! Merry Wives, ii. 2. Vice, v.t. to screw. Wint. Tale, i. 2. Vice, sb. the buffoon in the old morality plays. Ham. in. 4. Vie, v.i. to challenge ; a term at cards. A. & C. V. 2. To play as for a wager. Tam. ofS. II. 1. Viewless, adj. invisible. M. for M. in. 1. Villain, sb. a lowborn man. As you Like it, I. 1. Vinewed, p.p. mouldy. T. & Cr. II. 1. VioUde-gamboys, sb. a bass viol. Tw. N. Virginalling, pr.p. playing as on the vir- ginals, a kind of a spinet. Wint. Tale, i. 2. Virtue, sb. the essential excellence. Temp. I. 2. Valour. Lear, v. 3. Virtuous, adj. excellent. M. N's Dr. in. 2. Endowed with virtues. As you Like it,i.3. Visanient, sb. advisement. Merry Wives, 1. 1. Voluble, adj. fickle. 0th. ii. 1. Voluntary, sb. volunteer. John, ll. 1. Votarlst, sb. votary, one who has taken a vow. M. for M. I. 5. Vulgar, sb. the common people. L's L's L. 1.2. Vulgar, adj. common. John, li. 2. Vulgarly, adv. publicly. M. for M. v. 1. Umbered, p.p. stained, dark, as with um- ber. H. V. IV. Chorus. XTnaneled,p.p. without extreme unction. Ham. I. B. Vnavoided, adj. unavoidable. E. III. rv. 4. Vnbnrbed, p.p. untrimmed. Cor. in. 2. Unbated, p.p. unblunted. Ham. iv. 7. TTnbolt, v.t. to disclose. Tim. I. 1. Unbolted, p.p. unsifted, unrefined. Lear, n. 2. Unbreathed, p.p. unpractised. M. N's Dr. V.I. Uncape, v.t. to throw off the hounds. Merry Wives, m. 3. Uncharged, p.p. undefended, applied to the gates of a city. Tim. v. 4. Unclew, v.t. to unravel, undo. Tim. 1. 1. Uncoined, p.p. unalloyed, unfeigned. H. V. V. 7. Undergo, v.t. to undertake. Tim. in. 5. Undertaker, sb. one who takes up an- other's quarrel. Tw. N. in. 4. Under-tvrought,p.p. undermined. John, n. 1. Uneath, adv. hardly. 2 H. VI. in. 4. Unexpressive, adj. inexpressible. As you Like it, in. 2. Unfair, v.t. to deprive of beauty. Son. 5. Unhappily, adv. censoriously. H. VIII.I.4. Unhappy, adj. mischievous. All 's Well, IV. 5. Unhatched, p.p. undisclosed. 0th. in. 4. Unhouseled, p.p. without receiving the sacrament. Ham. i. 5. Unimproved, p.p. nnreproved. Ham. 1. 1. Union, sb. a pearl. Ham. v. 2. Unju.st, adj. dishonest. 1 H. IV. IV. 2. Unkind, ad?', unnatural. Lear, ni. 4. Unlived, adj. bereft of life. Lucr. Unmanned, p.p. untamed, applied to a hawk. R. & J. in. 2. Unowed, p.p. unowned. John, iv. 3. Unpregnant, adj. stupid. M. for M. IV. 4. Unproper, adj. common to all. 0th. IV. 1. Unquestionable, adj. not inquisitive. As you Like it, in. 2. Unready, adj. undressed. 1 H. VI. II. 1. Unrespective, adj. inconsiderate. R. III. IV. 2. Unsisting, adj. unresting. M. for M. iv. 2. Unstanched, p.p. incontinent. Temp. 1. 1. Untempering, adj. unsoftening. H. V. V.2. Untented, adj. unsearchable. Lear, i. 4. Untraded, adj. unused, uncommon. T. & Cr. IV. 5. Untrimmed, p.p. spoiled of grace or orna- ment. Son. 18. Untrue, sb. untruth. Son. 113. Unvalued, adj. invaluable. R. III. I. 4. Upspring reel, sb. a boisterous dance. Ham. I. 4. Urchin, sb. the hedge-hog. Temp. i. 2. Usance, sb. usury. M. of V. I. 3. Use, sb. interest. M. for M. 1. 1. Utis, sb. riotous merriment, which accom- panied the eighth day of a festival. 2 H. IV. II. 4. Utter, v.t. to expel, put forth. Much Ado, V. 3. Utterance, sb. extremity. Mac. in. 1 ; Cym. III. I. Waft, v.t. to wave, beckon. Ham. i. 4. To Turn. Wint. Tale, i. 2. Waftage, sb. passage. T. & Cr. in. 2. Wafture, sb. waving, beckoning. J. C. II. 1. Wage, v.t. to reward as with wages. Cor.v.5. Wailful, adj. lamentable. Two Gent. in. 2. Waist, sb. the middle of a ship. Temp. 1. 2. Wannion. 'With a wannion ' = ' with a vengeance.' Per. ii. 1. Wappened, p.p. withered, overworn. Tim. IV. 3. Ward, sb. guard. Temp. i. 2. Prison. 2 H. VL v. 1. Warden, sb. a large pear used for baking. Wint. Tale, iv. 2. Warder, sb. truncheon. R. II. i. 8. Warn, v.t. to summon. R. III. i. 3. Wassail, sb. a drinking bout. A. & C. I. 4 Festivity. Ham. i. 4. Wat, a familiar word for a hare. V. & A. Watch, sb. a watch light. R. III. v. 3. Watch, v.t. to tame by keeping constantly awake. 0th. in. 3. Water-gall, sb. a secondary rainbow. Lucr. Water-rug, sb. a kind of dog. Mac. in. 1. Water-work, sb. painting in distemper. 2 H. IV. n. 1. Wax, v.i. to grow. H. V. v. 1. Waxen, v.i. perhaps, to hiccough. M. N's Dr. n. 1. Wealth, sb. weal, advantage. M. of V. v.i. Wear, sb. fashion. As you Like it. n. 7. Weather-fend, v.t. to defend from the weather. Temp. v. 1. Web and pin, sb. the cataract in the eye. Lear, in. 4 ; Wint. Tale, i. 2. Wee, adj. small, tiny. Merry Wives, i. 4. Weed, sb. garment. Tw. N. v. 1. Ween, v.i. to think. 1 H. VI. II. 5. Weet, v.t. to wit, know. A. & C. 1. 1. Weigh out, v.t. to outweigh. H. VIII. in. 1. Welkin, sb. the sky. Merry Wives, i. 3. Welkin, adj. sky-blue. Wint. Tale, l. 2. Well-liking, adj. in good condition. L's L's L. v. 2. Well said, int. well done ! 2 H. IV. in. 2. Wend, v.i. to go. M. for M. iv. 3. Wesand, sb. the wind-pipe. Temp. in. 2. Whelk, sb. a weal. H. V. in. 6. Whelked, p.p. marked with whelks or protuberances. Lear.iv. 6. When, an exclamation of impatience. Tam. of S. iv. 1. WJien as, adv. when. Son. 49. WJiere, adv. whereas. 2 H. VI. in. 2 ; Lear, 1.2. Wliere, sb. a place. Lear, 1. 1. Wliiffler, sb. an oflicer who clears the way in processions. H. V. v. Chorus. While-ere, adv. a little while ago. Temp. III. 2. Whiles, adv. until. Tw. N. iv. 3. Whip-stock, sb. handle of a whip. Tw. N. II. 3. Whist, adj. hushed, silent. Temp. i. 2. White, sb. the centre of an archery butt. Tam. of S. v. 2. Whitely, adj. pale-faced. L's L's L. in. 1. A doubtful word. Whiting-time, sb. bleaching time. Merry Wives, III. 3. Whitster, sb. bleacher. Merry Wives, in. 3. Wliittle, sb. a clasp knife. Tim. v. 3. Whoo-bub, sb. hubbub. Wint. Tale, iv. 4. Whoop, v.i. to cry out with astonishment H. V. n. 2. Comp. As you Like it, in. 2. Wicked, adj. noisome, baneful. Temp. i. 2. Widow, v.t. to give a jointure to. M. for M. v.i. Widowhood, sb. widow's jointure. Tam. of S. II. 1. Wight, sb. person. 0th. ii. 1. Wild, sb. weald. 1 H. IV. ll. 1. Wilderness, sb. wildness. M. for M. in. 1. Wimpled, p.p. veiled, hooded. L's L's L. III. 1. Window-bars, sb. lattice-work across a woman's stomacher. Tim. iv. 3. Windring, pr.p. winding. Temp. in. 3. Winter-ground, v.t. to protect (a plant) from frost. Cym. iv. 2. Wis, in the compound ' I wis,' certainly, R. III. I. 3. Wish, v.t. to commend. Tam. of S. 1. 1. Wistly, adv. wistfuUy. R. II. v. 4. AN INDEX TO FAMILIAR PASSAGES. Wit, sh. knowledge, wisdom. M. of V. ii. 1. ; J. C. III. 2. Without, prep, beyond. M. N's Dr. iv. 1. Wits, five, the five senses. Much Ado, 1. 1. Wittol, sb. a contented cuckold. Merry- Wives, II. 2. Witty, adj. intelligent. 3 H. VI. I. 2. Woman-tired, adj. hen-pecked. Wint. Tale, II. 3. Wondered, p.p. marvellously gifted. Temp. IV. 2. Wood, adj. mad. Two Gent. il. 3. Woodcoclc, sb. a simpleton. Tam. of S. I. 2. Woodman, sb. a forester, huntsman. Cym. III. 6. A cant term for a wencher. M. for M. IV. 3. Woolward, adj. shirtless. L's L's L. v. 2. Word, v.t. to flatter or put off with words. A. & C. V. 2. To repeat the words of a song. Cym, iv. 2. World. ' To go to the world ' is to get mar- ried. Much Ado, II. 1. So ' a woman of the world' is a married woman. As you Like it, V. 3. Worm, sb. a serpent. M. for M. iii. 1. Worser, adj. worse. Temp. iv. 1. Worship, v.t. to honour. H. V. I. 2. Worth, sb. wealth, fortune. Tw. N. in. 3. Worts, sb. cabbages. Merry Wives, 1. 1. Wot, v.t. to know. Two Gent. iv. 4. Wound, p.p. twisted about. Temp. ii. 2. Wreak, sb. vengeance. Cor. iv. 5. Wreak, v.t. to avenge. T. A. iv. 3. Wreakful, adj. revengeful, avenging. Tim. IV. 3. Wrest, sb. an instrument used for tuning a harp. T. & Cr. in. 3. Writ, sb. gospel, truth. Per. ii. (Gower). Writhled, p.p. shrivelled. 1 H. VI. II. 3. Wroth, sb. calamity, misfortune. M. of V. Wrung, p.p. twisted, strained. 1 H. IV. II. 1. Wry, v.i. to swerve. Cym. v. 1. Tare, adj. ready. Used as an int., 'be being understood. Temp. 1. 1. Tarely, adv. readily. Temp. 1. 1. T-clad, p.p. clad. 2 H. VI. 1. 1. T-clept, p.p. called, named. L's L's L. v. 2 Team, v.t. to grieve, vex. Merry Wives, in. 5 ; R. II. v. 5. Tellowness, sb. jealousy. Merry Wives, i. 3, Tellou-a, sb. a disease of horses. Tam. of S. III. 2. Teoman, sb. a sheriff's officer. 2 H. YV II. 1. Tield, v.t. to reward. A. & C. iv. 2. To report. A. & C. ll. 5. Tond, adj. and adv. yonder. Temp. i. 2. Zany, sb. & clown, gull. L's L's L. v. 2. j^IST INDEX TO FAMILIAR PASSAGES IN SHAKESPEARE'S PLATS. 65 90 Ancient and fish-like smell.... Temperf 18 All his successors M. W. of Wind. 35 Alacrity in sinking if. W. of Wind. 48 As good luck would have it M. W. of Wind. 48 A man of my kidney...Jlf. W. of Wind. 48 As when a giant dies Mea.forM. Ay, but to die and go we know not where Mea.forM. A mere anatomy Com, of E. A living dead-man Com. of E. A very valiant trencher-man Much Ado 92 A bachelor of threescore Much Ado 93 Asmerryasthedayislong..ifucft^do 95 Are you good men and true? Much Ado 101 A thousand blushing apparitions Much Ado 105 ^11 men's office to speak patience Much Ado 107 Apollo's lute, strung vrith his hair Zone's i.i. 124 1 jest's prosperity lies in the ear Xwe's L. L. 132 .vi proper man as one shall see Mid.N.D. 135 \ud certain stars shot madly Mid. N. D. 137 And the imperial votaress passed on.. Mid.N.D. 137 A Hon among ladies is a Mid. N. D. 139 A stage where every man Mer. Ven. 150 A goodly apple rotten at the heart Mer. Ven. 153 According to Fates and Destinies Mer. Ven. 154 All that glisters is not gold...il/er. Ven. 157 A harmless ji8<;essarj' cat Mer. Ven. 164 A Daniel come to judgment..ifer. Ven. 165 An hour by hAS dial As You L. 177 All the world 's a stage As You L. 178 884 An Ill-favored thing, sir, but...(ls You, L. 188 An onion will do well for... Tam. of S. 191 And, will you, nill you Tam. of S. 198 A woman moved is like a fountain troubled Tam. of S. 209 All impediments in fancy's course AlCs WeU 230 At my fingers' ends Twelfth N. 233 An you had any eye behind you Twelfth N. 240 An I thought he had been valiant Twelfth N. 245 As the old hermit of Prague said Twelfth N. 246 Another lean, unwashed artificer K.John 288 All places that the eye of heaven Mich. II. 299 As in a theatre the eyes of men Rich. II. 312 A Corinthian, a lad of mettle 1 Hen. IV. 323 A plague of all cowards 1 Ben. IV. 324 A plague of sighing and grief. 1 Hen. IV. 325 A fellow of no mark nor likelihood... 1 Hen. IV. 329 A man can die but once 2 Hen. IV, 352 A valiant flea that dares Hen. V. 377 All that poets feign of. 3 Hen. VI. 436 A little fire is quickly 3 Hen. VI. 452 Afternoon of her best days. ..UicA.I/J. 475 A horse 1 a horse! my kingdom Rich. Ill, 485 After my death, I wish no other Hen. VIII, 504 An hour before the worshipped sun... Rom. & J. 585 At lovers' perjuriesthey say..JJom. & J. 591 A word and a blow Rom. & J. 595 A plague o' both your houses Rom.&J. 595 PAG* Adversity's sweet adlk, philosophy.... Rom. & J. 59? A feasting presence full of light Rom.&J. 605 Are not within the leaf of pity Tim. of A. 620 As proper men as ever trod Jul. C. 627 A friend should bear a Jul. C. 641 All his faults observed Jul. C. 641 Attempt, and not the deed, confounds.. Macb. 652 'Amen ' stuck in my throat Macb. 652 A falcon towering in her pride.. Jfac6. 654 Afl«r life's fitful fever he Macb. 655 A deed of dreadful note Macb. 655 Air-drawn dagger Macb. 656 A deed without a name Madb. 658 Angels are bright still, though... ifac6. 660 All the perfumes of Arabia wiU not... Macb, 662 Applaud thee to the very echo...J/ac6. 663 A little month or ere Ham. 668 A beast that wants discourse Ham. 668 Armed at point exactly Ham. 669 Angels and ministers of grace.... ifam. 671 Art thou there, truepenny Ham. 672 A plentiful lack of wit Ham. 675 A man that fortune's buffets Ham. 680 A pipe for fortune's finger to Ham. 680 At your age the heyday in Ham. 683 Assume a virtue if you have Ham. 684 A man may fish with a worm.... flam. 68fc A very riband in the cap of youth Ham. 689 Alas, poor Yorick ! I knew him..flam. 691 A hit, a very palpable hit Ham. 694 Absent thee from felicity awhile Ham. 695 A poor, infirm, weak, and despised... K. Ijear 708 Ay, every inch a king ! K. Lear 716 Age cannot wither her, ■D.or...Ant. & C. 755 Against self-slaughter there is Cym. 788 AN INDEX TO FAMILIAR PASSAGES. Bettering of my mind Tempest 2 Baseless fabric of this vision... Tempest 13 Best men are moulded out of faults... Mea.for M. 76 Benedick the married ma.n..Much Ado 108 By my penny of observation Love's L. L. 118 Beadle to a humorous sigh..Xoue's L. L. 119 Begot in the ventricle of memory Lov€sL.L. 121 Brief as the lightning Mid. N. D. 134 Bless thee ! thou art translated Mid. N. D. 140 By adventuring both, I oft. ..Mer. Ven. 151 Beauty provoketh thieves.. ..As You L. 174 Big round tears cours'd one anotier... As You L. 174 Blow, blow, thou winter wind As You L. 178 Betwixt the wind and his nobUity..— 1 Hen. IV. 318 Brain him with his lady's fan 1 Hen. IV. 322 Banish plump Jack 1 Hen. IV. 326 But in the way of bargain....! Hen. IV. 328 But a shirt and a half in all..l Hen. IV. 333 Better part of valor is discretion 1 Hen. IV. 337 Base is th« slave that pays Hen. V. 368 Bid them achieve me Hen. V. 380 Between two hawks 1 Hen. VI. 396 By that sin fell the angels...flen. VIII. 502 Be just, and fear not Hen. VIII. 502 Baby figure of the giant mass TroU.&C. 516 Bud bit with an envious worm Rom.&J. 585 Bud of love Rom. & J. 591 Beggarly account of empty boxes Rom. & .r. 604 Beauty's ensign yet is crimson Rom.&J. 605 Beware the Ides of March Jvl.C. 628 Between the acting of. Jul. C. 632 Brutus is an honorable man Jul. C. 638 But yesterday the word of Caesar Jul. a 638 Be the serpent under 't Macb. 650 Borrower of the night Macb. 654 Better be with the dead Macb. 655 By the pricking of my thumbs... ifocb. 658 Be thou familiar, but by no Ham. 670 Beware of entrance to a quarreL.flixm. 670 Be somewhat scanter of your Ham. 670 Brevity is the soul of wit Ham. 674 Beggar that I am, I am Ham. 675 Be thou as chaste as ice Ham. 679 Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks.. K.Lear 708 But mice and rats and such....^". Lear 710 But I will wear my heart Othello 722 Beware, my lord, of jealousy... 0..As You />. 184 I will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways As You L. 187 If is the only peacemaker. ..As You L. 189' I will show myself highly fed All's Well. 216 Inaudible and noiseless foot of Time.. All's Well 229> If music be the food of love.. Twelfth N. 232 I am all the daughters of..... Twelfth N. 23» If this were played upon a stage TwelfthN. 244 I would that I were low laid In my grave K. John 279. I was never so bethumped with words K. John 281 I saw a smith stand with his hammer. K.John 28» In those holy fields 1 Hen. IV. 316- If all the year were playing holidays.. I Hen- IV. 31S I know a trick worth two...l Hen. IV. 321 It would be argument for a weeY 1 Hen. IV. 322 I am a Jew else ...1 Hen. IV. 324r I was now a coward on instinct 1 Hen. IV. 325- In King Cambyses' vein 1 Hen. IV. 325 I am not in the roll of common 1 Hen. IV. 327 I can call spirits from 1 Hen. IV. 327 I had rather be a kitten 1 Hen. IV. 328 I saw young Harry with his.- 1 Hen. IV. 332 I would 't were bedtime, Hil J Hen. IV. 335 I could have better spared..! Hen. IV. 337 In the vaward of our youth..2 Hen. IV. 342 I'll tickleyour catastrophe. 2 Hen. IV. 344 If it be a sin to covet honor Ilcn. V. 380- I eat and eat, I swear Hen. V. 385 If he be not fellow with Ilni. V. 387 I have passed a miserable.. ..iJic/i. III. 464- AN INDEX TO FAMILIAR PASSAGES. , tiave set my life upon Rich. III. 485 I have touch'd the highest point Hen. VJII. 501 1 have had my labor for Troil. & C. 511 I thank you for your voices Coriol. 547 I do remember an apothecary Eom.&J. 604 I '11 example you -with thievery Tim. of A. 623 It was Greek to me Jul. C. 630 I am constant as the northern-Jai. C. 636 If any, speak; for him Jul. C. 638 If you have tears prepare Jul. C. 639 I come not, friends, to steal Jul. C. 639 I had rather be a dog Jul. C. 641 If you can look into the seeds.... Macb. 648 If it were done when 'tis Macb. 650 I have bought golden opinions.. ifocft. 650 I dare do all that may Macb. 651 If we should fail Macb. 651 Is this a dagger which I Macb. 651 It was the owl that shrieked Macb. 652 Infirm of purpose Macb. 652 I am cabin'd, cribb'd, confined..ilfac6. 656 I'll make assurance double sure..lfoc6. 658 I cannot but remember such Macb. 662 I have supp'd full with horrors..i/ac6. 663 I 'gin to be a-weary of. Macb. 664 I bear a charmed life Macb. 664 It started like a guilty thing Ham. 667 In equal scale weighing delight-.flara. 667 It is not, nor it cannot come Ham. 668 In my mind's eye, Horatio Ham. 669 In the dead vast and middle Ham. 669 It was, as I have seen it Ham. 669 I do not set my life at Ham. 671 I am thy father's spirit Ham. 671 I could a tale unfold Ham. 671 I know a hawk from a handsaw.Hom. 676 I am myself indifferent honest...ifom. 679 Itout-Herods Herod Ham. 679 It means mischief Ham. 680 It will discourse most eloquent music. Ham. 682 I will speak daggers to her Ham. 682 Is there not rain enough Ham. 683 I must be cruel only to be Ham. 684 Imperious Caesar, dead and turned Ham. 691 I thought thy bride-bed to have decked Ham. 692 I '11 rant as well as thou Ham. 692 It did me yeoman's service Ham. 692 Into a towering passion Ham. 693 If it be now, 'tis not to come Ham. 694 I have shot mine arrow o'er Ham. 694 Ingratitude, thou marble - hearted fiend K. Lear 702 I tax not you, you elements.... if. Lear 708 I am a man more sinned against K.Lear 709 I '11 talk a word with this K. Lear 710 In faith, 'twas strange Othello 725 I do perceive here a divided Othello 726 I saw Othello's visage in his Othello 726 I am nothing, if not critical Othello 728 I am not merry ; but I do Othello 728 I am declined into the vale of years... Othello 735 I understand a fury in your words Othello 741 I have done the state some service.. ... OtheUo 747 IV beggared all description.^n^. & Cleo. 754 Journeys end in lovi Twelfth N. 237 Jove, not I, is the doeTofthis.TwelflhN. 244 King's name twenty thousand names. Rich. II. 305 Keen encounter of our wits..JJicA. III. 460 King's name is atower Rich. III. 482 Keep the word of promise Macb. 664 King of shreds and patches Ham. 684 Library was dukedom large enough... Tempest 2 Leave not a rack behind Tempest 13 Life is rounded with a sleep... Tempest 14 Love hath twenty pair of eyes Two Gen. Ver. 23 Love 's a mighty lord Two Gen. Ver. 23 Like a fair house built M. W. of W. 42 Life is a shuttle M. W. of W. 53 Looker-on here in Vienna.. Ji/ea. /or M. 75 Let every eye negotiate for itself Much Ado 96 Light, seeking light, doth light Love's L. L. 112 Love looks not with the eyes.JIfid. N. D. 135 Love is blind, and lovers Mer. Yen. 156 Let him look to his bond Mer. Yen. 159 Let it serve for table talk Mer. Yen. 163 Let no such man be trusted.. Ker. Yen. 168 Look'd on better days As You L. 177 Look into happiness through.As You L. 187 Let the world slide Tam.ofS. 190 Love a bright particular sla.x..AU 's Well 210 Leave the world no copy Twelfth N. 236 Let thy love be younger Twelfth N. 239 Love sought is good, but Twelfth N. 242 Let there be gall enough Twelfth N. 242 Lord of our presence K. John 280 Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale... K. John 285 Let's talk of graves Rich. II. 306 Little better than one of the wicked... 1 Hen. IV. 317 Loathe the taste of sweetness 1 Hen. IV. 329 Leisure to be sick 1 Hen. IV. 332 Liked not the security 2 Hen. IV. 341 Let not the heavens hear these Rich. in. 479 Let all the ends thou aim'st at Hen. VIIL 502 Like an eagle in a dove-cote Coriol. 563 Lady, by yonder blessed moon Eom.&J. 591 Loves to hear himself talk...iJom. & J. 593 Let me have men about me Jul. C. 629 liOwliness is young ambition's ladder. Jul. a 631 Last of all the Romans Jul. C. 645 Letting ' I dare not,' wait npon... Macb. 651 Life 's but a walking shadow Macb. 664 Live to be the show Macb. 664 Lay on, Macduff, and Macb. 665 Little more than kin, and less....iram. 668 Like Niobe, all tears flam. 668 Let it be tenable in your silence..ifam. 669 Leave her to heaven and Ham. 672 Let the candied tongue lick Ham. 680 Let the devil wear black Ham. 680 Let the galled jade wince Ham. 681 Let the stricken deer go weep. ...flam. 681 Let me wring your heart Ham. 683 Look here, upon this picture flam. 683 Lay not that iiattering unction...flam. 684 Lay her i' the earth ; and from...flam. 692 Let Hercules himself do what. ...Ham. 692 Let not women's weapons, water drops K. Lear 707 Little dogs and all ; Tray, Blanch K.Lear 711 Let's do it after the high Roman Ant. & C. 771 Misery acquaints a man Tempest 8 Mine with my heart in 't Tempest 10 Melted into air, into thin air... Tempest 13 Man that hath a tongue.. Two Gen. Ver. 26 Mine host of the Garter.. ..Jf. W. of W. 36 184 208 Miserable have no other medicine Mea.for M. 64 Men were deceivers ever Much Ado 98 Masters, it is proved already.ilfMcft Ado 106 Making the bold wag by their praises.. Love's L. L. 126 Masters, spread yourselves..ifid. N. D. 135 Maidens call it love-in-idleness Mid.N.D. 127 My heart is true as steel Mid. N. D. 137 Many a time and oft in the...Mer. Ven. 153 Mislike me not for my complexion.... Mer. Ven. 153 Makes a swan-like end Mer. Ven. 160 My pride fell with my fortunes As You L. 17i Motley 's the only wear As You L. 177 Men have died . . . but not for love... As You L. Men are April when they woo As You L. My cake is dough Tam.of S. My friends were poor but honest All's Well 213 Most brisk and giddy -paced. Twelfth N. 238 More matter for a May morning Twelfth N. 244 Merry heart goes all the day.. Wint. T. 263 Mocking the air with colors. ..£". John 291 My large kingdom for a little grave... Rich. II 308 Mark now how a plain tale..l Hen. I V. 325 Most forcible Feeble 2 Hen. IV. 352 Many strokes, though with a little axe 3 Hen. VI. 439 My conscience hath a thousand Rich. Ill 481 Men's evil manners live in brass Hen. VIIL 504 More peril in thine eye Rom. & J. 591 My man 's as true as steel Rom. & J. 593 My bosom's lord sits lightly..iJom. & J. 604 My poverty, but not my will.Rom. & J. 604 Men at some time are masters. ..Jui. C. 629 My true and honorable wife Jul. C. 633 Mischief, thou art afoot Jal. C. 639 Memory, the warder of the brain Macb. 651 Methought I heard a voice cry. ..Micb. 652 My way of life is fallen into Macb. 663 Make the night joint-laborer Ham. 667 Morn, in russet mantle clad Ham. 667 My father's brother, but no more. flam. 668 More in sorrow than in anger.. ..flam. 669 Makingnight hideous Ham. 671 My fate cries out. and makes Ham. 671 More matter with less art flam. 674 Man delights not me ; no, nor.. ..flam. 676 Murder, though it have no tongue Ham. 678 My imaginations are as foul Ham. 680 My offence is rank, it smells to...flam. 682 Made you no more offence K. Lear 706 Mastiff, greyhound, mongrel, grim K. Lear 711 Mine enemy's dog K. Lear 718 Most potent, grave, and reverend Othello 725 My salad days, when I was green Ant. & a 752 Nothing ill can dwell Tempest No ceremony that to great ones Mea. for M. Not born under a rhyming planet Much Alio Nourishment which is called supper.. Love's L. L. Nature hath framed strange fellows... Mer. Ven. Not yet so old but she may...ilfer. Ven. Now, infidel, I have you Mer. Ven. AN INDEX TO FA3IILIAR PASSAGES. Not one to throw at a dog....^s You L. 173 Neither rhyme nor reason can As You L. 181 No sooner looked, but they loved As You L. 187 No profit grows where is no. Tarn, of S. 192 Nothing comes amiss, so money Tarn, of S. 194 Nature's own sweet and cunning hand Twelfth N. 236 New-made honor doth forget-.i". John 276 No virtue like necessity Rich. II. 299 Not all the water in the rough rude sea Rich. IL 305 Nothing can we call our own but Rich. II. 306 Nay, that 's past praying for..l Hen. IV. 324 No more of that, Hal 1 Hen. IV. 325 Now is the winter of our Rich. III. 458 Name unmusical to the Volsclans' ears Coriol. 555 No, 'tis not so deep as a well Rom.&J. 595 Night's candles are burnt out Rom.&J. 599 Not stepping o'er the bounds Rom. & J. 602 Not that I loved Ceesar less Jul. C. 638 Norweyan banners flout the sky.jtfocb. 647 Nothing in his life became him like... Ma£h. 649 No compunctious visitings of nature.. Mach. 650 Nor time nor place did then Mach. 651 Nothing can touch him further..ifacb. 655 Now spurs the lated traveller Macb. 656 Not so sick, my lord, as Macb. 663 Neither a borrower nor a lender be.... Ham. 670 Nymph, in thy orisons be all Ham. 678 Not to speak it profanely Ham. 679 Never set a squadron in the field Othello 722 No hinge nor loop to hang a doubt Othello 736 Nothing extenuate, nor set down aught Othello 747 O what a world of vile M. W. of W. 47 Our doubts are traitors Mea.fw M. 59 Our compell'd sins stand more Mea.forM. 63 One Pinch, a hungry lean-face vil- lain Com.ofE. 90 O, what men dare do ! Much Ado 104 O, what a goodly outside, falsehood... Mer. Ven. 153 O, good old man As You L. 175 O wonderful, wonderful, and most As You L. 180 Omittance is no quittance.. ..ds You L. 183 Our cake's dough on both sides Tarn, of S. 193 Our remedies oft in ourselves All's Well 211 Oft expectation fails, and most oft All's Well 215 O, what a deal of scorn looks Twelfth N. 242 Oftentimes excusing of a fault K.John 287 Old John of Gaunt, time-honored Rich.n. 295 O, call back yesterday, bid time Rich.n. 305 Old father antic, the law 1 Hen. IV. 317 Out of this nettle, danger....! Hen. IV. 322 monstrous ! but one half-penny- worth 1 Hen. IV. 327 Oldest sins the newest kind of. 2 Hen. IV. 358 O ftr a Muse of fire Hen. V. 364 Once more unto the breach, dear friends Hen.V. 372 Off with his head Rich. III. 472 coward conscience, how dost Rich. in. 484 Order gave each thing view.flew. VIII. 487 Old man, broken with the storms Hen. VIII. 504 One touch of nature makes.. Troil. & C. 524 One fire burns out another's.ifom. & J. 586 O, that I were a glove Rom. & J. 590 O, Romeo, Romeo ! Rom. & J. 590 One, two, and the third in.. .Rom. & J. 592 One writ with me in sour misfor- tune's Rom. &J. 605 O judgment! thou art fled Jul. C. 638 O, what a fall was there Jul. C. 639 0, that a man might know Jul. C. 644 Our fears do make us traitors Macb. 659 O, I could play the woman.. Macb, 662 Out, damned spot ! out, I say ]...Macb. 662 Out, out, brief candle ! Macb. 664 that this too too solid flesh Ham. 668 O my prophetic soul ! my uncle '..Ham. 671 Hamlet, what a falling off. Ham. 671 One may smUe and smile and....flom. 672 O day and night, but this is Ham. 672 On Fortune's cap we are not Ham. 675 O, what a noble mind is here Ham. 679 Observed of all observers Ham. 679 One woe doth tread upon Ham. 690 One that was a woman, sir Ham. 691 O, that way madness lies K. Lear 709 One that excels the quirks of.. Othello 728 most lame and impotent conclu- sion ! Othello 728 O, I have lost my reputation Othello 732 O thou invisible spirit of ■wine..OtheUo 732 Othello's occupation 's gone Othello 736 On horror's head horrors accumulate. Othello 736 Our new heraldry is hands, not hearts Othello 737 O lago, the pity of it Othello 740 One that loved not wisely Othello 747 O, wither'd is the garland ot.Ant. & C. 770 Plays such fantastic tricks..ilf6a./or M. 62 Pleasing punishment that women Com. of E. 78 Patch grief with proverbs... jlfitcft Ado 107 Posteriors of this day Love's L. L. 125 Praising what is lost makes..4« 's Well 229 Purple testament of bleeding war Rich. IL 307 Pluck up drowned honor by the locks 1 Hen. IV. 320 Play out the play 1 Hen. IV. 326 Purge, and leave sack, and..l Hen. IV. 338 Press not a falling man too far Hen. VIIL 501 Past our dancing days Rom. & J. 589 Put a tongue in every wound. ../«i. C. 639 Present fears are less than Macb. 649 Pour the sweet milk of concord...Jfacb. 661 Pluck out the heart of my mystery Ham. 682 Precious diadem stole, and put it Ham. 684 Politician . . . one that coiild circum- vent Ham. 690 Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you K. Lear 709 Patience and sorrow strove K. Lear 714 Preferment goes by letter and...OtteHo 722 Put money in thy purse Othello 727 Potations pottle deep Otliello 730 Poor and content is rich Othello 734 Pomp and circumstance of glorious war Othello 736 Put in every honest hand a wliip Othello 742 Put out the light, and then OWieKo 745 Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for.. Gym. 786 Queen Mab hath been with you Rcm.&J. 588 Rats instinctively had quit Tempest 3 Rich in having such a jewel Two Gent. Ver. 24 Rankest compound of a villanous smell M. W. of W. 48 Railed on Lady Fortune As You L. 177 Retort courteous As You L. 189 Rob me the exchequer 1 Hen. IV. 331 Remember the poor creature, small beer 2 Hen. IV. 345 Romans, countrymen, and lovers Jul. C. 638 Return to plague the inventor. ..JJfacb. 650 Reckless of what I do to Mad). 655 Rich, not gaudy; for the apparel Ham. 670 Revisit'st thus the glimpses Ham. 671 Rest, rest, perturbed spirit Ham. 672 Rich gifts wax poor when givers..£ram. 679 Reason, like sweet bells jangled..flam. 679 Reform it altogether Ham. 679 Report me and my cause Ham. 695 Still-vexed Bermoothes Tempest Sea-change into something rich........ Tempest Such stuff as dreams are made. Tempest Seven hundred pounds and possibili- ties M. W.of W. Sail like my pinnace M. W. of W. Spirits are not finely touch'd Mea.forM. Servile to all the skyey influences Mea.foT M. Sense of death is most Mea.for M. Skirmish of wit Much Ado Speak low if you speak love.ilfticft Ado Sits the wind in that corner. JlfMc/i Ado Some, Cupid kills with arrows, some.. Much Ado Some of us will smart for it.Mueh Ado Study to break it Love's L. L. So sweet and voluble is his discourse.. Love's L. L. Swifter than arrow from Tartar's bow. Mid. N. D. So we grew together Mid. N. D. Ships are but boards Mer. Ven. Speak me fair in death Mer. Ven. Such harmony is in immortal Mer. Ven. So shines a good deed Mer. Ven. Speak to him, ladies ; see.. ...4s You L. Sweet are the uses of adversity As You L. Sweep on, you fat and greasy As You L. She has a huswife's hand.. ...4s You L. Small choice in rotten apples Tam. of S. Such duty as the subject owes Tam. of S. Service is no heritage All 's Well Since I have lost, have loYed.AU 's Well Spinsters and knitters in the sun Twelfth N. She never told her love Twelfth N. Some are born great, some achieve Twelfth N. Snapper-up of unconsidered trifles Winter's T. Sweet poison for the age's tooth K. John St. George that swinged the dragon.... K. John ^ I 3 I 100 108 112 116 141 142 152 I 165 167 168 172 AN INDEX TO FAMILIAR PASSAGES. So pestered with a popinjay.l Hen. IV. 319 Some smack of age in you...2fien. IV. 342 Sleep! O gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse 2 Hen. IV. 350 Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin.. Hen. V. 371 Sheath'd their swords for lack..flen. V. 372 Stand like greyhounds in the slips Hen. V. 372 Soul of goodness in things evil-.fien. V. ZTl She's beautiful, and therefore to be woo'd IHen. VI. 407 Smooth runs the water where 2 Hen. VI. 420 Smallest worm will turn 3 Hen. VI. 440 Suspicion always haunts the 3 Hen. VL 456 Stand back, and let the coffin.iJicft. III. 460 Se«m a saint when most l....Eich. III. 464 So wise, so young, they say...Eicft. III. 470 Sons of Edward sleep in Rich. III. iTl Shadows to-night have struck more... Rich. III. 484 Sleep in dull cold marble...fien. VIII. 502 So may he rest; his faults. .flere. VIII. 504 Sweet mercy is nobility's true. Tit. And. 565 She is a woman, therefore Tit. And. 568 " ...1 Hen. VI 407 Saint-seducing gold Rom. & J. 586 Swears a prayer or two Rom. & J. 588 Stony limits cannot hold love out Rom. & J. 591 Stabbed with a white wench's black eye Rrnn.&J. 592 Straining harsh discords and.iJoro.tfc J. 599 Sharp misery had worn him. iJom. & J. 604 Such men are dangerous JvX. C. 629 Seldom he smiles and Jul. C. 629 Scorning the base degrees by. ...Jul. C. 631 Should I have answered Cuvas-Jvl. C. 641 Sleep shall neither night nor Macb. 648 Stands not within the prospect. . Macb. 648 Screw your courage to the Ma/ib. 651 Shut up in measureless content.. Jifacb. 651 Sleep that knits up the Macb. 652 Stand not upon the order of. Macb. 657 Should I wade no more Macb. 657 Show his eyes, and grieve his heart... Macb. 659 Saw you the weird sisters Macb. 659 Stands Scotland where it did 7. ..Macb. 661 Sheeted dead did squeak and gibber.. Ham. 667 Seems, madam ! nay. It is Ham. 668 She would hang on him, as if Ham. 668 Season your admiration for a Ham. 669 Springes to catch woodcocks Ham. 670 Something is rotten in the Ham. 671 Sent to my account Ham. 672 Still harping on my daughter Ham. 675 Suit the action to the word Ham. 679 Some of nature's journeymen Ham. 679 Shame! where is thy blush?. Ham. 684 Sure, He that made us with Ham. 687 So full of artless jealousy Ham. 687 Striving to better, oft we mar...£r. Lear 702 Silence that dreadful bell ! Othello 731 Swell, bosom, with thy fraught.. Otteito 736 Steep'd me in poverty to the Othello 741 Scorn to point his slow Othello 741 Smooth as monumental alabaster Othello 745 Sometime we see a cloud Ant. & C. 769 Some griefs are med'cinable Cym. 786 Tester I '11 have in pouch..ibr. W. of W. 38 The king's English M. W. of W. 38 Thereby hangs a tale M. W. of W. 39 As YouL. 177 " Tarn, of S. 202 Thereby hangs a tail Othello 733 Thou hast some crotchets..ilf. W. of W. 40 The world 's mine oyster.. .i>/. W. of W. 41 The short and the long of it. JIf. W. of W. 41 Think of that. Master Brook M. W. of W. 48 Thyself and thy belongings.itfea./orjlf. 56 That in the captain 's but &..Mea. for M. 62 Take, O take those lips away Mea.forM. 68 Trust no agent Much Ado 96 The most senseless and fit man Much Ado 102 Thank God you are rid of a knave Much Ado 102 They are not the men you...Much Ado 102 They that touch pitch Much Ado 102 The fashion wears out more apparel.. Much Ado 102 Th' idea of her life shall Much Ado 105 That 's the eftest way Much Ado 106 To write me down an ass. ...Much Ado 107 Too hard a keeping oath...i(we's L. L. 112 The boy hath sold him a bargain Imes L. L. 118 Teaches such beauty as a woman's eye Love's L. L. 124 They have measured many a mile LmdsL.L. 127 The course of true love Mid. N. D. 134 This is Ercles' vein Mid. N. D. 135 To hear the sea-maid's music Mid.N.D. 137 Two lovely berries moulded.Mid.N.D. 142 The lunatic, the lover, and the poet... Mid.N.D. 146 The lover, all as frantic Mid. N. D. 146 The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy Mid.N.D. 146 The true beginning of our end Mid.N.D. 147 The best in this kind are but shadows Mid.N.D. 147 The iron tongue of midnight.afid. JT.D. 148 Though Nestor swear the jest.ilfer. Ven. 150 There are a sort of men Mer. Ven. 151 They are as sick that surfeit..Jlfer. Ven. 151 The villany you teach me.. ..Mer. Ven. 159 Tell me where is fancy bred.ilfer. Ven. 160 Thus when I shun Scylla Mer. Ven. 163 'T is mine, and I will have it.Mer. Ven. 164 The quality of mercy is not..3fer. Ven. 165 To do a great right, do Mer. Ven, 165 'Tis not in the bond Mer. Ven. 165 Thou Shalt have justice Mer. Ven. 166 The man that hath no music.jlfer. Ven. 168 These blessed candles of the night Mer. Ven. 169 That was laid on with a tiowel .4s You L. 172 Tongues in trees, books \n...As You, L. 174 Therefore my age is as a As You L. 175 The why is plain as As Ymi L. 177 The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive As You L. 178 Time travels in divers paces.Xs You L. 180 Thank heaven fasting for a good man's love As You L. 183 Too much of a good thing.. .^s You L. 184 Tush, tush ! fear boys with bugs Tarn, of S. 195 The hind that would be All 's Well 211 The place is dignified by the doer's deed All's Well 217 'T is not the many oaths All 's Well 224 The web of our life is of. AU's WeU 225 Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty Twelfth N. 237 Trick of singularity Twelfth N. 240 This is very midsummer madness Twelfth N. 243 The rain it raiaeth every day Twelfth N. 250 " " " " " "....K.Lear 709 To unpath'd waters, undream'd shores Winter's T. 268 Talks as familiarly of roaring lions.... K.John 280 Thou wear a lion's hide K. John 282 To gild refined gold K. John 287 This England never did nor...ir. John 294 The tongues of dying men Rich. II. 300 The ripest fruit first falls Rich. II. 312 Thou hast damnable iteration IHen. IV. 317 'T is my vocation, Hal 1 Hen. IV. 317 There 's neither honesty 1 Hen. I V. 818 The blood more stirs to rouse a lion... IHen. IV. 320 Three misbegotten knaves..l Hen. IV. 324 Tell truth and shame the devil IHen. IV. 327 Take mine ease in mine inn.l Hen. IV. 330 Two and two, Newgate fashion IHen. IV. 331 This sickness doth infect.. ..1 Hen. IV. 332 Two stars keep not their motion IHen. IV. 337 This earth that bears thee dead IHen. IV. 337 Thou didst swear to me 2 Hen. IV. 344 Thus we play the fools 2 Hen. IV. 346 Thy wish was father, Harry ..2 Hen. IV. 358 That's a perilous shot Hen. V. 378 This day is call'd the feast o{...Hen. V. 380 Then shall our names familiar.flera. V. 380 There is occasions and causes..fleji. V. 3M Thrice is he armed that hath .2 Hen. VI. 423 The bricks are alive 2 Hen. VI. 427 Thouhastmosttraitorously.2flen. VI. 429 Things ill got had ever bad success.... ^ Hen. VI 446 Thus I clothe my naked villany Rich. in. 464 Thou troublest me ; I am not. JJicft. III. 477 Their lips were four red roses. iJicA. III. 477 Tetchy and wayward was thy Rich. Ill 479 Thus far into the bowels of the Rich. III. 482 True hope is swift, and flies..jejicft. III. 482 Thing devised by the enemy.2Jicft. III. 485 'T is better to be lowly born.flero. VIII. 494 'Tis well said again Hen. VIII. 506 Then to breakfast with what appetite. Hen. VIII. 506 Time hath, my lord, a wallet. Troi?.'oiZ. & C. 510 INDEX TO THE CHARACTERS IN THE PLAYS. Celia, daughter to Duke Frederick... As You L. Ceres, a spirit Tempest Cerimon, a lord of Ephesus Per. Charles the Wrestler As You L. Charles, dauphin, afterward king of France 1 Hen. VI. Charles VI., king of France..flen. V. Chartnian, attendant on Cleopatra.. Ant. & C. Chatillon, French ambassador K. John Chiron, son to Tamora Tit. And. Chorus Hen. V. Christopher Sly, a drunken tinker.. Tarn, of S. Christopher Urstfick, a priest Rich. III. Cicero, a senator Jul. C. Cinna, a poet Jul. C. Cinna, conspirator against Caesar Jul. a Clarence's son Rich. III. Claudia, a young gentleman Mea.for M. Claudio, a favorite of Don Pedro Much Ado Claudius, servant to Brutus.. ..Jm?. C. Claudius, king of Denmark Ham. Cleomenes, a Sicilian lord. Winter's T. Clean, governor of Tarsus Per. Cleopatra, queen of Egypt.. 47i«. & C. Clitus, servant to Brutus Jvl. C. Cloten, step-son to Cymbeline....CV'ra- Clown Ant.& a Ciouiji, servant to Mrs. Overdone Mea.for M. Clown, reputed brother to Perdita Winter's T. Clown AU's Well Clown, servant to Lady Olivia Twelfth N. Clown, servant to Othello Othello Cobweb, a fairy Mid. N. D. Caminius, a Roman general... CorioZ. Conrade, follower of Don John Much Ado Constable af France Hen. V. Constance, mother to Prince Arthur. K. John Cordelia, daughter to Lear. ...P. Lear Corin, a shepherd As You L. Cornelius Ham. Cornelius, a physician Cym. Costard, a clown Love's L. L. Countess of Auvergne 1 Hen. VI. Countess af JRousillon AW s Well Court, a, soldier Hen. V. Cranmer, archbishop of Canterbury. Hen. VIIL Cressida, daughter to Calchas Troil. & 0. Cromwell, servant to Wolsey Hen. VIIL Curan, a courtier K. Lear Curio, attendant on Duke Orsino Twelfth N. Curtis, servant to Petruchio. Tam. ofS. Cymbeline, king of Britain Oym. Dardanius, servant to Brutus. Jjti. C. 627 Davy, servant to Shallow..2 Hen. IV. 339 Jtaughter of Antiochus Per. 803 Decius Brutus, conspirator against Caesar Jul. C. 627 Deiphobus, son to Priam... Troil. & C. 510 Demetrius Ant.& C. 748 Demetrius Mid. N. D. 133 Demetrius, son to Tamora.. Tit. And. 564 Dennis, servant to Oliver.. 4s You L. 170 Dercetas, friend to Antony...4n^ & C. 748 892 410 486 748 Desdemona, wife to Othello... Othello 722 Diana, daughter of an old widow of Florence All's Well 210 Diana, goddess Per. 803 Dick the Butcher, a follower of Cade. 2 Hen. VL Diomedes, attendant on Cleopatra.... Ant. & a Diomedes, Grecian commander TroU. & C. Dion, a Sicilian lord Winter's T. JHonysa, -wife to Cleon Per. Dogberry, a constable JtfacA Ado Doctor K. Lear Doctor Butts, physician to King Henry Hen. VIIL Doll rea»'.sfeee«,astrumpet.2 Hen.IV. Dolabella, friend to C3t&M...Ant. & C. Domitius Enobarbus, friend to An- tony Ant. & C. 748 Donalbain, son to Duncan Macb. 647 Don Armada Love's L. L. 112 Don tTohn, bastard brother to Don Pedro Much Ado 92 Dan Pedro, prince of Arragon Much Ado 92 Dorcas Winter's T. 251 Dr. Caius, a French physician M. W. of W. 35 Dramio of Ephesus, ) twin Dromio of Syracuse, J brothers Com. of E. 78 Duchess of Gloucester Rich. II. 295 Duchess of York Rich. 11. 295 Duchess of York, mother to King Edward IV., &c Rich. Ill 458 Duke of Albany K. Lear 696 Duke of Alen^an 1 Hen. VI. 389 Duke of Aumerle, son to Duke of York Rich. IL 295 Duke of Austria K. John 275 Duke of Bedford, brother to King Henry V Hen. V. 364 Duke of Bedford, uncle to King Henry VI 1 Hen. VL 389 Duke of Bourbon Hen. V. 364 Duke of Buckingham, of the king's party 2 Hen. VI. 410 Duke of Buckingham. Rich. III. 458 Ihikeof Buckingham.... Hen. VIIL 486 Duke of Burgundy K. Lear 696 Duke of Burgundy Hen. V. 364 Duke of Burgundy 1 Hen. VL 389 Duke of Clarence's daughter RicKIIL 458 Duke of Cornwall K. Lear 696 Duke of Exeter, uncle to King Henry V Hen. V. 364 Duke of Exeter, of the Lancaster party i Hen. VI. 434 Duke of Florence AU's Well 210 X>M&e o/ Gloucester, brother to King Henry V Hen. V. 364 Duke of Gloucester, uncle to King Henry VI 1 Hen. VL 389 Duke, living in exile As You L. 170 Duke of Milan, father to Silvia Two Gen. Ver. 18 Duke of Norfolk, of the duke of York's party 3 Hen. VI. 434 Duke of Norfolk Rich. IIL 458 Duke of Norfolk Hen. VIIL 486 Duke of Orleans Hen. V. 364 Duke of Somerset, of the Lancaster party 2 Hen. VL 410 Duke of Somerset, of the Lancaster party S Hen. VL 434 Duke af Suffolk, of the king's party. 2 Hen. VL 410 Duke af Suffolk Hen. VIIL 486 Duke of Surrey Rich. II. 295 Duke of Venice Mer. Ven. 150 Duke of Venice Othello 722 Duke of York, cousin to King Henry V Hen. V. 364 Dull, a constable Love's L. L. 112 Dumain, attending on King Ferdi- nand Lov^s L. L. 112 Duncan, king of Scotland Macb. 647 Earl of Cambridge, conspirator against King Henry V Hen. V. 364 Earl of Essex K. John 275 Earl of Gloucester K. Lear 696 Earl of Kent A'. Lear 696 Earl af No7-thumberland...Rich. II. 295 Earl of Northumberland, enemy to King Henry IV 2 Hen. IV. 339 Earl of Northumberland, of the king'sparty S Hen. VL 434 Earl of Oxford, of the king's party. 3 Hen. VL 434 Earl af Oxford Rich. IIL 458 Earl af Pembroke K. John 275 Earl of Pembroke, of the duke of York's party SHen. VL 434 Earl hirers, brother to the queen of Edward IV Rich. IIL 458 Earl of Salisbury K. John 275 Earl of Salisbury Rich. II. 295 Ewrl af Salisbury Hen. V. 364 Earl of Salisbury 1 Hen. VI. 389 Earl of Salisbury, of the York fac- tion 2 Hen. VI. 410 Ewrl of Suffolk 1 Hen. VL 389 Earl of Surrey 2 Hen. IV. 339 Ear'l of Surrey Rich. III. 458 Earl of Surrey Hen. VIIL 486 Earl of Warwick, of King Henry IV.'s party 2 Hen. IV. 339 Earl of Warwick Hen. V. 364 Earl af Warwick 1 Hen. VI. 389 Earl of Warwick, of the York fac- tion IHen. VL 410 Earl of Warwick, of the duke of York's party 3 Hen. VI. 434 Earl of Westmoreland, friend to King Henry IV 1 Hen. IV. 316 Earl af Westmoreland, of King Henry IV.'s party 2 Hen. IV. 339 Earl of Westmoreland Hen. V. 364 Ea/rl of Westmoreland, of the king's party Z Hen. VL iU Edgar, son to Gloucester K. Lear 696 Edmund, bastard son to Gloucester.. K.Lear 6% Edmund, earl of Rutland, son to the Duke of York 3 Hen. VL 434 Edmund of Zangley, duke of York, uncle to King Richard U...Rich. IL 295 Edmund Mortimer, earl of March.. 1 Hen. IV. 316 Edmund Mortimer, earl of March.. 1 Hen. VL 389 Edward, son of duke of York 2 Hen. VL 410 Edward, prince of Wales..3 Hen. VL 434 Edward, afterwards King Edward IV.,sontothe dukeof York.3fle7i. VL 434 Edward, prince of Wales, son to King Edward IV Rich. IIL 458 Egeus, father to Hermia....Md. N. D. 133 Eglamour, agent to Silvia Two Gen. Ver. 18 Elbow, a constable Mea.for M. 56 Eleanor, duchess of Gloucester 2 Hen. VL 410 Elinor, mother of King John.^. John 275 Elisabeth, queen of King Edward IV. Rich. IIL 459 Emilia Winter's T. 251 Emilia, wife to lago Othello 722 English Doctor Macb. W7 INDEX TO THE CHARACTERS IN THE PLAYS. Eros, friend to Antony Ant. & C. 748 Esemnes, a lord of Tyre Per. 803 JEsealus, joint deputy with Angelo... Mea.forM. 56 Esealus, prince of Verona.-Kom.