0ass__PS.2aS3 Copyright N° [3JA COMRIGHT DEPOSIT. /:Li THE COMPLETE DRAMATIC AND POETICAL WORKS ^^ OP WILLIAM SHAKESPEAEE. '^ WITH A SUMMARY OUTLINE OF The Life oe the Poet, And a Description of His Most Authentic Portraits; COLLECTED FROM THE LATEST AND MOST RELIABLE SOURCES; BY JOHN S. HART, LL.D., TO WHICH IS APPENDED A 5escriptii-i{ lualgsis o( ilic |lol of facli |lag ; TOGETHER WITH h:& ALPHABETICAL INDEX TO THE CHARACTERS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS, AN INDEX TO FAMILIAR PASSAGES, AND A COMPLETE GLOSSARY OF THE WORDS USED IN THE TEXT TIL\T VARY FROM THEIR MODERN SIGNIFICATION. THE TEXT EDITED BY W. G. CLARK AND W. A. WRIGHT. ijKtfi ](((u$tr8tta«$ ^^ MEADOWS, FRITH, AXD OTHERS. PHILADELPHIA: CLAXTON, REMSEN & HAFFELFIXGER, 624, 626 & 628 Market Street. 1879. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1878, by CLAXTON, EEMSEN & HAFFELFINGER, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. ^*C^ ^S^j^::^^^::::::^^^^^^ COLLINS PKINTING-HOUSE. PUBLISHERS' ANNOUNCEMENT. rPlHE Publishers of " The Avon Shakespeare " are well aware of tlie 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 lohich should embody the latest revisions of the best Shakespearian scholars. As the readings of JMessrs. 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 j^raise too much." In the typographical arrangement of this work new features have been intr • duced, — each page being indexed at the page-head with the Scene and Act, wh through the printed text, by means of the dark displayed type, the eye catch' -, without an eifort, the main points or characters that appear on that page; ; n advantage the student cannot fail to heartily appreciate. A Descriptive Analysis of the Plots of the Plays has been prepared with gn .i care, and is presented as peculiar to this edition. By it the reader is enabled << gain, if so desired, a clear understanding of the story of the plot before readiv the text of the play. The Alphabetical Index to the Characters in Shakespeare's Plays, The Index ■/ Familiar Passages, and the very complete Glossarial Index, are very valuable fea- tures, important or -essential to the fullest understanding of Shakespeare's works by either the student or the general reader. The illustrations are from the sketches by Kenny IMeadows, Frith, or other artists of nearly equal celebrity. The publishers desire here to express their thanks to ]\Ir. J. Parker Norris for 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 . sli Chronological Order of the Plays . Isx The Tempest 1 The Two Gentlemen of Verona ... 18 The Merry Wives of Windsor ... 35 Measure for Measure 56 The Comedy of Errors 'i'S Much Ado about Nothing 9i2 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. 23:2 The Winter's Tale 251 The Life and Peath of 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 VI. . 3S9 The Second Part of King Henry VL. 410 The Third Part of King Henry VI. . 434 The Tragedy of King Pvichaed IIL . 458 iv PAGE The History of King Henry VIII. . 486 Troilus and Chessida 510 coriolanus 536 Titus Andeonicus ........ 564 PiOMEO AND Juliet 584 Timon of Athens 60S 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 .... 8S4 Index to the Chaeactees in the Plays 891 I'. . 'i-u Stratford Church, where Shakespeare is Buried. A SUMMARY OUTLINE LIFE OF SHAKESPEAi.ai.; WITH A Description of His Most Authentic Portraits. CnAPTEP ■ MARVELLOUS lONORANCE . REGARD TO THE PERSOX ' .'II^Toi EST AUTHOR — DIOTn>< „f 8TBBT" 17V3 — RECENT AW.',. UXING** THE INQUIRY — OiJVAMZK' FIFTY YEVR3 TO RESC' IN Till"; ..IFB OF BU ■ PEr.i.->i!.;D -socoi O the who rei^n ward ohjec — an object jy the travel R Nile, wliet 5 east over across the t r quarter of t . •rt to strike, here. Whet ; backwards ■ 3, Wordswor ■ id towards ti /(« Plowman, ' "User, whethei : t by a trans -ipain, Italy, o )f the literal .•■sn NATION IN ■ OF TDEIR GREAT- NS ON THE SUB.TECT, !IE IMPORTANCE OF RTS IN TIIE LA.ST ILIVION WHATEVER 3 NOT ABSOLUTELY BORS. r literary history, -d of King James's a the current to- Tie, the very first nd is one proudly raraid of Cheops, "her you go up or te its rich valley Arabia, or from f Sahara, — from ipproach, — is the from, the vision. h the year 1600 ? of Longfellow, ■ron, and Scott; :n the author of Surrey, Sidney. current of <■ -, of Ge-- froni lir- towards the point indicated, one object stands proudly eniiuent, one name rises spontaneously on every tongue — the greatest name in all Eni;lisli, in , all modern, perhaps, absolutel}', in all literature. Shake- speare possibly may not be read as much, he cert.iinly 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 th present century ; it has risen perceptil)Iy within tl last twenty -five years; it is even yet far from haviui reached its meridian. Steevens, one of the most famous of the S' spearian editors.said.over one hundred years a-- "AU that is known with any degree of Shakespeare is, that he was born at '' Avon, married and had children th don, where he commenced act-^ plays ; returned to Stratfon' was buried." This statement, at *^ stantiallv true. I*^ that the'Englis' half from ♦' less of *-■ know .,ry and ..ithor, kne' ^ ,, than we noijr o of nearly thirt^ ,)aratively recent timfh. letters have been count''*'* .^ element in the history of : .,c a battle, or negotiated a treaty, , court, or was prominently connecto'l Lh the civil or military adrainistrati' n THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. it, if he was even toady to some is life was thought to be of some ; he formed a noticeable integer in lie national history. But to write a a discovery in science, was thought t the obscure dwellers of the Grub even though the discoveries of the lionize the whole fabric of human cations of the other might help to 3 and manners of the race until the ut a change has come over the in this matter. We have at last to the fact that the literature of a that which has made the race what t thoughts which, in the course of m developed by its master minds, are s that have set the race onward in lization. The man of thouglit is of action. Great ideas precede and t'ements. The ideal Achilles made f Marathon and the Granicus. In race, from the days of Alfred until lius, the great original thinkers in ons, have given birth to ennobling ■ontinue to endure, and which are nly in the language, but in the race lat these great thinkers have made [••(1 Americans of to-day are living i,li;.2._and truths elaborated by the In the'iU'^ral sense, indeed, no lineal akespcare rennins. llis blood i\e.- oiit within the generation that fol- -^--'- But in a-ki^licr and better liritual life-blood, "tmisc i/Uoughtg words that burn," pulsate? ' this mere than a hundred miHio"i, '^t in of the English-speaking racC-, 1 whose thoughts, whose impulses i . consciously or unconsciously, liave . tone and color from the man who ford-upon-Avon, a little more than rs ago. jn, that, under the quickening 4n- '. \\ method of estimating values in : steadily growing fame of the great kened at length the most intense something more of his personal nn the "ruins of time" some pre- once noble edifice. The zeal and splayed in this investigation have en surpassed in any new literary se labors, though late, have not )ut success. Many important facts peare's life have been ascertained Steevens, some even within the last ineipal facts which have been thus M gathered from legal documents, irths, deaths, marriages, baptisms; ecords, wills, title-deeds, tax-lists, ' 111 such sources, vague statements, 1 on mere tradition, have, in some jVl, in others, have been defined ''' ^_ many facts entirely new have V 1. In this way a somewhat iistent se.Ses of facts has been made I skeleton i-,. a biography. Tlie sh and fulness— i,as been on this the whole range o' contemporary re has been found, 3escribing the nners of any one similaily situated seized as showing one oi the pos- 1 Shakespeare may have sp^m his thus has ceased, on the one liand to be a collection of absurd and contradictory tl| tions; and, on the other, has become something il| than a mere tissue of dates and legal entries. He, become, indeed, to some reasonable extent, persoii known. CHAPTER IT. ~ PARENTAOIE OF SHAKESPEARE, WHY IMTOIiTAXT- SHAKKSPEARE, THE FATHER, WHAT IS KNOWN — NAME AND GENEALOGY OF THE SIIAKESPEAl:' , EEPDTABLE OnARACTER OF THEIR HISTORY — M.', ARDEN, THE MOTHER, A YOUTHFUL HEIRESS, BELO'. ING TO THE LANDED GENTRY — NAME AND GENEALlj.i " OF THE ARDENS, THEIR HONORABLE HISTORY HA,' Y MARRIAGE OF JOHN SHAKESPEARE AND MARY ARD THEIR SETTLEMENT IN STRATFORD, AND SOCIAL ]•( TION THERE — PECUNIARY AFFAIRS AND OFFIC DISTINCTIONS OF JOHN SHAKESPEARE. THE date of Sliakespeare's birth is not exactly knoT ■ The nearest approach to it that we have is tlie chi , of his baptism, which is found in the parish register .>* Stratford. He was baptized April 26, 156-4. As b;-, tism in those days followed close upon birth, the piv abilities are that Shakespeare was born within thi or four days of the date of his baptism ; and as t 23d of April is the day consecrated to St. George, t tutelary saint of England, Englishmen have been i unwilling to assume that Shakespeare was born i that day. Moreover, unvarying tradition — whi; must be allowed its weight of authority where histo evidence is wanting — has uniformly assigned the 2 ■ of April as the day on which the Great Poet was bor; '.'id i.ccordingly that day is now, as it ever has bee-, ce! -rated as his natal day all over the world. ,;■ B'.iakespeare's parentage we now know sevei:. inii,^ -^liOt particulars, — important, because they co ■ tradicL -ui'l s*t aside some of the absurd traditio .i respecting (• •• ((/.-f hi!n:,elt'. To the intelligent coi - prehension o» lit r-/.'i'blem of Shakespeare's autho; ■ ship, it is necess.iry lo kiow something of his original condition in life — whether he was of gentle blood ■ of base, whether, in L.he techaical sense of the wop . he was educated or was merety sjif-taii.c'it, can mak-- his writings neither worse n< r bftter. ijijt tl^e ci' - cumstances of his liirth and education, his mantit^ ( living and his means of knowledge, do ail- ' the inferences which may be drawn froiu . They are essential conditions in the pix l i b' authorship. ,.j John Sliakespeare, the father of the poet, wasff."i.J inally, accoriling to tlie best information thus !»' obtained, what would be called a "gentleman farmer. The description given by Harrison, in his introductio to Ilolinshed's Vhroiacle, published somewhere abov 1580,* of a certain class of Englishmen in the days ■ Elizabeth, might, it is believed, tit very well .\ character and woiidl/ circumstances of John Sha'ii« speare. "This sort of people," says Harrison, "hav a certain preeminence and more estimation than labor- ers and the coinmoL sort of artificers; unci theS'- commonly live wealthily, keep good houses, and twivel to get riches. They are also, for the most fiart farmers to gentlemen, or at the leastwise arti(i«ers: and with grazing, frequenting of markets, and keep ing of servants (not idlo servants as the gentleme i do but such as get both their own and part of theii master's living), do coiae to great wealth, info.iiucl • HoUiishea d. bet. loT.i uud 1582, Harrisou d. VJii C:. THE LIF^ KESPEARE. that Diany of them are able and do buy the of unthrifty gentlemen, and often settling their to the schools, to the universities, and to the Inns tiie Court, or otherwise leaving them sufficient lanu whereupon they may live without labor, do make them by those means to become gentlemen." John Shakespeare seems to have been, during a considerable poi-tion of his life, 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 1.551, 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 Shakespeare 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 origin.al 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 arras." 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 pilgrimsj carried palms when they returned from Uierusalem; Long-sword, Broad-speare, For- tescue (tliat is. Strong-shield), and in some such re- spect, Break-speare, Shake-speare, Sliot-bolt, Wag- staff." Fuller, in his Worthies of England, 1602, refers to the "warlike sound of his (the poet's) surname, whence," says he, "some may conjecture him of a military extraction, — Ilasti-vihrans, or Shalc- Sjieare." 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 15116, 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 VII., 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 airdf, 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 Ap.dkn. Arden is ■dale, the antiquarian, to be an old British signify " woodiness" or "woodland," and been traced back to the time of f'essor. " In this place," says Dug- 'e choice to speak historically of d worthy family, whose surname ' their residence in this part of H called Arden, by reason of •itons and Gauls using the ■de further says that Tur- of especial note and ions" in the time of .'irst here in England r ssumed a surname, Eardene [Turkill >i Eufus." Sir squire of the ;e d.iys one ■ily could "■and on when hen • Rertitvition of Deoavecl Intelliaence in Antiquities, concern- ing the Most Noble and KeuowueJ English Nation. Aulwerp, 16U5. word 11 chill de power," aL the Conqueri that, in imitati ■: . . . and wrote . of Arden], in the John Arden, of this body to Henry VII. of considerable impori array the royal person ; !■ the king. The squire can the latter walked out, and pi the king would drink, and slep ence-chamber, for the protect! • person. Robert Arden, nephew of this Sir of the chamber to the same Henry \ 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 ante-room outside, to guard tlie door. He also presented the robes with W'hich the squire arrayed the royal person, and perfoi'ined various other offices of a like nature. Besides this office, the younger Arden re- ceived from Henry VII. a lease of the royal manor of Yoxall, in St;iiiordshire, 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 will, among several children ; but Mary, his youngest, appears for some reason, to have been prominent in his thoughts. She was one of the executors oi 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 Vis. id. 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 miles 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 contem- 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. Next, suppose a line extracted from the parish register, being the official record of an interesting domestic occurrence a year THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. or two later. From these two facts a fertile imagina- liun has woven a narrative somewhat after this wise:* Mary Arden ! Tlie very name breatlies of poetry. But Mary is a mourner. Jler father is dead, and slie is now left without guidance, an lieiress 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 slie goes to the parish church on Sunday, there are many things which she did not see there in lier 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 worsljip. She recollects tljat in her childhood the rich religious houses of the vicinity had been suppressed, their property contis- 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 public 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 circumstances, The Shakespeare Homestead in Henley Street, Where WiUiam Shakespeare was born. store these institutions. There are around her mutual [lersecutions 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. Tlie wealtliier 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 father's, who often comes to sit upon those wooden benches in the old hall. He is '!Zef; "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 wuild 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 jilays, where he seems to be actually co-existent with Ciesar and Pompey, with Brutus and Oassius, with Antony and Cleopatra. It is not possible to believe that tliis 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 xvii THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. tnd then, beyond question, Shakespeare became ac- quainted witli the classical tongues, and witli 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. Ko other theory seems possible. No other satisfies the conditions of the problem of Ids authorship. Assuredly, he was an intelligent, educated artist, not an inspired idiot. CHAPTER V. OTnER EDUCATIONAL INFLUENCES ACTING UPON HIS YOUTHFUL MIND («) KELIOIOU8 TRAINING AND ASSO- CIATIONS, THE QUESTION WHETHEE JOHN SHAKESPEARE, THE FATHER, WAS A CATHOLIC, STRONGLY PROTESTANT CHARACTER OF TRE STRATFORD PARISH CHURCH, LIST OF THE SERVICE BOOKS USED IN THAT CHURCH, CATE- CHISMS AND MANUALS OP RELIGIOUS INSTRUCTION IN WHICn SHAKESPEARE IN HIS BOYHOOD WAS DRILLED; (5) CHRONICLES AND LEGENDS WHICH FOR.MED A PART OF HIS YOUTHFUL READING, A LIST OF THESE BOOKS given; (c) LOCAL ASSOCIATIONS TO WHIOH 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 as.socia- 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 thi* point I propose to dwell a little, as the subject is one not so generally understood as it sliould 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 ujjou 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 Ilenley 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 wliich 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 e.xperts 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 VHI. and the Pope, in 1531. But the fact that he held various civil offices 'in Stratford, and especially that of chief burgess or mayor, shows ineontestably that John Shakespeare was, outwardly at least, a Protestant during all the time of William's boyhood, for by the statute of Elizabeth, 15.58-9, known as the oath of supremacy, every ci^l 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 ofl5cially reported, among others of his neighbors, for "not coming monthly to the church," as required by statute, but xviii at the same time it is significantly added that he was thought "to forbear church for debt or fear of pro- cess; " in otlier 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 sistere were regidarly 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 infiuences 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 reaflinned by Elizabeth, 1559, was then in use in all the churches, and was, with all its wealtli of purest English, perfectly familiar to the youthful Shakespeare. The portions of Scripture which he heard fi-ora the Prayer-Book on the Sabbath were, as they still are, from Oranmer'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 oiie 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 iiousehold Bible of the great majority of the English people. That Shakespeare was familiar 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 cleai'ly those of the Geneva version. In tliis 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 instructimi of young chil- dren, put forth in tlie 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 Kew England Primer put forth by the "gseat John Cotton " of Boston, were made obligatory. 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 /or defacing the image in the chapel. In IfiSO, a man is fined by the aiuhorities for travelling on tne Sabbath. The inscriptions on the tombstones of the Shakespeare family in the church all speak deep religious feeling of the John Bunyan 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 «ervice3 of the Book of Common Prayer, from the daily use at his. mother's knee of that most familiar liousehold hook, the Geneva Bible, from the careful training which good Master Hunt gave hira in the Absey Book and the Primer, it is easy to understand how a mind so susceptible to external influences as was tliat of Shakespeare became so imbued and saturated, as we find it, with Scripture language and doctrine. f 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 liallads of Scotland. Some of the books of this kind at the command of the youthful Shakespeare, which he has used so largely in Lis 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 Lah. Lost, IV. iii.) from which his soul 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; L The Palace of Pleasure, 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 French of Boisteau. 2. Fahyan'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. Hall's Chronicle, 1.548. 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 tiie fact that three-f(uirths of all his great historical plays were founded on materials gathered from this field. 4. UolinsheiVs Chronicle of England, Scotland, and Ireland, 1577. This is another fascinating book of the same sort. Shakespeare follows it in all his plays on English history. He doubtless devoured it when a boy. Just as Walter Scott devoured the old Scotch ballads and legends. 5. Oesta Pomanornm, translated into English by Robinson, 159.5. 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 ScoVs 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 Romanorum, and Reginald 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; thirdlj', of the story books and\ legends which were within his reach, and with which his works show him to have been entirely familiar. AU 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 inmiersed, 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 tlie local associations that were around liira on every side, and on this point I shall nudce no apology for entering a little 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 hira, tells unmistakably the same story. In his writings, too, he displays a minute fiuniliarity 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 limes 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 dose observation of nature, the same love for legendary lore, written or unwritten. The story of Scott's early hfe fortunately is on record ; and, by analogy, it tells us ]jlainly how, in corresponding cir- cumstances, the Stratford boy with liis 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 gatliering. 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 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 Elizabeth 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 likeness 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 tlie 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 rtn Casiie. 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-Mghfs 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 hack Uttering such duleet and harmonious breath That the rude sea grew civil at her song And certain stars ^ot madly from their spheres, To hear the sea-maid's music. Piick. 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 pa.ssed 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 acti\'ity, 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 Sliiewsbury, where the Hotspur Percy was slain, and tlie Scotch Earl Douglas taken, and minute touches in Shakespeare's description of the tight show that liis eye was tlioroughly tamiliar 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 Richard, "Thou slewest Edward, my poor son, at Tewksbury." (Richard III., I. iii.). The battle of Bosworth Field was fought witliin thirty miles of Stratford. Burton, writing in 1624, says the inhabita^s then living around the plains of Bosworth Field "nave 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 forty 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 Rich- mond made his parsenetical 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 vrere 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 passags. = 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 localities which have been named, and with which Shakespeare was from boyhood perfectly familiar. Of these plays, four, namely, Richard II., Ilenrij 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., Part I, 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. Tlie memory of them was still fresh in the minds of the English people at the time when Shakespeare's boyhood began, being about as far removed from him as the events of the American Revolution 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 likely to forget the amiable Friar Lawrence. The picture of this kind-hearted old man has all the marks 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 VHL, 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 witli more than one of these meek and peaceful old men. "The Infinuarist 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 all 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 Lake. The painting of the hare-hunt, in tlie 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 mv school-days, when I had lost one shaft, 1 shot his fellow of the self-same flight The self-same way with more advised watch, To tind 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, Shakes])eare 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 Crab-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 VL THE STOET OF niS DEEE-STEALING, HOW FAE IT IS TO BB CEEDITED. THERE 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 wlien a boy he was addicted to boyish sports and boon coui[)anions. "He had," says Rowe, one of the earliest of the biographers, 1709, "by a misfortune common enough to young fellows, 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 Ohai'lecote 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 tliat he was obliged to leave his business and his family in War- wickshire for some time, and shelter in London." Rowe 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 iiged per- sons who had portions of it in memory. The first stanza, at least, has been clearly made out from two xsi THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. independent sources. The ballad may possibly not have been Sbalcespeare's, but there is no doubt of its liaving 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 ot' heraldry the word luce (Lat. liicius, O. Fr. lus) meant a pike, a kind of tish, and that three white luces or pike, interlaced, were in the quarterings of the coat- of-arms of the Lucy family. The balladist, 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 diguitary. The stanza is as follows: A Parliament member, a justice of peace, At home a poor scare-crow, at London au ass ; If lowsie is Lucy, as some volk miscall it. Then Lucy is lowsie, whatever befall it. He tuiuks 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 Vr'ices 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. Wia(. It is an old coat. Kvans. The dozen white louses do become an old coat well ; It agrees well, passant ; it is a familiar beast to man. Charleeote, 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 story of his youthful escapade there be true or not. CHAPTER VII. HIS MARRIAGE — PAINFUL SURMISES R.\ISED IN REGARD TO IT BY RECENT DISCOVEKIES — QUESTIONABLE CHAR- ACTER OF THE TRANSACTION HAPPINESS OR UNUAP- PINESS OF HIS MARRIED LIFE, THE ARGUMENTS PRO AND CON — TUB ROMANCE CONNECTED WITH THE NAME AND MEMORY OF ANNE DATIIAWAY. WIIAT I have given thus far in regard to tlie per- sonal history of Shakespeare is, 1 am constrained to say, though extremely probable, yet, with oue 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 persoual to himself which we can affirm on direct and positive evidence. The second fact of his life for which we have authentic documentary evidence is his marriage. The date of his 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 1886, there was discov- ered in the Consistorial Court of Worcester, the county adjoining to Wai'wickshire, a document relat- ing to Shakespeare, which on examination proved to be bis 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- sxii lishing tlte hunns. This feature of the license seems to imply haste, and, taken in connection with some other circumstances, makes it certain that the mai-i-iage 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, 1.583, 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, frtun which countless conjectures have been drawn, accord ing to the teeming fancies of readers. The Stratford register says that Shakespeare's wife was buric< August 8, and lier tombstone says that she died August 6, 1623, aged sixty-seven years. Now, h:;i' Shakespeare lived till August, 1023, he would hav- been aged but fifty-nine years, or nearly eight year younger than his wife. In other words, the passionat^ and imaginative boy of eigliteen was married to oU' in the full and matured womanhood of twenty-six. In connection with this we are reminded also tha 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 (li-amatic 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 "«ec(wi(£-best bed with the furniture." Nor is there in all his writings a line or a word which can be certainly .iffirmed to have been inspired by her, unless it be that significant thought in Twelfth Night (II. iv.): 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 pai't 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- plight, 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 equality. The chari- table presumption, say those who admit this view, is that Shakespeare and Anne Hathaway were thus troth- plighted, and considered man and v.-ife, months before their formal marriage. Certain it is that no breath of scandal on this acooimt 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 Richard Hathaway, the father, showing his presence and assent to the transaction. There is, moreover, documentary evidence to show that this Richard Hathaway and John Shakespeare, the father of William, were persomd friends, doing neighborly acts for each other in the way of business; that Richard Hathaway, Jr., the dramatist, two years the senior of Shakespeare, and his associate in literary iiuJ dramatic work, was in all probability Shakespeare's THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. lnotlier-in-law ; furthermore, Jack Sandells and John Ricluirdson, Shakespeare's bondsmen, on the marriage license, were neif^liliors and friends of the Hathaways; and finally, the Shakespeares and the Ilathaways seem from various circumstances to have lived on the most neighborly terras. 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 ''seconorted 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 Sliakespeare'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 ins])ired 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 ' \A*iU ' to boot, and • Will ' in overplus; More than enough am 1 that vex ihee ?till. To thy sweet wiU making addition thus. Wilt thou, whose will is larjje and spacious. Not ouee vouchsafe to hide my will in thine T Anne Hathaway's Cottage seek 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," "thebard of Avon," not of the Thames. Every year, during his long sojourn in London, he made his annual visit to Strat- ford. His children ai'e baptized, married, and buried there. His earnings, year by year, are invested there. It hits 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 •ind 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 ripht gracious. And in my will no fair accept:aice shine? The sea, all water, yet receive.s raiu still And in abundance addeth u< his store; So thou, heing rich in ' Will ■ add to thy ■ WiU ■ 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.' SoilTUt cxxxv, Another sonnet, in like youthfid vein, differing so widely from the deep tragedy that pervades others of his sonnet.*, is addressed to some one playing on the virginal, an instrument of music then in use, the keys, called "Jacks," being of wood. How ofl. when thou, my music, music play'st, I'pon that blessed wood whose motion sounds With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st The wii-y concord that mine ear confounds. Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap To kiss the tender inward of thv hand, Whil.'st my poor lips, which should that harvest reap, At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand ! To be so tickled, thev 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 kis.s. Soniiet cxxvlil. 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 Hatha way'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 SHAKESPEARE 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 brietiy 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 Strafford 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, fi-om the fifth to the seventeenth year of William Sliakespeare. 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 12(f. to the Earl of Worces- ter's Players. In 1573, the Earl of Leicester's Players received 5«. S>d. In 1570, my Lord of Warwick's Players had a gratuity of 17s., and the Earl of Wor- cester's Players one of 5s. 8(?. In 1577, my Lord of Leicester's Players received 1.5s., and my Lord of Wor- cester's Players 3s. id. In 1579, my Lord Strange's men, at the commandment of the Bailiff, 5s., and the Countess of Essex's Players 14s. dd. In 1580, the Earl of Derby's Players, at the commandment of the Bailift', 8s. id. These entries .ire 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 Sliakespeare. 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. Sliakespeare, another boy, in another town of merry England, "all in the olden time." The title is: "Upon a Stage-Plat wmcn 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 will 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 heard 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- him fi-om 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, wliere these three ladies, joining in a sweet song, rocked liim asleep, that he snorted again, and in the mean time closely conveyed under tlie 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 fartliest end of the stage, two old men, the one in blue, with a sergeant of arras, his mace upon his shoulder, the other in red, with a drawn sword in his hand, and leaning with tlie 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, wlien all the Court was ill the greatest jollity; and then tlie foremost old man with his mace struck a fearful blow upon the cradle, whereat all the courtiers, with the three ladies and tlie vizard, all vanished ; and the deso- late prince, starting up barefaced, and fiuding 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 AVorld and the Last Judgment. This sight took such impres- sion in me that when I came towards man's estate, it was as flesh 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 all difficult to believe that when, in 1569, John Shakespeare, Bailiff of Stratford-upon-Avon, ordered the payment of 9s. to the Queen's Players for the ex- hibition of a Merry Interlude, his son Will, 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 wliole 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 n.'iraeg 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. Ile^ound in these wandering and clumsy theatricals tlie 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 Stratfcd 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 tlie branches. He became a dramatist under a law as generic as that which draws sweetness from the .lEolian harp wh"en 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 men-}- 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. 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 liim in 1577, in Shoreditch, 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 CHAPTEPv IS. UNCERTAINTY AB0t7T THE TIME OF SnAKESPEABE's AD- TENT IN LONDON — FIRST FOUND THERE IN CONNECTION WITH THE LOKD CHAMEERLAIN's PLAYERS — SKETCH OF THE HISTORY OF THIS COMPANY — THE ELDER BUR- 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 THEATEE, THE CURTAIN, THE GLOBE, THE BLACKFRIARS. ONE 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 tliat this man lived in tlfe 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 cliild not yet two years old. He died in 1616, and the last four or five years of his life are known 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 t.aken up as vagrants. To relieve them from this penalty the better class of 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 mon.astery of the Black Friars, which had been demolished in the reign of Henry VIIL This James Burb.ige had a son Richard, who was confessedly the greatest actor of his da.y. 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 l)layed cliietly 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, Johnlleminge, THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. Henry Condell, "William Sly, Robert 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 attectionately 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 imderstand the tlieatrical history of this period, it must be borne in mind that while both Elizabeth and James, and the court generally, looked witli favor upon actors and acting, the city of London, under the influence of the Puritan element in the church, dis- countenanced stage plaj-ing, and did everything in tlieir power to suppress it. Hence nearly all tlie 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 snch play-houses on the north side of the city, in wliat was then open country, in the neigliborhood of Shore- ditch. These three were: 1. The Theatre (Burbage's already named), 2. Tlie Curtain, 3. The Fortune. Two others, already mentioned, and belonging to the Burbages, were The Blncl-friars, on the north bank of the Thames, and within tlie 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 doca- ments tirst brought to light by Mr. Halliwell, in 1874, was built in 1506, and the Globe in 159!). 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 thuu divided for a time between that theatre and the Black- friai-s; and finally, for the last twelve or fifteen years, was divided between the Blackfriars and the Globe. CHAPTER X. BKOIXNING OF SHAKESPEAEe's CAREER, ni3 RANK AS AS ACTOR — VERY RECENT DOCUMENTS ON THIS SUBJECT — IX WHAT MANNER HIS CAREER AS A DRAMATIST BEGAN — SOCIAL HUMILIATIONS OF THE ACTORS AND THE DRAMATISTS AT THAT TIME — EVIDENCES THAT SHAKESPEARE FELT THIS KEENLY — IIIS 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 PRINOEPS. 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 Ilamlet, 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 uneartlK-d by Halliwell, and published in 18T4, 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 EMzabetb 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 alreiidy 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 eciual to £100, or $500 now. The whole entry is worth (jnoting. 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. Sd., and by way of her majesty's reward £6 13s. 4d., 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 Ts 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, ho THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. yet fvidentlv was an actor of no mean ability, and his ])ractical c-xperience on the stage contributed hirtjely, witliout iloulit, to- that masterly knowledge of stage- effect which is so conspicuous in his plays. There is a well-autlienticated tradition that Taylor, one of the Blackfiiars' company, who acted Hamlet, ■was instructed in the part by Shakespeare himself; also, that LowUie, who acted Henry VHI., was like- wise instructed in it by Shakespeare; and, finally, that ISetterton, 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 nntil some time later in the history of the drama that the business of author and actor became di.stinct. 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 whetlier that which pleased them was orig- inal or borrowed. Tlie 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. Read the fifty-lifth sonnet: Not marble, nor the gilded monuments Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhj'me : But you shall shine more bright in these conttMits 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 (ire .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 theute 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 wlio came to his jilay-house merely to be amused, is not at all in contiict 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 hira. 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 Sliakespeare 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 di'opped 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 theati'ical career he was an actor, afterwards he was both actor and wi'iter, 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 theati'e, in Shoreditch, to which Shakespeare was first attached. As this theatre was out in the open fields, many of the play-goers comin? frorn t^^ -;^y -„inti on. Among these descriptions is one generalh' sup- posed to refer to Shakespeare, though the reference is by no means so clear as in the former passage. The lines are the following: And there, though last not least, is AicnoN ; A gentler sheplieard may no where be found, Whose Muse, full of high thoughts inveutiuu, Doth lite him.selfe heroically sound. Edward Spenser. Poets have in all ages been regarded as genus irri- tahile, — a waspish race. All the accounts, however, which we have of Shakespeare, concur in representing him as, on the contrary, a man of amiable disposition and conciliatory manners. It is not a little remarkable tliat all his contemporaries and those of the age imme- diately following (except one little outpouring of spleen which I shaU notice presently), speak of him, when they refer to him at all, in terms not merely of admi- ration, but of tender affection, — a man not only to be reverenced, but to be loved. Milton, whose ei)ithets are never given at random, speaks of '^sweetest Shake- speare " and '■'■my Shakespeare." Leonard Digges speaks of "our Shakespeare." ITis fellow-acteare's own day, look up to him with admiring, almost ittloring wonder, as the most exalted of the Dli Majores oi' the dramatic art, the very Jupiter Olympus of the jKjetic 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. Ilave we even at this day gone much beyond it? I have not tlms far referred to the Shakespeare-Ba- oon 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 tliese 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 theoi-y quietly assume, in the face of all th^^WWjl accumulated e\'idence to the contrary, that Shakesjfeare was without edu- cation and without the m«8(R of acquiring knowledge. Tliey go back to the old exploded notion of Queen Anne's day, that Shakesp^ire was a man of clown- isli 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 ao- c*pted 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 uf all time, and such an immense body of it, was the product of one whose acknowledged writings, enor- mous likewise in quantity, show no evidence of spe- daJ 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, Wickclirte the Canterbury Tales, John Hampden the Paradise Lost, or John Stuart Mill tlie Idylls of the King, as suspect tlie author of the Novum Organum capable of the Midsummer- KighV a I)ream, 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- ttauratio Magna and De Augmentis Scieiitiarum. CHAPTER XIII. BKLATIONS OF SHAKKSPEAEB AND ni8 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 sjilen- did palace of Somerset House, in which palace, it can hardly be doubted, the Cliamberlain's company often played for the amusement of the Queen and Court. Shakespeare's plays, and Shakespeare him.self, 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 witli disdain, Have put on blacic, and loving mourners be, Looking with pretty ruth upon mv pain. And truly not the morning sun ol neaven Better becomes the grey cheeks of the East, Nor that fnll star that ushers in the even Both half that glory to the sober West, I 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, f^fv^eui,, ^fjc^r^^ Shakeepeare'3 Signature. Then will I swear beauty herself is black And all they foul that thy complesiou lack. Sonnet cxxsil. Spenser, or Sidney, or Raleigh, would as soon have cut otF 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 t.i come his one delicate aUusion to the Maiden Queen, in the passage in Midsinnmer's-Night''s Dream, already quoted, would be counted of greater worth than all the open flatteries poured out by his contemporai'ies witli .such lavish profusion. Elizabeth was fond of theatrical exhibitions, and it was probably inconsequence 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 tlieir 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 Loudon, 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 theni 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, Shalcespeare. Burbage, Phil- lipps, Heminge, Condell, Sly, Armin, Cowley, — nine, Shakespeare being second on the list. We note also, that in a list of the comedians who represented the dramatis personir at the performance of Ben Jouson's Every Man in His Humor, at the Blackfriai'S, in 15^S, Shakespeare's name heads the list. xxxiii THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. The first occasion, apparently, on which tliis com- pany played before King James was when the Earl of Pembroke, Dec. 2d, 1003, 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 liis Majesty's Players of the Globe," to I)erform at the festival before the King; and we know from another source that both Pembroke, who gave the entertainment, and his brother, the Earl 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 talie 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 hi^h 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 unworthy of such royal companionship. In a poem. The Scourge of Folly, 1607, Davies says: To OUT English Terence, Mr. WiV. Shakespeare, Some say, good Will, which I, in sport, do sing, Hadst thou not plaid some kingly parts in spurtf Thou hadst bin a companion for a king. And beene a king among the meaner sort: Some others raile; but, raile as they thinl^e fit, Th'ou 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. BHAKESPEARE's PECUNIARY AFFAIRS — HIS ESTRAORDI- KARY BUSINESS THRIFT — AC0UMULATIO.\ OF PROP- ERTY AT STRATFORD — AMBITION TO BE A RETIRED COUNTRY GENTLE.MAN EVIDENCES OF HIS TACT IN BUSINESS MANAOEMENT — 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, e\'idently by the aid of mo- ney received from London, the estate of Asbies, the m.arriage portion of William's mother, which Iiad 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 dwelling- house in Stratford, an old mansion formerly belonging to the Olopton family, and called the Great House. Shakespeare, on acquiring tliis 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 our proscenium bo.xe.'^ now are. t Had you not been an actur. 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 l,ii. 4d. 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. William Shakespeare," asking tlie 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." Thre« years later, 1605, he luade his largest purchase, buy- ing the unexpired leas e jt^."^ portion of the tithes of Stratford, Old Stratfo#^*i^fcopton, and Welcombe, for the sum of £440. •'Siakdspeare's annual income from these tithes, as we^fan from another document, was £120 (j. €. $3000 nowj.^Later still, 1612, he bought a house, with ground attjished, near the Blackfriara Theatre, London, for the sum of £140. We find him also, 1604, bringing an action against Philip Rogers, in the Court of Stratford, for£l 15s. 10(Z. 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 Jolin Addcnbrock 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 writings 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. succeeding 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 XV. PROBABLE PERIOD OF HIS WITHDRAWAL FROM THE STAGE AND FROM LONDON — STATE OF HIS AFFAIRS AND OF niS FAMILT 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 iin])ortance and poiiularity 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 tlie 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, condliatory, and prudent ;^ in short, that he had that flj^^^ qualities which tit a man for business, wliile ^^^Bp vulgarly thought to be incompatible with genn^^Kiis is a class of quali- ties which it is difficult to^^v. Of indiscretion tlie proofs are generally positi\^^^d tangible. But ]jru- dence and discretion in t^r management of affairs must be established by negative evidence. It is cer- tjiiniy, however, no unmeaning circumstance that dur- ing tlie whole period that Shakespeare exercised a controlling influence in the theatrical company, its affairs were managed, not only with thrift, but with- out those (juarrels and jars for which the profession in all ages has been notorious, and also without those onuses 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 oSences 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, 160.5, the Mayor of London complains that "Kempe, Armyn, and otliers, 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 16u6, it is complained that they brought upon the stage the Queen of France in a manner very offensive to the French ambassador; also, "They brougiit forward their own king [James] and all his favorites in a very strange fashion; they m.ide 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. es I. of England and VI. of Scotland. After ceasinf.: to be an actor, Shakespeare's connec- tion with thestage was that only of a writer of plays, and tliis 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 Lave already seen how regularly, from year to year, he invested in and around Strat- ford the money accnmnlated 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-holder in his native town. The \inage 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 iillowance 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 Kew 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 SHAKESPEARE. were now deiul. Gilbert, however, the brother nest younger than William, was still living. His sister Joan had been raarriej [to a Mr. Ilart, of Stratford] and was also still living, as were also her husband and several children. His wife also, now fifty-six years old, was still living. Ilis oldest daughter, Susanna, had been married some five years before to an eminent physician of Stratford, Dr. Jolin Hall, and had one cJiild four years old. His youngest daughter, not long after to be married to Thomas Quinej, 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 Gre;xt 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 Chnreh, Willi Shakespeiire'a Tomb oud Biial. 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 cliildren 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 liis last days were eminently peaceful and serene. The thought con- tained in the 14fith 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 earlier: Poor soul, the centre of my sinful eRrth, Leagued with these powers that thee arny, Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth, Painting thy outward walls so costly gay? Why so large cost, having so short a lea.se. Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? Shall worms, inheritors of this excess Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end? xxxvi CHAPTER XVI. A SERENE StmSET — THE PORTRAITS OF SnAKKSPEARE. SHAKESPEARE died, after a short illness, April 23, 1616, aged exactly fifty-two. During the quarter of a csntury 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 balancetl acquires only additional compo.sure and self-posses.sion from conflict. 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, hke Chaucer before him, gracefully and composedly to his long repose : So fades a summer's cloud away, So sinlis the gale when storms are o'er, 6o 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, tlie Drueshout engraving, and the oil painting known as the Chandos 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^ publislied in that year. Shake- speare is buried ic Avon, near thei there is a slab ' inscription so oft! written by Shakes^ .church of Stratford-ui)on- ^cn* of the chancel, and tomb, with the quaint Rted, and said to have been he himself: Good fr^i^Hr Jesus sake forbeafe To digg n^^Bst enoloased heare : Bles(4.De yeiMii yt spares thes stones, And curst be he yi moves my bones. To the right and left of him in the chancel, are the»tombs of several other members of his family : bis wife, bis oldest daughter Susanna, his son-in- law. Dr. Hall, and Thomas Nash, who married his grand-daughter Elizabeth. On the north wal\ of the chimcel, 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 iiands 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 tow.nrds 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 ujiper 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 eai-ly, and as haviug in all probability been cut from some autlientic 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 expre.ssion. The eyes and eyebrows are unduly contracted, the nose has evidently been short- ened by an 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 collar THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. looks like two pieces of block-tin bent over, and finally tlie expression of tlie eyes, so far as they have any ex- pression, is simply tliat 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 Uouse. 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 The Stratford Bust. is of great value, and is keeping in the s.ame rov BO closely connected. Next to the Stratford b" tioity as a portrait of Shakj Martin Droeshout prefix©' the plays, that of 162:3 Uy placed for perpetual he bust to which it is n the matter of authen- are, is the engraving by first folio edition of ^^ nerally known as the Droesliout portrait. WhaCportrait was used by him in making this engraving of Shakespeare is entirely a matter of conjecture. The probability is that it was stime co.arse 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 Condell, in bringing out an edi- tion of their friend's plays, to nse for the engraving tJiis 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 scest put. It wa-s for t;entle Shakespeare cut; W'hereiu 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 surpsuse 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 biild 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 la.st degree hard and stiff; it evidently is the work of one whose aitn 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 wliile 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 flesh of the face is not so full and pufty as in the bust. The nose, not chopped ofl' 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 ruft' standing out all round in a most uncomfortablo and ungraceful position, and apparently stiilened 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. Jt certainly looks not unlike a huge goitre transferreCf 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 T.aylor, a player in Shakespeare's company. It was left by will by Taylor to Sir William Daven.ant. 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 tlie Duke of Chandos, from whom it takes its n.iiiio. It wa-s finally bought in 18-18, at public sale, by the Earl of EUesmere, and by him presented in 1856 to the Ka- The Chandos Portrait. tional Portrait G.allerv, where it now is. Its .antlien- 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 xxxvii THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. breadth of forehead, that is to be seen in the Droes- liout, though the forehead is still ample and strikingly noble. There is more general softnesss than in any of the other portraits. The picture is decidedly artistic, and the artist apparently, to some extent, sacrificed literal likeness to artistic eifect. The complexion is dark ; there is a pinkishness of color about the eyelids ; the lips are inclined to be full and sensuous; the ear th.at 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, nnstudied profu- sion on the sides and back of the head, while most of the lower part of the face is covered with a soft heard 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 line 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 184.5, in tearing down an old tea-warehouse in London, the foundations were laid bare of the famous Duke's theatre, built by Sir William Davenant, in 1662, in Lincoln's Inn Fields. Among the curious articles thus brought to light was a beautiful terra-cotta bust, which on exatnination 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 fiom the time of his death. This bust, after having been for some years in possession of its finders, Mr. Clii't and liis distinguished son-in-law. Prof. Owen, of the British JMuseura, was finally bought by the Duke of Devonshire, and by him presented (6 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, will be given as briefly as possible. Count Francis von Kesselstadt, who died at Mayence, in 18-13, 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 tlie 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, Shaie- 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 jiart ftie baldness of the crown, and with a candlestick, and the date 1637, 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 tliat it had been jiainted from a death- mask, and he according on the subject, lie fi| cast of some kind had Kesselstadt family, buti choly appearance, it had ; and what had become ofi it a!)Out making mqun-ies kl that a plaster of Paris In the possession of the Ton account of its melan- leived little consideration, I no one seemed to know. After two years of fruitless search, he at length, in 1840, found the lost relic 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 person. On the back of the cast is an inscription, the letters 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 huniar^ hairs. The inseriiition 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 familiar 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. Tliis 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 hun. Further, it is known that the Stratford bust, which THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. gives uuinistakable evidence of having been produced from a cast, was made iu London, by a "tomb-malier," as lie is called, by the name of Gerard Johnson, and tliat this Johnson was a Hollander, a native of Am- sterdam. Thus far we have terra firmaxmii&x our feet. Wliat 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 aliout among the rubbish, saw this striking etiigy, 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 184'J. Mi". 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 OTily two, as given me by Prof. Owen. The late Baron Pollock, after examining the mask, and weighing carefully, as a man of liis 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^p^^t for the claimant." Lord Brougham did not ^reiWUsposed to go quite so far. He would neithefltaMjpt nor condemn, but, like a canny Scot, gave as l^fTerdict, " no/i liquet.^'' The Kesselstadt picture, though its chief value lie.s 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 all 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, — aU 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 tirst 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- dei'fully shaped brow ! I felt that this must have been a man in whose brain dwelt noble thoughts. I in- ipiired. I was told to look at the reverse of the mask. There, on the edge, out in figures of the 17th century, stood A. 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.'''' 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 delicacy of the lines which make up the countenance. Grimm notices this pecu- Uarity. No one, in fact, can fail to observe it wlio 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 fiice is thin and spare, and wears a thoughtful and rather melan- choly look. Now it is well known that the flesh after death always falls away, giving this character to tlie 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 the flesh, and fill it out to the supposed fulness of lile, either from conjecture, or from some photograph, or other evidence of the ordinary condition of the face 1 in health. Gerard Johnson, in undertaking to supjily xxxix THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. tliis siip;>ose(l falling off in the flesh, simply overdid the inatter, and gave us a portly, jo\nal Englishman, instead of the thoughtful author of Hamlet and Lear. Underlying 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 tlie 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 •■.he two eyes, the distance from the centre of one eye t-o the centre of the other being two and three-quar- ter inches. This feature gives to the face, as seen in the mask, au amplitude of forehead that is truly majes- <,io, and one, when looking at it, cannot lielp feeling, that he understands better than he did before, where those g)-eat creations of genius came from, that have so long tilled him with amazement. The bust-maker, on the contrary, through inadvertence, or possibly mistaking certain accidental irregularities of the plaster for a cvintinuation of the hair, has run the brows more closely together, and then, to maintain consistency, has in like manner brought the eyes more closely toether, to make them correspond with the brows. The efiect of the narrowing of the forehead is further heightened by the fulness and puffiness 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 m.ask. And yet we can see how, through inadvertence, misconception, and unskilfulness, 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 featui-es as revealed by the. mask have a manly beauty, of the intellectual type, that is very noticeable, and that lias called forth spontaneous admii-ation from all who have looked u[)on it. There is also an inde- scribable expression of sadness that no one fails to notice. Mrs. Kemble, on seeing it, bur.st into tears. (Trimm 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 s,iys, ''may pi-ove 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, tlie features reassumed before our eyes, as final imprint, that which they enclosed as the actual gift of ci-eative nature, namely, tlie very sum and substance of life. Strange resemblances, wonderful confirmations of character, I'eappear 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 willi a glass, are found to be of a reddish brown, or aubui'n, ' 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 fr-'m some cause. The moustache is rather full, and in the sliape 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 small tnft imder the chin, of the rut 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 uyi^file, raises the expectation of a narrow face and fceaiWfcstead of the broad, com- manding face and forji^y which meet the eye on turning the mask, and loMnng 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 1 We feel instinctively like applying to him the words whicli he has himself put into the mouth of Ilamlot, when addressing his father's portrait : See what a grace was seated on this brow ; Hyperion's curis; the front of Jove himself; Ail ej'e like Mars, to tlireaten and command ; A station like the herald Mercury-. New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill ; A combination and a form imleed. Where every god did seem to set his seal, To give the'world assurance of a man 1 Sliakespeare's House R OF THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS. ed in 1623, THE TEMPEST. See Pago 1. N this comedy, Shakespeare is thought by able critics to have iriven us his most tinished literary com]ic>sition, and one W' in wliich the great i)oet has expressed liis highest and serenest vi^ v of life. One of his latest productions, first pub- suurce of the story lif the play can with any certainty be pointed out. Malone supposes it to have been written in the year 1611, and proha'ily produced in the latter part of 161'2 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 uninhaljited isle. In a cave hewn out orthe 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 divided 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 Pi-ospero had made exceedingly useful since his ar- rival on this island, which had been enchanted by the witch Sycorax, who died there shortly before his coming. Prospero by his art released many good spirits which the sorceress had imprisoned in the trunks of giant ti'ees, because the spirits had refused to obey the wicked behests of the old encliantress. These liber- ated spirits were, after his coming, the instruments of the obedient will of Prospero. Ariel was the most jironiinent, who, gentle as he otherwise was, bore a deep-seated grudge towards the monster Caliban, the son of Sycorax. Calil>' '.i was found by Prospero dur- ing one of his excu''\,ris through the island, and was brought by him to .ne cave, where Caliban was t.aught to speak, but, owing to his perverted nature, little good and useful eouiil he learn, and therefore wasenijdoyed 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 Caliban. By the aid of these powerful spirits, Prospero ruled the winds and the waves of the sea. Thus lie raised a violent storm, in the midst of which he showed his daughter a large ship, which he told lier was full of human beings like themselves. Mi- r.anda begs lier father to have mercy on their lives. The father soothes her .agitation, antl informs her that no person of the ship's company sh.all be hurt, that all transpiring would be done on behalf of his dear child. lie now relates to her the cause of their inhal'i! ing 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 atfairs 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 shij), and when some leagues out at sea Antonio forced botli of us into a small boat without sail or m.ast. But a faithful lord of my court, named Gonzalo, had secretly hidden water and provisions on board, and also some inv.aluable books. Our food lasted until we landed on this island, and ever since ray pleasure has been to in- struct my darling child. This tempest I have raised so that by this accident the King of Naples and yc r treacherous uncle might be brought to tliis shore." Prospero having concluded his narrative touched iliranda with his magic wand, and she fell fast asleep. At this instant Ariel appears and gives a vivid Hlc- 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 tlie earth, vowing never henceforth to make use of the magic art. He then returns with the king, his brotlier, Gonzalo, Ferdinand, and Miranda to his native land, where, soon after their arriv.al, 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 moi-e abstract way, more as types, than in any other work of Shakespeare. Prospero is the embodiment of the highett wisdom and moral at- tainment; he is the great enchanter, and altogether the opi)03ite of the vulgar magician, ''rt'ith the com- mand over the elemental powers which study has bi'ought to him, he possesses moral grandeur and command over himself. He sees through life, but does not refuse to take p.art in it. Gonzalo is liuman common sense incarnated. All th.at is meanest and most despicable appears in the wretched consi>irators. Miranda is framed in the purest and simplest type of womanhood, while Ariel is a being of life and joy knowing no human affection; in Caliban is his opjio- site, a creature of the passions and appetites. There is a beautiful spii-it 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. THERE was no eJition of this comedy until 1623, but according to Malone as well as Ohalmei's, it was wntten in 1595. Though tliis 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. V.ilentine aud Proteus were two younir sentlcinen, who lived iii the city of Verona, between wlicim a firm friendship subsisted. They pursued their studies together, and passed tlieir 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 w.as not in love, often wearied to hear his friend so incessantly t.alking of his Julia, and occasionally woidd taimt 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, ^ulia, though loving Proteus as much as he did her, acts coquettishly, refuses to accept the letter, and orders lier 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 mortitied 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 tokl 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 tiiJie there in the Duke of Milan's court. Proteus, knowing how peremptory was the will of his father, bid Julia a mournful farewell. They ex- changed rings, and mutually promised to keep each other forever in remembrance. Pi'oteus 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, though 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 liis 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, Julia, who is inconsolable over the absence of her lover, resolved to dress 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) pi-aises 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 ne?* 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 liad heard of Silvia's flight, pursued her to the forest, and still accompanied by Julia, his page in dis- gui.se, appears at this moment. While Proteus was rudely pressing Silvia to marry him, all were amazed by the sudden appearance of Valentine. Julia, 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 Sih-ia, 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 Sihaa. 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 eon- ducted with all due pomp and ceremony. Shakespeare 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 plavs. The heroine of the drama is without doubt Julia ; she suffers most, she loves most, and she says tlie best tilings. The hero Valentine is a most generous, frank fellow, with o touch of dulness withal, as he cannot understand, for instance, Silvia's love messages when she gives hiiu 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 phrn to entrap Val- entine. THE MERRT WIYES 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 tussailed by fulsome panegyric, and who encouraged all sorts of silly shows, May games, and buftbonerie-s, was not insensible to Shakespeare's talent; and having been much delighted with the diaracter of Falstaflf, 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 liave pleased the daughter of llenry VIII., although they are somewhat repulsive to modern taste and delicacy. According to Chalmers, this comedy was written in 1596, while Malone asserts 1001 as the proper date. SCENE. — At Windsor, or near to it. Falstaff, the droll hero of the trilogy of Henry IV. and v., is unable, on account of his limited income, to defray the costs of his extravagant tastes. lie 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. lie writes love-letters to Mrs. Page and to Mrs. Ford simultaneously, llis 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 Falstaif'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 linen. lie is carried to a bleachery and there thrown into a shallow ditch. But, despite this involuntary bath, Falstaff is not yet the wiser, and runs again into the trap set for him. In Ford's house he is found again liv 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 liusband tlie whole affair, cures him of his jealousy, and, in compimy with Mr. and Mrs. Page, prepares the third practical joke at Falstaffs ex- pense. A rendezvous at night is planned, under the oak of the fabulous hunter, Berne, where, according to a popular superstition, fairies and elves carrj' 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 o.ak with his mis- tresses, who affect surprise at their being discovered. In juxtaposition, and yet distant from the story of seduction 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 wifli an annual rent of £30U, 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; hut 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 neitlier of the two have Aime 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 jiarents yield, with great resignation and heartiness, to the inexitable, and after a general reconciliation, from which even the fat and guilty Falstaff is not excluded, the comedy closes. 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 wliose 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 • xliii THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS gay, wild young fellow; he meant to inairy for money, liut is won tVom it by love. lie is frank and I'esolute. Slender is a well worked-up character; and those are inimitable scenes with Annie Page. The admixture of the German, the Frenchman, and tlie 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 Uis- torie of Promos and Cassandra, which appeared in print in 1578. Malono thinks it was written in 1603, while Clialmers thinks the date of its writing is 1604, when Shakespeare was in his fortieth year. Though tliis 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 Pasnionate 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, di.sguiscd 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. Claudlo'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 h,ave its course; her suit is rejected. But it so happens, that the charming interceiKi-, by her dazzling beauty as well ashy hei- innocence and virtue, intiames 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 entre,ats his sister to yield to Angelo's desire, to save her brother's life. Tliis 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 fri.ar, is present), to seemingly promise Angelo, but in lier place, and at midnight, to send the former mistress of tlie 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 by saying, " Kemember now my brother!" Meanwhile, however. Lord Angelo, fearing an exposure hereafter from Claudio. had already given new orders for hia execution. The unfortunate man is only saved from liis doom by the intercession of tlie 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 marrying 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 hai)i)i- 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 lias 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 feehng running all through the play — its dealing with death and the futiu'e world, tlie weight of refiection, the analysis of Angelo's character, the workings of conscience, the lovely saintliness of Isa- bella, although we must look on her as no liard 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 wlien she found he was willing to sacrifice her honor for his life, lier indignant "take my defiance, die, perish," was tlie fit answer to her brother's base proposals, which brings tiie 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, lias 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 wliom death has the greatest terrors. His words on "after death" are among the most poetical in Shakespeare. THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. See Page 78. TITE Mennechmi 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 Maloue fixes the date at 1593. In the Comedy of Errors music has no mention. SCENE. — Ephesus. Various and prolix disputes and contentions between the cities of Syracuse and Ephesus caused, in retalia- THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS tion fi>r the precedent set by the former city, the eiuiotment of a cruel law, according to which all inTeri'Onrse between these two places was abolished, and any inhabitant of Syracuse seen in Ephesuswas juini.-.hed with death and confiscation of his estate if he were not able to pay a ransom of one thousand marks. Ignorant of this law, ^Egeon, 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 extraordin.ary a resemblance to each other that he had purchased of their poor parents two twin brothers, whom he had biought up to attend upon his own sons. Suffering shipwreck -iEgeon had been separated from his wife, with their older son and his comrade. The younger son, who, after be 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 cxane to Ephesus. The duke, influenced by a feeling of jiify, grants /Egeon one d.iy to procure the thousand marks for his ransom, .^geon's sons, of exact form and size and bearing the same name — that of Antipho- liis — were at this time in Ephesus with their servants the Droraios, who were also counterparts of each other. The younger Antipholns had just arrived with his Dromio; the older brother, however, had already lived twenty years in the city, baring, 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 Lnciana re.sided 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 tlie other. The errors which are occasioned by confounding the two gentle- men and their servants with each other, cause the Antipholns of Syracuse to believe that he is under the influence of m.igicians, 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 liusband, complains to the duke of the conduct of the abbess, who refuses to give up the fugitive, who is deemelay, is thus far not known. The argument on which this comedy rests is the important contra,st between the fresh and youthful, ever new blooming reality of lift; and the abstract, dry, and dead study of the strictly ]iedantic 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 Xavarre conceived the somewhat fantastic idea of spending, in company with three knightly followers, Birou, Longa- ville, and Dumain, three years in strict seclusion from the outer world. In pursuance of this aim, tliey 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 aftairs 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 vicing with one another in witty retorts, and by clev- erly ridiculing the courtiers for their foolishly conceived but quickly violated plan of affected sti'Uggle after wis- dom. Intermingled in the play, as the most amusing and diverting contra.sts, are the comical episodes be- tween two bombastic atid learned pedants, Holofernes and Nathaniel, as well as the ]>ranks of the arrant knight and braggadocio, Armado, a youthful and haughty page, who acts the part of a privileged fool. The entire jilot 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 expres.sed 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 epUogue, which in a poetic form sheds a light over THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS the sense and meaning of tlie whole. The finale of the comedy thus reverts back to the beginning. The London wits of the day, with their assumed conseuuence and abounding conceit, naturally aifiused 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 prided themselves, was as nothing beside good heart and work. Tlie 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 tJiis is every lover since can bear witness. But still tliere is a "chatBness" about it very ditFerent from the humility and earnestness of the lovers who figure in most of Shakespeare's other plays, e.xcept, perhaps, that of the worthy Benedick. The fair Rosaline, too, in her witty passages, reminds us of Beatrice. A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. See Page 133. THE comedy of Midsummer-NighVs Dream is the most extravagant, yet the mo«t artistic, the most amusing, and withal tlie most thoughtful, the most poetical, and nevertheless the liveliest, which the [iliaritasy 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 imaginatioa full play, and raises his fancy to a flight above mankind, and beyond the limits of the visible world. Two songs all u Jed 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 lOUS 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 welting 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 pei-son 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 Pyramm and TTiisbe, which they design to act at the nuptial festivities of Duke Theseus of Athens, who was soon to be married to llilipolyta. But before Titania's awakening, Pnck. 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 likewise 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. The.v are overtaken at night by Demetrius, a lover, whose suit for Hermia the f.ather of this lady fiivors, and by Helena, a youthful friend of Hermi.a, 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 etticacious 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 same moment. As a result, Helena now thinks the declarations of both these suitors malicious mockery, while Hermia, who, meantime, had arrived upon the scene, is inconsolable to discover herself thus so sud- denly deserted by the hitherto faitliful Lysander. Meantime Titania has yielded to the wish of Oberon, and the latter, joyful over the reconciliation vyith 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 anmsingly rehearsed. Congratulations and lairy 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 hapjjy victory ; his marriage a triumph. But his wife's character is poor beside his. There is not much marked difi'erence 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. Thcmgh 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 must gentle emanations, as friendshi]), 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 lieautiful, numerous, and celebrated. In it is found the initial of a well-known and now proverbial eulogium 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, proliibited from marrying, except the suitor ■ttlio 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 oti' tlie prize. But he is scarcely betrothed to his love, when he receives news from Venice telling him that his noble-hearted friend Antonio, whose generous means furnished him for his successful journey to Belmont, is comjjletely 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 tiesh to be cut from any part the Jew pleased to take it. Bassanio, supplied 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 lier 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 difficult case as that now pending between the merchant of Venice and tlie 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 luisband Bassanio, is rescued from liis 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 lier, 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 com|)anion Gra- tiano. Portia and her waiting maid now hasten to their home. They arrived at Belmont before their liusbands, whose embarrassment on account of tlieir having parted with their rings, the pledges of their love, causes great railing and merriment, until finally the entire intrigue is explained. Through the play is interspersed the suit, elopement, and marriage of Jessiga, 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 inlierit 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 lielj) but some- times pity him as one of the persecuted Jewish race, a race oflten 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 ]K)int 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. 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 tlie man she loves. She has wit and humor, and good judgment, too. She is unselfish, for she allows her husband to leave her 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 sfieech 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 woi'ds can praise Portia too highly. Jessica, " the most beautiful pagan and most sweet Jew," is ro- mantic and impulsive. Love is her ruhng 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 Bass.anio, 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. A true and noble woman the poet portrays in Portia. In the language of Jessica, "the rude world lias 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 ;clviii AS YOU LIKE IT. See Page 170. THE materi.il of this play the poet gleaned from the story entitled " Rosaliiide, 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 wrestling match with a hitherto unexcelled athlete, wins the victory in the presence of the assembled court ; but Orlando having learned from Adam, liis father's aged steward, of the deadly enmity of his older brother 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- alile to proceed far on the journey. Orlando cheers his drooping s])irits 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 p.age, and chance led her towards the forest of Arden. Celia, the usui-ping duke's daughter, loving Rosalind tenderly, accompa- nied her in lier flight in the garb of a sliepherdess. More for the i)urpose of pastime and sport than for THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS protection, the two ladies entreat the clown Touch- stone to flee with thera. Arrived at the forest of Arden, they purchase froiu a shepherd his estate with liouse 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 tlien hoars from Orlando's brother Oliver an account of < Miando being wounded, and, seeing the bloody hand- kerchief which he has sent her as a proof of his at- taclnnent, 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 hira. The contrite Oliver, who owes his life to the valor and courage of bis brother Orlando (who rescued him twice, V, bile 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 lie has fallen in love at first sight. Meantime. Duke Frederiek, becoming alarmed at the large number of his 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 tlie 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 wilii worldly show, goes into retire- ment. - ^^^'"'^ liis story goes back to the old Robin Hood spirit of England, to the love of country, of forest, and of adven- ture. Rosalind's ri[)pling 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 iifterwards." Rosalind is fair, pink-cheeked, and impulsive; what she thinks she must speak out, true ■woman as she is. There is a great want iu her life; but she meets Orlando, and the want is tilled by love. It was she who planned this country expedition, and, though she could tind it in her heart to cry like a woman, she feels she must comfort poor Celia 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 h'.iMiors; and tlie deliciously sprightly fun of her chaff of Orlando is unsurpassable. Orlando is a fine young fellow with whom we all must sympatliize; there is siuh 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 olf some immortally excellent things of the [)liiloso- pbizing kind, as note his exquisite words on the '"Seven Ages of Man." Touchstone's fun with Corin tlie shepherd and William is most amusing; to quote Miss Baillie again: "lie is undoubtedly slightly cracked; but then the very cracks in his brain are chinks which let in the light." THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. See Page 190. THIS comedy is founded on an old play, the autlior 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 l-5yG, or possibly a few years earlier. In The Taming of the Shrar no other use is made of music than to introduce minstrels at the wedding. 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, wliere 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 tb.it lie is a nobleman who had for many years sutfered from insanity. Upon the introduction of a train of pl.ayers. 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 ftitber 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 herloud-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 afiectation 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 purjiose of exchanging declara- tions of love, while his servant, Tranio, assuming his master's name and address, attends to all further atl'airs 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 dre.ss. 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 me.inwhile had been s-e- cretly married to Bianca, ojiportunely 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 willow, and takes formal lessons from Petriichio in tlie art of Taming the Shrew. Petruoliio's young wife, the fiery Katharina, carries finally the prize away as the most submissive wile 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 ont in marked individuality. She has been brought up a spoiled child, strong-willed, and overindulged by her father's weakness 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 liim, 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 likes the promise of finery, and decides to marry him ; even has learned, by this time, to love him, as note liuw she cries when he comes late. Having got liiin, 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 bad not taken advantage of this tenderness, and tried taming by love; but then, if he liad, 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 fasiiion, that we like him, although, probably, he tries lier 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 tliis drama was composed in the year lUUti. 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 Ilousillon, whose son she passionately loves. The young Count Bertram of Rousillon 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 come in possession of an almost infaUible remedy. 1 Encouraged by the countess, to whom she had confided her love, she journeys to Paris, and succeeds in induc- ing the king to confide in her method of curing liim. She agrees to suffer condign punishment in case she shall not succeed in restoring the king's health ; on the otlier hand, should she cure the monarch, he promises that she shall be man-ied 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 Rousillon 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 liusband, 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 Dianii, she is soon in a condition to demand the fulfilment of her husb.and'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 rapture over her high-spirited devotion, clasps Helena in his arms, henceforth bestowing all his affection on her. The uimiasking and punishment of a villain named Parollcs, a foUower 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- stati"s experience. In this play the object of Shakespeare was no doulit, 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 proring also how much true love could take a woman thi-ough unspotted and unsmirched. Coleridge calls Helena "Shakespeare's loveliest 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 langnishment, not desponding over its idol, but patient and hopeful, strong in its own intensity, and sustained by its own fond faith. Her love is like 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, unselflsh 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 the THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS lower-liom lady, of God's own make, to lift Lim to a level that obtains any of our regard. lie lias physical courage, but of moral coui-age he has none, and is un- able to judge men. 'nVELFTH NIGHT ; or, WlLiT YOU WILL. Sec Page 333. THE sources which our poet made use of for this comedy are found in the novel entitled "Apollo- nius and Silla." According to some, he is said to have probably used two Italian comedies of similar name, namely, "Gl'inganni" and "Gliugannate." Twelfth Night.v}a& 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 ]irevails throughout. The use of Erirati, 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 bj' 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 intlaijaes 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 affection, 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, hast- ens 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 likewise in Illyria. Ills benefactor, who had at a former time during a naval engagement inflicted great damage on the lUyrians (had oven caused the death of tlieir duke), is of course in imminent peril among these people. His liberty, his property, yes, even his life, are in jeopardy, and notliing but the love for his protege could have caused him to land. A rnflBan who courts Olivia, and is jealous of the supposed rival Cesario, 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 lore at first sight. A priest at hand solemnizes the marriage ceremony without de- lay. 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. The 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. Xote 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 joyfiilly 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 desi)ised. 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 ilalvolio is refreshing. THE WINTER'S TALE. See Page 251. 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. Sehlegel, the great German translator and Shake- spearian scholar, says that the 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 Sicllia and at times in Botiemia. 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 somewliat longer being without avail, he requests his queen Ilermione to try her fortune in accomplishing that end ; and the queen really succeeds in persuading the guest to defer tlie 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 tliat he even seeks to take his noble friend's life. By an honorable confidential friend, whom he sought to employ as a tool to can-y out his revenge, Polixenes is jirevented 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, ilamillius. Ilermione remonstrates, .and is oi'dered to jirison; wliile there she is delivered of a daughter, Perilita. The infant is brought by Paulina, wife of Antigonus, a lord of his court, to its father, but is U THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS. ordered out of liis sif!;lit. The oracle to whose de- cision the case is submitted, declares tlie 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- tlie 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. Tlie 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 ]5ohemia, 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, wlio took it home to his wife, who nursed it carefully. Per- dita, the banished infant of Leontes, bi-ouglit 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 h)ving pair are both present, discovers himself, and forbids their intimacy. C'amillo, a courtier of Sicily, who had been sojourning at Polixenes's court, ])roposes to Florizel and Perdita that they shall go with him to the Sicilian 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-dothcs, and the paper which he had found ]jinned 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 Boliemia, 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, returns from her place of seclusion, and the play ends in transports of joy and happiness. the story is told of Sicily, we see all through that (ha great poet lias English scenes in Ids mind's eye. The lovely country around Stratford is always before him as he writes. • In the Winter's Tnh, we see the contrast between town and coimtry. The play is fragi-ant 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 injni-cd daughter meeting the injuring father .and forgiving him. Above all rises the figure of the noble, long-sufl'ering wife, Hermione, foi-giving the cruel and unjust, though now deeply rei)entant, husband who has so cruelly injured her. She is among the noblest and most magnanimous of Shakespeare's women; without a fault, she sutlers, 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 ajjpeal, and yet submission of Imogen — we will see how splendidly Shakespeare developed this one of his finest crea- ti(jns. When Camillo'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 beforeits with the mother, though so long dead, the cliuuix of ])athos and delight 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 LIFE AND DEATH OF KING JOHN. See Page 375. IN more than one respect this tragedy is not only the ])rologue, but the basis of the entire dramas of Shakespeare which treat upon the history of England. It appears to have been written in 159(5, but not pub- lished till 1G2.S. It was founded on the old play en- titled TTie Trouhlesome Eeigii of King John. Tlie action of this present tragedy occupies a space of about seventeen years, beginning at the thirty-fourth year of King .Jolm'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, surnaraed Cmtir (h Lion, John wrung the English crown from the weak liands 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 tlie dogs of war a;e again unloosed. Constance, mother of xirthur, 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 desjiair to heaven, and denounces Artliur's uncle, John, the usurper of the tlii'one and her son's rights. Philip of France in a decisive engagement is de- feated, and the captured Arthur is handed over bj' his uncle to the keeping of a certain Hubert, chamberlain to the king. John, feeling insecure from the su])erior claim of Arthur, orders Hubert to put out his eyes in jji-isdn. 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 fi-om the yoke of the tyrant, and to this end invite the Dau])liin of France to as.sume the Englisli 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 di.^- posal of the cardinal, wlio 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 tlie 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 whicli stands foremost in Xj«<7 Jo7m 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 tine. On one hand, the vulture-like am- bition of the mean-souled and cowardly tyrant John; on the other, the selfish, calculating policy 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 uuoonquered spirit 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 eti:ect. THE TRAGEDY OF KING RICHARD II. See Page 295. TIIE 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 1.597, 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 Boliugbroke, 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 th6 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 punctuiiUy, 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 deatli, hence afraid of the consequences of tlie dnel, 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 Mowbr.ay, Duke of Norfolk, is sentenced to perpetual b.anishment, 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 rolibery, 15olingbroke awaits a good opportunity to re- turn to England for the ptirpose of dethroning King Richard. He knew how to ingratiate himself with the army :md 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, anil 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 Yorkshii'e. The Duke of Northumberland and his valiant son Henry Percy (Hotspur'), having been instdted 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 Bt)linglirc^ke, 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 examine 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 u|)on 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 tlirone under the name of King Henry IV. The old Duke of York becomes a firm friend to the king; the Duke of Aumerl^, 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 Bolingbroke, seizes it, and finds a treasonable plot to restore Richard to the throne. The father vows to immediately inform the king, but the son hiinself 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 tlje 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 inihiced tiie 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 IL is one, was to point out the great dangers to the state, and to the sovereign, of unworthy favorites. The degen- erate son of tlie Black Prince, the flower of warriors, is pictured by Shakespeare as a mere royal sham . — a king 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 FIRST PART OF KING HENRY IV. THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS It is not until his death that we feel any pity for the ; his intention to have him embowelled, but is no sooner weak and dethroned king. In Bolingbroke, the poet i gone than the knight jumps to his feet, and, cougratu- liits drawn the wily and astute leader, prompt to seize lating himself on his narrow escape, insures his safety and turn to his own advantage the ei'rors of his rivals, 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 full strong pulse of vigorous man- hood and life. The whole jilay is instinct with action. Every character lives, and what magnificent creations they are. Hotspur, Glendower, Henry and his son Prince Hal, Liouglas, Poins, Lady Percy, and Mrs. Quickly. In comic jjower, though, Shakespeare culmi- nates in Falstuff, and who can say enough of him? He is the very incarnation of hutnor and lies, of wit and self-indulgence, of shrewdness and inunorality, 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 himself Fal- stati''s most striking power is seen when that doughty knight is cornered. Look at the cases of Poins; of Prince Hal's eii)0sure of his robbery; of his false ac- cusation of Mrs. Quickly; his behavior in tJie fight with Douglas, and liis claiming to have killed Hotspur. His alfrontery 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 morahzing with him. What Henry has won he will keep, let who will say nay. Henry acts generously, for he oft'ers 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 oflenders he will pause upon." His real character, his astuteness and foresight, are shown in his talk with Harry, when he contrasts himself with Richard 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 deatli. 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. See Page 316. THE author that Shakespeare follows in this histor- ical drama is again the chronologist Ilolinshed. 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 1-597, 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 llolmedon, 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 Henry IV.'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 celebi'ated 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 Welsli leaders, tlie 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 num of remarkable talents ; but the suspicion is entirely ill-fnunded, since tlie prince has never acted in conflict witli the duties and luve 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 jt>vial, careless characters, who under the lead of their princely 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 calil)re in this company, is Sir John Falst;tff, the most amusingly entertaining character that author has ever described. Among the funny scenes, Falstaff, having joined the royal army, in a skirmisli with Douglas pretends to be slain. Prince Henry, recognizing his jolly old com- panion seemingly among the dead, ludicrously avows liv THE SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IT. See Page 339. HOLIXSHED'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 wa,s probably written imme- diately after the first part of the i>lay had been finished, tliat is in 1598. It was entered at Stationers' Hall, August 23, 1600. THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS SCENE. — WTiolly in England. After the death of the ardent and heroic Percy (Hotspur), tlie 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 farther their fortunes in battle. On the other hand, the leaders of the king's array. 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 array, and to annihilate it. This they do, and Archbishop Scroop and his fellow-conspirators are witliout 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 fully excuses the prince. The king soon after this in- cident died, and the son having succeeded to the throne, on his return from liis coronation was rudely saluted by Falstaff, who presumed on the former vi- cious intimacy. Falstafl:', 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 difficult to keep up the first iin- pressions of FalstafF and the impetuous valor of Hot- spur. Even Shallow cannot malie 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 life and the country squire and his servants. Though the hand of sickness is on tlie 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 tlie 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 enjoJ^nent in his forced mirth ; he feels ashamed of himself, and soon loaves Falstad" and his old life forever. He now deeply feels the degradation of being FalstafTs friend. On hearing of the war again, the prince changes at a touch and is himself. The next time wo 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 llal 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 — tho chance of reformation. What other reception could Ilenry, in the midst of his new state, give in public to the slovenly and debauched old rascal wlio 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 clieat, and the preyer on others. The scenes with Slrallow 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 ; Njiu 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 woi'ld to laugh over them and their leader forever. THE LIFE OF KING HEXEY Y. See Page 364. ON the writings of the chronologist Holinshed tliis 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 tlie thought of that great contemporary of Shakespeare, Edmund Spenser, burnt out of the Irish house he has lo\ingly described, losing there one of his children, and dying miserably in a tavern in King Street, Westminster, on January 1.3, 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 Khali rest eternally With Him that is the God of Sabaoth hight. 1 that great Sabaoth God, grant me that Sabaoth's Bight ! " Book VII., Canto Vlll., 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 France. The incidents represented in this drama reach from the first year of Henry V.'s ascension to the throne to liis marriage with Katharine, and are spread over a pe- riod of six years. Henry had scarcely come into pos- session of tlie English crown, when he prepared ways and means to carry out and fulfil liis dying father's in- junctions, and by conquests abroad seeks to obliterate the stain which tarpislies 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 purpose 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 Iv THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS tlirough bribing tliree powerful noblemen who are in- timately connected with lleni-y. This plot is discov- ered, and the conspirators are executed. Henry, hav- ing invaded France on her breach of treaty, marches with his troops to Ilartleur, 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 \'ictory, 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 Falstati' 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 Suftblk, and tlie 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 tlie soldier; the splendid patriotism and rhetoric of his speeches drives the warm blood to our cheeks as we read. How humble he is wlien 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. See Page 389. HAKESPEARE, in producing this work, was per- s haps indebted only to the Holinshed Chronicles, which, however, was handled with poetical freedom, witliout binding himself to dates regarding the liistori- 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 France. 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 dakes 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- clining 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 tliereafter drenched the kingdom in blood. The heroic Talbot, Earl of Shrews- 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 nobility, who failed to send reinforcements. The extraordinary .success which attended the French armies under 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 Y'ork, 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, Henry 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 SutTolk, leading to the bloody wars of Y'ork 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 all 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 Y'ork 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 Sliakespeare'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 husbjnd, 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 insiifflcient, 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 PLmtagenet'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 e.xpires, leading 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 HENTIY 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 fr.om the weak Henry an acknowledgment of his inherited right to the throne, and between them the agreement is consunmlated 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 ]ilaced in the Tower. Queen Margaret and her son go to Paris to obtain possible aid from 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 effect a landing at Ravenspurgh. The people of England flock to the standard of King Edwai'd, — who, from his social and kindly manners, has always been a favorite with the populace, — and look upon Wai'wick and his allies 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 arnij'. 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.). W'ith an expression of Gloucester's intended villany upon the offspring of Edward, and the banish- ment of Queen Margaret by Edward IV., the tragedy is concluded. THE TRAGEDY OF KING RICHARD HI. See Page 458. THOSE deep mines of historical wealth, the Chron- icles of Hall and Ilolinshed, furnished Shake- speare with the data for this play, which w.as 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 honse of Lancas- ter, as well as the failing health of King Edward, 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 liis blood-relations and followers with the brothers and cousins of his wife, the Queen Elizabeth, and having :4)pointed his only living brother, Kichard, Duke of York, as guardian over his minor children, first conferring on him, during the minority of the Prince of Wales, the office of Protector and Regent. Richard, however, upon the deatli 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- h^ppy 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 tlie 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 liis 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 lie is arrested and at last executed. Richai-d III. is interrupted in his schemes of vio- lence and murder. Heniy, Duke of Richmond, lands with a large army near MiU'ord-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 VIL, 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 lias 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. lie dies a soldier's death, and in the last and effective battle-scene, where, unhorsed, he so gallantly fights on, we almost admire liim. The action of the play covers fourteen years — from Henry YI.'s murder. May 21, 1471, to Richard III.'s death, August 22, 1485. Iviii THE LIFE OF KING HENKT YIH. See Page 486, NOT published until 164.3, wlien it appeared in folio form. It is the Epilogue to the historical cvcle of the bard's dramas, and was probably written in 1601. SCENE. — Chiefly in London and "Westmin- ster; once at symbolton. This historical dr.ima 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 VIL, 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 Bullen, and, struck with her beauty, imme- diately singled her out from all the ladies pre^nt, and falls violently in love with her. Anne BuUen's charms enhance tlie 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 Englisl) woman, 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 olfices, and the fidlen favorite is only saved from being found guilty of treason by his sudden death. The new queen, Anne Bullen, is non- crowned with great state and ceremony, wliile Queen Katharine dies heart-broken at her divorce from the king. Meantime, a conspiracy is jilauned 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 restoi'es him to more than his former share of favor. The play closes with the ceremony of christening Prince.ss Elizabeth, the afterwai-ds 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 d.aughter 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 tlie wrong. This defect mars the Wect of the play 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, reality, and freshness. TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. See Page 510. A TRAGIC comedy, founded on Chaucer's "Epos Troilus and Creseide." The play was written in 1()02, and entered in Stationers' Hall, February 3, 1()U3, but not printed till 1609. ■ SCENE.— Troy, and the camp of the GreekB 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 reward 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 fidelity, and Troilus soon finds an oppor- tunity to reach the camp of the Greeks. Here lie 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 yirognoa- 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 stifie his grief. With a terrible curse against the pandering Pandarus, the drama is concluded. This is the most paradoxical and variously inter- preted of all 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 Falstaffianisra, with the intent of quieting or soothing the noble he- roes of the Itith 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 b}' no means be excused on account of Paris's ideal beauty. In thif 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. CORIOIANUS. See Page 536. SHAKESPEARE 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 160U or 1610. SCENE. — In the city of Rome and the ter- ritories of the Volscians. Cains 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 battles against banished Tarquin. Every war brought him fresli public 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 reiiresentatives 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 innovati(m, 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- Innus. 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 withdraw their votes from him. Highly incensed at this defection, he assails the populace in an oration before the .senate, i demanding the abolishment of the tribunal. The ' peojile, embittered and enraged at this, threaten to throw him from the Tarpoin 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 lier kinsmen to tiie camp of the Volscians, to pacify, lix THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS if possible, her son. Listening to her entreaties, Co- rioUinus resolves to retreat, and thus Rome is spared. But the VoLsoians, fired by Tullus, are now displeased with Coriolanus, 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 noble memory. Coriolanus is among the finest of the group of Shakespeare's Roman plays. The hero lived 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 Co- riolanus had won his first garland of oak by over- whelmingly defeating him. How nobly the pure white figure of Volumuia 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 w'ith happy victory won she returns to Rome to give the proud city its life! Coriolanus is in many respects a noble character and among the " flower 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 tlie Volscian camp, Coriolanus, who has thought himself above nature, cannot resist their appeals. His wife, mother, and boy prevail. Corio- lanus is himself again, and takes death, as he should, at the hands of his country's foes. TITUS ANDRONICUS. See Page 564. THIS play is the tragedy represented by human depravity in its most vindictive form — a thirst for revenge. Wlience 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 different from that of Shakespeare's other plays, but nevertheless the evidence is now strong in favor of its genuineness. SCENE. — Rome and the adjoirung country. Titus Andronicus, a noble Roman general, victorious in the war against the Goths, retui-ns, crowned with honors, to Rome, bringing back with him, as captives, Tamora, the queen of the Goths, with her sons, Alar- bus, Chiron, and Demetrius. Of his own twenty-four sons, but four were left to him ; the rest suffered 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 Chiron, 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, cnt 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 cut 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 Ijis already executed sons. The great afflictions suffered by Titus weaken his reason. 15y means of a staff held in the stump of her !irm, 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, iss, to avoid detection by her husband, the emperor, sent by its mother to be murdered. Demetrius and Chiron, the ready instruments of her crime, i)rofess 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 Coriolanus, 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 thyesteic 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 [ilay 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 Capu- lets and Montagues, existed from time immemorial a deadly feud. The family of Montague had an only son, named Romeo; that of Capulet but one daughter, named Juliet. Romeo's outward demeanor and edu- cation were the model of noble manhood, while Juliet's form and features were in unison with the ])urity of her mind, the ideal of noble womanhood. Tliey did not know each other, when it happened that the old Capulet 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. TEE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS An interesting dialogue takes place between the lovers, which is inteiTUpted by Juliet's nurse. Tybalt, a fiery kinsman of Juliet's, having discovered liomeo, vows revenge on the intruder. The interview, however, has succeeded in producing the most ardent passion between Romeo and Juliet, and the latter endeavors to aecure 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 ali'eady, 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 betwe'en tlie 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 Rumeo. 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 Fi-iar 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. Dnive;'sal grief follows, and Friar Laurence, with a view to moderate it, and to prove his friendsliip 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 Juliet's death and burial, not being aware of the rest. Romeo, in his despair, procures a deadly poison, returns to Vei'ona, where lie visits Juliet's tomb at midnight, unacquainted, from the miscarriage of the friar's note, with her i-eported 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. Slie, 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 Fi-iar 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 ej'e 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 banisliment, call forth a well-deserved reproach froiu Friar Laurence. Tlie Nurse, 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 tlie play is live 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 related. TIMON OF ATHENS. See Page 608. IT has not yet been decided as conclusive whet Shakespeare obtained his basi^- for tliis ti-ag^ from North's English translation of Pliitarcli, or fr Paynter's older work, entitled "Palac of Plensn nor is the date of its composition stated as cei'Uiin. was probably written in 1605. SCEKE3. — Athens and the contiguous •vi'ooclB. Timon, a noble citizen of Athens, equally Tvi\r vned 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. Ilia 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 tiie vessels at their heads. Abandoned and treated with the blackest ingratitude by those he had enriched and benefited, Tiraon 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 Flavins, 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 curiosity, 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 lu^d 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- nessing to the loathing he felt for mankind until death. JULIUS cj:sar. See Page 637. AMONG the materials used by Shakespeare in this play were North's translation of tiie biographies of Julius Csosar, 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 policy 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 Cicsar, renowned for many gallant deeds, anu' 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 t,o carry out the ambitious desire, so long entertained, of making himself the absolute ruler of the Roman 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 imarch could not altogether drown the dis- pleasure-; nevertheless, the Romans vied in showing CiEsar honors, which almost amounted to adoration. In fact, CsBsar was already a monarch, and his ad- mii'ers urged him now to assume the name and the Ixii crown of an emperor. As Coesar was now oB the eve of his departure for the war against the Partliians, bis 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, approacliing CeBsar, oflers him the crown, which is three times re- jected by Cffisar, and, amid deafening applause of the fjeople, the crown is returned to the cai)itol. Cajsar, 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 hira king. This strange conduct at last awakened the anger and suspicion of some of the prominent Romans against Ciesar'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 Ca;sar 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 CiEsar 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 Ctesar is enacted in the senate- chamber, Casca giving the first thrust. After having received twenty-three wounds, the last of which Brutus inflicted, Ca>sar falls. Cassius had urged that Mark Antony should also be slain, but the humane policy of Brutus saves him. Mark Antony weeps over Ciesar'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 turbulent 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 Cajsar are frustrated, and he is compelled, against his will, to acknowledge Oc- tavius Cicsar 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, Oetavius 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 tlie 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 Ca?sar'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 enemies. Julius Cajsar is not the real hero of this play, but Brutus is; yet Ca3sar's spirit rules, as Cassius and Brutus before their deaths acknowledge. Cicsar's murder is the centre and hinge of the play. Tlie 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 Sliakespeare has made the Cajsar of his ])lay not the brave ami vigoroua subduer of Britain and the Goths, but Cffisar old, decaying, failing both in mind and lx)dy; 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 Ctosar's funeral to the passions of the fierce Roman mob ; he always takes the wrong steps in action ; he li:is 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 Gassius's appeal to him in the scene after Cajsar'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. HOLIXSITED'S Chronklcs, formed on the " History of Scotland" by the Scotch chronologist, Hector 15oethiu3, forms the basis to the plot of this tragedy, which was written in 1G0(). 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 othoers meet, upon a lonesome heath, tliree witches; the first greets Macbeth as Thane of Glamis, the second as Thane of Cawdor, while the tliird 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 wora.an, 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 aliout 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- dei-ers hie to their terrible work. Macbeth w^avers; but his wife knows how to banish all his scruples, and taunts him bitterly until he nerves himself for the bloody deed, and kills 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 Woody deed of the previous night is discovered. Although Macbeth and his lady are pretending the deepest sorrow and distress, and the formei-, 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 he assassi- nated by the hands of hired murderers, and celebrat«« his success by a grand banquet. He is alarmed in tlie 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. Macduff, 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 hushaud'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 Macbetli'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 wlien Macbeth falls in a struggle with the avenging Mao- duff; and Duncan's oldest son, Malcolm, ascends the throne as legal heir and king of Scotland. Machetli 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 wlien the play opens, the pall of fiendish witchcraft is over us from the first. The fall 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, slie accepts the inentabl« means; yet she cannot strike the sleeping king, wlio resembles her father. She sustains her husband un- til her thread of life suddenly snaps under its load of remorse. The real climax 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 liad the wrong nature for a murderer — he was too imagina- tive. The more blood he shed, which he thought would make him safe and liardened, did but increase Ills 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. MANY 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 " Ilys- torie of Hamlet," by the Danish author, Saxo Gram- maticns. This drama was written, according to iJr. Drake and Chalmers, in 1507, while Malone fixes the date in ICOO, and it appeared first in print, in a quarto edition, in 1604. SCENE. — Elsinore, 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 great 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 tliereafter, celebrated her nuptials with Claudius, the brother of the late lamented king. Prince Hamlet's uncle, Claudius, was a prodigal and a hypocrite, who bad 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 liis sire had not died a natur.al 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 diflSculties. since he does not design to commit murder or any other crime, and, moreover, respects the injunctiy 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 oft' 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 Roman emperor and Cymbeline ; and a Eoman array, 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 genei-al. 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 Cymbeline, proved a great victory to the Britons. When the battle was over, Posthumus surrendered himself to the officers of Cym- beline. Belarius, Imogen, and her master, Lucius, being taken prisoners, were brought before the king. Belarius, with Polydore and Cadwal, were also brought before Cymbeline, to receive the rewards for the great services they had rendered. Belarius chose the occasion to make his confession, and is forgiven. Cymbeline, overjoyed in having recovered his two sons, is reconciled with Posthumus and Imogen, and grants the life of the Roman general Lucius at his daughter's request. Even the treacherous lachimo, who was among the captives, was dismissed without punishment, ivfter acknowledging his villany, 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 all Juliet's impetuous aff'ection ; 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, milike the unhappy Juliet, to relive her hfe more truly than before — the queen, the life, the wife, of the husband she has lifted to hei-self, 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. Cloten 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 which this jilay 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., "Confessio Amantus," by Gower, appears already from the role of the chorus, which Shakespeare convej'S 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, "Circe" (1677), calls "Pericles the first work born to Shakespeare's muse." This tragedy was entered at Stationers' Hall, May 2, 160S, 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 ami 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. Cleon, 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 Antioehus'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 d.augh- ter, who, being born at sea, received the name Marina — that is, " the sea-born." Thaisa while in childbed is aflBicted with spasms and convulsions, and in this state, taken for dead, Is placed in a well-sealed casket THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS ' thrown in the sea, hecause the storm, which was racing with unabated violence, worked on the rstitioiis sailors, who did not think the sea would me calm again so long as a dead body was on board. The waves drifted the casket towards the shores of Ephesus, where Ceriinon, 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 temple 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 Cleon 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 re,ached 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 herself 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 Mai'ina 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 sin, but also how to so impress her vicious tempters th.at they desist from their immoral practices. Through the intercession of the governor of Mitj'lene, 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 tindiug 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. Cleon 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 838. BESIDES the thirty-seven plays eont,ained in this edi- tion, Shakespeare wrote the following poems, which were at first published separately. In Venusand Adonis, entered in the Stationers' register, and printed in 1503, we have the s.ime 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 hist 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- light 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. The Rape of Lucrece followed, 159-1, and was also dedicated to Southampton, as " the first heir of my invention," who, according to Sir William d'Avenant's statement, pre- sented tlie poet with the sum of £1000, so he might make some purchase. If the incident is accepted as a fact, it is honor.able to the liberality as well as the culti- vated taste of the Earl of Southampton, and shows that the "poor Warwickshire lad" met with a munificent patron at an early stage of his literary career. The Passionate Pilgrim was printed in 1599; A Lover's Complaint, not dated; and a collection of Sonnets appeared in 1009. 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 tlieir ideal, that they deny that these sonnets are life pictures, forgetting how great is the difterence between our times and those of Queen Elizabeth, 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." Lsix 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 Andronieus 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 ISGO. The dates which they severally ascribe to the remaining plays are as follows: The Comedy of Errors Love's Labour's Lost Romeo and Juliet Henrt VL, First Part . . . . ITexry VL, Second Part .... Henry VL, Third Part . . . . The Two Gentlemen of Verona . Riodard III RiOIIARD II The Merrt Wives of Windsor . . Henry IV., Fiiwt Part Henry IV., Second Part . . . . Henry V. The Meeoiiant of Venice .... •Hamlet Kino John A Midsummer-Night's Dream . . The Taming- of the Shrew . . . All 's Well that Ends Well . . Much Ado about Kothinq . . . As You Like It Troilus and Cressida Ti.MON of Athens The Winter's Tale Measure foe Measure King Lear Cymbeline Macbeth Julius Cesar Antony and Cleopatra . . . . coriolanus The Tempest Twelfth Night; or, What Tou Will Henry VHI Othello Chalmer.s. Malone. 1591 1592 1592 1594 1592 1596 1593 1589 1595 1591 1595 1591 1595 1591 1595 1593 1596 1598 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 1593 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 Ixs THE TEMPEST. DBAMATIS PERSONS. Alonso, King of Naples. Sebastian, his brotlier. Prospero, tlie riglit Duke of Milan. Antonio, liis brother, the usurping Duke of Milan. Ferdinand, son to the King of Naples. Gonzalo, an honest old Counsellor. Adrian, ) , Francisco. } ^'^^- Caliban, a savage and deformed Slave. Trinculo, a Jester. Stephano, a drunken Butler. Master of a Ship. [For an Analysis of the Boatswain. Mariners. Miranda, daughter to Prospero. Ariel, an airy Spirit. Iris, presented by Spirits. Other Spirits attending on Prospero. SCENE — A ship at Sea; an island. ly, see Page XLI.] ^CT I. SCENE I. — On a s/ojj at sea: a tempestumis iioise of thunder eind liyhtning heard. Enter a Ship-Master and a Boatswain, 3Inst. Boatswain ! Boats. Here, master : what cheer ? Mast. Good, speak to the mariners : fall to 't, yarely, or we run ourselves aground : bestir, bestir. [Exit. Enter Mariners. Boats. Heigh, my hearts! clieerly, cheerly, my hearts! y are, yare ! Take in the topsail. Tend to the master's whistle. Blow, till thou burst thy wind, if room enough ! Emei- Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Ferdinand, Gronzalo, and others. Alan. Gooil 'i^atswain, liave 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. Gon. Nay, good, be patient. Boats. When the sea is. Hence ! AVliat cares these roarers for the name of king ? To cabin : silence ! trouble us not. Oon. 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 liand a rope more ; use your authority : if you cannot, give tlianks 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 comfort from this fellow : me- thinks he hath no drowiiing mark upon him ; his complexion is perfect gallows. Stand fast, good Fate, to his hanging : make the rojie of his destiny our cable, for our o^\^l doth little advantage. If he be not bom to be hanged, our case is miserable. [Exeunt. He-enter Boatswain. Boetts. Down with the topmast ! yare ! lower, lower ! Bring her to trj' with main-course. [^4 cri/ trjthin.] A plague upon this howling! they are louder than the weather or oiu- ollice. Re-enter Sebastian, Antonio, and Gonzalo. Yet again ! what do you here ? Shall we give o'er and drown ? Have you a mind to sink ":' Scb. 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 dro\raed than thou art. Gon. I '11 warrant him for dro'wning'; though the ship were no stronger than a nutshell and as leaky as an luistanehed wench. Boats. Lay her a-liold, a-hold ! set her two courses oft to sea again ; lay her off. Enter Mariners vet. Mariners. All lost ! to prayers, to prayers ! all lost ! Boats. Wliat, must our mouths be cold '? Gon. The king and prince at prayers ! let 's assist For our case is as theirs. [them, Seb. 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 drowiiing The washing of ten tides ! Gon. Jle '11 be hang'd yet, Though every drop of water swear against it And gape at widest to glut him. [^l confused noise irithin : ' Jlercy 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 groimd, long heath, brown furze, any thing. The wills above be done! but I would fain die a dry death. [Exeunt. ACT I. THE TEMPEST. SCENE II. SCENE II. — Tht 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 poiu- 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, Wlio 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 tlie good sliip so have swallow'd and Tlie 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. , No harm. I have done nothing but in care of thee, Of thee, my dear one, thee, my daughter, who Art ignorant of what thou art, nought knowing Of whence I am, nor that I am more better Tlian 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 : [Lai/s down his mantle. Lie there, my art. Wipe thou' thine eyes; have comfort. The direful spectacle of the wreck, which touch 'd Tlie very virtue of compassion in thee, I have with sucli 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 Whicli tliou lieard'st cry, which thou saw'st sink. Sit down ; For thou must now luiow farther. Mir. You have often Begun 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 tlu'ee years old. Mir. Certainly, sir, I can. Pros. By what ? by any other house or person ? Of any thing tlie image tell me that Hath kept with thy remembrance. Mir. 'Tisfaroff And rather like a dream than an assurance That ray reinembiance 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 ? AVhat seest thou else In the dark backward ami abysm of time? If thou remenilicr'st aught ere thou earnest here. How thou earnest here tliou 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 wiist my daughter; and thy father Was Duke of :MiUui ; and thou his only heir And princess no worse issued. Mir. O the heavens ! 2 Wliat foul play had we, that we came fi-om thence ? Or blessed was 't we did V Pros. Both, both, my girl : By foul play, as thou say'st, were we heaved thence, But blessedly help 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 tliee, mark me — that a brother .should Be so perfidious! — he whom next thyself Of all the world I loved and to him i)ut The manage of my state; as at that time Tlirough 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 heedfully. Pros. Being once perfected how to grant suits, How to deny therii, 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 fonn'd 'em ; having both the key Of officer and office, set all hearts i' the state To wliat 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 atteud'st Mir. O, good sir, I do. Pros. 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 miglit else exact, like one Who having into truth, by telling of it, Made such a sinner of his memory. To credit his owni lie, he did believe He was indeed the duke; out o' the substitution, And executing the outward face of royalty, AVitli 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 [iilayVl Absolute Milan. Me, poor man, my library Was dukedom large enough : of temporal royalties He thinks me now incapable; confederates — So dry lie was for sway — wi' the King of Naples To give him annual tribute, do him homage, Subject liis 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 3/(7-. I should sin 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 much tribute, Should pri'sentlv extirpate me and mine Out of the dukeilom and confer fair Milan With all the honours on my brother: whereon, A treacherous army levied, one midnight ACT I. THE TE3IPEST. SCENE II. Fated to the purpose did Antonio open Tlie gates of itilan, and, i' tlie dead of darkness, The ministers for the purpose hurried thence Me and thy crying self. Mil-. Alack, for pity I I, not remembering how I cried out theu, Will cry it o'er again : it is a hint That wrings mine eyes to 't. Pms. Hear a little further And then I '11 bring thee to the present business Which now 's upon 's; without the which tliis story Were most impertinent. Mir. Wherefore did they not Tliat liour 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. lu 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, sighiug 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 Iieaven, 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 vhat should ensue. Mir. • How came we ashore i* -Pi-os. By providence divine. .Some food we had and some fresh water that A noble Keapolifeji. Gonzalo, OuL'oiViii'^'iiiii'iVr, eing then appointed Master of this design, did give us, with Rich garments, linens, stuffs and necessaries, [ness, Wliicli since liave steaded much ; so, of liis gentle- Knowing I loved my books, he fm-nish'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 : [Pesumes his mantle. Sit still, and hear the last of oux sea-sorrow. Here in this island we arrived; and here Have I, thy sciioolmaster, made thee more profit Than otiier 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 't is beating in my mmd, your reason For raising this sea-storm ? Pros. Ivnow 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 AVill 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. IMer 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 cml'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 m many places ; on the topmast. The yards and bowsprit, would I flame distinctly, Then meet andjoin. Jove 'slightnings, the precursors O' the dreadful thunder-claps, more momentary And sight out-running were not ; the fire and cracliS Of sulpliurous roaring the most mighty Neptune Seem to besiege and make his bold waves tremble. Yea, his dread trident shake. P ros. My brave spirit ! Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil Would not infect his reason ? Ari. Not a soul But felt a fever of the mad and play'd Some tricks of desperation. All but mariners Plunged in the foaming brine and quit the vessel, Then all atire with me: the king's son, Ferdmand, With liair 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 spkit ! But was not this nigh shore V Ari. Close by, my master. Pi-OS. But are they, Ariel, safe 'i Ari. Not a liair 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 resto' the fleet. Ari. Safely in harbour Is the king's ship; in the deep nook, where once Tliou cairdst me up at midnight to fetch dew From the stin-\ex\l Bermoothes, there she 's hid : The mariners all under hatclies stow'd; Who, witli a charm join'd to their suffer'd labour, I liave 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 liom.e for Naples, Supposing tliat 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 'i Since thou dost give me pains. Let me remember thee what thou hast promised, Whicli 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 Witliout or grudge or griuablings: thou didst To bate me a full year. [i)romise Pros. Dost thou forget From what a torment I did fi-ee thee ? Ari. No. Pros. Thou dost, and think'st it much to tread Of the salt deep, [the ooze ACT I. THE TEMPEST. SCENE II. To run upon the sliarp wiiKl of the north. To do me business in tlie veins o' tlie earth When it is balced witli frost. Ari. I do not, sir. [forgot Vros. Thou liest, malignant thing! Hast tliou Tlie foul witch Sycorax, who with age and envy Was grown into a hoop ? hast thou forgot her ? Ari. No, sir. • [speak ; tell me. Fros. Thou hast. Where was she born? Ari. Sir, in Argier. Fros. O, was she so ? I must Once in a month recount what thou hast been, Wliich tliiiu I'lirgct'st. This damn 'd witch Sycorax, Fur iniscliicfs iiiaiiifold and sorceries terrible T(i enter human liearing, from Argier, Thou know'st, was banish'd: for one thing she did They would not take her life. Is not this true ? Ari. Ay, sir. [with child Pro.s. Tills lilue-eyed hag was hither brought And Iiere was left by the sailors. Thou, my slave, As thou report'st thyself, wast then her servant ; And, for thou wast a si)irit too delicate To act her earthy and abliorr'd commands, Refusing her grand bests, she did confine thee, By help of her more potent ministers And in her most unmitiguble rage. Into a cloven pine; within which rift Imiirisiin'd tlmu ilidst painfully remain A dozen years; williiu which space she died And left thee there; wliere thou didst vent thy groans As fast as mill-wheels strike. Then was this island — (Save for the son tliat she did litter here, A freckled whelp hag-born — not honour'd with A human shape. Ari. Yes, Caliban her son. Fros. Dull thing, I say so; he, that Caliban Wliom now [ kee]i in service. Thou best know'st What tdrment I diil liiul thee in; thy groans Did make wolves howl and penetrate the breasts Of ever angry l)ears: it was a torment To lay upon tlie damu'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. ^b-(. I thank thee, master. Fr. If thou more murmur'st, I will rend an oak And peg tlu'i' in Ids knotty entrails till Thou hast howl'd away twelve winters. A ri. Pardon , master ; I will be correspondent to command And do my spiriting gently. Frns. Do so, and after two days I will discharge thee. Ari. That 's my noble master ! Wliat shall I do? say what; wiuit sliall I do? Fro.f. (io make thyself like a nymph o' tiie sea: be To no sight liut tliiiie aiieket up his report. Gon. Methinks our garments are now as fresh as when we put them on first in Afric, at tlie marriage of the king's fair daughter Clariliel 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 V widow Dido ! 6 Seb. What if he had said ' widower .^neas ' 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. Croj!. 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 y 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. Gem. Sir, we were talking tliat our garments seem now as fresh as when we were at Tunis at the marriage of your daughter, who is now queen. Anl. 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 fresh as the first day I wore it V I mean, in a sort. Ant. That sort was well fished for. [riage ? Gon. When I wore it at your daugliter'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, AVhose 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 liless our Europe with your daugh- But rather lose her to an African ; [ter, Where she at least is banish 'd from your 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 shculd 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 king on 't, what would I dp ? ACT II. THE TEMPEST. SCENE I. Seb. 'Scape being drunk for want of wine. Gon. V the commonwealtli I would by contraries Execute all things; for no kind of traffic AVould 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 ; — Seb. Tet he would be king on't. Ant. The latter end of his commonwealth forgets the beginning. Gon. All tilings 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 witli sucli perfection govern, sir, To excel the golden age. Svh. 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 ot merry fooling am nothing to you: so you may continue and laugh at nothing Ant. Wliat a blow was there given ! [still. Seh. 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, invisible, playing solemn music. Seb. 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 sleep, 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. Seb. Please you, sir. Do not omit the heavy offer 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. Seb. Wliat a strange drowsiness possesses them ! Ant. It is the quality o' the climate. Seb. ■ Why Doth it not then our eyelids sink ? I find not Myself disposed to sleej). Ant. Nor I ; my spirits are nimble. They fell together all, as by consent ; Tliey (Iroiiird. as by a thunder-stroke. What might, Wortliy Sebastian ? O, what might ? — No more : — And yet me thinks I see it in thy face, Wliat thou shouldst be : the occasion speaks thee, and My strong imagination sees a crown Dropping upon thy head. Seb. What, 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 ojien ; standing, speaking, moving, And yet so fast asleep. Ant. Noble Sebastian, Thou let'st thy fortune sleep — die, rather; wink'st Wliiles thou art waking. Seb. Thou dost snore distinctly ; Tliere '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 I Ebbing nieii, indeed, Most often do so near the bottom run By their o^vn 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 Iiis son 's alive, 'Tis as impossible that he "s undrown'd As he that sleeps here swims. Seb. I have no hope That he 's undrowTi'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 ? Seb. He 's gone. Ant. Then, tell me, Who 's the next heir of Naples ? Seb. 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? We all were sea-swallowM, though some cast again, And by that destiny to iierfcirni an act Whereof what 's past is prologue, what to come In yom's and my discliarge. Seb. What stuff is this! how say you? 'T is true, my brother "s daugliter 's queen of Tunis ; So is she heir of Naples ; 'twixt which regions There is some space. Ant. A space wliose every cubit Seems to cry out, ' How sliall tliat Claribel Measure us "back to Naples? Keep in Tunis, And let Sebastian wake.' Say, tliis were death That now hatli seized them; wl'jy, tliey were no worse Than now they are. Tliere lie "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. Methiuks I do. Ant. ' And how does your content Tender your ovm good fortune ? Seb. I remember You did supplant your brother Prospero. 7 ACT II. THE TE 31 PEST. SCEISTE 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 thev are my men. Sch. But, for your conscience V Ant. Ay, sir; "where lies that ? if 'twere a kibe, 'T would put me to my slipper : but I feel not Tills deity in my bosom : twenty consciences, Tliat stand 'twixt me and Milan, candied be they And melt ere they molest ! Here lies your brother, No l)etter than tlie eartli lie 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 niia;ht put This ancient morsel, this Sir Prudence, who Sliould not upl)raid our course. For all the rest, Tliey "11 take sugsestion as a cat laps milk ; They "11 tell the clock to any business that We say belits the hour. Scl. Thy case, dear friend, Shall be my precedent; as thou got'st Milan, I '11 come by Naples. Draw thy sword: one stroke Shall free tiiee from the tribute Mdiichthou 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. &&. O, but one word. [They talk apart. lie-enter Ariel, invisible. Ari. My master tlirongh 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 GomaWs ear. While you here do snormg 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. (Then wake. Alon. Wliy, how now? ho, awake! Why are Wherefore this ghastly looking ? [you drawn ^ Gun. What 's the matter V Seb. Whiles we stood here securing your repose. Even now, we heard a hollovv' burst of bellowing Ijike bulls, or rather lions : did 't not wake you ? 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 sliaked you, sir, and cried : as mine eyes open'd, I saw their weapons drawn: there was a noise. That 's verily. 'T is liest we stand upon our guard. Or tliat we quit tliis place : let 's draw our weapons. Alon. Lead off this ground; and let's make fur- For my poor son. [ther search Gon. Heavens keep him from these beasts ! For he is, sure, i' the island. Alon. Lead away. [done : Ari. Prospero my lord shall know what I have So, king, go safely on to seek thy son. [Exeunt. SCENE II. — Another part of the island. Enter Caliban with a burden of wood. A noise of thunder heard. Cal. All the infections that the sun sucks up From bogs, fens. Hats, 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, 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 tritie 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 i>ricks at niy footfall; sometime am 1 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 Hat ; Perchance iTe 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 : yoiid same black cloud, yond huge one, looks like a tmil bombard that would shed his liquor. If it should thunder as it did be- fore, I know not where to hide my head : yond same cloud cannot choose but fall by pailfuls. What have we here V a man or a fish ? dead or alive ? A fish : he smells like a flsli ; 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 liad hut this fish pahited, not a holiday fool there but would give a piece of silver: there v.ould 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 ! ^'^^^m o' my troth ! I do now let loose my opinion; hold it no longer: thi.s is no fish, but an islander, tliat hiith 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 Ids hand. Ste. 1 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 swabljcr, the boatswain and I, The gunner and his mate Loved Mall, Meg and Marian and Margery, But none of us caretl for Kate; For she had a tongue with a tang. Would cry to a sailor. Go hang ! She loved not the savcnir 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. [Drinks. 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 everwent on four legs cannot make liim give ground ; and it shall lie said so again while Stephano breatlies at 's nostrils. Cal. The spirit torments me ; Oh! Ste. This is some monster of the isle with four legs, who liatli got, as I take it, an ague. Where tlie devil should he learn oiu' 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 tliat ever trod on neat's-leather. Cal. Do not torment me, prithee; I'll bring my wood home faster. ACT III. THE TEMPEST. SCENE I. Sie. He 's in his fit now and does not tails after tlie wisest. He shall taste of my bottle : if lie 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 nuich for him ; lie shall pay for him that hath him, and that soundly. Cal. Thou dost me yet Ijut little hurt ; thou wilt anon, I know it by thy trembling: now Prosper works upon thee. iS'te. 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 teli you, and that soundly: you cannot tell who's your friend : ojien your chaps again. Trin. I should know that voice : it should be — but he is drowTied ; aud these are devils : O defend me! iSte. Four legs and two voices: a most delicate monster ! His forward voice now is to speak well of his friend ; his liackward 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! Sit. Dotli 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. ondage e'er of freedom : here 's my hand. Mir. And mine, witli my heart in't: and now Till half an horn- hence. [farewell Fer. A thousand thousand ! [Exeunt Fer. ill kill this man: his daughter and I will be king and queen, — save our graces ! — and Trinculo and tliyself shall be viceroys. Dost thou like tlie plot, Trinculo ? Trill. Excellent. Ste. Give me thy hand: I am sorry I beat thee; but, while thou livest, keep a good tongue in tliy 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 taugiit 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 plai/s the tune on a tabor and pipe. See. What is this same ? Trin. This is the tuue 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 ! iS'(e. 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 {wangling 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 metliought would open and show riches Ready to drop upon me, that, when I waked, I cried to dream again. Ste. This will [irove a brave kingdom to me, where I shall have my music for nothing. Cal. When Prospero is destroyed. [story. Ste. Tliat shall be by and by: I remember the Trin. The sound is going away; let's follow it, and after do our work. Sic. Lead, monster; we '11 follow. Iwouldlcould see this tal Hirer; he lays it on. Trin. "Wilt come ? I '11 follow, Stephauo. [E.-ceunt. SCENE m. — Another part of the island. Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Gonzalo, Adrian, Francisco, and others. Gnn. By "r lakin, I can go no further, sir; My old Ijones ache : here 's a maze trod indeed Througii 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 hojie and keep it No longer for my flatterer: he is drown "d Whom thus we stray to find, and the sea mocks Our frustrate search on land. Well, let hiui go. Ant. [Aside to Sch.] 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 travelj 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 ! piark ! Enter Prospero above, invisible. Enter several i-trttnge Shapes, bringing in a banquet ; they dance about it icith gentle actions of sedutation; 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, Tliough 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, H ACT IV. THE TEMPEST. SCENE I. Their manners are more gentle-kind than of Our liuman generation you shall ftnJ Many, nay, almost any. Pros. ' [Aside] Honest lord, Thou hast said well ; for some of you there present Are worse than devils. Alest. Say, my spirit, How fares the king and 's followers Y Ari. Confined together In the same fashion as you gave in charge. Just as you left them ; all prisoners, sir, ACT V. THE TE3IPEST. SCENE I. In the line-grove which weather-fends your cell ; They cannot bnilge till your release. The king, HislH'dther and yours, abide all three distracted And tlie remainder mourning over them. Brimful of sorrow and dismay ; but chiefly [zalo ;' Him tliat you term'd, sir, ' The good old lord, Gon- Ilis tears run dcmi his beard, like winter's drops From eaves of reeds. Your charm so strongly works That if you now beheld them, youi- affections ['em Would become tender. Pros. Dost thon think so, spirit ? Ari. Mine would, sir, were I liuman. Pros. And mine shall. Hast tliou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling Of their alHictions, and shall not myself. One of tlieir kind, that relish all as sharply. Passion as they, be kindlier moved than thou art? Though Avith their high Awongs 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 Ijreak, their senses I 'U 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, AVliereof 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 tire and rifted Jove's stout oak AV'ith 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 tlieir sleepers, oped, and let 'em forth By my so jiotent art. But this rough magic I here abjure, and, when I have required Some heavenly music, which even jiow I do, To work mine end upon their senses that Til is airy charm is for, I '11 lireak my staff, Bury it certain fathoms in the eartli. And deeper than did ever plummet sound I '11 drown my book. [Solemn miisic. Re-enter Ariel hefore : then Alonso, with a frantic gesture, attended by Gonzalo ; Sebastian a7ul Antonio in like numner, attended by Adrian and Francisco: tliey all enter the circle which Prospero had rmide, and tliere stand charmed; which Prospero observing, speaTcs : A solemn air and the best comforter To an unsettled fancy cure thy brains. Now useless, buil'd within thy skull! There stand, For you iue sjiell-stopp'd. Holy Gonzalo, liononiable man. Mine eyes, even sociable to the show of thine, Fall feilowly drops. The cliarm dissolves apace. And as the morning steels 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 jireserver, and a loyal sir To him thou f ollow'st I 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. [Ijlood, Thou art pinch 'd for 't now, Sebastian. Flesh and You, brother mine, that entertain 'd ambition, Expell'd remorse and natm'e; who, with Sebastian, Whose inward pinelies therefore are most strong, AVould hen' liave kill'd your kino;; 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 woukl know me : Ariel, Fetch me the hat and rapier in my cell : I will disease me, and myseif present As I was sometime Milan : quickly, spirit ; Thou Shalt ere long be free. Ariel siwjs and helps to attire him. Where the bee sucks, there suck 1 : 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. [E.-cit. 6on. All torment, trouble, wonder and amaze- Inhabitshere: 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 'U not swear. Pros. You do yet taste Some subtilties o' the isle, that will not let j-ou Believe things certain. Welcome, my friends all ! [Aside to Seb. and Ant.] But you, my brace of lords, were I so minded, I here could pluck his highness' frovsTi upon you And justify you traitors : at this time I will teU 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 jwint of this remembrance is ! — My dear son Ferdmand. Pros. I am woe for 't, sir. 15 ACT V. THE TEMPEST. SCENE I. Alon. Irreparable is the loss, and patience Says it is past lier cure. Pros. I rather think You have not sought her help, of whose soft grace For the lilce 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? lieavens, that they were living both in Naples, The king and (iiu'cn there! that they were, I wish Myself were mudcled in that oozy bed [ter ? Where my son lies. AVlien ilid you lose your daugh- Pros. In this last temix'st. I pen '('ive, these lords At this encounter do so niucli achnire That they devour their reason anil scarce think Their eyes do offices of truth, their words Are natural breath : but, howsoe'er you have Been justleil from yom' senses, know for certain That I am Trosiiero and that very duke AVhich was t hrust forth of Milan, who most strangely Upon this shure,wliere you were wreck Vl,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 liave given me again, 1 will requite you with as good a tiling; At least bring fortli a wonder, to content ye As much as me my dukedom. Htra Prospero discovers Ferdinand and Miranda plaijing at chess. Illr. Sweet lord, you play me false. Fry. No, my dear'st love, I would not for the world. [wrangle, M!r. Yes, for a score of kingdons you should And I would call it fan- play. Alon. If this prove A vision of the Island, one dear son Shall I twice lose. Seh. A most high miracle ! Fer. Though the seas threaten, they are merciful; I have CTU'sed them without cause. [Kneels. Alon. Now all the blessings Of a glad father compass thee about I Arise, and say how thou camest here. Mir. O, wonder ! How many goodly creatures are there here ! How beauteous maidiind is ! O brave new world, That has such people m 't ! Fros. 'T is new to thee. Alon. Wliat 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 'i Fer. Sir, she is mortal ; But by immortal Providence she 's mine : I chose her when I could nut ask my father For his advice, iKir thought I had one. She Is daughter to this famous l)uke 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. I say. Amen, Gonzalo ! Qon. Was Milan thrust from Milan, that his issue Should become kmgs of Naples Y O, rejoice Beyond a connuon joy, and set it do\\ii With gold on lasting pillars : In one voyage Did Claribel her husl)an(l lind at Tunis, And Ferdinand, her lirotlier, found a wife Where he himself was U)st, 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 ! Go7i.- Be it so ! Amen ! Re-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 drowai. Now, blasphemy. That swear'st grace o'erl xxird, m it an oath on shore ? Hast thou no mouth Ijy land V \Vhat is the news ? Boats. The best news is, that we have safely found Our king and coniiiany ; the next, oiu: ship — Which, but three glasses since, we gave out split — Is tight and yare and bravely rigg'd as when AVe first put out to sea. Ari. [Aside to Pros.] Sir, all this service Have I done since I went. Pros, [^sidc to ^ri.] My tricksy spirit! [strengthen Alon. These are not natural events; "they From strange to stranger. Say ,ho w 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 know not — all clapp'd imder 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 lilierty ; Where we, in all lier trim, freshly beheld Our royal, good and gallant ship, om- 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. Ar-i. [Aside to Pros.] Was 't well done ? Pros. [Aside to Art.] 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 natm'e Was ever conduct of : some oracle Must rectify our knowledge. Pros. Sir, my liege, Do not infest yoin- mind with beating on Tlie strangeness of this business; at pick'd leisure AVhich sliall be shortly, single 1 '11 resolve you, Which to you shall seem probable, of every These happen 'd accidents; till when, be cheerful And think of each thmg well. [Aside to Ari.] Come hither, spirit: Set Caliban and his comjianions free ; [sir ? Untie the spell. [Exit Arid.] How fares my gracious There are yet missing of >'our company Some few odd lads that you remember not. Re-enter Ariel, drivinr/ 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 mj' master is ! I am afraid He will chastise me. &6. Ha, ha! AVhat things are these, my lord Antonio ? Will money buy 'em V Ant. Very like ; one of them Is a plain fish, and, no doubt, marketable. Pj-os. JMark but the badges of tliese 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 \vitliout her power. These three have robb'd me; and tliis denii-devil — For he's a bastard one — had plotted witli them To take my life. Two of these fellows yuu Must know and own ; this thing of darkness I Acknowledge mine. Cal. I shall be pinch'd to death. Alon. Is not this Steijhano, my drunken butler? &eh. He is drunk iu)\v: where had he winey Alon. And Triuculo is reeling ripe : where should Find this grand li(iuor that hath gilded 'em? [they How earnest thou in this jiiekle? Trln. I have been in such a pickle since I saw you last tliat, I fear me, will never out of my bones: I shall not fear lly-blowing. &?;. Why, liow now, Stephano! [cramp. Sle. O, touch me not; I am not Stephano, but a Pros. You "Id be king o' the isle, sirrah ? Sic. I should have been a sore one then. Alon. This is a strange thing as e'er I look'd on. [Fointimj to Caliban. Pros. He is as disproportion'd in his manners As in his shape. Go, sirrah, to my cell ; Take with you your conipanions ; as you look To have my pardon, trim it handsomely. Cal. Ay, tliat I will ; and I '11 be wise hereafter And seek for grace. What a thrice-double ass AVas I, to take this drunkard for a god And worship this dull fool ! Pros. Go to ; away ! Alon. Hence, and bestow yom' luggage where you Seb. Or stole it, rather. [found it. [Exeunt Cal., Ste., ami '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 AVith such discourse as, I not doubt, shall make it Go quick away ; the story of my lite And the particular accidents gone by Since I came to this isle : and in the morn I '11 bring you to your ship and so to Naples, AVhere 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. I '11 deliver all ; And promise you calm seas, auspicious gales And sail so expeditious that shall catch [chick. Your royal tleet far off. [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 by Prospero. Now my charms are all o'erthrown. And what strength I have 's mine own, AVhich is most faint: now, 't is true, I must be here confined by you, Or sent to Naples. Let me not. Since I have mrdukeiiiiiess bechance to thee in Milan! Val. As much to you at home! and so, fare- well. \_Ej:it. Pro. He after honour hunts, I after love : He leaves his friends to dignify them more; I leave myself, my friends :iiid all, for love. Thou, Julia, thou hast nietaiiHU'iihosed me, Made me neglect my studies, lose my time. War with good counsel, set the wi'dd at nought : Made wit with musing weak, heart sick with thouglit. Enter Speed. Speed. Sir Proteus, save you ! saw you my master ? Pro. But now he parted hence, to embark for Milan. Speed. Twenty to one then he is shipii'd already, And I have play'd the sheep in losing him. Pro. Indeed, asheeii dntli very often stray, An if the shepherd be a while awa>'. Sijeed. You conclude that my master is a shep- herd then and I a sheep y Pro. I do. Speed. Why then, my horns are his bonis, whether I wake or sleep. Fro. A silly answer and fitting well a sheep. Speed. This proves me still a slieep. Pro. True; and thy master a shepherd. Speed. Nay. that I can deny by a circum.stance. Pro. It shall go hard but I "'11 prove it by another. Spend. Tlie sJieiiln-rd seeks the sheep, and not the shee]) the sheplierd ; but I seek my master, and my riiaster seeks not me : therefore I am no sheep. Pro. The sheep for fodder follow the slie])herd ; the shepherd for food follows not the sheep : thou ACT I. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA, scene ii. for wages followest tliy master; thy master for wages follows not thee: therefore tliou art a sheeii. ISjjced. Such aiiotlier procif will make me cry ' baa.' ' Pro. But, dost thou hear V gavest thou my letter to Julia y Speed. Ay, sir: I, a lost mutton, gave your letter to her, a laced mutton, and she, a laced mutton, gave me, a lost mutton, nothing for my labour. Pro. Here 's too small a pasture for such store of muttons. liljccil. If the ground be overcharged, you were best stick her. [pound you. Fro. Nay: in that )'ou are astray, 'twere best Speed. Nay, sir, less than a pound shall serve me for carrying your letter. Fro. You mistake ; I mean the pound, — a pinfold. Speed. From a pound to a pin V fold it over and over, [lover. 'T is threefold too little for carrying a letter to yom' Pro. But what said she V Speed. [First nodding.] Ay. Pro. Nod — Ay — why, that 's noddy. Speed. You mistook, sir; I say, she did nod : and you ask me if she did nod ; and 1 say, 'Ay.' Fro. And that set together is noddy. Speed. Now you have taken the pains to set it together, take it for your pains. [letter. Pro. No, no; you shall have it for bearing the Speed. Well, I" perceive 1 must be fain to bear, with you. Pro. Why, sir, how do you bear with me V Speed. Marry, sir, the letter, very orderly ; having nothing Imt the word ' noddy ' for my pains. Fro. Beshrew me, but you have a quick wit. Sjjeed. And yet it cannot overtake your slow purse. Fro. Come, come, open the matter in brief : what said she ? Speed. Open your purse, that the money and the matter may be both at once delivered. [she ? Fro. Well, sir, here is for your pains. What said Speed. Truly, sir, I think you '11 hardly win her. Fro. Why ,couldst thou perceive so much from her ? Speed. Sir, I could perceive nothing at all from her ; no, not so much as a ducat for delivering your letter : and being so hard to me that brought your mind, I fear she'll prove as hard to you in telling your mind. Give her no token but stones ; for she 's as liard as steel. Pro. What said she':' nothing'? Speed. No, not so much as ' Take this for thy pains.' To teistify your bounty, I thank you, you have testerned me ; in requital whereof, henceforth carry yom- letters yourself : and so, sir, I '11 com- mend you to my master. Pro. Go, go, be gone, to save your ship from wreck. Which cannot perish having tliee aboard, Being destined to a drier death on shore. [Exit Speed. I nmst go send some better messenger : I fear my Julia would not deign my lines. Receiving them from such a worthless post. [Exit. SCENE II. — The same. Garden of Julia's house. Enter Julia and Lucetta. .Jul. But say, Lucetta, now we are alone, Wouldst thou then counsel me to fall in love':* Luc. Ay, madam, so you stumble not uuheedfully. Jul. Of all the fair resort of gentlemen That every day with parle encounter me. In thy opinion which is wortliiest love';*. [mind Luc. Please you repeat their names, I '11 show my 'According to my shallow simple skill. Jul. What think'st thou of the fair Sir Eglamour '? Luc. As of a knight well-spoken, neat and fine ; But, were I you, he never should be mine. Jid. What think'st thou of the rich Mercatio ? Luc. Well of his wealth ; but of himself, so so. Jul. What think'st thou of the gentle Proteus ':' Luc. Lord, Lord ! to see what folly reigns in us ! Jul. How now! what means this passion at his name ':" Luc. Pardon, dear madam : 'tis a passing shame That I, unwortliy body as I am. Should censure thus on lovely gentlemen. Jul. Why not on Proteus, as of all the rest'? Luc. Then thus : of many good 1 think him best. Jul. Your reason V Liu;. I have no other but a woman's reason ; I think him so because I think him so. [him "? Jul. And wouldst thou have me cast my love on Luc. Ay, if you thouglit your love not cast away. Jul. Why he, of all the rest, hath never moved me. Luc. Yet he, of all the rest, 1 think, best loves ye. Jul. His little speaking shows his love but small. Luc. Fire that 's closest kept burns most of all. .Jul. They do not love that do not show their love. Lur. O, they love least that let men know their love. Jul. I would I knew his mind. Luc. Peruse this paper, madam. Jul. 'To Julia.' Say, from whom? Luc. That the contents will show. Jul. Say, say, who gave it thee ? [Proteus. Luc. Sir Valentine's page ; and sent, I think, from He would have given it you ; but I , being in the way, Did in your name receive it : pardon the fault, I pray. Jul. Now, by my modesty, a goodly broker! Dare you presume to harbour wanton lines '? To whisper and conspire against my youth '? Now, trust me, 't is an office of great worth And you an otlicer tit for the place. There, take tlie paper: see it be return 'd; Or else return iio more into my sight. Luc. To plead for love deserves more fee than hate. Jul. Will ye be gone Y Luc. That you may ruminate. [Exit. Jul. And yet I would I had o'erlooked the letter : It were a shame to call her back again And pray her to a fault for which 1 chid her. What a fool is she, that knows I am a maid. And would not force the letter to my view ! Since maids, in modesty, say 'no' to that AVhich they would have the prolferer construe 'ay.' Fie, fie, how wayward is this foolish love That, like a testy babe, will scratch tlie nurse And presently all humbled kiss tlie rod! How churlishly I chid Lucetta hence. When willingly I would have had her here! How angerly I taught my lirow to frown. When inward joy enforced my heart to smile! My penance is to call Lucetta back And ask remission for my folly past. What ho ! Lucetta ! Re-enter Lucetta. Luc. What would your ladyship '? Jul. Is 't near dmuer-time '? Luc. I would it were. That you might kill your stomach on your meat And not upon your maid. Jul. What is "t that you took up so gingerly '? Luc. Nothing. Jul. Why didst thou stoop, then '? Luc. To "take a paper up that I let fall. Jul. And is that paper nothing 'f Luc. Nothing concerning me. Jul. Then let it lie for those that it concerns. Luc. Madam, it will not lie where it concerns. Unless it have a false interpreter. Jul. Some love of yours liath writ to you In rhyme. Luc. That I miglit sing it. madam, to a tune. Give me a note : your ladyshiii can set. Jul. As little by such toys as may be possible. Best sing it to the tmie of "' Light 6' love.' 19 ACT I. THE TWO GENTLE3IEN OF VERONA, scene iix. Luc. It is too heavy for so light a tune. Jul. Heavy ! beliice it hath some Imrden then ? Luc. Ay, and melodious were it, would you sing it. Jul. And why not you 'i Luc. I cannot reach so high. Jul. Let 's see your song. How now, minion ! Luc. Keep tune there still, so you will sing it out: And yet methinks 1 do not like this ttuie. Jul. You do not 'i Luc. No, madam ; it is too sharp. Jul. You, minion, are too saucy. Luc. Nay, now you are too flat And mar tlie concord with too harsli a descant: There waiitcth but a nicari to fill your song. Jul. The mean is drowu'd with your unruly bass. Luc. Indeed, 1 bid the Ijase for Proteus. Jul. This lialible sliall not lienceforth trouble me. Here is a coil with protestation! [Tears the letter. Go get you gone, anil let tlie papers lie : Y"ou would be lingering them, to anger me. Luc. She makes it strange ; but she would be best pleased To be so anger'd with another letter. YExit. Jul. Nay, would I were so anger'd with the same ! hateful hands, to tear such loving words! Injurious wasps, to feed on such sweet honey And kill the bees that yield it with your stings ! 1 '11 kiss each several paper for amends. Look, here is writ ' kind Julia.' Unkind Julia! As in revenge of thy ingratitude, I throw thy name against tlie Ijruising stones, . Trampling contemptuously on thy disdaiu. And here is writ ' love-wounded Proteus.' Poor wounded name ! my bosom as a bed Shall lodge thee till thy wound be throughly lieal'd ; And thus I search it with a sovereign kiss. But twice or thrice was ' Proteus ' written down. Be calm, good wind, blow not a word away Till I have found each letter in the letter, Except mine own name: that some whirlwind bear Unto a ragged fearful-hanging rock And throw it thence into the raging sea ! Lo, here in one line is his name twice writ, ' Poor forlorn Pi-oteus, passionate Proteus, To the sweet Julia:' that I '11 tear away. And yet I will not, sith so prettily He couples it to liis comiilaining names. Thus will I fold tliem one upon anotlier: Now kiss, embrace, contend, do what you will. lie-enter Lucetta. Luc. Madam, Dinner is ready, and your father stays. Jul. Well, let us go. Luc. What, shall these papers lie like tell-tales here ? Jul. It you respect them, best to take them up. Luc. Nay, I was taken up for laying them down: Y'et here they shall not lie, for catcliing cold. Jul. 1 see you have a month's miiid to them. Luc. Ay, uiadam, you may say wliat siglits you see ; I see things too, although you judge I wink. Jul. Come, come ; will 't please you go y [Exeunt. SCENE III.— The same. Antonio's house. Enter Antonio and Panthino. Ant. Tell me, Panthino, what sad talk whs that Wherewith my brother held you in the cloister? Pan. 'T was of his nephew" Proteus, your son. Ant. Why, what of him y Pan. He wonder'd that your lordship AVoukl suffer him to spend Ids youth at home. While other men, of slender rei'mtatioii. Put forth their sous to seek prctVrnient out: Some to the wars, to try their fortune there ; Some to discover islands far away ; 20 Some to the studious universities. For any or for all tliese exercises He said that Proteus your son was meet, And did reijnest me to importune you To let him spend liis time no more at home, Whicli would be great impcaclinient to his age, In having known no travel in liis youth. Aut. Norneeirst tliounuicli iniinutunemetothat AVhereon this month I have been hammering. I have consider'd well his loss of time And liow he cannot be a [icrfect man. Not being tried and tntor'd in the world: Experience is by industry achieved And perfected by the swift course of time. Then tell me, whither were I best to send him? Pan. I think your lordship is not ignorant How his companion, youthful A^ilentine, Attends the emperor "in his royal court. ^-1 nt. I know it well. Pan. 'Twere good, I think, your lordship sent him thither: There shall he practise tilts and tournaments. Hear sweet discourse, converse with uoblemen, And lie in eye of every exercise Worthy his youth and nobleness of birth. Ant.' I like tliy counsel; well hast thou advised: And that tliou niayst perceive liow well I like it The execution of it shall make known. Even with the speediest expedition I v.'ill dispatch him to the emiieror's court. Pan. To-morrow,iiiay it please you,DouAlphonso, With other gentlemen of good esteem. Are journeyiijg to salute the emperor And to commend their service'to his will. Ant. Good company ; with them sliall Proteus go: And, in good time ! _i;cw will we break with him. Enter Proteus. Pro. Sweet love! sweet lines! sweet life! Here is lier hand, tlie agent of her heart; Here is her oath for love, her honour's pawn. O, tliat our fathers would apiilaud our loves, To seal our luipiiiness with their consents! Iieavenly Julia! Ant. IloWnow! what letterare you reading there? Pro. May 't please your lordship, 'tis a word or Of coninieiidations sent from A^deiitine, [two Delivered liy a friend tliat came from him. Ant. Lend me the letter; let me see what news. Pro. There is no news, my lord, but that he writes How happily he lives, how well beloved And daily graced by the emperor; Wisliingnie witli him, partner of his fortune. ^•1(((. And how stand you allected to liis wish? Pro. As one rel\i]ig on your lordship's will And not depending on his frieniily wish. ^•lii(. My will is sonietliing suited with his wish. Muse not that I thus suddenly proceed; For what I will, I will, and tlu're an end. 1 am resolved tliat thou slialt spend some time AVith Valentinus in the emperor's court : AVhat maintenance he from his friends receives, Like exhibition thou shalt have from me. To-morrow be in readiness to go : Excuse it not, for I am peremptory. Pro. My lord, I cannot be so soon provided : Please you, deliberate a day or two. [thee : Ant. Look, what thou want'st shall be sent after No more of stay! to-morrow thou must go. Come on, Pantiiino : you shall be employ'd To hasten on his expedition. [Exeunt Ant. and Pan. Pro. Thus have I shunn'd the fire for fear of burning. And drench'd me in the sea, where I am drown 'd. I fear'd to show my father Julia's letter, Lest he should take exceptions to my love ; ACT II. THE TWO GENTLE3IEN OF VERONA. scene i. And with the vantage of mine owti excuse Hath he excepted most against my love. O, how this spring of love resembleth The uncertain glory of an April day, "Which now shows all the beauty of the sun, And by and by a cloud takes all away ! Ee-enter Panthino. Pan. Sir Proteus, your father calls for you : He is in haste; therefore, I pray you, go. Pro. AVhy, this it is; my heart accords tliereto, And yet a thousand times it answers ' no.' [Exeunt. ^CT II. SCENE I.— 3rdan. The Dule's palace. Enter Valentine and Speed. Speed. Sir, your glove. 7 al. Not mine; my gloves are on. Speed. Why, then, this may be yours, for this is but one. Val. Ha ! let me see : ay, give it me, it "s mine : Sweet ornament that decks a thing divine ! Ah, Silvia, Silvia! Speed. Madam Silvia ! Madam Silvia ! 1 ul. How now, sirrah ? Speed. She i.s not within hearing, sir. J (d. Why, sir, who Ijade you call her? Speed. Your worship, sir; or else I mistook. Val. Well, you '11 still be too forward. [slow. Speed. And yet 1 was last chidden tor being too V(d. Go to, sir: tell me, do you know Madam Speed. She that your worship loves ? [Silvia V I ((?. 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 liad buried her grandam; to fast, like one that takes diet; to watch, like one tliat fears robbing; to speak i)uling, like a beggar at Hallowmas. You were wont, wlTen you laughed, to crow like a cock ; when 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 hariUy think you my master. Val. Are all these things perceived in me ? Speed. Tliey are all perceived without ye. Val. Without me V they cannot. Speed. Without you? 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 tlie 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 ? V(d. Ha.stthou observed that? even she, I mean. Speed. Why, sir, I know her not. Val. Dost thou 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. Wliat dost thou know ? [favoured. Speed. That she is not so fair as, of j'ou, well- lal. 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 Ijeautv. [beauty. Val. How esteemest thou meV I account of her Speed. You never saw her since she was deformed. J-al. How long hath she been deformed? Speed. Ever since you loved her. ]'(«/. 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 Sir Proteus for going ungartered ! Val. What should I see then ? Speed. Your own present folly 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. Vul. 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 swinged me for my love, which makes me the bolder to chide you for yours. Val. In conclusion, I stand affected to her. Speed. 1 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 ? T al. I have. Speed. Are they not lamely writ ? T al. jSTo, boy, but as well as I can do them. Peace ! here she comes. Speed. [Aside] O excellent motion ! O exceeding puppet ! Now will 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 your letter Unto the secret nameless triend of yours; Which I was much unwillinn' to proceed in But for my duty to your ladysliip. [done. Sn. I tliank 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 ranilom. very doiditfully. [ Sil. Perchance you think too much of so Vrd. No, madam ; so it stead you, I will \\ . Please you command, a thousand times as nv,, ' . And yet — Sd. A jjretty period ! Well, I guess the sei; ; - i : And yet I will not name it; and yet I care noc ; And yet take this again; and yet I tliank you, Meaning henceforth to trouble you no more. Speed. [Aside] And yet you will ; and yet another 'yet.' [it? Val. What means your ladyship ? do you not like Sil. Yes, yes: the lines are very quaintly writ; But since unwillingly, take them again. Nay, take them. Vrd. Madam, they are for you. Sil. Ay, ay : you WTit them, sir, at my request ; 21 ACT II. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA, scene it. But I will none of them ; they are for ynu ; I would have had them writ more movingly. VaJ. Please you, I '11 write your ladyship another. 8il. And when it 's writ, lor my sake read it over, And if it please you, so; it nut, wliy. so. Val. If it please me, madam, wliat then V 8U. Why, if it please you, take it tor 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 lie being lier pupil, to become her tutor. O excellent drvicc ! was there ever heard a better, That my master, being scribe, to himself should write the letter '^ Val. How now, sir ? what are you reasoning with yourself ? Speed. Nay, I was rhyming : 't is you that have the reason. Val. To do what ? Speed. To be a spokesman for Madam Silvia. Val. To whom V Speed. To yourself: why, she wooes you by a Val. What figure':' [figure. Speed. By a letter, I should say. Val. Wliy, she hath not writ to me ? Speed. What need she, when she hatli made you write to yourself "i" Why, do you not perceive "the Val. No, believe me. [jest 'i* Speed. No believing you, indeed, sir. But did you perceive her earnest 'i* Val. She gave me none, except an angry word. Speed. AVhy, she hath given you a letter. Val. That 's the letter I \vi-it to her friend. Speed. And tliat 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 miglit her mind discover, [her lover. Herself hath taught her love himself to write unto All this 1 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 liy my victuals and would fain have meat. O, be not like your mistress; be moved, be moved. [Uxeunt. SCENE II. — Verona. Julians house. Enter Proteus and Julia. ' Pro. Have patience, gentle .Julia. Jul. I must, where is no remedy. Pro. Wheii possibly I can, I will return. Jul. If you turn not, you will return the sooner. Keep this remembrance for thy Julia's sake. [Givina a ring. Pro. Wliy, then, we '11 make exchange ; here, talie you tills. Jul. And seal the bargain with a holy kiss. Pro. Here is my hand for my true constancy ; And when that hour o'erslijis hie in the day Wherein I sigh not, Julia, lor thy sake. The next ensuing hour some Inul mischance Torment me for my love's forgetfulness ! 'My fatlier stays my coming; answer not; Tlie tide is now: hay, not thy tide of tears; Tliat tide will stay me longer than I should. Julia, farewell ! [Exit Julia. What, gone without a .word Y Ay, so true love should do : it cannot speak ; For 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 dmnb. [Exeunt. SCENE III. — Tfie saine. A street. Enter Launce, leading a dog. Jjaunce. 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 tliink Crab my dog be the sour- est-natured dog that lives: my mother weeping, my fatlier wailing, my sister crying, our maid howling, our eat wringing lier bauds", and all our house in a great iierpli'xity, yet did not tlds cruel-hearted cur shed one tear: lie is a stone, a very pebble-stone, and has no more pity in biiu than a dog: a Jew would have wept to have seen our parting ; why, my grandani, having no eyes, look you, wept herself blind at my parting. Nay, I '11 show you tlie man- ner of it. This shoe is my father: no, this left shoe is my father: no, no, this left shoe is my motlier: nay, that cannni lie so neither: yes, it is so, it is so, it iiatli the worser sole. This shoe, with the hole in it, is my mother, and this my father; a veugeanco 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': 1 am the dog: no, the dog is himself, and 1 am the dog — Oh! the dog is me, and I am myself; ay, so, so. Now come I to my father; Fatlier, your blessing: now should not the shoe speak a word for weeping : now should 1 kiss my father; well, he weeps on. Now come I to my mother : O, that she could speak now like a wood woman! Well, 1 kiss her; why, there 'tis; 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 witli my tears. Enter Panthino. Pan. Launce, away, away, aboard! thy master is shipped and thou art to post after with oars. AVliat 's the matter '? why weepest thou, man ':' Away, ass! you-'ll lose the tide, if you tarry any loiter. 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 tliy voyage, and, in losing thy voyage, lose thy master, and, in losing thy master, Icise t!iy service, and, in losing thy ser- vice, — Why dost tliou stop my mouth ■:" Launce. For fear thou shouldst lose thy tongue. Pan. Where should 1 lose my tongue 'i* Launce. In thy tale. Pun. 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. Pa??. Wilt thou go ? Launce. Well, I will go. [Exeunt. SCENE IV.— Milan. The BuWs palace. Enter Silvia, "Valentine, Thurio, and Speed. Sil. Servant! Val. Mistress ? ' ACT II. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA, scene iv. Spceil. ^Master, Sir Thurio fro^Tis on you. T (d. xVy, boy, it 's for love. Speed. Not of you. 7 f(7. Of my mistress, tlien. Speed. 'T were good you Imoelced him. [Exit. Sil. Servant, you are" sad. Val. Indeed, madam, I seem so. Thu. Seem you tliat you are not ? V(d. Haply I do. 7'liu. So do counterfeits. T7(?. So do you. Jim. What seem I that I am not ? Vnl. Wise. Thu. What instance of the contrary? Vrd. Your foUy. Thu. And how quote you my folly ? VaJ. I quote it in your jerkin. Thu. Jly jerkin is a doublet. Vnl. AVell, then, I '11 double your foUy. Thu. How? [colour? Sil. What, angry, Sir Tliurio! do you change Val. Give him leave, madam; he is a kind of chameleon. Th u. That hath more mind to feed on your blood than live in your air. ]'ans, With nightly tears and daily hcart-snre sighs; For in revenge of my contemiit 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 discoiu-se, except it be of love ; Now can I break my fast, dine, sup and sleep. Upon the verv naked name of love. Pro. Enough; I read your fortune in your eye. Was this tlie idol that vou 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. Val. 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. Val. 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 ]iiy mistress. Val. Sweet, except not any ; Except thou wilt except against my love. Pro. Have I not reason to prefer mine own? Val. And I will help thee to prefer lier 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, Disiiain to root the summer-swelUug flower And make rough winter everlastingly. Pro. Why, Valentine, wliat liraggardism is this? Val. Pardon me, Proteus: all f can is nothing To her wliose worth makes other worthies nothing; She is alone. Pro. Then let her alone. [own, Val. Not for the world : why, man, she is mine And I as rich in having such a jewel As twenty seas, if all tlieir sand were pearl, The water nectar and tlie rocks piu-e gold. Forgive me that I do not dream on tliee. Because thou see'st me dote upon my love. My foolish rival, that her fatlier 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 slie loves you ^ [marriage-hour, Val. 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 liappiiiess. Good Proteus, go with me to my cliamber, In these affairs to aid me with tliy ciiunsel. 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. Val. Will you make haste y 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 tlius? She is fair; and so is Julia that I hive — That I did love, for now my love is thaw'd ; Wliich, like a waxen image 'gainst a fire, Bears no iinpressinn of tlie thing it was. IMethinks my zeal to Valentine is cold, And that I love liim not as 1 was wont. O, but I love his lady too too nnich, And that 's the reason I love him so little. How shall I dote on her witli more advice, That thus witliout advice begin to love her I 'T is but her picture I have yet beheld, And that hath dazzled my reason's light; But when I look on lier 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 use my skill. [Exit. SCENE v.— 37te same. A street. Enter Speed and Launce severally. Speed. Launce! by mine honesty, welcome to Milan I 24 Launce. Forswear not thyself, sweet youth, for I am not welcome. I reckon this always, that a man is never undone till he be luinged, iior never welcome to a place till some certain shot be paid and the hostess say ' Welcome ! ' . Speed. Come on, you madcap, I 'II to the alehouse with you presently ; where, fi ir one shot of five pence, thou slialt have five thousand welcouies. But, sirrah, how did thy master part with ]Ma(lam Julia V Launce. JMarry, alter they closed in earnest, they parted very fairly in jest. Speed. But shall she marry him ? Launce. No. Speed. How then V shall he marry her ? Launce. No, neither. Sjjeed. What, are they liroken ? Luuiicc. Xo.they areliiitli aswholeasafish. [them? Speed. Why, then, how stands the matter with Laimiv. ]\Iarry, thus; when it stands well with him, it stanils well with her. [not. Spud. AVIiat an ass art thou! I understand tliee Launce. A\'liat a lilock art thou, that thou canst not! My stall understands me. Sjjeed. What tlmu sayest ? Launce. Ay, and what I do too: look thee, I "11 but lean, and my stalT 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? Eawice. Ask my dog: if he say ay, it will ; if he say no, it will; if lie shake his tail and say nothing, it will. Sijeed. The conclusion is then that it will. Launce. Tliou slialt never get sucli a secret from me but by a parable. Speeel. '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 , ni v 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 somuch charity in thee as to go to the ale with a Christian. Wilt tlioii go? Speed. At thy service. [Exnmt. SCENE VI.— r/tt scofie. The Dulc's pcdace. Enter Proteus. Pro. To leave my Julia, shall I be forsworn ; To love fair Silvia, shall I he 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 heedfnlly 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 s<:l^■ereignty so oft thou hast preferr'd AVitli twenty thousand soul-confirming oaths. 1 cannot lea've 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, scexe i. For Valentine myself, for Julia Silvia. I to myself am clearer than a friend. For love is still most precious in itself: And Silvia — witness Heaven, that made her fair I — Shows .Julia but a swarthy Ethiope. I will forget that .Julia is alive. Remembering that my love to her is dead; And Valentiiie 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 with a corded ladder To climb celestial Silvia's chamber-window, Myself in counsel, his competitor. Kow presently I '11 give her father notice Of their disguising and pretended (light; Who, all enraged, will banish Valentine; For Thurio, he intends, shall wed his daughter; 15ut, 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 Vn. — Verona. Jidia^s house. Enter Julia a?icZ Lucetta. Jul. Counsel, Lucetta; gentle girl, assist me; And even in kind love I do conjure thee, AV'lio 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 Are with snow As seek to quench the lire 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 Thecurrent that with gentle murmur glides, [burns. Thou know'st, being stopp'd, impat iently doth rage; But when his fair course is not hindered. He makes sweet music with the enamell'd stones, (iiving 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 Aud make a pastime o"f 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. Ltic. But in what habit will you go along? Jul. Xot like a woman ; for I would prevent The loose encounters of lascivious men: Gentle Lucetta, fit me with such weeds As may lieseem some well-reputed page. i!(c." Why , then, your ladyship must cut 3-our hair. Jul. ^o, 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, Jul. Lucetta, as thou lovest me, let me have What tliou thinkest meet and is most mannerly. But tell me. wench, how will the world repute me For undertaking so uustaid a journey ? I fear me, it will make me scandalized. Luc. Ifyouthinkso.thenstayat homeandgonot. Jul. ;Nay, that I will not. Luc. Then never dream on infamy, but go. If Proteus like j'our journey when you come, Xo 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 iunuaculate. 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, ily goodSj my lands, my reputation ; Only, in lieu thereof, dispatch me lienee. Come, answer not, but to it presently! I am impatient of my tarriauce. [Exeunt. ^CT III. SCENE l.— 3Rlan. The Duke's palace. Enter Duke, Thurio, and Proteus. Dul-e. Sir Thurio, give us leave, I pray, awhile; We liave 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 mimVyour gracious favours Done to me, mideserving 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, wliom your gentle daughter hates; And should she thus be stol'n away ftom 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 Thau, by concealing it, heap on your head A pack of sorrows which would press you do-\vn, Being imprevented, to your timeless grave. 25 ACT III. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. scene i. Duke. Proteus, I thank tliee for thine honest care ; Which to requite, command me wliile 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 hiin gentle looks, thereby to And That wliii-li tliyself hast now disclosed to me. And, tluit tiiou niayst perceive my fear of this, Iviiowing that tender youth is soon suggested, I nightly lodge her in an upper tower. The key whereof myself ha\'e ever kept ; And thence she cannot l:ie convey'd away. Fro. Know, noble lord, they have devised a mean How he her chamlier-window will ascend And witli a corded ladder fetch her down ; For whieli 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. Dulc. Upon mine honour, he shall never know That I had any light from thee of this. Fro. Adieu, my Lord; Sir Valentine is coming. „ [Exit. Enter Valentine. Duke. Sir Valentine, whither away so fast? Val. 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? Val._ 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. 'Tis not unknown to thee that 1 liave sought To match my friend Sir Thurio to my daughter. Val. 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 1 say to thee, this pride of hers, Upon advice, hath drawn my love from her; And, where I thotight the remnant of mine age Should have lieen 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 anil my possessions she esteems not. [this ? Val. 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 whicli way I may bestow myself To be regarded in her sun-bright eye. Val. Win her w-ith 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 lier. Val. A woman sometimes scorns what best cnn- Send her another; never give her o'er; [tents her. For scorn at first makes after-love the more. 26 If she do frown, 'tis not in hate of you, But rather to beget more love in you : If she do chide, 'tis 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 slie 1 mean is promi^'d 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. ]'nl. 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, [sale, Vul. What lets but one may enter at her window ? Diikc. Her chamber is aloft, far from the ground. And built so shelving that one cannot climb it Without apparent hazard of his life. Vul. Why then, a kulder quaintly made of cords. To cast up, with a pair of anclioring hooks. Would serve to scale another Hero's tower, So bold Leander would adventiue it. Duke. Now, as thou art a gentleman of blood. Advise me where 1 may have such a ladder, [that. . Val. When would you use it ? pray, sir, tell me Duke. This very night ; tor Love is like a child, That longs for everything that he can come by. Val. 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 V Val. It will be light, my lord , that you may bear it Under a cloak that is of any length. D«A-e. 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 fasliion me to wear a cloak V I pray thee, let me feel thy cloak upon me. What letter is this same ? What 's here ? ' To Silvia ' ! And here an engine fit for my proceeding. I '11 be so bold to break the seal for once. [Tlerids. 'My thoughts do harbour with my Silvia niglitly. And slaves they are to me that send them flying: O, could their master come and go as liglitly. Himself would lodge wliere 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'u 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? [lie.' ' Silvia, this night I will enfranchise thee.' 'Tis so; and here 's the ladder for the purjiose. Why, Phaethon, — for tliou art IMerops' son, — Wilt tliou aspire to guide tlie h( avenly car And with tliy daring folly burn the world ? Wilt tliou reach stars, because they shine on thee ? Go, Ijase intrmler! overweening slave! Bestow thy fawning smiles on equal mates, And think my patience, more tlian thy desert, Is privilege for thy departure hence: Thank me for this more than for all the favours AVhicli 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 vaia excuse ; ACT III. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. scene i. But, as thou lovest thy life, make speed from lienee. [Exit. Vol. And why not death ratlier than living tor- To die is to be banisli'd from myself; [meut ? And Silvia is myself: banish 'd tiom her Is self from self: a deadly Ijanishmeut ! What light is light, if Silvia be not seen? What joy is joy, if Silvia be not by V Unless it be to think that she is by And feed npoii the shadow of iieii'ection. Except I be by Silvia in tlie night, There is no music in the niglitiugale; Unless I look on Silvia in the day. There is no day for me to look ujion; She is my essence, and I leave to be, If I be not by her fair influence FosterM, illumined, cherisli'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 ! Pro. What seest thou ? Launce. Ilim we go to find: there's not a hair on 's head but 'tis a Valentine. Pro. Valentine? Val. No. Pro. Who then? his spirit? Vol. Neither. Pro. What then? VaL Nothing. [strike? Launce. Can nothing speak ? Master, shall I Pro. Who wouldst tliou 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, Val. My ears are stopt and cannot hear good news, So much "of bad already hath possess'd them. Pro. Tlien in dumb silence will I bury mine, For they are harsh, untuneable and bad. T'((Z. is Silvia dead ? Pro. No, A^alentine. Val. No Valentine, indeed, for sacred Silvia. Hath she forsworn me ? Pro. No, Valentine. Val. No Valentine, if Silvia have forsworn me. AVhat 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 sui'feit. 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, whicli some call tears: Those at her father's cliurlish feet she tender'd; With them, upon her knees, her liumble self; AVringing her hands, whose whiteness so became As if "but now they waxed pale for woe : [them But neither bended knees, pure hands lield up, Sad sighs, deep groans, nor silver-shedding tears, Coidd penetrate her uncompassionate sire; But Valentine, if he be ta'en, must die. Besides, her intercession chafed him so, Wlien 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; imless the next word that thou Have some malignant power upon my life: If so, 1 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 tliat And manage it against despairing thoughts. Thy letters may be here, though thou art hence ; Whicli, being writ to me, shall be deliver'd Even in the milk-white bosom of thy love. The time now serves not to eximstulate : Come, I "11 convey thee through the city-gate; And, ere I part with thee, coiifer 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!" [Ijoy, I'tfL I pray tliee, 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. T'«?. O my dear Silvia ! Hapless Valentine! [Exeunt T'«?. 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 liorse shall not pluck that from me ; nor who 't is I love ; and yet 't is a woman; but what woman, 1 will not tell myself; and yet 'tis a milkmaid; yet 'tis 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: Siie can milk ; ' look you, a sweet virtue in a maid with clean hands. Enter Speed. Speed. How now, Signior Launce! what news with your mastership ? [sea. Launce. With my master's ship? why, it is at i>li((d. Well , your old vice still ; mistake the word. AVliat news, then, in j'our paper? Launce. The blackest nev.'s that ever thou heardest. Speed. Wliy, man, how black? Launce. Why, as black as ink. Speed. Let me read them. [read. Launce. Fie on thee, jolt-liead! thou canst not Speed. Thou liest ; I can. [thee ? Launce. I will try thee. Tell iue this: who begot Sjjced. Marry, the son of my g»i»indfather. Launce. O illiterate loiterer ! it was the son of thy grancbnother : this proves that thou canst not read. Spiecd. Come, fool,«onie; try me in thy pajier. Launce. There; and Saint Nicholas be thy speed! Sjjeed. [J?e((ds] ' Imprimis : She can milk.' Launce. Ay, that she can. Speed. ' Item : She brews good ale.' Launce. And thereof comes the jiroverb : ' 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 liim a stock ? Speed. ' Item : She can wash and scour.' Launce. A sjiecial 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 hatli many nameless virtues.' Launce. That's as mucli as to say, bastard vir- 27 ACT III. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA, scene ii. tues; tliat, indeed, know not their fathersand there- fore liave no names. S]jced. 'Here follow her vices.' Laimce. 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.' Laimce. That makes amends for her sour breath. Speed. 'Item: She doth talk in her sleep.' Launce. It 's no matter for that, so she sleep not in her talk. Sjjeed. 'Item: She is slow m words.' Laimce. O villain, that set tliis 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: Slie is proud.' [virtue. Laimce. Out with tliat too ; it was Eve's legacy, and cannot be ta'en from her. Speed. 'Item: She hath no teeth.' [crusts. Laimce. I care not for that neither, because I love Spjeed. ' Item : She is curst.' Launce. Well, the best is, she hath no teeth to bite. Sijeed. 'Item: She will often praise her liquor.' Laimce. If her liquor be good, she shall: if she will not, I will ; for good things should be praised. Sliced. 'Item: She is too liberal.' Laimce. Of her tongue she cannot, for that 's writ down she is slow of; of her puree she shall not, for that I '11 keep shut : now, of another thing she may, and that cannot I lielp. Well, proceed. Speed. ' Item : She hath more liair than wit, and more faults than hairs, and more wealth than faults.' Laimce. Stop there; I '11 have her: she was mine, and not mine, twice or thrice in that last article. Rehearse that once more. Sjjccd. 'Item: She hath more hair than wit,' — Laimce. jNIore 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 V Sjjeed. 'And more faults than hairs,' — Laimce. Tliat 's monstrous: O, that that were out! , Speed. 'And more wealtli tlian 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 V Launce. Why, then will I tell thee — that thy master stays for thee at the North-gate. Speed. For me r* Laimce. For 1*ee ! ay, who art thou ? he hath stayed for a better man than thee. Speed. And must I go to him ? Launce. Thou must run iK> him, for thou hast stayed so long tliat going will scarce serve the turn. Speed. Why didst not tell me sooner ? pox of yoiu' love-letters! [Exit. Launce. Now will he be swinged for reading my letter; an unmannerly slave, that will thrust hini- self into secrets ! I '11 after, to rejoice in the boy's correction. [E.tit. SCENE II.— The same. The Dulse's pcdace. Enter Duke and Thurlo. Did-e. Sir Thurio, fear not but that she will love Now Valentine is banisliM from her sight, [you, Thu. Since his exile she hath despised me most, Forsworn my eompany and rail'd at me, That I am desiicrate 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. 28 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 V 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 — Ft)r thou hast shown some sign of good desert — Makes me the better to confer with thee. Pro. Longer than I prove loyal to yoiu" grace Let me not live to look upon your grace. Duke. Thou know'st how willingly I would effect The match between Sir Tluuio and my daughter. Pro. I do, my lord. Duke. And also, I think, thou art not ignorant How she opposes her agamst 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 Tluu-io ? Pro. The best way is to slander Valentine AVith 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 ofHce tor a gentleman. Especially against his very friend. [liim, 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 will love Sir Tliurio. Thu. Therefore, as you unwind her love from him, Lest it should ravel and be good to none. You must pnivide to bottom it on me; Whicli 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 Wliei'e you witli Silvia may confer at large; For she" is luinpisli, heavy, niclauclioly. And, for your friend's siike, 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 yon, 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 Orplieus' lute was strung with poets' sinews, AVhose golden touch could soften steel and stones, ]\Iake 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 GENTLE3IEN OF VERONA, scene ii. AVith some sweet concert ; to their instruments Tune a dei)lorLng dump: the night's dead silence Will well become such sweet-complainhig grievance. This, or else nothing, will inherit her. [love. Duke. This disciijliue shows thou luist been in T/iii. And thyadvicethisuightl'llput 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 tlie turn To give the onset to thy good advice. Duke. About it, gentlemen! Fro. We '11 wait upon your grace till after supper, And afterward determine our proceedings. Duke. Even now about it ! I will pardon you. \Exeuni. ^CT Tsr. SCENE I.— Tliefroyitiers 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. Sjjeed. Sir, we are undone; these are the villains That all the travellers do fear so much. Vnl. My friends, — FirstOut. That 'snot so, sir: we are your enemies. ■ sharpers attending on Falstall". Nym, ] (For an Analysis of Robin, page to Falstaff. Simple, servant to Slender. Rugby, servant to Doctor Caius. Host of the Garter Inn. Mistress Ford. Mistress Page. Anne Page, lier daughter. Mistress Quickly, servant to Doctor Caius. Servants to Page, Ford, &c. SCENE — Windsor, aiid llu neighborhood. the Plot of tf\is Play, see Page ^CT I. SCENE 1.— Windsor. Before Page's house. Enter Justice Shallo'wr, Slender, and Sir Hugh Evans. Shnh Sir Hugh, persuade me not; I will make a Star-cliamber matter of it : if he were twenty Sir John Falstaffs, he shall not abuse Robert Shallow, esqiiire. Slen. In the county of Gloucesfer, justice of peace and 'Coram.' Shal. Ay, cousin Slender, and 'Custalorum.' Slen. Ay, and ' Rato-lorum'too ; and a gentleman born, master parson; who writes himself 'Annigero,' in any bill, warrant, quittance, or obligation, 'Ar- migero.' 'Sh(d. Ay, that I do; and have done any time these three liundred 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 Slial. 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. SUul. You may, by marrying. Evans. It is marring indeed, if he quarter it. Shid. Xot a whit. Evans. Yes, py 'r lady ; if he has a quarter of your coat, there is but three skirts for yourself, in my simple conjectures: but that is all one. If Sir John Falstalf have committed disparageinentsunto you, I am of the cluu'ch, 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 comicil, 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. jNIistress Anne Page '? She luis'brown hair, and speaks small like a woman. Evans. It is that fery person for all the orld, as just as you will desire; and seven hiuidred pounds (if nil ini vs. anil gold and silver, is her grandsire upon his ilcatirs-lied — 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, [pound y Slen. Did her grandsire leave her seven Imndred Evans. Ay, and her father is make her a petter penny. Slen. I know the yomig gentlewoman ; she has good gifts. Evans. Seven hundred pomids and possibilities is goot gifts. Shal. Well, let us see honest ISIaster Page. Is Falstaff there ? Eviius. Sliall I tell you a lie V 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 Ijesei/eh you, be ruled by your well-willers. I will peat the door for Master Page. [A'aocAs] What, hoa ! Got pless your house here ! Page. [Within] Who 's there ? Enter Page. Evans. Here is Got's plessiiig, itnd your friend, and Justice Shallow ; and here young Master Sleiidi r, that peradventures shall tell you another tale, if matters grow to your likings. Page. I am glad to see yotu- worships well. I thank you for my veiiison, 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. How doth good Mis- tress Page? — and I thank you always with my heart, la! with my heai-t. 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 3IERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. SCENE I. Slen. How does your fallow greyhound, sir? I heard say lie 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 said .'' he is good and fair. Is Sir John Falstalf 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 hath wronged me, Master Page. Page. Sir, he doth in some sort confess it. iS7ia(. 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 Jolin Falstaff, Bardolph, Nsrm, and Pistol. Fal. Now, Master Shallow, you '11 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? iSVjaL Tut. a pin! this shall be answered. Fal. I 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. Ecans. 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, Nym, and Pistol. Bard. You Banbury cheese ! Slen. Ay, it is no matter. Fist. How now, Mephostophilus ! Slen. Ay, it is no matter. Nijm. 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. Xow let us understand. There is three umpires in this matter, as I under- stand; that is, ^Master Page, fldelicet Master Page ; and there is myself, lidflicet myself; and tlie three party is, lastly and tiiially, mine host of the Garter. Page. Wetliree,toliearilaudeiiditl)etweentliem. Evans. Fery goot: I will make a prief of it in my note-book ; and we will afterwards ork upon the cause witli as great discreetly as we can. Fal. Pistol! Pist. He hears with ears. Evans. The tevil and his tam ! 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 1 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 tliese gloves. Fd. 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 tliy labras here! Word of denial: froth and scum, thou liest! Slen. By these gloves, then, 'twas he. Nym. Be advised, sir, and pass good humours: 36 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. F(d. Wliat buy you, Scarlet and John"? Bard. Why, .sir, fur my part, I say the gentleman had driuik himself out of his five sentences. Evans. It is his five senses: tie, what the igno- rance is ! Bard. And being fap, sir, was, as they say, cash- iered; and so conelusiiiiis 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 tliose 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 icine; Mistress Ford and Mistress Fage, following. Page. Nay, daughter, carry the wine in ; we '11 drink within. [E.vil Anne Page. Slen. O heaven! this is Mistress Anne Page. Paue. 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,! hope we shall drink down all unkindness. [Exeunt all exccjil SIiuL, Slen., and Evans. Slen. I had rather than forty shillings I had my Book of Songs and Soimets here. Enter Simple. How now, Simple ! where have you been 'i* I must wait on myself, m^ist I ? You have not the Book of Kiddles aViout you. have you? Sii'ii. Book (if Pviddles! why, did you not lend it to Alice Shortcake upon All-hallowmas last, a fort- night afore Michaelmas V ^7(nL Come,coz; come,coz; we stay for you. A word with you,eoz; 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 '? , .SVoi. Ay, sir, you shall find me reasonable ; if it be so, I shall do that that is reason. Shal. Nay, but understand me. iS7f?i. So 1 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 ynu. iiardon me; lie's a justice of peace in his country, siniiile tliough I stand here. Evans. But tliat is not tlie 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. .SVf,!. AVhy, if it be so, I will marry her upon any reasonalile demands. Evans. But can you affection the 'oman ? Let us command to know'tliat of your mouth or of your lips: fiu- divers philosophers hold that the lips is parcel of the nmuth. Therefore, precisely, can you carry > nur gmid v.ill to tlie maid '? Slial. C'liusin Abraham Slender, can you love her ? Slen. 1 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 MEBRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. scene hi. Shal. That you must. Will you, upon good dowry, marry her? Sim. I will do a greater thing than that, upon yoiu: request, cousin, in any reason. Shal. Xay, conceive me, conceive me, sweet coz: wliat I do is to pleasure you, coz. Can you love the maid? Slen. I will marry her, sir, at your request : but if tliere be no great love in the beginning, yet heaven may decrease it upon better acquaintance, wlien 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 t he 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 I Shal. Here comes fair IMistress Anne. Ee-entcr Anne Page. AVould I were young for your sake, ilistress Anne I Aline. The dinner is on tlie table; my fatlier de- sires your worship's company. Shal. I will wait on him. fair Mistress Anne. Evans. Od"s plessed will I I will not be absence at tlie grace. [Exeunt Shallon- and Evans. .liDie. AVill 't please your worship to come in, sir ? Slen. No, I tliauk you, forsooth, heartily ; lam very well. ^Iruif. Tlie dinner attends you, sir. S'cn. I am not a-hungry, I thank j'ou, forsooth. Go, sirrali, for all you are my man, go wait upon my cousin Sliallow. [Exit Simple.] A justice of peace sometime.s may be beholding to his friend for a man. I keep but tlu'ee men and a bay yet, till my mother lie dead : but wliat though ? yet I live like a poor gentleman born. ,1 nnc. I may not go in without your worship : they will not sit till you come. Skn. I' faith, I 'II eat 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 tli' otlier day with playing at sword and dagger with a master of fence : tluee veneys for a dish of stewed prunes ; and, iiy my troth, I cannot abide the smell of liot meat since. Why do your dogs bark so y be there bears i' the town y [of. Anyie. I think there are, sir ; I heard them talked .S7e,i). 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, inileed, cannot abide 'em; they are very ill-favoured rough things. Se-enter Paf/e. Come, gentle ]SIaster Slender, come; we stay for you. Skn. i '11 eat notliing, I thank you, sir. Page. By cock and pie, you shall not choose, sir ! come, come. Slen. Nay, pray you, lead the way. Petye. Come on, sir. Slen. Mistress Anne, yourself shall go first. Anne. Not I, sir; pray you, keep on. .S7e)]. 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 wrong, indeed, la I [Exeunt. SCENE n,— The same. Enter Sir Hugh Evans and Simple. Evans. Go your ways, and ask of Doctor Cains" house which is the way : and there dwells one ^lis- tress Quickly, which is in the manner of his nurse, or his dry nurse, or Ids cook, or his laundry, his washer, and his wringer. Siiu. 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 ni}" dinner; there 's pippins and cheese to come. [Exeunt. SCENE III,— ,4 room in the Gnrter 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. Pal. I sit at ten pounds a week. Host. Thou 'rt an emperor, Ciesar, Keisar, and Pheezar. I will entertain Bardoljih : he shall draw, he shall tap: said I well, bully Hector? Fal. Do so, good mine host. ?Tost. I have spoke; let him follow. [To Betrd.] Let me see tliee froth and lime : I am at a word : follow. [Exit. F-. Quirk. [.Isi'h In 'sinijih'] I am glad he is so quiet : if he had been tlu'oughly moveil, you should have lieard 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, tlie 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. [yiside 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 ACT II. THE 3IEERY WIVES OF WINDSOR. SCENE I. and down late; but notwithstandinfj;-, — to tell you iu your ear; I would have no words of it, — my master liimself is in love with Mistress Anne Page : but notwithstanding; that, I know Anne's mind, — that "s neither liere nor there. Cuiiix. You jaekiiape, give-a this letter to Sir Hugh ; by gar, it is a shalleuge : I will cut his troat in de park ; and I will teach a sciu'vy jack-a-uape 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 Himple. Quick. Alas, he speaks but for his friend. Cuius. It is no matter-a ver dat: do nut you tell-a me dat I shall have Anne Page for myself y By gar, I vill kill de Jack priest ; and I have appointed mine host of de Jarteer to measure our weapon. By gar, I \\ill myself liave 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. Rugby, come to the court with me. By gar, if I have not Anne Page, I shall turn 5"our Lead out. of my door. Follow my heels, Rugby. [Exeunt Cuius und Buybi/. Quick. You shall have An fool's-head of your o^^■n. No, I know Anne's mind for that: never a woman iu Windsor knows more of Auue's mind than I do; nor can do more than I do with her, I thank heaven. Fent. [IFit/un] Who's within there? ho! Quick. Who's there, I trow! Come near the house, I pray you. Enter Fenton. Fcnt. IIow now, good woman! how dost thou? Quick. The better that it pleases your good wor- ship to ask. Fcnt. What news ? how does pretty Jlistress Anne? Quick. In truth, sir, and she is jiretty. and honest, and gentle; and one that is your friend, I can tell you that by the way; I praise heaven for it. Fent. Sliall 1 do auy good, thinkest thou ? shall I not lose my suit ? Quick. Trotli, 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. AVell, 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. 1 shall never laugh but in that maid's com- pany ! But indeed slie is given too much to allicholy and musing: but for you — well, go to. Fent. Well, I shall see her to-ilay. Hold, there 's money for thee ; let me liave thy voice in my behalf : if thou seest her before me. conuneud me. Quick. Will I? i" faith, that we \^•ill; and I will tell your worsljip moi'e 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. [E.vH Fenton.] Truly, an honest gentleman : but Anne loves him not ; for I know Anne'o mind as well as another does. Out upon "t ! what have 1 forgot ? [Exit. J^CT II. SCENE I.— Before Page''s house. Enter Mistress Page, with a letter. Mrs. Feuje. What, have I scaped love-letters in the holiday-time of my beauty, and am I now a subject for them ? Let me see. [Heucls. '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 sullice thee. Mistress Page, — at tlie least, if the love of soldier can suffice, — tliat I love thee. I will not say, pity me ; 't is not a soldier- like phrase; but I say, "love me. By me, Tliine own true knight. By day or night. Or anv kind of liglit, With all his might For thee to fight, John Falstaff.' What a Herod of JewTy 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 cU-unkard picked — with the devil's name! — out of my con- versation, that he dares in this manner assay me? Why, he hath not been thrice in niv c-ompany ! What should I say to him ? I was then f nigal ( jI niv mirth : Heaven forgive me! Why, I '11 exhibit a bill in the parliament for the putting down 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. Jlfi-s. Ford. Mistress Page ! trust me, I was going to your house. Mrs. Page. And, trust me, I was coming to you. You look very ill. Mrs. Ford.' Xay, I '11 ne'er believe that ; I have to show to the contrary. Mrs. Page. Faith, but you do, in my mind. Mrs. Ford. Well, I do then ; yet I say I could .show you to the contrary. O ilistress Page, give me some counsel ! Mrs. Peige. What 's the matter, woman ? Mrs. Ford. O woman, if it were not for one trifling respect, I could come to such honour! Mrs. Page. Hang the trifle, woman! take the honour. What is It? dispense with trifles; what is it ? 3Irs. Ford. If I would but go to hell for an eternal moment or so, I could be kniunted. Mrs. Pwn. What? thou best! 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 thmk 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 ; [iraised women's modesty ; and gave such orderly ami well-behaved reproof to all uncomeli- ness, tiiat I would have sworn his disposit ion would have gone to the trutli of his words; luit they do no more adhere and keep place together tlian tiie Hun- dredth Psalm to the tune of ' (ireen Sleeves.' What tempest, I trow, threw this whale, with so many tuns of oil in his lielly, ashore at Windsor? How shall I be revenged on him ? I think the best way were to entertain him with hoi)e, till the wicked fire of lust liave melted him in his own grease. Did you ever hear the like ? Mrs. Pai/e. 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 3IERRY 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 witli 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 wliat he puts into the press, wlien he would put us two. I liad ratlier 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? 3£rs. Puije. Nay, I know not : it makes me almost ready to wrangle with mine owai honesty. I '11 en- tertain myself like one that I am not acquainted withal; for, sure, unless he know some strain in me, that I know not myself, he would never have boarded me in tliis fury. Mrs. Ford. ' Boarding,' call you itV I '11 be sure to keep him above deck. Mrs. Page. So will 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 vlllany 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. I'wje. 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. 3frs. Pdije. Let 's consult together against this greasy knight. Come hither. [^he;/ 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. lie wooes both high and low, both ricli and Both young and old, one with anotlier, Ford ; He loves tlie gallimaufry: Ford, perpend. Ford. Love my wife ! Pist. With liver burning hot. Prevent,or go thou. Like Sir Actseou he, with Kingwood at thy heels: O, odious is the name ! F'ord. What name, sir'? PiA-t. 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 Nym ! [sing. Believe it. Page; lie speaks sense. ' [E.i:it. Ford. [Asidi\ I will be patient; I will find out this. N't/in. [To Puijf'] And this is true; I like not the humour of lying. He hath wronged me in some humours: I should have liorne tlie hnnioiirrd letter to her; but I have a sword and it sliall bite upon my necessity. He loves your wife; thei-e 's the short and the long. My name is Corporal Nym; I speak and I avouch; 'tis true: my name is' Nym and Falstaff loves your wife. Adieu. I love not tlie humour of bread and cheese, and there's the humour of it. Adieu. [E.cit. Page. ' The humour of it,' quoth a' ! here "s a fel- low frights Engiisli out of his wits. Ford. I will seek out Falstaff. [rogue. Page. I never heard such a drawling, affecting Ford. If 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'll 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 ? 2lrs. Page. Go in with us and see: we have an liour's talk with you. [Fxeunt Mrs. Page, Mrs. Ford, and Mrs. QuicHy. 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 -Ford. Do you think there is truth in them? Page. Hang 'em, slaves! I do not think the knight w^ould offer it: but these that accuse liim 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 tliey. 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 voyag'e towards my wife, I ^^•ould 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 woidd be loath to turn them together. A man may be too confident: I would iiave nothing lie on my head: I cannot be thus satisfied. Page. Look where my ranting host of the Garter comes : there is eitlier 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 ilasttr Page! Master P;'.ge, will you go witih us ? we have sport in hand. Host. Tell him, cavaleiro-justice; tell him, bully- rook. Shid. Sir, tliere is a fray to be fought between Sir Hugh the A\'elsh priest and Cains the French doctor. Ford. Good mine host o' the Garter, a word with you. [Dra^ring 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, liatli appointed them con- trary places ; for, believe me, I hear the parson is no jester. Hark, I will tell you what our sport shall be. [Thct/ 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 IJrook ; only for a jest. i/o.s(. My hand, bully; thou shalt have egress and regress; — said I well? — 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. Paqe. I have heard the Frenchman hath good skill in his rapier. Slud. Tut, sir, I could have told you more. In these times you stand on distance, your passes, stoc- cadoes, and I know not vvliat : 't is tlie iieart, Master Pafje ; 't is here, 't is here. I have seen the time, with my long sword I would have made you tour tall fellows skip likS rats. Host. Here, boys, here, here ! shall we wag ? Page. Have with you. I had rather hear them scold than tight. [Exeunt Host, ISkaL, and Paye. Ford. Thou2:h Page be a secure fool, and stands so firmly on his wit»:s frailty, yet I cannot put off my opinion so easily: siie was in his company at Page's house; and what tliev made there, I know not. Well, I will loi>k further into 't: aud I have a disguise to sound Falstalf. If I tind her honest, 1 lose not my labour ; if she be otherwise, 't is labour well bestowed. [Exit. SCENE II. — A room in the Garter Inn. Enter Falstaff and Pistol. Fal. I will not lend thee a penny. Pist. Why, then the world 's mine oyster, Which I with sword will open. Fal. Xot 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 Xym ; 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 y 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 unconflnable baseness, it is as nuich as I can do to keep the terms of my honour precise : I, I, I myself sometimes, leaving the fear of God on tlie left hand and hiding mine honour in my necessity, am fain to shuffle, 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-laeating oaths, under the shelter of your honour ! You will not do it, you ! Pist. 1 do relent : what would thou more of man ? Enter Robin. Hob. Sir. here 's a woman would speak with you. Fal. Let her approach. Enter Mistress Quickly. Quick. Give your worship good morrow. Fill. Good morrow, good wife. Quick. Not so, an 't please your worship. Fal. Good maid, then. (Juick. I '11 be sworn. As my mother was, the first hour I was born. Fal. I do believe the swearer. What with me ? Quick. Shall I vouchsafe your worship a word or two y ■ Fal. Two thousand,' fair woman : and I '11 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. AVell, on: Mistress Ford, you say, — Quick. Your worship says very true: I pray your worship, come a little nearer this ways. Fal. I 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, Liird ! \i lur worship 's a wanton ! Well, heaven for- give you and all of US, I pray! J-'iij. Mistress Ford; come. Mistress Ford, — Quick, ilarry, 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 alter letter, gift after gift ; smelling so sweetly, all musk, and so rushling, I warrant you, in silk anil guld; and in such alll- gant terms ; aud 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 myself twenty iingels given me this morning; but I defy all angrls. in any such sort, as they say, but in the way ot lumt^ty ; and, I warrant you, they could never get her so much as sip on a cup with' the proudest of them all : and yet tiiere 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 housebetween ten and eleven. Fal. Ten aud eleven i* 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. AVoman, 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 conmiendations 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 : sm-ely I think you 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. Qui/'k. Blessing on your heart for 't ! i'al. 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 j^our little page, of all loves: her husband has a niarvclliius infection to the little page; and truly Jlastcr I'a^i- is an honest man. Never a wife in Windsiir li-adsa better life than she does: do what she will, say wliat 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 vour page ; no remedy. Fed. Why, I will. Quick. Nay, but do so, then: and, look you, he may come aiid 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 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. scene ii. stand any thing ; for 't is not good that children should know any wickedness: old folks, you know, have discretion, as they say, and know the world. Fal. Fare thee well : connueud me to them both : there's my purse; I am yet thy debtor. Boy, go alon^with tliis woman. [E.remt 3Iistress (^ukfcly and Jiobin.] Tliis news distracts me ! Pist. Tliis punk is one of Cupid's carriers : Clap on more sails ; pursue ; up with your fights : Give fire: s!ie is my prize, or oceau whelm them all ! [Ej-it. Fal. Sayest thou so, old Jack ? go thy ways ; I '11 make more of thy old body than I liave done. Will tliey yet look after thee ? Wilt thou, after the ex- pense" of so much money, be now a gamer ? 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 V Bard. Ay, sir. Fal. Call him in. {Exit Bardolph.'] Such Brooks are welcome to me, that o'erflow such liquor. Ah, I lia ! Mistress Ford and Mistress Page have I encom- passed you y go to ; via ! liC-enler Bardolph, loith 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 V 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 tliiuk myself in better plight for a lender than you are: the which hath something emVM)ldened nie 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. 1 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, tliough 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 Jolm, as you liave one eye upon my follies, as you hear them mifolded, 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. Very well, sir; proceed. Ford. There is a gentlewoman in this town; her husljand's name is jford. Fal. Well, sir. Ford. 1 have long loved her, and, I protest to you, bestowed much on her; followed her A\itli a doting observance ; engrossed op])ortunitit's to meet her; fee'd every slight occasion that iduld 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 slie would have given ; briefly, I have pursued lier as love hath pursued me ; wliich hath been on the wing f)f all occasions. But whatsoever I have merited, either in my mind or in my means, meed, I am sure, I have received none; unless 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 lier hands '? Ford. Never. 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 apjiear lionest to me, yet in other places slie enlargcth lier mirth so far that there is shrewd construction niadt'of her. Now, Sir John, here is the heart of my iiur]i(ise : you are agen- tleman of excellent breeding, 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. I5elieveit,foryouknowit. There ismoney; spend it, spend it; sjiend 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 of 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 your affection, that I should win wliat you would enjoy V Methinks you prescribe to yourself very preposterously. Ford. O, understajid 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. Now, could'I come to her with any detection in my liand, my desires had instance and argument to coinmend 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 tcio strongly emljattled against me. What say you to 't. Sir .John V Fal. Master Brook, I will first make bold with your money ; next, give me your hand ; and last, as 1 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 licr own iipiiointnient ; even as you came" in to me, her assistant or go-between jiartedfromme: I say I shall lie witli 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? Fal. Hang him, poor enckoldly knave ! I know liim not: yet I wrong him to call him poor; they say the jealous wittolly knave liath 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. Fiird. I would you knew Ford, sir, that you might avoid him if vou saw him. Ell. Ilanghim, 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. SCENE T. cuckidtrs horns. Master Brook, thou shalt know I will predominate over tlie peasant, and thou shalt lie ■witJi his wife. Come to me soon at night. Ford's a knave, and I will aggravate his style; tliou,,Mas- tcr Brook, shalt know him for kuave and cuckold. Come to me soon at night. [Exit. FiiriJ. What a damne(l Epicurean rascal is this! My heart is ready to crack with ini]iiitit'iice. AVho savs this is in}providciit jealousy ? iiiv wile hath sent to'liiiii; tlieiici'.risUxca: tlie match is made. Would any man have tlcinght tliisV Scr thr licll i.f liaving a false wiiiuan ! ;SIy lied sliall lie abused, my colfers ransacked, my rejiutatinn '^nawn at ; and 1 sliall iKit only receive tins \ilUiiiiins wrnni;'. bnt stand under tlie adoption of aboniiualile terms, and by him tliat does me tliis wrong. Terms! names! Aniaimon sounds well : Lucifer, well; Barbason, well ; yet thev are devils' additions, tlie names of fiends: but Cuckold ! Wittoi: — Cuckold! the devil himself hath nut such a name. Page Is an ass, a secure ass : he will trust his wife; he will not be jealous. I will ratlier trust a Fleming with my flutter. Parson Hugh tlie ^\'i■lshman with my cheese, an Irisliman witlimy aijua-vit;e bdttle.ora tliief to walk my ambling gcUi- ing,tliaii my wife with herself: then slie iil(its,tlien she ruiiiinates, then she devises; and what tlicy tliink in their hearts tliey 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 tills, 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. rie,fle,fle! cuck- old! cuckold! cuckold! [Exit. SCENE HI.— Afield near Windsor. Enter Oaius and Rugby. Cuius. Jack Eugby ! Ewj. Sir'? Caius. Vat is de clock. Jack ? Rug. '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. Rug. 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; 1 vill tell you Low I vill kill him. Rug. Alas, sir, I cannot fence. Caius. Villaiiy,take your rapier. Rug. Forbear ; here 's company. Enter Host, Shallow, Slender, and Page. Host. r.Iess thee, bully doctor! Shul. (Save you. Waster 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 panto, thy stock, thy reverse, thy distance, thy montant. Is he dead, my Ethiopian V is lie dead, my Francisco? ha, bully! AVliat says my yEsculapius ? 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 vorUl; he is not show his face. Host. Thou art a Castalion-King-Urliial. Hector of Greece, my boy! Cuius. 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 figlit. yiiii go against the hair of your profes- sions, is it not trnr. Master Page ? Page. ]\tastir Shallow, you have yourself been a great' tighter, though now a man of peace. ,s7(((/. Boilykins, Master Page, though I now be old and of tlie iieace, if I see a sword out, my finger itches to make one. Though we are justices and doctors and churchmen, ilaster Page, we have some salt of our youth in us; we are tlie sons of women, Master Page. Rage. 'T is true. Master Shallow. Shal. It will be found so. Master Page. IMaster 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 aii(l patient churchman. You must go with nic, master iloctor. [Mockwater. JJdsi. Pardon, guest-justice. A word, Mounseur Cuius. ]Moek-vater ! vat is dat ? Host. Mock-water, in our English tongue, is valour, bully. Cains. Bv gar, den, I have as much mock-vater as de I'.ni^li'slinian. Scurvy jack-dog priest ! bj'gar, me vill cut his ears. Host. He will clapper-claw thee tightly, bulky. Caius. Clapper-dc-claw! vat is dat? Host. That is, he will make thee amends. Cuius. By gar, me do look he shall clapper-de-claw me; for, by gar, me vill have it. Ho.it. And I will provoke him to 't, or let him wag. Cuius. Me tank you for dat. Host. And, moreover, bully, — but first, master guest, and Master Page, and eke Cavaleiro Slender, go you tlirougu the town to Frogmore. [^'IsWc 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. AVe will do it. Paeje, Shal., and Slen. Adieu, good master doctor. [Exeunt Page, Shal., and Slen. Cuius. By gar,.me vill kill de priest; for he speak for a jack-aii-aiie to Anne Page. Host. Let him die: sheathe thy impatience, throw cold water on thy clioler: go about the fields with me through Frogmore: I will bring thee where iSIistress Anne Page is, at a farm-house a-feasting; and thou shalt woo her. Cried I aim ? said 1 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 ? Caius. By gar, 'tis good; veil said. Host. Let us wag, then. Cuius. Come at my heels, Jack Eugby. [Exeunt. ^CT III. SCENE 1.— A field near Frogmore. Enter Sir Hugh Evans and Simple. Erans. I pray you now, good ilaster Slender's serving-man, and friend Simple by youi- name, which way have you looked for Master Caius, that calls hin'iself 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 ACT III. THE 3IERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. scene ii. Evans. I most feliemeutly desire you you will also look that way. Sim. I will, sir. [Exit. Evann. 'Pless my soul, how full of chollors I am, aud treinpliiig of mind ! I shall be glad if lie 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-! [Sirujs. ■To shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious liiidssing madrigals; There \vill me make our peds of roses, And a thousand fragrant posies. To shallow — ■ Mercy on me ! I have a great dispositions to cry. [Si)((js. Melodious birds sing madrigals — When as I sat in Pabylon — And a thousand vagram posies. To shallow, &c. He-enter Simple. Sim. Yonder he is coming, this way, Sir Hugh. Evans. He 's welcome. [Slnys. To shallow rivers, to whose falls — Heaven prosper the right ! What weapons is he ? Sim. No weapons, sir. There comes my master. Master Shallnw, and another gentleman, from Frog- more, over the stile, tliis 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 liis Ixiok, 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 ! iu your doublet and nose 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 aud patience that ever you saw. Shal. I have lived fourscore years and upward ; I never heard a man of las place, gravity and learning, so wide of his own respect. Evans. What is lieV 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. Whyv Evans. He lias 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 tight with him. Skn. [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 aud liack 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 yom- pa- tience: in good time. Caius. 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 desin- you in friendship, and I will one way or other nialvi; you amends. [Aloud] I will knog your urinals aliout your knave's eogscomb tor missing your meetings and appointments. Cains. 1 )iidile ! Jack Kugby, — mine host de Jar- teer, — liuve I not stay for hiiii to kill him? have 1 not, at de place I did apiioint V Evans. As I am a Christians soul now, look you, this is the i)lace appointed: I'll be judgment I'y 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 politic? am' I subtle V am I a Machiavil ? Shall I lose my doctor? no; he gives me the po- tions and the motions. Sliall I lose my parson, my priest, my Sir Hugh ? no ; he gives me the proverlis and the no-verbs. Give me thy 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 skius are whole, and let burnt sack be the issue. Come, lay their swords to pawn. Follow me, lads of peace; follow, folhiw. follow. [follow. Shiil. Trust me, a mad host. Follow, gentlemen, Slui. [.1n/i/(J O sweet Anne Page! [Exeunt Shal., Slen., Page, and 7/o,-(. 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, scmwy, cogging companion, tlie host of the Garter. Caius. By gar, with all my heart. He promise to bring me where is Anne Page; by gar, lie de- ceive me too. Evans. Well, I will smite his noddles. Pray you, follow. [Exeunt. SCENE 11.— A street. Enter Mistress Page and Robin. Mrs. Page. Nay, keep your way, little gallant; you were wont to lie a follower, but now you are a leader. Whetlier had you rather lead mine eyes, or eye your master's heels ? Bob. I had ratlier, forsooth, go before you like a man than follow him like a dwarf. Mr.i. 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? IL-s. Page. Truly, sir, to see your wife. Is she at home ? Ford. Ay; and as idle as she luay hang together, for want of company. I think, if yom- husbands were dead, you two would marry. 3Irs. Paife. Be sure of that,— -two other husbands. Ford. Where had you this pretty weathercock ? 3Irs. Page. I cannot tell what the dickens his name is my husliand had him of. What do you call your kiiiglifs name, sirrali? Jll,lj. Sir Jolin Falstaff. Ford. Sir John Falstaff! 3Irs. Page, if e, he ; I can never hit on 's name. There is such a league between my good man aud he ! Is your wife at home indeed ? Ford, "indeed she is. -^ ■A-f: SM i^l": V m I mM ■HWi -* ACT IIT. THE 3IERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. scene hi. Mrs. Page. By your leave, sir : I am sick till I see her. [Extunt Mrs. Page and Robin. Ford. Has Page any brains 'f hath he any eyes ? Lath he any thinking "? Sure, they sleep ; lie hath no use of them. Wliy, this boy will carry a letter twenty mile, as easy as a cannon will shoot point- blanktwelve score. He pieces out his wife's in- cUnation: he gives her folly nicition and advantage: and now she 's going to my wife, and Falstaff's lioy with her. A man may Ijear this shower sing in tlie wind. And Falstaff's boy with her! Good plots, they are laid: and our rcvolteil wives share damna- tion together. Well; I will take him, then torture my wife, pluck the borrowed veil nf niudesty from tlie so seeming Mistress Page, divulge Paue himself for a secure aud wilful Artieon; and to these vio- lent proceedings all my neighbours shall cry aim. [^Clock heard.] The eloelv gi\es me my cue, and my assurance bids me seareii : there I shall Hnd Fal- staff : I shall be rather praised for this than mocked; for it is as positive as the earth is hrm that Palstaff is there: I will go. Enter Page, Shallow, Slender, Host, Sir Hugh Evans, Caius, and Rugby. Shal, Page, &c. Well met, :Master For.l. Ford. Trust me, a good knot : 1 have good cheer at home; and I pray you all go with me. Shal. I must excuse myself. Master Ford. Slcn. And so must I, sir: we have appointed to dine with Mistress Anne, and I wouhl not break with her for more money than I '11 speak of. Shal. We have lingered aliout a matcli lietween 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 young Master Fenton ? he capers, he dances, he has eyes of youtli, he writes verses, he speaks holiday, he smells April and May: he will carry "t, he will carry 't ; 't is in his button's ; he will carry 't. Piige. Xot by my consent, I promise you. The gentleman is of no having: he kept company with the wild prince and Poins ; he is of too high a region ; he knows too much. I^o, he shall not knit a knot in his fortunes with the finger of my substance : if he take lier, let him take her simply ; the wealth I have waits on my consent, and my consent goes not that way. Furd. I beseech you heartily, some of you go home with me to dinner : besides your cheer, you shall have sport; 1 will sliow you iPmonster. Master doctor, you shall go ; so shall you, ilaster Page ; and you. Sir Hugh. SIM. Well, fare you well : we shall have the freer wooing at Master Page's. [E.mint Shal. and Slen. Caias. Go home, John Rugby ; I come anon. [Exit Rughij. Hiist. Farewell, my hearts: I will to my honest kniglit Palstaff, and drink raiiary with hiui. [Exit. Find. \_Atihh] I think I shall drink in pipe-wine first with him; I "11 make Iiim dance. Will you go, gentles ? All. Have with you to see this monster. [Exeunt. SCENE ni. — ^ room in Ford's house. Enter Mistress Ford and Mistress Page. J//-A-. Ford. What, John ! What, Robert ! Mrs. Page. Quickly, quickly! Is the buck- basket — Mrs. Ford. I warrant. What, Robin, I say! Enter Servants viith 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, ilarry, as I told you before, John and Robert, be ready here hard by in the brew-hoiise : an'd when I suddenly call you, come forth, and with- out any pause or staggering take this basket on your shoulders: that dian'. 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 Robin. Enter Robin. Jl/rs. Ford. How now, my eyas-musket! what news with you ? Iioh. jNIy 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 '/ Rob. Ay, I '11 be sworn. My master knows not of your being here and hath threatened to jait me into 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 thme shall be a tailor to thee and shall make thee a new doublet and hose. I '11 go hide me. Mrs. Ford. Do so. Go tell thy master I am alone. [Exit Robin.] Mistress Page, remember you your cue. 3frs. Page. I warrant thee; if I do not act it, hiss me. [Exit. 3Irs. Ford. Go to, then : we '11 use this unwhole- some humidity, this gross watery iiumpion; ■^j'e '11 teach him to know turtles from jays. Enter Falstaff. Fah Have I caught tliee, 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. Xowshall I sin in my wish : 1 would thy husband were dead : I '11 sjieak 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 wi.uld emulate the diamond: thou hast the right arched lieauty of the brow that becomes tliP sliip-tire, the tire-valiant, or any tire of Venetian admittance. Mrs. Ford. A plain kerchief, Sir John: my brows become nothing else; nor that well neither. Fal. By the Lord, thou art a traitcir to say so: thou wouldst make an absolute courtier; anil 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, K'ature thy friend. Come, thou canst not hide it. Mrs. Ford. Believe me. there's in isucli thiiii; innje. Fal. What made me luve thee ? let that persuade thee there 'ssoiiipthingcxtraiirdiiiary in thee. Come, I cannot cdl;' am! ^ay thnu art tins and that, like a many of these lisping liawtlmrn-buds, that come like women in men's apparel, and smell like Bucklers- biu'y in simple time ; I cannot : V)ut 1 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 iir. Fnl. Tliou niiglitst as well say I love to walk by the CouiittT-gate, Avhich is as hateful to me as the reek of a linie-kihi. Mrs. Fcrd. Well, heaven knows how I love you; and you sliall one day find it. Fal. Keep in that mind ; I 'U 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 wildly, and would needs speak with you presently. Fal. She shaU not see me : I will ensconce me be- hind tlie arras. Mrs. Ford. Pray you, do so : she 's a very tattling woman. [Fcdstaff hides himself. He-enter Mistress Page and Robin. What 's the matter i* liow now ! Mrs. Page. O Mistress Ford, what have you done V You 're shamed, you "re overthrown, you "re undone for ever ! " [Page V Mrs. Ford. What 's the matter, good Mistress Mrs. Page. O well-a-day, Mistress Ford! Iiaving 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 in you ! Mrs. Ford. Why, alas, what 's the matter V Mrs. Page. Your husliand "s coming hither, woman, with all th& ollicers in Winilsor,"to search for a gentleman that lie says is here now in tlie house by your consent, to take an ill advantage of his ab- sence : you are undone. 3Irs. Ford. 'T is not so, I hope. 3frs. Page. Pray heaven it be not so, that you have such a man here! but 'tis most certain your hus- liand '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 liad rather than a thousand pound he were out of the house. Mrs. Piiiji:. For slianiel never stand 'you had rather " and ' you liad ratlier : ' your husband 's here atliand; bethink you of some conveyance: in the liouse you cannot hide him. O, how have you de- ceived me ! Look, here is a basket : if he be of any reasonable stature, lie may creep in here; and throw foul linen ujion him, as if'it were going to liucking: or — it is whiting-time — send liini by your two men to Datchet-niead. Mrs. Ford. He 's too big to go in there. What shall I do y Fal. [Uoming forward] l^et 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. 3Irs. Page. What. Sir John Falstaff ! Are these your letters, knight r 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! Jolinl [Exit Rohin. Be-eitler Servants. Go take up tliese clothes liere quickly. Where 's the cowl-staff ? look, how you drumble ! Carry them to the laundress in Datchet-mead ; quickly, come. 46 Enter 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 ymi Serf. To the laundress, forsooth. [tliis'.-' Mrs. Ford. Why, what have you to do whitlier they bear itl' You were best meddle with buck- washing. Ford>. Buck! I would I could wash myself of tlie buck! Buck, buck, buck! Ay, buck; I warrant you, buck; and of the season too, it shall appear. [E.reunt Servants with the basl-ct.] Gentlemen. I have dreamed to-night; I'll tell you my difain. Here, here, here be my keys : ascend my chaniliers ; search, seek, find out: I '11 warrant we '11 unkenml the fox. Let me stop this way first. [Locking t/tc door.] So, now uncape. Page. Good Master Ford, be contented : j-ouwroii^' yourself too much. Ford. True, Master Page. Up, gentlemen- you shall see sport anon; follow me, gentlemen. [E.cii. Evans. Tliis is fery fantastical humours aiiil jealousies. Cai^cs. By gar, 't is no the fashion of France ; it is not jealous in France. Page. Xay, follow him, gentlemen; see the issue of his search. [Exeunt Page, Caius, and Evan.-'. Mrs. Page. Is there not a double excellency in this? Mrs. Ford. I know not which jileases me better, that my husband is deceived, or Sir John. 3Irs. Page. What a taking was he in when your husband asked who was in the basket ! Mrs. Ford. I am half afraid he will have need nf washing; so throwing him into the water will ili> him a benefit. Mrs. Page. Hang him, dishonest rascal ! I would all of the same strain were in the same distress. Mrs. Ford. I think my husband hath some special suspicion of Falstaffs being here; for I never saw him so gross in his jealousy till now. Jl/rs. Page. I will lay a plot to try that; and we will yet have more tricks with Fals'talf: his disso- lute disease will scarce obey this medicine. Mrs. Ford. Sliall we send that foolish carrion. Mistress Quickly, to him, and excuse his throwing into the water; and give him another hope, to be- tray him to another punishment V Mrs. Pctge. We will do it : let him he sent for to- morrow, eight o'clock, to have amends. Pe-enter Ford, Page, Caius, and Sir Hugh Evans. Ford. I cannot find him: may be the kna\e brag- ged of that he could not compass. Mrs. Page. [Aside to J/cs. Ford] Heard yon tliat V Mrs. Ford. Yoi^use me well, Master Ford, dn Ford. Ay, I do so. [you y Mrs. Ford. Heaven make you better than your Ford. Amen! [thoughts I Mrs. Page. You do yourself mighty wrong, ilas- Ford. Ay, ay ; I must bear it. [ter Ford . Evems. If there be any pody in the house, and in the chambers, and in the coffers, and in the jiresses, heaven forgive my sins at the day of judgnieiit! Caius. By gar, nor I too: there is no bodies. Pagr. Fie, fie, blaster Ford ! are you not asliamed'? AVliat spirit, what devil suggests this imagination V I would not ha' your distemper in this kind IVir the wealth of Windsor Castle. [it. Ford. 'Tis my fault, Master Page: I suffer fur Evans. You sutler for a pad conscience : your wife is as honest a 'omans as I will desu'es among five thousand, and five hundred too. Caius. By gar, I see 'tis an honest woman. Ford. Well, I promised you a dinner. Come, come, walk in the Park: I pray you, pardon me; I ACT III. THE 3IERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. SCENE V. will hereafter make kllo^^^l to you why I have done this. Come, wife; eome, ]\Iiiitress Page. I pray you, pardon me ; pray heartily, pardon me. Faije. Let's go in, gentlemen; but, trust me, Ave '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 line lm\\k tor the bush, fcjluill it be so V Ford. Any thing. [company. Evans. If there is one, I shall make two in the Cuius. If dere be one or two, I shall make-ii the I'ord. Pray you, go, Master Page. [turd. Evans. I pray you now, remembrance to-morrow on the lousy knave, mine host. Otius. Dat is good; by gar, with all my heart ! Evans. A lousy knave, to have liis gibes and his mockeries ! [Extant. SCENE rv. — A room in Paijc''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 Xan. Anne. Alas, how thenV Fcnt. 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, jSIy riots past, my wild societies; And tells me 't is a thing impossible I shoidd love thee but as a property.. Anne. May be he tells yoii true. Fcnt. Xo, heaven so speed me in my time to come ! Albeit I will confess thy father's wealth AVas the lirst motive that I woo'd thee, Anne: Yet, wooing thee, I found thee of more value Than stamps in gold or sums in sealed bags; And 't is the very riches of thyself That now I aim at. Anne. Gentle blaster Fenton, Yet seek my father's love; still seek it, sir: If opportunity and humblest suit Cannot attam it, why, then, — hark you hither! [The;/ converse apart. Enter Shallo'w, Slender, and Mistre.gs Quickly. Slud. Break their talk. Mistress (.iuiekly: 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 iiot 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 hanilsome in three hundred poiuids a-year! Quick. And liow does good Master Fenton "? Pray you, a word witli you. Slud. She 's coming ; to her, coz. O boy, thou hadst a father I Slen. I had a father. Mistress Anne; my uncle can tell you good jests of him. Pray you, uncle, tell ilistress Anne the jest, how my father stole two geese out of a pen, good uncle. Shal. ilistress Anne, my cousin loves you. Slen. Ay, that I do; as well as I love any woman in Gloucestershire. Shnl. 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 humlred and fifty pounds jointure. [himself. Anne. Good Master Shallow, let him woo for Sha,L ^larry, I thank you tor it ; I thank you for that good comfort. She calls you, coz: I'll leave Anne. Now, Master Slender, — [you. Slen. Now, good Mistress Aiine, — Anne. What is your will V 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. S'ui. Truly, for mine own part, I would little or notliinij with you. Your father and myinicle hath made nil it ions: 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. I'^ent. Nay, ]\raster Page, be not impatient. 3[rs. Pd'jt . Goiid 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, blaster Shallow; come, son Slender, in. Knowing my mind, you wrong me. Master Fenton. [Exe^mt Paeje, Shal., and Sltn. 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 50ur good Avill. Anne. Good mother, do not marry me to yond fool. 3Irs. Page. I mean it not ; I seek you a better hus- 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. GoodMas- I will not be your friend nor enemy: My daughter •ill 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. FeiU. Farewell, gentle mistress: farewell. Nan. [Exeunt Mrs. Page and Anne. Quick. This is my doing, now: ' Nay,' said I, ' will you ca.st away yiuir child on afool, and a physician 'i* Look on Master Fentcm :' this is my doing." Fent. I thank thee: audi pray thee, one* to-night Give my sweet Nan this ring : there 's for thy pains. Quirk. Now lieaA'en send thee good fortune ! [Exit Frnton.] A kind heart he hath : a woman would run through fire and w ater for sucli a kind heart. But yet I would my master had Jlistress Anne ; or I would Master Slender had her; or, in sooth, I would ^Mas- ter Fenton had her : I will do wliat 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. AVell, I mu.st of another errand to Sir John FalstafE 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. Fed. 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 tlie Thames ? Well, if I be served sucli another trick, I '11 have my brains ta'en out and Ijuttered, and give tliem to a "dog for a new-year's gift. The rogues slighted me into the river "with as little remorse as 47 ACT III. THE 3IERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. SCENE V. they would have drowiied a blind bitch's puppies, litteen i' the litter: and you may know by my size that I have a kind of alacrity in sinking ; if tlie bot- tom were as cteep as hell, I should down. 1 had been drowued, but that the shore was shelvy and shal- low, — a death that I abhor; for the water swells a man; and what a tlihig should I have been when 1 had been swelled ! I should have been a moun- tain of mummy. Be-enter Bardolph with sacJc. Sard. Here 's Mistress Quickly, sir, to speak with you. Fed. Come, let me pour in some sack to the Thames water ; for my belly 's as cold as if I had swallowed snowballs forpills to cool the reins. Call lier in. Bard. Come in, woman! Enter Mistress Quickly. Quiclc. By your leave; I cry you mercy : give your worship good morrow. Fid. Take away these chalices. Go brew me a poltle of sack finely. Bard. With eggs, sir V Fal. Simple of itself; I '11 no pvdlet-sperm in my brewage. [Frit Bardolph.] How now! (Ji(ii-k. 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. Quiclc. Alas tl>e day ! good heart, that was not her fault : she does so take on with her men ; they mis- took their erection. [pi-oniise. Fal. So (lid 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. 1 will tell her. Fal. Do so. Between nine and ten, sayest thou ? Quick. Eiglit 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 niouey well. O, here he comes. Enter Ford. Ford. Bless you, sir! Fal. Xow, blaster Brook, you come to know what hath passi'd between me and Ford's wife':* Ford. Tliat, indeed, Sir .John, is my business. J^aL Master Brook, I will not lie to you : I was at her house the hour she appointed me. Ford. And sped you, siri' Fal. Very ill-favouredly. Master Brook. Ford. How so, sir > Did she change her determi- nation V Fal. Xo, Master Brook ; but the peaking Cornuto her husband. Master Brook, dwelling In a continual 'larum of jealousy, (■onies me in the instant of our encounter, a Itri- wr had (•iiibrariMl,kisseil,iiiotested, and, as it wen-, spoke the prologue of our comedy; and at his heels a rablile 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. AVhile I was tliere. Ford. And did he search for you, and could not find you V Fal. You shall hear. As good luck wovdd have it, comes in one Mistress Page ; gives intelligence of Ford's ai>i)roach ; and, in her invention and Ford's wife's distiactiiin, thev conveyed me into a biuk- Ford. A liurk-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 ot villauous smell that ever of- fended nostril. Ford. And how long lay you there ? Fal. Xay, 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 kna\('S, his hinds, were called forth by their mistress to carry me in the name of foul clothes to Datrliet-laiie: they took me on their shoulders; met the jealous knave their master in the door, who asked them once or twice what they liad in their basket: I quaked for fear, lest the lunatic knave would liave searched it : Ijut fate, ordaining he should be a cuckold, held his liand. Well: on went he for a search, and away went I for foul clothes. But mark the seipiel, IMaster Brook: I suffered the pangs of three several deaths; first, an intolerable fright, to be detected \\itli 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 , — t ha t 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 I was more t ban half stewed in grease, like a Dutch dish, to be thrown into tlie Thames, and cooled, glowing hot, in that surge, like a horse- shoe; think of that, — hissing hot, — think of that, Master Brook. -Fore?. 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 Ihook, I will be thrown into Etna, as I have been into Tlianies, ere I will leave her thus. Her husband isthismorning gone a-birding; I have I'eceived from her another embassy of meeting; 'twixt eiglit and nine is the hour. Master Brook. Ford. 'T is jiast eight already, sir. Fed. Is it'/ I will then address me to my appoint- ment. Come to me at your convenient' leisure, and you shall know how I sp.eed ; 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! lia! isthisavision? isthisadream V do I sleep':' Master Ford, awake! awake. Master Ford ! tliere '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! AVell, I will proclaim my- self what I am : I will now take the lecher ; he is i.t my house; he cannot 'scape nie; '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 a\iiid, 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 3IERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. scene ir. ^CT I^T. SCENE I.— A street. Enter Mistress Page, Mistress Quickly, and William. Mrs. Page. Is he at ^Master Ford's already, think 'st tliou ? QuicJc. Sure lie is by this, or will be presently : but, truly, he is very couraseous mad about liis throwing into the water. Mistress Ford desires you to come suddenly. Mrs. Page. 1 '11 be with her by and by : I '11 but bring my young man here to school. Look, where lii.s 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 liis 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. Ecans. Come hitlier, 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 m nouns ? Win. Two. Quick. Truly, I thought there had been one num- ber more, because they say,' 'Od "s nouns.' Evans. Peace your tattlings! What is 'fair,' WUl. Pulcher. [AVilliam? Quick. Polecats ! there are fairer things than pole- cats, sure. Evans. You are a very simplicity 'oman : I pray you. peace. What is ' lapis,' William ? TVill. A stone. Evans. And what is ' a stone,' William ? Will. 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 'f Will. Articles are borrowed of the pronoun, and be thus declined, Singulariter, nominativo, hie, haec, hoc. Evans. Nominativo, hig, hag, hog; pray you, mark : genitivo, hujus. Well, what is your accusa- tive case ? Will. Accusativo, hine. Evans. I pray you, have your remembrance, eliild ; accusativo, liung, hang, hog. b-ni. Quick. ' Hang-hog ' is Latin for bacon, I warrant Evans. Leave your prabbles, 'oman. What is the focative case, William ? Will. O, — vocativo, O. Evans. Remember, 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- Ty"i7;. Genitive case! [liam? Evans. Ay. Will. Genitive, — horum, harum, horura. Quick. Vengeance of Jenny's case! fie on her! never name her, cliild, if she be a whore. Evans. For sliame, 'oman. Quick. You do ill to teacli the child such words : he teaches him to hick and to hack, whicli they '11 do fast enough of themselves, and to call ' horum : ' fie upon you ! Evans. "Oman, art thou lunatics? hast thou no understandings for tliy cases and tlie numbers of the genders y Thou art as foolish Christian crea- tures as I would desires. 4 3frs. Page. Prithee, hold thy peace. Evans. Show me now, William, some declensions of your pronouns. Will. Forsooth, I have forgot. Evans. It is qui, quae, quod : if you forget ynnr ' quies,' your ' qu»s,' 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. Jl/rs. Page. Adieu, good Sir Hugh. [Exit SirHugh.] Get you home, boy. Come, we stay too long. [kxcitnt. SCENE II. —^ room in ForcVs house. Enter Falstaff and Mistress Ford. Fal. Mistress Ford, your sorrow hath eaten np my sufferance. I see you are obsequious in your love, and I profess requital to a hair's breadth ; not only, Mistress Ford, in tlie simple office of love, but in all the accoutrement, comi)lement and cere- mony of it. But are you sure of your husband now? Mrs. Ford. He 's a-birding, sweet Sir John. Mrs. Page. IWithin] What, ho, gossip Ford! what, ho ! 3Irs. 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. I Mrs. Ford. AVhy ? I 3Irs. Page. Why, woman, your husliand is in his old lunes again : he so takes on yoncU-r witli my lius- I band; so rails against all married mankind; so I curses all Eve's daughters, of what complexion 1 soever; and so buffets himself on the forehead, cry- I ing, ' Peer out, peer out ! ' that any madness I ever I yet beheld seemed but tameness, civility and pa- I tience, to tliis 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 lam; and swears he was carried out. the last time he searched for liim, in a basket: protests to my liusband he is now here, and liatli drawn him and the rest of their company from tlieir sport, to make another experiment of liis 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 ? 3Irs. 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. Wliat a woman are you ! — Away with liim, away with him! better shame than murder. Mrs. Ford. Which way should he go ? how should I bestow him ? Shall I put him into tlie basket agaui ? Re-enter Falstaff. Fal. No, I '11 come no more i' tlie basket. May I not go out ere lie come ?- Mrs. Page. Alas, three of Master Ford's brothers watch the door with pistols, that none shall issue 49 ACT IV. THE MEREY WIVES OF WINDSOR. scene ii. nut ; otiierwise you might slip away ere lie came. But what make "you here ? , Fal. What shall I do? I'll creep up into the chimney. V ) 3lrs. Ford. There they always use to discharge their birding-pieces. Creep into tlie kiln-hole. ' FaJ. Where is it? -. •- — ---_- " jl/)-s. Ford. He will seek there, on my word. Xeither press, coffer, chest, trunk, well, vault, but he liath an abstr;irt for the remembrance of such places, and goi's to them by his note: there is no hiding you in the house. Fal. I '11 go out then. 3/r.s. P(((/('. If you go out in your own semblance, you die, 8ir .Jolni. Unless you go out disguised — 3L-S. Ford. How nnght we disguise him? j\[i-s. Pioji:. Ahis the day, 1 know not! There is no woman's gown big enougli for Inm; otiierwise lie might put on a hat, a muffler and a kerchief, and si) escajie. Fid. Good hearts, devise something: any ex- tremity rather than a mischief. Mrs. Ford. iSIy maid's aunt, the fat woman of Brentford, has a gown above. Mrs. I'mje. On my word, it will serve him ; she 's as big as lie is: and there 's lier thrummed hat and her inulller too. Run up. Sir John. Mrs. Ford. Go, go, sweet Sir John : ilistress Page and I will look some linen for your head. Mrs. Faije. Quick, quick ! we '11 come dress you straight : put on the gown the while. [Exit Falstaff. Mrs. Ford. I Avoulil my husband would meet him in this shiiiic: lie eainint abide the old woman of liiciiUni-d ; \n: swears slie "s a witch; forbade her my house and hatli tlircatened to beat her. Mrs. Pwjc. Heaven guide him to thy husband's cudgel, anil the devil guide his cudgel afterwards! Mrs. Ford. But is my liusband coming ? 3[rs. Po(ic. Ay, in good sadness, is he; and talks of tlie baslcet too, howsoever he hath had intelligence. 3Irs. Ford. We'll try that; for I'll appoint my men to carry the baslvct again, to meet him at the door with it, as they did last time. Mrs. Pmjc. Nay, but he '11 be here presently: let's go dress liiin like tlie witch of Brentford. Mrs. Ford. I '11 lirst direct my men what they shall do with the basket. Go up; I'll 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 dm ff. [E.cit. He-enter Mistress Ford with two Servants. Mrs. 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. lE.cit. First Serv. Come, come, take it up. Sec. Serv. Pray heaven it be ;iot full of knight again. [lead. First Serv. I hope not ; I liad as lief bear so much Enter Ford, Page, Shallow, Caius, and Sir Hugh Evans. Ford. Ay, but if it prove true, Master I'age, have you any way then to unfool me again ? Set down the basket, villain ! Somebody call my wile. Youth in a basketl O you paiuleily rascals! there's a knot, a ging, a pack, a ennsiiiraey against me: now sliall the devil be shamed. AVIuit. wife, I say! Come, come forth ! Behold what honest clothes you send fortli to bleaching ! 50 Page. Why, this passes. Master Ford; you are not to go loose any longer; you must be pinioned. Emns. Why, this is kmatics! this is mad as a mad dog ! SIml. Indeed, Master rord,tliis is not well, indeed. Ford. So say I too, sir. Ee-enter Mistress Ford. Come hither. Mistress Ford; Mistress Ford, the honest woman, the modest wife, the virtuous crea- ture, that hath the .jealous Cool to her husband! I suspect without cause, iui.stress, 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, sirrali. [Pulling clothes out of the h<-t>:lit. Pf(\ieeu; The purpose wliy, is here: in wliich disguise. While other jests are sometliing rank on foot, Her fatlier Iiath commanded her to slip Away with !Slender and with him at Eton Immediately to marry : she hath consented : Xow, sir, Her mother, ever strong against that match And firm for Doctor Cains, liath appointed That he shall likewise shnlUc her away, AVliile other sports are tasking of their minds. And at the deanery, where a priest attends, Straiglit marry her: to this her rnotlier's plot She seemmgly obedient likewise hath jrade promise to the doctor. Now, thus it rests : Her father means she shall be all in white. And in that lialiit, when !Slender sees his time To take her by the hand and bid her go. She shall go with him : lier 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, Witli ribands pendent, llaring 'l«iut her head; And wlien tlie doctor spies liis vantage riiie. To pinch licr liy the hand, and, on that token, Tlie maid liath given consent to go with him. i/cis(. Which means she to deceive,father or mother? Fent. Both, my goml Imst, to gn along with me: And here it rests, that vnu '11 inncure the vicar To stay for me at ihurrh twixt twelve and one, And, in the lawful name of marrying. To give our hearts united ceremony. liost. Well, husband your device ; I "11 to the vicar: Bring you tlie maid, you shall not lack a priest. Fcnt. So shall I evernnnv be bound to thee; Besides, I '11 make a present recompense. [^Exeunt. ^CT ^. SCENE I. — A room in the Garter Inn. Enter Falstaff a/itZ Mistress Quickly. Ffih Prithee, no more prattling; go. I'll hold. This is tlie third time; I liope good Tuck 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. Fed. Away, I say; time wears: hold up yoiu' head, and mince. {Exit Mrs. Quickly. Enter Ford. How now. Master Brook ! blaster 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 lier yesterday, sir, as you told me you had appointed 'i* 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. Tliat 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 tlie shape of a woman ; for in the shape of man. Master Brook, I fear not Goliatli witli a weaver's beam; because I know also life is a shuttle. I am in luiste ; go along with me: I '11 tell you all. Master Brook. Since I plucked geese, played truant and wlnp|)ed top, I knew not what 't was to be beaten till lately. Fol- low me : I '11 tell you strange things of this knave Foiil, on whom to-night I will be revenged , and I will deliver liis wife into your hand. Follow. Strange things in hand, Master Brook ! Follow. [Exeunt. SCENE II.— Windsor Park. Enter Page, Shallow, and Slender. Po.ge. Come, come; we '11 couch i' the castle-ditch till we see the light of our fairies. Remember, son Slender, my daughter. Slcn. 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. Faye. The night is dark ; liglit and spirits will be- come it well. Heaven prosper our sport I Xo man means evil but the devil, and we shall luiow him by his horus. Let "s away ; follow me. [Exeunt. SCENE III.— A street leading to the Park. Enter Mistress Pag-e, Mistress Ford, o?ic7 Doctor Caius. 3£rs. Page. Master doctor, my daughter is in green : when you "see your time, take her by the hand, away with her to tlie deanery, and dispatch it quickly. G o before into the Park : we two must go together. Cuius. I know vat I have to do. Adieu. il/rs.Priiye. Fare you well, sir. [Exit Caiu.'^.] ily husband will not rejoice so much at the abuse of Falstaff as he will ciiafe 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 Xan now and her troop of fairies, and the Welsh devil Hugh V Mrs. Page. They are all couched in a pit hard by Heme's oak, with obscured lights; which, at the very instant of Falstaff'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. AVe "11 betray liim finely. [ery Mrs. Page. Against such It-wdstei's and their lecli- Those that betray them do no treachery. 3Irs. Ford. The hour draws on. To the oak, to the oak! [Exeunt. SCENE IV.— Windsor Park. Enter Sir Hug-h Evans disguised, with others as Fairies. Evans. Trib, trib, fairies ; come; and remember your parts : be pold, I pray you ; follow me into the pit : and when I give the watch-'ords, do as I pid y»u : come, come ; trib, trib. [Exeunt. SCENE "V.- Another part of the Park. Enter FalstaS disguised as Heme. Fal The Windsor bell hath struck twelve; the minute draws on. Xow, the hot-blooded gods assist 53 ACT V. THE 3IERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. SCENE V. me ! Remember, Jove, thou wast a bull for tliy Eu- ropa ; love set on tliy honis. O powerful love ! tluit, in some respects, makes a beast a man, in some other, a man a beast. You Avere also, Jupiter, a swan for tlie love of Leda. O omnipotent Love! how near tlie god drew to the complexion of a goose ! A fault done hrst in the form of a beast. O Jove, a beastly fault ! And then another fault in the semblance of a fowl ; flunk on "t, Jnve ; a foul fault ! When gods have hot backs, what sliall poor men doV For me, I am herea Windsor sta.^-; and the fattest, I think, i' the forest. iSeiid nic a ciiol rnt-tiiiie, Jove, or who can blame me to piss my tallow ? Who comes here ? my doe V Enter Mistress Ford and Mistress Page. Mrs. Ford. Sir John! art thou there, my deer? my male deer ? Fid. jNly doe with the black scut! Let tlie sky rain potatoi's ; let it thnnilcrto the tune of Green Sleeves, iuiil kissing-CDnilits and snow eringoes; let there come a tempest of provocation, I will shelter me here. [heart. Mrs. Fnrd. Mistress Page is come with me, sweet- Fal. Divide me like a bribe buck, each a hnunch : I will keep my sides to myself, my slioulders for the fellow of this walk, and my liorns I bequeath yi^ur husbands. Am I a woodman, ha? Speak I like Heme the luuiter? Why, now is Cupid a child of conscience ; he makes restitution. As I am a true spirit, welcome! [Noise icUhin. Mrs. Page. Alas, what noise ? 3frs. Ford. Heaven forgive our sins ! Fed. What should this be ? mZ: Fwk t ^^'^y' ^w^y ' ^'^'''^ '■"" ''•^• Fed. I tliink the devil will not have me damned, lest the oil that 's in me should set hell on hre; lie would never else cross me thus. Enter Sir Hugh E^^ans, ilisquised as before ; Pistol, as hob- goblin : Mistress Quickly, Anne Page, and ol/iers, as Fairies, with tapers. Quicl:. Fairies, black, grey, green, and white. You moonshine revellers, and shades of night, Y'ou orphan heirs of fixed destiny. Attend your olHce and your ipiality. Crier Hobgoblin, make tin' fairy oyes. Pist. Elves, list yonr names ; silence, you airy toys. Cricket, to Windsor cliiniiieys shalt tliou leap: Where hres thou limrst imraked and heartlis un- There pinch the maids as blue as billierry: [swept. Our radiant queen hates sluts and slutterv. [die: Fal. They are fairies; lie that speaks to them shall I '11 wink and couch : no man their works must eye. [Lies doirn upon his face. Eoans. 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 lier fantasy ; Sleep she as sound as careless infancy: But tliose as sleep and think not on their sins. Pinch them, arms, le^s, backs, shoulders, sides and Q(i/r/,-. About, abnut; [shins. Search Windsor Castle, elves, within and out: Strew good luck, ouphcs, on every sacred room: That it may stand till the perpetual doom, In state as wholesome as in state 't is tit, Wortliy tl w nei-, and the owner it. The se\ cral cluiirs of (U'der look you scour With juice of lialm and every precious (lower: - Each fair instalment, coat, aial seveial crest. With loyal blazon, evermore be blest! And nightly, nieailow-lairies, look you sing. Like to the (;arter's compass, in a ring: The expressuie that it liears, green let it be, More fertile-fresh tlian all the field to see; 5i And ' Honi soit qui mal y pense ' write In emerald tiffts, llowers imrple, blue, and white; Like saiiphiiv. pearl and rich endiroidery. Buckled below fair knighthood's bending knee: Fairies use dowers for tlieir 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. F(d. Heavens defend me from that Welsh fairy, \ le.st he transfonn me tiikc. Look where he comes. Enter Angelo. Ang. Always obedient to your grace's will, I coihe to know your pleasure. Duke. Angelo, There is a kind of character in thy life, That to the observer doth thy history Fully unfokl. Thysi'lf and thy belongings Are not thine own so pr.ipcr as tn waste Thyself ui)on tliy virtues, they (in thee. Heaven doth with us as we with torches do, Xiit light them for tlieuisclves; for if our virtues Did udt go forth of tis, 't were all alike As if we had them not. Spirits are not finely touch 'd But to tine 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 ant'l 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 lirst in (|uesf ion, is thy secondary. Take thy commission. Awj. 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. Buke. No more' evasion : We have with a leaven'd and jirepared choice Proceeded to you; therefore take your honours. Our haste from hence is of so (piick condition That it prefers itself and leaves lUKiui'stion'd Matters of needful value. We shall write to you, As time and our concernings shall importune. How it goes with us, and do look to know ^Vhat doth liefall you here. So, fare you well: To the hopeful execution do I leave you (Jf your commissions. Ang: Yet give leave, my lord, That we may bring you something on the way. Buke. My haste may not admit it ; Nor need you, on mine honour, have to do AVith any scruple ; yoiu- sco|ie 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: Thougli 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! Eacdl. Lead forth and bring you back in happiness! Buke. I 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. 3IEASURE FOR MEASURE. SCENE II. A power I have, liut of what strength and nature I am not yet instructed. Awj. 'T is so with nie. Let us withdraw together, And we may soon our satisfaction have Touching that point. Esfial. I '11 wait upon your honour. \E.ceimt. SCENE II.— A s(recJ. Enter Lucio and two Gentlemen. Limio. 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. Fi'r.st Gent. Heaven grant us its. peace, but not the King of Hungary's! Sec. Gent. Amen. Lmio. Tliou 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' ? Litcio. Ay, that he razed. First Gciit. Why, 't was a commandment to com- mand tlie 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. Litcio. 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 '^ Lw,io. In any proportion or in any language. First Gent. I think, or in any religion. Lucio. Ay, why not 'i Grace is grace, despite of all controversy: as, for example, tliou 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 tliink thoudost ; 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 tliou hast, whether thou art tainted or free. Lucio. Behold, behold, where Madam Mitigation comes ! I have purchased as many diseases uuder her roof as come to — Sec. Gent. To what, I pray ? iitcio. 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 tliou 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! which of your hips has the most profound sciatica V jl/rs. Ov. Well, well ; there 's one yonder arrested and carried to jirisdii was worth five tliousand of you Sec. Gent. Wlio 's that, I pray thee? [all. 3frs. Ov. Marry, sir, that 's Claudio, Signior Clau- jP/r,s( Gent. Claudio to prison ? 't is not so. [dio. 3/)-.s. Or. Xay, but I know 'tis so : I saw him ar- rested, saw liim 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 '^ Mr.-:. Or. I am too sure of it : and it is for getting Madam Julietta with child. Lucio. Believe me, this maybe: he promised to meet me two hours since, and he was ever precise in pi'dinise-keeping. Sir. (Slid. 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. [E.cennt Lucio und (lintlemen. 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 nev/s with you ? Pom. Yonder man is carried to prison. 3Ls. Ov. Well; what has he done '? Pom. A woman. Mrs. Ov. But what 's his offence ? Pom. Groping for fronts in a peculiar river. Mrs. Ov. What, is there a maid witli child liy him ? Pom. Xo, but there 'sa woman witli ma id by him. You have not heard of the proclaiiuit ii m, have you ':' Mrs. Ov. What proclamation, many Pom. All houses in the suburbs of Vienna must be plucked clown. [city ■' 3frs. 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. Jfr.s. Ov. But shall all our houses of resort in the suburbs be pulled down'r* Pom. Totlie ground, mistress. 3frs. Ov. Wliy , here 's a change indeed in the com- monwealth ! VVliat shall become of me '? Pom. Come : fear not you : good counsellors lack no clients : though you change your place, you need not change j'our trade: I'll 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 cousiderecl. Mrs. Ov. What's to do here, Thomas tapster ':* let 's vy'ithdraw. Pom. Here comes Signior Claudio, led by the provost to prison; and there 's Madam Juliet, [Exeunt. Enter Frovost, Claudio, Juliet, and OfScers. 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. Tlius can the demigod Authority Make us pay down for oiu- offence by weight Tlie words of heaven; on whom it will, it will; On whorii it will not, so ; yet still "t is just. Re-enter Lucio and tico Gentlemen. Lucio. Wliy, how now, Claudio ! whence comes this restraint 'i Claud. From too much liberty, my Lucio, lilierty : 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 tliirsty 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 fopiiery of 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. 3IEASURE FOR 3IEASURE. SCENE IV. CUaud. No. Liusio. Lecliery? Claud. Cull it so. Frov. Awajf, sir! you must go. [with you. Claud. One word, good friend. Lueio, a word Lucio. A liuudred, if they '11 do you auy good. Is lechery so look'd after y [tract Claud.Tlnis stands it with me : upon a true con- I got possession of Julietta's bed: You know tlie lady; she is fast my wife, Save that we il(j tlie denunciation lack Of outward iirilcr: this we came not to. Only for iinipanation of a dower Kemaiuiii,^ iu ilic roller of her friends, From wliiiui we ilicniL^ht it meet to hide our love Till time had made tiiern for us. But it chances The stealth oT our most mutual entertainment AVith character loo 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 conunand, lets it straight feel the spur; Whether the tyranny be in liis place. Or in liis eminence that tills it up, I stagger in: — but this new governor Awakes me all the enrolled penalties [wall Which have, like uiisconr'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 tlie drowsy and neglected act Freshly on me : 't is surely tor a name. Lucio. I warrant it is: and thy head stands so tickle on thy shoulders that a milkmaid, if she be in love, may sigh it off. Send after the duke and appeal toliim. Claud. I have done so, but he 's not to be found. I prithee, Lueio, do me this kind service: This day my sister sliould the cloister enter And there receive her approbation : Acquaint her with the clanger 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 slie can iicrsuade. Lucio. I pravshc may; as well for the encourage- ment of tlu' like, whi'idi idsc wcMdd stand under grievous impusiliiui, as for llie enjoying of tii\' life, who I would lie s<.irry should be thus foolishly lost at a game of tick-tack. I '11 to her. Claiiil. I liiank you, good friend Lucio. Lucio. Within two hours. Claud. Come, officer, away ! l£xeunt. SCENE III. — A monasterij. Enter Duke and Friar Thomas. Duke. No, holy father ; throw away that thought ; Believe not that the dribliling dart of love Can pierce a complete bosom. AVhy I desire thee To give me secret harliour, hath a purpose • More grave and wrinkled than the aims and ends Of burning youth. Fri. T. !May your grace speak of it : Duke. My holy sir, none belter knows than you How I have ever loved tlie life removed And held in idle price to haunt assemblies Wliere youth, and cost, and witless bravery keeps. 1 have deliver'd to Lord Angelo, A man of stricture and firm abstinence. My absolute power and place here in Vienna, 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 i* Fri. T. Gladly, my lord. [laws, Duke. 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'ergrowu 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 oiu- decrees, Dead to inllietion, to Ihemselves are dead; And liberty plucks justice by tlie 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 biil tfiem do: for we bid this be done, When evil deeds have their permissive pass And not the pnnishmeiit. Therefore indeed, my I have on Angelo imposed llie ollice; [father, AVho may, in the audjush of my name, strike home, And yet my nature never in the light 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, Supjily me wjtii tlie habit and instruct me How 1 may formally in per.son 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 Tlial his blo(]d Hows, or that his appetite Is more to bread than stone: hence shall we see. If pow er change purpose, what our seemers be. [-Exeunt. SCENE IV. —^ nunnery. Enter Isabella and Francisca. Isah. And have you nuns no farther privileges? Fran. Are not tliese large enough 'f Isah. Y''es, truly: I speak not as desii'ing more; But rather wishing a more strict restraint Upon the sisterhood, the votarists of Saint Clare. Lucio. [Within] Ho! Peace lie in this place! hob. AVho 's that whicli calls'? Fran. It is a man's voice. Gentle Isabella, Turn vou the key, and know his business of him ; You liiay, I may not ; you are yet unsworn. AVhen 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. Isah. Peace and prosperity ! AVho 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 u>e As bring me to tlie sight of Isabella, A novice of this place and the lair sister To her unhappv brother ( 'laudio ':* Ifidh. AVliv ' iier uiihapi)y biotlier ' ? let me ask, The ratlier for I now must make you know I am that Isabella and his sister. [you : LiK-h. (ientleaiid lair, your brother kindly greets Not to lie weaiv « itli von, he 's in prison. L(d). AVoemel for what ':' [Judge, Lucio. For that which, if myself might be his ACT II. MEASURE FOB 3IEASURE. SCENE T. He slioiild receive his piiiiishment in tliaulis: He Iiiitl) got liis friend with child. Isah. Sir, mulie me not your story. Lucio. It is true. I would not — though 't is my familiar sin With maids to seem the lapwing and to jest, Tongue far from heart — play with all virgins so: I holil you as a thing ensky"d and sainted, By your renouiicenieiit an immortal spirit. And to be talk'd with ui sincerity, As with a saint. Isub. You do blaspheme the good in mocking me. Lucio. Do lint bi'lii've it. Fewness and truth, 'tis Your brother and his luvcr have cnibract il : [thus: A.S those that ti I'd ■2.yt>\\ lull, as lilii»(iniing time That from tlir seedm-ss the bare tallow liriugs To teeming fnisdn, even so her plenteous womb Expressetii his full tilth and husbandry. [Juliet V Isab. Some one with child by him ? My cousin Lwio. Is she your cousin ? [names Isab. Adoptedly; as school-maids change their By vain though apt affection. Lwio. 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 uf state. His givings-out were of an inlhiite distance Froni his true-meant design. Upon his place, And with full line of his authority. Governs Ijord Angelo; a man whose blood Is very snow-liroth ; one who never feels The wanton stings and motions of the sense. But doth rebate and blunt his natural edge .AVitli 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 — liatli 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. Imb. "Doth he so seek his life 'f Lucio. Has censured him Already ; and, as I hear, the provost hath A warrant for his execution. Rub. Ala.s ! what poor ability 's in me To do him good 'i Lucio. Assay the power you have. Imb. My power? Alas, I doubt — Lwio. ' 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, jNlen give like gods ; but when they weep and kneel, All their petitions are as freely theirs As they themselves would owe them. I.-'ou : Commend me to my brother : soon at niglit I'll send him certain word of my succtss. Lncio. I take my leave of you. Isab. ' Good sir, adieu. [Excu.d. A.CT II. SCENE I. — A hall i)i An(ido''s house. Enter Angelo, Escalus, and a Justice, Provost, Officers, and oilier Attendants, behind. Any. We must not make a scarecrow of the law. Setting it up to fear the birils of prey. And let it keep one shape, till custom make it Their perch and not their terror. Lscal. Ay, but yet Let us be keen, and ratlier cut a little. Than fall, and liruise tn death. Alas, this gentleman, Whom I would save, had a most noble father! Let but your honour know. Whom I believe to lie most strait in virtue. That, in tlie working of your own affections, Had tiijip cohered with place or place with wishing, Or that tlie resolute acting of your blood Could have attaiuM the elO rt of your own purpose. Whether you liad not souii'tiuie in your life Err'd in this point which now you censure him. And puHM the law upon yon. Anij. "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. AVhat 's open made to justice. That justice seizes: what know the laws That tliieves do jiass on thieves? 'T is very pregnant, Tlie jewel that we lind, we stoop and take 't Because wc see it ; but what we do not see We tread upon, and never tliink of it. You may not so extenuate his olfence For I liave iiad such faults ; but rather tell me, When 1, that censure him, do so ofteud, Let mine own judgment pattern out my death. And nothing come in partial. Sir, he must die. Esceil. Be it as your wisdom will. Anij. Where is the provost ? Frov. Here, if it like your honour. Amj. 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 Proroxt. Escal. [Aside] Well, heaven forgive him ! and tor- 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 he good people in a commonweal that "do nothing but use their abuses in common houses, I know no law: bring them away. .1)1;/. How now, sir! What's your name? and what "s the matter V Elb. It 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 lienefactors. An(j. Benefactors y Well: what benefactors are thev? are lliev not nialef:ictors? Elb. If it please your lioiiour, I know not well what they are: but precise villains they are, that I am sure of : and void of all iirotanation inthe world that good Christians ought to have. Escal. This comes olf well; here 's a wise officer. 59 ACT 11. 3IEASURE FOR 3IEASURE. SCENE I. Any. Goto: what qiuility are they of ? Elbow is youf name"? why dost thou not speak, Elbow? Foni. He caimot, sir ; he 's out at elbow. Any. What are you, sir y Elb. He, sir ! a tapster, sir ! parcel-bawd ; one that serves a bad vvouian ; whose house, sir, was, as they say, plucked down in the suburbs ; and now she pro- fesses a liot-house, which, I think, is a very ill house Escal. How know you that ? [too. Elb. My wife, sir, whom I detest before heaven and your lionour,— Eiical. How? thy wife? [woman, — Elb. Ay,sir; whom, I thank heaven, is an honest Escal. Dost thou detest her tlierefore ? 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. E.'ical. How dost thou know that, constable ? Elb. Marry, sir, by my wife ; who, if she had been a woman cardinally fiiven, iniLilit have been accused in fornication, adultery, and all uncleanliness there. Escal. By the woniiin's nuMiis? Elb. Ay, sir, by Mistnss ( Jverdone's means:- but as she spit in hisfacc, 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. Xo, indeed, sir, not of a pin ; you are tlierein 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 iirnnes ; and having but two in the dish, as I siiiil, Master Froth here, this very man, having eaten the rest, as I said, and, as I say, paying for them very iionestly ; for, as you know. Master Froth, I could not give you three-pence again. Froth. Xo, 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. AH this is true. Pom. AVhy, very well, then, — Escal. Come, you are a tedious fool : to thepurpose. What was done to Ellmw'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. X'o, sir, nor I mean it not. Po/ii. Sir, but you sliall come to it , by your honour's leave. And, I lieseeeli you, look into blaster Froth here, sir; a man of fourscore pound a year; whose father died at Hallowmas : was 't not at Hallowmas, Master Froth ? Froth. All-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. Aag. 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. [E.cit Angelo. Xow, 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. Pom. I beseech your honour, ask me. Escal. Well, sir ; what did this gentlenau to her ? Pom. 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. Xay, I beseech you, mark it well. Escal. Well, I do so. Pimt. 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; it his face be the worst tiling 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 best ; thou liest, wicked varkt ! 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, otlicer, because he hath some of- fences in him that tliou wouldst discover if thou couldst, let him continue in his courses till thou knowest what thev are. Elb. Marry, I tl'iank 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. E.ical. 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. Xine, 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. AVhat 's youf name. Master tapster ? ACT II. HE A SURE FOR MEASURE. SCENE II. Pom. Ponipev- S^cal Wliatelse? Pinn. Bum, sir. Escal. Troth, and your bum is the greatest thing aljout yon ; so that in the beastliest sense you are Pompey tlie great. Pompey, you are partly a bawd, Pompey, howsoever j'ou 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. Esccd. How would you live, Pompey ? by being a bawd ? AV'hat do you think of the trade. Pompey y is it a lawful trade ? Pom. If the law would allow it, sir. Esml. But the law will not allow it, Pompey; nor it sliall 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 tell you : it is but heading and hanging. Pom. If you head and" hang all "that offend that way Ijut for ten year together, you '11 be glad to give out a conmiissiii'n for more heads : if this law liold in Vienna ten year, I '11 rent the fairest house in it after three-iienee a day : if you live to see this come to pass, say Pompey told you so. EscitL 'iliank you, good Pompey; and, in re- quital of your prophecy, hark you : I advise you, let me not timl you before me again upon any com- l)laint whatsoever; no, not for dwelling where you do : if 1 do, Pompey, I sliall beat you to your tent, and prove a shrewd C';esar to you; in plain dealing, Pompey, I shall have you whipt: so, for this time, Pompey, fare yon well. Pom'. I tiiank your worship for your good counsel: [Asiih] Imt 1 shall follow it as the flesh and fortune sliall better determine. AVhip me ? No, no ; let carman whip his jade : The valiant heart is not whipt out of his trade. [E.rit. Escal. Come hither to me. Master Elbow ; come hither, Master constable. How long have you been in this place of constable ? Elb. 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 ? Elb. 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 Elb. Faith, sir, few of any wit in si^ch 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. Elb. To your worship's house, sir? i?.scaL Tomyhouse. Fare you well. \_E.dt Elbow. AVhat 's o'clock, think you V Just. Eleven, sir. Escal. I pray you home to dinner with me. Jitat. I liuiuiily thank you. Escal. It grieves me for the death of Claudio ; But there 'sno remedy. Jiist. Lord Augelo is severe. Escal. It is but needful : Mercy is not itself, that oft looks so : Pardon is still 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. [E.i;it Servant. 1 '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. Ang. Now, what 's the matter, provost ? Prov. Is it your will Claudio shall die to-morrow? Ang. Did not I tell thee yea':' hadst thou not order '^ Why dost thou ask again ':' Pi-ov. Lest I might be too rash : Under your good correction, I have seen, When, after execution, judgment hath Repented o'er his doom. Ang. Go to ; let that be mine : Do you your office, or give up your place. And you shall well be spared. Prov. I crave yoiu" b.onour'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. lie-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. [E.vit 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! Any. Stay a little while. [To Isab.j You 're wel- come": what 's your will ':' Isab. 1 am a woeful suitor to j-our 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 jilead, but that I must; For which I must not plead, but that I am At war 'twixt e. Plays sucli fantastic tricks before high heaven As "make the angels weep; who, with our spleens, Would all themselves laugh mortal. Lucio. [Aside to Isab.] (J, to him, to him, wench ! He 'scorning; I perceive 't. [he will relent: Prov. [Aside] Pray heaven she win him ! Isab. We cannot weigh our brother with onrself : Great men may jest with saints; 'tis wit in them, But in the less foul prufauation. Lucio. Thou 'rt i' tlie riglit, girl ; more o' that. Isab. That in the captain "s but a choleric word, Which in the soldier is Hat blasphemy. [on 't. Lucio. [Aside til J sat I.] Art avised o'that? more Any. AVhy do you put these sayings upon me'!* Isab. Because authority, thougii it err like others, Hatli 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 brnther's fault: if it confess A natural guiltiness snch as is his, Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue Against my brother's life. Any. [Aside] She speaks, and 'tis Such sense, that my sense breeds with it. Fare you Isid). (ientle my l(inl. turn back. [tt'ell. Awj. I will lii'think me: come again to-morrow. Isab. Hark how I'll bribe you: good my lord, Any. How! bribe me 'i* [turnback. Ism. Ay, with such gifts that heaven shall share with you. Liii-i'i. [Aside to Isab.] You had marr'd all else. Isiih. Ndt with fund shekels of the tested gold, Or stiini's whose rates are either rich or poor As faui'y \ahu's them ; liut witli true prayers That sliall be up at heaven and enter there -Ere sun-rise, prayers from preserved souls. From fasting maids whose minds are dedicate To nothing temporal. Any. Well ; come to me to-morrow. Lucio. [Aside to Isab.] Go to ; 't is well ; away ! Isab. Heaven keep your honour safe ! Any. [Aside] Amen : For I am that way going to temptation, Wliere prayers cross. Isab. At what hour to-morrow Shall I attend your lordship ? Any. At any time 'fore noon. Isab. 'Save your honour ! [Exeunt Isabella, Lttcio, and Provost. Any. From thee, even from thy virtue ! What's this, what's this'? Is this her fault or The tempter or the tempted, who sins most V [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 modestv mav more betray our sense [enough. Than woman's lightness? llaviug waste ground Sliall we desire to raze t'ne sanctuary And pitcli our evils there 'i^ O, lie, tie, fie! What dost thou, or wliat art thou, Angelo? Host thou desire lier foullv for those things Tliat make her good ':' O, let her brother live : Thieves lor their rolibery have authority [her, When judges steal tliemselves. What, do I love That f desire to hear her speak again. And feast upon her eyes ? What is 't I dream on ? 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. MEASURE FOR HE A SURE. SCENE IV To sill in loving virtue: never fonld the strumpet, AVitli all her double vigour, art aiid nature. Once stir my temper; but this virtuous maid Subdues me quite. Ever till now, W'iien men were fond, I smiled and wonder'd how. [Exit. SCENE III. — A room in a prison. Enter, severally, Duke disyuisecl as a friar, and Provost. Duke. Hail to you, provost ! so I think you are. Frov. I am the provost. What 's your will, good friar ? Duke. Bound by my charity and my blest order, I come to visit the afflicted spirits Here in the prison. Do me tlie common right To let me see them and to make me know The nature of their crimes, tliat I may minister To them accordingly. [needful. Frov. I would do more than that, if more were Enter Juliet. Look, here comes one: a gentlewoman of mine, AVho, falling in the flaws of her own youth, Hath blister'd her report : she is with child ; And he tluit got it, sentenced; a young man More tit to do another such offence Tlian die for this. Duke. When must he die ? Prov. As I do think, to-morrow. I liave provided for j'ou: stay awhile, [2b Juliet. And you shall be conducted. Duke. Repent you, fair one, of tlie sin you carry ? Jul. I do; and bear tlie slianie most patiently. Duke. I '11 teach you how ytli it unable for itself. And disiiossessiiig all my other parts Of necessar\ litnessV So pla>- the'fdolish 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-wishM king, Quit their own part, and inobsequidiis fondness Crowd to his presence, where their untaught love Must needs appear offence. Enter Isabella. How now, fair maid? Isdh. I am come to know your pleasure. AiK/. That you might know it, would much better please me [live. Than to demand what 't is. Your brfither camiot Isrtb. 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. Isab^ Under your sentence ? Ang. Yea. I.fab. When, I beseech you? that in his reprieve. Longer (u- shorter, he may be so Htted That his sdul sicken not. Ang. Ha! lie, these filthy vices! It were as good To pardon liiiii that hatli from nature stolen A man already made, as to remit Tlu-ir 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 |iut metal in restrained means To make a false one. Imih. "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 lie hath stain 'd ? Isnb. Sir, believe this, I liad 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. Lmb. 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 cliarity in sin To save this brother's life ? Isab. 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. Isab. 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 : eitlier you are igno- rant. Or seem so craftily ; and that 's not good. 63 ACT III. 3IEASURE FOR MEASURE. SCENE I. Isah. Let me be ignorant, and in 7iotliing good, But graciously to l<;now I am no better. Ang. Til us wisdom wishes to appear most briglit When it dotli tax itself ; as these black masks Proclaim an enshield beauty ten times louder Tlian beauty could, display 'd. But mark me; To be received plain, 1 '11 speak more gross : Your brother is to die. Isah. So, Aivj. And his offence is so, as it appears. Accountant to the law upon that pain. Iso.h. True. Any. 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 tlie judge, or own great place, Could fetch your brother from the manacles Of the all-building law ; ami that there were Jio earthly mean to save liim, but that either You must lay down tlie treasures of your body To this supposed, or else to let him suffer; What would you do y Isah. 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 side for, ere I 'Id yield My body up to shame. Ang. Then must your brother die. IsiA. 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. Any. AVere not you then as cruel as the sentence That you have slander'd so ? Isah. Ignomy ui ransom and free pardon Are of two houses: lawful mercy Is nothing kin to biul redemption. Ang. You seem'tl of late to make the law a tyrant ; And rather proved the sliding of your brother A merrimeut than a vice. Isah. O, pardon me, my lord; it oft falls out, To have what \\-e \vould 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 trail. IscM. Else let my brother die, If not a feodary, but only he Owe and succeed thy weakness. Ang. Nay, women are frail too. [selves; Isah. Ay, as the glasses where they view them- Which are as easy broke as they make forms. AVomen ! 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 supiiose we are made to be no stronger Thau faults may shake our frames, — let me be bold ; 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. Isah. I liave no tongue but one: gentle my lord. Let me entreat you speak the former language. Ang. Plainly conceive, I love you. Isah. My brother did love .Juliet, And you tell me that he shall die tor it. Any. He shall not, Isabel, if you give me love. Isah. I know your virtue liath a license in 't, AVhich seems a little fouler than it is. To pluck on others. Ang. Believe me, on mine honour, My words express my purpose. Isah. Ha I little honour to be much believed, And most pernicious purpose I Seeming, seeming ! I will proclaim thee, Angelo ; look for 't : Sign me a present pardon for my brother, [aloud Or with an outstreteh'd throat I '11 tell the world . What man thou art. Any. AVho will believe thee, Isabel ? My unsoil'd name, the austereness of my life. My vouch against you, and my place i' 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 fur ; redeem thy brother By yielding up thy body to my will ; Or else he must not only die tlie death, But thy unkindness shall his death tlraw out To lingering sulferance. Answer me to-morrow. Or, by the aliection that now guides me most, I '11 prove a tyrant to liim. As for )'0u. Say what yoii can, my false o'erweighs your true. {Exit. Isah. 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 down On twenty bloddy 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: jJi^ore than our brother is our eha.stity. 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, disyuiscd as before, Claudio, and Provost. Bukc. 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 [life : 64 That none but fools would keep : a breath thou art. Servile to all the skyey intlnences, Tliat dost this habitation, where thou keep'st. Hourly afflict: merely, thou art death's fool; For him thou labour'st liy thy liight 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, : III. 3IEASURE FOR 3IEASURE. SCENE I. that tlioii oft provokest ; yet grossly fear'st death, wliich is no more. Thou art not thy- tlioii exist "st on many a thousand grains [self; issue out of dust. Happy thou art not; what thou hast not, still thou strivest to get, what thou hast, forget'st. Thou art not eer- ^ _,tliy complexion shifts to strange effects, [tain: After the moon. It thou art rich, thou 'rt poor ; For, like an ass whose back with ingots bows, Tliou bear'st thy heavy riches but a journey. And death unloads thee. Friend hast tliou none; For thine own bowels, which do call thee sire, The mere effusion of thy proper loins, 1)0 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 liecomes as aged, and doth beg the alms Of palsied eld ; and when thou art old and rich. Thou hast neither licat, atfection. limb, nor beauty, To make thy riches pleasant. What "s yet in this That bears tlie name of life 'i 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. Isab. [Wilkin] ■\\'liat,lio! Peace here; grace and good company! Prov. Who 's there '^ come in : the wish deserves a welcome. Duke. Dear sir, ere long I '11 visit you again. Claud. Most holy sir, 1 thank you. J<]nter Isabella. Isab. My business is a word or two with Claudio. Prov. And very welcome. Look, siguior, here 's your sister. Duke. Provost, a word with you. Prov. As many as you please. Duke. Bring nie to hear them speak, where I may be concealed. • [E.ccunt Duke and Provost. Cluial. 2s ow, sister, what 's the comfort y Isab. Why, As all comforts are; most good, most good indeed. Lord Angelo, having affairs to heaven, Intends you for his swift ambassador, Wliere you shall be an everlasting lieger: Therefore your best appointment make with speed ; To-morrow you set on. Claud. Is there no remedy ? Isab. Xone, but such remedy as, to save a head. To cleave a heart in twain. Claud. But is there any y 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 V isa6. Ay, just ; perpetual durance, a restraint, Though all the world's vastidit^you h^d. 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 ivfeverous 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 pang as great As when a giant dies. Claud. ■ Why give you me this shame ':* Think you I can a resolution fetch From flowery tenderness ? If I must die, I will encounter darkness as a bride. And hug it in mine arms. [grave Isab. Tliere 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 Avord Nips youth i' the head and follies doth emmew As falcon doth the fowl, is yet a devil ; His hlth within being cast, he would appear A pond as deep as hell. Chiml. The prenzie Angelo! ' Isab. O, 't is the cmniing livery of hell, The damned 'st body to invest and cover In prenzie guards! Dost thou tliink, Claudio ? If I woidd yield him my virginity. Thou mightst be freed. Claud. O heavens! it cannot be. Isab. Y'es, he would give 't thee, from this rank offence, So to offend him still. This night 's the time That I sliould 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, Tliat tlius can make him bite the law by the nose. When he would force it V Sure, it is no sin ; Or of the deadly seven it is the least. Isab. Which "is the least y Claud. If it were damnable, he being so wise, AVhy would he for the momentary trick Be perdurably fined ^ O Isabel ! Isab. AVhat says my brother ? Claud. Death is a fearful thing. Isab. And sliamed 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 tlirilling region of thick-ribbed ice ; To be iniprisnn'd in the viewless winds. And blown with restless violence round about The pendent world ; or to be woi^e than worst Of those that lawless and incertain thought Imagine howling : 't is too liorrible ! The weariest and most loathed \\()rldly 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 ! W'ilt 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 sliame y What sliould 1 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 tliy 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: G.3 3IEASURE FOR MEASURE. \ SCENE ir. 'T is best that thou diest quickly. Claud. O hear me, Isabella! Re-enter Duke. Duke. Vouchsafe a word, young sister, but one Isah. What is your will 'i [word. Dukr. Miifht you dispense with your leisure, I would by and by have some speech with you: the ■ satislartiou I would require is likewise your own benelit. huh. I have no superfluous leisure ; my stay must be stolen out of other affairs ; but I will attend you awhile. [ Walks a part. Duke. Son, I have overheard what hath passt'd between you and your sister. Angelo had never the purpose to cdrrupt her; only he hath nunle an assay of Iht virtue to practice his judgment witli the disposition o!' natures: she, having tlie trutli of honour in her, liatli made him that gracious denial wliich 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 fallilile : to-nnu-row you must die; go to your knees and make ready. C'lnud. Let me ask my sister pardon. I am so out of love with life that; I will sue to be rid of it. Duke. Hold you there : farewell. [Jij:it Claudio.] Provost, a word with you ! lie-enter Provost. Prov. What 's your will, father ? Duke. That now you are come, you will be gone. Leave me awhile with tlie maid : my mind promises with my habit no loss shall touch "her by my com- pany. Prov. In good time. \_Exil Provost. TsnbeUn comes forivard. Duke. The hand tliat 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 hat li made. to you, fortune hath conveyed to my understaiidiiig : and, but tluit frailty hatirexamplcs lor liis tailing, I should wonder at Angelo. IIow will you do to content tliis substitute, and to save your brother V Isab. I am now going 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 his government. Duke. 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, it iieradventure he shall ever return to have hearing of tliis 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. Duke. 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 y Isab. I have heard of the lady, and good words went with her name. Duke. (She should this Angelo have married ; was affianced to her by oath, and the nuptial appoiutcil: between which time of the contrarovince with continency ; sparrows must not build in his house-eaves, because tliey are lecherous. The duke yet would have ihirk deeds darkly answered; he would never bring tlieni to light : would he were returned! Marry, this Claudio is condemned for untrussing. Farewell, good friar: 1 prithee, pray tor nie. Tlie duke, I say to thee again, would eat nnittou on Fridays. He 's not past it yet, and 1 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 V Enter Bscalus, Provost, and OflQcers with Mistress Overdone. Encal. Go; away with her to prison! Mrs. Ov. Good my lord, be good to me; your honour is accounted a merciful man ; ^ood my lord. Escal. Double and treble admonition, and still forfeit in the same kind ! This would make mercy swear and play the tyrant. Proc. A bawd of eleven years' continuance, may it i)!ease your honour. Mrs. Ov. My lord, this is one Lucio's informa- tion against me. Mi.stress Kate Keepdown was with cliild 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; an'd see how he goes about to abuse me! Esrnl. Tiiat fellow is a fellow of much license : let liim be called before us. Away with her to prison ! Go to ; no more wIaking practice on the times. To draw with idle spiders' strings jMost iioiiderous and substantial things! Craft against vice I must apjilv: AVith An-eloto-ni-lit shalllio His old betrothed Jmt despised; So disguise shall, by tlie disguised. Pay with falseliuod false exacting. And perform an old contracting. [Exit. J^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 3[ari. Break off thy song, and haste thee quick Here comes a man of comfort, who.se 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, ily mirth it much displeased, but pleased my woe. cr IV. 3IEASURE FOR MEASURE. SCENE 11. Duke. 'Tis good; though music oft hath such a cliarui To make bail good, and good provoke to harm. ' pray you, tell lue, hath any body inquired for me liere to-day y much upon this time have 1 promised liere to meet. Mari. You have not been inquired after : I have sat here all day. Enter Isabella. Duke. 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 ad\'antage to yourself. M'ii-i. I amahvays bound to you. [Exit. Duke. Yery wellmet, and well come. AVhat is the news from this good deputy ? liou withal. To buy you a better husband. Mari. 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 LiKio] Now, sir, to you . 3Ii'tri. Omygoodlord ! Sweet Isabel, take my part; Lend me your knees, and all my life to come I '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 lience in horror. Mari. Isabel, Sweet Isabel, do yet but kneel by me ; Hold up your hands, say nothing; I '11 speak all. 76 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 kiieeV Duke. He dies for Claudio's deatli. Isab. ^lo^t bounteous sir, [Kneeling. Look, if it please you, on this man condemn 'd. As if my brother lived : I partly think A due sincerity govern'd his deeds. Till lie did loolc on me: since it is so. Let liim- not die. My brotlier had but justice, In tliat 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 i-ierish'd by the way : thoughts are no subjects ; Intents but merely tlioughts. Mari. Merely, my lord. Duke. Your suit 's unprofitalile : stand up, I say. 1 have bethought me of anotlier fault. Provost, how came it Claudio was beheaded At an unusual hour V I'rov. It was commanded so. Duke. Had you a special warrant for the deed ? Pr tilisence was not six months old Before lierself, almost ;it lainting under The pleasing imnislniient tliat women bear. Had made provision lor her following me And Soon an in, I hope ? Lude. [Within] I thought to have ask'd you. Bro. S. [ Within] And you said no. Bro. E. So, come, help: well struck! there was blow for blow. Ant. E. Thou baggage, let me in. Lure. []r/7/u'/i] Can you tell for whose sake? Bro. E. Master, knock the dour hard. Luce. [Within] Let him knock till it ache. Ant. E. You '11 cry for this, minion, if I beat the door down. Luce. [Witliin] What needs all that, and a pair of stocks in the town ? Adr. [ With in] Who is that at the door that keeps all this noise ? Bro. S. [Within] By my troth, your tovni is troubled with unruly boys. Ant. E. Are you there, wife? you might have come before. Adr. [Within] Your wife, sir knave I go get you friim the door. Bro. 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. Bed. In delwting which was best, we shall part with neitlier. Bro. E. They stand at the door, master: bid them welcome hither. Ant. E. There is something in the wind, that we cannot get in. Bro. E. You would say so, master, if your gar- ments were thin. Your 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'll break ope the gate. Bro. S. [ Within] Break any breaking here, and I '11 break your knave's pate. Bro. 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- 'Bro. S. [ Within] It seems thou wanfst breaking : out upon thee, hind! Bro. E. Here 's too nmch ' out upon thee ! ' I pray thee, let me in. Bro. iS."[ Within] Ay, when fowls have no feathers and tish have no fln. Ant. E. Well, I '11 break in : go borrow me a crow. Bro. E. A crow without feather ? Master, mean you so ? [feather : For aiisli without a fin, there 's a fowl without a If a crow help us in, sirrah, 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 witliin the I'onipass of suspect The unviolatt'd limuiur of youi' wife. Once tliis, — your long exijerii-iicc nf her wisdom. Her sober virtue, years and niodi-sty. 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 stuTing passage of the day, A vulc;ar i/omment will be made of it. And that supposed by the common rout Against your yet ungalled estimation That may witii foul intrusidu 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 will depart in And, in desjiite of mirth, mean to be merry. I know a wench of excellent discourse. Pretty and witty, wilil and y<-t. 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. [I'o Aug.] Get you home And fetch the chain ; by tins I kiiow 't is made : Bring it, I pray you, to the Porpentiue; 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 '11 disdain me. Anij. I '11 meet you at that place some hour hence. Ant. E. Do so. This jest shall cost me some ex- pense. [Exeunt. 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- 83 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 yoru' 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 ih milled with an evil word. Alas, poor women I make us but believe, Being compact of credit, that you love us; Though others liave the arm, show us the sleeve ; We in your motion turn and you may move us. Then, ^'entle 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 in 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, teebfe, shallow, weak. The folded meaning of your words' deceit. Against my soul's pure truth wliy lulHiur you a.'o make it wander in an unknown field "y Are you a god y would you create nie new ? Transform me then, and to yoiu'. power I '11 yield. But if that I am I, then well 1 know Your weeping sister is no wife of mine, Nor to her bed no homage do I owe : Far more, far more to you do I decline. O, train me not, sweet uiermaid, witli thy note, To drown me in tliy sister's lloml of tears: Sing, siren, for thyself and I will dote: Spread o'er the silver waves thy golden hairs, And as a bed 1 '11 take them and tliere lie. And in that glorious suiiposition think He gains by death that hatli sucli means to die: Let Love, being liglit, be drowned if she sink! Luc. What, are you mad, tliat you do reason so ? Ant. S. Not mad, liut mated ; how, I do not know. Luc. It is a fault tliat sjiringeth from your eye. .4)if.iS. For gazing onyourbeams,fairsun,being by. 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 V 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 eartli's lieaven and my heaven's claim. Luc. All this my sister is, or else shouUl be. Ant. S. Call thyself sister, sweet, for I am thee. Thee will I love and with tliee 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. [Ejcit. Miter Dromio of Syracuse. Ant. S. Why, how now, Dromio ! where ruun'st thou so fast '/ Dro. S. Do you know me, sir? am I Dromio? am I your man V am I myself ? Ant. S. Thou art Dromio, thou art my man, thou art thyself. 84 I)ro. S. I am an ass, I am a woman's man and besides myself. Ant. S. What woman's man? and how besides thyself ? l)ro. S. Marry, sir, liesides myself, I am due to a woman ; one that claims me, one that haunts me, one that will have me. ^l)i(. iS'. What claim lays she to thee? I)ro. S. Marry, sir, such claim as you would lay to yoiu- 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 ? Dro. S. A very reverent body; ay, such a one as a man may not -s|)eak 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. llovf dost thou mean a fat marriage ? Lro. S. Marry, sir, she 's the kitclien 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 bui^i a Poland winter: if she lives till doomsday, she '11 burn a week longer than the whole world. Ant. S. AVhat complexion is she of ? I)ro. 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. Lro. S. No, sir, 'tis in grain; Noah's flood could not do it. Ant. S. What 's her name ? Dro. S. Nell, sir; but liername and three quar- ters, that 's an ell and three quarters, will not meas- ure lier from lap 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 bogs. Ant. S. Where Scotland ? Dro. 8. I found it by the barrenness ; hard in the palm of the hand. Ant. S. Where France ? Dro. S. In her foreliead ; armed and reverted, making war against lier liair. Ant. S. Where Englaiul ':' Dro. S. I 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, all 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 nose. Ant. 8. Where stood Belgia, the Netherlands? Dro. S. Oh, sir, I did not look so low. To con- clude, 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 mark of my shoulder, the mole in my neck, tlie great wart 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 curial dog and made me turn i' the wheel. Ant. 8. Go hie thee presently, post to the road : CT IV. THE C02IEDY OF ERRORS. SCENE I. I Ml if the wind blow auy way from shore, 'J will not harbour in this towii to-night: ' any bark put fortli, come to tlie mart, ii'here I will walk till thou return to me. f every one Icnows us and we know none, is time, I think, to trudge, pack and be gone. Bro. S. As from a bear a man would run for life, So tly I from her that would lie my wife. [Eeit. Ant. S. There 's none but wit (dies do inhabit here; And therefore "t is high time tliat I were hence. She tliat doth call me hustiand, 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, liatli aluK^st made'me traitor to myself: But, lest myself lie guilty to self-wrong, I "11 stop mine ears against the mermaid's song. Enter Angelo with the chain. Ang. Master Antipholus, — Ant. S. Ay, that 's my name. Any. I know it well, sir : lo, liere 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 ? Anij. What please yourself , sir : 1 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 chain. Ant. S. I pray you, sir, receive the money now. For fear you ne'er see chain nor money more. Ang. You are a merrv man, sir : fare you well. [Exit. 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 lie meets such golden gifts. I '11 to the mart and there for Dromio stay : If auy ship put out, then straight away. [Exit. J^CT IV. SCENE I.— A 2nMic 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, Xor now I had not, but that I am bound To Persia and want gtnlders for my voyage : Therefore make present satisfaction. Or I '11 attach you by tliis officer. Ang. Even just tlie sum tliat I do owe to you Is growing to me by Antiphdlus, And in the instant that I met with you He had of me a chain : at Ave 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/ro;u 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 I see the goldsmith. Get thee gone ; Buy thou a rope and bring it home to me. JDro. E. I buy a thousand pound a year : I buy a rope. [Exit. Ant. E. A man is well holp up tliat trusts to you : I promised your presence and the cliain; But neither chain nor goldsmith came to me. Belike you thought om- love would last too long. If it were chain "d together, and therefore came not. Ang. Saving yoiu' 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 clucats more Than I stand debted to this gentleman : I pray you, see him presently discharged. For lie is bomid 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 towni. Good signior, take the stranger to my house And with you take the chain and Ind my wife Di.sburse 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- Ant. E. No; bear it with you, lest I come not time enough. b"ou '' 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 jou, sir, give me the chain : Both wind and tide stays for this gentleman. And I, to blame, have held him here t.;o long. ..■ii!(. E. Good Lord I 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. AjU. E. Fie, now 3'ou run this himiour out of breath. Come, where 's the chain ? I pray you. let me see it. See. Mer. My business cannot brook this dalliance. Good sir, say whether you '11 answer me or no : 1£ 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 mucli to say so. Ang. You ^\Tong me more, sir, in denying it : Consider how it stands upon my credit. Sec. Mer. Well, officer, arrest him at my suit. Off. I 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 tiiis officer. ^liit. E. Consent to pay thee that I never had ! Arrest me, foolish fellow, if tliou 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. SCENE III. But, sirrah, you shall buy this sport as clear As all the metal iu your shop will answer. Any. Sir, sir, I shall have law iu Ephesus, To your notorious shame ; I doubt it not. Enter Dromio of Syracuse, from the hay. ■ Dro. 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 couvey'd aboard and I have bought The oil, the balsamum and aqua-vitte. Tlie sliip is in lier trim; the merry wind Blows fair from land : they stay for nought at all But for tlieir owner, mast it, and yourself. Ant.E. IIowuow! amailman! Why, thou peevish "What sliip of Epidamnum stays for me ? [sheep, Dro. S. A ship you sent me to, to hire waftaye. Ant. E. Thou drunken slave, I sent thee for a rope And told thee to wliat purpose asid what end. Dro. S. You sent me for a rope's end as soon : You sent me to the bay, sir, for a hark. Ant. E. I will debate tliis matter at more leisure Ami teacli your ears to list me with more lieed. To Adriana, villain, liie thee straight: Give her this key, and tell her, in the desk Tliat '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 tliee, slave, be gone ! On, officer, to prison till it come. \_Exnmt Sec. Merchant, Angela, Officer, and Ani. E. Dro. S. To Adriana! that is whej-e we dined. Where Dowsabel did claim me for her husband: Slie is too big, I liope, for me to compass. Tliither I must, altlionyli ayaii-ist my will, Por servants must tlieir masters' minds fulfil. [Exit. SCENE II. — Tlie house of Antqjholus of Ephesus. Enter Adriana and Luciana. Adr. Ah, Luniaua, ilid ]i" tempt thee so? Mightst tiiou perceive austerely in his eye That he did plead iu earnest? yea or no? Look'd he or red or pale, or sad or merrily ? What observation madest thou in tliis case Of his lieart's meteors tilting in his face ? Lric. 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. -^''''- And what said he ? Luc. Tliat love I begg'd for you he begg'd of me. Adr. With wOiat persuasion did he tempt tliy love ? Luc. With words that in an honest suit" might move. First he did praise my beautv, then my speech. Adr. Didst speak him fair ? -^"^- Have patience, I beseech. Adr. 1 cannot, nor I will not, liold me still; My tongue, though not mv heart. shall have liis will. He is deformed, crooked, old and sere. Ill-faced, worse- l)odic(l, sliai'cless everywhere; Vicious, ui.ucutlc, loolish, lihuit, unkind, btigmatiial in making, worse in mind. Luc. Wlio would he jealous then of such a one ? Ao evil lost is wail'd when it is gone. Adr. All, but I think him better than I sav. And yet would herein otliers' eyes were worse. Far from her nest the lai)wiiig cries away: My heart praysforliim,tlH)ugh my tongiiedo curse. Enter Dromio of Syracuse. Dro. S. Here ! go ; tlie desk, the purse ! sweet, now, make haste. Luc. How hast thou lost thy breath ? Dro. S. By ranning fast. Adr. Where is thy master, Dromio? is he well ? Dro. S. No, he 's in Tartar limbo, worse than hell. A devil in an everlasting garment hath him ; One whose hard lieart is buttnird up with steel ; i A fiend, a fury, pitiless and rough ; ; A wolf, nay, worse, a fellow all in buff; [mands A back-frieud, a shoiilder-elapiier. one that couiiter- The passages of alleys, creeks and narrow lands; A hound that inins counter and yet draws diy-foot well; [hell. One that before the judgment carries poor souls to Adr. Why, man, what is the matter? Dro. S. I do not know the matter : he is 'rested on the case. Adr. What, is he aiTested ? Tell me fit whose .suit. Dro. H. 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 Luciana.] Tins I wonder at, Tliat he, unkno^^^^ to me, should be in debt. Tell me, was he an-ested on a baud ? Dro. S. Kot on a band, but on a stronger thing; A chain, a chain ! Do you not hear it ring ? Adr. What, the chain ? Dro. S. Xo, no, the bell ; 't is timethat 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. Dro. 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! Dro. S. Time is a very bankrupt and owes more than he 's worth to season. Xay, he 's a thief too: have you not heard men say. That Time comes stealing on by night and day ? If Time be in debt and theft, and a sergeant in the way. Hath he hot reason to turn back an hour iu a day ? Be-enter Luciana ivith a 2n(rse. 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.— ^ puhlic place. Enter Antipholus of Syracuse. Ant. S. There "fe 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 callM 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 liere. Enter Dromio of Syracuse. Dro. S. Master, here 's the gold you sent me for. What, have you got the picture of old Adam new- apparelled ? [mean ? ^1)1*. »S. What gold is this? what Adam do.st thou Dro. S. Not that Adam that kept the Paradise, but that Adam that keeps tlie jirison: he that goes in the ealfs skin that was killed for the Prodigal; . he that came liehind you, sir, like an evil angel, and bid you forsake your liberty. ACT IV. THE C03IEDY OF ERRORS. SCENE IV. Aut. S. I understand thee not. Dro. S. Tso ? whj% 't is a plain case : he that went, like a bass-viol, in a case of leather: tlie man, sir, tliat, when gentlemen are tired,, elves them a sob and "rests them ; he, sir, that takes pity on decayed men and j^'ives them suits of durance ; he that sets up his rest to do more exploits w ith his mace than a morris- Ant. 8. What, thou meanest an officer ? [i)ike. Dro. S. xVy, 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. 8. Why, sir, I brought you word an hour since that the Ixirk 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. 8. The fellow is distract, and so am I ; • And here we wander in illusions : Some blessed power deliver us from hence ! Enter a Courtezan. Coiir. AVell met, well m"et. 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, tempt me not. Dro. S. Master, is this Mistress Satan V Ant. S. It is the devil. Dro. 8. Kay, 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 liglit wench.' It is written, they ai)pear 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. [liere '? Will you go with me ? We '11 mend our dinner Dro. 8. ]Master, if you do, expect spoon-meat ; or bespeak a long spoon. Ant. 8. Why, Dromio? Dro. 8. ISfarry, he must have a long spoon that must eat with tiie devil. Ant. 8. Avoid then, fiend! what tell'st thou me of supping ? Thou art, as you are all, a sorceress : I conjure thee to leave me and be gone. Cour. 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. 8. Some devils ask but the parings of one's A rush, a hair, a drop of blood, a pm, 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. 8. Avaunt, thou witch ! Come, Dromio, let Dro. 8. 'Fly pride,' says the peacock: mistress, that you know. ['Exeunt sint. S. and Dro 8. Cour. Now, out of douljt Antiiiliohis is mad, Else-would he never so demean liiniself. 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-ilay at dinner. Of his own doors being shut against his entrance. Belike his wife, acquainted witii his tits, On purpose shut the doors against his way. ily way is now to hie home to his house, And tell his wife that, being lunatic, He rusli'd into my house and took perforce My ring away. This course I fittest choose; For forty ducats is too much to lose. [Exit. SCENE IV.— A street. Enter Antipholus of Ephesus and the Ofiacer. Ant. E. Fear 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. iSIy wife is in a wayward mood to-day. And will not lightly trust the messenger. That I should l)e 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 ? ^4)i(. E. Five hundred ducats, villain, for a rope V Dro. E. I '11 serve you, sir. live hundred at tlie rate. Ant. E. To what end did I bid tliec liie 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. [Beatiny hint. Off. Good sir, be patient. • Dro. E. Kay, '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 hiin 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 with 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 Finch, you are a conjurer; Establish liim in his "true sense again. And I will please you what you will demand. Buc. Alas, howfiery 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. [8triking'hiin. Pinch. I charge thee, Satan, housed within this To yield possession to my holy prayers [man. Anil to tliy state of darkness hie thee straight : I conjure tliee by all tlie saints in heaven ! [mad. ^■l)i(. E. Peace, doting wizanl. peace! I am not Adr. O, that thou wert not. poor distressed soul ! ' Ant. E. You minion, you, are these yom' custom- Did this companion with the saffron face [ers ? 87 ACT V. THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. SCENE I. Revpl anil feast it at my house to-day, Whilst upon me the guilty doors were shut And I denied to enter in my house 'f Piome ; Adr. O hiisliand, God doth know you dined at Where would you had rcniain'd until this time. Free from these slanders and this open shame! Ant. E. Dined at home! Thou villain, what sayest thou y Dro. E. Sir, sooth to say, you did not dine at liome. 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 ? Dro. E. Sans fable, she herself reviled you there. Ant. E. Did not her kitchen-maid rail, taunt and scorn me r" [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 hiui in these contraries ? Pinrh. It is no shame : the fellow finds his vein And yielding to him humours well his frenzy, [me. Ant. E. Thon hast suborn 'd the goldsmith to arrest Adr. Alas, I sent you money to redeem you. By Dromio here, who came in iiaste for it. [might; Bro. E. Money by me! heart and good-will -you But surely, master, not a rag of money. [cats V Ant. E. Went'st not thi>u toherforapurse of du- Adr. lie came to me and 1 deliver 'd it. Lac. And I am witness with her that she did. Bro. E. G(id and the rope-maker bear me witness Tluit I was scut for notliing but a rope ! Pinrh. WistiTss.botli man and master ispossess'd; I know it by their iiale and dradly looks: Tiiey must be bciuiid and laid in some dark room. Ant. E. Say wherefore didst thou lock me forth to- And why dost tliou deny the liag of gold ? [day i* Adr. I did not, gentle liusbaiid, lock thee forth. Bro. E. And, gentle master, I received no gold; But I confess, sir, that we were lock'd out. [both. Adr. IJissendjling villain, thou speak 'st false in Ant. E. Dissendiling harlot, thou art false in all And art confederate with a danniedpack To make a loathsome alijeet scorn of me: But with these nails I '1! pluck out these false eyes That would behold in me this shameful sport. Enter three or four, and offer to bind him. He strives. Adr. O, bind him, bind him! let him not come near me. [him. Pinch. ISIore company ! The fiend is strong within Luc. Ay nie. poor man. how pale and wan lie looks! Ant. E. AVliat, will you murder me ? Thou gaoler, I am thy prisoner: wilt thou suffer them [thou. To make a rescue ? Of. Masters, let him go : He is my prisoner, and you shall not have him. Pinch. Go bind this man, for he is frantic too. [They offer to hind Bro. E. Adr. What wilt thou do, thou peevish ollicery Ilast thon deliglit to see a wretched man Do outragi^ anddispleasuie to biniseU'r' Off. He is my jirisoner : if I let him go. The debt he owes will be required of me. Adr. I will discharge thee ere I go from thee: Bear me forthwith unto his creditor And, knowing liow the debt grows, I will pay it. Good master (loctor, see him safe convey'd Htmie 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 ? bemad, good master : cry ' Tlie 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, Luciana, Officer and Courtezan.] Say now, whose suit is he arrested at ? Off. One Angelo, a goldsmitli : do you know him ? Adr. I know the man. What is the sum he owes ? Off. Two hundred ducats. Adr. Say, how grows it due ? Off. Due for a chain your husband had of him. Adr. He did bespeak a chain f( ir me, 1 mt had it not. Cour. When as your husband all in rage to-day Came to my house and took away my ring — Tlic ring 1 saw upon his linger 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 wliere the goldsmith is : I long to know the truth hereof at large. Enter Antipliolus of Syracuse with his rapier drawn, and Dromio of Syracuse. Luc. 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 an^l sound aboard. Bro. S. Faith, stay here this night; they will 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 llesh 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. ^OT V. SCENE l.~A street before a Prior;/. Enter Second Merchant and Angelo. Ang. I 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, [cityV Of credit infinite, highly beloved. Second to none that lives here in the city: His word miglit bear my wealth at any time. (Sec. Mer. Speak softly: yonder, as I think, he walks. Enter Antipholus of Syracuse ant? Dromio of Syracuse. Ang. 'T is so ; and that .self chain about his neck Which he forswore most monstrously to have. Good sir, draw near to me, I '11 speak to him. Signior Antipliolus. I wcmder much That you would i)ut nie fo this shame and trouble; And, not without some scandal to yourself, With circiunstance and oatlis 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 I. "Who, but for staj'iiig on our controversy, Had iioisted sail and put to sea to-day : Tliis chain you had of me ; can you deny it ? Ant. S. I tliiuk I had; I never did deny it. [too. Sec. Ma-. Yes, tliat you did, sir, and forswore it Ant. S. Who heard me to deny it or forswear it V Sec. Mcr. Tliese ears of mine, thou kuow'st, did hear thee. Fie on tliee, wretch I 't is pity that thou livest To walk where any honest men resort. Ant. S. Tlidu art a villain to impeach me thus: I '11 prove mine honour and mine honesty Against tliee presently, if thou darest stand. Sec. Mer. I dare, and do defy thee for a villain. [They drair. Enter Adriana, Luciana, the Courtezan, and others. Adr. Hold, hurt him not,forGod"s sake! he is Some get witliin him, take his sword away : [mad. Bind firomio too, and bear them to my house. Dro. 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. S. to the Priory. Enter the Lady Abbess. Ahh. 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. An(j. 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 Iield the mau'^ Adr. This week lie luitli lieen 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. Hatlr he not lost much wealth by wreck of Buried some dear friend "i* Hatli not else his eye 8tray'd his aifection in unlawful love V A sin prevailing much in youthful men, "Who give their eyes the liberty of gazing. "Whicli of these sorrows is he subject to 'f Adr. To none of these, except it be the last ; Namely, some luve that drew him oft from home. Abb. You sliould for that have reprehended him. Adr. Wliy, so I did. Abb. Ay, but not rough enough. Adr. As roughly as my modesty would let me. .466. Haply, in private. Adr. And in assemblies too. .466. Ay, but not enough. Adr. It was the copy or our conference: In beil he slept not fur my urging it; At board he fed not for my urging it; Alone, it was the suljject of my theme; In conijiany I often glanced it; Still did I tell him it was vile and bad. -466. 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; [iugs Thereof the raging lire of fever lired ; And what 's a fever but a fit of madness ? Thou say'st his sports were hinder "d Ijy thy brawls Sweet recreation barr'd, what doth ensue But moody and dull melancholy. Kinsman to grim and comfortless despair. And at her Iieels a huge infectious troop Of pale disteiii|ieratures and foes to life ? In food, in siiort 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 tlie use of wits. Lite. She never reprehemled liim but mildly, "When he demean 'd himself rough, rude and wildly. "Why bear you these rebukes and answer not Y Adr. She did betray me to my own reproof. Good people, enter and lay hold on him. ^466. Ko, not a creature enters in iny house. Ailr. Then let yom" 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. I 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. -166. Be patient; for I will not let him stir Till I have used the approved means I have, AVith 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 witli me. .4c?)-'. I will not hence and leave my husband here : And ill it doth beseem your holiness To separate tlie husband and the wife. ^166. Be quiet and depart: thou sbalt not have him. [Exit. Luc. Complain unto the duke of tliis indignity. ^l(h-. Come, go: I will fall prostrate at his feet And never rise until my tears and prayers Have won his grace to come in persim luther And take perforce my husband from tlie abliess. Sec. Mer. By this, I think, the dial points at five: Anon, I 'm sm-e. tlie 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. An(j. Upon what cause '? Sec. Mcr. To see a reverend SjTacusian merchant, "Wlio put unluckily into this bay Against the laws and statutes of this town. Beheaded publicly for his offence. [death. Any. 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. Duke. Y'et once again proclaim it publicly. If any friend will pay the sum for liiin. He sliall not die; so mucli we tender him. [bess! Adr. Justice, most sacred duke, against the ab- Duke. She is a virtuous and a reverend lady: It cannot be that she hath done thee wrong. Adr. May it please your grace, Antipiiolus my "Whom I made lord of me and all I had, [husband, At your important letters, — this ill day A niost outrageous fit of madness todk him; That desperately he liurried through the street, — AVitli him his bondman, all as mad as he, — Duiug displeasure to the citizens By rushing in their houses, bearing thence Kings, jewels, any thing his rage did like. Once did I get him bound and sent him home, "Whilst to take order for the WTongs I went That here and there his fury had committed. Anon, I wot not by wliat strong escape. He broke from those that had the guard of him; And with his mad attendant and himself. Each one with ireful jiassion, with drawn swords, Met us again and madly lient on us Chased us away, till raising of more aid "Wc came again to bind them. Then they fled Into this aiibey, whither we pursued them: And here the abbess shuts the gates on us 89 ACT V. THE C03IEDY OF ERRORS. SCENE I. And will not suffer us to fetch him nut, Kor send him fortli that we may Ijear him Jience. Therefore, most gracious dulie, witli tliy command Let liira be brought forth and borne hence for help. [wars, Diike. Long since thy husband served me in my And I to thee engaged a prince's word, A\'lien thou didst make him master of thy bed, To do him all the grace and good I could. Go, some of you, knock at t!ie 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 bla/ed, they threw on him [lire ; Great pails of puddled mire to quench the hair: My master in-eaclics 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 tliou dost report to us. [here, Scrv. Mistress, upon my life, I tell you true; I liave 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 within. Hark, hark! I hear him, mistress: fly, begone! Duke. Come, stand by me; fear nothing. Guard with halberds! Adr. Ay me, it is my husband I Witness you. That he is borne about invisible : Even now we housed him in the abbey Iiere; 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. .^ije. 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 dishounur'd me Even in the strengtli and height of injury! Beyond imagination is the wrong That she this day hatli shameless thrown on me. Duke. Discover how, and tliou shalt lind me just. Ant. E. This day, great duke, she shut the doors upon me. While she with harlots feasted in my Iiouse. [so ? Duke. A grievous fault ! Say, woman, didst thou Adr. No, my good lord : myself, he and my sister To-day did dine tngetlier. So befall my soul As this is false he burdens me withal ! Luf. Ne'er may I Imik on day, nor sleep on night. But she tells to your highness simple truth ! Anfj. O perjured woinan ! 'i'hey are tjoth forsworn : In this the madman justly chargeth them. Ant. E. My lici^e, I am" advised what I say. Neither distui'lied witli the effect of wine. Nor heady-ras!i. provolied witli raging ire. Albeit my wmngs might make one wiser mad. This woman loek'd me out tliis day i'roni dinner: Tliat goldsmith there, were lie notpaek'd with her. Could witness it, for he was witli me then; Who parted with me to go fetch a chain. Promising to bring it to the Porpentine, Where Balthazar and I did dine together. 'JO Our dinner done, and he not coming thither, 1 went to seek him : in the street I met him And in his comjiany that gentleman. There did this perjured goldsmith swear me down That I this day of him received the chain, AVhich, God lie knows, 1 saw not: for the which He did arrest me with an othcer. I did obey, and sent my peasant home For certain ducats : he with none return'd. Then fairly I bespoke the officer To go in person with me to my house. By the way we met ]SIy wife, her sister, and a rabble more Of vile confederates. Along with them [lain. They brought one Finch, a hungry lean-faced vil- A mere anatomy, a mountebank, A threadbare juggler and a fnrtune-teller, A needy, hollow-eyed. shar|i-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 possessed. 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 ireedom and immediately Ran hither to your grace; whom I beseech To give nie ample satisfaction For these deep shames and great indignities. Piim, Ang. ISIy lord, in truth, thus far I witness witli That he dined not at home, but was lock'd out. Duke. But had he sncli a chain of thee or noV Ang. He had, my lord : and when he ran in here. These people saw the cliain about his neck, [mine Sec. Mer. Besides, I will be sworn these cars 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. ^bif. E. I never came within these abbey-walls, Nor ever didst thou draw thy swnrd on me: I never saw the chain, so help me Heaven! And this is false you liuiden me withal. Duke. Why, what an intricate impeach is this! I think you all have drunk of Circe's cup. If here you housed liim, here he would have been; If he were mad he wcudd not plead so coldly: You say he dined at home; the goldsmith here Denies that saying. Sirrah, what say you V [tine. Dro. E. Sir, lie dined with her there, at the Porpen- Cour. He did, and from my linger 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. [hither. [Exit one to the Abhet^s. jEgc. 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, wliat thou wilt. yEge. 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 Dnmiio and his man unbound. ^Egc. I am sure ynu Imth of y(ui remember me. Dro. E. Ourselves we do reiiiendjer, sir, by you; For lately we were bound, as you are now. You are not Pinch's patient, are you, sir ? ^ge. Why look you strange oil me? you know me well. Ant. E. I never saw you in my life till now. ACT V. THE C03IEDY OF ERRORS. SCENE I. xEge. O, grief hath changed me since j'ou saw me last, And cart'tul hours witli time's deformed hand Have written strange defeatures in my face: Ijut tell uie yet, dost thou not know my voice ? Ant. E. Neither. ^ije. Dromio, nor thou.? Dio. E. Xo, trust me, sir, nor I. ^E(je. I am sure thou dost. Dro. E. Ay, sir, but I am sure I do not ; and what- soever a man denies, you are now bound to believe him. ^Ege. Not know my voice ! O time's extremity, Hast thou so eraek'd and splitted my poor tongue In seven short years, that here my only son Kiiows 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 lanips some fading glimmer left, My dull deaf ears a little use to liear: Ail these old witnes.ses — I cannot err — Tell me thou art my son Antipholus. Ant. E. I never saw my father in my life. ^Erje. But seven years since, in Syracusa, boy, Thoii know"st we parted: but perhaps, my son. Thou shamest to acknowledge me in misery. Ant. i'. 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. Duke. I tell tliee, 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, vith 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. Duke. 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 ? Dro. S. I, sir, am Dromio: command him away. Dro. E. I, sir, am Dromio: pray, let me stay. Ant. S. yEgeon art thou not ? or else his ghost ? Dro. S. O, my old master I who hath bound him here ? Abb. "Whoever bound him, I will loose his bonds And gain a husband by his liberty. Speak, old .i-Egeon, if thou be'st the man Tliat hadst a wife once call'd .lEmilia That bore thee at a burden two fair sons : O, if thou be'st the same yEgeon, speak, And speak unto tlie same ^Emili;i ! ^Eye. If I dream not, thou art ^^3milia: If thou art she, tell me where is that son That floated with thee on the fatal raft? Abb. By men of Epidamnuni lie and I And the twin Dioniio all were taken up; But by and by rude lishermen of Corinth By force took Dnmuo and my sou from them. And me they left with those of Epidamnum. AVliat tlien became of them I cannot tell; I to this fortune tliat you see me in. Duke. "Why. 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 eliildren, "Which accidentally are met together. Antipholus, thou earnest from Corinth first ? Ant. S. Xo, sir, not I; I came from Syracuse. Duke. Stay, stand apart ; I know not which is which. Ant. E. I came from Corinth, my most gracious lord, — Dro. E. And I with him. Ant. E. Brought to this towii by that most famous warrior, Duke ^lenaphon, 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. Xo; 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 }-ou I hope I shall have leisure to make good; [then. If this be not a dream I see and hear. .^ifig. That is the chain, sir, which you had of me. Ant. S. 1 think it be, sir; I deny it not. Ant. E. And you, sir, for this chain arrested me. Aug. I think I did, sir; I deny it not. ^■If')-. 1 sent you money, sir, to be your bail, By Dromio; biit I think he brought it not. Dru. E. Xo, none by me. Ant. S. Tills purse of ducats I received from you And Dromio my man did bring them me. I see we still did meet eac'n other's man, And I was ta'en for him, and he for me. And thereupon these errors are arose. .^(if. E. These ducats pawn I for my father here. Duke. It sliall 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. Renowned duke, vouchsafe to take the pains To go with us into the abbey here And hear at large discourse!! all our fortmies: And all that are assembled in this place. That by this sympathized one day's error Have sufter'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 thecalendars of tlieir nativity. Go to" a gossips' feast, and go with me ; After so long grief, such festivity ! Duke. "With all my lieart, I "11 gossip at this feast. [Exeunt all but Ant. S., Ant. E., Dro. S., and Dro. E. Dro. S. Master, shall I fetch your stuff from ship- board ? Ant. E. Dromio, what stuff of mine hast thou embark'd ? Dro. S. Your goods that lay at host, sir, in the Centaur. Ant. S. 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 ^Int. E. Dro. S. There is a fat friend at yom- master's house. That kitchen'd me for you to-day at dinner: She now shall be my sister, not my wife. Dro. E. iilethinks you are my glass, and not my brother : I see by you I am a sweet-faced youth. Will you wiilk in to see their gossiping? Dro. S. Xot I, sir; j'ou are my elder. Dro. E. That 's a question : how shall we try it ? Dro. S. We "11 draw cuts for the senior: till then lead thou first. Dro. E. Xay, then, thus: AVe came into the world like brother and brother; And now let 's go hand in hand, not one before another. [Excwd. 91 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. DRAMATIS PEBSON^^. Don Pedro, Prince of Arragon. Don John, his bastard brotiier. Claudio, a young lonl of Florence. Benedick, a young lonl of Padua. Leonato, Governor of Messina. Antonio, Iiis brother. Balthasar, attendant on Don Pedro Conrade, Borachio Friar Francis. Dogberry, a constable. [For an Analysis of the Plot followers of Don John, Verges, a headborough. A Se.xton. A Boy. Hero, daughter to Leonato, Beatrice, niece to Leonato. argare , I ventlewonien attending on Hero. Ursula, J Messengers, Watch, Attendants, &c. SCENE— J/cssi)M. Piay, see Page XLV.] A.CT I. -SCENE I. — Before Lcrmato''s house. E^iter Leonato, Hero, and Beatrice, icith a Messenger. Leon. I learn in this letter that Don Pedro of Arragon comes this night to Messina. ilfe.v.s. lie is very near by tliis : he was not three leagues off when t left him. [action V Lcoii. 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 tlian you must expect of me to tell you how. Leon. He hatli an uncle here in Messina will be very much glad of it. Mess. I liave already delivered him letters, and there appears much joy in him; even so much that joy coulil not show itself modest enough without a bad;;c (if bitterness. Ltnii. Did he break out into tears? Mess. In great measure. Lion. A kind overllow 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 ! Befit. I pray you, is Signior Mountanto returned from the war's or no ? Miss. 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 retiu'ned ; 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 challpnge, subscrilied for Cupid, and challenged him at the bird-bdlt. I prav you, how many hath he killed and eaten in these wars V But liow 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 lie '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 stoniacli. Miss. And a. good soldier too, lady. Beat. And a good soldier to a lady : but what is he to a lord y 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 stuliing, — 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 lietween them. Bent. Alas! lie gets nothing by that. In our last conflict four of his live wits went halting off, and now is the whole man guveined with one: so that if he have wit enough to keep himself warm, let him bear it for a difference lietween himself and liis horse; for it is all the wealth that he hath left, to be known a reasonable creature. Who is liis com- panion now? lie 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 liat; it ever changes with the next block. [books. Mess. I see, lady, the gentleman is not in your BeeU. No; an he were, I would liiirn my study. But, I pray you, who is his eoniiianion ? Is there nil young sipiarer now that will make a voyage with him to tlie devil? Miss. He is most in the company of the right noble Claudio. / Beat. O Lord, he will hang upon him like a ni.s- ease: he is sooner caught than the pestilence, and the taker runs jiresently mad. God liel|i the noble Claudio! if he lune caught the Benedick, it will cost him a thou.saiid lumiid 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. ACT I. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. SCENE I. Enter Don Pedro, Don John, Claudio, Benedick, and Balthasar. B. Pedro. Good Siguier Leonato, you are come to meet your trouble : the fashion of "tlie world is to avoid cost, and you encouuter it. Leon. Never came trouble to my house in the like- ness of your grace : for trouble being gone, comfort 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 thiuk tills is your daughter. Leon. Her mother hath many times told me so. Bene. Were you in doubt, sir, that you asked her V Leon. Siguior Benedick, no; tor then were you a child. JD. 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 ho:iourable 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 wouder that you will still be talking, Signior Benedick : nobody marks you. [living ? 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 V 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, j'ou 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 coutinuer. But keep yoiir way, i' God's name; I have done. Beat. You always end with a jade's trick : I know you of old. B. Pedro. That is the sum of all, Leonato. Signior Claudio and Signior Benedick, my dear friend Leonato hath invited you all. I tell him we shall stay here at the least a mrovided this music !* ^-liit. He is very busy about it. But, brother, I can tell you strange news that you yet dreamt not of. Leon. Are they good V 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 lier 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 liim yourself. Leon. No, no; we will hold it as a dream till it appear itself: but I will acquaint my daugliter withal, that she may be the better prepared for an answer, if peradventure 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 skill. Good cousin, have a care this busy time. [Exeunt. SCENE 111.— 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. D. .John. And when I have heard it, what bless- ing brings it ? [sufferance. Con. If not a present remedy, at least a patient B. John. I wonder that thou, being, as thou say- est thou art, born under Saturn, goest about to ajiply a mural medicine to a mortifying mischief. I cannot hide what lam: I must be sad when I have cause and smile at no man's jests, eat when I have stiiiiiach 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 lie liatli ta'en you newly into his grace; where it is im]iossible yoii shonld take true root but by tlie fair weatlier'tliat you make yourself: it is need- ful that you frame the season for your own harvest. D. .John. 1 liad rather be a canker in a hedge tlian 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 fie 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, tor I use it only. Who comes here y ACT ir. 3IUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. SCEXE I. Eater Borachio. What news, Boracliio ? Bora. I came yonder from a great supper: the prince your brother is royally entertained by Leon- ato ; and I can give you intelligeivce of an intended marriage. D. John. Will it serve for any model to build mischief on ? What is he for a fool that betroths liiniself to unquietness? lioi-d. iSIarry, it is your brother's right hand. B.Jolui. Who? the most exquisite Claudio y Bora. Even he. D. John. A proper squire ! And who, and who i* 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 'i 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 ui)on that the prince should woo Hero for himself, and liaving obtained her, give her to Count Clau- dio. D.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 butli sure, and will assist me ? Von. To the death, my lord. B. 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 V Bora. We '11 wait upon yoiu: lordship. {Exeunt. ^CT II. SCENE I.— A hall in Leonato's house. Enter Leonato, Antonio, Hero, Beatrice, and others. Leon. Was not Count John here at supper ? Ant. I saw him not.- Bent. 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 m 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 anv 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. Jieat. 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. Whatshouldldowithhimy dresshiminmy apparel and make him my waiting-gentlewoman ? lie tliat hath a beard is more than a youth, and he tliat hatli no lieard is less than a man: and he that is more than a youth is not for me, and he that is less than a maii, I am not for him: therefore I will even take sixpence in earnest of the bear-ward, and leail his apes into hell. Lion. AVell. then, go you into hellV Beat. Xo, but to the gate ; and there will the devil meet me, like an old cuckold, with liorns on his head, and say, ' Get you to heaven, Beatrice, get you to heaven ; here 's no place for you mai'^. I know you well enough ; you are Siguier Antonio. Ant. At a word, I am not. JJrs. I know you by the waggling of your head. Ant. To tell you true, I counteifeit him. IJrs. You could never do him so ill-well, unless you were tlie very man. Here 's liis dry hand up and down : you are he, you are he. Ant. At a word, I ani not. (7rs. Come, come, do you think I do not know you by your excellent wit i* can virtue hide itself V Go to, mum, you are he: graces will appear, and there 's an end. Beat. Will you not tell me who told you so ? Ue?!e. No, you shall pardon me. Beat. Nor will you not tell me who you are ? Bene. Not now. Beat. Tliat I was disdainful, and that I had my good wit out of the ' Ilimdred Merry Tales : ' — well, this was Sinnior Benedick that said so. B<:nc. Wiuit'she? 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 '11 but break a comparison or two on me ; which, peradventure not marked or not laughed at, strikes liim into melancholy; and then tliere "s a partridge wing saved, for the fool will eat no supper that night. [J/ifsic] We must follow the Bene. In every f^ood thing. [leaders. Beat. Nay, if tney lead to any ill, I will leave them at the next turning. {Dance. Then exeunt all except Bon 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 ? Claiul. 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 ? J). John. I heard him swear his affection. Bora. So did 1 too ; and he swore he would marry her to-night. B. John. Come, let us to the banquet. [Exeimt Bon John and Borachio. Claud. Thus answer I in name of Benedick, But hear these ill news with the ears of Claudio. 'Tis certain so; the prince wooes for himself. Friendship is constant in all other things 96 Save in the oflice and affairs of love : Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues ; Let every 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 ! He-enter Benedick. Bene. Count Claudio ? Claud. Yea, the same. Bene. Come, will you go with me ? aaud. Whither? IScne. Even to the next willow, about your own business, county. What fashion will you wear the garland of ? about your neck, like an usiu-er's chain ? or under your arm, like a lieutenant's scarf V You must wear it one way, fur 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 thmk 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 will 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 jierson, and so gives me out. Well, I '11 be revenged as I may. ^ _ „ Be-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 1 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 wortliy 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. B. 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 witli her. She told me, not thinking I had been myself, that I was the prince's jester, that I was duller tlian a great thaw ; huddling jest upon jest with such impossible conveyance ujinn me that I stood like a man at a mark, witli 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. 3IUCH 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 clulj 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 nuiy live as quiet in hell as in a sanctuary; and people sin upon purpose, because they woidd 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 connnand me any service to the world's end? 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 furtliest inch of Asia, bring you the length of Prester John's foot, fetch you a hair off the great Cliam'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. Xone, 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. D. Pedro. Come, lady, come; you have lost the heai't 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, tlierei'ore your grace may well say I have lost it. I). Pedro. You liave put him down, lady, you have put him down. 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. D. Pedro. Why, how now, count! wherefore are you sad V Claud. Not sad, my lord. D. 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. -D. Pedro. V faith, lady, I think your blazon to be true; though, I'll 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 lier fatlier, and liis good will obtained: name the day of marriage, and Gud give thee joy! Leon. Count, take of me my daughter, and with her my fortunes : his grace hath made the match, and all grace say Amen to it. Bcfit. Spealc, count, 'tis 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, an. Pedro. Lady Beatrice, I will get you one. Beat. I would rather have one of your father's getting. Hath yoiu' grace ne'er a brother like you ? Your fatlier got excellent husbands, if a inaid could come by them. D. Pedro. Will you have me, lady? Beat. No, my lord, unless I migiit have another 7 for working-days: your grace is too costly to wear every day. But I beseech your grace, jiaidon me: I was born to speak all mirth and no luatU-r. I). Pedro. Your silence most ohends me, and to be merry best becomes you; for, out of question, you were bom 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 ? Bent. I cry you mercy, uncle. By your grace's pardon. [Exit. 'D. Pedro. By my troth, a pleasant-si>irited lady. X«))(. 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. D. Pedro. She cannot endure to hear tell of a husband. Leon. O, by no means: she mocks all her wooers out of suit. [dick. D. Pedro. She were an excellent wife for Bene- Leon. O Lord, my lord, if they were but a week married, they would talk tliemselves mad. D. 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 tune too brief, too, to have all things answer my mind. L>. 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: wliich is, to bring Signior Benedick and the Lady Beatrice into a niiiuntain of affection the one with the other. I would fain have it a match, and I doubt not but to fasliion 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. L). Pedro. And joii too, gentle Hero? Hero. I will do any modest office, my lord, to help my cousin to a good husband. B. Pedro. And Benedick is not theunhopefullest husband that I know. Tlius 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 lielps. 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. [Exeunt. SCENE II.— The same. Enter Don John and Borachio. B. John. It is so; the Count Claudio shall marry th? daugliter of Leonato. Bora. Yea, my lord; but I can cross it. D. .John. Any bar, any cross, any impediment will bemedicinable to me: I am sick in displeasure to him, and whatsoever comes athwart Ins affec- tion ranges evenly with mine. How canst thou cross tills marriage ? Bora. Not lionestly, my lord; but so covertly that no dishonesty shall appear in me. I). John. Show me briefly how. Bora. I think I told your lordship a year since, how much I am in tlie favour of Margaret, the waiting-gentlewoman to Hero. 97 ACT II. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. SCEIifE III. D. John. I remember. Bora. I can, at any unseasonable instant of the night, appoint her to loolc out at her lady's cham- ber-window. I). John. What life is in that, to be the death of this marriage y Jiora. Tlie poison of that lies in you to temper. Go you to the prince your brother ; spare not to tell • him that he liath wronged his honour in marrying the renowned Claudio — whose estimation do you mightily hold up — to a contaminated stale, such a one as Hero. 1). .John. What proof shall I make of that V 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 tluit j'ou knowtliat Hero loves me ; intend a kind of zeal both to tlie |irhiee and Claudio, as, — in love of your bnitlii'r's iKinnur. who liath made this match, and his t'riciurs i-cputation, who is t bus like to be cozened with tlie semblance of a niaiil, — that you have dis- covered thus. Tliey will scmrcly brlirve this with- out trial: offer them instamcs; wliirh shall bear no less likeliliood than to sec me at her chamber- winilow, 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, 1 will put it in practice. Be cunning in tlie 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 ! JSnter Boy. Boy. Signior? Bene. In my chamber-window lies a book : bring it hither to me in the orchard. Boi/. I am here already, sir. Bene. I know that ; but I would have thee lience, and here again. [Erit 7?ov.] I do nuich wonder that one man, sering Ikiw nnich another man is a fo(d when lie dcilicatcs his liehaviours to love, will, after he liatli laughed at sm-h shallow follies in others, lii'coiiii' the argumrnt nf his own sctu'u by falling in lox e : and such a man is Cliiudio. I have known wlicu there was no nuisic with him but the drum and the life; and now had he rather hear the tabor and tlie 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 tunitMl orlhograijliy ; his words are a very fantastical liau(inct, just so' many strange dishes. May I be si i ci inverted and see with these eyes? I 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, oaie woman shall 98 not come in my grace. Rich 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, andher hair shall be of what colour it please God. Ha ! the l)rince and Monsieur Love ! I will hide me in the arbour. [ Withdraws. Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, and Leonato. D. Pedro. Come, shall we hear this music ? Claud. Yea, my good lord. How still the even- As hush'd on purpose to grace harmony ! fiiig is, I). Pedro. See you where Benedick hath hid him- self? Claud. O, very well, my lord: the music ended, We '11 flt the kid-fox with a pennyworth. Enter Balthasar with Iltisic. D. Pedro. Come, Balthasar, we '11 hear that song again. Bcdth. O, good my lord, tax not so bad a voice To slander music any more than once. B. 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. Jialth. Because you talk of wooing, I will sing; Since many a wooer doth commence liis suit To her he tliinks not worthy, yet he wooes, Yet will he swear he loves. B. I'cdro. Now, pray thee, come ; Or, if thou wilt hold longer argument, Uo it in notes. Bcdth. Note this before my notes ; There 's not a note of mine that 's worth the noting. B. Pedro. Why, these are very crotchets that he speaks ; Note, notes, forsooth, and nothing. [.4!>. Bene. Now, divine air! now is his soul ravisiied ! Is it not strange that sheeps' guts should hale souls out of men's bodies Y Well, a horn for my money, when all 's done. THE SONG. Bcdth. 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 lie yon blithe and bonny. Converting all your sounds of woe Into Hey iioimy, iionny. Sing no more ditties, sing no moe, Of dumjis so dull and heavy; The fraud of men was ever so, Since summer lirst was leafy : Then sigh not so, &c. D. Pedro. By my troth, a good song. Bcdth. 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 wnuld 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 iiray thee, get us some excellent music ; for to- morrow night we would have it at the Lady Hero's chamber-window. Bcdth. The best I can, my lord. D. Pedro. Do so: farewell. [Exit Bcdthasar. Come hither, Leonato. What was it you told me of to-day, that your niece Beatrice was in love with Signior Benedick '( ACT II. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. SCENE III. Claitd. 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 Siguior 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 inhuite of thimght. B. Pedro, ilay be she doth but counterfeit. Claml. Faith, like enough. Lena. 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? Chind. Bait the hook well; this fish will bite. Lco>i. What effects, my lord ■? Slie will sit you, you lieard 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 tliiuk this a gull, but that the w'hite-bearded fellow speaks it: knavery cannot, sure, hide himself in such reverence. Claud. He hath ta'eil the mfection: hold it up. B. Pedro. Hath she made her affection known to Benedick ? Leon. No; and swears she never will : that 's her torment. Claud. 'T is true, indeed; so j'our daughter says : ' Shall I,' says slie, ' that have so oft encountered him with scorn, WTite to him that I love him V ' 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 liave \\T:it a sheet of paper: my daugliter 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 shehad wTit it and was reading it over, she fouud Benedick and Beatrice between the sheet ? Claud. 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 sliould flout him," if he writ to me; yea, though I love him, I should.' Claud. Then down upon her knees she falls, weeps, sobs, beats her heart, tears her hair, prays, curses ; ' O sweet Benedick ! God give me patience ! ' Leon. 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. B. 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 tlie poor lady worse. B. Pedro. An he shoulil, it were an aUns to hang him. She's an excellent sweet lady; and, out of all suspicion, she is virtuous. Claud,. And she is exceeding wise. B. 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. B. Pedro. I would she had bestowed tliis ilotage on me: I would have daffed all other respei-ts 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 will die; for she says she will die, if he love her not, and she will die, ere she make her love kno\vn, and she will die. if lie woo her, rather than she will bate one breath of her accustomed crossness. B. Peelro. 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 Cletvjd. He is a very proper man. [spirit. B. Pedro. He hath indeed a good outward hap- piness. Clauel. Before God! and, in my mind, very wise. " B. Pedro. He doth indeed show some sparks tliat are like wit. Cknid. And I take him to be valiant. B. Peelro. 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. L'edro. 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 daugliter : let it cool the while. I love Bene- dick well : and I could ^^ ish he would modestly ex- amine himself, to see how much he is unworthy so good a lady. Leon. My lord, will you walk ? dinner is ready. Claud. If he do not dote on her upon this, I V\ill 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 : tliat '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 Peelro, Cleiudio, anel Leemedo. Bene. [Corniny feiru-arel] This can be no trick: the conference w"as sadly borne. Tliey 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 liow 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 tlie 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 witli 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 tliese iiaperlnilletsof the brain awe a man from the career of his hium mr y 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 13eatriee. By this day ! she 's a fair lady : I do spy some marks of love in her. _, „ ^ . Enter Beatrice. Beeit. Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner. ACT III. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. SCENE T. Bene. Fair Beatrice, I tlianli you for your ixuiis. Beat. I took no more pains for tlKjse thanks tlian you take pains to tliauk me : if it had been painful, I would not have come. Jkne. You take pleasure then in the message ? Bcdt. Yea, just so much as you may take upon a knife's point and choke a daw witlial. You have no stomach, siguior : fare you well. [EMt. Bene. Ha! 'Against my will I am sent to Lid you come in to dinner;' there's a double meaning in that. ' I took no more pains for those thanks tluin yqj-i took pains to thank me ; ' that 's as much as to say, Any pains that I take for you is as easy us thanks. If I do not take pity of her, I am a vil- 1am; if I do not love her, I am a Jew. I will ^o get her picture. [Exit. -A.CT III. SCENE 1.— Lconato''s garden. Enter Hero, Margaret, and Ursula. Hero. Good Margaret, run thee to the parlour; There shalt thou tind my cousin Beatrice Piiijiiising with the prince and Clan lio : AV'Jiisper lier ear and tell her, I and Ursula Walk in tlie orcliard and our wiiole dis.;ourse Is all of her; say that tliou overheard'st us; ^Vud bid her steal into the jileached bower, AVhcre honeysuckles, ripen'd by the sun, Torbid the sun to enter, like favourites, -Made proud by princes, tliat advance their pride Against tliat 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. "Wlien I do name him, let it be thy part To praise him more than ever man did merit: Jly talk to thee must be how Benedick Is sick in love v/ith Beatrice. Of this matter Is little Cupid's crafty arrow made, Tliat 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 gulden iiars 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 hoicer. No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful; I know her spirits are as coy and wild As haggerds of the rock. Urs. But are j'ou sure That Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely? Hero. 8o says the prince and my new-trothed lord. Urs. Anil did they bid you tell her of it, madam V Hero. They did entreat mo to acipiaint her of it; But I persuaded them, if they loved Benedick, To wish him wrestle with affection. And never to let Beatiiee 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 jirouder stuft than that of Beatrice; DisiUiin and scorji ride sparkling in her eyes, ISiisprising what tliey 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 \^'ere 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 nolile. young, hov,' rarely featured. But she Would spell him liaekward: if fair-faced. She would swear the gentleman shiiuld lie her sister ; If black, why, Nature, drawing of an antique, Made a foul blot ; if tail, a lance ill-headed; If low, an agate very vilely cut; [f speaking, why, a vane blown with all winds; If silent, why, a block moved with none. So turns she' every man the wrong side out And never gives to truth and virtue that Which simpleness and merit purchaseth. Urs. Sure, sure, such cariiing is not commendable. Hero. No, not to be so odd and fi'om all fashions As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable: But who dare tell h.T 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 Hre, Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly: It were a better death tiian 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 liis passion. And, truly, I '11 devise some honest slanders To stain my cousin with: one doth nut know TFIow much" an ill word may empoison liking. Urs. O, do not do your cousin such a wrong. Slie 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 Siguior Benedick. Hero. He is the only man of Italy, Always excepted my dear C'laudio. Urs. I pray you, be not :;ngry with me, madam, Speaking my" fancy: Signior Beneo(j. AVliy, tlien, take no note of him, but let him go ; and presently call the rest of the watch together and tliank God you are rid of a knave. Very. If he will not stand when lie is bidden, he is none of the prince's subjects. Bog. True, and they are to meddle with none but the prince's subjects. You sliall also make no noise in the streets ; tor, tor 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. Borj. Why, you speak like an ancient and most quiet watchman; tor I cannot see how sleeping sliould offend : only , have a care that'your bills be not stiilen. Well, you are to call at all" the ale-houses, and bid those that are drunk get them to bed. Watch. How it tliey will not':' Dog. Why, then, let tliem alone till they are sober : if they make you not tlieu the better answer, you may say they are not the men you took them tor. 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, tlie less you meddle or make witli tliem, why, the more is for your honesty. Watch.' It we know him to be a thief , shall we not lay hands on him ':* 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 liim .showhimself wliat he isandstealoutof yourcompany. Verg. Y'ou have been always called a merciful man, partner. Dog. Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will, much more a man wlio hath any honesty in lain. 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 y Dog. Wliy, then, depart in peace, and let the cliild wake iier with crying; for the ewe that will not hear her la.inb when it baes will never answer a calf when he Ijleats. Verg. 'T is very true. Dog. This is the 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. Very. Nay, by 'r lady, that I tliink a' cannot. Dog. Five sliillings to one on 't, with any man that knows the statues, he may stay him : marry, not without tlie prince be willing; for, indeed, tlie 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 tliere be any matter of weight chances, caltui) me : keep your fellows' counsels and your own ; and good night. Come, neighbour. Watch. AVell, masters, we hear our charge: let us go sit here upon the church-bencli 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-iiight. Adieu: be vigitant, I beseech you. [Exeunt Dogberry and Verges. Enter Borachio a?ic? Conrade, Bora. What, Conrade I Watch. [J.v/i//] Peace! stir not. Bora. Coniafle, I .^ay! Con. Here, man; I am at thy elbow. Bora. ]Mass, and my elbow itched; I thought there wiuild a scab follow. Con. I will owe thee an answer for that : and now forward with thy tale. B(/ra. Stand thee close, then, under this pent- house, for it drizzles rain ; and I will, like a true drunkard, utter all to thee. Watch. [^-Isitk] Some treason, masters: yet stand close. Bora. Tlierefore know I liave 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 sliould 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 notliing to a man. Con. Yes, it is apparel. Bora. I mean, the fashion. Con. Yes, the fashion is tlie fashion. Bora. Tush! I may as well say the fool's the fool. But seest thou not what a deformed thief this fashion is 'f 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 someliody ? Coy\. No; 'twas the vane . Pedni. Nothing, unless you render her a.uain. Claud. Sweet prince, you learn me noble thank- There, Leonato, take her li:ick a'^ain: [fulness. Give not this rotten orange tn your friend; She's but the sign and senililuiR-e of her honour. Behold how like a mailv, and not marry her. i>o(/. 'O villain 1 thnii wilt be condennied into everlasting redemptidn for this. Sex. What else V Watch. This is all. SccK. 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 Virought to Leonato's: I will go before and show him their examination. [£.ci<. Dog. Come, let them be opinioned. Vcrij. Let them be in the hands — Con. Off, coxcomb! Dotj. God 's my life, where 's the sexton ? let him write down the prince's officer coxcomb. Come, bind them. Thou naughty varlet ! (Jon. Away ! you are an ass, you are an ass. Doy. Dost thou not suspect my place 'i dost thou not suspect my years ? O that lie were here to write me down an ass! But, masters, nnirmlier that I am an ass: though it be not written down, yet for- get not that 1 am an ass. Ko, thou villain, thou art full of piety, as shall be proved uimn thee by good witness. I am a wise fellow, and. which is more, an officer, and, which is more, a householder, and, which is more, as pretty a piece of tlesh as any is in iSIessina, 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 ! YEjieunt. .ACT V. SCENE I. — Before Leonato's house. Enter Leonato and Antonio. Ant. If yon go on thus, you will kill yourself; And "t is not wisdom thus to second grief Against yourself. Leon. I pray thee, cease thy counsel. Which falls into mine ears as profitless As water in a sieve : give not me counsel ; Km- 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 witli proverbs, make misfortune drunk With candle-wasters; bring him yet to me. And I of him will gather patience. But tliere is no such man : for, brother, men Can coiniscl niid speak comfort to that grief Which thcv themselves not feel; .but, tasting it. Their I'lunisel 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 suthcieucy To be so moral when he shall endure Tlie 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 tlesh 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 f(ncZ 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? well, all is one. [lord: B. Pedro. Nay, do not quarrel with us, good old man. Ant. If he coidd right himself with quarreling, Some of us would lie low. Claud. Who wrongs liim V Leon. Marry, thou dost wrong me; thou dis- sembler, thou : — Nay, never lay thy hand upon thy sword ; 1 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. Leon. Tush, tusli, man ; never tleer 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 innoeenl eliild and me That I am forced to lay my reveriMice by And, with grey hairs and bruise of many days. Do cliallenge 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 V 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 sodaffme? 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. 3IUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. SCENE I. Sir boy, I '11 whip you from your foining fence ; Nay, as I am a gentleman, I will. Leon. Brother, — [niece; Ant. Content yourself. God knows I loved my And she is dead, slauder'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. Brotlier Antony, — Ant. Hold you content. "What, man! 1 know tliem, yea, And what they weigh, even to the utmost .scruple, — Scanililing, out-facing, fashion-monging boys. That lie and cog and llout, deprave and slander. Go anticly, show outward liideousuess. And speak off half a dozen dangerous words, How tliey 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. Jly heart is sorry foi- your daughter's death : But, on my honour, she was charged with nothing But what was true and very full of proof. Leon. My lord, 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. [Exeimt Leonato and Antonio. D. Pedro. See, see; here comes the man we went to seek. Enter Benedick. Claud. Now, signior, what news ? Bene. Good day, my lord. I). Pedro. Welcome, signior :j'ou 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. L.Pedro. Leonato and his brother. Whatthink- est thou y Had we fouglit, I doubt we should have been too young for tliem. 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 V Bene. It is in my scabljard : shall I draw it ? D. Pedro. Dost "thou wear thy wit by thy side? Claud. Never any did so, though very many have been beside their wit. 1 will bid thee draw, as we do the minstrels ; draw, to pleasure us. L). Pedro. As I am an honest man, he looks pale. Art thou sick, or angry V Cfeiirf. What, courage, man! AVhat though care killed a cat, thou hast mettle enough in thee to kill care. Bene. Sir, I shajl meet your wit in the career, an you charjje It against me. I pray you choose an- other subject. Claud. Nay, then, give him another .staff: this last was broke cross. B. Pedro. By this light, he changes more and more: I tliink he be angry indeed. Claud. If he be, he knows how to turn his girdle. Bene. Shall I speak a word in your ( ar? Claud. God bless me from a challenge ! Bene. [A.Hd.e to Claxidio] You are a villain ; I jest not: I will make it good how you dare, witli 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 liear from you. Claud. AV'ell, I will meet you, so I may have good cheer. 108 D. Pedro. 1Vhat, a feast, a feast ? Claud. I' 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 V Bene. Sir, your wit ambles well ; it goes easily. B. Pedro. I '11 tell thee how Beatrice praised thy wit the other day. I said, thou hadst a line wit : 'True,' said she, 'a fine little one.' 'No,' said I, "a great Vv'it: ' '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: ' 'Tliat I be- lieve,' said she, ' tor 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 slie concluded with a sigh, thou wast the properest man in Italy. Claud. For the which slie wept heartily and said she cared not. B. Pedro. Yea, that she did ; but yet, for all that, an if she did not hate him deadly, she would lovfe 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. B. 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 brotlier the bastard is tied from iles- sina: you have aniong 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. [Kelt. B. Pedro. He is in earnest. Claud. In most profound earnest; and, I "11 war- rant )-ou, for the love of Beatrice. B. Pedro. And hath challenged thee. Claud. Mo.st sincerely. B. Pedro. What a pretty thing man is when he goes in hi.3 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. B. Pedro. But, soft you, let me be: pluck up, my heart, and be sad. Did he not say, my brother was Hed':' Enter Dogberry, Verges, and the 'Watcli, zdth Conrade and Borachio. Borj. Come jou, 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. B. Pedro. How now? two of my brother's men bound ! Borachio one ! Claud. Ilearken after their offence, my lord. B. Pedro. Officers, what offence have these men done y Boij. Marry, sir, they have committed false re- port ; moreover, they have spoken untruths ; sec- ondarily, they are slanders ; sixth and lastly, they have lielied alady; tliinlly, t licy have verihed inijust things; and, to conclude, tlirv are lying knaves. B. 7^c.7ro. First, I ask thee what they have done; thirdly. I ask thee what "s their offence; sixth and lastly, why they are conunitted; and, to conclude, what you lay to their charge. Claud. Rightly ri-asoned. and in his own division; and, by my troth, there "s one meaning well suited. B. Pcdrn. Who have you offended, masters, that you are thus bound to jour answer? this learned ACT V. 3IUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. scene ir. constable is too cunning to be understood : what 's j'our offence 'i Bora. Hweet prince, let nie go no farther to mine answer : do you hear me, and let this count kdl nie. I have deceived even your very eyes: what your wisdoms could not discover, these shallow tools liave brought to light; who in the night overheard me confessing to this man how Don John your brother incensed me to slander the Latly 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 tliey have upon record; which I had rather seal with my death than repeat over to my shame. The lady is dead upon mine ami my master's false accu- sation ; and, briefly, I desire nothing but the reward of a villain. JJ. Pedro. Runs not this speech like iron through your blood ':' Claud. I have drunk poison whiles he utter'd it. D. Pedro. But did my brother set thee on to this y Bora. Yea, and paid me richly for the practice of it. I). Pedro. He is composed and framed of treach- And fled lie is upon this villany. [ery: Claiul. Sweet Hero! now thy image doth appear In tlie rare semblance tliat I loved it flrst. Dog. Come, bring away the plaintiffs: by tliis time our sexton hatli reformed Signior Leonato of the matter: and, masters, do not forget to specify, when time and ])lace shall serve, that 1 am an ass. Very. Here, here comes master Signior Leonato, and tlie sexton too. He-enter Leonato and Antonio, rcith the Sexton. Leon. Which is the villain ? let me see his eyes, That, when I note another man like him, I may avoid liim : 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 y [hast kill'd Bora. Yea, even I alone. Leon. No, not so, villain; thou beliest thyself: Here stand a pair of honourable men; A third is fled, that had a hand in it. I tliank you, princes, for my daughter's death : Eecord 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. 1). Pedro. By my soul, nor I : And yet. to satisfy this good old man, 1 would bend under any heavy weight Tliat he '11 enjoin me to. Leon. I cannot biil you bid my daughter live; That were impossible: but, I pray you both, Possess the people iu Messina iiere How innocent she died : and if your love Can labour auglit in sad invention. Hang her an eiiitaiih 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! 1 do endjrace your offer; and dispose For henceforth of po(ir Claudio. Lam . 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 slie spoke to me. But always hath been just and virtuous In any thing that I do know by her. Diiij. Miiri'dver, sir, which indeed is not under white and black, this plaintiff liere, 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. Boy. Your worship speaks like a most thankful and reverend youth : antl I praise God for you. Leon. There 's for thy pains. Boy. God save the foundation ! Leon. Go, I discharge thee of thy prisoner, and I thank thee. Boy. I leave an arrant knave with yoxu' worship- which I beseech yoiu- worship to correct yourself, for the example of others. God keep your worship ! I wish your worship well ; God restore you to healtli ! I humbly give you leave to depart; and if a merry meeting" may be wished, God prohibit it! Come, neighbour. [Exeunt Boyherry 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] 13ring you these fellows on. We '11 talk with Margaret, How her acquaintance grew with this lewd fellow. [Exeunt, severally. SCENE II.— iconofo's garden. Enter Benedick and Margaret, meeting. Bene. Pray thee, sweet JNIistress Margaret, de- serve well at my hands by helping me to the speech of Beatrice. Mary. Will you then -write me a sonnet in praise of my beauty i:' Bene. In so high a style, Margaret, that no man living shall come over it ; for, in most comely truth, thou deservest it. Mnry. 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. Mary. 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, I pray thee, call Beatrice: I give thee the bucklers. Mary. Give us the swords; we have bucklers of our o\vn. Bene. If you use them, Margaret, you must put in the pikes with a vice; and" they are dangerous weapons for maids. Mary. Well, I will call Beatrice to you, who I think hath legs. Bene. And therefore will come. [Exit Margaret. [Sings] The aod of love. That sits above. And knows nie. and knows me. How pitiful I deser\e, — I mean in singing ; but in loving, Leander the good swimmer, Troilus the first employer of pandei-s, and a whole bookf ul of these quondam carpet-mon- 109 ACT V. MUCH 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 fjoor 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 babblini; rliyme; very omi- nous endings: no, I was not liorn under a rhyming planet, norl cannot woo in l'e.sti\al terms. Enter Beatrice. Sweet Beatrice, wouldst thou come when I called thee ? Beat. Yea, signior, and depart when you bid me. Bene. O, stay but till then! Bent. ' Then"' is spoken ; fare you well now : and yet, ere I go, let me go with tliat I came; whicli 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 lirciith, and fold breath is noisome; therefore I will depart unkisscd. • Bene. Thou hast frislited the word out of his right sense, so forciljle is tliy wit. But I must tell thee plainly, Claudio undergoes my challenge; and either I must shortly hear from 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 forme ? 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, 1 will spite it for yours; for I will never love that which. my friend hates. Bene. Thou and I are too wi.se .to woo peaceably. Beat. It ai)pears not in this confession : there 's not one wise man among twenty tliat 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 tliau 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 tlie contrary, to be the trunii*t 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 y Beat. Very ill. Bene. And how do you V 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. Vender'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. [E.aunt. 110 SCENE III.— .A ehureh. Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, and three or four with tapers. Claud. Is this the monument of Leonato i* A Lord. It is, my lord. Claud. [Beadimj otit of a scroll] Done to death by slanderous tongues Was the Hero tliat here lies: Death, in guerdon of her wrongs. Gives her fame which never dies. So tlie life that died witli shame Lives in deatli with glorious fame. Hang thou there upon the tomb, Praising her when I am dumb. Now, music, sound, and sing your solemn hymn. SONG. Pardon, goddess of the night, Tiiose that slew thy virgin knight ; For the which, witii songs of woe. Round about her tomb they go. JNIidniglit, assist our moan; Help us to sigh and groan. Heavily, lieavily: 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 : I). Pedro. Good morrow, masters ; ijut your torches The wolves have jirey "d : and look, tlie gentle day, Before the wheels of Plia?bus. round about Dapples the drow.sy east with spots of grey. Thanks to you all. and leave us: fare you well. Claud. Good UKJrrow, masters: each his several way. D. Futro. 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 vverender'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 trll you .she was innocent? Leon. So are the prince and Claudio, who accused her LTjion the error that you lieard debated : But Margaret was in some fault for tliis, AltlKiugli against licr will, as it appears In the true rdiuse of all the ijuestion. Ant. Well, 1 am glad that all things sort so well. Bene. Ami so am I, being else by i'aith enforced To call young Claudio to a reckoning for it. Lean. Well, daughter, and you gentlewomen all. Withdraw into a chamber by yourselves. And when I send for you, come hither mask'd. [Exe^int 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. Jknc. 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: 't is most true. Bene. And I do with an eye of love requite her. ACT V 3IUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. SCENE IV. Leon. The sislit whereof I think yon luul from me, From Chiudio and the prince: But what "syourwiU':' Bene. Your answer, sir, is euigniatieal : But, for my will, my will is your good will May stand with ours, tliis day to be conjoin'd In the state of lionourable marriage: In which, good friar, I shall desire your help. Leon. My heart is with your liking. Fi-iar. And my help. Here comes the prince and Claudio. Enter Don Pedro and Claudio, and two or three others. D. Pedro. Good morrow to this fair assembly. Leon. Good morrow, prince ;-good morrow, Clau- dio: V,'e 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 liave such a February face. So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness? Claud. I think he thinks upon the savage bull. Tush, fear not, man ; we '11 tip tliy horns with gold And all Eiiropa shall rejoice at thee, As once Eurnpa did at lusty .Jove, When he would play the noble beast 'n 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. i?e-o!(fr Antonio, with the Ladies masl^eel. "Which is the lady I must seize upon ? Ant. Tills same is she, and I do give you her. Claud. Why, then she's mine. Sweet, let me see your face. Leon . Xo, tliat you shall not, till you take her hand Before this friar and swear to marry iier. Claud. Give me your hand : before this holy friar, I am y jur 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. Xothing 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; AVhen after tliat tlie lioly rites are ended, 1 '11 tell yiiu 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. [Uu masking] I answer to that name. What is your wiU ? Bene. Do not you love me? Beat. Why, no ; no more than reason. Bene. Why, then your uncle and the prince and Have been deceired"; 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 forme. 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 soimet of his own pure brain, Fashiou'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 yom- life, for I was told you were in a con- sumption. Bene. Peace! I will stop your mouth. [A'i's«?ig/ier. 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 ? Xo : if a man will be beaten with brains, a' shall wear nothing handsome about hin^. In brief, since I do purpose to marry, 1 will tliink 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 thing, and this is my conclu- sion. For thy part, Claudio, I did thhik 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 ; tlierefore play, music. Prince, thou art sad ; get thee a wife, get thee a wife: there is no staft more reverend than one tipped with horn. Enter a Messenger. Mess. My lord, your brother .John is ta'en in flight, And brouglit witli armed men back to ^Messina. Bene. Think not on him till to-morrow : I '11 devise thee brave pimishmeuts for him. Strike up, pipers. [Danee. — Exeunt. Dogberry.— Bost thou not suspect my place? Dost thou not suspect my years ?— Act V., Scene ii. HI LOVE S LABOUR'S LOST. i>J?.lil/.12'/S PERSONS. Ferdinand, King of Navarre. Biron, | Longaville, V lords attending on the King. Dumain, ) Boyet, ] lords attending on the Princess of Mercade, i France. Don Adriano de Armado, a fantastical Spaniard. Sir Nathaniel, a curate. Holofernes, a schoolmaster. Dull, a coiistable. Costard, a clown. Moth, page to Armado. A Forester. The Princess of France. Rosaline, ] Maria, > ladies attending on the Princess. Katharine, ) Jaquenetta, a country wench. Lords, Attendants, &c. SCENE —Navarre. [Fo of the Plot of this Plaj ^OT I. SCENE l.—The hing of Namrre's ixirk. Enter Ferdinand, Kinp; nf Navarre, Biron, Longaville, and Dumain. Kinr/. Let fame, that all hunt after in their lives, Live reuisterVl updn our brazen tombs And tlien srace us in the disurace of death ; When, spite of cormorant devouring Time, The endeavour of this i)resent 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 huue aruiy of the world's desires, — Our late edict shall strongly stand in force: Navarre shall 1)P the wonder of the world; Our court shall be a little Academe, Still and contemidative in living art. You three, Biron, Dumain, and Longaville, Have sworn for three years' term to live with me My fellow-scliolars and to keep those statutes That are recorded in this scliedule here : [names. Your oaths are pass'd; and now subscribe yoiu- That his own hand may strike his honour dowii That violates the sinalicst liraiicli licnnn: If you are arm'd to do as sworn to do. Subscribe to your deep oaths, and keei) it too. Long. I am resolvecl; 'tis but a three years' fast: Theiiiind shall banquet, though tlie body pine : Fat paunches have lean pates, and dainty bits Make rich the ribs, but bankrupt quite tlie wits. Dam. My loving lord, Dmnaui is mortified : The grosser manner of these world's deliglits He throws ui)on the gross world's baser slaves: To love, to wealth, to ponij), I pine and die ! With all these living in philosojihy. Biron. I can but say their protestation over; So much, dear liege, t have already sworn, That is, to live and study hiae three years. Bat there are other strict ol)servance's; As, not to see a woman in tliat 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 tliere ; And then, to sleep but three hoitrs 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 — Whicli 1 hope well is not enrolled there: O, these are Ijarren tasks, too hard to keep, Not to see ladies, sludy, fast, not sleep! King. Youroatli i^lla^s■d to pass away from these. Biron. Let me say no. my liege, anif you please: I only swore to study with your grace And stay here in your court for three years' space. Long. You swore to that, Binni, and to the rest. Biron. By yea and nay, sir, then 1 swore in jest. What is the end of study V 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 V 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 dine, When I to feast expres.sly am forbid ; Or study where to meet some mistress fine, When mistresses from cinmiion sense are hid; Or, havinu' sworn too liard a kee]iiug oatli, Study to break it and not lireak my troth. If study's gain be tims amtthis l)e so. Study kiious tliat \\ liicli yet it doth not know: Swear me to tliis. and I will ne'er say no. King. These lie the stojis that hinder study quite And train our intellects to vain delight. Biron. Why, all delights are vain ; but that most vain, Which with pain purchased doth inherit pain: As, painfully to pore upon a liook To seek the light of truth : while truth the while Doth falselv blind the evesi-Id of his look: Ligld seeking liglit doth light of light beguile: So, ere you liml wliere light in darkness lies, Your light grows ni right and wrong Have chose as umpire^of tlieir mutiny: This child of fancy tliat'Arinado hight For interim to our studies shall relate In high-born words the worth of many a kniglit From tawny Spain lost in the world's debate. How you delight, my lords, I know not, I ; But, I protest, 1 love to hear him lie And I will use him for my minstrelsy. Biron. Armado is a most ilUistrious wight, A man of fire-new words, fashimrs own knight. Lony. Costard the swain and lie 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 V Biron. This, fellow: what wouldst ? Bull. I myself reprehend his own person, for I am his grace's tharborough : but I would see his own person in flesh and blood. Biron. This is he. Bull. Signior Anne — Arme — commends you. There 'svillany abroad : this letter will tell yon more. Cost. Sir, the contempts thereof are as touching me. Kiny. A letter from the magnificent Armado. Biron. How low soever the matter, I hope in God for high words. Lony. A high hope for a low heaven : God grant us patience! Biron. To hear? or forbear laughing':* Lony. 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 'i* Cost. In manner and form following, sir ; all those three : I was seen witli her in the manor-house, sit- ting with her upon the form, and taken following her into the park; which, p:;t together, is in man- ner and form following. N ow, 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 ! Kiny. 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 riesh. Kiny [rciuls]. '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. Kiny [reads]. 'So it is,' — Cost. It may be so : but if he say it is so, he is, in telling true, but so. Kiny. Peace ! C'lsi. Be to me and every man that dares not fight. Kiny. No words! Cost. Of other men's secrets, I beseech you. Kiny [reads]. ' So it is, besieged with sable-coloured 113 ACT I. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. SCENE melancholy, I ditl commend the Maek-iiiiiu-rssiiig humour to the most wliolesomeiihy.sic (if tl]y health- giving air; and, as I am a gentleman, lutook 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 wliich 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 [reacts], '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 1 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. Ilim 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. Bull. Me, an 't shall please you ; I am Antliony King [reads]. ' For Jaquenetta, — so is the weaker vessel called which I apprehended with the afore- said swain, — Ikeepherasa vesselof tliy law's fury ; and shall, at tlie least oT thy sweet notii-e. bring her to trial. Tliine, in all ciiiuplinientsof devoted and heart-burning heat of duly. Don Adriano de Armado.' 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, what say you to tliis V Cost. Sir, I confess tlie wench. King. Did you liear the proclamation V 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. I 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 liath so strongly sworn. [Exeunt King, LongaviUe, and Bumain. Biron. I '11 lay my head to any good man's hat, These oaths and laws will prove an idle scorn. Sirrah, come on. Cast. 1 suffer for the truth, sir; for true it is, I 114 was taken witli Jaquenetta, and .Jaquenetta is a ; itu girl; and tlierefore welcome tlie sour cup of lov-- perity! Aliiictiou may one day smile again, aiiO till then, sit thee down", sorrow! [Ex^ 'w' ■ SCENE II.— Tlie 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. ^ )■))!. How canst thou part sadness and melan- choly, my tender juvenal V 3Ioth. By a familiar demonstration of the work- ing, my tough senior. ^lr)ii. AVhy tough senior i* 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, whieli 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. Molh. How mean you, sir? I pretty, and my saying apt ? or I apt, and my saying pretty ? Arm. Thou pretty, because little. [apt? Moth. IJttle pretty, because little. Wherefore Arm. And therefore apt, because quick. Molh. Speak you this in my praise, master ? Arm. In thy condign praise. Molh. I will praise an eel with the same praise. Arm. What, that an eel is ingenious? Molh. That an eel is quick. Arm. I do say thou art quick in answers: thou heatest my blood. Moth. I am answered, sir. Arm. I love not to be crossed. Molh. [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. Motli. 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 dotli amount to one more than two. Moth. Which the base vulgar do call three. Arm. True. Molh. AVhy, 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 tine figure! Moth. To prove you a cipher. Arm. I will hereujion 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 tlie 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 : nie- 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 ri. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. SCENE I. Mnth. Sainson, master: he was a man of good carriage, great carriage, for he carried tlie town- gates on his back like a porter : and lie was in love. Arm. O well-knit Samson! strong-jointed Sam- son ! I do excel thee in my rapier as much as thou di'lst me in carrying gates. I am in love too. "Who was Samson's love, my dear Mothy Molk. A woman, master. Arm. Of wliat comple.xion ? Moth. Of all the four, or the three, or the two, or one of tiie four. Arm. Tell me precisely of what comple.xion. Moth. Of the scii-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. ilolh. It was so, sir; for she had a green wit. Arm. My love is most immacidate white and red. Molh. Most maculate thoughts, master, are mask- ed under sucli colnurs. Ar)a. Dfliiie, detine, well-educated infant. Moth. My father's wit and my mother's tongue, assist me ! 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 ? Moth. The world was very guilty of such a bal-' lad some tliree 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 ill 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, loviiig a light wench. Arm. I say, sing. Moth. Forbear till this company be past. Enter Dull, Costard, and Jaquenetta. Dull. 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 ! Jaq. Man ';* Arm. I will visit thee at the lodge. ./(('/. That "s hereby. Ann. 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. Juq. So I heard you say. Arm. And so, farewell. Jiiq. Fair weather after you ! Dull. Come, Jaquenetta, away ! [Exeunt Dull and Jaquenetta. Arm. Villain, thou shalt fast for thy offences ere thou be pardoned. Cos;. Well, sir, I hoi^e, 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 tiian your fellows, for they are but lightly rewarded. Arm. Take away this villain; shut him up. Molh. 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 lier 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 flrst 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 extehiporal god of rhyme, for I am sure I shall turn sonnet. Devise, wit; write, pen; for I am for whole volumes in folio. [Exit. J^CT II. SCENE I.— Tlie same. Enter the Princess of France, Rosaline, Maria, Katharine, Boyet, Lords, a)i(Zo(/icr Attendants. Boyet. Now, madam, summon up your dearest spirits : Consider who the king your father sends. To whom he sends, and what 's his embas.sy : Yourself, held prcciuus in the world's esteem. To parley witli 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 prudiyallv 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 chainnen's tongues: I am less proiid to hear you tell my worth 115 ACT II. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. SCENE r. Than yon much williiiL;- to be counted wise In spending;' your wit in tlie praise of mine. ]5nt now to tasl< tlic taslacket is not come Where that and other specialties are t.iound: To-morrow ynu sliall liuve a si^lit of them. Kiaij. It shall sulHce nie: at which interview All liberal reason 1 will yield unto. Meantime receive sucli welccnne 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 witlmut you shall be so received As you shall deem yourself lodged in my heart, Though so dcni<'d fair harliour in my house. Yoiu" own godil thonglits excuse me, and farewell: To-morrow shall we visit you again. [grace! Prill. Sweet health and fair desires consort your King. Thy own wish wish I thee in every place I [Exit. Biroii. Lady, I will commend you to mine own lieart. Pris. Pray you, do my commendations ; I would be glad to see it. lliron. I would you heard itgroa* Ji'o.s. Is the fool sick '? Pi ran. Sick at the heart. Poii. Alack, let it blood. Biron. Would that do it good ? Mos. My physic says ' ay.' Biron. Will you prick 't with your eye? Pos. No point, with my knife. i?iron. JNow, God save thy life ! Pos. And yours from long living ! Biron. I cannot stay thanksgiving. [Retiring. Bum. Sir, I pray you, a word : what lady is that same ? Boyet. The heir of AleuQon, Katharine her name. Bum. A gallant lady. Monsieur, fare you well. [Exit. Long. I beseech you a word : what is she in the white y Boyet. A woman sometimes, an you saw her in the liglit. 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 daugliter? 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 ? ^oyet. Kosaline, by good hap. Biron. Is she wedded or no V 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. 1 was as willing to grapple as he was to Mar. Two hot sheeps, marry. Boyet. And wherefore not ships V No siieep, sweet lamb, uidess we feed on your lips. 3Iar. You sheep, and I pasture: shall that finish Boyet. So you grant pastm-e for me. [the jest V [Offering to kiss her. Mar. Not so, gentle beast : My lips are no common, thougli several they be. Boyet. Belonging to whom 'i Mar. To my fortunes and me. Prin. Good wits will 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 observatiiin. which very seldom lies. By the heart's still rheturic disclosed with eyes. Deceive me not now, Navarre is iufected. Prin. With what y Boyet. With that which we lovers entitle affected. Prin. Your reason y [retire Boyet. Why, all his behaviours did make their To the court of his eye, peeping lliorough desire: His heart, like an agate, with your print inipress'd, Priiud witli his fcirni, in his eye pride express'd: His tongue, all impatient to speak and not see. Did stund)le with haste in liis eyesight to be; All senses tothat sense did make their repair, To feel only h Hiking on fairest of fair: Methought all liis senses were luck 'd in his eye, As jewels in crystal tor some prince to buy ; Who, tendering their own worth from where they were glass"d. Did point yon to buy them, along as you pass'd: His face's own margent did (piote such amazes That all eyes saw his eyes enchanted witli 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. Pos. Thou art an old love-monger and speakest skilfully. Mar. He is Cupid's grandfather and learns news of him. Eos. Then was Venus like her mother, for her father is but grim. _ ^ Boyet. Do you hear, my nia'd wenches ? Mar. No. Boyet. What then, do you see ? Pe)s. 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 liearing. Moth. Concolinel. [Singing. Arm. Sweet air! Go, tenderness of years; take this key, give enlargement to the swain, bring him festinately hither : I must employ him in a letter to my love. [Ijraw 1 V Moth. Master, will you win your love with a French Arm. How meanest thou y brawling in Frencli V 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 III, LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. SCEN] you swallowed love with sinsincj love, sometime tlirough tlie nose, as if you snutfeil up love l>y siiirll- iua; love; with your hat peutlinuse-likc o'er the shop of your eyes; witli your arms crossed on your thin- iielly doublet like a ralOiit on a spit; or your hands in y<)ur pocket like a num after tlie old painting ; and keep not too long in one tune, luit a snip and away. These are complements, tliese are humours; these lietray nice wenclies, tliat would be betrayed with- out these; and make them men of note — do you note nieV — that most are alfei'ted to these. Arm. How liast tiiou }iurcliased this experience? Moth. By my penny of observation. Arm. ]3utO,— but'O,— Moth. 'The hobby-liorse is forgot.' Arm. Callest thou my love ' hobby-horse ' ? Moth. No, master; the liobhy-horse is but a colt, and your love perhaps a hackney. But have you forgot your love V Arm. Almost I had. Moth. Negligent student ! learn her by heart. Arm. By heart and in lieart, 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 lieart you love her, because your heart cannot come- by her; in heart you love iier, 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 tliree. Moth. And three times as much more, and yet notliing at all. Arm. Fetch hither the swain : he must carry me 1 a letter. Moth. A message well sympathized ; a horse to be ambassador for an ass. ^li-Hj. 1 1 a, ha! what sayest thou ? Moth. Marry, sir, you must send the ass upon the horse, for he is very slow-gaited. But 1 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. Minimfi. honest master; or rather, master, Arm. I say lead is slow. Moth. You are too swift, sir, to say so : Is that lead slow whieli is tired from a gun ? Ai-in. Sweet smoke of rlietorie ! He rejiutes me a cannon ; and the bullet, that 's he : I slioot thee at the swain. MoUi. Thump then and I flee. [Exit. Arm. A most acute Juvenal; volable and free of grace ! [face : By thy fa\onr, sweet welkin, I must sigh in thy Most rude melancholy, valour gives thee place. My herald is return 'd. Be-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 I'en- Cost. No egma, no riddle, no I'envoy ; no salve' in the mail, sir: O, sir, plantain, a plain i)lantain ! no Tenvoy, no I'envoy ; no salve, sir, but a iilantain ! Arm. By virtue. thoiienforcestlangliter; thy silly thoui^ld in>' spleen ; Ihe heaving of my lungs pro- vokes me to riilicnlons smiling. (), panlon me, my stars! Doth the iueonsiderate take salve for I'en- voy, and the word I'envoy for a salve? Moth. Do the wise tliiiik them other ? is not I'en- voy a salve ? Arm. No, page ; it is an epilogue or discourse, to make plain Rome obscure precedence that hath tofore been sain. I will example it: 118 The fox, the ape and the humble-liee, Were still at odds, being but three. There's the moral. Now the i'envoy. Moth. I willadd the I'einoy. Say tiie moral ag ■. ;' Arm. The fox, tlie ape, the Inimlile-bee, Were still at odds, being but tliree. Moth. Until the goo.se came out of door. And stay'd the odds by adding four. Now will I Ijegin your moral, and do you fo with my I'envoy. Tlie fox, the ape, and the humble-bee, Were still at odds, being but tliree. Arm. Until the goose came out of door. Staying tlie 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 Hat. Sir, your pennyworth is good, an your goose Vie 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 higher. 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 j'ou 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 witliin. Fell over the threshold, and broke my shin. Arm. We will talk no more of this matter. Cost. Till there be more matter in tlie sliin. 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 jierson : thou wert im- mured, restrained, captivated, liound. 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 tliis: bear tliis signilii-ant [ijirlmj n hlti r] to the country maid .laquelietta : there is reinuneralion; for tlie best wanl 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 fartliings : three farthings — remuneration.- — ' What 's the price of this inkle ? ' — ' 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 fartliing. Biron. Why, then, three-farthing worth of silk. Cost. I tliank j'oiu' worship : Kod 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. Wlien would you have it done, sir? Biron. Tills afternoon. CT IV. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. SCENE I. Cost. Well, I will 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, tnou 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 : Tlie princess comes to hunt here in the park, And in her train there is a geutle lady ; [name. When tonsues speak sweetly, then tliey 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. [Oiving him a sliiUing. Cost. Gardon, O sweet gardon ! better than re- muneration, a 'leven-pence fartliing lietter: most sweet gardon ! I will do it, sir, in print. Gardon ! Remuneration! [Exit. 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; Thau whom no mortal so magnificent! This whimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy; This senior-junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid; Regent of love-rhymes, lord of folded arms. The anointed sovereign of sighs and gixjans, Liege of all loiterers and malcontents, Dreail prince of plackets, king of codpieces, Scilf impi-rator and great general Of trotting 'paritors: — O my little heart! — And I to be a corporal of his field. And wear Ids 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! Xay, to be perjured, wliicli is worst of all; And, among three, to love tlie worst of all; A wightly wanton witli a velvet brow, With'two pitch-balls stuck in her face for eyes; Ay, and, by heaven, one that will do the deed Tliough 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 Tliat Cupid will impose for mv 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. J^CT IV. SCENE I.— 27ie same. \ Enter the Princess, onfZ her train, a Forester, Boyet, Rosaline, Maria, and Katharine. Prin. Was that the king, that spurred his horse Against the steep uprising of the hill ? [so liard lionet. .1 know not; but I think it was not he. Prill. 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 nunilerer in ? For. Ilereliy, upon tlie edge of yonder coppice; A stand wliere you may make tlie fairest shoot. Prin. I thank my beauty, I am fair that shoot, And thereviiion thou speak'st the fairest shoot. -For. Pardon me, madam, for I meant not so. Prin. What, wliat ? first praise me and again say O short-lived pride! Xntfair? alackforwoe! [no? For. Yes, madam, fair. Prin. Xay, never paint me now : Wliere fair is not, praise cannot mend the brow. Here, good my glass, take this for telling true: Fair payment for foul words is miire than due. For. Kotliing but fair is that which 5-ou inherit. Prin. See, see, my beauty will be saved by merit ! O heresy in fair, fit for these days! A giving liaud, thougli 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 : Xot wounding, pity would not let me do 't; If wounding, then it was to show my skill, That iiKue for praise than piu-pose meaut 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 s|iill The poor deer's lilood, that my heart means no ill. Bot/ct. Do not curst wives hold that self-sovereignty Only for praise sake, when they strive to be Lords o'er their lords y 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. „ Enter Costard. Cost. God dig-you-den all! Pray you, which is the head lady 'f Prin. Tiiou 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 0' 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 will ? Cost. 1 have a letter from Monsieur Biron to one Lady Rosaline. [of mine : Prin. O, thy letter, thy letter! he 's a good frieud Stand aside, good bearer. Boyet, you can carve; Break up this capon. Boi/ct. I am bound to serve. This letter is mistook, it importeth none here; It is writ to Jaquenetta. Prin. We will read it, I swear. Break tlie neck of the wax, and every one give ear. Boi/ct [reads]. 'By heaven, that thou art fair, is most'infallible ; true, that thou art beauteons ; 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 e.ve upon the pernicious and indubitate beggar ' Zeneloplion; and he it was that might rightly say, Veni, villi, vici; which to amiothanize 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? tlie beggar: who overcame he?" the beggar. The con- clusion is victory: on whose side? the king's. The captive is enriched: on M'hose side? the beggar's. Tlie 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 'f I may : shall I enforce thy love y I could: shall I entreat thy love'i' I will. AVhat Shalt tliou exchange for rags i* robes ; for tittles i titles; for thyself y 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 Armado.' Thus dost thou hear the Nemean lion roar 'Gainst thee, thou lamb, tliat standest as his prey. Submissive fall his prim-i'ly feet before. And he from forage will incline to play: But if thou strive, poor soul, what art thou then y Food for his rage, repasture for his den. Prin. What plume of feathers is he that indited this letter'? • [better r* What vane 'i what weathercock V did you ever hear Boijet. I am much deceived but I remember the style. [erewhile. Prin. Else your memory is bad, going o'er it Boijct. This Armado is a Spaniard, that keeps here in court; A phantasime, a Monarclio, and one that makes sport To the prince and his bookmates. Prin. Thou fellow, a word : AVlio gave thee this letter ? Cost. I told you ; my lord. Prin. To whom shouldst thou give it V Cost. From my lord to my lady. Pi-Mi. From which lord to wliich lady V Cost. From niylmil liiicnua uond master of mine, To a lady nf France that In' call'd Rosaline. Prin. Thou hast mistaken his letter. Come, lords, away. [To Bos.'] Here, sweet, put up this : 't will be thine anotlier day. {EMunt Princess and train. Boyct. Who is the suitor V who is the suitor ? Bos. Shall I teacli you to know V B'jyet. Ay, my continent of beauty. Eos. Why, she that bears the bow. Finely put off ! Boijet. My lady goes to kill horns ; but, if thou ■ marry. Hang me by the neck, if horns that year miscarry. Finely put on ! Ros. Well, then, I am the shooter. Boyet. And who is your deer V Ros. If we choose by the horns, yourself come not near. Finely put on, indeed ! Mar. Yim still wrangle with her, Boyet, and she strikes at the brow. Boyet. But she herself is hit lower : have I hit her now y Ros. Shall I come upon thee with an old saying, that was a man when King Pepin of France was a little boy, as touching tlie hit it V Boyet. So 1 may answer thee with one as old, that was a woman when (iui'pii (Juinover of Britain was a little wench, as touching the hit it. Ros. Thou canst not hit it, hit it, hit it, Tliou canst not hit it, my good man. Boyet. An I cannot, caimot, cannot. An I cannot, another can. [E.vciint Ros. 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 irit. full of bums, hgures, shapes, objects, ideas, apprehensions, niotioiis, 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 prolit very greatly under you: youareagood menilicrcif thecommoiiwealtli. Hoi. Mehercle, if their sons be ingenuous, they shall want no instruction; if their daughters be capable, I will put it to tliem : but vir sapit qui pauca loquitur; a soul feminine saluteth us. Enter Jaquenetta and Costard. Jnq. God give \ou good morrow, master Parson. H(jI. Master Parson, quasi pers-on. An if oue should be pierced, which is tlie oneV 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 ; tire enough for a flint, pearl enough for a swine ; 't pretty; it is well, Jaa. 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 Kuminat, — and so forth. Ah, good old ^lantuan ! 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 V Nath. Ay, sir, and very learned. [domine. Hoi. Let me hear a staff, a stanze, a verse; lege, Nath. [reacl.^] 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'llfaithful prove ; [bow'd. Those t hi nights to me were oaks, to thee like osiers Study his bias leaves and makes his book thine eyes, AViiere 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- W^hich is to me some praise that I thy parts admire: Thy eye Jov-e's lightning bears, tliy voice liis dread- ful thunder, AVhich, not to anger bent, is music and sweet lire. Celestial as thou art, O, i)ardon 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 ratihed; but, for the elegancy, facility, and golden cadence of poe.sy, caret. Ovid- ius Naso was the man : and why, indeed, Naso, but for smelling out the odoriferous flowers of fancy, the jerks of invention y Imitari is nothing : so doth the hound his master, the ape his keeper, the tired horse his I'ider. But, damosella virgin, was this directed to you V Jaq. Ay, sir, from one Monsieur Biron, one of the strange queen's lords. Hoi. I will overglaiice 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 tlie nomination of the party writing to the per- son written unto: 'Your ladyship \s in all desired emiiloyiaeiit, 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 l)y 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 Co.stard, go with me. Sir, God save Coxt. Have with thee, my girl. [E.ecunt Cost, and Jaq. Nath. Sir, you have done tliis 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 5'ou, Sir Xathaiiiel ? 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 cliild or pupil, undertake your ben venuto; where I will jnove 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 verlia. 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! afoul word. Wfll. set thee down, scjrrow ! for so they say thefoolsaid,aiidsosay I,aiidl thefool : 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 ej^e, — by this light, but for her eye, I would not love Iier; yes, for her two eyes. Well, I do nothing in the world but lie, and lie in my tliroat. By heaven, I do love: and it bath taught me to rhyme and to be melancholy ; and 121 ACT IV. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. SCENE III. here is part of my rhyme, and here my melancholy. Well, she liath 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, ivith a jxiper. King. Ay me ! Biron. [ylsWc] Shot, by heaven! Proceed, sweet Cupid : thou hast thumiaed him with thy bird-bolt imder the left pap. In faith, secrets! King [i-cads]. So sweet a kiss the golden sun gives not To those fresli nioniing drops upon the rose, As thy eye-beams, wlien their fresh rays liave smote The niglit of dew tliat on my cheeks down flows: Nor shines the sil\('r nidoii one lialf so l)right Through the transparent bosdiii of the deep. As doth thy face through tears of mine give light: Thou shinest in ev<-ry tear that I do weep : No drop but as a coach doth carry thee; So ridest thou triuniiihing in my woe. Do but behold the tears that swell in me. And thev thy ^lorv throULih mv grief will show: But do not hive thyself; then tliou wilt keep My tears for glasses, and still make me wei-i). O queen of queens! how far dust tlidii excel. No thought can tliiuk, nor tongue of nmrtal tell. How shall she knowmy griefs? I '11 droji tlie|«per! Sweet leaves, shade folly. Who is he coiues heie V [SI, i„ 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 fellovv'ship 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 sliape 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 numbeis will 1 tear, and write in prose. Biron. O, rhymes are guards on wanton Cupid's Disfigure not his slop. [hose : Long. This same shall go. [Reads. Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye, 'Gainst wlioni tlie world cannot 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 lieing gain'd cures all disgrace in me. Vows are but lireath, 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, wliat f(wl is not so wise To lose an oath to win a paradise ? [a deity. Biron. This is the liver-vein, Avhich 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 thisV — Company! stay. [Steps aside. Biron. All hid, all hid; an old infant play. Like a demigod here sit I in the sky, And wretched fools' secrets heedfully o'er-eye. More sacks to the mill ! O lieavens, 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 naist jirofane coxcomb! Bum. By lieaven, the wonder in a mortal eye! Biron. By eartli, she is not, corporal, there you lie. Bum. Ileranilier hair for foul hath amber quoted. Biron. An aiidier-eolour'd raven was well noted. Bum. As upright as the cedar. Biron. Stoop, I say; Her shoidder 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 slie Reigns in my blood and will reinemberVl lie. Biron. A fever in ytiar blood! why, then incision Would let her out in saucers: sweet misprision ! Bum. Once more I'll read the ode that I have writ. [wit. Biron. Once more I'll mark how love can vary Bum. [reads.] On a day — alack the day ! — Love, wliose month is ever May, Sjiied a blossom passing fair I'laying in the wanton air: Tlirongh 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, tliy cheeks may blow; Air, would I might triumph so! But, alack, my hand is sworu Ne'er to jiluck thee from thy thorn; A'ow, alack, for youth immeet. Youth so ai)t 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 lo'vers 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 sliould b'hisli, I know. To be o'erlieard and taken napping so. King, [iidniiiriiiij] Come, sir, you blush; as his your case is such; You chide at liini, 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 yon liotli did blush : I heard your guilty rhymes, oliserved your fasliion. Saw sighs reek from you, noted ^^•ell your passion: Ay me! says one; OJove! the other cries; One, her hairs were gold, crystal the otlier's eyes: [2b Long.] You would for paradise break faith and troth ; [an oath. [To Bum.] And Jove, for j-our love, would infringe What will Biron say wlien that lie shall bear 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. Xow step I forth to whip hypocrisy. [^Adcanchui. Ah, good my liege, I pray thee, pardon me! Good heart, what grace liast thou, thus to reprove These worms for loving, that art most in love V 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 ; Tusli, none ))ut minstrels like of sonneting! ]jut are you not asliamedV nay, are you not, All tliree of you, to be tiius much o'ersliot ? You found his mote; tlie king your mote did see; But I a beam do find in eacli of tliree. 0, what a scene of foolery have I seen. Of siglis, of groans, of sorrow and of teen ! me, witli what strict patience have I sat, To see a king transformed to a gnat ! To see great Hercules wliipiiing a gig. And profound .Solouion to tune a jig. And Xestor i)lay at pusli-pin with the boys. And critic Timon laugh at idle toys! Where lies tliy grief, O, tell me, good Dumaiu? And, gentle Longaville, where lies thy pain 'i And wliere my liege's V all about the breast : A caudle, ho ! King. Too bitter is thy jest. Are we betray 'd thus to thy over-view ? Biron. Xot 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 men of inconstancy. AVhen shall you see me write a thing in rhyme V Or groan for love y or spend a minute's time In pruning me 'i Wlien 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 V Kiwj. Soft ! whither away so fast ? A true man or a thief that gallops so y 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 V Cost. Some certain treason. King. AVhat makes treason here y Cost. 'Sfay, it makes notHing, sir. King. If it mar nothing neither, The treason and you go in peace away together. Jaq. 1 beseech your grace, let this letter be read : Our parson misdoubts it; 't was treasun, lie said. King. Biron, read it over. [Giving him the paper. Where liadst thou it y 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 y why dost thou tear it y 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. Whaty 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. Kow the number is even. Biron. True, true; we are four. Will these turtles be gone V King. ' Hence, sirs; away! Cost. Walk aside the true folk, and let the traitors .stay. [E.rcunt Costard, «(i(Z Jaquenetta. Biron . Sweet h irds, sweet h ivers, O, let us embrace ! As true we are as tiesh and blcidd can be: The sea will ebb and How, heaven show his face; Y'^oung 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 ofthiiiey [ly Rosaline, Birou. Did tliey, quoth yoiiy Who sees the heaven- That, like a ruile and savage man of Inde, At the first opening of tlie gorgeous east, Bows not his vassal head and strncken blind Kisses tlie l.iase ground witli obedient breast ? What ]ieieiiiptory eagle-sighted eye Dares look upon the heaven of iier brow. That is not blinded by her majesty y [now? King. What zeal, what fury hath inspired thee My love, her mistress, is a gracious moon; Slie 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 cull'd sovereignty Do meet, as at a fair, in her fair cheek. Where several worthies make one dignity, AVlieie nothing wants that want itself doth seek. Lend me the llmuish of all gentle tongues, — Fie, painted rhetoric ! O, she needs it not : To things of sale a seller's praise belongs. She passes prai.se ; then praise too short doth blot. A wither'd hermit, flve-score winters worn, Might shake off fifty, looking in her eye : Beauty doth varnish age, as if new-born. Ami gives the crutch the cradle's infancy : O, 'tis the sun that maketli all things shine. King. By heaven, thy love is black as ebony. Biron. Is ebony like her y O wood divine ! A wife of such wood were felicity. O, who can give an oath y wliere is a booky Tliat I may swear beauty doth beauty lack. If that she learn not of her eve to look: Xo face is fair that is not full so black. King. O paradox ! Black is the badge of hell, Tliehue of dungeons and the suit of night; And beauty's crest becomes the hea\Tiis well. Biron. Devils soonest tempt, resembling spirits of O, if ill black my lady's brows be deck'd, [light. It UKiurns that painting and usurping hair Should ravisli doters with a false aspect; And tlierefore is she fioni 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 lilack, 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 caudles 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 tiU doomsday here. [she. King. No devil will fright thee then so much as Bum. I 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. Bimi. O vile! then, as she goes, what upward lies The street should see as she walk'd overhead. Kinij. 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^ nuirry, then^; smne llattcry lor this evil. Lotig. O, some authority luiw to i)ro(/e('d; Some tricks, some quillets, how to cheat the devil. Dam. Some salve for perjury. Biron. 'T is more than need. Have at you, then, affections men at ariu^s. Consiilei' wliat ynx lirst did swear unto. To fast, t(i study, and to sec no woman; Flat treason 'gainst the kindly state of youth. Say, can you fast? ycn-.r slonuiehs are too young; And abstinence engenders makidies. And where that you have vow'd to study, lords, In that each of you have forsworn las book, Can j'ou still dream and pore and tliereon look ? For when would you, my lord, or you, or you, Have fomid the ground of study's excellence Without the beauty of a woman's face';' [From wouii'u's eyes this iloetrine I derive; Tlieyare the grdiiml. the l)(ioks, the aeademes From wlieiieeilolh s|>ring the true l-*roiuetliean fire.] Why, universal plodding piiisons up The nimble spirits in tlie arteries. As motion and long-diuing 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 tlie world Teaches sueli beauty as a woman's eye ? Learning is but an adjunct to (lurself And where we are our learnin;4 likewise is: Then when ourselves we see in hulics' eyes, Do we not likewise see our learning tliere y O, we have made a vow to study, lords. And in tliat vow we have forsworn our books. For when would you, my liege, or you, or you, In leaden coideniplation Ikivc found out Such fiery nundjers as the i)riimptiug 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 exeiy (iowit a doulile power, Above their functions and their ortices. it adds a precious seeing to the eye ; A lover's eyes will gaze an eagle lilind ; A lover's ear will hear the lowest sf>uud. 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 clind)ing trees in the Hesperides? Subtle as Sphinx; as sweet and musical As bright Apollo's lute, strung with liis hair: And wlieu Love speaks, the voice of idl the gods Make heaven drowsy with the harmony. Never durst poet touch a pen to write Until his ink were tenijier'd with Love's sighs; O, then his lines would ravish savage ears And jilant in tyrants mild humility. From women's eyes this doctrine I derive: They sparkle still tlie right Prometliean 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 ])rove fools. For wisdom's sake, a word that all men love. Or for love's sake, a W(u-d that loves all men. Or for men's sake, the authors td' 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 wdio can sever love from charity'? King. Saint (_'npid, then ! and, soldiers, to the field! Biron. Advance your standards, and upon them, lords ; Pell-mell, down with them! but be first advised, In confiict that you get the sun of them. Long. Now to plain-dealing; lay these glozes by: Shall we resohe to woo these girls of France '? Jiiiif/.— 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 tlie afternoon We will with some strange [lastime solace them, Such as the shortness oi' the time can shape; For revels, dances, masks and merry hours Foreriui fair Love, strewing her way with flowers. King. Away, away! no time shall be omitted That will betimc, and may by us be fitted. Biron. Allons! 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 uo better treasure. [Kxeimt. .ACT V. SCENE 1.— TIte scunc. I^Uer Holofernes, Sir Nathaniel, and Dull. Hoi. Satis quod sufflcit. Nath. I praise God for you, sir : your reasons at dinner have been shar]) aiid sententious; pleasant without scurrility, witty without affection, auda- cious without inqiudency, learne on 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 liave we neglected time, Play'd foul play witli our oaths : your Vieauty, ladies. Hath much defmiu'd us, fashioning our humours Even to the opposed end of our intents: And what in us liath seem'd ridiculous, — As love is full of unbefitting strains. All wanton as a child, skipiiing and vaia, Form'd by the eye and theretbre, Uke tlie eye, Full of strange shapes, of haliits and of forms, Varying in suljjecls as tlie eye doth roll To evei\v varieil object in his glance: Which pai'ti-coate(l presence ot loose love Put on by us, if, in your heavenly eyes, Have misbecoined our oatlis and gravitiies. Those heavenly eyes, that look into these faults, Suggested us to make. Therefore, ladies, Oul- love being yours, the error that love makes Is likewise yours: we to ourselves prove false. By being oiice false for ever to be true To those that make us both, — fair ladies, you: And even that falsehood, in itself a sin. Thus purities itself and turns to grace. Prin. We have received your letters full of love; Your favours, the auiliassadors of love; And, in our maidi'ii cnuiieil. 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. Ros. 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. Xo, no, my lord, your grace is perjured much. Full of dear guiltiness; and therefore tliis: If for my love, as there is no sucli cause. You will do aught, this shall you do for me: Your oatli I will not trust; bid go with speed To some forlorn and naked lierinitage. Remote from all the pleasures of the world; Tliere stay until the twelve celestial signs Have brought about the annual reckoning. If this austere insociable life Change not j'our offer made in heat of blood; If frosts and fasts, hard lodging and thin weeds Nip not the gaudv blossoms of \(iur love. But that it liear this trial ami 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 tliis, or more than tliis. I would deny, To flatter up these powers of mine with re.st, 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 wliat to me, my love? and what to nie y 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 petiple sick.] Dum. But what to me, my love '{ but what to me V 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 g;ive you some. Bum. I '11 serve thee true and faithfully till then. Kath. Yet swear not, lest ye be forsworn again. Ijong. What says Maria V Mar. At the twelvemonth's end I '11 change my black gown ftir a faithfid friend. Lon(/. I'll stay with patience; but the time is long. il/ar. 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. Hos. Oft have I heard of you, my Lord Blron, 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 nieicy of your wit. To weed this wormwood froni your fruitful brain. And therewitlial to win me, if you please. Without the which I am not to be won. 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 tierce 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. Ilos. 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 hini tliat 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, Ri"ht joyful of your reformation. Biron. A twelvemonth! well; befall what will befall, I '11 jest a twelvemonth iu an hospital. Prill. [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. lie-enter Armado. Arm. Sweet majesty, vouchsafe me, — Prin. Was not that Hector? Bum. The worthy knight of Troy. Arm. I 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 eud of our show. King. Call them forth quickly ; we will do so. Arm. Holla! approach. Re-enter Holofernes, Nathaniel, Moth, Costard, and others. This side is Hiems, AVinter, 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, Unpleasing to a married ear I 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 smocks. The cuckoo then, on every tree. Mocks married men ; for "thus sings he. Cuckoo ; Cuckoo, cuckoo : O word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear 1 . WlKTER. 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 smgs the staring owl, Tu-whit; Tu-who, a merry note. While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. When all aloud the winlii'(li('ni-f to your father's will. Or else to weove looks not with the eyes, but with the mind ; And therefore is wing'd Cupid painted blind : Nor liath Love's mind of any judgment taste; Wings aud 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 perjiu'ed e\t'ry where : For ere Demetrius lookM un Ilermia's eyne, He hail'd down oaths tliat he was only mine; And when this hail some heat from Ilermia felt. So he dissolved, and sliowers of oat lis did melt. I will go tell him of fair Ilermia's llight: Then to the wood will he to-morrow iiight Punsue her; and for tliis intelligence If I have thanks, it is a dear expense: But herein mean I to enrich my pain, To have his, sight thither and back again. {Exit. SCENE 11.— Alliens. Quince^s house. Enter Quince, Snug, Bottom, Flute, Snout, and Starveling. Quin. Is all our company here ? Bot. You were best to call them generally, man by man, according to the scrip. ' Qaiit. Here is "the scroll of every man's name, which is thought tit, through all Athens, to play in our interlude before the duke and the duchess, on his wedding-day at night. But. 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 Pyramus 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. Kick Bottom, the weaver. Bot. Ready. Name what part I am for, and pro- ceed. Quin. You, Nick Bottom, are set down for Pyr- amus. Bot. AVhat is Pyramus V a lover, or a tjTant ? 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 jilay Ercles rarely, or a part to tear a cat in, to make all split. The r;ii;ing recks An-"iiriiis, do no wrong, Come not near our fairy queen. Pliilomel, with melody Sing in our sweet lullaby ; Lulla, lulla, lullaby, lulla,"lulla, 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-leggM spinners, hence I 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. Enter Oberon, and squeezes the flower on Titania's eyelids. Obe. AVhat thou seest when thou dost wake. Do it for thy true-love take, I.ove and languish for his sake : Be it ounce, or cat, or bear, Pard, or boar with liristled hair. In thy eye that sluill aiii)ear AVhen thou wakest, it is thy dear: AVake when some vile thing is near. [Exit. Enter Lysander and Hermia. Lys. Fair love, you faint witli wandei'ing in the And to s])eak troth, I have for.ii'ot our way : [wood; We '1! 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 ami 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 iirayer, say I; And then end life when I end loyalty ! Here is my bed: sleep give tliee 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 apjirove This flower's force in stirring love. Night and silence. — Wlio is here ? Weeds of Athens he doth wear: This is he, my master said, 138 Despised the Athenian maid; And here tlie maiden, sleejiing 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, thougii thou kill me, sweet Demetrius. Dem. 1 charge thee, heuce, ami 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 siie hath blessed and attractive eyes. How came her eyes so 1 iright V 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: Tlierefore no marvel though Demetrius Do, as a monster, lly my laesence thus. What wicked and dissembling glass of mine Made me comjiare witli Herniia's sphery eyne? But who is here V Lysander ! on the ground ! Dead r' or asleep V I see no blood, no wound. Lysander, if you live, good sir, awake. Lys. [Airalinij] And run through fire I will for thy sweet sake. Transparent Helena ! Nature shows art. That through thy bosom makes me see thy heart. AVhere is Demetrius V O, how fit a w ord Is that vile name to perisli on my sword ! Hel. Do not say so, Lysander; say not so. What though he love your Hermia":' Lord, what though y 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 cliange a raven for a dove V The will of man is by his reason sway'd; And reason says you are tlie worthier maid. Things growing are not ripe until their season: So I, oeing young, till now ripe not to reason; And touching now the point of human skill, Eeiisoii becomes the niarslial 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 y When at your hands did I deserve this scorn V 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 tlout my insufficiency y Good troth, you do me wrong, good sooth, you do, In such disdainful manner me to woo. But fare you well: iierforee 1 must confess I thought you lord of more true gentleness. O, that a lady, of one man refused, Should of another therefore lie aliused ! [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 loatliing to the stomach brings, Or as the heresies that men do leave Are hated most of tliose they did deceive, So thou, my surfeit and my heresy, Of all be hated, but the most of me! ACT III. A 3IIDSU3I3rER-NIGHT\S DREA3L SCENE I. And, all my powers, address your love and might To liouour Heleu aud to be her kuight ! \lSxit. Her. [Aicakiny] Help me, Lysauder, help me! do thy best To pluck this crawling serpent from my breast ! Ay me, for pity ! what a dream was here ! Lysauder, look how I do quake with fear : ^Meth.ought a serpent eat my heart away. And you sat smiling ut his cruel prey. Lysauder! what, removed? Lysauder! 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. !N o ? then I well perceive you are not nigh : Either death or you I '11 find immediately. [Exit. J^CT III. SCENE I. — The wood. Tilania hjing asleep. Enter Quince, Snug, Bottom, Flute, Snout, and Starveling. Eot. Are we all met Y Quia. Pat, pat; and here 's a marvellous conven- ient place for our rehearsal. Tills 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 But. Peter Quince, — [duke. Quid. What sayest thou, bully Bottom? JJdt. There are things in this comedy of Pyramus and Thisby that will never please. First, Pyranuis must draw a sword to kill himself ; which the ladies cannot abide. How answer you that ? Snout. By 'r lakiu, a parlous fear. Star. I believe we must leave the killing out, when all is done. Bot. Jfot 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 s\vorreseiit,th('iiers(in of Moonshine. Then, there is another thing : we uuist have a wall in the great chamber; for PjTamus and Thisby, says the story, did talk through tlie chink of a wall. Snout. You can never bring in a wall. What say you. Bottom ? Bot. Some man or other must present AVall : aral let him have some plaster, or some loam, or some rough-cast about him, to siginfy wall; and let him hold his fingers thus, and through that cranny shall Pyramus aud Tliisby 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: aud so every one according to his cue. Enter Puck behind. Fuel,:. What hempen home-spuns have we swagger- So near the cradle of the fairy queen ? [iug 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. Tliisby, 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 Ijut here awhile, Aud by and by I will to tliee appear. [Exit. Fuck. A stranger Pyramus than e'er played here. [Exit. Flu. Must I speak now ? Quin. Ay, marry, must you ; for you must under- stand lie goes but to see a noise that he heard, and is to come again. Flu. Most radiant PjTamus, most lily-white of hue, Of colour like the red rose on triumphant brier, Most brii^ky ju\ cnal and eke most lovely Jew, As true as truest liorse that yet would never tire, I '11 meet thee, Pyramus, at 2sinny's tomb. Quin. 'isinus' tomb,' man: why, you must not speak that yet; that you answer to Pyramus: j-ou 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 , a nd Starrelinc/. Puck. I '11 follow you, I '11 lead you about a round. Through bog, through bush, through brake, througli brier: Sometime a liorse I '11 be, sometime a hound, A hog, a lieadless bear, sometime a fire ; And neigh, and bark, and grunt, and roar, and bum, 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 ou thee ? 139 ACT III. A 3IIDSU3I3IER-NIGHT'S DREA3L SCENE II. Bfit. What do you see ? you see an ass-heail of your own, do you V \^Exit ISiwul. lie-enter Quince. Quill. Bless thee, Uottom! 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 Lear I am not afraiil. \_Sinijs. The ousel cock so black of hue, With orangc-tawiiy Viill, The throstle with his note so true. The wren with little quill, — Tita. {Airnkin[f\ What angel wakes me from my flowery bed ■? Bot. [Simjs] The finch, the sparrow and the lark. The plain-song cuckoo gray, Whose note full many a man doth mark. And dares not answer nay ; — for, indeed, wlio would set his wit to so foolish a bird ? who would give a bird the lie, though he cry ' cuckoo ' never so V Tita. I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again: !Mine ear is nuich enamour'd of thy note; So is mine e3'e enthralled to thy shape; And thy fair virtue's force perforce doth move me On the lirst view to say, to swear, I love thee. Bot. Jiletliinks, mistress, you should have little reason for that: and yet, to say the truth, reason and love l in his walks and ganiliol in liis eyes; Feed liini with apricncks and dewberries, AVitli purple grapes, green ligs, and mullierries; Tiie lioney-bags steal from tlic humlile-bees, And for niglit-taiH'rs croji tlicir waxen thiglis And ligiit them at tlie tiery glow-worm's eyes. To have my love to bi'd and to arise; And pluck the wings from jiainted butterflies To fan tlie moonbeams frmn his sleeping eyes: Nod to him, elves, and do him comtesies. " Bcas. Hail, mortal! Coh. Hail! Moth. Hail! Mus. Hail! Bot. I cry your worship's mercy, heartily : I be- seech your worship's name. Coh. 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, connnend me to Mistress Squash, 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 liouse : 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, weei)s every little flower, Lamenting some enforced chastity. Tie up my love's tongue, bring him silently. [Exeunt. SCENE 11.— Another XMrt of the wood. Enter Oberon. Ohc. 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 ! W^hat 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 w^as in her dull and sleeping hour, A crew of patches, ruile meclianicals, That work for l>read upon Athenian stalls. Were met togetlier to reliearse a play Intended fur great Tlieseus' nuptial-day. The shallowest thick-skin of tliat barren sort. Who Pyramus presented, in their sport Forsook his scene and enter'd in a brake: When I did him at this ad\'antage 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 fly ; And, at ourstamp, 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 tinngs begin to do them wrong; For briers and tlirirns at tlieir apparel snatch; Some sleeves, some hats, from yielders all things I led them on in tliis distracted iear, [catch. And left sweet Pyramus translated there: When in that moment, so it came to pass, Titania waked and straigldwav loved an ass. Ohc. Tliis falls out better tlian I could devise. But hast thou y<'t lati/lTd tiie Atlienian's eyes Witli the love-juice, as I did bid thee do? Puch. I took liini sleeping, — that is finish 'd too, — And the Athenian wmnan by his side; That, when he waked, of force she must be eyed. Enter Hermia and Demetrius. Ohe. Stand close : this is the same Athenian. Puck. This is the woman, but not this the man._ Dem. O, why rebuke you him tliat loves you so? Lay breath so bitter on your bitter foe. tier. Now I but chide ;" but I .should use thee worse, For thou, I fear, hast given me cause to curse. ACT III. A 3IIDSU3I3IER-NIGHT'S DREA3L SCENE II. If tlion hast slain Lysander in his sleep, Beinoc 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 lie have stolen away From sleeping Hermia 'f I '11 believe as soon This whole earth may be bored and that the moon May through the centre creeii anil so displease Her brother's noontide with tlu' Antipodes. It cannot be but thou liast nuuiler'd him; So should a murderer look, so dead, so grim. Dan. So should tlie murder'd Imik, and so should I, Pierced through the heart with your stern cruelty: Yet you, the murderer, look as bright, as clear. As j-'onder Venus in her glimmering sphere. Her. What 's this to my Lysander? where is he? Ah, Mod Demetrius, wilt thou give him me? Dcin. I had rather give his carcass to my hounds. Her. Out, dog! out, cur! thou drivest me past tlie 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 I 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 Thau 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 tliat he is well. Dem. AJi 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. {Exil. Dem. There is no following her in this fierce vein : Here therefore for a while I will remain. So sorrow's heaviness doth lieavier grow For debt that bankrupt sleep dotli sorrow owe; Which now in some slight measure it will pay. If for his tender here I make some stay. [Lies down and sleeps. Obc. What hast thou done ? thou hast mistaken quite And laid the love-juice 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, tliat, 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, AVith sighs of love, tliat costs the fresh 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 dotli espy. Let her shine as gloriously As the Venus of the .sky. When thou wakest, if she be by, Beg of her for remedy. Re-enter Puck. Puck. 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 jirove them true ? HeJ. You do advance your cunning more and more. When truth kills triith, O devilish-holy fray! These vows are Ilermia'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 1 swore. Hel. Nor none, in my mmd, now you give her o'er. Lys. Demetrius loves her, and he loves not you. IJem. [Airakhuj] O Helen, goddess, nymfih, per- fect, divine ! To what, my love, shall I compare thine e3nie? Crystal is muddy. O, how ripe in show Tliy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting gi'ow ! That pure congealed white, high Taurus' snow, Fann'd with the eastern wind, turns to a crow When thou hold'st up thy band : O, let me kiss This prince.ss of pure white, this seal of bliss I 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 ej-es With your derision ! none of noble sort Would so offend a virgin and extort A poor soul's patience, all to make you sport. Lijs. 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 Ilermia's love I yield you up my part ; And yours of Helena to me bequeath, "Wliom 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. iSIy heart to her but as guest-wise sojourn 'd, And now to Helen is it home return 'd. There to remain. Ltjs. Helen, it is not so. Dem. Disparage not the faith thou dost not know, Lest, to thy perfl, thou aby it dear. Look, where thy love comes; yonder is thy dear. Re-enter Hermia. Her. Dark night, that from the eye his function takes. The ear more quick of apprehension makes; Wlierein it doth impair the seeing sense. It pays tlie 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, wliom love doth press Her. What love could press Lysander from my side ? Lys. Lysander's love, that would not let liim bide, 141 ACT III. A MIDSU3I3IER-NIGHT'S DREA3L SCEXE ir. Fair Helena, who more engilds the night Than all yon fiery oes and eyes of light. "Why seek'st thou me 'i could not this make thee know, The hate I bear thee made me leave thee so ? Her. You speak not as you tliink : 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, Tlie sisters' vows, the hours that we have spent, AVhen we have chid the hasty-footed time For iiarting us, — O, is it all forgot? All scIiool-(hiys' friendship, chiidhood innocence ? '\0e, Ilerniia, like two artiliciul 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 ohr hands, our sides, voices and minds, Ilail been incorporate. So we grew together, Like to a double cherry, seeming parted, But yet an union in partition; Two lovely berries moulded oh one stem ; So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart; Two of the first, like coats in heraldry. Due but to one and crov/ned with one crest. And will you rent our ancient love asunder, To join with men in scorning your poor friend ? It is not friendly, 'tis not maidenly: Our sex, as well as I, may chide you for it, Though I alone do feel the injury. 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, AVho even but now did spurn me with his foot, To call me goddess, nymph, divine and rare. Precious, celestial ? Wherefore speaks he this To lier he hates 'i and wherefore doth Lysander Deny your love, so rich within his soul. Anil tender me, forsooth, affection. But liy your setting on, by your consent ? "What though I be not so in grace as you, So hung upon with love, so fortunate. Bat miseralile most, to love unloved V This you should pity rather than despise. Hi r. I understand not what you mean by this. Hel. Ay, do, persever, counterfeit sad looks, IMake mouths upon me when I turn my back; "WHuk each at other; hold the sweet jest up : Tills sport, well carried, shall be chronicled. If you liave any pity, grace, or manners. You ^vould not make me sucli an argument. But fare ye well : 't is partly my own fault ; AViiich death or absence soon shall remedy. Lijs. Stay, gentle Helena ; hear my excuse : My love, my life, my soul, fair Helena ! Hel. O excellent! Her. Sweet, do not scorn her so. Dem. If she cannot oitreat. I can compel. Lijs. 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 wliich I will lose for thee. To prove him false that says I love thee not. Dem. I say I love thee more than he can do. Lijs. If thou say so, withdraw, and prove it too. Hem. Quick, come! Her. Lysander, whereto tends all this V Lys. Away, you Ethiope ! Hem. 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 off, 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 V Lijs. Thy love ! out, tawny Tartar, out ! Out, loathed medicine! liated potion, hence ! Her. Do you not jest 'i Hel. Yes, sooth ; and so do you. Lijs. Demetrius, I will keep my word with tliee. Hem. I would I had your bond, for I perceive A weak bond liolds you : 1 '11 not trust your word. Lys. What, should I hurt her, strike her, kill her dead V Although I hate her, I '11 not harm her so. Her. What, can you do me greater harm than hate ? Hate me! wherefore V Orne! what news, my ^ove! Am not I Hermia y are not you Lysander? I am as fair now as 1 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 ! Yoit thief of love ! what, have you come by niglit And stolen my love's iieart from him ? Hel. Fine, i' faith ! Have you no modesty, no maiden shame. No touch of bashfulness V AVhat. will you tear Impatient answers from my gentle longue ? Fie, fie! you counterfeit, \iiu pupiK-t, you! Her. Puppet ? why so ? ay , that way goes tlie game. Now I perceive that she hath madi'compare Between our statures; she hath urged her lieight ; And with her personage, her tall personage, Her height, forsooth, she liath prcvail'd with 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 >et 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 follow'd yiiu; for love I follow'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 h.ow simple and how fond I am. [you? Her. Why, get you gone : who is 't that hinders Hel. A foolish lieartl^ 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 shall 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 lie but little, she is fierce. Her. ' Little ' again ! nothing but ' low ' and ' lit- tle'! ACT III. A 3IIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREA3L SCEKE II, AVliy will you suffer her to flout me thus ? Let me come to her. iys. Get you goue, you dwarf ; You minimus, of hindering knot-grass made ; You bead, you acorn. Dcm. You ai-e too officious In lier behalf that scorns your services. Let her alone : speak not of Helena ; Take not her part ; for, if thou dost intend Xever so little show of love to her, Thou slialt aby it. Lijs. Now she holds me not ; XoVv follow, if thou darest. to try whose right. Of tliine or mine, is most in Helena. Dem. Follow ! nay, I '11 go with thee, cheek by jole. [Exeunt L'lsander and Demetrius. Her. You, mistress, all this coil is 'long of you: Xay, go not back. Ilel. I will not trust j'ou, I, Xor longer stay in your curst company. Your hands than mine are quicker for a fray, ily legs are longer though, to run away. [Exit. Her. I am amazed, and know not what to sav. [Exit. Obc. 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 Atlienian garments In- liad on? And so far blameless proves my enterprise, Tiiat 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. Obf. Thou see'st these lovers seek a place to fight : Hie therefore, Robin, overcast the night; T!ie 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 tlum like Demetrius: And from each other look thou lead them thus. Till o'er their brows death-counterfeiting sleep AV'itli 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 witli liis might. And make his eyeballs roll with wonted sight. When they next wake, all this derision Shall seem a dream and fruitless vision. And liack to Athens .shall the lovers wend, A\'itli league whose date till death shall never end. AS'hiles I in this affair do thee employ, I '11 to my queen and beg her Indian boy ; And then I will her ehanned eye release From monster's view, and all things shall be peace. Puck. My fairy lord, this must be done with haste. For night's swit't 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, Tiiat in crossways and floods have burial. Already to their 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. Ubc. But we are spirits of another sort : I with tlie morning's love have oft made sport. And, like a forester, the groves may tread. Even till the eastern gate, all tierv-red. Opening on Neptune with lair lilessed beams. Turns into yellow gold liis 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. Ee-enter Lysander. Lys. Where art thou, proud Demetrius ? speak thou now. Puck. Here, villain; drawn and ready. Where art thou ":* L;is. I will be with thee straight. Puck. Follow me, then, • To plainer ground. [Exit Lifsandcr. as following the voice. He-enter Demetrius. Bern. Ly.sanderl speak again: Thou runaway, thou coward, art thou fled ? Speak ! In some bush V Where dost thou hide thy head y Puck. Thou coward, artthoubraggingtothestars, TeUing the bushes that thou look'st for wars. And wilt not come y Come, recreant ; come, thou I '11 whip thee with a rod : he is defiled [child'; That draws a sword on thee. Dem. Yea, art thou there? Puck. Follow my voice : we '11 try no manhood here. _ [Exeunt. He-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 follow'd fast, but faster he did fly; That fallen am I in dark luieven way. And here will rest me. [Licsdoii:n.'\ Come,thougen- tleday! For if but once thou show me thy grey light, I '11 find Demetrius and revenge this spite. [Sleeps. Re-enter Puck and Demetrius. Puck. Ho,ho,ho! Coward, why comestthounot? • Bern. Abide me. if thou darest ; for \\'e!l I wot Thou runn'st liefore me, shifting every place. And darest not stand, nor look me in the face. Where art thou now V Puck. Come hither: I am here. Bern. Nay, then, thou mock'st me. Thou shalt buy 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. Ee-enter Helena. Jfel. 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 sleeps. Purk. Yet but three ? Come one more ; Two of both kinds makes up four. Here she comes, curst and sad : Cupid is a knavish iad. Thus to make poor females mad. Ee-enter Hermia. Her. Never so weary, never so in woe. Bedabbled with tlie 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 tlie lireak of day. Heavens shield Lysander, if they mean a fray! [Lies down and sleeps. Puck. On the ground Sleep sound : 143 ACT IV. A MIDSU3I3IER-NIGHT'S DEFA3L SCENE I, I '11 apply Of thy former lady's eye : To your eye, And the country proverb known, Gentle lover, remedy. Tliat every man should take his ovm, [Squerzin'i the juicf on Lxjsander''s eyes. In your waking shall be shown : Wlii'ii thou wakest, Jack shall have Jill ; Thoutakcst Nought shall go ill ; True deliylit The man shall have his mare again, and all shall In the sight be well. [EmI. _A.CT IV. SCENE I. — The same. Lysander, Demetrius, Hel- ena, and llcrmia lying asleep. Enter Titania and Bottom; Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Moth, Mustardseed, and oilier Fairies attending; Oberon bekind unseen. Titu. 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. Hot. Scratch my head, Peaseblossom. Where 's Mounsieur Cobweb V Cob. Ready. Bot. Mounsieur Cobweb, good mounsieur, get you your weapons in your hand, and kill me a red- liippcd Imnible-bee on the top of a thistle; and, good nidunsieur, bring me the honey-bag. Do not fret 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 y Mris. Ready. Bot. Give me your neaf , Mounsieur Mustardseed. Pray you, leave your courtesy, good mounsieur. Mus. What 's your will V 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 y 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. 1 liad 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 slco]) come upon me. Tt7rt. Slee]) tlion. and I will wind thee in my arms. Fairies, be gone, and be all ways away. [Kteurt t fa iries. So doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle Gently entwist; t'le female ivy so Enrings the barky fingers of the elm. O, how I love thee ! how I dote on thee I iniey sleep. Enter Puck. Ohe. [Advancinef] Welcome, good Robin. See'st thou this sweet sight V 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 Witli coronet of fresh and fragrant flowers ; And that same dew, wliich souirtime on the buds Was wont to swell like round and orient pearls, Stood now witliin tlie ]>retty flowerets' eyes Like tears that did their own disgrace bewail. Wlien 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 Iter fairy sent To bear himto my bower in fairy land. And now I liave the boy, I will undo This hateful imperfection of her eyes: And, gentle Puck, take this transformed scalp From off the liead of tliis Athenian swain; That, he awaking when the other do, May all to Atlieiis back again rejiair And think no more of tliis niglit's accidents P>ut 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 Hatli such force and blessed power. Now, my Titania ; wake you, my sweet queen. Tita. My Oberon! what visions have I seen! Methought I was enamour'd of an ass. Obe. There lies your love. I'ita. How came these things to pass ? O, how mine ej'es do loathe his visage now! Obe. Silence awhile. Robin, take off this head. Titania, music call ; and strike more dead Tlian 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, Ohe. Sound, music I Come, my queen, take hands And rock tiie ground whereon these sleepers be. Now thou and I are new in amity And will to-morrow midnight solemnly Dance in Duke Tlieseus' house triumphantly And bless it to all fair prosperity : There shall the pairs of faithful lovers be Wedded, with Theseus, all in jidlity. Puck. Fairy king, attend, and mark: I do hear the morning lark. Obe. Then, my queen, in siliMice sad. Trip we after the night's sliade: We the globe can coniimss soon. Swifter than the wandering moon. Tita. Come, my lord, and in our tliglit Tell me how it came this niglit That I sleeping here was found With these mortals on the ground. [Exeunt. [Horns winded icitkin. Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Egeus, and train. The. Go, one of you, find out the forester; For now our observation is perform 'd ; And since we have the vaward of the day. My love shall liear the music of my hounds. fWWfr ACT IV. A 3IIDSU3IMER-NIGHT'S DREA3L 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 .mil ( ':i(hnus once, AVlien in a wood of Crete they liay'il the bear With hounds of Sparta: never did 1 hear Such gallant chiding ; for, besides the groves, Tlie skies, the fountains, every region near SeemM all one mutual cry: I never heard So musical a discord, such sweet thunder. 37« . My luiunds are bred out of the Spartan kind. So flew'di so sanded, and their heads are hung With ears that sweep away the morning dew; Crook-knce'd, and dew-lap'p'd like Thessalian bulls ; Slow in pursuit, but match 'd in mouth like bells, Each under eacli. A cry more tuneable Was never holla 'd to, nor cheer'd with liorn, In Crete, in Sparta, nor in The.ssaly : [these ? Judge when you hear. But, soft ! what nymphs are Eye. INIy lord, this is my daughter here asleep ; And this,"Lysander; this Demetrius is; This Helena, old Xedar's Helena: I wonder of their being here together. Thi . Is'o 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 leithin. L>js.,Dem., Hel., cmd Her., icake anel start u}!. Good morrow, friends. Saint Valentine is past: Begin these wood-birds but to couple now ? Li/s. Pardon, my lord. T'kr. 1 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 tear no enmity V Lys. My lord, I shall reply amazedly. Half sleei>, half waking : but as yet, I swear, I cannot truly say how I came here; Bnt, as I think,— for truly would I speak, And now I do bethink me, so it is, — I came with Hermia hither; our intent ■\S'as to be gone from Athens, where we might, AVithont the peril of the Athenian law. E(jc. Enough, enough, my lord ; you have enough : I beg the law, the law, upon his liead. [trius, They would have stolen away; they would, Deme- Tliereby to have defeated you and me. You of your wife and me of my consent. Of my consent that she should be your wife. Brm. My lord, fair Helen told me of their stealth. Of this their jmrpose hither to this wood; And I in fury hither follow'd them. Fair Helena in fancy following me. But, my good lord, I wot not by what power, — But by some power it is, — my love to Hermia, Melted as 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 oliject and tlie 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 natiu'al taste, Now I do wish it, love it, long for it. And will for evermore be true to it. T/ie. Fair lovers, you are fortunately met : Of this discourse we more will hear anon. Egeus, I will overbear your will ; 10 For In the temple, by and by, with us Tliese couples shall eternally be knit : And, for the morning now is something worn. Our purposed huuting shall be set aside. Away with us to Athens; three and tlu:ee,7 We '11 hold a feast in great solemnity. Come, Hippolyta. [Exeunt The., Hip., Ege.. eind train. Dcm. These things seem small and undistinguish- Like far-off mountains turned into clouds, [able. Her. Methinks I see these things with parted eye, When every thing seems double. Hel. Sometldnks: And I have found Demetrius like a jewel. Mine own, and not mine own. Dcm. Are you sure That we are awake ? It seems to me Tliat 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. Hem. Why, then, we are awake : let's follow him; And by the viay let us recount our dreams. [Exeunt. Bot. [Aicakiny] When my cue comes, call me, and I will answer: my next is, 'IMost 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, jiast the wit of man to say what dream it was : man is but an ass, if he go about to expound this dream. IMetlmught I was — there is no man can tell what. Methought I was, — and methought I had, — but man is but a patched fool, it he will offer 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 report, what my dream was. I will get Peter Qnince 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 house. Enter Quince, Flute, Snout, and Starveling. Quia. Have you sent to Bottom's house ? is he come home yet V [trausjiorted. 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 V 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 in Athens. Quin. 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. Snug. Masters, the duke is coming from the temple, and tliere is two or three lords and ladies more married : if our sport had gone forward, we had all been made men. Fu. O sweet bully Bottom ! 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 '11 be hanged; he would have deserved it: sixpence a day in Pyramus, or nothing. Enter Bottom. Eot. Where are these lads? where are these hearts ? 145 ACT V. A 3IIDSU3IMER-NIGHT'S DREA3L SCENE I. Qidn. Bottom ! O most courageous day ! O most happy hour ! Bot. Masters, I am to discourse wonders : hut 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. Qidn. Let us liear, 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. ^CT V. SCENE I.— yl (/if lis. Tlie palace of Theseus. Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Philostrate, Lords, aiicZ Attendants. Hip. 'T is strange, my Theseus, that these lovers speak of. The. More strange than true : I never may believe Tliese 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, iu a tine frenzy rolling. Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to And as imagination bodies forth [lieaven ; The forms of things imknown, the poet's pen Turns them to shapes and gives to airy notiiing A local haliitation and a name. Such tricks liath strdug imagination, That, if it would but ;ipprehend some joy, It comprehends some bringer of that joy ; Or in tlie night, imagining some fear. How easy is a bush supposed a bear ! Hill. l^"t all tlie stcu-y of the night tohl over. And all their miuds tianshgured so together, More witnesseth than 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 ! L)/s. More than to us Walt 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 atter-supper and bed-time':' "Where is our usual manager of mirth 'f "VV^hat revels are in hand ? Is there no play. To ease tlie anguish of a torturing hour y Call Philostrate. Phil. Here, mighty Theseus. The. Say, what abridgment have you for this evening ';* "What masque 'i* what music ? How shall we beguile The lazy time, if not with some delight':' Phil. There is a brief liow many sports are ripe : Make choice of which your highness will see first. [Ginny a paper. The. [Beads] ' The battle with the Ceiitaurs, 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. [Reads] ' 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. [Reads] ' The thrice three Muses mourning for the Of Learning, late deceased in beggary.' [death Tliat is some satire, keen and critical, Not sorting with a nuptial ceremony. [Reads] ' ^V tedious Ijrief scene of young Pyramus And his lo\ e Tlii.slic ; 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 ? Pldl. A play there is, my lord, some ten words long. Which is as brief as I 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 Pyramns tliereiu dotli kill himself. Whicl'i, when I saw rehearsed, I must confess, Ma(k' iiiiuc eyes water; but more merry tears Tiie iiassioii of loud laughter never shed. Thr. Wliat are they that do play it':' Pliil. Ilard-handeiliiien that work in Athens licre, Which never hibt)ur"d in tlieir minds till now. And now have toil'd their unbreathed memories Witli 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 witli cruel pain, To do you service. The. 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 WTetchedness o'ercharged And duty in his service perishing. The. AVhy, gentle sweet, you shall see no such thing. Hip. He says they can do nothing in this kind. The. The kinder we, to give them thanks for nothing. Our sport shall be to take what they mistake : And wliat poor duty cannot do, noble respect Takes it in might, hot merit. Where I have come, great clerks have purposed To greet me with premeditated welcomes ; Where 1 ha\e seen them shiver and look pale. Make jieriods in the midst of sentences. Throttle their practised accent in their fears And ill eoiielusion dumbly have broke off, Not imyiiig me a welcome. Trust me, sweet, Out ol'this silence yet I pick'd a welcome; And ill the modesty of fearful duty I read as iiiueli as from the rattling tongue Of saucy and audacious eloquence. Ijove, therefore, and tongue-tied simplicity In least speak most, to my capacity. A MIDSUJIJIEE- WIG NT'S D RE A 31. SCENE I. Re-enter Philostrate. Phil. SoplPase yourgrace,the Prologueisaddress'd. 'The. Let liim 'approach. [Flourish of trumpets. Enter Quince for the Prologue. Pro. If we offend, 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 ot 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 deliglit We are not here. That you should here repent j'ou, Tiie actors are at Iiand aiid by their show You shall know all that you are like to know. The. This fellow doth not stand upon points. Lys. He hatli rid his prologue like a rough colt ; he knows not the stop. A good moral, my lord: it is not enough to speak, but to speak true. Bijj. Iijdeed he hath played on his prologue like a child on a reeonler ; a sound, but not in government. The. His speech was like a tangled chain ; nothing impaired, but all disordered. Who is next V 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. Tliis man is Pyranuis, if you would know; This beauteous lady Thisljy 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 Tliisby, coming hrst by night, Did scare away, or rather did affright ; And, as she tied, her mantle she did fall. Which Lion vile with bloody mouth did stain. Anon comes Pyramus, sweet youth and tall, And tinds his trusty Thisby"s mantle slain: AVhereat, with Wade, 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. ■Bern. 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, PjTamus and Thisby, Did whisper often very secretly. Tills loam, this rciusrh-cast andtliis stone doth show That I am that same wall: the tiMith is so: And tills the cranny is, right and sinister, Througli whicli the fearful lovers are to whisper. The. Would you desire lime and hair to speak better? Bern. It is the wittiest partition that ever I heard discourse, my lord. Eiiter Pyramus. The. Pyramus draws near the wall : silence! Pi/r. O grim-look'd night ! O night with hue so O night, wliich ever art when day is not ! [black ! O uight, O night! alack, alack, alack, I fear my TIiisliy"s promise is forgot ! And thou,"0 wall. O sweet, O lovely wall, [mine ! That stand'st between her father's ground and Thou wall, O Mall, O sweet and lovely wall, Sliow me thy chuik, to blink through witli mine ej'ne! [ITkH liolds up his fingers. Thanks, courteous wall: Jove shield thee well for But what see I ? No Tliisby 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. P/ir. No, in truth, sir, he should not. ' Deceiving me ' is Tliisby "s cue : she is to enter now, and 1 am to spy her through the wall. You shall see, it wUl fall pat as I told you. Yonder she comes. .Biifer Thisbe. This. O wall, full often hast tlif)u heard my Por 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. Pi/r. 1 see a voice : now will I to the chink, To spy an I can hear my Thisby 's face. Thisby ! This. My love thou art, my love I think. Pi/r. Tliiiilc wiiat 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 Proems 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 yom- lips at all. Pyr. Wilt thou at Ninny's tomb meet me straight- way V This. 'Tide life, 'tide death, I come without delay. [Exeunt Pyramus and Thisbe. Wall. Thus liave I, Wall, my part discharged so; And, being done, thus Wall away doth go. [E.vit. 2 he. Now is the mural down between the two neighbours. Bern. No remedy, my lord, when walls are so wilful to hear without warning. Hiri. 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 tlien, 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. lAon. Y''ou, ladies, you, whose gentle hearts do fear [floor, Tlie smallest monstrous mouse that creeps on Mav 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- Bem. The very best at a beast, my lord, that e'er I saw. L>is. This lion is a very fox for his valour. Tite. True; and a goo.se for his discretion. Bem. Not so, my lord; for his valour cannot carry his discretion; and the fox carries the goose. The. llis discretion, I am sure, cannot 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 head. 147 ACT V. A 3IIDSU3IMER-NIGHT'S DREA3L SCENE I. The. He is no crescent, and his liorns are invisi- ble within the circumference. [sent; Moon. This lanthorn doth the horned moon pre- Myselt tiie man i' tlie moon do seem to be. Tlic. 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: for, you see, it is already in snuff. [change! Hip. I am aweary of this moon : would he would The. It appears, by his small light of discretion, that he is in tlie 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 ; aud 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. „ Enter Thisbe. This. This is old Ninny's tomb. Where is my love ? Lion. [Ronring] 0\\ [Thisbe runs off. Dem. Well roared, Lion. The. AVell 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. Aud then came Pyramus. Lnter Pyramus. Pyr. Sweet Moon, I thank thee for thy sunny beams ; I thank thee. Moon, for shining now so bright; For, by thy gracious, golden, glittering gleams, I trust to take of truest Thisby sight. But stay, O spite ! But mark, poor knight, Wliat dreadful dole is here! Eyes, do you see ? How can "it he? O dainty duck ! O dear ! Tliy mantle good, What, stain'd witli 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 V 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 dotli hop : [Siabs himself. Tims die I, thus, thus, thus. Now am I dead. Now am I fled; ]SIy 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 aud linds Jier lover V The. She will liiid liim by starlight. Here she comes ; and her passion ends the play. Re-enter Thisbe. Hip. Methinks slie should not use a long one for such a Pyranuis : 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 fur a woman, God liless us. [eyes. Lys. She hatli spied him aheady witli those sweet Dem. And thus she means, videlicet; — This. Asleep, my love V What, dead, my dove ? O Pyramus, arise ! Speak, siieak. Quite dumb ? Dead, drad ? A tomb ]\Iust rover tliy sweet eyes. These lily lips. This cherry nose. These yellow cowslip cheeks, Are gone, are gone : Lovers, make moan : IHs eyes were green as leeks. O Sisters Three, Come, come to me, With hands as pale as milk; Jjay them in gore. Since you liave shore With slj'ears liis thread of silk. Tongue, not a word : Come, trusty sword ; Come, blade, my breast imbrue : [Stahs herself. And farewell, friends; Tlius Tliisliy ends: Adieu, adieu, adieu. [Dies. The. Moonshine and Lion are left to bury the dead. Dem. Ay, and Wall too. Bot. [Starting iq)] No, I assure you; the wall is down that parted tlieir fathers. Will it please you to see the epilogue, or to hear a Bergomask dance between two of our company ? Tlic. No epilogue, I pray you; for j'our 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 hanged himself in Thisbe 's garter, it would have been a hue 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 overwatch'd. This palpable-gross play liath well beguiled The heavy gait of night. Sweet friends, to bed. A fortnight hold we this solemnity, Li nightly revels and new jollity. [Exeunt. Enter Puck. Puek. Now the hungry lion roars. And the wolf belmwls tlie moon; Whilst the heavy plouglnnan 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 tlie graves all gaping wide, Every one lets fortli liis sprite. In the chnrcli-way jiatlis to glide: And we fairies, that do run By the triple Hecate's team, ACT V. A ITIDSUIIMER-NIGHT'S DEE All. From the presence of the sun, Xever mole, liare lip, nor scar. Followinjf darkness like a dream, Kor mark prodigious, such as are Xow are I'riilic: not a mouse Despised in nativity. Shall disturb this hallow'd house : Shall upon tlit-ir cliildren 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 chandjer 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; Meet me all by break of day. And this ditty, after me, [-t'.rdint Oberon, Titania, and train. Sing, and dance it trippingly. Purk. If we sliailiiws have offended. Titti. First, rehearse your song liy rote, Think but tliis. and all is mended. To each word a warbling note: Tliat you have Imt slnmbcr'd here Hand in hand, with fairy grace, While these visions did appi'ar. Will we sing, and bless this place. And this weak and idle theme, [!:ionfj and danec. Xo more yielding but a dream, Obe. Xow, until 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 Xow 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 ; So. good night unto you all. And the blots of Nature's hand Give me your liands, if we be friends, Shall not in their issue stand ; And Robin shall restore amends. [Exit. Henaia.— Out, dog : out, cur ! thou driv'st me past the bounds Of maiden's patience. Hast tliou slain him then? Henceforth be never numbered among men ! 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? brave touch ! Could not a worm, an adder, do so much ? An q^der did it ; for with doubler tongue Than thine, thou serpent, never adder stung. Demetrius.— You spend your passion on a mispris'd mor.d: I am not guilty of Lysander's blood, Nor is he dead, foi aught that I can tell.— Act III., Scene ii. 149 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. DEA3IATIS PEBSON.E. The Duke of Venice. TIr' Prince of Morocco, ' Tlie Prince of Arragon, Antonio, a merchant of Venice. Bassanio, liis friend, suitor lil^ewise to Portia. Salanio, ") Salarino, Gratiano, Salerio, J Lorenzo, in love with Jessica. Shylock, a rich Jew. Tubal, a Jew, his friend. Launcelot Gobbo, tlie clown, servant to Shylock. suitors to Portia. friends to Antonio and Bassanio. servants to Portia. Old Gobbo, father to Launcelot. Leonardo, servant to Bassanio. Baltliasar, Stephano, Portia, a rich heiress. Nerissa, her waiting maid. Jessica, daughter to Shylock. Miignificoes of Venice, Officers of the Court of Jus- tice, Gaoler, Servants to Portia, and other At- tendants. SCENE — Per »(/^ at Venice, and.parthj at Belmont, the seat of Furlia, on the Continent. [ For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, A.CT I. SCENE 1.— Venice. A street. Enkr Antonio, Salarino, and Salanio. Ant. In sooth, I know not wliy I am so sad: It wearies me ; you say it wearies you ; But how I eau;;ht it, found it, or came by it, AVhat stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn ; And such a want-wit sadness makes of me, Tiiat 1 litive niucli ado to know myself. Salur. Your mind is tnssiiiLc on the ocean; There, where your ar^nsirs with |)i>itly sail, Ijike signiors and ricli burghers on the Hood, Or, as it were, the pageants of the sea, Do overpeer the petty trtitHckers, That curtsy to them, do tliem reverence. As they Hy by them with their woven winc's. Salaii. Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth. The better part of my affections woulil Be witli my hdpes abroad. I should be still Piuckiiig- the grass, to know where sits thi> wind, Peering in maps for ports itnd piers and roads; And every object that might make me fear Misfortune to ray ventures, out of doubt Would make me sad. iS'a'ar. My wind cooling my brotli 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 iiour-glass rim, liut I should think of shallows and of Hats, And see niy wealthy Andrew dock'd in sand. Vailing lii'r high-top lower tlian her ribs To kiss her Inirial. Shmilcl I go to church And SCI' thi' ]i(ily eililice ot stone. And )iot lii'tliiiik me straight of dangerous rocks, Which tiiiicliiiig but my gentle vessel's side. Would scatter all her spices on tlie stream. Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks, And, in a word, Imt 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 tliink upon his merchandise. Ant. Believe me, no : I thank my fortune for it, 150 My ventures are not in one l.iottom 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 V Then let us say you are sad. Because you are not merry : and 't were as easy For you to kiugh and lettp and say you are merry. Because you are not sad. Now.liytw(i-lieii(leinion. Come, good Lorenzo. Fare ye well awhile: 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. Gva. Well, keep me company but two years moe, Thou Shalt not luiow the sound of thine own tongue. Ant. Farewell : I '11 grow a talker for this gear. Gr/u. Thanks, i' faith, for silence is only com- mendable In a neat's tongue dried and a maid not vendible. [Eccunt Gratiano and Lorenzo. Ant. Is that any thing now ? Bass. Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more tlian 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 tlieni, tliey are not worth the search. Ant. 'W^ell, tell me now what lady is the same To whom you swore a .secret pilgrimage, Tliat you to-day promisei. [Aside] How like a fawning publican lie I hate him for he is a Christian, But more for that in low simplicity He lends out money gratis and briiigs 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 ? Shfi. I am debating of my present store, And, by the near guess of my memory, I cannot instant Iv raisr up tlie gross Of full three thousand ducats. AVhat 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 vou desiieV [ToAnt.'\ Rest j'ou tair,good signior; Your worslii)) was the last man in our mouths. ^•lii{. Shylock, although I neither lend nor borrow By taking" nor by giving of excess, Yet, to supply the ripe wants of my friend, 1 '11 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. "Weir 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. Xo, 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 VI and pied Should fall as Jacob's hire, the ewes, being rank, In tlie end of autumn tiu'ned to the rams, And, when the work of generation was Between these woolly breeders in the act. The skilful shepherd peeFd 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 hi his power to bring to pass. But sway'd and fashion'd by the hand of heaven. Was this inserted to make interest goodV 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 gnodly outside falsehood hath ! [sum. Sliy. Tliree thousand ducats; 'tis a good round Thre^ 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 ine 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 yom- suit. What should I say to you ? Should I not say ' Hath a dog money y 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 ' V 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 V But lend it rather to thine enemy. Who, if he break, thou mayst with better face Exact the penalty. .S7(i/. Why, look j'cfti, how you storm ! I would be friends with you and have your love, Forget the shames that you liave stain'd me with, Supply your present wants and take no doit Of usance for my moneys, and you 'II not hear me : This is kind I offer. i'rt.ss. 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. Shti. O father Abram, what these Christians are, Whose own hard dealings teaclies them suspect The thoughts of others ! Pray you, tell me this ; If he shoiild 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, protituble neither. As flesh of muttons, beefs, or goats. I say, To buy his fa-vour, I extend this friendship: If he will take it, so ; if not, adieu ; And, for my love, I pray vou wrong nie 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 Imnd, 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 Shyloek. The Hebrew will turn Christian : lie grows kind. J3ass. I like not fair terms and a villain's nnnd. Ant. Come on : in this there can be no dismay ; My ships come home a mouth before the day. [Exeunt. SCENE l.— Bdmrmt. A loom in PortitCs house. Flourish of cornets. Enter (/(c 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, II. To whom I am a neighbour and near bred. Bring me the fairest -creature northward born, Where riurbus' fire scarce thaws the icicles, Anil let us make incision for yovu- love. To prove wliose blood is reddest, his or mine. I tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine 153 ACT II. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. SCENE II. Hath feai'M tlie valiant : by my love, I swear Tlif' lii'st-n'nanled virsins of our clime Have hived it too: I would not clian!i,e this hue, Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen. For. In terms ot elioi<-e I am not solely led By nice direction of a maideirs eyes; IJesides, tlie luttei-y of my y Ids wit, to yield myself His wile wlio win's me liy that weans I told you, Yourself, reuowued prince, then stood as fair As any comer I have look'tl on yet For my affection. Mot. Even for that I thank you : Therefore, I i>ray you, lead nie to the caskets To try my fortune. By tliis scimitar That slew tiie Sophv and a Persian prince That won tliri''- fields of Sultan Snlvman, 1 would outstaiv tlie sternest e\,s that look, Outbrave the liearl iiiost daring on the earth, Pluck tlie yotuig sucking culis from the she-bear, Yea, mode llie lion when he roars for prey. To will thee, lady. But, alas the while ! If Hercules and Liclias play at dice Which is the better man, the greater throw May turn liy fmtune from the weaker hand: 80 is Alcides Ijeateu by Ids page; And so may I, blind fortune leading me. Miss tliat which one unworthier may attain, And die with grieving. Far. You must take your chance, And either not attempt to choose at all Or swear before you clioo.se, if vou choose wrong Kever to siicak to lady afterward In way of marriage: therefore he advised. Mur. jS'or will not. Come, bring me unto my chance. For. First, forward to the temple : after dinner Y'our hazard shall be made. Jl/or. Good fortune then ! To make me blest or cursed'st among men. [Cornets, and exeunt. SCENE II. — Venice. A street. Enter Launcelot. Laiin. 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 lieeil, honest "Launcelot; take heed, honest Gobbo,' or, as aforesaid, "honest Launcelot Golibo; do not run; scorn running with thy heels.' Well, the most couras^eous liend bids me pack : ' Via I ' says the fiend ; '^ away ! ' says the fiend; 'for the heavens, rouse up a brave mind,' says the fiend, 'and run".' Well, my con.science, hanging about the neck of my heart, says v(^ry wisely to me ' My honest friend Laninelot. lieing an honest man's son,' or rather an lionesi wiHiian'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 .Tew my master, who, God bless the mark, is a kind of devil ; and, to run away from the .Jew, I should be nded by the fiend, who, saving your reverence, is tlie devil himself. Cer- tainly the Jew is the very devil incariial; 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 yoiu- command; I will run. ^ Enter old Q-obbo, with a &«.sAe{. Gob. Master young man, you, I pray you, which is the way to master Jew's? Laun. [Aiiidr] O heavens, this is my true-begotten father ! who, being more than sand-blind, higli- 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 ? Lmin. 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. I3y Ciod'.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'i* Lfiiin. Talk you of young Master Launcelot'? [J.'iK?!] ^Sfark rn'e now; iiow will I raise the waters. Talk yoti of young Master Jjauucelof? Gob. No master, sir, but a jioor man's son: his father, though I say it. is an honest exceeding poor man and, God lie thanked, well to live. Laun. AVell, 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 ycuir master.ship. Lrmn. Ergo, Master Launcelot. Talk not of Mas- ter I^auiiceiot, father; for the young gentleman, according to Fates and Destinies and such odil 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. JJo 1 look like a cudgel or a hovel-post, a statf or a prop '^ Do you know me, father 'f 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 tlie knowing me : it is a wise father' that knows his owai 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 sou 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, your son that is, your child that shall be. Gob. I cannot think you are my son. Laun. 1 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. Gob. Her name is Margery, indeed: I'll be sworn, if thou be Launcelot, thou art mine own tlesh and blood. Lord worshipped might 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 liaveof my face when I last saw him. Gob. Lord, how art thou changed! How dost thou and thy master agree '? I have brought him u present. How 'gree you now V Laun. Well, well: but, for mine own part, as I j have set up my rest to run away, so I will not rest ACT II. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. SCENE IV. till I have run some snmiul. My master 's a very .lew: vii\e liini a luesL-ut! give him a halter: I am famished in his service; you may tell every finger I have with my ribs. Father, I am sl^d you are eonie: give ine 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. () rare fortune! here conies the man : to liini, father; for 1 am a .Jew, if I serve the Jew any longer. Enter Bassanio, wiUi Leonardo and other fol- lowers. Bass. You may do so ; but let it lie so hasted that supper be ready at the farthest by five of the clock. See these letters delivered; put the liverie.s to making, and desire Gratiauo to come anon to my lodging. {E.cU a Servant. Luun. To him, father. Gob. God lilcss your worship! JBass. Gramerry! wouldst thou aught with me ? Goh. 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 — Goh. He hath a great infection, sir, as one would say, to serve, — La un . Indeed, the short and the long is, I serve the .Jew, and have a desire, as my father shall specify — Gdh. His niaster ;md lie. "saving your worship's reverence, are srani' catci-cousius — Liiitn. To be hi id', the vrry tnitli is that the Jew, having dime me wrong, dot li cause me, as my fatlier, being, I hope, an ol. I will make fast the doors, and gild myself ■With some more ducats, and be with you straight. [-Bxif abofc. Gra. Kow, 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 lier, And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true, And true she is, us she hath proved herself, And tlierefore, like herself, wise, fair and true, fSIiall slie be phiced in my constant soul. Enter Jessica, below. What, art thou come ? On, gentlemen ; away ! Our masquing mates by this time for us stay. [Exit with Jessica and Salarino. Enter Antonio. Ant. "Who's there? Gra. Signior Antonio! Ant. Fie, fle, 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; B.issanio presently will go aboard : 1 iKive sent twenty out to seek for you. (Vi-it. I am glail on 't : 1 desire no more delight Than to be under sail and gone to-night. [Exeunt. SCENE VII. — Belmont. A romn in Portia's house. Flourish of cornets. Enter Portia, with the Prince of Morocco, and their trains. For. Go draw aside tlie curtains and discover Tlie several caskets to this noble prince. Now make your choice. 2Ior. The first, of gold, who this inscription bears, ' Who cliooseth me shall gain what many men de- sire ; ' The second, silver, which this promise carries, ' W^lio cliooseth me shall get as much as he deserves ;' This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt, ' Who cliooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.' How shall I know if I do choose the right V Por. The one of them contains my picture, prince : If you choose that, then I am yours withal. [see ; Mir. Some god direct my judgment ! Let me I will survey the inscriptions back again. What says this leaden casket ? [liath.' ' Who cliooseth me must give and hazard all he Must give: for what? for lead? hazard for lead? Tills 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 ? ' Wlio cliooseth 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 lie'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 muih as I deserve ! Why, that 's the lady : I tlo 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 choosetli 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 Ilyrcanian deserts and the vasty wilds Of wide Arabia are as throughfares 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 jiicture. Is 't like that lead contains her ? 'T were dauinatiou To think so base a thought : it were too'gross To rib her cerecloth in the obscure grave. < )r sIkUI I think in silver she 's immured, B.'iiig 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 liere an angel in a golden bed Lies all within. Deliver me the key : Here do I choose, and thrive I as I may ! [there, Por. 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. [Heads] 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 inscroU'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. Por. A gentle riddance. Draw the curtains, go. Let all of bis complexion choose me so. [Exeunt. SCENE VIII.— FeJiice. A street. Enter Salarino and Salanio. Salar. Why, man, I saw Bassanio under sail : With bim 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 dnke was given to understand That in a gondola were seen together Lorenzo and his amorous Jessica : Besides, Antonio certified the duke They were not with Bassanio in bis ship. Sedan. I 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 liy my daughter! And jewels, two stones, two ricli and preci( lus stones, Stolen liy my daughter! Justice ! find the girl; She hath the stones upon her, and the ducats.' Salar. AVhy, 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 lie shall pay for this. Salar. Marry, well remember'd. I 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 3IERCHANT OF VENICE. SCENE IX. Solan. You were best to tell Antonio what you hear; Yet do not suddenly, for it may grieve him. Salar. A kinder i;x-ntleman treads not the earth. I saw Bassanio ami Antonio part: Bassanio told hiiu lie would make some speed Of liis return : he answer'd, ' Do not so; Sluljlier not business for my sake, Bassanio, But stay tlie very riping of tlie time; And for the Jew's Itoud wliich he hath of me, Let it not enter in your mind of love: Be merry, and emiiloy your ehiefest thoughts To eourtship and such fair ostents of love As shall (■onvcniently become you there:' And even there. Ills eye being big with tears, Turning his face, he put his hand behind him, And with affection wondrous sensible lie wrung Bassanio's hand; and so they parted. Sedan. I think he only loves the world tor him. I pray thee, let us go and find him out And quicken his embraced heaviness With some delight or other. Salar. Do we so. [Exewd. SCENE IX. — Belmont. A room in Portia's house. Enter Nerissa with a Servitor. JVer. Quick, quick, I pray thee; draw the curtain straight : The Prince of Arragon liath ta'en his oath. And couies to his election presently. Flourish of cornets. Enter the Prince of Arragon, Portia, and their trains. Par. Behold , there stand the caskets, noble prince : If you clioose that wherein I am contain'd. Straight shall oiu- 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 : First, never to unfold to any one Which casket 't was I chose ; next, if I fail Of the right casket, never in my lite 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 Iiazard for my worthless self. Ar. And so liave 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 the golden chest V lia I let me see : 'Who chooseth ine 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 ; AV^hich pries not to the interior, but, like the martlet, Builds in tlie weatlier 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 witli the barbarous multitudes. Why, then to thee, thou silver treasure-liouse ; Tell me once more what title thou dost bear: ' Who chooseth me shall get as mucli as lie deserves :' And well said ttio; IVir who shall go about To cozen fortune and be honourable Without the stamp of merit V 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 tlie merit of tlie wearer! How many then should cover that stand bare! How many be commanded that eomniand! How much low peasantry would then be glean 'd From the true seed of honour! and how much honour Pick'd from the chaff and ruin of the times To be new-vaniish'd ! Well, but to my choice: ' Who chooseth me sliall get as much as lie deserves.' I will assume desert. Give me a key for this, And mstaiitly unlock my fortunes here. [He ojjei!6' the silver casket. For. Too long a pause for tliat which you find there. ^Ir. 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- serves.' Did I deserve no more than a fool's head '? Is that my prize ? are my deserts no better i" For. To offend, and judge, are distinct offices And of opposed natures. Ar. What is here ? [Reads] The fire seven times tried this: Seven times tried that judgment is, That did never choose amiss. S.iiiie there be th:it shadows kiss; Such liavc liiil ii shadow's bliss: There be fools alive, 1 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 'irkeep my oath. Patiently to bear my wroth. [Exeunt Arragon and train. 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. JVcr. The ancient saying is no heresy, Hanging and wiving goes by destiny. For. Come, draw the curtain, Nerissa. Enter a Servant. Scrv. Where is my lady V For. Here: what would my lord ? Serv. Madam, there is alighted at your gate A young Venetian, one that comes before To signify the approaching of his lord; From whom he brihgeth sensible regreets. To wit, besides commends and courteous 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. F(jr. 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. A7c. Bassanio, lord Love, if thy will it be! [Exeunt. THE 3IERCHANT OF VENICE. SCENE II. ^CT III. SCENE I.— FcJiice. A street. Enter Salanio and Salarino. Sal an. Now, wljat news on tlie Rialto? Salur. Why, yet it lives there unchecked that Antonio hatli a sliip of rich lading wrecked on tlie narrow seas; tlie Goodwins, I think they call the place; a very dangerous tlat and fatal, where the carcases of many a tall ship lie buried, as they say, if my gossip Keport be an honest woman of her word. Sulan. 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 busliand. ]Jnt it is true, without any slips of prolixity or crossing the plain higliway of talk, tluit the good Antonio, the honest Antonio, O that 1 luid a title good enough to keep his name company ! — Salar. Come, the full stop. ISalan. Ha ! what sayest thou ? AVhy, the end is, he hath lost a ship. Salar. I would it might prove the end of his losses. 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'!' *7(^/. You knew, none so well, none so well as you, "of my daughter's flight. Salar. That 's certain :"l, for my part, knew the tailor that made the wings she tlew withal. Sa.lan. And Shylock, for his owri part, knew tlie bird was fledged; and then it is the complexion of them all to leave the dam. Sill/. She is damned for it. Salar. That 's certain, if the devil may be her Shi/. My own flesh and blood to rebel ! [judge. Salan. Out upon it, old carrion ! rebels it at these years Y Ski/. 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 rlienish. But tell us, do you hear whether Antonio have had any loss at sea or no y Shi/. There I have another bad match : a bank- rupt, a prodigal, who dare scarce show his head on the Kialto ; 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. AVhy, I am sm-e, if he forfeit, thou wilt not take his flesh : what 's that good for V Shi;. To bait flsh 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, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same' winter and summer, as a Christian is ? 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, sliall 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 hiunility ? Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example ? Why, revenge. The villaiiy you teach me, I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction. Enter a Servant. Serv. Gentlemen, my ma^^ter 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 tb.ird cannot be matched, unless tlie ilevil himself turn Jew. [Exeunt Salan., Salar., and Servant. Shij. How now. Tubal ! what news from Genoa ? hast thou found my daughter V Tub. I often came where I did hear of her, but cannot find her. Shy. Why, there, there, there, there! a diamond gone, cost me two thousand ducats in Frankfort ! The curse never fell upon our nation till now; I never felt it till now: two thousand ducats in that; and other precious, precious jewels. I would my daughter were dead at my foot, and the jewels iii her ear! would she were hear.sed at my toot, and the ducats in her cofiin ! No news of tliem V 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, — Shi/. What, What, what? ilUuck, illluck ? Tub. Hath an argosy cast away, coming from Tnpolis. «S7i//. 1 thank God , I thank God. Is 't true, is 't true? Tub. I spoke with some of the sailors that es- caped the wreck. Shi/. 1 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. »S7t;/. Thou .stickest a dagger in me : I shall never see liiy 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. , Shi/. I am very glad of it : I "11 plague him ; I "11 torture him : I am glad of it. Tub. One of them showed me a ring that he had of your daughter for a monkey. (S7i.y. Out upon her ! Thou torturest me, Tubal : it W'as my turquoise ; I had it of Leah when I was a bachelor : I would not have given it for a wilder- ness of monkeys. I'lib. But Antonio is certainly undone. Shi/. Nay, that 's true, that 's very true. Go, Tubal, fee me an officer : liespeak him a fortnight before. I will have the heart of him, if he forfeit; for, were lie out of Venice, I can make what mer- chandi.se I will. Go, go. Tubal, and meet nie at our synagogue; go, good Tubal; at our synagogue. Tubal. [Exeunt. SCENE II. — Belmont. A room in rcjriia^s house. Eater Bassanio, Portia, Gratiano, Nerissa, and Attendants. For. I pray you, tarry : pause a day or two Before you hazard; for, in choosing WTong, I lose your com]iany : therefore forbear awhile. There 's something tells me, but it is not love, 159 r ACT III. ' THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. SCENE II. 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 montli or two Before you venture for me. I could teach you How to choose right, but I am then forsworn ; So will I never lie : so may you miss me ; But if you do, you '11 make me wish a sin. That I had been forsworn. Beshrew your eyes, Tliey 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 betwemi the owners and their rights! And so, though vdurs, not yours. Prove it so, Let fortinie go to lu'll I'nr 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. -Boss. Let me choose ; For as I am, I live upon the rack. For. Upon the rack, Bassanio! then confess "What treason tlier& is mingled with your love. Bass. None but that iigiy 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. Pm\ Ay, but I fear you speak upon the rack, Where men enforced do speak anything. -Bass. Promise me life, and I 'llconfess the truth Pnr. 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, Fajling in music : that tlie comparison May stand more proper, my eye shall be the stream And watery deatii-lied f(U' him. He may win; And what is nuisic tlicn V Then music is Even as the tlourisli wlien true subjects bow To a new-crowned niunarch; such it is As are those dulcet sounds in break of day That creep into tlie dnaming 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 Tlue 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. Musia, whilst Bassanio comments on the caskets to himself. SONG. Tell me where is fancy bred. Or in tlie heart or in the head? How begot, how nourished V lleply, 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, doiig, bell. All. Ding, dong, bell. ' [selves : Bass. So may the outward shows be least tliein- 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, wliose hearts are all as false As stairs of sand, wrar yet upon their cliins The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars, Who, inward searcli'd, have livers white as milk; And these assume liut valour's excrement To render tliein redoubted ! Look on beauty. And you shall see 'tis purchased by the weight; Wliich therein works a miracle in nature. Making them lightest that wear most of it : So are those crisped snaky golden locks Which make sucli wantoii gambols with the wind. Upon sninioscd lairncss. often known To be the dowry of a second head. The skull tliat tired tliem in the sepulchre. Thus ornament is but the gulled shore To a most dangerous sea ; the beauteous scarf Veiling an Indian beauty; in a word, The seeming trutli 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, AVhich rather threatenest than dost promise aught, Thy paleness moves me more than eloquence; And here choose I: joy be the conse(pience! For. [A.'iidc] How all the other passions lleet to air. As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embniced despair. And shuddering fear, and green-eyed 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 I What denii-god Hath come so near creation ? ]\Iove these eyes ? Or whetlier, riding on the balls of mine, Seem they in motion '? Here are sever'd lips, Parted witli sugar breath : so sweet a bar Should sunder such sweet friends. Here in her hairs The painter plays the spider and hath woven A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men Faster than gn.ats in cobwebs : but her eyes, — How Could 111' 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 sulistance 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. [Read.-i] Yon that choose not by the view, Chance as fair and choose as true! Since this fortune falls to you. Be content and seek no new. If you be well pleased 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 ; T come by note, to give and to receive. Like one of two contending in a pi'ize. That thinks he hatli done well in people's e}'es, Hearing apiilanse and universal shout, fTiddy in s]iirit, still gazing in a doubt Whether tliose ]ieals of praise be his or no; So, thrice-fair lady, stand I, even so; As doubtful wliether 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 wisli, 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 ; Tliat 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 slie may learn; happier tlian tliis, She is not bred so dull but she lau learn ; Happiest of all is that lier gentle spirit Commits itself to j'ours 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; Wliich 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 uie of all words, Only my blood speaks to you in my veins ; And there is such confusiou in my powers, As, after some oration fairly spoke By a beloved prince, there doth appear Among the buzzing pleased multitude; ■\Vhere every something, being blent together, Turns to a wild of nothing, save of joy, Expressed and not express'il. But when this ring Parts from this finger, then parts life from lience: O, then l)e hold to say Bassanio's dead! N(f. 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 aud lady! Lira. My lord Bassanio and "my gentle lady, I wish you all the joy that you can wish ; For I am sure you can wisli none from me: Aud when your honours mean to soleuniize The bargain of your faith, I do beseeuli you, Even at that time I may be married too. Bass. With all my heart, so tliou canst get a wife. Gm. I thank your lordship, you have got me one. My eyes, my lord, can look as swift as yours: You saw the mistress, I belield the maid; You loved, I loved for interuiLssiou. 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, Aud 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. Por. Is tliis true, Nerissa? Ner. Madam, it is, soyuu stand pleased withal. Bass. And do you, Gratiauo, mean good faith { Gra. Yes, faith, my lord. Bass. Our feast shall be much houour'd in your marriage. Gru. We'll play with them the first boy for a thousand ducats. Ker. What, and stake down ? [stake down. Gra. No; we shall ne'er win at that sport, aud But who comes here? Lorenzo and liis infidel 'i* What, and my old Venetian friend Salerio ? Enter Lorenzo, Jessica, and Salerio, a Messcnqer from Venice. Brtfs. 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 friencis 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, lie did intreat me, past all saying nay, To come with him along. Saler. I did, my lord; And I have reason for it. Signor Antonio Commends him to you. [Giiy^ B(i.s><((iiin a letter. Buss. Ere I opi- liis 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 V How doth tliat royal merchant, good xVntonio? I know he will be "glad of our success; ^Ve are the .Jasons^ we have won the fleece. ISaler. I would you had won the fleece that he hath lost. [paper, Por. There are some shrewd contents in yon same That steals the colour from Bassanio's cheek: Some dear friend dead ; else notliing 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 Tliat this same paper brings you. Buss. O sweet Portia, Here are a few of the unpleasant'st words That ever Ijlotted paper! Gentle lady, When I did first impart mv love to you, I freely told you, all the w"ealth 1 had Ran in my vems, I was a gentleman; And then I told you true: and yet, dear lady, Rating myself at nothing, you shall see How nuich I was a braggart. AVhen 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 mj' 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 aaping wouud. Issuing life-blood. But: is it true, Salerio ? Have all his ventures fail'd V What, not one hit ? From Tripolis. from Mexico and England, From Lisbon, Barbary and India V And not one vessel "scape tlie dreadful touch Of merchant-marring rocks ? Sahr. Not one, mv lord. Besides, it should appear, that if he had The present money to discharge the .lew. He would not take it. Never did I know A creature, that did bear the shape of man, So keeu ami greedy to confound a man: He ]ilies the duke at morning aud at night. And ddtli impeaeh the freedom of the state, If they deny liim justice: twenty merchants, Tlie duke liiuiself, and the magnificoes Of greatest jiort, have all persuaded with him; But none can drive him from the envious plea Of forfeiture, of justice and liis bond. Jcs. Wlien I was with him I have heard him swear To Tubal and to Chus, his countrymen. That lie would rather have Antonio's flesh Thau twenty times the value of the sum That he did (iwe him: and I know, my lord. If law, authority and power deny not,. It will go hard with poor Antonio. Por. Is it your dear friend that is thus in trouble ? Bass. The dearest friend to me„the kiudest man, 101 ACT III. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. SCENE IV. The best-conditioii'd and unwearied spirit In doing courtesies, and one in wlnom Tlie ancient Roman lionour more appears Than any that draws breath in Italy. For. What sum owes lie the Jew V Bass. For me three tliousand ducats. For. Wliat, no more i* Pay him six thousand, and deface the bond ; Double six thousand, and then treble that, Before a friend of tliis description Shall lose a hair through Bassanio's fault. First go with me to churcli and call me wife, And then away to Venice to your friend ; For never shall you lie by Portia's side With an unquiet smil. You shall have gold To pay the petty deljt 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 iire 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. — Fcmce. A street. Enter Shylock, Salarino, Antonio, and Gaoler. 8hy. 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. I 'llhavemybond; speak not against niy 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" nie justice. I do wonder, Tlioii naughty gaoler, that thou art so fond To come abroad witli him at his request. Ant. I pray thee, hear me speak. Shij. I '11 have my bond ; I will not hear thee speak: I 'U have my bond ; and therefore speak no more. 1 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. Snlar. It is the most imj)enetrable 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 tliis forfeiture to liokl. 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 the trade and profit of the city Consisteth of all nations. Therefore, go : These griefs and losses have so bated me, That I sliall hardly spare a pound of flesh To-morrow to my bloody creditor. 1G2 Well, gaoler, on. Pray God , Bassanio come ] To see me pay his debt, and then I care not! [Exeunt. ', SCENE IV. — Belmmit. A room in Portia's house. ] Enter Portia, Nerissa, Lorenzo, Jessica, and { Balthasar. Lw. Madam, although I siieak it in your presence, j You have a noble and a true e(_iueeit i Of god-like amity; whii-li appears most strongly ' In bearing thus the alisciicc 111 your lord. " ; But if you knew to whom you show this honour, ; How true a gentleman you send relief. j How dear a lover of my lord your husband, I know you would be prouder of the work - j Thau customary bounty can enforce you. I For. I never did repent for doing good, ' Nor shall not uow : for in companions That do converse and waste the time together, i Wliose souls do bear an equal yoke of love, | There must be needs a like proportion \ Of liiieaniHuts, of manners and of spirit; i AVhieh makes nie think that this Antonio, | Being the liosom lover of my lord. Must needs be like my lord. If it be so, How little is the cost I have bestow'd In purchasing the semblance of my soul From out the state of hellish misery ! Tins comes too near the praising of mj'self ; Therefore no more of it : hear other things. ' Lorenzo, I commit into your hands ; The husbandry and manage of my house l Until my lord's return: for nune own part, I have toward heaven breatlied a secret vow To live in prayer and eimtemiilatiou, i Only attended liy Nerissa here. Until her husband and my lord's return: ■, There is a monastery two' miles off ; I And there will we abide. I do desire you . Not to deny this imposition ; The which my love and some necessity j Now lays upon you. ■ Lor. Madam, with all my heart; I shall obey you in all lair commands. ; For. My people do already know my mind, ^ And will acknowledge you and Jessica i In place of Lord Bassanio and myself. : And so farewell, till we shall meet again. i Lor. Fair thcuiglit sand happy hours attend on you! i Jcs. 1 wish your ladyship all heart's content. I'or. I thank you for your wisli, and am well pleased* To wish it back on you: fare you well, Jessica. [Exeunt Jessica and Lorenzo.\ Now, Balthasar, ' As I have ever found thee honest-true, j So let me find thee still. Take this same letter, j And use thou all the endeavour of a man J In speed to Padua : see thou render this ^ Into my cousin's hand. Doctor Bellario ; j And,look,wliat notes and garments hedoth give thee,] Bring them, I pray thee, with imagined speed Unto the tranect, to the common ferry j AVhich trades to Venice. Waste no time in words,] But get thee gone : I sliall be there before thee. Balth. Madam, I go with all convenient speed, i [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. ■ N(-r. Shall they see us ? ; For. They shall, Nerissa; but iu sucli a habit, j That they sliall think we are accomplished ! With that we lack. I '11 hold thee any wager, ^ I When we/. A Daniel come to jmlgmeut ! yea, a Daniel ! O wise young judge, how I do honour thee I For. I pray you, let nie look upim the bond. Shy. Here 'tis, most reverend cloL-tor, 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 hiy perjiuy upon my soul ":* Xo, not for Venice. For. '^Vhy, this bond is forfeit ; And law'fully by this the Jew may claim A pound of lles'h, to be by him eiit off JJearest the merehaut's heart. Be merciful : Take thrice tliy money; bid me tear the bond. Shy. When it is paid according to the tencjur. It doth appear you are a worthy judge ; You know the law, your exposition Hath lieen 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 ! For. For the intent and purpose of the law Hath full relation to the penalty. Which here appeareth due upon the bond. ^7),;/. '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 tlesh ? .S7((/. 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 '^ Fiir. It is not so express 'd: but what of that ? 'T were good you do so much for charity. iS7/;/. I cannot find it ; 't is not in the ijond. For. You, merchant, have you any thing to say ? Ant. But little: I am arm'd and well prep; red. Give me your hand, Bassanio: fare you well! Grieve not that I am fallen to this for j-ou; For lierein 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 sucli misery doth she cut me off. Conunend meto 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. Bepent 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, 1 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 lite: I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all Here to this devil, to deliver you. [that. For. Your wife would give you little thanks tor 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. Xrr. 'T is well 5'ou offer it behind her back; The wish would iiiakn else an unciuiet house. ,S7/'/. Tliese be the Christian husbands. I have a AVou'ld any of the stock of Barrabas [daugliter; Had been her husband rather thau a Cluistian ! [Aside. We trifle time : I pray thee, pursue sentence. For. A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine: The court awards it, and the law doth give it. Shif. Most rightful judge ! [breast : For. And you must cut this flesh from off his The law allows it, and the court awards it. Shy. Jlost 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 thon thy pound of flesh; But, in the cutthig it, if thou dost shed One drop of Christian blood, thy lauds and goods Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate Unto the state of Venice. D'udge ! Gra. O upright judge! Mark, Jew: O learned Shy. Is that the law ? For. Thyself shalt see the act : For, as thou urgest justice, be assured Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desirest. Qra. O learned judge! Mark, Jew: a learned judge! Slvj. I take this offer, theu ; 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 liave nothing imt the pL^nalty. Gra. O Jew I an npriglit judge, a learned judge! For. Therefore preiwre thee to cut off the flesh. Shed thou no blood, nor cut thou less nor more But just a pound of flesh: if thou cufst 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 tliy goods are confiscate. Grra. A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew! Now, infidel, I have you on the hip. [feiture. For. AVhy doth the Jew pause ? take thy for- Shij. Give me my principal, and let me go. Bass. I have it ready for tliee; here it is. For. He hath refused it in the open court : He shall have merely justice and his bond. Gva. A Daniel, still say I, a second Daniel! I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me tliat word. SJiy. Shall 1 not have barely my principal y For. Tliou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture, To be so taken at thy peril, Jew. >57i.'/. ^Vhy, then the devil give him good of it ! I '11 stay no longer question. For. Tarry, Jew: Tlie law hath yet another hold on you. It is enacted in the laws of Venice, If it be proved against an alien Tliat by direct or indirect attempts He seek the life of any citizen, i^ The party 'gainst the which he doth contrive Sliall seize one-half his goods; the other half Comes to tiie privy coffer of the state ; And the offender's life lies in the mercy Of the duke only, 'gainst all other voice. In wliii-h ]irei!ieameut, I say, thou stand'st; I"or it ajipears, liy luauilest proceeding, That indirectly and directly too Thou hast contrived against the very life Of the defendant ; and lliou hast incurr'd Tlie danger formerly by me reliearsed. 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 vahie of a cord; Therefore thou must be haug"d at the state's charge. Bale. Tliat thou shalt see the difference of our I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it: [spirits, For half tliy wealth, it is Antonio's; The other half conies to the general state, AVhich humbleness may drive unto a tine. For. Ay, for the state, not for Antimio. Shi/. >;ay, take my lile and all; pardon not that: You take my house when you -uight [deed And be a day before our husbands liome: This deed will be well welcome to Lorenzo. Enter Gratiano. Gra. Fair sir, you are well o'erta'eu: My Lord Bassauio upon more advice Ilath sent you here tliis ring, and doth entreat Your company at dinner. Por. That cannot be : Ilis ring I do accept most thaukfully : And so, I pray you, tell him: furthermore, I pray you, show my youth oldShylock's house. Gra. That wUl I do. A^cr. Sir, I would speak with you. [Aside to Por.] I '11 see if I can get my husband's ring, Which I did make him swear to keep for e\i'r. Por. [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 tliem too. [Aloud.] Away! make luiste: thou know'st where I will tarry. [house y — Exeunt. Ker. Come, good sir, will you show me to this ^CT ^. SCENE I. — Belmont. Avenue to Portia''s house. Enter Lorenzo and Jessica. Lor. The moon shines bright: in such a night as this, AVhen the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees And tliey did make no noise, in such a night Troilus nietliiuks nioimted llie Troyan walls And sigh'd his soul toward the Grecian tents, WhereX'ressid 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 L'pon tlie wild sea banks and waft her love To come again to Carthage. Jes. In such a night liledea gather 'd the enchanted herbs That did renew old iSson. 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 lier love, and he forgave it her. ■Jes. I would out-night you, did no body come; But, hark, 1 hear the footing of a man. Enter Stephano. Lor. AVho comes so fast iu 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. iS'one but a holy hermit and lier maid. I pray you, is my master yet return'd V Lor. He is not, nor we have not heard from him. But go we iu, 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 iulltif 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 Stephana. How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here will we sit and 1ft the sdunds ni music Creep iu our ears: soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica. Look how tlie 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 cherubius; Such harmony is in immortal souls ; But wliilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. Elder Musicians. Come, hoi and wake Diana with a hymn: AVith sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear And draw her liome 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 lierd. Or race of youthful and uuhandled ciiUs, Fetching mad bounds, Ijellowiug and neighing loud. Which is the hot condition of their lilodil; If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound. Or any air of music touch their ears, You shall perceive them make a nnitual stand, Tlieir savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze By the sweet power of music : therefore the poet Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones and floods ; 167 ACT V. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. SCENE r. 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! Ner. It is your nmsic, madam, of the house. For. Nothing is good, I see, without respect: Methiuks 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 seasoned are To their right praise and true perfection ! Peace, ho ! the moon sleeps with Eudymion And would not be awaked. [Mmic 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 V 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. [^1 tucket sounds. Lor. Your husband is at hand; Ihearhis trumpet : We are no tell-tak's, iikhUuu; fear you not. For. Tills night i net 1 links isbut the daylight sick; It looks a little puler : '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 hiake 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 ray This is the man, this is Antonio; [friend. To whom I am so iiifiniti'ly 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 lireatliing courtesy. Gra. [To JSfer.] By yonder moon I swear you do In faith, I gave it to t lie j lulge's clerk : [me wrong ; Would he were gelt tluit iiad it, for my part, Since you do take it, love, so much at heart. 168 For. A quarrel, ho, already ! what 's the matter i* Ch-a. 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. AVhat 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 tor 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 Ijlame, I must be plain with you. To part so sliglitly with your wile's tirst gift ; A thing stu<-k on with oaths upon your finger And so'riveted witli faith unto yoiir tlesh. I gave my love a ring and made liiia 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 'twere to me, I should be mad at it. -Bass. [.4stdc] 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 tlie ring, If you dill kiiiiw for wliom I gave the ring. And wiiuld eoiieeive tor wliat I gave the ring, And how umvilliiigly I left the ring, V/hen nought would be accepted but the ring, You would abate tlie strength of your displeasure. For. If you liad known the virtue of the ring. Or half her wurtliiness that gave the ring, Or your own Iionour to contain the ring. You would not tlien have jiarted with tlie ring. AVIiat man is tlieie so niueh iiiireasouable. If you had pleased to have defended it With any terms of zeal, wanted the modesty To urge the tiling held as a eereniony ? Nerissa ti'aehes 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 sutfer'd him to go displeased away; Even lie that did upliold tlie very life Of my dear friend. What should I say, sweet lady ? I was enforced to send it after liini ; I was beset with shame and courtesy ; My honour would not let ingratitude So much besmear it. Pardon me, good lady ; ACT V. THE 3rERCHANT OF VENICE. SCEjSTE I. For, by these Messed candles of the niglit, Had j'ou been there, I think you woulil liave begg'd The ring of me to give tlie wortliy doctor. ror. Let not that doctor e"er come near my house: vSinee lie 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, Ko, not my "body nor my husband's bed: Know him I shall, 1 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, whieh is yet mine own, I '11 have that doctor for my bedfellow. Xcr. And I his clerk ; therefore be well advised How you do leave me to mine own protection. Gra. Well,do }-ou 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 enforceil wrong; And, in the hearing of these many friends, I swear to thee, even by thine own fair eyes, ■\Vhereiu I see myself — Par. Mark .you but that ! In both my eyes he doubly sees iiimself ; In each ej-e, one: swear by your double self, And there 's an oath of credit. Bass. Nay, but liear me : Pardon this fault, and by my soul I swear I never more will break iin oath with thee. Ant. I once did lend my body for his wealth; "Which, but for him that iiad your husband's ring, Had quite miscarried : I dare l)e bound again, My soul upon the forfeit, that your lord "Will never more break faith advisedly. For. Then you shall be his surety, tiive him this And bid him keep it better than the other. Ant. Here, Lord Bassanio; swear to keep this ring. J3ass. 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. Nir. And pardon me, my gentle Gratiano ; For that same scrubbed boy, tlie 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 atj-our leisure; It comes from Padua, from Bellario: There yon shall find that Portia was the doctor, Xerissa there her clerk: Lorenzo here Shall witness I set forth as soon as jou And even but now returu'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. AVere you the doctor and I knew you not ? Gr«. Were you the clerkthatisto make mecuckold? Neri 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 liave given me life andliving; For here I read for certain that my sliips Are safely- come to road. For. How now, Lorenzo! ily clerk hath some good comforts too for you. Ker. 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 lie dies possess'd of. Lnr. Fair ladies, you drop manna m 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 answej- all things faithfully. Gra. Let it be so: the first inter'gatory That my Xerissa 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, Tliat I were couching with the doctor's clerk. "W^ell, while I live I "11 fear no other thing So sore as keeping safe Nerissa's ring. {Exeunt. Solcinio. — I never heard a passion so confus'd, So strange, outrageous, and so variable, As the dog Jew did utter in the street.s : " My daughter I — O my ducats ! — O my daughter ! Fled with a Christian ! — my Christian ducats! Justice ! the law ! my ducats, and my daughter ! Act II., Scene viii. 169 AS YOU LIKE IT. DRAMATIS FERSON^E. Duke, living in banishment. Frederick, his brother, and usurper of his dominions. Amiens, I ^^^^^ attending on tlie banished duke. Jaques, J Le Beau, a courtier attending upon Frederick. Ctiarles, wrestler to Frederick. Oliver, I Jaques, >- sons of Sir Rowland de Boys. Orlando, ] Adam, | Dennis, i Touchstone, a clown. Sir Oliver Martext, a vicar. ^ servants to Oliver. C""''' "I shepherds. Silvius, i ' William, a country fellow, in love with Audrey. A person rejjresenting Hymen. Rosalind, daughter to the banished duke. Celia, daughter to Frederick. Phebe, a shepherdess. Audrey, a country wench. Lords, pages, attendants, &e. SCENE — Oliver^s house; Duke Frederick's court; and the Forest of Arden. [For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page XLVIll.] A.CT SCENE I. — Orchard of OUver''s house. Enter Orlando and Adam. Orl. As I remember, Adam, it was upon this I. fashion bequeathed me by will but poor a tiiousaud cro-\vus, and, as thou sayest. rliarncd my brother, on his blessing, to breed nir well : uud there begins my sadness. iVIy brother Jaiiucs he keeps at school, and report speaks goldenly of Ins profit : for my part, he keeps me rustically at home, or, to speak nnu'e properly, stays me liere at liome unlcept; for call you that "keeping for a gentleman of my birth, that differs not from tlie stalling of an ox y His horses are bred l.)etter; for, besides that they are fair with their feeding, they are taught their man- age, and to that end riders de;niy hired : but I, his brother, gain notliing under him but growth; for the which his animals on his dunghills are as much biinnd to him as I. Besides this nothing that he so plentifully gives me, the something tliat nature gave me liis countenance seems to take fnnn me: iie lets me feed with his hinds, bars nie tlic [dace of a brother, and, as mucli as in him lies, nunes 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 f his 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. OH. Now, sir! what make you liere? Orl. Nothing: lam not taught to make anything. OK. 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. OK. Marry, sir, be better employed, and be naught awhile. Orl. Shall I keep your hogs and eat husks with them y What jirodigal portion have I spent, that I should come to such penury ? 170 OH. Know you where you are, sir ? Orl. O, sir, very well : here in your orchard. OH. Know you before whom, sir? Orl. Ay, better than him I am before knows me. I hnow 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 flrst-born; but the same tradition takes not away my blood , were t liere 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 liis reverence. OIL 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 Ijegot 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. Let me go, I say. Orl. I will not, till 1 please: you shall hear me. My father charged you in his will to give me good education : yon 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 tlie jioor allottery my father left me by testa- ment; witli that I will go buy my fortunes. OU. And what wilt thou do? "beg, when that is spent'? Well, sir, get you in: I will not long be troubled with you ; you shall have some part of your will : I pray you, leave me. Orl. I will no further offend you than becomes me for my good. OH. Get 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. SCEi^E II. my old Blaster! he would not liave spoke such a word. [Exeunt Orlando and Adam. OIL Is it even so ? begin j'ou to grow upon me ? I will physic your rankness, and yet give no thousand crowns neither. Holla, Dennis! Enter Dennis. Den. Calls your worship '? Oli. Was not CJiarles, the duke's wrestler, here to speak witli me 'f Jjen. So please you, he is here at the door and importunes access to you. OU. Call him in. [Exit Dennis.] 'T will be a good way ; and to-morrow the wrestling is. Enter Charles. Clta. Good morrow to your worship. on. Good MoiLsieur Charles, what 's the new news at the new court V Cha. There 's no news at the court, sir, but the old news: tliat is, the old duke is banished by his younger brother the new duke ; and three or four loving lords have put themselves into voluntary ex ile with him, whose lands and revenues enrich the new duke ; therefore lie gives t hem good leave to wander. OH. Can you tell if Ilosalind, the duke's daughter, be banished with her father V 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. OIL Where will the old duke liveV Cha. Tliey say he is already in the forest of Arden, and a many merry men with liim; and there they live like the old liobin 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 iluke v Chit. Marry, do I, sir; and I came to acquaint you witli 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 : tlierefore, out of my love to you, I came hither to acquaint you withal, that either you might stay him from liis 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. OH. Charles, I thank thee for thy love to me, which thou slialt find I will most kindly requite. I had myself notice of my brother's purpose herein and hiive by underhand merr.is laboured to dissuade him from it, but lie is resolute. I '11 tell thee, Cliarles: it is tlie 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 linger. And thou wert best look to 't: for if thou dost him any slight disgrace or if lie do not mightily grace himself on thee, he will practise against thee by poison, entrap thee t)y 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 soviUanousthis 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'll give him liis paynient: if ever he go alone again, I '11 never wrestle for prize more : and so God keep your worship ! OH. 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 wliy, liates 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 esiiecially of my own people, who best know him, that I aiii 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 II. — Lawn before the Dul-e''s palace. Enter Celia and Rosalind. Cel. I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be merry. lias. Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I ain 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 rememlier 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 tliou hadst been still with me, I could have taught my love to take thy fatlier for mine: so wouklst thou, if the truth of tliy love to me were so right- eously tempered as mine is to thee. Ros. 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 shall 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 meriy. Rfis. 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 iiian in good earnest; nor no further in sport neither than with safety of a pure blush thou mayst in honour come off again. lios. 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. Rim. I would we could do so, for lier benefits are mightily misplaced, and the bountiful blind woman dotli 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. Ros. Nay, now thou goest from Fortune's ofHce to Natm-e's: Fortune reigns in gifts of the world, not in the lineaments of >iature. Enter Touchstone. Cel. No ? when Nature hatli 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 ':' Ros. Indeed, there is Fortune too hard for Na- ture, when Fortune makes Nature's uatm'al 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. Tnueh. Jlistress, you must come away to yoiu: Cd. 'Were you made the messenger':' 171 ACT I. AS YOU LIKE IT. SCENE II. Touch. Ko, by mine honour, but I was bid to come for you. lios. Wliere learned you that oath, fool? Touch. Of a certain knight that swore by his honour they were good pancakes and swore by his honour tlie mustard was nauglit : 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 y Eos. 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, tliou art. Touch. By my knavery, if I had it, then I were; but if you swear by thiit that is not, you are not forsworn: no more was tliis knight, swearing by his honour, for he never had any; or if he had, lie had sworn it away before ever he saw those pan- cakes or th.at mustard. Cel. Prithee, wlio 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 tliese days. Touch. Tlie 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 tliat wise men have makes a great show. Here comes iMousieur Le Beau. JioH. With his mouth full of news. [young. Cel. AVliich he will put on us, as pigeons feed their lios. Tlien shall we be news-craniined. [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 lios. 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, — Bos. 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. lios. Yet tell us the manner of the wrestling. Le Beau. I will tell you the beginning; and, if it please your ladyslnps. you may see the end; for the best is yet to do ; and here, where you are, they are coming to perl'orin 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. Tliree proper young men, of excellent growth and presence. lios. Witli bills on their necks, ' Be it known unto all men by these presents.' Le Beau. The eldest of the three wrestled with Cliarles, the duke's wrestler; which Charles in a moment tlirew liiin and Ijroke three of his ribs, that there is little hnpc of life in him: so he served the second, and so tlie tliird. Yonder they lie ; the poor old man, their father, making such pitiful dole over them that all the beholders take his part with weep- lios. Alas! [ing. Touch. But what is the sport, monsieur, that the ladies have lost V Le Beau. Why, this that I speak of. Touch. Tlius men may grow wiser everyday: it is the first time that ever I heard breaking of ribs was sport for ladies. Cel. Or I, I promise thee. 172 lios. 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, it 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. Flourish. Enter Duke Frederick, Lords, Or- lando, Charles, oik? Attendants. Bulce F. Come on : since the youth will not be entreated, his own peril on his forwardness. lios. Is yonder the man ? Le Beau. Even he, madam. [fully. Cel. Alas, he is too young! yet he looks success- I)uke F. How now, daughter and cousin ! are you crept hither to see the wrestling ? Bos. Ay, my liege, so please you give us leave. I)uke 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 hitlier, good Monsieur Le Beau. Duke 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. Bos. Y'oung 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 mail'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. Bos. Do, j'oung sir; your reputation .sliall not therefore be misprised : we will make it our suit to the duke that the wri slling might not go forward. Orl. I beseech you, punisli me not witli your liard 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, tlie world no injury, for in it I have notliing; oiily in the world I fill up a place, which may be better supplied when I have made it empty. Bos. The little strength that I have, I would it were with you. Cel. And mine, to eke out hers. [in you! Bos. 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. Ready, sir ; but his will hath in it a more modest working. Duke F. Yoii shall try but one fall. Cha. 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. Bos. Now Hercules be thy speed, young man! Cel. I woidd I were invisible, to catch the strong fellow by the leg. [They wrestle. Bos. O excellent young man ! Cel. If I had a thumierhoU in mine eye, I can tell who should down. [Shout. Charles is thrown, Duke F. No more, no more. ACT I. AS YOU LIKE IT. SCENE III, Orl. Yes, I beseech your grace: I am not yet well breathed. Duke F. How dost thou, Charles? Lc Bean. He caunot speak, my lord. Bake F. Bear him away. What is thy name, young man ? Ovl. Orlando, my liege ; the yoimgest son of Sir Rowland de Boys. [man else : Duke F. I would thou hadst been son to some The world esteem'd thy father honourable, But I did thul him still mine enemy: [deed. Thou slioiddst have better pleased me with this Halst thou descended from another house. But fare tliee well ; thou art a gallant youth : I would thou hadst told me of another father. [Kccunt Duke Fred., train, and Le Beau. CcL Were I my father, coz, would I do this V Orl. I am more proud to be Sir Rowland's son. His youngest son ; and would not change that eall- To be adopted heir to Frederick. [ingi Bos. My father loved Sir Rowland as his soul, And all tlie world wasof my fatlier's mind : Had I bef(in^ known this young man his son, I sliould 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 lieart. Sir, you have well deserved : If you do keep your promises in love But justly, as you have exceeded all promise, Yoiu- mistress shall be happy. Bos. Gentleman, [Giving him a diainfrom her neck. Wear this for me, one out of suits with fortune. That could give more, but that her hand lacks Sliall we go, coz V [means. Ccl. Ay. Fare you well, fair gentleman. Orl. Can I not say, I thank youV My better parts [up Are all tlirown dowm, and that wliieh 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 wrestled 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 ? 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 comlition That he misconstrues all that you have done. Tlie duke is humorous! what lie is indeed, ISIore suits you to conceive than I to speak of. Orl. I thank you, sir : and, pray 3'ou, tell me this ; Which of the two was daughter of the duke That here was at the wrestling ? [manners ; Le Beau. Xeither his daughter, if we judge by But yet indeed the lesser is his (laughter: The other is daughter to tlie banisli'd duke. And here detain'd by her usurping uncle. To keep his daughter company ; wliose loves Are dt'urer tliaii the natural bdiid of sisters. But I can tell you tliat of late tliis duke Hath ta'eii